#“i closed my eyes inside of your darkness”

[fluffymiyaa]

: ̗̀➛Rude Boy(s) ft. LADS Men

TW : Degradation, rough sex, face fucking, choke, hair pulling, tie up, spanking, brat taming, belly bulge, cockwarming, recording, toxic, dom/sub, brush painting play, gun play, biting, possessiveness, slight exhibition

Synopsis : In which, you having hate sex with them

➤ Neighbour!Xavier x reader

You step out of your apartment, dressed casually in just a T-shirt and shorts, clutching plastic bags full of trash. The air is cool, and the hallway is quiet—except for the sound of someone’s heavy footsteps.

It’s Xavier, your neighbor, stomping towards his door with a stormy expression. His face is marred by fresh bruises, and his hands are bandaged, blood seeping faintly through the wrappings. It’s obvious he’s fresh from a mission—one that didn’t go as planned.

A smirk creeps onto your face as you lean casually against the doorframe.

“My, my… someone looks like they had a rough night.” you say, voice laced with mockery.

Xavier’s dark eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as he stops briefly in his tracks. “I’m not in the mood for this.” he mutters through gritted teeth and continues walking past you.

But you’re not about to let him off that easily. You drop the trash bags to the floor with a loud thud and stride after him, your grin widening.

“Aw, come on. What happened? Did you mess up? Failed the big mission?” you taunt, your voice sing-songy.

He halts abruptly, turning on his heel to face you. His sharp gaze feels like it could cut through steel.

“Say another word,” he growls, his voice low and threatening, “and you’ll regret it.”

The tension in the air is electric, but you’re far too entertained to back down. You cock your head, your smirk unfaltering. “Oh? Really? Then make me.”

In a flash, Xavier closes the gap between you two, slamming you against the wall with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. His large hand grips your jaw, squeezing your cheeks together just hard enough to make you wince. His face is inches from yours, his voice a deadly whisper.

“You wanna know what a rough night really feels like?” he hisses, his lips curling into a dangerous grin. “Fine. I’ll make it so rough, you won’t even remember your own name.”

That’s how you end up on your knees in his bedroom. Xavier's grip on your hair tightens as he forces your head down, his cock sliding deeper into your throat. The salty taste of his skin mingles with the coppery tang of blood from your split lip. Tears stream down your face, blurring your vision, but you can still see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes.

"Hmm..finally put that mouth in a good use," he growls, his voice thick with sadistic pleasure. "I knew you'd look so pretty choking on my cock."

“Mmphngh!”

You gag and sputter around his thick length, your throat convulsing as you struggle to breathe.

Xavier's hips snap forward, driving himself deeper still. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, cutting off your air completely. Spots dance in your vision as you claw at his thighs, desperate for relief.

Xavier's fingers tighten in your hair as he groans, his hips stuttering and jerking as he nears his peak. He looks down on your messy face, god you look so hot it makes him wanna cum. His cock throbs against your tongue, the veins pulsing with need.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he pants, his voice ragged. "You better take it all, but don't swallow yet."

His command sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and anticipation. You brace yourself, knowing what's coming.

With a guttural moan, Xavier buries himself to the hilt in your throat. His cock pulses as he spills himself inside you, hot and thick. You can feel each spurt hitting the back of your throat, coating your tongue with his essence.

He holds you in place, his grip unyielding, as he rides out his orgasm. Finally, he pulls out, his softening cock slipping from your lips.

"Open up," he demands, his voice low and rough.

You obey, parting your lips to reveal the creamy load pooled on your tongue. His eyes darken with lust as he watches you,

Xavier's eyes darken with lust as he watches you, his spent cock twitching at the sight of his cum glistening on your tongue. He reaches out, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip, smearing the pearly drops.

"Such a good girl, taking my cum so well," he praises, his voice a low rumble. "Now, swallow it all down like a good little slut."

You obey, tilting your head back and letting the thick, salty fluid slide down your throat. Xavier's thumb presses against your chin, forcing your mouth closed as you swallow every last drop.

"Good girl." he praised, his other hand tapping your cheek.

Xavier's eyes blaze with a fierce, primal hunger as he hoists you up and tosses you onto the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets cool against your heated skin.

"We're not done." he growls, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

Before you can even catch your breath, he's on you, his hands ripping at your flimsy t-shirt. Buttons fly everywhere as he bares your chest to his greedy gaze.

"Xavier!" you gasp, arching into his touch. But he doesn't slow down, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath.

He grabs the torn remnants of your shirt, using the fabric to bind your wrists together. The rough material bites into your skin, the sting only heightening your arousal.

Your shorts are next, yanked down your legs in one swift motion. You try to protest, to tell him to slow down.

“Wait! Slow-!”

He silences you with your own panties, shoving the damp fabric into your mouth.

"What? You said you wanted it rough, didn’t you?”

Xavier's eyes rake over your naked form, his gaze hot and possessive. He spreads your legs wide, exposing your glistening folds to his hungry stare.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his fingers delving between your thighs. "So wet already, so ready for me.”

He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, the touch light and teasing. You arch into his hand, desperate for more, craving the pressure and friction that will send you over the edge.

"Stop teasing." you plead, your voice breathy and needy.

But Xavier just shakes his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "No."

You whine in frustration, your hips bucking against his hand. But he denies you, his movements maddeningly slow and deliberate.

Suddenly, his palm connects with your clit in a sharp, stinging slap. You yelp, your body jerking at the unexpected sensation.

He pull out your panties from your mouth. Give you a chance to speak.

"Beg for it," he demands, his voice low and commanding. "Say that I'm the best hunter, that I'm better than you."

You furrow your brows, hesitating. The words feel foreign on your tongue, a admission of defeat that you're not ready to make.

Xavier's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flashing in their blue depths. "Don't want to? Okay, I'll just leave you here all spread out and unsatisfied."

He starts to pull away, but you stop him. “No! Please! W-wait! P-please xavier.. t-touch me.. want you to make me cum.. you're so good.. such a skilled hunter.. you're the best a-and way so much better than me..please…” your voice cracks, desperation and need coloring every word.

The words pour out of you in a rush, a desperate plea for his touch, his attention. You've never felt so vulnerable, so exposed.

He smirks, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "See? That wasn't so hard."

He shoving you panties back into your mouth.

His fingers find your clit once more, circling the sensitive nub with deliberate, teasing strokes. You moan, your hips rocking against his hand, seeking more friction, more

"That’s it," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire. "Let me hear you. Let me feel you.”

He increases the pressure, rubbing your clit in firm, steady circles. At the same time, he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, his fingers pumping in and out of your tight heat. "So hot and ready for me."

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'm going to make you come so hard," he promises, his breath hot against your skin. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk, until all you can think about is my cock inside you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation and desire. You've never been talked to like this before, never been so thoroughly claimed and possessed.

Without warning, he’s inside you, his hard length stretching you, filling you in one brutal thrust. You cry out around the gag, your back arching off the bed.

“Ah!”

He sets a punishing pace, pounding into you with reckless abandon. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants, his voice rough with need. "So tight, so perfect."

He pulls back, his eyes locking with yours. The intensity in his gaze steals your breath, makes your heart race.

"I'm going to ruin you," he growls, his thrusts growing harder, faster. "Ruin this sweet little cunt until you can't walk straight."

You whimper around the gag, your nails raking down the sheets.

Xavier's fingers dig into the soft flesh of your breasts, kneading and squeezing roughly. He pinches your nipples between his fingers, twisting and tugging until you're gasping and writhing beneath him.

"You said you wanted to know how rough my night was, right?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's find out."

He leans down, his teeth closing around one sensitive peak. He bites down, hard enough to make you cry out, before soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Maybe next time I’ll take you there," he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "I’ll fuck you there as we hide from the Wanderers. Let’s see how long you can keep your mouth shut.”

➤ Brat taming!Zayne x brat!reader

Your heels clicked loudly against the polished floor as you walked down the hall, head held high. Every step echoed with confidence, and you could feel the eyes on you—admiring, envious, curious. Flashing a dazzling smile, you tossed a playful wave toward a group of students, then blew a kiss toward a few boys who immediately scrambled to look cool. You chuckled to yourself. Being the most popular girl on campus had its perks.

When you reached the teacher's office, you smoothed your skirt, knocked lightly, and walked in. Mr. Ryo was at his desk, looking up from a pile of papers.

"You called for me, sir?" you asked with a practiced, polite tone.

He sighed, already looking exasperated as he handed you a stack of tests—your tests.

"Explain this." he said sharply.

Your stomach sank as you flipped through them. Red marks dominated every page. "Uh, well, you see... I haven’t been sleeping well because my house is under renov—"

"Save it," he cut you off, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You’re barely scraping by, and if this keeps up, you’ll fail my class."

Your eyes widened in panic. "What? No, I can’t fail! Please, sir, I’ll—"

"That’s why I’ve arranged a tutor for you," he said flatly, cutting off your plea.

You groaned. "A tutor? Come on, I don’t need—"

"He’s already here." Mr. Ruki interrupted, nodding toward the door as it opened.

You turned to see who it was, and your heart dropped. There, leaning casually against the doorframe, was Zayne.

Of all people.

Zayne, your eternal nemesis. You hated him since high school, where he lorded over everyone as the president of the student council. He had a talent for finding flaws in you specifically—your tardiness, your outfits, your general existence. And now, standing there with his arms crossed, he looked just as insufferable as ever.

His sharp eyes flicked over you, unimpressed, before he straightened. "I’m only doing this because Mr. Ryo asked me to," he said, his voice cool and detached. "We’ll start after class. Your place."

"Wait, my place?" you blurted, already bristling.

He raised an eyebrow, ignoring your tone. "Don’t waste my time." he said simply, then turned and walked away as if the conversation was over.

You stood frozen, jaw dropped. How was this your life right now?

"Dismissed." Mr. Ryo said, waving you off.

You left the office in a daze, gripping the stack of papers tightly. Of all the tutors in the world, it had to be Zayne.

"Oh, he's still an asshole." you muttered under your breath.

You spot him standing near the front gate of the campus, waiting with his usual stiff posture. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into his plain slacks, his glasses perched perfectly on his nose. Seriously, who even dresses like that these days? Zayne was still the same nerdy, old-fashioned perfectionist he’d always been.

“You’re late." he said as you approached, his tone as cold as ever.

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms. "Sorry." you muttered, not meaning it in the slightest.

He sighed heavily, the disappointment practically radiating off him. "You never change."

"And neither do you," you snapped back. "Look, let’s just cut this short, okay? We both hate this, and we both hate each other. I’ll tell Mr. Ryo that you were useless and told me to screw off. Problem solved. Bye."

You turned on your heel and walked away. He looked at you from behind, adjusting his glasses as his sharp gaze followed you.

"She needs to be disciplined."

Once you step in your room, Somehow, impossibly, you’ve ended up straddling Zayne’s lap, his thick length nestled snugly between your thighs. Skirt up, panties aside.

His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you steady, his hard length throbbing deep inside you. The books lay open on the desk before you.

He grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh. His hazel eyes are dark with desire as they take over your form. "I'll give you five minutes to finish your quiz," he growls, voice low and commanding. "Start now."

You shiver at the authority in his tone, a thrill running down your spine. With trembling hands, you reach for your pen, but it's a struggle to focus. The heat of Zayne's cock deep inside you is a constant distraction, making it hard to.

You try to focus, pen hovering over the paper, but it's impossible to think with him filling you so completely. Your walls clench around him, desperate for more, for the friction that will send you spiraling into bliss. But he remains still, a cruel master determined to make you earn your pleasure.

"Three minutes," he growls, his breath hot against your neck. His hips twitch, a teasing promise of what's to come. "Don't make me wait."

You whimper, the sound lost in the rustle of turning pages. The first question swims into view, but the words blur together, meaningless in the face of the exquisite ache building within you. Your hand trembles as you scribble down an answer, praying it's correct.

“Times up.”

The exam paper lies crumpled on the desk, your pen clattering to the floor as you whimper loudly. Zayne moves closer, his hazel eyes scanning the answers you've scribbled down. As he reads, his cock twitches inside you, eliciting a moan from your lips.

"Look at your paper," he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Did you really finish high school? How did you even go to college? God, you're still as dumb as ever. What have you been doing all these years?"

You bite your lip, trying to stifle another moan as he pinches your clit. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction against his thick length buried deep within you.

"D-don't be mean, Zayne." you plead, humping against him desperately.

“D-don’t b-be mean, Z-zayne.” He mocked.

He scoffs, grips on your neck tightens, forcing you to meet his piercing gaze. His eyes are dark with lust and frustration, a dangerous combination that sends shivers down your spine.

"This won't do at all," he growls, his voice low and menacing. "You just want to get fucked stupid, don't you? To have your mind completely emptied by my cock until you can't think of anything but the pleasure I give you."

You whimper pathetically, your body trembling under his dominant touch. The degrading words only serve to heighten your arousal, your pussy clenching greedily around his thick shaft.

"Answer me," Zayne demands, his fingers digging into your skin. "Tell me what you want”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but they're not from pain. It's the overwhelming mix of shame and desire that threatens to consume you.

"Y-yes.. please want you to fuck me stupid, zayne.. been waiting for long." You beg.

The cool air hits your exposed skin as Zayne pulls his thick cock out of your dripping pussy, making you whine in protest. He grabs your hips and maneuvers you to the edge of the bed, your ass presented to him like an offering.

SLAP!

His palm connects with your cheek, the sting radiating through your body. You yelp and bury your face in the sheets, your fingers clutching at the fabric.

"And what makes you deserve it?" Zayne asks, his voice cold and demanding.

You can't response, your mind clouded with arousal and the throbbing pain in your ass. He rubs your reddening cheeks, soothing the sting before delivering another sharp spank.

"Ah! Zayne, it hurts!" you cry out, your voice muffled by the sheets.

"You want me to stop?" he asks, his fingers digging into your tender flesh.

"N-no," you whimper, shaking your head frantically. "Please don't stop.."

Zayne's dark chuckle rumbles through his chest as he delivers another stinging spank to your reddened ass. "I knew it," he growls, his fingers digging into your tender flesh. "You're just a pathetic little masochist, aren't you? You crave the pain, the degradation. It's the only way you can get off."

He leans over you, his body pressing against your back as he whispers in your ear. "Now, you better count for me. Maybe if you're being a good little slut, I'll fuck you senseless. But if you miss a number or hesitate, I'll keep spanking you until you can't sit for a week."

His hand hovers over your ass, the threat of another spank hanging in the air. "Start counting.”

You take a shaky breath, your mind racing with anticipation and fear. "O-one." you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

SLAP!

His palm connects with your cheek, the pain searing through your body.

"Louder," he commands, his voice cold and demanding. "I want the whole neighborhood to hear what a pathetic slut you are."

You bite your lip, trying to stifle a whimper as you force out the next number. "T-two."

SLAP!

Another spank lands on your reddened flesh, the sting radiating through your body.

Zayne's hand cracks against your ass again and again, the sharp sting of each spank sending jolts of pain and pleasure through your body. You lose track of how many times his palm connects with your reddened flesh, your mind hazing over with the intensity of it all.

"Twenty." you cry out, your voice hoarse and broken.

Zayne pauses, taking a deep breath as he admires his handiwork. His fingers trace over the raised welts on your skin, the heat radiating from your ass. He spreads your cheeks apart, exposing your dripping pussy to his hungry gaze.

"Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "So wet for me, even after all that. Aren't you ashamed? Didn't you say you hated me since high school? Now look at you, bent over and taking your punishment like a good little slut.

"I-I hate you!" you whimper, even as your hips push back against his touch.

Zayne chuckles darkly, his fingers rubbing your labia teasingly. His fingers slip easily into your soaked entrance, your body betraying your true desires despite your feeble protests. He pumps them in and out, curling them just right to hit that sensitive spot deep inside you.

"Don't worry, the feeling is mutual." he murmurs, his lips brushing against your back as he presses a tender kiss to your skin.

His fingers move faster, harder, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room. Your walls clench around him, desperate for more, even as your mind reels from the degrading words falling from his lips.

Just as you about to cum, his fingers slip out of your dripping pussy, replaced by the thick, hard length of his cock. You arch your back with a loud moan, your body stretching to accommodate him.

"Oh! Zayne!" you cry out, your voice echoing off the walls.

He starts fucking you hard and fast, his grip on your hair tightening as he pulls your head back. His other hand presses down on your back, keeping you arched and exposed to his relentless thrusts.

The skin slapping sounds fill the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure. His palm connects with your ass, the sting only heightening your arousal.

"Ahhngh s-so good please please don't stop..!" you beg, your words dissolving into incoherent pleas.

Zayne chuckles darkly, his pace never faltering. "Yeah? Cock drunk already? I barely started, darling.”

He fucks you harder, faster, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust. His hand runs to your belly, pressing down on the bulge as he pounds into you. The added pressure makes you scream, your pussy clenching around his cock like a vice.

"Fuck," he groans, his hips snapping forward with brutal force. "I fucking hate you. Fucking hate that short skirt, fucking hate that skimpy outfit, fucking hate your makeup, your attitude. Argh... so fucking hot. Makes me want to fuck you in front of everyone. God, this pussy feels so good."

His words are like a drug, your body responding to the degradation even as your mind reels. You can only moan in response, lost in the haze of pleasure and pain.

"Z-zayne... k-kiss me... please." you manage to gasp out, your voice broken and needy.

Zayne throws his glasses aside, grabbing your face and crushing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, claiming you, owning you.

"Fuck me like you hate me."

➤ Rival!Rafayel x reader

Your footsteps echo through the art exhibition, your eyes scanning the frames on the walls. Each piece is scrutinized in silence, the weight of your judgment unmistakable. You shake your head, disappointment flickering across your face. Sliding your hands into the pockets of your coat, you turn on your heels, ready to leave.

And then you see him.

Rafayel, the owner of the exhibition, stands a few feet away, his sharp gaze cutting through the distance. Anger burns in his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demands, his voice tight.

You scoff, taking a deliberate step toward him.

"Rafayel," you say, your tone laced with mockery, "have you learned nothing?"

His hands clench into fists at his sides, his body tense as he closes the gap between you.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he growls, his face mere inches from yours.

A smirk tugs at your lips, and you laugh softly, cocky and infuriating. Tilting your head, you deliver the blow.

"Your paintings," you say, gesturing toward the walls with a flick of your hand. "Still as dull as ever."

His jaw tightens, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. You can see him fighting the urge to lash out.

"You don’t know a damn thing." he hisses.

Turning back to the nearest painting, you feign a thoughtful gaze, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unnerve him. Then, almost casually, you speak.

"Have you heard the news? About the plagiarism accusations?"

You don’t need to look at him to feel the storm brewing in his chest.

"I didn’t plagiarize anything," he snaps, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury. "I don’t copy, and I don’t steal."

You let out a low laugh, shaking your head as if pitying him.

"Are you sure about that?" you ask, your smug expression cutting deeper than words.

His teeth grind together audibly.

"I don’t need to prove anything to you."

You shrug, your indifference only stoking the fire in his eyes. Slowly, you start toward the exit, your footsteps deliberate.

"Well," you call over your shoulder, "you’d better get a good lawyer, then."

Before you can leave, he grabs your arm, spinning you back toward him. His grip is desperate, his voice shaking.

"I didn’t do it!" he insists, his eyes pleading for you to believe him—or at least stop.

Your smirk widens as you raise a hand, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

"Then you’d better give me a reason not to report you," you say, your voice silky, every word a trap. "What can you do for me, Rafayel? Hmm?"

His breath catches.

"I..." His voice falters, his resolve crumbling under the weight of your gaze. "I’ll do anything."

–

You smirk down at him, your shadow falling over his helpless form as he lies on the bed. His face is flushed, a deep crimson that spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He averts his gaze, his breath shallow and uneven, clearly wrestling with the embarrassment of the situation.

"You look pathetic like this." you say, your tone a mixture of mockery and amusement.

His lips part as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, he turns his head to the side, his fists gripping the sheets beneath him, as though anchoring himself against the storm of emotions threatening to consume him.

"Don’t look away." you command, your voice sharp enough to make him flinch. Slowly, hesitantly, his eyes meet yours, wide and vulnerable.

The sight only fuels your satisfaction. Leaning in, you lower your face closer to his, your smirk widening as you watch him squirm.

"Embarrassed, are we?" you whisper, your words laced with cruel delight.

"I…" he stammers, his voice barely audible.

You chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Reaching out, you trail a finger along his jawline, savoring the way he shivers under your touch.

"Good," you murmur. "Stay just like this. Helpless. Humble."

His breath hitches, and for a moment, it feels as though the world has narrowed to just the two of you—the tension between dominance and submission hanging heavy in the air.

"Do you understand?" you ask, your voice low but firm.

He nods, barely, his pride crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

You slowly take one of the brush paint. Rafayel's eyes widen as he watches you approach, the brush in your hand, a wicked gleam in your eyes. He squirms on the bed, his face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, his hard cock standing proudly against his stomach.

“Mhm.. you’re so sensitive.”

"S-stop teasing.” he whimpers, his hips twitching as you tease the sensitive tip with the soft bristles.

You enjoying the power you hold over him, the way he's at your mercy. "And who said you get to decide?" you purr, your voice low and seductive. "I'm in charge now, and I'm going to take my time with you."

You trail the brush down his length, watching as he shudders and moans, his cock twitching under your touch. "Look at you," you murmur, your eyes roaming over his body, taking in every inch of him. "So hard for me already, so desperate for my touch.”

The brush go lower, teasing his balls, watching as he squirms and moans, his cock twitching and leaking pre-cum.

You trail the pre-cum coated brush over his sensitive skin, his body arching into your touch. He watches, transfixed, as you paint his abs, his nipples, his neck, his face, leaving a glistening trail of his own essence in your wake.

"Fuck," he groans, his voice rough with need. "You're driving me crazy."

He licks his lips as you rub the brush over them, tasting himself, the flavor heady and intoxicating. His eyes meet yours, dark with lust and adoration, his gaze never leaving your face as you admire your handiwork.

"Such a work of art," you murmur, your voice filled with reverence. "My own personal masterpiece.”

You throw away the paintbrush, your hands sliding over his cum-slicked skin. He gasps as you grip his neck, forcing him to meet your piercing gaze, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

"I never liked you," you hiss, your voice dripping with venom. "Back in art college, you were so arrogant, so childish. And yet, you always won every competition."

Your other hand flicks and pinches his nipple, making him moan and arch into your touch. "I wonder what people would think if they saw you like this," you mused, your eyes glinting with malice. "So helpless, so desperate under me. Should we show them? Should I record how pathetic you look right now?"

Rafayel's cock twitches at the thought, his body betraying his desire even as he shakes his head, pleading with you. "Please, don't." he begs, his voice hoarse with need.

His breath hitches as your hand drifts lower, your fingers wrapping around his throbbing cock, stroking him slowly, teasingly. "Look at you," you purr, your voice low and seductive. "So hard for me, even as I threaten to expose you."

You squeeze him tighter, your thumb swirling around the sensitive head, smearing the pre-cum that leaks from the tip. "I could ruin you, you know," you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear. "One video, one scandal, and your reputation would be in tatters."

Rafayel whimpers, his hips bucking into your hand, seeking more of your touch. "Please," he begs, his voice breaking. "Don't do this. I'll do anything, be anything you want."

You smirk, your eyes gleaming with triumph. "Anything, huh?" you ask, your hand stilling on his cock. "Even if I want to use you like my own personal toy?”

His eyes widen at the suggestion, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through him. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he tries to find his voice.

"Y-yes," he stammers, his cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red. "I'll do anything you want. Use me however you see fit."

He looks up at you, his gaze pleading and desperate, silently begging you to take control, to dominate him completely. "Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I'm yours."

You smirk, your eyes gleaming with triumph and lust. You release his cock, your hand trailing up his body, your nails dragging lightly over his skin.

"Good boy," you purr, your voice low and seductive. "Such a good obedient little toy.”

You take off your bra and panties, crawl on top of him teasingly.

Rafayel's eyes widen as you straddle his face, your bare pussy hovering just inches from his eager mouth. He licks his lips, his tongue darting out to taste you, to savor your essence.

"Make me cum first." you demand, your voice husky with desire. You grip his hair, your nails digging into his scalp as you lower yourself onto his face, your wet heat pressing against his lips.

He moans into you, the vibrations sending shivers through your body. He grips your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you closer, his tongue delving deep into your folds, lapping at your clit, sucking and nibbling until you're writhing above him, your juices coating his face.

You ride him hard, grinding your pussy against his mouth, using his face for your pleasure. "Fuck, yes," you moan, your head thrown back in ecstasy. "Just like that.”

Rafayel's tongue delves deep, lapping at your clit, sucking and nibbling, his lips and teeth and chin all covered in your juices as he devours you. He grips your hips tighter, holding you in place as you grind against his face, using him for your pleasure.

Your hand wanders to look for your phone. Flashing coming up to his face. His eyes widen in shock as the flash of your phone goes off, momentarily blinding him. He squirms beneath you, instinctively trying to pull away from the sudden bright light.

But you press him down harder, your grip on his hair tightening, your thighs clamping around his head. "Stay still," you command, your voice firm. "Keep going, baby. Don't you want to make me cum?"

Rafayel whimpers, his body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. He knows he's helpless, completely at your mercy, and yet the thought of being recorded, of being exposed, only serves to heighten his desire.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and then dives back in, his tongue lapping at your clit, his lips sealing around it and sucking hard. He can feel you tensing above him, your moans growing louder, more desperate, as he works you closer and closer to the edge.

Rafayel's tongue works feverishly, his lips and teeth and chin all covered in your juices as he devours you, determined to bring you to the edge. He can feel you tensing above him, your thighs quivering, your juices flowing freely as he pushes you closer and closer to the release you so desperately crave.

He doubles his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit, his lips sealing around it and sucking hard, his nose pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves as he breathes in your scent, intoxicated by your taste, your smell, the feel of you against his mouth.

Your moans grow louder, more desperate, your hips bucking wildly against his face as you ride him harder, chasing your release. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm gonna cum," you cry out, your voice raw with need.

You came all over his face. Rafayel's face is drenched in your juices as you pull away, your release coating his lips and chin, dripping down onto his chest. He looks up at you, his eyes glazed with a mix of arousal and embarrassment, his cheeks flushed a deep red.

You smirk down at him, your phone still in hand, the camera trained on his cock as you pump it a few times, making him wince at the sensitivity. "Oh? Did you just cum? Only from me sitting on your face?" you mock, your voice dripping with amusement.

He grunts, his face burning with shame at the realization that he came just from pleasuring you, from the taste and feel of you against his mouth. He looks away, unable to meet your gaze, his cock twitching in your hand.

But then you cup his face, your fingers gentle against his skin as you pull him towards you, your lips meeting in a deep, passionate kiss. Rafayel melts into it, his embarrassment forgotten as he loses himself in the taste of you, in the feel of your lips against his.

When you pull away from the kiss, your lips leaving his with a soft smack. He watches, breathless and aching, as you place your phone on the desk, angling it to capture both of you.

"Just because I'm feeling nice, I'm gonna ride tonight," you purr, your hand still wrapped around his throbbing cock, stroking it slowly, teasingly.

"T-thank you," Rafayel stammers, his voice husky with need. He bucks into your touch, desperate for more, for the feel of you around him.

You position yourself over him, your wet heat hovering just above his tip. Then, with a slow, torturous descent, you sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch into your tight, slick heat.

Rafayel groans, his head falling back against the pillow as you envelop him, your walls clenching around his length. "Fuck, you feel so good," he gasps, his hands flying to your hips, gripping them tightly.

You start to move, rising up until just the tip remains inside you, then sinking back down, taking him deep. Rafayel's hips buck up to meet you, his rhythm matching yours as you ride him hard and fast.

"That's it, baby," he pants, his eyes locked on where you're joined, watching as his cock disappears into your heat over and over again. "Fuck, you're so tight, so perfect."

His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples as you bounce on his lap. You moan, your head falling back, your hair cascading down your back as you lose yourself in the pleasure.

He leans forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud as you ride him.

You grin down at him, your confidence radiating as you lean closer, lowering your head until your lips hover near his ear.

"I’m actually the one who’s been copying you.”

➤ Sylus x thief!reader

You slide your gun back into your pocket, your eyes darting around the sprawling, opulent house. The silence here is unnerving, as if the place has been abandoned, yet something about it feels... wrong. You tiptoe cautiously, the soles of your boots making the faintest of sounds against the polished floor.

Your boss had told you to rob this house, promising a hefty payoff. But now, separated from your partners, the task feels like a trap. The eerie quiet, the pristine state of everything—it’s like no one’s lived here in years.

Still, the sheer luxury of it all tempts you. Your gaze lingers on ornate paintings, golden vases, and intricately crafted furniture. You can't wait to make off with some of it. Before you realize it, your wandering feet lead you to the kitchen.

The darkness here is almost tangible, swallowing everything whole. You fumble forward, your fingers brushing against cold countertops. Suddenly, your hand knocks over something small and glass.

A spice jar tumbles to the floor with a sharp clink.

"Shit, shit!" you whisper, your hands scrambling to pick it up.

Then, without warning, the overhead light flicks on.

"Well, well," a low, amused voice drawls. "What do we have here? A curious little kitten prowling where it shouldn’t be?"

Your heart jumps to your throat as you whirl around. Standing in the doorway is a tall man with stark white hair and piercing eyes. He’s immaculate, like he stepped out of some glossy magazine, but there’s something deeply unnerving about the smirk playing on his lips.

You gulp, your hands trembling as you reach for your gun. "W-who are you?"

He steps closer, the smirk widening. "Me? I’m Sylus, the owner of this house. Just got back from... cleaning up a mess. Some little rats who tried to steal from me."

Your stomach drops. Your partners. They’re gone.

Fear overtakes you, but you steady your grip, pulling the gun free and aiming it square at his chest. "Don’t come any closer."

His expression doesn’t falter. If anything, his smirk grows darker, more mocking. "Oh, kitten," he murmurs, "you don’t want to do that."

"Sorry." you breathe, steeling yourself as you pull the trigger.

Bang!

You flinch, your eyes squeezed shut. When you finally force them open, he’s still standing there. Unharmed.

The bullet didn’t touch him.

"What the hell—" you stammer, panic rising as you pull the trigger again. And again.

Nothing works. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he laughs—a cold, menacing sound that echoes through the room.

In a flash, he’s on you, gripping your wrist with an iron strength. Pain shoots through you, forcing the gun to clatter to the floor. He lifts your chin with his free hand, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"I told you," he says, his voice soft but laced with menace. "You didn’t want to do that."

"F-fuck you!" you snap, struggling against his grip. "Let me go!"

He tilts his head, his gaze dragging over your pretty face. There’s an unsettling glint in his eyes, like a predator toying with its prey.

"Hm," he murmurs, his grip tightening. "No. I’ll keep this one.”

—

You're sprawled out on the cold kitchen table, tears streaming down your face as his tongue laps hungrily at your most intimate places. Your wrists are bound with his evol, holding your legs wide open for his feasting. The obscene sounds of his slurping and your desperate moans echo through the house.

"P-please, ahh! No more... too much...!" you beg, voice hoarse from crying out. But he just chuckles darkly, the vibrations sending shivers through your core.

"Mhm... not my fault this is my kitchen. I eat whatever I want. Let me enjoy my meal." he growls, diving back lap at your dripping folds. You arch off the floor, a loud moan tearing from your throat. Gods, if anyone hears...

"Ngghh... fuck you... I hate rich people like you... people like me barely have any meals..." you whimper, even as your hips buck into his face. It's your own fault for trying to rob this place, but what choice did you have? You need to survive.

Sylus pulls back, admiring your glistening body splayed out before him. Your thighs are trembling, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. He licks his lips, savoring your taste.

"People like me, huh? Tell me more, kitten. What do you think about me?" His voice is a low purr, dripping with dark amusement. He trails a clawed finger along your inner thigh, teasing.

You try to think of anything, but your mind is hazy with pleasure. All you can focus on is the heat of his gaze, the promise in his touch. Your body is betraying you, aching for more even as you struggle against the bonds.

"Uh... you... you're annoyingly rich... but ahh... you're so hot... mhh..." The words slip out between moans as you rub your thighs together, seeking friction. It's clear he's getting to you, driving you crazy with need.

He chuckles darkly, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "Is that so? And yet here you are, spread out like a feast just for me. I wonder... do you really hate me? Or do you crave the forbidden thrill of being at the mercy of someone like me?"

Sylus’ clawed hands trails up your thigh, sharp nails lightly scraping your sensitive skin. He can feel you trembling, feel the heat radiating off your body. Your arousal is intoxicating, a heady scent that fills his senses.

"I could give you everything you've ever wanted, kitten. All you have to do is ask nicely." He nips at your earlobe, soothing the sting with his tongue. "Or maybe you'd prefer I take it? I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

His hand slides up your body, cupping your breast and squeezing roughly. He pinches your nipple between his fingers, rolling and tugging until you're arching into his touch with a desperate whine. Your body is so responsive, so eager for his touch even as you try to resist.

"Mhm..i could eat you whole up y’know.." he purrs, his voice a dark promise. He leans down, capturing your nipple between his lips and sucking hard. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you, making you gasp and writhe beneath him.

His free hand continues its teasing exploration of your body, dipping between your thighs to circle your clit. You're so wet, so ready for him. He can feel it in the way your hips buck against his touch, seeking more.

"Look at you, so desperate for my cock." he growls, releasing your nipple with a wet pop. He sits back on his heels, admiring the wanton picture you make - bound and spread out, flushed and panting with need.

Sylus smirks, an idea forming in his twisted mind. He pulls away from you, his gaze roaming the kitchen floor as if searching for something. Then he spots it - your gun, lying forgotten on the floor. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You remember this?" he asks, holding it up for you to see. Your eyes widen in fear and you gulp, shaking your head frantically.

"No, no, please don't kill me-" you beg, your voice trembling. But he just laughs, a dark, cruel sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"Shh... I won't kill you, kitten. I've decided to keep you instead. But let's make this more interesting, shall we?" He slides the gun up your body, making you flinch and squirm. He stops when the barrel is pressed against your lips.

"Open up." he commands, his voice brooking no argument. You have no choice but to comply, parting your lips.

He pushes the gun deeper into your mouth, watching with sadistic glee as you gag and choke around it. Tears stream down your face as you struggle to breathe, your body writhing in panic. But he just smirks, enjoying your distress.

"That's it, kitten. Take it all." he purrs, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He holds the gun in place for a long moment before finally pulling it out. Strings of saliva connect your lips to the barrel, a degrading reminder of what he's just made you do.

He trails the gun down your body, over your heaving breasts and quivering stomach, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. Your pussy is dripping with arousal, a fact that doesn't escape his notice.

"Look at you, so wet and ready," he taunts, rubbing the gun against your clit. You cry out, your hips bucking involuntarily into the touch. The sensation is strange but not entirely unpleasant, the cold metal a stark contrast to your heated flesh.

He continues to tease your clit with the gun. Your hips writhe and buck, seeking more of the strange sensation even as your mind rebels at the degradation of it all.

"You're such a filthy slut, getting off on having a gun shoved in your mouth and rubbed on your cunt, knowing it could kill you anytime." he growls, his voice thick with lust. He slides the barrel lower, pressing it against your entrance. Your eyes widen in fear and anticipation, your body tensing as he begins to push it inside.

"Oh god!" you cry out as the cold metal breaches your hot, slick flesh. The sensation is intense, bordering on painful, but there's an undeniable thrill to it as well. He works the gun in and out, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts that have you seeing stars.

He continues to fuck you with the gun, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through your body. Your pussy clenches around the cold metal, trying to draw it deeper even as your mind screams at the wrongness of it all. He leans over you, his body caging you in as he drives the gun in harder, faster.

"That's it, kitten. Take it all. Take every fucking inch." he growls, his voice a dark promise. His free hand releases your nipple to trail down your body, fingers dancing over your skin like a promise of more to come. He reaches your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles that have you keening and thrashing beneath him.

The dual stimulation is too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Your body tenses, your muscles coiling tight as the pressure builds to an unbearable crescendo. You're so close, teetering on the brink of something huge and terrifying and utterly inevitable.

"Fuck, I can feel you tightening up.”

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, "Come for me, kitten. Let me feel you come undone on your gun." His fingers work your clit with ruthless precision, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body tenses, your muscles coiling tight as the pressure builds to an unbearable crescendo. You're so close, teetering on the brink of something huge and terrifying and utterly inevitable.

With a final, brutal thrust of the gun, he sends you careening over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your pussy clenching and fluttering around the cold metal as wave after wave of ecstasy washes through you.

“Ahhhh!!”

You scream, your voice raw and ragged, as the intensity of your climax overwhelms you.

He brings the gun to his lips, licking your essence from the barrel with a wicked grin. The taste of your arousal mingles with the metallic tang of the gun, a heady combination that makes his cock throb with need.

"Delicious." he purrs, his eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. He sets the gun aside, his attention now fully focused on your quivering, spent form. He trails his fingers up your thighs, his touch feather-light and teasing.

"But we're far from done, kitten. I'm going to fuck you now, hard and deep, until you can't even remember your own name. Until the only thing you know is the feel of my cock splitting you open and the sound of my voice commanding you to come."

He positions himself between your legs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your sensitive, swollen flesh. You whimper, your body already tensing in anticipation of the intrusion. He chuckles darkly, enjoying your reaction.

"Shh, just relax and take it like a good little slut. This is what you're made for, after all. To be used and filled and fucked until you can't take anymore."

With those words, he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. You cry out, your back arching off the table as he stretches you wide around his thick length. The burn of the intrusion is intense, your body struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're so tight." he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust before he starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. He sets a punishing pace, his cock pistoning in and out of your dripping cunt with ruthless efficiency.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he pounds into you with wild abandon. His cock stretches you wide, the thick length hitting depths you didn't know you had. Each thrust sends jolts of pleasure-pain through your body, your nerves singing with the intensity of it all.

“Ahhh Sy-sylus! P-please ahh..! S-so good!”

Sylus pounds into you relentlessly, each thrust driving you harder against the table. His claws dig into your hips, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake. You can feel every ridge and vein of his thick cock as he stretches you, claiming you as his own.

He leans over you, his body caging you in as he drives into you harder, faster. His teeth find your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin until you're sure you'll be marked for days. The thought sends a thrill through you, the idea of bearing his claim for all to see.

"Yeah... you're mine now. All mine," he said, his voice low and possessive. His eyes burned into yours, unrelenting. "No matter how much you hate it, I'm going to keep you here. Forever."

Before you could respond, he grabbed the back of your neck and crashed his lips onto yours. The kiss was rough, messy, and unapologetic, leaving you breathless and furious all at once.

When he pulled back, his smirk returned.

"That means I'll take care of you. Feed you. Buy you whatever you want. Take you anywhere you dream of going." he murmured, his tone deceptively sweet.

His grip tightened slightly, holding you in place. "I'll spoil you, treat you better than anyone ever could. But you're not leaving. Not now, not ever.”

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[ariestrxsh]

.• ° * જ⁀➴ content warning: smut, angst, manipulation, cheating, toxic relationship, crying, oral (f!receiving), rough car sex, hair pulling, toxicbf!chris, gf!reader

.• ° * જ⁀➴ author's note: sorry guys i kind of made chris a cheating asshole in this (but i'd still let him hit bc i'm lowkey a cuck).

.• ° * જ⁀➴ summary: you and chris get into an argument after you find him cheating on you at a party, but you can't stay mad at him for long, especially when he knows just what you like, and he gives it to you in the backseat of his car.

.• ° * જ⁀➴ this fic is very loosely inspired by this post (it started off as a roadrage fic that leads to sex but the fic really took me down a different road, so i took the rough car fuck from it and kind of changed everything else so idk)

(i used two different songs for inspo, but they both have the same name, and i actually like this concept a lot bc the halsey song more fits where the reader's head is, and the current blue song more fits where chris' head is, so keep that in mind if you ever listen to the songs associated with my fics.)

Drive

You set foot out of the bathroom at a New Year's party your boyfriend had dragged you to, your eyes scanning the sea of faces in search of him.

You didn't recognize most of the people here, but they all recognized you. Chris knew almost everyone, and they all knew of you by association. Chris was a bit of a social butterfly, especially at parties, constantly flitting through each room and getting easily distracted, so you weren't sure where to even begin looking for him.

You had a better chance of finding one of his brothers first and hoping that maybe one of them had seen him. You continued to look for either of the three of them through the crowd while music thumped loudly through some shitty speakers.

You found your way through the living room and the kitchen, bumping into a few people who knew your name but failed to tell you theirs and were no help in finding Chris. The smell of marijuana burning floated into your senses as you wandered out back, thinking for sure that you'd stumble upon your boyfriend outside lighting up a joint, but he was nowhere to be found.

You did, however, find Nick who was getting hit on by a group of girls who were all giggling and playing with their hair while they all completely missed the obvious signs that he was totally uninterested and also gay. "Hey, have you seen Chris?" You called to Nick as your heels clicked against the stonework in the backyard.

Nick politely excused himself and started walking towards you. "No, I haven't, but thank God you're here. I thought they were going to eat me alive back there," Nick whispered in your ear, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as the two of you started to walk back inside. You frowned at him. All you wanted was to find Chris.

"You know, I saw a cat earlier. If we can find the cat, I'm sure we'll find Matt close by. Maybe he's seen Chris," Nick suggested, shrugging. You and Nick pushed your way past a bunch of drunk college kids when Matt caught your eye at the top of the second floor.

He was bent down, petting a black cat and scratching the sweet animal under the chin as she purred and brushed up against his leg. You two made your way over to the banister and started climbing the steps. "Hey, have you seen Chris?" You called to him, startling the cat and causing her to run off to one of the dark rooms down the hall.

Matt glared at you. "No, I haven't," he huffed. "I can't find him anywhere. I swear, I left him alone for like ten minutes," you rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your stomach and the thoughts creeping into your mind that he might be somewhere entertaining another girl.

"I wouldn't go up there if I were you. I think there might be someone hooking up in one of those rooms," Matt pointed down the hall, smirking. He turned his attention to Nick. "Hey, since Chris can drive himself now and we don't have to wait for him, do you wanna go?" The rest of their conversation was drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat thumping away in your ears as you peered down at the only room you could tell was lit up.

You saw what looked like two pairs of feet stumbling around as their shadows broke through the light shining through the crack in the bottom of the door. Something told you that Chris was in that room, and even though you had nothing to go off besides a gut feeling, you had to be sure.

After Nick and Matt had made their way back down the staircase and out the door to Matt's car, you finally worked up the courage to march towards the door. You pressed your ear up to the wooden barrier. You couldn't make out what the two voices on the other side were saying, but one of them definitely belonged to Chris.

You subtly turned the knob and threw open the door. Sure enough. Your scumbag boyfriend was getting close and friendly with another woman who had her lips latched onto his neck, and he had his hand resting on her hip. He immediately pulled away and backed up as he realized he'd been caught.

"Hey babe," he said, trying to sound casual. You could tell by the sneer on the girl's face and her body language that she wasn't happy to see you. Your glance flickered between the both of them a few times before you felt tears starting to well in your eyes. You turned away and bolted down the stairs and out into the front yard.

It was a shame Nick and Matt had already left because all you wanted to do was go home, and now the reason you were crying was your only ride. Chris followed closely behind, chasing after you. "Babe, what's wrong?" He asked, playing dumb, as if that could really get him out of this one. You pushed him away, but he pulled you close again.

"What the fuck were you doing with that girl!?" You asked through your tears, raising your voice. "We were just talking," he sweetly told you, wiping away a bit of your smeared eyeliner. "Chris, I'm not stupid! She was kissing your neck," you sobbed in response, shoving him again.

"Babe, you're embarrassing me," he shot back, sounding a bit annoyed with you. "You're the one making out with some other girl at a party where everyone knows we're together, and you're the one who's embarrassed?! You're unbelievable!" You yelled.

"You're always jumping to conclusions and accusing me of shit," Chris responded, embracing you once more. "Shhh. Come on, baby. Come home with me, and I'll show you how sorry I am," he cooed in a soft voice, trying to de-escalate the situation.

"You're not fooling me, Chris. I'm not giving into you this time. Just take me home.." you said, your voice trailing off as he started kissing and nibbling on your ear. "Please. Come home with me. I'll make you feel so good," he whispered into the crook of your neck, pressing his body up against yours.

Your knees and your willpower grew weak as you turned your head to expose more of your throat to him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

As angry as you were with him, he could always win you over with sex. It was like a vicious cycle. He'd hit on another girl in front of you, you'd get jealous, the two of you would start fighting, and then he would console you with sex. You hated that it always worked, but you couldn't help the effect he had on you. He was intoxicating, and you were addicted to him.

"Mhmm. Please, Chris.." you hummed back, giving into him. He had you in the palm of his hand. He reached behind you and opened your door for you, leading you into his car and closing it once you'd gotten in.

It still had that new car smell. He climbed into the driver seat, turning the key in the ignition. You listened to the sound of his engine purring as he pulled away from the street, one hand on the steering wheel and his other on your thigh. His pretty blue eyes shifted between the road, his rearview, and his side mirrors.

You watched the way the streetlights overhead illuminated different parts of the car as you drove underneath them, shadows bouncing off the leather interior, creating a strange illusion, kind of like how it felt to be in a relationship with Chris - like a long, late night drive where the lights and shadows played tricks on your eyes to the point where you didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

"Why don't you put on some music, babe?" Chris suggested, breaking you out of your thoughts and attempting to distract you from bringing up the girl from the party again. "My phone's dead. Can I use yours?" You casually asked him, reaching for his phone that was sitting in his cup holder.

"Mine's dead, too," he replied, trying to grab it before you did. You watched his screen light up as an incoming message came through. "Bullshit!" You yelled, snagging his phone out of his hand.

When you opened his lock screen, it was open to a new contact he'd just saved, and you saw a woman's name you didn't recognize, and when you pulled down notification bar to see who the text was from, it was from her.

"Give it back," Chris demanded, trying to wrestle his phone out of your hand while trying to maintain his focus on the road. The text read: I had fun with you tonight. I hope I didn't get you into too much trouble with your girlfriend. Text me the next time you're lonely. ;)

"That's it, Chris. Let me out of the fucking car," you told him, throwing his phone at him and reaching for your door handle. "Jesus Christ," Chris said, rolling his eyes and turning down an empty road that was dark besides one lone streetlight at the corner.

"I'm not kidding. Stop this fucking car or I'll jump out while it's moving," you threatened. "I know you will," he scoffed at you, hence the reason he was pulling off of the main road and bringing his wheels to an abrupt stop.

Chris had pulled over on the side of the street in a residential area, but there was stretch of empty field before you'd hit any houses, and there were no people around because it was around 11 p.m. on New Year's Eve night and everyone was either out at a bar or a house party or nestled comfortably into their beds ready to start off the new year with a good night's rest.

You threw open the car door. "Don't - slam it," Chris started to say, but he was cut off by you slamming the door shut in his face. You grew even more pissed off at the audacity of him to care about his car in a moment like this. You started marching down the street, your heels angrily clicking against the sidewalk as you tried to hold back your tears with arms crossed over your chest.

He rolled down his tinted window. "Get in," he told you, but you ignored him, not even bothering to slow your strides. "Get back in the car," he repeated through gritted teeth. "No, you can leave. I'll find my way home."

"We're 45 minutes from your house, you've been drinking, and your phone is dead. I'm afraid I don't have a choice. I'm not leaving you out here alone like this," Chris told you, slowly driving beside you, his wheels inching forward with your angry stomps. You gave him the silent treatment, continuing down the pavement.

He stopped the car and pulled himself to his feet, coming around to the opposite side where you were and grabbing you by the wrist. "Look, I know you hate me, and you can tell me all about it in the morning, but for now, let's get you back to my place, and I'll do my best to make it up to you," he softly cooed, looking into your eyes as he grabbed both sides of your face and pulled you into a deep kiss.

You kissed him back, your lips moving in unison with his, but you pulled away. "What? You gonna leave me over it?" He asked genuinely. You stared at him blankly. "Because you never do," he pointed out. He was right.

This was a pattern, and there was a part of each one of you that loved the drama of the tumultuous relationship the two of you shared. You both knew it wasn't healthy, but Chris loved the way you'd get jealous over him and cause a scene. It made him feel like you really cared. And you loved the great lengths he'd go to in order to win you back over after a big fight.

And, of course, you were both addicted to the makeup sex. Neither one of you understood the psychology of why neither one of you wanted out of the relationship. After all, you two really did think you loved each other. You just only had really fucked up ways of showing it.

"Come on. You know you want me. You'd get bored with anyone else," he said in a seductive tone as he winked at you. Again, he was right. He pushed you up against the car and started kissing you, wedging his knee between your legs.

"I need you, baby, and I know you need me, too. I'm the only one who can give you exactly what you like, hmm?" He moaned into your mouth in-between sloppy kisses. "Fuck me, Chris," you moaned back.

"Yeah? You wanna go back to my place, and I'll fuck you nice and good," he purred into your ear. "No, Chris. I want you to fuck me right now," you sternly replied. He raised his eyebrows at you. This was out of character for you, but he liked it, and he wasn't going to let the chance go to waste.

"Fuck. You're so hot," he rapsed as he pulled open the back door. "Get on all fours," he ordered you, pushing you into the backseat. He pulled the hem of your black dress up over ass and started taking down your panties.

He eagerly spread you open, and you shuddered at the feeling of his hot breath radiating onto your core. He leaned in and buried his tongue in between your folds, lapping up your wetness. Your face was pressed against the cold, leather interior as a mewl passed through your lips.

He started to harshly suck on your clit, moaning against your sensitive nerve endings as he brought his hand down and slapped your ass hard. You yelped, leaning back into him. You reached around and entangled your fingers in his soft, brown locks as he continued to eat you like a man starving.

"Like when I eat it from the back?" He seductively asked you. "Mhmm," you whimpered, biting your lip and nodding your head. He wrapped his lips around your bundle of nerves, and he began methodically flicking his tongue over it as your whole body started to tremble.

He slurped up all your juices as he roughly kissed your drooling cunt. He created a bit of suction on your clit again, pulling away slowly and stretching your flesh, which made the feeling far more intense. He smirked after he released it from his lips and it snapped back into place. You whimpered at the delightful sensation.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he praised you. You dug your freshly-manicured nails into the seat as he brought you closer to the edge. His tongue explored you in ways that no one else ever could. You felt the knot in your stomach come undone as he devoured you, paying close attention to every part of your vulva, stimulating you with his soft, wet mouth.

You started to shake as you finished onto his tongue, strangled moans pouring into the car. Chris chuckled against your heat, licking you clean. He released his mouth from you, and you heard the sound of him fiddling with his belt. Then his zipper.

You felt him draw a line up your slit with his tip, dragging it through your wetness. He slapped it against your entrance, laughing at the way you sent your hips back trying to coax it in. "You forgive me, baby? You forgive me for getting mixed up with that girl?" He cooed, teasing you with the head of his cock.

"Of course, Chris. I could never stay mad at you," you whimpered, eager for him to put it in. He smirked, snapping his hips forward and burying himself deep inside you. "So big," you whined as you generously accepted him, your pussy stretching around him and accommodating his thickness.

"Take it," he groaned, starting to buck his hips back and forth. He admired the arch of your back and all your perfect curves as he had you in his favorite position. His eyes wandered towards your ass and the way it jiggled every time he jerked his hips forward, driving himself deeper into your hole.

He grabbed ahold of your hair and used it to steady himself as he pounded away. "You take my cock so well," he growled, rutting into your gspot with every jagged thrust. Your eyes rolled back, and you let out a deep, guttural sound that you almost didn't even recognize coming from yourself.

He started to break a sweat, a few drops of perspiration forming on his forehead, his thick hair sticking to it. The car windows started to fog up with the moisture from your combined breath as the two of your bodies moved as one unit in an escalating exchange of energies.

He relished in the way you squelched around him and the sound of skin slapping against skin. "Harder," you practically sobbed as you felt the pressure building in your abdomen again. He fucked you ravenously, picking up his strides and giving it to as hard as he could, sending satisfaction through every inch of you.

His eyes were slammed shut, his eye brows knitted together, and his jaw dropped, pleasured sounds unfurling from his lips. They were deep, sensual, and almost frustrated - almost animalistic. His car rocked back and forth as he took you in the back seat, your fingers grasping for anything to hold onto as you felt your stomach flutter.

"So close," you managed to whine as you reached the point of no return. With Chris still gripping your hair tightly, he kept his pace as steady and strong as he could while on the brink himself. "Cum on my cock, babe," he demanded, his voice textured with lust. He gripped your hair even harder, tugging with even more force than before as your orgasm rippled through you, fully surrendering to him.

Your bodies reacted to one other in a language of unspoken desire as he pumped you full of his warm, sticky load and your walls throbbed around him, creating a positive feedback loop in which each of you triggered a more intense climax in one another.

"Oh, fuck," he rasped, his dick twitching inside of you as he filled you with every last drop. He relaxed his hold on your hair, and you collpased into the back seat of his car. He pulled out of you, admiring the way his cum glistened on your skin in the faint moonlight as it peeked out from behind the clouds.

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, go back to my place, and I'll do that as many times as it takes me to make up for what a jerk I was to you tonight."

taglist: @sturnioloslut1 @trevorsgodmother @aaliyahsturniolo @larallott @bsturnzmtts @sturniolo-girl @theyluvme-2315 @jassturn @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @sturniolosweets @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @luvhsien @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @babysturniolo @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx @sturniolocharms @mickelodeon-2003 @sigmarizzler1 @chrislova @stellarsturns

[steveseddie]

apply directly to the forehead

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | prompt: alone | rating: t | wc: 997 | tags: hurt comfort, steve has migraines, eddie takes care of him, hand holding, forehead kisses read on ao3

No one notices when Steve slips out the front door. No one but Eddie, who tells Jonathan he’s going out for a smoke and follows him.

There are only woods around the Hopper-Byers cabin, and the only light comes from the Christmas lights hanging from the roof so it takes a moment for Eddie’s eyes to adjust to the near darkness. He sees Steve sitting on the steps with his head between his knees and taking slow, deep breaths. 

“Steve?” Eddie speaks softly, trying not to startle him but Steve still flinches. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Steve mumbles, keeping his head down. 

Eddie sits next to him. “Wanna try again? That wasn’t very convincing.”

Steve groans but it’s not his ‘Eddie is being annoying’ groan, it’s a pained groan. 

“‘S just a headache, ‘m fine,” Steve insists but his voice sounds weak. 

“Look at me.” Eddie squeezes his knee. “Stevie, please, look at me.” 

Steve sighs but lifts his head. Eddie can’t help but wince at how he looks. His face is twisted into a grimace, his skin is paper-white and there are tears in his eyes. 

“Oh, Steve. It’s a migraine, isn’t it? A bad one?” He gently brushes some hair off Steve’s face. Steve gives a tiny nod. “When did it start?” 

“A few hours ago,” Steve says with a shuddery breath. “While shopping with Robin, all the lights, the music and the crowds–”

“Why didn’t you say something?” 

Steve shrugs, then winces. “Didn’t want to worry anyone.” 

“Of course not.” That’s why Steve still showed up to the Hopper-Byers Christmas party, knowing there would be loud music and even louder kids, and then forced himself to smile through his pain. Eddie sighs. “C’mon, I’m taking you home.” 

“No, Eds–” Steve protests weakly. “I can drive myself-”

Eddie huffs. “Steve, you can’t even keep your eyes open right now.”

“But the party–”

“–will carry on without us,” Eddie finishes, rolling his eyes. “Wait here, okay?” 

Steve sighs and nods, and Eddie squeezes his knee again before heading back inside. 

He finds Robin and tells her that Steve isn’t feeling well and he’s taking him home. 

“Do you want me to come?” She asks, worried.

“Nah, I got him,” Eddie says. Steve wouldn’t want someone else to leave the party early because of him. “Just tell Hopper I’ll pick up the van tomorrow, okay?” 

“Okay, thanks, Eddie,” she says with a quick hug. 

Outside, Eddie finds Steve leaning against the railing, looking like he’s about to keel over. 

“Alright, big boy. Let’s get you home,” he says, leading them to the Beemer.

“No van?” 

“Nope. You complain about how fucking loud my van is on a good day. Figured you wouldn’t appreciate it today of all days.”

Steve chuckles weakly. “Admit it, you just want an excuse to drive a cool car for once.” 

Eddie scoffs indignantly. “My van is plenty cool, Harrington.” 

“Uh huh.” 

He sticks his tongue out at Steve and starts the car. The drive to his house is quiet. Eddie turns the radio all the way off, Steve keeps his head against the window and his eyes closed, and Eddie tries his best not to jostle the car too much. 

He has to gently shake Steve’s shoulder once they arrive and then he follows him inside. 

He goes straight to his bedroom and collapses on the bed, taking his shoes off but leaving his jeans and his ugly Christmas sweater on. 

Eddie finds some sleeping clothes and tosses them his way. “Take those jeans off, Harrington.”

Steve huffs. “At least buy me dinner first, Munson,” he says, his hands working on his belt buckle. 

Eddie’s cheeks turn pink but with just the moonlight illuminating the room through the curtains, he doubts Steve can see it. “So that’s what it takes to get into Steve Harrington’s pants?”

“Usually,” Steve says, shoving his jeans off before sliding on sweatpants, keeping his movements slow to not make his headache worse. “But for a guy as hot as you, I can make an exception.”

Eddie chokes on his spit. Leave it to Steve to flirt while his head is waging a war against the rest of him.  

After changing out of his Christmas sweater, Steve falls back into bed, burrowing his face into his pillow with a groan. The mattress dips when Eddie sits next to him, his back against the headboard. Steve blinks one eye open. “You don’t have to stay, I’m–”

“-in no condition to be alone right now,” Eddie finishes, rolling his eyes.

“You should go back to the party. I didn’t mean to ruin your night–”

“Steve Harrington called me hot. Nothing could ruin my night after that,” he jokes even if there’s some truth to it. 

Steve groans– this time it is his ‘Eddie is being annoying’ groan. “I’m gonna regret saying that.” 

“Because you didn’t mean it or–”

“Oh, I meant it,” Steve says, rolling to his side and looking up at Eddie through half-lidded eyes that might not have anything to do with his migraine. “But now you can hold it against me.”

“It would be kind of hypocritical of me since I also find you hot,” Eddie says, playing with a rip in his jeans. 

Steve’s fingers find his, intertwining them. “If my head wasn’t about to explode I would suggest we do something about that.”

Eddie’s widen. “Something like–”

“Like kissing. Though I could be persuaded to do other things.”

“Jesus,” Eddie says laughing shakily. “Now my head feels like it might explode.”

“We can talk in the morning,” Steve says, shifting until he finds a comfortable position. 

“Thought you didn’t want me to stay,” Eddie teases.

“Said you didn’t have to stay, Eds. I always want you here.” 

Eddie’s stomach flutters. “Okay,” he says, sliding down until he’s lying next to Steve, their fingers still intertwined. 

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Steve whispers, half asleep already. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” Eddie says softly, kissing Steve’s forehead. “Anytime.”

[thef1diary]

hiiii absolutely melting over ghost!max like i didn’t expect it to get me going but whew!🤭🤭 thinking about how he wakes you up by eating you out… what if one day he decides to do the opposite?(if that could even work) like imagine you fall asleep with your mouth slightly open and he takes his opportunity and you wake up all confused and gagging on his dick at his now ruthless pace 👀👀

— hi nonnie! I love this concept, very creative. it’s making me feel things 🐱🦋🐱🦋 18+ content below

The cold hit your lips first, a sharp chill pulling you from the haze of sleep. You stirred, eyes fluttering open, only to realize your mouth was already stretched wide, filled with the weight of Max’s cock. Panic and confusion warred in your chest, but neither could overpower the relentless pace he set as he fucked into your mouth.

You gagged, throat tightening around the cool weight, but Max didn’t let up. His presence pressed against you—his invisible hands holding your head steady as he pushed deeper. Your jaw burned, spit dripping from the corners of your lips, the obscene sounds coming from your mouth as his cock slid in and out only amplifying your humiliation.

Your thighs clenched, heat pooling low in your belly despite the sudden intrusion. Every slick glide, every muffled gag, every strained breath had you pulsing with arousal, your body betraying you completely. Desperation took over as your hand slid between your legs, fingers trembling as they found the wetness pooling there.

The first touch to your cunt had you gasping around him, the vibration causing Max to stutter for a moment before quickening his pace. His cock dragged against the back of your throat ruthlessly as you circled your clit, the pressure building unbearably fast.

Your other hand clawed at the sheets, hips rocking against your fingers as Max took what he wanted from your mouth. The cool weight of him burned in contrast to the heat spreading through you, your arousal reaching a fever pitch with each thrust.

And then he stilled, buried deep, his cock twitching against your tongue. You felt it—a phantom sensation, warm and overwhelming, as if he were filling your mouth despite nothing physical being there. The taste hit you faintly, salty and sharp, lingering on your tongue and sending a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed instinctively, even though nothing tangible was there, your body wracked with tremors as you came undone beneath him, fingers slick with your release. Your chest heaved as he pulled back, leaving your lips swollen and tingling, the faint taste of him still ghosting your senses.

Your body trembled, heat still coiled low in your belly, aching for a release you hadn’t fully found despite his ruthless wake-up call. Your thighs shifted restlessly, slick with the evidence of how much you’d needed him, how much you still did.

Max’s presence hovered close, teasing, daring you to admit what you already knew—you loved being used like this. Loved the way he claimed you without restraint, pushing you to the edge of your sanity and leaving you desperate for more.

You couldn’t fight it, couldn’t pretend to resist the raw need clawing at your insides. A shaky breath escaped your lips, your voice barely above a whisper but thick with arousal as it cut through the darkness of the room.

“More.”

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[s6daz]

Hi hi! I love you’re writings💗

Can I request for g!p soft Sevika with breeding kink please? Maybe Sevika is bottom and reader just ride her and tease with idea to cum inside…

Thank you🫶🏻

♰ sevika x f!reader ִ ݁ ˖ ◜

cw: g!p sevika, sevika bottom (if u squint too much), breeding kink, teasing (from the reader), reader dominating the situation (?, porn without plot

note: i honestly don't remember much of what i wrote here but i saw it was for this request in my notes so... i hope it's what u asked for

they were a chaos of soft moans and groans. wet kisses, saliva spreading from the corner of their lips that almost reached their necks and gasps for air. your hands were firm in her hair as you moved your hips torturously over her clothing covered bulge, her hands gripping your hips, occasionally releasing moans into your mouth desperate for you.

you broke away from the hot kiss for a moment and gently licked her lower lip, sucking it softly before letting your teeth sink into the flesh of her dark lips: listening to the grunt and gasp that sevika let out, you felt how all the heat began to rise through your body.

"did you like that, love?" you teased with a tempting smile, subtly watching sevika reaction, who let out a heavy sigh before looking back at you.

"yes, i love it doll" she pronounced quickly no matter how begging she looked in front of you. "mhh should we level up?" you responded as your hands went down to the hem of her pants playing with them.

she simply nodded as if all her words had been swallowed, she leaned her head back to rest on the pillow, letting out soft sighs.

when you saw that sevika gave you permission, you moved a little to be able to take off her pants more easily. you grabbed the hem of them along with her boxers and slowly lowered them. your eyes widened with pleasure when you saw how sevika cock finally came out from her cage, the erect cock jumped against her stomach but you continued lowering the fabric down her toned thighs until you reached her knees.

"you look so pretty like this" you said looking at how sevika was breathing unevenly while her eyes were closed and you could notice the slight sweat running down her forehead, you laughed just thinking about how desperate she could be right now.

not hearing any words, you looked down at her penis, you could see that there were already droplets of precum near her tip. you smile when you see what you could provoke in sevika and slowly wrap the phallus in your hand, giving gentle movements up and down.

"does it feel good?" you ask, watching as sevika began to cling to the sheets, she simply moaned and nodded. “good girl…” you praise.

your hand continued making the movements from up to down, watching as her cock became increasingly wetter from the precum, your thumb went to her head, caressing it gently, causing sevika to shudder.

"did you just shiver, vika?" you muttered with some sarcasm, hearing her groan at your comment, clearly annoyed.

you had her at your mercy and that only makes you hornier, you don't want her to cum in your hand so you put her penis aside feeling how she was complaining when she no longer felt your heat on her circumference, slowly you moved to being able to take off your shorts easier.

you threw them to the side and since you didn't have panties you focused on sevika, trying to position yourself to feel how your skin was sticking to hers. you moved your hips, rubbing from one side to the other only on her tip and this only made sevika desperate further.

"damn it princess, put it in now" she speaks impatiently as she takes a look at you, you stopped the games since equal deep down you were desperate and you began to align her cock to your needy entrance watching those anxious eyes that watched all your movements while her stiff cock collided inside your wet center, making its way between your tight walls. you saw how she rolled her eyes and let out a subtle moan as she felt everything all your insides in her circumference.

her hands moved to your hips, squeezing them tightly. her reaction was so exquisite that you raised your hips and fell back down only to hear her cute moan again.

the intensity of the moment fueled your need to dominate her and explore every inch of her body, you leaned closer to her; "does it feel good?" you asked, knowing full well that she couldn't answer because of her euphoria.

you clung to her shoulders and began to push your hips, riding her so exquisitely that sevika would occasionally let out moans louder than normal, you weren't far behind either, the rhythm of your hips made you feel a thousand things; feeling sevika cock inside you touching all those exact points that led you to lose your sanity made you delirious.

"i-it feels so good vika" you gasp for air to fill your lungs suffocated by pleasure.

in her first attempt to control the situation, she began to push her hips in rhythm with yours, making your back hunch and you felt slight tears begin to threaten to come out.

"fuck..." she managed to formulate letting out a sigh, in response you squeezed your pussy around she making her let out a grunt. the intensity of the moment began to be noticed when the splash began to intensify and you could feel how sevika was throbbing inside you.

"so fucking perfect" she gasped as her flesh hand went down to your ass giving it a squeeze, you smiled when you the heard and leaned in to whisper to she; "do you want to cum inside?"

you could see how her eyes darkened just by mentioning being able to end up inside: since you never allowed her to. "get me pregnant, i'm sure you want it" you whispered, provoking her even more. "would you give me your cum, love?"

something clicked in sevika and her hands quickly grabbed onto your body, starting to thrust harder into you with a very great urgency. you grabbed onto her back, scratching the in her wake. the sound of skin against skin filled the room and you let out all the noises and complaints that you couldn't before.

"damn it... i'll leave my son inside you" she let out between gasps before feeling her climax approaching. jets of her semen filled your insides and uterus, making you collapse in her arms. for a few minutes, the only thing that could be heard in the room were her agitated breathing in search of air. they enjoyed the silence until you felt sane enough to to be able to move and want to take her cock out of you, if it weren't for the quick movement that sevika made you fall back into her chest.

"this is far from over, darling, i will fill you until i am sure you have my son."

[menagerofmischief]

hi!! i absolutely adore your blurbs so i have a question?

thoughts on vibrators/toys with oscar? or like free use with him?

oscar loves toys. he's got quiet a collection, stashed away in a box under the bed. and it all started with a flashlight he got as a gag gift when he was a teenager. the collection evolved over time but most of it happened when the two of you started dating and he started getting them to use them on you.

now next to toys for him, such as cock rings and flashlights, are also a wide variety of toys for you. he's got a lot - and I mean a lot! everything from vibrators and dildos to clamps and gags.

but he's got a bit of a soft spot for vibrators. especially the remote controlled ones, those are his favorite.

one day you're getting ready for dinner, putting on finishing touches to your make up and leaning your body forward over the bathroom sink as you chase the reflection in the mirror. oscar comes in, doesn't say as much as a word before pressing your body down onto the counter and lifting up your dress, hooking his fingers into your panties and moving them to the side and then next thing you know he's pushing something inside of you.

it takes you a moment to realize what it was, a small vibrator. oscar's eyes lock with your in the mirror and he smirks, his open palm tapping against your cunt. "don't even think about taking it out," he says in a dark tone. and then he's gone, exiting the room and the apartment as he makes his way to the garage to get his car.

oscar doesn't do anything in the car, doesn't do anything as you enter the restaurant and doesn't do anything when you sit down. you start to fall into a false sense of the security. and then the waiter comes over, asking what you'd like to order and you feel the device come to life, vibrating inside of you and sending sparks of pleasure. your fingers grip onto the menu as you stutter out your order while oscar watches with an amused smirk.

the waiter leaves and you're oh so close when everything stops and oscar grins at you when you glare at him. he keeps you on edge the whole night, teasing and bringing you close only to turn it off. he finally let's you cum once desert is served and you're gripping the table, knuckles turning white.

he watches the expression on your face with great interest, pushing his fork down into the cake and bringing it to your lips, telling you to open up. "come on baby, eat up. it's sweet, but I think I'll be having my dessert when we get home", and then he laughs at the way you silently whimper, the vibrator turned up to it's maximum, and your cheeks flushed. you wrap your lips around the fork, taking the food he's offering, chewing fastly because you can't wait to go home.

[eu-nicola]

the fastest driver part 2

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: cheating (?), car accident

word counter: 9896

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress

The sound of the rain softly hitting the hotel windows muffled any noise from the outside world. Inside the room, the air was thick, charged with a tension that had taken months to reach its breaking point. You were there, tangled with Max in a kiss that burned like fire, as if both of you had been waiting for this moment for far too long. His hand rested on your waist, firm yet trembling, as his lips sought yours with a mix of urgency and doubt.

You knew it was a mistake. You both knew it. But in that moment, logic and consequences seemed irrelevant.

You pulled away just a few inches, breathing heavily, and looked into his eyes. His were dark, filled with something you hadn’t seen before, a mix of desire, regret, and something else you couldn’t identify.

“We shouldn’t be doing this” you whispered, though you made no move to pull away.

Max closed his eyes, as if trying to find strength in the darkness.

“I know” he replied, his voice hoarse. “But I can’t stop.”

It had all started that same night, after the press conference in Singapore. You’d had an intense day, with endless training sessions and meetings. When the day finally ended, the team had organized a small informal dinner at the hotel. It was something routine after the toughest workdays, a way to unwind and reconnect as a group.

During dinner, Max had been sitting next to you, as always. The conversation flowed naturally between the two of you, alternating between technical topics and light jokes. But beneath the surface, you felt that tension that hadn’t faded since that conversation on the terrace. Every time your gazes met, every time your arms accidentally brushed, it was like a reminder that you were playing with fire.

After dinner, everyone started to disperse. Some engineers stayed at the hotel bar, while others decided to retire early to their rooms. You were about to do the same when Max approached you.

“One more round?,” he asked, holding a couple of water bottles in his hands. “We could go over some ideas for tomorrow.”

It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to stay talking about strategies or techniques outside official hours, so you didn’t think anything was out of place. You nodded, following him to a common room in the hotel, where you sat on a couch to go over some data on his tablet.

At first, everything was strictly professional. Max showed you a replay of your fastest lap and pointed out small adjustments you could make. You listened attentively, asking questions and taking notes. But as the conversation progressed, something changed. His comments became more personal, and his eyes seemed to study you more than the screen.

“You’re amazing, you know?,” he suddenly said, breaking the rhythm of the conversation.

You looked at him, surprised.

“Why do you say that?.”

“Because you are. Everything you do, how you handle all of this… It’s impressive.”

His voice was soft, and there was something in his tone that made your heart race. You tried to respond, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, you just looked at him, and he returned your gaze with an intensity that made time seem to stop.

That was when you felt it: that moment when the line between you two was about to break.

You tried to break the tension by standing up from the couch, but he did the same, stepping in front of you.

“Max…” you began, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “If you tell me to stop, I will.”

You didn’t. Instead, you stayed there, looking at him, knowing you didn’t want him to stop. It was he who took the first step, moving slowly, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips finally found yours, it was as if all doubts and barriers crumbled instantly.

After that first kiss, everything became a blur. You didn’t remember exactly how you had ended up in his room, only that the elevator had gone up too slowly, and every second had felt eternal. When you crossed the door, neither of you wasted time with words.

Now, standing in the middle of the room, with his hands on your waist and your fingers tangled in his hair, you felt like you were walking on the edge of an abyss. You knew there was no turning back, but you weren’t sure you wanted to.

Max pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“This is wrong,” he said, but his hands didn’t move from your waist.

“I know,” you replied, not letting go. “But I can’t help it.”

You both stood in silence, trapped in that moment that seemed to hold everything you had been repressing for months. Finally, Max sighed and took a step back, as if he were struggling with himself.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound convinced.

“Then why are we here?,” you asked, your voice heavy with frustration.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked at you as if searching for an answer in your face.

“Cause I can’t stay away from you,” he finally confessed.

Those words fell like a bomb, tearing down any walls that remained between you. Without thinking, you kissed him again, and this time, neither of you tried to stop.

As the night went on, you knew this would complicate everything, that you had crossed a line you could never undo. But in that moment, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was him, and what you felt when you were with him.

You knew that dawn would bring questions, doubts, and maybe regrets. But in that moment, you chose to stay in the room, in his embrace, letting the world wait a little longer.

Since that night in Singapore, something between you and Max had changed. Though you tried to keep things as they were, it wasn’t long before the bond you had formed became deeper and more complicated. Max, with his impulsive character and his unshakable philosophy that personal success came above all, began to influence you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

At first, you resisted admitting how much he had started to shape your way of being. But the truth was undeniable: his intensity, his ambition, and his lack of remorse started to seem attractive, even necessary. Being by his side made you feel invincible, as if the rules didn’t apply to you. And in the chaos of Formula 1, where every little mistake could cost you everything, that mentality was dangerous but intoxicating.

It was in Mexico that you first noticed how much Max was influencing you. During qualifying, your engineer suggested a conservative strategy to secure a decent grid position. But as you listened to his explanation over the radio, you felt Max’s gaze from the other side of the garage.

“Take risks,” he had told you the night before in a casual conversation while reviewing data. His voice echoed in your mind. “If you don’t, someone else will.”

So you ignored the team’s suggestion and attacked the lap aggressively, pushing the car to its limits. When you crossed the line, you had secured a better position than expected, but at the same time, you had worn the tires more than necessary. Your engineer was frustrated, but Max was pleased.

“That’s what I want to see,” he said to you afterward, with a crooked smile as the two of you reviewed your data in the paddock. “You can’t expect them to do it all for you. Sometimes you have to take control, even if that means breaking a few rules.”

You returned his smile, knowing those words were dangerous but also addictive.

As the season progressed and the end drew closer, the two of you spent more and more time together. The professional and personal aspects blended in a way you couldn’t stop. Max was your mentor, your friend, and now, your lover. It was a secret you both guarded carefully, aware of what it would mean if anyone else found out. But in private, you couldn’t stay away from each other.

After every race, no matter whether you had won or lost, he found a way to seek you out. Sometimes it was a conversation in a secluded room in the paddock, other times it was in the privacy of a hotel. There was something in the way he looked at you, as if you were the only person who mattered, that made everything else seem irrelevant.

It was in Brazil that things intensified even more. You had finished second behind Max in a tight race, and although you were proud of your result, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that you could have won if the team had adjusted the strategy. After the press conference, while everyone was celebrating, Max found you in a corner of the motorhome.

“Not bad for someone who’s still learning,” he joked, with that arrogant smile that always made you roll your eyes.

“Shut up,” you replied, laughing, though his words had alleviated some of your frustration.

He took one step closer, and his expression changed. The intensity in his gaze trapped you, and before you could think of the consequences, he took your hand and led you out of the motorhome, away from the noise of the party. You ended up in his room, and, as always, the tension between you two overflowed.

The line no longer existed.

That night, you realized there was no going back. Max was a whirlwind that had swept away your boundaries and doubts. In his company, you felt more powerful, more confident, but also more vulnerable. You had crossed the line between professional and personal, and it was becoming harder and harder to distinguish where your career ended and where your life with him began.

The next morning, while you watched him sleep beside you, you wondered how long you could keep this secret. You knew the truth would eventually come to light, but for now, you held on to the moment, to the feeling of being invincible by his side, even if the price was high.

Max was right about one thing: to win, sometimes you had to break the rules. And you had decided you were willing to do so, even if it meant losing yourself in the process.

On the other hand, the change in your driving style quickly caught the attention of the media. What had started as an evolution in your competitive style soon became a hot topic of debate. Your more aggressive approach, your willingness to take risks, and your refusal to give up ground on the track were interpreted as a radical transformation, and not everyone was willing to accept it.

The comments started subtly, during live broadcasts.

"Looks like she's adopting a bolder style," a journalist commented after a risky maneuver you made in Las Vegas to overtake Carlos Sainz. "Although some might say she's pushing the limits of what's acceptable."

But soon, the criticism turned more personal.

In the weeks that followed, headlines grew more aggressive. Sports newspapers and social media were filled with comments about your "masculine attitude" on the track. Some praised you, saying you had stopped being a driver who played defensively, while others criticized you for abandoning what they considered a "more elegant" and "appropriate style for a woman."

"Is this what we want to see in Formula 1?" asked a commentator on an analysis program. "I'm not saying she shouldn't be competitive, but it seems like she's trying to imitate the more aggressive drivers instead of finding her own way."

The words hit hard. You knew exactly who they were referring to with "more aggressive drivers." It was an implicit reference to Max, and the fact that your relationship with him remained a secret didn’t help divert the suspicions.

The pressure reached a boiling point during the Qatar Grand Prix weekend. In the pre-race press conference, a journalist threw a question that seemed designed to unsettle you.

"You've been accused of adopting an 'overly aggressive' driving style. Some even say you're trying to copy Max Verstappen. What do you have to say about that?"

You took a deep breath, maintaining the calm you had practiced so many times.

"My driving style is mine," you replied firmly. "Every driver has their own way of approaching races, and what I do on the track is the result of years of work and learning. If being aggressive means fighting to win, then yes, I am aggressive."

But the journalist didn’t stop there.

"Don't you think this aggression might be considered inappropriate for a woman in a traditionally male-dominated sport?"

There was a murmur in the room, and you could feel the rage beginning to bubble inside you. Max, sitting beside you, shot you a quick glance, as if reminding you not to lose control.

"I think that question says more about the person asking it than about me," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. "We're in 2025. Are we really still questioning whether a woman can be competitive in Formula 1?"

The response earned a discreet applause from some journalists, but you knew the damage had already been done.

That night, while you were in your room going over your notes for the race, Max appeared at the door. He didn’t say anything at first, simply sank into a chair in front of you, watching you in silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked finally.

You shook your head, but he didn’t accept your answer.

"Look, I know what they’re saying about you," he continued, his tone more serious than usual. "And I understand how it feels. I went through the same thing when I came into Formula 1. They called me irresponsible, dangerous, immature..."

"And how did you handle it?" you asked, not hiding your frustration.

Max shrugged.

"I let them talk. In the end, the only thing that matters is what you do on the track. Winning shuts everyone up."

"And what if I don’t win?" you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

Max leaned forward, fixing his eyes on yours.

"You will win."

His words, though simple, carried a weight that managed to calm some of your anxiety.

On Sunday, with the criticism still fresh in your mind, you decided you couldn’t afford to doubt yourself. The race was one of the most intense of the season, with risky overtakes and moments where it seemed like everything was about to collapse. But in the end, you crossed the finish line in second place, just behind Max.

When you got out of the car, the roar of the crowd was deafening. Although the media still questioned your style, the fans seemed to be on your side. As you climbed onto the podium, trophy in hand, you understood what Max had meant.

The comments would continue. The criticism wouldn’t disappear. But as long as you kept performing on the track, as long as you kept fighting for your place, no one could take away what you had earned.

That night, as you celebrated with the team, Max approached you and whispered something in your ear.

"I told you you’d win."

The end of the season had arrived, and with it, the culmination of a year full of triumphs, tensions, and decisions that would change the course of your life. In the final race, in Abu Dhabi, Max had secured his fifth consecutive championship with an impeccable victory, while you finished second in the overall standings. You had fought until the end, and although you didn’t take the title, you were satisfied with what you had achieved.

When you stepped off the podium, the joy of your team was palpable. The atmosphere was filled with euphoria, hugs, and congratulations, but you felt something else: a deep exhaustion, a need to escape the noise and find some clarity. While Max raised his trophy under the fireworks, you looked at him and couldn’t help but wonder what would happen between you two now that the season was over.

Hours later, the Red Bull party was in full swing. Laughter and music filled the air, but you found yourself apart, in a quiet corner, holding a glass of champagne and watching your teammates. Max was surrounded by people, as always, his easy smile and magnetic energy lighting up the room.

Finally, your eyes met, and he walked over, leaving the group around him.

"What are you doing here alone?" he asked, leaning slightly so only you could hear.

"I'm just taking a moment for myself," you replied, forcing a smile. "It’s been a long year."

Max looked at you in silence for a moment, as if trying to read your thoughts. Then, he took your hand and led you away from the noise, to a private terrace.

The cool night air was a relief. You both leaned on the railing, gazing at the lights that still shone on the track.

"Congratulations, champ," you finally said, breaking the silence.

"Thanks," he replied, though his tone was softer than usual. "And congratulations to you, too. This was your strongest year."

"Not strong enough to beat you," you joked, but he didn’t laugh.

"You’re closer than you think."

The conversation turned to vacations, the break they both desperately needed. But as they spoke, you couldn’t ignore the unease that had settled in your chest. Vacations meant time away from the chaos of Formula 1, but they also meant time away from Max.

He, on the other hand, seemed carefree, talking about plans to travel, relax, and disconnect from everything. But in his gaze, there was something else, something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“What are you going to do during the holidays?,” he asked, finally.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe visit my family, spend some time at home. I need a little normalcy.”

Max nodded, but didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his tone was more serious.

“You know this... what we have... is complicated.”

Your heart tightened at his words, even though you knew it was true.

“I know,” you said, trying to maintain composure.

“I don’t want you to think that this doesn’t mean anything to me,” he continued, looking out at the horizon. “But in this world, it’s difficult...”

“Difficult...” you finished for him, feeling a lump in your throat.

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned toward you, placing a hand on your cheek.

“You’re amazing, you know that? Not just as a driver, but as a person. But...”

You didn’t need him to finish the sentence. You knew that what was everything to you, for him, was a way to escape the pressure, an adventure without attachments. And yet, there was something in his gaze, the way his hand trembled slightly as he touched you, that made you think maybe it wasn’t as simple for him as he wanted it to seem.

When you finally returned to the party, neither of you said anything more about the matter. Max went back to being the center of attention, and you joined the group, pretending everything was fine. But as you watched him laugh and joke with the others, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.

The holidays would be a turning point, you knew. It was a time to reflect, to decide what your relationship with him really meant and whether you were willing to stay on that tightrope.

As the night came to a close, you said goodbye to everyone and headed back to your room. You sat on the bed, staring at the trophy you had won that day, but your mind was far from the track.

Max had been your first everything. But now, as you faced weeks of uncertainty, you wondered if it was also your first great lesson on what it meant to love someone who might never love you in the same way.

You knew you’d figure it out soon. But for now, all you could do was wait.

When the holidays began, you knew that, inevitably, your paths and Max’s would cross again. Even though both of you needed space, the geographical proximity in Monaco made it almost impossible to avoid each other. And, deep down, you didn’t want to. There was something unfinished between you two, something that needed to be said.

The first time you saw him was on his yacht, where he organized a discreet meeting with a few close friends. The atmosphere was relaxed, with laughter and wine glasses, but your eyes always found his. Max acted as usual: charming, relaxed, pretending like the weight of the world never touched him. But you knew better. You knew how he hid his emotions under that facade.

The second time was more intimate. He invited you to dinner at one of his apartments, a quiet evening that ended with a palpable tension.

It all started with a seemingly harmless conversation about his plans for the rest of the holidays.

“Are you planning to travel?,” you asked as you dined, trying to keep the tone light.

Max shrugged.

“I’ll probably spend a few days in the Netherlands with my family. Maybe make a quick trip to Spain.”

“And what about us?,” you asked, almost without realizing it. The question came out before you could stop it.

Max looked up, surprised by your tone.

“Us?.”

“Yes, Max. Us. This... whatever it is we’re doing. What does it mean to you?.”

He put his fork down and sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“You know I don’t like putting labels on things.”

“I’m not asking for a label,” you replied, feeling frustration bubbling inside. “I just want to know where I stand.”

Max frowned, as if trying to find the right words, but his tone was colder than you expected.

“Why do we need to define it? What we have works, right?.”

That response was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Works for who, Max?,” you spat, your voice rising slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like this only works for you. I’m the one who has to hide, the one who has to accept that we’re nothing more than a distraction to you.”

He stood up, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s not fair. I never promised you anything.”

“No, you didn’t!,” you admitted, standing up as well. “But you didn’t let me go either. Every time I try to put some distance, you do something that makes me stay. And I, like an idiot, keep falling for it.”

Max seemed to stagger at your words, but his pride didn’t allow him to back down.

“It’s not my fault if you expect something I can’t give you.”

“Then what am I to you, Max? A distraction? A pastime between races?,” you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain.

“That’s not fair,” he repeated, but this time his tone was softer.

The room fell silent for a moment. Max looked away, unable to face you directly. You knew there were feelings behind his cold demeanor, but you also knew he wasn’t ready to admit them, not even to himself.

“Look, I don’t know what you expected,” he said finally, his tone tired. “This isn’t easy for me either. You know I have someone.”

“Oh, really?,” you said sarcastically. “Because from here it seems like you’ve got everything under control.”

“I don’t have everything under control!,” he exclaimed, raising his voice for the first time. “Do you think this doesn’t affect me? Do you think I don’t think about you more than I should?.”

You froze at his confession. For a moment, you thought he was going to say something more, something that would explain everything. But instead, Max shook his head, as if he were fighting with his own thoughts.

“But I can’t give you what you want. Not now.”

That was the statement that ended the argument. You didn’t know whether you felt more sadness or anger, but you understood that you couldn’t keep going like this.

“Then don’t ask me to stay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Don’t ask me to keep being the one who adapts, the one who hides, the one who’s always available when you decide you need me.”

He didn’t respond. You waited, giving him one last chance to say something that would make you change your mind. But the silence was deafening.

Finally, you grabbed your things and left the apartment, leaving Max alone in his own storm.

As you walked through the quiet streets of Monaco, you felt a mix of liberation and sadness. You knew you had made the right decision, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Max had been an important part of your life, but now you understood that you couldn’t keep being a shadow in his world.

The vacation had just begun, but you already felt like you were in a new chapter. And while you didn’t know what the future held, you were determined to find your own path, even if that meant leaving Max behind.

The decision to spend your vacation in Italy wasn’t impulsive. After the emotional storm that marked the end of the season, you needed a place where you could find yourself, far from the hustle and bustle of Monaco and the ever-watchful eyes that seemed to follow you. Italy had always been a refuge for you: the peaceful hills of Tuscany, the small cafes in Rome, the calm of Lake Como. There, you felt like you could breathe.

However, what began as an attempt to find peace turned into something more. During long walks down cobblestone streets and endless nights of reflection, you began to question your place at Red Bull and in Formula 1 in general. Something didn’t fit, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to recognize it.

One afternoon, while sitting on a terrace overlooking Florence, you found yourself writing a list in a notebook. One column listed the things you liked about Red Bull: competitiveness, top-level engineering, the chance to fight for the title. The other column, however, was longer: constant pressure, the tense relationship with Max, the feeling that you were always fighting to be seen as something more than a “second driver.”

It was then that you knew. You couldn’t stay at Red Bull anymore. You had reached a point where your success didn’t fulfill you, because it always seemed to come at the cost of your happiness. You needed a change, and you knew exactly where you wanted to be.

A few days later, you found yourself on a video call with Zak Brown. The conversation started off cordial, with Zak asking how your vacation was going and casually mentioning that Piastri was considering options outside McLaren. Then, you dropped it:

—Zak, I want to talk about the possibility of joining McLaren.

There was a brief but intense silence on the other side of the screen. Then, a slow smile began to form on his face.

—Are you serious? —he asked, clearly intrigued.

—Completely. I feel like Red Bull is no longer the right place for me. I’m looking for a team where I can build something, not just adapt to what already exists. And I think McLaren can be that place.

Zak nodded, leaning back in his chair as he processed your words.

—I can’t deny it would be a big move for us. If you’re willing to take the leap, we are too.

In the following days, negotiations began. Everything was done in the strictest secrecy, far from the eyes of the media and the ears of Red Bull. You knew the news of your departure would be a bombshell, especially since Piastri was being considered as your replacement.

You didn’t tell anyone, not even Max. It wasn’t a conversation you were willing to have with him, not after how things had ended. This decision was yours alone, and you needed to keep it that way.

The news broke on the first day of the new year, as the holidays were coming to an end. While you were at the Milan airport, waiting for your flight back to Monaco, your phone started vibrating incessantly. Opening Twitter, you saw the headlines:

“Oscar Piastri joins Red Bull as Max Verstappen’s teammate” “Red Bull confirms the departure of its star driver after a successful season” “McLaren signs the star driver for 2025 in a surprising move”

You took a deep breath as you read the comments. Most fans were shocked; some criticized you for leaving such a competitive team, while others praised your decision to find a place where you could shine on your own.

You didn’t have to wait long to find out how Max would react. As soon as you landed in Monaco, you received a message from him.

Max: Is this a joke? You went to McLaren without telling me anything?

You sighed, knowing this conversation would be inevitable. After getting to your apartment, you called him.

“Hi, Max.”

“I can’t believe it,” was the first thing he said, his tone filled with disbelief. “You decided this without even mentioning it to me?.”

“Max, this decision has nothing to do with you,” you replied, trying to stay calm. “It’s something I needed to do for myself.”

“For yourself?,” he repeated, almost laughing. “You were in the best team, with the best car, fighting for titles. Why would you leave that?.”

“Because I don’t want to be just an extension of your success,” you said, feeling your voice fill with determination. “I want to build something of my own, and McLaren gives me that opportunity.”

Max fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, his tone was softer, but also colder.

“I hope you don’t regret it.”

“I won’t,” you answered, with more confidence than you felt in that moment.

Even now, with all the drama, you had flashbacks of you and Max during your early days at Red Bull, which had also been quite a whirlwind. He wasn’t just a driver: he was the driver. His confidence, almost arrogance, permeated every conversation, every strategy, every decision. But rather than intimidate you, that pushed you. You wanted to prove that you belonged at that level too.

Max respected you as a driver, but kept a clear distance. It was his way of protecting himself in an environment where emotional alliances often complicated things. You weren’t interested in anything else either. At least, not at first.

You remember everything started to change after the third race of the season. You had a difficult weekend: mechanical issues in practice, a crash in qualifying, and a minor contact in the race that left you out of the points. You were exhausted, frustrated, and harder on yourself than you should have been.

That night, while reviewing the data in the motorhome, Max walked in and sat down across from you, with a beer in hand.

“Why are you still here?,” he asked, leaning forward.

You looked up, confused.

“I’m reviewing the data. I need to understand what happened.”

Max shook his head, a slight smile on his lips.

“You already know what happened. You had bad luck. That happens to anyone. Don’t obsess over what you can’t change.”

His words surprised you. Max Verstappen, the driver known for his obsession with perfection, was telling you to let go of a bad day.

“Easy for you to say,” you replied, with a sharper tone than you intended. “You’re the World Champion.”

Max leaned back, taking a sip of his beer before answering.

“Do you think I haven’t had shitty days? What matters is how you come back. And you... you’ve got what it takes to come back.”

That small, unexpected gesture of support was the first step.

With each race, the relationship between you two grew stronger. Max started seeking you out to review strategies together or just to chat during flights. You, in turn, started seeing him as more than just a driver: someone passionate, fun on his good days, and deeply competitive.

One time, during a trip to Canada, the two of you ended up sitting next to each other on the team’s private plane. While everyone else slept, you started talking about everything and nothing: your childhoods, the races that had marked you, the sacrifices you’d made to get to Formula 1.

“Sometimes, I wonder if it’s all worth it,” you said, after a long silence.

Max looked at you with curiosity.

“Seriously?.”

You nodded.

“Of course I love this, but I also wonder what I’d be doing if I weren’t here. If I’d have a simpler life, with less pressure.”

Max thought for a moment before replying.

“I never ask myself that. Not because it’s not hard, but because I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

That comment made you see him in a new light. For Max, F1 wasn’t just his job, it was his life. And while you shared that passion, you also realized that he lived it in a way no one else could understand.

The tension between you began to become more evident in the little things. The way he would look for you with his gaze when you entered a room. The private jokes you shared during breaks. The way your hands would accidentally brush when checking data on the screen.

It was after a particularly difficult race in Austria when the tension reached its peak. You finished second behind Max, but only because the team had ordered you to hold position. You were furious, though you tried to hide it.

That night, Max came looking for you at your room. When you opened the door, you saw him with an expression you hadn't seen before: a mix of concern and something else you couldn't identify.

"Are you okay?,” he asked, though both of you knew that wasn't the case.

"Why do you care?,” you replied, tired of everything.

Instead of answering, Max took a step toward you, crossing the threshold of the door. The space between you was minimal, and you could feel the intensity in his gaze.

"I care because you're my teammate," he said at first, but then added in a lower tone. "And because... I can't help it."

That was the moment when everything changed. Nothing happened that night, but the line between you two had been erased. You both knew it, though neither of you wanted to admit it.

That tension, that undeniable connection, was what led you to cross the line later. But that was the beginning: a brush of hands, a gaze that lingered too long, a silence full of things neither of you dared to say.

After that, there was another night in Singapore where the story had started, your story.

Now that was behind you, and you were far from him and from the team.

A few weeks later, the new season had started, but not with Red Bull. Now you wore McLaren's iconic papaya orange, a decision that had taken the motorsport world by surprise. Despite Red Bull's initial resistance to letting you go, you broke the contract after unbearable tension. Now you shared a garage with Lando Norris, on a team that seemed ready to give you the spotlight you had longed for. However, leaving Red Bull behind didn’t mean leaving Max behind.

Max remained a constant, though now from the other side of the paddock. The first official encounter of the season in Bahrain was everything you had expected: tense and full of silent reproaches. Although both of you tried to maintain professionalism, the media quickly picked up on the coldness between you. And with each practice, that coldness transformed into a dangerous mix of rivalry, resentment, and something that never seemed to disappear: the history you both shared.

In the first race of the season, the problems between you transferred to the asphalt. During lap 32, you were fighting for the podium with Max behind you, pressuring you on every corner. His insistence was suffocating, and in an aggressive attempt to overtake you, he made contact with your car, forcing you off track.

"This is unacceptable," you shouted over the radio, your voice full of frustration.

Although the stewards didn’t impose any penalties, the incident made it clear that Max wasn’t willing to give you any mercy. But what hurt you the most was seeing him after the race when he completely ignored you in the paddock, as if you were a stranger.

After the race, you were in your Motorhome, reviewing the replays of the incident, when someone knocked on the door. You opened it, and there he was, with a frown and arms crossed.

"What the hell was that today?,” he asked, walking in without waiting for an invitation.

"What the hell was what?,” you replied, closing the door behind him. "You're the one who knocked me off track."

Max let out a sarcastic laugh.

"Please. If you hadn't closed so much on the corner, none of this would have happened."

Your blood began to boil.

"Are you really going to blame me for this? Because I didn’t let you pass like when we were at Red Bull? I hate to break your illusion, Max, but I'm not your teammate anymore."

He turned toward you, his eyes filled with anger, but also with something you couldn’t quite identify.

"You made that clear when you left. But you know this goes beyond that."

"What are you talking about?,” you asked, crossing your arms.

Max took a step toward you, closing the distance between you two.

"About you. About us. About how you can’t handle all of this without it becoming a personal problem."

You felt your heart beat faster, but you weren’t going to let it affect you.

"This has nothing to do with 'us.' This is about racing, Max. And if you can’t handle that I’m no longer part of your little world, that’s your problem, not mine."

For a moment, Max seemed like he wanted to respond, but instead, he shook his head and walked toward the door.

"You know, I thought you were different. But it seems like everyone in this sport is the same."

His words hit you like a bucket of cold water, but you refused to show it.

"And I thought you could be professional for once. Seems like we were both wrong."

Max left, slamming the door open behind him, and you collapsed on the couch, feeling exhausted.

The first days after the tension with Max passed quickly, but not for the reason you expected. You didn’t obsess over what had happened with him or the hurtful words that still echoed in your mind. What worried you most now was your integration into McLaren, especially your relationship with Lando Norris, your new teammate.

Lando was the complete opposite of Max: relaxed, fun, and with an attitude that, although professional, never lost its laid-back vibe. Instead of pressuring you or criticizing you constantly like Max did in his "mentor" version, Lando preferred to offer support without overwhelming you. He had a way of making everything seem easier, even when things on the track got complicated.

At first, you felt like a bit of an outsider. McLaren was a team with its own culture, and even though it wasn’t your first year in F1, you always carried that sense of nervousness at the start of a new chapter. Lando, however, did everything possible to make you feel welcome. At first, it was something as simple as joking about the team’s coffee, which according to him, always tasted like "hot water with a touch of desperation." After some laughs, the atmosphere started to relax, and little by little, you began to feel more comfortable with him and the rest of the team.

The first official team event, a press conference, was when things really began to change. During the interview, a journalist asked Lando how he felt about having a new teammate, and he, without losing his composure, gave a quick answer that made you smile.

"Well, the truth is it’s been an interesting experience. She brings a positive energy, and... she makes me feel like I'm still the 'young guy' on the team, even though technically I'm not. So, it’s fun having her on board!"

Everyone laughed, and, to your surprise, that broke the ice. The journalists quickly turned the focus to you, and Lando passed the ball with a mischievous smile.

"What I can say about my teammate is that, although she seems very serious, she has a good sense of humor. I can’t wait to see what happens this season."

From there on, things felt easier. It was as if, without even trying, Lando had smoothed the transition. The chemistry between you two flowed quickly, with no tension or unreachable expectations. You didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, just be yourself.

The ease with which you communicated impressed you. It wasn’t like with Max, where you always felt like you had to "prove yourself" or show something. With Lando, everything flowed naturally. If something didn’t work, you just adjusted it, with no drama or expectations. He was a teammate who truly believed in collaboration, not internal competition.

By the end of the first month at McLaren, you knew joining them had been the right decision.

Little by little, the start of the season at McLaren seemed to be going in the right direction: your relationship with Lando was strengthening, the team was improving, and, little by little, you felt like you were finding your rhythm in a car that, although not the fastest on the grid, gave you the sense of control you had lost the previous year. However, things with Max weren’t going well; in fact, they were getting even more complicated.

Although he was still racing for Red Bull, with his undeniable dominance on the track, the rivalry that had ignited the previous year seemed to intensify with every race. No matter how many times you told yourself it wasn’t worth focusing on what Max was doing or not doing, he was always there, whether in interviews, in media comments, or even on the track, challenging you to prove you were still more than his shadow.

In the first lap of Australia, a circuit you both knew inside and out. In practice, Red Bull had been clearly superior, but McLaren was more competitive than ever. The chance to snatch a win from Max wasn’t impossible, but it wouldn’t be easy. During the race, Max constantly pressured you. Although he wasn’t being as aggressive as he had been in the past, his presence behind you was suffocating, his car always right next to you in the fast corners.

You remember how, at one point in the race, during an overtaking move in turn 8, Max tried to pass you on the inside, clearly with the intention to intimidate you. It was a risky maneuver, and although logic told you to give way, you decided not to. You had enough space to hold your line, and although you didn’t manage to block him completely, the resistance you offered forced him to brake a little more than expected. That small detail allowed you to keep the position, something that seemed to irritate him.

When the race ended, Max finished in second place, right behind you. As you passed through the cooling area, you could see him in his car, staring at you with that defiant look he was so good at putting on. The crowd noticed it, the journalists noticed it, and, of course, you noticed it too.

At the end of the race, while you were getting ready to leave the paddock, one of McLaren’s engineers told you that Max had requested to speak with you. You didn’t understand why he wanted to do that, and honestly, you weren’t in the mood to face him after what had happened on track. But, as always, appearances mattered, and you couldn’t just ignore him. So, you agreed, even though you knew it would be an uncomfortable encounter.

Max was waiting for you near the Red Bull hospitality, arms crossed, a typical defensive posture. He didn’t say anything at first, but when you looked at him, his face was more serious than usual.

“What’s wrong with you?” he finally said, his tone as direct and blunt as ever. “You know that if you’d let me pass, we could’ve fought more cleanly. Why do you keep acting like it’s all personal?”

You were surprised that the conversation was going in that direction, as if you weren’t racing, as if it was a matter of pride. But, you knew this was Max. It always had to be him first.

“Personal?” you repeated, letting sarcasm fill your voice. “You’re the first one to make it personal. If you’d given me space, we wouldn’t have this problem, but no, you always have to be the one to set the pace, don’t you?”

Max took a step toward you, but not enough to invade your personal space. His gaze hardened.

“It’s not about setting the pace. It’s about being competitive. You still don’t understand how this sport works. You have to go for it, not care about what others think.”

Your breath quickened, not out of fear, but from the anger that had been building up for months.

“I think the problem here isn’t that I don’t understand the sport, Max. The problem is that you’ve never learned how to be a true teammate, and now you’re trying to dictate how I should race. I’m tired of you doing this.”

Max, as expected, didn’t say anything more. He just stared at you for a couple of seconds, as if waiting for you to change your mind or apologize. But you wouldn’t. Not anymore. Not when you knew that, for him, everything had always been about ego, about being the best, the fastest, the one who wouldn’t let anyone overtake him.

The rivalry between you and Max continued to grow. Every time you saw him on track, you knew that, at least for him, it had become personal. What once was a professional competition had become something much more visceral, and every time the two teams met on the track, the tension between you was palpable. But far from being a negative thing, it motivated you to improve. You no longer just wanted to beat Max for the sake of it; now, it was a personal necessity.

The revenge came for him in Monaco. On such a tight, technical circuit, any mistake could be fatal, and Max, although he initially seemed to have the advantage, began to falter in the final laps, losing traction in the trickiest parts of the circuit. It was then, on lap 68, that you seized your opportunity.

Max was charging full throttle, but as you exited the tunnel, his car began to slide slightly. That was enough for you to pass him on the inside at Sainte-Dévote. As you passed him, you felt a mix of adrenaline and satisfaction. Finally, the competition that had defined you for so long, you had surpassed.

At the end of the race, while celebrating your podium, Max’s gaze from the other side of the garage was clear. It was no longer just a rivalry; now, it had become a personal duel.

The victory in Monaco was a milestone in your career. Not only because it had been one of the best races of your life, but because at the end of the day, you didn’t just celebrate with the McLaren team, but also felt a kind of personal vindication. You had beaten Max, done what many thought was impossible. Not just as a driver, but as someone who had constantly been underestimated for a lack of “aggressiveness” or for once being seen as Red Bull’s “perfect teammate” or “pretty girl.” But now, at this moment, you were neither of those things. Now, you were his rival.

The sense of achievement was gratifying, but deep down you knew the victory had its price. Something in you had changed during that last overtake, in the way you had faced Max, in how, when you looked at him for the last time on track, something inside you had broken. That part of you that still wanted him, that still thought maybe things could have been different, was gone, or at least overshadowed by the fierce determination to win. The relationship you once shared was buried, replaced by pure competition, an unfiltered rivalry. But at the same time, you knew it wasn’t just the competition that drove you; it was something much more personal. Max had let you go. And now, you had left him behind, though not without a certain sadness.

On the other side, Max was in his motorhome, lights off, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the mirror. The race had ended, and although he had made an effort not to show his emotions to the journalists, something inside him was consuming him. He was used to winning, he had always been the leader, the reference. But this time, in Monaco, the result made him realize something he had been avoiding for a long time.

He had lost. And not just the race. He had lost the person who had mattered most in his life.

It was ironic because he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. He had been the first to fuel the rivalry, the first to not know how to handle his own feelings, the first to ignore the boundaries between the personal and the professional. But now, when he saw your victory trophy on his phone screen, when he saw the images of you celebrating with Lando, he felt something he had never felt before: regret.

Over the years, Max had gotten used to seeing life as a series of challenges and battles he had to win. The world was black or white, no shades of gray. But with you, everything had been different. He had been your mentor, your teammate, your rival, and at some point, more than that. He had been someone who, in a way, had been the only person capable of pushing him out of his comfort zone. The relationship you shared, although never fully admitted, had been unique. Max knew that when he was with you, he felt more human, more vulnerable. But competition, the need to be the best, had led him to distance himself from what really mattered.

That night, Max couldn’t sleep. The feeling of being lost, of having destroyed something valuable, haunted him. He didn’t know how you had come to mean so much to him, or when the rivalry had stopped being just that and turned into something more complicated. But he knew it clearly: he had lost you. And the worst part was that, in his head, there were still unanswered questions. Could he have done things differently? Should he have spoken up earlier, when there was still time to explain? The answers to those questions tormented him, but what really hurt was what he didn’t know: if you felt the same way.

Weeks later, it was the Canadian Grand Prix. The combination of fast corners, technical sections, and the closeness of the walls, all contributed to the magic of that weekend. But this time, for some reason, it felt different. The tension in the air was palpable, and although Max and you hadn’t spoken for days, hadn’t exchanged more than a fleeting glance, something felt off. But you ignored it, focusing on the track, on what you did best.

The qualifying had been tough, but you had stayed in the top positions. The McLaren car had responded well, and you knew you could be fighting for a podium. Lando had qualified just behind you, both with the same motivation, knowing this race would be key for the team. However, in your mind, there was always that little thought that crept in: Max. The rivalry, that constant pressure to prove you could be better, the feeling that he was watching from a distance, waiting for you to make a mistake. And that haunted you.

The race began under the overcast sky of Montreal, with the excitement of the crowd contagious to the drivers. At first, everything seemed to be going well, although the temperatures were higher than expected, making tire control difficult. The first laps passed quickly, and you found yourself fighting wheel to wheel with Lando, in a clean and constant battle, looking for the best line to overtake some rivals. But on lap 32, everything changed.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. You reached turn 6 at a dizzying speed, trying to maintain your position, with the brakes slightly overheated. The car became unstable, and before you could react, the rear wheels lost traction. You tried to correct, but the car violently slid, and in an instant, you were crashing into the safety barriers. The sound of the crash was deafening, an explosion of metal, rubber, and carbon fiber. It was as if the world stopped for a moment, as if the air became heavy and dense.

The radio was filled with static, and the McLaren pit wall erupted into chaos. Engineers shouted orders, but everything was a distant echo. Your car had been destroyed in turn 6, one of the toughest corners of the circuit, and the impact left you unconscious for a moment. The medical staff and FIA officials arrived quickly at the scene, but in those seconds that felt like an eternity, the world felt distant and alien.

When you finally woke up, the sunlight blinded you, and the sound of fans, the buzzing of the medical teams, and the murmurs of people filtered into your head like a storm. The pain was unbearable, but the worst part was the confusion. What had happened? Why couldn’t you move your legs?

The voice of one of the doctors reached your ears, low and worried.

“Stay calm, don’t move, we’re here to help. You have a head injury, and probably a concussion. We need you to stay still until we evaluate you.”

Outside the circuit, the chaos was even greater. Journalists were already surrounding the area, television cameras focused on every detail of the accident, and the paddock was filled with people who could do nothing but watch in silence. The faces of your teammates reflected anguish. Lando, on the other side of the pit wall, had stopped focusing on his own race, and his fixed gaze on the screen showing your wrecked car said it all. He was desperate.

Max, who had seen everything from his car on the following lap, braked abruptly when the yellow flag appeared on his screen. It was as if the world had stopped for him too. Max’s face turned serious, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he seemed to forget that, on track, he had to continue with the race. Somehow, he was searching for you on the screen, wanting to know if you were okay, if you had survived the crash. But the truth was that, in that moment, neither he nor anyone else knew what had happened.

The medical team worked quickly to stabilize you, and the doctors’ shouts became more urgent. There was worry on their faces, in the way they spoke to each other, but you could barely understand what they were saying. The noise in your head was deafening. What had happened? Why couldn’t you move? Was your body okay?

News of the crash spread quickly on social media. The media flooded the internet with photos of the wrecked car, images of the chaos at the circuit, and the medical staff surrounding you while they tried to keep you conscious. The race continued, but the world of Formula 1 had stopped for a moment. In the hospital, the first reports were arriving through television screens.

Journalists crowded around, asking everyone involved in the accident for the smallest bit of information. Cameras focused on your teammates, who were being approached by the press.

“How is she?,” they asked your mother, whose face was pale, marked by worry.

“She’s being evaluated,” she replied, her voice trembling, unable to hide the anxiety consuming her. “They’ve told us she has a concussion, but they’re doing more tests.”

At that moment, your name became a trending topic on Twitter, and reporters couldn’t stop talking about you, but all you wanted was for everything to stop, for the pain to go away, for the voices in your head to quiet.

Max didn’t know how to react. As he prepared for his last lap, he felt the weight of what had happened, the weight of having been so distant, so focused only on the victory, that he had forgotten what truly mattered. Throughout the entire race, he couldn’t stop thinking about you, about what might be happening at that very moment. The crash had been severe, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.

In the following hours, the news became clear: the crash had left consequences. The concussion was just the beginning. The impact had been so strong that doctors couldn’t yet say whether the physical and psychological effects would be temporary or if you would be left with permanent damage. The fear was palpable, and as exams and tests progressed, it was clear that everything had changed. The accident, the pain, and the uncertainty were now an inevitable part of the story. Your career, your life, everything you had built up until now, was at stake.

[judes-hoe]

Too Long ~ JB5

Genre ~ smut(18+), little fluff

Summary ~ you and Jude can’t keep your hands off each other at a family dinner. So Denise makes you sleep in separate rooms.

Warnings ~ p in v(unprotected), denial, caught,

A/N ~ here you go my anon that wanted this🩷🩷 (also I am NOT making Denise seem mean, i clearly state in the fic she does it because family is over and she wants you both to be respectful. Please do not come at me I’m just doing what anon wanted!!!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and jude were staying at his parent’s house for the weekend, because Denise and marks family were coming over on Saturday for a big family dinner. Yet you and Jude always had a little problem with keeping your hands to yourself.

Denise often giving warnings glances throughout the day. Making you sit at opposite sides of the couch with family between you both. Though you would just text each other, giggling to yourself. Then she took your phones… Denise was a cruel woman…but you loved her to bits.

Denise never does this, she is only doing it now due to all family being here and wants you and Jude to be respectful. Everyone gathered around the table, Denise letting you and Jude sit together as long as you behaved.

Not even 3 minutes in, Jude had to put a hand on your thigh. You had to bite back a smile. Dinner went by, you and Jude trying to do subtle touches. Before Denise gave a glare and nods to the kitchen. You and Jude look at each other knowing you’re in trouble.

You and Jude stood in the kitchen looking at Denise who had her arms crossed. “You two, how many times!” She asked. “Sorry, we can’t help it!” Jude said to his mother. “We love each other.” He whispered. “I get that Jude, but all I’m asking is for you guys to not be on each other eating your faces off.” She said.

“Ok…we’ll calm down.” He said. “And you’re sleeping in different rooms tonight, your aunt and uncle are staying the night and I don’t need them possibly hearing you both.” She said in a slightly embarrassed tone.

“Okay mom.” Jude said with no point in arguing. “Okay Denise.”

The night finished in a blur, Jude going to his room. You going to the room all the way down the hall. You sat there looking at the ceiling, playing on your phone a little. You always had trouble sleeping if Jude wasn’t near. Except it was in your guys bed back in your apartment in Madrid.

You checked your phone and it reads 1:35am. You sigh and look around the dark room. You hear a soft knock on the door. “Yes?” You whispered. You see the door open and a tall figure walk in. “I can’t sleep I need you.” You hear Jude say closing the door. “I can’t sleep either, come here.” You say.

You feel the bed dip, Jude lays next to you. “You think you can be quiet?” Jude ask nipping at your neck. You close your eyes and softly nod.

It wasn’t long before you and Jude had your clothes off. “I’ve been wanting this all day.” Jude said positioning himself between your legs. “Me too, I can’t wait to go home and not worry about this anymore.” You said. “I love your mom, but I hate these family events.” You tell him. “Me too love..” he said leaning down to kiss you as he slowly pushes inside you.

You let out a feel quiet muffled moans. Jude’s thrust is slow yet deep. He had to do it this way so you weren’t loud. You also both loved to switch to something more slow and passionate.

Jude pulls away his thrust slow and deep. Tucking your head in his neck, muffling your soft moans. “Fuck you feel so good.” Your hands coming to his back and holding onto him. “I love you.” You moan softly. Jude eyes flutter when he feels you squeezing his cock. “I love you too..”

It wasn’t long before you both cum, careful not to be too loud. Jude pulled out and laid next to you. “That was so good, you felt so good.” He mumbled and kissed your shoulder. “I’ll clean you up and then leave.”

He quickly clean himself and then you, helping dressing you and then himself again. He then kissed your forehead, waiting until you feel asleep before he snuck back to his room.

The next morning, you walk out your room and see Jude leaving his room. You both smirk and go downstairs. Sitting in the living room, giving each other discreet glances. Jude smirking at you, Denise sees this, she knows what you guys did. “You know I was thinking of redoing the floors, they’re quite creaky.” She said looking at you both.

You and Jude immediately look at each other and then at Denise. “Sorry Denise.” You mumbled. Jude just rolled his eyes, he didn’t regret last night, but he still disobeyed his mom’s rules. “Sorry mom.” He mumbled.

Later that day you and Jude were leaving the house. You stood at the front door hugging Denise, mark, and Jobe goodbye. “Sorry again Denise; we’ll work on controlling ourselves.” You tell her as you hug her. “I know what it’s like to be young and in love, but yes please work on it, especially around family.” She smiled and kissed your cheek.

Jude then hugged his mom. “Sorry mom, love you, see you whenever.” He said. You and Jude then got into the car and left for the airport. To go back home, with no worries of anyone hearing…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[woozinhos]

Hiiii can you do wonu breeding kink pls :(

ahhh I love this little series I hope you enjoy <3

Wonwoo's eyes darken as he looks down at you, his mind filled with the thought of breeding you.

He's always had a secret breeding kink, one that he's never quite shared with anyone before. But with you, it's different.

As he thrusts into you, he can't help but imagine what it would be like to fill you up with his cum, to make you his in every possible way.

He grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as he imagines you swollen with his child.

"You'd look so damn beautiful carrying my baby," he growls, his voice filled with a mix of desire and possessiveness.

He quickens his pace, his hips snapping against yours as he loses himself in the fantasy.

"I'd fill you up so many times," he pants, his breath hot against your ear. "Make sure you're always full of my cum, always carrying my baby."

You look up at him, your voice shaky as you try to form words.

"Wonwoo," you gasp, your body trembling with pleasure. "I want it... I want you to breed me."

Wonwoo's eyes widen at your words, a mix of surprise and excitement washing over him.

"Fuck," he groans, his hips stuttering for a moment as he processes what you just said.

He leans down, his lips finding yours in a fierce kiss.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me right now," he whispers against your mouth.

He kisses you hard, his tongue claiming your mouth as he pours all his pent-up desire into the kiss.

He breaks away only when he absolutely needs to breathe, panting heavily as he looks down at you.

"I'm going to breed you so well," he growls, his eyes dark with promise. "You'll be mine forever, carrying my child inside you."

He continues to thrust into you, his movements becoming more and more erratic as he gets closer to the edge.

"I'm going to fill you up with my cum until you're overflowing," he grunts, his fingers digging into your skin even harder. "And then I'll keep going, until you're completely and utterly bred."

His pace becomes brutal, his hips snapping against yours with a force that leaves you gasping for air.

He's lost in the moment, his mind consumed by the thought of breeding you, of marking you as his in the most primal way possible.

"You're mine," he repeats, his voice low and guttural. "And I'm going to make sure everyone knows it."

He leans down, his lips brushing against your neck as he whispers, "You're going to carry my child, and everyone will know that you're mine. That you belong to me and me alone."

His teeth scrape against your skin, leaving marks that will remind you of this moment for days to come.

His breath is coming in short gasps now, his body tensing as he feels his orgasm approaching.

"I'm going to fill you up," he growls, his voice strained. "And I'm going to make sure it takes."

He lets out a low, guttural moan as he finally reaches his peak, his body shuddering as he spills himself inside you.

"Take it," he grunts, his hips stuttering as he empties himself into you. "Take all of it, baby."

Even as he comes down from his orgasm, he continues to move inside you, prolonging the moment as much as possible.

He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he savors the feeling of being buried deep inside you.

"I'm making sure it takes," he whispers, his voice filled with determination. "I'm not stopping until I know for sure that you're carrying my child."

He slowly begins to pull out of you, his eyes fixed on where your bodies are connected.

He watches as his cum slowly starts to leak out of you, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Look at that," he says, his voice filled with pride. "You're so full of me, it's like I'm already breeding you."

[spicy30]

Modernness of 1400s 007

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+

CW: Child trafficking

Not proofread

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29

Side note: I think my writing style from my latest work accidentally leaked in, but oh well.

WC: 14.3k

As you and Helaena flew back to King’s Landing with the goods secured, your gaze drifted downward. The world below stretched out in an endless patchwork of greens and browns, but it wasn’t until you spotted that same spring again—hidden like a secret among the hills—that inspiration struck like a lightning bolt.

“The Romans,” you murmured, tightening your grip on Helaena’s waist. The idea was perfect. You’d introduce the Roman water system to Westeros and claim it as your own invention. Clean water would not only make you beloved among the commons but also mark a monumental step toward the progress you envisioned. A woman who brought both clean water and a functioning sewer system to all of Westeros? Invaluable.

The only issue? You didn’t know the exact formulas.

You began to mentally map it out, your thoughts racing as you soared over the land. A close water source would be ideal. The river running through King’s Landing was an option, but not a good one. Its waters emptied into the sea, and rivers like it were rarely suitable for clean drinking water—especially in a place like King’s Landing, where waste and pollution had long since claimed the current.

A spring, however, was pure. Untouched. Exactly what you needed. And now, you’d found one.

The next challenge was funding.

Your jaw tightened at the thought. Right now, you were broke—your entire fortune consisted of a single gold dragon. One. A pitiful sum that wouldn’t buy the loyalty of a stray cat, much less the resources for an ambitious engineering project.

This was of course thanks to your ‘business’ on the Street of Silk. 

But ambition wasn’t something you lacked, and you were nothing if not resourceful. 

The woman at the door stood firm, her thin robe clinging to her frame, revealing more than modesty allowed. Her voice dripped with disdain as she let a man pass.

“We do not serve women,” she said flatly, the faint smell of stale sweat and sex heavy in the air.

You squared your shoulders, ignoring the assault on your senses. “I’m here to speak with the madam.”

“It does not matter who you ask. We do not serve women.” Her tone remained cold, practiced.

Your eyes flicked over her, noting the hard set of her jaw, the hollowness in her gaze. She wasn’t much older than you. That thought disturbed you, but you pushed it aside. “I’m not here for service,” you said firmly. “I have a proposal for your madam.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment’s hesitation, she rolled her eyes and stepped aside.

Inside, the stench of sweat and perfume hit you like a slap. The air was humid, cloying, heavy with the sounds of grunts and moans from every corner. You blinked, taking it in—the writhing bodies, the shadowed alcoves where no act was too obscene, no boundary respected.

But it wasn’t the orgies that churned your stomach. It was the private rooms.

Your steps faltered as you caught glimpses through half-open doors: a boy’s small frame crushed beneath a man’s weight, the blank stare of a child too broken to cry. Your throat tightened, bile rising as you forced yourself to keep walking.

Savages.

The word seared through your mind like a brand.

Savages, all of them.

You lifted your chin, forcing your face into a mask of composure as you entered the madam’s chamber. The older woman sat behind a low table, her painted lips curling into a calculating smile as you approached.

“You have the product you promised? Or are you here to reconsider my offer?” Her voice was smooth, almost mocking.

“I have the product.” You placed the jar on the table with a steady hand. “But the conditions have changed.”

The madam’s brow arched. “Conditions?” She reached for the jar, turning it in her hands. “My price remains the same.”

“You don’t even know how to use it,” you countered, your voice cool. “I can teach some of your workers how to apply it properly, but you’ll abide by my terms.”

The madam leaned back, signaling for one of her girls—a nervous-looking young woman who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. “She’ll learn, and she’ll teach the others.”

You shook your head, your resolve hardening. “No. You will stop selling children. Anyone under fifteen comes to me. I will teach them.” You leaned forward, locking eyes with her. “If you refuse, our business is done.”

The madam’s smile faltered, just for a moment. “I’d lose considerable profit,” she said, her voice low, almost amused. “Women can still shave.”

Your nose twitched in disgust. “You’ll find other uses for this product. And if you don’t, the next whorehouse will. What happens when this becomes a trade, and you have to buy it back at a premium?” You sat back, folding your arms. “Stop selling the children.”

The room was silent save for the muffled noises from beyond the walls. Finally, the madam exhaled through her nose. “One gold dragon, then. Instead of two.”

Gold was gold. And if it saved even a handful of children, it was enough. “Done.”

She handed you the coin, and you pocketed it without looking. “Gather all your workers under fifteen. I don’t care if they’re in service—bring them to me now.”

The madam hesitated but eventually obeyed. A handful of children were brought into the room, their eyes hollow and frightened. But not all.

You scanned the faces, your stomach twisting. He wasn’t there.

Without a word, you stormed out, ignoring the madam’s shouts. Room by room, you searched until you found him.

The boy.

A man loomed over him, his hand gripping the boy’s hair as he forced him down. Rage boiled in your chest as you shoved the man off, pulling the boy to your side.

“Sinner,” you spat, your voice trembling with fury.

Behind you, the madam appeared, stammering apologies, but you didn’t care. You turned, the boy clutching your arm, and stormed out of the house, your jar tucked beneath your other arm.

It wasn’t enough. It never would be. But it was a start.

The turn of events was brutal—messy and unsightly—but it carved an opportunity. Now, you had eyes scattered throughout the city, keen and unblinking. If wielded correctly, they’d be more than informants; they’d become your personal choir, singing your truths to the masses. A better life than the squalor they came from, surely. It had to be. You wouldn’t allow yourself to doubt it.

As the dragon-carved gates of King’s Landing loomed farther, your thoughts spiraled to the tasks at hand. Your newly assembled web of spies awaited their first test. The Miswak shipment needed delivering, and the children would have hopefully grounded enough charcoal by now. Was that child labor? Perhaps. But you’d gifted them the tools to climb higher—the basics of English, etched into the same rudimentary book you had created for Dyana.

Reading. Writing. Seeds planted for the future, and one day, they would bloom.

…

“Any new developments?” Alicent’s voice pierced the quiet like a needle slipping through silk. Her watchful eyes held you in place, and you swallowed back the biting words that nearly leapt from your tongue. It had been a month, and you couldn’t hold off Alicent—or Otto—much longer. They were shadows at your back, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“Nearly finished,” you lied smoothly, then allowed hesitation to creep in, as though you were carefully choosing your words. “However, there is… something else I’d like to discuss.”

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. This had to work. Ever since your reckless encounter with her son, Alicent had grown colder, more measured. You prayed to whatever gods might listen that Aemond was clever enough to keep his mouth shut. Still, the whispers of the maids lingered in the halls, their eyes darting toward you whenever you passed. Your carefully applied makeup covered the marks, but not the rumors. Not entirely.

Alicent raised a single brow, her sharp gaze unnervingly still. Your own eyes flicked to her necklace—a symbol of faith, of purpose. Religion had always been a distant, abstract thing for you. You’d been born into one but never truly embraced it. Still, what was one more belief to add to the list of masks you wore?

“As you know, I am not of this land,” you began, weaving threads of sincerity into your tone. “Yet, I find myself yearning for something greater. A connection… to the gods.” You paused, watching Alicent’s expression shift—a subtle softening. You pressed forward. “I do not know much about the Seven, but I want to learn.”

A flicker of approval lit her face. Strike.

“Do you think I could accompany you the next time you visit the…Sept, is it?”

Alicent’s brow smoothed, her lips curving into a faint, almost maternal smile. “You wish to turn to the Seven?”

“Yes,” you answered with measured conviction. “I want to cultivate a relationship with the gods. I know the Citadel… may not look favorably upon me. But I hold no malice for them.” A small lie. “I seek guidance. I fear I may become lost.”

A threadbare trope, perhaps, but one that never failed to tug at the hearts of saviors. Alicent’s posture shifted; her gaze softened.

“Sweet girl,” she said, smoothing a hand over your hair. “I am glad you have turned to the Seven. I go to the Sept once a week. On the morrow, you shall join me. I will guide you.”

Perfect. You smiled demurely, lowering your head in feigned gratitude. If you couldn’t infiltrate the seediest corners of the city to keep them under your thumb, you’d dismantle them entirely. The parallels between this world and your own were sharp as blades. The Sept—like the medieval Church of your history—wielded untold power, with its followers hanging on every whispered word.

If the Citadel wouldn’t accept you, the Seven would. You would start here, under the Queen’s banner. Her blessing would open doors, and soon, the citadel and the Septons would know your name—not as an outsider, but as a force of change, anointed by faith.

And when the time came, you’d see to it that your web of influence didn’t just spread—it consumed.

With the matter settled, you bowed gracefully and took your leave from the Queen’s chambers. As the heavy doors closed behind you, Otto strode in with his usual air of self-importance. You offered him a polite smile, masking the unease his presence always stirred, and quickly made yourself scarce.

It had been two days since your return to King’s Landing, and time already felt like a double-edged sword. Waiting for your plant to dry had been maddening, leaving you stuck in limbo. Meanwhile, King Viserys, to your surprise, had resumed his seat in the council room, much to Otto’s visible displeasure.

You’d been avoiding the Targaryens as much as possible. Rhaenyra had taken Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Rhaena back to Dragonstone during your absence—a disappointing turn. You had hoped to visit Dragonstone again, at least once more. And as for Jacaerys? So much for his promises. 

Well, it couldn’t be helped. It was time to make new alliances.

Friends in high places, you thought. Yet the options were limited.

Helaena? Too peculiar, her words often tangled in riddles you had no patience for. Aegon? Transparent in his intentions and utterly repugnant. Daemon? He hated you, and the feeling was mutual. Rhaenyra? Impossible, not with her husband hawk-like vigilance. Viserys? A King’s favor could be a double-edged sword, and you had no desire to invite further burdens.

Alicent and Otto? Neither seemed genuinely invested in you. Alicent only saw someone she could shape into her ideal, and Otto viewed you as a piece on the board—disposable when no longer useful.

That left…Aemond.

The very thought made you shudder. Aemond Targaryen, the one-eyed prince. A bitter regret clung to the memory of that night, a reckless mistake you’d been running from ever since. It was half the reason you had leapt at the chance to join Helaena in the Riverlands. Facing Aemond again was a prospect you were still too cowardly to confront, though you suspected it would be unavoidable. If handled carefully, though, he might not be the worst option.

Later. That could wait.

Right now, your mind was preoccupied with the daunting task ahead: the water system. You needed to figure out the formula, but where to begin? All you knew was it needed a steady decline for gravity to carry the flow. Underground would be ideal, but if forced above ground, arches would save on materials. The bricks needed to be durable, made with marble cement. And getting it into the city? That would require tearing apart King’s Landing itself.

Reconstructing an entire city—it could take years.

Years.

The word hit you like a falling stone. Years you would spend here, in this medieval nightmare. You froze mid-step, the weight of realization crashing over you. This was the first time you truly thought about it and let it set in. You would never see your family or friends again. Never watch another movie or binge your favorite show. No degree. No cars, planes, or air conditioning. The life you once knew—the future—was gone, slipping further away with each passing day.

Could you even build a life here? Marry? Have children? The thought was sobering. You could survive, but what would survival cost? Medicine here was archaic at best. Pain relief during childbirth would be nonexistent. Vaccines, nonexistent. Plagues, inevitable. You had always fought to survive back home, but this… this was a different beast altogether.

A pang of homesickness rippled through you. How you longed for a lazy afternoon in bed, reading with music playing softly in the background. Scrolling through social media, catching up on sports, watching the Olympics or the news—or even just indulging in Animal Planet for a moment of calm.

You sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of your nose as you stopped outside a pair of large doors. The library. Maybe you’d find something useful here—anything to distract you from these spiraling thoughts.

Focus, you reminded yourself. Stay focused. Keep your head above water. Make yourself invaluable. You could mourn the loss of modern life later. For now, you had work to do.

The library was a sprawling maze, the shelves seemingly organized by no discernible system. Scanning the spines, you felt the weight of frustration settling in. No math books. Certainly no physics. You scoffed, shaking your head.

“Why would they have math formulas written down?” you muttered. “Wishful thinking.”

As you prepared to give up, a title caught your eye: “Book of Coin - Crispian Celtigar (First Master of Coin) Aegon I ‘The Conqueror’ Targaryen. 1-37AC.”

Your lips twitched into a smile. Of course. The economy here was primitive at best—a loose network of trade and agrarian reliance. Taxes funneled from the smallfolk to lords, and from lords to the crown. Laughably inefficient.

An open market, ripe for the taking.

If you could establish a proper economy, it would mean wealth beyond imagination—and perhaps a system that bore your name. A fully realized, capitalistic economy. It would take years for anyone else to grasp the concept fully. But you’d need to tread carefully; monarchies and capitalism rarely coexisted peacefully. Then again, when had monarchies ever worked well?

Your grin widened. The pieces of a plan were starting to form. The library hadn’t given you what you’d sought, but it had handed you something far more valuable: an idea.

The idea of modern monarchies intrigued you. Weak relics of bygone eras, their grip on power was tenuous at best. Take Spain, for instance—a nation with a king who held no real authority while a president governed the people. Monarchies, by their very nature, stood in direct opposition to the principles of democratic equality, the very ideal you found yourself gravitating toward. Yet here you were, sitting in a castle steeped in the bloodlines of a dynasty that would scoff at such ideals.

You flipped through the book in your hands, letting your mind wander.

The thought of devoting your entire life to dismantling the monarchy felt exhausting. And really, was it even worth it? Life expectancy here couldn’t be much past the thirties—what a chilling reality. Building an egalitarian society would be an uphill battle, and some changes, you reasoned, had to come organically, from the collective understanding of society itself. A leader could nudge the masses in the right direction, pipeline ideas, and light the way, but the responsibility would ultimately fall on those who came after you.

Then there was the media—a double-edged sword you understood all too well. In capable, ethical hands, it could inform and inspire. But unchecked? It could mislead, manipulate, and turn progress into chaos. The thought was sobering.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the monarchy’s unique allure. For all its flaws, it offered something a democracy couldn’t match: continuity, a living link to the past. Monarchs embodied history, culture, and heritage, grounding a nation in its origins while carrying it forward. The public’s attachment to royalty wasn’t logical—it was emotional. They cried for a royal death, cheered for a wedding, and celebrated the birth of heirs they’d never meet. The late Princess Diana was proof of this—her influence enduring even decades after her tragic death.

You grinned, the beginnings of an idea forming. Perhaps the media wasn’t such a bad tool after all, not if wielded correctly.

Otto and Alicent were closing in, you could feel it. You needed something to turn the tide in Rhaenyra’s favor. Numbers alone might confirm the legitimacy of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, but public opinion was another entity entirely. People doubted what they saw with their own eyes; they’d cling to rumors if given the chance. But with the right narrative, a loyal following could be built around Jacaerys, the future heir. A fan base so devoted, so unwavering, that whispers of bastardy would fall on deaf ears.

Even if the worst happened and the truth came out, a beloved figure could weather the storm. A king who won the hearts of his people would render lineage irrelevant. It wasn’t just about legitimacy—it was about loyalty, influence, and the ability to inspire unwavering devotion.

You leaned back, smiling to yourself. Maybe, just maybe, you’d found your strategy.

You pursed your lips. Yeah…get Rhaenyra on the throne and make her children beloved. Those at the bottom are what keep those at the top standing. A country is not made of just numbers. That’s how should be.

First, you’d have to create a source of constant and neutral information. A reliable source. A true neutral source.

Something simple. 

 A newspaper! 

You snapped the coin book shut, grabbing a piece of paper and a quill, heart pounding with excitement. You sketched the first rough outline of something new, something revolutionary. Journalists. Editors. Writers. You’d need them all, but first, you’d start small. One piece at a time. It didn’t matter that Westeros wasn’t ready for it. They’d need it. You’d make them need it.

People, no matter the time, love gossip. You’d have to recruit someone for that. Actually, let's start thinking of the jobs that need to be filled. 

‘Journalists, senior editors, assistant editors, editorial assistants, staff writers, printers, Painters?’ Then of course you’d have to do one for every subject you choose, politics, gossip, health, fashion (you needed to start pants or something. These skirts were too much.), travel maybe (You really needed to get out more), business, science, lifestyle, sports. Hell, maybe you’d even start the Olympics here. Make your own city and it will be the capital of progress. Call it Olympus, home of the Olympians, and have major athletes living there and universities there so you’d have the brightest minds. Wouldn’t that be something? Actually maybe… “Ugh! This is so much work already!” You threw your head back and your jaw slackened. Above you was standing the last Prince you wanted to see. 

Aemond stood there, his presence suffocating, cutting through your thoughts like a blade.

You shot to your feet, heart thudding. Not now. Not when your mind was on fire. You gave him a tight smile, forced but polite. “Perfect timing,” you muttered. Time to go.

“Journalists?” Aemond spoke and you gave a smile. Definitely time to go! Once this newspaper was started it couldn’t be linked back to you. It wouldn’t give it the fair and neutral reputation you wanted, especially once you started making headlines and you would. The whole of Westeros would know your name once you were done. 

You smiled, but it was a wolfish thing. “Just playing with words…” Your heart raced. It was a lie. A flimsy one. But it wasn’t like he’d ever heard of the word before.

He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, unreadable, as always. "What does it mean?"

You looked around, feigning thought. The heat of his stare burned into you. "I don’t know yet. Would you like to help me give it meaning?" You let your words hang, soft but charged with a promise. You ignored the way his eye darkened as they lingered on your collarbones.

“Help you how?” His voice had an edge now, dangerous and tantalizing. It sent a shiver down your spine.

You turned away quickly, trying to steady yourself. No. Not again. You couldn’t fall into that trap again, especially not after making peace with Alicent. You forced a smile, playing dumb. “Figuring out what the word means. I just said that.” Your voice was light, almost too light.

Aemond stood still, his gaze on you sharp and unrelenting. The air between you thickened.

He stepped closer, his presence a magnet pulling at every nerve in your body. You instinctively took a step back, but the intensity in his eyes held you in place. “I thought you were a man with no taste for depravity.” You threw his own words back at him, the challenge in your voice unmistakable.

Aemond said nothing as he leaned in. A sudden and sharp pain hit the left side of your brain making your eye sting. You hissed and covered your eye. Aemond lifted a brow and your jaw slacked for the second time that day. Damn. This second time you’ve probably offended him about his eye. To your credit, you really did get hit with a sharp pain which was now forming into a headache. The worst thing that could happen and it’s happening. Rather break a bone than another migraine. However, your migraines usually come with a side of vomit, but that wouldn’t be till much later. You knew you shouldn’t have eaten anything here. It was a miracle nearly two months and with no sickness, hopefully, it was a simple upset stomach.

“Excuse me.” You barely managed to breathe the words, your senses assaulted by a pungent smell that seemed to grow stronger with every heartbeat. Your head throbbed, a sharp pulse blooming at your temple, and you instinctively pushed past Aemond, ignoring the startled lift of his brow.

The moment you stepped into the corridor, the pain in your head flared again, forcing you to slow your steps. Each movement sent another spike of agony through your skull, and you clenched your teeth to keep from groaning aloud. Behind you, Aemond followed in silence, his measured steps too close, his gaze too heavy. You could feel it trailing you, scrutinizing your every falter. Thankfully, he seemed wise enough not to speak.

You finally reached your chambers, but the moment you opened the door, a sickly sweet smell hit you like a punch to the gut. Your stomach churned violently.

“Shit,” you hissed, slamming the door shut and turning away as a fresh wave of nausea rose to your throat.

“What are you doing?” Aemond’s voice broke the tense silence, his tone edged with curiosity and the faintest trace of irritation.

“Headache,” you gritted out, squeezing your eyes shut as you pressed your fingers to your temples. The small circles you rubbed brought only the barest relief. “Strong smells make it worse. Please—I’m terrible with pain.” The words tumbled out unbidden, desperation seeping into your voice. The sharp, stabbing sensation on the left side of your head had morphed into a vise, squeezing tighter and tighter. It was unbearable. At least with a broken bone, the pain had a clear source. This—this all-encompassing torment—was driving you mad.

“Should I call a Maester?” Aemond asked, his voice steady, though you thought you detected the faintest flicker of concern.

You shook your head sharply, regret washing over you as the motion worsened the throbbing. Another wave of nausea rolled through you, and you turned away, swallowing hard to keep your stomach’s rebellion at bay.

“Unless they have fucking painkillers,” you snapped, the words slipping out before you could stop them, “then they can’t do shit for me.” You barely registered the silence that followed, too consumed by the relentless pressure in your skull. But a part of you imagined Aemond’s reaction—his sharp features drawn in surprise, maybe even offense. You’d never spoken like that to anyone here, least of all a prince.

“I need air,” you muttered through clenched teeth, hoping he wouldn’t press the issue further.

“Breathe,” he said simply, placing a hand on your back. The gesture, though likely meant to comfort, did little to ease the suffocating pressure in your chest.

“No,” you groaned, shaking your head weakly. “Clean air. Fresh air. Not the sweet rot in my room or the filth of King’s Landing.” You turned to him then, desperation flashing in your eyes. Another sharp wave of vertigo hit, and you reached out instinctively, gripping his arm for balance. “Please.” The word escaped as a plea, raw and unfiltered.

“Where?” Aemond’s expression was unreadable, his voice calm despite the urgency in yours. Perhaps, if you weren’t so consumed by the pain, you might have noticed the faint crease of his brow, or the subtle glance toward the nearby shadows where watchful eyes lingered.

 “Dragonstone,” you whispered, the word barely audible over the pounding in your skull. It was the first place you could think of—cool, constant, and untouched by the suffocating air of this place.

Aemond’s brows furrowed, his expression sharpening with intrigue. “Dragonstone?” he echoed, as though the name itself warranted suspicion. He hadn’t known you were even aware of the place, let alone familiar with it. Has Aegon taken you? His brother had often bragged about his soon to be conquest of you. Fucking you atop Sunfyre’s back whilst you both flew above King’s Landing. Though it did little to bother Aemond. He had already beaten his brother to it in any case. Aemond had dismissed it as a typical Aegon bluster, but now…

“You’ve been to Dragonstone? On dragonback?” he pressed, his eye narrowing as he studied your face.

You nodded weakly, your eyes still closed, every movement threatening to unleash another jolt of pain. The invisible belt tightened further around your head, and you winced.

“How?” he asked, his voice remaining flat, though the edge of curiosity softened his tone. Perhaps it was your vulnerability that tempered his usual sharpness—or perhaps it was something else entirely.

“Does it matter?” you managed to mutter, each word a struggle. “If you’re worried about Aegon, I promise you it wasn’t him.” Your voice cracked with desperation, your patience shredded by the unrelenting pain. “Please, Aemond—my head is killing me.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if debating whether to press further. His gaze lingered on you, an unreadable storm behind his eye, but your words seemed to settle something in him.

Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stepped closer, his towering presence both grounding and overwhelming in your current state. “Very well,” he said at last, though the question lingered in his gaze. “But if not Aegon, then who?”

“Not now,” you hissed, cradling your head as a fresh wave of pain pulsed through your skull. “I’ll tell you later. Just… please, Aemond.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. You could feel the tension in the air, his curiosity warring with some other unspoken instinct. Then, without another word, he extended his arm toward you, his fingers brushing your elbow with a touch so surprisingly gentle it made you open your eyes.

“Come,” he said simply. “We’ll take Vhagar.”

You blinked, your breath catching. “Vhagar?” What the hell was a Vhagar? You didn’t have time for riddles—what you needed was fresh air so you could follow your usual migraine routine: a restless nap where you’d feel every pulse in your head, waking up nauseous and dizzy, throwing up, and finally, one last nap to reset. But that wasn’t happening in King’s Landing, not with the air reeking like it did. Yeah, you really needed to figure out those formulas for the sewer system.

“My dragon,” Aemond clarified.

Oh. He had a dragon. Right.

Wait—Vhagar. The name tugged at a corner of your memory, but the pounding in your skull made it impossible to chase the thought down. Whatever. You’d piece it together later.

You gave a stiff nod and started walking, each step down the stairs making your head throb like your brain was ricocheting off your skull. Damn migraines.

You took each step carefully, gripping the railing as though it might steady the pulsing in your skull. Aemond followed silently behind you, his presence a heavy shadow against your increasingly unsteady footing. The scent of the city—a sickly mix of sweat, rot, and filth—clung to the air like a physical weight, and it was all you could do not to gag.

As you reached the courtyard, a sharp wave of vertigo hit. You paused, eyes squeezing shut, willing the world to stop spinning. Behind you, Aemond’s voice cut through the haze. “Are you sure you can manage this? You look—”

“Like hell,” you finished for him, waving off his concern. “I’ll manage if it gets me to fresh air.”

Vhagar was there, looming like a mountain brought to life, her sheer size making your breath catch for reasons entirely unrelated to your headache. Her massive head turned toward you, eyes gleaming with an intelligence that made your stomach twist with both awe and unease. The migraine and nausea suddenly felt like the least of your problems. Nearly made them go away actually.

“That’s Vhagar?” you managed, your voice cracking slightly. Great. Just great. Show no fear, right?

Aemond stepped beside you, his posture as effortlessly poised as ever. “She won’t harm you. Not unless I command it.” His tone was calm, almost casual, but you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze. Of course he was enjoying this.

“That’s…reassuring,” you muttered, not feeling reassured in the slightest.

Aemond extended a hand toward you. “Come. If it's the fresh air you need, Vhagar will take you there.”

You stared at his hand, then at Vhagar, then back at him. The last time you’d been on dragonback was with Helaena, and even then, it had been an ordeal. Now, with your head pounding like a war drum and your balance barely holding steady, climbing onto the back of the largest dragon in Westeros felt like a death wish.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the heat of Vhagar’s breath as she leaned in closer. The air was hot, yes, but surprisingly clean—free of the acrid stench that seemed to saturate King’s Landing. You inhaled deeply, and for a fleeting moment, the tension in your head eased.

“You said you needed air,” Aemond reminded you, his hand still outstretched. “Trust me.”

The words lingered between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You looked at him, his face unreadable but unwavering. Normally this would be a no-brainer to get on but right now you weren’t feeling the best, but nonetheless, against your better judgment, you placed your hand in his.

“Fine,” you relented. “But if I fall off, I’m dragging you with me.”

Aemond smirked, but said nothing, keeping his grip firm as he helped you up toward the saddle. 

As Vhagar shifted beneath you, her scales scraping like thunder against stone, you squeezed your eyes shut and muttered a silent prayer to whichever god was listening. Fresh air. That was all you needed. You could survive this. Probably.

And if not…well, there was always the chance that you’d get home somehow. 

Vhagar’s sheer size made her every movement feel monumental. As she shifted beneath you, you clung tightly to the saddle, your fingers white-knuckling the leather straps. This wasn’t like flying on Vermax or even Dreamfyre—those dragons, while mighty, felt agile, almost playful in the air. Vhagar, by contrast, was an ancient power given form, each step and breath a reminder of her dominance. She felt…unrelenting, as if the sky itself bent to her will.

Your head still pounded, but as Vhagar began to rise, the ground slipping farther and farther away, the faint breeze turned into a steady rush of air. It was cool, fresh, untainted by the filth of the city below, and for the first time in hours, you felt a thread of relief unwind through your body.

Your stomach, however, had other plans.

“Ginger ale,” you murmured under your breath, your voice barely audible over the growing wind.

“What?” Aemond called back, glancing over his shoulder as Vhagar’s ascent steadied into a glide.

“I need ginger ale,” you repeated, louder this time, though the absurdity of the request hit you even as you said it. “Helps with nausea.” You groaned softly, pressing your forehead against the saddle, hoping the coolness of the leather would soothe your migraine.

Aemond gave you a look—half incredulous, half bemused. “What is ‘ginger ale?’”

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, clutching the straps tighter as Vhagar tilted into a sharp turn. The motion made your stomach lurch, and you pressed your teeth together, determined not to vomit. “I’d settle for anything that doesn’t taste like wine or rot.”

The Prince said nothing, though you thought you caught a flicker of something akin to concern in his eye. If he had a remark, he wisely kept it to himself, focusing instead on guiding Vhagar.

As the dragon soared higher, the wind whipped against your face, stinging your skin but bringing with it that precious, unpolluted air you’d been craving. You tilted your head back, letting it wash over you, even as your grip on the saddle remained ironclad.

Every movement of Vhagar felt heavier, more deliberate than Vermax or Dreamfyre. Where their flights had been smooth and almost playful, Vhagar’s was a commanding march through the skies. You could feel the weight of her wings as they sliced through the air, each beat a reminder of her power. The vibrations resonated through your body, making your migraine pulse in tandem.

“Hold tighter,” Aemond called, his voice steady but edged with a warning as Vhagar banked again. You didn’t need to be told twice. Your arms ache from holding on, but letting go wasn’t an option. Not here, not on this dragon.

“Does she always feel like she’s trying to knock you off?” you yelled back, a mix of fear and awe slipping into your tone.

“Only if she doesn’t like you,” Aemond replied, and you swore you caught the faintest trace of a smirk.

Great. Just great.

“Tell her I’m very likable,” you shot back, though the trembling in your voice probably undermined your point.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” he countered, turning his gaze forward as Vhagar leveled out.

Alive, yes. Comfortable, no. But as the air cleared and the scent of saltwater reached your nose, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It wasn’t King’s Landing. It wasn’t the suffocating sweetness of your chambers. It was fresh, untainted, and as the horizon opened up before you, you allowed yourself a moment to simply breathe.

“Oh god.” You gripped the saddle though through the sound of the harsh wind your ears sounded a high-pitched, almost "cackling" roar, with a mix of screeching and whistling sounds. “What was that?” You squint your eyes looking forward, almost forgetting you had a migraine in the first place. Your eyes try to adjust to the blinding white of the clouds. A small figure flies through a cloud. “Is that?” 

Was it Vermax? No. Vermax’s deep green coloring would strongly contrast the clouds. No this one blended in with the brightness of the clouds. Was it white, maybe gold? Do they come in those colors? Clearly they came in green (Vhagar and Vermax) and blue (Dreamfyre). 

For a couple of seconds you were able to clearly see a smaller yellow dragon with a familiar face riding on top. 

Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“Goodness, do all Targeryens have dragons then?” You asked, watching and turning back as you watched Rhaenrya go to land her dragon at a bay. Was that the bay where you arrived? 

“Majority.” Aemond answered and you nodded. 

“What about the King?” If all Targeryens and dragons you would like to see all of them. Study them if possible or to simply interact with them. Jacaerys had spoken of bonds, you like to understand these bonds and how they work. 

“My father rode Balerion the Black Dread once before it passed away from old age.” As Aemond spoke, you furrowed your brows. “It was the last creature who had seen Old Valyria in all its glory.”

“Old Valyria?” You asked. What was that? Or more so where was it? Was this like ancient Rome or something?

“Are you not from the East?” Aemond asked and you simply looked back at him over your shoulder with a brown lifted. 

“No.” 

“Not the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai?” Aemond looked down at you while keeping a steady hand on Vhagar’s reins.

“No. I’ve never even heard of it. Now what is Old Valyria?” The more you spoke you saw suspicion in Aemond’s eyes. Maybe you should’ve just said yes. You weren’t in the best spot right now for you to provoke such things. Yes, you might go home but y’know, you’d rather not fall more than what seemed 200 ft like last time. What if you didn’t fall into water? Regardless you weren’t in a good place to warrant any kind of reaction from Aemond that was not positive.

“Where are you from then?” Aemond asked and you noticed Vhagar’s speed notably decreased and you bit the inside of your lip.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening instinctively on the saddle as Vhagar’s wings beat slower, her flight becoming almost lazy. Was it intentional? Aemond's way of stalling until you answered? Or maybe Vhagar simply felt the change in his mood.

“Far away,” you finally said, deflecting as best as you could.

“Clearly,” Aemond murmured, his tone skeptical. “But ‘far away’ is not an answer.”

You sighed, your mind scrambling for a plausible explanation. Something that could at least buy you time, but your thoughts felt jumbled, your headache dulling your ability to think quickly.

“It’s… not a place you’d know,” you muttered, hoping the vague answer would suffice.

You purse your lips, keeping your gaze forward, trying to keep the dizziness from making you look weaker than you already felt. “Well, the first time I told all of you, you looked at me like I was crazy, so clearly you don’t.” The words slipped out sharper than you intended, but it was too late to reel them in now.

Aemond’s expression didn’t change, but you could feel the slight shift in the air, a sharpness that hadn’t been there before. Something between you was changing, but you couldn’t decide if it was good or bad. Whatever it was, it was pulling you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could control.

“Old Valyria is the place of origin for the Targaryen bloodline.” Aemond spoke moving past his attempt to figure out where you were from. You gave a small sigh of relief. 

Targaryen men. Always so unstable. Maybe it was just the white haired ones.

“Daenys Targaryen or otherwise known as Daenys the Dreamer, predicted the doom of Old Valyria twelve years before it happened. Her father, Lord Aenar Targaryen, heeded her dream and sold his holdings in the Valyrian Freehold and moved his family and all of their belongings to Dragonstone.” You stayed silent as Aemond spoke, trying to focus on his words instead of an uncomfortable feeling in the back of your throat. “With them, they took five dragons, including Balerion. When the Doom of Valyria came, House Targaryen was the only family of dragonriders which survived. Daenys was married to her brother Gaemon, who followed their father as Lord of Dragonstone. Their children were Aegon and Elaena Targaryen. Elaena married her brother, Aegon, and together they had two sons: Maegon and Aerys Targaryen and from them continues the line until the line reached Aegon and his sister wives.” 

At this point the Targeyen family tree is a circle. Why is there so much incest!? Whats with the sibling marriages!?

You couldn’t help but blink, the confusion clouding your thoughts for a moment. "So, the whole bloodline... it's just... incest?" The words slipped out before you could stop them. You bit your lip immediately, regretting it.

Aemond, ever composed, didn’t seem taken aback. His gaze, however, darkened slightly. "In our family, the bonds of blood are sacred," he said, his voice still smooth but edged with something harder. "It keeps the power of the dragons pure."

"Pure?" You repeated, the word feeling strange in your mouth. "What’s pure about it? That’s not... how it really works or at least from what I know." You barely managed to keep your voice steady, the migraine pressing heavier behind your eyes, like a constant hum beneath your skull.

"You speak of customs I do not understand," Aemond remarked coolly, his eyes narrowing as if searching for something in your expression. "But I will not apologize for the Targaryen way."

You met his gaze for a moment, feeling the tension thick in the air. "No one’s asking you to apologize," you muttered, turning your attention back to the sky. The rush of wind felt cold, too cold against the feverish heat inside you. "But it’s hard to understand... that."

“Not all Valryians were dragon lords. We are the last of our kind. Only those with our blood may command a dragon. Marriages within bloodlines are necessary.” Aemond spoke firmly and you nodded trying not to let your biases control even though, from what you know incest is wrong both morally and ethically. 

You hummed and turned back to him. “So say I want to claim a dragon, I can’t because I don’t have Valyrian blood?”

“You would be burned alive the second you stood in front of a dragon attempting to claim it, not just because you don’t have Valyrian blood but because you do not have Targaryen blood.” he spoke with an air of self-importance. You suppose it does warrant that kind of feeling. If only your bloodline can control dragons, you’d be pretty self-absorbed too. “There are those who still have Valryian blood but are not dragon lords. Those in the free cities for example. Many came from Valyrian colonies thus many have some Valryian blood though diluted. Lys has the purest, one can tell by the silver-gold hair and violet-purple eyes, characteristics not found amongst any other people of the world. This can vary from white to silver-gold to blond hair, and from lilac, to deep purple, and pale blue eyes.”

“Okay so your blood is magic and because of that you can control dragons. I understand, I suppose that would warrant…incest,” It was a hard pill to sallow. Admiting to yourself that incest was okay. That was something you never thought you’d say. “So do the people of Lys also have incestual…traditions?”

Aemond was quite seemingly thinking while you tried to keep your ‘little’ headache at bay. “I do not know. They say even the small folk have Valyrian features. I do not think they would. Many call Targaryen customs..queer.” There was a small hit of exasperation in his voice. 

Understandable. 

(Again you’d never thought you’d be justifying it.)

“I thought you had a headache.” Aemond chastised and you simply looked forward. 

“I do. It’s not as bad anymore. The fresh air is always nice.”

It wasn’t long before Dragon Stone came into view. A small smile came to your face. Cold winds. Finally. 

Vhagar's landing is definitely a lot smoother and if you’re being honest preferable to any other dragons you’ve been on, despite the fact that she’s as tall as the bridge you fell from. 

“I’d like to stay near the beach if it’s not too much trouble.” That was probably the nicest way you had spoken to him today.  

Aemond said nothing but Vhagar’s body shifted and you held on tight. Finally when she landed you sat still. 

“How does one get off?”

You watched Aemond slide off his dragon. 

You took thirty minutes trying to climb down. 

Finally on the ground you took off your coat and laid it out before you. Finally to take the first step into getting better. A nap. 

“What are you doing?” Aemond asked you as you bent down to lay down. 

“Take a nap. My head still hurts. I need to sleep.” You looked up at him as if it was obvious before you laid on your side with your arms to prop up your head as a makeshift pillow. 

“You begged me to bring you here to nap?” Aemond spoke unamused and you looked up at him half offended. 

You never begged. “I never beg.” 

“You begged.” Aemond said and normally you’d go back and forth but right now getting rid of this headache took precedence. You went to close your eyes trying to focus on numbing the ache in your head.

Some ginger ale. It was all you wanted.

As you focused on the sound of the waves an Vhagar’s loud breaths you felt as if Aemond was watching you. Listen you knew that both you both knew each other in ways that were not appropriate for the relationship you’re supposed to have but you’d rather not have him watch you while you sleep.

Speaking of you’re glad he has the decency to bring it up. You’d rather not deal with it now. 

“You don’t have to stay y’know. I’m fine, you can even go back to King’s Landing.” You spoke without opening your eyes. 

“How would you get back?” He asked and you shrugged. 

“I’d figure it out. Besides, I probably won’t be better till tomorrow morning, and her grace, Princess Rhaenrya, will have questions as to why you’re here.” Wow, look at you, using titles when it’s not necessary. 

“My half sister has no jurisdiction over me.”

“Is this not her land? Prince Jacaerys told me he has been living here for the past couple of years.” Before Aemond could answer you Vhagar laid her head on the ground not too far from you. The thud of her head landing on the floor made you jump a bit. She was enormous. It was amazing to see just how big a dragon can get. 

“If I were to leave you’d stay here all night all by yourself on the beach?” Aemond questioned and you paused. 

You…actually hadn’t thought about that. You had been so focused on the pain. You’ve been camping before. Besides these dresses were compact. “I’ll be fine. While I could do with a blanket, I can manage.” 

Aemond didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and considering. You kept your eyes closed, refusing to let him see even a flicker of hesitation. If he wanted to hover, fine. That was his prerogative, but you weren’t about to entertain his protectiveness.

“I should leave you here then,” he finally said, though his voice betrayed no intention of actually doing so.

“Please do,” you muttered, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. The cold sand beneath your coat was a relief, soothing compared to the relentless pounding in your head.

Aemond huffed lightly, the sound almost amused. “And if wild animals find you?”

You cracked one eye open, staring at him with as much conviction as you could muster in your current state. “I’m sure Vhagar would scare off anything stupid enough to wander close.”

His lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or annoyance, you couldn’t tell. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still here,” you retorted, closing your eyes again.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, the distant caw of seabirds, and Vhagar’s deep, steady breathing. It was peaceful, almost enough to lull you into sleep despite Aemond’s looming presence.

“I’ll stay,” Aemond said after a while, his tone softer now, though no less resolute. “In case you try to do something foolish.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, half a laugh, half frustration. “Suit yourself.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable. You could still feel his eyes on you, sharp and unyielding. You shifted slightly, pulling your coat tighter around you.

“I’m not going to disappear into the waves or get eaten by some mythical beach monster,” you said, not bothering to open your eyes this time.

“No, but you do have a habit of finding trouble,” Aemond replied smoothly.

You grunted in response, too tired to argue. He wasn’t wrong.

The sound of shifting sand caught your attention, and you cracked your eyes open just in time to see him settle down a few paces away, leaning back against a smooth boulder. His sword was propped up beside him, his posture as regal and composed as ever, even in the wild.

“Are you really going to sit there and watch me sleep?” you asked, incredulous.

Aemond smirked faintly, his one good eye gleaming in the dimming light. “You begged me to bring you here. Consider this my penance for indulging you.”

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face to block him out. “I didn’t beg,” you mumbled again, your voice muffled.

His quiet chuckle was the last thing you heard before the sound of the waves carried you into uneasy sleep.

Your routine continued in a haze: ‘sleep,’ though it felt as if you were awake the entire time, struggling to control the relentless headache. Then you’d wake to throw up.

Now, it was dark, and the biting chill of the night cut through the air. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the shadows, a groan threatening to escape as every movement sent sharp, echoing pain through your skull.

Finally standing, you glanced around. Aemond was nowhere to be found, though Vhagar’s hulking form still loomed in the near distance, her steady breaths the only sound apart from the waves. That was fine. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this anyway.

With slow, deliberate movements, you stripped off your dress, leaving yourself in the thin white gown customary beneath it. Normally, you’d mutter endless complaints about these heavy, cumbersome period costumes. But tonight, the layers, even the flimsiest ones, offered some semblance of protection from the icy winds.

You shuffled toward the waves, whimpering occasionally as the pain throbbed with each step. The cold water lapped at your feet, a sharp contrast to the feverish warmth that always radiated from your skin. You pressed on until the waves reached your waist, your body trembling as the chill seeped into your bones.

Lowering your head, you gagged, and your stomach heaved violently. Your meals from earlier surfaced, leaving you choking and gasping as tears streamed down your face. It was disgusting, humiliating even, but slowly—mercifully—the iron grip of the headache began to loosen.

“I hate medieval food,” you murmured, rinsing your face with the salty water. The thought of submerging yourself entirely lingered for a moment before you gave in, diving headfirst into the cold waves.

The shock of the water stole your breath, but you stayed under, letting your body adjust to the temperature. When you surfaced, the fresh air of Dragonstone filled your lungs, sharp and briny. You wiped your eyes, ignoring the sting of the salt. This was the first time you’d been to the beach since arriving here, and despite everything, it felt... nice.

You let yourself drift, floating on your back, the waves cradling you like an old friend. The nagging thought that something might be lurking beneath the surface tugged at the back of your mind, but you shoved it aside. The dull ache in your skull was finally easing, and for once, that was enough.

The water around you grew warmer—too warm to be natural—but your exhaustion dulled your caution. A small voice in the back of your mind screamed at you to get out, to flee the dark, unknown waters of a world filled with magic and monsters. But you stayed, the pain in your head too fresh a memory to relinquish the relief now washing over you.

You don’t know how long you floated in the water shivering in the waves. The water seemed to grow warmer around you, almost unnaturally so, but the relief in your skull dulled your caution. A part of you screamed that this was a terrible idea—floating in magical waters under a night sky that might hide anything, especially in a world like this.

Had you been in a better state of mind, you’d have bolted from the waves the moment you stepped in. Unknown waters, magical creatures, the dark—none of it boded well. But the pain had been unbearable, and now that it was subsiding, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You rinsed your mouth with seawater, grimacing at the salty sting as you tried to erase the acidic taste clinging to the back of your throat. It was crude and far from what you were used to—damn, how you missed a toothbrush—but it would have to do.

The waves carried you lazily back toward the beach. With your ears submerged, the world grew muffled, as though the ocean had swallowed all sound. And yet, it felt as if you could hear every secret the water held—a low hum beneath the surface, ancient and endless.

Above you, the night sky stretched impossibly vast, the stars scattered like shards of broken glass across a dark tapestry. No matter how long you’d been here, the skies of this world never failed to leave you breathless.

It was beautiful in a way that almost hurt.

You stared up at infinity, caught in its embrace, swaying in the currents of another. Forever trapped between two infinities.

Forever was a long time.

The thought pressed heavy on your chest. You were a long way from home, farther than distance could measure. Your family, your friends, your world—they were all an infinity away, unreachable, untouchable.

And for the first time tonight, the ache in your chest felt sharper than the one in your head.

Still, a nagging thought crept into the back of your mind, one you tried to suppress as you stared at the horizon. The warmth of the water wasn’t normal. The fact that you felt better wasn’t normal. And standing alone in the dark with Vhagar’s massive presence behind you wasn’t particularly smart and Aemond wasn’t here if she decided she wanted a midnight snack.

But the pounding in your skull was gone, that alone, at least to you, was more than enough for you to stay.

You stayed in the water a while longer, letting the gentle rhythm of the waves soothe what was left of your frayed nerves. The cold wind nipped at your cheeks, sharp and biting, but it was a welcome change from the suffocating heat that often clung to your skin.

Finally, with a deep breath you dove under the water swimming with the rhythm of the waves until you rose from the waves. The thin fabric hung tightly to you leaving nothing to the imagination. As you walked the weight of the waves wore you down  making the trek more arduous than it should’ve been. By the time you reached the beach, your toes were numb, and a deep shiver rattled through your body.  

As the wind blew you felt your hardened buds against the wet fabric. It was cold. 

Vhagar shifted slightly, her massive head lifting just enough to acknowledge your presence. Her glowing eyes tracked your movements, unblinking, as you wrung water from your gown and sat on the cold, hard sand near the waves lapping at your feet. It was strange how something so immense could feel so alive, so keenly aware.

“You’re not very subtle,” you murmured, glancing her way. “I know you’re watching me.”

The dragon let out a low rumble, the vibrations coursing through the ground beneath you. It almost sounded like understanding.

You sighed, running a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back from your face. Above, the stars blazed brighter than you’d ever seen. You’d heard stories of a time when Earth’s skies had looked like this—before light pollution, when you could see Saturn and its rings with the naked eye. But that world was gone, and this one was an infinity apart.

Your thoughts wandered as they often did. There was so much to accomplish, but would there ever be enough time? Could you even manage it on your own? Lately, it felt like you were spinning in circles, chasing impossible dreams. Maybe it would be easier to give up, to settle into whatever semblance of a normal life this world allowed.

You imagined it for a moment: marrying some minor lord, living quietly far from King’s Landing. 

Dragon Stone really was perfect for you.It was remote, beautiful, and peaceful in its own austere way.

Too bad Jacaerys was already betrothed. Not that you wanted to be queen—what a nightmare that would be. Still, the idea of staying here, on this island, far from the chaos of the realm, was tempting.

Your musings drifted to Aemond. Where had he gone? Had he truly left you here alone for the night? Or was he somewhere nearby, watching? Perhaps he was inside the castle, receiving the hospitality due a prince, while you were left out here with the dragon. You could only hope he’d given Vhagar strict orders not to burn or eat you.

Your eyes flicked toward the dunes, half-expecting to see the pale glint of his hair in the moonlight. But there was nothing—only the quiet rhythm of the waves and Vhagar’s occasional huff.

The headache that had plagued you earlier was gone now, leaving behind an odd hollowness. It wasn't a relief, not exactly. It felt more like the eerie stillness that follows a storm.

Hugging your knees to your chest, you rested your chin atop them and whispered to no one, “This place is beautiful. But it’s not home.”

Vhagar rumbled again, softer this time, and for some inexplicable reason, it felt like a response.

You sat in silence for a while, soaking in the world around you. The air carried the sharp tang of salt and seaweed, the waves shimmering silver beneath the starlight. It was peaceful in a way that almost made you forget the strange, perilous world you’d fallen into.

Almost.

The cold eventually drove you to move. You stood, wrapping your arms around yourself, and eyed the faint outline of a cave further down the beach. It looked shallow, but it would block the wind well enough. Glancing at Vhagar, you asked, “Don’t suppose you’d let me sleep under your wing, huh?”

The dragon huffed, almost dismissively, and shifted her massive body to face the sea.

“Didn’t think so,” you muttered. You waded back into the waves to rinse off the sand clinging to your skin, then retrieved your clothes and trudged toward the cave.

The cave wasn’t much warmer, but it was shelter. You spread your coat on the ground and folded your dress into a makeshift pillow. The chill seeped into your bones as you lay down, shivering, but exhaustion overtook you anyway.

Sleep came fitfully, filled with dreams of fire and shadow. Unfamiliar voices whispered in the darkness, speaking words you couldn’t understand but felt in your very core.

When you woke, the sky was a faint, pale blue, dawn creeping over the horizon. You sat up, shivering, your body stiff and cold, and froze when you saw him.

Aemond stood at the cave’s entrance, silent and imposing. His sharp gaze pinned you in place, unreadable as ever.

“You’re back,” you rasped, your voice rough with sleep.

“I never left,” he replied evenly, stepping closer. His eye glinted in the dim light. “You’re more impulsive than I gave you credit for.”

You shivered slightly as you stretched, your limbs still stiff from the cold. Your hair, now dry from the saltwater, felt rough and brittle beneath your fingers—its natural state enhanced but worsened by the seawater. “How much did you see?” you asked, running a hand through the unruly strands.

“I saw you dive into the water, swim in it, and parade yourself nearly nude.” Aemond’s lone eye never left you as you reclined back on the sand, stretching lazily.

“Is that all?” you asked lightly, masking your relief. If he had been far enough away, he wouldn’t have seen the more private parts of your ordeal—the headache and the mess you had to "resolve."

“You are reckless,” Aemond said, his voice sharp with disapproval.

“Reckless?” you echoed, the word sitting oddly on your tongue as you rolled your shoulders, joints popping with every motion. “That’s rich coming from you. And, may I add, I wasn’t ‘parading myself.’ I was walking.”

Aemond’s expression didn’t waver, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips—amusement, maybe, or something close to it. “I am reckless with purpose,” he said evenly. “You, however, seem intent on tempting fate for no reason. What if someone had seen you in such a state, leaving little to the imagination?”

You scoffed, pulling your coat tighter around yourself against the chill. “Then they’d have seen,” you said with a shrug, as if the idea was hardly worth considering. “It’s not like I have anything to hide, but besides ‘parading myself’ what else exactly did I do to offend your sense of self-preservation this time?”

His eye narrowed slightly, the movement subtle but telling. “Swimming alone in the dark when you’ve no idea what lurks beneath the surface. Lying exposed on the beach with nothing but Vhagar to protect you. Shall I continue?”

“You already mentioned the second one,” you said, tilting your head as though to soften the bite in your voice. “As for the first… Well, life without a little danger is a little boring, don’t you think?”

Aemond’s silence stretched for a moment before he tilted his head, his tone suddenly laced with something more cutting. “Do you always allow others to see what you hide beneath your clothing?”

As you stood up there was a faint pop that punctuated the tense air that your legs gave. “No,” you replied, meeting his gaze evenly ignoring the slight dull paint that was beginning to seep into the bones of your legs. “But if someone happens to come across me… what am I supposed to do about it? It’s not the end of the world.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his eye flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “Then our… encounter,” he began, his voice quiet but firm, “I assume it was not an uncommon occurrence?”

You flinched at his words, quickly looking away. So much for never speaking about it again.

“No,” you admitted after a long pause, your voice quieter now. “That was… out of character for me.”

The air between you grew heavier, the distant crash of the waves filling the silence. You shivered, tugging your coat tighter and debating whether to pull on your dress for more coverage. Aemond, as always, was impossible to read, his gaze steady and unwavering even as you avoided it.

A heavy, pregnant silence filled the space, thick with unspoken tension. You felt the ends of your hair being tugged by the breeze before the warmth of hands settled on your shoulders.

“You smell of the sea,” Aemond murmured, his voice low.

You instinctively stepped away, narrowing your eyes. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable. “In the way you always smell.”

His gaze lingered, and you suddenly found yourself thinking of that night—a memory that had lingered too close to the surface.

“Well,” you pressed, shifting uncomfortably and picking up your belongings, clutching them against your chest to guard against the wind’s sharp bite. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Aemond didn’t answer. Instead, his eye bore into you with a look that felt far too knowing, though unfamiliar in its intensity. You rolled your eyes and strode out of the cave, the wind whipping against you like a sharp rebuke.

“Me duelen los huesos,” you muttered, the ache in your legs creeping higher with each step.

“Where are you going?” Aemond’s voice carried over the sound of the wind, and you turned back to see him still standing in the cave’s shadows.

“To Vhagar,” you replied, your tone curt. Where else would you go? There was work to be done, and indulging in any more moments of weakness was a luxury you couldn’t afford. You had responsibilities—stressful ones that, if neglected, could mean far worse than wrinkles or gray hair.

“She’ll burn you,” Aemond said flatly, turning his back to you as if dismissing the conversation entirely.

“Excuse me?” you called, incredulous, but he disappeared further into the cave. Huffing, you marched back after him. “Hello! I’m better now. I need to get back to King’s Landing—some of us actually have things to do. Things that, I might add, very much determine—”

You cut yourself off, biting your tongue before you said too much.

Aemond turned, his smirk sharp enough to cut through stone. “Like what? What could you possibly have to work on? My father has resumed his place on the Small Council. Isn’t that the extent of your duties?”

His mocking tone, paired with that damned smirk, lit a fire in your chest. He had backed you into a corner, and he knew it. You glanced toward the beach, considering the slim possibility of escape. Jacaerys might be able to help if you found him, but would Aemond even let you leave?

Frustrated, you slipped off your shoes and stomped out of the cave. Vhagar loomed ahead, her massive form outlined against the horizon, her ancient eyes gleaming with something that felt unsettlingly knowing.

“Let me through?” you muttered, stepping cautiously toward her.

Vhagar didn’t budge. Instead, steam hissed from her nostrils in warning, stopping you in your tracks. The heat singed your exposed skin, and you hissed in pain, though the cool wind quickly soothed it.

Meeting her gaze, you felt a shiver run down your spine. There was no getting past her. With a sigh of defeat, you turned back toward the cave, glancing briefly at Aemond, who now watched with a smug, satisfied look that only worsened your irritation.

Once inside, you sat down heavily on the sand, wrapping your cloak tightly around your legs and hugging your dress close for warmth.

“When can we go back?” you asked, your voice heavy with displeasure.

Aemond leaned against the cave wall, arms crossed, his sharp eye glittering with amusement. “When you answer my questions.”

You furrowed your brows. “What questions?”

He paused, tilting his head slightly, almost predatorily, before pivoting back toward you. “What exactly is it that you do, besides tend to my father?”

“Nothing.” The response left your mouth too quickly, too defensively.

Aemond’s lips curled into the barest hint of a smirk. “You’re lying. I’ve heard rumors of your... misdoings.”

You crossed your arms, lifting a brow in unamused defiance. “That’s hardly a reliable source. If you’re going to accuse me of something, at least have the decency to find the evidence yourself.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze sharp and unrelenting. “I’ve seen you use the secret passages. How is it that you discovered them?”

The memory made you smile despite the tension. “Funny story, actually. I leaned back against a wall one day, and it just... opened. Coolest moment of my life. Felt like a super-spy. Like Carmen Sandiego.” No actually you were listening to music and you were being dramatic while acting out whatever imaginary scenario you had that day and just so happened to open the wall.

The name, foreign and bizarre in this time, had no effect on him.

He said nothing, his expression an unyielding mask.

“You’ve gone to a whorehouse.” It wasn’t a question; it was a declaration.

God, the spies here really were everywhere. You winced, trying to recover. “Well, I’m avidly against human trafficking—”

“What is a journalist?” he interrupted, cutting you off with no patience for your deflections.

You blinked. “Rude. But as I said, I was messing with words.”

“You invent words, then?”

“Yup. That’s me. An innovator. Ahead of my time,” you quipped. Quite literally, but he didn’t need to know that.

“A journalist.”

“Why are you so caught up on that? Look, it’s just two words smashed together—actually, no, scratch that. I thought of someone who makes journals. Hence, journalist. Boom. Genius at work.”

He didn’t look impressed.

“That night,” he pressed again.

You groaned loudly, leaning back and throwing your arms up. “Ugh! What more do you want from me? My soul? I’m tired of your interrogation.”

“You’ll answer until I am satisfied,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “What was on the table?”

The seriousness in his voice made your stomach tighten. You hesitated, weighing your options before sighing. “Do you really want to know? It’s the reason I need to get back. My life quite literally depends on that sheet of paper.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer to you and sitting down. Instinctively, you scooted back, putting a safer distance between you.

“What is it?”

“It’s... not as interesting as you think,” you deflected.

“What is it?” His voice was sharper this time, cutting through your weak attempt to delay.

You sighed, knowing there was no escape. “It’s an equation.”

“For what?” he demanded, his impatience evident.

“You said earlier—what purpose do I serve other than tending to the king? Truth is, I don’t have one. The second your father dies, I lose the little protection I have. Your uncle isn’t particularly fond of me, and the feeling is mutual. I have to build my value to stay alive.” It was a half-truth, but it would keep him at bay.

His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of interest in his eye. You swallowed hard and continued. “I’m no one here. No family name to lean on. The Citadel despises me because I’ve accomplished in a month what their ‘maesters’ haven’t managed in decades. And, of course, that leads to accusations—witchcraft, blasphemy, what have you. So I’ve earned the ire of the Faith as well. No wealth. No rights. And worst of all, I’m a woman. What value do I have that guarantees my survival?”

“None,” Aemond said without hesitation.

You nodded grimly. “Exactly. So I’m creating one. That project you saw on the table? It’s my ticket to longevity.”

“What project?”

You hesitated again, knowing how dangerous this could be. Otto and Alicent had been clear. No one was to know of their request, and you couldn’t agree more.

“To find the pH balance of the spring near King’s Landing,” you lied smoothly.

Aemond furrowed his brows, confused. “What?”

“I’m creating a water system to deliver clean water to the people of King’s Landing,” you explained, hoping the truth buried within the lie would be convincing. “And to establish a sewer system to reduce illness. It’s basic sanitation, really.”

He was silent for a moment, watching you closely, his expression unreadable. “You mean to do what the maesters have failed to achieve for centuries.”

“Precisely,” you said with a small smile, leaning into the absurdity of it. “Like I said—innovator. Ahead of my time.”

You shivered again, warmth creeping unbidden up your face as you and Aemond locked eyes. The silence between you stretched, heavy and unspoken, until you broke it with an awkward cough, quickly averting your gaze.

“Anyways,” you began, your voice a touch too loud in the stillness. “I need to go back. I haven’t figured out the equation yet, and there are people breathing down my neck.”

Aemond tilted his head, his expression unreadable, though his single eye seemed to pierce straight through you. “And how do you intend to fund it? Do you expect the crown to pay for such an undertaking?”

His words carried a subtle edge, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “The crown?” you scoffed lightly. “Please. If I even hinted at asking for funding, the Hand would have me thrown out on principle.”

Aemond’s lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or disdain, you couldn’t tell. “Then how will you manage it? A project of that scale requires significant resources.”

You avoided his gaze, staring instead at the fire crackling nearby. “I’ll find a way,” you murmured, your voice softer now. Heat flushed your cheeks, and despite the chill in the cave, a fine sheen of sweat began to gather at your temples. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

Aemond studied you in silence, his sharp gaze catching the faint tremor in your hands as you brushed them over your arms. “You’re unwell,” he stated flatly, his tone more matter-of-fact than concerned.

“No, I’m not,” you shot back, your voice cracking slightly as you tried to sound composed. Clearing your throat, you added, “It’s just cold in here.”

“Is it?” he asked, arching a brow. “You seem flushed for someone who claims to be cold. You were foolish to go into the water.”

You rolled your eyes, waving him off. “I’ll be fine. I’m not sick.” You couldn’t be sick. Not here, of all places. Your immune system couldn’t fail you now. Still, the growing ache in your bones hinted otherwise.

No, you decided. You were just dehydrated. At least, you hoped so.

You stood up, but your legs wavered beneath you, and the chill seemed to cut deeper. A disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. No, this couldn’t be happening. You only got sick once a year, and you’d already had your turn. Right?

Aemond’s eye flicked to you, unamused. “You need more clothes,” he remarked, his voice cool and matter-of-fact.

You sank back down, pulling your cloak tighter around you. “I’ll be fine.”

“You need to be inside. Somewhere warm,” he insisted, his gaze shifting toward the castle.

You shook your head stubbornly. “No, I’ll be fine right here. Just a little more rest.”

Aemond stepped closer, deliberate and measured, his presence imposing. You stiffened, refusing to meet his gaze as his shadow fell over you. “Rest won’t help if you’re running a fever,” he said.

“I don’t have a fever,” you muttered, though the unsteady wobble in your voice betrayed you.

His eye narrowed as if testing your words. Before you could pull away, he reached out, his fingers brushing your forehead. The coolness of his touch against your overheated skin was both a relief and an unwelcome confirmation.

“You’re burning,” he observed, his tone devoid of sympathy.

You said nothing, pulling your cloak tighter as you curled up on the sand. Closing your eyes, you hoped he would leave, though the faint ache in your bones refused to relent.

Then came the rumble.

Your eyes shot open, heart leaping as the ground seemed to quake beneath you. You turned just in time to see Vhagar looming over the cave entrance, her massive jaws parting as an ominous red glow flickered in the depths of her throat.

Panic overtook you as you scrambled to your feet, legs shaking beneath you. “Okay! Okay! I’ll go! Please!” you shrieked, stumbling forward in a half-run, half-crawl. Your limbs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort.

You collapsed onto the sand, gasping as heat surged behind you. Bracing yourself for the worst, you closed your eyes and waited for the fire to consume you.

But it didn’t.

The warmth grew, yes, but it was strangely gentle. Tentatively, you turned back, expecting an inferno but finding Aemond standing before Vhagar, his figure shadowed against the glow of her fire.

He looked at you with a near-mocking smirk, one brow arched in that way that made you want to slap him. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice hoarse.

Aemond’s smirk deepened. “You thought she’d burn you?”

You hesitated, feeling the heat of embarrassment join your fever. “Well, yeah! She had her mouth open and everything!”

The deadpan look he gave you only made you feel more foolish. Slowly, you stepped closer to the dragon, your legs still trembling. Vhagar’s warmth washed over you, and despite yourself, you leaned into it, feeling the tension in your body start to melt away.

“You could have said something,” you muttered, refusing to meet Aemond’s amused gaze.

“And miss the show?” he replied, his smirk never wavering.

You pressed your cloak closer to your body, trying to stave off the shaking that you hoped he didn’t notice. “You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.”

Aemond raised a brow but said nothing, his gaze lingering on you as you slumped against a nearby rock, the heat from Vhagar providing some relief. The silence between you stretched for a moment before your vision swam slightly, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

The ache in your bones had worsened, and the clammy sweat that clung to your skin was impossible to ignore. Your head throbbed with a dull, persistent pulse, and the warmth you’d sought now felt suffocating, as if it was seeping into your very core.

“You’re getting worse,” Aemond said, his tone cool but edged with something unreadable.

“No, I’m fine,” you replied weakly, though even you could hear how unconvincing you sounded. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that didn’t make the ache in your muscles more unbearable.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he remarked, stepping closer. “Your stubbornness will only make this worse.”

“Thank you, Maester Aemond,” you muttered sarcastically, your words slurring slightly.

He crouched beside you, his sharp eye scanning your face. “Your fever is worsening. You need proper care.”

You shook your head, immediately regretting the movement as dizziness overtook you. “I can’t. I told you, King’s Landing is crawling with sickness. If I go, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Die there?” Aemond interrupted, his voice colder now. He tilted his head, regarding you with what could only be described as irritation. “Your logic is as flawed as your health.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, a wave of exhaustion hit you like a crashing tide, and you found yourself leaning against the rock behind you, your body too heavy to fight gravity.

Aemond’s expression shifted, his usual stoicism faltering for a moment. He reached for you again, this time his hand resting against your cheek. The coolness of his touch was a stark contrast to the fire coursing through your veins, and you found yourself leaning into it despite your better judgment.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered, his voice lower now, as if speaking to himself.

You shook your head, even though you didn’t believe it anymore.

“You’re not staying here to prove a point,” Aemond countered sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You pushed his hand away, forcing your eyes open to meet his. He was closer than you liked, his presence crowding you against the unyielding rock behind you. Your instinct was to retreat, but there was nowhere to go, so instead, you averted your gaze, focusing on the flickering shadows cast by the fire.

“King’s Landing or Dragonstone,” he pressed, his tone firm. “Either way, you’ll be treated by a maester.”

The ultimatum hung heavy between you, and you glared at him, lips pressing into a stubborn line. After a moment, you relented, lifting a shaky hand to gesture toward the mouth of the cave.

“Speak, woman,” Aemond snapped, his frustration palpable as he leaned in closer. You stiffened at the proximity, your discomfort now twofold—his nearness and your mounting fever. Last night’s tension still lingered between you, and you couldn’t forget the distance you’d carefully maintained.

And, of course, your toothbrush was miles away. Oral hygiene was non-negotiable for you, even now.

You shook your head, stubbornly pointing outside again.

“You were speaking fine a moment ago,” Aemond said, his voice low with irritation. “Speak!”

But you ignored him, leaning back against the rock and closing your eyes. The fever had sapped whatever energy you had left, and the only thing you could do now was focus on conserving warmth.

“King’s Landing it is, then,” Aemond muttered, the words barely audible but enough to make your eyes snap open.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist before he could make a move. You didn’t have the strength to argue, so you simply shook your head and pointed toward the cave’s entrance again.

“Dragonstone?” he questioned, his voice softer now.

You nodded, releasing his wrist and pushing weakly against him to create some space. His steady gaze lingered on you, but you avoided it, focusing on the task of standing.

Aemond extended a hand to you, his sharp features unreadable. You glanced at it briefly before shaking your head, lifting your trembling hand in polite refusal.

You pushed yourself to your feet, your legs wobbling dangerously beneath you. Each step felt like dragging lead, and soft groans of discomfort escaped your lips despite your efforts to suppress them.

You’d get over this. It was just a cold—nothing more. Right?

Aemond’s gaze followed you closely as you staggered forward, his expression unreadable. He didn’t offer another word, but the intensity of his scrutiny made it clear he wasn’t about to let you falter.

For now, you trudged on, stubbornness and fever battling for dominance, with only the distant promise of Dragonstone to keep you moving.

You walked outside, swayed by the harsh wind that bit through your coat like it wasn’t even there. The salt in the air stung your nose, and every gust seemed to leech more warmth from your fevered body.

Tilting your head back, you took in the towering heights of Dragonstone looming above you. Its jagged cliffs and forbidding spires seemed endless, cutting sharply into the gray sky. You let out a dejected sigh, your breath visible in the cold. There was no way you were making it up there in your condition.

You turned your gaze to Aemond, who stood just behind you, the firelight from the cave catching on the sharp planes of his face. His lips curved into a smug smirk as he regarded your shivering figure, his eye glinting with something close to amusement.

“Do you admit defeat so soon?” he drawled, taking a deliberate step closer.

You turned, keeping close to Vhagar's massive frame, using her bulk to shield yourself from the relentless wind. Each step was a trial, the cold gnawing at you, and every ache in your body screamed in protest. Your arms felt as heavy as your legs, your fever-fueled fatigue dragging you down with each passing moment.

By the time you reached the stone stairs leading up to the castle, your breaths came in shallow gasps, your chest burning with the effort. The journey that should have been manageable felt insurmountable, and yet you pushed forward, dragging your feet up the uneven steps.

You managed only a handful more steps before your legs finally gave out beneath you, crumpling like they’d forgotten their purpose. The cold stone bit into your hands and knees as you fell, but you barely registered the pain. The icy wind whipped past, tearing through your coat and into your fevered skin like knives, making you tremble violently.

Leaning back against the cold, unyielding stone wall, you closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gather what strength you had left. Your body felt like it was on fire, each pulse of your heart sending fresh waves of heat through your veins, only to clash with the icy air around you.

This fever—so sudden and all-consuming—had never taken you like this before. You’d been sick before, of course, but never under these conditions. Then again, you’d never tried to climb a mountain of stairs in freezing winds while your body waged war against itself.

Your breathing slowed, each exhale a visible puff in the chill. Despite the danger of the cold and the impossibility of your situation, your exhaustion was overwhelming. Just a small nap, you told yourself, just enough to regain your strength.

The stone at your back felt harder and colder with every passing second, but you couldn’t summon the energy to care. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy and unwilling to stay open. You let your head tilt back, your shivering starting to subside—not from warmth, but from sheer weariness.

Somewhere distant, a voice—sharp and commanding—called your name. But you were too tired to respond, too drained to move. Surely, just a moment of rest wouldn’t hurt.

Would it?

Note: This is in honor of me getting sick for like the first time in a year. Anyways lemme know what y'all think! Also So sorry for the delay. Finals are ass.

Previous I Next I Masterlist

To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

[horrorslvts]

stuck zipper 🐰 (dick grayson x fem reader)

tags: female reader, no sex mentioned, nsfw if you squint, breast fetish, latex fetish, teasing, mentions of smut, blood if you squint.

want a commission? view my pinned post.

want to suggest a post? head to my inbox.

you pretty much forward rolled inside your apartment on the sixth floor and landed on your knees, you could feel them starting to bruise already. dick followed behind you and closed the window shut, leaving you two in your dark living room with the only light source coming from the city lights of bludhaven outside your apartment.

the dark haired male leaned back on the window rim, chest rising up and down from heavy breathing as he practically ripped the mask from his face to reveal a bruised cheekbone and a bloody nose.

“i told you..” he spoke between panting and huffing. “to stay behind me.”

you lifted yourself from the hardwood floor using your scratched hands and stretched your body; you felt the wet feeling on your shoulder blade and the breeze entering your skin through the latex. you knew you had been injured, just not the semantics of the injury.

“i thought i had him..” you muttered and turned to face your partner in the city while removing your mask off your flushed face.

“youre bleeding.” dick pointed out.

“thanks sherlock.” you said back bitterly and turned your back on him.

“can you tell me how bad it is?” you ask and stretch your body for him.

dick places a hand on your spine and tries to take a look by positioning you near the window for better vision.

“i cant tell, you have to remove your suit.” he says back.

“go ahead-slowly-the latex is sticking on my body.” you say and breath heavily from pain.

“yeah i can..i can see that.” dick says after a small gulp.

he lets his fingers snake towards your neck and attempts to pull the zipper down, but has no luck doing so.

“y/n ill have to cut the suit off you. its stuck.” he informs you.

you fish out a blade from your strap around your thigh and pass it to him.

“go ahead.” you say.

dick then pulls a beeline from the top of your neck down to your spine with the blade, careful to not slice through the fabric and pierce you. then he places the blade between his teeth and uses both hands to rip out your latex skin tight suit, without realizing how much strength he had given on that pull; so he ends up cutting it all from your torso, causing your cleavage to pop out as the fabric dropped like overalls down to the floor.

“grayson-!” you yelp and use your hands to cover your chest.

“relax-“ he says with a muffled mouth as he still holds the blade on his teeth. he then removes it and throws it to the side.

“its not as bad as you feel it is. just a deep cut, but it didnt hit any muscle.” he says and uses his hands to navigate around the skin.

his left hand softly moves from your shoulder blade to the side of your body and up to your side boob, softly gropping the skin with his fingertips.

“grayson..” you say again and let out a heavy sigh, half annoyed.

“its for medical reasons, cmon.”

you groan and let him do as he pleases. the male then moves his fingertips on your nipple and softly plays with it.

“lift your left arm.”

you roll your eyes and do as he asks.

“now bend your body down.”

you follow his instructions and feel his right hand move to the side of your waist.

“hand on the chair real quick-“

you use your stretched hand to grab on the chair and feel your shoulder stretching.

“how does it look?” you ask.

“fuckable.”

“not me idiot! the injury-!”

“its a scratch.” he laughs and softly slaps your ass before you turn around and gently smack his bloody face.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Baby, I'm Cold

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: Your boss is a stubborn man but even he can get sick. (plus!reader)

Character: August Walker

Day Twenty-One of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - I swear I'm not sick

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Mr. Walker leaves his bag at the door, his jacket too. You move his shoes so they sit neatly on the drip tray and hang his jacket. You pick up his briefcase and carry it up to his office. As you near the closed door, you hear him coughing from the other side. 

You slow as you approach and knock on the door, “sir, I have your things.” 

He coughs again then calls through hoarsely, “in.” 

You twist the handle and dip inside. You set the bag on the leather armchair where you always do and retreat as your employer sniffles. He lets out a crackly sigh after. He sits behind his desk, silent, stony. His usual self except for the raspy breaths he lets out. 

You don’t await his dismissal. You know if he has to tell you to go, it means you’ve overstayed. Mr. Walker prefers discretion. He prefers solace. It makes your job both easy but difficult. 

You leave and go down to the kitchen. At this time, he won’t have eaten. He’ll need dinner. With his cough and stuffed nose in mind, you prepare him some chicken and rice soup. You put a thick hunk of artisinal bread with it and a cup of tea. 

You carry it up to him and announce your purpose at the door, “dinner, sir.” 

He grumbles. You know his sounds well enough to enter. You bring the tray to his desk as he sits back in his chair, unmoving, eyes closed, hands firm around the rests. You hear the rattle in his chest from there. 

“Anything else, sir?” 

He opens one eye and the icy blue chills you. His single iris flicks down as he considers the tray. He opens his other eye and sits forward. He swallows another cough. 

“What is this?” He touches the mug’s handle. 

“Tea, sir. I found some ginger. I added a touch of honey--” 

“Why?” 

“Why, sir?” 

“I don’t drink tea. I haven’t ever drunk tea. It’s for my mother. So why--” He snaps his mouth shut and his throat strains as he holds back another cough. He lets out a single croak and clears away the rocky crags. “Why are you serving it to me?” 

“Oh, uh, sir, it will soothe your cough--” 

“I’m not sick.” 

“Yes, sir, the air is dry this time of year,” you agree. 

“I don’t want the fucking tea.” 

“Sir.” 

You come around and take the cup. He sits back again and turns the seat away. You hold the steaming cup and quickly head for the door. You stop, remind by his reprimand of something else. 

“Your mother and father will arrive tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged their room and all else.” You confirm. 

“Great, you did your job,” he sneers dryly. 

“Sir,” you murmur and turn to the door. 

Just a few more hours and you’ll be free. It’s the holidays and even Mr. Walker gave you a day to spend with your family. Though you suspect it’s more that he doesn’t want you around his.  

For the three years you’ve worked for him, you’ve never met a single other person in his life. You clean the house, you pick up his laundry, and you order groceries. You are peripheral. You are the tedium that fuels the more concerning parts of his life. 

🌟

Your mother and stepfather are arguing on the porch. Again. Your aunt and uncle are showing off their toddler grandchild, and your brother, the terrible twins, more than a decade your junior, are flipping through their phones. You sit and observe it all. 

You glance at the window, your mom’s anger expounded in the wag of her finger. You get up as the smell of ham draws you into the kitchen. You check to make sure it’s not overdone then piddle around, trying to distract yourself from the chaos. 

Your back pocket rumbles. You ignore it. It’s some promo trying to entice you into ordering food. On Christmas of all day. As the vibration persists, you assume it’s some poor telemarketer, forced to make the rounds for a bit of overtime pay. 

You ignore it. You work on finishing the brussel sprouts your mother left in the strainer. You cut of the ends and slice an X into them. Your phone starts again. You don’t put down the knife until the third call. 

Walker. 

You hesitate but pick up. Why would he be calling, today of all days. You fix your posture as you answer, as if he can see you. 

“Mr. Walker,” you eke out, nervous you might have missed something. 

“Hello, is this...” a woman says your name curiously. 

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you affirm. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, especially today, but we are in need of some help,” her voice is tremulous. 

“I told you,” a male can be heard more distantly. “We shouldn’t bother them. There’s a reason they aren’t here, dear.” 

“Pish,” the woman dismisses. “Very sorry again but my son--” 

“Katherine,” you say, “Mr. Walker’s mother?” 

“Yes, Auggy is my son,” she tuts. “As I was trying to explain, he’s doing rather poorly but he’s refusing my care. He’s always been awfully stubborn, you know?” 

“Kath,” the man drones. 

“Oh, I know, I know,” she squeals at him. “He doesn’t want his mommy fluttering around him like an old hen, but you understand, he’s my baby. I’m worried. And so we were looking and saw your name. A girl’s name so you must be someone special.” 

“Katherine,” the man sighs once more. 

“I’m his housekeeper, ma’am,” you explain. 

“Hum, oh, of course. You would be,” she says. “Oh, my, I’m afraid I’ve assumed so much.” 

“Is he still coughing then?” You ask. 

“Oh, yes, terrible. He sounds as if he’s swallowed glass.” 

“We’ll call a doctor,” the man intones. 

“Octavius, please, which doctor do you suggest we call? They all fly out of the country on their salaries,” she chirps. “Honey, please, if you don’t mind, you might be able to coax him. If you are his maid, you’d only be doing your job. He can’t turn you away.” 

You frown. She doesn’t know how wrong she is. He would and he will. 

“Lucine, please,” your step father’s voice blows through with a gust as he comes inside. His anger is forged into his tone and the door slams. You wince. 

“I can be there,” you tell Katherine. It won’t make a difference but it will get you away from all this. 

🌟

Katherine as good as drags you through the door. You didn’t even knock before she swung it open. She’s a tall woman, plump, and her face is rosy. She’s not what you expect. 

“Yes, come in, come in,” she says. “Oh, what’ve you brought?” 

She gestures to the canvas bag on your elbow. 

“Just some stuff to help,” you explain as the warmth of inside seeps beneath the chill in your cheeks. “Hopefully.” 

“Oh, yes, how clever of you.” 

She takes the bag and you let her. She sets in on the bench and unbuttons your top button before you can stop her. You gently catch her hands then do the rest yourself. 

“Sorry, dear, sorry. It’s only, I’m so worried.” 

“He’s a man, he’ll be fine. If you’d stop pecking at him, he wouldn’t be hiding,” a man appears in the archway to the den. He’s big like Mr. Walker, with white hair and paler eyes. He crosses his arms in the same way. That must be the father. 

“He’s sick! You heard him. He wouldn’t listen--” 

“He was doing just fine, Katherine.” 

“Tosh, you don’t know that. You never were there when he was home sick. He needs his orange juice and chicken noodle.” 

“He needs you to stop,” the man you assume is Octavius reproaches. 

“I can check on him but... it’s probably just a cold,” you say as you slip out of your boots. 

“So long as you try.” 

“Right,” you grab the bag and twist the handles. 

You go to the bottom of the stairs and look up. You peer side to side, from mother, to father, both tentatively watching you in turn. It seems Walker puts everyone at arm’s length. 

You take the first step with trepidation. Then the second. Up and up, you climb until you reach the top. You turn down the hallway and come to the office door. You bite the inside of your lip and knock. You don’t get an answer. 

You look at the bag in your hand and contemplate running back downstairs. You can say you tried and got the same result. Still, that Walker doesn’t shout for you to scram is worrying. 

You knock again to the same result. Several more taps go unanswered before you are faced with another decision. Do you go in, just to make sure? 

It would be a waste. You left your family, Katherine waited around for you, you suppose you can brave Walker’s wrath to give her the gift of knowing all is well. 

You inhale and hold it in. You enter the office, peeking through as you do. It’s dim but for the light of the glass lamp on the desk. As you look for the broad figure behind it, you find only an empty chair. 

You frown. He must be in his room or-- 

The grumble jars you. You squint as you try to see through the dark. You find Mr. Walker on the leather settee near the artificial fireplace set into the wall. Great. You should go. You can do that still. He’s not answering you so obviously he doesn’t want to be disturbed. 

He coughs, a sharp, agonizing cough that makes even your throat hurt. You let your breath out. Ugh. He’s a big boy, literally, he can handle it. Right? 

Shit. 

You cross the room and turn the dial on the artificial fireplace. It lights up, casting a soft glow over the office. You turn to find Walker shivering on the cushions, arms crossed as he hugs himself, legs bent to accommodate the short furniture. 

“Mr. Walker, I brought some cough drops and some cold medicine,” you say.  

He groans and doesn’t move. He hacks again, the couch frame creaking under his weight. Why? You shouldn’t feel bad for him. Not for as unpleasant as he’s consistently been. 

You move a leather stool closer and sit. You cradle the bag on your knees and sift through the contents. You take out the bottle of Buckleys. You shake it and reach with your other hand to touch his shining forehead. His eyes pop open and his mustache twitches. 

“Mr. Walker, I have cough syrup--” 

“I’m fine,” he insists, only to cough again. “I don’t want that—sh-- *cough*-- shi-- *cough*” He devolves into a fit and you wait patiently. 

“If you don’t want it, you should try some of these ginger drops.” 

“Why are you here?” 

You steady your agitation. “Your mother called me.” 

“Why did she--” He can’t finish the question. 

“She asked me to help you. I’m trying but I can’t do much if you won’t let me. However, you are my boss so you can tell me to go back home to my family,” you shrug. 

He looks at you then closes his eyes. He shifts onto his back and lifts his legs, extending them over the armrest. He is ridiculous big on the short sofa. 

“Do whatever. I thought you were a maid, not--” 

He can’t finish the insult but you get the gist. You dig around in the bag and take out the tin of menthol rub. You uncap it as his face contorts in an effort to repress his coughing. You hold it out under his nose and he sucks in and flinches. 

He grabs his nose as you recoil and blinks, “what is that?” 

“Just menthol, it will clear your airways a bit.” 

“Oh,” he furrows his dark brows. 

“Typically, you put it on your chest but it’s kind of greasy so--” 

“Do that,” he insists and sniffs deeply, “it’s helping.” 

“Oh, uh...” you stare at him. 

He’s sallow, the brims of his eyes reddened, and his face drawn. You nod and lightly touch the gel. You hesitate. You won’t be able to reach him and... right. 

“Can you...” You look at his shirt collar, “unbutton.” 

He coughs again, a rumble in his chest, and he clumsily pinches his buttons until he frees them. He pulls the fabric apart to reveal his furry chest and you stand. You move closer and bend over him as you gently trace beneath his throat, that little crook of bone above his muscled pecs. You focus on spreading the menthol as he breathes deeper, further puffing out his chest. 

“Better?” You ask. 

He makes a noise, something akin to a purr. You rub the cream in until It’s absorbed then pull away. You cap the container and put it back in the bag. You put it all on the stool and back away. 

“Where are you going?” Walker mutters. 

“To wash my hands,” you say. 

“Mmm, be quick.” 

You take his orders and hurry out. You come down the hallway and dip into the bathroom to rinse your hands. As you dry off, you nearly squeal as a shadow appears in the door. Katherine wrings her hands as she shifts back and forth. 

“Is he okay?” She asks. 

“He’s fine, I think. Just sick. Stubborn.” 

“Oh, very,” she agrees with your last statement. 

“I’m just trying to get him to take some cough meds,” you explain. 

“Ah, good luck,” she trills, “I will make some tea, if you like?” 

“Uh, yeah, we can try that,” you agree. 

She hurries off and you go back down the hall. The smell of menthol and the crackle of the fake fire welcome you in. You go to the settee as Walker lays quietly, breathing in and out, as his shirt remains open. 

“I think the cough syrup will help,” you say. 

He doesn’t respond. You watch the cadence of his chest. Is he asleep. You move around slowly, trying not to knock anything with your hip or step too heavy. You gather up the bag. He can probably sleep it off. 

You let out a squeal as you feel a brush against your bum. You spin as Walker’s arm extends to you and he catches your hip. You stutter in surprise. 

“S-sir!” 

“I’m sick,” he whines, though the surrender is hardly a triumph. “Please...” 

You stare at him. You don’t know what’s worse. The brave face or the pathetic victim. 

“Baby, I feel so bad,” he squeezes and you look down at his large hand. He must be really sick if he’s calling you that. 

“It’s alright, Mr. Walker,” you take his hand and move it off your hip. You lower yourself onto the edge of the couch and bend his arm over his chest. “Your mom’s going to make you some tea.” 

“Mmmm,” he drones and reaches for you again. “Don’t leave.” 

“Sir,” you look down as his touch follows your sleeve to your shoulder then curls down your back, stopping on your waist. You grab his wrist again. “I’ll stay, just... relax.” 

“Yes, baby,” his fingers dip into your soft side, “whatever you want me to do.” He tugs free of your grip and trails along the top of your butt, “just stay.” 

You narrow your eyes and once more stop his stray hand. You cling to it as you direct it away from you, keeping hold of him to keep from another rogue groping. He’s sick for sure. So sick, he must be delusional. 

“Alright, I'm here, Mr. Walker.” 

He opens his eyes and looks at you. You wince at the intensity in his glassy irises. His cheek ticks and he hums again. 

“Mm...” he drawls weakly. “So... soft.” 

[bonbonly]

BONBON!!! need collegeau! carlos punishing artstudent!reader for going almost no contact with him when she was on her trip with mrs sainz. left him in the dark, wondering if she was with another man.. he needs to leaves so many marks so that no man goes near her for a while.. 🙏

LITERALLY AS SOON AS I FINISHED WRITING "INTO THE WOODS" I WAS LIKE I NEED TO GET TO EM'S ASK (and im combining 🍒 anon's ask in this as well!)

bon's thoughts (18+)

college!au carlos is at his study room, typing up an assignment that he has for his entrepreneurship class. his fingers drum against the keyboard before he adds another paragraph to his proposal. he leans back in his chair, reading over the word doc and then stiffening when he hears your laughter downstairs.

you had just come back from an art exhibition with his mother. you spent the past two weeks ignoring his texts, never picking up his calls. every time he did call, it was always when you were talking with an art director about trying to get your paintings to another gallery across the globe. by the time you'd get back to your hotel room, you're passed out and dozing off, completely oblivious to the thousand calls carlos was spamming you with.

mrs. sainz is making pasta for everyone tonight, and she smiles at you, "my dear, would you mind going upstairs and getting carlos? i heard he hasn't eaten anything since lunch, no snacks or juice! my poor boy must be starving!"

you laugh, slipping off the stool and nodding your head, "will do, mrs. sainz!" and you skip out of the kitchen, heading up the stairs. you approach his room, and pause in front of his door. you peer into the small crack and see him working diligently, his glasses on. he never really wore glasses that often, only if he was locked in and trying to get his work done. but ugh, he looked really good wearing it. you clear your throat, knocking on the door, "carlos! your mom's calling you for dinner!"

"come in!" carlos barks, cracking his knuckles. you enter, closing the door behind you,

"hey!" you smile, but your face falls when you see that he's glaring at you. he gestures for you to walk over to him and you sigh, reaching him behind his desk and running a hand through his hair, "hey, what's up? is your college work too much?" but before you can get a response, he shuts his laptop, placing it to the side and tosses all the papers and pencils onto the ground before picking you up and slamming you onto the table. you gasp out loud as he's tearing your clothes off, spreading your legs wide. he lets a trail of his saliva flow onto your pussy, his fingers sliding the spit along your folds which causes you to choke back a moan as you gaze at him with wide eyes. he chuckles, darkly,

"very cute of you, hermosa," he snickers, licking your clit, "i think my dinner's right here." and he wraps his entire mouth around your cunt, slurping the sweet juice you have to offer him. you're shaking as he continues, and folds you into a mating press as he rubs his nose against your clit, inhaling your scent, "fuck, i've spent two weeks without your calls and texts, imagine how much i missed you, princesa"

and you gulp, realizing that he didn't forget the fact that you forgot to call him back. he's holding onto your wrists to make sure you can't hold onto his hair as his tongue delves deeper, his head shaking against your cunt which has you crying out loud about how good his tongue is. truth is you missed him too, but you wouldn't say that because you knew his ego would get bigger. when you cum around his tongue, he lets his tongue drag up to your tits, sucking and biting anywhere that he can find. he's marking your neck, your forehead, your collarbones, even your arms, all while his cock is pistoning inside of you without stopping.

"are you going to cum? hm, is that what's going to happen?" he mocks your pleas as you're frantically nodding your head, telling him how close you were. he laughs, shaking his head, "i thought you were fucking some other man, i thought you had forgotten all about me... me, the man that even got you those art exhibitions! fuck, i think the only way you'll ever understand is if i get you pregnant. my cum flowing out of you every night. my mama will be so happy to be the grandmother to our child."

"carlos!" you scream, clenching around his cock as his nibbles your ear. your legs are stretched so wide you know you're going to be limping back downstairs. a knock on the door makes you snap your head to the side, and carlos is grinning as he's pounding into you faster.

"carlos, what's taking you so long?" mrs. sainz asks from the other side, and carlos groans quietly to himself at the feeling of your pussy swallowing him, taking him deeper,

"just a bit... fuck, busy with work mama! we'll be out soon, don't worry! give me 10 more minutes!" he yells, and mrs. sainz sighs,

"take your time! your work comes first, mi hijo!" her footsteps grow quieter as she heads back downstairs, and carlos grabs your jaw, forcing you to look back at him,

"you heard what she said, mi zorra, you better hope mi mama doesn't see my cum all over you," and you whimper out loud, biting your lip at the thought of being drenched from head to toe in his cum. he giggles, shaking his head, "you'd like that, wouldn't you? and who am I to deny my princesa?"

[ikkyfics]

Adorable Kitchen Disaster

Dave Lizewski x fem!reader

Summary: "Dave..." your voice nearly faltered. He smiled against your skin, clearly enjoying your reaction, and placed a few more soft kisses there, each one slower and more provocative than the last. "What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice low and clearly satisfied. "Am I distracting the chef?"

Warnings: just fluffy - Dave being a lovable disaster in the kitchen

Masterlist

The Christmas spirit was already in the air when you heard the doorbell ring. An instant smile appeared on your face as you left the cookie dough on the counter and went to the door. When you opened it, there he was: Dave Lizewski, wearing a comfy blue hoodie under a dark green coat. The beanie hid part of his messy dark hair, and the round glasses framed his big, warm blue eyes that always made you sigh.

"Hey," he said, smiling that shy, adorable way of his. He was holding a plastic bag filled with candies and treats. "I'm ready for the mission, chef."

You didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, you pulled him by his coat, pressing your lips firmly to his. Dave seemed surprised for a second but soon returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist and deepening the kiss. He still tasted like chocolate—because, of course, he always brought something sweet along the way—and the way he smiled against your lips showed how much he loved it.

"Wow." He laughed quietly when you finally pulled away, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling. "I think I'm going to come help in the kitchen more often."

"My parents aren't here," you told him, slightly out of breath, ignoring his playful comment. "They went to visit some friends. So, we have the whole house to ourselves."

"That explains why you're so happy to see me," Dave teased, but the way he bit his lip, shy and enchanted, only made him more irresistible.

You rolled your eyes, holding his hand and pulling him inside. "Come on, hurry up. The cookies aren't going to bake themselves."

The kitchen was a well-organized mess, with cookie cutters scattered on the counter and a bowl of dough ready. Dave observed everything with one eyebrow raised, leaving the "supplies" bag on the table.

"Wow, you're seriously letting me touch the food?"

"I'm trying to give you a chance," you laughed, positioning yourself next to him and extending the bowl. "Now take the dough and start rolling it out with the pin. Just make firm movements, forward and back."

Dave grabbed the rolling pin with both hands and shot you an amused look. "Seems easy. Like a video game. I'm great at this."

But within minutes, you had already spotted the impending disaster. He was pressing the rolling pin too hard, the dough was getting all crooked, and the effort was only making him more frustrated.

"My God, Dave, you're going to destroy everything," you said, laughing.

"I'm not destroying! Just... customizing," he replied, completely convinced, as he rolled the dough any which way.

With an amused sigh, you stepped closer, positioning yourself between his arms, your back pressed against his chest. Dave froze, surprised by the proximity, but let his hands relax when you held his wrists.

"Like this," your voice came out soft, almost a whisper, as you guided his movements firmly. "Calm. No force. Just... glide."

Dave let out a low chuckle. "Do you realize this looks like a movie scene? Like, 'Ghost' but the cooking version?"

"Shut up, Lizewski," you warned, but a smile escaped.

The truth was, the proximity wasn't helping your focus. You could feel his body heat through the hoodie, the rhythmic sound of his breath close to your ear, and the soft scent that always seemed to surround him. What had started as a funny moment quickly turned into something more intense.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," Dave murmured, his voice deeper and lower, too close to your neck.

You didn't have time to respond because, in the next second, he leaned forward and placed a light kiss on the side of your neck. The sensation was so unexpected that you shivered, letting out a sigh.

"Dave..." your voice nearly faltered.

He smiled against your skin, clearly enjoying your reaction, and placed a few more soft kisses there, each one slower and more provocative than the last.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice low and clearly satisfied. "Am I distracting the chef?"

"You're distracting me," you replied, though not with much firmness, because the truth was, you were loving it.

"I don’t see you complaining for real," Dave teased, giving one last kiss before pulling away just enough to study your face. His cheeks were red too, but the crooked, loving smile remained. "Why do you have to be so pretty, huh? Can't even be a disaster in peace."

"Who says I want you to stop being a disaster?" you retorted, your voice full of amusement, but the look in your eyes was sweet enough to be hard to hide.

He smiled even more and leaned in to kiss you again, his lips brushing against yours so gently it felt like he was afraid to break you. You felt his fingers slide along the curve of your waist, almost as if he wanted to memorize every inch, as the kiss slowly deepened, stealing any remaining breath.

"I swear you're going to be my undoing," Dave murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"Well..." you began, with a shy, daring smile. "At least we’ll get lost together."

His laughter was genuine, and he pulled away just enough to look into your eyes. It was the kind of look that made time seem to slow down — his blue eyes filled with affection, admiration, and something deeper, an intensity so pure that you didn’t know how he could keep it all contained in just that gaze.

"What luck I have," he replied softly, almost to himself.

Before you could respond, he acted on impulse. With a somewhat awkward movement, Dave grabbed your waist and lifted you up, making you let out a surprised squeal instantly.

"Dave! What are you...?"

But you didn’t even finish the sentence. The sudden movement made your leg bump into the open bowl of flour, creating a white cloud in the air that looked like something out of a cartoon. You burst out laughing, covering your face with your hands as he gently set you down on the counter.

"Sorry! Sorry!" he laughed, not even trying to hide how much he was enjoying the chaos he had just caused. His hands were now covered in flour, as were parts of his hair and the blue sweatshirt he was wearing.

"You’re a walking disaster, Lizewski." You laughed through your grumbling, trying to brush some flour off your face, but you were quickly interrupted when he leaned in again, his smile still dancing on his lips.

"I didn’t hear any complaints earlier." He said, and before you could respond, he sealed his lips to yours once more.

This time, the kiss was deeper, more engaging, as if he were trying to capture every bit of that moment. His hands slid back down your waist, a firm yet gentle touch, as if he were still surprised to be allowed this close to you.

You pulled him even closer, feeling the heat of his body against yours and realizing, once again, how he seemed stronger than you gave him credit for. It was a subtle strength, but it was present — a constant and charming surprise from someone who could still be so sweet and caring.

"Since when have you been working out like this, huh?" you asked, your voice slightly muffled between the kisses he was now spreading across your jawline and the corner of your neck.

"Since I started carrying my girlfriend around in my spare time," he replied with a proud smile, his voice lower and full of affection.

"How cocky." You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the big smile on your face.

Dave looked at you again, his blue eyes tracing every detail of your face, and you felt your heart squeeze in a good way. He was still too close, your bodies almost touching, and the redness on his cheeks only made him more endearing.

"I’m serious." He spoke softly, brushing a lock of flour out of your hair with his fingertips. "I never thought I’d have someone like this... you know, someone like you."

Your heart melted instantly. You leaned in, pulling him into another kiss, but the moment was brutally interrupted by a strange smell and a low sound coming from the oven.

Both of you froze, eyes wide in unison, until you let out an "Oh no!" and gently pushed Dave off the counter.

"The cookies!" you exclaimed, rushing to the oven.

Dave stood still in the middle of the kitchen, still covered in flour, watching as you, somewhat clumsily, opened the oven and tried to save the cookies — already too dark to be considered edible.

"Okay, okay, I admit it," he began, trying to suppress his laughter. "Maybe the movie scene was too good to be true."

You shot him a sharp look, but you couldn’t hold back your own laugh either. The kitchen was a mess — flour on the floor, sugar on the counter, both you and Dave covered in white powder. But none of that mattered.

You sighed dramatically, holding the baking sheet as if it were a lost cause.

"I think we’ve lost this batch."

"It’s just proof of how irresistible I am." Dave shrugged, walking over to you and holding out his arms. "But hey, I promise the next one will turn out right."

"You really are a lost cause, Lizewski."

"And you still like me this way." He grinned widely, pulling you back close, as if there was no mess around.

And, to be honest, at that moment, there really wasn’t.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Can you do more blurbs on Sirius x potter reader?

Your work is amazing!!!

AN:Thank you so much!! I am slowly working my way through my requests and I am sorry this took so long!! The original series seems to end on a good note to me, so I am going with a new concept!

Rock 'n Roll

Sirius Black x Potter!Reader who learns a thing or two about rock 'n roll...

Summary: Sirius stays home with a hangover, but the reader is always there to lend a hand.

Wc: 2.5k

CW: Very suggestive, reader is uptown/very princess type, slight corruption if you squint.

The morning was quiet, the soft hum of birdsong drifting in through the open windows of the Potter manor. Sunlight filtered lazily through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the floor. Euphemia’s cheerful voice rang through the hallways as she corralled Fleamont and James into the livingroom for an early errand.

“Sirius, are you coming?” Euphemia called, pausing near the doorway of his room. James snickered behind her as Sirius groaned from inside.

“Think I’ll pass, Euphie,” Sirius mumbled, his voice sharp. “Got some… stuff to do.”

James barked a laugh. “Stuff? You mean nursing that hangover?”

“Don’t wait up,” Sirius muffled into his pillow, his voice hoarse, and Euphemia rolled her eyes fondly before ushering her other boys out.

Down the hall, you sat perched on the edge of your neatly made bed, your doe eyes flicking toward the empty corridor. Calling out a goodbye to your mother before waiting patiently for the front door to close. With your parents and James gone, an odd silence fell over the house.

An hour or so later, you made your way down the hall to Sirius’s room, a smirk tugging at your lips as you knocked lightly on the door. When there was no response, you pushed it open, stepping inside with practiced ease.

The room was chaos. Band posters plastered the walls, clashing with the faded floral wallpaper beneath them. Records and empty bottles littered the floor, and the faint scent of smoke and leather lingered in the air. Sirius was sprawled on the bed, his dark hair a tousled mess against the pillow, his eyes closed as he groaned softly at your intrusion.

“You smell like regret,” You hummed, walking over to his desk. Giving a small grimace at the incense ash that stained the wood polish. You huffed as you grabbed one of his torn record sleeves and dusted the ash aside. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous.”

Sirius cracked one eye open, squinting at you. “And what exactly makes you think I regret anything, Bambi?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” You mused, stepping further into the room and setting the glass of green liquid on his nightstand. “The Firewhiskey bottle on the bed? The ashtray overflowing with cigarettes? The fact that you didn’t even bother to make up a better excuse for my mother?”

Sirius laughed weakly, sitting up just enough to grab the glass. “Touché. What is this, anyway?”

“Hangover remedy,” You shrugged, crossing your arms. Ignoring how Sirius’s eyes swept over you, giving a low sarcastic scoff at you- wasn't new. Seemed to find it just the funniest thing that you kept to your best. Even behind closed doors “Drink it. You’ll thank me later.”

He eyed the liquid warily before taking a cautious sip, wincing at the taste. “Merlin, did you bottle swamp water?”

“Wish I thought of that.” You sighed and waved your hand, taking a better look at the poor past guest room. “It's known to cure even the most hopeless cases.”

He downed the rest, setting the glass aside with a wince. He gave a faint cough before leaning back on his elbows. “Hopeless, eh? I’d argue you don’t know the first thing about that.”

“Oh, I know plenty,” You shot back, wandering over to the guitar propped against the wall. The only semi pristine thing left untouched by stains. You picked it up, running your fingers over the strings experimentally. “Like wearing white heels after Labor Day.”

Sirius barked a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re something else, you know that? You're more proper then your mother.”

You plucked an awkward chord, grimacing slightly at the sound. Walking back over to him you sat on the edge of his bed, plucking a painfully ugly tune.

Sirius curled up his lips and sat up further. “That sounds bloody awful.”

“What a gentleman you are.” You huffed before slowly smirking to yourself. Leaning against one of the bed posts. “How hard can it be? If you can do it, I can.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, his grin widening as he reached out and plucked the guitar from your hands. His fingers brushed yours briefly, and for a moment, the air between you stilled, heavy- as if taunting you. 'You're in over your head’.

He cradled the instrument with the ease of someone who knew it inside out, leaning back casually against the headboard. “You’re all talk, Bambi.” He teased, strumming a quick, clean chord to emphasize his point. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him as he began to adjust the tuning with deft fingers, the familiar twang of strings filling the room. “I didn’t say I was a rockstar, Black. Just that I could figure it out.”

“Well, you’ve got a long way to go,” He shot back, tilting his head toward you with a playful smirk. “Come here. I’ll show you the basics.”

You hesitated for a moment before scooting closer, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him. Sirius shifted the guitar onto his lap and motioned for you to take it again. When you did, he leaned in, his arm brushing against yours as he reached over to adjust your grip.

“Alright, press here,” He murmured, his voice low as he guided your fingers to the correct position on the frets. His hand lingered over yours for a beat too long, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that felt far too intentional. “And strum with this hand. Not too hard, not too soft.”

You followed his instructions, managing to produce a passable chord this time. Sirius grinned, leaning back slightly to admire your work. “See? Not bad for a beginner.”

You shot him a triumphant look, sitting up straighter as you strummed the chord again. “Told you I could do it. I’m officially a rock ‘n roller.”

Sirius chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest. He tilted his head, his gray eyes shining with amusement as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a teasing murmur. “Do you even know what rock ‘n roll means, Bambi?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone- able to smell the cigarette smoke and bitter cheap beer on his breath. “Of course I do. It’s… music, rebellion, leather jackets-”

“Wrong.” He interrupted, his lips curving into a devilish grin. He reached out, his fingers brushing yours again as he took the guitar from you and set it aside. “Rock ‘n roll,” He continued, his voice barely above a whisper now, “means sex.”

Your jaw opened but no words left- shock taking over your features. You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out softer than you intended. “Trust you to make it about that.”

Sirius’s grin widened as he leaned back against the headboard, his devil-may-care confidence only deepening the charge in the room.

“I think you’re just jealous,” You shot again, sitting up straighter and folding your arms. “All this talk of rebellion, and here I am, out-rocking you.”

Sirius snorted, his fingers raking through his tousled hair. “Jealous? Please. The day you out-rock me, Bambi, is the day I start drinking tea with my pinky up.”

“Proper suits you, Black.” You smirked, leaning forward and propping your elbows on your knees. Your perfume- a mix of lavender and something faintly citrus- drifting toward him. His eyes flicked to yours, just a moment too long for it to be casual. “Isn't that what all the girls tell you?”

Sirius smirked, leaning back further against the headboard, his hands casually resting on his thighs. The faint glow of sunlight through the curtains highlighted the sharp angles of his face, and the devilish gleam in his gray eyes was impossible to ignore.

“So,” he began, his voice low and teasing, “which poor bloke are you stringing along this week, Bambi?”

You rolled your eyes, sitting up straighter. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not stringing anyone along.”

Sirius chuckled, the sound deep and warm in his chest. “Right, because it’s not like every guy you meet turns into a drooling idiot the second you smile at them.”

“Jealous, Black?” You quipped, arching an eyebrow.

“Hardly,” he shot back, his smirk widening. “Just concerned for their safety. You’ve got a way of leaving a trail of broken hearts, princess. Someone ought to warn them.”

You scoffed, brushing off his words, but the way his gaze lingered on you sent a spark of heat rushing to your cheeks. “I don’t leave broken hearts,” you muttered, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “They just… get the wrong idea.”

“Wrong idea, huh?” Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at you. His voice dropped slightly, his tone turning playful but pointed. “Tell me, Bambi, do they know about your habit of sneaking into my room and making yourself at home?”

You froze for a split second before narrowing your eyes at him. “This isn’t sneaking.”

“Right,” he drawled, his smirk growing. “Helping me recover from my ‘regret smell.’ How noble of you. But tell me- if James walked in here right now and saw you sitting on my bed, what do you think he’d do?”

Your breath hitched, but you masked it with a roll of your eyes. “James wouldn’t care. He knows I can take care of myself.”

Sirius barked a laugh, shaking his head. “You really believe that? James would lose his bloody mind if he found out his perfect little sister was in my bed. He’d probably hex me into next week.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Well, it’s a good thing he’s not here, then.”

Sirius’s grin turned wicked as he leaned closer, his voice dropping into a low murmur. “Good thing, indeed. Because if he were, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.”

Your pulse quickened as his words hung in the air, the weight of them far heavier than the playful tone he tried to maintain. “Explain what?” You asked, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounded.

Sirius tilted his head, his gray eyes locking onto yours. “How I ended up here. With you. Pretending like it’s not driving me mad.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Sirius…”

He chuckled softly, leaning back again but not breaking eye contact. “Relax, Bambi. Just having a bit of fun. Besides, you’ve got enough admirers to keep you busy. Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

You scoffed, standing abruptly and brushing invisible dust off your skirt. “Honestly, Black, I don’t see how every girl at Hogwarts has been falling over themselves for you. You’re all talk, no substance. Bit overrated, if you ask me.”

Sirius grinned, completely unbothered by your jab. If anything, he looked more amused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned back against the headboard, utterly relaxed. “Overrated, am I?” He asked, his voice low and teasing. “Careful, Bambi. Comments like that could hurt a bloke’s feelings.”

“Oh, please,” you muttered, pacing a few steps away and running your fingers along the fraying edge of a poster on his wall. “You thrive on it. The attention, the rumors, the… theatrics.” You turned back to him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re practically a walking soap opera.”

Sirius let out a low laugh, sitting up straighter and running a hand through his dark hair. “And here I thought you were above paying me so much attention. Sounds like someone’s been taking notes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” You shot back, but the slight twitch of his lips told you he wasn’t taking anything you said too seriously.

“Alright, Bambi,” Sirius drawled, pushing himself off the bed and closing the gap between you with a few lazy strides. He was now standing in front of you, towering just enough to make you aware of the space between you both. “Since you’re the expert, why don’t you show me how it’s done? What’s your idea of substance?”

You blinked up at him, momentarily thrown by how close he’d gotten. “I-” You started, but before you could finish, Sirius leaned in, grabbing the edge of his leather jacket that had been thrown over a chair just behind you. He slung it on with practiced ease, his movements fluid and deliberate as he adjusted the collar.

And then he smirked, reaching for the sunglasses on his desk and sliding them on with a casual flick of his wrist. He tilted his head, his grin wicked as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “What do you think?” He asked, his voice low and dripping with mock arrogance. “Still think I’m overrated, or have I won you over yet?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “You look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” Sirius countered, pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer. His grin widened when you didn’t immediately step back. “Face it, Bambi. Even you aren’t immune to the Black charm.”

“Oh, please,” You muttered, crossing your arms over your chest and looking away. “That ‘charm’ only works on girls too distracted by their own hormones to notice how insufferable you are.”

Sirius chuckled softly, closing the distance between you even more. Now, he was close- too close- and his voice dropped to a murmur, teasing and laced with something heavier. “You sure about that? Because you’re looking a little distracted yourself.”

Your eyes snapped to his, ready to fire back another retort, but the words died on your tongue when you realized how close his face was to yours. The smugness in his expression, the heat in his gaze, the slight curve of his lips- it all hit you at once, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Sirius tilted his head, his smirk softening as he leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “See, Bambi,” He murmured, his breath ghosting over your cheek, “the thing about rock ‘n roll is… you feel it.”

Before you could respond, Sirius moved in. What started as a cocky stunt- a light brush of his lips against yours, meant to prove some ridiculous point- shifted in an instant. The kiss deepened, Sirius’s hands moving to your waist as if he couldn’t help himself.

You froze for half a second, every nerve in your body firing at once, before your arms slipped up around his neck, pulling him closer. His smirk melted into something hotter, more desperate, as he backed you toward the bed, his hands never leaving you.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” You muttered against his lips, your voice breathless and shaky but still carrying some of its usual defiance.

“Of course not,” Sirius murmured back, his grin evident in his tone as he pushed you gently onto the mattress- flicking off his sunglasses to some pile on the floor. “Not a thing.”

And then his lips found yours again, and for once, neither of you bothered pretending.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

An Amazing First Kiss - Hobie Brown X GN Reader

Title: An Amazing First Kiss

Hobie Brown X GN Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's friend (Mentioned)

WC: 1,651

Warnings: Try at writing a Cockney accent, Reader's nervous, italics, Reader's nervous about first kiss, Hobie is the best boyfriend, hurt/comfort idk?, nicknames, teasing, banter, flirting, mini angst, very brief mentions of lying, and fluff

To cut right to the chase, you were dating the amazing, and super lovable, Hobie Brown. You met him when he was performing with his band at some pub with your friend, and you just couldn't look away from him. His charisma, how easily he seemed to draw people to him, his passion for music, and just the way he’d spot you in the crowd. It made you feel as if no one else existed in the world, except you and him.

His dark brown eyes - even though they were covered by his Spider-Punk mask - had found yours in the crowd. He, too, was unable to look away. The way you softly danced in spot, bouncing on the balls of your feet. Your friend's arm linked with yours, your friends jumping up and down with more enthusiasm, but you drew him in; entranced him. It wasn't long until the two of you started seeing each other, going out for dates and whatnot. And it wasn’t long until the both of you started dating, and he revealed his secret identity to you.

Everything was perfect, except that you were very nervous. You were worried that Hobie might want to kiss you soon. And it's not that you don't want to kiss him. You did… You really did. And you would, eventually. But, at the moment, you just weren't ready. But it seemed that Hobie was. Only last week, he tried ‘the lean in’. But you were quick to come up with some sort of excuse. But, it was coming to a point where you hated lying to him and not talking to him about it. You didn’t want him to think that he was doing something wrong or that you weren’t interested or attracted to him.

The first time he tried to lean in, you had been sitting on the couch together, in his loft, watching a movie. Well, you weren't really paying much attention to it, and neither was Hobie.

"'is movie's bit boring, innit?" He muttered, his arm resting over your shoulders, his fingers randomly drumming along your forearm to an irregular beat. 

"Not the best movie I've seen, no," You agreed, glancing at him, "But it's entertaining to a degree."

Looking down at you, he continued, "'is guy a bit of a git 'ough." Hobie randomly gestured towards the screen where the main character was fighting with his brother.

“I agree…” Looking up at him, your words began to trail off when you noticed how close your faces were to one another. Looking into his beautiful brown eyes, you felt your stomach flip flop. However, you began to inwardly panic as he began to lean in. Red, flashing lights blared inside your mind as you froze and jumped out of his arms and off the couch. Letting out an awkward chuckle, you gestured down at your watch. "I have to go... Uh... Feed my cat." You stumbled over your words, making your way to the front door. Opening the door, you turned to give him a nervous grin, "I'll see you tomorrow, love you!"

“Love you…” As the door shut, Hobie let out a deep sigh, falling back upon the couch. Raising his legs up, he propped his feet on the coffee table. Why did you leave like that? And when did you get a cat?

~~~

A couple of weeks later, you were back in Hobie's loft, baking cookies. You hummed along to the song that Hobie was playing on his guitar in the other room, your thoughts drifting elsewhere as you worked. You didn't know how much time passed, or when Hobie stopped practicing, but as his arms wrapped around your waist, you couldn't help but smile. 

"Wha’ are you makin' 'is time?" He asked, resting his chin on the top of your head as you pressed the heart-shaped cookie cutter into the dough.

"I think you know what I'm making, Hobie." You sputtered out a small laugh, "It's quite obvious." 

He let out a small chuckle, before asking, "Well, 'ow many are you makin’ 'en?" 

"About ten, I think? I won't know until I cut them all out." You patted his hand on your stomach briefly, “And you’re not eating them all like last time.”

Hobie hummed as he pulled away from you, his fingers brushing your waist as he did so, causing a shiver to run down your spine; heading to the stove, he grabbed the kettle, "You want some rosy?" He asked, setting the kettle on the burner, and turning it on. 

Glancing over at him, he was already looking at you, leaning against the counter beside the stove, arms crossed. His gaze was warm, and his grin was - as always - breathtaking. You returned his smile, "Sure, thanks. That would be nice. Do we still have Earl Grey?" You asked before going back to the cookies as Hobie went to fetch the milk and sugar, humming softly to himself.

“‘Ave no scooby-doo.” He answered, before searching around in the cupboards, pushing other boxes of tea around until he spotted the Earl Grey, grabbing the tea box.

Reaching over your shoulder, his chest pressed into your side, Hobie grabbed the sugar from the counter near you. Looking up at him, you were surprised to see him still looking at you. There was that look again, the one that made your insides just turn into mush. But, as if in slow motion, he began to lean in. Quickly, you turned to look back down at the cookies, his lips pressing a kiss into your warm cheek; the coolness of his lip ring sending goosebumps over your skin.

Hobie pulled back, titling his head at you, his eyebrows narrowing as you slid the cookies into the oven; pursing his lips. Hobie was beginning to really wonder now. You seemed reluctant to kiss him, which made Hobie wonder if he had done something wrong. Did he do something? Say something? Did you just not want to kiss him? Hobie snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of the screeching kettle.

Now, Hobie wasn't one to keep quiet about things bothering him. After pouring both him and you a cup of tea, he joined you on his couch. Setting both the cups on the coffee table, Hobie turned himself in his seat to face you, his arm resting on the back of the couch.

"Let's cut to 'e chase, yeah? 'Ave I done some'nin wrong?" He asked you, a slightly concerned expression crossing his features. 

Your shoulders slumped and a small, sad smile formed on your face as you looked down. "No. You haven't done anything wrong, H." You looked over at him, your sad smile turning into a frown upon meeting his eyes, "I... Uh, I don't think I'm ready to kiss yet." You knew Hobie wouldn’t break up with you because of this, but it was an irrational fear that your brain liked to tease you with.

Hobie, though, tilted his head, looking confused at this response. Noticing your frown, the unleashed tears in your eyes. Hobie moved closer to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. You melted into his embrace, relaxing in his grasp as you let out a sigh of relief. He gave you a reassuring squeeze. "I 'ough' you just didn't want to kiss me, or some'nin' like 'at." 

You shook your head at his words, nuzzling your face into his chest, "No, I... I just don't think I'm ready to kiss anyone right now... I think sometime in the future I will be ready, I don't want you to think that I just won't kiss you ever."

At this, Hobie chuckled, lightly squeezing your shoulder. "Ya silly, luv." He teased, "You should know 'at it's fine. We ain't rushin' into anythin'. You’re stuck with me. I’m not gonna jus’ up and leave ‘cause you ain’t ready to kiss me."

Nodding your head, you gently pulled yourself out of his embrace, looking up at him. "Thank you, Hobie."

"Anytime, luv." He said, moving to lie down on the couch, opening his arms to you. You gladly climbed on top of him, laying your head on his chest; cuddling with Hobie always felt like home. His heartbeat was a steady rhythm under your ear, a comforting sound that made the world outside seem distant and unimportant. 

Leaning up on your arms, you looked down at him, "You're amazing, you know that, right?" Grinning, he reached up and ruffled your hair, causing you to scrunch up your nose. "Oi, don't mess up my beautiful locks," You laughed, jokingly swatting his hand away.

"An' I'm always amazin’. ‘Ough’ you knew ‘at ‘bout me already." He said with a wink, causing you to giggle. 

Staring down at him, you silently admired him. His dark complexion, chocolate brown eyes, high cheekbones, the piercings on his eyebrow and lip. Suddenly, you had an idea. "Hobie, honey, I’ve got an idea." You stated, grinning.

The tall boy sat up with you, a slight tilt of his head and an intrigued look on his face, "What's 'at?" Shifting on his lap, you leaned forward and took his face into your hands, his cheeks soft under your gentle touch. Giving him a small smile, you leaned forward. You shut your eyes before the tip of your nose bumped into his. Softly, you shook your head, giggling, your nose rubbing against his in an nose kiss. As you opened your eyes again, you saw Hobie staring back at you, his eyes half-lidded. A smirk played across his features, "Wow, luv." He whispered.

"Pretty amazing first kiss, eh?" You joked, your hands dropping from his cheeks, and reaching for his hands; interlacing your fingers with his.

"Oh, very amazin’ indeed." He said, bringing your hands to his lips, and kissing each knuckle. “Maybe even more amazin’ ‘an me.”

~~~

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