#and Ten mocks her for being concerned like ???

[nyrandrea]

Restless

Summary: As your sleepless nights start to catch up with you, you turn to a certain vampire who might just be able to help.

Also available to read here on A03!

Word Count - 2.7k

Enjoy!

xxx

Sleep had always been something of an illusion to you. 

Each night, as the world succumbed to slumber, you lay in your bedroll, with eyes wide open, gazing at the twinkling stars of the endless night sky. It was as if the world had pressed pause, leaving you to confront the shadows of your own thoughts. Your insomnia was a relentless adversary, a cruel warden that held you captive in the prison of wakefulness. 

The nights stretched on endlessly, and as the hours ticked by, your exhaustion grew more profound.  

Your mind raced with thoughts, a relentless carousel of worries, hopes, and regrets. You would toss and turn, your body tangled in the sheets, seeking elusive comfort. Come morning, the birds seemed to mock you, a constant reminder of the passage of time that slipped away while you lay wide awake.

By the time everyone else was up and refreshed from a good night’s sleep, you were still lying flat on your back, your bloodshot eyes stinging as you stared up at the pale morning sky. 

“Darling, it’s time to get up,” Astarion said, standing above you with hands on hips, his expression somewhat bemused. “Honestly, you’re so lazy, just like Gale.” 

He muttered that last part, glaring towards the wizard’s tent as a rumbling snore emanated from it and echoed throughout the camp. The vampire suddenly smirked, and you rolled your head to follow his gaze, only to see Karlach sneaking towards the tent with her hands out, ready to pounce. 

The snoring was cut short with a high-pitched scream, followed by a roar of laughter, and a lot of cursing on Gale’s part. 

“Good, at least that’s one of you up,” Astarion said, turning back towards you. “Now, are you going to follow suit? Or am I going to have to stoop to Karlach’s tactics? Brash as they are.” 

“Hey! My tactics are quite refined, thank you very much,” Karlach rebuked, stabbing a thumb in Gale’s direction, the poor man stumbling to find his cloak. “Got him up, didn’t I?” 

“That you did, darling.” 

“I’m up,” you muttered hoarsely, wincing as you slowly pushed yourself up off the ground, your body feeling about a hundred years old. “I’m up.” 

“Oh dear,” Astarion grimaced. “Looks like someone didn’t get their beauty sleep last night, hm?” 

His tone was light but there was an almost... concerned note to it, as if he was prodding. You felt a pang in your chest; he only spoke the truth; your eyes, once bright and expressive, now bore the heavy bags and dark circles of sleep deprivation. Your skin had dulled and paled considerably over the past few weeks, and your hair was dishevelled and unkempt.  

You almost certainly looked as bad as you felt. 

Part of you wanted to blame the group: Astarion for nearly sucking you dry of your blood, Karlach for being so damn loud all the time, Gale for making demands of you every ten minutes, Lae’zel for very nearly causing fights everywhere she went with her brashness, Shadowheart for her condescending demeanour and Wyll for craving validation from you every time you had a chat with him. The only sane person here seemed to be Halsin, and even he was starting to grate on your nerves for just looking so damn well-rested and perky.

The other part of you wanted to cry, to apologise for being such a failure and run away into the woods to never be seen or heard from again and just succumb to whatever fate the mind-flayer parasite had in store for you. 

Instead, you forced a smile, and lied.  

“Just had a nightmare, is all.” 

“Hm,” Astarion hummed, a simmering concern etched into the lines of his face. In that moment you felt a soft push in your mind, and the tadpole behind your eye squirmed as if responding to something. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions, a palpable tension that seemed to hang between you both.  

It was only when you winced that the vampire averted his gaze, and the unseen force retreated from your mind. 

“Terribly sorry,” Astarion said as you rubbed your head. “It would seem that my worm wanted to talk with yours; perhaps it was... concerned. Ooh, do you think that they’re best friends?” 

“I doubt it,” you muttered, a little annoyed at his giddiness. “Maybe tell yours to mind its own business next time.” 

“Of course, apologies again,” he said with that smooth voice and puppy-dog eyes of his, it was enough to make your irritation melt away. “But should a nightmare ever arise in that darling head of yours again, just know that you can seek me out.” 

You blinked, a little surprised at the open invitation. You couldn’t quite tell if it was genuine; it was always hard to tell with him. The only times you had ever been intimate was whenever he sought you out for a bit of casual fun. He seemed confused as to why you never wanted to initiate, but you tried to explain that while you enjoyed your time together, you never wanted to invade his privacy as you respected that camp time was everyone’s chance for a bit of peace and were entitled to such.  

This only seemed to confuse him further. 

Still, this had to be a big step for him, to ask you to his tent -his sanctuary- and you didn’t want to seem ungrateful. 

“I-I will,” you stutter. “Thank you.” 

“Anytime, my dear,” Astarion smiled. “Now, shall we see what chaos today brings for us? It’s been far too long since we’ve had to kill anyone.” 

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “We killed that group of bandits only yesterday.” 

He returned the gesture with a sly smirk. “Exactly.” 

During the day, you continued your journey with a fragile facade of normalcy, sipping on coffee like it was the elixir of life, desperately trying to stay awake. Your interactions with others were tinged with a weary detachment, as if you were viewing the world through a foggy pane of glass.  

Emotions played hide-and-seek within your very soul. Frustration lurked just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. An innocent quip or question would trigger an unexpected wellspring of tears, followed by nervous laughter, leaving everyone in the group perplexed. You merely brushed it off as the tadpole messing with your head, but even that raised a few eyebrows as nobody else was acting up—it was a good thing you were persuasive. 

You tried to avoid battles wherever and whenever you could, opting to take the longer roads or attempting to sweet-talk your way out of a sticky situation. However, some fights were unavoidable, and this was when your sleep deprivation was really put on show for everyone to see; your movements were sluggish, enemies were able to get more hits on you and you had to be helped back up to your feet on more than one occasion.  

The others insisted on setting up camp a little earlier than usual so you could rest and, despite your trying to tell them that you were fine and wanted to keep going because these tadpoles weren’t going to remove themselves anytime soon, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.  

So, here you were again, on your back, staring up at the stars. Another night of having an existential crisis while everyone else slumbered on peacefully. Rinse and repeat. 

You had tried everything to conquer your insomnia. Experimented with herbal teas, soothing music, you had even consulted a sleep specialist back in Baldur’s Gate who prescribed a cocktail of medications. But the battle persisted, night after night. 

Sitting up and rubbing your dry, stinging eyes, you decided to try something else. 

As you crept through the camp, you were careful not to wake anyone else up as you approached Astarion’s tent, tentatively peeking in through the flap before reprimanding yourself; even though he had invited you, boundaries were important, you couldn’t just go barging in. So, you gently knocked on one of the wooden beams that supported the tent. 

“Astarion...?” You softly whispered, waiting for a response. 

Only silence followed. 

You knocked again, wincing slightly at the louder noise you made. For a moment you thought about abandoning this whole silly idea and going back to staring into space for the next eight hours, but desperation made you persistent. 

Mercifully, you heard a faint shuffle come from inside the tent. 

“Come in,” Astarion’s husky, muffled voice answered. 

Nervously, you slipped inside, and a wave of warmth immediately washed over your face as you were greeted with the sight of a bare-chested Astarion sitting cross-legged on his bedroll. You were grateful he at least had pants on, otherwise you would have been out of there like a shot. 

A mischievous smile spread across his face as he watched you squirm uncomfortably. “Whatever is the matter, darling?” His lips formed a perfect pout. “Come to ask me for a little cuddle to chase the bad dreams away?” 

Your nostrils flared as you glowered down at him while he smirked smugly back up, because of course he would tease you about something like this. You should have known that he wasn’t going to take you seriously. 

“Forget it,” you said, making a sharp turn to re-open the tent flap. “I-I never should have come here, I’ll just... leave you be.”  

You missed the flash of panic on his face as he quickly got to his knees to reach out and grab your wrist before you could make it out.  

“Wait!” He said, stopping you in your tracks. “I’m sorry, come back in, please?” 

You slowly turned your head. 

“I promise not to tease you.” 

Begrudgingly, you allowed him to take your hand and escort you back inside, guiding you to sit down beside him on the floor. 

“You’re having trouble sleeping again, I presume?” 

Nodding your head, you squeezed the bridge of your nose and sighed, trying to swallow down the overwhelming urge to break down in front of him and cry in pure frustration.  

“I... I’ve been struggling with insomnia for a while now.” 

Astarion scoffed. “Well now, that’s a revelation.” 

You had half a mind to slap him. 

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating manner. “No teasing, of course, but come on darling, it was pretty obvious from the start.” 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your gaze cast downward, wondering why you even came here in the first place if he was just going to insult you. 

“You’re still beautiful,” he said, softly caressing your jaw to angle your face towards him. “Very beautiful indeed.” 

Your heart thumped wildly as the tip of your nose brushed his, and you would have crumpled into his well-tuned act of seduction if it were not for one burning question suddenly on your mind. 

“How do you do it?"

“I- do what?”  

“Elves don’t sleep, right?” You said, blinking curiously. “How do you... not sleep?” 

“We uh... meditate, darling. Wait, how do you not know this?” he asked, pulling back with his eyebrow raised. “You must have seen me doing it at some stage or another.” 

“...I always just thought you pretended to sleep,” you hummed in thought. “Now that I think about it, the way you lay down was always kind of strange looking.” 

He snorted a laugh at your brutal honesty, and feeling a jab of guilt, you tried to back-track on your word vomit. 

“Sorry! Um… no offence?” 

"None taken, darling,” he said, waving a nonchalant hand. “I can see why my eloquent poses would look strange to you, but for elves, meditation is a common practice. Helps us to… calm down; be in the moment, as it were.” 

A comfortable silence fell between you.

“Could you show me?”  

Astarion gave you a questionable look. “You want me to show you how to meditate?” 

You nod vigorously and cross your legs with your arms resting on your knees to show that you’re serious. It takes you a moment to figure out which fingers were supposed to touch together but you get there eventually.  

With a bemused smile, the vampire shrugs. “Alright, I've had stranger requests.” 

You wanted to question that but put a pin in it for another time. 

"Are you ready?" Astarion asked. You nod, your heart fluttering with both anticipation and trust. “Now, clear your head.” 

You give him a dry look. 

He rolls his eyes back. “Yes, admittedly a little hard, what with the little residents living up there but just... trust me, alright? Close your eyes.” 

You complied, and Astarion began to guide you, his words soft and rhythmic, like a gentle lullaby. "Breathe in deeply," he said, his own breath aligning with yours. "Feel the air fill your lungs, expanding your chest, and exhale slowly, try to let go of any tension." 

You followed his instructions, your breath matching his like a perfectly choreographed dance. With each inhale and exhale, you felt a growing sense of calm washing over. 

"Thoughts may arise, like passing clouds," Astarion murmured. "Acknowledge them but let them drift away. Return your focus to your breath.” 

You found yourself navigating the currents of your thoughts with newfound ease, like a sailor guiding a boat through calm waters. The more you let go, the more profound your sense of inner stillness grew. You felt the weight of your worries begin to dissolve. The burdens of your leadership, of the mind-flayer tadpoles and the problems that came with it seemed to retreat into the distance, leaving you with a newfound clarity. 

"Good," Astarion whispered. "Now, focus on your body. Notice any tension, any discomfort. Let it go with each breath. Feel your body becoming lighter, more at ease." 

Minutes passed like hours, and the tent seemed to fill with an ethereal stillness. You and Astarion remained connected through your breath, it was as if time itself had become irrelevant, and you were both suspended in a moment of pure existence. 

You could feel the tension in your shoulders and neck melting away. It was as if the cares of the world were simply slipping through your fingers. 

Slipping... 

Slipping...  

“...Darling? Are you-? Oh.” 

Astarion’s eyes widen, and he winces a little when your head falls into his shoulder. He catches you gently by the arms, so you don’t slip and go face-first into his lap; it was a delicious thought but for another time, when you were conscious and ready.  

But right now, he isn’t quite sure what to do with you. He certainly knows he can’t hold you like this all night; it would be uncomfortable for both of you. His eyebrows crease as he frowns while he tries to slowly lower you to the ground. 

To absolutely no avail; unconsciously you end up pulling him in closer. 

“Oh, for Gods's sake,” the vampire huffs incredulously. “What am I, some sort of glorified teddy bear?” 

Half-asleep and still nestled into Astarion’s chest, you mumble something incoherent in response, your breath warm against his skin. You snuggle even closer, your head burrowing into the crook of his neck. 

For a moment, Astarion felt a flicker of irritation, his desire for a good night's rest warring with his affection for you. He yearned to stretch out, to find the perfect position that would allow him the bliss of undisturbed meditation. But as he looked down at the peaceful expression on your face, all traces of weariness and anxiety erased, he just couldn't bring himself to disturb you. 

Reluctantly, he wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer still. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the slow, rhythmic cadence of sleep. The warmth of your body against his own gradually seeped through the cracks in his defences, and his irritation gave way to an overwhelming tenderness. 

In that moment, he realised that the inconvenience of being your living pillow was a small price to pay for the privilege of holding you close, of being the one you sought comfort in. As you drifted further into slumber, Astarion closed his eyes and surrendered to the serenity of the night, the gentle weight of your devotion for each other enveloping you both, anchoring him in the moment and reminding him of the beauty in life's simple, sweet sacrifices. 

xxx 

Yyyyyeah I know this one has the same beats as 'Everything's Fine' but what can I say? I'm a sucker for begrudgingly soft Astarion ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Let me know what y'all think!

Links to my other Astarion works

'Everything's Fine'

Request - Astarion kills everyone in his path to get to you

#astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #my writing #tw insomnia #fanfiction #baldurs gate 3

[macfrog]

call me

idea came to me in a dream. enjoy also! i made a notifs blog! taglist life is NOT for me, babies. feel free to head on over, follow and turn notifs on to be updated anytime i post! 👉 @macfroglets 👈 you’re gonna wanna do it before this sunday…😉🤠

inspired by @bageldaddy who is the author of the dreamiest series on this site, my biggest crush, and also told me not to tag her but i respect my elders so.

pairing: joel miller x call girl!reader

summary: you moonlight as a call girl, receiving mediocre call after mediocre call. one night, one joel miller dials in, and grants you the most exciting ten minutes of your career

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) this fic is pro-sex work. reader is a phone sex operator, mentions of anal and oral, dirty talk, couple mentions of daddy, praise kink, mutual masturbation, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 3k

main masterlist

“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb. “You’re gonna touch yourself.” “That what you want?” “’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

It started out as a joke, if you’re being honest.

A wine-drunk night with Liv, sat at opposite ends of the couch, legs intertwined somewhere in the middle of the cushions. Her blouse was stained pink – your fault, apparently, for making her laugh too hard. Her glass tilted a fraction too far and before you knew it, you owed her a new shirt.

“Say it again, say it how he said it,” she snorted, patting her chest down with the damp towel you’d handed her.

“…quite frankly, disappointed with your performance,” your head tilted back and forth, mocking the nasally voice of your fifty-one-year-old, receding-hairline-equipped boss. Ex-boss. Asshole.

“Oh, fuck,” she heaved, still catching her breath. “That’s so fucking funny.”

You sighed in agreement.

“So…what are you actually gonna do now?”

You shrugged. “Sell my body.”

“Dare you.”

“I would.”

“I know you would. And you’d be good at it, too. ‘s why I’m telling you to do it.”

You kicked her ankle. “I got bills to pay, dude.”

“What about one of those call girls?”

And, well. That was that.

You’d googled it after seeing her off to her own apartment, watching her wobbly form stagger across the hall and stab her key a few times into the wood before it landed in the lock. The door closed with an accidental slam which echoed up the stone stairwell, and you crept back to your own place.

Palms either side of your laptop on the counter, face lit in a blue glow, dripdripdrip of your busted tap echoing around your dark kitchen. They asked for an email address – you used the one you’d made up before you realized email addresses were permanent – and a phone number. Said someone would call you to discuss it. You shrugged, hit Sign up and went to bed.

Within hours, you’d spoken to some sharp-accented woman who asked quick, snappy questions and uhuhed her way through your answers. Her name was Erica. She told you she’d look after you, told you to call her with any questions or concerns you had.

All she wanted from you were the basics: you liked sex, you masturbated, you knew how to dirty talk. You sorta knew your way around things like anal, and could manage a convincing pitch for things of a more…exploratory nature.

And then she asked when you wanted to start. You told her that night.

Your first caller – like, ever – was some guy with a midwestern accent who asked you to narrate fucking him. Like, spanking him with a paddle, calling him a bad, bad boy. You threw your nerves to the wind and went along with it, and honestly, had a pretty rad time. He was cool.

But one was enough for your first night. You logged out and went to bed. You told Liv the next morning, and she punched your arm a little too hard and yelled, That’s my fuckin’ girl! Was it hot? Did you…y’know?

No. You never get that lucky. Some calls you can lie idly on your couch and let your limp hand surf beneath the hem of your underwear, push lazy circles against your clit as the dude moans in your ear or gasps when you whine.

Sometimes their mics can pick up the faint sound of them jacking off, and your brain slips you an image that makes your stomach flutter. Sometimes you’ll hang up and take yourself the whole nine yards with your laptop sitting on your mattress, porn on the screen, and your vibrator between your open legs.

It’s pretty intense work. Sometimes.

But all in all: no. You never…y’know.

One week in, you were cooking dinner whilst telling Trevor – thirty-nine, Buffalo, New York – how you’d take his huge, throbbing dick in your throat and let him fuck it. He asked to hear how turned on you were, just talking about it. You lowered your phone down to the pot of macaroni and gave it a stir.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned down the line, “you’re so fuckin’ wet right now, huh?”

Huh.

Tonight, you had pizza rolls. Less sexy.

You just got off another call. Thirty minutes of describing how good you’d take him up your ass. You’re bored, turned off by this point, and tired. It’s almost 3AM.

You pace around your apartment, flicking switches off and tossing cushions back into place. Spilling small sips of wine from your glass onto your tongue as you’re plunged into darkness, one click at a time.

You don’t get much while the sun’s up. Most days, nothing at all. That works for you, though. You can run errands, grab groceries, do sweet-fucking-nothing whilst waiting for the influx of calls that will inevitably come your way by nightfall. When the streetlights come on, the rush hour traffic dies out front, the shuffling of tired feet up the concrete staircase outside your front door slows down – you just log in, and your cell will eventually start to ring.

Your cell, which now lies wedged between the couch cushions. You notice the sound of it vibrating as you’re pulling your curtains closed. Half-way shut, you desert them and wander over. Intrigued.

No Caller ID. The usual. You swipe right. The robotic voice tells you there’s a request on your account for a ten-minute call. Tells you to dial 1 to accept, or hang up.

Ten minutes? At three in the morning?

Usually, at this time of night, they’re longer. They’re drunk, or their partner finally fell asleep, or they just want your attention for a bit. See them through the uncomfortably quiet night.

But ten fucking minutes?

Ten minutes would make you somewhere around thirty-five dollars. They had the option as the timer ran out to extend the call, if they wanted. Most of them did. And that worked fine for you.

You’re unemployed. Who knows what money you’ll have in a week’s time? An extra thirty bucks – probably more – right before bed? A little nightcap?

You dial in and answer the call.

He doesn’t say anything when it connects. You hear the ruffling of clothes.

Your voice naturally dips a couple octaves, coats in something smooth and husky. Glistening, gleaming, sex-driven. “Hello?”

He clears his throat. His voice is deep, rich. More vibration than speech. He speaks with a Southern drawl, like bare skin running over silken sheets. It’s smooth, and sensual, and sexy. “Evenin’.”

You knock the last light switch off with your hip and doddle through to your bedroom. Mornin’, actually. “Hi. What’re you after, baby?”

He takes a beat to reply. More ruffling. He chuckles a little before he says it. “Baby? That what you wanna call me?”

Your glass scrapes softly across your nightstand. You bounce down on your mattress, springs moaning as you roll onto your stomach. Knees bent, your ankles link in the air. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Guess we can figure that one out together.”

“Alright. I like a challenge. You wanna start with your name?”

Another pause. He sucks in a deep breath. “Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat, thumb picking at your nailbeds. “That’s a sexy name.”

He doesn’t respond. Just gives a non-committal grunt, and a smile pulls across your lips.

“What are you into, Joel?”

He sniffs. “Thought we could figure that out, too.”

Something in the way he says it, the curve in the words, maybe, tells you he knows damn well what he’s into. What he means is: you can figure that out by yourself.

Like you said: you like a fucking challenge.

“You like nicknames? Daddy? That kinda thing?”

A low growl passes his lips. “Not this early on, I don’t.”

You know from the hitch in his voice that he likes it. That little catch at the bottom of his throat, the way the words stumble on their way up. Know you’ve plucked a string deep inside.

“Well, you know you only got ten minutes, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“’kay,” you sing, flipping your hair over your shoulder. You exhale, drawing shapes on the pattern of your bedsheets. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinkin’ about, then? What’s on your mind, cowboy?”

Cowboy. It’s the accent. He sounds Texan, or something. His words float through the receiver all wound, coiled up and tight.

Joel doesn’t seem to care. He answers your question truthfully.

“Thinkin’ about what you’re doin’ right now.”

You smirk. Sometimes you like the attention, too. You turn your head, check the clock by your bed. Two minutes have passed.

“I’m…lying in bed, in the dark. Had a couple wines, feelin’ pretty good. But this is all about you, so.”

He chuckles softly. “’m lyin’ in bed, too. In the dark.”

“You feelin’ lonely?”

He takes another deep breath. You figure he does this before he gives most answers. He sounds the contemplative type. Always double, triple checking his sentences before he lets them go.

“Just need somethin’ to take the edge off.”

“Okay,” you breathe, “let me. What do you need?”

There’s a long break between the end of your question and the sound he makes before he answers. You pull the phone from your ear and glance at the screen to make sure it’s still connected. Time says another two minutes have passed.

Joel grumbles. It echoes around your ear like thunder in the distance. “You touchin’ yourself?” he eventually asks.

“Uhuh,” you reply, nails picking at a loose thread on your comforter.

“Yeah? How’s it feel?”

“Good,” you mewl, tugging at the seam. Your teeth grit as you yank at it. “So – fucking – good.”

There’s another growl from the other end. It vibrates through your speaker, purrs in your ear.

“You ain’t fuckin’ touchin’ yourself.”

Your hand stops. Your eyes stick on the thread. “I am.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

You roll your eyes, turning onto your back. Your fingers play with the buttons of your shirt. Fuckin’ – tell me how. “I’m…” you sigh, “…I’m laying in bed, on my back. My hands are –”

“What you wearin’?”

“Isn’t that the sorta stuff you oughta ask when I first pick up?”

He speaks calmer. Clearer. You can hear the smile on his lips. “’m askin’ you now. What you wearin’, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. So he’s that type. Whatever. He’s kind of pissing you off.

“A shirt. And socks. And panties. No bra.”

“’n where you touchin’ yourself?”

You huff. “Between my –”

“Watch the attitude.”

You almost fucking laugh. Your breath escapes your chest in a silent burst. “Between my legs,” you tell him, flat and annoyed.

“Mhm. Above or beneath the panties?”

“Beneath, daddy.”

A tiny groan passes his lips. He doesn’t mean for it to, and a second, angry grumble follows, like he’s pissed at himself for letting it slip.

You take a lock of hair and twirl it around your finger, pulling tight until the tip whitens. “You touching yourself?” you ask, voice sickly sweet.

Joel ignores you. “Take it off. The shirt,” he clarifies, when you don’t answer.

You shuffle around a little, making sure he can hear the movement. You unbutton the shirt until it’s lying loose over your breasts, then tug it down over one shoulder.

“Alright,” you tell him with a heavy breath, laying back on the mattress, “it’s off.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and your eyes flutter closed.

“Mhm.”

Joel chuckles under his breath. “Know when you’re lyin’, angel. Take – it – off. Don’t be a brat about it.”

This is half the game for him, you realize. This is his thing. He gives commands, you disobey them, and he kicks you into line. Tells you to behave.

You figure you like it almost as much, going by the heat pooling between your legs.

Your shoulders lift and you tug the shirt over them, tossing it to the floor. You lie back, bare against the sheets, and your hand instantly cups over your breast.

“Better,” Joel breathes.

“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb.

“You’re gonna touch yourself.”

“That what you want?”

“’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

You don’t take much more convincing. Your hand slips down your front, cups over your mound. You gasp when your fingertips brush against your clit.

Joel hears. “Yeah,” he hums, “’s a good girl. Take those panties off ‘n rub that pretty little clit for me.”

Your fingertips give one last kiss to the fabric of your panties. Your mouth tips open a fraction. You suck in a quiet breath, and push your hips up off the bed. The lace slips down your thighs in one motion.

Joel’s grunting steadily now, small noises slipping past his lips and into your ear. You spread your legs and push against your bud again, massaging the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whine, and he groans in response.

“I know, I know,” he’s saying, and you hear the metal tinkle of his belt buckle. The fraying sound of denim being shifted. One slow, relief-filled groan.

His hands are on his cock.

You’d put more effort into caring that he’s been fully clothed this entire time, if you could think straight. You’re applying more pressure to your clit, rubbing faster, harder, then letting your fingers drift downward, move between your gleaming folds.

“Wish I was there with you so bad,” Joel purrs, and your eyes flutter open.

“Yeah?” you choke.

“Yeah.”

“What would you – do to me?”

He shudders. “Would fuck you real good, sweetheart.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, fingers circling faster.

There’s a gentle tugging; a rhythmic breathing. The odd break in his voice when his hand tightens, or you make a sweet little sound, or he catches himself giving too much away.

“Fuckin’ – be all over you. Nice ‘n hard. You want that?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, panting. “Want it so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” Joel says. You can hear the sticky sound of his precum, leaking from his tip and running between his fingers, being pumped down his shaft by his fist. “Feels good, angel, don’t it? When you do what you’re told?”

“Y-eah,” you whisper.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and you picture a tight fist choking a thick cock. Picture that same fist unwinding, curving around your mound, fingers pushing deep inside you.

“Joel,” you whimper, and your fingers move down again, dipping nearer your tight, wet hole.

He grunts in response. “Don’t – not yet,” he tells you.

You whine.

“You got somethin’ else to use?” he asks, then interrupts before you can answer. “Yeah, you do. Go get it, sweetheart. Tell me what you got.”

“V-vibrator,” you mumble, hoisting yourself up and lunging across the bed to your nightstand. You haul the drawer open and sift between balled-up socks until you’re clutching the long, thick shape, fingers tight around the dips and curves.

“Let me hear it, angel.”

You click the button and the toy whirrs to life, vibrating strongly in your hand.

Joel hisses. “Alright, sweetheart, lie back. Gonna put it on that pretty little pussy, alright? Gonna make yourself cum for me.”

“Uhuh,” you murmur, one hand lowering the vibrator between your legs, the other holding the phone to your ear in a vice grip.

You push the round tip down to your clit and your head falls back with a loud moan. Joel sends one straight back at the sound of yours. It fades into a whimper, a desperate cry as you massage yourself with your toy.

Your legs clench as you dip it lower, letting the head nudge against your entrance, sending flutters of pleasure across your dripping cunt.

“Don’t fuck yourself,” Joel instructs, and your hand quickly pulls back. “Save it.”

This mystery man, who you’ve known for – if your clock is right – eight minutes, now; whose name is the most information you’ve gotten out of him; and whose face you couldn’t pick in a lineup…has such a hold on you, that your body instinctively reacts to his every word. An automatic reaction to do exactly as he says, when, five minutes ago, you couldn’t wait to get him off the phone.

You fucking listen to him. Save it for what? your head asks, and you ignore it. You don’t push the toy any closer to your center.

It drives hard against your clit, fast vibrations rippling down on the hot, swollen skin. It sends floods of warmth between your legs, drawing your arousal slick and wet from between your folds.

Your chest is damp, gleaming with sweat. Your breath cuts short in your throat, guttural noises replacing it as they reverberate through your mouth, across your tongue and into your dark bedroom.

Your walls start to clamp around nothing. You angle the vibrator so that it sends deep pulses across your pussy, shutting your eyes to picture Joel’s thick cock burying deep inside you as you climax with a loud, broken cry.

“Yeah, good girl. That’s it. Sound so pretty, angel. ‘s a good girl.”

You’re whimpering his name as you come down, holding the toy to your clit and letting your high wash over you. Your chest jumps, breaths heavy and staggered, gasping for air and then letting it rush out of your lungs in desperate pants.

“You know how good you are at that?” he asks, when your breath steadies again.

You giggle softly. “’s why I do it, baby.”

“Worth every fuckin’ penny.”

You sit in the post-orgasm haze for a few seconds, waiting for the room to stop spinning and your body to feel like yours again. You pull the phone from your sweat-stuck cheek and glance at the time. You have less than thirty seconds left. Joel seems to do the same, for his voice returns to your ear in a gentle, low whisper.

“Alright. Speak soon, angel. Be good.”

The call cuts.

----------

taglist: @slvbl @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @casa-boiardi @msjarvis @acornacreacure @totallynotastanacc @alejaa-a @aphterthoughtt @pedroluver @earthtogrogu @sexygaypalpatine @cool-iguana @serenaxpedro @lizzyervs @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @patti7dc @pattwtf @atticrissfinch @pascalpvnk @lizzyervs @jediknightjana @jessie8605 @iknowisoundcrazy @caitispunk @vickie5446 @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(psst! after this weekend my taglist is no more! follow @macfroglets + turn on notifs if you wanna be in the know when i post!)

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #joel miller x callgirl!reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller

[lovelybunnyxx]

Hi! Is that ok to request a dark fanfic of Valentino (hazbin hotel) x reader? If you’re okay with that obviously!

I was thinking about maybe reader being one of Val’s favourite employees, and drugging her in one night at the club together. Then maybe, Val force her to do what he wants.

Of course! Thank you for the request, anon. I hope you enjoy :))

Favorite ― Valentino

TW: NSFW, Noncon, Manipulation, Drugging, Degradation

❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥

If you have learned one thing while working for Valentino, it is that when he tells you to do something, you fucking do it.

He wants you to flirt with his supplier so that he can get free drugs? Yes, Valentino. Oh, he wants to film you getting gangbanged for three hours? Of course, Valentino, and you'll do so with a smile.

After all, it's best to stay on his good side. 

So when he invites you to join him for a night out at his favorite club, of course, you agree. He tells you it's a reward for how great of a worker you are, that he'll buy you all the drinks you want because you deserve it. And even though you know that his honeyed words are never out of pure intentions, it feels so..nice to have your hard work recognized, especially by Val. So, you dress up in an outfit you like and head to the club with Valentino. 

And at first, the night goes relatively well. Valentino has you sit next to him in his favorite booth, and orders you drink after drink. Sure, he is rather touchy and keeps pointing out how ravishing you look in your outfit, but that's tame for Val. You're so caught up in drinking and having a genuinely good time that you don't even realize when a drink he gives you has a strange tint to it.

The first sign that something is wrong appears almost an hour into your outing. "Is something wrong, sweetcheeks?" Valentino asks, making you blink and look up at him. 

"..Huh? Yeah, why?" you ask in confusion.

"Mmm? Oh, no reason at all. It's just that you have been staring blankly at the table for the last ten minutes," Valentino muses. 

"It's nothing, I just feel a bit..weird," you mumble. 

"Oh, don't tell me you're drunk already," Valentino chuckles, and you shake your head no.

"No, it's nothing. I'm fine." 

The next sign that something is wrong comes around twenty minutes later when you can't get the room to stop spinning. "..Val, I feel sick. Can we please leave?" you mumble, tugging weakly at his coat.  

"Oh? Yes, of course. Are you okay?" he asks, looking down at you with feigned concern. He grabs your arm, helping you slide out of the booth and walking you out of the club. "It looks like someone had a little too much fun, hmm?" he muses, leading you to his limo. 

Once you're both inside, he rests his hand on your thigh and orders the driver to take you both back to his place. After a minute, he begins trailing his hand up your thigh, making you furrow your eyebrows. "Val, I'm tired," you protest weakly.

Valentino chuckles, moving his hand further up your thigh. "Oh, c'mon, you don't mean that. We can have some fun," he purrs. 

You frown slightly, shaking your head. "'M serious," you slur. You try to push his hand away from your thigh, but he just tightens his grip. 

"You have got to be kidding me. Do you realize how much fucking money I have spent on you tonight?" Valentino hisses. His nails dig into the flesh of your thigh, making you wince in pain. "I spent more on you than I would have paid for two sluts, and now you're telling me that you're 'too tired'?" he mocks.

"...Stop," you mumble, trying to push his hand away again, but you are too weak to loosen his tight grip on you. 

"Mmm, no. Let me tell you how this is going to work," Valentino says, chuckling darkly as he grabs your hand and holds it against the very noticeable bulge in his pants. "You are going to be a good whore and let me do whatever the fuck I want, because I own you." One of his other hands slides beneath your clothing, rubbing against your clothed cunt. When he feels the slightest bit of dampness, he pushes your underwear aside and sinks two of his fingers inside of you. 

"Besides," he purrs, leaning close enough that you feel his hot breath fan against your neck. "Just..consider this a reward for being my favorite."

#hazbin hotel #valentino #hazbin hotel vees #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #valentino x reader #valentino smut #hazbin hotel valentino #valentino x you #hazbin hotel x y/n #hazbin hotel x you #ask #requested

[fandomnerd9602]

Midnight

Stepsister!Wanda x Reader

For @lifespectator and @aloneodi

It all started the day your mom brought home her new boyfriend, Django, and with him came his daughter: Wanda Maximoff.

You could feel something stir within you the moment her eyes met yours and she gave you a shy smile. You could practically feel your heart beating out of your chest.

You and her were 12 at the time. You get like you weren’t old enough to like girls yet.

That was roughly seven years ago. Django and your mom married, making you and Wanda step siblings. You thought that being siblings now would’ve made your heart not look at her in that way anymore. And yet it persisted. No other girl in middle school or high school could compare to her.

Wanda, for the most part, didn’t date either. She was an introvert to the highest degree. She opened up to only two people in her life: you and her best friend Natasha.

Well she did start to date when you and her got to college. Her boyfriend was Vis, a foreign exchange student from England. He seemed proper enough but you hated him for taking Wanda away from you. The only times you ever saw Wanda was on weekends and in between college classes but he was always on her hip.

And so that brings you to New Years Eve. You promised your mom that you, Wanda, and Vis, who had never met your folks, would be home for the New Year. That didn’t mean that the three of you couldn’t stop off at a little college get together for the night first.

The party was loud, you couldn’t see or hear much over the mixture of music and voices. You tried to stay close to Wanda. This really wasn’t her forte.

“Come on Wanda,” Vis’ English accent tried to entice her. “It’s new years, what other way is there to celebrate?”

You turned and saw Vis trying to get Wanda up the stairs to one of the bedrooms. You gritted your teeth as one of your friends dragged you off for a split second.

The next thing you knew, you lost sight of both Wanda and Vis. Your heart broke to think that Wanda could’ve really been with someone else.

And then you caught sight of Wanda, tears streaming down her cheeks as she bolted out the door and into the cold. You turned to see Vis already making out with some other random chick.

You ran out into the blistering cold. That Vis was a jerk, making out with some other gal that wasn’t his date. You wanted to sock him in the jaw but Wanda was your bigger concern.

“Wanda?” You nearly shouted into the cold December air. You found her a few feet in front of you, crying her eyes out.

“Hey Red” you gently approach your stepsister and wrap an arm around her. She immediately turns around and buries her face in the crook of your neck.

“Take me home” she mutters against your skin.

You nod and guide her to your car. The ride home was quiet and somber. Wanda tried to wipe away a few fresh tears.

“I wouldn’t give it to him” she muttered.

“Huh?”

“He wanted to-and I wouldn’t.” She tries to say through her tears. “So he went off with another girl.”

“You did good” you reassured her. “Vis was a jerk”

“Papa would’ve hated him”

“I hated him from the moment I met the guy. Accent or not, Vis was no gentleman” you muttered. You even did a mocking accent earning a giggle from your step sister.

You guide her back into your family home. The clock on the mantle read ten minutes to midnight. Wanda settled onto the couch. You went and brewed some tea for her.

You brought in two mugs of piping hot tea. Wanda blew on hers a little. “Sorry I ruined your New Year’s party” she whispers.

“I’d rather be with you than let you suffer alone” you take a sip.

“Almost midnight” Wanda gives you a shy smile, “sorry you didn’t have someone to kiss”

“None of the gals there interest me” you shrug.

“What? You need to find yourself a girlfriend. You’ve never had one. Middle school. High school. Now college? Why?”

You take a deep breath, “because no girl can compare to the one who loves Florence and the Machine, Harry Potter, and old black and white sitcoms…”

Wanda gasps and then begins to tear up as you continue.

“The girl who gave my darkest days hope. The one whose smile lights up my world. The girl I’ve been in love with since I wasn’t supposed to like girls”

Wanda wipes away a few tears, “Vis wasn’t the one I loved. You are. I just thought it was too crazy…you and me…but we’re older now and…and…”

You gently wipe away a tear from her eye with your thumb and pull her into your arms. “Wanna be my New Years kiss?”

“We’ll” she giggles, “there’s no one else around so…five…”

You laugh, “four”

Her pupils dilate. Her eyes show only adoration for you. “Three”

“Two” you pull her closer.

“One” she whispers as you pull one another into a gentle kiss.

The sound of distant fireworks ring in the new year. But it didn’t matter for you and Wanda. You finally had the love of your life in your arms.

“My detka,” she sighs as she pulls back. She looks at you, you look at her. She giggles before immediately kissing you again. Her lips were like the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted.

What would her father or your mother think? It didn’t matter right now. You’ll take it one day at a time.

But for now, it was a new year. Full of new possibilities and new adventures awaiting for you and Wanda Maximoff, the little witch who always had your heart.

#marvel #marvel imagine #marvel fluff #mcu #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #Wanda variant #wanda fanfic #wanda x reader #wanda marvel #wanda x y/n #elizabeth olsen

[phantom-arsonist-racoon]

DamiJon/ Jon & Damian brainrot

Jon knew he had a type. When he looked up at the drummer of a band he really liked when he was ten, he saw flashes of him in her behavior and personality; when he met the tired fellow high schooler in the library, their barbed replies stinging him gently in all the places he had.

But they weren't him. And Jon...couldn't have him.

"If you're not going to listen I won't tell you about it."

Damian's amused voice cut through his melancholy mind wanderings, and Jon snapped around guiltily.

And oh, he was so lovely.

They were sitting on a building in Metropolis, watching the sun set, and the pinks and oranges shot across the sky reflected on the other man's tan skin. His eyes were slanted affectionately towards his friend, green and sparkling and beautiful.

"Jon?" His head tilted, concerned, and Jon realized he had been staring.

"Sorry," He yelped, turning away.

Damian's hand shot out and grabbed his arm, yanking him back to the building before he could fly. Damn assassin speed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing! I'm fine," The super assured his companion, reaching to clasp his hand. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Damian's hand tightened on his arm. "What's going on with you? You've been spacey all day!" He paused, looking over in mock suspicion. "You're getting tired of me."

"No," Jon replied adamantly. No matter what, that would never be the case.

"Are you sure? You've been acting weird," He snickered.

Jon panicked. Shit, has he noticed anything? He's going to figure it out, he's going to never want to see me again, what if he doesn't like me anymore?

He's seen you with multiple men, Jon, calm down, His more mature self scolded.

But he felt like he was back to being ten years old, hopelessly infatuated with a sharp, mean, oh-so-lovely assassin child.

"You're floating, Jon." With a sharp yank, the man pulled his friend back to the ground.

(I lost my motivation here but if anyone wants to use this go crazy just credit me pls)

#dc universe #dcu #detective comics #damian x jon #damian al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x jon kent #robin dc #robin x superboy #robin #dc robin #jon kent #jonathan kent #jondami #damijon #jon el #supersons #jonathan samuel kent

[bella-rose29]

Happy New Year - Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: barely proof read (I vaguely looked over it once) and mentions of alcohol consumption

felt like writing this (it's totally not to sweeten you all up for when I post deck the halls part 5 tomorrow whaaat that would be ridiculous I would never do that... 👀)

Tag list (i think this is everyone but idk anything anymore): @anathemaloren, @augustisintheair, @avdiobliss, @briar-rose23, @curseofhecate, @dangelnleif, @el-de-phi, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @informedimagining, @karensirkobabes, @light-23, @locknco, @mentallyillsodapop, @mischivana, @mitskiswift99, @mrsklockwood, @mrsyixingunicorn10, @no-morning-glories, @novelizt, @ran23sblog, @superpositvecloudshipper, @t2sh0, @taygrls, @tournesol77, @whenselenefallsinlove, @wordsarelife

"Right, we've got just over an hour before midnight and George has got the telly all set up for the fireworks display. Holly said she'd be here in about ten minutes and Kipps is coming with her, I'm not entirely sure where Lucy and Norrie are which I should probably be more concerned about, and I think that's everything. Is Flo coming do you know? Because I know George said she hadn't decided yet but-"

"Lockwood?"

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you sit down? You seem very stressed," Y/n said, smiling at him from behind her mug of tea while she sat in the kitchen, watching Lockwood pace around the table. It was definitely way past her normal bedtime, but Lockwood had seemed so excited about seeing the New Year in with them all that she couldn't exactly say no to him, especially not when he'd given her a small smile filled with hope that she would say yes to spending the evening with him.

That and they'd tested out the speakers earlier, and she would never have been able to sleep with the music as loud as it currently was.

"I am hosting, Y/n/n. I'm meant to be stressed; it's part of the job."

"Well," she started, getting out of her chair and wincing when her bones clicked. She picked up the mug that Lockwood had abandoned on the table and moved over to where he had stopped his pacing. "I think you're meant to drink your tea and have a biscuit. Then everything will be better, yeah?"

"Alright, if that's what the doctor orders," he smiled as he took the mug out of her hand, and she felt her heart stutter in her chest at the sight. She'd had a crush on Anthony Lockwood since she first met him a few years ago in a café, both him and his company and her Fittes team winding down after their jobs and grabbing a cup of tea before heading out into the cold again. Then she'd quit her job at Fittes because they stopped giving her work and she couldn't afford the rent, and she'd noticed an ad in the paper for agents to join the psychical agency Lockwood and Co, and she'd been met with the pretty boy from the café again. He'd welcomed her instantly, made her feel at home and gave her a place to live, and over the next couple of years her feelings only grew.

Now they were 18 years old, soon to be celebrating the New Year in 35 Portland Row together, and he was smiling at her like she was the sun.

"Don't tell George about the biscuits though, yeah?" he whispered, leaning in as though it were the sort of secret that could never be told. She nodded, snorting at his mock seriousness.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. Can't have you on your own, can we?"

"I wouldn't be alone, Lockwood. I'd have Lucy, and Holly, and George." She frowned a little, considering something. "Although maybe not George if he's killed you. I don't really want to be friends with murderers to be honest." Lockwood let out a laugh, and Y/n couldn't help but grin back at him when his joy was so infectious.

"No, I don't suppose that would be very good, would it?" He chuckled to himself for a moment or so, sipping his tea and munching on a biscuit. "I'm not much looking forward to being the only one not getting a kiss at midnight though."

It surprised her that he'd brought up the topic, since Lockwood had never really shown much interest in that sort of thing before. "Kipps'll probably be on his own too, although I'm not sure you'll be able to convince him to give you a smooch. I'm not kissing anyone either, if that helps."

"I think I'd rather kiss George's underwear than Kipps. You're not even going to kiss Lucy? I thought you two said you would," he asked, attempting to sound disinterested in the whole subject.

"Yeah, well now that she's got Norrie here they're gonna kiss instead, so I'm on my own. And I would also rather kiss George's pants than Kipps."

"Ah."

"Hmm." They drank the remainder of their tea in silence, the music from the speakers that George had set up streaming in despite being muffled through the closed kitchen door. "You know, I haven't even had my first kiss yet."

Lockwood looked at her, surprise all over his face. "What about that guy you went on a date with?"

"What? When did I go on a date?" And why did Lockwood sound... jealous?

"A few weeks ago. Oh, what was his name? Dave? Derek?"

"Daniel?"

"Yes! Daniel, that's the one. I knew it started with a 'd'."

"Dan's not... we're not dating, Lockwood. That wasn't a date," she said, feeling increasingly flustered.

"So he just bought you flowers and took you to dinner... as a friend?" Lockwood was definitely jealous, and Y/n had to bite back a laugh at the idea. Something was nagging at her in the back of her mind, telling her that it was strange for him to be jealous and wouldn't that mean something? but she wasn't paying much attention to it.

"Well I told him it wasn't a date. And we didn't kiss so I don't see how it's relevant."

"Right." A momentary pause. "But still, how come you haven't kissed anyone before?"

"It's not by choice. I've just never... had the opportunity I guess. You've probably kissed loads of people, what with how many of them you charm every day." Lockwood shrugged.

"Not really. There was one girl a few months ago, but she kissed me after pinning me against a taxi so that I physically couldn't get away from her, so I'm not entirely sure that counts."

"... What?"

"Yeah. After that job for Mrs. Hastings, her daughter followed us out and shoved me against the taxi. I have no idea how she was that strong but I feared for my life."

"You're ridiculous," she muttered as she looked at his face, no hint of anything other than utter seriousness displayed on his features.

"Ah, there you two are!" George said, pushing open the door and talking slightly louder than normal due to the blaring music. "I was wondering where you'd got to! Come on, the others are all here now, and they managed to convince Flo to come along somehow."

Y/n put down her empty tea mug and picked up her plastic cup that had had Lucy's punch in it (although what was in the punch itself she had no idea), and headed into the living room with Lockwood close behind to get comfy for the celebrations.

~~~

"Five minutes everyone!" Lucy shouted. She had since emerged from wherever it was that she'd been hiding (she and Norrie had appeared in giggles and with blushes on their faces, so Y/n felt sure in her assumption of what they'd been up to) and was now handing around a large bottle of some sort of cocktail that she'd mixed earlier.

Y/n and Lockwood were curled up next to each other on the sofa, somehow fitting the both of them on there without falling off. Lockwood was partially sat up, leaning his back against the armrest and holding Y/n close to him by wrapping an arm around her waist.

"You alright, love?" Lockwood murmured into her ear, and she nodded sleepily. Despite the loud music and alcohol Y/n was feeling worn out from the late hour, and Lockwood's hand stroking through her hair wasn't helping to keep her awake.

"I'm alright. Jus' tired."

"Not long now. Four minutes I think."

"I still don't have anyone to kiss," she said, a frown appearing on her face. The alcohol had made her tipsy, and she pushed herself up to look at Lockwood. "Neither do you. Oh!" she exclaimed, thinking up a brilliant idea that was helped by the drinks in her system. "We should jus' kiss each other, then all of our problems will be solved!"

"I'm not sure about all, love," Lockwood chuckled, and Y/n's frown reappeared.

"So you don't want to kiss me?"

"I didn't say that," he replied, voice growing quiet. "I mean, if you're happy to then... you know. If you don't mind then I don't... we can kiss. If you want."

"I want. I'm not going to lie I've wanted to kiss you for years now. You're so prettyyyy and kind and funny and lovely." She had no control over her words, all of them flying out before she could properly stop and think, and then she was registering them and slapping her hand over her mouth while her face turned red. Lockwood was just staring at her, his mouth slightly open and his face flushed from the alcohol he had drunk, and she buried her head in his chest.

"Why are you hiding, love? You're pretty too, so I don't know why you're not letting me look at you." He was still stroking his fingers through her hair, and when she brought her head back up to smile softly at him he pulled her closer (although she hadn't thought that was possible).

"You're drunk, Lockwood."

"I'm not-sober. There's a difference. Besides, you're not-sober too," he wagged a finger at her with a smile. "Wait, what does me being not-sober have to do with you being pretty?"

"'Cause you don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying, love." It was almost too much, the fondness in his eyes, and if she wasn't so captivated she would have looked away. "I've wanted to kiss you for years too, I was just never brave enough."

"Ten seconds!" Lucy yelled, and Y/n wondered just how long she'd been staring into Lockwood's eyes for time to pass so quickly.

"Nine!" the others gathered in the room started chanting, not noticing Lockwood and Y/n cuddled up on the sofa. "Eight! Seven! Six!" Lockwood pushed a strand of hair back behind Y/n's ear, his hand lingering at the side of her face and cupping her cheek. "Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year, Lockwood," she whispered, brushing her nose against his.

"Happy New Year, Y/n/n," he whispered back, pressing his mouth to hers.

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader

[cherrycola27]

false god

Series Warnings: Mythology!AU. Language, alcohol, drinking. Military inaccuracies. Mutual pining, unrequited love. Allusions to and full smut. Minors DNI. 18+. Individual chapter warnings will come as needed. Banner Credit @thedroneranger

Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

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Chapter 17: Something Just Like This

Space. A place in this world to call your own. It's something you had always wanted—something you craved.

For a while, you had that here in your apartment with Hydra and Cerberus, and now Bradley. And you had loved the space you shared with them. Until she came along and contaminated it. Your home, the place that was supposed to be your safe space, had been desecrated.

Maybe that's why, when you woke up in the wee hours of the morning on Tuesday, with Bradley still fast asleep, you found yourself scrolling through real estate sights looking at houses. You hadn't lived in an actual house on earth, ever.

The thought of having one never crossed your mind. Buying a house meant staying somewhere. It was a physical representation of permanence. Something you never had before.

But now, with Bradley, your husband, you wanted a place for the two of you. A place to raise your future family because you were done running. You'd found your place in this world.

You scrolled and scrolled until you found the perfect house. It was a four bedroom colonial. Two stories, fenced in backyard, and a large front porch. It had a pool, which you weren't thrilled about, but you knew Bradley would love.

It was in a quiet neighborhood in Coronado. The house had hardwood floors throughout, and the listing said it had been newly remodeled, which was evident in the pictures.

The outside had beautiful landscaping, which complimented the lime-washed brick of the exterior. The only drawback was the price. For most, it would deter them, but for you, who'd spent over a thousand years saving and investing on earth, it was a drop in the bucket.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you filled in your information to set up a meeting to tour the house at ten in the morning. You didn't want to tell Bradley because it's not something the two of you had talked about, but it felt so right.

So, in the morning, you told him you had some errands to run and a surprise for him when you returned.

When you came back home around two that afternoon, you were giddy with excitement. "Love, pack a bag." You announced to Bradley as you came through the door.

"For?" He asked you with a raised eyebrow.

"For Virginia Beach. I figured we might as well take advantage of this time off that we have. I know you've been wanting to go home for a bit, and I'd love to see where you grew up. So, I made a few calls, worked out a few things, and I booked us two first class tickets. Our flight leaves at five. You announce proudly as you go to your bedroom and pull out some suitcases and start packing.

"Woah, babe, slow down. What about Hyrda and Cerberus?" Bradley asks as you toss clothes at him.

"Penny agreed to pet sit for us." You tell him.

"Well, what about a place to stay? I normally stay with my aunt, but I can't just spring this on her." Bradley asks you concerned.

"Bradley, it wounds me that you don't have faith in me." You mock him as you turn around to face him for the first time. "I got us a hotel. Everything is taken care of. Now start packing!" You scold him as you return to your suitcase.

Bradley exhales, knowing that it's fruitless to argue with you. So, he relents and starts packing alongside you.

An hour and a half later, the two of you are being dropped off at the airport. You decided to Uber rather than leave either of your vehicles there.

The moment you get your bags out, a young man greets both of you. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw. I can take your things for you, and then you can follow me to the lounge."

Bradley looks a little surprised but hands your luggage over. The two of you follow the steward to the first class lounge and take a seat before getting a drink.

Bradley looks around as he settles into the plush chair with a glass of expensive scotch. "This is something else." He remarks. "Have you never flown first class?" You ask him.

"Never. When I fly commercial, I always try to upgrade to business because I'm too big to fit comfortably in economy." He shrugs his shoulders and continues to look around.

"You know, I sometimes forget that you're like, wealthy from being around so long. But then you buy me fancy watches and first-class plane tickets and I remember." Bradley chuckles.

"Bradley, Love." You lean forward in your chair. "I'm not wealthy. We are wealthy. You're my husband. For better or worse, what's mine is yours." You remind him.

"If you say so—still—it's a lot to take in." He sighs as he checks the time on his aforementioned expensive watch that you bought him.

A little while later, the two of you are on the plane tucked into your first class suite with all the bells and whistles, complete with lie-flat seats and a door.

Bradley is engrossed in finding out what all the buttons do when a flight attendant comes by with two glasses of champagne as you wait for take off.

"We didn't order these." Bradley says, but you pat his shoulder and chuckle. "They are complimentary. Perks of first class." You smile at him before grabbing the glasses and toasting. Minutes later, a dinner menu appears, and Bradley marvels at all of the choices, unable to decide.

You lean back in your chair and watch him over the rim of your glass. He's like a kid in a candy store. It warms your heart that you are able to give him all of this. You thought maybe completing your quest for worthiness was your purpose in life, but looking at your husband, you realize loving him is your true purpose.

The roughly six hour flight goes smoothly. After dinner, your suite is converted to a bed so you and Bradley can get some sleep. However, the two of you decide that joining the mile-high club was a better idea. You came with Bradley's hand firmly covering your mouth and his chest pressed against your back with him whispering absolutely filthy praises in your ear about how you were such a good girl for him.

By the time the two of you made it to your hotel late that evening, you were both thoroughly exhausted. You took a quick shower together before curling up to get some much needed sleep before meeting his family tomorrow.

....................

You woke up the next day extremely nervous.

Today, you would meet Carole's sister, Bradley's Aunt Marsha, her husband Tom, and their three children.

While the two of you were getting dressed, Bradley could sense that you were worried. The entire drive there in your rental car, he assured you that they would love you, and everything would be fine.

You felt nauseous as he pulled into their driveway. His aunt and uncle had a lovely home, and Bradley told you that they were great people, but this was all new to you.

You held his hand tightly as you climbed the couple of steps that led to the front door. Bradley rang the doorbell, and the two of you patiently waited for someone to answer. He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze just before the door opened, and a lovely middle-aged woman with short blonde hair opened the door.

"Oh my goodness! Bradley! What are you doing here?!" The woman, who you knew had to be his aunt because she looked just like Carole, exclaimed as she pulled him in for a hug before cupping his face. She hadn't noticed you yet.

"Hey, Aunt Marsha! I had a few days off, so I thought I would fly out here and surprise you. I also wanted to introduce you to someone." Bradley said as you pulled you closer to him. "Y/N, this is my Aunt Marsha. Aunt Marsha, this is Y/N, my wife." Bradley smiled.

Bradley's aunt stood there silently for a moment before a wide grin spread across her face. You turned her head over her shoulder and called into her home. "Tom, Conner, Alyssa, Maddie, meet me in the living room. Bradley is here, and he brought his wife!"

Marsha ushers the two of you inside and directs you to her living room, where you sit down on the sofa.

"Marsha, what are you going on about?" And older gentleman, whom you assume is her husband, comes into room holding a cup of coffee before stopping in his tracks when he spies you and Bradley sitting on couch. You aren't sure what to do, so you shyly wave at him. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, Bradley's cousin burst into the room. "Mom, what do you mean Bradley brought his—" a tall boy who has blonde curls similar to Bradley's stops short when he sees the two of you. "—Wife." He finishes in a choked tone. The two girls stand there silently, each mirroring their father's shocked expression with wide eyes and mouthed slightly agape.

Marsha stands up and scolds her husband and children. "Don't just stand there, introduce yourselves!"

All at once, the four of them move toward you. You and Bradley both stand up, and you shake hands with his Uncle Tom and his cousins Conner, Alyssa, and Maddie. You a sit back down, and there is an awkward silence in the room.

"Well, Y/N, tell us about yourself, honey." Bradley's aunt breaks the silence as she brings in cups of coffee for all of you. You take the mug and take a deep breath.

"Well, I'm a pilot like Bradley is, I'm originally from North Carolina. I'm thrity-one. I'm Greek. I have a dog and a cat, my rank is Commander, I graduated from the Naval Academy, and my parents passed away when I was nineteen. Oh, and my call sign is Hades." You say, telling them what you'd practiced on the drive over here.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry to hear about your folks." Marsha says. "It's fine, Mrs. Edwards." You shrug your shoulders. Bradley's aunt shakes her head.

"Mrs. Edwards is my mother in law. I'm Marsha or Aunt Marsha, whichever you prefer. We are family now." She smiles at you coming to sit by you on the couch and resting her hands over yours.

"Aren't you just the most beautiful woman. If there's one thing those Bradshaw boys can do, it's pick a beautiful wife. My goodness Bradley, she is gorgeous." Marsha compliments you. "Thank you." You smile back at her. "And she went to the Academy and is a Commander. That means she outrank you, doesn't it?" Marsha asks him.

"She sure does." Bradley chuckles. "Beautiful and smart. No wonder you couldn't stop talking about her when you came out to Maddie's graduation!" Marsha laughs, and Bradley blushes. You turn to him a quirk an eyebrow.

"Oh, honey, you should have heard him. He wouldn't stop talking about you!" Aunt Marsha says. "So, tell me the story, how did you two meet and all that jazz?" She asks you.

"Bradley was assigned to be my wingman, and we became friends and found out by accident that we were neighbors. We kind of danced around the fact that we liked each other for a while until Bradley asked me out on a date on my birthday. We went out the next day. Dinner and the boardwalk amusement park. He won me a stuffed shark!" You cheer as you tell them.

"Then Bradley got hurt, and I convinced him to move in with me, and last week, he proposed, and we eloped on the beach." You say, leaving out some of the more supernatural details before showing her your ring.

"This was your mother's ring, wasn't it?" Marsha asks with a few tears in her eyes. "Yes, yes, it was." Bradley says to her.

"She and Nick would have loved you." Marsha smiles at you. "You know, I never met two people who were more perfect for each other than my sister and Goose. You know he proposed after four dates. I guess when you know you know. I know Carole never loved anyone else after him. I hope they found each other in the afterlife and are happy together." Marsha sighs.

"They are." You sigh, and she looks at you confused. "I mean—I'm sure they are. Bradley has told me so much about them." You recover quickly. Marsha sighs before getting up to take your coffee cups. You offer to help her and follow her dutifully into the kitchen. You set the mugs down on the counter and turn to ask Marsha if she'd like help washing them.

But as you turn, your elbow catches the handle of one, and it crashes to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. "Oh no! I'm so sorry! Let me clean it up!" You drop to your knees to grab the broken fragments of ceramic. A sharp piece catches your index finger and you wince, drawing back at the pain.

You bring your finger up to examine yourself and notice the fresh, crimson blood leaking out of the cut. Your eyes go wide with shock. This isn't supposed to happen.

"Are you okay, dear? Here, let me get the broom." Marsha says as she scoops you to your feet and sweeps up the mess. "I'm so sorry." You say to her again.

"Oh, honey, don't you worry. There's a hundred more where that came from. Do you need a bandage? Come over to the sink and grab a stool, I'll clean you up." She says.

"I'm fine." You assure her as you wash the blood from your hands.

Hours later, you and Bradley's family, well, your family now, are gathered around the dining room tabled eating. The cut and dropped mug from earlier long forgotten.

The atmosphere is warm and welcoming and it's nice to sit down and have a family dinner where everyone wants you around.

It's nice to have a real family.

That night, when the two of you leave, Marsha and Tom insist that they have enough room for the two of you to sleep over, but Bradley tells them you already have a hotel room. His aunt makes you promise to come over again before you leave so she can show you some photo albums of Bradley through the years. When you return the next day, you spend hours flipping through them with her. Bradley blushes every time Marsha shows you one that he deems embarrassing, but you love every minute of it.

The two of you spend the next few days exploring. The day before you're set to leave, Bradley takes you to the graveyard where his parents are buried.

As you drive into the cemetery in your rented car, you hold tight to Bradley's hand. Afraid of what might happen if you don't.

He drives up a hill and stops at the top, pulling the car over to the shoulder and shutting off the engine. You both unbuckle, but you reach for his arm before exiting. "Bradley, wait," you say, catching him by the elbow.

"What's wrong, Angel?" He asks you with a soft expression. "I just—I just need to do something before we go out there. C'mere." You say to him as you pull him closer.

You lean over the console of the rental car and thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of Bradley's neck before pressing your foreheads together. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths hoping that your idea works.

You break apart and look down, and a smile graces your features as you see what you were hoping to see.

"What was that about?" Bradley questions you. "I was seeing if we were tethered." You tell him. He cocks an eyebrow, still unsure.

"Graveyards and one of the places that I can easily travel back to the Underworld. When I'm in my true goddess form, I can see the portals inside them. But when I'm in my mortal form, I can't. If I would accidentally pass through one, I don't know if I would be strong enough to make it back. But if I'm tethered to you, I have something connecting me here to the mortal world. It keeps me safe." You explain to him.

"How do you know we are tethered?" Bradley asks. "Look at your ring. You should be able to see it." Bradley looks down, and there's a gold string running between the two of you. "Holy shit." He breathes out. "How—how is that possible? How can I see this?"

"Because you're the King of the Underworld. And as much as I never thought they existed, Bradley, you're my soulmate. Only soulmates can be tethered. It's how they find each other in the afterlife." You explain to him.

"But, but I thought you said we couldn't be soulmates. That our marriage could never be real?" Bradley shakes his head.

"Ancient laws are tricky. But I think you made it real, Bradley." You say as the pieces fall into place in your mind. "How?" He retorts.

"Because you made me an alter the first time we made love. You said you would worship at my hips, worship me. You made me an alter, and so when we got married—"

"We married at an alter of the Gods, an alter for you." He finishes. "Exactly." You smile. "So what does that mean, Angel?" Bradley presses further. "It means they can't take you from me. Gods can't tear apart soulmates. Looks like you're stuck with me." You chuckle.

Bradley smiles and kisses you before stepping out of the vehicle and coming to open your door. You slip your hand in his as the two of you walk to the headstone that marks his parent's resting place.

The two of you walk up, and Bradley introduces you as if they were actually standing in front of you. He starts talking about you to them, and you can't fight the tears that slip down your cheek at his one-sided conversation.

It's moving to watch him talk about your love and your marriage to his parents. He does it in such an enthusiastic manner that it makes your heart swell. Bradley wraps an arm around you and pulls you close after a few minutes and the two of you bask in the silence.

"I've met them." You say after a few long minutes. "What?" Bradley whispers as he looks down at you.

"I've met them. In the Underworld. The day your mother passed. I was in the Underworld trying to figure out a way to stay. She walked into Paradise asking about "her Goose." I thought she was talking about a pet until she explained that Goose was he husband's call sign. I got to see them reunite. It was— beautiful." You say to him.

"So they really are together. You meant it when you said that at Aunt Marsha's house?" Bradley tears up.

"They are together and happy and still in love. I'm sure you've heard this before, but you really do look so much like your father." You say as you cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes away some of his tears.

"I'm sorry I never told you before." You apologize. "It's okay. I understand why you didn't." Bradley says as he places his hand over yours. "I'm also sorry that I can't take you there to see them. If I was stronger—if I had my full powers—I could." You sigh, angry at yourself.

"It's okay, Angel. I know you could if you would." He whispers before kissing your forehead and pulling you in for a hug. The two of you stand there for a moment before you ask Bradley the question that's been on your mind. "Bradley, where do you want to be buried?"

He pulls back and thinks for a moment. "I never really thought about it. I always figured I'd either burn in, and there wouldn't be anything left of me or that I'd die alone and get boxed up and put in some military graveyard. But I think— I think I'd like to be buried here, with my parents. I'd like to have this view forever." He says as the two of you watch the hues of red and orange paint the evening sky.

"I think I can make sure that happens. Right here is going to be the perfect spot to spend eternity with you." You say. Bradley shakes his head. He doesn't say it, but he knows that he's going to die before you. But you've already promised him that you won't let him go without you. He just hopes you're both old and have lived a full life with that happens.

The two of you say goodbye to Goose and Carole with a promise to visit again soon before leaving.

Your flight home the next day is uneventful.

It's mid afternoon by the time you make it back. The two of you Uber back to your apartment before going to pick up Cerby and Hydra from Mav and Penny. You insist on driving to go get them. Bradley makes a fuss about it but ultimately gives in and hands you your keys.

"Angel, this isn't the way to Mav and Penny's." Bradley remarks as you make a turn. "I know." You hum back. You drive for a few more minutes before you pull into your final destination.

"Honey, who's house is this?" Bradley asks you as you pull in the driveway. "It's for sale. Let's go take a look." You say before hoping out of the car and bounding up the steps to the front door.

"Angel—baby—Hades, wait! We can't just go in a house that's for sale. We don't know if someone might be here!" Bradley scolds you as he follows you up the steps.

"No one is home, and we can go in if we have the key." You reply as you hold up the shiny piece of metal before unlocking the door. "How did you get that?" Bradley interrogates you as you step inside. "I have my ways." You laugh. "C'mon, Bradley, look around with me. Don't be such a kill joy." You tease him as you begin to flit throughout the space.

The bay windows along the back wall let in tons of natural like, and the floor plan is open concept with the kitchen, living room, and dining room flowing into one another. Gorgeous amber colored hardwoods run throughout the house and there is a fireplace along one wall.

The kitchen has beautiful light grey cabinets with white counter tops, and all the appliances are stainless steel. Bradley follows you up the stairs as he takes in all of the bedrooms before you lead him downstairs to the back patio and outdoor kitchen and the pool.

"Isn't this place amazing, Love?" You say to him with starry eyes.

"It's great, but—"He says hesitantly. "But what?" You ask him as you wrap your arms around his middle. "This is an expensive neighborhood and I know that you have money—"

"We have money." You correct him.

"We have money." He sighs. "But I don't want to spend so much of it. You earned that, and it's not fair."

You chuckle. "Bradley, I can't take it with me. And I've never had a reason to have a house until now. I mean, think about it. The yard would be perfect for Cerby and later on some kids. I mean, this would be the perfect home to raise our family in. You could teach them to swim in that pool while I make snacks in the outdoor kitchen. We could have our friends over. Heck, your aunt and uncle and cousins could come visit us. This place would be the perfect home for us!" You try to reason with him.

"I guess you're right. A place like this would be perfect for us to have a family. I guess we could talk to a realtor." Bradley laughs as the thought of you standing in the kitchen round and pregnant with his child while a toddler is running around the back yard with him creeps into his mind.

"We don't have to talk to a realtor, Bradley." You tell him. "I'm pretty sure we do, honey." Bradley chuckles.

"I'm pretty sure we don't. When we pulled up, you asked me whose house this was. Well, it's our house, Bradley. Welcome home." You say as you take a step back and dangle a key in front of him.

"You—you bought us a house? When? How?" He stammers, taking in your words. "The morning we left for Virginia. You'd be amazed what you can get done for the right amount of money.

"So you, you own this?" Bradley sweeps his hand around.

"We own this." You smile.

Bradley is silent for a moment before he picks you up and spins you around and carries you out the front door and onto the porch.

"Bradley? What are you doing?" You laugh. "I'm supposed to carry you across the threshold. It's tradition." He says with a matter of fact tone before doing just that. You break out into a fit of giggles as he sets you down and starts going through your home in earnest.

.................

Two weeks later, the two of you are all moved in. Your furniture fills the room, your photos and decor fill the walls and shelves. Your dishes sit in the cabinets, and Hydra and Cerberus have settled in nicely.

You've just come out of your huge new shower and are doing your nighttime routine when you notice a bruise from when you hit the corner of the kitchen island when making dinner, but you shake it off. As you apply some lotion, you notice the small scar on your hand from the mug you broke in Virginia.

When you go to inspect it further, you suddenly realize just how tired you are as you let out a yawn. You don't dwell on it because Bradley is calling you to come to bed, and the idea of being wrapped up in his big strong arms is the only thing you can be bothered to think of right now.

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[adore-laur]

FAÇADE

— a lustful enemies to lovers au set in the 1880’s 📖

I

Blair Lancaster unabashedly loathes Mr. Styles. 

He always licks his slender index finger before flipping the weathered pages of a romance novel. She internally sympathizes with whoever is doomed to take home the book that had been in his filthy grasp. 

He loudly clears his throat in the hushed space of the library far too often for her liking. She is beginning to wonder if he caught the fatal consumption disease and has a secret scheme to spread it across the city. 

He viciously studies her and the other women like a predatory bird hunting its unguarded prey. She compares his calloused hands to the talons of a hawk and his blatant staring to their beady little eyes. 

Perhaps Blair does not entirely loathe him. The feeling is more akin to a deep-rooted dislike for the man who supervises the alcove filled with women crammed around a small, oval table. No seats are provided, leaving them to stand on their aching feet for an unsuitable number of hours. 

At the public library in Boston, New York, women are strictly required to segregate themselves from the men by sitting in the alcove if they wish to read books or write letters. Reading, however, proves rather bland when they are all given books about how a lady should properly act or ones that revoltingly mock their intellect. 

Yet there is a more covert reason why they are confined to the alcove. 

Library loafers is the coined term. Women have only recently been allowed access to the library, and there is a concern that they may be in danger from the men who lurk and loiter around the bookshelves and desks, leering at young ladies who just want the freedom of absorbing printed imagination. 

The hickory walls are decorated with paintings of foreground femininity, yet the intended purpose is a façade. 

See, the nook is still visible to other sections of the library. It resembles a shadowbox for the male gaze or a stage of sorts so they can observe the moral spectacle of well-behaved women. That is why Blair Lancaster detests the man sitting on his chair, more like a throne, flicking through pages of a far more exciting story than the one she holds. Mr. Styles is the one who polices their behavior, making sure no one is stepping out of line or provocatively reading something they are not supposed to. 

Well, Blair enjoys pushing that limit every once in a while out of sheer apathy. 

Whenever the book she reads starts to bore her to death, she ponders ways to aggravate him. In the past, she sighed dramatically after turning each page for ten whole minutes until he had to snap his fingers, warning her to stop. She has also pretended to fall asleep with her head on the table, purposely reaching her arm out to knock the book onto the floor with a loud thump, resulting in him huffing and picking it up for her. In one instance, she purposely gave herself a paper cut and dripped blood onto the first page of the book she was given so it would have to be thrown out. She could tell by the look on Mr. Styles' face that he knew she had only done it to be a pain in the neck. 

Today, she decides to clear her throat every time he does. Only four other women are in the room, and Blair knows they like it when she breaks the quietness to bring entertainment to the dull atmosphere. 

"Enough," Mr. Styles commands after her third act of mimicry. 

She smirks and continues reading the same sentence repeatedly until she becomes bored. After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat again, and she does the same. 

"Ms. Lancaster, may I have a word with you?" 

Blair subtly rolls her eyes. She hates it when he treats her like a schoolgirl in detention, lecturing and speaking down to her as if she is inferior. 

"What is it, Mr. Styles?" she asks as she walks over to him, feigning innocence to pester him even more. 

He stares at her intensely. "Do you fancy being expelled from this library?" 

"I think there is something in my throat," she says with a dramatic pout. "The book I was given is quite dusty." 

He hums monotonously. "I must say, that was a terrible fib. I expected a better excuse from you." 

Blair's lips twitch as she fixes the collar of her dress. "I do not fib, Mr. Styles. Allergies are dreadful this time of year, have you not heard? Or maybe you and I have caught…” She leans forward to theatrically whisper, “The consumption disease." 

"Your hands fidget when you lie." With an unimpressed look, he jerks his chin toward the table. "Behave. Otherwise, you will be kicked out." 

The conversation, if it could even be called that, dies quickly as Blair returns to her spot. Her remaining time in the alcove causes drooping eyes and raw, bitten nails. There is nothing she could possibly do to make time pass any faster, so she watches the grandfather clock until it chimes when the small hand ticks to the number twelve. Blair promised her father she would be home for lunchtime, so she sets the book she only read two pages of in the wooden bin, then gives Mr. Styles an icy glare before leaving the library. 

On her stroll home, she reminisces about every encounter with him today. Every facial expression and unspoken word that was told with each glimpse. She buries the invasive thoughts that dangerously cross the streets of her mind. However, at dusk, he creeps in her brain's crevices like noxious venom. When her satin curtains are drawn, and the burning sun says its farewell, Blair cannot help but think about him after she blows out the candles beside her bed. 

His eyes of marjoram green that cast her discreet glances only she noticed. She wonders if she will ever get close enough to find specks of gold in them or if they crinkle when he laughs, lighting up with radiance that has never been revealed to her. There is a chance they soften when he reads a particularly romantic line in a novel, perhaps of a private touch or confession of love. 

His long fingers that flip through the worn pages of said novels. Blair wonders how they would feel slowly trailing along her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, or how they would feel in her mouth, the pad of his thumb erotically settled between her teeth. There is a possibility they would stretch inside another part of her body so deeply that her entire soul would ache with pleasure. 

His pink lips that pout and glisten in the sunlight filtered through the clerestory windows of the library. She wonders how they would form around certain words or if they feel as soft as they look, pillowy and sweet if she were to taste them. She will not taste them, but it is nice to dream about the flawless physicality of a man such as himself. 

Mr. Styles may be unbearable and shrouded with arrogance, but that does not dismiss his obvious allure. He is nothing but a pretty face that haunts her at nightfall, hung high in the gallery of her mind like the moon in the starlit sky. 

He is a complicated façade. 

                                                II 

A spring thunderstorm has blown over the newspaper stands and matted down Blair's curls as she traverses up the slippery brick steps of the library again. Violent rain hits the cobblestone streets, which are filled with umbrellas over heads and coats over the less fortunate as they all maneuver to the closest shelter. 

Blair has forgone any protection from the storm, so she passes through the familiar threshold with a saturated dress and dripping strands of blonde hair that appear a shade darker due to their wetted state. As she looks around, she finds the library completely barren of townsfolk except for a stout man who bustles up to her and huffs a displeased breath when he sees the puddle of rainwater forming by her feet. She hopes he overlooks the trail of muddy footprints she left behind. 

"Good evening, Ms. Lancaster," he greets with a formal cap tip. "The unfortunate weather has sprung a leak in the alcove ceiling, so you will be relocated to the main room for the day." 

Blair nods, attempting to hide the eager smile that threatens to pull at her freckled cheeks. It will be alleviating to not have to tolerate being confined in a stodgy room with Mr. Styles. She prays she will have the whole room to herself so she can conceive a plan to sneakily grab a horror fiction book while the thunder rumbles outside. 

She follows the man who, if she remembers correctly, is the chimney sweeper usually found by the stone fireplace, soot dusting his forehead and coughing up a storm stronger than the one currently shaking the bookshelves. Speaking of which, the first thing Blair notices when she enters the candlelit room is that the bookshelves are all locked up with hexagonal metal cages. The flickering flames dance off them menacingly.

She furrows her eyebrows when the man's presence is no longer felt beside her. Then, she feels someone else's burning gaze. A sudden flash of lightning conducts her attention to the other side of the room, and simmering rage immediately courses through her veins. 

Mr. Styles is sitting on the windowsill with his legs crossed over one another. His jeweled fingers delicately hold a book as relentless rain pelts the windowpane behind him. He wears a silk shirt with small, puffed sleeves the color of ballet slippers—or perhaps the shade of the blush that spreads across his cheeks when Blair catches his not-so-subtle glance at her pebbled nipples under her soaked dress. 

Blair's first step toward him creates an echoing creak on the wooden floor. "What business do you have being here?" she asks bitterly. 

He smirks before licking his index finger and flipping the page of his book. "Have you forgotten that this is my place of work?" 

She swallows down disgust. "I would rather sit in the alcove and let the leakage slowly drown me than be here with you." 

He looks up amusedly, running his eyes across her figure. "From how you look like a sopping mess, it seems as though you already have." 

"A bit preposterous coming from a man with puffy princess sleeves." 

A hummed and humorless laugh sounds from his closed lips. A cup of tea is steaming on a porcelain saucer next to his thighs. The sight of the brown liquid coats her throat with warmth. 

Blair is quiet as she treads closer and walks her fingers along the top of the leather couch. The popping and hissing of the nearby fireplace fill the dead silence, its blazes of orange releasing glowing embers that beautifully fizzle out on the kindling. 

"I presumed you would be the only one here today," Mr. Styles mentions after an elongated and intimidating pause. 

Blair stands next to the fire, hoping it dries her dripping dress. "Yes, well, a thunderstorm is quintessential weather for reading. Is it not?" 

"I will not argue with you there." He stands, replacing his book with the saucer. "This tea is for you. I figured since you will be stuck with me in this room, I shall attempt to make it as pleasant as possible." 

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You made tea for me?" 

His throat bobs. "Walking here in the rain is the quickest way to become ill, Ms. Lancaster. You should know better." 

"Is it poisoned?" 

The click of Mr. Styles' boots becomes muffled once he steps on the oriental rug she stands on. "No. I am not as cynical as you make me out to be in your head." 

She pushes her wet bangs away from her forehead. "Do you know what is cynical?" 

"Divertis-moi, ange de la pluie."

Blair ignores his French, which she does not understand. She has heard him use the language countless times before if any immigrant women are misbehaving in the alcove. His fluency and intelligence spark envy, but she will never admit it to his face.

"It is cynical that I come here every day and do not have the freedom to read what I desire," she says firmly. "Some days, I do not want to read in my dreary bedroom, so I seek serenity in a library that does not even respect me. How cruel, yet I still come here for a view other than my pathetic lawn!"

All Mr. Styles does is clear his throat while setting the tea down on the fireplace mantel. Blair wants to pour the scalding liquid down the back of his neck. 

"What am I supposed to read if all the books I yearn for are locked away?" she adds defeatedly. 

He twists his rings and bobs his head to a red book on the couch. "I was instructed to provide The Scarlet Letter." 

Blair examines the chipped spine and faded cover. "I have not read that one yet."

"Veiled misogyny is what fills the pages. I find Hawthorne to be glorified as an author to a ridiculous degree." 

"How promising," she mutters. "I suppose it is better than reading about everything I should do for my dutiful husband when he returns from war." 

Mr. Styles looks at the floor and scrunches his nose before asking, "You have heard of Jane Austen, yes?" 

"What?" Blair blurts confusedly. "Of course, I have. No one captures blooming romance quite like her." 

"And did you see anyone else in the library when you arrived?" he questions further while taking a step closer. 

"N-no," she stutters, scanning the empty room. "Only the chimney sweeper." 

"Then follow me." 

In the blink of an eye, Mr. Styles is halfway up the spiral staircase in the corner that leads to a place Blair has never been allowed to discover. She carefully grabs the tea and a stray candelabra, then catches up to his long strides. Eventually, she is led to the top and down a dark, narrow aisle where books upon books line the walls. Some are even stacked high on the floor. 

Mr. Styles takes a silver key from his trouser pocket and unlocks a shelf on the left. He briefly peeks at her. "It will be our little secret, hmm?"

Blair marvels at the various romance and gothic titles that reveal themselves when she raises the flame. Wuthering Heights, Little Women, and Vanity Fair appear to have been gracefully worn over time and through use. 

"I was once told by the owner that there was nothing important up here," she tells him as her fingertips trace the spine of Persuasion. "I never quite believed him." 

Mr. Styles stands behind her. She can feel his steady breaths on her neck. "I apologize on behalf of him. He is not a charming man, that one." 

Clark Bennett is his name. A tall, middle-aged rich man who set the misogynistic rules in place. She sees him roam past the alcove on rare occasions, silently inspecting the women through his monocle. Never one to initiate conversation, yet always the one to give disapproving glances. It angers Blair how someone could be so despicable. The other women are too afraid to speak out about the abhorrent environment he has created. 

So, Blair turns around and looks at the man she despises but is the only one who seems to care about what she has to say. 

"Mr. Styles," she begins, lifting the candelabra to light his face, "I feel unbearably suffocated in a place meant for comfort. As a woman, I cannot even read in this library without arbitrary rules that bring me unfathomable misery and rage. Having to sit and read sentences with no emotional attachment to me is torturous. Surely, I do not sound ludicrous."

"You can call me Harry," he responds. 

She scoffs at his blatant disregard. "Did you listen to a word I said?" 

He nods. "Yes, Blair. I realize this world hinders your ability to prosper as a woman, but I cannot change the rules. I do not have the authority, so please accept my offer of letting you read something other than shameful, discriminatory novels. Is that all right with you?" 

She takes a sip of the herbal tea, now lukewarm, before saying, "Is this a trick to get me in trouble? I will not be fooled, Mr. Styles." 

"Harry," he corrects. "And no, I am not a scoundrel. There is no reason for me to con you." 

"There are plenty of reasons. Money and praise can make a man do evil things." 

"Do you take me for a man who would do evil things?" 

"Yes." She takes another sip. "I take every man for a schmuck. You are no exception." 

He leans his head against the bookshelf and smiles handsomely. "A schmuck?" he repeats humorously.

"A cretin," she continues, enjoying herself very much. "A muttonhead. Personally, I like to call men ratbags." 

Harry's eyes crinkle when he lets out a loud cackle. So they do crinkle. What a sight to behold! 

Blair blows a strand of hair out of her eye. "This is not a laughing matter." 

"Oh, but it is." He pushes his body off the shelf and towers over her. "You fascinate me with your unwavering temerity." 

"Is that why you stare at me in the alcove so often?" she daringly inquires. "Because I fascinate you?" 

Harry inhales slowly and deeply. In French, he says, "I stare at you because of your ethereal beauty. I cannot help but count the freckles on your cheeks or watch your eyelashes flutter as you flip through the pages of those terrible books. Does this answer your question, beloved blue eyes?"

Blair blinks twice, shaking her head. "You are speaking nonsense to me. I do not know any French." 

"I spoke the truth. That is all you need to know." 

She sets the tea and candelabra on the floor before smoothing her dress. "Anyway, I would very much like to read Jane Austen. There is only so much time in the day, yes?" 

"Of course," he whispers. "You seem particularly interested in Persuasion." 

"Is it good? I have not gotten around to reading it yet." 

Harry takes the book and offers it to her. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope," he quotes from memory. "That alone should convince you." 

Blair absentmindedly nods, becoming distracted by the gold necklace he wears. The pendant is a cross symbol, one relating to Christ. Her curiosity grows as it glimmers from the quivering candle flame beside her feet. 

She lays the cross on her open palm and asks, "Are you religious?" 

His sloped nose almost touches hers from close proximity. "Moderately. I sin, but I see no redemption in asking for forgiveness. I suppose you can interpret my level of religion however you may." 

She stares at his lips a second too long before meeting his eyes. "What sins do you commit?" 

He covers her hand with his own. Blair feels his calloused thumb brush over her knuckle. "My sins are sensuellement privé." 

"What does that mean?" 

"It means they are done in private, curious girl." 

Her skin grows warm. "Very well, then. I will not ask further questions." 

He removes his hand and locks the shelf as Blair picks up her tea and sets it on the flat surface of her new book. He clears his throat, but it does not bother her as much this time. 

"Let us read, shall we?" 

                                              III

The field of jasmine flowers is in full bloom, as is the month of May. 

Budding dogwood trees sway under the cloudy sky as Blair walks to her favorite open patch of land to sit against the tree trunk and read a book like she does every Friday afternoon. The bottom of her white dress skims the dirt path weaving throughout the flourishing meadow. Her lace parasol shields the top of her head in case the sun peeks out. 

She has been coming to the serene area for months, sometimes needing an escape from the four walls of her bedroom. She can bring the books she has received on her birthdays. Although she prefers to read in the library, she is slightly more fond of nature's quiet atmosphere. 

Once she arrives at her signature spot, where the line of dogwood trees provides the perfect amount of coverage over the jasmine bushes, she stops when she sees someone already there. 

Her blood boils. Mr. Styles, now known as Harry, is sitting against the gnarled trunk of her favorite tree with his ankles casually crossed while he reads from the book in his lap. He wears a ruffled, cream-colored blouse with a black vest over the silk fabric, and his matching flared trousers are provocatively tight against his muscular legs. 

His eyes shoot up from his book when a twig snaps underneath her feet. He then raises it to block his face, and Blair almost laughs at the childish action. She is seething with rage because how dare he invade the only place she can get much-needed peace and quiet? 

"What are you doing here?" she interrogates, a slight growl in the back of her throat. 

"Reading," Harry replies flatly, still not showing his face. 

"Yes, but why here? This is my spot." 

"I usually only come here on Wednesdays when I do not work, but I was told my help was not needed at the library today. So, here I am." 

Blair grinds her teeth. "Can you go elsewhere?" 

He sets his book down and glances behind each of his shoulders. "Did I miss a sign on my way here that said: Blair Lancaster's Designated Reading Spot?" 

She gives up arguing and sits against the prickly bush across from him. She is thankful he is not talkative, so finishing her book in his presence should not be a problem. 

After a few minutes of unpleasant silence, she feels his gaze on her, but when she looks up, his eyes dart back to the pages before him. She subtly tries to read the title, but his attractively large hand envelops the front. 

"The Portrait of a Lady," Harry murmurs as he noisily turns a page. 

Blair quirks an eyebrow. "Pardon me?" 

"The book in my hands," he says, finally showing her the cover. "It is the new novel written by Henry James." 

"I did not ask." 

He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Well, you keep looking at the cover, so I thought it would be gentlemanly to save you from straining your eyes so much. Getting cataracts at a young age would be no fun." 

Blair brushes off his sarcasm and opens her own book. Harry immediately leans forward and snatches it straight from her loose grip. 

"Give me that back!" she exclaims, her mouth parted in shock. 

He lifts it above his head and opens it. "What does the brash Blair Lancaster read when she is not provided chauvinist books in the alcove?" 

She stands and puts her hand on her hips. "That is nothing of concern to you." 

"Venus in Furs," he reads from the spine with a drawl and growing smirk. "This is quite an erotic choice, chérie." 

Her cheeks redden as he flips through the pages filled with risqué words of desire and submission. "Give me my book back, or I will scream until the flowers wilt." 

Harry ignores her as he dramatically reads, "And every man — I know this very well — as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel."

Blair takes the opportunity to yank her book from him while he is distracted by his immature ways. "I truly pity your wife and children for having to live with your irritating nature," she says exasperatedly. 

"I do not have a wife nor children, so you are wasting your time pitying the foolish illusion you have created in your head." 

"Well," she says with a bitter laugh, "it is no surprise that you are not married. I think I would burn myself alive if I had to share a life with you." 

"For someone who speaks so ignoble of me, you think about what it would be like to be around me quite often," he responds smugly. 

"You are an insufferable man, that is all." 

"Menteuse."

Blair draws her lips back in a snarl. "It is a terrible shame you have a handsome face that is nothing but a façade for who you actually are." 

Harry slowly stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. "And who am I, Blair?" 

She exhales and looks up at the wispy sky. "A lonely man who sits in the alcove and makes sure the women there are miserable. A boring man who does nothing but be a nuisance to everyone around him." 

Harry steps forward and jerks his chin up like he's desperate for a challenge. "Go on." 

"I detest you." She leans in close so he hears every word. "Every dratted thing you do or say gets under my skin." 

He quickly glances at her mouth. "Do you use such foul language around your mother, Ms. Lancaster?" 

She clenches her jaw and turns around, beginning to walk down the path she came from. "You make me furious!" 

His footsteps in the weeds get closer, so she speeds up. Even the sound of his boots stomping on the plush grass aggravates her. The way he can never let her have the last word, or how his eyes tell a different story than what comes out of his pretty mouth, will be the death of her. 

Blair thinks she is far enough away from him, but suddenly, two large hands clasp onto her hips and stop her in her tracks. Her book falls to the ground, and she is left breathless. 

"If I make you furious," Harry murmurs deeply in her ear, "then you make me a fucking madman." 

His chest is pressed against her back as they inhale and exhale heavily, butterflies flying around the flowers and hidden cicadas chirping in the meadow. 

"You test my patience, and I pretend it provokes me," he continues, flexing his hands. "It does the opposite, Blair. It makes me lust for you." 

She lets Harry's confession seep into her skin like pleasurable poison. "I... you are reprehensible. I cannot stand it when you tell such insolent lies." 

He presses his nose into her neck. "You render me weak. I think about you until I ache." 

Blair swallows roughly when his damp lips trail along her pulse point. "Every word that leaves your mouth is concocted to debilitate me." 

"Your blue eyes are an ocean I would gladly drown in." 

Her knees almost give out, but she persists. "I will stuff my book down your throat if you do not stop blathering." 

"You would like that, I reckon."

"Jesus wept, I hate you!" she shouts as she releases herself from his spell and continues walking. 

He grips her wrist and spins her around. "Look at me when you say you hate me." 

"I hate" — Blair points her finger at his chest — "you." 

Harry takes three of her fingers and brings them up to her bottom lip. "These," he whispers, eyes locked onto her mouth. "I could write endless poetry about them." 

"Stop it this instant." 

He moves one of her fingers to trace the freckles dotting the apples of her cheeks. "The most marvelous constellations should be envious of these." 

Her eyes soften, much to her distaste. "Please," she says, not knowing how she intends the word to come across. 

"Tell me what you want, mon rêve céleste." 

"I want you to shut your mouth." 

His knuckles brush her collarbone. "Do you? Or do you want me to use my mouth for something else?" 

Blair steps away from him. "How dare you assume that!" 

"Quit looking at my lips, then." 

"I am not! Quit analyzing me!" 

"Your cheeks are pink. Why is that?" 

She feels like fire is encompassing her. "Because..."

Harry bends down slightly to be at eye level with her. "Look at me, Blair." 

Her walls crumble at that moment when she sees nothing but lustful hunger in his eyes. She gives in because if she goes down, let it be in a blaze of flaming desire. She cannot bear the thought of not touching him at least once in her lifetime, as much as she hates to admit the fact. 

Blair unclasps the button by her cleavage, never breaking eye contact with him as his posture straightens and his prurient gaze gradually lowers. She maneuvers the dress over and down her shoulders, letting the loose garment pool at her feet. Harry drops to his knees before her, pulling down her chemise and gently removing her ivory-colored slippers. 

"Lie down," he commands gruffly.

She obeys, the budding flowers surrounding her naked body as her blonde hair fans out on the grass. 

Harry spreads her legs open and places his forearms next to them. "How do you need me, Blair?"

"Your fingers," she responds. "Please. I need them inside of me." 

He tuts mockingly. "Not even a minute ago, you were telling me I was reprehensible, but now you beg like a whore." 

She should slap him for his degrading language, but it only fuels her internal fire. Her hips desperately lift to meet his knuckle running along her inner thigh, and he moves it up even further until it reaches the coarse hair growing around her pelvis. She is already dripping with arousal. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most.

"Harry," she says breathlessly, her body writhing when his mouth brushes her clit. "God, just touch me. I beg of you." 

"Say my name like that again, and I will do whatever you ask of me, darling." 

"Harry," she moans while arching her back. 

His fingers finally stretch her open, two knuckles deep in her pulsating walls, creating a burning sensation throughout her body. She had dreamed about how deep they would go, curling and thrusting to bring her inconceivable pleasure. It feels better than she imagined, and she sees stars as his thumb applies pressure to her clit. 

"Blair." Harry uses his free hand to grasp her jaw. She opens her eyes and gets lost in his fervent gaze. "Who else has touched you? Hmm? Tell me." 

He hits a particularly deep spot that has her whining like a pleading idiot. "M-many others, however, they all left me empty and unsatisfied." 

"Did they make you wet?" He presses his warm hand against her lower stomach. "Did they leave you with a lingering ache right here?" 

"No, but do you know why?" she responds, the pressure of his hand unraveling the knot of her forthcoming orgasm. 

"Tell me all your secrets, flower." 

"They never used their mouths," she admits. Harry looks up with impure eyes and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Fingers can only provide so much pleasure, but a pair of pink lips like yours could make me fall apart completely." 

"Is that right?" he breathes out. 

She bites her lip with a blissful smile. "There is only one way to find out, yes?" 

"I suppose so." 

He takes his fingers out and spreads her thighs further open, her arousal sticking to her sweaty skin. The second his tongue licks a long stripe from her opening to her clit, Blair cries out for all the birds and bugs to hear. He laps up her wetness like sweet syrup on a delectable dessert. He kisses and nips in all the right places like he has known her body for ages, latching and sucking her most sensitive areas until she is clenching around nothing. Low, guttural groans and whimpers leave him when she grants him a raspy moan and hooks her legs around his body. 

"I need— I have to release, Harry. It aches." 

He hovers over her and rubs slow circles onto her lower stomach. "Let me see your eyes while you fall apart from underneath me." 

Blair looks at him as his words push her off the edge. She releases, her body trembling and twitching from the strength of it. Harry sits back on his knees, untying the frilly bow from his blouse and using it to clean the remaining arousal around her inner thighs. After that, Blair stands on shaky legs, panting with tingling skin as Harry grabs her chemise and dress and helps her put them on. 

"Do you still hate me?" he whispers in her ear, clasping her buttons gently. Blair can hear the smug smile in his voice. 

"Maybe a bit less than yesterday." 

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "What if I did this?" She is taken aback when he kisses her deeply, holding the sides of her neck and making her stumble a bit from the forceful passion. "Blair?" he says as he pulls away. "How do you feel now?" 

"I dislike you." Another kiss, one that sends heat spreading across her entire body as butterflies go wild in her stomach. She pulls away this time and tries not to show how fond she is of him. "All right, I tolerate you." 

One more long kiss, ending in several pecks until she lets a smile take over her flushed face. "Je changerai d'avis un jour." (I will change your mind one day.)

Blair groans. "Will you ever tell me what you are saying?" 

"No need." His thumb strokes her cheekbone. "I can always teach you." 

"Pardon?"

"At the library," Harry elaborates softly. "I give French lessons every Monday in the study room. There should be some time slots open if that is of any interest to you." 

She contemplates briefly before saying, "I think it would be an adequate way to spend my day rather than in the alcove." 

Harry whistles and looks around incredulously. "Is Blair Lancaster admitting she would not mind spending time with me? Am I dreaming? Have I lost my bloody mind in this meadow?" 

"Enough," she mutters. Her protest ends in a squeal when Harry slightly nips at her neck. "Stop it! That tickles!" 

He grins like a fool and bends down to pluck a jasmine flower from the cluster surrounding her feet. He then grabs Venus in Furs and flips through it for a minute until he stops at a specific page toward the end. Blair watches him lay the flower horizontally, the thin stem acting as an underline for a quote. 

~ 

You have corrupted my imagination

and inflamed my blood.

~

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles #enemies to lovers #historical romance #adore-laur #façade

[the-ink-of-roses]

ur recent says ur taking requests but it says closed so I HOPE THIS IS OKAY LOL

Percy Jackson x reader fluff just anything lighthearted and dumb please 😭

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 - 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

— "like hell! the only one who can get me away from you right now is my mom." ft; late night rain dancing, taylor swift playing, warm towels and a shit ton of kisses from your second favourite person in the whole wide world

a/n: nooooo i'm taking requests, like only ten for now which is why i didnt bother changing thatnjrefh but no, you're perfectly fine <3 i'm so s o f t for percy jackson feel free to send in another request if this isn't what you wanted <3 aaa this is quite literally, my first time writing for the pjo fandom so i hope i dont disappoint

note: percy jackson x gn!reader, they're both well in college, around two years after toa. no specific godly parent for reader mentioned per se, but it's implied the reader doesn't have a mortal family, not prood read, we die like jason grace. warnings: another bad attempt at fluff, spotify terminology (apple music users dni eyeroll emoji /j), brief mentions of sicknesses (cold, cough and fever), sally jackson being a SWEETHEART, a mention of throwing up, surprisingly only one (1) curseword. 815 words !

you squeal in surprise as the rain starts pouring down harder. the winds have become harsher too, but whatever Zeus is pissed about this time around doesn't concern you.

instead, you tug the jacket you and percy are wrapped in closer to yourself, pulling him closer too by extension.

percy's hands slip around your waist, your back to his chest, as he picks you up and gently sways the two of you to the beat of 'love story' by taylor swift while he hums the lyrics under his breath.

he tugs you closer and presses a kiss to your cheek and jaw, resting his head on your shoulder later. you giggle when he does that, turning your head slightly to kiss his forehead.

the playlist probably ran out ages ago, now you two are staying afloat purely on the will of the spotify lords and their music choice, but as long as it's a song that either you or percy know, it works.

( anything works, to be honest, just as long as percy's here, behind you, holding you like you're the one thing he never wants to lose. as long as you have that, you know you've won. as long as percy jackson holds your hand and kisses your cheeks, gods, you'll take anything. )

new rome is fun, it keeps life interesting in a way that doesn't risk you, him and Annabeth going out on quests--and Annabeth having to mock throw up every time you two kiss even if you know she's just as terrified as you two.

swords and running from medusa's sisters ( or medusa sometimes. yeah aunty em was NOT happy last time you met her, apparently she still remembered the store circus thing even if it was more than seven years ago ) were replaced with chasing deadlines and seeing how many energy drinks you guys can stomach.

you're in new york right now, staying at sally's ( when she learnt you were going to spend the holidays in new rome, she demanded her son get you home. no way in hell is estelle's favourite person going to stay alone for the holidays ), and like the two very smart heroes of olympus you two are, you're out here dancing in the rain.

it's a little silly, yeah, but in your absolute defence, this started out as percy trying to teach you how to skateboard before the rain, and neither of you are going to let that ruin a date for you ( by extension let Zeus ruin another date for you, even if this isn't aimed at you ), so you two made the best of both worlds, thanking the gods the speaker piper got for you is waterproof.

with one last strike of thunder, the rain slowly dies down, leaving you and him in the park as the spotify lords finally give up on you two.

percy drops you suddenly and you have only two seconds to squeal in absolute surprise before you're turned around to face him this time. he's grinning at you with a look of absolute mischief--you're sure connor and travis had the exact same look before they shoved you into the pool last time you guys visited camp half blood. of course, percy was in there but something tells you that was their goal.

he looks so pretty you could cry.

and this pure boy, who smiles secretly to you, looks at you like you're the one at the centre of his universe, the one who holds your heart. this same boy has given you his, asking only for your love in return, something you're more than happy to give him.

before you can ask him what he's up to, percy suddenly shakes his hair, causing all the water to fly everywhere, including on you.

you almost yell in surprise but with a small chuckle bite back. doing the same, as both of you laugh while shaking your heads to have the water droplets go around everywhere.

it's probably a weird sight to watch--two teenagers, drenched in water, shaking their heads like there's no tomorrow while holding each other, but you don't really give four fucks.

once your head starts hurting, you stop and cup percy's face, getting him to stop as well. your other hand slides into his hair, messing it up further as the hand on his face guides him for a kiss.

he lifts you up again and twirls you--no doubt to get another laugh out of you--before setting you down.

percy doesn't let go of your hand either, not when you pick up your stuff and head to sally's (your current favourite person in the world), not while the two of you are lectured by her on colds coughs and fevers in this weather, not even when warm towels are given to the two of you.

that makes you almost as warm as sally's hot chocolate did.

#percy jackson x reader #percy jackson #post hoo #hoo #rose's thorns #percy jackon and the olympians #sally jackson stan account #cw rain #pjo #hereos of olympus #heroes of olympus #half divine

[mimisempai]

Losing Control

Summary

When it comes to Aziraphale, Crowley recognizes that his reactions aren't very rational, but he's about to discover that it's not just anger that makes him... electric...

Notes

It's the same frustration as Crowley after a trying nightshift that makes me write this little nothing to cope.

On Ao3

Rating G -  1248 words

"That one again. What does he want with him now?"

Sitting in the coffee shop at Nina's, Crowley watched as Aziraphale, who was supposed to join him, was once again pestered by Mr Brown, Mr Boredom himself.

"Too close, step back or I'll make you!"

The demon was annoyed that even though Aziraphale had introduced him officially as his partner, the other man still indulged in this kind of familiarity.

He inhaled and exhaled to calm himself and looked down at his hand, a small lightning bolt jumping from his index finger to his thumb. Then he closed his fist and made it disappear.

"Control yourself. You can do this."

"You're not going to turn off the neighbourhood power again, are you?"

Crowley glared at Nina, well, as much as he could, and replied, "No, I'm not that angry. And I'm capable of controlling myself."

Nina picked up his empty cup and passed a cloth across the table, telling him, "I'm not sure you're being rational about your sweetheart. I know I'm not if..."

"Maggie's involved?"

Nina swiped at his arm with her cloth and replied, "Mind your own business."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and countered, "Yeah, yeah, Nina, like you mind your own business..."

"Touché. Then let me get on with it. What are you so angry about? Don't you trust him?"

Crowley immediately replied, "Of course I do!" 

Then, seeing Aziraphale waving his hand and coming towards him, he stood up and said, "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to meet my sweetheart as you say."

Nina let him pass with a small mocking smile on her lips and as he walked through the door, having just joined Aziraphale, she called out to him, "And don't give us another power cut." 

Crowley held back a rebuke, cursing her inwardly for Aziraphale didn't know what had happened when he had left the bookshop in a huff after their argument.

The angel looked at him in confusion as they walked towards the shop and asked, "What did she mean by that?" 

Crowley muttered between his teeth, "Not here, Angel, I'll explain in the shop."

Moments later, as they closed the door behind them, Aziraphale immediately asked, "Tell me about it.

Crowley paced the shop for a few seconds and, after a sigh, explained, "When we argued about Gabriel and I stormed out, I was so angry that I first tried to calm myself down by doing the human thing, you know, just breathing and counting to ten before doing something stupid. But my anger and frustration were so strong that I couldn't do that and I let it out with a lightning bolt so powerful that it knocked out the electricity in the neighborhood and trapped Nina and Maggie in the coffee shop. Well, Angel, you know the whole story. Another demon quirk."

Aziraphale approached Crowley and, resting a hand on his arm to calm him, said softly, "It is not so much the quirk as the reason that concerns me, my dear. The fact that your anger was so intense. And that I'm responsible for it. Looking back, even though I don't think my decision would have been any different, I think I went about it the wrong way with you. Calling you for help to present you with a done deal instead of taking the time to discuss it wasn't very smart of me and..."

Crowley interrupted, "I didn't act very rationally either, because my last memory of Gabriel was the arrogant Archangel telling you to shut your stupid mouth and die. You and I were excellent at what we did best back then, not really talking."

He placed his hand on Aziraphale's, which was still on his arm, and grasped it, intertwining their fingers.

Then the angel frowned and asked, "But Crowley, why did Nina imply that you could have the neighborhood's power turned off again? Did you have any reason to be angry?"

Crowley started to let go of the angel's hand and walk away, but the angel wrapped his fingers around his hand and stopped him, saying softly, "Crowley, please tell me.

Crowley, avoiding the angel's gaze, replied, "About Mr. Brown..."

Aziraphale understood immediately and continued, "You were jealous. You know you have no reason to be, don't you?"

Crowley finally looked at him and replied, "I know Angel, I trust you."

Aziraphale replied, "You know I love you and I'd never betray you. So why..."

The angel seemed to realize something and said quietly, "Metatron... You're afraid I'll be influenced... again."

Crowley shook his head, "It's not that. I mean, not really. I know it in my head. I know you won't be swayed, but this visceral fear, I can't help but feel it. I trust you completely, Angel, but just letting this... Mr. Brown getting close to you... it was uncontrollable."

He raised his hand in front of the Angel's eyes and showed him the small lightning bolt that went from his finger to his thumb before it disappeared.

Aziraphale asked him quietly, "And is there anything we can do to keep you from causing a blackout? I don't know... go somewhere deserted and let it all out?"

Crowley laughed softly before saying, "That's nice of you, Angel, but I think there's something that would help me a lot and be a lot quicker and easier to do."

Aziraphale looked at him curiously and asked, "And what would that be?"

Crowley's smile turned mischievous as he replied, "A hug, or maybe even a kiss, from an angel."

The angel replied with the same smile on his lips, "I guess that could be considered, come here..." then he opened his arms and the demon immediately moved forward and wrapped his arms around him. Aziraphale held him close and after a few moments whispered in his ear, "What more can I do for you, my love?"

He heard a small crackle behind him and felt the demon freeze in his arms. 

He asked, "Was that a lightning bolt?"

The demon nodded against him and Aziraphale murmured, "Because I called you my love?"

The same little crackle.

Aziraphale chuckled slightly and continued, "It seems it's not just anger that makes you react like that, my love..."

Crowley growled at him, "Angel, that's enough," and started to back away, but Aziraphale held him back, saying soothingly, "I'll stop, I promise."

The demon stopped struggling and after a few moments said, "It seems that anger isn't the only thing that triggers this phenomenon..."

Aziraphale asked gently, "Is it best if I stop calling you that, then?"

"No, please, Angel..."

The answer was whispered so softly that Aziraphale barely heard it. He said into the demon's ear, "Then I'll continue, my love."

Another small crackling sound.

Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh softly, then he pulled the demon aside a little to take its cupped face between his hands and said softly, "But I'd rather it be my words that cause this phenomenon than anger."

Then he brought his face close to the demon's and said softly, looking into his eyes, "My love..." before closing the distance between them and kissing him tenderly.

And although the demon's fingers crackled again, this time neither of them noticed.

However, a few days later, on Whickber Street, a strange phenomenon could be observed whenever Mr. Brown approached Aziraphale a little too closely. 

The man would suddenly start jumping up and down as if he'd been hit by... an electric shock.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : here (After season 2)

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #GOS2Spoilers #😈😇

[the-ghost-bird]

Unless...

Frank Castle x Reader drabble

Gif by @darlingshane

Summary: She's had enough of him.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, murder, gun play, knife play, injury, blood play (don't do this at home fellas), sadomasochism, honestly a bit of a toxic dynamic, assassin!reader, sub!Frank, Frank being the biggest masochist ever, mentions of masturbation and voyeurism.

A/N: I havent written or posted any work in a long while, but I had the idea for this and I needed to get it out of my system. I'm not gonna edit, just gonna throw this into the world or ill probably never post it. Tagging @saintmurd0ck @castlesnchurches @vandominia @softsapphicsap @chellestrash @chelseasdagger @itwasthereaminuteago

Frank fires before she can, and loses count of how many rounds he put into his target.

He's becoming reckless, that much he knows. With each kill, his anger grows, and he became a little too focused on shredding the man in front of him to keep count of how much ammo was spent.

He watches afterwards, takes in the sight of the blood staining the egyptian carpet in the pristine office. Well, not so pristine anymore.

Once it all feels real, he breathes. Inhales sharply, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. Frank isn't affected by death, at least not this one, but his kill list is getting shorter and he's been having an existential crisis every here and there, avoidant of the fact he'll have to figure out what to do with himself once this quest for revenge is over.

For now, he breathes.

For now, he focuses on dealing with her.

Frank walks towards the floor-to-ceiling windows of the office, looks out to see Y/N on the roof of another building, standing besides a sniper rifle, barrel pointed at him. They stare at each other from a distance until she grabs her gear and turns her back.

Frank has some explaining to do, so the dead body is left to rot.

He finds her on the roof of his safehouse. Y/N stands perfectly still in the shadows, still enough to fool him into thinking that maybe, just maybe, she won't be too mad.

"That was my contract." Her voice is cold and professional, the first winds of a tempest.

"I know." Frank's response is as professional as it is stupid. And it just feeds into Y/N's frustration.

"It was ten million dollars, Castle."

"Yeah. And?"

"IT WAS MY FUCKING MONEY, FRANK!"

He should be concerned, should care about how she fucking roared at him loud enough for Murdock to hear. But honestly? Frank can't bring himself to give a fuck.

"You'll survive." He brushes off. Y/N can feel her frustration turn into rage, but she still tries to keep calm and make a point.

"And my fucking reputation?! Don't you think word will get out that the Punisher stole my kill right in front of me like it was nothing?" She tries, but Frank just breathes out a chuckle and crosses his arm, deciding he wants to be funny.

"So? Listen, if you're thinking you can outmatch me and you want everyone in your business to think the same, that's a you problem, and you're damn straight delusional-"

Next thing Frank feels is a bullet in his thigh.

He falls to one knee with a pained cry, draws his firearm at light speed, and pulls the trigger. But no fire comes out.

"You should've counted your bullets, Castle. I did." Y/N shakes her head in mock disappointment and stalks towards him, gun pointed at his head. And now it's his turn to get fucking furious.

"The fuck is wrong with you!? You gonna kill me over a hit?"

"You know better than to get in between me and a contract." She spits harshly, gun under his chin before she orders. "Get that other knee of yours on the ground before I blow it out."

Frank obeys, tries his best to ignore the pain on his thigh, and how it gets worse with pressure and weight onto it.

"Thaaat's it, baby." Y/N praises before her tone turns condescending. "You look so pretty in that position, you know that?"

Frank heaves, vibrating with anger. For a second, he tries reaching for the blade on his side, but Y/N raises her gun to his forehead.

"Keep moving and I'll unload the entire mag in you, and I know exactly how many bullets I've got left."

Frank let's out a shaky breath, knowing he fucked up but too stubborn to fully admit it to himself. Y/N looks at him for a long couple of seconds, and she can see him making mental calculations, trying to figure out how he's supposed to get out of this.

"What? You don't trust me, sweetie?"

He doesn't bother with an answer, and they keep up the unbreakable eye contact before Y/N speaks up again.

"You know Castle, I was 15 when my mother got me private medical lessons." She starts and, despite the pulsing pain, Frank is curious as to where in the fuck this conversion is going. Y/N rarely ever mentions any detail of herself, so suddenly he's very interested in whatever she has to say. "I already knew how to patch myself up so I was confused as to why she would hire a whole team of doctors to give me in depth lessons of the human body. I just didn't know how it would be... useful... for the family business." Y/N reminisces, before asking "Have I told you doctors make the best torturers?"

Both of them know the answer to that question, and Frank knows that underneath this ramble, Y/N is trying to control her emotions, so he indulges her with an answer.

"No. You haven't told me that."

"I should've figured it out sooner, but I only really found out when she brought me on a mission to extract intel. She made it clear: greatest amount of pain while keeping the target alive for the longest time possible." Y/N finishes with a deep breath before shaking her head slightly as if trying to shake away memories. She then caresses the scar on his cheek with her thumb, taking the time to look at him before hushing softly. "I could never hurt you, Frankie. Not in a way that matters."

That's when Frank understands what she's trying to say. That while she has an inhumanly accurate aim, the bullet she shot didn't go low enough on his thigh to damage his knee or high enough to hit his artery.

She hurt him, but she didn't incapacitate him.

She wouldn't kill him.

"Unless..." Y/N sings as she clicks off the safety on the gun and wraps her hand around his throat. "Unless the big bad punisher lets his ego get out of control again and thinks he can steal another one of my contracts. Is that going to happen, Castle?"

He sneers at her, anger clouding his vision again and making Frank reluctant to answer. But she knows he'll talk, and he'll talk real nice.

"...no." He mumbles. Y/N's not satisfied though, so she presses the gun hard against his temple, raising her voice to that soldier-like tone Frank used to hear in the marines.

"No what ?!"

"I won't get in your way. I won't-" He rasps, finally yielding before crumbling at the fury in her eyes. "I- I'm... m'sorry."

And that simple word makes her open the widest of grins, expression turning euphoric and leaning on unhinged, like it's what she needed all along. Frank knows how much she loves his apologies, even if she doesn't accept them.

Y/N doesn't hesitate to press a harsh kiss onto his split lip. Frank knows she can hear the whine he tries to suppress, that she can taste the blood on his tongue. She leaves him breathless, only parting to bring her lips close by his ear.

"I saw it." She whispers. "That night after I opened up your pretty cheek. I saw you."

Frank's eyes widen, and with a shudder, every bit of residual anger leaves his body.

Frank remembers when they met up a couple of months ago, remembers how pent up he was after their fight, remembers being hard while he stitched the cut on his cheek, and how he came in the shower afterwards, pleading her name and thinking of all the other ways she could hurt him.

And she saw.

He doesn't know how but she saw him.

"How about I leave you with a warning and a gift, huh?" Y/N proposes sweetly, pulling out the knife from Frank's side.

Later on, he'll pretend like he didn't nod so eagerly.

Y/N uses the knife to slice open the unscarred cheek. She takes in Frank's reaction, from his gorgeous whimper to the way his eyes are blown, and then focuses on how beautiful he is when he's bleeding.

Before Frank can register, her tongue is on his face, licking from his jaw up to the cut on his cheek, lapping up the blood before she comments with a smile.

"Now they match."

#no beta we die like men #jon bernthal #the punisher #frank castle fic #frank castle imagine #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female! reader #frank castle x original female character #frank castle #frank castle x ofc #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x y/n #punisher fic #punisher x you #punisher x reader #punisher

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

What do you think of Rhaenyra and Aegon's relationship before the dance? Aegon refused to usurp rhaenyra bc she was his sister but what of Rhaenyra's feelings about him ? Do you think she ever looked upon him as her brother instead of her rival ? at least when they were young?

Hi anon, this is a good question!

I feel like book!Rhaenyra was pretty hostile towards her younger siblings as a teenager, and settled into ambivalence as an adult. Rhaenyra was ten years older than Aegon, which meant that by the time he was old enough to really interact with, she would have already been fifteen or so. There's a line in the book about how when Daemon came back to court, when Rhaenyra was fourteen, one of the things they would do was sit around mocking Alicent and the people she surrounded herself with. Alicent generally gets the blame in the show fandom for "poisoning" her kids against Rhaenyra and her children, but I think in book canon a lot of it was initially driven by Daemon. He was the cool older dragonriding uncle with a bit of a bad boy reputation, and he swooped in and started paying attention to her, lavishing her with gifts, taking her out for dragon rides, telling her how pretty she is, and making her feel wittier and more popular than the queen by making her the butt of their jokes. Daemon was said to be "noticeably cool" towards Aegon and Aemond, and you can bet teenage Rhaenyra with a bit of a crush on cool uncle Daemon is going to follow that lead. And even if Daemon and Rhaenyra didn't directly include Aegon and his siblings in their mockery, how do you really develop a relationship with kids when one of your favorite hobbies is hating on their mom and her friends? It's not like modern day, where Rhaenyra would maybe get babysitting duty or have to drop them off and pick them up at school, and maybe would develop a relationship with them independent from her relationship with Alicent. In the Red Keep, they'd have their own separate lives. It's interesting that at this point, even Alicent saw their poor sibling relationship as a problem that needed solving, saying the fact that Aegon and Rhaenyra didn't get along was all the more reason to bind them together in marriage. Of course, that doesn't happen, and eventually Rhaenyra starts spending more time at Dragonstone before moving there completely, and they just don't seem to have much to do with each other after that.

As for book!Aegon refusing to usurp his sister, I think it speaks more to his values and his personality than it does to his personal relationship with Rhaenyra, which I think was at best pretty ambivalent on his end too (although we aren't really told how he felt about it, it couldn't have felt great as a little kid to have your older sister and your uncle talking constant shit about you and your mom). He wasn't ambitious or power hungry, and if you lack those qualities, why would you want to be king? What would you get from kingship that you couldn't get from being a prince except a lifelong headache? I think as far as Aegon is concerned, it was more like, hey, if she wants to be queen that much, let her and I'll just keep partying on. But the argument that is ultimately used to convince him is a valid one from his perspective too. They didn't actually have the kind of family relationship that would make him feel comfortable trusting his life, and the lives of his siblings and kids, in the hands of Rhaenyra, her husband, and her children.

#asks #am i saying it's all daemon's fault? #eh he certainly didn't help #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #alicent hightower #sibling relationships in f&b

[kteezy997]

6 Months- Part Ten//t.c.

Warnings: cursing, ex being toxic, lots of fluff, boob-obsessed Timmy

Cameron met Hayden for lunch a few days later. She picked out a really casual spot that had a nice brunch vibe. She didn't want it to feel too much like a date. She didn't want Hayden to get the wrong kind of idea.

She saw him come into the restaurant and she stood up as he came to the table. She gave him a friendly hug and smile. "I'm so glad you agreed to meet me."

"Yeah, I was surprised. I figured you were just gonna let your boyfriend take care of things." Hayden said smugly.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you, Hayden. Things got screwed up and I wanted to apologize for everything."

"Okay," he raised his eyebrows, waiting, "I'm listening."

Cameron did her best to ignore his arrogance and said, "I'm sorry for the way things ended. I owed you more than just a text." Even though at the time it was out of her hands, her break up with Hayden, she was ready to officially move on with Timmy. She was happy with him. "I want you to know that I always cared about you. I hope you find someone great."

The waiter came over, asking Hayden what he would like to drink and he said, "I don't care, something strong." he nodded to Cameron across from him, then looked back at the waiter, "This is my ex that cheated on me, broke up with me by text and now she's so sorry about it." he said, mocking her. The waiter, not knowing what to say, just walked away.

"Hayden, I didn't cheat on you." Cameron said in hushed tone.

"It fucking feels that way. I never thought you'd be such a whore, Cameron." His words were harsh and angry, but his eyes were melancholic. It was a hard blow for him, losing her, she could tell.

"What I did was wrong, but if you're going to continue to be nasty about it, then I'll leave." She knew she could have done more to ease his heartache, but she refused to continue to endure this verbal abuse. She knew it wouldn't make anything better. Not even Hayden.

He chuckled, "Well, all I gotta say is: I hope you and psycho Chalamet will be very happy together."

"He's not a psycho." Cameron retorted.

"Oh yeah? What do you call a guy that would manipulate photos to make it look like I was cheating on you in order to win you over? What kind of relationship is that anyway, sounds more like obsession to me. He'll probably end up killing you or something Cameron." he said taking a swig of his drink the instant the waiter set it down on the table.

"That's a horrible thing to say. You're completely wrong about Timmy." she said.

"Mmm, I wouldn't be so sure. Oh, and tell him thanks for the courtside seats, it was a lovely gesture." he raised his nearly empty glass to her. "Didn't do much to cushion the blow of him stealing my girl though." Hayden took another big gulp of his drink.

"Maybe you should slow down with the drinking, it's still morning, Hayden." Cameron cautioned, with genuine care.

Hayden scoffed, "I'm not any of your concern anymore, sweetheart. You made damn sure of that."

Their waiter came back over, "So, are we...ready to order?" The poor guy was obviously feeling awkward with the way Hayden was speaking to her.

"No, actually. I'm just leaving. But his drink is on me." Cameron looked at the waiter, kindly saying, "Thank you."

The young man nodded politely, "Very well, you can meet me up front whenever you're ready." He then walked on to service another table in the meantime.

Cameron smiled fakely at her ex-boyfriend, "Consider it another lovely gesture."

Hayden gave her a phony grin.

He wasn't ready to be an adult about the situation. But Cameron was ready to move on. With or without the closure she was hoping for. Perhaps this was the closure, and the reminder that her relationship with Hayden was doomed in and of itself.

She stood up, picking up her purse, "It's a shame it has to be this way. I hoped we could end things with good closure and some maturity. I guess that's not gonna happen. Have a nice life, Hayden." she turned and walked away to pay and didn't listen to another word from him.

.........

"So, how did it go?" Timmy asked her anxiously as she came into the house.

"Not great. But at least I tried."

"He didn't hit you, did he?" Timmy joked.

"No." she laughed, "He's just mad, which is understandable, I just wish it could have went better."

Timmy pulled her close to him, promising, "I'll treat you better than he ever did."

"I know." she grinned, "I never would have fallen in love with you if my relationship with Hayden was actually solid." she kissed his cheek and said, "I'm hungry. I left the restaurant before we even ordered, have you eaten?"

But Timmy didn't answer. He was frozen. She had never used the phrase 'fallen in love' about him, to him before. He was in a daze, not believing that she actually said it, even offhandedly.

"Timmy?"

His attention was now back on Cam, "Yea-yeah?"

"I asked if you had eaten yet." she giggled.

"Oh, no-no. Let's go, lunch should be ready any minute." he said, taking her hand, leading the way to the dining room.

.........

As time went on, Cam and Timmy got into a happy routine together. She got moved back into the house and she put her new office to use, returning to her work, and writing a new book. Timmy was elated that she was inspired, of course, but he was impatient to know what she was writing about.

"I'm not ready to tell you yet." she'd say to him. She wanted to give herself more time to see if her ideas bared fruit.

Paparazzi had caught them out together a couple of times. They looked quite like a couple, because they were. They held hands, walked arm in arm, and stole kisses from one another, not caring that they were being watched or that photos were being taken.

Those occurrences, as well as photos from the party they attended together a month prior, had sent the press and the internet into a frenzy. Neither of them made an attempt to deny anything when news outlets reached out to their agents. They just let the world talk.

The couple was excited to find out that Cam's agent scheduled her a book signing in London at the same time that Timmy was due to promote his new film, Wonka there. Even though it would technically be a work trip for them both, they were thrilled to spend time together in an entirely different setting.

...........

Cam felt like herself again, getting to meet with fans of her work, and talk to them, get to know them for a moment, and really put faces and names to the people that made her a successful author. She felt so happy and grateful.

She couldn't think of any better way to spend her time other than signing books for such sweet fans. Well, maybe spending time with her boyfriend was a close second.

The Wonka premiere and the book signing were happening at the same time, so she couldn't join him for that. But she was going to accompany him to the after party.

They had gone about getting her party dress as a little project to do together. It turned out absolutely stunning, Timmy had it designed and fitted especially for her. He had connections like that, of course. She was giddy, taking a part with him and the designers in making such a beautiful garment. She couldn't believe it was just for her.

Timmy met Cam at the hotel as she was getting her hair and makeup finished. "I gotta go get ready, babe." he said, standing behind her chair, looking at her in awe in the mirror. "You look...immaculate."

Cam smiled and leaned into his kiss that he placed on her cheek. "I'll see you soon." she cooed.

"I can't fucking wait to see you in that dress." he said with a sly grin.

..........

Cam was corseted into her dress with the help of some of her hair and makeup crew. She felt like an actual princess. Like Willy Wonka's princess of the chocolate factory. She knew that Timmy would absolutely love it and freak out once he saw her.

And he did.

Timmy came in just as they were making final adjustments to her look and he just stood there, looking at Cam, taking her in, all done up in her gorgeous purple dress. He was speechless, and he couldn't move.

"You need some water, Timmy?" Cam asked, with a laugh.

"Mm-mhmm." he hummed, taking the bottle of water from her, before taking a big gulp of it down and clearing his throat. "Cameron Reese, you're like a wet dream."

"Jesus, Timmy!" she hissed at him, then looked at her wardrobe helpers, "Can you please give us a few minutes alone?"

Timmy and Cam were then left by themselves in the room.

"Was that really appropriate to say, Chalamet?" she asked, slightly annoyed.

"Sorry, it was the first thing that came to my mind, fuck, you look incredible, baby." he took her hands, putting them both out to the side so he could get a better look at her. He then went off saying some stuff in French, softly and to himself, like he was awestruck.

"Timmy, I have no idea what you're saying." she giggled.

He shook his head, "Sorry, sorry. How about 'je t'aime?'" he grinned, pulling her into his embrace. He pressed his forehead adoringly to hers.

Cam melted, she put her hands on his arms, letting him kiss her forehead. She was so appreciative of and grateful for their life together. She couldn't help but think of how it all started, and she said, "I don't need six months, Timothee." she looked up into his green eyes.

"What do you mean?" he frowned, tucking a piece of her hair back.

"You've got me. You got me in two months." she shook her head in disbelief at how her life had turned out, especially the Timmy aspect, "It feels like a lifetime. I am so in love with you, Timothee Hal Chalamet."

He grinned widely, then leaned in, kissing her. They wrapped their arms around one another, lovingly ravaging each other while being careful to not ruin their clothes, hair, or Cam's makeup. It was a long, tender kiss that neither of them thought would last nearly two minutes. It was like an official declaration of their love. They pulled away and neither could speak, or even breathe properly.

"Um, we should...get going. Don't want to be late." Timmy pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, it's just..." Cam had her hands on the bust of her dress, fidgeting with it a little bit.

"What, babe? You okay?"

"Just feels uncomfortable, under my boob. Can you help me?"

"Yeah, yeah, no worries."

Cam turned around, and he untied the corset in the back of her dress. Once it was loose enough, she brought the top of the dress down, and her breasts were free. She made the adjustment she needed to as Timmy looked on.

"Need me to help?" he asked, obviously more than willing.

"No, no, babe, I got it." she insisted.

"Cam, I'm sorry to say this, but you can't have those things out around me and expect me not to suck them." It was a wildly cheeky statement, but he said it like it was a straight fact.

Cam laughed, "You're ridiculous, you've seen them before." She recovered her chest with the dress, ready for it to be retied.

"But I love them.” he rambled on about her breasts, “They feel so good in my mouth-"

"Timmy! That's enough, now tie my dress, please."

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @chalametbich

#timothée chalamet #timmy chalamet #timothée imagine #timothee chalamet smut #timothee chalamet imagine #timothée chalamet imagine #timothee chalamet

[darkurgetrash]

WIP tag game🖤

Thank you to @graysparrowao3 for the tag! I honestly love doing these and I’m so happy you guys actually care about what I write, genuinely. 🥺 I’m tagging @bearhugsandshrugs @charmedcleric @duckweave

Enjoy a section of the next chapter for Lead Me Through the Dark, which is a long-awaited flashback to a certain campy party. ;) under the cut.

“Hey, soldier?”

Tav jumped, her attention turning back to Karlach. Oh right, they’d been talking about… what had they been talking about again?

“You seem a little zoned out there mate. You alright?” Karlach asked with kind concern, her usually booming voice turned soft and gentle as she regarded her friend.

“Hooo - my apologies!” Tav giggled, “I’m not quite used to drinking so much.”

“Isn’t that only your first bottle?” The tiefling smiled wearily, suspicion laced in her jovial tone.

Tav cast a sheepish glance at the half-empty bottle of plum fizz clutched in her hand. “I suppose it is,” she conceded, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I must be a lightweight.” She concluded with a half-hearted snort.

“I guess so… come to think of it, I’ve never seen you drink much. No good pubs back in Athkatla?”

“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t allowed to go to them. My upbringing was rather… sheltered in that regard.”

Karlach tutted, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

“Poor Tav! Don’t you worry, soon as we get to the city we are gonna go on one mad crawl! Make up for lost time - for both of us.”

Tav smiled back at her fiery friend, her boisterous spirit a welcome balm to Tav’s more rigid nature. Just by being around her, Tav could feel her hidden playfulness, so long repressed, edge closer to the surface.

Karlach had intimidated her greatly when they’d first met, not only because she’d thought she was Wyll’s devil contract but because of the sheer size of her! The tiefling was probably the strongest woman she’d ever laid eyes on and Tav couldn’t help but feel timid in front of her. She herself wasn’t that small - taller than the average human and having the slightly curvaceous body of a well-spoilt noble woman. What she did lack though was any amount of strength and stamina - even the long journeys to and from camp she and her companions had to make was enough to tire her out.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for Tav’s shyness around Karlach to subside and she was glad for it, because now the tiefling was easily one of her closest companions in the camp. What Tav loved most about their friendship was how balanced they were, with Karlach’s intuitive nature always managing to break through Tav’s stone walls. She always seemed to know how Tav was feeling without her having to make any comment whatsoever - it was the perfect type of friendship for the highly-strung, overly anxious Tavlyn Fairchild.

“Anyway soldier, you got any plans for tonight?” Her tone brimmed with curiosity, “Or were you thinking of spending the whole time talking to mama K?”

Tav shrugged, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. “That doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, to be honest.”

“Sheesh!” Karlach scoffed. “Look around mate, have you not noticed how many eyes have been on you in the past ten minutes alone? You’re the star of the show.”

A flush of embarrassment crept up Tav’s cheeks as she reluctantly acknowledged the truth in Karlach’s words. Despite her reluctance to bask in the limelight, she couldn’t deny the curious gazes that followed her every move, the whispered murmurs that swirled in her wake. Not only were several of her companions peering at her from their tents but many of the tieflings too with a shy kind of eagerness. They really thought she was the one to save the day, didn’t they? Like some kind of hero. It was embarrassing - if anything, she’d contributed the least!

Sure. Her destruction spells caused havoc in the Goblin camp and she had been the one to strike down the camp’s leaders, but her damage wouldn’t have even been possible if not for her companions - Shadowheart, keeping her weak body from harm, or Lae’zel, who had single handedly taken out most of the goblin hoard. Hells, even the camp leaders wouldn’t have fallen if not for Wyll hexing them or Gale immobilising them with fog clouds and blindness. All of her companions, really, did more than her… so why weren’t they getting more of the credit?

Tav asked herself this but, deep down, she knew the answer. It was for the same reason as why she’d always been able to live an easy life - because she had a pretty face and learned-eloquence from her noble upbringing. When she had left that life behind, she’d resolved to never have to rely on her connections ever again; become her own person free from her family’s name, yet here she still was, reaping the benefits of nobility.

She looked back at Karlach, sighing. Her face must have turned sour because the tiefling looked on her now with gentle affection.

“You’re allowed to celebrate, you know. You don’t always have to be so hard on yourself.”

“I have to be hard on myself, no one else ever is.” Tav rolled her eyes, grateful for Karlach’s sympathy but also annoyed by it. She was undeserving of such grace.

“Not such a bad problem to have, if you ask me.” Karlach jabbed, grinning wide to show that she wasn’t being serious.

“I know it isn’t - Gods, sorry. I have no right to be so… moody.”

“Hmm, maybe what you really need is some… release?” Karlach whispered, leaning close.

Tav furrowed her brows.

“What, like throwing up or something?”

“No, ya twit!” Karlach laughed, “I mean another kind of release - maybe with the help of a certain tiefling?”

Tav’s eyes widened, realising what her friend was alluding to.

“You scoundrel! You do realise we have… tadpoles in our brains, right?” She stuttered, “There’s no time for such things - besides, whom are you even referring to?”

“Ah come on mate, don’t play coy! You know who I’m talking about!” Karlach groaned, “You and that wizard have been flirting non-stop for weeks, the tension has been kiiiiilling me! If I was you, I’d have jumped his bones hours ago, screw the party!”

“What, Rolan?!” Tav exclaimed, blushing as she realised how loud she’d shouted his name. She turned behind her and was grateful to spot Rolan preoccupied, engaged in an arm wrestle with his sister to which he was losing miserably and audibly. It made her giggle briefly before she stopped herself, pouting.

“Absolutely not!” She protested, frowning at Karlach. “Are you joking?!”

“Fuck no!” Her friend laughed. “Seriously, you’re not into him?”

“Well, he’s obviously handsome…” Tav said, picturing the tiefling with his high cheekbones and his glowing eyes like a sunset, that permanently bemused smirk on his face. “… but beyond that, he’s entirely, frustratingly arrogant. Did you hear what he said to me earlier today? He called me a butcher’s blade and himself a Master, ugh! Were I not a lady, I’d have slapped him for such a remark.”

“Of course, your ladyship!” Karlach laughed, bowing facetiously. “Well, in that case, I suppose you won’t give a shit if I told you I’ve seen him stealing glances at you more than anyone else this evening?”

“Hm, not at all.” Tav blushed, folding her arms.

“Orrrr that he’s looking at you right now?”

“He is?”

Tav turned around again and, as she did so, noticed him quickly turn his face from her with growing redness, his siblings laughing behind him.

“Go talk to him, Princess.” Karlach chuckled behind her, moving away from her tent in search of another wine bottle. As she passed Rolan, she turned back to Tav and winked teasingly, wiggling her eyebrows.

Gods…

Had she really thought Tav and Rolan had been flirting? Absurd - the two did nothing but argue right from the moment they met. He’d been eager to leave the Grove despite the protest of his siblings and Tav had only briefly mentioned that it would be a good idea to stay, but apparently that made her a ‘prying busy-body’ - ridiculous. He’d been the one making such a loud fuss! Every time they spoke after that, it was always an “oh, it’s you” from him or some sarcastic comment baiting Tav to retaliate, which… she, regrettably, usually did.

Flirting. Pah!

She’d prove Karlach completely wrong! She’d go up to him right now and make it evident that there was absolutely no tension going on between them. That would show her!

She took another swig from her bottle, wiping away the wetness from her lips, and marched towards he and his siblings, determination propelling her forwards.

#graysparrowao3 #tag #tagged #WIP #wip tag #lead me through the dark #lmttd #bg3 fanfic #Rolan fanfic

[finnicks-elbow]

The Win

Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy were two unlikely allies, brought together by their shared experience in the Hunger Games. Effie, always prim and proper, had been the escort for the District 12 tributes, while Haymitch had been their mentor. Effie and Haymitch were as opposite as two people could be and the only thing making the District 12 reapings anything of interest. Nobody expected a District 12 tribute to win so why bother watching besides the hilarious interactions between the two on stage each year. 

Their first meeting had not gone well. Effie had been appalled by Haymitch's drunken behavior, stumbling about the stage and Justice Building in District 12. All the while, in his brief moments of being sober enough to think Haymitch had dismissed Effie as an annoying Capitol lackey. He couldn’t stand her Capitol accent and mannerisms, often mocking them in front of her and the unfortunate pair that had been reaped. The tributes were normally too absorbed in the concept of a substantial meal to be distracted by the bickering between the two of them. But as they worked together to prepare the District 12 tributes for the Games, they began to develop a grudging respect for each other. 

Effie was impressed by Haymitch's tactical knowledge and his ability to outwit the other mentors. At least when he was sober. There had been a few in the years of companionship which they both believed stood a chance in the arena when they could actually work together. Haymitch had a remarkable ability at manipulating sponsors into believing that his tributes, whilst often small and scrawny, had enough brain to outwit the other brutes that entered the arena. Effie was a strong support in bringing the emotional side to the tributes to win the hearts of the Capitol citizens to believe in the District 12 tributes willpower to succeed. Haymitch appreciated Effie's dedication to her job and her genuine concern for the tributes. They still bickered and argued, but they also found themselves laughing together and sharing moments of unexpected kindness. Especially on nights when they realise their job is over and they have nothing left to do except wait out the games.

As the Games progressed, Effie and Haymitch grew closer. They would often stay up late into the night. It began as late night brainstorming to devise the best plan for their tributes in the interviews. Effie always knew much more about the ways to win over the Capitol outside of the arena and began encouraging Haymitch to pay more attention. This eventually evolved into drinking and talking about their lives outside the arena. It had began after a particularly traumatic loss for Effie, who had grown particularly close to the tributes that year. Haymitch could only think of distracting her by telling her about his life before the games, not finding much excitement in the dreary life of his now drunken self. Effie told him about her own Capitol upbringing in response. Their differences bringing them closer together. It became routine after that, after every lost tribute they would drink and talk until the games were over. 

When it came to the 74th Hunger Games, they were each too preoccupied with protecting Katniss and Peeta to think in any manner other than professional. It wasn’t like they had much time together anyway, only periodically meeting to discuss which potential sponsors Effie had found for Haymitch to seal the deal for. Haymitch was relatively sober and spending most of his time in command, surviving off of coffee and ten minute naps. Effie saw a new side of Haymitch, a determined and passionate one that she had scarcely seen with the short term nature of the previous games. When Katniss and Peeta emerged as the victors and Haymitch and Effie got on the hovercraft, it was like a breath of fresh air. Effie was overjoyed, but she also knew that she had grown attached to Haymitch in a way that she had never expected. She looked at him waiting for Katniss and Peeta to be lifted into the craft.

Haymitch, too, was feeling conflicted. He had always kept people at arm's length, but he couldn't deny that there was something special about Effie. He was drawn to her energy and her spirit. He gave her a rare smile. Effie lost her professional persona. She hugged him, pleasantly surprised by the fact that he didn’t reek of alcohol for once in his life. To his surprise, he returned the hug, careful not to crush any of the crisp flowers for risk of his life. 

#the hunger games #haymitch x effie #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #hunger games #iz #the hunger games fanfiction #fanfic

[alicole-sideblog]

show!Criston is 70% Arys Oakheart by volume

Criston Cole's references in the series proper are:

AFFC, chapter 13, "The Soiled Knight" (Arys Oakheart)

AFFC, chapter 16, "Jaime II" (Jaime Lannister)

For ages I was just looking at the quotes in isolation on asearchoficeandfire.com. If you look at just the lines where they namedrop Criston, what stands out is that Arys judges Criston harshly, while Jaime has a more nuanced read on him.

However, I finally took the time to re-read the fuller context. What's glaringly obvious that the Arys chapter was undoubtedly the biggest inspiration for the direction the show took with the Criston and Rhaenyra thing.

Arys chapter summary: He meets with Princess Arianne, who he's having an affair with. He feels really guilty about the affair and tells her so, trying to end it. Arianne brushes that off. She tries to recruit him for her plot to make Myrcella queen; he says no; she's like, "You're being very Criston Cole right now." She talks about how her (actually quite indulgent) dad is being shitty and wants to disinherit her, and everyone's plotting against her, so she needs Arys on her side. He relents and agrees to the Myrcella plot.

Does this sound familiar, by chance?

I mean look at this — more than half this dialogue could be given to show!Rhaenyra and show!Criston verbatim!

Arys: It had been ten years since . . . I never touched a woman until you, not since I took the white. I never knew what love could be, yet now . . . I am afraid. Arianne: What would frighten my white knight? Arys: I fear for my honor, and for yours. Arianne: I can tend to my own honor. [...] You are not your white cloak, ser. Arys: I am. I am my cloak. And this must end, for your sake as well as mine. If we should be discovered . . . Arianne: Men will think you fortunate. Arys: Men will think me an oathbreaker. What if someone were to go to your father and tell him how I'd dishonored you? [...] Arianne: My father is very good at doing nothing. He calls it thinking. Tell me true, ser, is it my dishonor that concerns you, or your own? Arys: Both. That is why this must be our last time. [...] I swore a vow . . . Arianne: . . . not to wed or father children. Well, I have drunk my moon tea, and you know I cannot marry you. Though I might be persuaded to keep you for my paramour. Arys: Now you mock me.

They're doing a little irony: The one who kinda identifies with Criston (Jaime) is less like him, while the one who reviles him (Arys) is more like him.

#Criston Cole #Arys Oakheart