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#and delaying me finishing reading the book
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(this awesome poster is the handiwork of our wonderful host @sazanes!!)
Note: So sorry for the delay in getting this out!! IRL has been a little tricky these days.
It gives us great joy to announce our third edition of the Hana Lee Appreciation Week!!
This year we are holding the AW around World Book Day (23rd April) in honour of Hana's passionate, long-lasting love for books!
Hana is talented at a great number of things, but is passionate about just a few. One is music - the other is reading. It was originally a hobby her parents introduced her to, to gain an advantage as a noblewoman, but Hana grew to love it far beyond what her parents expected. Her fondness for Jane Bennett in Pride and Prejudice, her delightful rebellions in secretly reading Wuthering Heights and manhuas, her adorable habit of leaving sweet notes behind, between the pages of a library book. Her love for books has deep and wonderful, and allowed her a window into worlds she didn't even realize existed!
But books and reading aren't our only themes for this AW! Take a look at our theme list for what we plan to do for each day:
April 21st - Character Appreciation/Throwback
April 22nd - Flowers/Fashion Design
April 23rd - Bookworm/AU
April 24th - Competitive Hana!/Culinary Love
April 25th - Family/Friendship/Romance
This event will be held from April 21st to 25th. Any content is welcome, as long as it is Hana-centric and shows a positive depiction of her! Fanfic, fanart, meta, edits, moodboards, playlists, headcanons, interactive media - even simple appreciation posts and screenshots of fave scenes will be great!
It isn't absolutely necessary to post content only on the day of the theme! We often accept pieces even when sent on a later date, and also keep a bonus week in case you couldn't finish your pieces during the week. We also don't mind WIPs, so if you have one that is Hana-focused... we'd LOVE to see it!! We also love throwback pieces, so if you have any that you made previously, do reblog them and tag us!
We also will be accepting pieces after the event is over, and all year round until the next HLAW! So even if you have your post ready much later, please don't hesitate to tag us! 🤗
Blogs to Tag: @hanaleeappreciationweek, and hosts @lizzybeth1986 and @sazanes
Tags to Use: #hanaleeappreciationweek, #HLAW, #HLAW 2024
There are some incredible fan-community blogs that work tirelessly both to promote creative fandom works and make the experience fun for their writers! Do check them out!!
@choicesficwriterscreations, @choicesmonthlychallenge, @choicesflashfics, @choicespride, @choicesholidays, @choicesprompts, @wordwarriors
If you know any others who would like to be tagged, please let me know! Here are the amazing works sent in for 2023 and '22 if you'd like to get more inspired!
HLAW 2023 | HLAW 2022
See you all next month, and looking forward to all your amazing Hana content!! 🤗🤗
✅✅Signal Boosts will be greatly appreciated!!✅✅
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Wow I’m three chapters into H.M.S Surprise and I am already Stressed Out
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soldier-poet-king · 2 years
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How dare the Sunday scaries encroach on Saturday YET AGAIN
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apparently another trailer dropped but I'm already baited and want to go into the next Fallen Order game as blind as possible, so alas, I shall say goodbye to all the tags that have anything to do with the next game for the next few weeks😭😭
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pumpkinspicestevie · 4 months
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I like the idea I see all the time on TikTok of ppl numbering their TBR books and using either a number generator or pulling slips of paper to figure out what they’re gonna read next but some ppl I see doing it will wrap the book and then number it and to me that’s just doing too much… if I were to attempt it I wouldn’t do that I’d prob have my bestie or sister like number the ones I have so that way I don’t know which order they’re in until I pull the number. But also idk if that would even work for me
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angelofcigs · 19 days
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tatted
pogue!reader x jj
warning: smut. oral (both m and f receiving). little bit rough but nothing too crazy. cocky JJ giving reader mind blowing sex with a plot is all this really is.
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The weeks following your healing tattoo were some rough weeks for JJ.
You wanted to surprise him, so you kept the new ink a secret until it fully healed. But, until then, JJ’s hands had to be off of you - something nearly impossible for him.
𝜗𝜚
A regular day out on the boat suddenly turned sour when you refused to go out for a swim.
JJ furrowed his brows at you, nodding his head towards the water for you to join him.
You smiled lightly at him, shaking your head.
He left you alone for a bit, letting you read your book while he and the rest of the pogues cooled off in the water.
Eventually, it got too hot sitting in the sun, your denim shorts causing sweat to drip down your spine. So, you set your book down and moved to the edge of the boat to dip your feet in the water.
JJ was quick to swim over to you, tugging at your legs trying to get you in the water.
“Stop, JJ. I’m on my period”, you lied, and he finally understood, leaving a kiss on your ankle and resting his wet hair on your thighs.
𝜗𝜚
It was even harder to get him to keep his hands to himself, and vice versa.
It was no secret that JJ was one horny motherfucker - so more than 3 days of no sex was a lot for you, not to mention the current 2 week period you’ve abstained from.
He was practically begging for you at this point, though you could delay his pleas for your pussy by using your mouth instead.
It worked, but it was nothing like being in you, feeling your wet warmth squeeze around him, hearing your whines of his name fall past your lips.
So when, amid a heavy make-out session with you, you pushed his hand away from the buttons of your denim shorts, and he finally broke.
“Are you fucking somebody else?”, he scoffed, clearly hurt that you weren’t begging for his touch the way you used to.
“What?”
“It’s been two fucking weeks since you let me touch you,” he complained.
“JJ I didn’t-”
“Who is he?”, he asked, jaw clenching, not caring about volume despite the lack of privacy on the Chateau couch the two of you sat on.
“JJ I’m not cheating on you!”, you giggled.
He fidgeted with the belt loop of your shorts, avoiding your eyes as he spoke, “Just be honest with me - you’re fuckin’ torturing me leading me on like this sweetheart.”
You grabbed his jaw, forcing him to make eye contact with you.
“JJ, I am not cheating on you”, you smirked, taking a deep breath, “the reason I haven’t had sex with you in a while is that-”
“You’re pregnant!”, he shouted, genuinely convinced.
You pushed at his chest, “Would you shut up, JJ? Let me finish!”
“Oh I’ll let you finish if you just let me get in there…”, he growled, pulling your hips closer to his, holding onto your heel to stop you from escaping.
You giggled, “Oh my god, let me finish, seriously!”
He smirked again, about to talk only to be silenced by your palm over his mouth.
You stared at his glossy blue eyes for a moment, lost in them. Something about these two weeks of no sex made you that much more needy for him, the entire essence of him seeming to turn you on.
"Okay," you gulped nervously, “don’t freak out, okay?”
He looked you up and down, eyes lingering at your chest, only covered by your white lace bra, nervous as to what you were about to tell him and equally turned on.
“I did something really stupid,” you slowly removed your hand from his mouth.
He opened his mouth, only to be silenced by you again.
“Don’t talk.”
He got comfortable, resting his arms on the back of the couch as you stared out the living room window of the chateau, watching the way the moon glimmered off of the water.
You sighed, suddenly anxious. “The reason I didn’t let you touch me, y’know… there,” you awkwardly said fiddling open the button of your shorts, “was because,” you shrugged the shorts off, “I got this.”
You moved into the moonlight so he could see your tattoo in full light: enjoy it.
He stared at the tattoo just beside where your white lacey underwear ended, mouth agape.
You bit your lip anxiously, “do you not like it?”
He didn’t respond, he just licked his lips.
His silence only worsened your anxiety, making you ramble. “I’m sorry, JJ. I should’ve told you before I got it. It was a stupid decision I was drunk and-”
He ignored your chatter, pulling you closer, kissing your lips with hunger. His lips left wet kisses down your body, eventually laying you down on the beat-up couch.
Reaching behind you to unclip your bra, he sucked and bit at your chest, loving the hushed whines you let out, knowing you were too embarrassed to let out any noise but always failed to do so around him.
Kissing a line down your stomach as you flinched, ticklish there, he finally got to your underwear line and tugged the flimsy material down your tanned legs.
Lifting your legs over his shoulders, he marked up the inside of your thighs, never losing your eyes in the process.
Pausing to admire your fresh ink, he smirked.
“Do you like it?”, you hummed, genuinely concerned he didn’t approve.
“I fuckin’ love it, sweetheart,” he hummed, pressing a kiss directly onto your clit.
Pushing his tongue in and out of you, switching between fucking you with it and toying with your clit, he pulled back and switched to his fingers, stretching you out.
You whined, not used to the stretch as it had been so long since he touched you like this.
“I know baby, I know. It’s been a while, huh?”, he condescendingly nodded at you, making fun of you for how helpless you were within the one minute he was playing with your pussy for.
“JJ,” you moaned when you felt his fingers curl up into you. You searched for some kind of stability, grabbing into his shoulder, acrylic nails biting into the sunburnt skin.
He tutted, slapping your hand off of his shoulder, “I’m not takin’ it easy on you, sweetheart.”
You whined, trying to plead for him to make you cum, not leave you high and dry, giving him those doe eyes that normally would make him do anything for you.
“No,” he hummed, “you made me wait, what…”, he paused lifting his thumb onto your clit, bringing you closer to your climax, “2 ish weeks?”
He slowed the circles on your clit, “That right, baby?”
You ignored him, too caught up in the feeling, but got pulled back to reality by his slap on the side of your thigh.
“It’s not nice to ignore somebody, is it baby?”, he pulled his fingers out, now just leaving delicate kisses down your pussy.
“You know what else isn’t nice? Having a girlfriend who wouldn’t let me in her for two fuckin weeks straight,” he complained, pulling his shirt off of his broad shoulders, walking away from you to grab a condom from his wallet.
Searching in his wallet, you got lost staring at his back. His tan, freckled, muscular back, was usually littered with scratches from your nails, but since your two-week break is the cleanest it’s ever looked.
“You gonna fuckin answer me?”, he pushed, pulling your thighs back apart, you now noticing in your dazed-out phase that he was now fully undressed, rolling the condom on in between your thighs.
“What?”, you quietly asked, clearly not paying any attention to whatever he was saying.
“You can’t fuckin think straight either, can you baby?”, he grabbed the tip of his cock, teasing it between your folds.
“Guess I’m not the only one who can’t go two weeks without sex,” he grunted, as he thrust into you, not waiting for you to adjust to his size.
You were left breathless at the stretch, tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck for some sense of support.
“It…” he groaned as he thrust harshly into you, “was fuckin… torture baby.”
You mewled, “Wanted… wanted to surprise you D-Daddy.”
“Yeah?”, he nodded, grinning at you as he lifted one leg higher than the other to get deeper in you.
Feeling his balls hit the back of your thighs, his trimmed pubes tickling your clit with each thrust, you were barely coherent - he loved it. All you seemed to be able to do was make little squeaks of “Oh” with each thrust in you.
“You surprised me, alright,” he answered, running his calloused thumb over the still healing tattoo, making you hiss at the pain.
He smirked at you as you could barely keep your eyes open, so overwhelmed with pleasure.
Letting you get closer to an orgasm, he stilled his movements once he felt you clench around him, right before you could cum. You begged him to move, trying to move yourself and failing as his strong arms held you down.
“JJ,” you whined, as he pulled out of you, your thighs left spread, still hoping for him to come back to you.
He stared at the wet mess between your thighs, stepping back to get a better view.
Tugging the condom off, he jerked himself off as he stared at your body, groaning at the sight.
You moved your hand down to yourself, wanting to feel the same pleasure he was feeling, only to be scolded.
“Don’t you dare fuckin move.”
You whined even louder, forgetting about the others who might be awake listening.
Watching you clench around nothing, your wetness dripping out of you onto the soft blanket beneath you, he sneered.
“See how it fuckin feels?”
You bit on the tip of your acrylic nail, squirming in an attempt to find some form of relief. You whined, practically begging for him to help you out. He only smirked at you, letting himself finish staring at your awestruck face, his cum falling onto his abs, his load larger than normal due to your lack of help the past two weeks.
He let you stare, let the feeling of not being able to touch set in. “See how it feels? This is what it’s like having your girlfriend not let you fucking touch her.”
You sat up, leaning closer to him, still wiggling your hips for some friction. “JJ, please.”
He stared at you, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “You’re gonna have to do a lot more than just begging, princess.”
“Please, JJ! I need you, please,” you begged.
“So fuckin pathetic,” he snickered, grabbing his shirt to clean himself up.
With wide, worried eyes, you grabbed his shirt from him before he could wipe the cum off of himself.
“What?”, he narrowed his eyes at you.
“Let me clean you up.”
He’d never say no to that. So, he let you. He did his best to ignore the amazing feeling of your mouth on him, still mad at you for the two weeks you made him wait.
He couldn’t be mad at you however, when he saw you retract your fingers, coated in his cum, from his cock only to bring them down to your pussy, mixing the two juices together.
Making direct eye contact and only breaking it when the pleasure was too much to keep your eyes open, you played with yourself, moaning his name pornographically to make him even more desperate for you.
He smirked down at you - how could he continue being mad at you when you’re just that hot?
Finally thrusting himself back into you, this time with no condom, the two of you finally forgave each other.
As he let you finish around him (which in turn made him cum a second time), he thumbed your tattoo, admiring it.
He smiled sweetly at you, completely contrasting the devilish attitude he held earlier, and put his boxers back on to get you cleaned up.
Going into the room over, he grabbed a spare shirt of his, a hair tie, a fresh pair of underwear, and a warm washcloth for you. Dressing you and wiping the cum off of you, he patted your bum as he whisked you off to the bathroom to pee.
Once you returned, he was waiting on the couch for you, scrolling through his phone. When he saw you leaning on the doorframe, blushing at the sight of him shirtless, still breathless from the sex, brushing his hands through his sandy locks.
Feeling your stare, he acknowledged you.
“C’mere,” he invited you, having you sit on his thigh, your arm holding onto your shoulder.
Lifting your shirt, he tugged your panties slightly to the side.
“Again?!”, you huffed, far too tired for another round.
He scoffed, “No, I’m tryna be a gentleman you perv.”
Grabbing the bottle of Aquaphor on the coffee table, he applied a layer to your tattoo, wanting to protect your new addition.
Once he was done with that, he applied the leftover balm to your lips, kissing you to apply some to his as well.
𝜗𝜚
The next morning, you woke up with JJ’s heavy arms around you, and the smell of pancakes Sarah must have been making filled your nose.
Pushing his arms off of you, you got up and grabbed a plate, not caring to put pants on - you practically lived here so everybody was used to you walking around practically naked in the mornings anyways - and how was that any different from a swimsuit?
Grabbing a glass of cold water, you soon heard JJ’s groans for you from the couch.
“I know JJ, one second.”
“You two uh… have a wild night last night, didn’t you?”, John B teased, ruffling your hair.
“Oh shuddup,” you rolled your eyes, “as if we don’t hear you and Sarah every night.”
Sitting back down with JJ, he kissed your cheek, stealing the pancakes from your plate, ignoring your complaints.
“Kie,” you called.
“Yeah?”
“He knows.”
“He knows?!”, she gasped. “Well, no shit they had a crazy night last night! I’m just glad I wasn’t here for it.”
JJ choked on the pancakes, “Holdup… she knows?!”
“Mhmmm”, you hummed.
“I’m lost,” Pope admitted.
“Me too.”
Kie popped a grape into her mouth, raising her eyebrows at you, “She got tatted.”
Sarah gasped, “Where? When?!”
“See, that’s the issue with where she chose to get tatted - when people ask that question it makes things a little awkward,” Kiara spoke, recalling the fight the two of you drunkenly had at the tattoo parlor.
“Hey, the guy said it would look cute and he was right!”, you retorted.
JJ choked again, this time on the water, “A guy did that to you? What the fuck?!”
“Relax,” you hit his shoulder “it was professional.”
He scowled at you, and the group fell into a silent confusion.
You stood and showed the tattoo, the group only getting a peek before JJ was wrapping his arms around you to hide the tattoo.
“Hey!”, you pushed him away. “I’m proud of this!”
“You were last night,” he joked.
“Oh shut up JJ.”
“It’s cute,” Sarah complimented, “feisty. Like you.”
You got up, popped a piece of pancake in your mouth, and kissed her on the cheek.
Throwing a grape at JJ, you grabbed his keys and slipped a pair of shorts on, shrugging your sandals on.
“C’mon bubs, you owe me a Plan B pill.”
He grumbled, getting his boots on and following you out to the car.
“You two are what’s wrong with America,” Pope complained, pretending to throw up.
“Oh, fuck off,” the two of you said in unison.
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taglist (message or comment to be added!): @dasguccier @pradabambie @ijustwanttoreadlols
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generalsmemories · 6 months
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hello jing yuan's wife!! congrats on 1k followers! you very much deserved it 😊 may i please request for jing yuan with angst scenario #5? thank you in advance!
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Stubbornness
✧ jing yuan x gn!reader
✧ prompt used: needing to go to an event after a party and having to pretend as if they aren’t angry with one another the entire time || 1k event
✧ contents: established relationship, hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, arguments cause yeehaw, however happy ending cause they are functioning adults, mentions of other characters
✧ a/n: the amount of times ya'll have called me jing yuan's wife at this point HAHAH. anyway! first drabble to kickstart the 1k event is a sort of angsty one because why not but ya'll remember that one book where the sanctus medicus had 5 operations to try and get rid of jing yuan? yeah have that back in mind. - also not beta-read but who is surprised at this point LMFAO
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"... You could've died."
Jing Yuan snorts, adjusting the bracers on his forearms without even sparing you a glance, "But I'm here right now breathing, aren't I?" he quips back instead, almost sounding amused at your worry.
It infuriates you. It baffles you how little he truly cared about the situation and at the severity of it. The hair you had for once tried to style already messy by the amount of times you've ran a hand through it out of stress or frustration the past two hours.
You're so glad you made Yanqing leave earlier to assist where it was necessary.
"Do you honestly see this as a mere joke, Jing Yuan?" you sneer, arms crossed whilst leaning one side against the doorframe. He must already know what you're referring to, being that you had finally opened the report handed to you from today - a report telling that there was yet another attempt on his life.
Another attempt that he didn't want to tell you about.
"Quite the contrary," he says, turning around to finally face you. His smile is still present on his lips which only serves to make you more agitated, "Nothing happened as you can see, and I'm perfectly fine. As such I didn't see the need to tell you about it because nothing happened. I wasn't even at the Artisanship Commission like they thought-"
"Because you got delayed."
He sighs, crossing his arms as well and cocking his head to the side, "Dear, with the amount you're worrying about me it makes me believe you have no trust in my capabilities to protect myself. Am I right to assume that?" he questions, his smile fading a bit after he had asked.
"Where the hell did you even get that from- Can I not worry about my lovers safety even when I'm aware of his swordmanship?" you ask, clicking your tongue whilst running yet another hand through your strands.
"And I'm telling you that it is a needless worry-"
"You're fucking unbelievable," you scoff, turning around to head for the entrance of your home, Jing Yuan quirking an eyebrow at your retreating form, "Oh? You're not going to nag at me further?" he asks, his tone may be lighthearted, but even you can pick out the slight bite it has to it.
"Even looking at you right now makes me want to punch you. The fact that you can't even see where I'm coming from is unbelievable enough, so fine! I won't worry more about our dear general," you bite back, slamming the door shut once you're at the other side.
You can come up with an excuse as to why the two of you arrive separately - it wouldn't be the first time after all.
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"You must be quite delighted that the expedition finished earlier than planned, right [Name]?" Master Gongshu asks, handing you a glass and immediately clinking his own against it before taking a sip, "Even the tiny lieutenant made more of a name to himself out there."
You snicker, swirling the contents of the drink before you, stealing a brief glance over at Jing Yuan who is surrounded himself, "Indeed, I'm quite relieved to see him and Yanqing safely return to the Luofu."
Even though there was immediately another attempt on his life the moment he stepped one foot back onboard.
"But say, aren't you a bit saddened that the general haven't been by your side as much today? He's practically surrounded by the other commissioners and knights," master Gongshu points out, to which you only shake your head, "Why of course not, as long as I know that my husband is safe - I wouldn't have to worry about anything," you say - a bit louder than needed.
You know Jing Yuan heard you.
He kept his attention solely on the people before him though, not even sparing you a glance.
The sight makes you let out another loud sigh, bringing the glass to your lips only to immediately drink it in one gulp, Master Gongshu snickering beside you while calling another waiter over, "Oho, I see you're rearing to go so early! This is indeed what a celebration feast is about!" Master Gonshu roars, his laughter having been a bit too loud to attract the attention of other people, who merely snickered at his own energy.
Jing Yuan only narrowed his eyes, eyebrows furrowing in displeasure at your comment. It seems like you still haven't cooled down. But as soon as he heard his name get called, he was all smiles again, "Aren't you worried that [Name] is going to drink too much, general?" a solider jokingly asked, raising his own glass to have a toast with the general. Jing Yuan merely let out a low chuckle, "Of course not, and even if they were to, I'm here to take care of them."
At this point, the master diviner had made herself to your side with a few snacks - just in time to see your expression twist for a split second upon hearing what Jing Yuan said, letting out a laugh yourself, "Oh, don't worry dear. I know how to take care of myself, so there's no need for you to needlessly worry like this!"
She can practically sense the animosity between you two that no one else in the room has apparently picked up on.
But Fu Xuan does admit that seeing Jing Yuan's perfectly crafted smile twitch a bit in annoyance while his eyebrows furrowed a tiny bit did bring her satisfaction - a taste of his own medicine.
So while master Gongshu have wandered off to get a refill, she makes her way over to you with a raised eyebrow, "Trouble in paradise?" she asks lowly, you merely huff in return - turning around to lean on the fence, staring at the various starskiffs in the air, "... No."
"I applaud you for still wanting to lie in front of me," Fu Xuan comments, placing the tray of various snacks beside you for your perusal - you don't grab anything, already lost in thought.
"Is it a needless worry?" you end up asking, Fu Xuan having leaned against the fence herself while having her body turned to face you, "About what? His safety? Yes and no."
"Gee, that helps a lot."
"He's a general, [Name]. An attempt on his life is unfortunately common sense, moreso at this time too being that he had just returned from an expedition and would be by some standards - exhausted and have his senses dulled."
"So why-"
"But it's also because he is a general that precautions are taken. Even if he got delayed or not before coming to the Artisanship Commission, the Cloud Knights stationed had already intercepted the attempt - he would've still been safe."
You bite your tongue to prevent yourself from blurting anything more. In hindsight you were perfectly aware that Jing Yuan would be fine - but you're pretty sure there's not a single lover out there who would not worry about their own husbands' safety if his head had once again been targeted - even if it had been yet another failed attempt.
Before you can admit your wrongdoings to Fu Xuan, you feel an arm slither around your waist - delicate lips pressing against your temple, and from the faint breath Jing Yuan lets out, you can tell he's had a few more to drink than you in the span of your conversation with Fu Xuan.
"... I thought you didn't like to drink that much," you say softly, turning around in his hold only to be met with a smile, "And I thought you weren't going to speak to me?" he whispers back. You merely huff and let his head fall down to your shoulder, sending Fu Xuan a pleading gaze to which she immediately gets without you needing to say anything more - walking over to the crowd of onlookers to step in for both you and Jing Yuan.
"I am still mad," you finally utter after a few minutes of silence between the two of you.
"Whatever can I do to make my beloved not mad at me then?" he asks back in a whisper, careful to not let anyone else hear the two of you. You can tell from your peripheral vision that he's turned his head to face you, although you keep your gaze facing forward.
"Admit you were wrong," you huff, Jing Yuan letting out a low chuckle at how you're still holding onto that stubborness, "I'm pretty sure I saw that you were about to admit that you were wrong to the master diviner, no?"
You don't answer, merely looking away in a silent defiance. The sight making Jing Yuan sigh in amusement, "Alright, I'm sorry dear. I'll make sure to tell you in the future whenever I feel something amiss," he says in the end - but before you can accept that apology, he quickly adds on.
"In return, I do hope you tell me whenever the disciples also target you."
.... Oh.
"... You know you could've made me inform you in any other way than having us argue?" you state, back to your moody self - the switch in mood making your husband laugh, "Not such a great feeling being left in the dark, is it?" he reminds you - and you hate how effective this sort of method is.
So your only reply is to wrap your arms around his waist, "I'm sorry," You can feel his body shake with laughter, his own arms wrapping around your shoulders before you feel his lips pressing themselves at the top of your head, "Now stop being mad, because these few hours were quite tortuous for me."
"You just say that because I usually do all the talking."
"Precisely."
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struggled with that ending for 3 days man.
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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 10 months
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Studious IV (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 18+
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You continue reading Aemond's diary. As his true feelings for you become ever more clear, can you decipher your own feelings for him?
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N)
Warnings: Aemond in his smut writer era (semi-public sex, p in v sex, tiddy suckin', riding, fingering, oral sex f receiving, bad sex)
Author's Note: So sorry for the delay! But this baby is 11K words, so hopefully that makes up for it! Also, I tried for a long time to format this like the others, but tumblr wouldn't let me post it if I did, so the formatting is a little different here.
Read Part I Here - Read Part II Here - Read Part III Here
My Masterlist
Taglist will be done via reblogs (there are simply too many of you to fit here)
Studious IV
You were never setting foot in the library again.
Not after what you just read. Not when you were sure that the mere memory of it would have you bursting into flames the moment you crossed the threshold.
Good gods, only a few entries ago, Aemond could hardly bring himself to write the word ‘cunt,’ and now this? What in the Seven Hells were his advisors – Grand Maester Orwyle, Lord Jasper Wylde, and Prince Aegon – teaching him?
You weren’t sure whether the odd feeling in your stomach was due to how much you ate – an entire meat pie and five tea cakes, all washed down with a pot and a half of raspberry tea – or what you had just read.
Either way, it was not enough to stop you from glancing about your bedchamber to ensure no one was watching you and then rereading the entry from the beginning.
The 16th day in the 5th moon of the year.
I have just returned from the library. Grand Maester Orwyle suggested that I consult a book on anatomy. Since there was no business of court I was required to attend today, I asked one of the librarians to help me retrieve the title after I finished my training.
I also found a few books Aegon recommended, only after I dismissed the librarian – I did not want him to know that I took those. Or that I even knew what they were. Gossip abounds in the capital, and I do not wish to be the subject of more than I already am.
By the titles alone, I am surprised Mother allows them to remain in the Keep. I likely will not read most of them. Aegon has already traumatised me quite thoroughly. I see no reason to allow him to ruin reading for me, as well. Although one title, ‘A Caution for Young Girls,’ seems innocent enough.
But the books are not why I am writing now, when my usual routine is to write immediately before I retire to bed. I just… I need to commit this to paper before it leaves me entirely.
On my way out of the library, I saw her. My wife – if I die tomorrow or in a hundred years, I shall never tire of calling her that.
She has quickly found the more private areas of the library, it seems. I would never have seen her if I had not been considering going there to read myself.
It must mean something that she did not choose just any of the countless hidden places within the maze of the library, but my favourite – a secluded alcove along the western wall. An indicator of our compatibility, perhaps. Or even a sign from the gods?
Had the books I’d been carrying not been so… unsuitable, I would have asked to join her.
No, I wouldn’t have. That would require far more courage than I can summon when I see her.
I just stared at her, watching her face as she read. From where I stood, I could not see what she was reading. But I could see her, and that was enough.
She is so expressive! I saw her both smile and frown in quick succession, and once, her entire face scrunched in displeasure as if she had just taken a bite of lemon! Gods, how can even such an unpleasant expression be so beautiful?
Perhaps I should not have watched her at all, for the longer I stood there, the further my mind drifted. And then, I heard Aegon’s voice, as clearly as if he were standing beside me.
‘Don’t limit yourself to the bedchamber brother, or even the bed! A wall or a table serves just as well. And there is a certain thrill to knowing you could be discovered…’
Damn him. Why did I ever ask for his assistance? I would have been better off enlisting the help of an actual whore! At least then, the vulgarity would not come from the future King. Damn him to the deepest of the Seven Hells.
But that stupid advice echoed in my mind over and over. And against my will and better judgement, an image began to form. A dream – a waking dream.
Though my feet remained planted on the floor, I imagined setting aside my books and joining her in that alcove. She would look up and smile upon hearing my approach, perhaps even giggle at my attempt at stealth.
I would sit beside her and ask what she was reading. I might even ask her to read to me. But I would not let her read for long.
I would kiss her while she read. Not on her lips but all over her perfect face. Her cheeks, her forehead, on the tip of her nose. All just to distract her, to make her laugh. Only when she made so much noise that I feared discovery would I kiss her lips to quiet her and finally claim my prize.
The kiss would not be like in the Sept, or in her chambers that night. Instead, she would kiss me back and open herself to me. I would kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Until we were both out of breath but still wanting more.
Seeing her like that, with her lips swollen and cheeks flushed… I would not be able to wait until we returned to our chambers. I would lift her onto that very table, books be damned.
Like our wedding night, we would not undress. We would be in too much of a hurry.
But even hurried, I would be gentle. I would take the time to prepare her, as Lord Wylde said I must do every time. Doing so makes the experience more pleasurable for the woman, he says. And Orwyle added that her enjoyment makes it more likely that the coupling will be fruitful.
Gods, I hardly care about that anymore. Of course, I want an heir, or several. But I want her more. I want her to feel as much pleasure as I do. To ‘peak,’ as Wylde and Orwyle put it. Aegon uses other words, but I find them too vulgar.
And in the library, making an heir would be the last thing on my mind. Even finding my own pleasure would be secondary. I would use my fingers to prepare her – perhaps get her to peak once before I even enter her?
Aegon says women can find release much more than men can. According to him, he once made a woman peak ten times in one night. I would be more amenable to believing him if he didn’t also claim he did so five times. But maybe he is right about ‘practising’ increasing stamina. Though he has had years of practice, and I have had only two days…
But in the dream world where I have the courage to approach her at all, and the gall to bed her in the library of all places (can you call it ‘bedding’ if it is not done in an actual bed?), I also have that stamina. And the skill to indeed make her peak with just my fingers.
I do not know what sounds she would make, as she was entirely silent on our wedding night, but I would want her to make them. I would want her to make such noise that I would have no choice but to kiss her to quiet her and keep her from drawing the attention of the rest of the library.
Even when I was buried within her, I would kiss her. With one arm wrapped around her hips to hold her steady as I fucked her so hard the table would shake, and the other hand tangled in her hair so I could kiss her just as hard.
I want to kiss her so badly. When I finally go to her again, that is what I will do first.
Once we had both finished – for I would ensure she peaked again with me inside her – I would kiss her more, softly, until our breathing steadied. Then, we would simply take our seats again, and this time, I would read to her.
By all the Seven, what has become of me? To not only have such thoughts but to revel in them as I do?
You didn’t bother reading the rest of the entry again before clutching the diary to your chest and staring at the bed canopy above you as a thousand questions burned through your mind and set your heart racing.
Had he been thinking about that the day he came to you in the library?
Was it what he intended to do, had you not reacted so poorly to his words?
Were you really wishing that he had?
You turned on your side, cradling his diary as you once did a small stuffed pony, and noticed for the first time that night had fallen – you had spent nearly the entire day reading. For a moment, you considered running to Aemond’s chambers. But when you looked back at the journal, there were still more than a dozen ribbons shut in its pages.
And if you went to him just after reading what you did…
Whatever was becoming of Aemond, no doubt thanks to the men he had asked for help in better bedding you, by reading his diary and the most private thoughts and fantasies contained within, it was becoming of you too. For when your eyes drifted closed, Aemond’s dream of the library became your dream as well.
-
The next several days of entries were almost identical.
Aemond woke at dawn after a night of dreams filled with you. They were not always of a carnal nature. Sometimes he dreamed simply of holding or kissing you. Once, he dreamed about flying with you atop his dragon. You didn’t know whether the prospect was thrilling or terrifying. Perhaps both.
Each day, he broke his fast, trained, then ate a small meal before joining court.
Before joining you.
When he wrote in the diary after dinner and several hours of studying and ‘practising’ (you still could not determine what that meant), he still remembered every little thing you did. You had never spoken at court – it was not your place to. But he had catalogued your every movement and reaction to the business of the realm. Every raise of your brows, every repressed smile, and every curious tilt of your head.
You thought you were quite proficient at maintaining a regal mask of indifference. Your mother had you practice it on the journey to King’s Landing while she commanded your brothers to shout at you the most outrageous things they could think of (much of which she promptly scolded them for when they were done).
But Aemond saw through the mask. Not only that, but he correctly interpreted every movement you made.
He knew that the twitch of your lip when Lord Bolton made a petition was a sign of your marked distaste for the man. He knew the scrunch of your brow upon the reading of a missive from a Pentosi diplomat was you noticing a contradiction from the previous message and realising the diplomat was lying. And he knew that you stiffened every time he looked at you because you were nervous about what he would say or do.
Aemond knew you. Even then.
And yet you had so dreadfully misunderstood him.
The shame of it was enough to make you set down the diary and call for a bath – a private bath, without any of your maids present even in the adjourning rooms. You gave an excuse that you were exhausted and simply wished to remain alone.
But really?
As part of his study of the anatomy book Orwyle recommended, Aemond had drawn a diagram of what lay between a woman’s legs. And annotated it based on the advice of Lord Wylde and Prince Aegon.
You were curious to see – with the aid of a hand mirror – just how accurate the diagram and annotations were.
-
You awoke the following morning feeling more refreshed than you had since you came to the palace, from both the welcome break in your courtly duties and the exploration you had conducted in the privacy of your bath. Though you were fairly sure you did not reach a ‘peak,’ as Aemond described it, you felt close to the height of something several times. But each time, you panicked at the intensity of the racing feelings within you and withdrew your hand. Still, those few minutes of pleasure were incredibly relaxing.
And as it was Aemond’s notes that allowed you to discover the feeling that your own clumsy attempts had failed to bring, the prospect that you would – eventually – once more join him in his bed became thrilling beyond reason.
In truth, the only thing that stopped you from rushing across the castle the very moment you emerged from the bath was the unfortunate fact that you were still bleeding, though it was light.
More than that, while your body was more than ready to forgive Aemond, your heart and mind were still hesitant. He had hurt you. He made you cry. Reading his diary helped you understand that it had never been intentional. However, you still needed to understand everything before making a final decision on whether to forgive him and if you could, as Aemond hoped in his note, ‘learn to like’ or even to love him.
So, after breaking your fast, you again settled into the couch and turned to the next green ribbon.
The 23rd day in the 5th moon of the year
Were Aegon not my brother and the heir, I would throw him from the top of the Rookery.
‘A Caution for Young Girls’ is no such thing. It is little more than a manual in promiscuity and sin!
But… damn him. It is quite educational.
Unlike the book Grand Maester Orwyle suggested, it is not focused on the science of anatomy or conception. Rather, it is entirely concerned with the pleasure of women. After all, it is the supposedly true story of a woman’s quest for pleasure.
A Wylde woman, if it is to be believed. I may have to ask Lord Jasper about it. Is this why he’s had such success with his own wives?
But that, and indeed the sinful nature of the book itself, is unimportant. What is important is that it may actually be the key to my learning how to pleasure my wife.
It spoke at length of various methods of using one’s fingers. Crooking the fingers while within seems to be crucial, as is locating a ‘sweet spot’ where her walls feel slightly different. That spot, as well as the ‘pearl’ which lays at the top of her sex, is the epicentre of her pleasure.
And, like the others said, preparation is required. This is where the use of the fingers comes into it – as well as various other methods. For example, the book mentions kissing quite often, and not only on the lips. Or the cheeks. Or even anywhere on the face.
I admit the idea, though it is new to me, is quite appealing. The book mentioned several places where women most like to be kissed. The jaw, the throat, behind the ear, the nape of the neck, the collarbone…
There was a spot of ink, as though Aemond’s pen had been resting on the page without moving for a long moment.
…the breasts, and lower.
I do not understand why. Perhaps it is because of Aegon’s incessant comments about the breasts of every woman in the Keep, save our mother and his wife – would that he would also exclude my wife! – but I find myself thinking about her breasts with startling frequency. I did not get to see them on our wedding night after I foolishly forgot to undress her.
There is a story in the book which… well, I find myself wanting to replicate. One which would provide me ample access to her breasts. But more than that, it carries an intimacy which I crave most of all.
When Lady Coryanne was serving as a handmaid to a warlock in Qarth, she often found herself called to help him ‘relax’ after a long day. On such occasions, she would mount him while he sat at his desk and ‘ride’ him while he buried his face in her breasts.
I… it was easy to imagine my wife and me in a similar, though more loving, position. Likely not at my desk, as I don’t actually use it often. But perhaps, here. On my chair by the hearth, where I read my books and write in this diary before bed.
She would come back – for she would be living here, with me, not across the Holdfast and so far away – after a long day. Maybe she would have been in the gardens, or with Mother, Helaena and the children, or in the library for hours. I would have been stuck away from her all day in meetings, court, or training.
Even apart from her for only a day, I would miss her terribly. As I do every hour I do not see her. And she would miss me too.
When she came in, she would press herself against the door as she locked it, then turn to me with a mischievous grin. I would know what she wanted, but I would not play along. Instead, I’d mutter a greeting and turn back to my book, pretending that my blood was not racing at just the sight of her. For I want her blood to be as heated as mine.
You read the last paragraph again, the realisation finally set in that Aemond was about to narrate another of his fantasies. Fortunately, after his previous entry about the library, you decided to be more cautious and had already dismissed your servants until your afternoon meal. You had suspected that there may be more in the diary that was thoroughly unsuitable for prying eyes.
And, thanks to his diligent notetaking, you knew precisely what to do when the feelings such unsuitable words provoked began to burn through you.
You undoubtedly did not want an audience for that…
I would let her tease me, pretending none of it fazed me. When she brushed her fingers lightly across my shoulders, I would not flinch. When she leaned over me further than she would really need to see what I was reading, but wanting me to see that peek of her breasts nearly spilling out from her dress, I would barely look. And when she pressed a kiss, long and slow, to my neck – gods, would I like that too? – I might even pretend it was an inconvenience.
It would vex her that I did not give her the attention she desperately wanted. Not enough to truly anger her, but only enough to make her pout. So that when she took the book from my hands and dropped it to the floor, then sat atop me in the chair with her thighs straddling mine… I would simply have no choice but to grab her little lip as she stuck it out and push it back into place before kissing her.
I would kiss her in every place the book instructs, taking my time to worship every bit of her. I want to drive her as mad as she does me just by her mere existence.
But I know she would not simply let me tease her. She would return each kiss I gave her and more. Atop me, she would roll her hips slowly, purposefully, as if we were engaged in a dance. I would be able to feel her, hot and wet and as eager as me, but each time I rose to meet her, she would pull away.
Gods, am I really wishing for her to deny me? Perhaps practising as Aegon instructed has conditioned me to crave such delays to my satisfaction.
Either way, I think I would break before she did. She is strong-willed, and with as many brothers as she has, I believe she can be quite patient. So, I would beg. I would apologise for trying to tease her and plead for her forgiveness. And for her to…
She would, I hope, without hesitation. She would rise only long enough for her to remove her smallclothes and for me to do away with my trousers. Then, we would both sit again, together, with me gently guiding her down to mount me – Seven Hells, that makes it sound like I’m a horse.
I’ll be whatever she wants.
Again, and as always, I would give her a moment to adjust and make sure she is comfortable. Orwyle’s book said that with well-endowed partners – which, according to the measurements in the book, I am – women may always need that moment.
But I would be glad to give it to her. For it would allow me to unlace her bodice, and like the warlock from the book, I could bury my face in my beloved’s breasts.
I find it hard to imagine what it would be like, how they would feel. Soft, I think. Warm, as she is. And perhaps, if I pressed close enough, I could hear her heart beating.
When I was fully settled within her, would I hear it beat faster? Or would it slow with contentment, knowing she was safe and loved – oh so dearly loved – within my arms. Perhaps it would be like the stories, and I would hear it skip a beat.
Either way, I would be more than content to just sit there, breathe her in, and let her move at her own pace. We would not need to be fast, as we would in the library. In my own rooms – our rooms – there would be no need for hurry. We could just stay there, entwined, or we could move together.
I think I would prefer it slowly. Not even seeking our releases, really. Just… enjoying each other. Enjoying the connection of our bodies, our minds, and our souls. Knowing that we are one, that the gods have made us one, and that nothing can tear us apart.
Although… I do think her legs would get tired after a while. That is something I should perhaps be worried about. Especially if she did want to move, and fast. To seek release.
If she did, I would help her. The book did not detail how, as Lady Coryanne was a servant at the time, but… I could figure it out. I could move my hips up to meet hers, or even lift her on my own? I think doing so with my hands on her hips would give me the most leverage. Or perhaps her rear?
I am very drawn to the idea of holding her close as we reach our peaks. Of feeling her breath on my skin, being close enough to hear each little noise she makes, and the sensation of her gripping me as tight as she can as she comes. Even the thought of her nails digging into me brings a certain thrill. And if I don’t reach my peak with her – which, I think, is very unlikely – we can always continue. Or move somewhere more comfortable if her legs do get tired.
At this point, I think I am more than ready to practice. Of course, this wasn’t my intention when I started writing, but… yes, I am most definitely ready. And anything else I wanted to write about seems inconsequential now.
You dropped the diary onto your heaving chest, the image Aemond’s words had painted still burning in your mind. Seven Hells, you could practically feel his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you to his chest as you moved together, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered words of praise between desperate kisses.
With a hazy smile, you snuggled further into the couch and beneath your blanket. As exhilarating as the descriptions of his desires were, what truly warmed your heart was the way he wrote about you, the two of you together.
The connection of your souls as one? It was exactly what you’d dreamed of when first told of your betrothal. Aemond was what you dreamed of.
Why did he have to stop writing? What in the name of the Seven was he practising that was more important than that?
Frustrated and with your pleasure now truly over, you closed the diary and turned on your side, resigned to simply stewing in your own thoughts for the few hours left until your maids returned.
-
After a light, solitary afternoon meal, you again dismissed your maids. By this point, they were more than a little suspicious about the titleless book you were reading. But, you insisted that you simply wanted to be alone, for your moon’s blood still plagued you. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did still have some cramping and a slight headache.
In truth, it was because you knew what would happen in just a few entries – your second night together.
It surely wouldn’t be as thrilling as some of his other fantasies. You knew that firsthand. But after learning what Aemond felt for you, you were desperate to know his side of that night.
So desperate, in fact, that you barely skimmed the following two entries in your haste to reach it. Both primarily had to do with whatever smut he had read in A Caution for Young Girls. The first was a rather exhaustive list of all the ways he wanted to kiss you – and there were far more ways than you were previously aware of.
The second caused your most intense blushing yet, for it was near treasonous! After reading another story of Coryanne Wylde ‘riding’ a man, he fantasised about you riding him while he sat on the Iron Throne. It was an intriguing idea, but it seemed a little too hazardous to tempt you.
Finally, you reached what you had been waiting for.
The 26th day in the 5th moon of the year.
I had hoped not to make an entry today – for I had every intention of spending tonight in my wife’s chambers. But she is there, and tragically, I am here.
Tonight was almost worse than our wedding night.
When I saw her watching me in the training yard today, I thought… she was almost smiling – at me! She had no obligation to be there, and yet she was! She sought me out! She wanted to see me!
I had to bite back a cry of joy and relief. I immediately abandoned the rest of my training, nearly impaling the poor squire with my sword for how hard I threw it at him, so I could rush to the ramparts and greet her.
But when I got there, she was gone. I asked a few of the other lords and ladies that were there, but no one knew where she went. Even after speaking to her, however briefly, I still do not understand why she left.
You felt your cheeks flush with shame. Aemond hadn’t grimaced at you that day – quite the opposite. He had been so excited to see you there, and as usual, you had misinterpreted his reaction.
Or, based on how frequently these misunderstandings occurred, perhaps his expressions were merely indecipherable to normal people. Or, more likely, maybe just to you.
You set his diary down, careful to use one of your discarded ribbons to mark your place, and picked up your own. By this point, you had filled several pages with your reactions to Aemond’s writing – some of it sincere, some bordering on humour.
Yet you had no words to express how sorry you were that you had so thoroughly misjudged him. So you wrote nothing and just kept reading.
When I went to her chambers to check on her, I encountered one of her maids, who told me she had retired early with a headache and would not be joining the family for dinner.
Perhaps I should have gone into her chambers then and asked what was wrong. I knew – or at least suspected – that the headache was a lie. An excuse to allow her privacy. I often do the same, citing my scar. Which, as I told her, is not always a lie.
But if I had gone to her, as I wished. I would not have known what to say. Ask her why she ran from the training yard without speaking to me? Or why she wanted to avoid me and the family? Tell her I’m sorry for the disappointment of our wedding night? Ask Beg for a second chance?
I could not do it. I was tired from training and admittedly still somewhat discombobulated from realising she had been watching me. Though I did make it to her door, I merely touched the handle for a moment before retiring to my own chambers.
Now, after yet another disastrous visit… I should have gone to her earlier. I should have trusted my instincts (as Aegon often encourages me to do) instead of allowing my mind to think itself into an inescapable hole.
As I bathed and redressed, and even while attending court and dinner, I could not stop thinking about her. Agonising over what I may have done to make her flee from me?
I never even considered that she may actually have a headache until I was again at her door after dinner. The fear that I was disturbing her, perhaps making her pain worse, was nearly enough to make me turn and flee.
But then, her voice came, soft and light and so enticing. Of course, I somehow managed to answer idiotically when she asked who it was. Though she lessened the sting of embarrassment with a small joke. She is so achingly clever!
I asked her how she was, and her answer made it evident that the headache was a ruse. I am trying not to be too proud that my deduction was correct. She is not used to lying, nor is she good at it. And it is yet another thing I admire about her.
For hours, I planned what I would say to her. It was eloquent and thoughtful – practically poetry.   
The tail of the last ‘y’ extended nearly an inch, and you imagined Aemond just staring at the page, consumed by his thoughts for a moment.
But her room looked different tonight. She finally unpacked.
There is a large tapestry above her hearth depicting her home keep, the field below filled with vibrant pink flowers with bright yellow centres. The same flowers appear nearly everywhere. On framed examples of embroidery, on her curtains, pillows, and even the blanket strewn over the back of her couch.
I must find out what they are, for they are clearly very important to her.
You looked up from the diary, glancing about your room. Indeed, you had not realised how many dog roses decorated your possessions. It was no wonder he guessed they were your favourite.
‘I was quite impressed when you brought me my favourite flower,’ you wrote in your diary. ‘I thought you had somehow read my thoughts. I suppose I made it easy for you.’
She also has a large bookcase in her sitting room, which was specifically requested when her father sent word accepting the betrothal. Since the last time I was in her chambers, she has begun to fill the shelves with books and trinkets. I spotted a small silver bell, a wooden box carved with various birds, and a little glass flower. It was not the same flower that is so prevalent elsewhere in her chambers (this one was a pale purple rather than pink), but still quite pretty.
While pondering that flower, I returned to the couch to compare it to the pink flower on her blanket and saw what she had been reading – “The Last Dragonlords,” my first, and still favourite, history of my house. It is not a particularly rigorous academic work, but I prefer it for the sense of wonder it has for the story of my ancestors.
If, at that point, I remembered any of what I wanted to say to her, the sight of that book, and the knowledge that she was somehow reading my favourite… I lost all words. I fear I fell silent for an uncomfortably long time, for she spoke next.
She wanted to know the reason for my visit. I asked her directly about the ruse of her headache. She seemed nervous, so I told her I do the same and that I often experience lingering pain. I was tempted to remove my patch and show her, but… she was already quite nervous. I did not want to make her more so, or frighten her so thoroughly that she will never warm to me.
What lay beneath his eyepatch that would frighten you so? You had heard many rumours. That his lost eye was nothing more than a pit of darkness. That he had replaced it with a jewel. That an ever-burning fire, fueled by his hatred and rage, burned within.
Despite the stories, you felt a twinge of shame and hurt that, despite his love for you, he did not trust you with seeing him truly bare. He thought you could be frightened away.
Somehow, that shame far overshadowed any curiosity or fear about what lay beneath the brown leather of his eyepatch.
I could already tell it wasn’t going to go how I wanted – she would not meet my eye. So, I offered to leave. I would not impose myself on her when she did not want me to. That is not how I want to start this. Or, start it again.
But she did want me to go! At least, that is what I thought she meant. I am not so sure anymore. She said something about my right to be there as her husband. At the time, I thought it was her shy way of asking me to stay. Now… I think she may have just been repeating something her mother or a Septa taught her.
There was another small patch of angry scribbles.
I’m so stupid! And hardly better than Aegon. No – she may not have been particularly enthusiastic, but I am sure if she genuinely did not want me there, she would have said so. And I would have obeyed. After all, she was quick to ask me to stop some of the other things I tried to do.
She did not like the kissing.
When I first mentioned that I would like to lie with her – which I foolishly reasoned was out of my desire for an heir instead of my desire for her – she simply laid on the bed like on our wedding night. But that is not what I want. I do not want this to simply be a union of duty! At least, not anymore. And I so wanted to kiss her.
So, I beckoned her to me, and she obeyed. My hopes that this would be different were still relatively high. I got closer, touched her face, and asked if I could kiss her.
And she asked, ‘Why?’
I swear that one little word hurt more than any pain I’ve felt in the training yard. Almost more than… well, not quite more than that. But close.
I could not think of any reason other than that she is my wife, and I love her and want more than anything to kiss her. I only told her the former and the latter, for I think if I told her I loved her, she would have been more afraid than if she had seen me without my patch. And the gods must be good, for she said yes.
Then I kissed her. I held her close, and I kissed her.
It was the most wonderful thing! She was soft and warm. And when I laced my hand through her hair, she made the most delightful sound! I could have just kissed her forever.
But then it was over. She shouted and pushed me away. It was… it was just after I tried to use my tongue. I don’t think she liked it.
She asked me why I ‘needed’ to kiss her. She must have disliked it very much.
I had no other explanation than what I had already offered. At least, none that I could tell her without sending her running from me forever. So I stopped and told her I did not need it – the first lie I’ve ever told her.
When she moved back to the bed, I could not help myself. I could not let us be in a marriage where we lie together out of nothing more than duty, fully clothed and anxious to get it over with. It was foolish, and I probably scared her with the request, but I asked her to remove her nightgown. She had already taken off her robe – a massive thing in her house colours that practically drowns her.
You allowed a brief kernel of anger to spark within you, enough for you to pick up your pen and write him another little message in your diary.
‘That robe is dear to me, thank you very much. What is it that makes you hate it so?’
There is nothing more beautiful in the world than her. She puts even the Maiden to shame. I would have been happy to stare at her, to take in that beauty until I had my fill – if I would ever get my fill.
She got on the bed and positioned herself exactly how she was on our wedding night. Not quite how I pictured it, but considering her hesitancy, I did not want to push her.
It took all my control to stop myself from kissing her again when I undressed and joined her. But I did. I also resisted doing anything more than just looking at her breasts.
I sat between her legs and stared at her. While I was more than ready to begin, she was not. At all. Of course, I knew I would have to prepare her, but I hoped she would have had at least some desire for me already.
I started with gentle touches, drawing circles on her thighs. She shivered a bit when I began, but she didn’t ask me to stop. From where I was sitting, I could tell she enjoyed it, even if she didn’t understand it. She did ask me to explain, and my answer was probably lacking – how does one explain why he was so inadequate? – but she gave a small nod when I promised that tonight would be better.
Then I finally touched her where I really wanted to and was delighted to find her… well, not as wet as I’d hoped, but it was an improvement upon our wedding night! I ran my fingers over her entrance, hoping to coax more wetness from her before I truly began. And when I looked at her again to ensure I wasn’t hurting her, she smiled at me!
Encouraged, I kept my fingers at her entrance, not venturing inside yet, but continuing my preparations there while I began to seek her pearl. As the books said, I only had to draw a straight line upward from her entrance to find it.
And, oh, when I found it! Her eyes snapped shut, her back arched off the bed, and the most glorious whine escaped her! It was everything I had imagined and more. Gods, I think I could have peaked just from watching her as I circled her pearl again and again, faster and faster.
But then, she asked me to stop – begged me to.
I thought I must have done something wrong, but she shook her head when I asked if it hurt. And when I asked if it felt good, she would not answer. She merely requested that I get on with what I needed to do and leave, for she was tired. This wound cut even deeper than before with the kissing.
I wanted to prepare her more – I was going to use my mouth on her. To show her how dearly I wish to please her, how much I want to worship and love her, if only she’d let me.
In anticipation of that act, I have been consulting Coryanne Wylde’s various accounts and expert critiques of the act in order to form the perfect strategy.
To begin, I would undress her, as I planned to do on our wedding night, laying gentle, nearly chaste kisses on each new bit of skin I revealed. Once she was bare, I would kiss her. Deeply. To give her a taste of what is to come. Then, I would kiss my way down. Her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, her breasts, and the plane of her stomach.
Once I made it past her navel, I would take her leg in my hand and begin a new trail of kisses upwards. The book says to start at the ankle, but I am too impatient for that – I will begin at the knee instead.
Just when she thought I was finally about to give her what she craved more than anything, I would once again change course to kiss her lips one final time. Then, I would descend.
I would start slowly, experimenting with different tactics to determine what drives her deliciously mad. Once I knew, I would feast. I would devour her like her pleasure was the air I needed to breathe. Like her cries of pleasure were beautiful music, and I would die if it ever stopped.
I would bring her to peak once with my mouth on her entrance. Again on her pearl. Then again and again in whichever way made her scream the loudest.
Only when she was so drunk with pleasure that she could no longer rise to meet my mouth or grasp at my hair would I relent. I would make my way back up to her mouth and soothe her with gentle kisses until she had regained herself and was begging for me to finally fuck her.
But I didn’t get to do any of that.
She asked me to stop, so I did. I pumped myself a little to ensure the disappointment hadn’t rendered me incapable of performing my duty and entered her.
The preparation did help. Entering her was easier, and she did not wince as much as the first time. And she felt even more heavenly somehow. The feeling was so intense that I had to take a moment to remind myself that she only wanted me to finish quickly so she would not have to endure me any longer.
So, I fucked her. I did not make love to her, as is my true desire. I just fucked her, like she was just any woman and not the love of my life.
And then, a miracle! I thrust into her, something about the angle allowing me in quite deep, and she reacted. She gasped, breathless, and her hips snapped up to meet mine. I froze in surprise and elation. I found her ‘sweet spot!’
But when I smiled at her, she turned away and refused to look at me again.
I just kept going. I did not try to hit that spot again, so as to not upset her further. I finished as quickly as I could and left the bed.
It was stupid of me, but I turned back to her after dressing. Everything had gone so horribly, but I still love her. I still need her. So I could not just leave her like that.
I asked if I could kiss her again. She let me. I was quick, as promised.
Then I came back here, once again alone and no closer to earning her love than I was before.
I must meet with my advisors again tomorrow. Perhaps they can help me understand why I keep fucking this up so badly when all I want is for her to let me love her the way I want to and for her to love me in return.
Your heart ached so severely that you thought there might be bruises when you looked down at your chest. But there was just skin – skin that Aemond would have happily kissed, had you let him.
As horrible and confusing as that night had been for you, it had been so tenfold for Aemond. He had wanted a grand, romantic evening, and you had greeted him with only coldness and suspicion.
He called you ‘the love of his life.’ You ran your finger over those words so many times that they became smudged, then went to write something in your diary but halted with your pen hovering over the paper.
What could you write to match what he’d said about you? Even if you could, would it really be true? How many times could you say, ‘I’m sorry?’
Well, at least one more time. ‘I’m so sorry, Aemond,’ you wrote, ‘I didn’t know, and I was still scared. Not of you, but of what I thought my life was to be. If you had only told me… I do not blame you, I swear. I just wish the both of us had been more honest with each other.’
You were far too exhausted to continue. It was not yet midafternoon, and you had already been from the near-heights of carnal pleasure to the depths of your despair that the unfortunate state of your marriage was, in actuality, mostly your fault.
So, after setting Aemond’s diary aside, you picked up your embroidery basket and began to work while your mind wandered.
It was only when your maids arrived to bring you dinner that you realised that, somehow, the dog roses you intended to make had become a sprawling wisteria vine.
-
You dreamed of the castle garden in late spring when all the flowers were in bloom. As you walked down the garden path, you saw every colour imaginable amongst the vibrant greens. But there was only one flower you really wanted to see – and the man you knew would be waiting for you beneath them.
Just as the first purple tendrils came into view, the dream faded, and you woke to see the first hints of dawn still beneath the horizon.
Drawing your blankets over your head, you squeezed your eyes shut and stubbornly tried to fall back asleep and return to your dream – to no avail. You were well and truly awake. And it would be some time before your maids came to dress you for the day.
So, dragging the blanket from your bed with you, you trudged back into your solar and settled into the couch before picking up Aemond’s diary again.
The 27th day in the 5th moon of the year
I met with Lord Wylde, Grand Maester Orwyle, and Aegon this morning. They had advice, but it was not as… straightforward as I had hoped. There is no simple trick to get her to love me. Nothing I can study from a book and then implement with assured success.
I have to woo her. I have to be witty and pleasant and charming and… romantic.
I do not think this is going to work.
Especially not after my first attempt was so disastrous.
Lord Wylde asked that I tell him about her, so I did. When he learned she enjoys reading as much as I do, he suggested I try to find common ground there. So, I went to try and find her in the library.
She was exactly where she was the last time I saw her there, still reading “The Last Dragonlords.” I watched her for a moment, savouring the look of contentment on her face as she read, as well as a few quick reactions to the book. How I love it when her nose scrunches in displeasure!
‘That is quite the odd thing to fixate on,’ you wrote in your diary. It seemed a decent night’s sleep had helped recover some of your humour. ‘What is it, in particular, that you like about my scrunched nose?’
She did smile at me when I approached, but I think she thought I was a Maester, for her smile faltered when I greeted her. And she was so shy. Usually, when I struggle to find the right words, she breaks the silence. Today, she did not.
At least it gave me time to remember why I came to the library. She was still reading “The Last Dragonlords,” so I told her it was my favourite and asked if I could join her. I think she was somewhat embarrassed about reading a children’s book, but I assured her it was no matter and that I would nonetheless enjoy reading it with her, and she allowed me to sit with her.
My plan was to sit with her, discuss the histories, and perhaps, in time, hold her hand as a first step toward genuine affection. But the plan quickly went awry.
It all happened so fast that I don’t even remember exactly what I said. But somehow, I insinuated that she was not intelligent enough to understand the book. The book meant for children – young children.
She was very upset with me. Rightfully so! Still upset enough that she stormed out of the library after making several cutting remarks that proved that she is, in fact, quite intelligent.
After several minutes and a brief reprimand from one of the Maesters, I finally gathered myself enough to realise that she had left the book there. As well as several pages of notes.
Of course, the noble thing would have been to not look and ask a servant to return them to her. But in that moment, I was desperate, not noble. So, I looked.
Her notes were beautifully organised and remarkably thorough – the work of a true scholar! She even crafted a beautiful family tree all the way through Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Had I not fumbled our initial interaction so entirely, we would have had a wonderful discussion.
You had feared him finding the notes, but you had never considered that he would be impressed rather than arrogantly amused. It made sense now that you knew his true nature. Perhaps, once whatever was between you was resolved, you could have that discussion.
In all honesty, there were a few questions you had that you hoped he would be able to answer. Not least of which being why in more than a thousand years, Targaryens had only come up with a dozen names that they repeated over and over again. You wrote as much in your diary.
It was useless for me to sulk in the library, agonising over what I should have said, so I gathered the book and her notes and left the library.
An apology was more than necessary, so I went to Aegon’s rooms. After all, there is perhaps no one with more experience apologising to women. Even if his apologies are self-serving.
When I arrived, I found Mother had already found Aegon first, and was well into another tirade about his behaviour. Normally, I would be happy to watch Mother yelling at him, but I did not feel I had time to. And Aegon was glad that I granted him a reprieve.
Admittedly, I had not wanted to admit to Mother that my wife and I were… not as close as I wanted. But, as she always is, she was eminently understanding, and far more helpful than Aegon was. His only suggestion was to bring her something nice – jewels, silks, or the like.
On the other hand, Mother gave me sage advice on what to say when I go to her. As my words have been my primary point of failure, I was very grateful for this. She did also say that a gift would not be amiss. An ‘offering of peace,’ she called it. But she advised something personal, not luxurious. If the gift is too valuable, she says, it will seem as if I am trying to buy her forgiveness rather than earn it.
I knew immediately what I should get her. I thanked Mother (and Aegon) and left at once for the gardens.
I found them – the flowers she loves so dearly. Dog roses, they are called. Unfortunately, they do not grow well in our climate, but the Maester’s managed to coax a few to bloom with their various potions and other horticultural creations.
They are almost as beautiful as her.
The Maester I spoke to said that it would be best if I had them cut just before I brought them to her, to preserve their beauty. So that is what I will do.
I will not practice tonight. At least… not that kind of practice. Instead, I will rehearse my apology. I cannot fail tomorrow.
You winced slightly, knowing that the next day would not go as Aemond planned and feeling as though it was your fault. But there was no changing that now. And you had already apologised – often and profusely.
So, you wrote only a simple note: ‘I don’t recall seeing dog roses on our tour of the gardens. Did you pluck them all?’
Looking back at his diary, you took a deep, steadying breath. Only two ribbons left.
The 28th day in the 5th moon of the year
I am the stupidest, most idiotic man in all the seven fucking kingdoms.
All I was trying to do was apologise to her for my unkind – though unintentionally so! – words in the library, but somehow it ended with her crying and me fleeing from her chambers yet again.
You cringed at the memory, almost not wanting to read on.
Aegon gladly offered his explanation, even after I told him I did not want it. He insists that I have so thoroughly repulsed her that she cannot help but burst into tears at the sight of me.
Mother thinks that she is just missing her family and her home, as she said. That she is overwhelmed by being alone in a strange place, and the familiar sight of the flowers – dog roses, as I have learned – brought those feelings to bursting.
Perhaps Mother is right. But her parents left a fortnight ago, and she has shown no other signs of homesickness. And she is not alone! She has the other ladies of the court to talk to, and Helaena and Mother adore her. And me.
If she came to me, I would do anything to cheer her. Not that she would seek comfort from me, no matter how dearly I wish she would. She certainly won’t after today.
After the disaster in the library yesterday and the scolding I received from Grand Maester Orwyle after my training this morning, I knew beyond a doubt that I needed to apologise. I… the shame I feel for having played any part in the state Orwyle described her in is unbearable.
So, I went to the gardens and had a Maester cut the flowers for me and arrange them in a simple bouquet.
She was on her couch when I arrived in her rooms – still in her nightgown and that robe. And again, she did not look at me. She had eyes only for the flowers. I thought then that they had been the right choice.
I apologised, but she did not react. She still just stared at the bouquet. So, I went ahead with the rest of my apology.
Then she touched my hand. It startled me, and I pulled away from her on instinct, dropping the bouquet in her lap. She looked at them like I had dropped a helpless kitten rather than flowers!
And she started crying. Softly, the tears welling in her eyes for a long moment before spilling over. I do not understand what I did to upset her. I said only what I had planned last night. It was so hard to resist brushing the tears away, but she seemed nearly volatile, and I did not want to make things worse.
‘I miss home,’ she said, finally.
It did sting that she does not consider King’s Landing and her life with me her home – it still does. But she is hundreds of miles away from the family of her birth, from the people who have undoubtedly treated her better than I have. I cannot blame her.
I apologised again for upsetting her and left.
At dinner, I had planned to ask Mother and Grandsire if we could find a way to send her home, at least for a little while. So she could be happy. Perhaps I could even go with her. I might have an easier time talking to her without the pressures of my family and the capital upon me.
You smiled at the thought of Aemond at your home keep. Of him in all his black leather among the fields of dog roses. Talking with your father in the library. Him training with your brothers – you were confident he could defeat any one of them alone, but knowing your brothers, they would absolutely gang up on him.
‘One day,’ you wrote, ‘I would love to show you my home.’
I was waiting for the opportunity to ask when she arrived! After this afternoon, I did not think she would come to dinner, but she did! I could have wept for my relief.
And when I offered my hand to her, she took it. Not only that, but she squeezed it – hard. I think believe it was her way of accepting my apology.
She did not speak during dinner, nor did anyone ask her too many questions. Aegon was his typically infuriating self, silently encouraging me to do something with her. What he expects me to do when in front of the entire family, I do not know.
After the meal, I offered to escort her back to her chambers, which she accepted. And once we were alone, she thanked me for the flowers!
It was going unusually well. That is, until I decided to open my mouth. I only meant to compliment her, as she did look quite beautiful, but… I just kept talking. And then I had suddenly insulted her gown from yesterday and her robe.
She closed herself off from me then, shoving away my arm. Why could I not just shut up? I know my words are the source of so many of our misunderstandings, yet I keep talking! At this point, I am strongly considering a vow of silence.
‘Please don’t take a vow of silence!’ you wrote, scrambling for your diary as if it mattered how quickly you got the words down. ‘Your voice is far too lovely for me to never hear it again.’
Tomorrow, I am going to try a suggestion from Lord Wylde. Show her that I am not a failure in everything I do. I pray it works.
You turned the page, expecting to find the entry for the next day, but there was none. There had been a page between the entries for the 28th and the 30th, but it had been sloppily torn out. All that remained was the beginnings of the date in the upper corner.
It was entirely against what you knew of Aemond. The man who had dutifully started his journal on the first day of the year and began each entry on a new page would not do something like this.
What had upset him so? Had you said something to him?
No, of course not. The only time you had seen him that day was in the training yard, and you hadn’t spoken to each other, not after… not after he stormed off. Had he actually been hurt in his fight with the Kingsguard? Or was he just embarrassed that you had witnessed him fall?
Gods, how you wished you had gone to him that night. But perhaps you could make up for it now.
‘After you were absent for dinner,’ you wrote to him in your diary, ‘I almost came to your rooms. I was worried for you. Though I confess, that was the only reason I found myself walking toward you… I missed you, at dinner. I missed you helping me into my chair. I missed your smile. I missed the way you’d hold the plates for me. Most of all, I missed your voice, and your presence next to me.’
You sniffled slightly, staring at a lamp on your wall to dry the tears that were forming before finishing the entry, ‘I’ve missed you these past days, as well. But I’m almost done. I’ll see you soon.’
The 30th day in the 5th moon of the year
I have made my gravest sin yet. And my most foolish.
We had the perfect morning together in the gardens. Silent, mostly, but perfect. She smiled at me! She allowed me to lead her through the gardens on my arm. It was… precisely what I had hoped for.
Until I once again acted like an absolute fucking fool.
Before I had to leave for court, I asked if I could come to her rooms that night. And for one perfect moment, I really believed she was going to say yes.
But then she mentioned her moon’s blood, and I just… panicked. I am not entirely an idiot (though I become less sure of that declaration with each passing moment), I know what that means.
It means that I’ve failed her. In even more ways than I knew.
I have made her miserable. I have made her cry. I have failed in every duty of a good husband, including the most basic of tasks – I have not given her a child.
I cannot go on like this – trapped in an endless cycle of misery where I can do nothing but hurt the both of us. I must do something to free us from this.
It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t love or even like me. I just want her to be happy. If that means that I never get to see her or love her again, I will make myself accept that.
First, she needs to know why I’ve acted this way. To know my true feelings so she can decide what she wants me to do. Gods, if she wanted me to go to Essos and never return, I would.
A blot of ink covered half the page, as though he had simply set his pen down while he thought.
I know what to do. I just pray she understands.
“I understand,” you said aloud, as though Aemond were before you. But, of course, he wasn’t. He was halfway across the castle, a distance that suddenly felt like the Narrow Sea itself. Throwing down your blanket, you shouted for your maids to dress you at once, your morning meal be damned. The moment finished tying off the last lace of your gown, you ran.
You had only been shown where Aemond’s chambers were once – on your first tour of the Holdfast. Then, you did not know whether to be disappointed or thankful that they were far from yours. Now, as your nervousness flooded through every part of your body, you hated the distance more than anything.
Each step was an effort, as with every one, your legs felt heavier and heavier, as if they were made of iron. Your blood felt as though it was rushing dangerously fast, carrying with it a marked chill. Despite feeling frozen within, sweat still somehow beaded at your brow. Yet you could not wipe it away, for your hands were all but stitched to the two diaries you carried.
Was this a terrible idea? Would Aemond laugh at you for all your silly little notes? Would he be angry with you for taking days to fulfil his request? You came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, tears prickling in your eyes as you considered so many horrible possibilities.
No, you thought, the word echoed by the impact of your foot on stone as you took a heavy, sure step forward.
The Aemond you thought you knew would do those things. But that Aemond wasn’t real – and never was. He had only ever lived in your terrified imagination.
The real Aemond was the one who had been so awestruck upon first seeing you that he could not say anything other than your name. Who had fallen for you so quickly and with such intensity that he forgot how to act like a proper person and instead stumbled over his words and actions like a drunk man through a crowded alley. Who had been so desperate for you to return his affections that he swallowed his pride to seek help. And who had finally given you his diary when he could think of no other way to show you how he really felt and who he truly was.
It was the thought of finally meeting that Aemond that made you put one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, until you were sprinting down the halls, only stopping when you came to the door you had seen only once before – his door.
You did not understand how you had found it again after only seeing it only once before. Nor did you remember knocking on the smooth, dark wood.
But then you heard footsteps approaching.
Hastily, you transferred the diaries to one hand and wiped the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of the other. You wanted to straighten your hair, for it had surely come loose from its braid after running so fast. But there was no time for that.
There was the dull, metallic sound of the door being unlatched, and then there he was.
Aemond stood before you, breathing heavily himself as though he, too, had been running. His silver hair was mussed, and there were smudges of purple beneath his widened eyes – his eyes.
He was not wearing his eyepatch.
Your mouth fell open at the sight. At least one of the rumours had been true. Beneath the raised, rough skin of his scar, in place of his lost eye, was a brilliant blue sapphire. It suited him perfectly and was perhaps the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
He looked at you for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile before realising what had caught your attention so thoroughly.
“Oh gods,” he whispered, covering the sapphire with his hands and turning away. He took a few steps into the room before speaking again. “I did not mean for you to see this. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please…”
You said nothing. Silently, you moved into the room and shut the door. Aemond stared at you, his good eye watering as you approached him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “You should not have had to – ” He startled when you brought your free hand up to his wrist and started trying to tug his hand away from his face. “What are you…?”
When your only response was to continue tugging, he relented, allowing you to lower his hand. He swallowed thickly, fixing his good eye on the wall behind you instead of at you. Seeing his shyness, and now knowing it for what it was, almost made you smile.
But your own shyness took hold of you as you guided his hand down and wrapped it around the spines of the twin journals you held. When you looked back up at Aemond, he was staring at them and the green ribbon that now marked a page within your diary.
“I don’t understand,” he breathed, tightening his hold on the books.
With a slight smirk, you gazed up at him and dropped your hand from the diaries. “It’s your turn.”
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xxblairexxss · 9 months
Text
Everything shower
Pairing : Charles Leclerc x socialmediainfluencer!reader
Theme : Fluff
This was so full of fluff makes me want to write a heartbreaking angst for my next one. 😭
You started off your Youtube and Tiktok accounts way before you met Charles. That alone was enough to prove that you had always loved taking pictures or videos of yourself whenever you got a chance, not because you craved for the attention but there was nothing wrong with being obsessed with yourself.
Your subscribers and followers thought your videos and contents would start to switch once you started dating the Formula 1 driver but they were completely wrong because you owned the spotlight before him and you were gonna keep on owning the spotlight even with him in the frame. Whenever you talked about Charles, it would be just something subtle and you never addressed him by his name. You would always call him “my boyfriend”. Something like “Oh, my boyfriend hated this and I was offended because it was so good!” and those who were new to your accounts would be clueless with the whole thing.
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ynusername
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Liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and 387,665 others
ynusename can i hold your hand?
charles_leclerc your hand fits perfectly in mine so yes
username loool can someone tells charles she’s talking to us not him
username okay loverboy be grateful we agreed to share our girl with you
username YOU ARE THE PRETTIEST
ynusername
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Liked by charles_leclerc, isahernaez and 282,934 others
ynusername i love the sea 🤍
charles_leclerc i love you mon ange 🧸❤️
ynusername i miss youuu lovee see youu
username challenge : leave a comment before charles does. status : failed
username is she coming to silverstone this week anyone know??
username idk i saw a fanpage saying she’s on her way there
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And it was no surprise to everyone because you were indeed coming to see him this week. You had to miss his podium last week because of your schedule so you came to Silverstone a few days earlier to spend some time with him before the start of the busy weekend.
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And Charles was clingy. He always had been whenever he was with you in private but never in the public. It became to the point that he was known as ‘not a fan of PDA in public’ amongst the fans but he was clingy clingy this time. He always held your hands whenever you went out of the hotel to take a stroll around the area, always had his head on your lap whenever you laid down on the bed and would asked you to scratch on his hair until he fell asleep. You didn’t mind, of course and you didn’t point it out because he was so adorable.
But it became a problem because today is Thursday and it was your everything shower day. It was when you spent hours in the steamy shower where you would exfoliate, moisturise, shave, everything you could think of from head to toe.
You tried to get off the bed and your boyfriend by trying to make it as silent as you can but Charles were woken up and instantly tighten his arms around you. He had his whole body in between your legs, head turned sideways on your stomach and arms locked around your waist. He had found himself in the position while your legs stretched out as you started reading your book. You had your hand automatically started scratching and massaging his scalp as he laid down, which made him fallen asleep almost instantly but it was already 6PM and you needed to take your everything shower now or by the time you delayed it even more, you might finished it by midnight.
“No…where are you going..” Charles groaned and mumbled as he felt you moving.
“Baby, I need to take my shower.”
“Your shower can wait.”
“No, sweetheart. We went out the whole day today and I need to wash my hair. It won’t be that long, I promise.”
After a few a attempts trying to convince your boyfriend, you finally made it to the bathroom and started getting everything done. You weren’t keeping track, no one was keeping track of time during everything shower. By the time you were done, it was almost 9PM. You were in the hotel bathrobe and had you hair in a hair wrap. Your face was moist after you washed it so you thought it was a great idea to record yourself putting on your night skincare routine.
“I’m putting on this serum from Drunk Elephant. It was life changing I remember when—
Charles walked into the bathroom right at the moment like it was the most normal thing to do which startled you off for a second. You thought he was asleep.
“Charles!”
“You promised it wasn’t gonna take long, amour…You left me alone for 3 hours and I missed you.” You didn’t moved from your spot but Charles engulfed your figure from the back and hid his face in your neck, his last few words become a mumble.
“I just need to put on my skincare, okay? My face is still moist so I need to get it done fast.”
“Can I get a kiss?” He lifted his head to peck on your cheek to which you moved you face the next second.
“No, I just put on my serum. Wait until I put on my moisturiser.”
He frowned and hummed in response before dipping his face back in your neck as you continued your skincare. It was kinda hard to move when he kept his arms wrapped tightly around your waist but you were already on the last stage of the routine so you didn’t really mind.
“And last, a moisturiser. The one I’m using is from Beauty of Joseon, it really makes my skin feels really soft to touch the next day.”
“Really? I’ll give it a test.” Charles went from frowning to smirking in triumph as he moved one hand to tilt your head to the side and left a smooch on your check, up to your nose then to your lips.
“Charles! The moisturizer has’t even soaked into my skin!”
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ecneremili · 2 months
Text
The One With The Proposal
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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!OC
Warnings: smut, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), slight BDSM (use of cuffs), delayed orgasm, P in V sex, unprotected sex (people pls be safe), creampie, no use of Y/N
Word Count: 4.1k
A/N: Well... Okay. There's a few things you need to know about this piece of work you're about to read. This is actually a part of my series that I'm writing on Wattpad. I will put the link below in case you want to read the whole thing. It's not finished, I'm still writing it. This chapter, however, can be a standalone and can be viewed as a one-shot, so I decided to post it here, too. I wish you an enjoyable reading. Oh, and this is not read through, so if you find some mistakes, pretend that you didn't.
Wattpad acc link: here
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Spencer Reid. A man known for several things. His knowledge. A brilliant man, whom the FBI owes many thanks. Uncountable cases that he helped solve that would probably stay unsolved without him. His blabbering. He had a whole paragraph ready to shout out on anything you say. The sky? Fun fact... The book you're looking at? Fun fact, the author actually... A specific person who's dead or alive or never surfaced for something they did? Fun fact about them...
You will never see him wear anything outside of professional clothes. Comfortable professional clothes. Sweaters, cardigans. He sometimes reminds me of older women who wrap themselves in their cardigans. You will never hear him swear. Not in public, anyway. The most he said once was goddamn it. The entire team was left in shock. Penelope was even scared of him that day.
He will stutter in conversations and situations that make him even slightly uncomfortable. He has a germ thing. He never shakes hands or hugs with random people. He makes contact with his friends, me, and some close people like his mother, Diane.
Now put all that into an image and try to picture that man. A shy, uncomfortable, boyish man. Stuck reading books when he has free time. No, no. He cancels plans to stay indoors and read books. Even re-read them.
That same man proposed to me half an hour ago. It was small, intimate, and sentimental. We walked by the restaurant where we confessed we loved each other. He let my hand go and I took a few steps ahead. When I turned back, he was down on one knee and held a small box in his hands.
I said yes.
I said yes more than once.
He was the sweetest man. He was mine. I loved to be loved by him. Delicate, heartwarming, caring and sweet. The man I just described above.
That same man was driving us home at the moment, his dick hard, bulging in his pants, one hand or the wheel, the other deep in my cunt while curving his knuckles at a new angle as he fucked me.
Every person has two sides.
And boy, oh boy, did I love his other side.
Everything anyone knew about Spencer, they would say he would be a sweet, whiney, submissive man during intimacy. I beg to differ.
His fingers twirling inside me, I huff as I refuse to moan just yet. I hated the way he could make me fold so, so easily. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. My mouth is open and I can't hold in pleads from him. His fingers are long. I love his fingers. But his cock is bigger.
He pulls into our parking space and he removes his hand from under my dress. He walks out and comes around to open my door. I begin to come out when he stops me, picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder. I yelp, feeling almost powerless. He slams the door and locks the car and continues to carry me up almost three flights of stairs. The apartment door flies open before we go in. He closes it with his leg and heads directly to our bedroom.
I can't help but blush. I felt like a tiny girl. How disgusting that the tiny girl imagined all the things he would do to her in a few moments. He slides me down and steps back to look at me. His eyes scan me, from the smallest hair on the top of my head all the way down to my toes. There's a devilish desire in his eyes, his mouth parted ever so slightly. His eyes come back to mine and he, almost growling, says, "I kneeled for you, now go ahead and kneel for me."
Tingles run down my entire body. I don't hesitate to obligate his request. Not a request. He demanded. And I wasn't going to defy this. I wasn't going to defy him. Not breaking eye contact, I slide down on my knees, perfectly aligned with his belt. I look ahead, seeing him painfully hard in his pants. I slide my hands up his legs and start undoing his pants. Every clank makes me tingle between my legs.
There was a specific time when a powerful, strong and independent woman only wants, no, only needs to be told what to do. I raised myself from nothing. No one helped me. I could only thank myself for everything I have accomplished in my life. I would listen to no man. No man had the power over me. No man could take nothing from me. Except him. He had all of me wrapped around his little finger.
And I didn't mind.
Being submissive to someone means so much more then people think. It means trust. It means love. Truth be told, not every submissive person tends to be like that in everyday life. Don't get me wrong, I know what comes to mind when you think of someone like that. Porn taught us so wrongly. And this? This was so much more intimate then just porn. This was desire, lust, and pure neediness.
After undoing his belt, I pulled down his pants, tugging his underwear to, removing them to. I would skip everything just to feel him. Being released from his clothes was hitting him sweetly as he took a sharp breath when my eyes fell to his dick.
I look up, almost lustful, maybe waiting for him to tell me to touch him, maybe even to beg me, a whole 180 to what I just described myself as. His eyes were dark and watching me from a high. He simply smirked, almost reading my mind and what was going through it.
"Go on," he half whispered, voice deep just like the darkness around us, "be the slut the outside world has no idea you are."
And that was all it took. My hand takes his base before I stick out my tongue and slide it up his entire length. There was a lot of length. He inhales, pushing a groan down his throat at the first touch I plant on him.
This was going to be a long night.
The kiss I leave at his tip as I start stroking him with my hand sends his head falling back. The motion pushes his curls off of his forehead. I loved when his hair fell on his face. It made him look messy. It made him look more flustered. And the image of him like that made me throb between my legs.
After enough slow-play, I stick out my tongue and take him in my mouth, slowly, reaching as far as I could before I feel him touch my throat. He feels he reached far and he groans. The funny thing is I had taken only half of him. He looks down again, his hairs flying back to his face. His fingers twist around in my hair and tug slightly, almost like he was checking the grip he had on my head.
But I soon found out it wasn't the grip why I thought he wanted it. He held my head in place as he started to rock back and forth. He was using me. Using my mouth to be precise. And he started fucking it. At first it was slow, almost shallow thrusts, reaching where he first did. But as time passed, he became more fierce. He started going deeper, hitting the back of my throat with more force making me gag. My eyes started to water as I had no control over anything. His hand held my head in place as he now almost pounded into my mouth.
As he continued, I could feel him twitch on the top of my mouth. And so did I. I felt my panties dampen with every second that passed. I was horny because my boyfriend, my fiancé, was fucking my throat like it was just something for him to use.
Muffled moans and occasional groans escaped his mouth. He was about to finish. I could easily tell by the increased speed of his thrusts and their force. Finally, he pushed himself almost the whole way, deep into my throat and let himself release there. I gagged pretty hard, trying to keep him down and not throw out his cum.
He pulled himself out and let go of his grip on my hair. His hand slid from behind to my chin and he lifted my face up. He was taking deep and long breaths, his chest falling and rising every time. His eyes scanned me, a fucked mouth, watery eyes and bright red cheeks. Must have been quite a sight.
"Swallow, baby." he said and left his mouth slightly opened, watching as the small bulb went down my throat and he smiled in satisfaction. "Good girl. Your turn."
He bent down and picked me up to carry me to the bed. Back facing the mattress, he climbed on top and roughly kissed me. I loved when he did that. After what I just did, he didn't hesitate to kiss me. He didn't get disgusted to do so. His fingers hooked around the hem of my dress and he pulled it off in one quick motion. I was left in my bra and panties that were already soaking wet. Every time he saw me like that, dressed but not dressed, I'd get shy.
I never liked my body. And yet he worshipped it.
"God, you're so gorgeous." he hovered over me, his eyes trailing over every inch of my body. I shivered from his words that sounded like a prayer. It was half whispers. Like he was afraid that if someone heard what he had, it would be stolen from him.
His lips come down and start kissing my neck, my weak spot. Just the warmth of his kiss makes me moan, eager for more as I buck my hips up towards him. I feel that I caress his cock against my thigh, and as soon as he feels it, he pushes my hips down with his hands.
"Needy, are we?" he chuckles against my skin as he now slowly moves lower and leaves a trail of kisses at my collarbone.
"I hate when you do this." I whine, my fingers roaming through his hair.
"You hate when I kiss you?" he says between kisses, one on my shoulder, one at the base of my neck, one directly in between my breasts.
"No, I-" my words get interrupted when I moan. I feel him smile when he hears me. "I hate when you make me wait. You tease. Every time." I take a deep breath in between every sentence to take in his kisses. As much as I did hate the delay of the actual sex, I loved feeling him everywhere. I didn't know what I wanted more.
He continues kissing, his lips reaching my stomach and he stops. I look down to see him slightly smirking as he is settled just between my legs. I feel shivers. He lets go of my hips and slowly pulls down my panties, sliding his fingers down along my legs in the process. He is continuing to tease me with every touch he leaves on my body.
When I finally think that he is going to stick his tongue at my cunt, I am yet again met with disappointment. He comes over me and trails his hands, slowly, around my back as he keeps looking me in the eyes to catch every whiney face I make as I plead him to fuck me already using no words. But he knows. Oh, he knows that's what I'm asking of him.
He unhooks my bra and I am completely naked. His shirt comes off as he makes us even. Again, I hope that he will now go down. It doesn't have to be his mouth, I'll be happy if he would just stick his fucking fingers into my pussy and rummage through it. But, no. He bends down and kisses my breasts, moving from one to the other. Kissing it, sucking on the nipples, squeezing them with his hands.
If he was kissing and/or sucking the right he would be squeezing the left. There was no space left for me to catch a breath. Then, he bit down on one, just enough to make me squeal. He chuckled with my tit in his mouth. I had enough. I gripped his hair and pulled him up to my face.
"What do you fucking want from me?" I say with a whiney voice. I sounded desperate. I hated it. I loved it, too.
His face had a drunk smile across it. He was enjoying this. My torture was satisfaction for him. Fucking great. "I want you to beg." he said through a whisper. His head was tilted back as I was pulling his hair.
I hated to beg him. Especially to do what I wanted. I knew he knows what I want, but he loves when he makes me break and I have nothing left but to fucking beg him to do the most unholy things to me.
I roll my eyes. "No." I simply say.
He smirks and bucks his hips so his dick slides over my dripping cunt. My entire body arches and he smiles again. "Beg, my love. Use that mouth for something else then a place for me to dump my cum."
That mother fucker. "You assh-" he bucks his hips again and breaks me mid-sentence. I growl at him.
"I don't think that's how begging works. C'mon. Beg me to fuck you. I know you want to."
It was weird hearing him swear. Not just swear, but use vulgar words in general. I used them everyday. It was like saying 'hi' to someone. But Spencer? Noup.
I gave up. I close my eyes and just make peace with my fate. "Please, Spencer."
He bends down and kisses my lips. "You have to be specific, my love. What do you want from me?"
I'm boiling at this point. Do I have a choice? If I want to be fucked, not really. "I want you to fuck me, please me, make me cum. I'm fucking tired of being teased." I practically cry out the last part.
He smirks and I let go of my grip on his hair. He doesn't move, he is still looking me directly in the eyes as he slides one hand down and caresses my inner thigh. He goes over my cunt with his entire hand and I loudly gasp. He watches, enjoys the reactions he gets as he touches me. He brings his hand up and licks his two fingers and then slides them down again.
Baby, you don't need no more moisture, I'm wet enough.
His hand finally connects to my core and he starts making circles around my clit. My body erupts. I no longer have control over my reactions. My eyebrows furrow, my mouth is wide open and it's letting out moans, whines, sounds I didn't even know I could make. And he simply watches. From time to time he would bend down and kiss my neck, maybe even bite down on it, making me buck my entire body up.
"God, you're so fucking wet." he says and starts rubbing up and down my entrance. "You're so pretty. My pretty girl."
I'm melting. Melting into his sinister hands that are touching me in the most horrid ways. And I wouldn't stop him even in a million fucking years.
He slides the fingers in, gently, slowly, caringly. I let out a loud moan, slapping my mouth after I do. Just as I did, his other hand takes my wrist and pulls it off. Holding it, he collects my other hand and pins both of them above my head. "Why would you do that?" he asks. But I don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. "You sound so beautiful when you moan for me. You sound so pretty."
His knuckles are now buried deep inside my pussy and he starts to pump them in and out. When he slides them back in, his thumb hits my clit and he curls his fingers inside just enough to hit that little spot. Every movement he made was followed by that wet sound. I just knew his fingers were drowning in my arousal, and I just knew he was so eager to put his cock inside there too.
He kisses my jaw, my neck, my cheeks. He is enjoying this. Pleasuring someone you truly love is pleasure to you as well. His other hand in on my thigh, pulling it away so he has better access and can slide in deeper then he usually could. In between my own sounds, I can hear him groan whenever I jerk my hips upward and slightly stoke him against my leg.
I want more. Now, I'm just desperate because I don't want to finish now. I want to cum over his cock while he is buried all the way inside. I want him to see that little blub in my stomach appear and disappear as he fucks me.
Like on cue, as if he heard me, he pulls his hand away and climbs the bed again. Pushing my legs fully apart, he aligns himself at my entrance. He pushes, but purposefully jerks himself up so he slides against my clit. I see him place himself on my abdomen as if he is looking how far he goes when he's inside.
"Look at how deep I can bury myself in you, love." he admires and glides his fingers over my skin. He pulls back and leans over to the drawer next to our bed. For a moment he rummages through it. "Shit."
I look over, trying to figure out what was going on. "What is it?"
He pauses and looks at me. "We don't have any condoms."
Well shit.
But I put on my big girl face. "And?"
He looks slightly surprised by my reaction. "No protection?"
I shrug. "What's the worst that can happen?" I smirk, moving myself lower on the bed and connecting myself with him. He really was hard.
He says nothing and just enters. He pushes in with quite a bit of force. I let out a quiet scream at his motion. I still needed time to adjust to his length. But he didn't care. He was already in full force, starting to pick up the pace of his thrusts. His hands go down and wrap around my hips and he uses them to pull me on himself as he continues to pound me.
The room is filled with my whines and moans, the sounds of our hips connecting and slamming against each other, and his groans. I love when he groans. I know he feels good. I make him feel good.
"You're so tight. It's so warm inside." he says through rough groans.
His fingers are diving inside the skin of my hips. I feel pain as he squeezes them. I push the feeling away, I even don't have to. The feeling of his dick hitting my deepest point is strong enough to push it away almost instantly.
The repetitive slamming into me lures my finish to approach. It's forming in my gut and I feel it slowly coming as he continues fucking me mercilessly, rough and fast thrusts.
"I'm gonna cum- Oh, God, Spence." I saw, although I'm not sure how I managed to.
Just as I said that, I felt my climax get at its highest point, and I was about to finish-
He pulls out.
What the fuck?!
"Wha- what are you doing?" I stutter, the high still in the air but it's fading away.
He looks down and has a wicked smile on his face. His cheeks are deep red and his hair is damp from his sweat. "I'm not done with you. Turn around."
I'm mad. Furious. I want to defy him so badly, I want to say 'no', maybe even flip him off. But I want to finish. I was just about to. So I do as I'm told. I prompt myself up and turn around and stand on all fours on the bed. Might I add that this is my favorite position.
I expect him to align himself again and continue to thrust like he did, but he gets off the bed and walks over to the corner of the room. The corner where he keeps his bag for work. I hear a clank before he walks back behind me. He places his hand on my upper back and slightly pushes, indicating for me to lower myself even more. My face and chest lay on the mattress. My ass is now the only thing in the air.
This position gives him more access. I am ready for it to hurt before I can adjust myself to his length again at this angle. Yet again, I don't get what I'm expecting. He takes my wrist and places it behind my back, then the other and connects it with my other one. I hear that clank again. He takes one of my wrists again and puts the metal around it.
It's his fucking cuffs.
He puts his cuffs on and thugs on the chain between them to pull my arms back. He pulls so much that I have to lift myself slightly off the bed. I tremble. Out of excitement. Our of slight fear. Out of horniness, simply.
I feel him bend down and kiss my back. He knows I love that. It feels very intimate to me. He kisses down my spine and then slaps my ass. I yelp, not just by the sudden contact, but also because he slapped it pretty hardly. Not enough to leave a bruise, but it will definitely go red in a few seconds.
"You ready?"
There are certain points in our sex life when he asks, or even simply warns to hold on tight to anything. Since I was obviously restrained, he's asking. That is enough to know this was going to be really good.
"Yeah." I whisper, my face buried back into our bed.
"You know I love you, right?" he whispers again and pushes his tip into my cunt.
My breath trembles since I was still sensitive from the high I missed a few minutes ago. "I know."
"Good. Because for the next few minutes it might not look like I do."
He didn't give me time to respond. He slammed himself inside, making me scream out. This was enough for the neighbors to hear. He started thrusting. I still wasn't adjusted to this position, and his cock was hitting from a new angle that allowed much better access. I felt pain. But, God, was it good. My eyes started watering from the pain as I couldn't take it. I prayed that my pussy would stretch just slightly so I could take him a bit easier.
After a short while, I did. The slight pain was still there. It couldn't really go away from the force he was driving himself in. And then it happened. He slapped my ass again. It was a strong slap. His hand was big enough to cover my entire cheek. I yelp at the sudden pain.
As he continues to thrust, I feel him occasionally twitch. That can mean only one thing. He is about to cum again. Just when I realize that, he speeds up. He pulls on the cuffs and makes me get up from the bed. He's pulling hard enough to hold me in the air.
He hits again, going back to squeeze after. I feel the slight burn of his slaps. Another one connects to my skin and with it I feel that high again. I don't want it to escape again, so I bend slightly so he feels me letting him slide even deeper.
Spencer quickly realizes what I'm trying to tell him, but there's not much left before I feel him hammer himself once, then again, just as I feel my climax release. I scream out, and I feel him empty himself inside.
It takes him a few seconds to calm down before he lets me fall down on the bed again. I'm a fucking mess. He takes off the cuffs and places my hands on my sides before he bends down and removes my hair from the back of my neck and kisses in that spot.
"My perfect girl." he cooed. "You're so fucking special."
I breathe deeply. "Well..." I begin as he lays down next to me. "That was fun." I feel his cum drip down out of my cunt.
He chortles. "That's one way to put it."
I was about to marry this man. I loved every inch of him. Every version there was of him. There was nothing that could take that away from me.
430 notes · View notes
neonovember · 10 months
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hiiii
could you write carmy x reader where she’s a high school friend and carmy always had a crush on her (but he thought she had a crush on mikey) ???? like maybe richie brings her up, and that she’s still in town and SINGLE and carmy gets red like a tomato and ??? richie makes her visit the beef and candy almost has a heart attack?? idk give me some in love carmen !!
pretty pleaseee and thank u
so I got this request and I immediately thought of swim by chase atlantic, and specifically the line that goes;
“I’ve been drowning for a minute, your body keeps pulling me in” 
And holy shit if that isn’t Carmen in his denial-in-love with a long time friend era, I don't know what is. Carmen tries too hard to forget you, but you've marked permanently, you've ruined him for anyone else so can you blame him for waiting for you all this time?
Seriously though this request was so good! I got a bit carried away and turned into a 2 part series that may or may not have drabbles added to the universe…I really hope this isn't just a load of word vomit you don't want to read lmao. I just love their dynamic so much, and also FRIDAY DINNERS AT THE BEEF IS CANON OKAY.
Golden Boy
part one of 2
warnings: miscommunication (i know i'm sorry), friends to lovers, carmen and the reader have horrible communication skills and don't know how to call, angst, anxiety
a/n: part two will be up hopefully tomorrow so look out! it may or may not include a smut scene 😈
p.s, listen to swim whilst reading this you'll thank me later
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You sat hunched in the tight enclosure of the classroom desk chairs, the once loud conversations fluttering across the huddled groups of classmates and friends that stood against tables and chairs now coming to a standstill.
The air of anxious trepidation falls across the atmosphere of the damp classroom, the windows that had been opened to let the air in felt thin as you and the rest of the students you had known for half a decade waited for that familiar ring of the bell.
The bell that would solidify your last day in this classroom, in these run down halls, in the school you had first stumbled into anxious and oblivious at thirteen. 
Your heart ached at the nostalgia of it, and you can't bear to cast your gaze to your friends who had begun to sniffle, like they were holding back tears, the grandfather clock your geography teacher insisted on keeping ticked on as it always did, and whilst you had spent years burning holes through the glass, willing for it to go faster, your one dying wish is for the seconds to tick by in minutes. 
You weren’t ready, it ran straight through you, all this time leading up, from when you had first learnt your desire to pursue architecture till the moment you finished that last sentence on your final exams, you felt you would be filled with joy at the sound of your true departure into adulthood and college.
And yet, you felt like a kid again, learning how to ride a bicycle without the training wheels, trying to reach the fifth monkey bar, falling headfirst into the dirt ground of the field when you had thought you were more flexible then you truly were. 
You didn’t want to leave, you didn't want to leave this place, this place of memories and friends and people you knew and loved. And it was as if God was listening, cause the resounding echo of the school bell rang through the halls and it was as if he said ‘fuck you anyway’.
You gather the haphazard books and papers laying across your desk, you had purposefully delayed packing in order to waste as much time in this memory as possible, before adulthood would take it away and make it something of the past. You hear your friends calling your name, and you tell them to go ahead as you make your way to your teachers desk.
“Hey Mr Jefferson” You say to your teacher has begun to bid goodbye to the leaving students
Your teacher looks up at you with a tight smile, sadness washes over the wrinkles and creases of her features, her auburn hair falling in short waves at her shoulder and her olive lipstick wearing down. You have to swallow to stop the tears from dropping. Your Geography teacher, whilst not teaching Art, had been the catapult to realizing your fascination with Architecture and design. She had even helped tell your parents, who had been set on the idea of you going into Law or Medicine or anything other than creative arts. 
“You’ll do amazing, I believe it because I see how hard you try. Don’t look back at this place, leave with the door wide open and come back only when you want to design me a house” Your Teacher replies with a grin, and before you can reply shes shuffling through her drawers, before pulling out a sketchbook that has been aged and stained with use over the years.
“What’s this?” You ask, twisting the book in your hand, it was good quality, despite being old, it felt like an heirloom.
“It’s one of my sketchbooks I had during college, maybe some of my late night sketches fuelled by coffee and donuts might inspire you”
“I couldn't possible-”
“Yes you could, hell whatever you create will probably be 10 x greater than whatever is in there” Your teacher cuts you off with a chuckle, and you hug the notebook tight against your chest before hugging her goodbye.
You step into the familiar walls of your high school hallways, crowds of seniors running to find their friends and hug them for possibly the last time, test papers and report cards left trampled on the ground, it's chaos, but you love it and the sight almost pulls tears down your waterline.
You walk towards your locker, before you recognize the familiar wisps of blond curls catch your eyesight. Carmen.  You considered him one of your closest friends, bonding together over a love of game** and your equal hatred of your Period 4 Calculus teacher.
Carmen didn't have much when I came to be friends, and after he met you, it didn't really get to him anymore, he had you now, and you were more than enough. Over the years you had gotten close to every part of Carmen's life, Mickey, Richie, Sugar, they were all people you regarded as family.
But there was something unsaid between the both of you, it was like there was something beyond friendship, but the embers had just gathered and had left unignited.
He’s gathering his things from his locker, shoving them into a bag in that messy way he is, and he slams the locker with a jolt.
You're standing stationary in the middle of the hallway, classmates and other seniors running by you in confusion, your friends calling your name annoyed, but it's all muffled, it all doesn't matter because it's Carm and god your heart aches so bad. 
You see Carmen and he sees you, stopping a few meters away from you, and a moment of recognition washes over him as he gazes with those cerulean blues. There's grief in the way you look at each other, tears streaming down your cheek as you try to smile at him, realising this might be the last time you see him, forever, off to an Art school in New York, leaving him behind. You feel like your heart is being ripped from your chest and he shakes his head, his eyebrows scrunching up as he steps closer so that he’s only a whisper from you.
He brings his hand up, brushing a strand and tucking in behind your ear, eyes strained as he wipes your tears away painfully. He moves closer, so that his breath is against your neck and whispers
“Thought you told me you'd punch me in the stomach if I cried on the last day” Carmen whispers into your eyes with a grin that breaks through the tears that cause his eyes to swirl in colour's of waves.
His words make you laugh and cry at the same time, and you shake your head as you reach for his arm, and playfully hit your stomach with it. Carmen rests it against your waist, looking up to you in a pained expression, his eyes shift to the notebook grasped tight in your hands
“New sketchbook? That..doesn't look new” Carmen says, turning his head to examine the old book more closely.
“One of Mrs Jefferson’s, her sketches are..their fucking amazing” You sigh, running your hand across the folded spine of the sketch book.
“Thought teachers weren't meant to have favourites” Carmen shoots out, a playful grin on his lips
“Hmm, well they aren't supposed to tell you exactly” You banter with a giggle, you flick through the pages of the book, half drawn sketches in grey lead and ballpoint, Carmen tracing his fingers gently across the ingrained lines and shades.
“God you're something, you know that?” Carmen says, all of a sudden, and when you look up you realise he’s been staring at you the entire time.
“Bear..” You breathe out.
“I don't know how I'm going to-, I, it's all so much” You exhale, waving your arms around this place that has held so many memories, so much of your past kept in the creaks and cracks of plastered walls and lockers
“You're the only person in this goddamn place that's going to make something out of themselves, I bet my entire life on it Bug. You're going to do amazing, in that big city, you’re going to show em’' Carmen replies, grasping you against his touch tight. You look up at him, trying to memorise every dip and curve of his features, the curl of his hair that shone honey in the sun, those eyes that were always searching, and the small cut on his forehead where he fell off his skateboard that one summer evening.
“Don’t say goodbye”
“Okay” Your tongue feels like deadweight in your mouth. what if i never see you again?
“You say goodbye and it's the end. Just..don’t” I can't breathe carmy.
You can’t stop yourself from wrapping your arms around him, pressing your nose into his shirt to smell the scent of patchouli and cigarettes he always carried, you want to tell him to come with you, to pack an overnight bag and run with you forever, but the words don’t taste right when you try to speak and you see yourself letting him go, and turning away with a shaky step.
Turn back Carmen whispers, so softly that only the gods above and the wind around him can hear it
You feel an urge to turn back, it speaks to you from within, and before you can stop yourself, your neck cranes, turning your body to get one last look at your golden boy before time would take him forever. 
Time would age him into a memory forever.
Carmen feels this tension leave his shoulders at the same time his heart shatters, you will find each other again, even if it was in another universe, where you're sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, going over groceries together with the afternoon light casting its glow across you. He will find you, he will find you and he won’t let go this time. 
*
“Honestly Ma, it’s fine, I’ll get the movers to come in a little early”. You groan into the phone pressed to your ear, papers and unresolved bills are left scattered across your dining room table and you have this itch that's begun to turn chronic somewhere you can’t reach.
You take a moment to look around your apartment, now barren of furniture, and filled instead with boxes of badly organised stuff you've accumulated over the years. This place, albeit small, had been your home ever since you stepped out of the yellow cabbed taxi on your first day in New York, and whilst it wasn't pretty, you felt a pang of guilt leaving it all behind. These walls had seen you through it all, the late night study cram’s, the breakdowns, the accomplishments, the one night stands. You'd miss her, but maybe you were just a nostalgic person.
You’ve made a life in New York, but you felt misplaced, like pieces of yourselves were scattered across the states. Chicago kept a part of you, and it was only when you had gotten the chance to move back home, did it click. You missed your city. And you had cut your lease and emptied out the last of your savings without a second thought.
Now all that was left was tying up loose ends and making the trip down. It was funny, in a way. You had run to New York to pursue architecture, and it brought you back to the very same place you had left, there was a certain trepidation when you thought of Chicago, it held so much of your past, in its city streets and evergreen trees, and you don’t know if you were quite ready to face those memories again.
*
It still smelled the same. You itch your nose, sniffling against the blooming scent of cocoa and caramel from the Chicago roads, all this time, and all that you can tell is how it still smelt like maple leaves and chocolate. It was comforting, and it felt like the warm embrace of a childhood friend that had stayed sitting on the corner of your suburban street corner all this time.
“Thank you Mae, really, I got the call last minute in New York to come back here and if it weren't for you, I’d be moving back into my old bedroom at my parents” You reply, gratitude filling every word. It was true, your friend had swooped in the second you called, fixing you up with a lease and an apartment with her realtor links. She came in a clutch, and she had made you promise to never leave her again in exchange.
“Oh shush doll, of course. This is probably payment for all the times I’ve crashed at yours anyway” Mae winks, the bracelets on her wrist clinking against each other. She didn't look like a typical realtor, more like a bohemian solo-traveller with her filly skirts and auburn red hair.
“I’m not going to let a degree transform my entire wardrobe, my clothes are antiques, their heirlooms, they tell a story” 
She had told you once, one late night on the rooftop of your New York apartment, sipping cheap wine and passing a blunt between you both. You wish you had known yourself as much as she did then.
She had visited you a couple times in New York, coming up for work and spending the time at yours instead of spending thousands on an Airbnb, but it had been a while since you've seen her, and all of a sudden you remember how much you missed her laugh.
“I’ve got some time to spend before it’s all hand on deck” You reply, placing the last of your boxes onto the empty wooden floor of the living room.
“Oh yeah? Can’t believe you’re gonna design a whole building on Michigan Av’, your a fucking inspiration Bug” Mae sighs in adoration, and you giggle, the feeling of embarrassment filling you at the mention of your reason back home.
You never got used to the praise and adoration you received over the years, despite your many accolades and awards, you still felt like that hopelessly broke architect student giving up lunch to pay rent. You didn’t remember when things started to change. When did things start to change?
“You know, if you’ve got time, you should check out the Farmers Market near River North” Mae replies, whilst flicking through her phone
“The one on Division Street?” You reply, you had a faint memory of the long strip of stalls filled with fresh produce, food and the rest of the little trinkets that were sold since you were born on the pleated table cloth of sheltered booths.
“That’s the one, this guy named Samson? Makes the best fucking bearclaw in the entire United States. Tell him you're a friend of mine and he'll hook you up…you know since you can't afford it” Mae replies playfully, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.
“Yeah yeah, you hook up with him or something?” You poke back, Mae had the tendency to know everyone in Chicago, from the mailman to the old woman you’d see feeding the bids on a park bench.
“Yeah, actually I did. Not like you could relate, how long has it been, hm?” Mae replies, stepping forward to whisper down at your pants.
“I’m so sorry she hasn't been taking care of you. What are you, mummify her?” Mae looks up from her crouched position with a raised eyebrow.
“Ugh, you know I've been too busy to think about that. She’s gonna have to be patient” You reply, you don’t want to think about how long it has actually been, since you've had any type of release. But the tension has begun to weigh on your shoulders as time went on and you fear it might become something you can’t ignore.
You begin to move some boxes into your bedroom, thanks to your planning your large furniture such as your bed and coach, had been moved into the apartment before the rest of the things had got here, so at least you wouldn't be sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Changing into a pair of dark jeans and a short sleeve top, you loop an embroidered handbag onto your shoulder.
“So, you coming?” You call to Mae, who’s begun to fill your fridge with the groceries she's swung by with.
“Sure would Bug, but got a call to come in. I’ll come by again later this evening though?” Mae replies, with a grunt as she lifts the 2 litre bottle of milk onto one of the drive shelves.
“Yes please, I’m dying for a glass of wine”
“And a blunt” Mae replies, snickering at the way you roll your eyes at her.
Mae offers to drop you off, but you wave her off, telling her you wanted to see a little more of your hometown. You needed some fresh air that wasn't the coffee and smoke scent of the New York streets.
The walk to the Farmers market was a short one, but you felt like you were wading through a current. By the way the memories of your past began to resurface as you passed the streets and shops. Every corner holds a part of you, and you have to rush by your old school to stop the pang of pain that surprises you. You weren't an emotional person, but god it was almost as if you were hanging by a thread the second you touched down on Chicago. 
What was causing this? You felt like you were holding your breath as you stepped through the fallen autumn leaves marking the sidewalk, the gentle sun on your back, what were you waiting for?
You tear yourself from your thoughts momentarily when you catch the looming buildings that had been built on ions ago, the infrastructure of Chicago still enamoured you, in a way that couldn't be beaten by even New York’s impossible skyscrapers.
There was a charm to it, each of the buildings felt like you were stepping into a different decade, they had been the stepping stones to a lot of the infrastructure and architecture that spread into other cities. You felt like you were at the start of it all every time your eyes trailed across the facade and arcades of the century old stone buildings.
Without realising, you had finally made it to the Farmers Market, the constant stream of people coming in and out with boxes of produce or hauling wooden antiques with very audible grunts. You can’t stop the smile stretching your face as you step through the embroidered banner at the front of the street.
Despite the many different stalls and food around you, you don't feel overstimulated. This was your home, you felt like you belonged, like a name scratched into wet cement, remaining ingrained for years no matter the seasons that came. 
You go over the haphazard list of things you wanted to look for in your mind, but you're caught off guard by a stall that seemed to be huddled by patrons. You step towards it, and as people move aside you see the blooming flowers and carefully wrapped banquets in woven wooden baskets to the side of the stall. A short woman with light brown curls is standing at the front, taking down orders with a grin, whilst a rather tall man behind her makes quick work to wrap delicate orders into soft brown parchment paper tied with string. 
And all of a sudden the need to buy pink tulips becomes your first priority. The woman at the front looks familiar, but you can't quite put your finger on where you've seen her, but as you walk up to the front her face morphs into familiar as she looks up at you in surprise.
“As I live and breathe” She says your name with a screech and it's her voice that pulls her name to your mouth. Adeline, a close friend from senior year who’d taught you how to crochet and pick a lock.
“Bug? How've you been? What brings you back to town?” Ade replies after telling the man behind her your order without you even saying a thing. 
“Tulips, pink ones right?” Ade grins, and you have to let out a chuckle at how you haven't changed even a little.
“Got invited to join in designing a new building on Michigan Avenue, so I'll be back for a while-”
“Michigan Avenue? Holy shit Bug! You’re making moves, knew you always were special” Adeline replies with a gushing smile and you rush to reply with the same adoration
“Are you kidding, look at this line” You motion to the increasing line of people forming at Adeline's stall.
“People love their flowers” Adeline replies with a shrug before you shake your head vehemently
“No, they love your flowers, and for good reason, look at these” You gush, pressing your face into the bundle of tulips that had been handed to you.
“They only look that good because Henry's so good at wrapping them” Adeline replies with a laugh, her eyes flicking to the brown haired man dressed in corduroy behind her. A look passes between them that tells you there was more than love between them.
“Henry huh?” You reply with a grin, and the man is quick to introduce himself, and you don’t ignore the cold press of an encrusted band on his ring finger as he shakes your hand with a soft smile.
And it's as if Adeline reads your mind and she slips her left hand in yours, looking up at you with a teary grin.
“Yes, yes I know, I should've called, and I’m so sorry-”
You press yourself against her, leaning over the stall to wrap your arms around her. You whisper words of congratulation, shutting down any words that hinted at you being mad at her.
It wasn't her fault, it should be you she's mad at, you hadn’t really made that much of an effort to keep in contact with your friends back at home, and the reality of it weighed on you heavy now, you had missed so many milestones of your loved ones, all to chase your own dreams in New York.
You felt like you were constantly playing catch up, and you couldn't lie when a strange feeling crept up at the thought of your friends moving on with life. You were so incredibly happy for Adeline, and you were even more elated when she had told you of the Wedding in April that you had to come to. 
But that didn't stop that same strange feeling of being behind everyone else, you had spent so long climbing the ladder to wear what you wear now, relationships and love weren't even a thought, you filled your nights with studying and drawing and the occasional fling, but nothing more. And now doubts had begun to creep in, had you missed out? 
Watching everyone around you get married and have kids whilst you were still drawing buildings in that same sketchbook your teacher had given you 8 years ago. You’re not looking as you walk past the many stalls of the Farmers market, and it is your thoughts again that causes you to accidentally stumble into the hard muscle of a man back. You feel yourself falling, before arm's reach out, grabbing you quickly to stop you from ending flat on your face. 
You breath out a sigh of relief, shaking a head at your clumsiness
“God, ‘m so sorry, I’ve just been in my head, I wasn’t looking where i was going-”
“Holy fuck” Your quick to spit an apologetic thanks, you haven't even looked up to see who you've dubbed into, and when the sound of surprise meets your ease you look up, only to be remain stone faced with your mouth left open.
“Richie?” You say, the shock of it is still in the air. You hadn't expected to see him in Chicago, or maybe you did and it was sooner than you thought.
“When did you get back? Holy shit, thought we wouldn't see you again” Richie replies with a smile
“Yeah uh, came down for some work for a little while. How, uh How are things” You reply with a squeak, you can’t bear to say what you're thinking and Richie nods, a look of acknowledgement in his face. Mickey’s death had shaken you, it had changed you in its own way, and you still grief him, it still hurts when Richie's face kinda falls and melts at the reminder of his best friend's death.
“After, uh, after Mickey, he had left the restaurant, you know, the Beef?” You nod in agreement, the hazy memory of the sandwich shop on the corner of Chicago's, busiest streets, you stomach rumbles at the thought of one of those sandwiches you'd down in less than a minute during your high school years.
“Yeah well, get this, he left it to Carmen. And honestly, I was hesitant at first, real hesitant, I love him, but god, he's a self centred ass coming in like he knew everything, spewing the bullshit CDC shit he learnt up in the big apple? He changed things, and you know how I feel about change, but he made it better, I can;t lie, and you better not tell him this, but the Beef actually..” Richie’s familiar rambles are muffled to your ears, the only thing you can hear is Carmen.
Everything zones out as you scrunch your eyebrows, wincing almost, at the pain and it shocks you, it shocks you how the very name of him still brings back those memories. You still hurt the same way you did the day you left him.
You must have looked out of it, as Richie shakes your shoulder, anchoring you back to the present, and you have to swallow back the bite of pain that bleeds through your chest.
“Did you hear what I said? The Beef’s holding a little family dinner tomorrow, shutting down the shop early, inviting only friends and family, it’ll be like a little reunion for you! You have to come” Richie replies, and you nod trying to seem present.
Carmen took over the Beef? He was in New York? What?
Your mind is scattered with the uproar of questions you have, the thought of Carmen, the memory of him is like a fresh wound. It un tethered and opens up a thread of thoughts and emotions you had thought you bottled up and threw deep into the ocean.
“You, you still talk to him right? Ya’ll were pretty close growing up, like fucking thieves attached to the hip if i can remember” Richie chuckles, fondly remembering the two of you.
You cough back, smiling up at him as you trying to reply coherently
“Yeah, uh sometimes you know” You lie
No. You haven't spoken to him since you left, and it feels like your tongue falls dead when you try to say his name again. You hadn't called and he hadn't picked up. Carmen told you not to say goodbye, but the truth was it had been the end of you even before you had both realised. 
You had spent years pretending like Carmen not calling you, not making an effort to see you after everything didn’t burn, but the reality of it had marked you in a way that felt eternal.
“So you're coming, yeah? You and Carmen can finally catch up” Richie replies with a smile, and look of something passes through his eyes before it leaves, and you have to smile back with a nod, like you and Carmen were still close, like you don't feel that he might turn you away or scream at you the second he saw you, like you weren't both irrevocably in love with each other.
Bear. You missed him, you are shocked by how much you do, you thought bottling up your memories and emotions about him and stuffing them so far back into your mind you forgot would actually change anything. There had always been this lingering thought, at the recesses of your mind, the last thing you imagined before you fell asleep, the feeling that filled you the second you came back to Chicago, it was all Carmen, it was all your golden boy.
And now you would have to see him, in less than a day you would  be in the same room as Carmen Berzatto, you don't want to say it, you don't want to speak it into acknowledgement but deep down, you wanted to see him again. 
Beyond it all, you both were bonded in friendship, sharing something you didn't even have with Adeline or Mae, and you had felt like a part of yourself was missing each day that went passed without hearing from him. Had he forgotten you? Had it been as hard for him to go on with life? He had been in New York for christ sake, he didn't even think to visit you, that thought alone made you want to run back home and never come out.
You couldn't bare the possibility of exposing yourself to such heartache, to the chance of being rejected by the very person who you forever longed for. You were always searching for him, looking through crowds to see the familiar curl of his brown hair, or the scent he carried, ears always leaning in, trying to see if it would catch his syrupy baritone voice.
The two of you were forever connected, like the roots of trees spanning miles under the Earth. The kind of companionship that transcended time and space, and god did you want to feel the sharp edge of his jaw between your hands.
You couldn't stop it now, Richie had opened something you kept locked and sunk for a reason, and now it felt like you would break if you didn't see Carmen. Even if it would break you, even if it was the one thing in this world that would destroy you, 
You had to see your golden boy.
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randombush3 · 5 months
Text
ubi amor, ibi dolor
alexia putellas x reader
part one
words: 11455 (SORRY THERE WAS A LOT TO FIT IN)
summary: alexia and you as posh + becks part two x
content warnings: it’s gets a little sad but tbh the next part is the one you should be worried abt 🤘
notes: this one covers 2017-2019. i apologise if it’s a bit jumpy because if i covered EVERYTHING you’d be sat here reading for days. also, this part was so slow to be finished because i abandoned it for ages and only just decided i should probs get to finishing it. the next part is the last one!
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It’s about three months later, and there is not a silence that can’t be filled with the sound of Alexia’s voice. You don’t know how to prove this, because you leave none to be filled, instead seeking to occupy every spare second granted by your tour schedule to call her, to text her; to talk to her. 
You spend your nights on balconies all over the continent. Your smoking habit is worsening but the excuse of getting some fresh air to do so is a perfect way to weasel yourself out of parties and clubs and late-night chats with your friends. You much prefer to spend your time finding out more about the woman you quickly become obsessed with. She often verbalises her disdain for your disregard for your lungs – something that transcends the language barrier with an overwhelming clarity – but she is glad that you are talking to her either way.
A few times, you go as far as to hop on a secretly booked flight. You never step outside the airport, leaving Barcelona very much stamped in your passport but not on your list of places you have explored, but Alexia is more than content to pursue your hooded figure as you lead her into hidden corners of the arrivals lounge she begins to associate with the racing feeling in her heart when she sees you. Kissing against walls and on hard airport seats is not what feeds most budding romances, but you don’t care. You happily fly to her whenever you have a spare five minutes, and she is more than content to make the time spent physically together worthwhile.
The tour is nearly over. Five shows in three weeks, and then you can traipse back to London to fight off the delayed hangover in the comfort of your own home with meals cooked by your parents to keep you going. One of the worst things about being on the road is the food (or lack thereof), and your athlete gi… Alexia, is unimpressed with your nutrition. You find that she does not agree with most of your lifestyle, yet she seems captivated by it; like she is discovering a different, scarier world, and she can’t close her eyes.
Alexia’s birthday is soon. 
She has enough dread for the event to have communicated it far more efficiently than usual, with most conversations needing to be doubled in length to get past the all-too-familiar grunts of unrecognition. The streets of Barcelona are filled with whispers of a women’s league, and she is unsure of the pressure that is starting to grow on her shoulders. A birthday is inconvenient, she claims, though you only laugh. 
You tell her about Virgil – she knows you love him, she knows you love most things to do with him – and his famous quote. “Labor omnia vincit,” you say, finding it ironic that you are only able to talk to her right now because you skipped out on soundcheck and a run-through with the backup dancers. “Work conquers all. It reminds me of you.” 
Her lilting Spanish laughter fades as she actually thinks about it. 
“Es verdad,” Alexia replies, and you are glad to understand. “Quiero ser la mejor del mundo así que ‘labor omnia vincit’.” 
“You’re speaking Latin with a Spanish accent.” 
“You love my accent.” 
You smile. It’s true. 
It hasn’t settled in Alexia’s mind that you, who calls her whenever you can because you miss her opinions and her jokes and the face that you can picture when she speaks, are the same person as the one she sees on Jenni’s phone as the team crowds round the screen to watch a viral video from your concert last night. 
“A birthday present for you, eh, Ale?” Jenni jests, clinging on to Alexia’s admission months ago about her crush on you. She doesn’t know about the reality of it all. No one does, as of yet. 
“Who puts them in these outfits?” asks Leila, mildly outraged at the bedazzled lingerie you’d been dressed in. “There’s nothing to them! They might as well go on stage naked.” 
“It’s fine. They get hot while they’re performing anyway,” Alexia dismisses, not wanting to delve into your issues with your stylist. Well. Her issues with your stylist, who seems to not care about dignity or have any faith in the world’s imagination. (That, and Alexia is not sure she likes this idea of sharing, though she is aware that nothing defines you as hers.)
“Oh, did they tell you that themselves?” She glares at Jenni, and shoulders her way out of the huddle. It’s not Jenni’s fault that her mood has been easily soured, because tomorrow is Alexia’s birthday and then, the next day, she has to get to Madrid for her national camp. The Euros later this year is going to be in the Netherlands, and her dreams for her country are currently far-fetched. It hurts, and you’re well aware of her misery.
In fact, you are so aware that you are on a flight from Oslo on the fourth of February. It’s too special a day to miss. You have once again abandoned soundcheck. 
Alexia receives a text as she slides into her mother’s old car, considering flinging the device out of the window at one of her teammates’ heads after they sang to her at training without the mercy of letting her forget that she is one year closer to the end of her career. At this rate, the career will be full of wasted potential. She is in a terrible mood about it. 
And then she looks at her phone. 
You have really tried to up your game with the Spanish of late, enlisting the help of a private tutor who Skypes you twice a week with new phrases and grammar that mildly resembles that of a dead language you carry more than a passion for. 
You: Estoy aquí!
The only thing she can think to do is slam her index finger on the call button of your contact, nail bending painfully on the glass of the screen. 
Your instructions are clear: “Airport. Now.” 
She drives. 
She drives at an embarrassingly desperate speed, because just over a week is too long a separation and her day has been awful and there is something so magnetic about your presence that she would be going against nature to do anything other than find you. Obviously, find you she does: right in the arrivals lounge, same black hoodie as always disguising your identity. It’s not any busier than usual, and you catch sight of her the minute she pushes her way to the front of the crowd of expectant faces. 
With a weary grin, you walk towards her, and she knows that this game is only temporary. There will be privacy close by, and you can speak then. 
She turns with a nod, and you follow as she takes the usual route, but suddenly there are fingers intertwined with her own and you are stopping her in front of everyone. 
“Feliz cumpleaños,” you say with a pronounced failure and a hilariously concentrated expression. Alexia giggles, and the storm cloud above her dissipates, but the kiss she wants to press to your lips will have to wait. There’s somewhere empty just around the corner, and she tugs your hand to get you to come with her – to match the same haste she has – but you don’t. “Al coche. So we can go to your casa.” 
Her eyebrows raise. 
“It’s your birthday,” you explain, stepping towards her so that the people around you see a couple instead of two women walking in a vague direction. Alexia swallows, body tingling at your proximity. Her body always tingles when you stand near her like this. “It’s your birthday, so I am here for the night. My flight is tomorrow.” 
She understands you entirely. 
She all but drags you to her car. 
Alexia does not even remember what it’s like to be miserable. She is set alight by your presence, by your lips, your hands, your soft greeting that you whisper in her ear when she pulls away to drive you to her flat. It’s a new place, and she is free from the fuss of her mother. 
You smile when she pulls you out, taking your bulging handbag in one hand and grasping yours with the other, and she kisses that smile as she presses you against the mirror in the lift. The bag hits the floor with a thud, your overnight things spilling out because of her carelessness, but you pay the rolling Dior lipstick no mind, too caught up in the way her tongue swirls in your mouth. How her hands grip your waist. 
She’s stronger than last time. She gets stronger every day: she is going to be the best footballer in the world. She is dedicated to her sport. 
Your palms travel up the back of her t-shirt, cold from the metal you’d previously had them pressed against. Alexia flinches as your fingers brush a particular spot, the skin there slightly raised. 
“¿Que pasó?” you ask, head tilted to the side as she draws back, panting. “Are you hurt?”
She examines your eyes. Deeply inquisitive. Full of something that may resemble love in the future. 
Alexia smiles – an expression that she wears mostly when she is thinking about you. You watch as she turns around, the lift jerking to a halt as if to hurry up her slow movements. As she lifts up her t-shirt, you eye the tattoos you are aware decorate her back. There are going to be more someday, she has always been clear about that. 
And, oh. 
You’re not usually so attached. Alexia, it’s apparent, is a complete exception.
She asks you if you like it. You lean forward, and kiss the four words (she must have researched the quote, because you excluded the last when you mentioned it), tongue running over the redness as if you are going to heal the irritation. She moans quietly, more surprised than anything else. 
“Do I get the credit for it?” She shakes her head, which you catch in the mirror opposite, and, before you can voice your protest, she is facing the right way again and kissing you as she leads you to her door. “You know, there’s another quote from him that I much prefer to that one. ‘Labor omnia vincit improbus’ is… Do you know the word workaholic?” Again, her head shakes. She backs you against the wall next to her door, lips attached to your neck as you keen under her touch. 
She slots her leg between yours, and you forget your next sentence. 
It’s a heated kiss. It promises tonight’s activities to you, and you cannot wait for her to unlock her door. 
Your lips run along her neck as she jams her key into the lock. You suck and bite, spurred on by the moans she bites back with a clenched jaw. You find it sexy: her determination to get you inside. And it’s her birthday, after all. She deserves it. You have another gift for her in your bag, but she is grateful for this anyway.
“Inside,” she gasps as you smooth your tongue over the newly-created hickey you just gave her, kicking her door wide open and hauling you through the gap. 
The flat is pitch black, but Alexia knows it well enough to chuck your bag towards the dining table and have you on your way to the bedroom without needing to switch any lights on. But your hands wander, and she gets distracted. She stops you in the middle of the flat, only half a second into your journey, and her life feels so full (especially when you moan like that). The room feels so full. 
The room is full. 
The room is…
“Moltes felicitats, moltes felici–” sings (and abruptly stops) a whole choir of Alexia’s friends and family, the lights switching to bathe the two of you in total mortification. 
Alba’s hand covers the eyes of her cousin’s six-year-old, whose mouth has formed a perfect circle.  
Silence washes over what looks to be a surprise birthday party. One which Alexia was assured yesterday was not going to happen. By multiple guilty attendees! 
Alexia looks helplessly between you, her mother, and the shit-eating grin on Jenni Hermoso’s face, remembering herself promptly when Eli’s eyes drop to the placement of her hands on your bum. She almost jumps away from you. 
“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, stewing in the terribly awkward silence as Alexia’s eyes only grow wider and wider. “Alexia.” 
She breaks from her frozen state, thawed by the husk of your voice. 
“Jo…” 
The crowd explodes, and you let the tsunami of Catalan wash over your ears. There is so much noise, and so many people, and you can only watch as Alexia tries to answer all of their questions. She shakes her head, nodding at the same time, switching between two different languages to cover the shrieks from Jenni and the absolute bollocking her mother is giving her in front of everyone about dignity and respect. You are famous, says Eli, and you do not need Alexia’s horny motives to embarass you like that. 
“She’s a celebrity,” Eli chides with a glare at her daughter, eyes softening as you continue to stare at the sea of faces blankly. You are backed against a wall with nowhere to run. “Alexia, introduce us to your girlfriend. Now.” 
“You guys don’t need to be introduced to her!” Alexia replies like a petulant child, nearly crossing her arms and stamping her foot. “You know her name, and you’ve seen her. So you should all leave, really. Mami, I told you I didn’t want a party.” 
Eli’s hands fly from her body to halt the departure of the guests as they catch on to how unwanted they are. “No, we are still going to have this party,” she insists. It’s the final decision. “So, go on. Introduce us.” It’s definitely not a question. 
You clear your throat, wanting to save Alexia somehow. “Hola,” you begin, and every face breaks out into a beaming grin. “Um. Soy Y/n. Y… soy de Inglaterra?” 
“Sí,” Eli says with a swell of encouragement that you can feel from two metres away. 
 “Alexia,” you plead. 
“Guys, this is Y/n. She doesn’t speak Spanish, and she definitely does not speak Catalan, so either you practise your English or we cut the cake Mami has made and then you–”
“I am a big fan!” Jenni squeals, accented words loud and piercing as she surges towards you, sparking the movement of the entire body of people. No one listens to the rest of Alexia’s declaration. 
… 
There is a reason you are so well-liked, Alexia determines. She can see it as you interact with her family and closest friends. You smile and you listen and you remember things about people that they would deem insignificant. And it helps that you look breath-taking while doing it all.
Sitting at her dining table, Alba on one side, her mother on the other, she watches you flit around her flat with a talent for socialising, charming every person you speak to. 
“She doesn’t know how you feel, does she?” Eli comments, noticing the hesitation in her daughter’s expression. 
“I don’t know how she feels,” is what Alexia replies, because there is no way you can ignore the emotion she pours into your conversations. It exceeds that of a simple crush or hormone-fuelled desire. “She is incredible. I am me.” 
“You are Alexia Putellas.” 
“And she at least likes the way you kiss her,” Alba chimes in, her contribution unnecessary but making Alexia blush at the memory. The fact that her entire family saw that, most of them knowing where you were heading, is something she might be tossing and turning about at night for a while yet. 
“Your father would love her.” 
“I think so too,” Alexia says, chin resting on her palm as the world melts away, your eyes briefly meeting with hers as one of the children giggles at the face you have just pulled behind their mother’s back. A pang of disappointment reverberates in her chest as she grieves momentarily over the loss of her favourite person on Earth, wishing he could have shared the traumatic experience of today. He would’ve laughed so hard at her face when the lights went on.  
“She seems lovely, really. Very polite. Is it because she’s English?” 
“She is very…”
“I suppose the Latin came from her?” Alba asks with a smirk, prodding the fresh tattoo over the thin material of Alexia’s t-shirt, grinning as her sister hisses in pain. 
“Next time, we can go somewhere quieter and talk properly. I know that you’ll be busy when tonight is over.” 
Both Alexia and Alba shudder. “Mami!” her little sister groans, suppressing her gag. 
“Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, Alba.” 
“Never say ‘sex’ in front of me again,” Alexia tells her smug mother.
“Well, never get so caught up in the moment that you don’t notice the balloons taped to your flat number.” 
Alexia bolts outside to check, and hates herself when she sees them. 
“Dance with me!” 
You grab Alexia’s hand, pulling her towards you. The party has lasted longer than she’s happy with, and you have seemingly forgotten about what you could be doing. You love to dance. You love music. 
The little boy who’d been your partner up until now sticks his tongue out at Alexia, and she reciprocates the gesture. She is the birthday girl, after all. 
You don’t understand a word of the music, but the beat flows through your hips as you move them against her. She runs her hands up and down your sides, your tank top now the only layer between your skin and her impatient fingers, hoodie having been stripped off the minute the party became interesting. 
“My mother likes you,” Alexia whispers into your ear as you sway in time to the rhythm. Her lips brush your ear lobe, and you shiver despite the growing heat between you. 
“This was very much a surprise,” you giggle in response, possibly answering wrong because her Spanish didn’t quite catch.
“Mhm.”
“I can’t wait for them to leave.” 
Her eyebrows furrow. “You are not having fun?” 
“I am,” you reply with a nod, a smirk slowly creeping into your content expression. She holds her breath, reminding herself of the presence of her family as you grind into her. “But I also can’t wait to fuck you.” 
Alexia shudders.
“I will tell them to go.” 
They cut the cake. 
They sing again, completing the lyrics this time. You are even taught them before-hand, pushed out to the side of the crowd, very much silently told that you currently hold no place in Alexia’s life in comparison to these people. They all love her. You aren’t there yet. 
But, she values your presence. 
Alexia doesn’t care much about the people here tonight. She sees them almost every day, and she knows they are constants. What she does care about is you. 
You, in that tank top. You, with your hair down, face fresh even though your day must have been exhausting. You, with a red mark on your collarbone that no one knows how to point out to you in English. 
Soon, everyone is gone, and you are panting underneath her. Her lips capture yours, muffling the groan that comes with the movement of her fingers inside you. Your legs wrap around her body tighter, heels digging into her back. 
Her hair falls around you; encapsulating you, surrounding you with only her. Her smell, her taste, her fingers. 
You moan as her determination to destroy you becomes apparent. She hits every spot that has been neglected for the past few months, and though it is the first time the two of you are doing this, it’s as if Alexia has studied your body for years already.
She breaks apart from you as you come, your back arching off the mattress, chest pressing against hers. She wants to see your face for the first time. If she had a camera, she would have used it. You look beautiful. 
Nothing on Earth compares to the cliff you have just been pushed off, and it is as if you are falling for eternity. 
She goes again, and again, and again. She’s an athlete. 
She ruins you, but her strong arms hold you together afterwards. 
You fall asleep, for the first time in a while, with someone by your side. Whose hands find purchase on her favourite part of you, pulling you on top of her as she whines at your own tired attempt to make her feel good. Alexia whispers that she has been given enough, that she doesn’t need it, and she thinks you fall asleep to the sound of her incomprehensible, breathy Spanish. You cling to her. 
The tour ends. 
You couldn’t be happier. The final show is a blessing, and the tears in your eyes are of joy. You, Gio, and Anya are going home at last. 
However, the well-decorated flat you walk into lacks everything possible, because there is no Alexia standing in the middle of the living room. She can’t be here, though you wish things were different. The season has been successful for her so far, and she is busy. 
You really miss her. One night wasn’t enough. It will never be enough, and you are starting to realise the gravity of your blushes. 
You like Alexia, and you have fallen hard and fast.
“You’re not coming back with us,” your brother says knowingly, skiing beside you down the picturesque blue run in Les Gets. You have come here every year since you were eight. April is a little later than usual, and the snow often turns to slush towards the afternoon – though one could argue that is simply a cue to move onto apres-ski – but it is pleasant to be on holiday with your family. People try to bother you, but it is easier to pretend you don’t see their waves when you have your ski goggles pulled over your eyes. 
Your brother coughs, not pleased that you are ignoring him, reducing him to ‘everyone else’. (His ego, far too preened, far too large, cannot handle the idea of that.)
In front of the two of you, your father turns with precision and great technique. You can’t relate: you’re drunk. You have been since this morning. 
“Sorry?” Your innocence is pretence and he rolls his eyes behind his Oakleys. 
“Your flight. I saw it was booked to take you somewhere else. Somewhere you’ve been going a lot.” 
“You’re not subtle.” 
“You’re not subtle,” he replies, skis dangerously close to yours. You have to swerve, sending you onto the off-piste section of the run much to your irritation. With the excuse of tackling the jumps, however, you are lucky to evade further questioning, watching as he glides off into the distance, reaching the banner and skidding to a halt to wait for you and your mother. Your mother prefers to drink more than ski. She is always holding up the rear. 
When you return to the chalet, bought by your parents a decade ago to solidify their roots in Les Gets, your brother seems to have remembered your conversation from earlier. Your parents have gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you to make something for yourselves. He is glad to have you alone. 
“You don’t like lads, do you?” And, in truth, it’s an insightful question by his standards. He cares; he just does not know how to show it. 
Pausing the construction of your sandwich for a moment, you allow him to see you for who you are. He’s your brother, after all. “Not at all,” comes your response. 
He hums. “Thought so. You’d have gone out with half of England’s football team otherwise. God knows that they don’t mind.” 
“England has a women’s team.” 
“Gross.” His lips purse as he thinks about his little sister’s love life, and he decides that he would like to know more about Barcelona. “Are you buying a villa?” 
“What?” 
“Well, you go to Barcelona a lot. Are you buying a villa with the girls? Is that what celebrities do?” 
You roll your eyes. “Mum and Dad buy villas. It isn’t just celebrities who splurge on property.” 
“You’re not answering my question.” 
“I wish you’d never become a lawyer.” 
He laughs – hearty and deep. His laugh reminds you of dark forests for some reason; tall trees that dwarf your body, but keep you safe nonetheless. “I wish you’d never gotten famous. My life would be so much quieter if half my mates weren’t trying to squeeze something or other out of my connections.” His pride is profound in his misery, and you smile, blushing. “You’re not buying a villa.” 
“Well done, genius,” you taunt, assembling your sandwich once again in hopes that the baguette will kill the buzz in your mind. You can’t really think when you’re drunk, and, recently, when there is nothing else to occupy you, your mind wanders to Alexia. What is she doing now? Does she miss you? Is she excited to see you in three days? 
It dawns upon his face with an amusing animation. “You’re seeing someone,” he accuses. 
“Maybe,” you shrug. “She’d be one lucky girl.” 
“One unlucky girl, you mean. I’d better find out who she is and tell her to run for the hills. You’re about two decades overdue for an exorcism, and it shows.” He swiftly appears behind you, despite his lumbering limbs, and flicks your ear as your teeth sink into your dinner. You squeal, pushing backwards to get him away from you. “What’s her name? Who is she? What does she do?”
“She is… classified.” 
He reaches for his phone. “I’m going to find a list of Spanish names and see which one turns you into a tomato.” 
“She’s still classified.” You prod your index finger into his shoulder.
“Hey.” You retract your finger, surprised by the tenderness of his tone. “You can tell me, you know. You’re my little sister. I really don’t give enough of a fuck to spread it.” 
With great shame, you absolutely do not need to be told twice to talk about your favourite Spanish woman on the planet at the moment. He actually has to beg you to stop. 
Things with Alexia are good. 
Not just in terms of your relationship, but in general, too. Walks are more enjoyable, and so are mornings, afternoons, evenings. She likes that you feel comfortable to chill in her flat while she goes to training. She likes that she comes home to you. She likes that you spend your days with a pencil between your teeth, a blank page set out in front of you. 
Now that the tour is over, it is clear what comes next. The new album will be the best ever made, you have decided, because you might finally understand the lyrics that you sing. They could resonate. 
They will resonate. 
Alexia asks you to be her girlfriend when she drops you off at the airport. Your plane is private and she can kiss you goodbye when you agree. 
You love being Alexia’s girlfriend. You repeat your new identity over and over as you fly back to London, and it is a mantra that plays on loop in your mind as you get on with life back home. 
The girls tease you mercilessly when you spill it. All three of you are on the balcony, though this time there is a joint placed between your fingers rather than a cigarette. Slightly high, more so giddy about Alexia, you confess. They’re happy for you, but Gio can’t help but text Anya later that night. 
Gio: Have you seen the new plan? 
Anya: What plan? 
Gio is sitting upright in her bed, ensuring that her panic is quiet so her new boyfriend does not wake up. Her fingers hover over the keys shamefully, but she has to tell someone and it can’t be you.
Gio: The publicity plan. 
It’s at your studio session the next day when all comes to light. Your manager/publicist appears, which is honestly quite rare. She’s not fond of the claustrophobia of the small room, nor the darkness it becomes shrouded in when you, Gio, and Anya are trying not to murder each other. 
Dave swivels around on his chair, bored with the bickering. You aren’t sure about a lyric, but they disagree, even if Anya knows you have a better point than the third member of your group. 
Your manager clears her throat. “Y/n, may I speak with you? It’s quite important.” 
“Do this lyric without me,” you grit out to Gio. 
“It’s your solo.” 
“I don’t care.” 
With that, you follow your manager into the corridor. 
They hear your protests from the studio, the shout of frustration piercing through the small gap underneath the door, overcoming the supposedly impregnable sound-proofing. 
There are tears streaming down your face upon your return. Fuck her, and fuck him. 
Anya and Gio can’t look at you. Their chins dip to their chest as they slump in place, succumbing to the predetermined guilt they discovered last night. 
“It’s not fair,” you cry to them as they refuse to turn around, throwing yourself onto the sofa with a heaving sob. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair. She’s going to hate me — she’s not going to love me anymore, and I… I love her.”
Anya’s mouth opens with a sob of her own. She had thought Alexia was a dalliance. She hadn’t realised. 
It’s fun to have someone, she knows, but it is painful to love them. 
You are clearly not enjoying yourself now. 
“You love her?” she asks, though she is sure of the answer as another gasp leaves your body with a chilling desperation. 
“Yes, I fucking love her. It was obvious.” 
“But you—”
“Because I’m not out!” 
“So what did she tell you?” 
“They want it to last a few months. Enough to draw the attention away from my aversion to men and his relationship with some blogger.” 
Anya gulps. A few months is a lot to endure, especially for the footballer whose heart you’ll be breaking. “You’ve said no, right?” she tries, paling as she grips onto the mic stand, trying in vain to remember the harmony she is supposed to sing. “You’ve told them… You’re you, of course you’ve said no!”
“Of course,” Gio adds, equally in denial. 
You can only shake your head. 
You were not given a choice. 
Telling Alexia is hard, and not just because of the tears running through your words as you try to get them out over the phone. 
In Barcelona, her head hangs in disappointment. She is never going to be good enough for you, she tells herself. The world will soon slot you by the side of another celebrity, and you will be pictured together as many times as humanly possible. No one will know that she is the one you call when you need to talk to someone, or that it is her rose that is pressed between your favourite copy of Little Women, saved from Sant Jordi. No one will be any the wiser to the girlfriend you keep in Spain, nor assume that you are visiting the country for a reason other than tourism and partying with your favourite foreign men’s football team. 
It goes like this for months. 
It sours the second- place finish in the league even more; makes the Champions League semi-final exit soul-destroying; and completely ruins her joy about winning the Copa de la Reina (worsened by a picture of you and him released the morning of the final). 
She is still your girlfriend, but she is always one step behind you. She is in the shadows of the crowd when you sell out Wembley for the first time, and is just out of frame in the picture captured backstage of you and your lover embracing. His muscles do not feel the same as Alexia’s, but he becomes a friend, you guess. He isn’t fond of the arrangement either. 
Then, when Alexia feels as though she might explode from the jealousy she harbours, she is tested once more as you go radio silent for a day. It’s unbearable. You usually text her every hour. 
She misses hearing you greet her with ‘I took a smoke break’. She misses the taste of your lips, and the heat of your breath, and the swell of emotion you cause inside of her when you show her that you really care. 
It’s a hard day. The Euros have started, and Spain has won their first two group stage matches. Vilda is terrible as usual, but it is nothing in comparison to the cavity left in her chest where you have carved out your notifications. Alexia has never wished to be distracted from football before, but today is clearly Judgement Day. 
“Is this about your girlfriend?” Jenni pesters, mocking Alexia’s frown by exaggerating it on her own face. “She’s not pinging your phone every five minutes and now you’re inconsolable.” 
“I have many things to be upset about,” Alexia replies moodily, though Vilda’s earlier berating has had no effect on her mood because it simply cannot get worse. “Our coach is shit, and we don’t get treated like England or Holland does.”
“And your girlfriend hasn’t texted you.” 
“Yes, Jenni. She hasn’t texted me.” 
She sighs. 
Jenni is repulsed by the fire in Alexia’s belly seemingly having been put out. Her grimace is noticeable as she bends down to unlace her boots, glancing around the shoddy locker room, imagining what Alexia claims a few of the other teams have. 
“Maybe she’s busy. She is, like, famous. She could be out for lunch with Shakira!” 
“No, that was last month.” 
Jenni pauses for a moment, awestruck at her friend's seriousness, before collecting herself and trying another approach. “Why don’t we do some shooting practice while you wait for her to call? That way, Spain gets more goals, and you’re…” 
She doesn’t get to finish, cut off by the alarming brrrp of Alexia’s phone. Her friend saddens at the volume, pitying Alexia for how loud she has turned her ringer up just in case she had been missing your notification all along. 
Alexia swipes her phone up from the bench, and hurries into the toilets. 
Throughout the five months you have been dating, Alexia has become increasingly more aware of your intense reactions to emotional situations. You feel when you feel. She admires you for your work ethic, as you do her, because you fly from Barcelona to London and back again, all while writing songs, humming melodies, and holding together your high-profile life. Unfortunately, your determination and tendency to give everything and more has bled into every aspect of your life. And you are a wreck when she finally gets a word out of you. 
“Tranquila, cariño,” she tries as you suck in a pathetically shallow breath. She knows exactly how many kilometres away from her you are, and she wishes she could sprint the distance. “Tranquila. What has happened?” 
“I… I fired her.” 
“Who?” 
“My manager.” Alexia’s hand balls into a fist and she quietly celebrates. Well, until you sob again. “I mean, we all fired her. But now we have no manager and Dave is concerned about the structure of our group and the album sucks and it’s shit and HE tried to kiss me yesterday, even though he’s got a girlfriend too!” 
“Búa, más slower, por favor. I’m not inglesa!” 
Life, even if you are upset right now, starts to look up. You even get to spend a month with her, practising your Spanish (mejor-ing your nivel de español), meeting her family in a more appropriate context, and even watching the first match of the 2017-2018 season. Which Alexia is adamant they will win. 
She proposes in November; a year after you kissed. 
It’s not a hard decision to make. Not when you have built IKEA furniture together, and spent a week in Menorca with her, her mother, and her sister. Not when her English is littered with your vocabulary and references to Virgil and the like, and your family can all shout at you in Spanish because they’ve heard her do it so many times. Not when ‘I love you’ is the easiest sentence she’s ever said. Every minute of her life that she gives you is like exchanging part of her soul for pure, complete bliss. 
You’re fucking freezing, and befuddled at the fact that Alexia has requested to take a walk in the park near your flat. Your Spanish girlfriend, the same woman who finds summer too temperate in England, has somehow turned into a snow-lover, even if there is only damp grass and a biting wind. Alexia wishes England had white Christmases, but it’s a myth, she has discovered. 
The ring sits in her coat pocket. She chose it with Alba before she left the warmer climate of Barcelona, and her sister did not ask her whether she was rushing into things. It’s not too soon; if anything, she should’ve asked a year ago. 
“Fuck me, it’s cold,” you groan as you shiver. She takes your hand, her woollen gloves itchy against your bare skin, but it warms you up. “We could be inside, in bed. There’s a new series we could start, or, I don’t know, don’t you have some football game to watch?” 
“I hate watching football with you.” 
You part your lips to respond, but she is not lying and she has said it before. Some bullshit about you supporting all the wrong teams. 
“Well, I hate it when you drag me out into the freezing cold for no reason. If you want a dog to bring on walks, just say so. We can go to Battersea before you leave tomorrow.” 
“Don’t,” she murmurs, halting you both near the inky water of the lake you have been circling for the past five minutes. It sucks that her visits are temporary, even if you are technically moved into each other’s homes (she has your keys, you have hers). With the remaining time left before her flight tomorrow at noon, she has worked up the courage to do it now. 
It’s like scoring a goal: receive the pass; dribble; gear up for it; shoot. 
“What’s wrong?” 
Her free hand reaches into her pocket. “Nada.” 
“No, you’re acting weird…” You blink a few times as if to adjust better to the dim light coming from the distant lampposts. A plop sounds from the water, and she jumps. She’s on edge.
“No.” 
“Yes. Jesus, you haven’t decided to break up with me in the middle of a park at night, have you?” Your question packs an unnerved insecurity, and she feels a little guilty about the suspense. She fiddles with the ring in her pocket, and then she takes a deep breath. “Hey,” you try tenderly. “Seriously, Ale, what’s wrong?” 
“Te lo dije. Nothing.” 
“So what’s in your pocket?”
“Nothing.” 
“Are you sure?” 
She sighs, “here,” and she grabs your hand to press it into the soft warmth inside. And there’s a piece of metal, heated by her fingers. With a chunk of rock on top of it. It feels like an engagement ring. You’re probably not getting broken up with tonight. 
“Are you proposing?” 
“Are you saying yes?” 
“Yes.” 
“Hòstia.” She frowns, and you consider pushing her into the lake. “I am going to say it now.”
“But you already—”
A quick display of her athleticism, for the muscles exist despite being buried underneath all those layers, and she is down on one knee. Her joggers will have wet patches, and she hates the squelch of the mud beneath her, but she has a perfect view of your surprise. Your tears. 
“Bueno. Your brother helped me to… write the speech,” she starts, and her rehearsal is adorable. Although, honestly, you don’t hear what she has to say because you have already made up your mind. 
You tell her yes in as many languages as you can. 
And she thanks you with breathy moans into your mouth as you guide her towards a bench, and then your flat, and finally your bed. 
When you are finished, well into the early hours of the morning she will have to leave, you climb out of bed, missing the firm grip of her toned arms the minute you’re out of it. There is a burning, overwhelming sureness inside of you that you can’t escape. You know it is soon – probably too soon for most – but there is a person out there for everyone, and yours is right in your bed. 
Your guitar, slightly dusty from the neglect because of your frequent visits to Barcelona, rumbles when you pluck it from its stand, collapsing into the armchair beside your bed with a groan, feeling the ache of your muscles that only affirm just how good a time you’ve had with your fiancée. 
You don’t play anything interesting, but the noise is enough to rouse Alexia from her heavy slumber. She lifts her head from where it has been buried within the silk pillows of your bed, and watches as your fingers pluck the nylon strings with vague allusion to one of your older songs. The weight of her ring – your engagement ring – does not seem to affect your playing: in fact, Alexia realises your hand was naked without it. You hum, fingers beginning to itch for a cigarette the minute the guitar starts to bore you, and she clears her throat. 
Her grin is self-satisfied and certain. “Me voy a casar contigo,” she says into the dark stillness of your bedroom.
“I love you,” you reply.
Being engaged is fun. 
Like, really fun. 
You stay in Barcelona in December, hiding from the bitter chill of England. No one questions it, and the absence of a manager grants you so much freedom. The girls pop to the city one weekend to brainstorm a song, but, other than that, you are content to forget your own identity and become Alexia’s fiancée, one of the regulars at the increasingly more popular Barça Femení games (only the team know you’re there, able to see through the caps and sunglasses). 
There are still rumours circulating about you and him, though their credibility has lessened ever since he revealed himself to have been in LA for a while. To the world, you’re sort of MIA. They catch you occasionally when you return to London for photoshoots or just to chat with your friends and family, but they get nothing more. Your Instagram posts are few and far between, and the most recent paparazzi picture is of you leaving Gio’s house to buy her a pregnancy test. 
When the test is positive, something is tweaked inside of you, and you return to Barcelona – a place that is now your home too – carrying a lead-ish guilt. 
Alexia loves her football, and Alexia is obsessed with her career. You are too, but you have done what you can, really. The BRIT nominees will be announced tomorrow, and you know that you and the girls are on that list. You have your fame, you have your money. But Alexia has neither, and she should. Especially when her male counterparts are raised high and mighty on large, golden platforms. 
You know just how ambitious she is, and that is why you lack surprise when you enter her flat to find her hunched over her iPad at the dining table, replaying the same twenty-second clip over and over until she has identified every single fault and created a plan to correct them. 
She barely registers your presence, but you don’t mind how absorbed she is in her footage. It is nice to make the ever-composed Alexia jump when you slink up behind her, pressing your lips against her neck. She dissolves herself in the fuzzy feeling you give her.
“Hola,” she says, regaining control when she spots another mistake, grasping her pen tightly as she scribbles down Spanish words you can’t be bothered to read. 
“Hola,” you reciprocate, though you are a lot more enthusiastic about it. “Tengo una pregunta.” 
“Oh no.” You wrap your arms around her shoulders, and she relaxes. Your ring reflects the light from her screen as if to remind her that you are hers, and that softens her previous sternness slightly. Another kiss to the skin behind her ear, and she is more open to talk. 
Clicking your tongue, you think of where to start. “Okay, first, I have news.”
“About Gio? Is she okay?” 
“She’s… pregnant.” The emergency you were recalled to London for was actually a pleasant surprise for her and her boyfriend. You’re unsure about how committed they are to each other, and whether a baby is a great idea, but you held your tongue when Anya shook her head at you. 
“Uf. Pobrecita, ¿no? She loves tequila.” 
“She does love tequila,” you agree with a chuckle. You extend your hand slightly and press pause on the footage. Alexia pushes back against you. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floorboards, but there is a gap between her and the table now. She motions for you to sit in her lap. 
She tilts your chin up and kisses you gently: a welcome home kiss. “¿Qué pasa, mi amor?”
“What would you do if I told you that I was pregnant tomorrow?” 
“I would ask you if you have been cheating on me with a man,” she replies instantly. You laugh, head falling forwards, resting on her shoulder. She runs her hands up your sides, fingers firm, thighs tensing underneath you. 
“But hypothetically. If it were possible,” you continue, a smirk working its way onto your lips, guilt forgotten. You may have spent your plane journey scrolling through pictures of Alexia with the various babies in your life. It was a self-indulgent act, and it has very much led you to now. 
Her eyebrows furrow with the adorable crinkle in between them, and she is seriously trying to work out if she is missing something. You go to London, you come back, you want a baby? 
But she loves you. And she is very intrigued. 
“Is it mine?” 
“Yes, it’s yours.” 
She watches the smirk on your face blossom into a smile, and she feels a matching one tug her lips upwards. “Is it going to support España or England?” The latter is pronounced in your accent, and you make a mental note to ask Jenni if she has been doing impressions of you to her teammates. 
“It can choose when it’s older,” you say, waving off her stupid football question. Since dating her, your interest in football has decreased. She has sort of put you off. You only really watch it to watch her now, or when United are playing an interesting game and your father is antsy enough to text you every minute. 
“No, it can’t.” You blink. She pulls you into her. “It chooses now. Spain or England, and Manchester United or Barcelona. There are right answers.” 
“Manches–”
“Wrong! I think I will have to make sure the baby is not brainwashed.” 
You panic for a moment. “Wait, you do know I’m not really pregnant, right?!” 
Alexia is not the most ready for children, but she is always prepared to give you everything you want. “If you want a baby, mi amor, let’s make a baby. Sin chicos.” You giggle coyly as she hoists you up – the display of strength exuding an unbearably sexy cockiness. “And after,” she says in between kisses as she stands, “we can look on the Internet for options.” 
“¡Vamos!”
The Barcelona women’s team congas its way back into the Home team changing room of the Joan Gamper, following a 7-0 win. Alexia kicked off the goal-laden game in the sixth minute, and she is on cloud nine. Victory is the sweetest taste in her mouth, and one where she knows you are watching is even better. 
Mapi flicks her shoulder as they dance to the music bursting from someone or other’s speaker. “You’re so happy,” she says, her grin wide and eyes shining. They dance topless, most of them, but Alexia has subtly been rushing to get dressed and find you. Barcelona is a beautiful city, and she has promised that you can take her to dinner somewhere now that your morning sickness has subsided and only started to affect you when it is supposed to. 
“We just won,” she explains over the shouts of joy from her teammates. 
María León joined from Atleti this season, but she has known Alexia longer than that, and she can tell when there is something more to football in her emotions. Though it is a well-kept secret, Alexia has two obsessions, and you are one of them. 
“Yo sé. But you have been very happy recently, in general. Except, you don’t come out for team nights or hang back to practise more after training, so it is definitely to do with Y/n.” Alexia’s absence in her teammates’ lives is actually unusual, seeing as you are very encouraging and a firm believer in the ‘work hard, play hard’ mentality. Your urging is what sends Alexia to bars and clubs with the girls, though she has neglected all of these outings ever since you showed her your positive pregnancy test (best belated birthday present ever). “So… what’s going on?” 
“You’re so nosy.” 
“I’m interested. I love her, and I want to know how she has made it so that you haven’t had a bad day for the last three months, even when we lost to Bilbao. Is it sex? Does she suffer through–”
“No!” Alexia interjects, cheeks reddening. Mapi smirks at the twenty-four-year-old, proud to have embarrassed her. She still claims that she is not a prude. Her phone buzzes on the bench – you’re asking how long she is going to take.
Mapi swipes Alexia’s clean clothes from her grip, holding them behind her back as she giggles at her friend’s exasperation. “Tell me, or go outside like that.” 
“Good thing it’s May,” Alexia shrugs, grabbing her phone and bag, knowing you won’t at all mind spending time with her in just her sports bra. She is pulled back by Mapi, who has hooked her finger into the waistband of Alexia’s shorts and yanked hard enough for them to have stretched. 
“Ale, tell me.” 
“No. You’re a gossip.” 
“I’m not a gossip.” 
“You so are.” 
“Am not.” 
“So it wasn’t you who told Leila about Patri’s crush when I made it clear that we weren’t even supposed to know?” Mapi shifts uncomfortably, letting go of the shorts. “And it definitely wasn’t you who let everyone find out about my engagement because you don’t know what an inside voice is?” 
“Hey, you never specified that you were going to be sneaky about it!” she defends, as she has done ever since the entire canteen went silent in shock and then, two seconds later, broke out into a clamour of pleas to be bridesmaids and to get Bad Bunny invited to the wedding. 
“It was implied,” Alexia shoots back with a glare. 
“Fine. Be annoying. I’ll just ask Y/n.” 
“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She’s got better things to do.” 
“Ouch,” Leila says, patting Mapi on the back as she shoves her way into the conversation. The two are partners in crime, and Alexia hates that she is now outnumbered. “But tell us. Please, Ale.” 
“We’ll even not nutmeg you for a week.” They love to try. It’s their highest priority mission.
“A month,” Alexia negotiates. 
“Yes! Just tell us.” 
“Y/n is pregnant.” Three months down the line is not necessarily when she wants to announce her personal business to the entirety of Spain, but you both know that it’s safe to tell people now.
Mapi laughs. “Ay, Alexia, you don’t have to lie to us.”
She looks at her friends blankly, having not expected this reaction. When she told her mother, the woman at least had it in her to take it seriously (albeit with quite the cautious ‘are you sure?’). “I’m not lying,” she then says, more to Leila than the giggling Mapi in front of her.
“You’re not…?” Leila tries, grappling with it. Two pairs of eyes drift down to Alexia’s crotch, squinting at the material as though some previously concealed appendage is going to jump out at them.  
Alexia clears her throat. 
“I’m sorry. How?!” 
“The normal way most lesbians–”
“She’s, like, actually pregnant? Like, de verdad, she is pregnant?” 
“Or she’s smuggling a lime under her shirt.” Her nod is small and she has the glimmer of a smile on her face despite Leila and Mapi’s gobsmacked expressions. Her phone buzzes: it’s you again. “And, if you two don’t mind, I don’t want to leave her waiting for me outside.” 
“Because she’s…” 
“Exactly.” 
When she finally escapes the changing room, she climbs into her car. With heartbreak from both you and your dad, you have sold your i8 in favour of getting Alexia a Land Rover. Most of your money is in savings. You earn loads, but it is hard to find things you want to spend it on, and a lot of it goes towards private jets to get you to and from Alexia. 
You are sitting in the passenger seat. “Jugaste bien,” you say as her hand moves up from its instinctive resting place on your thigh, settling on the growing swell of your stomach. “I’m so hungry. I could eat a horse.” 
“A horse?” 
“Or a house. Or, I don’t know, an entire cavalry. Feed me.” Her alarm — a mistranslation — causes her to almost run over the steward directing her out of the car park. “Tengo mucha hambre, Ale.” She nods with a roll of her eyes. She’s been warned about pregnant women. 
In the bustling excitement of Estadi Johan Cruyff, which has slowly filled with more and more fans in the time you have known the plastic seats and improving pitch, you find yourself in the midst of an unexpected turn of events. With your due date approaching and Alexia’s insistence that you are surely made of glass, you have been forced to part from your sisters (Gio and Anya) and live in Barcelona. She wants the baby to be born here. You’ve negotiated that the next one will be had in London. 
Alexia’s mother notices the deep breath you take in, well-acquainted with the horror on your face having worn that same expression twice before. ¿Estás bien?” she asks you, the steadiness of her voice comforting to the flurry inside your head. 
The whistle blows and the game kicks off. This can’t be happening now. 
It’s too early. There’s a… What are they called? Braxton-hicks? 
“Sí,” you affirm with a curt nod. The not-contraction doesn’t hurt that much, you tell yourself. You settle in the seat and focus on the match in front of you, using the rhythm of the crowd’s cheers (it can now be called a crowd!) to keep you grounded. With a reassuring smile, Eli offers you her hand. You take it and try not to crush her metacarpals. 
It’s definitely possible that you are in actual labour, considering the increasing intensity of your contractions, but you are not about to leave the match. Alexia would notice your absence. This game is important for her team – it’s the last before the Christmas break. 
At halftime, Eli quietly reassesses you, tricking you into seeing the team’s medic when guiding you to the ‘toilet’. Already briefed on the situation, the medic asks you a few questions in accented English, much like that of your newly trilingual fiancée. “Don’t tell her,” you beg quietly through a huffed sigh, gladly taking the seat offered to you. “I’ll wait until it’s finished.” 
“There is another hour left.” 
Your ears burn and another contraction shoots through you. You shake your head, fending off the pain while you do so. “He can’t be a Barcelona fan,” you insist. Eli grins at the knowledge that her first grandchild will be a boy, but you do not see it, too focused on convincing the medic to keep the child’s other mother in the dark about what is currently happening in the Barcelona medical room. “I’ll wait.” 
Eli hands you your phone per your request. You call Gio, whose daughter is only two months old. “Don’t tell me,” she starts when you fail to greet her. The sound of her voice, her accent, her tone is relieving, though you are incredibly grateful for the woman who continues to hold your hand as though you are her own daughter. “Nah, nah. Where are you? I’m gonna jump on a flight, alright? I’ll call Anya and we’ll be there soon.” 
“Don’t… rush,” you groan. 
“Babe, we are going to rush. Where are you?!” 
“A match!” You try to remember the breathing exercises you learnt for this exact moment. “Her match. Second half’s only just started. She… She doesn’t know.” 
Gio’s loud, boisterous laugh rings out, and you can tell that she is not at home. No one with a newborn baby can afford to make noise at that volume. “Fucking hell. Ever heard of sense?” You don’t respond, embarrassed that you are in too much pain to think of a comeback. “I’ve left Mia at my mum’s, so don’t you worry. Want me to bring anything from home? Cadbury’s, maybe?” 
“One of those massive bars?” 
“Yep, done deal.” She pauses. “Hey, babe, I’m gonna ring Anya now, alright? Call your mum – or your dad, if you two haven’t yet made up. I’ll see you soon. Tell Alexia her baby’s on the way!” 
Your protests are cut off by the final beep of her hanging up, and your head drops back as another contraction, your body squeezed as though some giant rubber band has just snapped back into place. Eli stands up, worried now. 
Before you can tell her that you are alright, a gush of water hits the sterile floor with an unnerving splatter. The prospect of having to care for another life suddenly becomes very real. “Tenemos que ir al hospital.” 
“No.” 
“Soy la abuela. Yo sé que hacer.” Even the medic, who has nervously stayed by your side, much more experienced with ACLs than broken waters (and stubborn pregnant women), looks intimidated by the firmness of Eli’s words. “Por favor”: she softens her blow. 
You glance around the room, slowly descending into agony and helpless against the wrath of rationality from your fiancée’s mother. “How long’s left of the match? ¿Cuántos minutos quedan?” 
The medic holds up all ten fingers. You grapple with your body, begging the baby to sit tight for a moment. “Let her finish. We can go when the whistle blows.”
Your contractions get closer together. 
Eli’s frustration leads her to ask God for the baby to not have inherited your stubbornness. She also loves you more for it; admiring your insistence to keep Alexia from missing everything. 
You don’t call your own mother. You simply type out a shaky text to the family group chat; blunt and to the point. ‘Baby. Now.’
Half of your universe storms the web, booking flights to Barcelona. Anya and Gio are almost at the airport already — a few steps ahead of your panicking parents and your brother, who has been enjoying dinner at the Savoy with his clients. Those who serve as your planets, revolving around you like you are the sun, do you a favour, letting Dave know that you probably won’t make it to the Skype call scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dave, in turn, now expanding into management, informs your newly-hired publicist (good riddance to the old one). The world has expected a pregnancy announcement ever since you failed to appear at your most recent awards show, despite winning in your category. 
It's almost an eternity later that Alexia, football boots clacking against the floor, flings open the door of the medical room. Eli calls out, warning her daughter about slipping on the sizable puddle that has spread out beneath you. 
Your fiancée is valiant in her attempt to mask her sheer panic. 
“Have you called an ambulance?” she asks her mother, stepping over your amniotic fluid and placing her hand on your shoulder. You squint, trying to open your eyes though this contraction has been the most excruciating so far. 
“We were waiting for you. She was adamant that you finished your match.” 
“No football match is more important than her!” If you understood Catalan (and weren’t in labour), you’d have teased her for being a sap. “Call an ambulance, Jesus Christ. Look at her — she needs a doctor.” Her composure revisits her fleetingly, and she turns to the medic. “Thank you for looking after her.” There is no answer because it is drowned out by her barking more orders her mother’s way. 
“No ambulance,” you declare before your mouth opens in a silent sob. “Drive me. Not an ambulance.” 
The last glimpse the Estadi Johan Cruyff gets of Alexia Putellas in 2018 is her carrying you to her mother’s car, your face buried in her team-issued jacket in case anyone is waiting outside to take pictures of the players. 
Eli drives; something she doesn’t like doing often but feels is necessary with the nervous bounce of her daughter’s legs in the backseat enough to convince her that they’d speed like the Flash if anyone else ended up behind the wheel. She knows Barcelona, can navigate it with her eyes closed, and you are at the hospital before you can begin to tell Alexia how much you think you can’t do this. 
“I really fucking can’t do this!” you cry out, situated in the delivery room. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, already dampening your hair. Alexia thinks you look beautiful, and she has been made proud of the last two hours. You’ve also helped her a lot with English swearwords. 
“You can.” 
“I can’t.” You’re told to push again. “Alexia, you are having the… next… fucking… beach ball.” Each word is punctuated by a guttural moan. 
Waves of intense pain contort your face in agony, and the midwife continues to talk you through your task as though instructing you how to park a car. “Estás haciendo muy bien, mi amor,” she tells you, ignoring the possibility that you may have rendered her left hand boneless. 
“There’s a baby coming out of my vagina,” you shout, “don’t even try to test my Spanish, you twat.” 
The midwife shoots your fiancée a pitiful look. “She’ll take it back,” she says in Catalan. 
“She’s getting quite inventive.” 
“There’s been worse.”
You can imagine the conversation taking place in the middle of you delivering her literal child. “No, I won’t! It’s breaking me in half.” You grip her hand harder. “Never. Again.” 
But, with a final, visceral (and heavily encouraged) push, the room is filled with the sound of life. Nico comes into the world screaming at the top of his lungs. All Alexia can think to say is, “definitely yours.” 
Life is a lot more tiring trying to juggle being a mother and a pop star. 
The press have a field day when you announce the birth of your son with a simple Instagram post, your engagement ring second only to the swaddled lump on your chest. The caption (‘ours’) sparks debate on who exactly is the other parent. Well, father. Alexia’s teammates, while waiting to finally be allowed to meet your bundle, spend a good two months teasing her mercilessly about it. Most notably, Alexia almost loses La Reina to Papi. 
2019 comes with change — a lot of it. 
You hire a new manager so that Dave can focus fully on the last album 2sday will produce. The group has been together for six years, and you have made your millions.You seek neither money nor fame, but it comes knocking on the door of your quaint apartment in Barcelona anyway, along with a record deal only for you. A solo act.
Between Nico crying, Alexia playing football, and you trying to write songs that don’t end up criminally depressing, the contract on your dining table slowly becomes forgotten about. Alexia is too stressed about the impending World Cup to grant you a moment to breathe. You spend your days in Barcelona with a baby attached to your hip, the question of his parenthood still a mystery to the public, and, ever so slowly, you begin to resent your life. 
It could be postpartum depression, but you have no time to really investigate the symptoms. 
Alexia, two weeks before she needs to leave for her national camp and then the World Cup in France, comes home to an eerily silent apartment. 
She calls out your name, wondering if you have perhaps gone to her mother’s house. The terrible sinking feeling comes with your reply. “Can we talk?” you ask. 
She finds you perched on the Egyptian cotton sheets that cover your double bed. The sheets are out of place here, greatly exceeding the original budget of the decor, and, where Alexia sees this as you adding to her life, you feel you are somewhere you don’t belong. It is fine when she is next to you, holding your hand, claiming the other half of the now six-month-old baby boy gurgling in his carseat. When she isn’t there, though, the vacant space taunts you. 
“I have no friends here,” you tell her quietly. The gravity of the mood settling over you pulls her onto the mattress, not caring if the sheen of sweat she wears as her outermost layer of clothing dirties the expensive creamy white beneath her. “I have no friends, I don’t speak the language, and I think that I have played at being a normal person for long enough. I mean, it’s great to watch you and to be there for you, but, darling, that’s not who I am. This,” you gesture to the loungewear you have on, stained with dribble, “is not who I am.” 
Alexia hears what you are saying. She understands; she remembers the nights where you’d call her, a cigarette rasping your voice, sparkles shining in the valley between your breasts. She has seen this coming. It would be impossible not to notice the dimming of such a strong love between you: still present, yet slowly fading away. 
“They want me to sign a new deal. Alone.” The suitcases lined up in the corner of the bedroom become glaringly obvious. Nico is in his carseat for a reason. “I think it would be good for me to go back to London. I need to feel like myself again, and my parents are willing to watch him. I sold my flat – I’ve bought a house in Highgate.” Tears sting your eyes as you speak, and you know where Alexia’s shoulder is without having to look, resting your head against it. “I love you. I love you so much, but I just can’t do this anymore.” 
It’s as if the ground crumbles away beneath her. Your words hang above Alexia’s neck like an axe, waiting to execute her, waiting to end everything. She can’t look at Nico, whose face crumples at his mother’s clear heartbreak. 
The world, once vibrant, lays in ruins. Her funny story from training dies on her tongue, and her question of whether you wanted to visit her mother before she left for camp disintegrates, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. 
“Do you still want to marry me?” she asks, and you hate the way her voice cracks with uncertainty. “Are you moving permanently?” 
“I haven’t called anything off. It’s still going ahead as planned.” She senses the but. “But I… I can’t think here. I can’t be here. I want – I need – to go home.” 
“Okay.” 
“Okay?” 
She is going to be at the World Cup anyway. You and her will always find your way back to each other. She is going to be busy. 
She is going to be busy. 
She is going to be busy. 
“Yeah. It’s okay. Take all the time you need.” 
She is going to fall apart without you. 
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energeticwarrior · 2 months
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GLOBAL STRIKE FOR GAZA 1/21-1/28
Apologies for my delay in using my platform, I found out about this strike yesterday and was taking some time to figure out what to say
Palestine has been suffering long before October 2023 and I need everybody to understand that. There is a genocide happening right now and if people don't use their voices to speak up, then they will become a lost cause in our history. We do not want the stories of their people to be told 50 years from now with a side comment like "oh no I wish someone would've done something" or "I can't believe that actually happened." Our voices can spread like a wildfire, so I hope that everybody joins the global strike this week in support of Palestine and uses their voices, social media, platforms, etc to voice their support.
If you are unsure of where to start, I suggest reading up on the history of Israel's occupation of Palestine dating back to 1948. Here is a free PDF download of this book. To be honest, I have not finished reading this book yet, but it's been highly recommended to me by multiple people. Buying the book from the author would be better, but I understand that it's not within everybody's budgets which is why I included that link.
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If you follow this link, this is a great guide on how to participate and support the strike this week. Doing every single thing is not realistic but do what you can and that is enough.
Here are some Palestinian journalists you can follow on Twitter, as they are the most reliable source. Many news sources worldwide have been misconstruing this "conflict" and completely ignoring the blatant genocide happening before our eyes. These journalists are Palestinian people who have been living this their whole lives (there are many more people and the Twitter thread can be viewed here)
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Additionally, here are some other Twitter accounts that you can receive information from.
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I urge everybody (art blogs, fandom blogs, etc) to put their interests on pause for the week and use that time to educate themselves on what's been going on for the last several years. This did not start in October. Keep speaking up and uplift Palestinian voices!
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Resources and other ways to help:
BOYCOTT STARBUCKS AND MCDONALDS (among other things)
Donate E-Sims to help journalists be in touch with the rest of the world
Stop supporting Zionist celebrities (ex: Noah Schnapp, Gal Gadot)
Uplift Palestinian journalists
Donate menstrual products to menstruating people in Gaza
Donations to UNRWA, Islamic Relief Canada, Arab (daily clicks and proceeds go to UNRWA)
If I missed anything, please feel free to message me or send me something in my inbox. Again, I urge everybody to pause their week to stand in solidarity with the Palestinian people and continue to uplift their voices. We are all stronger together.
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anadiasmount · 1 month
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what do you think an ideal date with jude be like?
a love for the books - jude bellingham x reader.
quick sum: request above!
wc: 1.3k | masterlist | jude’s masterlist
HIII MY LOVE!! i’m so sorry this was delayed but i’m posting this in honor of valentine’s day 😣🤍 ik this might be a little over the top, but knowning how jude is...🤭 HERE’S THISSS FOR YOU AND ANYONE READING!! like always, hope you enjoy bc it’s pure fluff 🤍🤍
“look so pretty for me darling,” jude said coming up behind you where you shyly looked away as you finished clasping your earrings on. “seriously, like how did i get this lucky,” jude kisses your temple and sighed in relief as he hugged your waist.
you smelled his familiar cologne, kissing his bicep that was bare as he wore a simple black button-up and some jeans. looking more boyfriend than ever. “i don’t know jude, you tell me. i’m the lucky one for being able to spend my weekend away with my boyfriend for the first time in weeks,” you say teasingly.
“you’re right. but i have a girlfriend who is patient, loves and cares for me, and planned this evening for the two of us. don’t worry i have something special in store for you later,” jude leans down and pecks your lips in a loving manner, a groan stuck in his throat as he tastes your sweet taste.
“cmon i wanna eat, i’ve been dying to eat for hours,” jude says pulling you to the door hand to hand. “jude wait hold, wait jude! i need my shoes and my purse,” you say giggling and rushed. jude sits impatiently as you finish final details, sighing in relief once you finished.
jude opens the passenger door for you, refusing to let you do anything and let him be the gentleman he is. he keeps a hand on your thigh but from time and time, he'll interlock hands and kiss the back of it gently, giving you a cheeky smile as he sang to his music.
he led you to your table at the exclusive and private restaurant, never letting go until he grabbed your chair and helped you get seated. his brows pulled in as he scanned through the menu, telling you different options of what he saw or what he was in the mood for.
"we'll take the roscatto red wine in a bottle, and bread rolls for starters," jude spoke kindly, his thumb rubbing your skin as you continued to scan in the menu, thanking the waiter when they brought and filled your glass.
"what's the surprise you mentioned," you asked curiously, leaning your head on your hand that rested on your table. "it won't be a surprise if i tell you," jude snickered, grabbing a small bite of the golden warm bread. "yes but i'm impatient and want to know," you moaned. "if you keep whining i'll blindfold you and won't let you see the entire ride there," jude raised his brow testing you.
"fine, now what are you thinking of getting?" you asked taking a sip of the red wine carefully. "maybe the honey garlic salmon with a side of stirred veggies?" he said slowly as he read the menu. you winced in a disgusted manner, shaking your head at the thought of seafood, "ew..."
"oh please," jude laughed at you, "i bet you'll order pasta or noodles of some sort knowing how you are," jude teased earning a dramatic gasp from you. "for your information, i was thinking of it... BUT i'm going to go with the steak with a side garlic parm zucchini bites and stuffed rolls," you poke your tongue out.
jude and you speak quietly among yourselves, laughing loudly as you remember old memories and remince those times where you first met, last minute dates because you had missed each other. going to random gas stations to get snacks, or stay up all night on facetime.
you could remember it all, write all the memories down on sheets of papers and turn them into a book if you wanted to. jude always tells you the day you have kids, and once they’re bigger, he couldn’t wait to tell them just exactly how you met. how his heart bang out his chest and saw everyone blurry and just you standing in the room.
how nervous he was trying to approach you. the eagerness inside him to hear you laugh or make you smile. how determined he was to get your number or any sort of contact because he knew. how much off a stuttered mess he was once he finally asked you if you want to go inside for a drink. how he felt like the luckiest man on earth, almost cried, when you told him the three words.
through think and thin. you were it for him. and he’ll never ever let go of you.
“cmon… we’re almost there baby…” jude said as he dragged you along the gravel road down into a wet trail. “jude when you mentioned surprise i though a movie night with a fort and a game off poker, not this! i just ate and all this walking is gonna make me throw up,” you laughed nervously, almost misplaced your step any a giant rock.
“funny you say movie night… what if we have a movie night here,” jude closed your eyes, then revealed the open setting. “we can star and moon gaze if we get bored, but we can have a movie night here with all these snacks surrounding us,” jude kisses your forehead, watching your mouth agape as you saw the laid out pillows and sheets, a small table containing the snacks and jude’s ipad.
“jude… this is so CUTE. I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! you’re the best boyfriend i could ever ask for,” you squeal hugging him so tight he’s afraid you’ll break his bones. “only boyfriend you’ll have,” jude states in a possessive manner making you roll your eyes playfully.
“only boyfriend i know, unless for some reason henry cavil turns up single?” you shrug pouting your bottom lip, jude immediately frowning as he followed your steps into the sheets laid out. “uhm first off all were both english. second of all that won’t ever happen, i’ll make sure if it. third of all, you say all this after i do this for my lovely girlfriend?” jude speaks as hoe watches you set up the pillows and open bags of chips.
“i was just kidding… you’re the only hero in my life, and i can’t wait to make more of these memories with you,” you say after nagging an upset jude to lay down. he has one hand under his head, as the other one strokes your back, the bringing it up to tuck a curl back, brushing your cheek and leaning up to capture your lips.
you melt inside, feeling a burn sensation as he kiss your lips. this felt different than past times, the way he holds you, kissing you like a starved man, hands brushing and pulling you on top of him so he can further the kiss even more. your hearts beat quicker, not once pulling away, just in your own world with jude.
“as much as i want to fuck you against these sheets… i want to watch the movie with you,” jude pulls away breathless, smears of your lipstick all over his lips as he closes his eyes trying to calm down. “and what if i say i don’t want to watch the movie… that i’ll take that offer right now,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, making jude shiver.
“if you’re a good girl and do what i’ll say, i’ll gladly grant the wish, so turn around for me and press play…” jude’s voice then deep nudging to the ipad and watching you slowly turn and lay on his arm, feeling your nails gaze onto his skin as you traced his veins.
after a couple minutes of silence and just your breaths and watching the movie, you feel jude pull the strap of your dress down and pepper kisses all over your bare shoulder. “stay still, gonna give my girl the love and care she deserves…”
your love was definitely a story for the books.
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june-again · 10 months
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platonic; 1k; reader is cautious about friendships due to past experience.
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“Do you think you’ll ever change your mind about being friends with me?”
Alhaitham’s hand froze, pen paused mid-sentence. Ink dripped once or twice onto the paper, and you watched it intensely so that you would not see his expression.
“I mean, I know you eventually will,” you continued, “but how… soon… do you think that will happen?”
You couldn’t help your gaze from falling on his face. Your fellow scholar was staring sharply across the library table at you, eyes slightly wider than usual.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said, feeling a bit antsy. “It’s just a question.”
“A baffling one,” he finally said, and then pressed his lips into a line.
“I just want to see where you’re at. It’s been… how long, three years now? So you should have some idea by now, right?”
Alhaitham laid his pen in its case, leaning back into the chair with his arms crossed over his chest. He humphed. “I refuse to answer that question until you properly elaborate on why you’re asking it. We were sitting in what I assumed to be peaceful silence, doing our reading—which, mind you, is completely unrelated to your inquiry as I recall. And now you’re asking me that. To me, it’s coming out of nowhere. So please, explain yourself.”
He was delaying his answer, and it was only making you feel more frantic. Was he going to leave you behind that quickly? Were you catching him on the way out? “I only want to be prepared.”
“Prepared, you say?”
“Y-yes, prepared.”
“For?”
You let go of a long, shaky sigh, acknowledging that he would not relent. “People get tired of me, you know. I’m not exactly the easiest person to be around. It’s usually possible for me to anticipate exactly how long people are going to last, but with you… I haven’t wanted to think about it. So I’ve got to ask you directly. I’ve got to know how long I have so that I don’t take you for—” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat before finishing the sentence, “—for granted.” 
Alhaitham pinched between his eyes. He sounded unmistakably bothered. “And how long have you been meaning to ask me?”
You cleared your throat again, averting your eyes to the bookshelves around the table. You could feel tears pricking at your eyes but you did not permit them to fall.
“Awhile, huh?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, praying the tears would go back in. 
He clicked his tongue. You could feel his glare on you even as you admired the cut of the Adhigama wood. One book was hanging out of the shelf. You stood up suddenly and walked over to fix it so that Alhaitham would not see your jaw trembling. You had meant for this to be a logical, calm conversation. Damn, you thought, shoving the book back into place. Pull yourself together.
You felt the shadow of Alhaitham leaning his elbow on a shelf to look at you. “You asked me a question and then walked away. Do you want to hear my answer, or not?”
With a shrug, you focused on the feeling of the book's spine under your lingering fingertips. It was a cloth hardcover. Some of the tiny weaving was worn out.
“Alright. I’ll start with all of the things you got wrong. First of all, it is not fair to neither me nor you for such a question to be asked. We cannot know the future and there is no use in living outside of the reality of the present. You may not prepare.”
You stayed silent, pulling the book out and pushing it back in again over and over again. With your other hand, you wiped away one disobedient teardrop.
“Secondly, I wonder if you were paying attention to the words you were saying. You said you’re not the easiest person for ‘people’ to be around.” Neither was he, you thought. “Well, neither am I,” he said, echoing your thought.
“Okay,” you said, “but still.”
He scoffed. “‘But still’? That’s your best argument against my point?”
You laughed, although it sounded a bit more like a sob. He was correct, there. “You still haven’t answered my question, Alhaitham.”
“I see no need.”
You looked up at him, eyes wide and red.
He considered this. “Fine, I see a need. But you're picturing I’ll tell you something I haven’t once implied, I hope. I am not going to change my mind about being friends with someone who means as much to me as you do. That’s not how friendship works, and I am rather distressed that you are under such an impression.”
“Alh—”
“Let me be clear. I am not changing my mind on you. I’m going to stay your friend as long, if not longer, than you will allow it.”
You rubbed both your eyes with the heels of your hands. “Well, that’s real nice of you.”
You did not believe him, and you could tell that he knew this. “Besides,” he conceded, “who else is going to sit with me in the library for eight hours just because they like being around me? People don’t do that.”
“I’m not people,” you said.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re not. And neither am I.”
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ps. dear that one irl who might end up reading this (the one who has literally asked me this question) (you really are a devoted gal if you're here right now, people don't just read other people's fanfiction for a fandom they know nothing about) (unless you're howdy) (but you're not), alhaitham's response is my response to you.
i relate to him for reasons i hope are clear.
➳ GENSHIN MASTERLIST
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folkvangr-seidr · 2 months
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Runaway
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Pairing: Jenna Ortega x fem!reader
Summary: you end up in a city you hate but maybe the company makes it worth the while.
Words: 1.3k
Warnings: none?
a/n: this is my first time writting for Jenna and english is not my first language so keep that in mind <3
It was 4am and you were stranded at the airport. your flight was delayed due to a raging storm and you decided to stay the night instead of booking a room. you were used to airports by now anyway.
Your job required you to travel a lot. You were a firefighter and you also worked as a volunteer with the IFRA (International Fire and Rescue Association) so yes, you spent a lot of time wandering around airports.
You were training some mexican units and the weather was horribly hot, so as soon as the job was finished you found yourself desperate to find a way back home. You knew there would be no direct flights from Mexico to Iceland in fucking November so you settled for a connecting flight via New York.
That's how you ended up slouched over a small table questioning every decision you ever made.
You knew the weather in Iceland, you weren't born there but it was the place you proudly called home. So you knew this storm could either be over in a few hours or block all the flights for at least a week. You didn't like that thought though.
You looked around and saw a large group of people walking towards some free seats near you so you made the smart decision of getting up and gathering your small suitcase and the book you were reading. You were not in the mood for chatting with strangers and you felt the need to move your legs anyway so you plugged your headphones in and started walking with no direction in mind. You found a much quieter and less crowded corner and you unconsciously sped up in hopes to get there before someone could spot the couple of empty chairs under some burnt lights. You were lost in your thoughts and inmersed in the music until someone bumped into your side, throwing you off balance and making you drop your book. You turned around to see a small figure crouching over and picking up your book.
"I'm sorry" it was a beautiful voice.
She looked at you and smiled and you just froze.
"Sylvia Plath, huh?" she smiled and your eyes became fixated in the small dimples on her cheeks.
You just nodded, somehow keeping a sense of calmness in your words when you spoke.
"Would say it's my toxic trait but I like to think it's more like my biggest flex."
She laughed and you found yourself unable to look away from her.
"I'm Jenna" she simply said, extending her hand.
"I know" you answered meeting her hand in a soft handshake. "I'm Y/N."
She just smiled, not breaking eye contact.
"It's a beautiful name" she said, disentangling your hands. "Now, Y/N, please tell me we can share that secluded corner for awhile?" she sounded a little desperate despite the playful tone and the lingering smile.
You motioned for her to go ahead and she took a couple steps forward before looking back at you.
"You coming?" her smile made you feel warm inside.
You followed her and sat in one of the chairs, ready to pull your phone out and go back to your playlist.
"There you go" Jenna said handing you the book. "Did you get here too soon too?"
You frowned at her shaking your head.
"My flight was delayed" you answered. "When's yours supposed to take off?"
"In a couple of hours" she said tiredly.
You couldn't help but laugh, earning a fierce glare from Jenna. "She looks cute" you thought.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" you said, still laughing a little.
"No, you're not" she retorted with a smile. "So… Where are you flying, Y/N?" She asked curious.
"Iceland" you said with a happy sigh. " But seems like the weather doesn't like my plans."
"Sure" she snorted. "Iceland seems like an amazing destination, though. Business or pleasure?"
"Neither" you said "well, for pleasure I guess."
She looked at you with a weird look, like she was trying to decipher some kind of mystery.
You cleared your throat and tried to explain.
"I live there. Well, at least when I'm not working or on a mission. I usually go visit whenever I have a few days off."
"A mission?" she said, as if it was the only thing she heard.
"Yeah, well" you touched the back of your neck, unsure. "I'm a firefighter so sometimes we volunteer to go on training or rescue missions."
"Really?" she said, her eyes shinning with a strange glimmer in them.
You nodded, not knowing what to say.
"And you live in Iceland? Whoah" she gestured with her hands while mouting the word "mindblowing".
You had to laugh at that.
"Yeah, but I spend most of the year working on England or traveling, you know" you explained.
She nodded at that.
"Seems like your full of surprises, Y/N" she smiled at you.
You checked the time on your phone only to be met with a notification saying "CANCELLED FLIGHT 18-705".
"Fuck" you cursed under your breath. "They cancelled my flight."
Jenna looked at you serious but didn't say anything until she saw you getting up from the chair.
"Where are you going?" she asked scrunching her face.
"It's almost 6am, I'm getting you to your boarding gate and then I'm calling a friend to see if I can crash at her place" you explained with a smile.
Without saying anything she got up aswell and checked her phone for the info she needed then she started walking toward the gate without much thought.
Until some guy grabbed her arm and started screaming about how he got so lucky to run into THE Jenna Ortega. Her face was showing clear signs of discomfort and… pain? Was the guy hurting her? You inmediately stepped toward them and took his wrist in your hand and with just enough force you made him let go of her.
He wasn't happy, the looks he was giving you made it clear but he wouldn't try anything by the slight fear in his eyes.
"Maybe you should try asking first next time" you said coldly before leading Jenna away from him.
She was quiet and wouldn't look at you and you wondered if she was maybe angry because of what you did?
"I'm sorry, I was out of place but he seemed like a bit too much" you started, smiling tentatively. "I'm really so…"
"Don't be" she cut you off, still not looking at you. "He took me by surprise" she admitted. "Thank you" she continued lifting her face to look at you with some sense of… fondness?
She seemed genuinely grateful and you couldn't shake the feeling that accompained the thought of this kind of situation happening to her everyday.
"It was nothing" you said shrugging it off.
You continued walking toward her boarding gate in a comfortable silence.
"This is me" she said with a nervous smile.
"Be safe" you said. "Have a nice flight, Jenna."
You turned to leave but her voice made you stop.
"Wait" you turned again, now facing her. "Thank you, Y/N."
You smiled at her starting to walk backwards as people you assumed wanted to board the very same plane started filling the space and when you could no longer see her you turned fully determined to find the exit and then call Gio to ask for a ride and a couch to crash on.
Meanwhile, Jenna got seated on the plane when a thought came into her mind.
She forgot to ask for your phone number!!
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