#but been a very busy fortnight | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

comfortless · 6 months

Text

All That You Don’t Want

PAIRING: witch!fem!reader x apprentice!König

CONTENT: 18+! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. oneshot. obvious au— so not canon-compliant!, questionable morality, mutual pining, animal death (it’s still alive! but not!), minor character death, power imbalance? technically teacher/student, forced proximity, smut; unprotected piv, creampie, cunnilingus, cockwarming.

NOTES: title from this song! (i will never stop titling my König fics after The Twilight Sad lyrics sorry) i have never written smut in my life i apologize if this is rough!! cover: Robert Bresson, 1951 wc: 7.7k

You never wanted an apprentice, never had the need for some bright-eyed whelp shadowing you for their own benefit. The kingdom had enough competition as far as your craft went— green magic, potion brewing and enchantments, why in the world would you risk teaching someone your secrets only for them to outdo you at every turn? Those with the propensity for magic weren’t treated human, anyway. You saw the looks, uneasy and disgusted, unless of course they had need of you.

The Guild keeps your protected, scrawl your praises in every fresh sheet of parchment passed about, brings in new clients for you to keep yourself afloat without you ever having to leave your little cottage in the forest just beyond the towering walls of the kingdom. So, when you receive the damned letter, how can you refuse?

Green magic couldn’t protect you from the King’s headsman, nor could it keep you hidden away from the constant threat of bandits and other malevolent forces, but the lines in the small letter detailing your new apprentice’s abilities are enough to make you swallow back some of that displeasure.

“… proficient in offensive magics…” and “… formerly in service to the King as a worthy candidate for knighting…” even “… a skilled huntsman…” all tell you that whoever this enigmatic pup is, he would have no qualms hissing at and chasing off a few rogues if they dared step too close to your territory. You picture some ruggedly handsome and charming gentleman arriving at your door with a sword of the finest steel hanging from his side and you loathe the way that your heart seems to flutter with excitement at the prospect.

A fortnight after the letter arrived at your doorstep, you realize that fantasy is often far sweeter than the reality.

You’re busying yourself sorting out a towering shelf with haphazardly placed vials, some labeled and others… well, if you had to guess based on the color of the fluid inside, you should probably toss lest you accidentally poison the next poor woman that comes by simply wanting something to charm the cute farmhand while her piece of shit husband, far too old for her, is off on another brothel visit. You may not be equipped to defend yourself in battle, but you know very well how to make nightshade and wolf’s bane taste like milk and honey.

It’s when you turn with your arms burdened by a heap of unlabeled, possibly poisonous concoctions that you see a figure just outside your window— tall, face shrouded with a blackened veil with only two holes cut out for his moonstone eyes. You curse the way the sight makes you nearly jump out of your skin, dropping everything you were holding onto the wooden floor, brightly colored fluid and glass shards staining a nearby rug you had spent an entire month painstakingly hooking yourself. The specter just tilts his head at you before inviting himself inside. Why bother pretending to be civilized when you look like that, anyhow?

You crouch to collect the shards of glass and wipe away the mixture of maybe-poisons as he enters, not sparing him a glance even as his footfalls lead him to stand uncomfortably close. Perhaps if the entire ordeal hadn’t pissed you off you would have the sense to be afraid, consider the fact that this titan of a man could have been a thief, but something tells you that this is the bright-eyed whelp you had anticipated. The man doesn’t even bother to greet you, let alone kick his muddy boots off at the door, he just hovers over you with his face tilted downward as you scrub up the mess you tell yourself he had caused.

“Leave it to The Guild to send me a dolt,” you mutter below your breath, barely audible as you move to deposit bits of broken glass into a wastebasket at the corner of the room.

“Ja?” The man huffs amusedly.

“Ja?” You question.

“Yes.”

You give him a look, one that suggests you’re in no mood for whatever this is and he seems to stiffen. Any mirth in those haunted eyes of his is quickly snuffed out, replaced with his gaze darting from perusing your backside to the corner of the room, then back up to your face.

He introduces himself as ‘König’. No surname, no title. Though, you supposed in his language, his name was a title in itself. Perhaps your disappointment is more notable than you realize, because the man seems almost nervous around you as you introduce yourself in turn. His fingers curl into his palms in repetition at his sides, and it’s impossible to tell by the small glimpse of his face whether or not he wants to strangle you or bury himself instead.

You rise to your feet, feeling acutely defeated as you lead him around the home, showing him to each room before stopping at the door to his own and crossing your arms over your chest.

“You’ll stay here,” you say quietly, avoiding his eyes as he lowers himself to look at you, thanking you graciously as his hand lingers a bit too long on your shoulder. You gently reach to pry it off, only to feel him grip at your fingers running his thumb over each knuckle before finally drawing away.

You watch from the doorway as he inspects the room. A bed a size two small for a man such as himself sits in the middle, a desk cluttered with spare vials of ink and a few quills made of swan feather, and a towering bookshelf filled with books on simple magic that you haven’t bothered to touch since you were a girl. He seems pleased, despite how very little effort was made for him. As much as you wish otherwise, you almost feel the sting of guilt when you watch him seat himself on the small bed and his eyes light up as he looks to you.

It didn’t take much perception to see the world hadn’t treated this brute too kindly.

He hunts your dinner, bringing home several rabbits that he took his time to skin and prepare for cooking in the yard. Even more, he roasts them over a fire he stoked up for you in a display of gratitude. You watch him from the fogged window as he seats himself by the fluttering flames, watching the meat with a focus that speaks volumes about his own discipline.

“Have you lived on the land for long, König?,” you ask him when the two of you are seated at the table, wiping away the remnants of your meal from your lips with a small handkerchief.

He’s only rucked up his hood enough to eat, the scars lining his jaw run deep, the skin pasty there. He looked far too pale to even be a living thing at all, but his thin lips pull into a grin at your question. “You can tell?” He asks with a slight tilt of his head, the tone of his voice suggesting sarcasm. “Perceptive little witch.”

You furrow your brow at him, surprised by his sudden arrogance. You would have sooner expected the man to tear a hole through you than meet your little question with a cocky response if his twitchy behavior was anything to go by. But… his voice sends a shiver down your spine, the amused lilt mixed with his accent, some natural charm that makes areas of you ache that haven’t been touched in years.

“A man must know to feed himself, ja?”

“Well, I don’t hunt.”

He huffs out a laugh at that, raising a hand to readjust his hood, pulling it back down over his face. König is not pretty, far from it from what you could see, but you almost find yourself downtrodden that he’s hiding himself again when you were only just starting to find yourself curious.

“I will teach you,” he suggests as he clears your table, depositing both your dishes and his own into the washbasin at the far corner of the kitchen. He’s helping, and your eyes merely track him dumbfounded.

“You don’t have to, König— I, um. I’m supposed to be teaching you, remember?” You’re trying to sound authoritative, like a proper mentor but it’s fruitless, really. How long had it been since a man was this close to you, living out in the forest? You had clients, sure, but in your craft you came to know about their proclivities, their ailments, and any interest you may have had died with their innumerable requests.

The Guild had set you up, surely, you decide as your eyes wander over to the man washing your dishes, the man who had prepared your dinner, who had stared openly at your ass. The man who smelled of dew and timber and fire smoke. The man with the most beautiful, tired eyes you had ever met.

You can see the muscles of his back through his tunic, tightly bundled up from where he’s drawn his sleeves to his bicep to wash up the remnants of dinner, mind almost numbing from the sight alone. It felt like some divine torture, to be sent something you adamantly did not want only for that very same thing to make your pulse quicken and throat dry.

“I want to teach you,” he tries again.

You feel sinful for the place your mind goes then. Do the ladies in the kingdom often allow monsters to bed them? Is his size comparable to the stature?

“Okay.” Your voice was tight, barely a whisper.

He finishes up his cleaning and turns to look at you as he wrings his hands over the washbasin, his eyes narrowed and crinkled at the corners. Grinning again like a wolf knowing he’s got his claws in you.

— — —

You go over the standard protocol when dealing with customers seeking remedies with König as you hear the approaching horse whinnying out in the yard. Simple, standard. Most people had a wariness for those who were touched by magic, understandably so. It’s human nature to fear what isn’t fully understood. With König’s imposing height and the veil over his face, you needed him to be extra careful in these situations. He doesn’t seem to take offense at your fretting, merely smiles beneath the veil as you speak and all is settled and well by the time your client wraps lightly at the door.

You swing the door open with a polite smile, hands clasped at the lap of your dress. The smile is maintained even as you catch sight of his face, scars from a horrific burn covering over half of it, his right eye filmed over and sightless in its socket. He wasn’t here to charm a lady or conceal his face with glamours, only for a balm to alleviate the lingering, phantom pains that stretched from his scalp down to his neck. A decent man, and a damned good blacksmith from what you had heard. He was one of your favorites.

König observes from the corner of the room, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest without a word as you fetch the jar of balm for the client, accept his coin and send him back on his way.

“Oh.. I don’t know how he got that nasty burn but it’s hard to look at isn’t it?”

König gives you a look, something unsaid hinted at just beyond the surface of his icy eyes, and you realize it’s a little too late to pull your words back.

— — —

Days seem to pass by with an awkward tension in the air. It’s not because of his tutelage under you, either, because he’s doing surprisingly well with his studies. Potion crafting is a tricky, fickle sort of thing. One mistake and an entire batch is ruined and the gods only knew when you would stumble upon what was required whilst foraging again. König is careful, attentive as he follows your instruction. He studies diligently, spending his free time reading through his books, often out in the foyer and if not for how skilled he was, you would assume it was all for show. Wishful thinking, a vicious yearning settling in between your breasts that wants for him to try and impress you, to court you.

It’s tense because you’ve found you can’t keep the man out of your head. In the late hour when the house has fallen silent, you could often hear his desperate grunts through the thin slats of wood separating your own room from his. You’ve imagined the sight of him fisting his cock, biting down onto his scarred lip as he whines through his release more times than you would ever confess. The gods themselves couldn’t pry the admittance from your lips that you wait up sometimes to hear him with your own hand between your thighs.

And König had this look about him now, more confident as he walks about. His hands don’t twitch as much when the two of you speak.

It’s the seventh morning as you’re preparing tea for the both of you that he enters the cottage entirely nude (apart from the hood; he seems insistent about keeping it almost entirely on in your presence). His body drips with river water, looking more like the skillfully carved statues that took residence in the castle courtyard than any man at all. You can’t help your staring, and he seems unperturbed by it as he slips behind you to set some freshly plucked milkweed on the wooden countertop. So focused on the cords of tight muscle layering his body, the obscene thing swaying between his legs, you hadn’t even noticed he had bothered to collect an ingredient you so desperately needed.

A man such as he should be seated on a throne, worshipped by a harem of pretty ladies, all pawing at his lap. Yet— he merely had you, ogling him as openly as he seemed to do to you.

“For the elixir,” he hums, sounding amused as he tilts his head to look you over as he had a striking amount of times already.

“Yeah.” You try to subtly clear your throat, cursing yourself for the way your reaction prompts his eyes to dart to the swell of your breasts beneath your dress. “Thanks.”

“You look pretty today.” He’s making everything worse. Turning your quiet life around and filling you with some horrid feeling you’ve avoided for years out here in near-isolation. “You look pretty everyday,” he corrects himself before you can speak. The obscene pillar between his legs seems to grow at the sight of you, and if you were not certain before, you know assuredly now that something has cursed you.

A good, knowing witch would tell him that his compliments were inappropriate, unwarranted. She would tell him to not walk around with his cock on full display and send him off to practice mundane spells as punishment. You are not a good, knowing witch at all if the warmth on your face is anything to go by.

“How was the river?” You ask instead, graciously retrieving a towel from the cupboard to hand to him. Despite how orderly you tried to keep things here, it’s not the water he’s dripping all over the hardwood that has your mind spinning.

“Gut.” He says words in his native tongue, often, and you’ve already grown accustomed to deciphering them. They sound prettier on his tongue than your own. He accepts the towel and merely draping it over his broad shoulders. “Come with me next time,” he offers, all but innocently.

God damnit.

“I made tea.” You’re trying to avoid his undressing stare, busying yourself with the tea kettle. The scent of mint seems to calm you as you pour the tea into your own mug, careful not to spill it out onto the counter with your trembling hands.

“I like you.” Blunt as always, you wonder if he even has any sort of control on the things he says.

God damnit all.

“I like you too, König. You’re a good apprentice,” you respond, your nerves alight with something that you can’t quite place; a twig on the verge of snapping under its weight.

He laughs soft, and graciously gives you a reprieve from well… that as he steps out of the room to finally dress himself.

Later that evening as the elixir is fully prepared and the client arrives to pick it up, you realize that König is no where in sight. It’s not uncommon; the man certainly lacked his social graces, but he hadn’t seemed to mind the shopfront side of what you do before until you had spoken so carelessly. The client is a nervous little thing, a girl not yet a woman, anxious and shaky as she takes the vial from you with an abundance of thanks. It’s no wonder why she had requested such a thing meant to put a patch over her anxieties and communicate better now. You steal only a spoonful from the cauldron as you empty it, praying that it silences the buzzing of nerves and the fluttering in your heart as you bed down for the night.

— — —

You wake to a door slamming shut in the dead of night, followed by the quieted hiss of what you believe to be a curse in a language that is not your own. It immediately sends you on high alert, thinking back to the threat of bandits and enchanted wildlife or whatever else. Jolted from your bed by the kick of adrenaline, you tiptoe down the stairs to see that… nothing is out of place. The den is as homey as always, every vial and potion bottle in its place on the shelves. The only thing that appeared to be missing at all was a book on your shelf. You knew that book, too. It was a favorite of many of your customers, the ones with weathered skin or features that were not the golden standard of delicate, royal beauty. A book on glamours was not something that would be stolen away by any thief in the night, seeing as it wouldn’t be of much help at all without a dedicated practitioner.

It only really settles in for you that your apprentice snatched it away when you take a peek out of the window and your eyes settle on a darkened corner of the garden. Tall sprigs of lavender sprung up from the earth there, and an even taller man sat, legs crossed with your book in his lap beneath the milky glow of the moon.

König looks… agitated. Even from this distance, the glass and wall and several meters of organized plant life separating you, you can see his hands shaking as he ghosts his calloused fingertips over the pages. His shoulders tense and a fiery look in his eye. He reads the incantations aloud with proper annunciation, forced through his thick accent. Repeats them, several times over. Not a thing changes.

But you leave him be, return to bed, because despite him being your responsibility, his private matters are still his own. As much as you would like to snatch the book from his hands and confess through tears that he haunts your dreaming just as he is now, you can’t bring yourself to do so.

When the book is in its place the following morning with König still in his bed, you read over the pages heavily scented by lavender. The ones that tell you how he sees himself in truth without a single word from his own being. Too tall, too ugly, too ruined.

It’s not enough to say your heart breaks. You feel it shatter somewhere in your chest, little pieces crumbling down into the darkest pit of your middle. Perhaps he’s only doing this due to your careless words about your client the other day, perhaps he wants to be seen as something beautiful for once.

The day is spent with a heavy weariness in your eyes. König picks up some slack for you as you fester in a sadness that should not even be your own; prepares something meaty for you both to eat, incorrectly sweeps some dust from the wooden floors that you know you’ll have to properly clean later on, and even tends to the garden. He’s good with the plants, gentle as he plucks berries from their stems and cuts away only what was required with a sharp dagger.

While you’ve thrown yourself over a cushioned chair, König kneels before you to speak. He’s just finished telling you some gory tale about when he squired for Ser… something, a name you don’t even care to remember. It was a rare occurrence for him to open up, you’ve come to realize that. Maybe it was simply too soon for him, but then again, he seemed to have no qualms allowing you to hear his desperate howling at night or walk about after a bath with his cock fully erect in your line of sight. If words were too much then what the hell was all of that?

“How come you didn’t become a knight, König?” you ask him, your tone sounding a bit more dead than intended. It wasn’t that you weren’t interested in his stories, you were simply still coming to terms with one of his likely innumerable secrets. “The Guild said you were a good candidate, so why?”

You ask your questions, his eyes light up. He’s not used to this, it seems, and the fact that you want to know him at all makes him giddy. His fingers drum against his thighs, eyes creasing at the corners as he smiles beneath that veil and you wonder… wonder how the world could be cruel to someone like this at all when all that you want to do is bundle up with him beneath your thick quilts and kiss him in places only lovers would.

He doesn’t respond to your question, though. Another secret for some other time, you supposed. Instead, he asks his own, “Why are you so alone?”

König speaks freely, you knew that well enough but the words that escape his lips cause you to freeze all the same. His tone is neutral, not accusatory or mocking, but there’s something— something there you can’t properly uproot.

“I’m not lonely.” A little white lie couldn’t be too terrible, yet the thought of betraying your companion in even such a small way, hurting him like you assumed so many others had before is just unthinkable. “I am sometimes, but I like living here,” you correct.

“But you are alone,” he insists.

“I am not. You’re here.”

Your words are like a charm, really, and any rationale König may have had immediately dissipates when you speak them. He climbs over you, the chair creaking under your combined weight as he looks down at you with this hope-filled expression that tugs every one of your heartstrings at once. “Let me kiss you.”

His shallow breathing flutters his veil, the hunger in his eyes more than apparent, and you’ve the sense that a mere kiss would not suffice, turning into a long night with an impossible soreness between your thighs come morning.

You shake your head and he backs off immediately, returning to sit on the floor before you instead with a simple, “Okay.”

The room falls silent for a moment. You wanted to. You’ve been longing to. And yet the opportunity had gone and went; for any normal, sane person your rejection would have been enough. Weeks spent in his company should have taught you that König was a far cry from normal. The man treats you like you’re a doll, not a seasoned witch. Takes to hiding away from any company you may have and spends his nights outside in the dark wishing and failing to change what he was.

“If I tell you why I am not a knight will you kiss me?,” he tries again as you shift to sit upright in your seat.

“What? König, no… that’s not how—”

“I will court you,” he interjects quickly, rising to his feet to stare down at you. The man was practically buzzing with excitement, and you wonder if he intends to bolt out of the house right then to bring back ample gifts of flowers and fine silks just for a chance to mash his mouth against your own.

“You’re not here to court me,” you huff with a pinched brow. Stop making this harder! Why must you always make this harder?!

“I think about you at night.”

The giant professes his affections by telling you that he’s fucking his fist to the thought of you with all the simplicity of idle talk. Somehow, that seemed less alarming than the fact that you don’t even seem horrified. Words fail you when you desperately need them most, merely gaping up at him so dumbly you must have actually belayed interest, because he continues.

“In the river too.”

“König… that’s inappropriate,” you manage to find your voice then. You know that you’re a plaster saint, too, because the thought of bathing where he spreads his seed sends a swell of warmth from your tummy to the aching blossom between your legs.

“Ja, it is… why do you tease me? The way you look…” He trails off with a shake of his head, his blue eyes narrowing in confusion. He was trembling as though afraid, so violently you almost fear he’ll come crashing over you like an ocean wave. You would catch him, drown in salt water and foam, a curtain of sharp teeth and darkness.

He fidgets as he waits for an answer that never comes. What could you say? Admit that the way he feels is a mirror of yourself, that the two of you are only seconds from diving into a pool that you could never resurface from.

But just like before, König retreats up the shadowy staircase, up to his room. Another reprieve, another stone weighing heavy in the recesses of your mind.

— — —

Secrets are stupid, evil things you decide.

You’re staring into the glazed eyes of a dead buck as it stands before you on it’s hind legs. It’s head hangs limply from its broken neck, mouth gaping with each fragile intake of breath. It’s bloated belly leaks it’s own entrails as it takes a shaky step towards you, trying desperately to kick at you with the stiff limbs tucked against its chest.

“I don’t know how to make it go away,” König pants at your side, and despite his shallow, rapid breathing there’s this calm look in his eyes. This has happened before. This has happened before and to a far worse extent than a deer.

It makes sense, now, why something as trivial as casting a glamour simply didn’t work for König. The man was touched by something darker, something the King’s men would happily cut his head from his shoulders for. Necromancy was immoral and frankly, horrifying. Seeing it now, it was really no wonder why this sort of magic would send one directly to the headsman.

The deer huffs a breath, too long and ragged. It’s not used to breathing any more, after all. König steps between you two, his dagger raised. “Just… close your eyes.”

It’s over as quickly as it’s manifested and König does well at shielding you from the aftermath, your face pressed to his chest as he pulls you into his arms and walks you back home. What was meant to be a simple practicing session, resulted in chaos, and you’ve no words to give to fill the silence hanging over the two of you as he finally deposits you by the door.

You stand on shaking legs, a million questions swimming through your mind, but even as you part your lips to speak not a single sound comes out.

He looks exasperated when he finally remedies the quiet. “You’re afraid of me.” It’s not a question, only a resounding fact.

“No,” you lie immediately with a firm shake of your head.

“I will go.” König’s eyes are tired, always tired. He’s already slinking back towards the door when you reach for him, almost clawing at the length of his sleeve in your own desperation. If you were cursed this man was, tenfold, and you couldn’t bear the thought of sending him back out into a world that had hurt him so. One that would assuredly end his torment should this ever happen again. You don’t know whether you’re being merciful or selfish anymore; the definitions all a blur. You only know that the thought of König leaving your side feels like the ache of a thorn embedded in your heart.

“König, please— We can figure something out, we’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again,” you huff as you bury your face against his shoulder. He’s both tense and trembling beneath your warmth. “I just need time to think.”

He cocks his head, a resounding twinkle of mirth breaking through the listlessness in his eyes. “Why?”

König isn’t dull-witted. He knows the words you never have a chance to speak. No one’s ever held fast to his side like this; no one has ever truly wanted him.

You know that the second he pushes his veil up and presses his mouth to yours. It’s clumsy, the force he uses, as if he’s trying to headbutt you instead of give you his affection, but you reciprocate in turn. You breathe shakily against him when you finally bring yourself to part your lips and he immediately begins to languidly lap into your mouth, drawing his arms around you; one finding the base of your neck as the other settles on your lower back, his fingers digging into your velvet dress, bunching up the fabric enough to reveal the meat of your ass.

You both moan as though you’re already having sex, caught up in a tangle of limbs he tastes your mouth as though it were sweet wine; his tongue flicks against your own before pulling back, lapping at your lip, pushing back in in some steady repetition that makes your knees weaker. Your hands find the hem of his tunic, slipping beneath it to feel a wall of muscle layered over his abdomen and he groans into the kiss with such fervor you would think he’s already come. He tears the cloth off the second you thumb over his nipple and drops to his knees clutching at your thighs.

“I need to taste you.” He sounds so desperate, looks so pitiful as though he’ll cry if you don’t allow him to fuck you with his tongue. You’re too far gone to give him anything more than a nod, and he all-too-readily lifts the skirt of your dress, hooks his finger around the seat of your panties and buries his face between your thighs. The first sweeps of his tongue are almost punishing; he wastes no time plowing the muscle into your cunt, writhing and grinding it against your velvety walls. The sound is already obscene, but then he begins to moan.

He sounds even more desperate than those nights in his lonely room, somehow, as he paws at his own erection straining against his trousers and drives into your pussy at a feverish pace. When he finally moves to take your clit between his lips, you grasp at the top of his head to keep yourself upright, moaning so loudly you’re certain that the entire kingdom could hear. He hums, amused at this, places his hands on your ass and pushes your hips for you to grind against his tongue.

When he jerks your panties aside again to rub circles against your asshole, the tautly pulled coil inside of you finally snaps. You curl over him as you mewl, cradling his head as his tongue pushes against your labia and your slit to lap up every bit of your essence. He releases his grip on your ass as you tremble, strokes himself freely below you as he pants against your pulsing cunt. Graciously, he gives you a moment to recover before he’s rising to his feet, tearing off your ruined panties and lifting you in his arms just enough to rub his leaking tip against you, you give him a strangled cry of his name when his length brushes against your swollen clit.

“Let me fuck you,” he rasps, his eyes wide and pupils blown as you squirm in his arms. “Bitte. Please. Let me fuck you.”

“Yes— Please, please fuck me König,” you whine as your arms curl over his shoulders. He doesn’t hesitate when he lies you back against your rug and pushes your knees up to your chest. His fingers flex against your flesh at the sight of your pussy still twitching from aftershocks, soaked down to your ass and pleading to be filled by him. He drops a hand to spread your lips, groaning deeply from his chest as he watches in awe as the tip of his thick cock sinks into you.

You hadn’t realized just how dirty König was until you see that look in his eye, pulling his head out only to repeatedly push into you with a choked whine of sheer bliss. You hadn’t realized how filthy you were until you find yourself tucking your arms beneath your knees to keep yourself in position so he can grope at the flesh of your ass as he does it.

“So— fuck— so schön,” he mutters as he continues to tease you like this. It’s almost hell the way he still hadn’t filled you entirely when you ache to have that long, ugly pillar buried so far it’s bruising your very womb, and it’s almost heaven the way you squeeze against him with each shallow thrust, your pussy desperate to devour his weapon of flesh.

“König…” You’re breathing his name as though it were a prayer, and as though a gift from the heavens his calloused thumb begins to rub over your clit the moment he finally sinks himself into you. There’s resistance, your cunt wasn’t meant to take a cock so large, you’re certain, but he bottoms out after what feels like an eternity, parts your knees with one hand to see your face as he gasps. You take him all, enveloping him in a vise grip and he hissed something in his native tongue, a string of words you can only imagine are praise because the way he’s looking at you now is as if he’s found a goddess all for himself.

“I’m going to fill you,” he declares as he lowers himself atop you, his weight almost crushing. “I’m going to… feels so…” His words fall short as he begins to move, groping at one of your tits as his other hand remains over your mound, flicking your clit. König’s fingers trace against your nipple before pinching it just hard enough to draw a choked mewl from you as your back arches. “Ja, liebling… you need it..”

His pace picks up, thumb deftly rolling over your clit until you spasm around his cock. It’s savage, the fervor he puts into fucking into you, grinding the tip of his cock against your cervix until you cry out, only to draw back enough to bully against your g-spot until you shiver. Your orgasm hits you so unexpectedly and so hard your bite down on your lip enough to draw blood. König licks at your mouth as your sex pulses around him, groaning in tandem with your pretty cries.

He trails small kisses along your throat before biting down as his own climax hits. He alternates between spitting out words that sound like pure venom and moans that make him sound weak as he gives you one more thrust. His cock twitches so violently inside of you as he presses against your cervix your mind entirely blanks. You can’t tell if it’s his semen or your own slick spilling past his cock, painting your thighs when it all ends. You hang limply against him as he carries you over to the chair, keeping you plugged as he pulls you into his lap.

He fully unclothes you as he peppers your face and neck in sweet, open-mouthed kisses, pets you from the crown of your skull down to your back, brings a hand around your waist to pull you close as his other squeezes and squishes at your breasts. König’s gaze is adoring as your eyes meet his, he’s looking at you with a love you’ve never even known, the warmth of summer somehow still present in those eyes like glaciers.

“Will you stay?,” you force yourself to ask as if the answer isn’t already clear, his cock’s still buried in you and the man seemed utterly in love after merely having a sweaty, adrenaline addled session.

König presses his face into your hair, nuzzling at you as he kisses your temple. “You want me to stay?” He sounds bewildered, so fucking broken that he’s confused by the prospect anyone would even want him around, even if he just gave her the best fuck she’s ever had, even if she’s been staring at him adoringly since he found his way to her door.

“Of course I want you to stay!”

“Then… Ja, I will.”

It’s a declaration of love, in a sense.

König drops his hands to your hips as he kisses you again. The desperation has been strangled, buried someplace in your core. It’s sweet now when his kisses become sloppy and overwhelming. He shifts below you as he maneuvers your hips to grind against him, his length already hardening within you again. He noses at your jaw and pressed kisses to your cheeks when you take a moment to breathe. You curl your arms around him and bury your face into the crook of his neck as your ride him, the both of you moaning soft and panting against sweaty flesh. He finishes inside of you once more just as you lift his veil and kiss along his scars.

He bathed you in the river, carrying you down to the rocky shore as though you were a treasure, his hand stroking through your hair as the water laps over your bodies. It’s not enough to simply hold you, either, because one bath becomes two after he’s bent you over a stump and licked you to completion again before rutting into you like an animal.

Nights are no longer spent with a wall between, he takes to your bed without question, ensures you’re comfortable and warm as he holds you through the night. There’s a sort of desperation in you both, two outsiders that have finally found sanctuary in one another.

“I love you.” Followed by: “I love you.”

You’re not entirely sure who says it first.

— — —

“A deer?”

There’s a man in your home that you don’t recognize, looking you over as though you were well-bred cattle rather than a human being at all. Says he’s concerned about a potential necromancer after something foul slipped its way past the castle walls and paraded itself through an annual ball, sullying a few too-expensive and uncomfortably layered dresses and goring a man with its antlers.

König was seated in front of him, rigid with a forced calm you had never seen on him before, hands clasped and unmoving. You know he’s nervous anyway, his shallow breathing speaks volumes for what the veil keeps from you. You round the table to bring them both tea, trying your best to play the part of indifference as the two men speak.

König had said he didn’t know how to make it go away, and of course he didn’t, because how do you kill something that’s already died? Neither of you would have anticipated it finding its way there of all places, and in retrospect, you’re not even certain that the thought came to mind at all, you had lost yourselves in one another the moment you arrived home. Seeing as you both were the only magic-touched folks roving these woods, it was obvious why The Guild had sent this creep to question you.

“Yes. A large buck, it was,” the man continues, winking at you as he takes a sip of the warm liquid in the mug. You wished you had poisoned it, ridding the world of a man that made your skin crawl like this surely wouldn’t be too sinful. Looking to König, you realize that there’s no need for poisons, because the look in his eyes suggests that before this interrogation is over your rug will have a more stubborn stain than spilled potions and come.

“We use green magic,” you chime in flatly, giving König a moment to quiet his fury as the man turns his attention back to you. “Maybe a traveler slipped into the kingdom, it has nothing to do with König and myself. Why are you here?”

If he hadn’t already told you a thousand times earlier that morning when he took you in the garden, laid you down in a bed of blue and purple wildflowers, König would have told you he loved you right then. You were true, protecting him and risking your own head as well.

“That’s the thing,” the man begins with a laugh entirely devoid of amusement. “Your apprentice here was under similar scrutiny while he was in service to the king. A dead man brought back to life…” he waves his hand as he speaks, staring up at the ceiling as though he’s recounting poetry instead of listing the reasoning why he wanted to have your lover decapitated. “… killed ten good knights. We never suspected him at the time, but all of this…” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his brow, looking somehow even more insufferable than before.

You cross the room to gather the letter signed off by The Guild, detailing your apprentice’s arrival and thrust it into the man’s face. “He would have never passed any sort of eligibility exam if that were the case, and you sent him here.”

The man takes the letter with a click of his tongue before he laughs again. “We didn’t,” he says as he taps the signature at the bottom, hardly a signature at all, only a messy scrawl, the guild master’s name even spelled incorrectly.

König didn’t meet your gaze when you looked to him then.

You made a promise to him you would figure this all out, and you would. You just needed to buy some time, slip some wolfsbane into his tea—

“On behalf of The Guild, I do apologize for the trouble this monster has caused…”

There is no time.

“I’ll be sure that he and his rotting pets are disposed of prop—“

You’re clutching at the dagger König had left on the side table without even thinking it over, fingers curled so tightly around the grip, your knuckles felt alight. The man’s voice is silenced the moment he notices as he takes a wary step away from you. It’s not, really, that you could ever even see yourself taking a life, you never have, but the thought of losing König over a horrible chance in the stars that some uncaring god cursed him with makes bile crawl up the back of your throat and white hot fury course through your veins with all the subtlety of a stampede.

It wasn’t his fault.

König places himself between the two of you and curls his arm around you protectively. If lying for him hadn’t already resigned you to the same fate, drawing the dagger assuredly had. He gently pries the dagger from your hand and tucks your face against his chest, just as he had before when he tried to correct the accidental gift of life he had bestowed to the deer, only this time… you feel the pull of his muscles, you hear sounds of the dagger meeting it’s mark as he cuts through the interrogator’s tender flesh. It takes mere seconds for you to know his blade has struck true, the dying man eliciting a weak gurgling cry from his torn throat as König drops the dagger to the floor with a clatter and strokes your hair.

He makes you stand outside while he cleans up his mess.

A sane woman would run, she would count her losses and look back on her time spent with this unhinged man with criticism. You find that you are not a sane woman when you realize the tears falling freely down your cheeks are not of fear or anger at your own situation, but at the knowledge that he’s suffered being shunned on his own for so long; that he’s killed without remorse because this is what it takes for someone like him to survive at all.

When he finally returns from burying the body and scrubbing the blood from your floor, you readily embrace him and he nuzzles into your hair.

“Es tut mir leid,” he huffs out against you, pulling you so close to him you think, pray, he’ll never let go. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It’s not and you both know it, but you reassure him with your words and soft kisses to his cheeks as he wipes away your tears. “We can not stay here.”

We. Us. Together.

Something breaks in him at your words, and he shuts his eyes tightly to fight back the tears like claws at his eyes.

“So, tell me where we’ll go.”

He tells you of a place he read about in a book, somewhere across the sea and past a stretch of hills where the accidents he may cause won’t have him looked upon like a monster, where you can love one another in comfort, a place he’s dreamed about since he was a boy and found out just what he was when he reanimated his mother’s beloved cat. He tells you of his father’s cruelty, that a cat’s claws aren’t the only thing that’s left him riddled with scar tissue.

He tells you everything as you pack your things and begin a long walk to a shoddy harbor by the sea, his hand in your own as your board the ship to a new home, a new beginning.

#könig #konig #konig x you #könig x you #könig x reader #konig x reader #konig fanfiction #cod fanfic #könig fanfiction #cod fanfiction

829 notes · View notes

thecapricunt1616 · 11 days

Text

Cinnamon - (c.b. one-shot)

♡ One Shot Inspo: Cinnamon invokes lust and is considered an aphrodisiac. It can be used in love spells as well as for sex magic. Burn cinnamon to stimulate your spiritual powers and increase your psychic ability and awareness.

♡ Summary: Carmy hasn't had pussy in 2 weeks....he nearly died (he's a drama queen, but you love it) So, being the loving amazing GF you are you Mountain Dewed it up down left right (oh!!) switched it up like Nintendo - and did it so well you put his ass to sleep. (I listened to Espresso the whole time writing this its literally all I could think about hahahah)

♡ W/C: 4,140

♡ Posted Date: 05/12/2024

♡ A/N: HEYYYY!!! Okay okay so MORE STAGEFRIGHT because the amazing wonderful talented goddess level writer @l4long-winded sent in ♡THIS♡ big brain beautiful ask, and let me tell you I had some THOUGHTS!!! I have such a worship kink so .... yeah this was v fun to write. I hope you love reading as much as I loved writing. My dear please send in a request whenever you want!! Requests are open per usual :D

♡ Warnings for BTC: Kinda Sub!Carmy, Smut, Fem!Reader, AFAB!Reader, No use of Y/N, No use of physical descriptors, Black!Fem!Reader friendly (i'm pretty sure pls tell me if smth needs editing!), Kinda Virgin!Carmy, Not edited (we die like men)

♡ 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 ♡ ➵ 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 ♡ ➵ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ♡

It had been quite literally a fortnight since Carmy had been able to fuck you. It was all he’d thought about, well - when his brain wasn’t busy going a million miles an hour about the restaurant, which is exactly what had taken up so much of his time lately. He’d usually be grateful for this kind of work, the kind of work that he’s going in at 3:15 and not getting home until 11:30 pm or midnight when you were already fast asleep.

He was exhausted, emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually - but sexually?! He wasn’t sure he had ever been so wound up before. His nightly sessions of jerking his cock in the shower, biting his hand to keep as quiet as he could while he thought of the view of you when he came in that night. One leg hoisted up, nightgown ridden up over your ass. The one you knew he loved, and some of his favorite panties.

You called them your lazy girl panties because you told him you only wore them when you weren’t expecting anyone else to see them, but that very fact meant drooled over them. The slight discoloration from being so old, the little threads hanging off the leg holes and waistband. The tiny hole right in the waistband that he loved to thumb with while cuddling in bed.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes.

That had been how long he had gone without being inside of you. He didn’t know his dick could get depressed, but his dick was fucking depressed. Getting off felt like a chore. When he’d jack off, he took an extra 15 minutes yanking on the thing because he could barely cum anymore, even though his balls were aching like he needed to.

Every time he got home, he’d stand in the doorway, just watching you. You would be peacefully asleep, chest lightly rising and falling, your beautiful body covered by some loose sleep thing. A loose sleep thing that he fantasized about ripping off into shreds.

Tonight though - he could cry. You were up - you were fucking awake. Through his own selfish desires he didn’t even realize it was abnormal, the only thing he could think about was the blood rushing to his cock at the mere idea you could possibly potentially be in the mood. “Baby?!” He nearly tripped over his own two feet rushing to your shared bedroom.

You were sat up on the bed, book on your thighs - a loose nightgown that accentuated your curves and hugged your peaked nipples uncovered by any bra. He could bust in his pants and all you were doing was reading. Reading what? He could care less honestly because his cock was starting to hurt.

You sat up, putting your legs over the side of the bed to get up and greet him “Bear! How was work love? I wanted to stay up so that we could - what’re you…” you trail off confused as he slinks to his knees before you, between your thighs and lifting up your leg, putting the top of your foot to his lips.

“In…22 minutes” he starts between kissing up your bare ankle and calf “it..will have been..15..days..” he stopped at your thighs, his cheek smushed against the flesh, he looked like he could both cry and that he was coming home. “Since I touched you. Please. Please baby - can I make you feel good? Mm?” He mumbled into your skin. “Please princess? I’m dyin’ here. I’m fuckin- I literally cut my hand t’day thinkin’ bout you. I fuckin need you” he kissed over each little tiny inch of your flesh. He was…worshiping you.

The idea sent waves of warmth flooding your core. “Yeah baby?” You took his hand, seeing a bandage over his knuckle and kissing it gently.

The feeling of your lips to his skin made him whimper “please- please please please” he begged, sitting back on his feet and looking up at you through his bangs, pushing his hair back quickly before his hand found your calf once again, rubbing little strokes into it “please?” He asked softly, his big blue eyes blown wide with lust.

You gently cup his cheek “and who’s fault is it?” You were teasing now. But you knew the bastard loved a challenge, and you also had been horny and your fingers were nothing compared to Carmys.

“Mine. It’s mine. My stupid fuckin job angel I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, how can I make it up? What can I do pretty? Mm? I’ll do whatever you want” he begged you and kissed over your knees and calves, pressing short little pecks to the skin. You grabbed his greasy curls at the root, raking through a few of the knots gently before pulling him to look at you and he moaned gently at the sudden firmness

“Do you know I’ve been fingering myself to fall asleep. All alone - for all those days you said. My poor hand” you held it up and he brought it to his lips on instinct, kissing the pads of your fingers before opening his mouth expectantly. “Good Bear” you purr and his eyes flutter shut as you stuck in your middle and ring fingers, slipping them over his tongue. He moaned at the contact, not holding back.

You smiled a bit, tugging his jaw open and he looks up at you, cheeks flushed and drool beginning to drip down his chin. “You’re pretty” you said softly and he swirls his tongue around your fingers before sucking on them gently, not breaking your gaze. Your stomach flips with excitement, your panties becoming uncomfortably wet but you weren’t going to let that show. He deserved to beg.

“Do you deserve to be sucking on my fingers though?” You pull them away suddenly and he gasps a bit a the unexpected emptiness of his mouth, a pathetic little pout appearing on his lips.

“No” he said softly and you grab his cheeks, smushing them gently “but I can make you feel soooo good - you deserve it” he told you and you pat his cheek gently with your hand, your wet fingers leaving a glistening streak on his cheek.

“I know I do. Are you gonna eat me out? Like a good boy?” You laid back on your elbows, spreading your thigh and resting one of your feet on the edge of the bed, showing your panties that had grown a large wet spot during your conversation. He watches every move you make, his eyes focusing on the wet spot you sighed softly, deciding to take pity on him. “You can sniff my panties, you little freak” you giggle and he looked up at you like a kid on Christmas

He wasted no time shoving his nose right in the wetness, inhaling your sweet yummy scent and groaning “thank you” he mumbled into the curve of your ass, his hot breath against the skin causing your clit to twitch and goosebumps to appear on your skin. You feel him taking another deep breath and nuzzling his nose back and forth to get deeper like a dog and you couldn’t help but giggle, raking through the knots in his curls as he stuck out his tongue and caught the fabric of your panties with his teeth, sucking the juices out of the fabric and moaning hotly.

His hands were everywhere, rubbing over your calves, your thighs, your stomach, pushing your nightgown over your tits and rolling a peaked nipple between his fingers. You bit your lip, head falling back slightly and grinding your hips into his face, using his nose to get yourself off. “Go ahead Bear take off your jeans, you’ve been good t’night and I know you’re probably hurting” you told him

He sighed into you gratefully “y’too nice t’me” he kissed over your clothed pussy a few times as he unbuckled his belt with shaking hands, the anticipation was killing him.

“No me being nice would be telling you that you could touch yourself. And no dripping on my carpet” you told him as he pushed his boxers and jeans enough to let his cock free that was indeed dripping already. His boxers were creamy and wet with pre, he had been pathetically grinding against the boxspring as he sucked your panties like it was his life source.

“Shit-“ he said, wrapping a fist around his weeping tip as he continued tonguing and nosing at the fabric between your legs. “Can I- c-can I please?” He begged pathetically, that softness to his voice you loved so much. A sweet whiney grunt leaves his lips as you pull his hair, forcing him to look at you.

“What have we talked about? Use your words.” You said firmly.

“Can I- take your panties off…p-please?” He asked shyly “wanna make y’feel good - wanna taste your pussy I miss it s’much - tastes so good baby please lemme taste you” he said and his whiney husky voice mixed with his breathlessness from being shoved into the fabric of your dripping cunt made you clench around nothing.

“I wanna cum twice before you even think about touching yourself. Also take your shirt off you’re way overdressed for my taste.” You dropped his hair and he nods obediently, standing and shoving off his jeans and tugging his shirt off by the neck in that stupid jockish way that had you wanting to shove him down back first on the mattress and ride him until his balls were empty.

Instead you kept your cool, crossing your arms over and slipping your nightgown over your head before taking off your panties, flicking them at him playfully to which he balled them up and pressed them to his nose, inhaling deeply. This caused you to laugh as you adjusted your pillow to lay back, spreading your thighs and gathering some of your wetness from your hole, dragging it up to your clit and rubbing little circles into it.

“Mmm are you gonna keep sniffing those like a pervy-puppy or are you gonna come make good on your promise. I’m surprised this poor hand hasn’t fallen off” you teased and he dropped the panties where he was standing, coming and crawling on the bed, laying in front of you and hoisting your thighs over each of his shoulders

“Mmm” he hummed, his eyes fluttering shut and leaning in, resting his cheek on your thigh and inhaling. “Smell so fuckin’ good” he mumbled “mouth is literally watering” he kissed your inner thighs sweetly, ravishing the skin in gentle affection. “God I missed this fuckin missed this s’much. Every morning this pretty fuckin pussy is just beggin me” he kissed your mound gently, dipping his tongue out and moaning at the taste of sweat and lotion on your skin, lapping it up like a life source.

“Yeah? I think you’re the beggar” you mused, jaw falling slack as he licks a stripe up your heat, moaning pathetically at your taste. His eyes rolled back slightly before fluttering shut in pure bliss “mmm so pretty baby” you coo and he smiled slightly, his cheeks a blushy pink that matched the tops of his ears. He nuzzled into you, nose rubbing over your clit in the way that made you gasp, your toes curling lightly “good boy” you praised, voice breathy and light

“Taste so good” he mumbled into your cunt, squeezing your thighs gently with his tattooed fingers. He moaned into you, watching you with wide lustful eyes.

“Those pretty eyes” you said softly, gently brushing his warm cheekbone with your knuckle and he hums into you gently. He sucked your folds between his lips, pulling away slightly and rubbing your thighs up and down with his calloused palms, squeezing gently. You moaned hotly and couldn’t contain the cry that followed when he finally stuck his middle finger in your dripping hole, hips bucking to try and get more of him.

“So soft, so so soft” he mumbled into your clit before kissing it gently and taking the now swollen throbbing bud in his mouth, flicking his tongue over it quickly. His fingers twist and curl as he pumps them in and out at a languid pace. You felt that familiar jolt of pleasure as the pad of his finger brushed your g spot.

“Augh- ah- yes bear” you mewled, “right there- there” you grab his wrist and squeeze it and in response he curled his fingers the same way and you dug your feet into his shoulder blades in pure extacy, causing him to grunt into you and curl and uncurl his fingers in a rhythm that had your eyes screwing shut and loud strings of curses and moans tearing from your chest as you came undone over his fingers, dripping down his wrist already. But with how long it had been since you had him this way, that was to be expected.

“Good - good bear good bear” you mumble praise as your orgasm washes over you he works you through it, resuming pumping his fingers - your dripping arousal being able to be put to use as lube. The schlick,schlick,schlick sound of his fingers is what you come back to, your mind fuzzy and swimming through a warm sea of pleasure, sweet jumbled moans and whimpers coming from your lips.

“God you sound so fuckin’ pretty baby I love you so fuckin much m’so sorry m’so sorry I haven’t been around as much” he mumbled into you and you shake your head

“S’okay shhh- shh just keep doin’ what you’re doin’” you push his head back down, watching as his eyes flutter up to look at you and he sweetly offers his other hand for you to hold, your heart melting at the gesture. “Such a sweet boy” you coo, taking his hand and lacing your fingers together. He smiled a bit in response nuzzling his nose against your clit, his lips making cute little smacking noises against your cunt.

“You’re so messy” you giggle a bit, seeing as the tip and bridge of his nose were wet with your slick, as was his chin and entire mouth area. “Your face is so wet baby” you told him and he looked up at you

“Mmm m’neck is wet too” he paused to say before resuming and you gently caress his cheek, the only sounds filling the room being the wet drill of his fingers and the smacking of his lips, like he was trying to devour a popsicle before it melted.

You felt your second orgasm quickly approaching, your walls fluttering around his fingers, he curled up into that spot and that was your undoing once more, your hips pushing back into the mattress and spine arching off the bed towards the ceiling slightly as your orgasm crashed over you with no mercy to be had.

“Jesus- fuck!” You cried out and he held your thighs open for you so you wouldn’t crush him by mistake, your hands shaking as you went to wipe the tears that had gathered in your eyes that were screwed shut from the intensity and Carmy stops you, carefully wiping your cheeks with his dry hand and removing his other carefully, wiping it dry on the sheets he always changed for you afterwards and cupping your face while you came down.

“You did so good baby, so so good” he kissed your forehead gently, rubbing your hair and caressing your back with loving strokes. When you were finally coherent enough once again, although you were exhausted - you realized Carmy was still rock hard, pitching a full tent in his boxers that were wet with pre as he coaxed you through your orgasm.

“That’s gotta hurt” you told pull the fabric, causing his cock to come down with it and when you release it it springs back up to full standing causing you to giggle a bit

“Mm does but m’back. I can’t go t’night babe. I was gonna go take care of it in the shower don’worry” he yawned, rubbing over his face you furrowed your brow, slightly offended.

“What? Is my pussy not good enough?” You teased

He looked at you quickly “wha- no - I mean- I mean yes? No- no your pussy is good your pussy is- is perfect I fuckin’ love y’pussy but I can’t go tonight baby my back fuckin’ hurts” he explained

“I can ride you you know” you said and his big blue eyes widened a bit. You’d been together for 6- no 7 months, and it was true you’d never ridden him, not yet anyway.

Carmen was a missionary man, not in the boring way, in the way that he’d get home from work and fuck your brains out while going on and on about his frustrations from the day.

People wouldn’t usually call it dirty talk, but something it turned you on more then anything that between calling you perfect and beautiful and made for him that he was just casually going on about his shitty day like his balls weren’t essentially spanking your ass with how hard he needed it.

“Uh- oh-o-okay. Yeah. Sure- I. Mmhmm” he said and fixed his pillow, adjusting his hips for you “hop on I guess” he said shyly and you laughed at his sudden switch in attitude.

“Have you never been ridden you poor thing?” You asked and his cheeks went cherry red as well as the tips of his ears and bridge of his nose as you straddled him easily, resting your hands on his abs for leverage.

“No.” He muttered. “I- I just…I dunno it never..came up” he swallowed thickly, averting your gaze nervously.

“Hey.” You said “eyes” you told him and his eyes met yours immediately, “I’m honored to be the first person, yeah? I’ve told you a billion times bear - I love you. I love being able to show you new ways to feel good, it makes me so excited” you held his hips gently and he wrapped his hands around your wrists, needing to be touching you somehow.

“It just…it doesn’t make me seem like…like a bitch does it?” He mumbled shyly, insecurity lacing his voice. You tucked your hands under his warm back, laying yourself over him fully, embracing him and resting your forehead on his.

“You know how I feel about that word, and no it doesn’t make you seem less manly baby. If anything, it’s super sexy and it’s so sweet that you felt brave enough to tell me. Thank you for telling me. I’ve heard for the guy it feels really good cause all you gotta do is lay there, you wanna try sweetheart?” You ask softly, kissing the bridge of his nose gently and a small smile forming on your lips when you tasted yourself on your lips upon pulling away.

“Yes please” he said softly, eyes fluttered shut as you cover his face in little butterfly kisses.

“That’s my brave bear” you place a kiss to the base of his throat and he smiles a bit, cheeks going redder by the second. It was adorable how shy he got when you showed him affection like this, you knew he adored it more then anything - but he’d never be brave enough to ask for it - at least not yet.

You sit up, “can I touch you baby?” You confirm, rubbing your hands down his stomach and his abs tighten at the contact. In response he nods, swallowing thickly and goosebumps rising over his skin. His cock twitches as you grab the waistband of his boxers “so sweet and responsive” you said softly, tugging them down easily as he lifted his hips for you slightly.

“Jesus” you mutter at the sight of it, the tip weeping and pink crying to be touched. “Poor thing, you’ve been neglected- has Carmy been abusing you in the shower huh?” You said in the direction of his cock with a playful voice of concern.

“Jesus fuckin Christ-“ he chuckled, covering his face with his arm a big goofy smile on his face. “You are gonna kill me”

You smiled big, leaning down and licking a stripe up his length and he whimpers softly, abs and stomach clenching at the contact, a large bead of pre gushing from his slit that you catch with your tongue. He shivers adorably, groaning at the feeling of you licking over his sensitive tip. “If y’keep fuckin doin’ that ‘m gonna cum” he breathes, the vein in his neck present seeing as he was holding himself back, his balls drawing up and releasing in a rhythm.

“Jesus baby i dunno if you’ll last that long we’ll have to do this again so you can get the full experience mm?” You grab his shaft, lining you two up and slipping it through your soaked folds, he let out a breathy moan, back arching slightly and you let out a sweet ‘mmm’ when his tip bumps your clit.

“Please please please can I be inside you please” he begged pathetically, voice whiny and shaking - he was going to be coming undone very soon you could tell, which is why he was desperate to be inside of you before he was too soft to do so.

“I dunno can I see those pretty eyes?” You asked, he was still hiding behind his arm, likely still feeling embarrassed this was his first time but you weren’t going to allow that. He shyly removed his arm, looking up at you and swallowing nervously.

“H-hey” he said softly and you smile softly

“There’s my bear” you leaned in, kissing him lovingly as you sink down on him fully, his jaw goes slack so you settle for kissing his chin and cheeks and nose “Feel good?” You giggle into his skin and he lets out a pathetic little ‘uh-huh’

“H-holy oh god” he groaned when you simply roll your hips, getting yourself off with the friction of the curly patch of brunette curls at the base of his cock. You sat up, using his chest as leverage to find a good rhythm bouncing on him and he nearly growls, a sound you’d never heard him make.

“Ooo am I releasing the bear?” You teased and he chuckled a bit

“Shut up- fuck Jesus oh god” his head falls back on the pillow “i-i-shit” he rambled and you giggle a bit, causing him to whine at the feeling of your walls clenching around him as you continued to ride his cock with all the tricks you could remember.

“I don’t think I’ve ever fucked you so quiet before” you tease, sure your hips and thighs were burning from how quick you’d built up to moving, but his eyes were practically rolling back and the whimpers you were drawing out of him were nothing short of heavenly. He was shaking for Christ sakes. “Are you gonna cum? Mm? Y’gonna fill me up baby?” You asked him, rubbing his chest gently

He finally opened his eyes, looking up at you with those big blue eyes, blown out fully with lust, pants falling from his lips and his dirty blonde curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. “Mm-mmhmm” he moaned out, grabbing your hips to have something to hold and the action making him realize he could help you move. His jaw dropped slightly at the realization and he looked up at you for approval.

You smiled and nod a bit “you can help honey- that’s really nice of you” you said and he helped push and pull you off his cock, he looked down, mesmerized by the view of his cock burying inside of you, he pushed you down with more force and you moaned, “just like that baby, you want it harder huh?” You ask and he nods quickly so you rolled your hips a bit harder.

He bit his lip, nose scrunching up cutely. He was holding back. “Bear- I know it feels good but you can cum, you need to sleep” you cup his cheek gently and he looked up at you like a sad puppy

“It feels s’good baby” he whined and you nod, stroking his cheek gently.

“I know honey. We can do it again t’morrow night yeah?” You kiss his forehead and with that he releases into you with something resembling a cry covered with a grunt, of course he had to cover it. He pulled you into a deep messy kiss, wrapping his arms around your back, rubbing gently and reaching down to squeeze your ass, feeling cum dripping out of you down over his balls. He smiled a bit, pulling away to ask “Mmm can we sleep like this?”

267 notes · View notes

humanpurposes · 4 months

Text

We're Born At Night

Chapter 3

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, mentions of death and war, Targaryens trying to flirt

Words: 6.8k

Days pass and every day Rhaelle brings herself to her knees before the throne, pleading for her sister’s restoration as Lady of Runestone, as their mother’s heir, for her freedom and for her life.

Aemond denies her. Again and again he denies her, and each day she appears before him, she thinks she sees his expression darkening. It is obvious that he is a proud man, a second son who was never meant to be King, repeatedly defied by the second daughter of a traitor. Lord Corlys tells her to give him time to persuade the King and the council. He also warns how quickly Aemond’s patience can turn into anger with deadly consequences. What else can she do but try, even if it means tempting his rage?

They have been here a fortnight and not much has improved. She and Daena often take tea with the other ladies and attend dinners in the throne room but Aemond’s court is an echo of what she remembers from the reign of his father. The dinners are polite, the music is sombre, the dances are slow. There is no joy in the castle, just talk of the fast approaching winter.

Back home, the running of the castle— her castle thanks to Aemond’s generosity— would keep her busy. Between her duties she would be able to steal a few hours for herself, read her favourite texts in the library or mount her horse and roam the surrounding lands as she pleased, bringing back pheasants because Alyssa was the sister to inherit their mother’s talent for hunting larger quarry.

One night she dreams she is riding her horse, a beautiful grey stallion she has back at Runestone named Semyon for the legendary knight with sapphires for eyes. It feels so real with the wind whispering in her ears, the scent of the fields and the forest, the slightly earthy taste on her tongue. She rides along the paths she has followed since she was a girl, the same her mother would have followed, and passes the valley where her body was found, tightening her grip on the reins and the saddle, as she always does. The sky seems to darken. A figure blocks out the sun and lets out a whistling, rippling screech, the cry of a beast she has only heard a handful of times, and never will again.

She is woken by a sound that still rings in her ears as her eyes open, sweat clinging uncomfortably to her skin. It sounds again, a faint clash of metal. It is a wonder it was even enough to rouse her.

The stone floor stings against the bare skin of her soles, the cold creeping into her flesh and sinking itself into her very bones. Yet she walks, first to the chaise by the wardrobe to wrap a thick robe around herself, and then to the window. The days are darker now. The sun takes longer to rise and beyond her window the sky is a glum shade of grey.

Down in the courtyard, before the steps of the holdfast, a flash of silver catches her eye.

Aemond is a fearsome fighter, tall, lean and lithe, moving quickly and fluidly. He bests his opponent, Ser Willis, with a few brutal blows, holding the edge of his blade to the man’s throat. Before long he is eager to go again.

She can imagine him on a battlefield, his face silently furious, carving through the men and boys who dared to place themselves in his way. She can imagine him in the courtyard of a ruined castle, blood on his face and hands. They say he slaughtered each member of House Strong himself, and then he bedded one of their bastards and made her a Lady. Daena thinks he would not have given a servant such an honour unless she had borne him a bastard, but Princes have sired bastards before and had mistresses from far more noble backgrounds. What was so remarkable about Alys Rivers?

With a particularly harsh swing of his sword, Aemond brings his blade down upon Ser Willis’, but the Lord Commander recovers quickly and begins an attack. Aemond is clearly taken by surprise and quickly forced to his knees with a frustrated grunt, one which she hears easily through the quiet of the early morning. He is facing the window though she doubts he will notice her. He glares up at Ser Willis, lips parted as he pants for breath. He looks enraged, vengeful even, and she almost expects him to leap up and attack with renewed force. Instead he bows his head and accepts Ser Wills’ hand to help him to his feet.

As a slight draft brushes over the exposed parts of her skin, she imagines the sound of his breathing and finds herself struck by a strange feeling of emptiness.

Later that morning she dons a blood red gown and makes a journey through the castle which is all too familiar to her now, to the waiting chamber by the throne room. Lord Corlys is there, speaking to a man who she has only seen across a room, more often than not, glaring at her along with the Hightower brothers. He has wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his face appears surprisingly younger than the flecks of grey in his hair and his beard would suggest. He has sharp eyes that stay fixed on her as she approaches.

Concern briefly flashes over Lord Corlys’ face as he steps forward to greet her, but the other man already has his hand extended to her. “Unwin Peake,” he says. “We have not been formally introduced, Lady Rhaelle.”

She doesn’t like the sound of his voice or how he says her name, but smiles and takes his hand.

Unwin Peake fancies himself a war hero. Rhaelle is not so easily misled. She knows he led a thousand men under the banner of King Aegon, only for half of them to desert him when he proved a less than capable leader. She knows he tried and failed to seize control of the Hightower host after Tumbleton, that he quarrelled with his rivals to the point of bloodshed, and yet somehow earned himself a place on the Small Council before Aegon’s death.

Lord Corlys catches her eye and seems to be uneasy. She gives him a small nod as Lord Unwin takes her by the arm and leads them into the throne room. It is a show of courtesy, one she must accept with grace.

Aemond is already upon the throne, legs crossed, leaning into one side, without fear of cutting himself on the blades. Noblemen and smallfolk alike come before him and he responds to every concern with such eloquence and certainty, as though the entire ordeal has been rehearsed.

And he always looks ahead. Rhaelle stands on his seeing side, below the throne, but he shows no indication that he has seen her or that he intends to acknowledge her.

She knows what she will say and she knows what his reply will be, and in that certainty there is fear. She can hardly keep her hands still, pressing her fingernails into her skin to stop herself from trembling. The pain isn’t much of a distraction. All she feels is cold, even through the thick material of her gown. She pictures her sister in a cell, in the darkness, perhaps even in chains.

Another chill slips down her spine as she hears a footstep sound softly behind her.

“Do you know what Lord Tyland has taken to calling you?” Unwin Peake’s voice hisses close to her ear.

Rhaelle clenches her jaw. She expects he will tell her whether she wants him to or not.

“He calls you the reluctant Lady of Runestone.”

She presses her nails deeper into her skin.

She finally spurns herself forwards. Aemond’s eye finds her as she enters his line of vision, fixed on her as she moves across the room and kneels before the throne.

She bows her head and stares down at the flagstones, at the crevices between the stones, the flecks of dirt and dust settled within. Any nervous or curious chatter has ceased. The hall is quiet enough that she is sure the onlookers will be able to hear her heart pounding in her chest. If she holds her breath she can see it pulsing through the neckline of her dress.

Meeting his eye is a strange sort of thrill. He watches her sternly, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his fingers tapping against the arm of the throne.

She opens her mouth to speak but his voice pierces the air, clear and demanding. “Dearest cousin,” he says, then exhales sharply through his nose. “You come before me yet again.”

“Your Grace–”

“No, I already know what you’re going to ask of me, and my answer will be the same. Alyssa Targaryen may be my blood but she defied her true King.”

“I know my sister. She is wise and just, but dragged into a war she should never have been a part of.”

“She is a traitor.”

“And yet she has not been put on trial. You seem content to hold her. Why? Allow her a chance to prove her innocence before she is condemned, or else let her return to her home.”

“You have come before me every day since your arrival, to plead on behalf of a traitor. I do wonder what that might make you, Lady Rhaelle?”

“It makes me loyal to my family. I love my sister, and her suffering is my suffering.”

“As admirable as that declaration may be, I have made my decision. I will not hear any more from you on this matter.”

“If you had a chance to save your own sibling from a terrible fate would you not take it? Could you ever forgive yourself if you stopped trying?”

Something about his face changes. There is an absence of amusement, something quiet but cold in the way his eyes and his lips soften.

When his eye falls away from her she thinks she might have made a grave mistake.

He holds the arms of the throne as he stands, grips the iron with his fingertips when it is barely in his reach. Without another word he leaves the hall through the side chamber, keeping his head and his crown held high, while his fists are clenched at his sides.

She shares a look with Lord Corlys, himself stunned at the irregularity. Aemond never leaves the throne room until he has heard each grievance, and never shies from his duties.

The King is an elusive figure at the best of times. He does not seem to enjoy the more frivolous aspects of rulership. If he is seen at dinners in the throne room, he confines himself to the high table along with Lord Corlys. Other than his early morning spars with Ser Willis in the courtyard or his occasional rides out into the Kingswood, he appears to spend most of his time in his chambers. She imagines him pouring over ledgers and papers by candlelight, his face hardened in concentration.

That night, when his seat at the high table remains empty, Rhaelle cannot help but fear she has been the cause of this absence. Did her words truly anger him so deeply? Is her persistence so vexing to him?

She finds herself unable to settle when she retires to her chambers that night. She is starving and yet she has no appetite. Her body feels heavy and her head aches behind her eyes, yet her mind is spinning and will not allow her to find sleep.

He said he would not hear from her on the matter. She pushed too far, allowed her desperation to cloud her judgement and attempted to argue on sympathy rather than reason. Now she feels it all slipping away, any sense of control she had when she arrived in King’s Landing, any hope she had of reuniting their family after so many years. Why would she ever think that Aemond should show mercy to a prisoner on a plea of sisterly love?

He must have loved his sister, gentle Helaena, who wore a gown of pale blue and gold to the wedding of Alyssa and Jacaerys. She smiled rarely, never in the presence of her husband, she could barely even stand to take his arm as they entered the Sept and the throne room. Her eyes often found Aemond though, glassy with tears when he winced at the pain of his wound, as if she shared in it. Did he ever imagine, when he left for Harrenhal, that he would never see her again?

The next morning she wakes with the sunrise, somehow the shortened sleep has left her more awake than she usually is. She is already halfway dressed in her riding leathers, fashioned from a set of her mother’s, when Morra enters her bedchamber, and Rhaelle immediately sends her to the stables to ensure a horse is readied for her.

Finally, once she has pulled on her boots and tied her hair into a single braid, she heads down herself, but not before stopping by the window. The sun has yet to appear over the walls of the castle and the courtyard is empty.

She huffs to herself, at the restless feeling that’s been gnawing at her insides for weeks.

The entrance yard at the front of the Red Keep is bustling with servants carrying baskets and barrels, men unloading carts and carrying their contents towards the kitchens. Morra is waiting for her by the steps, fiddling with the edges of her sleeves.

Rhaelle pulls out her gloves and slips them onto her hands. “Did you find me a horse?” she says.

“Yes, my Lady, but there is another matter–”

She can already see what the other matter is. Aemond is standing by the gates, dressed in black riding attire, arguing with one of the stable hands. He has a beautiful grey horse on a lead, with a coat that shimmers like silk in the early sunlight. The stable hand stands with a slightly smaller horse, brown with a white spot on its nose. These are both muscular creatures meant for speed.

Rhaelle approaches them with Morra close behind. “Your Grace,” she says firmly but calmly. The two men immediately cease and face her, the stable hand with his head bowed, Aemond with a slight frown on his face and the beginnings of a sneer on his lips. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise, my Lady,” Aemond says, entirely unconvincingly.

There is noise all around them, voices, footsteps, men and women at work, and yet the silence between Aemond and Rhaelle is palpable.

“I was intending to ride through the Kingswood this morning,” Rhaelle says, holding her hands firmly in front of her, unmoving, unafraid. “Perhaps you were intending to do the same?”

“I was.”

“What a happy coincidence,” she says, willfully ignoring the shortness of his tone. “We could ride together, then? I do not know the woods you see, I think I would benefit from having a companion.”

Aemond purses his lips, and glances between her and the horse being held by the stable hand. “It would be my pleasure, dear cousin.”

She smiles graciously.

Aemond hums to himself, then takes hold of the grey horse’s saddle and hoists himself into it with ease. As it happens, the brown horse is a similar size to Symeon. She finds her footing in the stirrup and hauls herself up, settling comfortably in the saddle.

“You ride well, I assume?” Aemond asks her.

She tries not to display any contempt at this subtle insult. “I believe myself to be a more than competent rider, Your Grace.”

He offers her a tight smile, though it fades quickly. His seeing eye remains alert.

Two men of the Kingsguard ride with them through the city. Aemond does not wear his crown but the people know their King, atop his horse, Blackfyre hanging from his hip, his silver hair tied away from his face but flowing proudly down his back, his eyepatch an unmissable feature. They stand aside as they move through the streets, met with awe, either glad or fearful, and distant calls of “long live the King!”

Aemond does not wave, smile or bow his head to anyone, though he occasionally looks over his shoulder to meet her gaze. Does he expect her to disappear? Does he expect her to ram a knife into his back?

How quickly he seems to phase through different states of being. One moment he is amused, the next proud, the next infuriated, concerned, remorseful. And how terrible he is at hiding this in his face, no matter how subtle he is, but a mystery remains because she still cannot read his thoughts, no matter how she pleads to the old gods and the new that she could.

Before long, they reach the southern gates of the city. She can see the forest ahead of them as soon as they are out of the walls of King’s Landing. The trees are dark, lush evergreens, reaching far from the west and east towards the seafront, to the cliffs that overlook the bay, raised on hills and going further south than she can see.

The guards stay with them a little longer, until they pass over a bridge across the Blackwater Rush and the road becomes quieter. Most of the people here are travelling along the Rose Road towards Highgarden, but Aemond leads her towards the treeline, along a path often used for hunting, so he says. It seems to head towards the coast.

Mostly staying at the edge of the forest, the trees are sparse. It’s not like the wide open fields and hills that she is used to. To one side she sees tree trunks, spots of darkness where the forest is thicker and closer. To the other she sees glimpses of the sky and the sea below it.

Aemond slows his horse slightly so they can ride side by side at a comfortable trot. Now she cannot look out over the bay without looking at him, or appearing to at least.

She realises they have not spoken a single word to each other since they left the castle.

“Do you ride often?” she asks.

“When I wish to, and when I can find time to,” he says without looking at her.

She nods to herself, letting her eyes linger on the way he rocks with the motions of the saddle, the way he grips the reins with gloved hands.

“I like to hunt back at Runestone,” she says, facing forward once more, “do you hunt?”

This captures his attention. He turns his head to her, glances up and down. “You did not bring a bow.”

“Or a blade, no. I was not intending to kill anything this morning.”

Aemond hesitates, then smirks. “I never made a habit out of hunting. It is a tedious sport, more suited to times of peace.”

It is a harrowing reminder of the kind of man who rides beside her, a man who kills and holds his own family prisoner.

“You like to spar too. I see you in the courtyard most mornings,” she says.

“I do not like to make a spectacle of myself.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, but it is rather difficult to avoid when it happens below my window.”

He turns his head towards Rhaelle, and she finds herself entirely distracted. Away from the gloom of the Keep, without his crown and the way he commands the fear of his courtiers, his beauty is unobstructed. His lips and his seeing eye settle in a way that seems gentle. “If it disturbs you then I shall remedy it.”

“No need,” she says, “for what it is worth, you perform extremely well.”

He smiles again, dipping his head slightly as he adjusts his hold of the reins. “Come then, you say you are a competent rider, I’d like to see a performance from you,” he says, catching her eye.

Her breath stops in her throat.

He kicks his horse’s side and in an instant he’s bolting down the path.

It takes her a moment to realise what he wants, kicking her horse into a canter, then quickly into a full gallop. It follows her commands easily enough but she remains cautious, keeping a tight grip on the reins and with her thighs, chasing the gleam of silver ahead of her. She does not know if Aemond is leading her or racing her, and for now she doesn’t care. Excitement surges through her. She feels the impact of the horses hooves as they meet the dirt. Her stomach drops as they head deeper into the forest, darting between branches, leaping over streams and fallen trees.

She seems to be gaining on Aemond and spots a ridge she thinks might allow her to overtake him. It’s a risk she takes without thinking it through, urging her mount up and along the narrow trail. They seem to stumble at one point but she doesn’t stop. She passes Aemond, just as she thought she would. He looks up at her with a wide eye, the traces of a laugh echoing behind her as she leaps down, back onto the main path.

There’s a clearing not far ahead where the path splits into two, she would wager Aemond had this in mind as an end point. She slows her horse gradually, checking behind her to see him doing the same. She turns the horse to face him, trying not to beam or appear too pleased with herself, but she cannot help it. Her cheeks burn at the exertion and the effort it’s taking to withhold her smile.

The sun is rising higher above them. The light catches on his hair, the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the curve of his lip as he tries to catch his breath. “I’d say you are more than competent,” he calls, tugging on the reins to bring his own horse to a stop.

“I spent most of my childhood on horseback,” she says. “Ser Gerold always said I took after my mother.”

His amusement fades into something passive, observant.

“She used to take Alyssa and I out with her one at a time in the saddle with her. As soon as I was old enough to ride by myself I could hardly be kept from the stables. Alyssa and I used to race each other around the hills for hours, or until we were called back to the castle for our lessons.”

Aemond watches her as she speaks, breathing deeply, his brow hardened like he’s trying to concentrate.

“Still,” she says, patting her horse’s neck as it starts to get restless, “I cannot imagine it could ever compare to riding a dragon.”

“It is a poor substitute, to be sure,” Aemond says quietly, like he did on the balcony, but she can see the change in him again. With a quick huff, the gentle look in his face disappears and he dismounts his horse. “There’s a stream close by, we should water the horses.”

He approaches her, reaching his hands up to help her dismount. Her more prideful side wishes to tell him she does not need the help, but she accepts it, swinging her leg round so he can hold his waist as he lowers her down. She keeps her hands on his shoulders, even once her boots have met the ground. The pressure of his fingertips through the thick layers of fabric are almost intangible, but it makes her breathless all the same.

They take the horses to the stream at the edge of the clearing, tying the leads to a tree and patting them down reassuringly as they drink. Rhaelle sits herself in the grass, out in the sunlight. Aemond joins her, but he reminds her of a cautious animal, following her a little unsurely, sitting beside her, always watching the space around them.

The air is cold but she feels the sun’s warmth beaming down on her face.

She hears Aemond take a breath before he speaks. “You never claimed a dragon?”

“No,” she says.

“You never had an egg in your cradle?”

“No. My mother insisted her children would be born and raised in her home.”

“And in the traditions of House Royce?”

“For the most part.”

“But your father never…” he stops himself with a deep breath. With his chin tilted down he lifts his gaze to look at her. The sunlight shines in his right eye, cold and clear like a stream, like a cloudless violet sky at dusk. Like this, sat amongst overgrown grass and the last of the autumn wildflowers, he doesn’t look like a tyrant. He doesn’t look like a man who burned half of the Riverlands to ash and fought in a battle that left the waters of the God’s Eye red with blood.

Ser Gerold would have been glad to see Daemon’s end. He called it “justice” when news came to Runestone of his death, justice for the wife he murdered and the daughters he neglected.

Looking at Aemond now she wonders if he regrets it. Does he look at her and see the eyes of the man he killed staring back at him? Does it haunt him to be near her, is that why he watches her so intently?

“I asked him once if I could fly with him,” she says. “I was so desperate to know what it was like. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t laugh or scoff, he just looked down at me. My suggestion was so unremarkable that he didn’t waste so much as a breath on me. Of course I went crying to my mother about it. She took me into her arms and told me that the only difference between riding a dragon and riding a horse was the distance between you and the ground. So much further to fall, she said.”

He tilts his head. “I cannot disagree with her.”

And oh how her father must have fallen, through fire and empty space, into blood and water.

“What was it like to have a dragon?” she asks.

Something in him comes alive. He looks at her with a quiet excitement, shuffling ever so slightly closer to her. “I used to believe a dragon was a birthright. My siblings all claimed their mounts when they were young, and my nephews shared their cradles with eggs and watched them hatch. For many years I was an outlier, a dragonless Targaryen, I was nothing. But it is an earned right, one that must be claimed.” As he speaks he draws his knee up to rest his arm upon it, his hand restless as he speaks. “Dragons are creatures with their own wills. We cannot control them fully, but we guide them.”

“And you claimed the fiercest of them,” she says.

She remembers Driftmark like it was a dream. She remembers standing by the sea as the coffin of Laena Velaryon was delivered to the waves, looking at the faces of a family she scarcely knew in the aftermath, clinging to the only people she had left in the world, Daena and Alyssa.

She remembers someone storming into her chambers as she slept, the shadowy face of her father appearing in the moonlight that beamed through the window. “We are needed in the Hall of Nine,” he said.

“We?”

He found Alyssa in the next room and left Daena to sleep, marching down the dark corridors of Hightide. They walked in on a scene that terrified her. While their father leaned against the doorway, almost amused, Alyssa and Rhaelle walked further inside, hand in hand. They could not see clearly past the crowd that had gathered to watch this battle between the Princess and the Queen, but there was shouting, pleading, blood on the faces of Rhaenyra’s sons and blood on the face of the King’s son, Aemond.

She peered through the bodies, the fabric of nightgowns and the haze of the braziers to see him sitting there, stitches in his face, smaller cuts on his brow and his lip. He didn’t look at the eye discarded in a tray by his side, he didn’t look to his siblings for reassurance or comfort. First he glared at his father with a hatred that somehow seemed contained, stunned but unsurprised. Then he looked at his mother, with far more understanding than a child should ever have to need.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” the boy said, “I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

“A dragon is terror and freedom,” Aemond says as her eyes drift over the edges of his scar and the details of the leather patch that conceals the rest. “When I claimed Vhagar, centuries of power and strength became mine. I felt her in solitude, I learned from her.”

It shows, she thinks, that he grew bonded to a beast of conquest, a witness to her fire and majesty, and took that into himself.

Her eyes trail lower, over his jaw, the pale skin of his neck just visible beneath his collar, which ends with a silver buckle. She can pinpoint the rise and fall of his breath, the detailings of golden dragons against the black leather, his hair draped over his shoulders and down his body.

She feels her legs getting numb and shifts her weight onto her palm, placed on the grass beside her so that she leans in closer to him.

“But to take flight on Vhagar,” Aemond says softly, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eye gleaming and trained on her, “to feel the force of her wings, the wind and the weightlessness…”

She feels herself clinging to every word he says, each subtle breath he takes, the minuscule movements in his face as he inches closer to her. Only for her heart to sink when he pauses.

He reaches up, taking the end of her braid between his gloved fingers. “I wish you could have known what it was like.”

“It is like you said,” she says, “it is not a birthright, it is something earned.”

“By those of our blood,” Aemond says, his eye darting back up to meet hers. “You should have had the chance to earn it.”

Our blood, the blood of dragons and conquerors, of Queens and Princes, of weak Kings and cruel fathers.

He releases his hold of her hair, positioning it over her shoulder and tracing his fingertips over the coat of her leathers. His eye follows, then slowly returns to her face. “Might I show you something?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, carefully withholding eagerness in her voice. “Shall we fetch the horses?”

“No,” Aemond says, rising and offering his hand for her to take. “We’ll go on foot.”

He keeps her hand in his, leather against leather, as he leads her down the path, freshly disturbed by hoof prints, away from the clearing and back into the forest. He stops where the path diverged into two and with a small inclination of his head, they walk along the trail that leads uphill. This way is not as the other, overgrown with grass and even the thick, twisted roots of trees. Aemond is keen to guide her, walking just ahead, tightening his grip on her at the slightest of obstacles.

The hill becomes steep, and in fact she is grateful for his caution when she loses her footing on a loose rock and he is there to steady her, determined that she shall stay upright. The higher they climb the sparser the trees, the louder the wind howls, the closer the sound of the water becomes. The path leads on, but Aemond stops and steps out into the open.

She stands behind his shoulder to shield herself from the wind, clutching his hand and squinting through the blinding sunlight on the eastern horizon, over the waves of the Blackwater, roaring and crashing against one another, against the base off the cliff they stand on. The city is nothing but distant shapes, further along the curve of the shore. The Red Keep, where standing at its gates seems to reach high into the heavens, seems so unremarkable from here. The cold seeps through her leathers. Sea salt stings in her eyes and on her tongue.

“My mother’s sworn shield taught me to ride on horseback, Ser Criston Cole. He’d lead me through these woods, until I knew all the trails by heart,” Aemond says, leaning into her so she can hear him. His breath is warm against her ear, his grip on her hand still unrelenting. “I came across this place when I was a boy. I used to sit here for hours, especially when the others would ride their dragons.”

Gulls sail effortlessly through the sea air. She imagines dragons in their place.

“A childish indulgence,” Aemond mutters.

“Show me,” she says, tilting her head up to meet his eye.

He smiles to himself. “Stand there,” he says, pointing to the very edge of the cliff face, at a slab of grey stone reaching out below the rocks and spray of the sea.

“On the ledge?” she says, her legs unsure beneath her.

He releases her hand to gently guide her by her waist. “Right here,”

Her stomach lurches when her boots leave the earth. If it is the truth or a trick of the mind the stone seems to move beneath her. “Aemond, I’m going to fall!”

But he holds her waist tight, pulling her into him until she feels the heat of his body through their riding leathers, the hilt of Blackfyre pressing against her back. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs in her ear, “I’ve got you.”

She cannot seem to breathe, gasping for air as she wills her heart to calm. She grasps at his hands, clinging to him as if he would not merely fall with her. His proximity to her is not quite comforting, it only seems to make her more afraid, but it is a pleasant sort of fear.

“Can you imagine it,” he says, leaning his cheek against her temple, “out of reach of the rest of the world, the heat of a dragon beneath you, the wind against your skin, the weightlessness?”

The force of the wind seems to push her closer into his grasp. She can feel the terror. One misstep and she will fall, her body dashed out over the rocks below, her blood feeding into the water.

“I could feel her fire brewing beneath her hide. I could feel it burning in my blood and my throat before she unleashed it,” Aemond whispers, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

She shudders, letting herself turn into him, letting her hands close around his wrists.

He leans into her, resting his forehead against hers. She feels his heat. She feels something like fire burning in her blood and wonders if it burns in his too. A gloved hand delicately takes her chin.

It would be easy to give into him, she thinks. She would have been glad to do it the first time she laid eyes upon him.

But she knows she must not allow herself to be ruled by impulse and desire. She cannot escape him completely but she turns her head back towards the open water. Aemond is still holding her, still breathing against her neck.

She waits for him to guide her back, to the safety of solid ground, away from the ledge. Now he cannot meet her eye.

They walk back to the clearing and Aemond holds her hand again, though this time she does not stumble. Aemond unties her horse, helps her into her saddle and she waits for him before they set off back down the path.

The ride back to King’s Landing is a silent one. Each step their horses take through the woods feels heavy in her ears, the closing of a door, the beat of a funeral drum. She looks ahead to Aemond, hoping he will turn back and catch her eye but he does not.

She wants to tear her hair out from the roots and strike herself across the face. She couldn’t afford to make another mistake and yet she has done exactly that. What if the King feels slighted? What if he holds this against her?

The guards are waiting for them by the bridge and escort them back through the city. The streets are busier and grey now that the sun has risen and hidden itself behind a sky of clouds.

But the entrance yard at the Red Keep is no longer filled with servants. Instead the clashes of steel ring out against the walls of the castle, as men of the Kingsguard, nobles and knights spar, to the awe of a few spectators.

Aemond pays little mind to the people in the yard. Even when they greet him he simply nods his head. As his horse is taken by a stable hand, swings a leg over the head and slips effortlessly from the saddle.

Then he approaches her horse, wordlessly holding out his hands, offering his assistance. She allows this, and purposefully turns to face him once her boots have met the ground, keeping her hands on his shoulders, not too firmly, for she cannot appear to be too forceful.

“Your Grace,” she says, determined that their eyes should meet again. “I am sorry if I have offended you, truly,” she says quietly, though she will hardly avoid attention when she stands with the King, his hands lingering on her waist, more timidly than he had been in the woods.

Aemond looks at her, and once again his expression is a gentle one. “I am anything but,” he says, one of his thumbs tracing circles over her leathers. He lowers his voice. “The truth is I am deeply moved by your loyalty to your sister. You were right, I have regrets of my own.”

There have been all kinds of rumours regarding Queen Helaena’s death. Some say she was pushed from the window, perhaps even by Rhaenyra herself, and others say she threw herself from it. She was driven mad by grief, supposedly, since the murder of her eldest son, and perhaps she could bear the pain no longer. Perhaps the cause was the false news of Aemond’s death at the God’s Eye. At first the only news had come from smallfolk in the nearby lands, that both Princes had fallen. A fortnight later Aemond arrived at King’s Landing, dragonless, but decidedly alive.

“I often ask myself why I did not do more for them. Why did I put them in danger? Why did I leave them? Why did I not return to them…”

Something else catches his attention. His gaze has moved from her face, to the leather breastplate she wears under her coat, embroidered with ancient runes, naturally.

“What does that say?” he asks in a voice like ice, tracing his fingertips over the golden thread, over the same markings written into the sleeves of the first gown she wore in King’s Landing.

“Have you seen it before? It is an old saying in the Vale,” she says, startled by another shift in him, “the words read: learn to die.”

His throat hums, lowly and softly. His eye returns to hers, his lips curling into a self assured smile, the kind that infuriates her because it means he knows something she does not.

He releases her waist, then reaches for her hand. He pinches the end of her right glove and pulls it from her slowly, the lack of warmth stinging her bare skin.

He whispers, “I cannot give you what you ask of me, not now at least. But I will try.” He raises her hand and presses his lips against it. “I promise you, I will try.”

Blood blooms beneath her cheeks. For once Aemond’s words fill her with hope. He seems sincere, she wants that to be the truth.

She smiles politely. “Thank you, Your Grace—”

“Your Grace!” Calls a voice from the steps to the Keep. Aemond’s hand falls away from hers and he faces away from her as Martyn Hightower approaches them. “All the preparations have been made for you to receive Lady Floris and Lady Cassandra. They are expected to arrive before the day’s end.”

She watches Aemond bring one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other he brings behind his back, clenched in a fist. “Good,” he says, and turns towards Rhaelle again, his body following his head. “Thank you for accompanying me this morning, my Lady.”

She takes a breath, meaning to thank him but then he’s stalking across the yard and disappearing into the castle.

Rhaelle decides she can hardly bear the sight of him walking away.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @lacebvnny

Series taglist: @adragonprinceswhore @persephonerinyes @gemini-mama @aemondzyrys @snh96 @magnificentdelusionr @aegonx @xxxkat3xxx @dahlias-and-marigolds @mandiiblanche @thaisthedreamer @heavenly1927 @herfantasyworldd @heimtathurs @minttea07

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x ofc #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond oneshot #aemond one eye #hotd fandom

225 notes · View notes

moviecritc · 21 days

Note

hii ! i was wondering if i could request a fanfic about Max verstappen and y/n —or you can give her a name UR CHOICE :) — anyways could you possibly follow the lines of them being complete strangers meeting in the Mexico GP, to becoming friends, then later on being lovers.

I’m not sure if you like to write sad stories but could you also possibly make a sad ending where towards the end they break up and whenever they are around eachother they act like complete strangers

Hopefully you take my request :) it was mainly inspired by a song called “strange” by Celeste !

Thank youuu !!

fortnight ⋆ max verstappen

pairing: max verstappen x reporter!reader

word count: 2.7K

warnings: bad boyfriend behaviour, angst (sort of)

a/n: it took me so long finishing this, and im not fully convinced with the result :( i also changed things a bit. anyways i loved the whole vibe, so maybe i write something similar soon

also this ended up giving massive fortnight by t swift vibes so i named it bc of that

masterlist | wattpad | letterboxd

They were made for each other, or at least that's what everyone said. They had their first encounter at the Mexican Grand Prix. Y/N had been working as a reporter and interviewer for the races all season, but she had never had the chance to interview Max.

Mexico must have been one of Y/N's favorite places, all the culture, food, and people made her feel very welcomed. The race week in Mexico was the one she felt most nostalgic about once the season was over.

She arrived at the airport on Tuesday or Wednesday, she didn't quite remember, the only thing she remembered about her arrival in Mexico was the jet lag and that instead of grabbing her suitcase, she took Max Verstappen's.

She had always felt a certain intimidation towards him, by his way of driving and treating his teammates on the track. So, she was terrified to have to contact him. Surprisingly, it was Max who contacted her.

He called a few hours after she arrived at the hotel, she still wondered how he got her phone number and her name.

"Y/N L/N?" he asked. She recognized the voice and took a few seconds to process it. "I'm Max. I think I have your suitcase."

"Hello, yes. Uh, I think I have your suitcase too," She scratched her neck a bit.

"Ah, fantastic. Are you free now to exchange them?"

"Sure, yeah. Where?"

"I can come to your hotel, I don't want to cause you too much trouble," Max commented in a calm tone. That seemed like a super sweet gesture coming from him.

"Alright, I'll send you the location, come whenever you can," And they hung up.

Y/N was quite impressed by how nice Max had been, and that it was him who contacted her and offered to go to the hotel, even though she was the one who took the wrong suitcase.

Literally five minutes later they called her room phone, telling her that someone was asking for her. She went down with the suitcase immediately, meeting the pilot and his suitcase.

Max waved his hand a bit so she would know it was him, although Y/N knew perfectly well who he was. Max observed her, she had brown hair with lighter tips than the rest of her hair, probably from dyeing it in the past, and quite long curtain bangs. Somehow her face looked familiar to him, as if he had seen her before, but at the same time not.

"Hey, here you go," Y/N handed him the suitcase and they made the exchange. "I'm really sorry for the trouble, really, I didn't even realize it wasn't my suitcase,"

"It's okay, don't worry. Did you open the suitcase?" He slightly bit his lip.

"Well, yes. But I only saw the eight or nine Red Bull shirts, I realized it wasn't my suitcase," she said, smiling.

That made Max laugh. "Are you here for the race?"

"Well, yes, I'm a reporter for DAZN," Y/N nodded.

Max raised his chin a bit, understanding why the brunette looked so familiar. He looked around and then at his watch. "Are you busy now?"

Y/N blinked, was he…?

"No, not now," she pressed her lips, trying to hide a smile.

"Can I invite you for a coffee?" he smiled shyly.

"Oh," Y/N pondered for a few seconds what to tell him.

"If not, don't worry," Max spoke. Maybe she had been thinking about the answer for too long.

"No, of course. I'd love to,"

Was it a strange start? Yes. But only that afternoon they connected in such a strange way that it scared them. Y/N had two Siamese cats, Max had two Bengal cats. He spent hours on the sim, she could spend hours watching the same series, which wasn’t exactly the same, but close. They both supported FC Barcelona and the most surprising thing was that she had been on exchange in the Netherlands, at the same school Max was attending. The only thing was that he barely went to classes because he was going from championship to championship.

That afternoon it felt as if someone had made them meet, because it was too much of a coincidence to find someone so similar to you because of one suitcase.

"Will I see you in the paddock tomorrow?" Max asked, as they were saying goodbye.

"I hope so,"

"Stop by the Red Bull garage if you have time,"

Y/N nodded and bit her lip, still unable to believe the instant connection she had with Max. She even forgot she had terrible jet lag. At no point did she consider that this could end badly.

…

At the Brazil Grand Prix, they were already sharing a hotel room. Nobody knew yet that they were together so they could come and go as they pleased. Y/N was still a reporter for DAZN, although now that she spent so much time with Max her reports started to be shorter and with fewer details. She barely paid attention to the races, she stayed near the Red Bull garage, trying to see him when he entered the pits.

By that time, Y/N realized that maybe she was spending too much time with Max. In just those two weeks, Max had been pivoting between the sim and the hotel bed. At first, he said nice things to her and stayed with her for a while, asking her what she had been doing or what movie she was going to watch now. But the last time, he dressed immediately and went back to the sim.

Y/N even remembered how well they had connected and how comfortable she had felt, although it had only been fourteen days ago. She didn't even think about confronting him, after all, they were nothing, they never were.

Why? A serious relationship would only take up time that he could use for much more productive things for his career. That was better, even if it made the brunette feel as if he only wanted to satisfy himself with her.

"Max, it's late and I'm hungry, what if we go out for dinner?" Y/N entered her room where he had all the set up, it was the first time she saw it and she thought it was crazy that Max had all those screens, all those gadgets just to pretend to drive.

"I can't now, schat," he said, moving his hand a bit to try to make physical contact with her, but he didn't manage to because he didn't take his eyes off the screen.

"Well, remember we have the flight to Las Vegas tomorrow at noon. Come to bed soon," Y/N commented, looking at his crown.

She fell asleep before feeling Max's weight on the bed.

She didn't know why, but she really thought that in Vegas something would change, maybe because of the atmosphere or because it was the last races, maybe he would be slightly more relaxed now that he had practically won the championship. She even thought they would enter the paddock together, that she would have a fixed spot in the Red Bull garage or something, but a minimum of recognition from him towards her.

But it was quite the opposite. Max didn't show up in the paddock until Thursday afternoon while she had to be there since Tuesday. He made her take the plane alone and he didn't even text her when he landed. She had to find out he was already in Las Vegas when she saw him passing by her in the paddock and Y/N made a gesture to greet him, smile at him or make a simple gesture, but Max passed by without even looking at her.

That's when she realized she would have to confront him. He was behaving like a complete jerk, and Y/N was sure she wasn't the first woman who got fed up with him for that.

With a couple of calls and several messages, she managed to find out the hotel and the room where Max was staying. After a day full of interviews, Y/N went straight to the hotel address, knocking on his door.

"Hey, hello," he said, already in his pajamas and with a tired look. "I was thinking about you."

"Oh, me too," Seeing Max's hand on her waist, Y/N pulled away from him immediately.

Max raised his eyebrows at once, surprised by the abruptness of the brunette. "Are you alright?"

Y/N lowered her gaze slightly, choosing her words. Suddenly she was more than nervous to say something. "What… what are we?"

"In what sense?" he asked cautiously. He thought it was too soon for that conversation.

"What sense is it going to be?" she approached, realizing that Max probably was just a man like the rest, who had an unjustified fear of naming relationships.

"Uh," he said. Y/N blinked, waiting for a more complete sentence. "Do you want to make it public or something?"

Y/N ignored the 'or something', sticking only to the first words. She smiled a little, getting closer to Max.

"Is that what you want?" He asked again, putting his hands on her waist now that she let him.

"I would like that, yes," she nodded, before Max gave her a quick kiss. "You've been leaving me hanging for a few days."

"Schat, you know I have to train and prepare for the races," Max insisted, sliding his hands much lower than her waist.

Y/N was going to say something, but Max caught her lips and didn't let go until he felt satisfied.

On Friday they arrived together at the paddock, attracting attention from the media. They didn't talk much, she was afraid they would read her lips.

Y/N had to go with her team to interview the Ferrari team and they kissed in front of a couple of cameras as a goodbye. The image went viral in minutes. After finishing the interviews, she received a couple of comments from people around the paddock about how lucky Max was to have found her.

Y/N couldn't understand how he was the lucky one. After all, she was the one with the Formula 1 star pilot. She got on Twitter, seeing how several users commented on how amazing she was, how she had managed to make a name for herself in motorsport, how sweet and funny people found her, Y/N would never in her life use "funny" as an adjective to describe herself. And the best part, that Max should feel more than lucky to have her. That they made a practically perfect couple, that they coordinated super well. Just a few steps in the paddock had made them the couple of the moment. The example to follow.

Max won that race and jumped into her arms when he got out of the car, giving her a strong wet kiss in a very unsexy way. That totally took Y/N by surprise, she couldn't believe his first thought after winning was her. Who knows which of his PR team told him to do that.

"I'll see you in a few hours, wait for me in the hotel room," Max told her, kissing her cheek.

"Max, I also work here. I have to do interviews," she reminded him, with a somewhat serious look.

"Ah, alright,"

"Let me know when you're done," Y/N turned without saying or doing anything else.

She worked until late at night without being able to get out of her head that she and Max had progressed so much in the relationship that they had skipped all the really good parts, the honeymoon phase. And this time it had been her fault, it had been her idea to make it public maybe too soon.

She arrived at Max's room, which was dimly lit and cold. She took a long shower, still wondering what she should do now that their relationship wasn't working out at all.

When she came out of the shower, with wet hair and pajamas on, she found Max lying on the bed, sliding his finger over the screen of his cell phone.

"The shower is free now, were you waiting for long?" Y/N spoke, tilting her head slightly.

"I'm already showered, I was waiting for you," Max admitted with a sweet look.

"Oh," she said. "You didn't have to, I'm sure you're tired,"

Y/N walked cautiously to the free side of the bed, because they hadn't even talked about their sides of the bed. Max got up and changed his clothes, Y/N remembered how good shape Max was in and how good he was in bed as he was with the car. She discreetly bit her lip.

"I wanted to talk to you, actually," Max mentioned as he sat down next to her, giving Y/N goosebumps. "Did you see that people adore us?" Max hugged her by the shoulders, pulling her closer to him.

Y/N let out a sustained thread of air in her lungs and smiled. "Yes," It seemed strange to Max that that was the only thing that came out of Y/N's mouth. "Is that a good thing, isn't it?" he asked, now somewhat confused. "Of course, someone should."

Max blinked, now separating from her body so he could see her well. "What do you mean by that?"

"Since we don't adore each other," she mentioned, as if by chance.

"What do you mean by that?" Max asked, having no idea what Y/N was saying.

She sighed, shaking her head slightly. She wondered how someone couldn't realize something so simple.

"Forget it, Max," she fixed, getting comfortable in bed. "I'm tired."

"Wait, let's talk," he insisted, getting closer to her, with a worried look.

Y/N clicked her tongue, sitting up on the pillow. "Do you like me?"

"Of course, you're beautiful and attentive and intelligent. Why wouldn't I like you?"

That made her heart shrink a bit. "But do you see me as something lasting?"

Max thought about his answer. No. "I don't know,"

That was enough for Y/N to know the real answer, she clicked her tongue and moved slightly away from him.

"Y/N, you have to understand that I have a complicated job and…"

"For God's sake, Max, we both work in the same field. If you want to blame the distance or something like that, it won't work," Y/N denied, biting her cheek with anger.

Max pressed his lips, trying to hide that that was exactly what he was going to do.

"I think I better leave," Y/N commented, pulling the sheets.

Max saw all her movements, from when she got up until she picked up her things and left through the door. Y/N still somehow hoped he would say something, but Max didn't even move. He simply waited for her to leave so he could lie down and go to sleep.

Y/N didn't cry, she didn't even consider it. It had been a short time and there was no need to waste time thinking about what could have happened. For God's sake, she didn't even know if it had been a real relationship.

It had started perfectly but had been declining just a few days after they met.

In the last Grand Prix, Y/N was with her team most of the time, writing columns for DAZN's website report and preparing questions for her colleagues' interviews.

"Y/N, here are the questions for Max's interviews," her colleague said.

"Huh?"

"Everyone wants you to interview Max, for obvious reasons," he nodded, as if it were totally normal.

"I don't think it's a good idea," Y/N mentioned, making a face.

"Y/N, he and everyone else are waiting for the interview," he insisted, nodding his head behind his back. Y/N turned discreetly, observing Max leaning against a wall, trying so hard not to look at her.

"Fuck," she muttered with a soft frown. "Ok, let's do this quick,"

She standed up with a bored and sick stare, there was Red Bull's engineers everywhere and even people taking pictures of her.

"Hey," he greeted her as she approached.

"Let's get this over with quickly, okay?" she nodded.

"Try not to be too harsh, people still think we're together," Max commented.

Y/N's gaze hardened. "I'll do whatever I want, Max," she clenched her jaw and gave the cameraman a nod to start broadcasting the interview.

#max verstappen #f1 #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #noraverse 🫧#formula 1 one shot #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen angst #mv1 #mv33 #mv1 x reader

122 notes · View notes

auspicioustidings · 6 months

Note

Price finding an unaccounted for hostage while clearing a terrorist base

(I feel like I’ve read this from you before but with Ghost??? I really hope that was you bc if not that’s slightly embarrassing that I can’t remember 😵‍💫)

Fear not it was indeed me! Now in that universe Price did have a story as to how he got himself a wife so let's say this is a different universe entirely! And oh go on sure I'll make Price less of a kidnapper and more of a handsome hero figure <3

Very Bad, No Good Day

Words: 700ish

Captain John Price would not have hesitated to shoot you. You were in a terrorist hideout, there was no mention of any other civilians and honestly? You were a little too soft and doe-eyed to seem like anything but a trap. He swept the room before even considering going near you, in risk assessment mode. Nobody else here, hastily cleared out safe and then you handcuffed to the radiator with a rag tied around your mouth.

On the balance of probability it was likely you were not a terrorist once he had taken it all in. Wouldn’t make sense to leave you behind, too much of a wild gambit to try and honey trap one of his. Price had met honeytraps before, they did not tend to be thick women in their 30s and as he got closer he could very much see how soft and terrified you were. Poor thing.

Still, he could not rule out a trap entirely so he called it in and then searched you with firm hands and a gentle explanation.

“Need to confirm you’ve not got any weapons then we can get you somewhere safe.”

Fuck you were quite the dream woman weren’t you? He kept it tactical even as he felt around and found you very much had hips that begged his fingers to sink into them. Where the hell had this useless lot of criminals found a thing like you? He probably should have been more thorough before he took the rag from your mouth but he was busy trying to scold himself into not getting too handsy.

“Give me the quick version. Who are you, why are you here?”

You blurted out everything in a rapid fire babbling. Your name, your very bad no good day as the unluckiest postie in the entire world who had just been trying to do her job and deliver a package. You probably cried at him too much about it, maybe went too into detail about how mean your boss was and all the names he kept calling you and how he always gave you ridiculously hard routes rather than giving you a standard one like everyone else.

“Slow down luv, you’re fine. Deep breath.”

You tried, hard not to when this man was the one asking. He was like something out of a trashy romance novel, all gruff and handsome and commanding. For his part Price was doing a stellar job of not letting his face give away the massive ‘oops’ he had made. You were here because they had planned it that way. They had sent a package that was supposed to raise alarm bells, get everyone agitated and sloppy. He had not considered the idiots would think to blame the fucking postie for it.

It was outrageous how he took a little sharp pin from one of his pockets and picked the lock on your handcuffs. Should that have been as attractive as it was? You were absolutely sure you fell entirely in love with the man when he pulled you to your feet, showing off how strong he was (tactical on his part, contrary to what his team may believe John Price was not bad at flirting, he was merely subtle). Should he save it for when you were not being rescued from an active terrorist base? Maybe. But even if his team may be muppets they were muppets he trusted to have done their jobs when they gave him the all clear, letting him relax just a little.

He had fully intended on asking you out only you beat him to it, seeing if he might like to get a coffee as you were wrapped in a blanket with a medic checking over you.

A week later you had coffee. A fortnight and you got your back absolutely blown out over his office desk. It took 6 months for you to move in together (he had asked after 1, you had at least tried to take things slow). A year to the day you met he got down on one knee and you crashed into him with delight with a yes spilling from your lips.

Many years and several very fat and happy babies later you thought back on it and decided maybe it had not been a very bad, no good day after.

#mhairiwrites #cod #price x reader #john price x reader #Early's agenda of making everyone aware that Price loves himself a fat broad is fully working btw

178 notes · View notes

wisteria-blooms · 7 months

Text

sunburns & dragons (charlie weasley & reader) (4/??)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

TAGLIST: @badgerqueen07 @superduckmilkshake @k-k-merlin @kisskittenn @pluiesdefleurs@lilianelena39 @bathwater101 @evilunicorns4minions @noah-uhhh-what (Let me know if I missed you, or if you want to be added!)

CHAPTER 4: A week before the highly-anticipated dinner, you discover something terrible. You are a hard, fact-based person; Charlie is your contrarian spur-of-the-moment partner. And he’s not shy to show you. (5.4k words)

CHAPTER 4: BOYS IN THE BLUE

The warm autumn day took a nosedive the moment you headed home. There was a light spray of rain in the gardens, and you had to march over soggy leaves to get to the front door. When you were back inside, it was even colder in the lifeless, expanse corridors and you involuntarily shuddered. It was chilly to the point that you assumed there must be Dementors floating about… oh, right, your brother and father were home.

As you ambled down the hall, you mapped out all the ways to victory. It was a play well-rehearsed and acted.

The Plan Step 1: Start argument with Lucius. Step 2: Press the issue, inciting anger in him. Step 3: Build up the anger by making valid points. Step 4: Watch his composure rupture. This is considered a victory. Just wait for his silent withdrawal because he’ll be too embarrassed to admit he’s lost. Optional Steps Step 3.a. Utilise reverse psychology (e.g. “Uncle Theo is a classic example of money not buying class. I’m so glad we don’t engage in such gauche practices.”) Step 3.b. Create fantastical scenarios to help your father see the light. Step 3.c. Rally Narcissa on your side. Lucius never argues with Narcissa.

As you passed your father’s study, you saw Lucius at his desk writing something on a long roll of parchment. He’d since changed from those ridiculously fancy dress robes to just a plain button-up shirt and let his hair down. The fireplace cackled menacingly beside him, orange flames puffing just like how he’d be within the next five minutes.

You popped your head in. “I hope your business meeting went well,” you started.

“Fortunately, it did, despite the crisis that I averted,” Lucius answered without so much as a glance up at you.

“What crisis?” you asked sweetly.

Lucius narrowed his eyes, still writing. “You know very well what I’m talking about.”

“You should recount the story for mother and Draco tonight,” you offered.

“There’s no need for it.”

“Right,” you affirmed. Again, you didn’t want this dinner to have to happen. This conversation was a means to call it off. “I reckon it was hard to take in. You should take your time and meet Charlie when you’re in a better temperament.”

“That’s not correct,” Lucius stated with a tsk. “I am always in a pleasant temperament.” He finally laid his quill down and looked at you. “And your mother and brother will be delighted to meet your… partner at dinner in a fortnight as planned.”

“So, all your talk about reputation and standards was for naught?” you pressed. The next plan of attack was a subset of step three: reverse psychology. “What happens when our neighbours see a Weasley at the door? Being invited in by a Malfoy? You’ll be the talk of the town.”

Lucius smiled menacingly. “I reckon I’ve been unfair,” he admitted slyly. “I should get to know the Weasley boy. Maybe he won’t be a disgrace like his parents.”

You grimaced internally. You should’ve known that Lucius was not going to make this easy.

“You’ve really had a change of heart, father,” you stated. “It’s not in our usual fashion, but maybe we should start associating with blood traitors more.

“Nonsense”—he waved a hand—“I consider it charity work.”

“That’s complete rubbish, Charlie is not—”

Lucius raised a hand to stop you. “I have never implied that, but if that’s what you think of your boyfriend, then so be it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. If this was how he wanted to play it, then you were going to start writing to all his colleagues and business partners about your relationship and plaster your photos on every billboard. You were going to send an owl to everyone in the Ministry, including the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Hold on, speaking of Shacklebolt…

“Then, you wouldn’t mind if we attended the Ministry Christmas party together this year, won’t you? We could be sat at the table with you and mother, and Draco. I reckon I should let you know now since the Minister’s office needs a guest list by the end of October.”

A moment of silence. Then, both the corner of your and Lucius’s mouth twitched at the same time but in different contexts. You, with happiness and him, with chagrin.

“Well, that’s still some ways off,” he responded. “But I’m sure our Minister would be delighted to have the less fortunate seated so far up.”

“Then spare a seat for Charlie.”

“Of course,” Lucius said. “Consider it done. But let’s have dinner together first, shall we?”

“And remind me, (Y/N),” Lucius continued with a growing grin. “Charlie is the son with the dragons, correct?”

“Why do you care?”

“His father always tries to tell me about his children when I pass him by at the Ministry. Truthfully, I’m barely listening but I have caught onto this particular detail.”

The look in his eyes made you uneasy. Truthfully, you wished you didn’t have to answer him. There were consequences to telling the truth or lying. Looks like nothing had changed since you were younger.

“He is.”

With that, you walked away.

The rest of the afternoon, you resided in the sunroom, watching the rain slam on the overhead glass. A cloud of perturbation hung over your head like the weather. Unsure of how to communicate your failure with Charlie, you chose to sit and ruminate. But after half an hour, you grabbed a quill, a piece of parchment, and a seal and began writing.

Charlie, I couldn’t do it. You’ll have to clear your schedule for next next Saturday. (Y/N) Malfoy

About half an hour later, your owl fluttered back to your window.

(Y/N), Not saying I didn’t tell you so, but… I told you so. I won’t be here all week, but I’m back on Friday from Hogwarts. How about meeting me at the platform at eight p.m.? Charlie P.S. This is Romanian parchment. Go on, try to burn it. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Curious, you trotted over to the fireplace. You crumbled the parchment and threw it into the flames. You waited for the crinkling sounds, for the edges to crisp and blacken, and the ball to burst in flames, but to your amusement, the paper was as pristine as ever. It lay unaffected in the blue flames.

With a smile, you wrote back:

Charlie, That works for me. Have a good week. (Y/N) Malfoy

You held off communication with Charlie for the rest of the week, opting to fiddle with your quill at your cubicle at the Ministry. When no one was looking, you scribbled down details of what you’d say to your father—lines you’d feed to Charlie to regurgitate until they felt real. For some reason, Fred and George were eager to escort you to the station to meet Charlie on Friday. You chalked it up to them missing their brother. Fred invited you to wait for them after work so you could go together.

When the fated Friday arrived, you rushed out of your office to Weasley Wizard Wheezes. You sat in the homey flat upstairs while waiting for Fred and George to close shop. You spread out on the couch, legs on the armrest, reading the stories you’d weaved at your desk.

You rehearsed in a low voice. “Charlie and I met at Christmas last year when he came back for a week. He invited me for coffee and the rest was history. December 27th, wasn’t it, darling? We had an instant connection and maintained our relationship through letters and chats through floo.”

You scribbled a line in and continued. “I was chuffed when he decided to take an extended vacation this year.”

Then you shut your eyes and pretended Lucius was asking you a question about your future.

“Well, we haven’t decided where we’ll settle, but at the moment, Romania is looking like the better option for both of us.”

“Is it?” Fred interjected. “Really?”

You scrambled up, feet hitting the ground. “You’re done already?”

“Not a particularly busy week,” he said, sitting down next to you and peering over. “Let me have a read to review the accuracy of this love story.”

You pushed him away. “No.”

“It sounds kind of stiff and unrealistic if I’m being honest,” George added. “Is this a dinner or a job interview? And Charlie sounds more romantic than I’d ever know him.”

“I was just rehearsing,” you grumbled in defence. “It’s not meant to sound polished.”

Fred and George walking in on you penning a romance between you and their older brother was going to be something they’d never let you live down. You continued walking on and grabbed your topcoat that was hanging from the rack. You slipped it over your black sweater dress and announced: “Let’s get going.”

All mentions of your script were thankfully forgotten when the three of you landed in the chilly autumn air that engulfed King’s Cross Station. You strode the last hundred metres, quickly falling in sync with the twins. A tale as old as time, Fred situated himself to your left and George to your right.

“I assumed Charlie was only to be at Hogwarts for two or three days a week from the way he was speaking,” you said. “But it seems he left Monday, is that right?”

“He mentioned some ‘contractual matters’ to clear with McGonagall. You know, given that he decided to take the job on such short notice. But McGonagall has been waiting for her favourite student to come back since he graduated, so she was more than fine with it,” George explained before a grin broke out on his face. “It’s interesting you seem to have such complex insights into Charlie’s life.”

“Complex insights?” you repeated. “He told me.”

“When? On your date or when you were having lunch with his mum?”

“Your mum, too, Georgie,” you reminded him.

“Not the way she was making it seem.”

To your left, Fred made a discontented noise. “I wish he hadn’t come back,” he grumbled.

“Why’s that?”

“Because while mum adores Bill, her fixation with Charlie is on another level,” Fred groaned. “And now that McGonagall gets to see him again, it’ll be even worse for his ego. That’s all she ever talked about, huh, Georgie? ‘That was a very strategic play, Fred, but your brother Charlie did it better.’ And then she’d launch into a story of the time Charlie enacted a critical play to win the game.”

“Which game?” George queried, stroking his chin. “I can only remember ten examples.”

“You sound jealous,” you teased, giving Fred a nudge.

“You’re right,” Fred conceded. He shot you a quick wink. “I guess I’m jealous he gets to date you.”

Your sudden laugh vaporised in the cold air. “You flatter me, Fred Weasley. But we’re not dating, remember?”

Fred must’ve noticed the puff of air that left your lips, because he then suggested: “Let’s have a night out before the weather goes to total shit.”

“It is already total shit,” you reminded him as a snappy breeze blew past you. You held a gloved hand to his face. “The nice weather will be gone like your deepest freckles.”

Fred clicked his tongue. “(Y/N) Malfoy, eternally the”—he paused at looked at you—“shivering pessimist.”

He wasn’t wrong. You breathed a sigh of relief when you stepped into the warmth of King Cross’s station. You strode past the last wave of stragglers trying to catch the next train home. You looked around the concourse, ensuring there were no muggle eyes on you, before the three of you smoothly gilded into the wall and onto Platform 9 ¾.

“Nice to be here with nowhere to go, huh?” George asked when you reappeared.

You nodded. It wasn’t early September and there weren’t bustling crowds and extraneous noise—of frantic parents, crying children, and conductors. Now, there were barely five people on the platform: an old man reading a newspaper; a mother and her son; and two wizards in dress robes.

A light wind began to pick up around the platform. You looked down at your watch. It was eight o’clock on the dot. The Hogwarts Express de-accelerated, screeching slightly against the metal tracks, before stopping in front of you. The windows were noticeably emptier and there couldn’t be more than a dozen people on this train. As people deboarded, you peeked around, looking for a mop of ginger curls.

As soon as you saw Charlie at the top step in the first compartment, you nudged George to go over. Charlie hadn’t seen you yet. He was raising a hand to the conductor. “Thanks, Stan.”

Stan tipped his hat. “See you next week, Charlie.”

Then, Charlie stepped off the train carrying a leather briefcase. He was dressed like how you first saw him, in the same slacks and jean jacket. His hair was mussed from the trip, but the dishevelled locks suited him. His blue eyes were cloudy with sleep, as they would be after a long journey.

“Hey Charlie,” George greeted.

Fred patted your shoulder and said: “Got your girlfriend here in one piece.”

Charlie’s face lit up. “Thank you, Fred.”

You shook your head in annoyance at Fred. Truth be told, you didn’t like Fred’s casual use of the word ‘girlfriend.’ Hopefully, after next week, you’d never need to ask for Charlie’s services again.

Fred ushered George back to the wall. “We’ll be heading back now.”

George cocked his head. “Yeah, don’t be too long.”

When the twins had disappeared through the wall, so did their laughs.

You turned to Charlie. “There’s a coffee shop in the station we could sit at,” you offered. “You must be famished after your trip.”

“I’m tired,” Charlie said with a yawn. He stretched his arms behind his head and flawlessly, one of those arms swung over your shoulder, pulling you closer to him. The scent of pine trees and cinder enveloped you immediately. He cocked his head downwards towards yours, eyes lighting in amusement. “Let’s chat at the pub instead.”

“The pub?” you repeated, blinking up at him. Unconsciously, you fell in step with Charlie, striding with his arm locked around you down the platform. “Didn’t you just say you were tired?”

“A beer will wake me up.”

“That is physiologically counterintuitive,” you stated.

“I wasn’t built like a normal person.”

As the firm curve of his bicep grazed your face, you were inclined to agree.

When you stepped outside of the station, the night had grown even darker. Stars peeked out from the blanket of black from up above. Charlie finally unlatched himself from you as you approached a tram stop. To be honest, you were annoyed that your shield of warmth was taken from you and that Charlie had left you to fend against the wind by yourself.

“Where to, Miss Malfoy?” Charlie asked as you sat down on the moving tram.

You leaned back on the plush seat. “Might go to the White Wyvern for a classy night,” you jested.

“Great, I’ve been looking forward to splintering my fingers at the table,” Charlie hummed in agreement. “Or I’ll my hand stuck from the beer residue until Mace, the owner, has to saw it off. Might lose a kidney, who knows, but it’d be worth it.”

“Have you been?” you asked. “It sounds like you have.”

Charlie chuckled. “That I can’t say. You can inquire about anything else though.” He swerved the conversation around. “Where does your dad go on a Friday night?”

“Valour.”

Valour was an upscale bar where Lucius fancied having dinner with his business companions. You’d been just a handful of times, but it wasn’t your cup of tea. There was no one your age there.

Charlie let out a low whistle. “I’d have to sell my kidney for a night there. Let’s settle for something in the middle.”

“Alright then,” you said. “Let’s go to The Brew.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“It opened last summer. You were probably in Romania.”

“Sounds reasonable. Lead the way.”

The Brew was only a block away from where the tram stopped. You guided Charlie up the cobbled road on Warwick Avenue, dangerously close to where you were last week when you were caught by Molly. You knew you’d arrived when you saw the exterior of the building: sleek and trendy with neon cursive lettering shining against the black brick. Inside, the crystal wine glasses perched on top of the bar shimmered in the dim light. The velvet chairs—maroon and pine—contrasted well against the glossy walls.

After the host took your coats, you looked for an open spot.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” Charlie suggested.

“Alright.”

You also appreciated Charlie’s confidence to find footing wherever he was. You thought yourself well-adjusted in that regard; you were good at settling with your family’s uppity friends. But Charlie was on a different level.

He weaved through the crowds gracefully with two hands in his pockets. When he found two unoccupied barstools, he pulled one out for you.

“After you.”

“Thank you.” You smoothed your dress and sat down. You swivelled around to place an order, but the bartender in front of you seemed occupied with something else.

“No way,” she exclaimed, her hands halfway through drying a glass with a towel. “Charlie Weasley?”

“The one and only,” he responded. “And you are…” He squinted his eyes, appraising the tall bartender. She was dressed fully in black which you assumed was the unofficial uniform of the pub. Her curly hair rivalled the colour of her blouse. She had eyes as green as the lime garnishes at her workstation. Her ears were adorned by multiple piercings, and a small collection of tattoos dotted her toned arms. “Mallory.”

Her red lips curled into a smile. “You still remember me?”

“I couldn’t ever forget,” Charlie said. “Though it’s been almost, what, twelve years?”

Mallory nodded.

“Mallory and I were teammates on the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” Charlie explained, facing you. “Mallory, this is (Y/N).”

You quickly extended a hand. “(Y/N) Malfoy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh—,” Mallory quickly corrected herself and shook your hand. “Mallory Mikaelson.”

You smiled politely and withdrew. What a reputation your last name had around town. If only it was for the better, you thought.

Mallory’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she leaned over the counter to take a closer look at you. “I can’t seem to place you, love,” she said. “I suppose you were in a different house, or a different year?”

You didn’t want to admit you were six years younger than Charlie because of the way it might reflect on him, so you were vague with your answer: “Both.”

She hummed, then redirected the conversation back to Charlie. “Do you remember Marcus, my brother?”

“Of course,” Charlie said. “The best beater I’ve had the pleasure of playing with, besides you. Where is he now?”

“Department of International Transportation at the Ministry,” Mallory said. “We still play Quidditch at weekends at Felder's Field just north of here. We’d love to have our old teammate back for a game.”

“Name the date and time, I’ll be there,” Charlie affirmed.

“Hey Mal,” another bartender called from the back. “Abby called in for her shift at the front. Boss is asking you to cover for her tonight.”

“I’ll be right over,” Mallory said, her tone cool and professional. Then with a warm smile, she capped off her conversation with Charlie. “See you then, Charlie. Send me an owl.”

Charlie waved back. “See you.”

“What can I get for you two?” Mallory’s colleague asked after she’d gone out to the front.

“A pint of stout,” Charlie said.

You were still preoccupied with the conversation that just occurred so the question didn’t even register in your brain. Who was Mallory? What kind of past did she have with Charlie?

“What about you, love?” the bartender pressed.

“(Y/N)?” Charlie leaned in, giving your arm a squeeze. “If you don’t answer, I’ll get you a stout, too.”

You quickly regained consciousness. “An aperol spritz, please. Thank you.”

“Is the idea of a stout really that terrible?” Charlie joked.

“Yes,” you gasped out. “Awful.”

In a matter of minutes, your drinks arrived and you were finally left alone.

“It’s always nice to see a familiar face, isn’t it?” Charlie remarked.

“Absolutely,” you agreed with a nod. You vowed to forego your curiosity; there were more pressing matters. “Speaking of familiar things, how was your first week at Hogwarts?”

“Really great. I’m just settling in and getting accustomed to my classroom and Hagrid’s curriculum.”

“Does he know the meaning of a curriculum? I’ve heard his classes weren’t very…. Well-structured.”

“Not at all,” Charlie affirmed. “It’s whatever he feels like teaching that day. I might have to work with him a little.”

You grinned. “I can imagine.”

Charlie nodded his head. “You’re imagining right.” After a sip of beer, he resumed his thoughts. “But we’re not here to talk about Hagrid. We’re here to talk about next week.”

“Right! So, I prepared something,” you said, reaching into your purse for the rolled parchment. You hooked it with your finger and fished it out. “I was hoping to go over some notes with you—”

“(Y/N),” Charlie interrupted. His hand, leading with his thumb, was making a backward motion. “I need you to start from the beginning. Unlike my brothers, I know zilch about you.”

You set the parchment back in your purse and tucked it away. “Well, what do you know about me?”

“I know that everyone is terrified of your father, your brother is a right tosser, and your mother is gorgeous.”

Without thinking, you slapped Charlie on the arm, causing him to sputter in his drink. “Don’t talk about my mother like that.”

“If you’d let me finish my sentence,” Charlie protested after recovering. “I would’ve said, ‘that’s obviously who you got your looks from.’’”

Now, it was your turn to nearly sputter into your drink.

Charlie wagged a finger. “Careful, don’t spill that on yourself again.”

“I don’t reckon that was remotely my fault. You sat on me.”

Charlie was unfazed by your accusation and grinned instead. “Tell me more about your family.”

Quizzically, you continued, though you were unsure of how keen Charlie was on climbing your family tree. “My mother has two sisters, my aunts Bellatrix and Andromeda. I don’t have much to say there. My father has a brother and a sister. My uncle, Theodore Malfoy, and my aunt, Rosamund Malfoy. Thankfully for all of us, Uncle Theodore lives in France.”

Charlie furrowed his eyebrows. “Why thankfully?”

You paused. You never had anyone show so much concentrated interest in your family. Even Fred and George didn’t care much past the surface, past taunts against Lucius or Draco. You explained to Charlie what happened in France this summer, how he’d made a grand show of displaying his new properties and putting your family down.

“He’s perhaps the most terrible person I’ve met,” you huffed. “He’s worse than my father. You can’t talk about anything good without him doing you one better. And his spawn follows his mannerisms exactly.”

“Who are the spawn?”

“Genevieve. She’s my oldest cousin. She just got married this summer in Nice. She’s the worst. It was a cursed occasion because my mother came home with some nuptial fever. Her brother Claude is similarly terrible but he just talks less and conceals it better.” You gauged Charlie’s facial expression and could tell he was still engrossed. “I have two younger cousins, Charlotte and Clara. They’re pleasant, though I can’t tell the difference between them on a good day. They look very much alike despite being two years apart.”

“That leaves you,” Charlie remarked with a wide grin. “My favourite Malfoy.”

You laughed. “I’m the only Malfoy you know.”

“I’ve heard of your brother,” Charlie said. “From what I’ve gathered, I prefer you.”

“I haven’t scared you off?”

“Not yet.”

His face read ‘try me’ to which you smiled at.

Then, silence fell upon you. It was to be expected, a natural stall in the conversation. You took a prolonged sip of your cocktail to ease the awkwardness. As the bitters melted on your tongue, you searched for other things to talk about, but Charlie beat you to it.

“(Y/N),” Charlie’s deep voice called out to you.

You put your drink down on the table. “Yes?”

“I have a question for you.”

“Alright.”

Charlie shifted his stool over to yours. He was close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. This time, instead of remaining where he was, he latched a hand on your kneecap. Every callus embedded on his fingers were noticeable on the groove of your knee, despite a layer of sheer tights separating his skin and yours. His grip didn’t hurt, but he was firm.

“What are you doing?” you panicked. Your tone came out more accusatory than you’d liked.

“Practising?” Charlie said quizzically. “Will it even be the least bit convincing if my touch repulses you?”

“I’m not repulsed!” you retorted. “It was just unexpected.”

Unexpected, as in you hadn't had a man touch you in months, maybe two years if you wanted the statement to be accurate. And at some point, you had stopped counting because the thought made you all the more miserable.

“That’s why I have a question,” he explained. “How much am I allowed to touch you at this… dinner?”

Your brain short-circuited for a minute. It was very hard to form any thoughts with Charlie’s sharp blue eyes tangled with yours, waiting for an answer like his life depended on it. The lopsided curve of his lip tempted a sacrilegious answer, one that you had too much modesty top provide. And now, things were harder with his large hand engulfing your kneecap. You were a deer in the headlights; he was the coyote catching his prey.

“This is fine.” This would convince your parents. Merlin, even you were convinced.

“Alright.”

You looked down. Your skin burned beneath his touch, and you had to wonder why you felt this way, why you were suddenly so flushed and withdrawn. Surely, if Fred pulled this act, you’d touch—or rather, slap—him back in retaliation.

Charlie’s thumb began to rub circles above your knee as he asked: “What about this?”

You stifled a sound. You were ticklish but you also couldn’t deny that that wasn’t the only sensation you were feeling. You couldn’t pinpoint it but you knew his touch wasn't at all unwanted.

“Don’t you think that’s too much?” you murmured. “All we need is a solid story, and I reckon we should be able to get away with it.”

“Nothing is too much if the goal is to convince your parents you like me, emotionally and physically,” Charlie commented with a laugh. “That’s the equation of love. Got it?”

You nodded slowly. Sure, you understood arithmetic, but this was a devilishly dangerous line he was toeing around.

He scooted even closer to you, his barstool squeaking against the floor, to be able to lift his hand from your knee to find your waist instead. His palm found its way to the dead centre, gravitating towards the most delicate part of you.

“Still okay?” he asked with an upward tilt of his head. You were entranced by how sharp his jaw cut under at this angle.

You nodded slowly, lips parting slightly as a result. He was so close that you could smell the alcohol on his lips. You hoped the dim lighting obfuscated your reddening face.

“Good job,” he praised with a smirk. “You’re doing great, (Y/N).”

Your head spun as if the prosecco in the aperol spritz had concentrated and exploded in your bloodstream all at once. Charlie’s voice started sounding further and further away, even though you were intently watching him inch closer. The room behind him blurred like a camera finding a focus on its subject. Charlie was your subject, his every freckle and crease near his gleaming eyes clear as day.

“Do you do this… often?”

You could barely hear your own voice.

“Sh, I’m the one asking questions. Keep focussed on the conversation we’re having.”

Focus? You wanted to ask Charlie if a dragon had clawed off his frontal lobe, leaving him helpless to his impulses. A prime example: this scene he was making.

“Now,” he continued, squeezing your waist. “What is your limit?”

“My—” you stammered, unable to gauge the meaning of his two-toned words. “My limit? As in alcohol?”

A barking laugh shattered your daze and brought you back to the present. Charlie’s voice was now glassy clear and his tone melodic. “(Y/N), let’s reroute back to the question of how much I can touch you.”

“Erm, this is okay,” you eked out through shallow breaths. Had Charlie shrunk your lungs? Was there such a spell? “I don’t imagine anyone would want to see any more.”

His eyes darkened. Your heart stopped. “What if I kissed you?” he asked.

Well, your heart was certifiably alive again because it had just catapulted against your chest, almost throwing you forward.

‘Now? Or next week?’ You wanted to scream. At this point, it was hard to tell and if he didn’t stop talking, you were really going to die. Might as well have the bartenders dig a hole in the ground right here and bury you with a tombstone carved with the words ‘Cause of Death: Charlie Weasley.’

“Let’s hope the situation’s not dire enough to have to come to that,” you said. On the contrary, your eyes were drinking in those smirky lips like they were the finest and richest wine in the world and wondering if rehearsals should be in order.

“But if it did?”

You pursed your lips which Charlie noticed, his eyes falling downwards, long lashes casting shadows over his face. You had to approach this logically and weigh the benefits and risks. If you had to kiss Charlie for a millisecond, it could mean a lifetime of your parents off your back. And a seriously tumultuous friendship with Fred and George if they found out.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“It would be fine,” you whispered with minimal conviction. “But only as a last resort.”

A rush of blood pounded your head when he was a mere three inches from your face. You gulped when you saw yourself reflected in his eyes. One wrong move and your nose would brush up against his freckled one.

“Of course,” he stated, looking offended. “You’d think I’d just waltz in next weekend and we’d start snogging in the foyer? You must think better of me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—’

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Charlie teased, scooting back and letting his legs stretch out. Your eyes were glued to his hands and arms that were crossed in front of his chest. A cocky grin graced his chiselled face. “But this is great. I’ve got enough for next week.”

“Shouldn’t we discuss more about what we’re going to do?” you protested. Your voice was desperate and frantic. “We have to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“No, I really do have all that I need.”

“I wrote some things down, some critical points we should hit,” you pleaded, trying to find the parchment in your purse. When you unfurled it, Charlie was quick to snatch it out of your hands. He crushed it between his palms. When he opened his hand up again, the parchment was nothing more than cinder that disintegrated before it could hit the floor.

You were absolutely and undeniably sober after that action. Any thoughts of giving into a kiss dissipated immediately (and you weren’t sure why you were flirting with that idea in the first place). Your blood alcohol level: negative. Your chances of being betrothed to Goyle: positive.

“Charlie!”

“(Y/N)!” he imitated in a loud, whiny drawl that attracted the attention of the man beside him. You flushed; you did not sound like that. “Let’s get another round to soothe those nerves of yours.”

His grin grew wider as he flagged down the bartender. A blonde woman immediately swivelled towards him. He pointed to your drinks. You shut your eyes in defeat, resisting the urge to slam your head on the table.

His laissez-faire attitude was going to be the death of you.

>> NEXT CHAPTER

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

#charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley x you #charlie weasley x oc #charlie weasley imagine

127 notes · View notes

faithhearted · 4 months

Text

@honorhearted said: "Can we speak of this another time? I'm busy." (for Mary!)

This was not how Mary envisioned her life unfolding. Ever since she was a child, she had strived to be proper, to be viewed as a good and Godly young lady. ‘Be kind’, her mother had told her, ‘kind and fair and devout and true. These are the makings of a desirable woman.’ and so she’d obeyed. Even now, over and over again Mary told herself to be kind, fair, devout, and true, and your husband will love you.

But she had not married the man to whom she’d been promised. Instead, she’d wed his brother, who had taken her hand out of some sense of duty or responsibility though he never spoke about why.

No matter how kind, fair, devout, and true she endeavored to be, her husband did not love her. He’d done his husbandly obligation and together they’d conceived and raised a child, but still, he did not spare her an ounce of affection.

Instead, Abe’s eyes lingered upon Anna Str.ong, the woman he had always loved and loved still. It tore at Mary until her heart was in tattered shreds. Anna was everything Mary was not.

Anna was inconsiderate, tempestuous, fickle, and irresponsible. She too was a married woman and yet Abe wanted her. In truth, Mary once utterly despised Anna for this, and that hatred ate at her gut until she was tired of the way that hatred felt. Instead, all her energy was now spent on ensuring her family's survival.

A fortnight ago, Mary had been brought to the Contin.ental Army’s New Wind.sor camp for her protection, and for her son’s, and Abe was off once again, in another covert plan to enlist in Arnold’s unit. While Mary supported her husband’s revenge against Sim.coe, she was once again left alone to wait for a man who did not want her and who might very well never want her.

Despite all this, Mary worried for his safety. Early that morning, she’d set out to Major Tall.madge’s tent to inquire about Abe’s well-being only to be met with unattentive indifference to her presence. It was something she was used to but refused to tolerate further.

"Can we speak of this another time? I'm busy."

“We will speak of this now,” she firmly insisted, snatching the quill from his hand if only to force him to look into her pleading eyes, “Please, Major, you must know something about how he’s fairing. Will you not permit even five minutes to ease a wife's concern?”

#For Better or Worse #honorhearted #Don't feel the need to match length lol Mary's muse just kind of started spilling word vomit for a sec there #I JUST HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT HOW EFFED UP HER MARRIAGE IS THE POOR WOMAN

72 notes · View notes

steddieasitgoes · 1 day

Text

for a fortnight there, we were forever

Happy Birthday, @nostalgicbones !!!!

I hope you have the best day ever and enjoy this little fic about Steddie getting into Supernatural. Apologies in advance if I got the details wrong, everything I know about this show I learned from tumblr lmao.

wc: 2.1K+ | rated: T

Read on ao3

Steve’s tired. The kind of tired that sits deep in his bones. A once-in-a-lifetime trip to visit Robin in her year abroad interpreter fellowship has kept him busy the last two weeks. Adventuring all over Europe as Robin rambled in languages, Steve couldn’t even imagine learning himself. They saw art, explored kitschy tourist traps, ate so much delicious food, Steve’s pants sitting a little lighter around his middle, and managed to avoid an international incident except that one night in Italy when Robin had to translate their way out of an arrest.

It’s been some of the best two weeks of his life, but he’s ready to be home. All he wants now is to kiss Eddie hello, scrub the last six hours of travel from his body, and then curl up on the couch with lukewarm takeout and his boyfriend’s arm around him. In that exact order no matter how much protesting Eddie does. If Steve doesn’t get in the shower he’s going to start peeling his skin from his body.

He doesn’t expect Eddie to be waiting by the door for him like some devoted pet, but when he unlocks the front door and doesn’t hear footsteps, he’s slightly concerned.

This is the longest they have been apart in years and some part of him figured Eddie would be on him the minute the Uber dropped him off in the parking lot, especially after he denied Eddie’s offer to pick him up at the airport. It was a nice offer, but the last thing Steve needed after a day and a half of travel was to get into the car with a frustrated Eddie because airport traffic is the root of all evil — he learned his lesson after last fall’s teacher’s conference.

Instead, Steve toes off his shoes and pads down the hallway toward the glowing light coming from their living room. He passes the kitchen on the way in and has to stop himself from making a pitstop. Messy isn’t strong enough to describe the scene. It looks like Eddie threw a rager in the small confines of their kitchen — solo cups everywhere, dishes overflowing from the sink, a half-eaten pizza box open on the counter that surprisingly hasn’t been touched by their cat Shiloh.

Steve can feel his anxiety spiking as he takes it all in. Eddie may not be obsessively organized like he is, but he’s never been one to be this messy. What if something bad happened to him in the last day and a half he’s been traveling? It’s been hard to keep up with texts with the all-time differences and layovers. Surely someone would have called him if something bad happened — at the very least, their house would be surrounded in yellow tape by now since Dorien is a busybody who regularly sounds the alarm if they’re more than five minutes late putting out their trash cans on pick up day.

It’s comforting enough to propel Steve forward, further down the hallway, until it spills out into the living room. His eyes catch on the mess for a moment — more empty take-out boxes and half-drunken water bottles along with over two dozen balled-up pieces of paper — but then he relaxes when he spots Eddie amongst the mess.

His curls are pulled back in a messy bun, and his body is kinked in a weird position as he drapes himself over his acoustic to scribble something down in his notebook. The television is on, casting him in a cool blue-gray tone, but the volume is too low for Steve to hear what’s on.

“Eds,” Steve calls, keeping his voice soft and even so as not to startle Eddie. This isn’t the first time he’s found Eddie in a focused state like this. It’s better not to startle him out of him, a lesson Steve learned the hard way in the early days of their relationship after failing to heed Wayne’s advice. “I’m home.”

“Stevie!” Eddie leaps up from the couch, acoustic be damned as it clatters to the patterned rug. His arms are around Steve in an instant, pulling him flush with his chest and burying his face in his unusually greasy hair.

“Missed you,” Steve says, wrapping his own arms around Eddie’s warm middle. He pulls back just enough to connect their lips. It’s not exactly the welcome kiss Steve was expecting with Eddie’s unexpected stumble scratching his chin but it’s perfect all the same.

“Missed you too.” Eddie ducks his head, nuzzling into the crook of Steve’s neck for a second before pulling away. His nose scrunched up when he looks at him. “I love you, Stevie, but you smell.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head as he slowly untangles his limps from Eddie. “Are you sure it’s me and not this place?” He gestures at the state of their living room and then looks up at Eddie. It’s the first time he’s gotten a chance to really take him in; too preoccupied with getting his much-deserved welcome kiss in. He looks tired, almost as bone tired as Steve does, which doesn’t make any sense since he’s been at home the last two weeks. Sure, managing the record store is a lot of work, but not enough for his eyes to look this red-rimmed and bloodshot as if he’s been smoking for days, which Steve knows isn’t the case because the house doesn’t smell. “What have you been up to?”

A grin tugs at the corner of Eddie’s lips, a smile taking over his entire face until his red-rimmed eyes are squinting and crinkling at the edges. “You know that show Erica is always talking about? Supernatural. I started watching it the day you left, and well… I finished it three hours ago.”

That explains the mess and Eddie’s exhausted state. If there’s one thing his boyfriend is known for, it’s losing all sense of time and human responsibilities for the sake of art — his own or someone else’s.

“How many seasons?”

Eddie yanks a strand of hair from his bun free to tug across his lips before dropping his head. He mumbles something, too low for Steve to register.

“Eds.”

This time Eddie sighs and picks his head up but continues to hide his sheepish smile behind the lock of hair. “15.”

“Jesus, Eddie!” It’s nearly double the last show Eddie became obsessed with, not wanting to do anything but watch episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer until the final credits rolled for the last time. He went 36 hours without sleep before Steve practically held his eyelids shut. “Have you even slept?”

“It’s really hard to sleep without you.” Steve knows Eddie didn’t mean it like that, but he can’t help the pit of guilt that sinks to the base of his stomach. “And once I started, I couldn’t stop. Supernatural demanded to be watched.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not all Steve’s fault. It’s just Eddie’s compulsive need to finish things he starts — at least the things he cares about, their half-built patio furniture, on the other hand…

“I’m never leaving you unsupervised again.”

Eddie smiles at that and reaches for Steve’s hand again. “Good, because I have to catch you up on the show!”

“It’s that good you already want to watch it again?”

“It’s that good, Stevie. And I need to revisit some scenes so I can get this love song, right.”

“Wait,” Steve says, dropping Eddie’s hand. His arms cross on instinct, head tilting to the side as he studies his boyfriend. “Love song? I thought you only wrote love songs about me.”

“The Destiel men deserve an original love ballad for all they’ve been through.”

“Destiel? Men? The show is gay?"

Eddie chuckles, shaking his head with enough force that more unruly strands break free from the worn elastic. There’s mischief in his eyes and a crooked smile pulling on his face and no matter how much trouble that look has gotten them into before, Steve can’t help but love it.

“You have so much to learn, my pet. Go shower, wash that gross plane smell off of you, and I’ll order us food. If we start right when you’re done we can probably get through half of season one tonight.”

Steve crinkles his nose at the request. It’s not that he doesn’t want to watch TV with Eddie, that was part of his plan when he got home. But he did just spend two weeks away from him, and well, he did have a few other plans in store for them after he settled in for a bit.

“Seriously? I’ve been gone for two weeks, and you want to spend our first hours reunited rewatching a show you just finished?”

“Trust me, baby, you’ll understand once we start watching,” he says, kissing Steve’s temple before patting his ass to get him moving. “I’ll even let you take one of those long, steamy showers while I get everything ready. That should be enough time for the Amazon shipment of tissues to arrive.”

“Tissues? I’m going to cry watching a show about supernatural things?”

“Excuse me,” Eddie scoffs. “You sobbed through that one episode of Buffy so do not judge me right now.”

“Will you at least warn me when something bad is going to happen so I’m prepared?”

Eddie shakes his head and mimes, locking his lips before throwing the imaginary key behind his shoulder. “At least you’ll have a shoulder to cry on. Now go, shower or else we won’t get through enough episodes tonight.”

Steve rolls his eyes but compiles, not without stealing another kiss first.

____

Steve hates to admit it, but he’s hooked from episode one. If it was up to him, he’d probably pull the same move Eddie did and binge the entire show in two weeks since he has no other summer vacation plans, but Eddie made him promise not to watch any new episodes while he’s at work. Turns out being an owner doesn’t mean he can call out for an entire month just to watch a television show, a rant Steve listens to for fifteen minutes before Eddie finally shuts up when he presses play on the remote.

It becomes a daily part of their routine right up until episode 18 of the final season. Steve knows something terrible is about to happen the minute the episode begins because Eddie won’t let go of his hand, but he’s still not prepared for the catastrophic events.

“He can’t die like that!” Steve shouts, jumping up from the couch. Eddie’s quick with the remote, passing the credits before the autoplay feature kicks in and starts the next episode. “What the fuck!”

“I know,” Eddie says, patting Steve’s shoulder in the hopes of placating the anger he knows is boiling in his blood. “I scared Shiloh with my shouting when I first watched it.”

“I don’t even want to finish it now.” He’s pouting; he knows he’s pouting, but he can’t help it.

“Aw, come on, Stevie. You have to see it through.” Steve huffs beside him, clinging to one of their stupid throw pillows as Eddie reaches for his laptop on the table. How can he go on the internet at a time like this? Steve feels like he just watched a friend die in front of him! “Besides it’s just the end for them in the show. There are tons of alternate endings online.”

“They shot more than one ending and released it? That doesn’t seem right.”

“Not the creators, they’re idiots,” Eddie says, shaking his head. His fingers fly across the laptop keys, typing something into the search bar before turning the screen so Steve can see. “But the fans take care of each other. This is an entire page of fix-it fics.”

“Fix it what nows?”

Eddie blinks at Steve as if he’s just sprouted two heads. “How have we been dating for five years, and I’ve never shown you the wonders of fix-it fics? Get ready to have your mind blown, sweetheart. Some of them even have art attached!”

“Where do you even find stuff like this?” Steve studies the page Eddie has open. An art piece of Dean driving his beloved Impala, with an arm thrown over the back seat. It’s beautiful.

“Okay, that’s it. After we finish, I’m giving you an education in the world of ao3 and Tumblr. You will be a changed man when I’m done with you, Steve Harrington.”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’

“Never,” Eddie lies, not even trying to hide the mischievous smile on his face. “If you want to see Cas live, this is the way, baby.”

“Fine. But let’s finish the last two episodes first. It can’t get any worse.” Eddie bites his lip, ducking his head but he’s too slow for Steve’s quick eye. “It gets worse doesn’t it.”

“Fix it fics, Stevie. It’s all okay in the fix it fics.”

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #dani writes

45 notes · View notes

thedeviltohisangel · 16 days

Text

FOR A FORTNIGHT THERE WE WERE:

Disneyland Headcanons

Felt particularly inspired on my trip today. A little something for my loves Evelyn and Callum until I’m home again, let me know your thoughts!

-As a child, Disney was such a mythical place. It’s where the rich kids go every school break. The land where her parents save every dime to try and take her and her siblings. A piece of the universe she craves to belong to.

-After early fame, Ev goes often. She takes pictures and brings all her friends and her family and walks around with a VIP guide and never smiles brighter than she does riding the coasters or the tea cups and laughing as if their is no weight on her shoulders. Some people stop for photos but it’s the right amount of wow I think I’m doing something special here and it’s not too much.

-After she skyrockets to fame in Star Wars (adding this to her filmography? Any thoughts?) it becomes much more commercialized. She’s trotted out in front of castles and waving and posing like plastic. Her ex husband is always there to hold her hand and kiss her. But he makes her ride the rides that scare her. Doesn’t let her get the Mickey shaped pizza she wants. Tells her she isn’t holding his hand the right way and people are watching. It’s as much performance for him and his career as it is for hers. It loses its magic and pixie dust and the fans are asking why Ev can only be seen at the theme parks for an event now. How she used to always be there eating popcorn and screaming on splash mountain and taking pictures with all the princesses. They all speculate that Hollywood has taken a fatal bite out of her. That she’s too busy with films and endorsements and magazine covers to be so fun loving anymore. They mourn the loss of the starlet they fell in love with and hope others will stop trying to scrape together the pieces of her now for just one more bite.

-BUT WITH CALLUM. God. He takes her because he knows it’s special and he knows it’s been awhile and he doesnt ask her why but he asks some of the people around her. They say it’s a him thing. An ‘her ex thought it was good for a photo op but ultimately very childish of her’ thing. And he buys her big and pink and princess-y ears and asks if she’ll keep them on because he thinks she looks gorgeous. And he takes photos for her in front of the castle (on his own with his phone and makes them his wallpaper) and he doesn’t flinch when she wants to ride on the carousel and laugh with him over how silly it is. Doesn’t flinch when she eats two Mickey ice cream bars for lunch and a pepperoni pizza for dinner. Buys the cheesy little photo of them on every rollercoaster because he had his arm around her protectively as she screams. It HEALS her to act like a child again and have someone WELCOME the youth that’s back in her cheeks. And he holds her while they watch the fireworks and he asks her if she’s happy and she smiles and says she feels like she got some magic back in her life. And Callum says that’s what he wished on a star for and she laughs and snuggles deeper and kisses his throat and tells him she loves him and will wish on a star for a forever just like this. And she goes home with a stuffed Marie from Aristocats and her phone died a long time ago and she didn’t even noticed and her feet hurt and she falls asleep in his shoulder in the car and she’s sunburnt and sweaty but clinging to him like a dream that she doesn’t want to fade away. And he just promises to make her wish come true. (Also he probably pulls the sword from the stone)

-BONUS: with their children. Ev always hires security when they go as a family and it hurts to take that bit of normalcy away from her kids but the media attention on her and Callum is too much for them to always be safe. He carries their daughters on his shoulders so they can see the parade and the shows. He knows the words to every song and sings his heart out with them. Crouches down to their level to point out Pooh and Mickey and Elsa. Ev is big on not having her kids ignore their gut so if they are afraid of the stranger in a costume then they don’t have to go and she won’t make them. They ride the carousel and dumbo over and over again because the baby of their family wants to. Callum confiscates the bubble wand when it nearly becomes a weapon. He takes so many photos of Ev holding their hands and walking around and when the littlest are in strollers sleeping but the oldest wants to ride thunder mountain one more time Cal tells Ev to go. Tells her it was her magic and pixie dust to share with their kids anyways. That the more memories she can make like this then the bad ones might drift so far away she won’t even think of them. The baby wakes up briefly to watch the show and ask her dad when he’s carrying her to the car and her cheek is smushed on his shoulder to ask if he’s a prince. And he tells her to ask mommy but she forgets and that night he and Ev are making out in bed and she calls him Prince Charming and laughs but shuts up real quick once he’s inside of her.

#callum turner #callum turner fanfiction #callum turner fanfic #callum turner fic #callum turner x reader #callum turner x OC #Evelyn

37 notes · View notes

moonshynecybin · 1 month

Note

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGemcDwPY/ Vale doing this to Marc a couple years down the line (when their relationship has been established, maybe they’re already engaged at this point, disgression) in the FCO AU because google calendar used to be that place that they had to share with the PR people from Honda/Yamaha and that Marc obviously loathed and obviously they no longer have access to them now and I don’t think that Valentino is like, enough of a nerd to do this, BUT, I think it could happen once and it would make Marc blush like a fool (he definitely takes a screencap of the invite just in case it ever disappears)

it’s literally like. okay we are past all of the #angst and headfirst into the reality of rosquez in a loving and committed and deeply horny relationship that has been well established at this point. several years post outing, post fake dating, post screamin and fighting and kissing in the rain, et cetera. they are sweet! they are in love! BUT. they are ALSO two of the busiest people on the planetttttttt. so it’s been. literally like three fucking weeks at this point since they’ve gotten more than a night alone together. agony. first it was a double header and then vale had sponsorship obligations and marc had a photo shoot and vale had to meet with one of the academy kids and then they BOTH had testing and like. it’s one thing to have lots of sexy fun sneaking around the paddock trying to find a spot that can lock long enough to fuck in between press conferences. it’s another when EVERYONE knows you guys are fucking and STILL the only time together you get outside of literally being unconscious is AT those same press conferences!!!! not fun!!!! not sexy!!!! (dani voice. can you two please stop playing footsie. jorge voice. marc that is in fact my foot. and my thigh.)

SO! what is a romantic little prankster to do when he wants to plan a fucking. at this point it feels like BIANNUAL date night with his favorite generational talented but unfortunately very busy twink ass boyfriend?? well if you’re vale, you hack his google calendar when he’s sleeping and you trick him. for funsies. he loves a scheme he loves a plan he loves a joke he loves a surprise !

so like. it’s post fucking media day at a race and marc is EXHAUSTED and all he wants to do is find vale and curl up in one of their ludicrously tricked out mobile homes and pass out with his nose pressed like. into vale’s armpit. and dream about merging their souls into one ephemeral but eternal being. typical marc stuff. and he’s almostttt out the door when his friendssistant (they ALL HAVE ONE !) jose tugs on his sleeve near the end of the day and is like. i’m sorry marc, but there’s one more thing… and he literally nearly CRIES. he hasn’t gotten dicked down in a FORTNIGHT it’s dire. it’s rough.

BUT! it also means that he doesn’t ask many questions. so when he gets led (easily) to whatever goofy ass elaborate rich people venue vale has chosen for date night (neither of them have changed clothes this so so essential to me… just both of them in khaki shorts so big they could legally be classified as parachutes. and new balances/vans. in the rich people venue.) he is SUPRISED ! and delighted… it’s perfect… vale sitting there eyes sparkling SO pleased to get one over on marc in the lovely little joyful way you get when you play a sweet little joke on your partner and is marc SO happy to get some alone time/attention just basking in it… like they LOVE each other… it’s the perfect night… and they do get papped (FCO AU is fundamentally about being famous and having no privacy i have to stick to the THEMES of my story) and they don’t even care!!! because the photos are them like. slow dancing and slightly tipsy pressed together… marc’s hands looped around vale’s neck… swaying… and the photos are kind of blurry but the smiles on their faces come through clear as day…

#tiktok is a guy sending a lady a gcal invite titled date? which is cuuuute #not exactly what you asked but nonetheless where my brain drifted. our little traditions.#motogp #callie speaks #asks #rosquez #forced coming out au

54 notes · View notes

bullet-prooflove · 1 year

Text

Ruin - Filip 'Chibs' Telford x Reader

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life @redpoodlern @ravencrow83 @kishie8 @nu1freakshow @oureternalbond @rubes2323 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @jtelford @the-wandering-lunatic @samanthaofanarchy @darqchilddaydreamz @yourwinchesterbros

Chibs hasn’t laid eyes on you since Juice let slip that he’s returning to Ireland at the end of the month. You don’t call, you don’t text, and you don’t show up at his place. Any business you undertake seems to be at your office as opposed to the Clubhouse or Teller Morrow. He figures it’ll work itself out, that you’re just busy but by the time he’s packing the night before his plane journey, he realises that it’s almost been a fortnight and he misses you fiercely. He wants to tell you that he’s going to see Kerrianne, to explain that although he cares about her mother, the two of them can’t be together, that they need to move on with their lives, because they’re running in separate directions.

Fiona thinks it’s for the best, the two of them putting up a united front, she thinks his presence will reinforce the fact that Kerrianne is still a priority despite the fact that when he returns to the US, the two of them will be seeking a divorce. He’s not the only one that needs the freedom. After everything that happened with Jimmy, Fiona doesn’t want to be tied to another man, even if he is absent.

He's the one to break the stalemate. He goes to your place only to find you’re not in. Your car is in the driveway but there’s no sign of life in the house. He decides to take a seat on your porch and wait. He’s about to pull his phone out and text you when the taxi pulls up. He climbs to his feet as you exit, you slip a twenty to the driver and telling him to keep the change before you close the door behind you.

When you turn to face him, he’s so fucking shocked he can’t speak. You look radiant, he feels like he’s staring into the face of God and he wants to get down onto his fucking knees and pray. Your hair is loose, falling over one side of your face before you push it back behind your ear. Those eyes of yours, the ones he’s spent hours staring into, are highlighted with kohl, bringing out the depth and colour. Your skin looks flawless, a healthy glow exuding from your features. Then there’s the lipstick, a bold, vivid red, one that reminds him of the marks you left upon his skin not to long ago, he remembers the morning after, his fingertips tracing over each of the kisses, where you’d claimed him as your own.

It's witchcraft, he thinks as his eyes slip down to the dress that resides underneath the cream-coloured coat. How a dress seems to bring out a completely different side of you.

It’s a black off the shoulder piece that seems to shimmer when you walk because of the thousands of tiny sequins sewn into the fabric. The material clings to your form accentuating every single one of your assets.

You would be the ruin of any man, you’re certainly the ruin of this one. He imagines his fingers trailing along your skin as he unzips it, the fabric slipping away from your skin as his lips trace over the curve of your shoulder.

Wars could be waged over a woman like you. Charming’s very own Helen of Troy.

There’s a fierce sense of pride in his chest because this siren with her intelligence, her ferociousness and her cunning is all his. Out of everyone you’ve chosen him.

“Darlin,” he breathes as he steps towards you. “You look fucking terrific.”

“Gala at City Hall.” You inform him, your fingers searching through the tiny, beaded bag for the key to the front door of your house.

He wants to sweep you up into his arms, to kiss you until your breathless, to trace a thousand little Celtic patterns over your skin until your flushed and desperate underneath him. He wants you to forget all the other men you’ve been around tonight, the ones with the power, the money, the education and he wants to remind you of what its like to be with him, the man that loves you, the man that will always love you.

“I don’t have it in me to be the woman you fuck tonight.” You tell him as you breeze past him, leaving a trail of the dark, sensuous perfume in your wake. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

He recognises this side of you, the cold despondent queen who withdraws into herself. He’s experienced it before, in the very beginning of your relationship, when things were new, and a crow-eater had climbed into his lap during a discussion at the club. The girl had been trying to make point about the calibre of women he preferred when you were running through his affairs. He’d shoved her off so hard she had bounced when she’d hit the floor. Nobody had known about you back then, about the things you did together in the dark. It was the reason he had decided to share the nature of your relationship, he didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about his intentions, he was faithful to one woman and one woman only, and she was not the one he had married.

The distance between the two of you makes him feel out of sync, he fumbles for the words, trying to explain his intentions but he can’t seem to find them.

It’s the dress he thinks. That gorgeous, seductive dress, it short circuits something inside of his brain. He sees you shutting down, so he reaches for you, instead you slip through his grasp like smoke, half way through the unlocked front door.

“Ok. I get it.” You tell him, the hurt in your voice so fucking visceral it cuts him. “Good luck with your marriage Filip.”

It’s as you slam the door in his face, he realises what’s happening, why you haven’t been picking up his calls or returning his texts. You think he’s trying to repair his marriage, not dissolve it. That the past year with you has been nothing more than a distraction, until he can get himself back to Ireland and back to the woman, he married all those years ago.

His fist hammers on the door, he feels the wood practically vibrate under the weight of it of his frustration.

“Come on love.” He yells as he knocks on the sage-coloured panelling. “I just want to talk to ya.”

There’s silence on the opposite side of the door. He runs both of his hands through his hair as he kicks the bottom of it in frustration before opening the letterbox and yelling through it.

“For fuck’s sake darlin, I’m getting a divorce.”

Nothing.

Fucking nothing.

He imagines that you’ve moved to the back of the house by now, that you’ve turned on the shower to drown him out, before you step into the heated water stream, cleansing yourself of him and all the shit that he comes with. He doesn’t know what to do, he knows if he keeps this up that your neighbours will call the police and then that will be a whole other headache for the both of you.

So, he makes the decision to leave, to give you space because right now because the last thing you need is another man trying to batter down your door.

It’s as he’s straddling the bike in your driveway, pulling on his leather gloves that he hears the front door click open. He inclines his head towards you, fixing you with his gaze as you stand there, leaning against the frame.

“Did you mean it?” You ask him softly. “You’re really getting a divorce?”

“Yes love.” He says as he climbs off his bike and steps towards you. “Let’s go inside and I can tell you all about it.”

Love Chibs? Get added to his tag list!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#chibs telford x reader #chibs telford #chibs imagine #chibs x reader #filip chibs telford x reader #filip chibs telford #filip telford

182 notes · View notes

roseykat · 2 years

Text

Tempest Needs

Word count: 5.1k

Pairings: Minho x Jisung x female reader

Warning: minors DNI, I post NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won’t be able to regulate/monitor every single potential interaction with those posts so please do not engage with my work or page whatsoever. Much appreciated.

Tags: polyamorous relationship, swearing, teasing, unprotected sex, oral sex (reader receiving and giving), bondage, use of traffic light system (green), orgasm denial, oral fixations.

Summary: Jisung can be a menace when it comes to teasing. Unfortunately for him, he ends up getting a taste of his own medicine.

Note: Thank you for the love on my previous work!! I’m currently in the midst of figuring out a schedule to upload posts since I work a 9 to 5. But I have a lot of concepts that I’ve already started on so I’m far from low on inspiration.

Jisung has always been the mischievous type; always riling someone up, provoking or taunting either you or Minho here and there. But at the end of the day, it’s all in good fun.

In hindsight, it’s one of the benefits of being in a relationship with more than one person, because you have someone - like Minho - to balance Jisung out.

That being said, he is one perverse individual when it comes to the art of teasing, knowing that neither you nor Minho know how to cope with his antics.

He can be out of the blue, spontaneous, and strikes when one leasts expects it. There are times where he can bait Minho with his charm or entice you with his words. Overall, he can be an outright torment.

Suffice it to say, Jisung had it coming for him after the very subtle yet obvious accounts of teasing towards you and Minho. Even in public he was a menace.

For instance, Sunday’s are specifically allocated to prepare for the week ahead. When the three of you went grocery shopping, Minho was in charge of pushing the trolley. Jisung - who was supposed to be scouting for items on the list, wrapped his arms around Minho’s waist in a hug, penguin walking right behind him.

To top it off, he’d slide and caress his hands under Minho’s shirt, smoothing over the plains of his lower abdomen.

The other instance is where Jisung would come up right behind you and press his hips flush against your ass when you were examining things on the shelves. He tried to pull it off as if he were looking at things too when in reality, he just wanted to tease you.

His needy behaviour lasted almost a week and a half. That’s when he brought to your attention that nobody had slept together in a fortnight, which for his calibre in bed, explained a lot.

“Everyone’s been so busy,” Jisung tried not to sound as if he was whining, but that’s exactly what he sounded like.

He was sprawled out like a starfish on your bed while you sat at your desk cramming notes for an important up and coming test. Jisung was lucky that he only had assignments to hand in which he worked on relatively early. In turn, this freed up a lot of his time.

“It’s almost the end of the semester,” you reminded him. “Everything is due practically all at once.”

“We haven’t fucked in two weeks,” Jisung moaned, flat out ignoring the real reason why he’s in this sort of predicament.

Your fingers stilled over the keyboard on your laptop, “two weeks? Has it actually been that long?”

“Yes!” He really whines this time. “Minho is tired these days too, and all I get is making out with him for five minutes before he wants to sleep. You’re the same as well.”

It almost made you laugh at how needy Jisung was. Then again, it sometimes escapes your mind that he actually has a pretty high sex drive which you and Minho were obliviously ignoring.

If there was one contributing factor to blame, it was University. Being a full time student with a strenuous timetable means a lot of sacrifices. Unfortunately, Jisung felt the sting from being a result of those sacrifices you and Minho had to make.

“I guess it has been a while,” you started to ponder on the thought. “Maybe we should make time for it this weekend since we finish on Friday.”

“God, please,” Jisung begged and kicked his feet.

By the time that conversation had ended, Jisung had packed his gear and left the house for the gym. It gave you roughly half an hour to get some real study done when Minho had arrived from his last lecture of the day.

That's when you decided to raise the idea with him.

“This weekend?” He repeated, unpacking his bag as soon as he got into his room. “I don’t see why not. Plus with all our studies out of the way, we’d probably be less tired right?”

“That’s what I thought as well,” you said to him. “I guess we'll let him know when he gets back. He’s been dying to get some action.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, “that needy for it is he?”

“Oh come on,” you replied. “Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t act that way if Jisung and I unwillingly ignored your needs.”

You had a valid point.

Similar to Jisung, Minho could and would fuck on a daily basis - and has done. Only until the near end of the semester is where he dedicates all his energy and time towards his studies. It gets to the point where there’s not much room for any other activity other than working out, sleeping, or eating.

However, if that wasn’t the case, and Minho was in Jisung’s position, he would have no trouble mirroring the same feeling of neglect.

“I suppose,” Minho responded. “Did he have anything specific in mind?”

“Not necessarily,” you answered. “Maybe we could do something he likes since he’s waited for so long? Like…tying one of us up.”

Minho nodded, briefly thinking about the times where he had you or Jisung bound and tied in the bedroom.

At that thought, a sick idea pops into his brain.

“I wonder what he’d do if he had to wait a little longer,” Minho started to think out loud.

Your eyes narrowed at him as one of his signature conniving smiles spread across his face, “what do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but he’s been a real tease lately,” Minho began to explain. “And I want to give him a taste of his own medicine while also giving him what he wants.”

At that point, he had put a spin on Jisung’s original suggestion. When he pitched you his full idea, you initially thought it might be slightly…cruel. However, all the times where Jisung had openly teased the both of you within the past couple of weeks seemed to justify what Minho had in store for him.

He preferred to think of it as an enhancement whereas you, on the other hand, just rolled with it.

From then on, the three of you headed into the rest of the week looking forward to that specific night. If you weren’t absorbed in tests, deadlines, and homework, then you were thinking about finally gaining the chance to spend time with the two people you love.

Therefore, Saturday night couldn’t have rolled around any quicker. By the time it did, you and Minho were free from studying and assessments. Both of you were in good spirits, but not any more than Jisung.

That morning, he was handsy. When Minho had woken up to make himself some coffee, Jisung followed him into the kitchen like a puppy and tried to smother him in kisses.

Then, when you were fresh out of the shower with just a towel wrapped around your body, Jisung had to restrain himself from taking you over the counter in the bathroom right there and then. Instead he found his hands gravitating towards your waist, pulling you in just to make out with you.

That alone was tempting enough to risk having another shower and though you’re not one to oppose bathroom sex, it would defeat the purpose of what was about to happen later on in the day.

When the time eventually arrived, Minho had made the minor preparations. He chose the lounge of all places in the shared apartment for this to happen. All he needed to do was move the coffee table away from the couch and replace it with a chair from the dining and kitchen area.

The next step was retrieving black rope that they had stored in a box full of other bedroom related items - items that weren’t going to be of much use to him today. He just wanted to keep it simple.

As Minho laid out the rope over the chair, a confused Jisung walks in with you trailing behind him in his black bathrobe with nothing on underneath.

“Who are these for?” Jisung picks up the lengths of black rope. “And what’s with the chair?”

“They’re both for you,” Minho answers.

Jisung clicks onto the concept, “you wanna tie me to the chair?”

“Only if you want to,” you reassure him.

Jisung had voiced in the past that he’s okay with on the fly, spontaneous bondage. In some way, he gets a kick out of not knowing what’s next until the last second, magnifying the thrill and exhilaration of it. Even so, both you and Minho know that it’s still very important to ask.

“Of course I want to. I’m not even questioning that, it’s just…” he trails off. “I just thought we were all doing it together.”

Not even the softness of his words could throw a determined Minho off his plan. He’s not stepping down from it, especially since Jisung doesn’t suspect a thing.

“Just wait and see,” you reply with a highly ambiguous answer that causes him to smirk.

“I trust you both as always,” he says before his hand gently reaches for your waist, leaning to kiss you. He then turns to Minho, also placing a kiss on his lips before taking a seat on the chair.

“Shirt off, pants stay on,” Minho instructs.

Jisung peers up with confusion even though he’s playing good and doing what he’s told. He does trust what you and Minho have planned, but usually in these circumstances, all items of clothing are removed.

Nonetheless, Jisung is excited and tosses his shirt to the side. He sits patiently, beginning to reel inside with eagerness.

Being a knowledgeable person that he is in the realm of bondage, Minho takes hold of the black rope after manoeuvring Jisung’s arms behind his back. He coils it round and round his wrists, securing it tight with a knot.

He then takes the next few large pieces of rope, creating a fastened ‘X’ shape across his chest. You’re glad to see it exposes both of his pecs when Minho fixes the ends around the chair to stop his upper body from moving.

Minho progresses onto tying another portion of the rope which he winds around and just above the band of Jisung’s jeans. This would stop him from potentially trying to lift his hips to gain any sort of friction whatsoever.

Then he loops and tightens some more rope around his upper thighs which frames Jisung’s groyne where his dick is already beginning to fill out.

Lastly, the piece wouldn’t be complete if he were able to move anywhere below his knees. So, Minho fashioned two final restraints with rope just above his ankles and anchoring it to the two front legs of the chair.

“Too tight?” Minho checks with him, looping his finger through the centre of the ‘X’ across Jisung’s chest to feel the tension. “Can you move around a lot?”

He tests the bindings around his body and shakes his head, “nope.”

“Good,” he responds. “Colour?”

“Green.”

Minho seals his answer with a lengthy kiss on Jisung’s lips before brushing past you with his hand lingering over your stomach. He stands behind you, untying the loose fuzzy belt around your front and peeling the robe off of your shoulders.

Jisung visibly gulps when he sees you naked before him, and not being able to touch you. Minho then drapes the robe over the back of the couch where he goes to take a seat, temporarily leaving the other man in your care.

You lower down onto Jisung’s lap, mouth inches away from his before you close the space between the pair of you. It was a small, sweet kiss at first. His lips are soft as usual, eager too as he inaudibly starts asking for more.

Jisung’s arms jerked so as to try and grab your waist, yet quickly discovered that they weren't going to move. No part of his body was going anywhere anytime soon.

It’s frustratingly arousing being restrained to one spot. He can only sit there and feel you do all the work. Your hands go from tenderly cupping both sides of his face to his neck, down his bound chest, to the sides of his waist, and back up. You want to feel all of his bare body, as much of it as you can.

Beneath you, Jisung’s cock continues to harden as you slowly roll your hips over it. Once he starts moaning into your mouth and getting greedy, that’s when you know he’s in the type of state Minho wanted.

But there was one final task that sprung to mind as you slid off of Jisung’s lap, lowering to the floor on your knees between his legs.

“Yes,” Jisung hisses out as he watches you eagerly, completely oblivious to what’s truly in store for him.

You unbutton and unzip his jeans, freeing his now fully hard dick through his underwear as well. The tip rests on his abdomen, sticky with precum.

Prior to the situation coming to fruition, Minho didn’t think his plan had any faults in it on his behalf. The only thing that stood in the way of being perfectly executed was Jisung’s choice of clothing - that being his jeans.

He would still be able to get friction with small movements if he tries, so Minho wanted to eliminate that right out of the equation.

He could’ve asked Jisung to take them off before they got started. Then again, it would’ve extracted a solid portion of teasing which was more than necessary to include. Plus, he wanted every part - if not most parts of Jisung - to be restricted, except for his dick.

“Fuck,” Jisung’s eyelids snap shut when you take his length in hand, slowly stroking and running your thumb over the head. It takes everything in your power not to suck him dry the instant you see his cock.

You know that he thinks he’s about to receive a blowjob, but with satisfaction riddling your brain, you take your hand away and crawl back to Minho.

Jisung lifts his head and mumbles incoherently, “what…what are you doing? Come back.”

Ignoring him was difficult, like swimming against your tendency to comply with whatever instruction you’re given in the bedroom. Unfortunately for Jisung, his needs were superseded by Minho’s request - what he asked of you prior to this entire scene materialising.

As you're still on your knees now turned to face Minho, he gives a fond smile and leans down, kissing you slowly. He licks his way into your mouth, tongue gliding along your bottom lip which leaves you breathless and hungry for him. It’s a loss when he pulls away, leaning back into the couch as his eyes scan up Jisung bound body and smirks.

He knows for a fact that Jisung is confused, pissed off, and horny, a truly foul mixture of feelings to experience at the same time.

The things he would do if he weren’t tied down to that chair…

His thoughts are derailed when you begin to palm over Minho’s hardened cock through his sweatpants. His hand rests at the side of your face, the pad of his thumb gently caressing your cheek when you free his dick.

“Fuck,” Jisung grunts, the chair creaks as he tries to move his arms once again. The rope across his chest now making lines of red on his skin, indicating that he’s been trying to use his torso as well.

“Go on baby,” Minho encourages you before you even attempt to look back at Jisung.

Those three words are enough for you to take Minho’s cock in your mouth after giving him a couple of slow strokes. The hot, wet, velvety sensation caging around his length has him leaning back once more.

From this position, he cannot only see your head bobbing up and down, but he can also see Jisung behind you - dumbstruck and rendered speechless.

Even though Jisung doesn’t have a full frontal view of your lips wrapped around Minho’s cock, he has no choice but to picture how obscene your face is.

As his imagination takes shape, his mind starts relocating memories of erotic occurrences where you’ve given him countless blowjobs, recalling how shameless you look. He knows you can get greedy and hot under the collar so to speak when his dick is in your mouth. This time, he can only witness that from a short distance.

“Such a good girl,” Minho purrs in a sultry voice, carding a tender hand through your hair.

Moaning at the praise, you carry on, head bobbing up and down until Minho feels like he’s on the brink of an orgasm. Refusing to let his impulsiveness take over, he gently brings you to a halt, ushering you onto the space beside him on the couch.

You lie down for him. Your knee closest to the back of the couch is propped and bent while your other leg remains resting flat. This was forcibly for Jisung to witness everything Minho was about to do to you.

Eager and impatient, he hooks one hand under and around your bent leg while using the other to gently caress his thumb over your wet entrance. He has you squirming and wriggling at the merest touch of pressure, yet hasn’t even arrived at the main event.

“Remember what I told you,” Minho hints.

Seconds away from being able to recall what he meant, Minho fills you with one finger, slowly sliding into your pussy as he plants distracting kisses down your lower abdomen until he reaches your clit. A moan rips through your chest when he begins to suck, your back arching which lands you closer into his mouth.

It doesn’t take him long to have you panting and whining which is where he feels the urge to add another finger. Using a repetitive curling motion, Minho strokes effortlessly over your g-spot that the continual motion makes your eyes flutter and roll back. Then, even as overwhelmed and worked up as you were, Minho’s reminder floats transiently in your mind…

“I want you to say his name,” Minho asked you beforehand. “I want him to think that he’s the one fucking you when it’s not.”

“That honestly sounds like borderline psychological torture,” you replied sarcastically.

“Good, because that’s what I’m going for,” he joked.

Looking at it now, it might not have been a joke.

As unfocused as your eyes are, they remain solely on Jisung as you try to concentrate on Minho’s mouth and fingers, dragging you over the verge of coming.

“Ji…Jisung,” you call out, almost sounding like a sob. “Wanna come so fucking bad.”

There’s warfare in Jisung’s mind. He knows he’s not physically able to touch you even though every single fibre of his being craves and screams at him for it. He’s forced to envisage himself where Minho is; face buried between your legs, making you whimper and shake around his head.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Jisung whines with a contorted face.

“Please Jisung,” you cry out, trying not to squirm your hips too much so that you can still feel all of Minho’s mouth. “Please, fuck, I’m gonna come.”

As your words reach Minho’s ears, the pace of his fingers steadies to a leisurely drag. Part of you regrets saying it out loud - now wishing you could’ve held off more or came quietly without Minho knowing.

But it would’ve been a terrible feat against the person below you who has an untamed tongue and fingers that make your toes curl.

Both Minho and Jisung know your body like the back of their hand. They would’ve known well and truly if you came without telling them.

After pulling away completely, Minho uses his thumb to swipe at some of the wetness on his chin and sucks it clean off. His eyes track yours to gauge what sort of state you’re in - grinning when he sees your scrunched face, clearly annoyed that he had just robbed you of a mind shattering orgasm.

His gaze then darts over to Jisung who remains painfully hard and completely untouched that Minho now starts to feel a slight pang of sympathy for him.

For a moment, he decides to abandon you on the couch and stands over Jisung.

Minho’s fingers were still glistening wet under the dim lights of the room, hand protracting towards Jisung’s lips who took his digits willingly. He allows Minho to prod softly around his mouth and over his tongue, taking them so obediently.

“Good boy Jisungie,” he praises him. “I knew how bad you wanted to taste her, so I thought I would be nice.”

There’s a long line of spit from Minho’s fingers to the other man’s mouth when decides to retract his hand. Minho then bends down ever so slightly to make Jisung strain and stretch up for a kiss.

He chuckles lightly then pulls away before their lips could even touch, “so needy.”

Jisung groans, throwing his head back out of pure frustration - utterly enraged that tears begin to form in his eyes. As his head tilts back up, they roll down his cheeks, splashing down his abdomen.

Two whole weeks Jisung has been waiting to get laid. He was so good at trying to give you both the space you needed to focus on your studies, and yet, this was this reward - or punishment for lack of a better word.

Despite that, Jisung had been a total tease, and in Minho’s mind, that’s three strikes.

He pets and rubs under Jisung’s chin who in turn looks up with absolute contempt, “Jisungie’s doing so good holding out.”

“Fuck you,” he mumbles with watery eyes and an exasperated expression.

“Cute,” Minho replies, a sweet smirk spreading on his face.

He’s going to enjoy every ounce of teasing Jisung.

Minho retreats to the couch where you still remain splayed out, anticipating what’s about to happen next. With the help of his hand, you’re able to sit up and stand before he takes a seat again. Minho then guides you around by your hip so that you’re facing Jisung.

At that point in time, he understood the trajectory of the situation. His dick throbs watching you align Minho’s cock with your entrance, seeing the wince on your face as you stretch over him and gradually sink down.

“Shit,” your fingernails dig into Minho’s taut thighs as he sits up, his cock slipping just that little bit deeper inside you.

“That’s it,” he breathes out. Minho missed being inside you so much that he almost forgot what you felt like.

One of his hands rests on your hip while his other arm wraps around your body, snaking up to one of your tits and groping to his content. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, feeling like you’re melting as you adjust to his length.

Nothing feels more satisfying than being filled out by either Minho, or Jisung for that matter. They both feel pleasantly different inside you, consistently hitting spots that will always have you screaming and shaking.

When it feels right, you start rolling your hips little by little until you’ve built up a steady rhythm. Both yours and Minho’s moans begin to fill Jisung’s ears and he has no choice but to listen to it. His stare glues to your body as it rocks over and over again on Minho’s dick.

��Tell Jisungie how you feel,” he squeezes and kneads one of your tits again, forcing another sudden moan from your throat.

Your eyes flutter, barely able to hold eye contact with the man in front of you, “so…so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Minho taunts daringly.

“I wanna come,” you whine, swallowing down a set of profanities before they leave your mouth. “Please.”

“No,” Minho grits flatly. “What happened to everything I told you?

You had to wonder at that point if Minho was punishing you as well or if he was just extremely determined to force Jisung through hell.

He was bound and deprived of touch, whereas you were getting what you wanted, but not the entire package. Then again, you never wanted to abandon the tingly bliss escalating inside you, even if it meant being deprived of multiple orgasms.

“You don’t wanna ruin the fun for him do you?”Minho provokes, his grip tightening on your hip.

You manage to shake your head, “n-no.”

“Good,” he responds. “Let me use you first.”

The effect that those certain words have on you are always a valuable asset to Minho and Jisung. Hearing them makes you feel like nothing but a ‘thing’ for them to fuck, and there’s some odd facet about it that makes it so tantalising.

Now you’re stuck with an insatiable need for them to use your body however they see fit, and the thought of it drives you insane.

As you continued to grit your teeth and hold off for Minho, you realised very quickly that it was taking every ounce of strength not to give in. Hearing his small grunts, heavy breathing, and embracing the way he clutches onto you makes it all the more challenging.

Suddenly, Minho swears against your skin, eyes clamping shut as he comes hard. The warm, almost fuzzy sensation you feel inside when he does now has you slowing down the pace of how you roll your hips over his cock, easing him throughout his orgasm.

“Good girl,” he sighs out contently, trying to steady his breathing. “So good for me.”

At this point, you’re utterly over sensitive after being built up to two orgasms already but forbidden to go over the edge.

Minho places a kiss against your back and taps your thigh for you to hop off him. It takes a moment to reorient yourself, legs jelly-like but you ultimately make your way across to Jisung.

Wearing a face of absolute devastation and pain, he blinks up with damp eyelashes. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life that it has every muscle in his body twinging from trying to twist and turn out of the rope.

“Please,” he begs quietly while his eyes are tracking your hands to see where they’re heading.

Thinking that he’s had enough of the teasing, you waste no time. Straddling over his lap, you adjust his neglected cock so that it slides into you with ease as you fully sit down.

“Fuck!” Jisung curses through gritted teeth.

Meanwhile, from the small distance, Minho smirks to himself when he sees his own cum slowly leak from your insides when you start to lift your hips.

Jisung’s fingernails are digging into the palms of his own hands, the only outlet he has to manage the overbearing pleasure and relief he’s forced to receive. The alleviation induced by how hot you are inside consumes his body. It’s like an itch he had been waiting to scratch.

As you rock down over his dick, it’s hard not to pass up on watching his expressions. How he looks so relieved, in a state of bliss, and spaced out at the same time.

“Yes…” he sighs out, eyes rolling slightly as his head tips back over the chair. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” You ask him. “Been waiting too long haven’t you?”

He can only nod and barely speak, but he’s truly thankful on the inside. His moans and mewls are heavenly when your hands smooth over the lines of rope across his chest reminding him that they’re still there.

As gorgeous of a sight Jisung was to admire, you couldn’t ignore the growing ball of pleasure taking shape for the third time so far. This one feels different - stronger, like the force between two giant magnets repelling from each other when trying to connect them.

“I’m gonna come,” you whimper, feeling tears prick your eyes from the amount of pressure intensifying. “Gonna make me come so hard.”

Within a few moments, you’re clinging to him for dear life, rhythmically squeezing around his cock as your thighs tremble. A string of curses leave Jisung’s mouth right up to the point where he’s about to come. After that, he goes quiet with nothing but a silent scream on his face.

His head sways languidly back and forth like a doll each time you rock down on him to ride your orgasm out. It drives him to coat your walls white, his body shuddering in waves when he does.

At any point either of you are rendered voiceless, that’s when Minho knows you’re coming hard. The pleasure is that powerful it makes you incapable of speech or any sort of noise for that matter.

Once you’ve both ridden over the crests of your orgasms, the two of you remain as a conjoined mess, limp and breathless. Your body is slumped over Jisung, still sensitive and stretched over his cock.

Minho promptly rises from the couch to untie all the knots he secured to the chair. The rope loosens around Jisung’s chest, then his waist, thighs, and ankles. All of his energy has been drained as he rests there, completely fucked out.

“Good boy Jisung,” Minho kisses the back of his head and quickly dips out of the lounge, into the bathroom to get the shower running.

Your eyes open ever so slightly, and as soon as you’ve regained a bit of energy, you peel yourself back just a bit to take a look at Jisung. Minus the fact that there’s a faint smile on his face and his pupils are blown out, he was in total bliss.

“Jisung,” you whisper softly, squishing his cheeks together to see if it gets him to focus.

He bats his eyes a couple of times, “hmm?”

“Feel better?” You ask him.

Jisung’s hands smooth over your hips then behind to the small of your back. His fingertips slowly trail up and down your spine while he buries his face into the crook of your neck, resting there.

“So much better,” he mutters, warm breath fanning over your skin.

“Let’s hop in the shower,” Minho appears again, offering his hand out to you to help you up off Jisung.

You inhale sharply from the overwhelming sensitivity of having to move yourself off of Jisung’s dick. Once your two feet are on the ground and you have some balance back, Minho helps Jisung with his other hand.

“Had I known that you two were conspiring against me, I wouldn’t have worn jeans,” Jisung says to the ceiling when the three of you are in the shower.

His arms were crossed over his tender chest and head tilted back while Minho was shampooing his hair.

“We weren’t conspiring,” Minho retorts. “Call it a reward.”

Jisung scoffs, “reward my ass. Who’s idea was it anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Minho almost laughs. “You got what you wanted didn’t you?”

“Uh, it does matter,” Jisung corrects him. “Because the next time we do anything like this, it should be that person's turn.”

“Guess it’s Minho then,” you say.

“Fine by me,” he shrugs.

Note: I strictly do not permit any copying, editing, rewriting or remakes of my work nor do I allow them to be uploaded to any other site or social media platform. Tumblr is the only site I will be using to post this type of content so if you see it elsewhere, then it has been stolen.

#skz smut #Lee know smut #Han Jisung smut #stray kids smut #minsung x reader #stray kids imagines

560 notes · View notes

cacoetheswriting · 1 year

Note

heyy

can you do a angst with fluffy ending with eddie x reader on reader birthday (but not that he forgot pls 🙏🏻) you can decide the rest

thank you so much!! 💖💖

gosh i am sooooo sorry for only getting this out to you now! it's been sitting in my drafts, half-finished for far too long! again, super sorry for the delay - and i hope you enjoy 🤍

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader word count: 2.3k content warnings: talk of breakups / heartbreak (eddie & reader are exes), adult language, use of pet names, mentions of alcohol consumption, - very much unedited - pls let me know if i missed anything!

Birthdays weren’t really your thing.

Celebrating getting older stopped being fun when the gifts turned from colourful toys to cards with generic wishes, and when parties went from having bright bouncy castles to drinking cheap wine alone in a messy apartment at the end of an even messier night. From pure, unfiltered joy, to misery and feeling like your life was slipping through your fingers, fast.

There were a few expectations over the last few years — four lucky birthdays to be exact. And these happy memories came into existence thanks to a certain curly-haired, brown-eyed boy.

Eddie first asked you out a few days before your nineteenth birthday and even though the two of you never really talked prior, there was no denying he was really fucking pretty and you had a big fat silent crush on him for quite some time before that faithful afternoon.

He invited you out for burgers, and in the midst of natural conversation, when you let slip that it was your birthday, Eddie also got you ice-cream, asking the waiter to place a single candle in the colourful sundae.

Till this day, it was the most genuine thing anyone has ever done for you. The most romantic too.

And every birthday that followed, every birthday you spent together with the metalhead was beyond special. He made them special.

From balloons and love notes, to heartfelt gifts, various activities during the day and dinners at his trailer or out in town. He even rallied your friends and threw you parties that no longer ended with loneliness. No year was the same. Eddie made them unique and memorable — which you adored him for wholeheartedly.

Unfortunately, the genuine love you shared was not enough and the relationship came to an unforeseen end.

Eddie had big plans of one day becoming a rockstar, practicing guitar in his free time till his fingers bled, and you were studying day and night, working towards your dream degree. Your lives were heading in completely different directions and there came a point where you only saw each other once every fortnight, while your already irregular phone calls were often cut short.

That was three months ago. A breakup as natural as breathing, yet equally as earth shattering.

Even though it was a mutual decision, the pain was ever present and you cried yourself to sleep for weeks after. Eddie took a piece of you when he left and your whole body was in mourning. It didn’t help that everything in what remained of your life reminded you of him. Physical items like the printed t-shirts in your drawer or the mug he branded as his and you never let anyone else use. A Dio song you’d hear randomly or the diner he took you to on your first date. Then there was the emotional side, the soft glimmer in his eyes you remembered when you closed yours and the sound of his laughter you wished you’d hear again.

Things eventually got easier ‘cause it’s not like you saw Eddie often when you were together. Plus studying for an ungodly amount of hours kept you busy, distracted. And after giving yourself an appropriate time to feel everything, there was honestly no more time for heartbreak.

That is until your birthday rolled around.

When you opened your eyes late morning, you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole — which in Hawkins was more than likely to happen. The last four birthdays were nothing short of perfect and now…

The nausea followed shortly after.

Your plan was to stay in bed all day, and it was going quite well since at six o’clock that evening you were glued to the same spot, until Robin barged into your room, Steve close on her heels, with a glass of water and a poorly decorated cake. Their singing gave you a headache, but you were still grateful for their attempt to make this day end on a better note.

“Now, go get your ass dressed,” Robin orders, glancing at Steve for his rehearsed words of encouragement.

He’s wide-eyed at first, nose buried in icing, but quickly nods at Robin’s words and looks in your direction.

“Y-yes, yes! We have an evening of fun planned!” Steve exclaims after swallowing a mouth full of vanilla cake.

Your roommates, however sweet they were trying to be, failed to realise the one place you really didn’t want to spend your birthday was The Hideout, and that’s exactly where they brought you.

The Hideout, presenting its usual lurking charm from the moment you stepped inside, was the one place in Hawkins you knew guaranteed an awkward bump-in with Eddie. Or maybe a needed interaction? Seeing him in his element could possibly bring some sort of closure after three months of no contact… No. No. Seeing him would only bring back the pain you tried real hard to bury.

A stench of old man sweat mixed with spilled booze hits your senses while you hurry closely behind Robin and Steve. In the dim light, your eyes are focused on the floor below, partially because you’re trying not to slip or trip over your own two feet, but mainly ‘cause you’re fearful of catching a glimpse of a certain head of wild brown locks. You only look up when the three of you approach a table closer to the back, away from most of the noise, and are greeted with hugs from Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle.

Settling yourself on one of the chairs, you exchange pleasantries with the rest of your friends while Steve orders a round of shots for the group. They all raise a toast to your health, their cheers attracting some attention in the process, but you don’t think anything of it, starting to instead feel glad you agreed to this.

“Birthday girl isn’t allowed to pay for her own drinks, got it?” Robin addresses the group and they all nod in unison. You wanna protest, but she swats at you from across the table before the words escape your lips. Her eyes saying that you need this, your eyes saying that you’re grateful she’s your friend. I know, Robin mouths as Jonathan takes everyone’s drink order.

Every shot you take, you chase with a rum and coke. The liquid burns down your throat. Third, fourth, fifth round down. You’re feeling buzzed, happy. Most importantly, no longer thinking of the boy that would normally also be hanging out with this group — blissfully unaware that he was actually watching your every move from the other side of the bar.

Eddie hadn’t initially planned on going out tonight. After a long day of working at the garage, then band practice right after, he really just wanted to smoke and fall asleep. As he got out of the shower however, instead of jumping into bed, he reached for a clean t-shirt. He couldn’t really explain why. It was stupid to think something inside of him was urging him to come to The Hideout tonight. He was wrecked beyond belief, yet his feet carried him here.

Then he heard it. Your name, followed by a mini-eruption of woohoos.

Head snapping in the direction of the sound, Eddie’s gaze found the source of the noise and then scanned the small group until he reached your relaxed frame. Christ, he thought, palms getting clammy. To say you looked gorgeous would be a vast understatement. And to say he didn’t realise just how much he missed you until this very moment would be nothing short of the truth.

Sure, after the breakup, Eddie found it hard to get through the day-to-day. Constantly distracted, thinking about you and second guessing the decision you both made. But then he reminded himself this was for the best, convinced himself that people can have more than one great love in their life, and things got easier.

There were days he hoped he’d accidentally run into you. At the store, out for coffee, or just wandering the streets of Hawkins. No such luck. When he started working at the shop to save some extra cash, he thought maybe you’d come in with your clunk of shit car since he was always telling you to get it looked at, but again, it never happened.

Three months passed like nothing.

Eddie would’ve never thought that today, your fucking birthday of all days, would be when he saw you next.

Cold beer in hand, he thought about walking up to the table you sat at with your mutual friends. And he was about to, but then you laughed at something Argyle said and the honey-like sound froze him in place. Clearly, you were having a good time. Eddie didn’t want to ruin that, so he opted for watching you like some fucking creep.

Four beers later, he’s still in the same spot.

Nancy takes over the jukebox duties. Billy Idol’s White Wedding starts to play as she pulls you to your feet, an excited squeal escaping her lips when you don’t protest. Swaying your hips to the music, you feel elated. Even more so when Robin joins in, singing along as Nancy twirls around the two of you. The boys clap, grinning like idiots, and you know you’re going to remember this moment forever, or at least until you unintentionally go over your drink limit and black out.

A smile tugs at the corners of Eddie’s lips as he continues to shamelessly stare at you. Carefree, is the word he’d use now to describe you and in all honesty, he hasn’t seen you like this in a while. Then his smile falters before it really fully appears ‘cause he finds himself wishing he was the reason for your current mood. Was ending things a mistake?

Mid-song, you spin and as you do, your eyes skim the bar, passing a set of curly hair. The air hitches in your throat as you double back. Just to make sure your drunken gaze wasn’t deceiving you, you tell yourself, but the reality is much different. Please be him, please be him, please be him…

When your eyes do lock with his, your tummy burns.

The copious amount of alcohol trifling through your veins right now gives you that extra push you need to start a short strut towards your ex-boyfriend. Someone’s arm is on you, attempting to pull you back slightly, but you don’t pay attention to it. Then you hear Steve say, “let her go, she needs this.”, and you’re free to continue your journey.

In a trance, gaze glued to Eddie’s chocolate one, you push through the people until you’re leaning against the bar he was sitting at, observing as his features turn from awe into something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Hey, pretty girl.” Eddie greets nonchalantly, as if no time has passed, as if nothing has changed between the two of you.

So you follow in his footsteps, carefully hoisting yourself up on the stool next to his, bare knee brushing against his denim-clad one.

“Wanna order me a drink?”

Eddie smirks. “Straight to the point, as always.”

“Well, since it is my birthday, Robin said I’m not allowed to pay for my own poison,” you tell him, shrugging lightly, “So if you have a problem with that, you gotta take it up with her.”

He huffs out a laugh.

“I’d rather not go against Buckley.” And with that he orders a shot of tequila each.

When the small glasses are in front of you, accompanied by a lime wedge, he takes your hand without asking, then licks between your thumb and index finger, doe-eyes never leaving yours.

A shiver runs down your spine at the sudden contact and you try to play it cool, but in reality your heart is racing. Though Eddie doesn’t give you time to think about what he’s done with no warning, pouring salt in the spot he’s just salivated. He then hastily repeats the action on his own hand and pushes a shot glass in your direction.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

The toast is short and sweet. He raises the glass in front of his face as the words escape his lips, licks the salt off his own hand (which you’re a little disappointed in, unsurprisingly already missing the sensation that was his gentle touch), and downs the liquid in one go.

You quickly follow suit, not wanting to seem like he got you all flustered. But as the two of you sit and stare at one another while sucking on the lime wedges for a little longer than normal, you realise he’s just as rattled as you are — good.

“I hate tequila,” Eddie announces, discarding the wedge.

“I don’t mind it,” you say, wiping the corners of your mouth.

His gaze drops slightly, to where your finger presses against your puffy lips, and he bites down on his own rather shamelessly. There is a brief moment of silence in which Eddie thinks back to seconds before, when his tongue caressed your soft skin. He hates himself a little ‘cause he doesn’t wanna mess with your head, but fuck did that feel good. He’d like to do it again, if not more. Is that crazy?

And while you continue to look into his eyes, the butterflies in your stomach are going wild since you know exactly what he’s thinking. The only problem is you don’t know how to tell him because there’s so much else to be said first. Three months of catching up, to be precise, but did exes even do that?

“How about we get out of here?” Eddie offers, voice nothing short of a murmur.

You nod. Of course you nod. You’d go to the end of the world if he’d ask.

Before you know it, Eddie’s hand is on the small of your back, leading you through The Hideout crowd and out the front door. You don’t say goodbye to your friends, you can apologise tomorrow for leaving without a word. Instead, you inhale the fresh air, a wobble in your step as you turn to once again look at your ex-boyfriend.

“Where do you wanna go?”

Eddie throws his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in as close as he possibly can. He tilts his head to meet your gaze and smiles. A genuine smile.

“There’s this diner not far from here,” he answers simply and your heart swells. Then once again, tenfold, as he places a kiss to your crown before whispering in your ear, “Back to where it all started, pretty girl.”.

as always, thank you for reading! pls don't hesitate to reblog & tell me what you think - ily!

eddie munson masterlist | main masterlist

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff

310 notes · View notes

nervousladytraveler · 2 months

Text

“Ha, ha! Well then!” Demelza sang, folding the telegram and slipping it into her pocket only to immediately take it out to read again. A smile threatened to rip her face apart but it was beyond her control. She was over the moon.

Using the back of her grubby hand, she wiped her eyes and remembered the last time she’d experienced tears of joy.

“Well then?” Prudie huffed, annoyed that her mistress had delayed for even a second in broadcasting the news, whatever it was.

Demelza laughed. She knew she should remind Prudie that as housekeeper, she was not in fact privy to all communications sent their way. But then again, the woman had shared in the agony and anxiety while awaiting news of Ross, so perhaps she’d earned this impatience. Demelza handed over the telegram, her feet shuffling back and forth in a dance of their own making.

“Aye, t’is written with some clip, mind!” Prudie scoffed as she read the brief message.

Easter weekend business on North Coast. Will lodge at Nampara if current tenant can accommodate. R. Poldark.

“Current tenant? An’ just who does Mister Poldark think he’s referrin’ to?” Prudie asked.

“To me, to us!” Demelza said. “Oh Prudie, never you mind. Ross has to take that tone. In case… well, in case it is read by others–and no doubt it has been.”

“At least t’is no cabboble ‘bout when,” Prudie conceded.

“No, no there isn’t,” Demelza smiled. She could read between the cold and dispassionate words and she didn't care a dash how it was phrased–it was the message that counted.

Her very own Ross would be there in less than a fortnight. And yes, oh yes, she would accommodate.

#lucretiassister #poldark fanfic #poldark #ross poldark #demelza carne #poldark modern au #duty #wip wednesday

26 notes · View notes

acourtofwhatthefuck · 1 year

Text

Fireleaf (Part Five)

Lucien Vanserra x Reader

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Thank you so much for all the support I've had on this story so far <3 I cannot express to you how much my lovely friend @greeneyedivy helps with this story. I very much consider it our story, because while I do the writing, her brilliant brain cells come up and help with so many of the ideas and plot points, so she deserves just as much credit<3

Warnings: None for this part!

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

“A masquerade?”

Two weeks later, Dion strolled beside you, sliding his hands into his pockets. A considerable distance was kept between you as the two of you braved the crisp air.

“It’s a type of ball where everyone wears masks—”

“I know what it is,” You cut in, snorting. “I’m just not sure why we’d be invited to a masquerade ball in the Spring Court.”

“We are…tentative allies with Spring. And Lucien is a friend of the High Lord, Tamlin. We were invited out of courtesy.”

Lucien seemed to have friends all over the place — something you’d only learned from your snooping, brought about entirely by boredom, over the past fortnight.

You’d certainly noticed a change all around — namely, and gradually, in Dion’s behaviour. It seemed that without the staring eyes of gossiping nobles, he no longer felt the need to be so openly affectionate towards you; as though the public displays of your courting throughout the festival had merely been for show. The touches had begun to become less and less, few and far between. Gone were the subtle brushes against your hand, the kisses to your temple, the sweet remarks laced with suggestion. By now, all of it had been replaced with behaviour much more appropriate in a platonic relationship. You were acting like friends.

And you found yourself not even slightly bothered by that. Whether that spelled doom for your nuptials, you hadn’t decided.

“It’s seen as an honour — for one court to be invited to another’s event.” Dion said. “And it’s also not a bad thing for us to present ourselves as a good ally to their people. We’ll be decked out in Spring Court attire as a mark of respect.”

Spring Court attire. You didn’t know what that looked like. You’d never seen another court — never even glimpsed another High Lord. The idea of leaving the lands you’d grown up in and seeing, hearing, smelling an entirely new place…it almost made you giddy with excitement. It was almost enough to tune out that ever-present panic and sorrow gnawing at you.

Because Dion’s change in behaviour over the past two weeks hadn’t been the only difference that had jarred you. It was how quickly you’d been thrown into wedding preparations — how only the day after you’d sparred with Lucien, you’d been subjected to a lesson by Beron about all the important members of his court, all the vital people who would be coming to your wedding and where you would have them sit. That same afternoon, you’d pored over gown materials with the Lady of Autumn. All of it had taken off so damn fast, and had made for a chaotic two weeks that’d left you grasping, in your own time, for some sense of self. You knew you’d pushed the limits a few times – that the High Lord himself had spied you wandering places you had no business going, and taking horses out for rides without his permission. You’d even offered, at times, to help the servants with their work. To do anything that you had chosen to do, that made you feel normal. And if Beron got sick of your behaviour and sent you back to your family…well, you certainly wouldn’t be complaining.

So — yeah. You could really use some fun.

“So I get to dance and enjoy myself?” You knocked your arm into Dion’s. “Or do I have to stand by and be a pretty piece on your arm?”

“Well,” His grin was wicked. “That’s the beauty of the masks, isn’t it? They offer you enough anonymity to throw caution to the wind.”

True, you thought. You may never have been to a masquerade ball before, but you could imagine what a tantalising combination the masks and the wine and the dim lighting were. A real chance for you to let your hair down; you could have cried with relief.

“In that case,” You slowed to a stop, turning to Dion. “Perhaps that night, we can just…be Y/N and Dion. No pressure on us. No worrying about who’s watching. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

His mischievous grin softened into a gentle smile, and he nodded. “I like the sound of that. Just Y/N and Dion.”

⤲

You were so excited, you couldn’t possibly sit still.

Already, you could feel the urge to dance rippling through your bones. Could feel the draw to a night of freedom that awaited. You wanted to slip your mask on and be somebody else for a while.

Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court, did not do things by halves — a fact you became all too aware of a week before, when he’d sent his own personal designer, tailor and seamstress to the Autumn Court to have you all appropriately outfitted for the ball. It was the first time in a while that you hadn’t cared about being poked and prodded and rotated while your measurements were taken, and a sketch of the gown you were going to wear was brought to life. The first dress in a while that you were excited to put on.

Anyone could be forgiven for thinking you were a Spring Court female, you realised, as you stared into the mirror on the night of the ball. The tulle gown was a soft, sage green, tight-fitting at the bodice and pooling to the floor in a swish of gauzy material that felt light and easy to move in. It was more daring than the gowns you wore in the Autumn Court — with delicate, off-the-shoulder sleeves that left most of your arms and shoulders exposed, and a neckline that dared to dip a tad lower than your usual dresses, you’d never felt so—

Sexy. You felt sexy. And light on your feet, and airy. And the mask that had been made to match the gown — an utter artwork in itself. It covered half of your face, and was of the same green shade as your dress. Adorned with glittering petals and jewels and stones, you’d spent a while just admiring it before you’d allowed the dresser to fasten it on your face. And perhaps your most favourite feature — the flaring green feathers on one side — possibly those of a peacock — that swept brilliantly upwards towards your hair, styled into an immaculate updo and accented with little vines of green Spring Court leaves and butterflies crafted of painted glass.

Now this — if you could wear this to your wedding, you’d marry any of the damn Vanserras.

A light rapping on the door had you straightening yourself out. You looked up, half expected to see Dion in all his finery.

Your stomach twisted a bit when the High Lord sauntered in.

You watched, in the mirror, as he approached you from behind. He didn’t yet don the mask that had been made for him, but the tailored green-and-gold brocade suit was undoubtedly a thing to behold, giving a hint of the sculpt of muscles underneath. Beron Vanserra was, indeed, a handsome male.

But inexplicable nausea always arose in you whenever he was around.

He stopped behind you, a mere hair’s-breadth away. The warmth of his breath fanned your exposed neck, and you felt yourself go rigid, taut.

“High Lord,” You greeted quietly, dipping your chin.

“Look at you,” One corner of his mouth quirked up, his eyes raking over your reflection. “My son is certainly a lucky male.”

You swallowed, wondering how subtly you could inch away. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“Hmm, I’m sure.”

You watched – watched so carefully as he slowly circled your body, stopping in front of you. Dark, empty eyes stared down into yours. Assessing. Cold.

“I don’t suppose,” He hummed, reaching out to touch a stray curl that hung loose from your hair, “that I need to remind you not to embarrass my court tonight.”

You lifted your chin. Stared up at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

His lips twitched into a calculating smile – like he didn’t believe your words for one second. “I would hope not,” He said. “But I’ve had my eye on you these past two weeks, since your family returned home. It would seem that you’ve been a tad restless. Perhaps you’re trying to cause trouble in the hopes that I would call off this engagement and let you leave?”

Your eyes narrowed at him. Had your behaviour, your thoughts, truly been that blatant? It threw you off – made you feel less confident before him.

And he could see that; he seemed to be aware of every minute expression on your face. The way your features were begging to be kicked up into a sneer that his mere presence naturally provoked.

He smirked, letting go of that one curl he’d been toying with. But his hand only moved inches, settling at your neck, his rough thumb sweeping strokes over your throat. “If you miss your dear family so much, we could always invite one of your sisters for another visit.”

Knowing him, he was fully aware of the tensions that existed between you and Molly – would probably send for her just to spite you–

“The youngest one — Willow, is it?” He tilted his head. “You seem to be quite fond of her. And I’ve heard she’s had some…marital issues. What a poor situation for the poor lamb to find herself in. Our court is always open, should she ever crave a higher echelon of Autumn males.” That wolfish smirk widened. “I think Jareth got quite taken with her, too.”

You knew you’d frozen, gone entirely rigid – and not because of his hand still brushing your neck. Sickness unfurled inside of you like a wave, and you wanted to reach, to grab for anything to steady yourself. For Beron to be so aware of your closeness with Willow…for him to have already concocted calculating thoughts about it, to now be standing in front of you with a glimmer of threat in his eyes, his voice…

You swallowed. Eased yourself back a step. “My sister is unavailable for the foreseeable future. But I thank you, High Lord, for your thoughtfulness.” Gods, the pleasantries were nauseating. They physically pained you.

And Beron could see that. He seemed to be trying to rein in a laugh as he flicked his gaze over you once more. “I’m glad we have an understanding. If you behave as you’re expected to, I’m sure no measures will have to be taken.”

Such clear calculation in his words and his tone. And yet all you could do – for Willow – was dip your chin in acknowledgement. That you understood his threat. That you would heed it, like the obedient little female you were.

“Come.” The High Lord straightened himself out, offering you his arm. “I shall escort you to the sitting room. The others are waiting. We don’t want to be late.”

⤲

They were lined up in a row. All five of them.

And yet you stopped dead in the doorway. Gaped at them. Eris was the only one you could pick out immediately – only because he favoured having his hair cropped much shorter than that of his brothers’.

But the similarities between the other four were almost frightening. They all wore the same tailored outfits – a deep green, velvet version of Beron’s, accented with leaves. All had the same green-and-gold, cat-like masks that covered half of their faces, leaving the full lips and sharp jawlines as the only real visible things. And with Dion, Lucien, Jareth and Rian all leaving their long, red hair unbound, cascading around their shoulders, it took you a moment of intense scrutiny to actually pick your fiance out of the four of them.

Took Dion stepping out of line, towards you, for you to be absolutely sure.

“Mother above, look at you.” He grinned, his eyes flicking over you in appreciation. “I hope I get to dance with you before you’re stolen away from me.”

You smiled, inclining your head in thanks. “You clean up quite nicely yourself.”

He reached a hand out to you. “Shall we?”

His hand was warm, as you slid yours into it – not at all like Beron’s touch on your skin. And you found yourself sidling closer to Dion, found yourself wanting to make sure you didn’t catch yourself alone again any time soon.

“Let’s go,” Beron stepped forward. “I’ll not have us being late.”

And so Beron joined hands with the Lady of Autumn. Eris with Lucien and Jareth with Rian. And in a sweep of lurching darkness, you each jumped from Autumn to Spring.

⤲

The smells hit you first. Crisp and floral. Like freshly mown grass and rose petals.

Your group came to a stop on what appeared to be the lawn – though the size of it was more like a damn field. And as your eyes took in the sights before you…the pinks and oranges as the sun set over Tamlin’s estate, the expertly-trimmed hedges, the masses of different plants and flowers and trees, flowing fountains and pristine walkways that wended throughout it all…the only thing you could do was gape in utter awe.

If it looked like this in the dying light of evening time…you could only imagine its beauty first thing in the morning. Or bathed in warm afternoon sun rays.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Dion smiled, also drinking in the sights.

Behind you, Jareth scowled. “If it doesn’t make your nostrils sting, yes.”

“I seem to remember you complaining about that the last time you visited, Jareth.”

Every one of you turned at the deep, gravelly voice that came from behind. And it took only one sweep of your eyes to know that this — this was Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.

You’d heard about him, of course. Heard that he was quietly handsome and rugged. Heard that he could shift into a beast on command. You believed that was entirely possible as you studied the broad expanse of his muscles. The male was huge.

And looking directly at you.

He, too, was showcasing what you were quickly realising was considered Spring Court Green. And he looked every bit the High Lord with his golden locks flowing around his face and the glimmer of emerald eyes you peeked through his mask of the same colour.

“You must be Y/N.” He greeted you politely. “Welcome to my court.”

You dipped your chin. “It’s very beautiful.”

“What, I don’t get a special greeting anymore, Tam?”

You glanced round — just in time to see Lucien step forward, the biggest smile on his face you’d ever seen. It was glowing, breathtaking. All you could do was stare.

“As if you don’t visit often enough and eat all my food?” Tamlin’s answering smile was just as broad. He clasped Lucien’s arms. “You’re looking well, friend.”

You watched the interaction, trying not to gape…because in the time you’d been at the Vanserra Estate, you’d never seen Lucien show the tenderness for his family that he currently displayed, unguarded, to Tamlin. It stirred something inside you that you couldn’t quite place a finger on.

Maybe…maybe there were other places that Lucien felt more at home.

“Thank you, again, for the invite, Tamlin.” Beron stepped forward. His strained voice told you just how rarely he thanked anyone for anything, but he squared his shoulders and forced himself to be pleasant.

“It’s my pleasure.” Tamlin smiled, and you tried not to gawk at the pure radiance of it. He turned to you and Dion. “And, of course, myself and my court extend our deepest congratulations on the news of your engagement. Shall we go in?”

Huge he may have been, but he was a picture of utter grace as he turned and headed towards the ginormous doorway – that was, until Lucien playfully shoved him, and then draped an arm around his shoulders. You watched the whole display as the rest of you followed; read the ease and lightness with which Lucien walked. An ease and lightness he never seemed to possess around his blood.

You glanced at his brothers. All of them had seen, and yet none of them seemed to care.

The thought made your shoulders slump slightly.

“Don’t be nervous.” Dion slid a hand to the small of your back. Misread your demeanour entirely. “Remember what we said. Just Y/N and Dion.”

You tried not to think about how odd it sounded as you followed him to the wine.

⤲

Such a brilliant thing – faerie wine. Not that you’d ever had the opportunity to try much else, but Linden had once told you of a time he’d drunk human wine – and likened it to muddy water.

But within two hours, every reservation, every worry, every sad thought…just gone. The other masked, dancing people around you didn’t matter as Dion spun you around in his arms, and the two of you laughed and chatted like there was nobody else in the huge ballroom. You were…euphoric. On top of the world. And if this was what it was like to be on Dion’s arm…you thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

He gripped hold of your hand, spinning you with a fluidity that he, himself, didn’t quite match. He wasn’t a bad dancer by any means, just…not a natural. Not light-footed and nimble like Eris had been when you’d danced with him on the final night of the festival. But with the wine, with the music, the masks…none of it mattered. You felt like you were walking on air.

“Shit.” Dion snorted as he watched his own steps, his back and shoulders stiff. “I’m definitely not a natural dancer.”

You grinned up at him, a laugh bubbling from your lips that was barely loud enough to be heard beneath the music. “Not a natural, no. Not smooth like Eris.”

He scowled playfully, his hands landing on your hips. “Eris is a show-off. He practises this shit in the mirror – do not tell him I told you that.”

You couldn’t help laughing again, throwing your head back and leaning into the pure joy you felt in that moment. It felt good to enjoy yourself. To enjoy someone else. And even though you were flushed all over, and giddy, and the mask was tight on your face and the dress too hot on your body, you thought you might like to stay like this forever. To dance, smile, laugh, forever.

The room was big enough that you only got the odd glimpse of Vanserra hair – but aside of recognising the short length of Eris’s, there was no telling which brother passed you by, or which was dancing with the pretty Spring Court girls, or which was necking wine at the tables pushed against the wall. And you liked it this way – the anonymity. Having a night where no eyes – not even Beron’s – were interested in following you.

“How about,” You grinned up at Dion, placing a hand against his chest, “you go and grab us some more drinks, and when you get back, I’ll show you how to relax your posture.”

Dion snorted, brushing long, orange locks from his face. “Alright — deal.” He squeezed your waist. “I’ll be back.”

Pressing his lips to your fingers once, he released his hold on you and disappeared into the sea of people, the sight of him becoming swallowed up immediately by flamboyant masks and extravagant gowns and the slick dances happening around you. You stepped just slightly out of the way, watching from the sidelines, in utter awe of the lethal precision of the moving bodies.

It only occurred to you – as you waited and waited for Dion’s return – just how thirsty you were. But you wanted to get back out there, to throw yourself into the hands of the music and feel alive. You fidgeted restlessly as one song drifted into another, the beat quicker, more frenzied. When it was nearing the end, and Dion still hadn’t returned, you scowled and pushed your way through the crowd. No doubt, he’d got distracted talking to somebody.

Hands grabbed for you as you passed, trying to pull you into dances that you politely declined. Your eyes scanned for every flash of red and orange in your periphery – bouncing over Eris, who was dancing expertly with a light-footed female, and a woman wearing a mask bedecked with glistening rubies; another who twirled around in a gauzy gown of a burnt orange colour. Another song was starting by the time you finally spotted your fiance – sure enough engrossed in a conversation with a Spring Court male, an almost-finished glass of wine in his hand. He turned away from the male as though he’d sensed your approach.

“Hey!” You reached him, grabbing his hand. “Come on. Don’t worry about the drinks. I wanna dance.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction – didn’t wait for him to finish his conversation, prising his drink from his hand and setting it aside. You were light as air and euphoric as you dragged him back onto the dance floor, twirling your way around the other dancers and finding your way to the middle. You preferred it there – felt more secure. More…anonymous.

The two of you fell into the dance easily, that extra glass of wine having done wonders for his fluidity. One of Dion’s hands clasped yours whilst the other was secured at your waist. His grip on you was firm, pleasant, and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so good as he pulled you around, matching your steps and keeping up with you. Clearly, you hadn’t given him enough credit – he was a much better dancer once he relaxed and let go.

“I love this one,” You shouted over the frenzied tune, barely loud enough to reach him. “The rise and fall of the notes – all of it. I love it.”

“You know this music?” His voice floated to you as he spun you around confidently, brilliantly, all earlier reservations about his dancing gone.

“I never cared much for dancing as a girl,” You fell into step, your front pressing against his, “Because it was something I had to do, I didn’t like it. But when Linden began to train me, he made me realise that what I wanted to learn from him, and what I hadn’t wanted to learn from my dance teacher, were actually very similar things. He took me to a dance, once, to prove it – and this was played there.”

“And you enjoyed dancing that night?”

You smiled at the memory, nodding as you moved with him. “I did – I think for the first time ever. Because I had chosen to go with Linden that night. I had chosen to dance that night. And I realised that was all I’d wanted.”

“Choice.” Dion stared intensely down at you, your glazed eyes snagging on the moving lights and shapes behind him. “Because choice makes a whole world of difference – doesn’t it?”

It did. And to hear him say it meant more to you than he probably realised. To know that he understood…that you may not have been each other’s choices, but he understood, still, what it meant to you.

He got you. And you…you thought you got him.

It made some small, fiery thing alight inside you. A thought that perhaps…perhaps this didn’t need to be doomed, just because you hadn’t chosen it for yourself. That you didn’t need to oppose it on mere principle.

Dion was a good male. A good male who listened to you, who got you. And here, like this, in his arms…his hands touching you, his hair splaying around him beautifully as the two of you spun around, his presence that felt safe and right…you thought that maybe you could choose him.

Thought, for the first time, that maybe you wanted to.

You stared up at him, the upbeat song coming to an end and transitioning into one that was slower, much more sensual. Both of his hands immediately tried to pull you into a more languid dance – but you stilled him. Met his gaze with your own.

“What is it?” He cocked his head.

You didn’t answer. Merely cupped the back of his neck with your hand and pulled his face down to yours.

The dancers around you didn’t spare you a glance as you caught him in a searing kiss. Burning. Passionate.

And without even a second of hesitation, he was kissing you back immediately, his hands sliding around your waist.

The kiss was deliciously hard as he lifted you just slightly, enough for your body to press against his. Enough for you to slide your hand into the silken strands of his hair and somehow pull him closer to you, to press his mouth firmer against yours.

It was the most delicious, heady kiss you’d ever had. And you wanted more – to taste his tongue around yours, to inhale that delicious scent – the familiar, earthy smell that all Autumn males seemed to have, but tinged with something different tonight. Something that bizarrely made you think of early morning daylight, wrapped up in crisp bedsheets. Perhaps the result of Autumn and Spring mingling. Whatever it was, you wanted to gulp it down greedily.

But neither of you had taken a breath. And only when you were both gasping for air, huffing into each other’s mouths, did you pull away.

You stared at each other, chests heaving, breaths panting. Dion glanced at your lips again.

“More.” His voice was a deep growl as he took your face in both of his hands and leaned in, the music seeming to encase that one, daring word just between the two of you–

But his kiss didn’t have a chance to land as another dancer backed into you. As she stumbled, her wine flute slipping from her hand and tipping towards your dress. Dion tried to pull you out of its path, but the liquid had already sloshed over one side of the gown.

The young female blanched, blinking at you. “Oh gods—I’m so sorry—”

Her eyes caught the vibrant shade of Dion’s hair, and you could see — see the fear in her eyes, her mind already considering what Beron Vanserra’s reaction might be to someone embarrassing a member of his court — even by accident.

“It’s absolutely fine.” You tried to make your face as reassuring as possible behind your mask. “No harm done.”

“Your dress—”

“It was an accident,” Dion leaned down, collecting the fallen flute and returning it to her outstretched hand.“We were…distracted.”

The woman’s wide eyes tugged at your heart enough for you to gently lay a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry about it — really. I just need to clean up.”

She dipped her chin in thanks — looked so grateful, you thought she might well up. You turned to Dion before she could, shooting him a flustered gaze, your eyes once again snagging on his lips.

“I’ll meet you back out here once I’ve sorted this.” You said.

He nodded — and glanced at your lips, too, before you turned from the mass of dancing bodies.

⤲

It took so long — so long for you to wash the wine out and dry your dress that by the time you returned to the ballroom, some of your intoxication had lifted. You felt clearer, less foggy — and just as ready to dive into the dancing as you were before.

Your lips were still tingling from Dion’s kiss. And the fact that he so readily, so greedily, wanted to kiss you back…you liked it. Felt the undeniable tug of something deep inside you that was thrilling and giddying and beautiful. You wanted more of it. To kiss him again. Feel his big, steady hands clutching you again.

The formation of dancers was far different when you returned. Instead of couples filling the floor, small groups clustered in circles all around the room, their hands joining. You frowned, searching for the brilliant orange hair of your fiance — and felt a warm, gentle hand grab yours.

“There you are,” Dion’s voice filled your ears as he leaned down. “The circle dance is just starting. Come on.”

You turned in his arms, smiling up at him. “The what?”

“A Spring Court dance,” His answering grin was wicked. “You have two circles, see?” He pointed to the group closest to you. “An inner circle and an outer circle.”

Sure enough, inside the ring of dancers — around ten of them joining hands — was another identical one. They each faced the person in front of them.

“The music plays, and one circle dances clockwise while the other dances anti-clockwise,” Dion explained. “And then when the music stops, you have to kiss whoever is in front of you.”

You snorted, smiling up at him – and almost blinked at the dusting of pink creeping up his neck. The way he swallowed hard – nervously, his earlier confidence gone. It warmed your heart, and you knew…knew that your eyes said it all, that they were reassuring. That you were going into it knowing who you wanted to kiss when the music stopped. That you wanted to kiss him again.

“It’s starting.” He smiled, tugging you over to the group. “You join the inner circle, I‘ll join the outer.”

And so you did just that, joining hands with two Spring Court females as Dion stood in position in front of you. And then the music began.

It was like…taking off. You wondered if this was what flying felt like, as you gave over the control in your body and allowed yourself to be pulled into motion. Your surroundings blurred, the speed of the dance picking up with the tempo of the music, and then there was nothing but you and light and music and flashing shapes. You could feel yourself laughing, feel your head falling back in ecstasy as you spun and spun, and you didn’t know how you hadn’t been entirely lifted off your feet — nor did you care. Not as you became the music.

And then as fast as it had taken off, it stopped. The music halted, and you were yanked to a standstill, your head still spinning as you forced your feet to ground you. Your laughter mingled with that of the other dancers.

With that of Dion’s, who had stopped in place before you.

“What a coincidence,” He chuckled deeply, gazing at you as the other partners leaned towards each other.

You snorted, stepping forward. Your hand reached for his, fingers brushing. “That it is.”

That one hand latched onto yours, the other coming to cup your jaw. Dion stared down at you, and he seemed to be…to be nervous, as he swiped his bottom lip with his tongue and released a breath. Because this was different — not the heat of the moment first kiss you’d shared earlier, when no one had paid attention. It felt more naked, somehow, now. Like he was trying to grasp for any scraps of his earlier confidence with people watching — expecting — this kiss.

You smiled reassuringly — communicated, with your eyes, that you wanted this — again. And the room seemed to melt around you.

He leaned down. Pressed his lips to yours. You reached up to touch your free hand to his cheek.

It was a different kiss…to the one you’d shared earlier. Not as passionate or searing, but…soft. Sweet. How you supposed your first kiss should have been, unlike the surging need you’d shared in the middle of the dance floor. Dion’s lips were almost tentative, careful…and maybe it was just because of the many other people around you, or perhaps because you’d sobered up a bit, that it was just…different. Not bad. Different.

But you didn’t care; not as the lightness in you continued. The best you’d felt in weeks. In a year.

You buried your fingers in Dion’s hair, deepening the kiss just slightly—

And he broke away – no, was pulled away, you realised, as he was yanked into a different circle of dancers. Your heart was thudding, mind reeling and cheeks scorching as you touched your fingers to your lips, just managing to dodge out of the way as a Spring Court female tried to tug you closer.

You smiled politely, stepping back. The room was heavy, pressing, and you knew if you didn’t feel the brush of fresh air on you soon, you may just collapse.

“Fresh air.” Was all you explained, before turning on your feet.

You’d already lost sight of Dion completely, the music once again picking up as you wended your way through the sea of bodies, some still dancing, some still kissing – some just talking. You didn’t have a clue where you were going, but the press of cool night air and the sudden influx of floral scents told you that you were headed in the right direction. You turned a corner, pushing through a pair of huge double doors, and found yourself stepping out into the sprawling gardens.

An inky, starry sky bore down on you as you came to a stop on a private patio. A few people milled about, strolling through the hedges, but nobody seemed to care that you were there. It helped you to relax as you pressed your back against the wall, feeling the cold bite of the concrete seeping through your dress.

You gazed up at those stars, breaths still heaving as you smiled to yourself. Tonight had been…fun. The best night you’d had in a while. Perhaps even the best night you’d had since you’d found out you were to be married, over a year ago now. Your mind had been so crowded since that day Barric had come to your family’s estate; crowded and suffocating, with barely any relief.

But tonight had been a relief. Tonight, you’d felt more like yourself than you had in a long time. The feeling was beautiful, familiar, and you were excited to carry on that way, to lean into the euphoria and light you’d craved for so long–

Until someone snorted from beside you.

You started, pushing off the wall. You turned back to the doors to find Lucien leaning against the frame, no longer wearing his mask. He stared at you with an unreadable expression, cocking an eyebrow.

You shrugged. Stared back at him questioningly. “Problem?”

“You know,” He chuckled, stepping out onto the patio, his boots clipping against the concrete, “For someone who claims to not want to be caught with her hand between her legs, you sure seem eager to replace that hand with the first male that walks by.”

You gawked at him.

Gawked at him, and clenched your hands at your side.

You’d barely run into him over the past fortnight. Certainly not shared a word between you, and his glances were sparse and scathing, too.

And yet here he was, mouthing off. Again.

“What did you just say to me?” You demanded.

Lucien shrugged – the picture of ease, as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think you need me to repeat myself, Lady.”

“If you have a problem with me kissing my soon-to-be husband,” You snapped, “Perhaps you should peel your eyes away and go annoy someone else. It’s not like we won’t be doing far more than that on our wedding night.”

Lucien snorted again, shaking his head. “At least you know what’s expected of you, I suppose. I see you’ve really thrown yourself into the role.”

You were entirely lost for words as he stared at you, his lips twitching – perhaps to smirk, or perhaps to sneer. You didn’t feel like waiting around to find out – especially not if he seemed hell-bent on ruining your good mood.

So you squared your shoulders and brushed past him.

“How about minding your own damn business, Lucien?” You murmured, and slipped back inside, the warmth enveloping you immediately.

And you didn’t look back to find out which one it was – a smirk or a sneer. Or perhaps both. His eyes remained on your back as you strode away, and something told you that he probably knew–

That for whatever reason, his words got to you far more than they should.

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

all acotar tags: @moonfawnx @writingsbychlo @moonlitcelestial @orangecreamsicle54 @saturnspoet0711 @andahugaroundtheneck @nightscourtt @mysticalcheesecakemiracle @luckypersonmentality @nobody00sthings @kristalhi @tencrushesperday @janzquu @we-were-beautiful @thewarriormoon @cirwin2013 @mrs-azriel @the-kwami-of-fandom-frustration @libraryofathousandstars @daily-dose-of-sass @pixiestix13 @basicbittywitty @simplefan-638 @highlady-ofillyria @false-desire-182 @fictionalcharacterlereasigim @theofficialmadman @kemillfreitas @sledgehammer21-1 @shannonsaid @jtargs @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @new-adventures-everyday @positivewitch @crushedcloudsx @cartoonnerdgirl @a-frog-with-a-laptop @ssmay123 @linduzmunna @ruler-of-hades @kennedy-brooke @peachyandmoon @ariaaira @topaz125 @blitz-fall @azrielsbbg @gracedarr @goldentournesol @localhopedealerr @swagfreakatheletemonger @sfhsgrad-blog @lo0oserlex @ruleroftides @mayabennett03 @vera0124 @mich0731 @balam-sen @luciensbxtch @holywolfsstuff @chloesgoneposts @margssstuff

290 notes · View notes