Saw someone say they think the person in the foreground of this shot is Steve and if it is it makes the poses and expressions on Sam + Bucky's faces so much funnier.
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some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on.
Finally, you get a phone call.
It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), friends to lovers, technically coworkers to lovers, handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart, happy ending
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call
Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you.
"Yeah. I love you," he says, and maybe it's a little gruff. "And isn't that just a shitload of complications."
"A metric fuckton," you agree, stroking his cheek. His stubble rasps against your fingertips.
His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
“But maybe it helps that I love you, too,” you murmur.
It's not a kiss this gets you. He's been dishing out all manner of kisses tonight, their significance has shifted. No.
Instead, he nuzzles his face against your neck, wraps his arms around you, and holds you. Holds you like he intends to for a very long time, like you're the only thing that matters, like your beating hearts need to carry out a close and personal conversation.
Good. They can work out the details. You're just gonna lay here and pet the hair of the man you trust most – the man you can finally admit that you love – glowingly content in his arms.
On AO3
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🩷
summary: there were many things you expected when you got into a relationship with aerion targaryen. of course, none of those included his youngest brother, aegon — or egg, as he liked to be called — and how he began interrupting any sort of alone time you had with your boyfriend, all because he ended up liking you so much.
w.c.: 3,6k
c.w.: no use of y/n, aerion is always two seconds away from kicking egg's ass bc he doesn't leave you alone, probably (definitely) ooc aerion and ooc egg, egg is an ipad kid, not rlly a serious fic I wrote this for gits and shiggles
a.n.: first fic on tumblr so im intimidated lol. english is not my first language so forgive any mistakes and typo. not proofread.
THE MOMENT YOU GOT INTO A RELATIONSHIP WITH AERION TARGARYEN, you knew what it would involve, more or less. More than one of your friends and acquaintances — some of his, even — had reached out to you to ask if you were sure of what you were doing, and saying he wasn't exactly... well, the most gentle person.
As much as you appreciated their worry, it was unnecessary, something even they had come to realize after seeing how Aerion was with you.
He was as loving to you as he was not to everyone else, and though you somehow tamed the rushes of anger that always coursed through him, he still had a rather minimal tolerance for the rest of the world. Including his brothers. Especially his brothers.
Especially Aegon.
The youngest of his brothers had become an issue neither of you had expected prior to him meeting you.
It had taken some time before Aerion decided to introduce you to his family, and seeing as you weren't one to push, the most his brothers knew of you for exactly four months after you officially got together was your name — after Aerion accidentally left his phone on the table, and a notification from you revealed your name to Daeron, who saw no appeal in protecting his brother's privacy.
And when Aerion texted you one night, asking if you'd be okay with meeting his family — so they'll finally get off my ass about this, he had said —, you saw no issue with it, and thus a dinner was planned.
The instant the two of you entered his dining room, your eyes had gone over each attending member of his family: his three brothers, his two sisters, his father, his uncle, and his two cousins. And the air was knocked out of your lungs.
They all had an unnatural kind of beauty to them. Most of them shared Aerion's silver hair and purple eyes, but even those that didn't appeared to come from another world.
Aerion had cursed under his breath, muttering about how if he had known half the family would be called, he'd have bailed on this whole thing. But you had maintained your composure, painted a smile on your face, and met his family with forcibly-steadied hands and a thumping heart in your chest.
In retrospect, there really had been no need for you to stress over this so much. As intimidating as the Targaryens were, they were all mostly nice and very charming to be around, and in the blink of an eye, you'd found your place among them.
But credit must be given where it was due. If it hadn't been for the youngest boy, Aegon, you would have taken a lot longer to get comfortable.
His seat had been directly to your left, and he had chatted your ear off all through dinner. All the names, relations and little fun facts you knew about the Targaryens came from him. He had even ended up pulling his iPad beneath the table to show pictures of the events he was telling you all about.
Aerion hadn't shied away from expressing his annoyance at the extravagance of the dinner, which nobody showed any surprise to. He mostly stuck to your side, chatting with you in the brief moments Aegon's attention was elsewhere.
Regardless, the dinner had gone well, and with this particular milestone out of the way, the two of you could finally relax and enjoy each other's company the way you so loved: privately and without shame.
However, Egg didn't seem to have gotten the memo.
"Oh, not this again —” Aerion hissed as he returned to the large living room of the Targaryen home — castle felt more accurate to you, but oh well — with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and two drinks in the other. He stopped in his tracks right at the doorway, when his eyes found the little figure sitting next to you, which had not been there when he left five minutes ago. "What the fuck is he doing here?"
Your eyes widening at his words, you opened your mouth to scold him for swearing in front of the nine year old, but said nine year old merely perked up at his brother's voice and turned his head around to look at Aerion from where he sat on the couch.
"Did you bring my chips? I left them in the fridge."
"No! Get out!"
Even you flinched at the volume and tone of his voice, so it was no surprise when Egg leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, a sad pout twisting his young features. And in spite of how much you enjoyed being alone with Aerion, you felt a tug at your heartstrings from the sight of the expression on his face.
Wincing, you glanced at your boyfriend, a pleading look in your eyes. "Well..."
"No."
"Just this time."
"You said that last time."
"He's already here."
"He's always here!"
"Aerion."
"No. Not happening."
Silence fell upon the living room, your eyes meeting Aerion's purple ones with determination. Obviously, you understood where he came from, but you couldn't help it. Egg was such a sweet little boy, and he was always so nice and adorable that you couldn't help but cave to his every wish.
And five minutes later, the three of you sat in front of the TV, Egg in the middle happily munching on the popcorns from the bowl on his lap, often turning to you to share his thoughts about the movie.
"Why Egg?"
"It's short for Aegon," he nodded vigorously and looked away from you.
"Yeah, I figured that part out —”
Like any normal person with a functioning brain, you loved making out with your boyfriend. He was hot, and you were in love with him, so it wasn't like it was a chore for you. Nor was it for him, based on the blurry, heated memories that suddenly came to mind.
Maybe doing it out in public was less understandable, though. But after he had placed all the shopping bags you'd handed him over the afternoon in the backseat of his car, he had pulled you into short kiss, which then became a long one, and somewhere between that and now, it had turned into something else.
Neither of you noticed when Aerion's phone began vibrating in his pocket for a couple of minutes. And when he finally did realize, he had to pull his hands out from under your shirt to declined with an irritated huff.
Then he paused, glanced at his screen for a few seconds, huffed again and answered the phone.
"No fucking way," he ended up spouting after a few back and forth between him and whoever was on the other side of that call.
"He'll be fine there for a few hours." He argued again, "There's all the teachers, and toys, and all the shit kids play with."
Oh, it had to be about Egg.
“Dad —! Can’t you ask Daeron—?” He paused again, listening to his father, and without another word hung up the phone and shoved it in his pocket once more.
Holding back a laugh at the sheer rage painted on his face, you leaned against the car and cocked an eyebrow. “So? What was all that about?”
“My father’s meeting ran late. He’s asking me to pick Aegon up from school.”
“Okay, then.” You nodded, your body shifting to reach for the handle of the passenger door, but Aerion grabbed your wrist before you could do so.
“It’s Aegon.” He insisted, as though it would somehow change something about the situation.
You frowned, slowly nodding. “Tiny nine year old boy, silver hair, purple eyes, looks a lot like you? Yeah, I know the one.”
Rolling his eyes at your tone, Aerion let out a breath filled with annoyance. “I don’t have time to drive you home before picking him up.”
“I know.”
“So he’ll be in the car… with us… for the whole journey back home.”
“I also know that.”
And then his patience ran out, and he groaned, narrowing his eyes at you. “I’m saying the little shit will be glued to your ass.”
Which… yeah. True.
You didn’t mind, because Egg was still as sweet as he was when you first met him. Aerion did mind, however, since he was the one left out whenever the two — three — of you hung out together.
“You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Of him?”
“Yes, Aerion, of your nine year old brother.” You giggled, crossing your arms over your chest. “Seriously, though, you don’t have to be so mean to him. We’re always together. What’s the issue with him sometimes crashing with us?”
To this, he had no answer. He just rolled his eyes to the sky in this irritating yet charming way he did and released your wrist. He opened your door without a word, closing it behind you before walking to his side of the car.
“If it hadn’t been for that bastard, I would’ve won the game.”
Choking on your water, you turned to Egg with wide eyes, “Aegon!”
“What? The bastard cheated! All facts.”
“Oh, do you think they have the lemon sweets? You know the ones.”
Aerion frowned, briefly glancing at you before looking back at the road. “I don’t know, I’ll check when we get there.”
“Ooh, can I come?” Egg peaked his head in between both of yours, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion grumbled before using his hand to press against Egg’s face and push him back in his seat. “Shut up.”
Relentless, Egg turned to you. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion answered in your place.
“I didn’t ask you!” Egg scoffed from the back, glaring at the back of his brother’s head.
“I’m driving, and if I have to drag your puny little ass home by the ear, I will. Now shut up.”
Perhaps the whole reason the Targaryen house sat surrounded by gates and greenery was so strangers wouldn’t witness Aerion dragging Egg by the arm across the driveway, the young boy having planted his feet in the ground and screaming bloody murder for the whole world to hear, the way you did right now from the passenger seat of Aerion’s car.
You hadn’t gone to Aerion’s house in quite some time, you realized. There was no need to ask Aerion why he suddenly insisted on sleeping over at your place, or going home to yours, or him crashing over in your bedroom whenever he was free.
Were you complaining about your Egg-free life? Not really. Or at least, not right now, when Aerion lied on top of you, stealing your words with his mouth, barely letting you come up for air.
Definitely not right now.
You could've stayed there, in this situation, until the world imploded on itself. Nothing could bring either of you out of this bubble you'd formed around yourselves; that was how good you currently had it.
But right as his touch left flaming paths on your flesh as his fingers mapped out every inch of your skin, your phone began vibrating.
Not once.
Not twice.
But repeatedly, until you couldn't discern one notification from the next.
"Damn it," you sighed, closing your eyes as the moment between the two of you slipped right through your fingers. Aerion didn't raise his head higher than an inch above yours, but the annoyance coming from him was almost palpable.
You reached your arm out towards your nightstand, where you could vaguely remember having dropped your phone on some time ago. The light that suddenly blinded you as you lifted it from where it sat face down made you wince, and you used your free hand to rub your eyes.
do you want to play with me?
i'd ask daeron but he's asleep on the rug
he's boring also
you're nto
not
are you sleeping?
you haven't been at the house in a long time
did you breka up with aerion?
break
"Why the fuck do you have his number?" Aerion breathed out, exasperated at the texts. "Since when does he even have a number? He's nine."
Shrugging, you began typing a reply on your phone. "He got my number from your phone. And he just likes telling me about his day. He complains a lot about the kids in his class. Doesn't like them much."
With widened eyes and a raised eyebrow, Aerion sat up on your bed, letting the coldness of the room rush to you now that he wasn't acting as your personal blanket.
"What? So this is a common thing?"
"It's not that bad. He FaceTimes me on his iPad mostly, then he'll talk about his day while I do my homework, that's all." You told him, lifting yourself up on your elbows.
"Does my dad know about this?"
Nodding, you shrugged again. "Yeah, Egg's iPad uses your dad's phone number. He doesn't mind, so long as Egg doesn't uses it too much. He even says it's safer that way, since he doesn't have to watch him to make sure he doesn't sneak out again."
“I... don't know how I feel about this whole thing.”
“Well it’s not just him. I play online scrabble with your dad sometimes. and Aemon sends me book recommendations every other day.”
Aerion paused, "What?”
"Why is he bald, by the way? Can I ask?"
"Daeron drunkenly shaved off half his head one night. Then it looked awful, so we had to shave off the other half. Look."
Unsurprisingly, the boy displayed in the 0.5x pictures didn't seem to car about the admittedly horrifying hairstyle he currently had. With Maekar looking exasperated in the background, Egg smiled and gave a thumbs up to the camera.
Aerion woke up to find your half of his bed empty. No sound came from the bathroom, and with the sheets being cold, he assumed you must've been out of bed for some time.
While part of him felt something akin to relief from how comfortable you were with his family and in his home — sometimes too much, he thought to himself as he remembered you admitting to playing online scrabble with his father —, it also came with the borderline hatred from how comfortable they were with you.
People usually don't have to share their girlfriends with their families, do they? Why does it feel more like they tolerate him just so they can spend time with you.
Especially the youngest, insolent rat whose face had brightened up when Aerion had asked if you could spend a week here while your building was being fumigated. He hadn't even cared when Aerion roared at him to stay the fuck away.
As expected, it had been hard to find some alone time with you, because wherever you were, your shadow was not far behind. You didn't mind, of course, because the little rat turned into the sweetest, most innocent boy that's ever lived whenever you were in the vicinity, which immediately made Aerion out to be the bad one of the story.
The tiny fucker was a manipulative little shit, and Aerion will find a way to prove it to you.
After a brief shower to wash the night away, Aerion made his way down to the kitchen, hoping you'd be there. Fortunately for him, the first thing his eyes latched onto upon entering the room was your figure.
You sat at the counter, back to him, eyes on your phone.
Approaching, he hummed and wrapped his arms around you, leaning down to bury his nose in your hair. "How long have you been up? I thought you'd be worn out after —”
Eyes going round, you jammed your elbow into his gut, immediately shushing him. Aerion groaned, one arm flying to press against his stomach, where he'd taken the brunt of your strength. "What the fuck?"
Without a word, you nodded towards the fridge, and he could only follow your gaze. The fridge was open, which he hadn't noticed, and —
"Ugh, why is he here?" The words came out in unison from the two boys as soon as Egg peeked his head from behind the fridge's door and met his gaze.
Pinching your lips to hold in a laugh, because surely Aerion would hate you if you pointed out just how similar the two were, you merely lowered your phone to watch whatever was about to unravel.
"I was here first!" Egg countered, closing the fridge with a pie in hand. "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
"I will stab you—"
"You can't keep letting him stick to you. Be on my side for once. Otherwise he'll never leave you alone."
"He just likes me because I play video games with him and I buy him food. He's not a bad kid," you laughed, but made a mental note to try and be less indulgent to the young boy.
As good as your relationship with Aerion was, it was bound to come to an end. You had been broken up for a week when the knock at your door came.
A week of lying in bed with a gaping hole in your chest.
A week of scrolling aimlessly through the pictures of the two of you on your phone.
Mostly a week of mourning how good it had been, and how good it would've been if only the two of you didn't argue so often.
The idea of interacting with a Targaryen for the time was so far out of mind that you didn’t expect the sight that befell you upon opening the door. Though, maybe you should have.
“Egg? What are you —”
“You can’t break up.” He hurried out, as though if he didn’t say everything at once, he’d never be able to. “Please, you have to come back. The house is so boring without you, and Dad says I’m not to contact you because Aerion is my brother and I have to stick by him. But I don’t want to stick by him!”
“Honey, it’s one in the morning, how did you get here?”
“I took a cab.” He panted, swallowing his saliva.
Later on, he gulped down his second glass of water as he sat on your couch. Your eyes hadn’t strayed from him at all, except for the brief moment you had used to text his brother. Of course, you knew he enjoyed your company and he thought of you not as his brother’s girlfriend but as his sister. But to come knocking at your door in the middle of the night to beg you to stay with his brother…
Yeah, you hadn’t fathomed he’d ever consider doing that. And yet.
“I didn’t think you cared so much about Aerion and his feelings.” You let out, part of you wondering if you should ask Egg how Aerion has been this past week, though you decided against it. You weren’t about to pull a nine year old boy into your issues, no matter how hard he tried,
But Egg just frowned, confusion filling his features, “Aerion? What are you talking about?”
No, you were the one frowning. Thinking back to his rapid little speech when you opened the door to find him, you questioned him again. “What were you talking about?”
Egg raised both hands as he shrugged, the way he always used his entire body to react. “I don’t care about Aerion. I just don’t want you to leave the family. But don’t worry about it. Even if you don’t want Aerion back, I’ve got a plan. What do you think about Daeron?”
Somehow, you were even more confused than you thought could be possible.
But independent as he was, Egg didn’t need a reply from you to keep the conversation going. “Father said I have to take my brother’s side now that you’ve dropped him. But if you got with Daeron, then I wouldn’t have to choose Aerion, because you’d still be in the family. Get it?”
Again, no reply from you apart from the gaping expression you gave at his words.
“If the drinking bothers you that much, I’m sure I can set you up with Valarr.”
And thank God for the sudden, incessant knocking at the door. Aerion was here, evidently, and he seemed pretty pissed.
“You fucking rat!” Aerion roared when his eyes found his brother sitting on the couch. “How did you even get out of the house? How did you get here?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
Wrong thing to say, because Aerion’s eyes widened before he started making a beeline for the couch.
As the boy screeched and jumped behind the couch, you grabbed Aerion’s arm to pull him back, wincing at the situation. God, you should be sleeping right now. “No violence inside, please.”
“My dad’s livid!” Aerion added loudly, anger seeping through his voice. “His room was empty, and the window was wide open. He thought someone had taken him. Unfortunately not!”
Egg peeked his eyes from behind your couch, glaring at his brother. “Hey, I’m doing you a favor! I was trying to get her back for you!”
“What?” He turned to you, but you only shrugged. Though you did notice how Egg’s explanation wasn’t entirely truthful, you didn’t point it out to Aerion. He was mad enough at him already without the knowledge he was trying to set you up with other people.
Growling, Aerion reached out and grabbed Egg’s collar, dragging him towards the door while mumbling an apology to you under his breath. The only thing you could hear as you closed the door was the two boys arguing.
But truth be told, if the young boy hadn’t found his way to your place and forgotten his jacket, you likely wouldn’t have called Aerion again, which led to the two of you sitting down and talking about your relationship, and if you got back together some time later… well, Aerion didn’t like the reminder it was all thanks to Egg.
this idea was stuck in my head for so long I'm just glad I got this out lmao. I also had no idea how to end it so the ending is lowkey rushed sorry
please let me know if you enjoyed this, I rarely post the fics I write so I'd love some feedback!!! and also let me know if you can see that my knowledge of how romantic relationships work is limited lmao
Maekar wakes up in 205AC, in bed with his wife. Dyanna is confused about why he is sobbing and clutching at her. She finds out that the child she carries leads to her death and all the horrible things to come to the Targaryens before Maekar himself died.
She immediately starts planning on having more help with the birth and surviving, and if she doesn't, then matters need to be handled.
The next day, both are surprised to find three of their children, also remember: Daeron, Daella, and Aemon. Aerion luckily shows no sign of remembering, which makes everyone hope they can curb his more "crazed" beliefs early this time. Aegon also shows no signs of having future knowledge.
Later, they learn that Baelor and Kiera of Tyrosh also remember. Baelor and Maekor spend a long time sequestered while Maekar keeps apologizing in between telling Baelon what happened after his death. Kiera and Daeron are awkward around each other but she is currently pregnant with Valarr's child, so Dyanna decides to also increase her prenatal care as well. Aemon suspects that Brynden Rivers and Shiera Seastar also remember, but neither give any indications, just vague words. Aemon does start researching things that will help but also limits how much he tells the rest, stating he will tell them when it is necessary but doesn't want to influence anything negatively. Brynden starts hinting that Aemon should train to be his successor.
Maekar is surprised to have Ser Arlan of Pennytree at the gates of Summerhall, claiming to have been summoned. Aemon confesses it was he who sent the raven. The family gathers to greet their new arrivals in the great hall. It is then that Aegon bolts towards the squire, screaming, "Dunk, Dunk, Dunk!!!", and to everyone's surprise, the squire shouts back, "Egg!!!!".
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summary: john logan learns what it's like to watch the world cup with you. fluff, requested!
Being a star-team hockey player and all, Logan has seen his fair share of intense fan behaviour. People showing up to their games in painted faces, tons of merch, a usual over the top excitement.
Still, he thinks you are acting a notch above it.
“You know you can’t wear that today, right?” you say, sitting on bed, narrowed eyes almost burning a hole on his chest.
Logan looks down at his own clothes, “What’s wrong with it?”
“It's a hockey hoodie.” You say, your voice in such an obvious tone that makes him reevaluate the entire colour.
He stares at you, waiting for clarification, “Uh, yeah?”
“We’re watching football tonight, Logan.” You remind him, “I can’t have you wearing merch from a whole different sport.”
Maybe it’s the novelty of it all that gets him so amused. When you two started dating, it took you some time to understand the basics of hockey. You eventually learned all the common terms, and somewhat the rules, though barely enough to have an idea of what the fuck is going on. So it’s safe to say he wouldn’t expect you to be so… Intense about any other sport. But there you are, wearing a jersey, with shimmery eyeshadow adorning your pretty face and a really strict plan of watching most of the World Cup’s games — except the ones where you’ll be watching him play, of course. Glad to know you still love him more, he thinks.
“You could wear the white one,” you say, getting up and heading to his closet, rummaging through his clothes, “You don’t have a blue one, do you?”
He lets out a chuckle, “No, honey. White is on the third drawer, I think.”
You open said drawer, finding his hoodie. He bites back a smile as he watches your face turning into a little grimace, eventually just deciding to accept it and toss it at him, “Meh, that’ll do. I gotta get you a jersey.”
He stares at you, half awe, half surprised, “This must be a big thing for you.”
“‘Course it is,” you shrug, sitting back on the edge of his bed. A subtle twinkle appears in your eyes as you keep talking, “You should see it back home. Flags everywhere, streets getting painted.”
Logan walks to his bed, knee resting next to you as he curves to kiss your face, “You miss being home?”
You look at him, pensive, “Yeah, a little,” you say, “Not everyday, but– You know, in times like these.”
He hums, “We’ll have fun tonight, though.”
Your face opens into a beaming smile, “We will!” You rise up to press a peck on his lips, “I’m excited!”
—
Excited, turns out, is an understatement.
“No, no! Oh fuck, they’re heading for the goal again,” you jump from the couch, standing closer to the TV and back to Logan’s side. It’s stressful, and you keep switching between English and your first language, a casual string of strong words he can only assume, by your tone, that it’s not the kindest of compliments.
He’s never seen you like that.
While you scream at the TV, Logan keeps chuckling to himself, looking around the living room. He’s amazed at how meticulous you planned for the whole thing — you wearing all the main colours, popcorn and snacks laying around the room, and your joyful squeal every time your team finally scored a goal, which might just be his new found favourite thing.
He decides he must have you this happy again.
And if this is happening, then he really needs to step up on his game. Thankfully, nothing that a little help from Allie and her theater department decoration skills won’t do, and a text to Tucker to beg him to run to the closest store can do some wonders, followed by another text to all your friends: 8pm, our house. wear appropriate colours or you WILL get tossed out!!!
Logan picks you up from your shift at Malone’s that night, and you don’t ask about the growing smirk he has on his face all the way home.
He turns to you once he parks his car in their garage, “I have a surprise for you.”
“You don’t say,” you grin, sarcastic tone in your voice, “Course you do. It’s written all over your face.”
“Shut up, no it’s not,” he beams. You watch as Logan gets out of the car, running to open your passenger door, offering you his hand, “Come on, close your eyes.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now!” He guides you out, getting behind you to use his hands to cover your eyes, “Just to make sure.”
You giggle, moving your hands to hold his over your face, “Why am I nervous?”
“Don’t be,” he says in a low voice, face close to your ear. He stops you, placing you in front of the door and knocking. You hear a commotion inside, a rumble of voices shushing and heading closer, then the door opening. Logan lifts his hands, “Okay, open your eyes now.”
Your friends in coordinated colours are the first thing you see, the very same colours from your beloved jersey they're handing you now. There’s a star garland and fairy lights all over the ceiling, and silky, colourful pieces of fabric serving as tablecloths for the coffee table, covered in snacks and drinks — a little “take a shot for every goal” plaque right behind them.
“You like it?” you hear Allie say, but you don't even look at her. Soon you’ll notice her eyes are covered in colourful makeup, Hannah’s too, but now your attention is everywhere, “It was all Logan’s idea.”
You turn around to face your boyfriend, and he coos at you once he sees your teary eyes,
“Aw, baby.”
“Logan, what– How– What the fuck, man.”
He chuckles, his hands going to your cheeks, lips to your forehead, “I know it’s not the same as being back home…”
“Stop,” you shake your head, “This– Oh my god, this is– This is everything.”
“Well then,” he says, turning you around to push you inside, “Go change into your clothes, game starts in an hour. I’ll call the pizza place.”
“Wait, Logan–” You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, your voice still wobbly, “Thank you. I– I don’t have words.”
He presses you closer to his chest, pressing a kiss to the side of your face, “Anytime, honey. Or every four years, at least.” You chuckle, stepping back to look around the room one more time. Logan watches you, “Does it look like back home?”
You hum, face close to his, a teary smile on your face, “Feels like it.”
notes: thank you for reading! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
Summary: The Bridgertons welcome their cousin. Your first encounter being with the rather charming footman. Being stubborn and standing your ground, it makes John's flirty dynamic with you clash with sparks and tension. Bonds growing closer when John shows you a side of his life. Torn between classes, a forbidden love forms. Something that might change with a mysterious letter.
The little bell rang violently. Making the bustling of the kitchen stop. All eyes turned to the moving of the bell. Perhaps a split second that had them freeze. Mrs. Wilson clapped her hands loud, making the others snap out of it. “Hurry! Hurry!” Urging John as she directed her claps at him. He ushered up from his chair, nearly knocking it down.
Catching it last second before it would balance backwards. “Might I remind you I found a footprint in the hallway.” Mrs. Wilson added with a sharpened stare. John sighed soft, barely outing it so he wouldn’t be caught. Pulling out a handkerchief to rub the underneath of his shoe. “Now go!” Mrs. Wilson shooed him out of the door.
John ran up the stairs, making his way to the upper levels. Slowing down to a jog once he reached the upper floors. The natural light falling ever so elegantly through the windows. The upper levels always felt like a fresh breath of air.
Whilst the lower levels were darker and less inviting. Slowing his pace more to sturdy walking, he straightened his jacket. Nodding at the man stationed by the door. He opened the door for him. John exhaled deep, quickening down the few steps outside. Right on time as the carriage came riding on at the front.
All he knew was, another Bridgerton was coming. Little information about who this child was from the late Lord Bridgerton’s brother. Checking one last time, everything about his attire was in order, he approached the carriage. Taking the handle once the carriage had come to a stop. Pulling the door open and immediately coming in sight to offer his hand.
A tender hand accepted his. His gaze curiously went up to the Bridgerton standing in the opening of the carriage. It happened before he could control anything, but his expression settled for slight shock at the young lady. Of course he had thought many times the Bridgerton could be a lady. It could also be a gentleman. It could’ve been both. Yet upon seeing the truth, it still stunned him.
You furrowed your brows downwards. “Hello! Anyone here? Do you require winding on a spool to function?” You outed ready to knock your hand on his head. John saw the clenched hand come his way, making him blink quickly, moving his head back. “Yes… of course…apologies my lady.” Stuntly he uttered his words out, forcing a bow at you.
Sighing with a soft groan, you retrieved your hand from him. Using the side of the carriage to get out for he was taking too long. John tried to force himself between your movements. Knowing his duty was to offer you a hand. Failing miserably as you had descended down with ease without his assistance.
You stared at him in waiting. John slightly gawking your way. “Do you require words of order to function or can you act freely?” Casting another witty remark at him. John swallowed quickly, straightening his posture. “I can function very well, my lady.” Moving his hand in a welcoming gesture at the house.
“For a moment I thought you were broken.” You threw over your shoulder at him. John smiled, casting his gaze down. Following in your step, just a pace behind you. “I must apologize again, my lady.” John said feeling like he needed to properly apologize for his worst performance as a footman. You stopped in your step, turning on your heels to him. John leapt back to avoid knocking into you.
You leaned a bit forwards, narrowing your eyes at him. Staring intently at his eyes. Curling up a cheeky smile. “You were expecting a gentleman…or a small child.” Speaking. “A beard would suit you.” He responded with a half teasing smile. His remark made you let out a sharp breathy laugh. “Better than you.” Responding as you adjusted his collar.
Throwing him a witty smile with a bounce of your shoulder, before turning back on your heel. John smiled from ear to ear. Clearing his throat at the prying eyes of other staff. Settling his expression to neutral, rushing up the few steps to keep up with you. John surpassed you, making his way to the parlor. Opening the door for your announcement. You walked in, granting him a quick glance.
“Y/n!” Violet breathed out. You curtsied before her before welcoming her with open arms. The footman joined Mrs. Wilson and another maid at the side. “It has been some time.” Violet spoke, hugging you tightly. “It has.” You responded. Hyacinth pushed her mother aside, wanting a warm welcome from her cousin as well.
Squealing highly as she wrapped her arms tightly around you. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell you all, dear cousin.” Hyacinth let out, swinging from side to side with you in her embrace. “How is your father?” Violet asked, keeping a hand on her stomach. You pulled away from Hycacinth’s embrace.
“Probably having his hands full with you?” A new voice came in, making you turn around. Catching the footman lean towards the maid at his side to whisper. “Someone has to keep him on his toes.” You answered before accepting the embrace from Anthony.
Pulling away, you noticed a woman had entered behind him. Anthony took a step back, moving an arm around her waist. Smiling tenderly at her. “Meet my wife, Kate. Kate, meet my cousin Y/n.” Moving his gaze to you.
“I’ve heard such wonderful things off you.” Kate spoke. You leaned a bit to the side to look at your cousin. Narrowing your eyes slightly at him. Anthony chuckled nervously. “I apologize for not informing you. I’ve been busy.” Anthony apologized.
“You wound me, Anthony.” Grabbing for your chest dramatically. Catching a soft snicker come from your side. “I…I…I’m really sorry Y/n.” Anthony hustled on after seeing his wife’s scowl. “I should’ve written you a letter… to invite you… to the wedding…” Anthony’s words faded as his wife’s eyes went sharper.
She slapped her hand against the back of his head for forgetting you. “It’s alright Kate, I know my place in his heart.” Finishing your cousin’s feelings with a last jab. His eyes widened with shock. “Y/n that is not true…” Reaching for your hand as you walked past him. “Y/n you must know… I am sorry…” Going after you in desperation. Violet shaking her head with a loud sigh.
The weather was nice and the sun gleaming warmly as ever. You held the kite in your hand, nodding at your cousin Hyacinth. “You ready?” You asked. She hummed loudly with a nod. Tightening her hands around the spindle. You waited, taking a moment to anticipate the right moment for the wind to catch it up.
“Now!” You called out, throwing the kite up. Moving a few steps back, watching as the wind caught the kite. Sending it higher up in the air. The rope around Hyacinth’s spindle began to spin. “Keep it steady Hyacinth!” You called out to her. Hyacinth moved back and forth. Struggling to keep the kite straight.
Another gush of wind picked up underneath the kite, sending it to another direction. Waving your arms, you let her know that wasn’t right. John, who stood further away watching, widened his eyes. Hyacinth gasped when the spindle flung out of her grip. The kite making its way to the trees. Entangling itself to become stuck.
John came hurrying over when Hyacinth was staring at her hands. “Are you alright, Miss Hyacinth?” He asked, seeing how her hands were shaking. Moving a hand underneath hers, he tried to steady hers to get a proper look at them. Sighing relieved when her hands were unharmed. He feared the cord might have burned over her palm.
Looking up, his eyes widened once more. Seeing you make your way over to the tree. Immediately he dropped Hyacinth’s hand. “Miss Bridgerton!” He called out. “Miss Bridgerton!” Picking up his pace as you stood by the large tree. Looking upwards and already trying to grab for a branch. “Miss Bridgerton!” Calling out in a fury, pulling your hand down before it could grab a branch.
“Don’t do anything foolish.” Hardening his stare at you. “I can handle myself.” You responded, pulling your hand free. Pulling the hem of your dress up to lift your foot up for a grip against the bark. Looking upwards to a branch to take. “Miss Bridgerton! I will do it, it is my job.” John said loudly, removing his coat. Dropping it to the ground.
“It is not your job.” Arguing back at him. John grabbed you, trying to pull you down from the tree, you tried to climb. “Let me do it!” Forcing out between a clenched jaw. “I can do it.” You responded, holding your ground.
Reaching for a branch again, pulling your upper body up. John wrapped his arms around your waist, tugging you back down. “Perhaps when you grow a beard.” Huffing out as he forced your feet to the ground. “Your face is too pretty to be ruined, my lady.” Flashing a charming smile your way.
“So I’m just a pretty face?” Puffing out, looking away. John lowered his head to catch your eyes. “You can let out your inner wild man in less dangerous situations.” Trying to keep his silly smile down. Watching you slowly surrender to a forming smile.
John bowed dramatically at you. “I shall fetch your prize, my lady.” Scoffing loud, you looked away to hide a smile. John started to grab the tree, climbing his way up. Hyacinth came joining your side, locking her arm with yours. Watching him climb higher and higher, up between the tree tops.
Reaching the kite as he worked on unwinding the spindle from the branches. “I could've done that.” You muttered out with annoyance. “Watching him do it for you is so much better.” Hyacinth responded, nudging you in the side. Seeing the silly smile on her lips, you gave her a playful shove against her head.
“Watch out!” You heard from above. Making both of you jump back. The kite falling down. John made his way down, jumping the last few meters down with a huff. Getting back up, dusting his hands off. His gaze locked on you, handing you the kite. Lost in his gaze, you accepted it. Looking down at his hands, you noticed there were little scratches on it.
John noticed you staring at it, covering it up with his other hand. “A small prize for an act of heroism.” Saying with a chuckle. “I thank you for your heroism, footman John.” Hyacinth spoke in the most dramatic voice. Taking her skirt to curtsy. John’s attention went to her, laughing quietly. Gaze then settling upon you again. Linguring.
Hyacinth and you turned your heads upon hearing Kate shout at you from afar. Standing in the door opening. Hyacinth spun around, running happily back at her. John cleared his throat softly, gesturing at you to take the lead. Swallowing softly you did. Glancing half over your shoulder, knowing he was there a pace behind. Exhaling soft.
You joined Kate’s side as John took his leave once he had accompanied you back to the house. Kate entangled her arm with yours. “He’s quite delightful.” She spoke, keeping her voice down. “Who?” You asked stunned. She neared her head towards yours. “That footman.” Her gaze gliding over to the parting footman. “I…I…I wouldn’t know…” You answered shyly.
Kate hummed curiously. “Your eyes are deceiving you.” She spoke, making you stop. Staring back at her with shock. “I…I don’t know what you are talking about.” outing, turning your head away to avoid her gaze. Kate took your chin, moving your face back to her. “I can see it in your eyes, you like him in ways a lady often shouldn’t.” Her words reached you with an utter truth.
“You are mistaken!” You called out, pulling her hand down. Taking your leave as quickly as possible. Lifting the hem of your dress up to storm up the stairway. She was mistaken. She had to be. There was no way you and….It wasn’t possible. It cannot stand. Scandalous upper and lower class.
The words of Kate and the meaning behind them kept pondering your mind. Never giving you a moment of rest. It seemed impossible. It seemed untouchable. Untrue. How was it that she could see in your heart, when you couldn’t. It shouldn’t be true.
The stake of the family name high. The matter of duty. The wedge between classes. Not able to catch a grip of your own toiling. Not finding solitude in sleep. Haunted by her words. A torment you wanted to be at its end.
Bridgerton household quiet, you tiptoed out of bed downstairs. Hoping a change of walls would do you any good. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you wondered where to go. Settling on every possible door to seek calmness. “Miss Bridgerton.” Making you turn shocked around. Catching the footman lean back in his pace.
Pausing and making a detour over to you. Biting your inner lip nervously, you damned the gods for serving him to you. John approached you with slight worry. “Should you not be resting?” He asked. You took notice of his regular attire. A light beige shirt and dark trousers. His natural dark hair no longer hidden behind a white wig.
“I…I could not find sleep.” You answered, looking nervously away. “Shall I prepare you some tea? Perhaps it would help you find your sleep.” Already half turning in his movement. “Do not leave me!” You blurted out. Hands fidgeting nervously by your skirt.
John had paused, blinking a few times in surprise. John chuckled softly. “Do not tell me, my lady is scared of the dark?” John teased with a quirky smile. “I am not!” You answered firmly. John bowed his head a bit, gesturing for you to go in a certain direction afterwards.
Swallowing softly, you followed him. Going to the backs of the estate. Disappearing through a door at the far end side of the stairway. Following him down wooden steps. The lower you got, the colder the house seemed. More suppressed of colours. John opened one of the doors, allowing you to exit first.
Surprised you blinked at the change of scenery. All sorts of brown decorated these parts. Compared dull to the vibrant lights from above. John took your elbow, leading you further away. Going down stone steps. The stone walls feeling cold. Exiting through another door, you gawked surprisingly at the kitchen area.
John let go of you, immediately going towards the stove. Take an empty kettle and fill it with water. Set it on the stove. Bending through his knees to light the fire underneath the kettle. Your eyes had wandered around. Taking in the new change of scenery.
The parts below the household you had never seen. Taking a slow turn as you wanted every nook and cranny to be seen. Eyes stopping at the bells hanging on the wall. Curiously making your way closer to them.
“Those are our calling bells.” John informed you. Having leaned against the stove with his hands behind him. Admiring you from afar. Furrowing your brows, you stared at every little board underneath it. Drawing room. Study. Parlor. Diner. Room names as it all made sense.
You were startled a bit when John had come standing beside you. “They ring when we are needed.” He explained to you. “That is your room.” Leaning a bit in to point at one of the bells on the highest row. “So each time I rang…” You began, unable to keep your eyes off them. “They ring like crazy.” John chuckled out.
Turning your gaze at him, you started to feel guilt for each time you pulled on that rope to summon someone. John caught notice of your change, quickly clearing his throat. “Do not worry miss, you never ring that loud.” Hoping to ease the tension a bit with a slight joke. “Unless it is you summoning me.” He couldn’t resist adding. “You never appear at my room.” You responded.
John crossed his arms. “So you are expecting me?” Quirking his eyebrow up with a cheeky smile. “Should you not see to the kettle?” Speaking as you avoided his gaze. John kept smiling. “You are avoiding the question, miss Bridgerton.” He spoke, leaning his head to the side trying to catch your eye’s attention.
“I am not.” You said back, pushing him out of your way. Taking a seat at the table. John returned to the kettle, waiting for it to whistle. “You must have regular meetings with girls here.” You commented, a hint of jealousy in your heart. John chuckled softly, putting out the little fire. “I do not.” Responding as he went to fetch a cup.
“Liar.” You mumbled under your breath. “Yes, I am often surrounded by girls but only in the matter of work.” He replied, pouring you a cup of tea. “You are the first, Miss Bridgerton.” Putting the kettle away. Coming your way with the cup of tea.
Giving it to you as he came joining you at the table. Taking the cup, you couldn’t help yourself but admire the room more. Noticing how empty and quiet it was. “Why are you still awake?” You asked. John chuckled shyly.
“I had to finish a few last tasks.” He informed you. Your eyes slightly widening. “Do you always require to work this late?” Curiosity settling upon you. John let out a soft laugh. “No, not usually. You caught me at a right time.”
“Now tell me why the misses is still awake?” Setting his elbow on the table, he leaned his hand underneath his chin. You moved your posture more towards him. “I couldn’t sleep, like I said.” Responding. John hummed humorously. “Did a gentleman plaque your dreams?” He asked, making you choke on your tea. Setting it aside, coughing loud.
John immediately took out his handkerchief. Lowering your hand to dab your chin dry. Your eyes found solitude in his, softening with a slight yearning. A yearning you had told yourself numerous times wasn’t there. John’s eyes focused on yours as well. Stilling his movement, handkerchief lowering. Feeling the tug on his heart settle warmly.
His eyes dropping down to your lips, lingering there for a moment. Flashing them back up in a sense of over-stepping. Once his eyes locked with yours, he noticed your gaze was down too. Moving later than his back to his eyes. Making a certain something clear to him. Shuddering out a breath, he drew nearer. Closing his eyes at a certain distance.
Feeling your hot breath tingle his lips. Parting them with yearning. His heart thumped loudly in his chest. Thunderous in his ears. Quick breaths on your lips as he flashed his eyes open. “We shouldn’t.” He let out, moving his head a bit back. “It is not right.” Speaking more to himself than you. Your shoulders slouched with a large exhale. Devastated by his sudden withdrawal, but you understood.
John moved his hand up, cherishing it against your cheek. Drawing closer to kiss your cheek tenderly. Lips lingering there to deepen the sensation of his lips on you. Closing your eyes, you took in every moment. John pulled away, getting up. You got up as well, knowing your night had come to a sudden end.
Quietly you followed him back up the stairs. Returning to the upper level. Reaching the stairway, you paused at the first step. Turning back to him. Teary eyes for what you could not have. “You must forget about tonight, miss Bridgerton.” John spoke. “Will you forget about it?” You asked in return.
“I must.” John answered with a lowered head. Picking up the hem of your dress, you turned around. Going up the steps, with pressed lips. Preventing yourself so hard from crying. John lowered his head, taking his leave once you had reached the top. Returning to the lower level. Heading straight for his bed. Trying to suppress your presence in his dreams.
The next morning John sat at the table with the rest of the workers. Upon hearing one of the bells ring, he looked up. It was Hyacinth’s bell as her maiden jumped up. A few more bells rang as other maidens took their departure. John kept staring at your bell. Remaining still. Brushing his booths clean, maidens and workers bustled around him.
A maiden set a basket of freshly picked fruits on the table. “It is odd, Miss Bridgerton’s bell has not rang.” She commented. Upon hearing your name, John quirked his head up. Having indeed not heard your bell rang. “Do you think she is sleeping in?” Another maid commented. “Till past ten? No Lady Bridgerton would not allow that.” Referring to Violet.
“Perhaps something is wrong?” Another maiden spoke stirring in the pot. John jumped up to his feet. The idea something might be wrong, twisted in his stomach. Ushering himself through them to the stairs. “Where are you going?” Mrs. Wilson called out, hands on her hip.
John ignored her, panting quickly as he rushed up the stairs. Ignoring the curious glances from his co-workers when he ran through the Bridgerton household. Urging his way upstairs to where your chambers were. Out of breath, he barged into your room. Heart sinking when he found it empty.
“Is something the matter?” The familiar voice made him spin around quickly. Panting relieved at the sight of you. Already dressed and clearly awake for a few hours. “Curious, when I do not call, I find you here at my room.” You spoke. “Miss Y/n…Bridgerton.” John corrected himself, shaking himself awake.
“You did not call for assistance…” He breathed out. You curled up a small smile. “Well I thought I would do it myself. I am capable of doing so. Give downstairs less work…” Curiously you tilted your head. “Why? Did you think something had happened?”
John sighed relieved, suppressing the urge to wrap his arms around you. “Please miss Bridgerton, ring the bell. For the sake of my heart.” Eyes lingering on yours. Tearing your gaze away, you brushed past him into your chamber. Head for the cord by your bed and give it a soft tug.
“There.” You spoke, having ringed the bell. John smiled. Clearing his throat as he stepped aside. A maid rushing past him into your room. Closing the door behind her for privacy. John lowered his head, stepping away from your door.
Eyes widening, body stiffening at the sight of Lady Bridgerton at the end of the hallway. Quickly he bowed at her before hurrying down the stairs. Kate moved closer to the railing, taking a hold of it to look over it. Seeing him flee down the stairs, her gaze then going to your chambers.
John tried his best to avoid his eyes being drawn to you. Yet it was a harder task than he imagined. Each time he was in your presence, he felt compelled to look upon you. Requiring a lot of focus for him to not fall in his own trap. He needed too, for a footman and a noble girl would never work. Not with the reputation of your family name.
He also tried to avoid the viscountess’s gaze. It seemed whenever their eyes met, it contained secrets he harboured deep within. Fearing if he looked upon her for too long, she might discover them. So John tried his best to keep his gaze down. Make himself un-noticable for perhaps that would make the yearning for your heart go away over time.
John stood as usual by the wall with a maiden at his side. The door to the parlor opened. Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray of letters. Heading straight to the Viscount and Viscountess. Anthony took them all, going over their backs quickly. Kate’s eye fell on something, snatching the letter from his hand.
It made Anthony glare softly at his wife. Then he looked over her arm to whom it was addressed. “John?” He outed confused. Kate got up, going around the sofa to where the staff was stationed. “It is not addressed to Lord Kilmartin.” She spoke, holding the letter to footman John. John’s eyes widened with shock. Not understanding one bit of it.
“I believe it is for you.” She said with a warm smile. John nervously accepted the letter. Looking back at her in anticipation of approval. “Oh, please do.” Kate addressed. John bowed, ripping the letter with shaky hands. He rarely received any letters, but upon seeing the address of his home-town, it made him nervous. Opening the letter, he began reading it quickly.
The maid at his side, curiously reading along over his shoulder. Her loud gasp drew everyone’s attention. “What is it?” Mrs. Wilson asked with haste. John lowered the letter. “I…I… I’ve received…a title…” Speaking with sorts of disbelief that this could be true. “Truly?” Kate responded, quirking her eyebrow up. “A title?” The viscount responded.
“Ye..yes…” John stuttered out. “I inherited the title and wealth of my old neighbour. I knew he didn’t have any children…but I don’t understand why he would…why me? I haven’t been home for several years now…” Baffled by the content of the letter. “Don’t you see what this means.” Kate responded, making John look up at her.
“No…” He answered shakily. “You do not have to fear society's judgement. You can give in to your love for Y/n.” Kate explained to him. “Y/n?!” Anthony shrieked out, feeling like he had missed a great deal of information. John’s eyes widened with delight. “What are you doing, go find her!” Kate ushered him.
Letter in hand, he thanked her with a smile. Rushing outside to find you. “Miss Bridgerton! Miss Bridgerton! Y/n!” Shouting loud as he ran up to the green fields of the garden. Curious, you perked your head up. Eyes widening at John running over. Unable to stop himself, he crashed with force against you.
Taking you down with, between a field of flowers. “John we cannot… Someone might see. You said you’d forget.” Panicking as he was in a close proximity of yours. John kissed the top of your nose, making you stare stunned in front of you. He then waved the letter in front of you. Pulling himself up, he allowed you to sit up.
“Miss Bridgerton, Miss Bridgerton, the greatest news!” He exclaimed, almost shoving the letter in your face. You took it from him, reading it quickly. Hand moving to your mouth in shock. “I have a title!” He said proudly. “I can…I can finally…” Smiling between his pants.
He lowered the letter in your hand to see your face clearer. “This doesn’t change anything…” He spoke. “Other than allowing me to love you properly and have you for a wife.” Saying with fondness, brushing his thumb down your cheek. “I would’ve married you without a title.” You responded, kissing the palm of his hand.
“Now we won’t have any bumps in the road.” Smiling cheekily back at you. Eyes lingering at another. Gaze softening at him, slowly closing your eyes. Feeling the hotness of his breath on your lips. A slight moment of anticipation before you could actually feel his lips on yours. Finally settling on yours.
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