#hardly any that I made friends with over the years remains

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Just learned that Major Mike Sadler died last week on the 4th at 103 years of age. He was the last surviving founding member of the SAS and the last survivor of the Long Range Desert Group. Rest In Peace, legendary sir.

Many of you may have been introduced to his story through Stephen Knight’s SAS: Rogue Heroes

#sad day losing these legends one by one #hardly any that I made friends with over the years remains #ww2 #wwii #world war 2 #sas: rogue heroes #rogue heroes #long range desert group #mike sadler #hbo war #tom glynn carney #band of brothers #hbo the pacific #the pacific

[utterlyazriel]

the green emotion

someone requested jealous!azriel and i... made up a whole plot. i hope it's decent and fulfills the craving ! i'm a firm believer than he's so silly when he gets jealous <3 friends to lovers, about 4k

Azriel was not a jealous Male.

That was what he told himself. Jealousy was something that possessed the likes of Cassian or Rhys, driven to territorial acts that likened them to wild beasts. Fueled by their protectiveness, their senses dulled beyond reason.

Jealousy was a sharp whip with a taunting bite and Azriel was one of few who did not bend beneath it.

He had adopted a strength over millennia, an iron will, that prevented him from harboring such unsavory feelings. He was a stronger male than that, not so easily willed by strong ugly emotions such as jealousy.

That was what he told himself — as he tailed behind you, hanging back far enough you could not detect his presence, his shadows shrouding him.

It was reaching evening in Velaris, the last remnants of the sun's dappled light scattered across the cobblestones. You were clothed in a velvet cloak that reached down to your ankles. Its hood was drawn up, to cover your face.

If Azriel didn’t know you so well, not the weight of your steps and the lithe you carried yourself with, you may have slipped by unnoticed.

But Azriel was the Spymaster for a reason — and you were keeping secrets.

Truly, it itched and picked at him as he turned reason over and over again in his mind as he followed you. What possible reason could you have for skirting around in the dark? To slip from your friends and cloak yourself, wishing to remain unseen on the streets of your home?

It didn’t make sense to him. No thoughts of treason ever breached his mind. You wouldn’t dare, he knew that. You treasured your family as deeply as Azriel did himself, having bled and fought for your space beside them many years ago.

But as Azriel traced the path you walked, knowing you were fully in your right to go about your business however you pleased, it couldn’t be ignored. Logic kept pointing fingers in the same direction.

If he did not suspect you of withholding vital information from your court, then his quiet tailing must be fueled by something else. Something as trivial as an emotion such as…. jealousy.

Azriel bristled at the thought and his wings shook silently behind him, as if shaking off some imaginary snow.

He did not get jealous.

He was simply… ensuring the safety of his court. Which included your own safety. Even the thought made him grimace in the shadows, knowing the smack he would receive from Cassian if his brother ever heard the implication you couldn’t fend for yourself.

You most certainly could. Azriel and Cassian had both spent their fair share of hours battling against you in the fighting ring, training you up.

And it’s hardly likely that the image of you — donned in your fighting leathers, forehead beaded with sweat, chest heaving as you gripped your sword tight and grinned across the ring — was something Azriel would forget anytime soon.

Cauldron boil him if he ever had to admit aloud just how often he thought of that image.

Still, something within him kept his feet moving, footsteps as quiet as the night.

Faelight illuminated across the cobbles, the light of the rising moon, brighter in this court than any other, cast across the doorsteps of the townhouses. You had wound through the streets and ended up two streets stray from the Palace of Threads and Jewels. On a doorstep that Azriel had never seen before.

Your hood fell to your shoulders as you pushed it back gently, revealing the column of your throat and the curve of your shoulders. The faint moonlight glided across your skin, a luminous glow curling up against your collarbones. Azriel swallowed from his place in the shadows.

It was never a surprise to find you beautiful. To revere your enchanting otherworldly beauty — that Azriel was used to. And yet still, even after all these years, he had not managed to master the way it stole the breath from his lungs every time.

A familiar hunger yawned within him. He averted his eyes from you to the door.

He forced himself to take in the details, listening as his shadows whispered things his eyes could not attest. An artist's home. Damaged and rebuilt in the last battle of Velaris. The inhabitant was a Male, living alone.

Something blistered awfully inside Azriel.

Why would you visit a home such as this? Azriel could think of a few reasons that could warrant a visit so late in the evening, with your face concealed and your footsteps light. He felt his stomach turn over. Something foul burned in his gut.

The door before you opened and Azriel turned his face fast, slicing his gaze to the ground before he could see the Fae who greeted you.

Suddenly, this felt too close to an invasion of privacy. If you wished to keep your lovers a secret, as he himself did, this was a direct violation of your wishes.

That was... if this man was, indeed, your lover.

Something vulgar, something ugly reared up in his veins. Azriel clenched his fists at his sides, siphons gleaming, and willed it down.

Jealousy would not become him. Jealousy was not— did not control him.

And yet he could feel it, coursing through his blood, choking up his throat. Azriel tried to push it down, to fight against it with reason, with logic. You were promised to no Male, least of all to him. But...

But he could've sworn.

As quickly as the words appeared in his mind, Azriel stamped them down with an icy fury.

A silent curse followed them, directed at himself for his own foolishness. How many times would he walk this road before he eventually learned?

There had been no heated moments between you, no wandering eyes, no lingering hands; none that he had not imagined. None that his mind had no conjured up in its own twisted hope.

When you sought him out in the night, tormented by your own mind and how it kept you from sleep, you were seeking... a friend, Azriel realised bitterly.

There was nothing deeper to your decision to show up at his door but no one else's. Nothing was hidden in the way you chose a seat next to him at every dinner, nor the way you found a way to be beside him at the tables at Rita's.

Sitting close enough so that he could smell the alluring scent of your perfume. Could see the gleam of your bright eyes as you glanced at him after every joke, almost as if to see what might make him smile.

No. He steeled himself, shutting down every sweet moment of you he had been subconsciously collecting, holding to a greater magnitude than you clearly did.

You were not like Mor or Cassian. You did not warm the sheets of many Fae beds, slipping in and out of them without a care.

You were... alike to himself, Azriel had thought. Dedicated yourself to one.

He scowled at himself in the dark. This— this rendezvous in the dark did not dispel what he knew about you. It did not make it untrue.

It simply meant his feeble hope, that the one, the Fae you might dedicate yourself entirely was him... was just that—a hope.

It did not sway the reality of the world, the matter of truth that you crept out in the night to meet on shadowed doorsteps. Azriel felt his shadows smoking around him, spun into a frenzy at his unwelcome revelation. He snapped in his wings a little tighter.

Coming here tonight, following you, had been a mistake.

—

It seemed perfectly logical after that night for Azriel to take a step back, to rein himself in.

Not that there was not much to rein back — but the small actions reserved just for you, the unrestrained smiles, the inside jokes ribbed back at one another.

The things he had perceived as meaning more. He knew, that if he wanted to protect his heart from further ache, he should stop doing them.

But... maybe the only thing he did better than fighting, he thought grievously, was being utterly lovesick for someone who would never feel the same.

At the very least, he would hold his feelings to secrecy. It began with the smallest retractions, like weaning an addict off their favourite drug.

Azriel knew if he pulled away too quick, it would send him into a sort of withdrawal — and after all these years spent together, he wasn't sure he knew how to live with a deficit of you. Of your brazen smile and sparkling eyes.

Slow and sure. Over the next week, he willed himself to quit bothering you, to empty a space in your life so you could invite in others, those that meant more to you. So, there could be space for your new... lover.

Even the word sounded bitter in his mind.

Azriel opted for longer training in the morning. Let his sparring sessions with Cassian bleed longer and longer, not leaving the blazing hot rooftop even when Cass winds up limping inside.

He had received a halfhearted scowl from the warrior, undoubtedly for how unrelenting he had been in his fighting this week.

The time he usually sets aside for you, to read side by side in the library, to bake, to enjoy each other's company — Azriel swept it aside for you, to free up your schedule.

Noticed how you spend your free time down in Velaris. He doesn't dare tail you again.

The week crawls by slowly, stretching out thick, black tar.

Come Sunday, a day you normally reserved for spending with him, Azriel knows his extra insistence on training isn't enough of an excuse to keep you away. He trains late anyway.

True to his suspicions, it takes less than an hour for you to appear— having come to find him.

Azriel can sense you, even before his shadows murmur sweet things in his ears about the most beautiful Fae watching him through the window.

You're lingering at the door, unusually reserved. He can feel your hesitancy, even as he works his aching muscles through yet another set of exercises. His shadows stay in close, the edge of his body whispering in and out of darkness, his siphons gleaming.

You wait, watching quietly, until the sword he's wielding, a strong, broad Illyrian blade, is placed down to rest. Then, there's the soft pad of your feet as you step out into the training area. He hears you coming but he does not turn to face you.

“I've missed you this week.”

Even with his back turned, Azriel fights to keep his expression neutral, even as his eyes flutter at your admission. There's a tug on his shadows, their desire to wisp across to you proving a challenge to resist. He holds himself still, stern, and doesn't even a ruffle of his wings to indicate he's heard you.

"I—" Azriel begins. He still can't bear to turn to face you. "I'm sorry to hear that."

He can hear the noise of confusion that slips from your throat — evidently, it isn't the response you're expecting.

Azriel focuses on the sword before him, his bicep bulging as he lifts its weight and wanders to the stand of weapons. He pretends to be immersed in the decision of which to train with next, even though he's been out here for hours.

Even with his silent cold shoulder, he can still hear you behind him, your feet dragging softly across the ground in what is surely a hesitant nervous action. But still, you haven't left.

"Well, maybeee…" You continue on, voice still aiming for light and breezy, as if he hasn't been avoiding you. You're still trying.

Azriel's chest tightens up with a familiar ache, one that always lingers around you. Since seeing you that night, on another Male's doorstep, its sting has become particularly cruel. Jealousy has a cold bite.

"If you’re nearly done... I mean, if your somewhat obsessive workout regime is finally complete..."

You're winding on, taking jabs that would normally make him smile. You'd take a gentle rolling of his eyes at this point. Azriel turns to you, his face remaining passive.

"I was wondering if you wanted to come sit with me in the library," You say, voice suddenly softer now that he's facing you. "If you’re not too busy, that is.”

Azriel steels himself, eyes cutting to the ground as he forces himself to not wilt beneath your hopeful gaze. He knew it would be hard to pull himself away from you but this? This is nearing torture.

He clears his throat. “I am.”

He turns and begins to peel off the layers of Illyrian leathers from his torso, remaining diligent at keeping himself from caving to you. He can feel the ugly emotion rolling just beneath the surface, a gruesome green monster that threatens his usual composure.

Behind him, he hears your soft, saddened oh. His wings give a tiny shiver at it, even as he continues the methodical process of unwinding after training.

Piece by piece, his armor comes off, until even his shirt has been shed. His skin glistens under the shine of the afternoon sun, the muscles beneath rippling and sore from exertion.

There's a moment of silence and Azriel keeps his head bowed as he gathers himself, prepared to bathe the sweat and grime off himself. It wasn't a complete lie he had told.

Perhaps, he thinks wistfully, he could wash some of his unjust jealousy away with it. Being so unwound by his feelings is taking its toll on him, considering how unused to it he is. He waits, ears keenly listening for the sign of your departure.

After a minute of quietness, he can only assume you've slipped away silently. He sighs, half in relief and half in his sorrow.

"What are you busy doing?"

Your voice pipes up and Azriel glances behind him, surprised that you haven't left after all. His wings tuck in a little tighter.

"y/n." He murmurs your name and it comes out almost as a plea. Now, faced with you pulling apart his loose lie, Azriel finds he doesn't have it within him to lie to your face. "Please."

You don't say anything.

Azriel's shadows dance around him, agitated and frenzied, and he wills them to calm— though, that had always been an impossible request in your presence. He takes a sharp inhale and walks towards the door, leaving you behind on the rooftop.

He gets halfway down the hallway, heading for his room before your voice calls out again.

"Busy avoiding me?"

You've followed him from the training ring and now you stand at the end of the hallway, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. Your face is contorted into a hard expression, a furrow between your brows.

Azriel sighs and turns back to you. He hadn't been able to keep his secret from Mor — why, oh why did he think that he would have any more luck when it came to you?

You— enigmatic, wonderful you. Maybe, all Azriel hopes to do today is to delay the inevitable rejection for a different day. An easier day.

A day where he isn't feeling so easily undone by his the enormity of his envy. Envious of what he can't have but so desperately desires.

As he turns to face you, it's impossible to miss the way your eyes dart down to his bare chest. You stare for a moment too long and it looks like it takes an effort to drag your eyes up. You swallow heavily, the bob of your throat unmissable. Even from afar, Azriel swears there's a glow to your cheeks.

No. No, he wasn't doing that to himself anymore! He wouldn't— he couldn't be having those thoughts about you anymore. You had a lover for Mother's sake.

"I'm not—"

"Oh my Gods, don't even try to say you're not avoiding me." You interrupt him sharply. You begin to stamp your way down the hallway, eyes narrowed, your annoyance clear to see.

A door in the hallway opens. Distracted by something over his shoulder, Cassian takes a blundering loud step out into the hallway before he freezes.

He spots you first, eyes widening and wings bunching up at your obvious fury. His head turns, finding Azriel down the other end of the hallway.

"Oh... Mother, this is happening now, huh? I'm just gonna— uh, get food later." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, quickly turning and disappearing back into his room. His door closes with a quiet snip.

In the moment of distraction, you don't notice how Azriel has moved away stealthily— his shadows aiding his quiet getaway. He's not entirely sure what his plan is; he doubts he can avoid this argument by simply shutting himself in his room. Turns out, he's selfish enough to be willing to try.

Sure enough, it takes another moment before his wings twitch, his shadows reporting on your incoming footsteps moments before he hears them himself.

He busies himself with digging through his drawers and sends a silent request to the House, praying it might keep the door locked against you.

He can do this— he can swallow down his burning heart and keep your friendship he values so dearly, he swears he can. Just not today.

He hears the door open.

Glancing up, he narrows his eyes at the House and calls it a foul word in his mind. The Faelights of his room seem to twinkle mischievously in response.

"Az," You breathe softly.

His name sounds unbearably tender coming from your lips. His wings give a little rustle, curling closer around himself.

Despite his lack of reply, you aren't deterred. He can hear your footsteps, gentle and not at all like your prior furious stomps down the hallway, as they wind around his bed.

Chest stirring with an old ache, he keeps himself facing away. He slips a shirt on and prays you give him one more day to rein in his treacherous heart. One more day. He just can't do it today.

"Did I... Did I do something?"

Your voice is suddenly a lot smaller.

Azriel softens instantly at the sound of it, feeling his resolve begin to crumble. He crushes his eyes closed and thinks of what he had seen down in Velaris — forces himself to imagine you with another Male, in his arms, in his bed.

But even if his jealousy is so terribly unwarranted, he cannot bring himself to lie to you.

"No," The word grates out his throat roughly.

Because it's the truth. You hadn't done anything wrong and— and Azriel refused to hurt you just because he couldn't contain a few rampant feelings.

"Really?" The tinge of annoyance is back in your words and Azriel can't even blame you.

"Because then why it is that you have been avoiding me since— since the day I was-"

You cut your own words off and Azriel fills in the blank on his own. Since the day down in the city—where I saw you entering another Male's home, hidden in your cloak, like you were meeting a lover— and even though you're completely allowed to do that, I am like every other gods forsaken jealous Male in Prythian, getting upset over this, even if you are not truly mine.

He turns to you finally, his hands clenched at his side and he wills the next sentence out.

"What or who you choose to spend your free time with—" He inhales a long breath, forcing his face to remain neutral even as he feels his teeth grit together. "—is none of my concern."

Your face scrunches up, confused. Then the furrow between your eyebrows is back and Azriel feels a tad nervous. You aren't often angry, least of all with him.

"Cauldron boil me," You bury your face into your hands for a second. Then you drag them down languidly with a groan, peeking up at him over your hands.

"Did you follow me?"

Azriel feels a bit off-guard. His voice isn't as sure when he says, "It is my duty to survey my court."

You bristle a little at that and the nervousness within him grows a little bigger.

"'Who I choose to spend my time with?'" You repeat his words back to him with a tone of incredulity, your hands motioning wildly before you. Faintly, Azriel begins to sense the feeling of foolishness rising within him.

"For Mother's sake, Az, I was buying you a birthday gift, not sleeping with him!"

The moment the words burst from your lips, two things happen. Azriel stiffens, the true nature of your stealthy endeavor through Velaris making a fool of him indeed.

You were... cloaked and hidden because you had been planning a surprise. For him. For his birthday. Something he hadn't even considered was around the corner as it held no high merit with him. His eyes widen and his lips part an inch.

And you — you straighten up, eyes wide, looking as though you've been struck by lightning.

"You were jealous." You gasp.

Not a question, a statement.

"No," Azriel denies, without thinking. His heart rabbits in his chest. The irony of acting out the way he did, because jealousy had blinded him in the first place, is not lost on him.

Suddenly, all his envy is washed away, replaced quickly by a bumbling foolish embarrassment. He wishes he could winnow out of the House. He considers the window behind him for a moment, if only to spare himself from revealing his true feelings to you.

One glance back at your face, your expression edging towards crestfallen, and any thoughts of running away vanishes.

"Yes." He quickly amends, voice meek.

His wings give a little shudder, twisting in closer as he realises what he's admitted aloud. How there was no coming back from this.

No one had ever made him as loose-tongued as you do. Azriel is embarrassed to be caught stumbling over his words.

"I realise..." He croaks out, suddenly finding the slats of the floorboards immensely more interesting. His shadows have slowed from their nervous frenzy, making lazy motions instead, as if to soothe him. "That may not be ideal. My feelings, that is."

A beat of silence. Azriel studies a spot on the floor intently. His heart flounders wildly behind his ribs. His embarrassment seeps something closer to mortification.

Your shoes peek into the edge of his vision and Azriel's head shifts up slowly, his hazel eyes finding yours and burning into them.

His shadows whisper a thousand things to him — but all of them are dulled, quietened, as he simply stares at you. Feels something between the pair of you hang in the balance, just a breeze from unraveling.

Your eyes are bright. Acutely, he realises he can smell relief rolling off you in heavy waves. Amongst it, too, is a hint of... happiness. Happiness.

“Oh, you big Illyrian baby,” You coo, a teasing lilt to your tone.

His cheeks grow warm. Something white-hot tips down his spine as you step in closer, swaying into his space. He can smell the alluring scent of you and his heart thrums in his chest at your nearness, aching to be closer.

"Some spymaster you are, huh?" You say, voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel stays silent but his head tilts to the side just an inch in his puzzlement, his eyebrows knitting together. Hazel eyes peer at you with such an intensity that it sends goosebumps crawling across your skin— his eyes searching your face for answers to his thousand questions.

"Knowing everything except for this." You continue, words feather-soft.

You don’t say what this is but Azriel thinks he knows. Hopes he knows. His hands at his sides clench tighter, his fingers curled up into fists, and the motion catches your attention.

Moving so slowly, you reach out and gingerly take his wrist between your delicate fingers. Azriel lets you. A whine crawls up in the back of his throat and his swallows it back down.

He watches closely as you pull his hand up, forward, cradling it with your own two. His fingers twitch, so unfamiliar with such tender touches.

The shadows scouring around his shoulders burst into a frenzy, circling down his arms and twirling around your intertwined hands. It's as though they're... dancing, Azriel thinks.

"I... hoped." He admits quietly, his voice full of longing.

You shift his mottled hand, turning it gently so his palm is facing yours. Then you hold your own up against it, like you're comparing hand sizes.

Azriel can barely tear his eyes off where your hand presses into his to look up at you. Something molten hot begins to scorch through his veins. A realisation. A dream that may be finally answered. It feels like pure starlight.

Your hand is dwarfed against his own scarred one — and when Azriel curls his fingers, they hug the top of yours gently. You press back against his hand, like the smallest hug back.

You murmur back. "You don't need hope."

Your gaze skirts up from your joined hands, your lips twitching into a nervous smile.

Your eyebrows have drawn together in the middle, just a bit, as though what's happening is something you find devastatingly beautiful. As though you think that way about him. About the two of you, together.

Azriel finds himself thinking of all he would give in the world —all the mountains he'd move and dragons he'd slay— for you to keep looking at him that way.

"You already have me."

#i'm so on the fence on whether i like this one ! >.< #but i do think he would be sooooo foolish once he got jealous #esp if u were nearly a thing but not quite #and i do think he wouldn't have a kiss. just a handhold #when u two finally come together :") #azriel x you #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger x you #acotar

[13atoms]

Handsome and a Genius (Spencer Reid x F!Bau!Reader)

Inspired by that one scene in x files where mulder stands like a himbo looking handsome and being the future of beauty. you know the one I mean

Summary: Spencer’s overactive brain draws more attention than it ought to on a case, and you see him in a new light. 3k words.

Contains: hostile witnesses, spencer being clueless (but an absolute babe), friends to lovers. (No offence to Florida im sure it’s very nice, reader is having a bad day, and I am far too British for that kind of heat)

The sticky Florida air had long since plastered your clothes to your skin, leaving you short of breath and with the unpleasant feeling of damp hair against your scalp. The whole team had groaned at the revelation their next case would be in the outskirts of Miami, and as soon as the plane door opened you understood why.

You were hot, and grumpy. The salty, swampy air made you feel disgusting as you approached witness after witness. There was a serial killer operating in and around mobile home parks in the area, with the two most recent murders taking place in Royal Biscayne Trailer Park, both over a week ago. While the rest the team spread out across the other crime scenes, you and your partner had been dispatched to this one.

It was a world away from Quantico: sun-bleached, dense, full of plastic and palms instead of concrete and maples. Nonetheless, the principles remained the same no matter where you were. Take everything in, speak to everyone, suspect everyone. Stepping in and out of trailers gave you very little relief from the heat, although respite from the sun pounding down on you was a welcome break.

Dr Spencer Reid stood a short distance away, shielding his eyes with his hand as he contemplated the sea of trailers around him. He’d stared around as you drove into the park, something faraway in his eyes as he memorised every detail from the safety of the SUV.

Now he stood close to you, heads inches apart as he whispered so that only you could hear. He faced one way, you the other, and you could focus on his words knowing that Spencer was watching your back.

“These things all come equipped with the same locks, at least each model does. If you recognise the trailer home, you know how to pick it. It’s fairly trivial, for someone with some basic industry knowledge.”

You hummed through pursed lips, surveying the small crowd who had gathered to gawk at a pair of FBI officers on their turf.

“And that would be true of all of the trailer parks… we know he’s got a common MO.”

“Exactly.”

“You reckon someone in the industry, then? A salesman? Maintenance guy?”

Spencer rolled his neck, stared up at the sky for a moment. His curls were long at the moment, damp at the name of his neck, a little frizzy in the humidity.

“Not necessarily.”

“It’s quite specific,” you agreed, “anyone operating as a common thief around here would have the knowledge too. We could be talking about a classic escalation – burglar to home invader to murderer?”

His eyes snapped from you to his phone.

“I’ve asked Garcia to check out any patterns in robberies, home invasions… the locks are hardly scratched. We know he wears gloves, cleans his tools. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

You nodded, surveying the street again. The sun was glinting off of white plastic, making you squint. You worried for Spencer, the heat and the light wouldn’t be doing his headaches any good.

“You want me to take that?” Spencer was saying, and you snapped your attention in the direction he was gestured.

There was middle-aged man a little way forward of the crowd, shoulders hunched, hands entwined. Nervous. He had the tan of someone who lived here year-round, not a big believer in suncream, with tanlines when he removed his hat and glasses to speak to you.

“I’ve got it,” you murmured, and Spencer nodded.

It was an unspoken part of your partnership, that Spencer liked when you started conversations with witnesses. You liked that he trusted you, trusted your skills, never questioned whether you’d done the right thing when you spoke to people.

Instead he remained a short distance away, climbing up the front steps of someone’s home for a higher vantage point to survey the place.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. You said you’re with the FBI?”

The man had a tip, and it was an interesting one. A rumour spread throughout the HOA about someone trying the locks at night, the sound of metal against the doorways, silhouettes against frosted glass. A few people even had security camera footage, though nothing identifiable. It was great. You gave him your card, told him to get the footage to you asap.

It must be terrifying, you realised, to hear that kind of noise in the night. To be so close to danger, after a neighbour had been killed. The local sheriff’s department seemed frustrated by the interest the case was garnering – frankly you were amazed the story wasn’t bigger. There was no small amount of comforting involved in the conversation you had with the witness, and soon enough a few more people stepped forwards from the crowd. All seemed middle-aged, likely transplants to the sunshine state, and equally shaken.

When everyone’s stories had finished, they stood in silence for a moment. You frowned, noticing their gazes slightly misaligned.

Spencer.

He was stood at your shoulder, sharp gaze flickering across each face of the gathered residents.

“This is my colleague, Dr Reid. A few of you have already met, I believe.”

“You know,” he began, “the socio-economic factors influencing the way we think about crime in mobile home communities are fascinating. Often trailer parks are stereotyped negatively in the media, and because they are generally cheaper to live in than traditional housing estates, and that can foster a sense of shame or isolation for residents. Transient populations can also make community policing and security difficult, and anomalies in the patterns of everyday life become more difficult for people to subconsciously spot.”

You held your breath, and tried not to look worried at the reaction of the small crowd. Instead, you focused on Spencer. He was speaking with his hands a lot today.

“But I think the assumptions we tend to make about trailer parks completely overlook the very nature of living so close to your neighbours. There is a sense of community in living so closely, as evidenced by the conversations we’ve been having today. I’m not sure whether the killer understands that, or is exploiting the former theory that places like this allow for more deviations from the way we implement traditional security in communities. An unsub might hold some sort of resentment towards trailer parks, or some specific resident in his past, or perhaps he’s simply exploiting how incredibly easy it is to simply walk up to a mobile home and slip the lock open with a humble mass-produced lock pick.”

He was greeted with a sea of blank faces, littered with the occasional frown. Finally he looked to you. You caught the furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders hunched into himself, the clutching of his elbows to his body.

Oh, Spencer.

“That’s really interesting!” you tried to say, but Spencer was already backing away.

“Anyway, I’ll, um, leave you to it.”

“Thank you, Dr Reid,” you called after him, as he fled, disappearing into the shade of a nearby trailer.

 Your heart ached for him a bit, but you pushed that aside. Instead, you had a sea of potentially offended retirees to keep on side.

“God, what I’d give for a brain like that,” your witness laughed, his linen shirt straining under the movement.

You couldn’t help smiling, a little relieved the tension had broken.

“It’s not often someone has a face like that and a good head on their shoulders,” one of the older ladies piped up.

You found yourself looking over your shoulder at Spencer, his profile sharp as he looked down the road, deep in thought.

“He’s certainly a rare breed,” you agreed fondly.

A number of the crowd were following your gaze, and someone in you wanted to snap them out of it. Stop them from staring.

“He actually has an eidetic memory. Once he’s seen or heard something, he remembers it perfectly, forever. It’s incredible.”

“Oh, my goodness! I can hardly remember my own email password!”

“I wouldn’t mind if he hung around me and talked like that all day, even if I didn’t understand a word of it. Though perhaps he could use a haircut…”

There was a chorus of agreement and various coo-ing which seemed to occupy the entire scale from grandmotherly to entirely inappropriate. You couldn’t help staring at Spencer a moment longer, wondering if he was truly oblivious, or simply pretending to be.

A rare breed.

You were certain you’d never met anyone else like him. Certain you felt like a better version of yourself in his company. That you’d trust him with your life, that you searched every room you entered until you saw him. Watched the elevator doors each time they opened, all morning, until Spencer walked in.

You were certain you’d felt giddy the first time Spencer insisted the two of you would work together, alone.

 “Imagine knowing that he’d remember everything, forever…” one of the women was saying, her eyebrows raised in a way you didn’t particularly enjoy.

You cleared your throat, and hooked one hand over the badge at your waist.

“Unless anyone has any further leads, we’d better be on our way…”

The group silenced, and watched you dutifully. You passed out a few more cards, reiterated how dedicated the team was to stopping this killer, and gave out a few promises that there would be a police presence after dark throughout the trailer park.

When the request for any further questions was met with more glances towards Spencer, you thanked your witness, and made a beeline for the car. After only a few seconds Spencer was beside you, jogging to catch up.

“All done?” he asked, and you smiled at the question.

“I think so.”

You started the engine and both waited with the doors open for the car to cool down. The department’s penchant for black SUVs was not helpful when the sun was so vicious. Feeling the heat themselves, the group of residents had dispersed into a few groups, wandering into one another’s homes to continue gossiping.

“God, I’m disgusting,” you lamented, “sorry for the sweat-smell. I might actually take a cold shower when we get to the hotel.”

Spencer was already waving you off, leaning into the car to mess with the AC. Through the open door you saw him groan at the heat, swiping a curl from his face.

“I’m afraid to raise my arms. It’s so humid, I’m not sure why anyone would retire here. High humidity aggravates a number of chronic conditions, especially respiratory ones, which are common in older people. Not to mention the skin cancer…”

“And it ruins your hair,” you teased.

Spencer faked a gasp, and reached for a damp, limp section of his hair.

“I mean, look at it!”

You laughed, and rolled your eyes at him, nothing but fondness settling warm and tight in your chest.

Surveying the road in front of you for one final time you saw a few curtain-twitchers, but no new faces. You climbed into the car, wincing at the heat. The seatbelt buckle was burning hot, and you swore as it burned your fingers.

“I always forget about that,” you grumbled, slamming the car door closed.

“You know, if you fasten your seatbelt after you get out, it stops the metal getting hot and burning you,” Reid offered, and you rolled your eyes at him again.

“Gosh, doesn’t it get exhausting being right about everything?”

Spencer went quiet, and all you heard was the click of his own belt. After a few moments the car was cool and bearable, and your lungs felt like they could finally move again. The sat-nav happily talked away, and you started stealing worried looks at your partner once you’d returned to properly-maintained roads.

“What you said out there was really good, do you mind if we go over it again once we get to the station? I think it’s worth exploring.”

“I shouldn’t have said it in front of them.”

He was right, but you didn’t have to heart to say anything. That was the thing which made your heart twinge about Spencer – he was so insecure, and yet so self-aware, it was the worst of both worlds. Being an expert in body language was a double-edged sword.

“I don’t think they minded. Did you hear those old ladies talking about your big brain?”

Spencer didn’t laugh. He turned himself towards the window, curled up with his hand beneath his jaw.

“They were very impressed. So was I, for what it’s worth. I think we’ll make some really good progress on this profile tonight.”

He hummed agreement. Watched a vista of blurred blue and green and white going past the window. The radio was turned down to a low hum, you could hardly hear it. Silence pierced its way through and sound of mumbled songs and road noise.

“Are you okay?” you asked finally.

“I’m okay.”

You sighed. Tapped the steering wheel. Sped a little to get through an intersection on amber.

 “Spencer…”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to ruin that for you I just… sometimes I think of things and it’s like I have to tell you.

“Spencer I’m not mad at you! Not at all! I think we’re both just tired, and too warm…”

He didn’t say anything.

“Honestly, I was worried you’d heard what those ladies were saying about you and gotten upset. It was inappropriate of them…”

“I didn’t hear anything. What did they say?”

Your gaze was focused on the road, but you met Spencer’s eye in the rear-view mirror as he watched your face.

“Just that you were a handsome young man. And that they wanted you to get a haircut, which I firmly disagree with…” you teased.

Spencer touched his hair self-consciously. He was still quite curled up, leaning away from you despite his interest in the conversation.

“That’s nice of them, I suppose.”

“‘Nice’ is an interesting way of putting it, but I’m glad you’re not upset about it.”

“When I was a kid, I read a book at the library about how to tell if you’re attractive. It was for women, all about makeup and stuff, but there was a section about what made guys hot. I could never figure it out, I just always thought I looked like an alien.”

The sudden change made you sit up straight, heart in your mouth as you rolled to a stop behind a queue of traffic.

“I think everyone feels like that sometimes. Being a teenager is really hard.”

 “I… yeah. I suppose so.”

“I always felt so jealous of the people who walked around looking perfect every day, confident that they were not. It just never came naturally to me.”

“Really? I assumed you were one of those girls in school who I’d be too afraid to talk to.”

You scoffed, and for a moment were struck by how little you really knew about one another. The way Spencer looked at you, looked it everyone, it felt as though he had an x-ray into every tiny detail of your life. How could he know, though?

“Of course not,” you laughed nervously.

You weren’t sure if you’d prefer Spencer knew the truth, or kept believing whatever he’d made up ini his head. You weren’t sure what any of this conversation meant. Traffic was moving. The precinct was two turns away.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

He was teasing you. Finally he leant back in his seat, shoulders square to it, legs stretched out in the passenger footwell.

“Either way, I’m glad you can talk to me now. I’d miss it if you didn’t.”

“You might be the only person on this planet with that opinion.”

You took a moment to glance across the car at him, and caught a flash of a smile. He was joking. You released tension from your shoulders you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“I’m sure that’s not true. You’re a handsome genius, just like Barbara said.”

“Her name was Barbara?” Reid laughed.

You shrugged, and took the final turn into the precinct parking lot.

“I’ve got no idea.”

Even with the SUV in park, the aircon no longer blasting away, neither of you moved. Not for a moment, at least. A moment of peace before the chaos all began again. Just the two of you. Wherever you were, with Spencer was your favourite place to be.

“You’re the same, you know. A genius. And handsome…”

You frowned.

“Pretty! Beautiful. You know what I mean.”

“Handsome?”

In truth, you didn’t care about the words. Not at all. Not when your heart was pounding at the realisation Spencer had his gaze fixed on your lips, his eyes soft and pupils blown wide.

“Beautiful,” Spencer repeated, “You know, in a lot of languages, handsome can be translated for men and women. The word itself doesn’t have a gender. Guapa, for example, in Spanish…”

You let him talk, on and on. You decided you wouldn’t kiss him yet, while your hair was matted in sweat and Spencer’s face was brushed with sunburn and embarrassment.

“Bella is more popular in South America, though, or bonita. My favourite is Japanese, though. Kirei. To be beautiful both inside and out…”

Only a few more moments passed before Morgan arrived and banged on the glass with a wide grin and a sweat-beaded brow, announcing a break in the case. You were sorry for the interruption.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #fluff #fic #13atoms #im so sorry if this is ooc

[pricefieldsuperiority]

Yearning Allegations - Pt.3

Part 1 here / Part 2 here

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader

Genre: Friends to lovers slowburn

Summary: You've liked Paige for the longest time, is there any chance she likes you too?

It's been 2 weeks of awkward silence.

Ever since Paige came over the other day, she's either been ghosting your texts entirely or giving you short replies followed up with excuses about how she's really busy.

The biggest game of the season is coming up - Uconn vs Iowa. Everyone's been talking about it, and you know the team is training super hard for the game- KK and Nika won't stop blowing your phone up with Uconn shit. Despite all this, you just can't shake the feeling something is wrong between you two.

So that's why you're walking down to the school gyms at 9 pm, hoping to find Paige practicing late like she does when she's stressed out.

The halls seem so empty and lifeless without her constant chatter and her melodic laughter. You're fidgeting with your clothes, hoping the sinking feeling in your stomach will dissipate soon.

In the gym, you spot Paige on the farside of the court, shooting basket after basket. Her brows are furrowed with concentration, sweat beading on her forehead.

"Paige!" You shout as you lightly jog over.

Paige glances at you and then takes another shot, which just bounces off the backboard with a loud thud. She curses and grabs it on its way down before replying to you.

"Hey y/n, what are you doing here?"

You're anxious, eyes rovering over her face, but she won't meet your gaze.

"Is.. is everything okay between us?" You say, hesitantly stepping closer to her.

Paige has stopped throwing the ball, instead just holding it under one arm with her eyes trained on the floor.

She finally looks at you, a mix of emotions written all over her face.

"Everything's cool, yeah.. but be honest.. Did I.. make you uncomfortable the other day?"

"Of course not, why??" You're surprised by her words, confused by where she's going with this.

Paige's shoulders relax for a moment at your response, but her expression remains conflicted.

"I was just wondering if I took it too far the other day.." She trails off, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Too far?" You breathe out, hardly daring to consider what she means by that.

"Yeah.. I just.."

Paige seems to struggle to get the words out, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"I know you don't want me like how I want you, and I was worried I had made you uncomfortable or something."

Paige wants you? The words ring in your mind.

"What? What do you mean?" You're in disbelief. What is she talking about?

Paige sighs, throwing her basketball into the lined baskets lined by the gym walls before she continues on.

"Y/n, I've liked you for years. I've tried to make that clear, hoping you might take the hint or say something, but you never did. I didn't want to ruin what we have- but the other day made me feel so.." She trails off, "It's just hard to be friends with you when I want more than that. And I'm really sorry for ghosting you, that wasn't cool."

Paige runs her hands through her hair anxiously while your heart strains in your chest.

"And wait- that's not to say I don't want to be friends with you - I love being friends with you, I love you-"

Your heart is pounding in your ears, heart registering her words, and you just can't hold back anymore. You close the distance between you two, lunging for her, kissing her like she's your lifeline.

Paige is shocked for a second, before responding immediately, her hands grabbing your waist, pulling you in further.

It's all you've imagined, yet somehow better. Your hands are tangled in her hair, tugging lightly as her lips desperately press against your own. Paige kisses you, soft and open mouthed, but like a woman starved. You're enveloped in nothing but the sweet scent of her perfume while your heart feels like it's exploding, butterflies flittering wildly around in your stomach.

When you break apart, you both wear matching relieved grins. You swear to yourself that Paige's eyes have never looked more soft than in this moment, the love within them so obvious to you now. Her cheeks are flushed, more pink than you've ever seen them, her eyes alight with an excitement you've only ever attributed to the look she gets when she wins games.

Your next words tumble out in a rush, eager to tell her how you feel.

"I love you, Paige.. I've loved you since high school. I've loved growing up with you, learning more about you over the years, and getting to watch you do what you love. I love the way you care so deeply about people - about your fans, your team, your family. I love how strong you are, persevering through everything just to pursue your dreams."

You laugh, the words freeing to finally say aloud.

"I love all the little things about you, like the way you're so stupidly competitive about everything, whether that's shooting hoops or playing video games, I love your silly cocky nature and all your stupid jokes, your dramatic ass- bro can't even take medicine without taking a solid 10 minutes to complain- and even all the ways you annoy me on purpose just because you know they make me laugh nonetheless. I always feel safe with you, understood in a way I've never felt with other people.. I.. just.. so many things, Paige."

Paige's response is barely above a whisper,

"Why... why didn't you say anything?"

She's running her hands through her hair again, continuing.

"I just thought you didn't like me, like I hoped you did but I was never really sure. That's why I didn't say nothing"

You smile at her,

"I didn't wanna lose you by saying I liked you in case you didn't feel that way, I don't know. Maybe we both did the same thing, haha." You start trailing off awkwardly, suddenly feeling shy with the way she's looking at you.

Paige just grins, pulling you back into her by the hips, bringing you two face to face. She tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear before she rests her hands on your waist.

"Good thing I do, cause now I get to ask you to be my girl." Paige is grinning so widely you just grin back, happiness manifesting as butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

"Pfftt.. I was always your girl. " You stick your tongue out at her, and she throws an arm over your shoulder in response.

"Damn y/n tryin rizz me up!?" Paige laughs at her own joke before continuing,

"Anyway, come on, let's go home."

She holds the gym doors open for you, and you're struck with a sense of deja vu, heart full.

"Well.. I mean, it worked."

You smirk at her with that.

Paige just bites her lip in response, waggling her brows and rubbing her hands together at you.

You groan as you both walk to her dorm,

"Not the rizz hands!"

All you hear is her resulting laugh.

"Always the rizz hands! Come on y/n you love it, clearlyyyy."

You find yourself unable to stop smiling at her, but you attempt an eye roll to keep up appearances anyway.

"You're all mine now," you say, shoving her slightly.

Paige smiles back, love in her gaze.

"I was always yours y/n."

---

Authors Note: This is the final chapter, I love soft Paige. Hope y'all enjoyed it. Thanks for reading! <3

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn #uconn huskies #slow burn #uconn women’s basketball #paige buckets #uconn wbb #fanfic #friends to lovers #wlw #Spotify

[sleepysnk]

a/n: rindou was highly requested on my feedback form, so i decided to give it a shot and try writing something for him! :) forgive me if my characterization is trash. i hope you guys enjoy <3.

pairings: rindou haitani x fem!reader

warnings: some angst, cheating, businessman!rindou, mentions of reader x male!oc, hookups, nsfw, smut, flirty rindou, unprotected sex, some possessive behavior, use of pet names (baby, angel, my girl, princess, good girl), dirty talk, creampie, choking, praising.

synopsis: your boyfriend of almost one and a half years has been unfaithful to you with multiple women at his job. you’re aware of this every single day, and he doesn’t even hide it anymore. one day, you met his boss, rindou haitani, and were completely captivated by the man. he was more polite to you than any other man had been, so one night when your shitty boyfriend was clearly cheating, you decide to invite rindou over to have some fun of your own.

promotion ft. rindou haitani

11:58 PM-> Yakashi: i’ll be home tomorrow morning

11:59 PM-> Yakashi: don’t wait up for me. i got business to attend to.

Your eyes rolled at the messages you received from your lover. It wasn’t unusual for your boyfriend to stay out late for work or go out with his buddies until the crack of dawn, but what honestly annoyed you the most was the fact that Yakashi was a horrible fucking liar. You were completely aware that he wasn’t being truthful in any of those words he sent you. However, you always had to force yourself into believing whatever shitty lie he came up with next. 

You knew exactly what he was doing. Yakashi was clearly cheating on you with another woman.

A little over six months ago, you had discovered that he had been unfaithful to you. You unfortunately had the experience of seeing some of the messages he had been sending back and forth with other women. Some of which were actually his coworkers that you knew of. The others were completely strangers to you. Finding out that information crushed you to your core. You had been with him for a whole year at that point. Three hundred sixty five days. It left you with so many questions, and it eventually led to an intense argument inside your apartment. Yakashi denied it all at first. He claimed that they were simply platonic relationships, but you backed yours with the fact that you would never send your male friend photos of your genitals and consistently flirt with them. After that, he finally released the truth and admitted that he was being dishonest with you. 

For a little while, you could hardly trust the man. Yakashi wanted to continue being in a relationship with you, and he promised many times that he would remain loyal to you. He also said that he loved you and if you ever wanted to search his phone you had every right to. It sounded reassuring to you, so you decided to give him another chance. You believed in second chances and you prayed to god that he would never do it again. 

Though, like every promise he made, it soon ended up becoming shattered. 

After about three months, Yakashi had cheated on you yet again. You had the urge to confront him once more, but unfortunately, you knew you would sound like a broken record. You also didn’t want to lose your relationship with the one man you found so much happiness in. A complete war had begun inside of yourself. You knew full well that it was wrong to stay with a man who was making a fool out of you every night, but what could you do? You lived in the same apartment with one another, and you knew if you ended the relationship that you would barely be able to make ends meet every week. As much as you tried to swallow down the reality, you always had hope that one day his behavior would change and he would be the same man you met almost a year prior. It seemed highly unlikely, but you always tried to look at the brighter side to things.

All of the signs were in your face. You never missed the aroma of sweet perfume wafting from his dress shirts, the random text messages he would receive in the middle of the night, maroon lipstick stains on his white collar, the out of the blue disappearances throughout the day. He had also become quite secretive of his whereabouts as well. He would often not reply to your messages until way later. It was so painfully obvious that he wasn’t telling you the truth. You honestly wished he would so you could just abandon the man entirely.

Despite all of that, you stayed. You would put on fake smiles and those stupid “I love you’s” that meant absolutely nothing at the end of the day. Being with him exhausted you. You knew a man like him would never ever change. Once a cheater, always a cheater. It was a very well known fact.

One day, you were informed by your boyfriend that you had to attend a dinner party for the company he worked for. It was very professional and Yakashi had drilled it into your mind that you must dress very nicely and be as polite as possible with his coworkers. Originally, you didn’t want to attend such an event. Yakashi would probably just toss you to the side and do whatever the fuck he wanted with whoever. It honestly didn’t seem like it would be of any positive benefit for you, so the idea of going with him seemed sour inside your mind. Why would you get all dolled up to be seen with a man who never knew your worth? His damn coworkers probably were aware of his actions too, so you would probably receive lots of side eyes and whispers. 

However, despite showing little interest in going, he somehow managed to get you to come. 

Your dress was gorgeous. It was black one that stopped around mid-thigh and you wore gold jewelry to match it. Your boyfriend didn’t show much interest in your outfit. He gave you that fake grin and whispered how great you looked, but you could tell by his dull eyes and forced tone that he was lying to you. You swallowed down that anger that bubbled inside you and put on a feigned expression. You just had to survive through the entire night and then you would be able to put the whole thing behind you.

Once you arrived at the banquet hall, you saw just how elegant it was. The inside was honestly like a mansion with how luxurious it presented itself to be. The floors were made of a rich marble that had specks of gold inside it, an impressively large chandelier hung above your head with a few tears of glass hanging from the sections. Overall, it was a beautiful sight. It just went to show how much your boyfriend’s job took these things seriously. Everyone around you was dressed from head to toe in expensive items. Some of the women wore red bottoms, while the men had Rolex watches wrapped around their wrists. It was no wonder these people seemed happy to stay at their jobs. 

A few of Yakashi’s coworkers had approached him when you both stepped into the ballroom. There was soft music being played from a piano that sat in the corner of the room. It was a very lively place. Though, your positive emotions were soon washed away by your boyfriend. 

“This is (Y/N), she’s my date for tonight.”

For tonight.

Those words pissed you off more than you realized. You would have thought that your own boyfriend would introduce you as his girlfriend or even his significant other, but no. You were just his “date” for the evening. That’s how you came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t ever return back to the person he used to be. He was practically concealing your relationship from the eyes of other people. It made you sick. Was he embarrassed to be seen with you? Was there something wrong with you? There were so many itching questions. One thing was for sure though, you felt insecure. You despised feeling such an emotion at your age, but the man you were with did absolutely nothing to tame those self destructive thoughts you had on a daily basis. He put you in such an uncomfortable position that night that you had thoughts of just leaving early.

You managed to maintain a composed expression and introduced yourself to the people he worked with. They asked about what your job was and how you knew Yakashi.

If only they knew.

After some mingling and conversation, you both ended up at a round table with chairs circling it. Your name was on a small place card, written in some of the most beautiful cursive you had ever laid your eyes upon. You had assumed that is where you would be sitting, so you plopped down on the chair beside Yakashi. Soon enough, other guests had arrived and joined you both at the table. All of them were familiar to your boyfriend. Once introductions were over, you had completely tuned out the entire conversation. He blabbed on about work and how he couldn’t wait to buy this new car he had been eyeing for a little while. All of it bored the hell out of you. He never once considered what you might be feeling, nor did he make any effort to include you in the conversation. It honestly felt like you were sitting at a table back in high school. 

It wasn’t until about ten minutes in that someone else had approached the table. Everyone sitting there had lightened up and began shaking hands with someone who was standing right beside the table. Yakashi sounded more thrilled than he was before, so you lifted your eyes away from the tablecloth to see who was there. Your eyes landed on a very fine man. He made your heart race with nervousness, and he was honestly just drop dead gorgeous.

He wore a navy blue suit that looked more expensive than the rent Yakashi paid. A tattoo had trailed down his hand and a nice gold watch was wrapped around his wrist. He had eyes the color of amethyst and his hair was styled in a mullet that paused at his shoulders. The color was a mix between black and lavender. Some of his bangs had covered his eyes, but it seemed just comfortable enough for him to see. You didn’t know who he was, but judging by everyone’s demeanor towards him, you came to the conclusion that he was of some importance to everyone there. Your boyfriend was speaking with him in such a way like he was trying to impress him. Everyone else was sort of doing the same thing, and they all seemed to be on eggshells around the mysterious man. His identity to you was unknown. You had never seen him prior to the dinner party, and your boyfriend never really mentioned anyone fitting his description. Not surprising.

Then, much to your shock, the man noticed your presence at the table. He sensed your awkwardness and sort of felt bad for you. He completely missed you at the table, and who was he to not be a proper host? 

“And who are you?”

Once you lifted your eyes, you saw him staring at you. Your mouth had gone completely dry and you had no idea what to say. All of the guests, including Yakashi, had their eyes on you. His voice was smooth and it slipped through your ears like honey. 

Yakashi seemed to notice you being unmoved by the question asked to you. 

“This is-“

“I didn’t ask you, I asked her.”

The atmosphere around your table fell still at the man’s response to your boyfriend. You had never seen someone speak to him in such a manner, and it even astounded some of the people sitting around you. Yakashi’s face had turned somewhat red from embarrassment. Who was this man? He easily had the respect of every individual in that room, but what was he to them? Was he a coworker who had no problem putting others in their place? Could he be higher up? Your mind buzzed with questions you had very little answers to. He was very bold, though. You would fully give him that credit. 

“I’m (Y/N).. Yakashi’s date.”

The man beside your boyfriend flickered his eyes from where you were sitting to Yakashi. It was almost like he was reading if you guys were some perfect match. There was this expression on his features that seemed almost.. shady. A look that screamed he knew something that he wasn’t supposed to. It made you wonder what that could be. This man clearly had some hold over your boyfriend that you had yet to know of.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Rindou Haitani. I’m Yakashi’s boss and owner of this business.” 

Your mouth almost fell open when he said that he was your boyfriend’s boss. It all added up now. Everyone had to respect the man who was the reason for their employment. It was no wonder Yakashi was trying to suck up to that man. Rindou had that high power over the rest of them. It honestly made you intrigued. He was quite the man. He then approached you in your seat, barely giving any mind to Yakashi who had become very quiet since Rindou had shut him down. He outstretched his hand, and you gladly reached over to shake it. He had a delicious cologne lingering from his suit. It smelled expensive. Better than anything Yakashi had ever owned. 

“I hope you enjoy yourself tonight.”

His voice sent shivers ghosting down your spine from how deep it had become. Once he released your hand, he walked away from your table and left you ultimately stunned. He went off to greet other guests and people who worked with him. All you could think was the same thing over and over the entire evening.

What a man.

Rindou was clearly no stranger to the business game. He had his shit together, and fuck, he was so handsome. You were wondering how a man like that didn’t have multiple women clinging onto his arm. He seemed to have no problem telling people the blunt truth, which was so attractive. A man who could make others cower in their knees was so hot to you. You knew having a wandering eye while being in a relationship was wrong, but your boyfriend was doing it twenty four seven. He was going behind your back all the time, so you reciprocating that energy only felt deserved if you were being honest. He didn’t have to know either. 

Afterwards, you had seemed to always somehow run into the man. 

There was an occasion where Yakashi needed you to come drop off his lunch. You were in the middle of dealing with something for work when the man had phoned you over the issue. As much as you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself and that he had a car too, you obliged and went back to your shared apartment to grab the small container that contained his lunch. You made the lengthy drive to the building he worked in which was downtown. Your boyfriend instructed you to leave it in the break room and he would grab it once he had a moment of free time. Once you reached the top floor, the receptionist had directed you down a lengthy corridor with many doors on each side. Some of them were shut with clients sitting in the chairs, while others were left wide open and empty. He worked at such a great place, yet he was a piece of shit. 

Eventually, you had gotten lost in the hallways of the building. Some of them led you absolutely nowhere or they went to doors that could only be gone through with a key card. You didn’t have one, so you honestly felt like you were an idiot for walking around so freely. Someone was bound to catch you at some point and question your reasoning for loitering in an empty hall with a container of food in your hand. You figured you would call Yakashi and ask him to pick it up somewhere else. 

“Lost?”

The container in your hand almost went slack when a voice spoke from behind you. For a moment, you believed that someone had found you lingering around and were suspicious of your presence. However, that soon changed when you realized it wasn’t a mere stranger concerned for your well being. It was Rindou Haitani. The same man who owned that building you were mindlessly walking around in. This had to be one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. The big boss caught you standing there, looking like an idiot. He probably would throw you out and scold your boyfriend for allowing you to enter. You couldn’t wait to feel that wrath once you went home.

“I was looking for Yakashi.. he told me to bring his lunch.”

Your eyes didn’t miss the way Rindou’s expression slightly shifted at the mention of Yakashi. He honestly looked like he had something he wanted to say, but he chose to keep his mouth shut. Instead, that odd expression averted to a smile. 

“Yakashi is busy, but I can take it to him for you. I can escort you to the exit as well, if you’d like.” 

Your eyes widened a little from his sudden proposal, but it was a lot better than wandering around without knowing a damn thing. Plus, who were you to deny an offer like that? You had only about fifteen minutes before you were supposed to head back to work, and you weren’t trying to piss off your boss by being late. You then walked over to the man, handing the container of food to him. Rindou was much more attractive up close. He seemed more professional and serious rather than his social demeanor he had at the dinner party. 

“Thank you, I appreciate it. I have to go back to work anyway.”

Rindou seemed satisfied with your response, so he motioned for you to follow him down the corridor. It was sort of a quiet walk. Neither of you spoke any words, but the silence between you both was comfortable like you two were good friends or something. You passed by a few people who said hello to him or asked him how his day was. All of them instantly shifted in their stances when he passed by. It was almost amazing to see how quick people change when someone in a higher position of power is in their presence. He could change the entire energy of a room with just a snap of his finger.

Eventually, you both made it to the end of the corridor and back where you began. You were relieved to have made it out without an issue from Rindou. He would probably gossip about that experience later on. This had to be the oddest experience you have ever had, and you hoped to drown it out later on by going back to work. 

“Have a good one, (Y/N). I hope to see you again soon.”

You wished that was the last time, but it wasn’t.

You had faced Rindou multiple times after that. Whether it was dropping off some food for Yakashi, or seeing him at one of those dinner events. He was always somehow around the corner, and each time he was always conversing with you in a polite manner. There were things that Rindou did that no other man, not even Yakashi, would ever do. He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair one time, and he had even complimented your diamond earrings that you had received as a gift from your mother. He was a sweet man. He could almost give you cavities from it all. There was a feeling inside your chest that was warm whenever Rindou was around you. It was wrong, so wrong. You still had a boyfriend and that was his boss. Seeing it as something more than just professional would be inappropriate, and you knew that.

Things had really come to a head when you had gone to another dinner event with Yakashi. He had wandered off somewhere inside the banquet and left you by yourself at the table. He was probably in some bathroom with his tongue buried down some girl’s throat, but at that point, you could care less. She could have whatever shitty man your boyfriend was. 

You sat there, bored. Not much was really happening except for the many conversations you could hear around you. People were discussing business deals and flexing whatever amount of money they received on their check. All of it was foreign to you and just really boring. You honestly just considered ordering an Uber and going home by yourself. You could care less if Yakashi would complain the next morning. It’s not your fault that your shitty excuse of a boyfriend decided to leave you there unattended. 

You reached for your purse which was hanging on the wooden chair you were sitting on. You pulled the buttons holding it together apart and reached inside of it to fish for your cell phone. As you were digging around, you paused when you felt something foreign inside of your bag. There was a small piece of paper folded neatly. Your eyebrows furrowed the moment your eyes settled on the object. You had no recollection of placing the paper inside your bag before you left, so you grew curious as to what was inside of it. You pulled it out and opened the top flap, reading the contents written on it. 

“You seem lonely, call me sometime- Rin.”

Warmth spread across your cheeks when you noticed his phone number was written just underneath the text. There was no way he actually made such a bold move. It felt unbelievable to you. A man like him doing such a thing had completely thrown you off. It could have very easily been a test. He could have just done that to see if you would possibly send him a message, but it didn’t seem like Rindou had anything against your boyfriend. 

You decided to conceal the secret and hide the phone number in your purse. Yakashi would never search through your things unless he was looking for his cell phone, but he hardly ever gave you the chance to even hold it. He was always so secretive. He had even gone to the lengths of removing you as his lock screen. You knew exactly why he did such a thing, so that’s why you never asked him about it. He would make up some stupid excuse and expect you to believe it. That’s what happened when you questioned him the first time. He practically tugged at certain strings to make his stories believable, but you weren’t an idiot anymore. You knew full well what the hell he was doing behind your back, so you could care less if he found the phone number in your purse. He probably was just waiting to catch you doing something so he could seem like the good guy in whatever foolish story he’d tell his buddies or his next girlfriend.

You never texted Rindou. To be honest, you were afraid to. He was quite an intimidating guy and you weren’t sure what he would say, so you pretty much left it be. You only saw him twice after he dropped his phone number in your purse, and all of them were very friendly encounters. Though, you didn’t miss the way he placed his hands around your waist to “scooch” past you in the crowded room. Those touches sparked on your skin and made you melt like putty, but you remained firm and tried to stay calm.

That was until tonight hit. You were fully expecting those text messages from Yakashi. He claimed that he would be staying late after work to deal with some extra paperwork left behind, and you just shrugged when he told you. You honestly found peace in his absence in your bedroom. You didn’t have to deal with those fake words he’d say to you whenever he lied down in your bed. It also meant that you got to do whatever you wanted. 

It was already five past midnight. You just reacted to the text messages and exited the text app. You already know what the hell he was up to right now. He was probably dragging some girl to a hotel room and having sex with her. It almost felt unfair to you. He was here having the time of his life without a care in the world, while you were at your apartment in an empty bed with no one beside you. It was lonely. You never considered cheating on Yakashi before. Some people say it’s unclassy to do the same thing to someone else, but that never made sense to you. If anything, it made a lot of sense to do it right back to the person who destroyed your trust in the first place. Although, sometimes it backfired, and the guy or girl wins in the end because they cover their ass so hard that you’re made into the villain. Some people just loved living in denial. Even your own friends told you to do the same thing to him, but with who? You had guy friends but none of them would ever sleep with you while you were with Yakashi.

An idea crossed into your mind when browsing your brain for a man you could possibly sleep with, and it was a bad one.

You don’t know why you thought of Rindou as the first candidate. It must have been his polite demeanor towards you. For once, a man made you feel like you mattered. He made you feel beautiful and his presence was almost comforting to you in a way. You sort of blamed it on the fact that he was the first person showing you attention in almost six months, but there was just something about that man that was completely alluring to you. He did things that Yakashi never could do. 

You scrolled through your contacts to find Rindou’s. It had remained untouched since you added it into your phone secretly. You weren’t sure if the man wasn’t even awake at this hour. He could very much be asleep in his own bed, and it honestly seemed a little embarrassing to wake up to see a missed text from you. You chewed on your bottom lip, heart pounding furiously against your chest as you typed and deleted a message on your keyboard. Was this even a good idea? He could very easily tell Yakashi or even somebody else, but Rindou didn’t even know you two were in a serious relationship. He claimed you were his “date” so maybe Rindou had assumed you were single, but truth is, you weren’t. The last thing you would want is this circling back to Yakashi and ending up in deep shit. He had a big mouth on him. 

Though, the pure thought that your own boyfriend was out there with some other woman angered you. He had gotten away with it so many times that you pretty much didn’t give a fuck if he found out. Yakashi wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, and that needed to come to a close. 

Fuck it.

You sat up in your bed and began thinking of a text. You wanted something simple and casual. He was in fact a businessman and typing like you were a damn teenager in heat would rub this man the wrong way. You wanted to play it cool and safe. Moving too quickly might cause a rift between you both.

You: hi rindou, it’s (y/n)

Once you sent the message, you clicked your phone off and waited. Your heart was slamming against your rib cage and your mouth had gone completely dry. You sort of prayed that he was asleep so you could deal with such a matter tomorrow morning. Honestly, you just hoped you didn’t look like an idiot messaging him in the middle of the night. He could very easily be busy too and not paying attention to his cell phone.

You were about to give up about five minutes in, but the vibration of your phone made you fumble for your device. 

Rindou replied.

Rindou: took you a while 

Rindou: but it’s a little late princess.. what’s got you messaging me?

The pet name made your cheeks burn. You didn’t know why, but the thrill of this conversation was making you excited. It was almost like doing such a thing was good for you. After all, it was Rindou Haitani that you were messaging with. He seemed like the kind of man that could get anything he wanted without having to apply force to get it. 

You: i’m just bored and can’t sleep

You: do you want to come over?

Asking that question took a lot of confidence for you to do. You had no idea what he might be thinking right now. He could easily laugh and just block your number right then and there if he wanted to. He made you nervous. The good and bad kind. You hoped that he had something good to say, and you would respect any decision that he came forth with. If that wasn’t his cup of tea, then that was completely okay with you. 

Rindou: mhm sure

Rindou: send me your address i’ll swing by 

Your eyes widened and shock was written all over your features. He actually said yes to you. You couldn’t believe what the hell you were reading at that moment. A huge wave of relief had crashed over you at his reply. You feared that he might make fun of you or joke about it, but he didn’t. This probably was something he was used to very often. He seemed like a ladies man if you were being honest. He probably had tons of women in his bed before.

You wasted no time and sent your address to the man. Little did you know that the text you sent would be the reason that Rindou, not even thirty minutes later, had his cock stuffing inside your tight little hole. 

Your legs had been spread apart and your clothes were all discarded onto the floor near your bed. Rindou was big. He was splitting your pussy apart with his thrusts that you could hardly take him. He was so handsome up above you. His lilac hair clung to his forehead from the beads of sweat that had formed on his skin, and there was a slight dust of pink that swept across his cheeks. He was fucking you so good. It was like scratching an itch inside of your brain. He was so much better than anyone else you had ever been in bed with. God, where the hell had he been your entire life? He was right under your nose the whole time. 

Your hands held onto his broad shoulders, eyes trailing down the tattoo that covered the right side of his body. He was gorgeous to look at. He had such a divine physique underneath his clothes that it turned you on even more seeing him naked. “Ah! Rindou.. fuck.. so good!” your voice was whiny and almost breathless as you spoke. Hearing that tone made Rindou all the more needy to fuck your brains out.

He smirked at the noises you were making. He knew you were probably a goddess in bed, but he never imagined that you would be this beautiful underneath him. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. There was just so much to look at. Your gorgeous face, those pretty tits that were bouncing with every thrust of his hips, the way your cunt sucked in his cock. He couldn’t believe a woman like you was being fucked by him right now. “Yeah.. keep callin’ for me, angel! Say my name..” his fingers curled around the sheets that were beside your bed. They turned painfully white from how hard his grip was on the fabric. 

Neither of you had expected this moment to ever become a reality. It honestly started out casual. Rindou had arrived within about fifteen minutes. It was much quicker than you had expected, but you gladly opened the door and allowed him inside. He was not in his usual suit and tie that he prodded around in at work. Instead, he wore sweatpants the color of charcoal and a loose white t-shirt. He was a lot more friendly and sort of dropped that professional tone he had whenever he saw you. It was kind of like whiplash seeing him cracking jokes and swearing like a damn sailor inside your room, but that nature made the atmosphere less tense. You felt like you could actually speak with him without walking on eggshells. 

Eventually, the funny and light conversations turned much darker and more somber. You sort of cracked. You hesitated so many times, but all of the emotions inside of you had flowed out about Yakashi. Rindou listened intently as you spoke about the many affairs he had behind your back. You ranted and spoke about how he was still doing it now, and how his treatment towards you has only made you angrier with the man. It was surprising to Rindou that you were aware of such a thing, because he ultimately revealed to you that he knew something was up. He knew you weren’t just Yakashi’s date that night, because he had seen a framed photo of you both in his office a while back. It wasn’t until he noticed that photograph disappear and women appearing randomly in his office that he placed the pieces together and realized he was either cheating or single. That first one seemed likely when he saw you walk in with him at the dinner party. 

Rindou felt bad for you. He truly did. You had stayed in a relationship that completely drained you and you feared becoming homeless because of him. He understood that internal fight with wanting to stay, but also knowing that it isn’t right to. You deserved so much better than that. 

He knew it was wrong, but he kissed you. 

For a minute, you were frozen, but you then kissed back when you felt how warm his lips were against your own. Rindou asked if that was something you wanted to do with him, and you hastily said yes to him. You didn’t give a shit about Yakashi anymore and you had honestly moved on a while ago. You knew he did too, so none of it mattered to you anymore. All you desired was Rindou, and that energy was gladly reciprocated. He wanted you just as much as you wanted him. 

Rindou took genuine care of you. He thought of you as fine china that could be broken at any moment. You were delicate and beautiful. You didn’t deserve to be tampered with by some lame excuse of a man who didn’t deserve you. Rindou was going to show you how much he valued you as a person. Cheating on someone was pussy shit. He knew better than to ever do that to someone else. Yakashi could go fuck himself if he believed that he was some great guy. Rindou was about to fuck the shit out of his girl and not think twice about it. 

You were in complete and utter bliss. Rindou had complete control over your body, and he was doing everything to make you wrap around his finger. You stared at him with hazy eyes and just let the pleasure take over you. You completely submitted to him. “Rindou! Rindou! S-Shit..” you arched your back upwards to feel more of his fat cock. He was irresistible right now. In all honesty, you wished you had made a move much sooner if you knew he would be fucking you this great on your shared bed. “So good.. mmph! Need you..” 

Rindou’s hand went to trail up your body. Your skin formed goosebumps at his gentle touch against your skin. His mouth watered at the sight of your hardened nipples. You were such a fucking beauty. He would treat you so much better than that stupid asshole. He didn’t give a shit. He would probably fire Yakashi once the weekend was over. “Fuck.. yeah? You need me, princess?” his hand went to wrap around your throat, squeezing hard enough to restrict air from flowing into your lungs. “Tell me how bad you need me, baby. Need me more than him? More than that lousy dick he was giving you? Fucckkk, baby, I’ll give you it all. Won’t need that fucking asshole after I’m done..” 

You could hardly speak from his hold on your neck. His possessive side turned you on so much. Rindou could feel your walls fluttering around him, and it made him all the more excited. You liked hearing him say such things to you. He would for sure take a note of that. “Rin..dou! Y-Yes!” you managed to gasp through his firm grip. Your eyes showed how desperate you were for the man. 

Rindou’s pace had suddenly picked up. Your pussy was dripping wet. It was making a mess on the blankets that you were lying on. Neither of you paid much mind to that. All you wanted was each other, and you were for sure going to have one another no matter what. Your eyes practically rolled back at the tip of his dick kissing at your g-spot. White stars filled your vision every time he reached that delicious spot. He was finding all the areas that made you dizzy, and all you could do was take it. He was truly good at what he did. He was so much better than Yakashi. He didn’t make you feel that burning desire in your gut that Rindou was creating for you. 

He thought you were one of the most beautiful women he ever laid his eyes upon. When he saw you that night at the dinner party, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. Meanwhile, your shit boyfriend was sitting there beside you not saying a damn word. If it wasn’t so professional, Rindou would have escorted you elsewhere for a drink or even a private walk around the banquet. Your dress was gorgeous and the fact that Yakashi paid zero attention to you made him appalled. You were perfect in every aspect. Someone had to inform you of that, and it was going to be him. 

Rindou abandoned his hold on your throat, allowing oxygen to fill into your lungs and for proper blood flow to return to your brain. Your lips fell slack and those pretty moans of yours echoed off the walls of your bedroom. Hearing his name only encouraged him to go faster and to place you on cloud nine. He took your thighs and put them around his waist, earning a much deeper angle. Rindou already knew he found that nice button inside of you already. Your whines would grow sharper the more he hit it. “So perfect, baby! Love this fuckin’ pussy.. he didn’t know what the hell to do with all of this, yeah?” he then leaned towards the shell of your ear, his breath tickling your skin. “Well I do.. and I’ll never that – fuck! – asshole touch you again!”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him towards you for a sloppy wet kiss. He swallowed every noise that escaped your throat with such ease. Your nails dug into the flesh of his shoulder blade. He was winding you up so perfectly that all you could even think of was Rindou. It was almost too much to handle. “R-Rindou..!” you broke the kiss, feeling almost too tired to be able to kiss back. “Close.. I’m close..!”

He grinned devilishly at those words. He knew that moment would arrive soon, considering your pussy was closing in around his shaft. Rindou wanted to make you cum so hard that you would only think about him. You needed someone to fuck? You better come and call him up, because he was the only one who could make you feel that way. Your cunt was calling for him the second he took your panties off earlier. “Yeah? Close, princess? Shit, I can feel ya clenchin’ real tight for me..” he smirked. “Gonna make you all mine, no one else’s. Especially not that asshole..” 

The thought of belonging to Rindou turned you on so much. You didn’t oppose the idea whatsoever because you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. He could give you the things you had been lacking for the past few months, and that only made you need him more than ever. “Yes! God, yes! ‘M yours, Rindou!” you cried, looking at him with that fucked out expression he loved so much. 

Rindou placed one of his hands on your hip, holding it quite firmly. He started fucking you at such a relentless pace it almost knocked all of the wind out of your lungs. He hit your g-spot so many times that your vision had become blurry from the repetitive thrusts against it. The knot inside your belly tightened, only drawing you closer to that climax you wanted more than anything. “C’mon, angel, be a good girl and cum around my cock..” he encouraged you. “You got a real man fuckin’ you, baby. Fuck! Would never cheat on you.. I’d give you the – shit – the fuckin’ world, princess.”

Your orgasm then rippled through your body. A loud whine filled the room and your body shook from the intensity of it. You hadn’t cum that hard in a very long time. Rindou smirked when he felt your pussy clamp around his cock. Your walls spasmed and twitched, creating a white ring around his dick from your cum. You were such a good girl. 

Rindou was close to his own high. His cock was twitching inside of your cunt, and there was a pit forming in his belly. You could also tell from the way he grunted that he was almost there. Your mind was foggy, but the desire to have him filling you up was there. You wanted him to claim you as his, and that was the most perfect way to do it. “C-Cum inside me, Rindou..!” your voice was somewhat shaky from the high of your orgasm, but he understood you loud and clear.

You were so fucking nasty, but he loved it. Seeing you begging for his cum to be inside of you only made him more excited to let go. “Want me to cum inside you..? Oh, baby, I’ll do just that..” he groaned, feeling his balls twitch. “Gonna make sure you’re nice and filled.. yeah. He won’t break that pretty little heart of yours anymore. You’re my girl now, baby! ‘M gonna spoil you rotten.. give you more than he ever did..”

A moan slipped from his lips when he finally reached his high. Rindou held your hip with such a tight grip it would probably leave a bruise. His thick cum seeped into your cunt, covering your velvet walls with white. The warmth spread across your belly, earning several shivers from you. He then leaned down, pressing his lips against yours. This kiss wasn’t aggressive or rough, but instead, it was sweet and quite gentle. It made you melt. There was this swell inside your chest when you both made contact with one another. He was the one person you had been searching for. You spent all these months wallowing in your pain and anger, and having this moment made those negative thoughts disappear within an instant. Rindou was truly the person you needed. 

He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against your own. Both of you were quite exhausted and your bodies were at their limits. Rindou thought you looked so pretty. Your messy hair, glossy but also swollen lips, clouded hues. There was so much to like about you. How the hell did you end up with an asshole like Yakashi? He never deserved any ounce of your time or energy. That needed to change, and Rindou would happily be the person to shift that.

“You’re so beautiful.. I-“

“What the fuck?!”

You and Rindou both turned your heads to look at your bedroom door, which was now wide open. Shock wrote itself on both of your features. You weren’t expecting Yakashi to be standing there. You thought the man would return sometime tomorrow morning like he promised. You would have enough time by then to cover your tracks, but his sudden arrival completely threw you and Rindou off. Neither of you knew what to do or say, so it was somewhat awkward. 

However, Rindou cleared his throat. Yakashi was standing there stunned at what he was seeing. His own boss was lying in bed with you. Rindou glanced towards your boyfriend with a serious expression. “Yakashi..” he shifted around on the bed, allowing you to cover yourself. 

“Rindou..” your boyfriend replied, watching with intense eyes as he stood up.

“You’re fired, I want your shit gone by Monday.”

#summer speaks #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x you #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers fanfiction #rindou haitani #rindou haitani x you #rindou haitani x reader #rindou #rindou smut #rindou x reader #rindou x y/n #rindou x you #anime fanfiction #anime fanfic

[makelemonade]

The Tsaritsa is the archon of love, so when she notices and feels that the love lives of her Harbingers aren’t going too well, she has to interfere.

female reader, hurt/comfort, the harbingers are all friends; Pierro and Capitano. - pt2

Pierro

Being the Tsaritsa’s righthand and her first Harbinger was a stressful job. He was hardly at her side despite being her righthand but the moment she needed something done, the first person she’ll go to is him.

The Tsaritsa also hardly shows her face in public, so if there is any event she ever plans for the Fatui, whether it be a gala, ball or anything- she’ll make Pierro go to talk, even though SHE’S the one who hosted it.

Well, sometimes she’s there, lurking. No one actually knows it’s her since she chooses to stay hidden.

She decides to hold an eventful masquerade ball one night to celebrate the success of her Harbinhers. It’s one that she of course probably won’t even be going to and Pierro must go on her behalf.

Despite being his lover of many years, aka HIS WIFE, he has never once let you come to one of these and just says you’ll be bored out of your mind.

But a MASQUERADE BALL?! HELD BY THE QUEEN?! You had to go. This was your dream.

You begged for DAYS and he was so sick of it that he was forced to say yes.

Only for him to completely leave your side the moment you get there. At first, you thought that maybe it was just because he had a job to do, but throughout the night, he did not even spare you one glance.

You were standing off to the side, downing your 5th glass of champagne you’ve been stealing from the trays.

You felt upset, honestly. This was your first ever ball with him, one that you prepared for in terms of elegance and manners. You even made your own dress! It was ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS and it matched your mask and yet he didn’t even say anything.

You watched as he spoke to the Harbingers and important figures in Snezhnaya; they all laughed, smiled and showed off their guests, lovers or whoever they brought and you were practically discarded.

He acted like he had no lover tonight, and It made you wonder if his coworkers even knew he had a wife. Did he ever talk about you? Do they ever wonder why you’re never at the events? Do they even know your name?!

You struggled to listen in to their conversation, only being able to hear if one of them spoke loudly or the room went somewhat quieter.

You heard one speak a bit loud; the mayor of Snezhnaya.

“My Jester, I’ve never once seen you attend these with a guest. Why is that?”

The next voice was quiet, but you knew your husbands voice.

“I simply don’t have anyone to bring.”

You almost dropped your 6th glass of champagne, and if you did drop it, it would’ve broken just like your heart just did.

Married for YEARS yet they don’t even know who you are.

You waited for another waiter to walk by and slammed your glass down onto the tray, deciding you couldn’t stay in this ballroom anymore.

Walking around, you found doors that led out to a balcony and was thankful there was no one on it as you rushed to it.

The doors weren’t open wide so no one would see you out on there, thankfully. You took off your mask, letting your tears flow as you quietly sobbed, ignoring the cold hitting any bare skin.

On these nights, the Tsaritsa always seemed to calm down the weather. There was no harsh snow or rain, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still cold- if anything, this was almost warm.

You leaned against the railing, your hot tears melting through any remaining snow left on it.

Shivering, you couldn’t go back inside- your mascara was probably smudged by now and you didn’t want to look at your husband.

You were thinking of ways to try to leave the ball without your husband noticing but in full honesty, he probably didn’t even notice you were gone right now.

You didn’t even hear the clacks of high heels until you felt something drape over your shoulders and you almost yelped out of surprise.

It was a coat; a long, fluffy one at that. You looked to your side to see you’d been joined by another woman.

Her skin was as pale as the snow, her hair long, flowy and honestly you could’ve sworn it was glowing. Her eyes were as sharp as ice yet as soft as snow.

Her dress was white, with laces of icy blue and sapphires adorned; the same with her mask.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone hide out on a balcony during any of these.” She almost laughed, “Too cold.”

You wondered how she wasn’t cold; she’d given you her jacket, and her arms were bare yet she seemed perfectly fine as she leaned across the railing.

She even dared to jump up on it, sitting down as if there wasn’t a huge risk she could fall off with one gust of strong wind.

That made you noticed there were no harsh winds tonight.

“What’s wrong, dear?” She asked, ever so softly as she took in the sight of your tears.

“Just my husband,” you scoffed, moving a hand up to wipe them. You didn’t know why you were exposing this to a complete stranger yet there was just something about her that seemed like it was right to do so.

She hummed, then chuckled. “Love; such a beautiful yet painful feeling. Glad I’ve had my fair share with it.”

“You’ve been in love before?” You asked, genuinely interested in this random woman’s life.

“Many, many times.” She leaned back a bit, holding onto the railing as she looked up to the sky with a sad smile, watching the northern lights dance.

“Which makes it necessary that I must help people in love.” She looked back down to you, “if you so wish to speak.”

You sighed, wrapping the coat around you closer as you shivered. “I’ve been married to my husband for years, yet it feels like nothing. He has a stressful job- he works for her majesty, so I never ever complain about his absence. Yet tonight, he completely disregarded the fact of my existence and, even his own coworkers don’t know I exist! He won’t introduce me! Am I truly his wife if he can’t even act as my husband?!” You just groaned, looking up at the lights just as she did before.

She took in your words, nodding at every angry or frustrated rant within. After a minute, she spoke.

“Have you ever thought he doesn’t introduce you because of his coworkers?”

You looked down, turning to her confused yet encouraging her to continue, intruiged.

“The Harbingers…as loyal as they may be, some are rather dangerous, reckless and if I dare say myself, absolutely weird.”

You cackled. There was no way this random lady was dissing THE TSARITSA’S HARINGERS. “Do you truly have no fear?!”

She just laughed as well, hopping off the railing to now stand beside you. “I speak the truth. Maybe take that into consideration; perhaps, even though he is the first harbinger and can definitely take on all of them if any dared to touch you-“

You broke out into laughter again.

“-maybe think it’s to protect you from them. His actions tonight are not to be forgotten, and I assure you that soon he will realize his wrong and all will be will.”

You took in her words, looking back up to the sky. Well, she wasn’t wrong; he was the first harbinger, and even though he is insanely powerful, that didn’t mean the others weren’t.

Maybe he was trying to protect you, but that didn’t defend his actions.

You turned to thank the woman, but was met with nothing. She was gone- you didn’t even hear her leave!

Then that reminded you- how the hell did she know he was the first harbinger?! You only mentioned she worked for him.

You still had her coat and you walked towards the doors to head back inside, hoping to find her but she was nowhere near.

You just sighed, choosing to sit on the bench at the side of the balcony. Wrapping the coat around you.

It was large, insanely large- the type of coat that would honestly fit the size of your husband….

You took a closer look at the coat, only to notice the Fatui emblem.

Who the hell was this woman?!

~~

“And then I told that stupid fennec green-haired bastard- OH MY ARCHONS!” Dottore stopped his story when he noticed the sudden presence of his archon and every other harbinger within the circle yelped.

“This is a first.” Capitano muttered, no one knowing if he was surprised or not under that mask.

They all tried to bow but she out her hands out. “Nono! No one knows I’m here other than you all so do not make a scene!” She whisper-yelled and they all immediately straightened themselves.

“Pierro,” She turned to him,

“Yes, your majesty?” He bowed his head,

“May we take a walk?” She asked, putting her arm out.

He nodded, wrapping his arm around hers. “Continue your story, dottore.” She called before she and the first harbinger walked around the ballroom.

“Your wife looks gorgeous tonight.” She said once they were out of earshot.

He looked at her with shock. “How did you-?”

“Pierro,” she sighed, coming to a halt. “You have been at my side for 500 years. You are my best friend but I am also your Archon; nothing gets past me, and as the God of Love it is my duty to tell you that your wife is heartbroken at your actions tonight and i’d advise for you to speak to her!”

During this; she somehow pushed him all the way to the doors and at her final words, she pushed him out onto the balcony, the warmth of the ballroom now gone.

He looked around and found your tear-stained face on the bench and he sighed, sitting beside you.

“You look adorable in that,” He laughed at HIS coat on you.

“Would you like to meet my coworkers, darling? I don’t want you to put this gorgeous dress to waste.”

Capitano

The fourth harbinger hardly ever talks. At meetings, he speaks a total of four words. There are very few Harbingers he will speak too and the only ones he actually talks to more than anyone else is Pierro, Dottore and Signora.

Just because you are his wife does not mean this excludes you.

The Tsaritsa had put both you and him down for an arranged marriage just a few months ago. Her reasoning- told through Pierro- being that Capitano seriously needs someone in his life and she’d rather it be someone who talks a lot- aka you.

You never met the Tsaritsa, but you worked for the Harbingers as a secretary so even before your arranged marriage you’ve had your fair share with all of them.

The Tsaritsa HOPED that maybe at meetings and gatherings capitano would finally talk more after marrying you and yet he remained as quiet as usual according to Pierro and she was gonna lose her shit.

Now, in the privacy of your home with him, he is more comfortable with you than the others. He’s shown you his face, but in truth the only reason being because he doesn’t want to sleep with it on and you literally sleep with him so…

He talks a bit more; he says good morning, good afternoon, good night..

Yeah…

At first you were fine with it; it was better than when you were just his secretary and he’d leave work on your desk with a note saying “have done by today. thanks :)”

It was cute you wouldn’t lie. you just wished he showed that little emotion on the note in real life.

It was nice having someone to constantly talk to and yap to; he always listened in with such focus, and would nod to show he was listening and interested.

But after doing that for months it just gets so tiring to the point it’s just depressing.

You may be married to him now but that didn’t mean your job was gone, so you were still at work with him. Sometimes it would be in his office or in someone else’s if they need help.

One day, at work on your break, you found all the Harbingers into the lounge.

“Y/N!” Childe laughed. “Our favourite- come sit with us!”

You shook your head. “I couldn’t impose, my lord. I was just taking my break.”

“Nonsense,” Signora waved her hand, shaking her head. “Take your break with us.”

Choosing to sit with all of them, you noticed Capitano wasn’t there- as per usual.

As you sat with them and they talked about their lives and missions, they’d ask you a few questions about Capitano. At first, it was simple questions about your marriage thay were deemed common sense which you’d answer yes to, but then it went into questions about him, which is when it got humiliating.

They’d ask about where he was from, what did he like to do in his pastime, why does he hardly talk, what’s his favourite food, drink, how does he like his tea, what are his next missions-

All you could not answer, and instead of you, his own wife answering, Pierro did.

You excused yourself when you realized that was absolutely humiliating. How could you, his wife of several months- close to a year now!- not know anything about him yet his BOSS, knew everything?!

When you left, Pierro noticed everything at that moment, and decided he NEEDED to bring this up with the Archon of Love, but let’s be real.

She already knew, and was trying to figure out ways to fix this; “We need Pantalone and Childe for this. They’re handsome, touchy, flirty and perfect.”

The next day, you’re confused when Pantalone and Childe are suddenly bothering you with everything; Yes, usually they’re asking you to help with paperwork but today was different…

It started in the morning when Childe came up to you asking you to spar with him. He’s only ever asked once, and he literally almost killed you that time. You were strong, but you had no vision and he was a literal harbinger.

He promised he’d go easy, and the sparring session lasted for about 30 minutes. By the end of it, you were completely sweaty and your hair was a mess- he apologized and offered to take you out for lunch

You accepted but decided to at least go put your stuff in your husbands office before you left.

Capitano is a little confused when you walk in absolutely drenched of sweat but just decides you’ll probably talk about it tonight when you’re both laying in bed and continues to work on a few papers.

“Apologies,” You let out a breathy laugh, putting down any bags you brought to work that morning. “I just finished sparring with Childe, and he’s taking me out for lunch. I’ll be back later.”

He doesn’t say anything and you just sigh, already knowing not to expect anything.

From the top of the castle, Pierro and The Tsaritsa watch as you and Childe run away from the castle, clutching onto your coats for dear life from the harsh, cold wind.

“So, what’s the plan here?” He asked, “Pardon my forwardness but I truly am confused.”

She just grinned. “Well, first I asked that Childe were to spar with her and take her out to lunch, which I truly hope makes Capitano the slightest bit jealous. Then upon her return, Pantalone will magically return from the gardens with a rose and give it to her and she’ll go back to her office and tell Capitano about her day and he’ll realize and get jealous and fuck her.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I did not need to know that last part. And if that doesn’t work?”

“A god always has another plan.”

You and Childe are at lunch for about 2 hours; really it would’ve been shorter but you and Childe were BOTH insane talkers so naturally you were there for a long time.

Returning to the castle, Pantalone was seen emerging from the gardens holding a few roses and Childe, for some reason, took that as his queue to wish you his goodbyes and hurry away.

“Good afternoon, Lord Pantalone.” You bowed and he just chuckled.

“No need for pleasantries, Y/N. Here,” He handed you a rose and your eyes were full of surprise as you took it.

You became rather flustered, beginning to stutter. “O-oh, thank you! It’s beautiful.”

“Just for a beautiful girl like you.” He winked and you giggled.

“I’ll be off to give these to Signora. Have a lovely day, Y/N.” He smiled before making his way down the hall, and in seconds he was gone.

You stared down at the rose, feeling giddy. You’d never even received flowers- not even when you got married! Your wedding day wasn’t really even a wedding, instead Pierro officially declaring for you two to be wed and well, that was it.

You practically skipped back to your office, ready to tell your husband all about your day.

~~

“So this morning I got here and the MOMENT I did Childe magically found me and asked me if I wanted to spar! and I was like hesitant because the last time we sparred he like literally almost killed me but he promised he’d go easy on me and he sortaaaa didn’t so he decided he’d take me out to lunch and we were there for like 2 hours just talking and he was so king enough to pay for both! then we got back and Pantalone gave me a rose and he did so with such a sweet compliment! Isn’t that sweet?”

Your husband was not phased by your sudden burst and continued to work, just nodding at everything every few seconds.

“That’s nice.” He murmured, continuing to work- seriously what the hell was he working on for so long?!

You frowned, expecting a little bit more, but at this point it was stupid to expect something from him that now you were a little angry but mostly sad.

You glanced at the rose you had put down in a vase within the room and sighed. “Do you really not care? Are you seriously not jealous?”

His movements paused.

“Like, a man literally just took me out to lunch for 2 hours and practically spent the first half of the day with me, and then another man gives me a rose and tells me I’m as beautiful as it is and you don’t say anything?! I know this is just an arranged marriage but- but I would’ve thought that…maybe you loved me as much as I love you.”

You waited for him to say something, expecting just anything, but that’s the thing with expecting-

You’re met with nothing.

Sighing, you bowed down to him. “My…apologies for overlooking this marriage…my lord. I’ll return to work.” You grimaced acknowledging him so formally, but maybe that was for the best.

You turned around, rushing out of the room before he could say anything, but mostly so he wouldn’t see your tears threatening to pour out.

When the door closed behind you, you let the tears fall as you ran through the dark halls of the castle, trying to find anywhere to hide in.

You made your way to the lounge, happy it was empty as you took a seat on the comfy couch, dragging a hand down your face while also wiping your tears.

Archons, how would you even return home to him tonight? It would be absolutely awkward to have to lay in bed beside him after that outburst.

For the first time, you dreaded having to return home. You loved the warmth he brought whenever you two lay beside each other, and it was even better when he held you.

That made you cry more- how could someone as distant as him, be so soft towards you and hold you when he doesn’t even love you?!

“You know when I heard you and Capitano were getting married I was like- no way.”

You jumped at the sudden voice and somehow, you hadn’t even noticed Signora was sitting beside you and you yelped as you quickly stood up, bowing down.

“M-my lady! I’m so sorry I was just lea-“

“You’re not going anywhere.” She shook her head, patting her hand down on the seat you were just on.

You sighed, realizing you genuinely couldn’t disobey her and sat beside her. You took in her words, “you weren’t the only one; everyone else was shocked.”

“Do you ever think the Tsaritsa was wrong in her choice?” she asked.

You frowned. “In full honesty, I trust her majesty, but maybe this was something she didn’t look into with all her might. It just…doesn’t seem to be working out.”

Signora leaned back into the couch, deciding to get comfy and you took that as a sign to do the same. “Have I ever told you about my lover?”

You shook your head.

“God, 500 years ago. A bit more, actually. He was handsome, amazing, annoying- he honestly reminded me a bit of Capitano. Sure he talked a bit more but I was the talker in our relationship. However, then the cataclysm happened and…look at me now.”

You frowned, looking at her sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She smiled sadly, “No matter how much they don’t talk or how much they don’t seem to focus on you or anything, take into consideration that they’re willing to be there. It’s difficult, to find love especially in so many circumstances, but love is everywhere. I see it with you two, and I know. I know you two can make it.”

You glanced down at her lap to find a rose.

You looked back up at her. “What should I do?”

“Force him to talk.” She laughed. “A man as big as him also has a big heart. Seriously, cry In front of him and he’ll become puddy and do everything for you. He made a child cry once and he almost cried.”

You both broke out into fits of giggles, you trying to imagine that and her remembering it.

“Thank you.” You smiled at her, “Permission to-“

“Just go,” She waved her hand, rolling her eyes. “You don’t need my permission.”

With one final smile, you quickly got up, rushing to make your way back to his office and force him to talk.

Emerging from behind a wall was the Tsaritsa, who stood behind her friend. “How was it?”

“They’re so fucking.” Signora grinned.

~~

You opened the door to his office, but was met with him standing right in front of it, hand hovering in the air.

You practiced what you were going to say to him, but now having him standing right in front of you- literally towering over you- you had no idea what to say.

However, he out his hands up to his helmet, forcing it off and just throwing it to the side and you were met with his glossy eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He sniffed, moving his fingers up to rub at his eyes. “I love your rambles- archons I live for them. Every morning when I wake up, I can’t wait to to hear you talk about what your so excited for throughout the day and at night, I can’t wait to hear how your day was. I love you, my dear. I know I don’t…express it much, but I do. So much.”

Tears started to well up in your eyes once again. “Cap…”

“I’ll prove it to you.” He breathed out, a hand making its way to cup your cheek to wipe away a falling rear before he leaned down, connecting his lips with yours so passionately, but most importantly, it was full of love.

He deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue in and you let out a whimper as your knees buckled, and he was quick to wrap an arm around your waist, holding you up right before he decided to just pick you up and you yelped, breaking the kiss as he carried you over to his desk, pushing everything off and ignoring the sound of the vase with the rose breaking- instead he smiled at it.

Down the hall, Pantalone, Childe, Pierro, Signora and the Tsaritsa were all grinning.

“They are one hundred percent fucking.” Childe laughed as they all high-fived each other- expect Pierro, who just walked away with a sigh.

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #pierro genshin impact #pierro x you #pierro x reader #capitano x you #capitano x reader #capitano #capitano genshin impact #Pierro genshin #capitano genshin #genshin hurt/comfort #genshin angst #genshin fluff #the tsaritsa

[wndaswife]

genesis, awakening | thérèse raquin & fem!reader

Moving to Paris didn't present Thérèse with the life she initially expected until a young woman visits the haberdashery.

Word count: 12 107

Tags: smut, fluff, masturbation, cunnilingus, face-riding, so much on symbolism and their many thematic components, can you tell i just finished reading a certain hunger, and also, i hope you will enjoy this as much as i do: power bottom!thérèse raquin | MINORS DNI

In her earlier years, Thérèse thought quite a bit about her father. She wondered when he would come back and what he was doing and when he’d send his next letter. She imagined that all she had yet to hear from him were stories he would tell her in a near future when he would come back to collect her as he had promised, away from Madame and Camille and Vernon’s dull French countryside.

Once Thérèse turned fourteen, things began to change for her; Madame gave her more responsibility, more demanding homeschooling, and she, by Madame’s account, was now a blossoming young woman.

Initially, thoughts of Thérèse’s father remained, for she worried that once she grew out of childhood, her relationship with her father would inevitably differ immensely from when he had last seen her. After all, he had only ever known Thérèse as a child, and now that she no longer was, what made her any different from any other passing woman?

When Thérèse was given the letter from Madame notifying the family that her father had passed, it had been a few months at that point since she last thought of her father, and it had only been in briefly passing curiosity. 

Over the years, Thérèse’s responsibilities became plentiful, and she became increasingly preoccupied with the concerns of her day-to-day life with Camille and Madame. She hardly had any time for herself — even her very thoughts became overtaken with the weight dumped onto her shoulders for her, and her only, to carry for the household. 

Her life, initially only indebted towards Camille and Madame for giving her a home, soon became theirs, similar to property.

Last summer, when Thérèse was told that she, Camille, and Madame would be moving to Paris, she imagined countless different paths her life could take from then on, divulging from the monotonous countryside life she’d always been accustomed to. 

In her mind, there were thousands of different ways the move to Paris could have gone for her. For example, she imagined meeting friends and making them on her own, travelling — if the shop’s earnings became bountiful enough — and, in general, feeling like her life was truly her own, and that she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life paying anyone back for the fact that Madame had taken her in when her father could no longer care for her.

But nothing seemed to change aside from the fact that, atop of still being expected to tend to Madame’s every whim and care for Camille as both a wife and a second doting mother, Thérèse was now expected to help run the haberdashery.

Although it was both her and Madame that took part in running it, Madame was often dozing off or partaking in her own interests around their tiny, dingy Parisian home, often only coming down from the arcade when a shop patron had an inquiry or a request that Thérèse wasn’t sure how to approach on her own. But as Thérèse’s experience with running the business became increasingly comprehensive overtime, there was little to no reason for Madame to come and assist her at all.

It wasn’t necessarily that Thérèse needed Madame’s help, but rather that she didn’t want to have to run a business at all. 

In fact, Thérèse didn’t want to live the life she was living to begin with; running a haberdashery in the suffocating little alleyway of Passage du Pont Neuf was never anything she had imagined for herself once plans were made to move to Paris. 

Thérèse wished desperately for someone to blame for the way things had turned out, for if there wasn’t anyone to take the blame for what had happened, then it would become clear that the way things were was the way things were always going to be. If there was no causal reason for the life she was living, then she’d have no choice but to accept the fact that the way her life was playing out was simply its natural course.

Initially, Thérèse had even tried to blame herself for how things were, for it was her endless fantasising and romanticising that led her to be as disappointed as she ended up becoming. But even in blaming herself, there had to be some inevitable form of correction she would’ve had to uptake, and that would mean putting away her fantasies and dreams.

But without even the imagination that things could be better — and in Thérèse’s wildest fantasies, her life would not only be better, but it’d be a life that she truly enjoyed living — then she’d have nothing else but to accept the way things were. She feared that perhaps she’d grow into Madame, or even duller than she, if that were possible.

Thérèse’s life had no defining landmark, no deviating paths but the one she was placed on the moment she began living with Camille and Madame. 

Since last summer, and it was spring now, Thérèse felt entirely trapped; she felt that she didn’t belong to herself, that nothing she did would ever escape the future that was inevitably laid out for her, and that not even her thoughts could wander very far from the reality of her life.

Even the very reaches of language couldn’t very well belong to her either as she wasn’t sure if ‘miserable’ was a way to describe her life, nor ‘dull’ or ‘boring,’ for how could her life be any of those things if it had never been anything different?

She felt no different from a walking corpse, similar to the brief amount of time a chicken has before the rest of its body hits the ground even after its been decapitated, turned into an infinite stretch into the future. 

But she could not even pretend under any veil, no matter how heavy nor opaque, that she wasn’t alive. Perhaps things would’ve been easier on her if she could at least fool herself into believing that everything she did was of another’s will — anyone else’s but her own — but she felt it in the boundless pit in her chest, the weight in her stomach, the gravity pulling at her limbs each time she arose in the morning. She knew she was alive and that she did what she did willingly because she felt it.

It’d be easier, at least, if her actions were not her own; being a coward and a slave to a life she hated was perhaps her heaviest burden.

With the peak of the spring, the normally dingy suffocating Passage du Pont Neuf was especially constricting; the tiny passageway was overcome by the heat of the sun and the humidity from the past rains, the mossy faded rooftop panelings and stone walls shining dull and damp and mean and unappealing. 

Just after lunchtime, when the sun reached its peak and stretched up above the tall buildings of the alley, Thérèse could finally lay her eyes on something worth looking at through the windows of the haberdashery, sitting at the shop’s counter with François endlessly dozing in her lap.

With her chin in the palm of her hands and her fingers gently stroking the soft white fur of the quietly purring cat, Thérèse let herself bask in the warmth of the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes and let her breathing grow steady, with every second resembling more and more the mild-mannered cat sleeping in her lap.

Surrounded by the silence of the still shop and the faint purring from François, it felt as if Thérèse’s body was gently thrumming from the outside in, the stagnant hum of her surroundings blanketing her body with the gentle heat of the sun.

The chime of the bell by the door didn’t wake her from her conscious dozing — it was the approaching steps towards the counter that made Thérèse finally open her eyes. She blinked away the sunlight and quickly repositioned herself so she looked presentable.

Even François stirred awake at her body’s sudden jolt, and he lept from her lap and, with great yawning stretches of his lithe white body, headed off beyond the curtain that divided the shop from the arcade’s staircase. 

“I am sorry to have woken you and your cat,” the customer apologised in a way that seemed genuine. 

Thérèse turned her attention away from the escaping François to the customer in front of her, only for her eyes to meet the most beautiful thing she’d ever had the fortune to lay her eyes on — in fact, perhaps the more beautiful thing that’s ever found itself in Passage Pont du Neuf. 

Her cheeks immediately flushed and she looked down at the counter, initially stuttering before she finally spoke an: “It’s alright. I shouldn’t have been dozing.”

She searched, panicked, for things to say, and when her eyes ran over the small box of multicoloured buttons on the shelf under the counter, Thérèse remembered that she was running a shop — not simply talking with a beautiful stranger she met while doing errands. 

She raised her head and looked down at your arms, avoiding gazing upon your face lest she grow even more distracted, and saw that you were holding a generously-sized box in your arms, your forearms upturned with your fingers wrapped along its front-facing edge.

At the sight of the way Thérèse eyed the box, you carefully placed the case on the counter and pulled up the top to reveal a carefully-folded dress inside. “For a special occasion,” you said, “I want to have some of this dress fixed up since it has been moved around quite a bit since last spring until I stored it away to bring it here.”

Thérèse watched as you took the dress out of the box carefully; your delicate fingers tucked themselves under the folded dress, slowly unfolding it so you could lay it on the counter and display it out flat for her. Her eyes flickered up to your face occasionally, hoping that with each glance of your face, she could slowly build a detailed mental image of what you looked like without having to stare like she desperately wished she could.

She thought you were pretty, and that it was cruel that a face like yours had to suffer the backdrop of Passage Du Pont Neuf that lay beyond the confines of the constricting haberdashery. 

Suddenly Thérèse felt embarrassed, and she wondered if she herself gave off a impression alike to the rest of the old shop and the narrow passageway of damp moss and cracked stone walls and rushing crowds who wanted to do everything but spend another moment along the path they took only as a shortcut to get to where they needed to be — somewhere doubtlessly eternally more fascinating than where Thérèse currently was and would always remain.

“I was curious if I might possibly get a replacement for the lace trim,” you said and ran your finger along the underside of the trim that trailed down the sides of four pale yellow buttons that led down from the dress’ collar.

When you looked up from the dress to look at Thérèse curiously, she realised she had inadvertently begun staring at you in the way that she had kept trying to avoid while you were speaking earlier, though she couldn’t recall exactly when she started staring. She swallowed and adjusted herself then looked down at the dress to examine the lace you had pointed out.

She felt her cheeks begin to flush as her face was in the general direction of where the dress was, and from her inability to meet your eyes, it almost seemed like you were looking directly at her instead of the lace.

Absently, she started playing with the loose strands of her hair that had escaped from its braid in an attempt to both hide some of her face and adjust her appearance.

“If you are looking to maintain the original design, I do not believe we have this exact kind of lace here,” Thérèse thought aloud then leaned to the side to pull out a box of carefully-stored lace trims of different patterns, shades, and material. They were organised so one would be able to see each pattern while they were set down. “The lace on your dress seems Italian in design, and we only have one kind of lace from Italy, but even this looks too far off from what your dress has.” She pointed to the one at the left corner of the box and your eyes followed curiously.

“The only kind we have with a pattern like yours is this one,” Thérèse pointed to the different kind of lace to the right, “though it is far more dense and visibly not as expensive.”

The familiar language of the haberdasher made Thérèse forget for a moment that she was standing in front of you — whomever you were, since she had yet to officially know — until she looked back up for a response and found herself facing you again. She straightened her back and rubbed the pads of her fingers under the smooth underside of the shop’s counter, feeling anxious for a reason she could not explicate even to herself.

There was a girl who used to frequent the Seine one summer when Thérèse was younger. The girl visited the Seine regularly that summer for her father worked as a fisherman somewhere along the river’s currents and was positioned there for the season. 

When they first met, and it had been during one of the many occasions Thérèse took time for herself in the afternoon after Madame’s homeschooling lessons, a young Thérèse understood her fascination for the girl around her age to be due solely because of the girl’s tales about her father — a father she travelled with, a father who was ever present in her life.

Perhaps this might have been true at the time, for it was hours talking about her fisherman father that the two spent meeting up in the afternoons after Thérèse’s lessons and while the other girl’s father was too occupied for the girl to have any business loitering around fish and their fishermen.

But even after Thérèse saw her for the very last time, since her father was working by the Seine only for the summer, it was not her tales of her father that Thérèse thought of. In fact, Thérèse thought frequently about the girl — and the girl only. 

She thought of her hair and how it looked the perfect shade of the fireplace in Madame’s living room when it was set aflame, but only when the fire first leaps from the wood at its initial ignition, for the shade of her hair ignited something similar within Thérèse that could simply not analogise properly should it be compared to a fire that had long been burning. 

She thought of the colour of her eyes similar to the depths of the Seine that Thérèse could only see from the land’s surface and would never find herself coming close enough in order to make out a shade with her own eyes; the Seine, though beautiful, was far too dangerous to approach with proximity at that age. Though after having stared into such a vibrant shade of deep blue for nearly all of that summer, any curiosity she previously had of the Seine's deepest colours were sated and even paled in comparison to the mere recollection of her.

That was the last Thérèse had ever had her thoughts so preoccupied with another in that way until now. There were passing strangers, of course, that Thérèse glanced at more than once when she could and thought of for a few moments afterwards, and even other shop patrons that Thérèse found rather charming.

But she could not stop looking at you, and she felt silly for she did not even know your name, and you likely did not care to know hers.

“Oh,” you said, leaning over the box of lace and taking a closer look. There were some frayed parts of the lace that could not be fixed due to its original intricate stitching, and some parts that had become simply lost through the months of being moved around for space conservation and whatnot; it had to be completely redone with new lace.

Your fingernail grazed against your bottom lip and you confessed, “I am not quite sure which would look the best as a replacement. To be honest, I do not know very much about fabrics and stitching and all such things ladies ought to know.”

That made Thérèse smile, inexplicably. She thought you were endearing, and for some strange reason, your mention that you were put to the same constricting standards of being a lady in Paris as she was developed within Thérèse a certain fondness for you.

“I understand,” she told you with a friendly smile. “I could restitch the new lace for you. This dress seems rather important to you, so I would understand if you rather a stranger didn’t touch it in your place.”

You lit up at the suggestion and questioned, “Truly? I wouldn’t want to tax you with such labour.”

Thérèse promised, “It would truly be no trouble at all.”

“How much more will it cost?” you inquired and began sorting through the francs you brought.

In quick protest, Thérèse reached over the counter and brushed her fingers against your knuckles before leaning back and keeping to herself as quickly as she had reached out to touch you. “It’s alright.”

You looked at her and Thérèse felt panic rise within her, recalling that the two of you were indeed strangers, and she had no reason to do such a favour for you. She didn’t meet your eyes long enough to decipher the way in which you regarded her, for she’d soon die of humiliation if you regarded her as someone strange.

“It calls for a very simple kind of stitching, and we have been trying to gain a reputation as a tailory as well as a haberdashery; the stitching at the moment is included in the price of the lace,” Thérèse explained. “However I completely understand if you would rather a more officiated shop did the stitching for you, or even if you preferred to do it yourself.”

To Thérèse’s relief, you replied, “Ah, I see. In that case, since it isn’t too laborious for you, it would be fine.”

Thérèse was surprised — pleasantly, even — that you were so considerate of her time and effort. 

If all this for a stranger, how much more for your lovers?

The thought made her wobble.

“May I have your name?” Thérèse asked and opened a small notebook in which all the shop’s patrons were sorted and organised by their purchases. When you gave her your name, she found herself overcome with a feeling of euphoria writing each letter of it, asking for the exact spelling, and having your name stored so that you could not stray very far from the shop that you likely wouldn’t ever visit again once she was finished with your dress.

It was painfully unprofessional, what Thérèse did next, telling you that you could pick up your dress next week due to the other tailoring that had to be done before yours, which was to say that there was none, actually, since she had earlier lied about the haberdashery wanting to take up more tailoring orders. She did not want to have to see you for the last time so soon, so she withheld it for another week.

She was in an endless cycle of unprofessionalism, it seemed, for next, she told you that when you picked up your order next week, you ought to ask for Thérèse. There were two reasons she told you that — firstly, because it was unlikely that Madame would be working by the counter, there was no reason for you to need to know her name if it was she herself that was going to tend to you either way, and she wanted desperately for you to know her name as she did yours, and secondly, because if there was a chance that it was Madame out front instead of her, your asking for her would leave no room for Thérèse missing the chance to see you again.

But all her lack of professionalism’s accompanied guilt was soon disregarded when you asked, “You are Thérèse?”

Something crept up Thérèse’s spine when you said her name and made her shiver. She nodded. “Yes.”

“I like that name very much. It’s very pretty,” you told her and smiled politely. “I will remember to ask for you.”

Thérèse could almost faint.

Over the week, Thérèse did her very best carefully restitching the lace trim for you with the kind you chose from the box. She wanted to add something else to the design in the attitude of some form of a gift or something similar, but she had to maintain the dress’ original integrity and she knew when to not cross any boundaries.

After all, she was still a haberdasher, and women’s fashion was seen with high regard in Paris — this she was quick to learn once moving from Vernon to the city — so she knew quite well how to handle clothing.

When she was finished restitching the trim, she held it up by the top of its sleeves so she could see it upright and flat. She imagined you wearing it, and though she didn’t know very much about you, she imagined she got to know a little bit just by looking at the dress and knowing it was the kind and the style you would like to wear for an occasion that was special.

It was a shame you were only a visitor of the shop; she would have enjoyed getting to a woman with such exquisite taste in clothing. She still would have enjoyed getting to know you, frankly, even if you had horrendous taste in clothing. 

A week after you had visited the shop, Thérèse was waiting for your arrival with your dress carefully folded back into the box you had given it to her in. She decided to give you a small extra roll of the lace you chose as a gift in case you wanted to make any more alterations or in case you simply just liked it and wanted it for more of your garments. 

This time, when you arrived, Thérèse was completely awake and could not even think of dozing off, not even if she tried, for she’d been thinking of seeing you since the moment she awoke in the morning. 

After reassuring Madame that she could take the day off to rest, as she would have either way, Thérèse had the whole shop to herself. 

When you entered the shop, you were carrying a small basket concealed by a patterned cloth. Upon approaching Thérèse, you laid the basket onto the counter and greeted her. She was curious about the basket, and even François seemed to be too, for he rose from his place along the wall and sniffed at the basket. 

“François,” Thérèse warned and swatted him away quickly, to which he lept off from the counter and walked off. “I apologise,” she said. 

“It’s quite alright,” you reassured with a smile that Thérèse thought was just painfully charming. You reached over to the basket and uncovered it, revealing a small sealed jar of what looked to be strawberry or cherry jam, freshly sliced bread, and another jar of a medley of different berries. “This is for you — as a thank you for doing the restitching.”

Out of all the ways Thérèse fantasised about this afternoon with you — and she did, quite a bit — this was certainly not one of the ways. “Oh, please, no, it’s okay,” she told you. “Please, don’t. I was glad to do the stitching for you.”

“You are glad to do your own labour,” you slid the basket closer to her, “and I am glad to do mine.”

Thérèse searched your expression for any hint that you might be convinced to change your mind, but you seemed stubborn. She thought this was endearing too. She liked your kind heart and how eager you seemed. 

Then she looked down at the basket and sorted through it with her eyes. “This must have cost you a large sum,” she said, looking back up at you with a shy smile.

“Not at all,” you answered. You thought she looked cute when she was finally accepting your gift, the guise of the shopkeeper now pulled back to reveal the shy young woman behind it. You wondered what she was thinking. “My family owns farmland near Vernon, and I visited this past weekend and thought to bring you some of their jams and berries, but the bread I did get fresh from a bakery this morning.”

“Your family lives near Vernon?” Thérèse asked, her interest piqued. She had always regarded Vernon with such disdain and hoped that she might never have to visit again, but associating such a place with someone like you made her regard it differently. She never imagined that anything but her own resented memories could reside there. “My family and I moved from there in the summer.”

“Do you miss it very much?”

The question was almost comedic, but Thérèse thought it would be impolite to laugh. “Quite the opposite,” she answered. “I was glad to move from Vernon, but honestly, I haven’t had much chance to explore Paris aside from my walks in the mornings.”

“I understand,” you told her sympathetically. Thérèse melted. “I enjoy visiting, but I can hardly sit still in the countryside for more than a weekend.”

Before Thérèse could panic about what to say next to fill any impending silence, you said, “But you are interested in the city? Exploring more of it?”

“Exceedingly.”

“If you have a day off from the shop, I could show you around Paris,” you offered.

Thérèse felt her face flush with warmth. “Sh-Show me around?” she repeated.

The soft pink of Thérèse’s cheeks made you smile. 

You said, “If you don’t mind, then I would love to.”

Straightening and playing with the sleeves of her dress, Thérèse answered, “I wouldn’t mind at all. I would love to accompany you. Thank you.”

A brief moment of silence did indeed end up passing between the two of you, but instead, filled with a kind of warmth that made Thérèse both elated and weak in the knees. She felt that she had made her first friend in Paris, and more importantly, it seemed that you wanted to spend time with her too. 

You were grateful for Thérèse’s restitching and especially grateful for the additional lace she gave you, and you discussed which day the two of you would be able to spend time together.

Thérèse was most flexible to whichever day was best for you, for she knew Madame would be thrilled that she had made a friend — not that she would ever get the chance to meet you for a while, for she wanted you to be privy to only her for as long as possible. 

Next Tuesday was mutually decided upon.

Alike to Thérèse’s fascination with you — although you didn’t yet know how mutual the feeling was, of course — you weren’t quite sure what had come over you when you offered to show her around Paris. Initially, you told yourself it was because she used to be a resident of Vernon, and familial sentimentality led you towards the urge to show her around Paris.

But your thoughts about Thérèse, when you had them, and you often did, were very rarely if ever related to Vernon or any form of familial sentimentality.

Thérèse and how she took form in your mind started with her hair, dark brown and smooth, and immediately after came her skin, seemingly translucent in its delicate shade of porcelain cream and tinted with the pink of her flushing cheeks when you were lucky enough to see her grow bashful at your words. Then came her voice and its girlish elegant placidity, then her eyes and her lips, the slope of her nose and the curve of her chin.

You wondered, especially, how she was beyond the confines of the haberdashery and beyond the walls of Passage du Pont Neuf. Inexplicably, though it could be easily attributed to knowing her no further than within the environment of the shop, it was difficult for you to imagine Thérèse beyond the gloomy shadows of the narrow alleyway or from beyond the counter of the shop.

That was not to say anything about who she was as a person — after all, how could you presently have anything substantial to say about who she was — but rather the kinds of circumstances she was under. In the curious glints of her eyes and the lithe cat-like movements of her elegantly-moving body as if trained to maintain such composure laid something in slumber, larger than the stillness of Passage du Pont Neuf.

Over the week until the upcoming Tuesday, you steadily began to feel guilty for how often you were thinking of Thérèse, for your scrutiny of her made it seem to you that you were subconsciously treating her as a subject of some kind of personal research endeavour — but this could not be further from the truth. Truly, Thérèse interested you, and it was merely your disturbance with your own fascination in her that began manifesting into guilt in order to avoid coming to the realisation that you simply could not stop thinking about her.

One could almost label your thoughts of Thérèse as perverse, and you did not want to be labelled a predator, even by your own moral judgement.

When Tuesday arrived, Madame agreed to run the shop while Thérèse had plans elsewhere, feeling pleased, frankly, that Thérèse had finally made what she described to be a friend. 

Madame knew Thérèse to be gloomy and hollow of passion and vivacity, which was not so much a concern to Madame Raquin and it was an irritant, particularly because her niece’s sombre nature often became much too suffocating for the small confines of the shop. It was only when she scolded Thérèse for her lack of spirit in front of the shop’s patrons that she at least began making efforts towards behaving as typical girls of her age did. At the very least, she was willing to wed Camille and willing to run the haberdashery, albeit because Thérèse had very little personal reservations of her own as to have any opinion about anything at all, or at least, if she did have opinions, they weren’t ever pressing enough to escape the confines of the often critically-judgemental mind that Madame knew laid beyond the line of her motionless pale pink lips.

You had it in your plans, though you did not disclose this to Thérèse in the spirit of keeping it a surprise for her, to visit Jardin des Plantes. It was your personal favourite spot to go when you wrote and when you needed time for yourself, and when you first moved to Paris many years ago, it was also the first place you felt yourself drawn to.

In some ways, taking Thérèse there was both an invitation into how you understood Paris in its essence and an invitation into your own personal world; there was more to your interactions with Thérèse than a tourist to a newcomer, for there was a personal investment too, a personal interest in bringing yourself closer to her.

The two of you walked your way towards the botanical garden, taking the path you normally would to and from your place of work. To you, it was typical, but for Thérèse, it was as if she had only moved from Vernon the day prior. You could not believe how little of Paris she had seen, and selfishly, perhaps, you were glad and proud that it was you who was introducing her to what she had long been missing.

Conversation with Thérèse was endless.

You spoke of your occupation as a writer for a periodical, which Thérèse found fascinating and immediately wanted to know more about — What do you write about? Do you like it? How did you find yourself coming into a career of writing? Were you always a writer? — your childhood in Vernon and the rest of your years in Paris, your tastes in literature, and countless other things that Thérèse’s piqued interest never strayed far from.

You asked about Thérèse too, of course, about her arranged marriage to her cousin Camille, her aunt, her opinions on Paris, her own childhood and years in Vernon before moving away, and most interestingly to you, her ambitions and dreams.

She was an ambitious person, with hopes for herself and her future that stretched far beyond the reaches of her family or Passage du Pont Neuf. Perhaps laid to rest years prior, such hopes seemed to reawaken at the taste of freedom now that she had distance from all that she wished to move onwards from. But where she would go if she had achieved such separation, Thérèse did not know, and so she believed she could only ever dream and never accomplish.

During your walk, you discovered a vividness about Thérèse, a brilliance, an ignition of light that had its sights set far from the shadows of Passage du Pont Neuf and the Raquin family’s haberdashery. But in the gardens, there was fragility and sensitivity, and you found yourself equating her to the flowers she was immediately absorbed by.

Thérèse was gentle with the flowers and plants, careful not to disturb them from their natural paths of growth, even as she walked among them, yet all the while incredibly fascinated and captivated by them. She had never before seen so many different kinds of flowers of such vivid colours and appearances, much less the incredibly long vines that reached up the arches of the bridges over the water and up the brick walls of some buildings and such well-designed shrubs as if carved by hand.

In the Vernon, where Thérèse had seen the most plants, there was no such colour nor plant so alive, so grateful to be in the environment in which it grew.

At a particular plant, Thérèse paused and looked at it, leaning down slightly and surveying it.

“What is this?” she asked you, pointing a hesitant finger at the pink and green plant who, in its centre, was budding and growing healthy white flowers. “This one with the teeth.”

You came to her side and Thérèse straightened. When she did, she brushed your shoulder, and in response, she stepped closer so the length of her arm was pressed against yours. 

To the green and pink plant and its blossoming flowers, you answered, “Dionaea muscipula — the Venus Flytrap.”

The name sounded silly to Thérèse, and she laughed.

“It traps flies?” she asked.

“Yes,” you answered, equally as humoured. With a hand on her lower back, you encouraged her to step forward so you could demonstrate something. Blushing, Thérèse nearly missed your demonstration for how you touched her body and how she stared at your face. You started speaking again, and she forced herself to look at the plant.

Gently as to not bend the plant where it should not be, you laid a steady finger between what Thérèse described as an open mouth with its needle-shaped teeth.

“See how it closes — slowly,” you said. 

“It closes slowly,” Thérèse noted, “yet its prey is still devoured?”

You removed your finger from the plant’s trap and watched as it very steadily returned to its original open-mouthed position. “I believe the pink colour of the trap is appealing for the flies, and that it emits a certain scent that is alike to the nectar the fly seeks for nutrition. The fly believes — perhaps, anyway, I am not sure — that it is eating from the plant. The plant is slow and attractive enough to keep it from straying. The ‘teeth’ prevent its escape once it's closed enough.”

After a silent moment of thought and perhaps of admiration of the fascinating plant, Thérèse asked, “And its name, after that of Venus?”

“If I were to make a guess as to why it was named after Venus, I might be inclined to say that it is due to its appearance,” you supposed. “The pink of the inside and the white flowers, especially. It’s a beautiful plant.”

Beauty, yes — Thérèse conceded. But Venus, in her representation, was not only significant in her symbolic nature of beauty and femininity, but also desire, sex, and prosperity.

And Thérèse could not help but find that the alluring shape of the flytrap represented that of which was particularly vulvar.

When Thérèse arrived back home just before dinner, Madame and Camille were set to leave to celebrate a promotion Camille had just gotten within his place of employment. Their plans involved dinner with several of Camille’s work acquaintances and some of Madame’s friends that often came to Thursday’s dominoes games.

Her presence at this celebration had evidently not been anticipated nor planned, for both Madame and Camille seemed hesitant in what to do once she arrived slightly earlier than either of them anticipated.

Fortunately for them — and for Thérèse, too — she was in no mood to do anything but stay at home, and to this, they graciously permitted without protest.

That evening, Thérèse was restless, but a sort of restlessness that was distinct from what could typically be attributed to night terrors. From the restlessness that derived from night terrors, she would tie herself up in the mess of her bedsheets as she tossed and turned, desperate for slumber to overtake her. In trying to shut her eyes, shadows would become foes and an unsettling fear would dig its way into her stomach, paralysing her. 

But tonight was different — and exceptionally so.

There was restlessness, indeed, and a gnawing in her stomach was surely present, and a paralysis-like possession certainly overcame her, but what made this restless evening different from that of what was haunted by night terrors was that she was not overcome by any sort of fright.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

There was a thrumming in her stomach, a simmering of the blood in her veins, a greedy possession that overcame her with urgency in the likeness of paralysis, but it was not quite that either — it was not paralysis for Thérèse did not lack any ability to move. Rather, the subtle tension within the base of her stomach and the pumping of her heart and its accompanying adrenaline made Thérèse want to do everything but stay still.

But what was she to do aside from lay still and fall asleep, she did not know.

There was something awakening from a long slumber deep within her, having been so deeply-shrouded that Thérèse herself was little acquainted with it.

By God, what was this urgency that her body kept clawing towards? It was as if her very skin was an obstacle for this awakening beast, and it called for her to act on it, to move in accordance to its will.

In closing her eyes, shutting them tightly, it was not imaginary shadow foes that came to the forefront of her mind, but you. It was your face she imagined; it was your voice; it was your scent; it was your fingers. 

Her body took the form of another, and it was your perfume she smelled in her hair when she lolled her head to the side. It was your hands that pulled her nightgown up to pool around her hips, and your fingers that dipped into the slope beyond that of her smooth lower belly. Her thoughts were comprehended through the sound of your voice, telling her to release, release, release.

The tight wet velvet embrace that greeted Thérèse’s fingers when she entered herself, she understood as her own, but it was your touch that drove her to pleasure. The quickening speed of her fingers and her other hand and its wandering, a soft palm beneath the linen of her nightgown and up the expanse of her stomach, pads of her fingers pressing into the dips of her ribs and further, further until she groped her breast so harsh it made her whimper — it was your doing, and this ferocious beast that had been scratching at her skin from the inside, howling to escape, was you.

When Thérèse reached her peak and laid a sweaty panting mess atop her bed in the bedroom lit dimly by a flittering singular candlelight on the bedside table, she returned to herself. 

In the silence of her bedroom, still feeling the gentle tremors of her harsh, desperate release, Thérèse realised that what she had done was of her own doing. Where else were you but where you currently were, in your own bedroom, perhaps, dreaming and slumbering, apart from her.

There was no one else but her, and it was she who was the awoken, the desperate, the howls for recognition. 

She was this predatory beast, predating on herself.

In spite of having reached her hilt of pleasure, Thérèse felt herself aching for more, and it does no good to cannibalise oneself. 

She needed prey. 

She would take you whole.

In the morning, Thérèse wrote to you through the post you had provided her in the case that she might have wanted to reach you when you could not see each other. During the stroll back to Passage du Pont Neuf, you both expressed an interest in seeing each other again, but unfortunately, you’d be busy with the attendance and planning of your brother’s wedding for several days after that Tuesday. So she wrote in hopes that the two of you could plan the next time you might be able to see one another.

She wrote to you about the Thursday evening games of dominoes and sometimes cards, and that she would like to have you in attendance next week, for she knew you could not attend this week’s upcoming game.

The impatient days tending to the shop and awaiting next week’s evening game were painfully dull and ridden with anxiety-like compulsions. The awakening in Thérèse had arisen much too far from its place of previous resting and could not be put to bed, and it made her pace and pace, nitpick at her clothing, twirl her hair around, organise and reorganise the shop’s inventory. 

Even Madame had realised, though she was assuaged and convinced when Thérèse simply told her that with the upcoming summer and the gradually-warming weather, she had begun to feel a tinge of spryness bubble from within her as if it were out from its hibernation. 

The excuse, Thérèse thought, was rather humorous, for it was not some low bubbling of gently arising energy that had begun to form within her, but a vicious hunger so demanding and starved that it was painful. 

Her beating desire, however, was alleviated for a day or two once she received your correspondence from the post, writing back in your ever so beautiful and delicate handwriting that you would indeed be able to attend next Thursday’s game — and also that you greatly anticipated seeing her again.

Thérèse read over your letter again and again as if taking each word into her mouth and chewing it, running her tongue over every written letter and swing of your ink pen against the coarse page. But it was not enough — it was not you.

So she waited, pacing, organising and reorganising, brooding over her lack of you, until next Thursday came.

When Thursday came, you arrived, and punctually so. 

Coincidentally, you had met with one of Madame’s friends on the way to the game — never mind how you came to realise the two of you were headed to the same place for this was not of pressing concern for Thérèse — and so it was Madame who first greeted you at the door. 

From the kitchen beyond the dining room, Thérèse could hear you introducing yourself to Madame. 

It was a bit of a shame, for Thérèse had wanted to keep you to herself for as long as she could, but if she wanted you within the short span of time in which her dwindling patience would not allow for any further waiting, she had to make some sacrifice. 

As the guests filed into the dining room, Thérèse came forth from the kitchen with a serving platter of a pot of tea and several cups, and your eyes caught onto hers. She could tell that you had been curiously awaiting her arrival, wondering where it was that she had gone while you took a seat at the table. 

Your curiosity remained even as she left once more to fetch another serving plate of danishes and tarts, and remained, still, when she returned; you meant to ask why she was not taking a seat at the table. 

One of the guests had forgotten to stow away their hat along with their light coat at the entry hall, and Thérèse obediently took it for him and left the dining room to the entryway to hang the man’s hat up. 

You excused yourself and followed her. 

“Thérèse,” you called after her, your voice hushed within the silence apart from the busy dining room. 

She hung the hat from the coat hanger and turned to you. “Y/N,” she greeted and smiled. “How was your brother’s wedding?”

“A bore,” you answered immediately. Then you added quickly, “Though, I am happy for him, indeed. Many blessings to the wedded couple.”

Amused by your crassness, Thérèse’s smile widened and she nodded, “Indeed. Blessings.”

“I was hoping you might play alongside me tonight,” you confessed. “I’m no good at dominoes.”

Thérèse told you, “I do not play.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t believe she had an actual answer, frankly. Why didn’t she play? She sat to the side, primarily, by the window at the corner of the dining room, ready to serve food and drinks and open the window when requested. 

At her silence, you did away with your original question and then said instead, “You invited me to play a game in which you are not participating? I wished to spend time with you tonight.”

Your frustration excited Thérèse. She felt her hunger spike. 

“Disappointed?” she asked. 

“Rather.”

Your frustration was not that of which could be compared to critical judgement, but a state of vulnerability, an expression of a lack — a lack of her. 

Thérèse could sympathise with your dissatisfaction.

“I apologise. I invited you with the sole intention of seeing you, and I dearly wanted to, but I did not consider that past seeing you, we could do nothing else.” She stepped closer. “After the game, perhaps we might go for a walk. I’ve yet to see where you live.”

The corners of your lips pulled into a delicate smile and Thérèse swooned. “Then another walk it is,” you affirmed. 

Thérèse was unsure what had been going through her mind when she imagined that her hunger would be sated, or at least partially, once she was finally able to see you again. She sat in the corner of the dining room, sometimes getting up to serve drinks and desserts, passing by you often and meeting your eyes even more frequently. 

But she was driven mad sitting apart from you and doing nothing but watching, nothing but seeing. 

In salivation, the object of nutrition is its trigger, an anticipation that one is soon going to digest what is desired. Of course, there are further, more scientific reasons as to why the salivation begins; the brain takes part, primarily, with its neurotransmitters and its comprehension of hunger and craving. But none of it would occur without a subject in mind — the subject to devour, the subject to prey on.

And while watching you socialise and laugh and look over to her occasionally, watching your lips wrap around the rim of your teacup or swallow a bite of the tart from your plate, Thérèse was nearly drooling. 

Her fingers, unless she was imagining it, were trembling ever so slightly as she helped clean the table once the game was over. She brought the dishes to the kitchen and tucked in the dining room chairs. 

Madame encouraged Thérèse to cut her domestic duties short in order to walk you home for you hadn’t ever crossed through Passage du Pont Neuf so late into the night and knew little of where to go from the shop, and Madame had taken a liking to you and how well-mannered you were. 

“Were you amused in seeing me lose as often as I did?” you asked Thérèse after parting from the rest and down the sidewalks that led to your place. 

“I was far more amused seeing you continue to play in spite of how often you lost,” she answered. 

You laughed. “You are a sadist, I think.”

“You were not pained in losing,” Thérèse lightly contested. “I gathered you might even be less entertained if you were to have won.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

You lived in a building that housed several other residents, each with their own residential units, and yours was at the very top with two windows that stretched up close to the partially-angled ceiling. It was spacious enough to fit both your workspace, your kitchen, and your bedroom. There was little divide between these rooms aside from the floorplan in which one had to turn to get to one room or another, but generally, it was a rather open concept apartment unit.

Clearly, it was space enough for a person who lived alone, and the interior design and small fireplace and expansive windows was evident of your bountiful earnings as a writer for the periodical you worked under.

“Will you leave now?” you asked Thérèse once you were both standing in the middle of your apartment.

“You are asking me to?”

In quick specification, you clarified, “No, I mean if it is in your preference to leave. Are you planning on leaving now?”

“Is it in your preference to have me leave?”

Thérèse’s pressing of you made you slightly unsteady and your cheeks warmed. “No,” you said.

She smiled. “Then, no, I will not leave.”

The two of you talked on the couch of your workspace, as you did when you had been on your walk together several days ago. The conversation foresaw no end, and the comfort of being in a place that was privy only to the two of you only encouraged its seemingly infinite stretch. 

You were sitting across from Thérèse, her legs folded on the couch in front of her as she sat horizontally to face you, her knees pulled up and laying against the couch’s back. She had undone her hair so you could now see it in its length, which was unexpected for the way her hair was always done made it seem that it was much shorter than it really was. 

She was elegant and so ladylike.

The soft light from the fireplace across the room, about four metres from the foot of your bed, illuminated her face in a warm glow.

Suddenly, you felt the need to confess. “In the last few days, ever since I asked you to accompany me through Paris, I must admit that you have been going through my mind an awful lot.”

“This is awful?” Thérèse asked, straightening. She didn’t believe that you had truly meant to say that thinking of her was awful, but it really was amusing to see you stutter.

“N-No, I don’t mean that,” you corrected immediately. “I only meant that-that…” You searched for the words and adjusted yourself on the couch. “I felt guilty — perhaps this is the word — for thinking of you so much. To me, it felt predacious.”

To this, it seemed that Thérèse’s eyes seemed to momentarily flicker with ignition. You thought it merely a lick of the flame from the fireplace, reflecting against her eyes. “Is that so?” she inquired, pressing. “What felt… predacious to you?”

“Only that I couldn’t seem to stop thinking of you,” you explained. You shifted, uncomfortable as you exposed to her thoughts that you had been trying to avoid out of the shame that you had been having them. “But it was more so the kinds of ways I thought about you. I thought of things like your hair and… I’m not sure. Your voice, your lips. Silly things like this.” You began to speak quicker as if trying to rid yourself of the taste of your words from atop your tongue. “It felt scrutinising.”

Thérèse seemed to be contemplating something in deep thought as she looked at you. She took a small breath and spoke a confession of her own. “Y/N, I must also admit that I have been thinking similar things. Though, certainly, I would not equate my thoughts of you to scrutiny.”

“To what, then?” You wondered.

“Consumption,” Thérèse said, and the word captured you. 

Trying to understand her usage of the word, you worked through it. “Your thoughts of me… consumed you?”

The glint in Thérèse’s eyes returned and for a second longer than before, and you looked over to the fireplace, now concerned for its constant leaping, only to find it rather docile.

“You misunderstand,” Thérèse said. When you turned, she was rising from her spot on the opposite side of the couch, hair spilling from behind her shoulders, moving onto the heels of her hands as she advanced towards you. Her other hand found your thigh under your dress and the pressure her fingers applied through your clothing made it seem to you that she meant to dig right through its fabric. “It is not I who was being consumed at the thought of you.”

Your breathing quickened and Thérèse only advanced even further up your body to the point that you had to shift back with your elbow resting on the armrest behind you.

Thérèse’s delicate fingers moved their way up your stomach and your chest that was picking up pace in its rising and falling. Her fingernail hooked itself under one of the buttons of your dress and pushed it to the side. You watched as it was nearly pushed beyond its slit to unbutton itself, but Thérèse let it slip from her fingernail. Her fingers wrapped around the collar of your dress and the tips of her fingers grazed against your neck and over your collarbone, nails raking lightly against the warm skin of your chest.

With a hand placed beyond your head and positioned atop of the armrest behind you, Thérèse gave herself height so she could run her eyes down what limited skin your dress’ collar exposed.

“Thinking of you…” Thérèse’s own breath began to quicken. “It was I who was consuming you. How I’ve hungered for you in the past few days, Y/N, salivated over how the salt of the skin of your neck would taste if I were to run my tongue across it, how your body would intertwine with mine.”

Her eyes finally left your clothed body and she met your gaze. “I want you,” she said simply.

You swallowed. “I’d be most pleased if you would have me.”

Her fingers tightened around your collar and she used the leverage to pull you up, slipping herself off from the couch and having you stand along with her.

She undid the buttons on your dress and began to undress you, while you took just a moment to catch up to the realisation that you also ought to be doing the same for her. 

When your arms were free of your dress, Thérèse pushed it further down and tucked a few fingers beneath your crinoline so she could undo it and have it pool to the floor along with your skirts. 

With skilled hands that only a woman could possess, Thérèse undid your corset with precision. Though the process of completely untying a corset was tedious, there was something so delicate and delicious about the way Thérèse undid yours.

You watched as her fingers weaved through the laces and loosened it slowly, steadily. Once or twice, she even looked at you and met your eyes as she did, her eyes having ignited with something hungry and captivating. 

Once she finished with your corset and let it drop to the floor, allowing you to step out of the pool of your garments, you were now only in your chemise while you were still slowly undoing Thérèse’s corset. 

She was a haberdasher, after all, and though the two of you were both familiar with the doing and undoing of a corset, it was Thérèse who was most skilled with the handling of clothing. 

Her hands laid atop of yours and your fingers ceased their movements. She stepped towards you and laced her fingers through yours as she began to undo her own corset. You watched, down the space of her own chemise that slowly began to loosen as her corset was further untied, the rising and falling of Thérèse’s soft porcelain breasts. 

“You need not be so concerned with being seen as a predator,” she said, her voice not quite a whisper but still rather low, like a gentle hum in the tune of a bedtime story. She stepped out of her own pool of clothing on the floor now that she was in her own chemise. Her hand found your chest and as she advanced forward, she pushed you back steadily so you were forced to walk backwards. 

“Would you much rather prefer being preyed on?” she asked and ran her hands down your shoulders. “That would please me, anyhow.”

You swallowed. You didn’t quite realise how far Thérèse had been pushing you back until you had to quickly jut out your elbow to keep your weight from suddenly shifting onto your back. She raised a knee onto the edge of the bed and you watched as her chemise slid down her thigh. Her hand ran up the path between your breasts and encouraged you to continue moving backwards.

Her fingers reached the hollow base of your throat, the centre of your collarbone, and she pressed down gently, watching her fingers apply pressure to your compliant skin. Then, when your head was laid atop your pillows and her thighs were straddling your hips, Thérèse leaned down and pressed her warm lips to your neck.

“Perhaps what you had felt before was not guilt.” Her bottom lip ran up the expanse of your neck as she moved to kiss the warm space behind the lobe of your ear. “But rather a feeling of inadequacy, knowing that your desire would never take the form of that of a predator. You need not feel this way — not with me. And if not with me, then you need not ever feel it again.”

Her teeth tugged at your earlobe, let go, then pressed her a kiss again to the pulse of your neck, then down, and down further, until she could run her tongue flat against your neck, up further until the tip of her tongue pressed into the hollow space beneath your jaw bone. She bit down on the skin of your jawline then released. “You ought to know your place, and not feel compelled to take another.”

She straightened to look down upon you, fuelled deep within the warmth between her thighs by the look on your face with your flushed cheeks and lips parted to release your warm quickening breaths. 

“Would it not feel better, knowing that it is I who will prey on you?” She spoke while moving further up your body, her knees moving herself upwards and her thighs brushing up your waist, up the sides of your ribs, your breasts. “Better, knowing that you ought to simply let yourself be consumed?”

Your eyes explored the uncovered expanse of Thérèse’s smooth thighs as she sat herself on your chest, your fingers tightening around your bedsheets and repressing the urge to reach up and touch her.

“Y/N.” Thérèse said your name. You looked up and slid her fingers down your cheek, cupping it softly and tipping your head up to meet your eyes. “I will not ever let you be anyone else’s but mine.”

Her words, though possessive and dominating, seemed almost as it were a forewarning as well; Thérèse still seemed to have reservations of this part of herself, and perhaps in a way, she feared what might happen if she were to completely give into it — give into herself. She worried about what she knew were to happen if she progressed any further.

“I have no interest for anyone else but you,” you told her, meeting her eyes tenderly. You released your bedsheets and laid your hands against the sides of her smooth thighs, warm palms leaving goosebumps in their wake as your fingers pressed into the pliable flesh of Thérèse’s ass. 

Her hips buckled and she sighed through her nose, closing her eyes momentarily as she savoured your words and the first feeling of your hands on her body unobstructed by clothing. 

Thérèse, suddenly overcome by certainty and a hunger now driven to what she felt was alike to famine, took your hair into her hand and used it as leverage to move herself further up. She raised from her position on your chest and after one failed attempt at keeping her chemise around her hips, she grew impatient and pulled the garment off altogether, tossing it back to the foot of the bed. 

Finding that she did not want to face the same frustration with her underwear, she did away with that too. 

Your eyes ran over her bare body, her smooth belly and the curves and dips of her waist and her hips, how soft her thighs looked, how perfectly her breasts were shaped, and the pink tint of her hardened nipples. Brown hair cascaded down her arms and chest.

“By God, I have never seen anything so beautiful,” you remarked. Your hands, unable to keep to themselves, ran up the expanse of her stomach, fingers wrapped around her waist as they moved further up. Your hands cupped her breasts, thumbs moving across Thérèse’s nipples. 

She hummed shakily, both satisfied by your hands and words and also pleasured by them. Her hands came to the backs of yours, encouraging you to grope her rougher.

“When you came into the haberdashery,” she spoke, “I felt pity for you, that something so beautiful had to find herself amongst the rotting carcasses of that god-awful place.”

In gentle protest, you reminded her, “But there was you.”

Thérèse smiled down at you. Such consideration you had, and a kind heart. “And so there was.” She let go of one of your hands and stroked your cheek with the backs of her fingers.

She led your hands to her hips, and she wrapped her hand around the headboard of your bed. She moved herself onto her knees and settled them on either side of your head. 

The scent of Thérèse’s sex made you salivate, and your fingers pressed into her hips with anticipation. Delicate pink folds presented themselves to you as she positioned herself above your face, so inviting. 

Her other hand stroked your cheek one once more with her thumb before her fingers delved into your hair and repositioned your head. Then, she lowered herself onto your lips and you immediately opened for her. 

Your tongue ran through smooth silken petals firstly in curiosity, lips wrapped around the warm embrace of her cunt. Her flavour spread into your tongue and your hands pulled her further down against your face. 

Thérèse’s jaw was slack, her arm pressed against the wall in front of her so she could rest her forehead on her forearm. Her body was overcome with pleasure and, initially, she found it hard to do anything but moan and shut her eyes. 

But the moment your tongue became that of a starving mouth rather than a curious one, Thérèse knew she had to start moving.

The pads of her fingers pressed against the back of your head, keeping your mouth against her pussy. She rolled her hips forward and back, nudging her clit against the tip of your nose as your tongue chased her cunt hungrily. Nectar spilled down your cheeks and smeared across your chin. 

“Y/N.” Thérèse breathed your name. She let go of your hair and groped her breast, moaning in jagged rhythm as her rapid breaths meshed with her groans of pleasure. She had never felt such pleasure, and it was entirely sensical that it was you who was the first and only to give it to her. “Keep going, just like that. Don’t stop. You make me feel so good.”

You looked up at Thérèse from beneath her and felt the urge to explore her further. Your tongue dipped into her, into the slippery tang of her sweet nectar, while your one hand let go of her thigh and travelled up the curve of her ass and up her lower back, feeling where it dipped along the contour of her spine.

Her hips continued to roll against your face, thighs tightening around the side of your head as she depended less on the grip of the headboard and further on the stability of your head beneath her. 

Your hand gripped at her waist, thumb pressed into her soft cream skin.

She let out a partially-repressed squeal and let go of the headboard, both hands now gripping your head with her fingers interlaced within your hair. You supported her with your one hand on her waist and your other on the back of her thigh, and Thérèse began grinding down against you with such speed and intensity that you could hardly move your tongue. 

She took charge of her impending release, leaving you to be but an inanimate object she was merely using the tongue of. 

Her fingers pulled your head up, right against her pussy so as to achieve the friction she needed, and you kept your tongue stiff and pliable for her delicate cunt. 

“A-Ah… Y/N.” Thérèse’s voice started to become higher pitched, needier. “I’m…” Her head lolled back and her hair poured down the length of her arched back, her breasts moving in accordance to the rhythm of her hips, her neck becoming exposed. How terribly you wanted to press your lips there, where her skin was warm and smooth and scented of her perfume. 

One of Thérèse’s hands released your hair and suddenly jutted out, her palm meeting the wall as she reached her pleasure’s peak. You could watch from beneath how her eyes squeezed shut and as her head fell forward, jaw slack as she cried out. The sight was almost animalistic in how unrestrained and entirely carnal it was.

In release, she was no longer constrained by the shadowed holds of the shop or Passage du Pont Neuf or even her own personal reservations, but a being so raw in her desire and expression, and entirely without guilt. 

Thérèse’s body suddenly went lax and she leaned backwards, her other arm quick to hold herself up with her palm flat beside your hip. She caught her breath and you finally took your first full one once her cunt parted from your lips. 

In silence and in awe for several moments, you merely watched the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed, deep and drawn-out. 

Carefully so as not to disturb her balance, you arose onto your elbows and allowed Thérèse to adjust herself along your body. She opened her eyes and watched as you moved. She moved along with you so she was soon sitting in the middle of the bed with her knees bent against her chest and her hands behind her, holding herself up. 

You advanced on all fours and parted her legs, kissing up the smooth skin of her inner thighs. She welled with admiration for you as she watched you on your knees in front of her, kissing her hips and her stomach, beneath her breasts, her nipples, her neck. Your kisses became more delicate as they reached her face, one hand cupping her cheek as you kissed up to her temple and then her forehead, and finally, her lips. 

Her elbows buckled when you leaned down beside her and took her with you. She laid herself down beside you so the two of you were laying opposite of the headboard and closest to the fireplace opposite the bed, your eyes meeting tenderly with hers as you stroked her cheekbone with your thumb.

Your other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her against you so her hips were pressed against yours, legs intertwined as if in their own entangled dance. 

“I am hopelessly captivated by you.” Your hand moved away from her cheek and into the soft waves of her smooth brown hair. “I’d like to never leave such a state in any foreseeable future.”

Thérèse’s tranquil expression tugged into a slight grin and she moved herself closer so her breasts were pressed against your chest. “You needn’t concern yourself with any such future in which you belong to anyone else but me.” Her gaiety tinged with charming arrogance was incredibly endearing to you.

“Every morning since the beginning of time,” you said, “the sun has risen and it has set.” Thérèse listened intently to the gentle hum of your lullaby-like voice. “And yet books upon books have been written by hand of the many poets with hearts of unfettered lovers dedicated solely to the sun’s rising and its setting, and I presume, for as long as poetry and love are to exist, that this human habit of loving even the most inevitable will stretch into the far reaches of the human future. The inevitability in a future in which I am yours and no one else’s could not, and would not, even if it could, ever cease my desire for its occurrence.”

Thérèse kissed your lips. “How lucky am I to have captured such a woman with as much prowess for the written word as she has within her heart, then.” From her grin, you could feel the evenness of her teeth brush against your lips.

“And you,” you said with a tinge of hesitancy, “foresee a future in which you have in your possession more than only me?”

Thérèse moved up onto her elbow and you kissed the top of her breast as she shifted above you. “In the time that I have known you, which, admittedly, I would say is much shorter than I wish I could say — but we have the rest of time to make up for it — I have come to realise and accept truths about myself that I could not have otherwise, and that is to mean I could not have done so without you.” She brushed hair from your forehead with delicate fingers.

“In any interaction,” Thérèse said, “there exists two irrefutable beings, one being interacting with the other in mutuality. Before you, Y/N, I was neither being nor anything truly existent. I had no form, no sense of myself, no identity. For someone who has no established understanding of who they are, it becomes impossible to have anything important, to value anything or have any possession which is truly theirs. Do you understand, or am I speaking with the tongue of a madwoman?”

“I understand,” you said.

Thérèse smiled. She knew you would. “I am only who I have become because of you.” She kissed the bridge of your nose. “I am as much yours as you are mine. Everything I am is yours, and only yours.”

Then she asked, “Are you happy to own me, Y/N?”

You took her into your arms, pulled her down close so you could kiss her while Thérèse tried her best not to laugh too hard as to disturb the way your soft lips were pressed against hers. 

She curled herself up against you and you held her close to your chest, one arm serving as a rest for her head and the other wrapped around her body. 

“I am the happiest I have ever been,” you told her honestly. 

Thérèse smiled against the warm embrace of your body, laying her head against the cushion of your breasts. She, too, was the happiest she’d ever been.

#thérèse raquin #thérèse raquin x you #thérèse raquin x reader #thérèse raquin x y/n #thérèse raquin fanfiction #thérése raquin smut #in secret #in secret fanfiction #elizabeth olsen

[madame-fear]

*ೃ༄ 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 .ೃ࿐

[ one | two ]

ೀ amira speaks! : Based on this plot. Okay,, I know I said I would write it all in one part, but splitting it in two helps me stay motivated to keep writing. 🙈 Smut will be in part two. This chapter only contains Luke being a bit possesive with you. Enjoy! 💕 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : Prince Lucerys had his eyes set on you ever since you were children, and his affection for you grew stronger when you comforted him after losing his eye at the hands of his Uncle Aemond. But when your time of marrying another Lord comes in your early 20s, the now young Lord of Driftmark isn’t happy at all — though, he plans on making you his, as you were always supposed to be. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 2.1k

˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : AU, smut, friends to lovers, a bit of an obsessive Lucerys. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : One Eyed!Lord!Lucerys x (childhood best friend)!Reader

Lucerys Velaryon, your childhood best friend, had grown to be known as the “One Eyed Prince”; or the “One Eyed Bastard”, as many referred to him.

The loss of his eye had been greatly significant in his early life, having lost it after trying to defend his older brother Jace and his cousins from his uncle Aemond. If anything, it had helped to encourage and fuel the resentment their families felt for one another. And you had been there to witness the tense aftermath of the situation.

Your mere presence was enough to comfort Lucerys when you were just young children; you had a shoulder for him to cry on if he wished to grieve his eye, until he became used to living with it. “The loss of your eye is a symbol of the courage you had to confront your uncle, and defend your loved ones,” you constantly reminded him, embracing him tightly whenever he needed you. And the comfort he so desperately sought for, was always found in you.

You had always been there for the Velaryon prince, before and after the incident with his eye. But, there was something in that constant warming comfort you provided for him, that made Lucerys feel as if he could melt right under your love and attention. Perhaps, it was something he had been feeling deep down inside of him without even admitting it to himself, you were supposed to be just a good friend — but during the aftermath of his eye loss, nothing else mattered to you except his well-being.

You made sure to spend as much time as needed with him, offering comfort and love; which made Luke realise, just how perfect you were in every sense. Hardly any other woman could possibly compare to the inner and outer perfection you so gracefully carried.

The years passed by, and his personality simply grew to be more of a cold, and reserved one; compared to the timid, innocent boy Lucerys used to be. You couldn’t complain — his personality around you remained as endearing and gentle as it always used to be, though a bit more overprotective. You had grown to be as delicate as glass, precious as the petal of a flower; how could Luke not be protective over you? Especially since he was particularly fond of you... In more than just a friendly way.

Every boy, Prince, and Lord had their eyes fixed on you whenever you passed by, occasionally getting to flirt with you and making you laugh. Lucerys was never exactly proud of this, especially when another man tried to flirt with you in front of his face. He always kept a close eye on you, and made sure to advert your attention away from those men with any excuse that came to him. Jealousy ran on his blood like a fiery venom, and it was impossible for him to hide it — yet, you never realised the obvious intentions he had of keeping you away from anyone who wanted to compete against him for your affection.

Lucerys’ efforts where never in vain, they worked just the way he wanted. You always gossiped with Lucerys about whatever man tried to woo you, laughing to yourselves at your own remarks — and it never seemed as if you were interested in anyone else, except Lucerys when his presence was near your own. Compared to him, you weren’t exactly discreet when your gaze was fixed on his features, and to him, that was something to hold great pride for.

As you had always done since childhood, you sat under a large tree that you both considered your secret spot. The weight of his head rested peacefully on your lap, with his eye closed. One of your hands held a book, which you were reading outloud to him, and your other free hand mindlessly played with his dark curly hair. Both of you had managed to find a free space between your duties, deciding to spend some quality time together after quite some time of not having seen each other.

He now might be the Lord of Driftmark, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t visit you, and do the same things you had done since children. After all, the responsabilities that came with being a Lord were exhausting — could he not calmly rest with you, the woman that practically owned his heart, feeling your fingers mess with his hair and your soothing voice reading to him?

Pausing in between your lecture, you softly tilted your head towards him, admiring how peaceful he seemed with his head weighing on your lap. Teasingly, your fingers moved from playing with strands of his hair, and they moved to slowly caress the skin on his cheeks. “Have you fallen asleep already?” you inquired, with an amused voice tone and a growing smile at the corner of your lips.

Like your own, Lucerys couldn’t help but immediatly smile, softly chuckling as he opened his eye. “I am very well awake, love, and attentively listening to you.” his green eye stared at you admiringly, appreciating how the sunlight reflected gracefully on your features. The cold, reserved personality he had grown into, fortunately never affected your relationship.

Yes, Luke might have grown quieter and more kept to himself, but whenever you were near him all of that faded away — being the sweet, gentle boy Lucerys had always been with you. Except that, he might be quite a bit possesive around you; with no other Lord or Prince being allowed to flirt with you, just a mere cold glare with his eye as he stood by your side was enough to frighten them away.

A soft chuckle spurred from you as your fingernails playfully scraped on his skin to caress him. His eye felt heavy, feeling as if he could fall asleep right there at the mere sensation of your warm touch. “I have greatly missed you, Luke.” you began speaking, as his grin grew wider. “I’m quite content having been able to sneak away from our duties to be together. Your duties as the Lord of Driftmark are taking your attention away from me.”

Part of you said that as a jest, with both of you laughing softly at it, and another part of you was being wholeheartedly genuine. And having known you since childhood, he immediatly noticed that. Which left him quietly surprised, to hear suh confession — but Luke wasn’t going to deny the fact that he enjoyed having you clinging to him for his attention and care.

“I could say the same to you, byka jorraelagon.” lazily, he raised his hand. His fingertip lovingly caressed you under your chin, fixing his stare on your delicate features. “But don’t worry too much about it. None of my duties as Lord ever take you off from my mind, I can assure you.” a rosy hue smeared across your cheeks, nearly melting as his digit traced your skin under your chin. It seemed as if he knew exactly what to say, and how to touch you. It was satisfying enough for him to see your reaction, which was just the one he wanted.

Softly, you sighed, allowing him to keep stroking your skin. You had always longed for these private moments between the two of you, where you could do or say anything without caring for anything else. The smile that had grown at the corner of your lips dropped faintly, becoming a grimace as you frowned. Your expressions slowly turned into a despondent one, to which Lucerys immediatly noticed as his eye stared attentively at you.

Your own thoughts about enjoying solitude with him, escaping from your own responsibilities just to feel the warmth of each ofher’s presences, reminded you of your betrothal — and you were afraid such compromise would stand in the way of your meetings with Lucerys, in one way or another.

“What’s the matter?” he cooed calmly, noticing the change in your demeanor. You offered him a frowny smile. “Nothing, Luke. Everything is alright. Why?” as quick as you were in dismissing his concern for you, he wouldn’t leave it just there. “I know you. Your face says otherwise, something happened.” slowly, he stopped caressing you under your chin with his fingertip, just to rest his hands on his chest as Lucerys stared at you attentively.

“What happened? I need to know, (y/n).” Lucerys kept insisting, and you knew he wouldn’t give up so easily — not when he noticed something was troubling you. You huffed at the mere thought of it, beginning to shake your head in disappointment. “It’s just...” the words trailed off, hesitating for a moment before continuing. Your gaze lingered elsewhere, feeling how his eye was fixed on you.

“I have been betrothed— And... I’m afraid our moments together will not be as often as they currently are.” you managed to spill out. The words spurred mumbled, but they escaped from your lips, finally.

Moving your stare back to him, his expression was cold — yet, mixed with other emotions. Luke seemed confused, blankless, and yet... So impotent. Betrothals were a duty that no noble could ever from, it was a fate expected for you. But you should be betrothed to him. He could treat you so much better than any other mediocre, arrogant Lord. No one knew you better, than Lord Lucerys himself.

His head weightened further on your head, before he rapidly moved to sit by your side, instead of resting on your lap. His eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Betrothed?” he inquired in a low tone. “Betrothed to whom, exactly?” both your hands now laid on your lap, fidgeting anxiously with your own fingers. Bewilder was expressed all across his young features. Your eyes stared down at your fingers, nibbling on your lower lip discreetly.

“I have been betrothed into House Lannister.” you mumbled, “Specifically to Loren Lannister.” deciding to stare at him, you noticed his jaw clenched slightly. His hazel eye lowered it’s sight to the vividly green grass, thinking quietly to himself. You stared at him nervously, noticing the silence looming between of you, amidst the faint sounds of the birds chirping.

House Lannister. The Lannisters had quite a reputation of their own — he always thought of them as arrogant, petty, and proud of themselves. Out of all the noble Houses that there were, you had to be betrothed into House Lannister? “Velaryon” suits you better, anyways — the young Lord knew he would eventually get away with what was his. You were not getting married to some cheap Lannister, not under his watch. A pretty little thing such as yourself will not go to waste with the One Eyed Lord.

“I see.” Luke coldly retorted. Despite his clear bemuse at the abrupt news, he felt satisfied with himself — he knew how he would find his way to get you out of that dreadful betrothal of yours. And that way, you’d be entirely free for him once again. Offering a warm smile, the One Eyed Velaryon took your delicate hand lovingly, caressing your skin with his thumb. He felt invitingly soothing, making you mindlessly grin and become flustered at the touch of his digit on your flesh. “But don’t worry, my love. I’m certain your betrothal will not affect our frequent meetings.” His hand raised your own towards his rosy lips, pressing them gently against your knuckles to give them a loving kiss. The rosy hue tainted on your cheeks leisurely became a reddish tone, offering him a sheepish smile to hide away your shyness whenever Luke demonstrated tender affection towards you — an endearing type of affection that he never thought of giving to someone else. Doubt overwhelmed you at hearing his confident statement.

“Are you...” the warmth of his lips on your knuckles lingered, as he pulled away, staring at you with his only eye. Gods, how pretty you were when it was obvious you were melting for him. “Are you quite certain about it? What if... What if my betrothed dislikes the idea of us–” the young Lord shook his head, using his other free hand to place it on your cheek comfortingly. You immediatly gave into it, allowing your head to fall against the palm of his hand.

“Your betrothed will say nothing, because I will find a way of being together— as I always do.”

You meekly smiled at him, softly allowing some chuckles to spur from those beauteous lips of yours; clearly content at his determination.

You were endearingly sweet— so innocent. Of course the One Eyed Lord had everything mapped out to find his way to you, as he had always done ever since you were children. Your lame excuse of a betrothed was no challenge to him, as he had exactly planned out how to get rid of him; having you all for himself, without anyone to possibly disturb your relationship.

You didn’t belong in House Lannister, and much less in Casterly Rock. You beloged in House Velaryon — you belonged in Driftmark. And Lucerys wouldn’t have it any other way.

♡ taglist : ♡

@jacesvelaryons @jjamieberry @anemicroyalcore @countsmoon @beeebo234 @manuholland6 @capellaadara @kyuupidwrites @tchatso @phantasyy @tasty-nutella @mstxdes @valeriecash @cookielovesbook-akie @zzz000eee @bellarkeselection @feliuuuksks @visenya-reigned @maria699669 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @sweethoneyblossom1 @jamiemydeer @snowprincesa1 @leannathespacewerewolf

#lucerys velaryon x reader #lucerys velaryon x reader smut #still waters run deep #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon x reader smut #hotd smut #hotd x reader smut #one eyed lucerys x reader #lord Lucerys x reader #lord lucerys velaryon x reader

[humanpurposes]

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause. 

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess. 

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond. 

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her. 

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that. 

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain. 

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy. 

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice– 

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty. 

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here. 

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him. 

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin. 

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter. 

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes. 

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.” 

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers. 

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again. 

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless. 

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy. 

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess. 

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

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[dpr-stay]

Love Lost! | LN4

Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: A little bit of the feels, jealous!Lando, hurt/comfort, happy ending, a little bit of drunken confessions but not really, childhood bestfriends to lovers bcs i love that trope.

WC: ~3.2K

Hiya, it's been a few weeks. I've been really busy and kinda lost my inspo to write, so this is me dipping my toe back in. Hopefully it's ok. NOT EDITED (not much has changed huh)

There comes a point in every young person's life where they must look back at what they have done and realise how they could’ve done it greater. Done it faster. Done it kinder. Done it better. Whether it be a choice, an action, or some words, reflection and acknowledgement are key milestones in the development of a person's life.

Lando has had many of these moments. Such as when he had first set foot in a kart, he should’ve done it earlier. His debut season, he should’ve done it better. His schooling, he should’ve put more effort in. The realization of his feelings for his childhood best-friend, he should’ve done it faster.

It was all he could think as his eyes caught you at the bar with some random nobody leaning over your side, obviously trying to chat you up. He took a sip of his surprisingly bitter drink as he watched. The drink shouldn’t have been bitter, it was some fruity cocktail he’d bought for you before you’d arrived, but the look you were giving the guy who you were talking to certainly made it so.

The tightening of his chest went unaddressed as his first clenched around the glass stem, his mind begging to ignore the way your smile had shifted from the fake one you gave to creeps to one not dissimilar from the way you smiled at him. An elbow jolted into his side, causing his eyes to draw away from the bar, though his mind remained around 15 feet away.

One of his mates, some guy he’d met a week ago who wasn’t after his money but wouldn’t say no to sixteen free drinks, looked at him concerned. Atleast Lando thought the look was concerned, he couldn’t exactly tell as the guy's face was hidden behind a pair of douchey shades. He shouldn’t think that though, he probably owned at least ten pairs that looked the exact same.

The guy moved his head again in a silent gesture and Lando nodded, hiding his suffering behind the pretense of not stopping this guy from getting laid, returning the silent gesture. He then shrugged before moving on, quickly running up to a group of girls and placing his arms around the shoulders of two, leaving Lando to continue stewing.

Really, it wasn’t stewing. He had no reason to ‘stew’. He’d only discovered he’d felt this way recently, he hadn’t been silently grudging for years. However, as his eyes moved back to the bar and watched as the guy's hand slid from your shoulder to your back, he could definitely feel the pot boiling over within him. 

You hadn’t moved though, there was no indication that you were uncomfortable from your body language, so Lando had to accept that he wasn’t able to intervene. He trusted you as much as he liked you unfortunately, so he knew that you’d walk away or even signal if you didn’t like where this was going. He couldn’t rush in and be a knight in shining armour if there was no damsel in distress, no matter how much he hated it.

He slid down in his seat, trying not to appear too stalkerish to any people at the club as he watched the two of you interact. Last thing he wanted was rumors of him being a voyeur spreading around the media. It wouldn’t be too far off with the way the guy you were talking to was going. His hand was still sliding lower, moving from your mid back all the way down till it met the seat of the chair.

Lando could hardly hear the music pumping through the club, only focused on your body language. One slight flinch or look of discomfort and Lando would take that as his cue to storm over and create such a row that he would be heard in Azerbaijan. 

However, you didn’t move away. Lando could only watch as you adjusted in your seat, letting the guy's hand slide under your behind. You definitely didn’t need any help. The drink tasted almost acidic when Lando next took a sip, forcing himself to turn away from the bar. He came here for a good time, he didn’t need to see you getting it on.

He cleared his throat, though no one could hear him and no one had even paid attention to him in an hour. A quick glance around the club confirmed this, people engaged with their own activities while he was sat, watching someone he was in love with get hit on.

That’s not pathetic, is it? Lando thought it would be more pathetic if he acted on his impulses, walked over and stopped the random guy in his tracks. You’d probably be mad (would you?) and he didn’t think he could deal with it. Especially after watching what was happening in front of him.

I mean, you’d definitely been mad at him before, knowing a person for over a decade does that to someone, but he didn’t know how mad you would be. He’d never been in this situation before, one where he had to put his drink down and sit on his hands to stop them from punching the guy in the face. 

The fact that this was one hundred percent not healthy was all that Lando could think. He shouldn’t be putting himself through this, watching someone else touch you how you wanted to be touched. How he wanted to touch you.

God, he should leave. There was no point in staying here just to torture himself. He was a voyeur, not a sadist. He took a breath before chugging the drink you had insisted you couldn’t have because you wanted to pay for your own and then standing up and lumbering his way to the exit.

Doing the responsible thing, he arranged for an uber as he walked down the corridor to the door. The fresh air that greeted him sent a wave of feeling down his spine. He walked further away from the cue to get into the club, praying that no one would recognise him as he walked.

Luckily, no one did. Lando didn’t know if this made him feel better or worse.

It’s a funny thing, that. Lando normally liked being in the spotlight. Maybe it was growing up always being unwittingly compared to others, but he liked being special. Even in times Lando didn’t want to be recognised, because he truly didn’t at the moment, he still craved that little serotonin boost whenever someone would turn to him with stars in their eyes. 

It felt nice to be revered, nice to be seen as greater, all those things he didn’t consider himself. You’d always provided that for him. He didn’t want to come off as shallow or as a user, but your everlasting presence in his life, your consistent praise, had always made him feel good. 

God, that did make him come off as shallow. It went without saying, he thought, that he always tried to return the favour. The way you always smiled bashfully in response to his compliments always made his day brighter. 

He almost swore out loud into the empty street as he walked. He should’ve realised earlier. He’d never taken himself as the boy-next-door type, mostly because he was always someplace else, but the idea of domesticity with a person who he’d always been around, especially since it was you, made him feel incredibly warm inside. 

A warmth he doesn’t feel often. It had only come around a few times in his life, but the most notable would’ve had to have been around two weeks earlier. He was just lying in bed, you on the phone rambling about whatever you were now interested in.

Every one of his responses were some variation of “yeh” but that didn’t stop you. Eventually you’d tired yourself out and Lando had finally got a word in. He’d made some tired quip about you “never shutting up”. You’d responded in like, a joke about him not being able to keep up. You’d gone back and forth with your banter before eventually you’d both called it quits and said goodnight. 

Lando hadn’t even registered the fact he was about to say “I love you” as a sign-off before you’d hung up on him until the quiet beeping of his phone sounded. That had made him really, truly think about your years-long friendship, pondering about whether he had meant that platonically or romantically.

It hadn’t taken long for him to figure it out. After ten minutes an itching had settled in his mind that he should call you back and force you to continue talking. He missed your voice, even if it was you ranting about something he had no idea about. Even the thought of it had inspired a familiar warm feeling to bloom within him.

The warm feeling had still been present in the club, even if it was accompanied by the crushing weight of feeling mediocre. Lando almost scoffed at himself as he mindlessly kicked a rock as he walked. 

His earlier thoughts ran through his mind, cursing himself for thinking it pathetic to try and stand up for his own feelings. He should’ve said something at any point. Now you were probably dancing with the guy, ignoring the fact that Lando wasn’t even in the club.

That wasn’t true, of course. You were too kind. Something that Lando had always appreciated but made it incredibly hard in situations such as this one. The buzzing of his phone alerted him to this, a single text from you reading ‘Where r u?’

Completely inconspicuous but oh so characteristic. The shorthand made it clear you were busy, you were never one for abbreviations, but Lando refused to think about what you were busy with. He didn’t think you were ‘easy’, god no he wasn’t an ass, but he’d never seen you click so fast with someone to the point that you’d let them put their hands on you like that.

Lando didn’t know how to respond, instead checking the time on the Uber. There was no way that many people were getting Uber’s that it was a twenty minute wait. He could only sigh before scrolling back to your text. 

An answer that properly conveyed his dilemma evaded him, so he just replied with a ‘Going home’ before quickly tacking on a ‘Have fun :)’ because he felt it was rude not to. After hitting send, he put his phone in his pocket before leaning against the wall of the building closest to him, staring straight into the night sky. 

He’d only have a few minutes of respite before a familiar call of his name sounded in his ears. His head swung down out of shock, watching your hasty figure make your way towards him. You were swaying on the heels you were regretting wearing, your purse having your essentials halfway out of it.

“What the hell, man?” You asked as you stumbled closer, the drink you’d bought yourself making your already unsteady steps seem as though you’d fall over if you went too close to a crack in the pavement. 

He could only look on in incredulity as you stopped in front of him, one of your hands reaching for his arm to balance yourself. He quickly reacted, sweeping you into his side, before turning his head to look at you.

“I thought you were going to stay back.” His voice had a tone of question to it and you shook your head, swaying violently side from side as you moved it.

“No, I came with you. Gonna leave with you too.” Your words were mumbled as you spoke them, the drowsiness you felt becoming incredibly apparent. Lando tried not to react, though he found it incredibly hard. The knowledge that you’d never even planned to leave with anyone but him reassured him. The feeling he got from that reassurance made him slightly uncomfortable. As much as it made him regretful that he didn’t act earlier, no one owned you and you could do whatever you liked.

The words you spoke awoke a feeling that had been increasing ever since that phone call, the previous events of the night also hadn’t done it any favours. That feeling was protectiveness. 

“Would you like me to take you home?” He asked and you nodded against his side. He held you there while you swayed, thinking over what the feeling coursing through his veins entailed. Was it right to feel protective over something that definitely wasn’t yours?

Lando was left to ponder this as you both waited for the cab. He didn’t know if that question explicitly applied to this situation. Maybe you weren’t each others in a relationship sense, but you were definitely each others in a friendship sense. Hell, he’d consider himself yours in any circumstance. He just didn’t know if you thought the same.

As the Uber pulled up the curb, Lando walked you both over. Quickly opening the door and guiding you in, he then rushed to the other side and got in the car. He gave the driver the address of your house before leaning back into his seat.

It took approximately five seconds after the car had started that your head fell on his shoulder. He froze, not daring to move a muscle in fear that he would disrupt your sleep. A quick glance down out of the corner of his eyes showed that you actually weren’t asleep, you were staring up at him. Your eyes looked as though they were shining as they stared at him, and he couldn’t help the heat rushing to his cheeks

Your expression looked starstruck, as though you’d never seen him before. He quickly tapped your shoulder in a silent ‘you okay?’ gesture. You didn’t respond, causing him to look down and look at you.

Unknowingly, he had positioned you at eye level with each other. He could feel the breaths escaping your lips as you breathed out, the closeness a feeling he decided he would cherish because of the highly unlikely chance of ever feeling it again.

Or he could call it, lean in and deal with the repercussions. He was tempted, of course, it would be such an easy way to just rip the bandaid off. He wouldn’t have to deal with a confession or the rejection. He could just lean in for a few seconds then open the door of the Uber and roll out, never having to see you again to face the rejection he could sense. 

After a few seconds he pulled the plug, deciding that the longer he held his head so close to yours, the creepier it came off. Neither of you talked the rest of the journey, relying on the old tunes of Oasis that the driver decided to put on.

Eventually, you arrived at your address. One look at Lando convinced him to walk you inside. He’d call another Uber, regardless of wait times.

You opened the door to your building, holding it open for Lando which he acknowledged with a smirk. You just rolled your eyes, the moment from the Uber well and truly passed. Regardless, you both moved to your elevator, moving in as you clicked the button of your floor. 

There wasn’t many people around, it was too late, so it was just you and Lando in the elevator. A space that would normally be full of conversation was unusually quiet. 

Lando knew why he was quiet, he was recalling the moment in the Uber, slightly mourning what could’ve happened if only he was braver. He didn’t know why you were quiet, probably thinking about how weird he was acting.

But, frankly, the night was almost over. Just another couple of minutes and Lando could start the journey home, able to think over how that man had touched you and how he would never be able to do that. He should definitely try to move on. It would be too uncomfortable to spend a long amount of time secretly loving his best friend.

The lift dinged and you both walked over, moving side by side down the corridor till you eventually reached your door. You both paused outside your door. You didn’t make any move to grab your key and instead just looked at Lando, an unfamiliar look on your face. You almost seemed resigned. Lando didn’t know why.

You then sighed before moving to your purse, rummaging for a second before pulling out your key. A quick turn and your door was open. You turned back to Lando, a small smile on your lips.

“Goodnight Lando.” You said sweetly and Lando returned the gesture quietly, pulling you in for a small hug. After you separated, you seemed to hesitate for a second before shaking your head and going inside. Lando watched you close the door and heard it click before he called out one last ‘goodbye’.

Except the words that left his lips were not ‘goodbye’. They were ‘love you’. Completely unconscious slip of the tongue but it resulted in Lando completely freezing. How the hell had he done that?

He couldn’t hear any footsteps from your side of the door and Lando was left gaping as he processed what he said and the fact that you definitely heard. It was way past the time to say it was an accident when he regained any sort of agency.

He immediately turned away from your door, poised as though to make a getaway. However, the sound of your door opening stopped him. Oh god, how was he going to write this off.

He slowly turned, making eye contact with you as you stood in the doorway of your apartment. Your expression was more shocked than blank, but it was definitely on the border. He could see the question in your face, but he could only respond with his completely gobsmacked expression.

He didn’t know what you took this to mean, but you smiled. A bright smile. A smile more radiant than any one he’d seen you give the man from the bar. It took you a second to gather your thoughts to speak, he could see you formulating something to say in your mind.

“I love you too.” Was your response and if Lando’s jaw could drop further, it did. He was not expecting any of this. If he were to confess his feelings, he thought there would’ve been a lot more of his tears involved and a lot more planning. However, here you were, shyly returning his feelings. A smile that matched your own spread across his face and you giggled at his reaction.

“Really?” He asked dumbly, something you’d tease him about later. You nodded.

It took him less than two seconds to cross from where he was standing awkwardly in the corridor to your door frame, and it took him even less time to kiss you.

And, for once, Lando felt relieved that he didn’t do anything a different way.

hope you likey

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #f1 oneshot #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando norris reaction #lando norris fic #yipee!!!

[running-with-kn1ves]

MASKED INTRUDER PT 3 I BEGGGGG, ugh, clingy inexperienced yandere + language barrier + overeager and aggressive + needy needy needy, He is perfect! Honestly i had a spiral and came straight here to read my comfort fics and i forgot how much i loved that one 🥺 leooooo

A/N: Still not sure what I should do about Leo's origins; I've had some thoughts but nothing really planned out. Anyway thank you lots anon!

Here's Pt. 1 and Pt. 2 Word count: 2400

TW: Possessiveness, jealousy, threats of murder, razor blades, average creepy dude living in your walls behavior

Synopsis: An unexpected guest comes over, causing chaos to ensue.

The sensation of soap under your fingernails and warm water running down your forearms was one of comfort that you openly welcomed. You couldn't remember the last time you took a bath, and you could hardly count this bathing of your 'roommate' as a bath of your own.

But with your shirt soaked and your forehead damp, you finally had what could be mildly considered a clean version of Leo.

He begrudgingly sat on the cool tile floor, allowing you to ruffle his hair with a bath towel (which was really a poor attempt to manage the mess of loose, lengthy curls on his scalp.) He needed a haircut for sure, but you couldn't muster up the courage to put the scissors to his head. 

Getting him out of the house to an haircut appointment would never happen. To say he was agoraphobic was a complete understatement-- he abhorred the outside world. You sometimes think about what would've happened If you hadn't taken pity on him, allowing him to continue to find refuge in your tiny home. Or, was it perhaps he was allowing you? Until, he found that you wouldn't suffice as a worthy roomate any longer, disposing of you like he could've done to whoever originally owned this home. The mystery surrounding his origin that he seemed to completely ignore answering on still made you… cautious.  

He still felt like an extension of the house; the smell of its creaky, rotting walls, still always clinging to him-- even now, after you scrubbed him down from head to toe twice. 

You grunted as you roughly tugged his head back and forth to rub the remaining water away. Unfortunately, that left you with a frizzy Leo with more hair spun out of control than you knew what to do with. 

He blindly searched for the towel behind him without turning his head, yanking it away when he felt it in his fingers. 

"Do it myself…" he mumbled croakily, like a rusted music box. 

"Alright." You said, slightly offended. You held your hands in front of you dramatically, watching Leo wrap himself with the towel.

He looked so frail like this, on the bathroom floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. His scrawny frame hardly gave him any weight either, even if he was above six foot. You wondered if he really could hurt you, if-- he ever had the urge, to stab you with the rusty razor blade you watched him grip after he came out of the walls once company left. 

How long would it be? Until he snapped,  until one argument was just too much, and you were no longer his favorite person in the world. Tonight was one of those nights, where you imagined yourself bleeding out on the floor, Leo standing above you with that blade, or perhaps a knife from the kitchen-- the one you noticed had gone missing a few days prior.

Your fear wasn't out of place despite how many times you tried to rationalize how stupid it was. 

Several hours earlier, before Leo was as clean as he was now, you had a guest over. 

It was an old university friend, a guy you met in your first year during some odd end prerequisite or math class-- You couldn't remember. But it didn't matter, at least not to Leo. 

The moment the "intruder" sat down, you heard Leo's presence shift behind him. You could see his black eyes peering in and out of the holes in the dining room, sounds of his sporadic shuffling echoing throughout the house. You cringed everytime your friend looked up and around himself in confusion, curious of the noise. 

"It's just rats," you cover, kicking the wall behind you with a force that should've knocked down the drywall. The sound of Leo letting out a thump of retaliation nearly made your smile crack.

 You had rescued your university pal several times over the course of that night, finding the dead bugs in his drink before he could've noticed, and shutting Leo back into his hiding spots anytime you saw his hand or leg peek through, when he occasionally got the courage to try and dispose of the 'threat.'

It wasn't until your guest had asked to use the bathroom however, that Leo managed to gain a win. Cursing and yelling from the locked door made you panic, the few minutes of silence in the living room having seemingly tricked you of peace. You should’ve known that silence never meant a good thing. 

Sprinting to the bathroom, you got there in time to find your old friend covered head to do in dust and dirt, the bathroom vent still emitting a cloud of grey. Dust fell from the vent, spraying with the blow of the air conditioning. 

"Stop!" You screamed, kicking the back of the bathroom wall multiple times in retaliation. The dust immediately lessened, flecks still falling into your hair. You grunted and cursed, seeing the disaster your bathroom had become and the filth your friend was left in. 

It was safe to say you escorted him quickly out thereafter, blaming the “malfunction” on your worse for wear vent ducts. His confused expression lingered as you walked him out the door. Your horrible cover ups had you questioning whether or not he was convinced but thankfully there seemed to be some sort of unspoken understanding-- maybe he knew you had to be going through something from how odd your behavior was all night-- or maybe it was just misplaced pity.

 Either way, you were relieved to watch him exit the door with a washcloth you knew you’d never get back, telling him to be safe on his way home with a wry smile. 

Shutting that door was the biggest relief ever. The last person you'd want to know about your odd roomate situation was one of the few people in the world who had preconceived standards of you. 

You had never worried about Leo when you had groups of friends over; he never dared to leave from his hiding spot when more than one foreign person entered the house. But this time, it had been a single unknown entity, and a male one at that. You felt the realization hit you directly in the gut as your back laid against that cool wooden door, the sounds of Leo leaving one of his more trickier, less clean hiding spots echoing in the house.

"Leo?" You called out, a slight inflection of annoyance in your voice. 

You watched him crawl out of the large vent in your hallway, the metal grate coming off as two dirty hands forced it to the floor. Leo shimmied his way out of the tiny crawlspace, clouds of dirt coming with him as his legs finally came free. 

Scrambling up, the male blew dust out of his mouth, wobbly getting to his feet. With a sly glare and a satisfied expression, Leo looked towards to you silently; smugly. 

Pinching his ear and dragging him to the bathtub had been your first approach at reprimanding him; but it had done nothing to deter him. Leos silentness and resentful, pouting face left you to scold a brick wall, his rigidness extending to his body's heavy limbs and sluggish pace. 

Even now while slowly rubbing the towel back and forth on his scalp, his face turned away defiantly. 

A quiet moment passed as you watched him scrub himself dry. 

"I just… I don't understand why you have to act this way." 

Leo stopped. His head had been hanging low, thin wrists resting on his knees as water droplets rolled down the ends of his hair. His hand-me-down stretched pajamas covered his chest and thighs. You never thought an old pair of basketball shorts and a faded grey shirt would look so good on him, but you couldn't help to linger on his fingers and the curve of his neck muscles. 

Without warning Leo stood up, pushing off the ground with one hand as he held the towel loosely in the other. 

"What're you doing?" You question.

He wouldn't face you; his mask prosthetic was left on the edge of the tub, and without it-- well, it was impossible to make eye contact with him.

Leo reached for the light witch next to the shut bathroom door, flipping it without a word.

As soon as you saw him pull the light switch the color drained from your face. 

You didn't speak, waiting in the dark to see what Leo's next move would be. Maybe he hid that Razor blade somewhere in his clothes, and was aiming it at you right this second. 

"If you're gonna--"

"Shh." A voice hushed. 

The warmth of flesh was pressed against your lips. It was a finger; hot breath fanned above you,  the finger on your lips turning to a hand that cupped your cheek. Your face was held so securely, being tipped upwards as he stood leering above you. The bathroom was quiet save for the dripping of the bath pipe, and Leo's heavy breathing. 

Leo reached for you, awkwardly climbing atop your lap. He stumbled at first, but the way he curled his arms around your back, you felt like you couldn't let him go.

His nose nestled into the crook of your neck, crumpling into you like an animal looking for warmth. 

"I don't share…Don't like it.." he mumbled.

"What?"

"Things, my things.." He started, the sounds of his labored breaths hitting your ear. "Don't like it when… strangers touch… my things."

"Wai--Leo!" 

You couldn't help but search for his eyes in the dark, doing a happy little wiggle with him in your arms.

"Your voice has improved so much!" You beamed. He hadn’t spoken since the incident, and before that-- well, it took a lot to get him where he was.

“See, I knew pushing you would pay off.” You beamed, gloating in the feeling of success after remembering all the painful vocabulary lessons and hours of his stubborn behavior when you refused to answer his nonverbal pleads. 

Leo’s quietness as you pinched his ear beneath his fluff of loose curls gave you time to snap back to reality-- remembering the words he just spoke. Leo basked in the praise, gripping onto your damp shirt as he ignored your change in expression. 

The obvious possessiveness made you nearly cringe; this is exactly what you were trying to avoid. 

“But Leo, I’m not just yours- I’m everybody’s. There are other people my time has to be shared with--”

You were cut off with the flick of an all too familiar razor blade, twirling in Leos fingers.

“Then….I’ll kill them.” 

“....Kill?”

Leo leaned up, bringing his face closer to yours than he’d ever done before.

“I… wanna kill. Him. Kill….all of them..” His eyes were wide in the dark, and you could see the faint outline of the scars running down his face. You stared hard into his eyes, witnessing the fear and paranoia in them. “They’ll take.. You away. He will.” His throat was getting raspier, more raw. 

“Leo, you know you can’t say things like that..” You softened. He sounded so small, you could hardly believe his words. But in the back of your mind, alarm bells and bright red warning signs were going off. 

You reached for his face, hoping to hold it in your hands, feel the warmth of his skin. But Leo stopped you, holding your wrists. He rejected you from touching his face, again; had things truly changed? Had you made any progress with him?

And like clockwork, Leo reached for his mask, by the bathtub, sitting comfortably on your lap as he faced you. 

He adjusted the prosthetic on his face, resting it snugly as the back clipped. 

“You really wanna stop me from kissing you that badly?” You joked. 

But then the mask was lifted, just slightly, as Leos lips came closer for yours. Now that you brought the idea up, he wouldn’t let it go. 

“Kiss..” He mumbled, trying to reach for your face.

“Ah ah,” You waved a finger at him. “Don’t think I’m going soft after what you just said.” Leo let you push your two fingers against his lips, puckering them. “We’ve talked about this; what did I say?”

“Killing is….it is,” 

“It’s wrong, Leo.” 

“Its.. wrong.” He whined, bringing your other hand to his chest. He didn’t want it to be wrong, he wanted you to let him run wild and do what he knew he needed to do--”

“Promise me, Leo.” You pulled your hand slightly away. “Promise me you won’t.. Hurt anyone. Okay?”

He went quiet, letting a small grunt out as you kept pulling away the longer he stayed quiet. 

“Say it.”

“Fine… okay.” He croaked. 

You went limp and let him hold you close to him, his face leaning close as he looked for your approval. 

“Kiss..?” He mumbled again, following where your head turned to catch your lips. 

“Only because you’re finally being good..” You let him grab your chin like a cat pawing at you, his other hand nestled into your hair. “But you really don’t deserve this, especially after toni--”

You were cut off with a hungry lick, Leo’s mouth twisting against yours as the mask bumped against your nose. He lifted it just a bit higher, concealing only half of his face as he leaned deeper into you. His mouth was as warm as usual, but you could feel his warn down jealousy still through the rush of his lips.You wondered if you should really be rewarding him now after all he tried to pull. 

 A guttural purr released from his throat when he broke free from your mouth with a huff, running his hand down your back. He tried to pull your hair out of your face with his free hand, leaning for another kiss. 

“Wait Leo,” You put a hand in front of your lips, the other out with your palm up. “Give it to me first.”

Leo let out a dramatic sigh. He sat for a moment, stubbornly waiting to see if you’d really push him or let it go. 

“Come on now,” You beckoned with your hand. 

Huffing with frustration, Leo took as slow as possible to pull the razor blade from his pants.

#writing #x reader #reader insert #yandere #self insert #yandere x reader #male yandere #fanfiction #stalker #stalker x reader #obsession #possessive x reader #possessive #possessive yandere #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #masked yandere #tw yandere #horror #horror romance #dark fantasy #obsessive #obsessive yandere

[flagbridge]

The Raoul (de Chagny) Navy: An Exploration of the Vicomte's Naval Background:

Our beloved Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny, is a young junior officer in the French Navy ("le Royale"), but this hardly gets much exploration. It's a detail that is often glossed over--I anticipate because Naval historians and Phans often do not have much Venn diagram overlap--until now. Let's just say my username is a Naval reference.

Note: the "Raoul Navy" is not my invention--our hilarious and wise "Phantom Dark Web" friends at Leroux Less Traveled (incl. @box5intern) came up with it, and I love it.

I've started digging into book Raoul and his Naval background and turns out we are missing out a whole lot about Raoul's character background if we don't dig into it. So I'm going to tell you what the book tells us and what that means. I'm going to give you the overall pieces up front, and then explain:

Raoul looks very young and feminine (except for his "little" mustache, which he effectively has grown to prove that he can)--and everyone treats him like a baby

Raoul at this point has already completed three years of Naval training including a world tour, so he is fairly experienced and even worldly for his age. He is described in the French as a "cadet", but he would likely be a sub-lieutenant at this point since he has graduated from the Naval Academy.

He's on a six month leave before going on a very dangerous mission to recover remains of a lost Arctic mission--a mission he himself is unlikely to return from.

And everyone still treats him like he's a baby (especially the old dowager widows), even though he has had quite a bit of life at this point--so he has something to prove.

What we know about Raoul and the Navy (Here is the English):

"He was admirably assisted in this work first by his sisters and afterward by an old aunt, the widow of a naval officer, who lived at Brest and gave young Raoul a taste for the sea. The lad entered the Borda training-ship, finished his course with honors and quietly made his trip round the world. Thanks to powerful influence, he had just been appointed a member of the official expedition on board the Requin, which was to be sent to the Arctic Circle in search of the survivors of the D'Artois expedition, of whom nothing had been heard for three years. Meanwhile, he was enjoying a long furlough which would not be over for six months; and already the dowagers of the Faubourg Saint-Germain were pitying the handsome and apparently delicate stripling for the hard work in store for him."

We also learn in another paragraph that the de Chagnys had admiral in the family, so the Naval connection is likely a family business for second sons. Raoul is a second son, so a career as a military officer would have been a distinguished career for him.

Borda: First ship

Brest is the main port of the French Navy and home of the Ecole Navale (or French Naval Academy. In the 20th Century it moved, but Brest is still, along with Toulon, a major naval base)

According to the French: Le jeune homme entra au Borda, en sortit dans les premiers numéros et accomplit tranquillement son tour du monde (Note that the French calls him a "young man", not a lad)

The Borda is traditionally the training ship of the French Navy, and there have been six of them. This would have been a cadet/midshipman cruise for Raoul. He would have been on the ex-Valmy, an 120-gun ship of the line, which became the Borda training ship in 1864.

The Borda is also the ship of the Ecole Navale (French Naval Academy)—this means that Raoul attended the academy.

The Naval Academy is two years in Brest, and then their third year is the World Tour—so that timing also aligns with where we are in the book. Raoul would have begun at the academy at 18, and he is at the start of the book, 21 years old.

After the Borda, which he completed with honors, he did an uneventful world tour.

This would have been his third year, still as a midshipman.

He could have been assigned to any ship for this training cruise—possibly a cruiser (the d'Estang is pictured below in 1884 in Algiers), which did long range missions. Note: Their max speed was about 15 Knots (which is a very respectable speed that some warships still transit).

This world tour cold have been as far east as what is now Vietnam, or through the Suez--but likely near French colonies.

With influence, he is assigned to the Requin expedition.

French: Grâce à de puissants appuis, il venait d'être désigné pour faire partie de l'expédition officielle du Requin, qui avait mission de rechercher dans les glaces du pôle les survivants de l'expédition du d'Artois, dont on n'avait pas de nouvelles depuis trois ans.

The Requin was a real ship in the Mediterranean fleet, but did not go on its first mission until 1885, which means that this is a deliberate or unintentional oversight of either Leroux himself or his narrator. The Requin was a steel hull—and the Artois was actually a 18th century Royal Navy ship so this piece is a complete fabrication. However, Arctic missions at this time were frequent and tended not to go well.

However, Raoul could also be excited about getting to go on a new steel-hulled ship. The Redoutable was already in commission—commissioned in 1876.  Most of the rest of the fleet at this point were ironclads.

#naval history #phantom of the opera #raoul de chagny #vicomte de chagny #amwriting #phandom #military history #warships #poto #gaston leroux #the raoul navy #french navy #le royale #raoul navy

[luvkyu]

i want to be with you ( lee jeno )

jeno x male!reader

jeno struggles with his feelings toward one of his uni roommates.

content : 2k words, angst to some fluff, suggestive !!, university!au

"do you guys know where jeno is?"

donghyuck looked over at y/n from the sofa while shaking his head. chenle sat beside him, his eyes staying glued to the tv.

y/n sighed at his roommates and went back to his room. the pair were too indulged in their video game to have a care about where their fourth roommate was. jeno often disappeared from the dorm without a word, but after an intimate night with y/n, the latter expected maybe a note or text instead of waking up alone.

after moving into the dorm only a few months ago for the new year at their university, y/n's feelings for jeno started to grow steadily. and since they shared a small room, it was hard to avoid him. that is until things started unraveling between them. y/n felt like he hardly ever saw jeno anymore until the night time rolled around. they'd spent the last couple nights together closely, crossing the line from friends to.. something else.

y/n was cut from his thoughts as the bedroom door opened suddenly, entering jeno in all his glory. y/n felt his chest tense up at the sight of the male. he assumed jeno had a morning session at the gym, as he looked like he'd been sweating with his sleeveless top and faint odor following him.

y/n's heart slowly plummeted to his stomach with the realization that jeno's eyes were falling just about anywhere but him. he frowned and placed his hands behind his back to fidget with his fingers. jeno continued to rummage around in their closet, picking out a new outfit for the day.

"are you showering?" y/n inquired. his voice remained quiet with his nervousness.

"yeah."

y/n's brows furrowed at the answer. that's it? they spent the whole night together in bed, and that's all he gets in the morning?

"want company?" he asked again, trying to give jeno the chance to talk more.

jeno finally looked at him for a moment, the corner of his lips now twitched upwards. he tossed his chosen outfit over his shoulder and walked closer to y/n, their faces centimeters apart now.

"if the others weren't in the next room, i would. another time, okay babe?" he answered before departing again.

y/n nodded while swallowing the lump in his throat. he watched jeno open and close the door of their room again, disappearing behind it. he couldn't avoid the fact that any little thing jeno did made his heart thump against his chest, especially when jeno teased him. but this wasn't the first time the male had done something like this, basically blowing y/n off, and he was getting very tired.

the day passed faster than y/n realized, but even with what felt like a short day, he was exhausted. he just returned to his dorm from his last class and the only thing he wanted to do was get into bed. however, that wasn't very realistic. he had some studying to do and he needed to eat at least a snack for dinner.

after making a small sandwich, he brought it over with him to his desk and laid out all the study materials he needed. jeno's absence in their room did not go unnoticed either, but y/n paid it no mind as he was a bit upset with him anyways.

only fifteen minutes into working and y/n was already frustrated. his brain was tired and his body just wanted something soft to lay on. he tossed his pencil onto the desk and rubbed his face in anguish when a soft knock came from his door.

he knew it wouldn't be jeno, as he never knocked. at least not softly. it was his room too, after all.

y/n got up with a sigh and opened it to reveal his best friend, renjun. he felt like he'd just received a breath of fresh air at the sight of him and quickly hugged him before renjun could comprehend what was happening.

"are you okay?.." renjun asked in surprise.

y/n didn't answer, only hugging him tighter.

"i'll take that as a no?" renjun worried.

"no, i'm fine. just really needed a hug."

renjun pulled away and looked at him, easily seeing his heavy eyes and messy hair. he then saw y/n's study materials covering his desk.

"c'mon, let's go for a walk," he said as he grabbed his friend's hand. y/n looked at him in confusion.

"i have work to do, renjun.."

"take a break. you look like ass."

y/n rolled his eyes, though he knew the other probably wasn't wrong. he followed renjun out of his dorm and onto the streets of their campus. renjun decided not to say much as he knew his friend would speak up if he needed to. as much as he cared for y/n, he tried not to pester him unless it was for his own good.

y/n looked at his shoes as he walked, his mind overloading with thoughts.

"..i slept with jeno."

renjun's head instantly turned with wide eyes.

"you what?!"

y/n failed at hiding his smile and slightly pink cheeks, nodding.

"wait so," renjun began. "you mean you slept together, like you fucked?!"

y/n rolled his eyes, but continued to nod.

"holy shit!!" renjun bounced up and down in excitement. "i knew he liked you back! i knew it! so what now? are you dating?"

this is where y/n's smile fell. renjun gazed at his friend in confusion from his change in attitude.

"we, um.." y/n trailed off.

"you what?.."

y/n looked down again, a bit embarrassed.

"well, we aren't dating.. last night was really great. we talked and kinda ended up confessing and before we knew it, we were both in my bed. and then this morning, he was gone when i woke up. he only went to the gym, but i was a little disappointed that he didn't stay with me. and when he got back to the dorm, he didn't say much. i offered to join him in the shower, but he said no because donghyuck and chenle were in the common room unlike last night."

renjun processed the information before speaking up.

"i'm sorry but hasn't donghyuck like, shaken the walls with his partner?"

y/n snickered at the question.

"many times. i usually just leave or get my headphones. maybe jeno's just more private.. or maybe he's not come out to them," he suggested. renjun frowned while the pair sat themselves down on a bench.

"can i be honest?" renjun asked. y/n sighed and nodded. "well.. hasn't he done this kind of thing before? where things are good between you, and then he blows you off like it doesn't matter?"

"yeah.."

"so he's a jerk who's adding himself to my punch on sight list," renjun muttered, salt laced in his tone. "or i guess.. maybe he's not fully come to terms with his sexuality, like you said," he added annoyedly.

y/n looked down at his hands that were now enveloped in renjun's, which the latter connected in efforts to comfort him.

"..so maybe he's just being weird about liking boys?"

renjun nodded with a small frown.

"you should talk to him about it," renjun urged. y/n finally looked up to see his soft eyes. he nodded and smiled weakly.

"thanks, injunnie."

"anytime, bub," renjun comforted.

after a minute, they got up from the bench with their hands still connected. they began walking before renjun felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. he quickly took it out and checked his notifications, resulting in a meek smile turning on his lips.

"what?" y/n asked. renjun didn't answer for a second as he typed with one hand.

"..it's jaemin. do you mind if i..?"

y/n's eyes widened in realization and nodded quickly.

"oh, yes! go, go! have fun!" he beamed. renjun smiled as a thank you before the duo unlinked hands. "use protection!" y/n shouted after him. renjun turned back for a moment to give him a thumbs up before continuing to speed off.

y/n stood for a minute to look after his friend. he was glad to see him so happy.

"hey."

y/n jumped at the voice that was suddenly behind him. he turned with a hand over his heart to see his roommate.

"fuck, jeno!" he said, exasperated. he caught his breath while jeno just smirked at him.

"you could be moaning that instead, y'know," jeno reminded him. y/n looked up at his sly smile, unaffected. usually a line like that would've sent fireworks off in his stomach, but he was too angry right now.

"i could be, but i'm not," he responded dryly. jeno's grin dropped as he watched y/n walk past him in the direction of their dorm.

"so, are you and renjun a thing now?" jeno questioned while catching up to him. y/n scoffed.

"no?"

"but you were holding hands."

"so? best friends can hold hands," y/n shot back as he paused to stop and look at jeno directly. "especially when one of them is upset about something and needs some comfort."

jeno's brows furrowed.

"you're upset? with me?" he asked again. y/n rolled his eyes.

"do you not expect me to be upset when one minute i think you like me, and the next you barely say a word to me?"

jeno's heart stung from y/n's raised voice. he looked around for a second, barely meeting the other students' gazes on the small scene they'd made.

"i'm sorry.. i'm not the best at.. this, yet." he apologized, his voice quiet. y/n's face softened.

"i can understand that, really. but honestly, i don't have the emotional energy to sit around and wait for you to be ready to be with me. i like you a lot, but i can't be the person waiting for your attention in the shadows."

jeno looked down and nodded, feeling a small urge to cry. y/n sighed and raked a hand through his hair.

"c'mon.. let's go back to the dorms. i'm exhausted," he said as he continued walking now. jeno could feel a couple people still staring at them, but tried to ignore it.

"y/n, i.." jeno paused, then sighed. "you're right. i'm sorry i treated you that way.. i really, genuinely want to be with you."

y/n didn't know what to do. he wanted to believe him, but how was he supposed to know that jeno wouldn't neglect him later in front of his friends or their roommates?

"you'd really want to be with me even in front of all these people on campus right now?" y/n asked. jeno looked around again silently, making y/n continue to walk away.

jeno followed suit after a moment, still in deep thought. his eyes landed on y/n's hands as they swayed back and forth with his strides. he decided to walk faster until he was beside the male and gently slip his hand into y/n's grasp.

y/n's head turned quickly to his crush, who smiled.

"i want to be with you. right now. even in front of all these people. in front of anyone," jeno reiterated, his voice more confident. a small blush stained over y/n's cheeks.

"alright.. but i'm holding you to that. if you blow me off again i'll punch you," y/n replied, intertwining their fingers now.

"..but what if i like blowing you?" jeno asked, stifling a small laugh. y/n sighed and gently swat at his shoulder.

"shut up."

jeno finally laughed at y/n's response, squeezing his hand before they continued walking back to their dorm together.

#jeno #lee jeno #jeno x male reader #nct x male reader #kpop x male reader #nct x reader #nct dream #nct dream x male reader #jeno x reader

[split-spectrum]

Concessions

Chapter 3

Pairing: Obi Wan/FemReader

Tags: SMUT (MDNI), oral sex (male receiving), orgasm denial, dubcon, noncon, Obi Wan gets chained to the wall and edged within an inch of his life

Description: Obi Wan chooses to undertake a trial that prevents him from sex for one year, and asks you to serve as his witness. As his close friend, you don't mind helping him.

☆☆☆

You should end this. 

For the sake of your friendship. For the promise you'd made to help him finish the Nikkama. For your own sanity. You should really end the call. But it seems too cruel, now, after what you've done. 

When you'd sent the pictures, the most you'd expected out of him had been irritation. Your goal had been to disrupt his thoughts; possibly to ruin his day with distraction, the way he'd ruined yours. Revenge may not be the Jedi way, but sometimes with Obi Wan it's so difficult not to give in to the urge to tease; to toy with him. Now, the only question left is how far you're willing to go to atone.

The right thing to do would be to shut off your commlink. To look into his glassy eyes, ignore his indecent, combative gaze, and click that impossibly merciful button. But no matter how long your finger rests at it, you can't bring yourself to press down. 

Obi Wan hasn't said another word. He's hardly moved. But what little patience may have remained in his expression when he'd answered is now gone. The deep blue of his irises is hidden within the gradient of the hologram, but the black of his stretched pupils is easy to pick up when he widens his eyes accusingly. As if to say, "Well?"

He's waiting, against his will, to be put out of his misery. Cut him loose; end the call, or...

"Give me a moment."

You shut off your commlink before he can respond, then dress yourself, tying your robes with clumsy, hurried fingers, and slip quietly out into the hallway.

Trying to remain true to your promise of only a moment while keeping your footsteps soft enough not to wake any of the other Jedi in their quarters, you reach Obi Wan's door, rapping twice before he opens it. You find him in a state of half-undress, trousers fastened at his waist, but mid-section still bare. He's pulled his arms through his light undershirt, still working on wrapping it around his torso and tucking it as he steps back from the door to let you in. 

"You're dressed," you say, struggling to keep your voice steady as you walk forward, closing the distance between you. "I said I would only be a moment."

He finishes tucking his shirt, the open neckline still giving ample view of the soft curls that are begging you to run your hands over his chest. "Yes, but a moment for what, you didn't quite say."

You look down his body, backing him toward the corner of a wooden dresser near the doorway. You line your hips up with his, watching as he mirrors you, either consciously or subconsciously. "You're awfully clever, Obi Wan. Let's not pretend it wasn't obvious."

His bright pink lips hang slightly open when he stares down at your hands, traveling upward. The blush begins to creep into his face. "I... couldn't possibly be so presumptuous."

Your hands find his stomach, your noses now inches apart, and the soft smirk on your face evaporates when you draw your gaze back up to his. Using your thumb to peel open his shirt, you loosen it from his waistband and slide your other hand across the warmth of his skin, feeling him shudder at the contact. 

Your lips naturally gravitate towards his, when suddenly a thought stops you painfully short: This isn't a passion-soaked tryst between two lovers. This isn't the closing of a romance that's long been harbored beneath the working partnership of two friends. This is you, helping him find relief, and nothing more. 

You drag your eyes away from his mouth, down to his neck, and the urge gushes to taste the skin there, too. Instead, you pull back while turning your hand down into his waistband. His eyes, which had been fixed on your face, roll to the ceiling. 

"You shouldn't-" He shifts, rubbing up against the dresser. "This is hardly-" he tries, not finishing either thought. 

One of his hands comes up to the small of your back, touching you with a respectful lack of weight or pressure, somewhere between holding you closer and warning you off. When you slither your palm between his legs and stroke it over the hot, dribbling length of him, though, he changes his grip. He grabs your waist and squeezes, looking down between your bodies, watching you touch him. 

You hadn't realized until now just how much you'd wanted his hands on you. Feeling him grip you hard, pulling you closer as his hips start to shallowly draw up with each pull of your hand - you're starting to ache. Bending the fingers of your other hand around the fabric, you start to pull down his trousers. 

His hand flies to your wrist, and you freeze. His eyes are closed, his breaths shallow. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. 

"No," he pants. "No, we- we can't."

He opens his eyes and you nearly pull away before you catch the way he's looking at you. It's clear he's being serious. But there's also... something else. A certain kind of frustration; almost desperation. 

You flatten your hand, grazing it over him, watching his eyes go foggy and his brows knead tight. He doesn't let go of your wrist, but he doesn't pull away. 

Suddenly, it all makes sense - why he chose you to help him in this; to be his witness. 

He trusts you. And more importantly, he knows you. He knows that when he needs it, you'll find a way to bend the rules, while allowing him to keep his lofty ideals intact. Because you've done it in the past, time and time again.

Though he'd never admit it, your willingness to compromise has often been an asset to him. You could skirt the rules, blurring the edges of the safe, moral choices, while he got to feign uninvolvement. Whether intentional or not, he'd chosen you because some part of him knew this.

And lucky for him, you know a path you can take, just as you always do. 

"Obi Wan, let me ask you something," you say, enjoying the unsteady breath he takes when you slide your thumb slowly up and down his shaft. "Do you trust me?"

You graze his head, then slip your hand away, and he drops your wrist, immediately gripping the edge of the dresser behind him. He gathers himself, and eventually, he nods. "Yes. Of course."

You straighten up, fixing his clothing back in place. "I hope you're not about to change your mind. Because I have an idea."

--

A few minutes later, after you've convinced him into one of the small cargo ships the jedi temple keeps on hand for communal use, Obi Wan is no further enlightened on the details, and he's starting to lose patience. 

"And why can you not just tell me the location?"

You force an easy smile, though your stomach is buzzing with anticipation. You need him to have faith that you know what you're doing. And you do. You convince yourself that you do. "I already gave you the coordinates."

You'd sent them directly from your commlink to the navicomputer, yet Obi Wan had insisted on flying manually. He glances down at the screen in front of him, with glowing numbers and no map. "Yes, somewhere in the Federal District. Very helpful. Is there a reason you haven't chosen to be more specific?"

With a smirk, you answer, "As I said before, you're clever enough to know the answer to that."

He glances out the window, clearly suppressing a scowl, then brings his attention back to the lane in front of him, shifting a hand to adjust his speed. "In other words, I won't like it."

You press your lips together, watching the shadows roll over him as you speed through the flashing lights of Coruscant nightlife.

"I never said that." You pause. "But you certainly wouldn't approve of it."

He shoots you another look, then brings his gaze forward again as you reach your destination. He can't take his eyes away from the monitor since he's in the middle of landing, but his scowl grows more pronounced. The Center for Republic Military Operations looms in front of you. 

"What in blazes are we doing here?"

"I thought you were trusting me."

He follows you down the ramp, keeping his voice low. "Yes, but the extent of my trust is rather proportional to the circumstance." He nods at a passing Coruscant Guard solider, then catches up to you. "And at the moment, they're about even."

You just smile. "Good. I can work with that."

You turn to enter the main building, Obi Wan trailing close behind. More soliders pass you on either side of the hallway as you make your way to security check-in. You walk past the manned stations and head straight to the automated keycard wall. You find the number you're looking for and enter your security code.

"You've dragged me here to work an extra shift in the detention cells?"

At that, you can't help but smile wider. You pick up the key card when it appears in the slot, then brush past him to head down the hallway. "In a manner of speaking."

You get the attention of one of the guardsmen as you near the end of the cell block. "Officer, we're conducting an investigation and we need to inspect cell 98. Please tell the other guards we are not to be disturbed."

The guard accepts your orders, assuring you they'll be passed along, and continues on his way. You swipe the keycard and, hesitatingly, Obi Wan follows you inside. You look both ways down the hall before closing the door, double-checking the lock. 

"Well, if you were looking for privacy, you've certainly found it, but that wasn't-"

"I wasn't looking for privacy," you interrupt, stepping toward him and reaching out. He looks around warily, but allows you closer. You take his wrists in your hands, walking him back. "I thought about what you said."

He raises his brows, saying nothing as you clasp around him gently at first, then start to firm your grip. "I do want to help you through this." 

His eyes widen and he glances behind you to the empty walls of the cell. "You don't need to-"

"Oh, I know that," you tell him sweetly, then press his arms upward. 

He pushes back, shaking his head as his back hits the wall. He hisses your name in admonishment. "The cams."

"Are broken," you assure him, lifting his arms above his head as his resistance lessens. "And the cells are soundproof, as you know."

"How do you-"

You activate the switch on the wall beside his hands. "I was down here last week with Master Sinube. We had to move some prisoners and we couldn't use this cell for that reason." The binders glow softly above Obi Wan's head. "Cams won't be fixed until next week."

He follows your gaze upward and a beat of silence passes. You wait for him to protest. You wait for him to rip his arms down and push you off. But all he does is drop his gaze and let out a low breath of air. The sound he makes, sighing softly through his nose, is disapproving, but the intensity of his stare betrays what he really wants. 

You press the button, locking the binders around his wrists, then stare back at him, watching the emotions swirl in his eyes. It's like you can see him traveling through all the same thoughts you'd had when this idea had come to you back in his quarters.

In any other scenario he would be giving in. He'd be at fault for not stopping you. But now... You've taken away his choice. You've lifted that burden from his shoulders. All he can do is protest. And you're ready to see if he's willing to do so, or pretend innocence as he's done so many times before.

You sink to your knees in front of him, sliding your palms down to his thighs, then running your hands up beneath his tunic. Your fingers curl at his waist, slowly dragging his clothes down, and you feel his cock twitch when you graze your thumb over the bunched fabric. You snap your eyes up, waiting from him to say the word. 

His chest is rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. His eyes are piercing you with an aching, tight-jawed, guilty look. But he's silent.

Overwhelmingly, obliteratingly silent. 

You finally free him, staring with an obscene lack of restraint at the glossy river of precum soaking down the side of his dick. 

"Oh," you murmur softly. "Obi Wan..."

At the edge of your view, you see his eyes flutter heavily when you say his name. You gently settle your fingers around him, enjoying his soft breath of relief. Sliding your thumb up along his shaft, you spread out the slick, coating more of his skin. 

This should be a utilitarian exercise in urgency. You should be using your hand to get him off, hard and fast. But you left 'should' behind a long time ago. So you slowly turn your wrist, pumping your hand a few times, not with any real pressure, just for the pleasure of running up and down the full length of him. Then you lick your palm and do it again, listening to him suck air above you. 

You swallow, caught gazing up at him, and have to urge yourself to keep going. You want to go slow; wring out of him every carnal desire he's pent up for the last several months. But you're already pushing it by drawing it out this long, and part of you is still afraid he'll ask you to stop. 

When you finally lower your mouth to his pulsing, straining cockhead, you suck at the tip, flicking your eyes up to look at him again. His hairline is dark with sweat and he's panting like he's losing an agonizing battle. You lock onto his gaze and flatten your tongue to lap slowly at the slit of his cock, watching his eyes widen as your mouth drops open to swirl lazy circles. 

"You taste so good," you drawl before slipping your lips around him, suckling softly. 

"Ah- hmm..." That earns you a sound something like a sudden, abrupt hum. Like he's trying to get ahold of himself before words begin to fall out. 

You drag your lips back up to the tip, then spread them wide and push his head inside the wet heat of your mouth. He goes rigid. Closing your eyes, you focus on giving him all the warm, soft pressure he needs. You engulf his thick head like he's going to pull away at any moment, hollowing your cheeks to suck him sweetly, realizing to your dismay that you could do this for hours.

When you open your throat and take him deeper at last, he rewards you with a loud, plaintive groan. He hits the back of your throat, making you gag for a moment, tears springing to your eyes. You squeeze your legs together, soaking between them, and swallow his twitching cock. You make a small sound in the back of your throat as you wrap your hand around him and start to bob your head, one hand pushing into the back of his leg to bring him closer and the other hand drowning in your own spit, pressed tight below your mouth and running over the length of him as you find your rhythm. 

"Stars-" he grinds out. You open your throat and take him even deeper, watching his mouth fall open at first, and then watching him snap it shut to look down at you, face screwed up in a pained expression. His eyes crinkle hard at the edges and his brows pin together, a deep line creasing his face between them. 

"This feel good?" you pop your mouth off for a moment to ask him. "You can tell me."

You slide him back in, falling right back into your rhythm, waiting for an answer. But he says nothing. You want to be generous. You want to keep going. In fact, nothing could possibly make you want to stop. But you need to hear him say it just once. You won't be doing this again, and you can't pass up your one chance to hear him say that he liked it. That he wanted it. 

You feel his cock throb beneath your tongue, but he doesn't answer. You pull away again, pumping him with your hand. 

"Come on." You lower your voice. "You can say it."

His teeth are just visible when he opens his mouth, almost baring them at you. His gaze is somewhere between warning and pleading. 

"Tell me it feels good, Obi Wan." You're practically suffocating him with your mouth between interrogations, now. You squeeze him with your slippery hand, lips gliding over him in punishing, repetitive strokes. 

You gasp off, panting, "Does it feel good?"

"Yes," he moans. 

You're practically dripping, pulsing between your legs at the hoarse groan he lets out. You can't help it. You want to hear more. You pull off again. 

"Would you like me to keep going?"

His head lolls to the side and a harsh sigh escapes from deep in his chest, as if to say you know the answer. As if he's scolding you for asking it, and desperate not to reply. 

So you relent, and you give him back the slick, perfect heat of your mouth until he's bucking his hips softly with each dip of your head to meet you, and you look up again to see the wrecked look on his face. His cock is pulsing, his breath wild and ragged. It's like he's ready to come, but for some reason, he's holding back. 

Then you realize it. You haven't told him, and he can't ask.

"Mmf," you mumble, pulling his cock free of your mouth one last time to tell him, "You can come in my mouth, just like this. Please. Come down my throat."

"Oh, fucking-" he spits out, then seems to melt into your grip, hips falling out of rhythm as his head tilts up-

...only to snap it back down, his body curling in and shuddering violently to a stop when the door lock clicks open. 

His cock pops free of your mouth, bouncing when he jerks away, and you're already standing up and scrambling to put his clothes in place before your mind can fully register what's going on. 

The door swings open just as you desperately slap the button to free Obi Wan's hands and straighten your own clothes. A pair of soldiers look extremely surprised to see you. 

"Master Jedi," one of them says, trading his looks between you and Obi Wan, clearly not sure whom to address first. "I... I didn't know this cell was, um, occupied."

You take a step to the side, trying to block anything unprofessional in Obi Wan's appearance. "Yes, I checked in and gave orders not to disturb us. We are... investigating the... presence of the criminal who occupied this cell last week."

"I see," the guard answers. He doesn't seem suspicious to find you here. They both just seem put-off by your jumpy demeanor. 

"Yes, so if you would be so kind as to-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, no one told us the orders. I've escorted the security technician down here to work on fixing the cams. I'm afraid you'll need to come back later."

"Oh, I..." you trail off.

"That's quite alright, gentlemen," Obi Wan finishes for you. "We can report our findings thus far. Have a nice evening."

He gestures calmly toward the door and you obediently join him in leaving, grateful for the end of the conversation. 

It's a long, stiff, quiet walk down the hallway. Thankfully, you don't cross paths with anyone else on the way out. You're nearly at the other end of the hall before you dare to lean in and whisper, "We can, um... We still have the ship."

He gives you a quick head shake in response, and you can feel the frustration in it. "For thirty more minutes before Master Fisto will be looking for it. We need to have it back at the dock before the next shift."

You take a breath, realizing that wasn't a 'no'. 

"Well," you say slowly; carefully. "We still have your quarters."

Back at his quarters, he can't pretend innocence anymore, but perhaps you've pushed him past that.

You wait. And wait. And he doesn't answer. 

And you board the ship. And he doesn't answer. 

And when you land back at the dock a few minutes later, you realize: He's given you his answer. 

--

A/N: The next chapter might be the last; possibly two more, depending on how long it ends up. Please feel free to comment or message me to be added to the tag list. :)

Taglist: @slinkygail @wheres-mylove @millercontracting @cacti5539 @b0xerdancer-writes

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#obi wan x reader smut #star wars #star wars fanfiction #obi wan kenobi #fanfic #obiwan #obi wan x reader

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Am I Still Your Favorite Escape?

Gale & Maureen -requested? ✔️

As a new year and a new unrelenting malaise settles over the prisoners in camp, Maureen Kendeigh finds the journey from viewing Gale Cleven as her prize collector’s item to the man others suspect she loves most harrowing indeed.

Note: y’all wanted handjobs and I gave ya one, with a twist, and yall wanted more of what Maureen is thinking during this time and so you got it. Along with 6k of other dynamics and plot and feelings, buckle up 👐🏻

Warnings: 18+ smut, female fingering, some cum play, semi public sex acts (not trying to be exhibitionists, but the place is packed ok?) erectile disfunction, not the most supportive attitudes towards partners feeling out of sorts, BUT ALSO!! Please note the typical universe warnings apply with an addition in this chapter being a discussion about terminating a pregnancy, those discussing it disagree strongly and due to religious beliefs one refers to it as “murder”. No action is taken in this chapter. There are hints of Buck x Bucky in this one, although can anyone actually define for me wtf was going on!? Because by Buck x Bucky I just mean they’d die for each other and that’s stronger your average marriage and Bucky maybe should look away when his friend gets some midnight loving, lol.

Maureen had been enthused at the outset. Not that she cared that much for subversion, but she enjoyed the feeling of mischief that their new task carried with it. Camp had proven dull, worse in many ways than she had even expected. She had expected there to be work if not recreation, and while there was some, then the winter months came all too soon and nothing about their shelters or their clothing were suitable for sustaining outdoor productivity.

Which meant she -and the others, she supposed it was only right to admit the others were no better- she had been cooped up in here during a never ending snowstorm outside, watching Gale sand his little board in a room muggy with pungent sweat and stale breath. They were packed on top of each other in here and any attempt to get fresh air earned one a case of frostbite.

That bit of wood was going to become a radio, Gale had told her, and she believed him. With all her heart Maureen believed him. But there came a day when watching Gale fiddle with a safety pin stuck atop a board became unarguably boring. So much so she had begun to insist she be allowed to help Brady and Crank haul in the hot water and assist in what went for “cooking” in this place. Johnny didn’t let her near his precious concoctions after having ousted Benny from the same, but he did let her hand him bowls and generally act useful at mealtimes.

She kept him entertained with stories of picnics in exotic places, safari’s where they cooked out of the back of her father’s jeep. Brady had them eaten all his terse quips about her not knowing how to manage in straitened circumstances and instead asked her endlessly about rhinoceros habitats. It served to entertain her for awhile, too.

Bucky had recovered after a few weeks abed, his movements remained stilted and she could still carry more water than his ribs allowed -a point she made to him daily as he swatted at her from his bunk- but as he recovered he became preoccupied.

Ida had also recovered, though not as thoroughly, having gone well over a week without so much as drinking water in her insensible state. She was weak, feverish and upon at last being plied with nourishment, she puked it right up. It was little cause for concern considering her illness, but as she grew stronger and her stomach remained contrary, some unease began to grow. By Christmas her brother Johnny had taken over the cooking in an endeavor to make something palatable but the woman was hardly the sort to be picky over her victuals. Benny and Brady’s watery soups were alike and they both came up within fifteen minutes of being eaten.

So then, their little room smelled of sweat, breath and vomit. Her brother and Hambone made mention of Crosby, it provided levity for a few days and Maureen was fast to join in. Until Ida had her at a private moment, the men in the hall or else out with latrine duty, and then she asked Maureen if she’d had her menses.

Offended at the implication that Gale Cleven would allow her any more than a mouth or handful of himself, Maureen hotly insisted she had. Three of them in fact, since arriving. She had the bloody rags to prove it.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when there began to be a very segregated group of men hovering and debating amongst themselves that Maureen began to second guess such an inquiry as more than moralistic judgment. Their Red Cross packages arrived with canned goods and bland crackers. Bucky began to bargain for the latter with a gambler's gusto -before inevitably handing his loot to Ida. Ida herself began gambling fiercely, for smokes.

Ida had never smoked in her life.

And now the place smelled even stronger of one more cigarette, sweat, breath and vomit.

The smokes seemed to help her, or at least, Maureen noticed her puking less by New Years. The early part of the new year brought new misfortunes, the confiscation of Cleven’s prized radio and a rash of miscarriages amongst the women. A rash was perhaps an exaggeration -only three or four, by Maureen’s count, and between her’s and Ida’s and Cleven’s discreet insistence, such incidents were passed off to the wary guards as heavy menses.

Maureen realized then that those were pregnancies from their guards, a possibility that she had not considered as she had not had reason to worry about it. That is, until Ida Brady caught her again at a moment alone, and asked her in the closest thing to feminine fluster that Maureen had ever seen her in, if she’d ever had reason “in your expeditions, as it were…” to possibly “eliminate a -poor decision?”

Being quite puzzled by this inquiry, and only picking up on the vague aspects -something she admitted to Ida straight away- Maureen admitted she drank most of her poor decisions away, a strategy that hadn’t failed her yet and she wished was at her disposal in this frozen mud pit.

“I’m speaking of- romantic decisions. Poor ones.” Ida had tried again, yearning for understanding in her voice.

Maureen remained nonplussed.

“A child, Maureen a-a pregnancy have you ever?” Ida hissed out at last.

“Gosh no.” Maureen sputtered, “I’m not a full idiot. Why would you ask? I strike you as enough of a harlot?”

“I’m merely looking for -remedies.” Ida pinched at her nose, a motion Maureen was familiar with watching in Gale when he was overwhelmed.

“Who needs it?” Maureen scoffed, quite sure that the odds didn’t stand many more girls suffering from the same, the poor food and rough conditions having ensured it for them.

Ida took her hand away but closed her eyes, mouth folding to a straight line. “I do.”

“Oh fuck.” Maureen plopped down beside her on the bunk in disbelief, they both stared at the opposite wall and its identical beds with rumpled bedding and starlets pasted on the walls. “Fuck.”

“They’re getting very stupid about it.” Ida said at last.

“What do you mean? Who?”

“The boys.”

“You’ve told the boys?” Maureen cried out, infuriated.

“They guessed, already, for God’s sake must even this be about you, too, Kendeigh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

“It means while you’re bored and very vocal of it, some of us might die-“

“-we could all die in this shithole-“

“-or! Or worse,” Ida cut in fiercely, “have someone die for us by being idiots. Bucky is full of schemes of -of running off into the sunset. I suppose after he levitates us over the barbed wire with his magic carpet. I don’t know, but I- Maureen I know that if I go on much longer, it won’t just be me in danger. They’re either going to risk something terrible or get punished for not reporting me.”

“So what?” Maureen asked dully, having been excluded from an obvious inner circle regarding the issue and having now been accused of being trivial in her own sufferings, it smarted and she could not deny the flicker of unfairness she felt over it. “Want me to shove a coat hanger up you? The others too chicken?”

Ida visibly recoiled beside her, putting more space between them in the bunk. “I’m not going to- to kill it.”

“What kinda remedy doesn’t?” Maureen sassed, if they were to talk no longer in flippant pleasantries, she could do that.

“I’m just asking for help.” Ida’s jaw wobbled, her voice a wreck of desperation and Maureen could see with a small and ugly bit of satisfaction that the woman was truly close to losing her grip. It was satisfyingly human. As was her reaction to a remedy after asking for it.

“You come to me because you think I’m loose enough to know, and then you have the nerve to be appalled when I do.” Maureen pointed out, “That what all the smokes are for?”

“Yes.” Ida put her head back in her hands.

“Just won’t budge; huh?”

“No.” her voice sounded like she might be crying but there was no telling with those hands in the way.

“It would be stubborn.” Maureen muttured, thinking of the goddamn Brady family as she knew them. “Why won’t you get rid of it? You want to get rid of it-“

“-I don’t understand why it’s hanging on!” Ida’s wail came out garbled between her fingers.

“So let’s -unhang it.”

“I can’t. Kendeigh -I can’t.”

“I know it’s risky, but I know you’re not scared of dying.” Maureen muttered, attempting to understand.

“Candy I cant, I can’t murder it.” her voice had dipped into a sacrosanct whisper.

Maureen huffed in confusion, a substantial amount of pragmatism warring with what tiny bit of sympathy the threat left her, “It’s a German’s, at this size no more than a blo-“

“It’s a life!” Ida snarled back at her so viciously Maureen contemplated the likelihood of her having gone fully mad, “And it’s mine.” she rebutted, pointing to her chest fiercely.

“So you’ll let Bucky and Gale die for you, die trying to get you out of here but you won’t try to fix it yourself.” It was how Maureen saw it, and if she were to be accused of suggesting murder, she might as well have her side put out there, too.

“That’s how you see it?” Ida muttured, looking utterly defeated.

“If Gale dies over this, I’ll wring your neck myself. Keep smoking.” she advised with a shrug, “Maybe catch an elbow to the gut if you can.”

Ida pulled her hand away again to look at her, she’d definitely been crying then, red nosed and watery eyed, but she looked less aghast now than she had at the mention of the coat hanger. Maureen didn’t think she wanted condolences about it, or a pat on the back. Come to think of it, Ida was getting plenty of that sort of doting from the boys. No, Maureen didn’t feel like she needed that from her, and something sour and twisted in her heart made her loath to give it.

It worsened as the days went by, as Maureen observed their once innocuous routines with new eyes, noticing the boys' furtive plans, their hovering concern, their brought in provisions -offerings fit for a queen. It was understandable to show such care for her in her state, and ostensibly no one deserved it more than Ida Brady. But it left Maureen feeling adrift, like an afterthought, someone whose greatest challenge was their boredom. And ever looming were those great risks the boys bantered about like it were all a low stakes game of cards.

She plays thirty to forty sets of cards with Hambone, decimates Benny at chess, cleans the pans, even mops the goddamn floor. All to keep busy, perhaps even to spite Ida whose one assigned task is the floors. She cannot be accused of boredom or idleness if she has done all her own tasks and others’ besides.

In her spare time she would like to go with Bucky, to be of use in collecting things for Gale’s new little project, his precious crystal radio, but where women go -there go guards and attention and soon, the sheer mischief of the naughtiness of Gale’s construction wanes as she is left laying in her bunk watching him wiggle a clothespin around for the fifth day in a row. She had been so understanding for the first four. Even though she had contemplated a tiff with him over not informing her of Ida’s state as soon as he knew, she had been merciful and instead settled for holding the copper wire for him and brushing his cheek when he didn’t actively shy away in concentration.

He mumbles about needing to give it his full attention, about her needing to keep a lookout, about the danger of getting caught. She asks if it’s worth it then, anything that might get him killed is her enemy, even if it’s a little clothespin on a board. He looks at her like she’s from mars, unable to fathom why she wouldn’t understand its necessity. And he doesn’t come to bed until an ungodly hour of the night and immediately, upon settling in their bunk he is asleep, much to her chagrin.

She would have liked a kiss, a hand between her legs even more. She would have settled for those whispering little chats they’ve indulged in ever since Bucky laid atop Ida and all rules were broken -they’ve shared a bunk and as the winter gets worse, no one bats an eye. In fact, everyone’s stacked two for one, male and female alike. Brady and Hambone snicker and whisper in their bunk every bit as much as she and Gale do, Maureen is sure of it.

Instead Gale falls asleep. And he does it again and again, night after night. Bucky rummages on his own for supplies. Brady frets over Ida. Only so many people can play makeshift bat gammon in the hall. It does not pass the time. And Maureen grows ever more restless.

She feels expectantly happy when Gale’s work is finally complete, his finished product constructed and the moment of truth comes. They crowd around and wait with baited breath as his finger tunes it. And Maureen knows she is fully awful for her relieved feelings when it does not work. He can’t be killed for it if he scraps it. And he will come to bed at a reasonable hour now it is useless. The shake of his hand makes everyone else feel helpless in the face of his ever steady composure cracking, but while Maureen has no acceptable remedy for Ida’s plight, she does for Gale’s, and she waits for darkness with the relieved excitement of a child on Christmas Eve.

Gale does indeed come to bed, the radio not fully scrapped but heartily abandoned and hidden with its various parts in sundry places. And when he slips beside her, his nose is cold and he touches her like he has missed her. He pulls the covers to their chins, tucking them in with a small giggle, she is suffocated by it and yet he persists and this has gone on all winter until now it is their inside joke and he does it just to make her laugh, and when she laughs so does he, a honest little giggle of a thing, and she misses him worse than ever even as he pressed along the length of her.

It isn’t safe yet, not everyone is asleep but she bides her time with kissing him and he returns her caresses ardently, a thorough press of his lips and his tongue unreservedly sliding into place alongside her own, his hands warming up as they clasp her neck, turning her head upon their pillow. She wonders if they are loud even at this, but she was never the one to care, it’s Gale who objects and who hushes them, who makes them wait, who insists on being courteous even in hell, who only allows himself to lap at her when the place is abandoned or else full of the atmospheric noises of masculine snores.

Maureen does not mind waiting for him, or rather -she does, but he is implacable about it and when she attempts to persuade him otherwise she is oftentimes swatted and put in her place like a wayward child. Such correction holds a charm of its own when it is Gale Cleven administering it, but tonight she feels close to madness if she does not get her way so she allows him to kiss her as the quiet and steady breaths around them herald the unconsciousness of their brethren. She grows bolder, throws her leg over his hip and tugs at his buttons, hands rucking up his shirt and parting the heavy flaps of his coat. He is as burdened with layers as a Victorian maiden and Maureen enjoys the hunt for warm skin, the way he looks as ravished and expectant as any girl while she gropes at him, when she finally reaches him he always shudders, a full bodied thing that jerks even his neck.

Tonight she parts his layers feverishly and he mutters her name, again and again and his hands are clumsy at her shoulders and no progress is made on discarding her own clothing but she pays it no mind, she is direly hungry for him. Any touch of him, to make him shake and melt and pay tribute to her.

“Maureen.”

She finds the button of his trousers right at his heaving naval and she exults at the feel of the fine trail of hair beneath her fingertips.

“Maureen.” his voice grows urgent and she doesn’t heed it, he counts on her never heeding it.

She wiggles her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and skims the hairy plane of his pelvis before laying her hand on what she needs and -he is as limp as a dead mouse. She holds the chubby thing for a good long moment, very much like it were some useless rodent she had caught and must now dispose of, and she is filled with confusion.

“Maureen-“ he mutters again against her unmoving lips and she realizes with misery she mistook his pleading for a different sort.

It is not that she’s never felt him soft, on the contrary, there was a long time in the early days -when she wanted him and he wanted a promotion- that her hand would find its way between his legs, in a jeep or a bar, beneath the table while he helped her with her calculus. Once she felt him she became mildly obsessed, he was always tucked to the right and he was so substantially long and full beneath her palming, even in repose, that her determination to have him was only further cemented by it. Again and again her hand made it into his lap and again and again he would rebuff her, sometimes with startled propriety, occasionally with long suffering disbelief, more and more with almost parental disapproval.

Each reaction had been as satisfying to Maureen as if he were swelling into her palm. And soon enough, he was doing that, too. His hand growing a beat too slow before he grabbed her wrist, his mouth still twisted in dry reproof but his eyes began to burn. He was unbothered no longer and it was not much longer after that he was not even resistant.

Ever since, she could count on him to perk, to respond, to validate her own want of him with his own for her.

The fact it was in many ways a tortured surrender on his part only drove her madder, made her desire burn brighter, made the succumbing of the good, the right, the proud man all the more intoxicating. And again, as if they’d never shared all that, he was now as warm and floppy as a dead dormouse.

“Maureen.” he begged, half expecting tears again like her first night in the stalag, wincing as her hand squeezed him meanly, jerked at him a few impotent times in an effort to fluff him.

Her hand withdraws and he holds his breath, ready for a scene or a rebuke. His gut twists miserably, at fault twice over and yet -not really. But that never mattered with Maureen. He says her name again but she is still and deflated, and after a moment, she merley rolls over, giving him her back.

That is how he knows she is hurt, were she angry she would not have shrunk from being crueler than a few angry tugs. The silence is new and it makes Gale’s stomach swoop in an odd terror, like his next decision might rescue them both or plunge them off a cliff.

“Maureen.” He tries again, his hand on her shoulder, squeezing and trying to turn her back.

Her shoulder jolts up sharply to displace the gesture. “I’m not cold.” she informs him as she rolls further away towards the wall, and her tone is icier than the weather outside. He’s stunned, she’s never once ignored him, no it’s always ever been an escalation of her demands for his interest. Hell, even in Africa she had said she was cold and the presence of her head on his shoulder disrupted his tan, he got no end of grief from the boys about it.

Confused and mildly hurt himself, although he doesn’t know why, not beyond some tickling sense of unfairness about being blamed for being a bit out of sorts in the place, Gale takes his hand away and moves to lie on his back, to keep from crowding her. He thinks that in the morning he will explain to her how he is preoccupied with the radio, that his gut feels in constant free fall from the plans to escape, that everyone is riding on him for this thing to work and he just proved tonight he’s perfectly worthless at it. Nothing but buzz in his ear echoes around in his head and he replays the sound of that failure again and again, justifying her frustration with him. He thinks he’ll explain this all to her in the morning. And also-

-that he is cold.

He’s so damn cold from the anxiety and being still at his work at the table for so long his hands and legs go numb that he simply cannot imagine feeling bothered at this moment, cannot imagine it and it would seem that neither can the little guy. He doesn’t deserve a reward, not for fucking up at the one thing they’ve got going for them. He catches Bucky’s eyes when he rolls over, having taken up night shift over Ida due to insomniatic tendencies. He wonders strongly if Bucky would be as disappointed in him, if he is already. Just wait until next morning, Gale thinks, when I get to admit I’ve got no second plan. If it doesn’t work as is, no amount of fiddling is gonna make it better.

That settles heavy in his gut but does nothing for the swooping feeling, there is merely a loadstone in his belly, plunging downward in a perpetual free fall, and in his dreams the accompanying soundtrack is radio static.

There is a tiny sliver of freedom in the morning -and it does not come every morning- when Maureen has noticed there is still and quiet yet the morning routines are in place. Lazy and weak, the prisoners do not rise with the sun, although some stir and moan and try to meet the new day head on. The guards unlock the doors and yet many choose to lay abed. So many in fact that Johnny Brady ceased making breakfast at that hour as with so few ready to eat it, the ordeal became a waste. He does often fetch water for morning pit baths and teeth brushing, the occasional splash on the face to wash off the sleep.

Maureen has often contemplated these little slivers of time as a chance to break free. Not of the compound, that endeavor holds no fascination to her, but rather out of this combine and out from under the watchful eyes of people who know her all too well. Or think they do. They don’t, they very obviously don’t. And she’s losing all sense of who she is to be known by as the days go on.

She listens as Johnny gathers the buckets and milk pails, always gentle with the clanking metal, vestiges of the considerate boy his mama raised still clinging even in this place, and he hands an allotment to Hambone who is awake with him and less considerate.

Then there is the hushed flurry of beratings and the sleepy protests of trying one’s best.

They leave together, and they leave the door adjar as usual, to come back in quietly if needed. They’ll be gone for at least fifteen minutes, then they will come back and then Brady will leave again to run his two goddamn laps around the compound while that testicular looking bald headed doctor clocks his pace. Maureen doesn’t think Johnny likes running track or ever did it before, but he and Ida both took it up, the latter probably to get rid of the child and the former maybe to stay warm. The doctor didn’t care about the timing of Ida’s laps and soon she began to grow too large to risk attention by keeping Johnny company.

Now Johnny runs his timed laps alone and the only motivation Maureen can imagine for it, beyond the over-familiar assessment of his limbs by the doctor, is the chocolate he earns from it. Priceless sugar to keep up his specimen’s strength in this starving place.

Chocolate Johnny regularly gives to Ida. Though for Christmas he made them all a mashed chocolate pie on a tin plate and it had honestly been the kindest and loveliest Yuletide treat anyone had ever given any of them.

Maureen has considered running with him, trying her luck and seeing if she can win chocolate herself. Maybe that would make Gale smile. She doubts the doctor would care, he’s curiously uncaring regarding the existence of females in camp.

Maureen knows all these sounds of morning routine by heart, can track the progress of each stage of the routine while feigning sleep, motionlessly facing the wall.

Gale has no need to feign, it would seem. He is not snoring but he is whimpering and muttering in that annoying way of his that only occurs when he’s in deep. She used to think it cute, she now thinks it helpful to judge if he is able to catch her at her scheme.

-useless fucker with his useless radio and his useless cock, making her feel useless-

Careful as a cat, and with as much grace, Maureen rolls herself upright, and uses the slats of their upper bunk to balance her weight, keeping the mattress from giving a tell-tale dip. She swings from one slat to the next, carefully crouching when the movement jars the whole frame but Benny stays asleep below her and Gale makes no move to arrest her. It’s a feat to drop soundlessly to her feet after such a climb in a full overcoat, but she manages it. Her boots are under Benny’s bunk and she fetches them with no small amount of terror, but despite his shifts and erratic movements, he does not catch her.

She takes the boots into the hall, which is gratefully empty, and fastens them there. Taking her woolen cap from her coat pocket, she puts it atop her head while tucking in her hair, and fastens her scarf high over her nose, and knows that she is about as inconspicuous in form and feature as the next man. When Brady is bundled similarly his eyes appear as gentle as a woman’s and Maureen knows her own are no longer half so beguiling, not with their pale lashes and absence of cosmetic relief.

Perhaps she’s grown so wane and bland Gale has even lost the ability to pretend attraction. He always was fastidious about cleanliness and order, fussy and volatile when she took him unawares. In fact, when she had first managed to get so far as to undo his pants, to fondle his half hard length, to pull him from the slit of his drawers, to tug his shaft to orgasm, it had been beside the antiseptics. And that had some sort of parable in it, she thought now. Recalling how she’d had to talk him down off a panic as soon as he had shuddered and given her the sought after reward, hot and sticky and plentiful as only a virgin’s would be. He was not comforted until gauze and betadine was used copiously to clean her hand, and the nurse was later puzzled as to why when she entered only one had needed treatment, but both left stained with the orange stuff.

Back then a word, a flick of her eyes would have Gale in full pursuit, bodily if not mentally. She could wage a war with his ever so impeccable spirit and win it with the help of his own flesh. Now? Now he couldn’t even respond, not even pretend it. And he’d tried to warn her and she’d thought he’d been begging and she realized he wanted to stall her, keep it from her, one more thing.

These thoughts carried her dozens of rows down, combine after combine, lost in a flurry of snowflakes that were turning gradually pink as the sun rose. It was beautiful here before all the footprints ruined it.

At the far end of the sector, outside the last combine before the fence that separated them from the Brits, Maureen spotted a huddle of men gathered around a fire pit. She hadn’t known those were even allowed, not doubting that its proximity to the fence had some other subversive reason beyond warmth, and if she thought it then the guards must have. Yet here it was alright, jugs hung over it from a makeshift spit and crackers impaled and being toasted on the same. Maureen’s mouth watered, as much at the thought of genuinely smoke flavored food as she did at the heat. She was still undecided as to her course of action when a loud guffaw, followed by a familiar and harsh curse made her startle.

Polish airmen -or, at least by way of America. They would be sat out in the cold at dawn and they would toast their crackers. Maureen had frequently used her brief passes from Thorpe to terrorize other officer clubs, finding the joy of it a great distraction and some of the girls had joined her at it. She was usually greeted in such escapades with shock or even disgust but the men’s flailing helplessness in the face of a female serviceman always served as a full quota of contentment.

No one had terrorized her back as good as she gave until the Poles. And then they had bought her a drink, and lamented with her that she had not become a fighter pilot. Because Maureen still held a flame for the small craft, resentful that her decent piloting had been considered too poor for the clunky birds, for she knew she wasn't all bad, it was merely those awful forts and their terrible bulk. The Poles had agreed and bought her another drink, and tried to seduce her to their squadron. That had been a happy night and she’d come back to barracks so late as to break curfew, and chatted Gale’s ear off in drunken joy about her wonderful time and her new friends.

Maureen now eyed the fire in the snow and the group of foreign speaking men around it and tugged off her cap, allowing her hair free. And she sauntered up with calculated aimlessness, as if she were indeed only checking out their s’mores to ridicule them compared to her combine’s delicacies. It was effective, they defended their crackers vehemently and she remained derisive, this called for a demand that she try them and so she did and admitted they weren’t too bad but were too dry to be gotten down her throat. So they then passed her coffee and she had to squat to receive it and then she was given a seat to finish it and before long, she was one of the huddle and her feint at leaving them was argued against so heartily she knew she’d won, and so she stayed and played cards and told stories and drank hot water with boys who had been born over here but were in many cases educated not far from her house. And when afternoon came and went she stayed, and when evening fell and the guards became stricter with the perimeter and their fire, she snuck in with them into their combine and there played drinking games despite the violation of curfew.

For the Poles had liquor in this hell hole. And that, Maureen thought, was the true measure of a great nation, their capacity for ingenuity and irrepressible spirits.

Gale entered his own combine in the falling dark with the persistent press of a gun barrel at his lower back, right about at the kidneys, he figured. It was the only thing possible to persuade him to keep from looking, and the others were filing in right ahead of him, saving him a bullet their only motivation for abandoning the search. The guards locked the door after them, and Gale’s chest heaved in panic at the thought of her out there somewhere and locked out and him locked in.

“Fuckin’ Kendeigh.” Murph grumbled but without any heat,

taking himself to his barracks.

Bucky kept pacing up and down the hall with his hands in his hair, snapping at anyone who dared clog his promenade. “Jerries said it was time for bed -so get in your goddamn beds!”

“Why would she do this?” Gale begged him again and Bucky huffed again at it, furious for him.

“She give you grief last night?” Bucky asked wisely, the loyalty in his voice soothes Gale, as does the structure of his sentence, it suggested it wasn’t his fault. And Gale wanted to believe that and he just as strongly he knew it was wrong of him.

He had been in the wrong and he didn’t deserve Bucky’s sympathy for this or the damn radio. They’d been talking of repairs every spare minute of this day that hadn’t been taken up with trying to find Maureen. And while Bucky could remain as adamant as he wanted, that it wasn’t his fault that his radio didn’t work -it didn’t change the fact that his failure now meant Bucky was gonna try something awful instead, like climbing the fence with a pregnant woman on his shoulders. And it was all because Gale couldn’t fucking make a connection. Just as he couldn’t connect to his own body for Maureen and now she’d probably gone over the fence too, or got shot trying.

“So fuckin’ unless.” He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and mashed the tears away.

“She call ya that?” Egan barked, and Gale didn’t need to see his frown to know he was about to track down Kendeigh to punch her, not rescue her.

“No, don’t need a dame to tell me what’s what.”

He didn’t see it coming so he was reasonably startled when he found his hands dislodged from his eyes and his face suddenly collided into the weave of a musky sweater, Bucky’s hand gripping the nape of his neck like he were a child. That hand was so damn large Gale could imagine he was young again and his father was holding him. “Somethin’s gonna come to you,” this reassuring rumble was light years away from his father’s belittlements and he shuddered, “I’ll get you new wire or somethin’ but just- ain’t your fault, Buck, and that goddamn parakeet needs snow down her pants if she can’t see it too.”

No one pretended to sleep that night, even once the lights were out. Ida sat up in her bunk with her brother beside her, a telling lack of sympathy being expressed for Maureen’s self inflicted plight. Ida had spent her own time at the radio and while it hadn’t done much good, it had gone some way to reassure Gale she didn’t see anything amiss. It ought to work.

Small talk was kept carefully low in the bunks, and Bucky kept a firm position on Gale’s bunk, sitting upright with his legs slung over his friend’s boney knees, affectionately trapping him in a lying posture. Bucky had taken to entrapments here in camp, perhaps the barbed wire inspired him.

They had already given Benny his fair share of chiding for not going out with Maureen that the morning, although Brady’s report of her absence in the time he had fetched water plainly represented someone not wishing for accompaniment -or, as Brady so helpfully reminded of the obvious, her desire to obey Cleven’s long standing order on the matter.

It was probably close to 0100 when a great commotion sounded outside, followed by a crash bang of the combine’s main doors being thrown wide and the rhythmic tread of jackboots had everyone pouring out of their bunks and standing at the ready, -they weren’t sure for what, but it wasn’t something you wanted to be caught lying down for. Gale wrenched open the door, expectancy already perfectly in place on his face until he caught sight of Kendeigh, hauled like a child between the guards and one of their captains met his eye with unimpressed disdain.

“This we found in wrong sector.” he explained, gesticulating to Maureen with a gloved hand, “Sleeping under combine steps. I have told you, Major, I cannot guarantee safety of your females when they are alone, something happen to them, you blame me but I told you! Cannot guarantee.”

“Understood.” Cleven gave him his soberest nod, feeling ill and angry and watching warily for the next move, wondering when he could get his lost package back, yet not wanting to appear eager.

“Discipline, major, discipline!” The Captain insisted and Gale felt Bucky’s heat searing at his back as he pressed forward, taking the German’s eyes away from Gale’s, preventing something rash.

“Oh believe me, sir,” Bucky drawled as he pressed forward, the guards posture confidant and lax, “discipline will be met.” he took the brave step of gripping Kendeigh’s coat flap in his hand and tugging her forward, a movement that yanked her free of the gaurds’s grip.

“Met?” the officer was confused, anger and annoyance tinged his repetition.

Bucky shook Maureen meanly by her coat in emphasis of his statement, “Discipline!” he agreed, insistent.

“Well?” It appeared the officer intended to wait until it was meted out.

Bucky stalled and Gale caught Maureen’s panicked eyes even as her nose flared rebelliously with measured breaths, trying to get on top of it all. Gale felt himself pushed to the side abruptly, having to catch himself on the door as Ida Brady strode past him into the hall, the book she’d been perusing still clutched in her hand.

“Child.” she muttered loudly for the officer’s benefit before raising her book and striking Mauree square across the face, one cheek and then the other as the blow sent her staggering, sharp thwacks with the flat side of the volume.

Maureen took the reproof with good grace and a stunned whimper, Bucky’s still supportive clutch on her jacket keeping her from making a fully pathetic scene and melting to the floor.

“Go, in, get in bed.” Ida snapped her fingers, pointing to the door and when Maureen took a second too long to collect her spotted vision, Ida raised the book again and Maureen needed no more incentive, knowing if Ida did not deliver it the guards would.

She tumbled over the barracks threshold like a bedraggled orphan, hair snow drenched and cheeks throbbing, her jacket muddy and undone.

“Well done.” Johnny Brady greeted with montone venom and only Benny Demarco’s well placed foot tripped her and prevented her from clawing his face off in long suppressed spite.

She landed inelegantly on her face, elbows bent just enough to catch herself from a truly ugly splat, she was gathering herself for another spring when the troop of her officers sounded and the door closed and quiet fell over the place, lethal and accusing.

So the Germans had let her off easy then. Maureen drug herself up to her knees and suddenly wished she hadn’t, it felt too close to contrition.

She staggered upright, ignoring the indignity of having to push up on Brady’s knee to do so. Once on her own two feet she raked muddy fingers through her hair and smiled at her superiors, tired but dandy. They looked pissed and that was to be expected.

“The hell did you go?” The others seemed to acknowledge Gale had some right -or maybe it was responsibility- to address her first and it was leveled at her even more scathingly than she had braced for.

“For fresh air.” she chimed, leaning against a bunk brace, arms crossed easily.

“Sleepin’ out? Sneakin’ out?” Gale stormed on and Ida actually took pains to bypass him and climb into her own bunk, her merciful discipline administered she seemed to wash her hands of the business, “Flagrantly disobeying my expressed orders! Answer me! The hell were you thinking?”

“I wanted to get out,” she leveled back at him, her smirk grown sharp and practiced and debutant-worthy, “I wanted to be somewhere else besides in this stinking, miserable cabin with its miserable, stinking occupants. Nothing but a bunch of self righteous, maniacally focused dreamers who can’t have fun for shit.”

As soon as she said it, no regret came, only a feeling of utter validation. Indeed, what had changed since she had been gone? Ida was still sick and pregnant, Johnny was still fussy, Benny was still playing at cards, Bucky was still pushing Gale harder than any over the radio and her Cleven was cleaving to the damn thing like it were his god.

“I mean, tell me if I missed something essential!” She scoffed, “Some great development occur? Or was I needed for some great task you all missed me so desperately during? No? Didn’t think so. Because we don’t go anything in here except talk about getting out like it’s actually plausible and I’m sick as fuck of it and I-“ she pointed to herself, voice growing in volume as Gale’s own fury seemed to wane into something shocked and scared, “I have spent my day with men who have ingenuity and good humor and liquor, because they aren’t hopeless fucks like us. The Brit’s have a tunnel started, the Polish have one too along with a bathtub of potato peel vodka, and we have a pregnant colonel! Sto lat!”

It was terribly quiet for a moment, half the cabin's occupants intent on appearing discrete and the other half stunned into a sort of mortified offense.

“You gonna thrash her or am I?” Egan finally broke the tension, his head turning lazily to look at Gale, his mouth was grinning like he was eager and it made Maureen’s bruised cheeks flame. It seemed to be some private joke, Maureen could only tell by the way Cleven’s eyes widened in warning protest at his friend before biting his lip and sniffing harshly. Then the lights cut again and the place was plunged in darkness, it brought Maureen both relief at the obscurity and a strange feeling of terror at the pitch black surroundings. She still hated the dark, ever since those Gestapo cells.

“Take that filthy shit off and get in your bunk.” Gale’s voice so near and so sudden startled her, and it wasn’t rebellion that made her lag in response but he seemed to take it that way, the snap of his finger seeming dangerously close to her nose, and she felt his fingers pluck at her muddy coat, “Now, don’t test me, get in, now.”

She peeled it off and let it flop heavily to the floor before kicking off her boots with the same carelessness, and then taking a step up, digging her frozen toes into Benny’s mattress and hauling herself up to the next level, laying down with a shiver in the cold sheets. The quiet sounds of rustling and bedding filled the place, the others putting themselves away for the night too, but to her relief no one seemed to be murmuring about her. Then the bunk creaked again and the unmistakable feel of someone climbing in beside her made her gasp.

Gale, of course it was Gale, laid himself out atop her, like he planned to keep her there by his weight alone like Bucky had with Ida, and an odd feeling suddenly took possession of Maureen’s chest, one she hadn’t felt all day: she felt undeserving. His head was hard and awkward against her clavicle but she didn’t want to budge him, secretly and utterly grateful he was being kind, that he was not ignoring her. Maybe Ida was right and she was childish but if that were the case, what was to be done about it? She was as she was and she needed him, so tentatively after a few minutes, she withdrew her legs out from under his own and wrapped them around his hips, pulling him close all along her like they were mating, she meant it as a hug and she felt him limp and heavy between her thighs but she did not withdraw.

Gale waited patiently until the snores began, wind whistling outside so loudly it would cover their whispers, and she shuddered to think of herself being petty enough to try to sleep in that icebox. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.” he rasped at last, raising his head a little and trying to get a read on her in the semi dark. “Maureen, you can’t worry me like that, please.”

“I’m tired.” her voice was weak from the effort to hold back an ugly sob.

“You've been tired before.” he soothed, “What about today? What about last night? What’s all this? C’mon, you can tell me, I need ya to tell me.”

Maureen sighed raggedly, always a sucker for his cajoling voice, more so when she knew she deserved and expected the thrashing. “You don’t need me that way. You don’t need me at all.”

Gale dropped his head a little, his hand reaching up to pinch his nose, humiliation and impotence warring with need to assure her. “I'm sorry about that.” he settled for, “I’m too fucked right now, I admit it. It’s all just, it’s a lot, we’ve all got a lot goin’ on. You too, I know, I’m just not right up there, Maureen. Doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”

“You don’t need me during the day and you don’t need me at night.” she had tried to dissuade herself of this painful reality, truly! -but those were the facts as she saw them and it hurt her worse than him.

“I’m doing this for you!” he begged, his large hand cupping the side of her throat and she would love to think it a caress but he was only trying to make a point, one she contested vehemently in her heart. “I won’t be okay until you’re safe, baby.”

Maureen scoffed, thick and bitter, she had no child, she had no threat, she didn’t need to get out. “I don’t have any reason to get out!” She seethed back, “What’s in it for me? Besides you dead and me too, maybe I’ll get sent back to the Gestapo. That’ll be lark. I don’t need to get out, Major, I need-“

Gale was panting in her face, hot and hurried as her own ire rose with each word, “What do you need?” he goaded, and she could hear him lick his lips.

“I need you to pay attention to me.” she said it.

And to anyone else it would have sounded the most petty thing of all, but to Gale Cleven it was something he already knew deep down when he wasn’t so caught up in the imminent might-be’s of their situation, when he wasn’t needing to save Bucky from himself, or Ida from being put down or Johnny from whatever Greek hell that doctor had enlisted him in. He knew Maureen needed him, not his brains or what he could give, not really, she just wanted his flesh, and he had never bartered in that currency before her, having always assumed it was cheap if not with love. He was not sure he was loved but he knew it was not cheap, whatever it was they shared. And he knew she needed him. Just as he needed her, even though he could not manifest it as he wished.

He could kiss her, though. That he could do.

She did not expect the plush press of his lips when she saw him duck his head against the halo of window light. He kisses with intent and with reproof and the part of her that enjoys his anger begins to thrum to life as mercy and justice both battle in his kiss, his tongue all forgiveness and his teeth implacable rightness.

“Why?” she whines at him, feeling herself need and yet he lays between her legs useless as a girl, “why’re you when you can’t-“ she has insulted him enough today, she trails off with surprising tact.

“Don’t mean I don’t need you.” his voice has gone gruff like it does when he holds her head firmly and grinds his once hard cock down her throat, “Don’t mean your boy don’t want you.”

And that’s all she needed, really.

Along with the feeling of his fingertips walking down her bare stomach, his hand somehow sneaking its way through her layers undetected until now. It awakes a trail of fire down to her core, her core that is already ablaze by his kissing, his neglect, his language.

“My baby.” she moans in ascent, loudly and exultant and a little mournful.

“I gotchue, I got you.” he swears into her mouth and his hand wastes no time in slithering between her legs, elegant fingers cupping her and smearing her arousal around beneath his fingertips.

“Fuck them into me.” she begs, his hand swiping and rubbing at her heat until her hole clenches in desperation, wanting the burn of a stretch.

He is used to her instructions, they’d have accomplished nothing these last months without them, he is able to obey without ceding one bit of control in the kiss and the dichotomy of it, of him, makes her spiral as long fingers plunge, three at a time into her like he’s mad at her, and she cums from it alone with a hoarse cry of shock. He leans up and over her, hair aglow in the dim light and his hand beginning to slam again and again between her legs, forearm hard at work before he brings his wrist to her mouth.

“Bite.” he tells her, an offer and an order and she does, repaying him the vicious assault below her waist where she is tugged apart and jammed at with all too much finesse, his thumb swiping at the apex of her slit everytime he plunges knuckle deep. Gale knows by now the signs of her peak but he pushes beyond it, adds his pinky until all four digits wreak havoc and makes her go again. She uses his wrist out of necessity not to wake the whole place. The sounds of her squelching may have done it for her.

He pets her after, his palm warmed up by his work and it cups and soothes her as she jerks and jolts and settles, and his nose nuzzles her own sweetly, murmuring her name again and again just how she likes it.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again.” he begs between smooches and Maureen feels entirely too weak to deny him.

“Ok.”

“Promise?” his tone and his hand grow firm again.

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” he sighs beside her and she thinks she could fall asleep now he’s wrung her out. He pets her a few moments longer, as if loathe to pull his hand free. He cups her one more time, collecting her wetness in the crook of his fingers before at last he does, carefully bringing his hand up and out of her waistband. He holds it in front of himself for a brief moment as if debating how to enact his thoughts, and she watches him curiously because he does not lick his digits clean like usual, perhaps she is too soiled tonight, even for his devotion.

Instead she watches him roll onto his back, hand still aloft and glittery with an obscene amount of sticky pleasure and his other hand trails to his own fly, popping the button deftly with his left hand and tugging down the fastening. Her breath catches in her throat, suspense and arousal at the familiar motion making her perk once more. Gale shimmies his clothing down his thighs until she can see him just barely, lying fat and peaceful against his thigh. He deserves a little peace, she thinks, now that she is not so cross with him.

She holds his gaze in startled suspense as he locks eyes with her, wanting her to stare when he moves his wet hand down and wraps it around himself, smearing her juices all over his soft member, clear and creamy swirls rubbed into the pink meat of him, down to his very balls.

“There,” he manages between her kisses as she assails him anew with desperate appreciation, “you’ve still got me. I’m still yours.”

She drags her hand down there to feel the sticky evidence of his promise, to rub and fondle him as he lays dormant in her palm. She has often snickered to him that he is too tidy to ever fully have sex, he has had qualms over even what they do with their hands, their mouths as well. He was pleased she could swallow only for the mess it prevented. She’s often told him he’ll find coupling a filthy business and he oughta brace himself. This tacky feeling under her palm is the closest they’ve ever gotten to the act, her fluids touching him there, drying on him. She appreciates the gesture, more than here heart can bear to ponder: she also knows he’ll regret it.

“I’ve got some amends to make.” she acknowledges after giving him one last kiss and checking that the coast is clear. Egan is doubtless still awake as usual and perhaps Brady, but it can’t be helped and she doesn’t give a damn. “Try to be quiet -don’t think too hard on it, it’s fine if this is all it is.” she preemptively cautions before he can realize what she intends.

She slinks down the length of him, careful not to jar the whole bunk, careful to keep a low profile to the blankets before dipping her head in the little nest of covers shoved around his thighs. Despite her assurances Gale makes a keening noise of confusion when her tongue darts out without preamble and licks up the seam of his balls.

“Maureen.” he sounds half strangled but his hand flies out, not to prevent her, but to pet her lustrous hair. She feels utterly content in that moment and continues her quest to tidy him up.

“You hate being sticky.” she reminds in a whisper before gently sucking on his soft tip, she can feel his belly heaving in relaxed sighs, the connection not fully alive and yet, potent all the same, he pets her hair more firmly and even pushes her head down further and she gets the hint, abandoning his soft cock head for the chubby vein beneath, licking stripes of herself off him.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” she whispers to the inanimate little thing, remembering how meanly she squeezed it the night before. “I swear we’re still friends.”

Gale vaguely registers her apology to his bits and bobs but he is genuinely more distracted by two glinting shards across the room that have to be Bucky’s blazing eyes. Trained right on him. Holy hell, he feels himself shake and the closest thing to a twitch animates between his legs before he throws his hand over his eyes and pretends he is very alone. He pets her head more purposefully, long, feminine strands slipping through his fingers.

John Egan once put a bet on how long it would take these idiots to learn they were in love. It was once all a bit funny. And now, seeing in a dim haze what appears to be the ritual of making up, it’s not so funny any more. Today could have gone far worse, any attention to the women was bad attention and having Ida have to make a scene while hiding a belly like that was nearly criminal in Bucky’s mind.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t glad for Gale. No, he was so glad he was half jealous watching, imagining more than even seeing. He wondered if Maureen knew how much she loved him, he wondered how it compared to his own, and he ached like hell.

Next morning Gale woke up with a sore spot on his chest from the weight of her head lying there all night, and to the tinkering sounds of the metal water jugs being jostled. There was a laugh and a responding “shh” and another stifled laugh following. He rolled his head on the pillow and blearily cracked an eye open, taking in Brady and Maureen over their task. Or at least, Johnny was trying while fighting some whispered bit of comedy that Maureen continued despite Johnny’s wheezing protests and incompetent fumbling with his handles.

“You ain’t bein’ quiet, if ya think you are.” Benny’s grumble from the bunk below said what Gale was thinking, but he was too relieved to see Maureen awake, cheerful and integrated again to complain.

“I’m telling him about a Romanian girl in the other sector, met her yesterday.” Maureen stage whispered and Brady began to lose it again, muffling his whole face into his sleeve, milk pail abandoned on the floor so he could laugh. “There’s a fence between and she’s a fighter pilot but she’s seen him at his laps and she wants him.”

Benny stayed quiet a minute before his own laugh started and Gale could feel the vibrations of it from a whole bunk below. “She put in an order or somethin’?”

“Practically.” Maureen drawled, “She was so relieved to meet an American so arrangements can be made for my fellow. She has cows back home Johnny, she’d trade ten for you. Those big Eastern European cows, straight from a storybook, it’s worth consideration.”

“Grab your jug.” Johnny insisted instead in a small wheeze as he collected his own and strode out, looking behind to ensure she was following and beginning to laugh at eye contact. Maureen threw her head back and guffawed that ugly little cackle of hers as she went out.

“I think we missed part of the first act.” Benny observed about the joke from below, Gale didn’t know what talent it was but his co-pilot always seemed to sense when he was awake, no checking needed.

“Yup.” Gale puffed into his pillow, not giving a damn about the content of her material only that some material was back.

Someone else who was shit at playing asleep was John Egan. Gale slunk out of his bed quietly to not awake everyone else and went over to the sprawled out form of his friend, Ida tucked behind his back and the wall, genuinely asleep despite the nicotine she had coursing through her. Gale reached out and flicked at an overgrown curl dangling over his friend's face, the return momentum of it tickled his nose and he sneezed on compulsion.

“Sleep well?” Gale asked as Bucky stared up at him, betrayed and crinkly faced.

“Was.” he accused.

“Talk?” Buck proposed in a monosyllable and he watched Egan’s raw morning eyes shutter closed into something as readable as millponds.

“Yeah, sure.” There was a series of grunts and heaves of effort as Bucky righted himself and finally pushed out of the bunk, “Hall?” he asked while contemplating just how little he wanted to don boots right now.

“Hall’s fine.”

They went out together, it was quiet in the hall despite the awakening rustle in the various rooms off it. It stayed quiet once they’d both taken a wall to lean against because Gale Cleven wasn’t good at broaching topics despite his bravery to initiate their surroundings. Egan had a sense what this was about, but then, things usually weren’t about the thing they were about, they were about another thing reflected in the thing and that’s where he got lost. But watching Gale Cleven take in a breath five times only to exhale and chew his lip got a little tedious, even by his standards for how much he enjoyed watching his Buck at anything.

If this was about being observed last night, Egan sure as fuck wasn’t gonna take the blame for seeing shit in a packed dormitory. Or, combine, barracks, whatever. So, a sentence like -sorry I watched you get licked at like a bowl of milk last night- didn’t reflect his sentiments at all. And he’d never lied to Buck, not once, except maybe about not social engineering his way onto planes during rough missions. So instead he went with an easy going, “Must be nice to almost get everyone killed then get rewarded for it.”

Gale’s eyes sharpened instantly but the harsh retort Egan panted for didn’t come, instead something tired took over and Gale pinched his nose. “We’re all goin’ a little looney in here.”

“Are we?” Bucky hummed combatively, “How you crackin’ up these days?” it wasn't fair his Buck had all this weight on him and a fussy woman besides.

“I’m havin’ an affair with a fellow officer.” Gale recited in a devastated montone, and Egan hadn’t expected such transparency. Not in criminal language.

“Well,” he ceded, “there is that.”

“And occurrences like last night are gonna need to keep happenin.” Gale was informing him and Bucky didn’t know what to do with that, his tone was that of an officer but his soft blue eyes flicked with a plea to be understood. “To keep her -tame. Some sorta sane. She’s like you, she wasn’t meant for this place.”

“Just last week you told me nobody was.” Egan pointed out just to be contrary but he couldn’t help his grin and Buck caught sight of it before he could suppress it, knowing the banter and its innate kinship was back.

“I need you to promise me somethin’.” Gale went on, a nervous hand rubbing at the back of his neck and Bucky perked at the sight of that tick.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to promise to wait a week before you try anythin’.” Gale said, “You said I’d come up with somethin’ and I will, but I need a week Bucky. Give me that, can’t let you leave here without any direction of where to head toward. Wait on that radio, don’t you go off gettin’ yourself shot and Ida, too.”

A week in this place felt like a year, a week with an ever swelling woman felt like an eternity of valuable, crucial time. Bucky ran his bare toes over the splintering wood and tried to focus on the way the wood shards pricked at his frozen toes. “Alright.” he agreed, couldn’t help himself when Buck was looking at him like that and telling him he didn’t want him to die. “Alright.” He repeated more forcefully just to see Gale’s face clear and some old expression of peaceful relief smooth out his worry lines, not as much as Maureen’s tongue could do, Bucky wagered, but it was a little relief of his own he could give. “But you make a poor incentive for obeying you.” he pointed out cheekily, shoving off his wall to advance on Gale and shove a finger in those still full cheeks, “You gonna reward me if I disobey an’climb over on day six?”

Gale rolled his eyes, an expression all too pretty with his cheek distorted by Egan’s rough fingers, his eyes wary and loving all at once, Bucky had missed that look, it was coy as hell and one of his favorites on his friend. “Don’t count on it.”

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mota oc #mota imagine #john egan fanfiction #Gale Cleven fanfiction #bucky egan fanfiction #Buck Cleven fanfiction #gale cleven x oc #those who can #integrated au

[djarinsbeskar]

HERE, THERE BE MONSTERS: THE MINOTAUR PART 2

A/N: Imagine not updating a fic for nearly two years... hah-- couldn't be me (sweats). But my Minotaur is one of my most darling boys and I just couldn't leave him sitting in my drafts. Special thanks to the #1 Minotaur fan probably ever @astroboots for giving this a look over and for being the biggest hype woman for out hornyed hero. Artwork by machiavellicro on deviantart!

Pairing: Minotaur!Din Djarin x Nymph!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ NO Minors)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: gross misuse of mythology, mentions of unsolicited attention/dub-con, discrimination and prejudice, suggestive themes. Reminder that this is a MONSTER FUCKING fic, so be warned for future chapters.

NOTICE: I learned the new lay of the land, so there's no more taglist. Instead you can turn on notifications for @djarinsbeskar-writes to stay up to date.

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Day 1

The stars were veiled.

Something hovered just out of sight that impeded your view of them. They remained dim despite the darkness and shied their faces away from shining down on such a netherworld.

You’d never felt so alone.

Taken immediately from Hera’s court, the guards who had once addressed you as familiars, friends and lovers over the years escorted you to your prison with rough hands and cold hearts. In that moment, they became strangers to you, and you had to wonder if you ever knew any of them at all.

A sprawling void of space greeted you when you arrived. A no man’s land forsaken by the gods as unconquerable, and those that lived trapped within its ever-growing perimeter at the mercy of the beast that prowled with eerie bellows and heavy footfalls.

Half man, half beast. With the horns of a bull and the strength to match, you feared you wouldn’t survive the night as you were pushed unceremoniously through the outer hedge.

You squeaked – frightened – and stumbled through the dense brambles that should have prevented your entry, but instead dragged you in deeper with thorny, greedy branches snagging on soft skin and the wafer-thin linen of your dress.

You fell to your knees on the other side, hands sinking immediately into a morass of mossy, damp earth. Hair falling around you in a tangle, you blew at the strands futilely before giving up and used your hands to push them back instead.

Scrambling to your feet, the dainty sandals you normally wore were useless against this unrelenting land. You’d never had to worry about footwear before… you hardly even needed it dancing under the moonlight or swimming among the stars.

The breathless, euphoric laughter of that time felt eons ago as your lungs constricted with fear.

Just breathe, you coached yourself, in and out… in and out.

It wasn’t working.

Not when your eyes finally moved past the initial, blinding panic to take in your surroundings. What you could see of them, anyway. A coffin of shrubbery greeted you on all sides, so tall they practically eclipsed the sky, the air cloying with a simmering malice you were reluctant to inhale as it tightened around your windpipe with the flex of a brutal grip.

And still, your wracked breathing was too loud in the oppressive silence.

Disturbed carrion birds flying overhead made you jump, squeezing your eyes closed reflexively. A fell wind followed the birds, blowing through the maze ruthlessly. It howled and whipped up the detritus as you folded in on yourself for protection, screaming in your ears with the anguish of those who found themselves trapped here.

However, unlike their torment, the wind eventually passed, and you cracked an eye open warily.

The labyrinth had changed.

Already? You thought with a hitched sob, swallowing it soon after lest you burst into tears and never stop.

There hadn’t been a path behind you where you first fell through the hedging. But by the looks of the narrow stretch of dirt that eventually became clouded by fog, you were deeper into the labyrinth than you first anticipated.

The thought had your stomach sinking.

There went your plan to keep to the perimeter in the vain hope of possibly escaping. You had no choice but to follow the path, deeper into the maze and towards the maw of the beast that inhabited it.

The wind returned intermittently, sometimes changing the labyrinth, sometimes not. Sometimes, it revealed hidden holes between hedgerows that led to another pathway that – while thrilling initially – proved just as complex and endless as the path you escaped from.

Hours of walking and nothing changed.

You were completely lost.

Tears spilled freely down your face now as you tried to stifle the sobs that escaped on every hiccupped inhale when your doom finally dawned on you. No one was coming to save you. Your feet hurt, your dress was filthy, and you were freezing.

You just wanted to go home.

But there was no one to hear your sorrow or respond to your pain. No one to care for you or comfort you or tell you that everything would be okay. You were alone after an eternity of living amongst others.

How little you knew of your own self.

Your vision blurry, you swiped the back of your hand across your eyes to glance at the next intersection of more dreary hedges. Quelling your sniffles, you listened. Trying to pick out any sound that wasn’t the breeze or your misery. A din of chatter or a chime of music, a—

Wait.

You held your breath. Was that—?

There!

A faint gurgle of running water filled your heart with song. There was a river nearby! Or a stream at the very least. You wanted to squeal at just the sound of something other than the wind and rustling branches you’d been subjected to for the last few hours.

And a river meant you could finally bathe.

It was hardly the most useful thing you could’ve done. You should have been looking for shelter, for warmth, for company and safety in numbers, but just the thought of getting clean… it was something familiar and you couldn’t let it go. It was something you would do whether at home among the stars, in the residencies of various deities or indeed, even here, in hell.

Yes, you smiled as bravely as you could, a bath would make everything better.

But you still had to find said river and that proved more than difficult. It was nigh on impossible after several more hours of walking.

Your grand plan of keeping left as much as possible proved fruitless as you came upon two dead ends that forced you to double back until you were confused again. It seemed like the promise of getting clean was growing less and less likely, your feet aching, and spirit defeated.

What a cruel… cruel place…

It was during your pursuit of water, however, that you happened upon the first settlement unfortunate enough to have been swallowed by the maze.

Doors latched shut and chimney’s smoking, you mistook the warm glow behind shuttered windows for warm inhabitants. But this was the labyrinth. No one cared for a sobbing woman banging at their doors for help, whether she was innocent or not.

You carried the condemnation of a goddess and for that you were shunned by even those forsaken by Olympus.

“Please, help me…” you hiccupped, voice raw when your forehead met the cold wood of the last door you tried to no avail, self-pity turning your fear to fury for a white-hot second. “It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t me… he—”

Your voice broke as it rose, agony bringing you to your knees on the doorstep of indifference.

“Why won’t anyone listen!” You roared at the door, your face a mess of tears and a supernova of hurt illuminating your irises.

“Damnable woman!”

Everything that followed happened in a blur. The door flew open far enough for the man on the other side to shove you off his doorstep where you fell back on your bottom heavily.

“You’ll bring him here with all your wailing.” A frosty, uncompromising glare met you where the human looked down his nose at you. “Take your wickedness away. We might all be prisoners here, but do not think for a second that makes us the same. We were born into this hell, you were sentenced to it, filth.”

“But I—” You scrambled back to your knees only to be met with a bucket of dirty water that chilled you to the bone.

“There, consider it a gift.” He scoffed. “He won’t be able to smell you under all that for a while. Be grateful for this much and leave our village in peace!”

You sat frozen, in shock and unable to speak or move or do anything as the door was slammed in your face once more. Humans had… never treated you this way before and even though you knew their cruelty could rival the gods, it shook you to your core to be on the receiving end of both.

A rank smell made you gag, breaking your stony cage enough for you to get back up on shaky legs and leave.

Suddenly, scattered cottages became bear traps in your eyes, and you fled from them lest you get punished by their fiery teeth once again.

The maze was safer and, perhaps it was coincidence, but when you came across a lazily meandering river breaking the perpetual rows of hedging minutes later, you chose to believe the land had rewarded you for thinking as such. Turning your face up to the kraken-cruel clouds above, tears tracked through the stains on your face gratefully.

How odd… where before gifts of splendour hardly made you bat an eye; you’d never felt more thankful to an environment that was technically your foe for merely leading you to a river.

When you looked back down to take in your surroundings, you were shocked to see trees line the far side of the river in place of towering hedges. A forest lay within the maze, a fact you’d never heard about in rumours before. But then, an endless forest could be as disorienting as the labyrinth itself… so you didn’t count yourself lucky just yet.

But first… you stripped.

Down to the nude, your nipples pebbled at the cool air as you kicked off your ruined shoes to step into the gentle course of the water. Cold! You shivered. Accustomed to more tepid warm waters, the cold was startling on your soft body.

Baths here were less about enjoyment and more about brevity, you supposed.

You gave yourself a hurried wash, scrubbing yourself free of the dirt and grime and who knew what else had been in that water you’d been drenched in. Cupping the water over your hair, the back of your neck prickled from something other than the cold, but when you looked back, only ominous shadows greeted your paranoid gaze.

Right, you swallowed around the bulbous lump of fear in your throat, best not to linger. Something told you staying in one place for too long would spell disaster.

That in mind and with a wrinkle of your nose, you pulled back on your soiled dress with the promise to wash it during the daytime. A soaking dress during the night would only make things more miserable for you, after all.

And that was how you made your way into the forest, for nothing else if but a change of scenery and hopefully, a safe enough place to rest your weary, heartbroken bones.

It wasn’t half an hour later, though, that the same patch of grass where your dress had lain while you bathed was disturbed anew. A scent, tempered by filth that irritated his nostrils, cut through the bloodlust that guided him every night and caught his attention. That, and a trail of light powder clinging to the grass like morning dew.

It led him to the water’s edge, a great horned shadow that hushed even the rivers gentle gurgle when his eyes fell upon it.

The powder clung to him when he touched it, iridescent specks catching in the reflection of his dark eyes before he brought it to his muzzle and sniffed. His pupils dilated, starlight catching like kindling in the back of his mind, his body responding.

An exhaled plume of condensation sent the dust into the air where it scattered like the spray of blood from his last victim’s jugular.

Stardust…

He crouched low to find the scent again, picking it up over the water where his long tongue moved distractedly over his muzzle to catch what remained of the powder there. Suddenly, lust of a different kind rose to battle with his insatiable desire to spill blood, and the trajectory of his hunt changed.

A star had fallen into his domain, and he was going to find it.

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