#BUT NEITHER DOES A PITCHER SKIN!!!!!!

[avedoodles]

pitcher fang ⚾️💫

[lis-likes-fics]

The Kinder Beast

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader Word Count: 13.3k words Warnings: NSFW, attempted sexual assault, groping, oral (m and f!receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, technically coercion, thus dub!con, virginity loss, p in v sex, creampie... A/N: I wrote like at least half of this in one night and then stopped to sleep and ruined my streak. This was supposed to be done like three days ago but I had a bit of a menty b for like...a full day and that didn't happen. Anyway, enjoy me (finally) getting around to writing for Aemond. Thanks! <3

He was always watching you.

Your skin crawled with the feeling of his gaze burning holes into your flesh. Always on you, always watching, daring to get you alone. You could never escape him.

You feel it at dinner as you pour cups of wine, one cup far more than the others. You feel it after dinner while you help the other servants to clean the table. Sometimes it is almost as though you can feel more than one gaze.

It haunts you.

Even as you're alone in the servants’ chambers where all the servants of the royal family slept after everyone has found sleep, you feel it. It's a horrifying thing, to feel so vulnerable so often.

You keep your head down at dinner, holding a pitcher of wine steady in your grasp and hoping against all hope that he would forget you were there. But the gods seemed to laugh at you and your naïve hopes.

“Aye,” he calls, raising his cup. “Serving girl.”

You lay your eyes on Prince Aegon, moving quickly as you cover the distance between you. Every inch demolished is an ounce of your bravery pouring down a drain until you are standing right by him.

You have to be careful tipping the pitcher, lest you spill the expensive drink all over his clothes, a hundred times more expensive than the wine. Though your fingers grip it tight and your palms shake the metal, you successfully manage your task with no issue.

It's as you're fixing the pitcher from its tilt when a greedy hand gropes the cheek of your ass. Your whole body jumps and you close your eyes, pretending all is well and that you are simply imagining the whole ordeal. You breathe in, straightening up and wishing he would let you go. Again, the gods seem to defy your every hope as Prince Aegon's hand begins to discreetly rub.

“Girl.”

Your gaze shoots across the table to an icy one unlike the greed in his brother's eyes. He watches you, his eye dark and his posture so full of poise and elegance—contrasting with Prince Aegon's jaded, dulled position beside you.

Prince Aemond raises his cup toward you, inclining his head back as he sends a gentler order. “More wine, please.”

You nod, keeping your gaze to the ground as you were meant to, and you make your way to his side. Prince Aegon's hand is forced to let go of you, and a weight is lifted off your shoulders—even if the heat of his hungry gaze bore holes into the back of your head that no amount of food or wine would satiate.

Prince Aemond sets his cup down, and you fill it. And when you've finished, he nods softly. “Thank you.”

For a split moment, your eyes meet. Prince Aemond's gaze is much more considerate than his brother's, but it is no less intense. His stare is dark, dangerous. He watches you, and he doesn't stop watching. Just as Prince Aegon never halts his scrutiny, neither does his brother's—at least when you're in the room. Prince Aemond, if nothing else, is kind enough not to stare when he's not in the room.

Prince Aegon never looks away.

You feel like a bird, a bird locked in a cage to be forced to sing, to be looked at and spectated until they lose interest and snap your neck to replace it with something better, something newer and prettier than a common songbird.

Sometimes you wish they would just go on and be done with it.

“You're welcome, my prince.” Your voice is small, a whisper. Though he seems kinder, the both of them scare you to death…one considerably more than the other.

Even now, your hands tremble, the clinking of the cups on the tray you carry echoing through the hollow walls. You take a steadying breath, willing your heart to calm as you assure yourself that you'll be fine.

The door you stand before is large, imposing. The room behind it is suffocating, it's dark and full of dangers that make you want to run. The idea of crossing this threshold into a world beholding so much danger and threat leaves you shaking. But you can't leave. How you wish you could leave…

You knock carefully to announce your presence before you push open the doors and hope for the best.

You take a step inside, glancing around anxiously. “My prince?” you call out as steadily as you can. Your body grows cold at the sight of him, lounging back in a chair with a cup in his hand.

Prince Aegon smiles devilishly at you, his eyes slightly sunken into his face, marked by exhaustion and drunkenness. “Ah,” he says, gesturing toward you with a coarse hand as you continue to walk further inside, keeping your head down. “She's brought my tea.”

The sound of a second voice washes over you in a sea of relief, and you briefly thank the gods for granting such rare mercy upon you. “It's a shame it shall go to waste,” he says. When you glance his way, the sight of Prince Aemond fills your gaze. His eye watches you as he sits back, and his gaze never wavers. “You and I both know you prefer your wines and ales.”

You walk to the table separating the brothers, setting the tray down. Just as you do, Prince Aegon rises to his feet, his cup in one hand as he walks over. You're nearly shaking, staring at the floor as you struggle to find your voice the closer he gets.

You have to clear your voice in order to speak. “Is- Is there anything else you need…my prince?”

He smiles, coming to stand at your side, his face so close to your cheek. You can hear the way he smells you, his sigh blowing against your shoulder. “Yes, there may be something you can help with…” You shudder, staring at the floor and refusing to look his way.

Without turning away from you, the prince speaks. “Dear brother, would you mind giving us some privacy?”

You close your eyes, willing the tears away as you try not to appear weaker than you already do. You flinch when you feel his knuckle brush your cheek.

Prince Aemond hums, clasping his hands in his lap. “But I'm quite comfortable here,” he says matter-of-factly.

You glance up at him, a glimmer of hope in your eyes as you look upon him. He's got the smallest grin on his face, but he doesn't even look at you. He watches his brother as his annoyed glare darts his way.

Prince Aegon looks like he'll fight his brother. His hand drops from your cheek. The breath you let out is silent. “Well, there are plenty of comfortable places in this castle, Aemond. Perhaps you might find yourself there instead.”

He shrugs. “But watch how well my boots fit perfectly when I place them here.” He lifts his feet, one after the other, to rest on the table near the tea tray. Again, he grins at his brother.

“Well, boots belong on the floor.”

“A shame for my feet, really. They do so enjoy a rest every once in a while.”

Prince Aegon's frustration is clear. He rolls his eyes and looks at you, a glimmer in his eyes that frightens you. He lowers his voice to a murmur. “Then perhaps you and I can go somewhere a little more private to…speak.”

You open your mouth to say something—you don't know what, likely just incoherent stammers of little value. Prince Aemond, it seems, is your ultimate savior.

“Unfortunately,” he interrupts, “that is not possible either. You see, she is busy.”

You both look at him to elaborate. Prince Aegon glances around the messy room and shakes his head. “I don't see a job needing tending to.”

You could name a few, but you really just want to leave.

Prince Aemond is unfazed. “I do,” he counters. He looks at you. His gaze betrays no sentiment, simply focus and a bit of amusement at frustrating his brother. “Girl, you are to take His Highness’ boots over there and shine them until they are brighter than the sun.” He tilts his head. “We can't have the prince walking around with dirty boots… Do you understand?”

You nod quickly, standing a little straighter. “Yes, my prince.”

He nods. “And they are especially disgusting, you might acquire some help while you do.”

You don't know why he is helping you, but who are you to question him when he is being so kind?

“Yes, my prince.”

He turns away from you then, reaching forward to grab a cup of tea from the tray. As he stirs it, he hums. “Make haste then.”

You move quickly, nodding as you break away from Prince Aegon's presence. He huffs, rolling his eyes as he watches his brother. You snatch up the boots, stopping by the door as you leave the both of them, not daring to look either in the eye. “My prince… my prince.”

You flee, and the door closes loudly behind you as you do. Aegon turns to his brother, shaking his head as he moves to sit once more. “My boots are not disgusting.”

Aemond hums. “You haven't seen your boots.”

~

The sound of fire and laughter and music fills the air. It's dark out, so dark it would be hard to see without the giant bonfire raging at the center. It's the most fun you've had in a while. Queen Alicent released you and a few of the other servants from duty for the night to enjoy the festivities as gratitude for hard work.

“Come on! You're no fun when you do not join the dance!” Emalia urges, pulling lightly on your arm so you would come with her and the others.

You lean back on your heels, laughing as you shake your head and balance your cup in your hand. “No! I do not need to make a fool of myself in front of the whole dynasty by tripping over my feet and falling flat on my face, Emailia.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please! Nobody is watching you.”

You wish that had been true.

“Besides,” she smirks at you slyly. “You may attract a man's eye.”

“All the more reason not to go.” She groans, unimpressed by your insistence of remaining a total bore. You smile, letting her go. “Go dance. I am perfectly content to stand here and watch.”

She hums, giving up as she turns on her heel to leave. You laugh lightly to yourself. As you cradle your cup in your hand, you raise it to your lips for a drink.

You'd been alone for no more than a minute, watching people holding hands as they danced around the roaring flames, before you had, in fact, caught a man's eye.

“Don't you look pretty tonight?”

You fumble your cup as it falls to the ground, spilling its contents over the dirt. Chills rush down your spine, devouring every slip of comfort in your body and leaving you cold. You keep your eyes down, staring at the wine in your cup as you try to find your voice buried in your distress.

His voice comes from behind you, a dark hum haunting your being. You try to keep your voice level, but it's hard when your entire body feels like it's shaking. “Th-Thank you, my prince,” you croak, your voice as quiet as can be.

Prince Aegon stands so close, you feel his body brush yours. You try not to tremble, but it's a useless task. His eyes bore into the side of your face, and you feel the heat of his gaze devouring the rest of you.

“So pretty, I just want to…steal you away.” He steps closer, his lips right by your ear as he whispers in a low voice, “Would you like that? For me to steal you away from here?” You squeeze your eyes shut, attempting to remain calm. “We could do anything, just the two of us.”

You swallow thickly, plastering a wobbly smile on your face. “I'm sure it would be…a lovely opportunity my prince, but..” You open your eyes again and take the smallest step away, turning slowly toward him. He steps even closer, hardly a foot away now. “But, um, I have to stay here with my friends… They'll be missing me if I go.”

Foolishly hoping to the gods that they hear your plea, you're met with the sight of his dark gaze. Your breath hitches as you take a step back. He pursues, shrugging lightly as he tilts his head.

“Or I could order you,” he says. “If I say you must go, then they cannot argue. I am the prince, after all.” He smirks, lifting his hand to touch your cheek. You flinch, but it only makes him chuckle. “Would you like me to order you, pretty girl? To take that burden off your shoulders?”

The way he says it… “pretty girl”. It makes your skin crawl. You wish you'd just gone and danced, or never shown up at all.

Your mouth opens, but words are very hard to find as you struggle to speak. “I…”

You can't refuse him. You can't send him away and tell him that the thought of his hands on you makes you want to vomit. You could be punished, killed. There's no version of this where you come out safely.

His gaze burns into your skin. His hand raises to pinch your chin, and his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip. As you struggle to find an answer, to find a way out of this very dangerous situation, Aegon feels another gaze upon his own skin.

He turns his head, his eyes searching for the object of his sudden unease.

A frown overtakes his lips as his glare locks onto another. For a moment, he keeps staring. It's a silent battle of wits, a battle of will. He should be able to have whatever he wants. He's the fucking Targaryen prince, and what he wants is your bound-to-be-virgin cunt wrapped around his cock. He is owed whatever he desires.

But this icy glare is one he cannot withstand. With a huff, he drops his hand from your face. You hold your breath, glancing up carefully to see what has changed.

“But alas,” he mumbles. “It seems my mother is calling me.”

The shock is written all over your face, a mix of fear and surprise that has his desire for you growing in his belly. He smirks again, taking one last step into whatever space you had left as he takes your hand.

You purse your lips as he eyes bore into yours. Prince Aegon raises your knuckles to his face, slotting his nose over them as he inhales your sweet scent. You shudder as he presses his lips to the round bumps of your hand. You jump when he nips them.

His eyes peek up at you as he grins. “I will be seeing you.” He drops your hand.

You swallow thickly as he takes a couple steps back. Tentatively taking your skirts in your hands, you curtsy. “My prince.”

He hums, and then he's gone. You stare after him, letting out a relieved breath as you come back to your senses. You bend slowly, retrieving your cup from the ground as you try to catch your breath.

When you rise to your feet, your gaze is caught by that of the prince across the field from you. He flickers at the other side of the bonfire, his gaze just as hot and just as burning as the fire itself.

He stands there and stares at you a few seconds more. Then, just like his brother, he disappears into the night.

You're left standing there, frightened to the very base of your being.

~

Quite frankly, you despise the training grounds.

It's dirty and full of spectators eager to drink in the sight of sparring princes. It even rained earlier that night, so you are left to stand in the filthy mud, holding a tray of water in your hands and waiting for the imminent end of this session.

They always train so early. Sure, you would have been awake either way, but your sleepiness mixed with the anxiety of the princes (mostly Prince Aegon) is not a good mix.

He keeps looking at you.

Prince Aegon's eyes follow you when he's not on an active attack. You do your best to keep your eyes on the wine, hoping it would keep his gaze from you. But it's hard to do so when the lingering heat of his watchful eye burns you from out to in.

You can't tell if you're grateful or not for Prince Aemond's seriosity in his training. On one hand, his hard focus on his opponent means he's not watching you. But on the other…that means Prince Aegon is not too inclined to keep his eyes forward.

You feel your arms growing tired the longer you stand there. With a sigh, you turn toward a table behind you, setting the tray down to offer your arms reprieve. You linger for a moment, closing your eyes to breathe before switching out the two pitchers of water to seem busy.

When you turn again, you nearly drop the tray onto the ground. The smallest yelp erupts from your throat as you're met with Prince Aegon's dark stare.

“Forgive me, my prince,” you nearly stutter.

He hums, grinning lightly. “That's alright.”

You duck your head a little, balancing the tray in one hand and refilling his cup with the other. You pass it carefully to him.

“Many thanks.”

You give a short nod. “You're welcome, prince.”

He watches you over the top of his cup as he takes generous sips. He never looks away. It’s awful, being forced to see. You look away from his intense eyes, finding it increasingly difficult to do what he wants. But this works for him either way. He loves to see you cower…

Prince Aegon sets the cup back on the tray. Not anticipating the action, your weak grasp tilts and sends the tray askew. The cup tips off the side, and your eyes widen in panic as you watch it spill its contents all over the front of his gear.

A terrible gasp rips from your throat at the sight of it, Prince Aegon's gear drenched in water, his cup on the muddy ground, you standing there unable to figure out what to do other than grovel at his feet.

The words stumble uncontrollably from your lips, drenched in utter terror at his response. “Oh, gods! I am so sorry. That was an accident. I didn't mean to–!”

But Prince Aegon is not angry. In fact, he's amused. He chuckles to silence you. “Come now, pretty girl. No need for that.”

You stare up at him, your eyes clouded by unshed tears invoked by such sudden fear. He takes a step closer, in permanent violation of the space you have to your person. His voice is a low murmur when he speaks. “You and I can sort this out. Just the two of us… in my chambers… tonight.” He tilts his head. “What do you say?”

You freeze, staring wide-eyed at the prince as you struggle to find a way to get out of this. You can't refuse him, you can't. But he isn't going to let you go. How are you meant to shed this man from your life? He has implemented himself and ensured there was no way to escape him, not without force.

Your mouth drops open but no words come out. But, as it seems to be like clockwork, temporary salvation settles over you.

“My prince!”

You both turn your head, laying eyes on Ser Criston Cole as he holds onto Prince Aegon’s training sword. He offers it to him. “Leave the poor girl alone, and come fight your brother.”

Prince Aegon rolls his eyes, swatting a dismissive hand at his knight as he turns back to you. His smirk returns, if only for a moment. “Will I see you again?” he wonders.

“Prince Aegon!” He grunts. “Leisure is the death of men.”

“I’m coming!”

He looks back at you, setting his frustration to the side for just a moment. You’re always interrupted, there’s always something requiring attention. But not tonight. No, tonight…he would have what he wants.

He tears his gaze away to stalk back toward his knight and his brother. Ser Criston hands him his sword. Your eyes shift, and you find Prince Aemond…just as you always seem to do.

He watches you—just for a single second. A single second that always seems to last so much longer. He takes you in before blinking away, as though he’d never laid his eye on you to begin with.

You duck your head and try to forget the whole thing.

You duck your head and pray to the gods that Prince Aegon will forget the whole thing…

~

“Girl.”

You close your eyes as you stop walking, planting your feet in the middle of the dimly lit hall. You hold your breath as you turn, bowing your head and properly addressing the man with a curtsey, a basket of sheets in hand. “My prince.”

Prince Aegon’s eyes are nearly as dark as the night surrounding the castle. They always seem so…consuming. Consuming in a way that begs for breath in depleted lungs. Consuming in a way that cries out for an end to the constant burning of eternal fire. You stare at the floor.

He crosses the space between you before he speaks. “I didn’t see you in my chambers.” He stands right in front of you now, generous with the couple of feet he distances you with—though he does not have much of a choice with the way you hold the basket between you.

You had hoped you’d been sly with your avoidance the night before. After he was dressed for dinner, you made quick work of tidying his chambers before you went to attend with the other servants to watch over the small feast with the royals. When he returned to his rooms, there was nothing else for you to do… You had no other reason to return, so you did not.

You had hoped he’d missed it.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry, my prince.”

“What kept you?” He steps forward, always stepping forward.

“My, um–” You struggle to come up with an answer quickly enough. “My-my errands. I was caught up with…with dinner.”

He tilts his head, not quite believing you as he continues his agonizingly slow advance. You find some solace, however, in his snail’s pace. It means every tiny little step you take away goes slightly unnoticed as you move to keep some distance between you and the prince.

“Well, dinner is over, and I require your assistance,” he insists. He raises his hands and takes the basket in his own hands. You try to keep your breath steady, but you’re hot with fear and anxiety. “I am your superior, am I not? You must obey me, and I say that you…” he takes your basket and drops it onto the ground without regard, walking farther past it, “...must come with me. We have a few wrongs we must right.”

When the cold feeling of the wall shoots up your spine, you’re frozen with fear. You nearly choke on your words, you struggle to even breathe correctly as you look around frantically for any sign of help. But it is so late, the castle is sleeping and any other servants awake at this time of night are preoccupied with their own tasks. Even if someone was awake, clouds cover every inch of the sky, and no one wishes to be bothered with the potential of rain in the open halls.

No one is going to help you.

“Forgive me, prince, but…” Your pulse is loud in your ear, you can hardly hear your words over it. You swallow thickly, speaking around your stutter, “I have… I have other duties.”

He’s getting frustrated now. He’s been denied you so many times now, too many times. You don’t expect him to display much patience anymore as he stands so close that your shoes touch and your arms are pinned to your chest. You can feel his breath on your face, thick with the permanent smell of wines and ales. His height over you is commanding, and you may just start crying before anything is done.

He speaks quietly, low. It’s a threat in the disguise of a reminder, and it hurts more than a slap to the face. “Your only duties, pretty girl, are to me.” He shakes his head gently. “I will not ask you again.”

His hands find your hips, and your whole body flinches at his touch. The smallest yelp drops from your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut. You’re shaking. You don’t actually realize it—there’s too much happening at one time—but you’re shaking. It feeds Prince Aegon’s hunger.

You force your eyes open, force yourself to look him in the eye as you shake your head.

“I don’t want to.”

He tuts gently, shaking his head as a terrible grin takes his lips. He even chuckles, it’s the faintest sound but it’s a chuckle and it shakes your soul. “Such a pity,” he hums. He tilts his chin down and whispers. “You don’t have a choice.”

One of his hands raises to grasp your face, but you swat it away. Surprised by your protest, something flickers in his eyes, and you know you’ve made a mistake beyond hitting a prince. He tries again, faster this time, but you’re so full of adrenaline that you’re faster. You keep smacking his hands away, squirming vastly as you try to shed his hands from you. When he does not relent, for even a moment, pressing his hips into you just to pin you into the wall, you do the unspeakable.

You slap him. Your palm meets his cheek with a force that whips his head to the sound, and you pale as you watch his skin turn pink.

The most dangerous smirk crosses his lips. He finds great pleasure in your fight. It’s the first real fight you’ve put up since the beginning of his conquest. It’s exciting, it’s thrilling. His blood pumps at the prospect of a hunt.

He turns back to you slowly, watching you with eyes that have become so much darker. They’re like black tar, an oozing kind of look that melds into your skin and leaves you feeling like you’re going to die. Maybe you will.

His hands grab you so tightly that you can’t possibly move him away. You fight anyway, flailing your arms and legs and trying to call out for anyone to help. You know your sounds are echoing, you can hear your shouts bouncing off the walls and filling the night… But part of you knows that no one will come to help.

Even if they can hear you past the thick walls, no one will come to help you.

Because he’s the prince, and you are just a servant girl. What are you to keeping their lives?

Prince Aegon wrestles you to the ground and lays you on your back, despite your protests, despite your resistance. He forces you to the ground, takes your wrists in his hands, laughs when the tears spill. You argue for him to stop, to let you go, to leave you be. You hope and pray and beg for him to listen. You curse the gods for their cruelty—you curse the Mother for her lies.

He gathers your wrists to one hand, and you think you’ll be sick when his hand gropes your breast so roughly that it hurts. “I knew you would be fun, pretty girl.” He laughs, high off the thrill. “I’ve waited so long for this, it’s only fitting we make it last–”

A harsh grunt leaves his throat when your foot finds purchase at his leg. Using all the strength you have, you manage to land a kick. His hands loosen considerably, enough for you to yank yourself from his hold. Just to give yourself more time, you kick again. This time, you manage to find purchase at his side. A string of curses falls from his lips, but you don’t have time to listen to them.

As soon as you’re free, you stand to your feet and bolt down the hall. You don’t know if you’ve ever been faster, the way you speed through the corridors. Your heart thunders in your ears, your tears tickle your face, your breath scratches your throat. But you can hear him behind you.

It’s a stalking sound. That kind of sound that tells you he doesn’t waste strength trying to run after you. His pursuit is taunting, it’s haunting. It forces more sobs from you, and it makes it hard to see past the tears gathering in your eyes. You look behind yourself. It feels like he’s right there–

You run into something solid. Knocked to the ground, you grunt at the pain that blooms along your body at the fall. You open your eyes and look up to see what’s stopped your escape, and you feel a sudden wave of relief. It’s not a gaze that especially calms your nerves, but it’s enough to know that you might actually have a chance at safety.

“Prince Aemond!” you cry, moving to kneel before him as you duck your head. You stumble over your words, it’s so hard to speak past the fear, the pain in your throat, all of it. You do your best. “I-I’m sorry, you… Your brother, he’s chasing me and he-he’s trying to, to hurt me, and I–”

There’s no use in trying to speak coherently anymore. You break down into sobs, sobs full of broken rambles that are fueled by the emotions demolishing you. You look truly pathetic like this, you know you do—covered in tears, your lip wobbling, your chest heaving with desperate breaths.

Prince Aemond looks upon you, his face a mask of almost indifference. There’s a spark of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. But, quite frankly, you don’t care. As long as he helps you. He’s been helping you all this time, surely he won’t turn his back now when you truly need him.

You don’t know what possesses you to grab his hand. You’re just glad he doesn’t seem upset when you do it. You hope he understands you when you beg, “Please don’t let him touch me, please!”

His taunting footsteps re-enter your mind as they come to a stop somewhere behind you. Your blood runs cold when you hear him.

“Brother.”

You startle, genuinely yelping when you scramble to your feet and rush to stand behind Prince Aemond, putting him between you and his brother and using him as your shield. To your sweet relief, the prince puts his hand out and holds your arm, keeping you behind him. Keeping you under his protection. You let out a shuddering sigh.

“Aegon,” he returns, his voice calm and measured. His gaze is unyielding, as it always is. You just hope that, as it always is, Prince Aegon is no match for it. “Are you tormenting this poor girl again?”

He laughs. “Tormenting? Heavens no. We’re just having a bit of fun,” his gaze shifts to you, “aren’t we?”

You press yourself more into Prince Aemond, hiding as best you can.

Prince Aegon can’t decide if he’s amused or annoyed. “And even if I was, the little thing put her hands on me.” He raises his brows. “These things can’t go unpunished.”

It’s silent for a moment as Prince Aemond contemplates something. He glances over his shoulder, not quite looking at you as he questions. “Is this true?”

You swallow thickly. You can’t lie. It’s the prince’s word against yours, and you did put your hands on him… If anyone finds out, you could—would be killed. Your voice wavers as you confess timidly. “Yes, my prince.”

Prince Aegon smiles. “You see? She admits it.” He takes a step forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Terror grips you. “No–!”

“Step away, brother.”

He stops in his tracks, staring at his brother with a furrowed brow. Unimpressed by his jest, he gives an empty laugh. “Excuse me?”

Prince Aemond tilts his head, raising a brow. “I do not believe a stutter passed my lips.” His hand lands on the hilt of his blade, a warning. “I said step away.”

Prince Aegon’s lips curl in a sneer, but his eyes…his eyes hold a predatory gaze that make you feel like you’re already trapped in the beast’s maw. “She’s my servant girl. I can do as I please. Give her to me now.”

He remains unfazed. “I do not believe I will be doing that.”

“Get out of my fucking way, Aemond.” He advances, his eyes on you as he comes forward to take what is rightfully his. You begin to protest, scared sobs falling from your lips as you panic.

But Prince Aemond takes his own step forward, but his gaze is much harder, and his determination is much more dangerous. “Touch her and we shall both be half blind, brother.” His threat is level and true, and you feel yourself alighting with more fear at the sound of it. He tilts his head. “Now run along. I’m sure you’ve got a pillar to milk.”

Rage covers every inch of Prince Aegon’s face. He huffs as he shakes his head, moving to cover the distance. “You fucking–”

Everything seems to go completely still for a moment. The air is stagnant and all breath ceases when Prince Aemond raises his blade to his brother’s face, the sharpest end only inches from his blue eye.

But Prince Aemond remains unfazed. His gaze is piercing, his posture is strong. His voice is low and level.

“Do it.”

They stare at one another, another silent standoff. You’re still holding your breath.

Prince Aegon’s lips curl into a smirk. A chuckle slips past his lips as he takes a step back. He yields.

“Well played, brother.” He sucks on a tooth, turning his dark gaze to you as his eyes glitter with apparent amusement. You’d hoped you were turning out to be more trouble than you’re worth, but the only thing you’ve achieved tonight was sweetening the prize. “Don’t worry, pretty girl… I will be seeing you soon.”

He spares one last glance at his brother before turning on his heel and walking away. Prince Aemond relaxes a bit, letting his blade return to its holster as he sighs gently. When the other prince has fully retreated, he hums.

“Come with me.”

He turns and walks down the hall. It takes you a moment to catch up as the adrenaline begins, slowly, to fade, replacing itself with an immense amount of exhaustion. You turn and walk after him, wiping your face to try to rid yourself of the tears that had begun to dry.

You follow him down the winding corridors until you eventually end up on the familiar path of his bedchambers. When you arrive, he opens the doors without a word. It’s implied that you follow, so you do. He closes the doors behind you, and you slowly come to stand in the room, feeling so awkward here. It’s so late, surely you need to leave and try to retire for the night, put this whole thing behind you for a few hours.

Your voice is timid, your fingers hesitant as you rub at your face. “Are you sure I should be here?”

The prince walks past you, trailing to a table where a bowl of now-cold water and a cloth sit. “You can be wherever I say you can be,” he says dismissively. As he wets the cloth, he beckons you closer. You have to urge your legs to move, dragging yourself over to sit in the chair he is gesturing for you to take. You don’t look at him, anxiety still whispering in your bones.

“Are you hurt?” he asks as he tilts your chin up, beginning to carefully wipe away the tears that have covered your face.

It feels strange, but…nice. It’s nice to be taken care of. You’re too drained and too quieted to wonder why you’re being taken care of. You just want to calm down.

“No,” you mumble, sighing to calm your nerves. “Thank you.”

He continues to dab at your face. “Don’t thank me yet.”

You furrow your brows, looking up as you lock eyes. He’s…sort of pretty. You hadn’t really had the time or the mind to notice it before, but you don’t intend to make a habit of noticing. Once this night is over, you intend to forget it all.

“Beg pardon?” you wonder.

He stops what he’s doing, setting the cloth back in its bowl. Looking back at you, he tilts his head. His voice does not change. “You laid your hands on the prince.”

Just like that, the fear and anxiety return. You’re already tongue-tied as you try to defend yourself. “He was trying to hurt me–”

“It does not matter,” he says, as though it means nothing. And it does. He shrugs as he continues to watch you. “My brother has a reputation but he is the prince, and you are just a girl.” He hooks his knuckle under your chin, tilting your head to look up at him a little more. “Who do you think they will believe?”

Your breath picks up once more, a heavy thing in your chest that makes you feel like you may faint. You wet your lips, shaking your head. “It was an accident. I was scared, a-and I panicked. I–”

“It is not I who questions your words,” he hums. “It will be the public’s when they learn you tried to seduce the prince.”

Your heart pounds so heavily in your chest. You swear you can hear each thump against your ribs. “But I didn’t–” You pause at the look on his face. It is not him who questions your words. You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands clasped in your lap as you try to gather your thoughts. Your voice is so quiet when you speak again, weak with your defeat. “What am I to do?”

He seems pleased that you have begun to ask the right questions. He pulls away from you, removing his holster from around his waist to set his weapons down. “Even if he says nothing, you are still his servant, and I cannot be there at every turn to help you.” He looks at you once more, his eye unwavering. “One way or another, he will have his way with you… and no one will care when they hear your screams down the hall.”

You duck your head, fiddling with your hands as these terrible feelings eat away at you. But then he speaks again, carrying words that have you glued to his every sound. “There is a way, of course, that I can help you.”

You sigh. “I’ll do anything.”

The slightest smirk curves his lips. He walks back toward you, his steps so slow, so measured. Every step he takes fills you with a strange kind of dread. His voice is so soft, the opposite of the fear-inducing sound of Prince Aegon’s.

“My brother will care less about you if you are…” he raises his hand to the top latch of his garb, undoing it slowly, “...already sullied.”

Your eyes widen as you watch him unlatch each metal piece with a clink, clink clink. A shivering heat courses through your veins, the kind of heat that has your body covered in gooseflesh. A million thoughts rush within your mind, but you haven’t the slightest clue what any of them are saying.

Had he been any other boy from in King’s Landing—a peasant from Flea Bottom, a servant in the Red Keep, a merchant from Cobbler’s Square—you would have watched with bated breath, accepted his proposal with a shy grin, fingers shaking only with the anticipation of a night of pleasure. Had he been anyone else, you might have considered sharing the night, knowing and accepting that you’d likely have to take his hand to avoid the shallow slanders of society.

But he is not a merchant from Cobbler’s Square, or a servant in the Red Keep, and he most certainly is not a peasant from Flea Bottom. He is Prince Aemond Targaryen, the son of Queen Alicent and King Viserys I, the rider of Vaghar, the second largest dragon in the world.

You cannot do this and come out unburnt.

Your throat is dry as you try to shake your head. “I-I can’t.” You stumble over your words uselessly. “I’m— You’re— We–”

He hums. “I can just tell them that you attacked the prince.” Fear strikes your head like a chord. “Of course, you would lose a hand…if not your life.”

A tear slips down your cheek to replace the old ones. “Please, my prince–”

“There’s only one way to solve this,” he says, walking toward you once more so that you’re forced to look up at him. He’s taller than Prince Aegon, and his gaze can be just as dark. “I can give you back to the beast, who will maul until he gets what he wants…” Your eyes close, trying to force the memory from your mind. He tilts his head and waits for you to look at him again.

“Or I can ruin you for him.” His proposal sends an unwanted shiver down your spine. You audibly sigh at his suggestion. “Then he shall no longer have interest in you.”

The gods have a strange sense of humor. Every time you suppose they’ve answered your prayers, they offer an alternative that you fight to determine better or worse. No win can ever simply be a win, no salvation can ever simply be salvation. It seems even now…that you’ve traded one beast for another. Now you’re forced to choose between the lesser of two evils.

Your throat is dry. You have to clear it in order to find words to speak, timid words that find a lot of difficulty in breeching your lips. You look up at him, your eyes wet.

“He won’t want me anymore?” You wipe at your eyes, trying to dry your constant tears. “You’ll…” You clear your throat. “You’ll protect me?”

Prince Aemond watches you closely, his gaze betraying no hesitance. He raises a hand to your cheek, brushing his thumb under your eye line to rid yourself of your tears. “You have my word,” he nearly whispers.

You look down at your hands, steeling your nerves as you squeeze your eyes shut.

It’s one night. Then you shall be free from the torment of the eldest Targaryen prince. Your troubles shall be put in the past. Just one night…then all will be well.

You just pray this beast is kinder.

You slowly rise to your feet, your fingers almost lethargic in their movements as you hold your breath. He's taller than his brother, just by an inch or two. It's enough that you have to crane your neck even more to look up at him. It has a strange effect on you, one that makes you even shier than you were two moments ago.

You sheepishly raise a hand to your shoulder, pushing your apron off until your arms are free from it. Letting your breath free, you release your arm from the sleeve next. It takes forever, it feels like, to shed yourself of your clothes. But when you’re bare before him, you can’t help but to cover yourself with your arms, trying to preserve what little ounce of dignity you have left.

But there’s no use in it now. He raises hand, slowly so as not to scare you, and touches your waist. You nearly shudder at the feeling, so foreign to you. He drinks in the sight of you, feasting on your body in gentle praise. You drop your arms, allowing him to see all of you.

“My brother was right about one thing,” he hums, licking his bottom lip between his teeth. “You are a pretty girl.”

It feels so different when he says it. It shouldn’t. His actions are almost as selfish as his brother’s, though at least you gain something from your nearing fate. But those words on his lips, they caress you. They send shivers down your spine and offer the smallest salve to the raging nerves preventing you from being calm.

You struggle to find your voice, not yet able to meet his eyes.

“I…” you sigh in an attempt to steady your nerves. “I am at your…your full service, my prince.”

One of his hands continues to rest at your hip, holding you close as his palm strokes your skin. You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. It just…it feels so nice. It’s so hard to resist a touch as nice as this one. His other hand reaches up to cup your cheek, and you’re forced to open your eyes to meet his gaze.

He brushes the apple of your cheek, staring into your eyes. His words have your blood rushing, your breath becoming thin. “Have you ever had your lips around a cock before?”

Your eyes flutter at the question as you shake your head. “N-No.”

“Someone’s mouth on your cunt?”

Your throat is so dry, you keep having to swallow. “No, my prince.”

He hums. You can’t tell if he sounds pleased or not. “I suppose you’ve done nothing.”

“Never.”

His thumb strokes your cheek again. You lean absently into his touch. “That’s alright,” he says. He lets go of you to shrug the top layer of his clothes off, leaving him in his tunic and trousers. It’s already such a forbidden sight, heat rushes to your cheeks at a glimpse of it—as though you were not already standing bare before him. “I shall teach you.”

When his lips meet yours, you gasp against his mouth as your head begins to spin. You’re so startled by the sudden movement, it takes you a moment to actually realize what’s happened, let alone for you to gather the sense to kiss him back. His hand wraps around the back of your head to bring you closer, and a whining sound comes out of you when you feel his tongue slipping into your mouth.

This whole thing is so foreign to you, so forbidden and exciting and terrifying. Your breath shudders against his lips, and he feeds off your apprehension. He steps forward into you, and you nearly stumble back in an effort to keep up. You’re forced to stop your backpedal when the hard wood of the table digs roughly into your back.

Your stomach churns with a feeling unfamiliar to you, and you lean into it because you have nowhere else to lean. Aemond’s hands hold you tightly, his lips never relent as they suckle around yours. The tingling in your body has become so strong, your legs feel like they’re trembling, like your knees will give out any moment now.

When he pulls away from you, your breaths mingle in the short amount of space between you. They’re thick with whatever it is you’re feeling, this all-consuming lust that leaves you dizzy and wanting. You’re still so close, your lips brush against one another in a silent, teasing chase.

And you know you’ve passed the point of no return when you capture his lips once again, sighing into his mouth and delving into the desire driving you. You’re losing breath and your legs are becoming less and less capable of keeping you up, but you don’t care. You just need to keep tasting him, his lips, his tongue.

You reach for his tunic, pulling the fabric from his trousers and slipping your hands underneath it to feel the strength in his belly. He’s soft, smooth, but you can feel his muscles flexing against your touch. Aemond is the one who pulls away, panting heavily as he watches you. A smirk curves his lips and leaves you weak. You watch him take a small step back, lifting his shirt over his head and discarding it carelessly on the floor. You’re drunk on the sight of him, your lashes fluttering as you drive your teeth into your bottom lip.

When he pulls at his belt, you don’t know what to do. You just stand there, watching his deft hands as they begin to unbuckle it, pulling it from its proper place with a grand sweep. It drops heavily to the floor, and his trousers soon follow.

You hold your breath, staring at the erection between his legs. He’s long and flushed pink. You don’t know what to do, how to react. As you both stand naked before one another, the only thing you can really think to do is drink the other in.

Aemond interrupts your thoughts as he grabs your face again, smashing his lips against yours. You whine again, your tentative hands grazing his sides with a hesitant appreciation. He keeps kissing you as he moves, and you’re too distracted with the way his mouth feels against yours to do much else but stumble after him.

You’re forced to part when he sits down, his hands falling to your hips as he grips them tightly. “Get on your knees for me, pretty girl.”

The words wash over you with a shudder. You know that saying that is a show of power, a flaunt. He stole you from his tyrannical brother, and now you fall apart at the sound of the same name he’d been calling you. With no choice but to obey—both from obligation and a crumbling will—you do as he says as you slowly sink down to your knees.

You stare up at him, your eyes glittering, your lips parted. Aemond takes a moment, admiring the view before him with a sigh and the shake of his head. He thinks you look simply…perfect like this, awaiting his instruction with such an innocence about you.

“I want you to lick it,” he says simply.

You flush, feeling the heat burning in your face, feeling your core pulsing with a sudden desire. Your lips open and close, trying to figure out how to respond. You don’t know how.

Aemond wraps a hand around the back of your head, his fingers weaving their way through your hair. Slowly, he pulls you in until your nose nudges his cock. You sigh, the warm breath fanning over him and making him twitch. Swallowing thickly, you steel your nerves as you timidly let your tongue slip past your lips. Closing your eyes, you do as you’re told and you lick it.

He has an interesting taste, a salty kind filled with a heady scent that invades your senses. Your mind is clouded by lust, your fingers tremble. He closes his eye as he sighs. “Good, just like that. Do it again.”

You lean into the gentle praise, becoming a little braver as you continue to lave your tongue along the underside of his cock. It’s not hard to become addicted to it, his taste, his smell. It’s like you’ve been doused in a potion, one that intoxicates you with the strong scent of him.

You let his sighs guide you as your tongue presses against the vein running up his solid cock. He’s hard, and it’s daunting that he feels so stone-like. You take the initiative as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, suckling gently around it as you swirl your tongue along the slit.

Aemond’s lips part, and he opens his eye to look at you again. “Good,” he says. “Very good. Suck harder.”

You do, rewarded with a gentle grunt that sends shivers all throughout your body. His hand flexes in your hair, and your breath hitches slightly when he pushes you an inch further onto his cock. Adjusting your mouth, you move to take him deeper, sucking him down however you can. Then, just as he’d pushed you down, he guides you back up. Following his lead, you move on your own, moving up and down and up down until you’ve built a steady rhythm.

“Good girl,” he breathes, this kind of hum that is far more rewarding than you would have thought. You follow his sounds, bobbing your head up and down his shaft with a growing enthusiasm. “Give me your hand.” He holds out his own for yours to take, and you do, pulling off of him with a sigh.

He guides your hand to his cock, wrapping your fingers around the base of him. His hand consumes yours as he covers it, squeezing it tight until a groan falls from his lips. He moves it up and down, setting your rhythm, up and down, just like before, up and down.

His hand guides you back down and you take him back into your mouth. You hear the faintest “fuck” breach his lips, and a light feeling floods your system. You must be doing it right. Another “good girl” falls from his lips, and you melt.

You build up some speed, squeezing hard and sucking harder to give him the pleasure he needs. Your jaw and your neck aches, but you’re too caught up in the way his moans sound to care. Your throat catches on a gag when you go too deep, and you gasp on your way up, pausing for a moment to adjust before you take him again.

You feel Aemond’s hips beginning to twitch, rising off the seat a bit as he seeks the warmth of your mouth. When they buck up into you, forcing a gag to erupt out of you, your other hand shoots up to hold him still, nearly panicking when he does. “Yes,” he huffs. “You’re doing so well, pretty girl.”

A whimper leaves your throat, and his breath hitches. As your hand jerks at his cock, he grips your hair and pulls you off of him with a grunt. Your tongue lolls from your mouth, and you have to catch your breath as fresh invades your lungs. His next curse is much clearer as his chest rises and falls with his desire.

“Fuck,” he huffs. His gaze finds you, and he smirks at the sight of your wet eyes and plump lips. “Very good, my sweet thing.”

One of his hands wraps around your throat, and you gasp before his lips find yours again. You lean into it, loving the way his mouth slots so perfectly with yours. He grabs a hold of you as he wills you to stand with him. “My prince,” you sigh between kisses, drinking the lust he pushes down your throat.

You yelp when he dips down and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he walks away with you. You hold on tightly to him, finding it so difficult to pull away from his lips. “Aemond,” he corrects you, his teeth closing around your bottom lip. You lick it, pleasantly startled by it.

The smallest scream passes your lips when Aemond suddenly drops you onto his bed. He chases after you, bending over it just to continue his attack of your lips. You cradle his face in your hands, indulging in this forbidden pleasure. He breaks from your lips, his mouth finding your neck as he kisses and licks and sucks and bites at the skin. You gasp at the feeling, your mind hazy with it.

His hands roam your skin, his dull nails grazing it with a certain longing. His lips trail down, down, down. He kisses the lowest part of your belly, lifts your leg as he moves to kiss your knee. He watches you as he does it. He doesn’t say a word, he just stares into your eyes with every peck against your flesh.

Uncontrollable shudders rush through you as his lips press against the inside of your thigh, his tongue darting to lick, his teeth nipping. He goes farther and farther, closer and closer. You don’t think you’ll be able to handle it when he reaches the prize he seeks.

Your words come out as a peep. “My prince.”

He pauses at the very center of your being, his mouth so close that his breath ghosts over you, teasing you. He lingers there, his hands gripping the underside of your thighs. “Aemond.”

His voice is low, almost dangerous. You feel too light and floaty to feel the real danger that is this man. You’re in no position to refuse as you take in a shallow breath. “Aemond,” you whisper.

Then he smirks. It’s a devilish thing that leaves you burning.

You gasp when he dives between your legs, his hot mouth meeting your hot cunt as he laps and sucks at your folds. Your back arches off the bed, and you’re overcome with this consuming feeling that leaves you wanting more, more, more. You whimper, stumbling over your incoherent words. “F-Fuck, Aemond.”

He’s hungry for you, starving as he devours you. It’s hot and heavy, and you’re left absolutely shaking in his grasp. His arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you close and keeping you down.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping his silver locks and holding them tight to find something to ground you. You can't breathe, you can't think. It's all white noise, the sounds of wet on wet, his heavy breaths, your weak moans. It's utterly intoxicating. You don't think you'll survive.

“Oh, g-gods,” you gasp. “I c-can't. It's so… fuck, it's so good. Please don't stop!”

It’s like music to his ears. The highs of your moans, the lows of your grunts. It feeds his hunger, his pride, his desire. It writhes within him like the fire that writhes within his mighty dragon.

Aemond’s tongue licks and flicks at your clit, coaxing you closer and closer. As you tug at his hair, deep groans erupt from his throat. As your release nips at your heels, beckoning you, luring you toward that edge like a siren’s call, his name echoes off your tongue. He holds you down as you grind against his face, searching for more of him, a glutton for the pleasure he provides.

“Aemond,” you gasp, your body tensing as you get closer. “I’m so close. Please don’t stop–”

Your mouth drops open, your entire body suddenly alight with ecstasy as you reach that boiling point. White flashes behind your eyes as desperate shudders wreck you from the inside out. Your thighs tighten around his head, and his tongue never lets up as he continues to lap at your cunt. You gasp and moan and ride out your high like you’re afraid you’ll never feel it again.

He doesn't let up through your orgasm. He drinks it down, ever the starved man craving your honey. When the trembling has dulled down, and he thinks you can breathe again, Aemond sits up with a rather pleased look on his face. “You taste,” he hums, a large smirk covering his face as he licks his lip, “magnificent, pretty girl.” You melt at his praise.

When his finger teases the seam of your cunt, you look at him quickly, unsure of what you’re looking for. You whine when he presses his finger inside of you, pushing it in deep. The sensitivity matched with the slight stretch is maddening—and when he curls it, you lose your breath in your whimper.

You curse, not quite sure how to feel between your fresh release and his long finger seated so nicely within you. You cannot tell if you want to beg for more or ask him for a reprieve, if only for a moment. A moment to catch your breath, which is so frequently lost with this man.

But he’s far too happy to watch you tremble—and you do tremble. It’s hard not to when he plays your body like a player to a lyre. He thrusts his finger slowly in and out of you, content with the way you pant until he isn’t. As he adds a second finger, you clench your teeth and stifle a moan at the stretch. It’s a nice kind of stretch, it’s pleasant and warm but it drives you to madness.

He thrusts his fingers in and out of you, curling them against a spongy spot within you that arches your back in the same manner. The more he strokes you, the more you moan, and the faster he goes. His rhythm is quick and precise, and it's so blinding as it fills the air with the sounds of your moans, your squelching cunt, his eager breaths.

The pleasure swirls in your brain. It's the kind of pleasure that is just as much in your head as it is in your body, and you can hardly think past it. Bending down to meet you, his lips capture yours again. You moan into his mouth as they slide against each other. There's nothing tender about this kiss. There's never been anything tender about it. He's needy and primal, and it's the opposite of the composure this man holds as he walks about the castle with all the regality and elegance of a prince.

The way that you feel this pleasure is anything but elegant. You feel it with jerky limbs, with sharp gasps, with whining moans. You feel it with tugged hair and clasped thighs and clenched jaws. It's uncontrolled and incredibly indulgent. There's no restraint, as much as you try to keep yourself in check, he yanks these things from you and makes it impossible to be elegant.

“Such a good girl, you are,” he purrs, nipping at your earlobe. The praise goes straight to your core, straight to your pulsing clit. You're already so close, you feel the ebb and flow of a release pulling at you. “I can already imagine how perfect you'll feel around my cock.”

A whimper escapes you—a pathetic sound, really. He swallows it down like a sweet elixir, drunk on the taste, drunk on the feel. He could spend forever here, with his fingers shoved in your cunt and his mouth all over your body.

When he breaks away from your lips, he moves down your body and attacks your cunt, fingers still thrusting. You react immediately, rolling your hips against him as his tongue laps at your clit. You're so caught up in it that it takes no time at all for you to come again, this time all over his hand.

You shake as you shout, high-pitched whines and shallow breaths and blinded eyes. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and he keeps coaxing the ends of your release from you even after you've settled.

When you go limp against the sheets of his bed, he pulls his hand out of you. You feel heavy, your eyes drooping and your chest still full of needy breath. You forget, for a moment, that you're not done. It's hard to keep up so fresh out of your virginity. You never thought you would lose it so thoroughly.

Aemond kisses your release from his fingers, humming at the taste of you with a growing appreciation. His hand wraps around his cock, and he groans. He's still so hard, and you wonder briefly if it hurts.

“Sit up, pretty girl,” he beckons, holding a hand out for you.

It takes a moment for your body to follow the order. When you do you grasp his hand as he helps you up. He wraps an arm around your waist, the other at his side as he pulls you in and kisses you with as much hunger as he began.

When he lets you go, he does so to move off the bed. You sit there, attempting to gather your thoughts. Everything is still so hazy, there's a slight confusion that is so difficult to gauge.

Aemond sits at the head of the bed, sitting back as he watches you for a moment. He seems to be giving you the moment you're needing. It doesn't last too long, though, because he reaches an arm out and wraps it around you to bring you to him, back to chest.

You can feel his cock pressing into your back as his lips brush the shell of your ear. A shudder runs down your spine.

“I am going to fuck you now,” he purrs in your ear. The smallest whimper escapes you, and his lips kick at the sound. “But before I do, I must tell you how much I've been craving you.”

You lean into him, no sense or care for the danger this situation puts you in. “I've been watching you.” A dull tingle sparks in your gut, arising in the tips of your fingers, of your ears. He was always watching you.

“You're such a lovely little thing.” He hums, “A sweet girl, a shy girl. No wonder my brother wants you so much. It's the only sensible thing he's ever done.”

He takes a deep breath in, his nose pressed into your hair as he does. With a sigh, he chuckles. “How lucky I am to have gotten to you first.” His hand flattens against your belly while the other strokes the inside of your thigh.

“You see, my brother…he would have ravished you.” The idea makes you cold, you have to force away the heat that pushes at your eyes. “But me…” you can feel his smirk against your ear as he whispers, “...I am going to ravage you.”

Your voice is a small murmur of a thing when you speak. You reach over your shoulder, your fingers finding his hair. “Please…” you whimper.

Aemond turns you around, lifting you up as he moves you to sit in his lap. His cock sits against your belly, and you lose breath just looking at him. You watch his face as his gaze covers you. His arms wrap tightly around your body, and when he kisses you, he has to move up to do it.

You cradle his head in your hands as you do, grinding your hips against him in your haste. He groans as you do, enjoying the way your pussy rubs against him. His strong hands wrap around your thighs, lifting you up again as he positions you over him.

When he eases you down, you whine into his mouth. But the intrusion doesn't stop as he presses deeper and deeper into you. Your thighs meet his lap, and you break the kiss to let out a heavy sigh at how far he sits within you.

You linger there, your mind hazy with the stretch as your body goes limp. It feels so good.

Aemond's hands flex on your thighs, and you moan when he presses you down, squishing your bodies together in an attempt to go deeper. “I can feel you clenching around me,” he huffs. “Do you want me, pretty girl? Do you want me to make you feel good?”

You roll your hips a little in his lap, your voice a permanent whine in your ear as you keep him close, your face buried in the crook of his neck. “Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please fuck me, Aemond.”

He shifts his hands to grip your ass, and the moan that falls out of you is high and heavy. You hold him tighter, grinding down into his lap.

You fall into a steady rhythm soon enough—his hands guiding your rolling hips, your pitched moans, his strained breaths. Your thighs shake around him, it's so hard to keep it steady when you need more.

It drives you as you fuck yourself on his cock, searching even deeper for that pleasure, You're not used to the heat curling in your belly. It's white-hot, consuming. It makes you so hard to focus as it slowly begins to become all you know.

For a moment, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be a dragon. This overwhelming heat which makes a home inside of you. Hoarding, nesting, conquering. You wonder if this feeling is what makes the Targaryens what they are, rulers.

But then you remember. You remember who you are. You remember that dragons are fierce, and you could never even imagine being as fierce as even the smallest of the Targaryen beasts.

So you lose yourself in the pleasure until all you know is Aemond. His lips press against your skin as you ride him, his fingers digging into your skin as he licks and bites at your neck, your collarbone, your chest. When his lips wrap around your nipple, you're done for as you throw your head back. Pushing your chest closer to him, you bounce in his lap and indulge in this pleasure.

His moans vibrate within you. You're left gasping as his tongue digs into your nipple and sends electricity flowing through your veins. “Aemond, please,” you mewl. “Don't stop.” His tongue glides toward the valley of your breasts, and you arch your back into him when he claims your other nipple.

A sudden crack of thunder resembling a dragon's roar deafens you for a moment, and a startled gasp slips from you at the sound. You had not even realized it had been raining. If it weren't for the bliss clouding your mind, you would feel foolish for not hearing the rain sooner as it slaps against the windows of his chambers.

In your brief distraction, Aemond brings you in tight as he pushes you onto your back, and you yelp as you tighten your arms around him. His figure towers over you, and you hesitate for a moment as you stare into his eye.

He's pretty. It has an almost sobering effect on you. If you forget who and what he is, if you forget (for the moment) why you are here… you think that this is the man who you would allow to sweep you off your feet.

But he isn't, and he can't be. He is your prince and (for lack of better word) savior. You owe him a debt, which you will pay and move on.

So when his hips snap into you, you lose yourself all again to make all of this easier. Like the pouring rain outside, his sudden thrusts are quick and persistent. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt matches that of the rain smacking against stone, against earth. You hold onto him, arms and legs, as he fucks you.

He holds you close, like he'll keel over if you disappear. His sounds, though deep and heavy, hold a certain desperation in them that transcends blind lust. As you moan in his ear and ramble nonsensically about how good he's making you feel, he buries his face in the crook of your neck and feasts at your throat.

Somehow, this position allows him to drive deeper within you. You're left gasping, seeing stars with every slap of his hips. One hand cradles the back of your head, tangled in your hair as you moan. The other grasps your hip and refuses to let go as he holds you still.

The rain outside carries on. It's more fitting than a silent night. The thunder rumbles and roars, just like the heat writhing within the both of you. “Do you like it, pretty girl?” he mutters in your ear, his breath thin and his voice low. “Do you like how I’m fucking you?”

You’re losing it, teetering on the edge of senseless bliss. There’s too much pleasure shooting in your body and nowhere to put it as you clench and shake and moan. “I can’t–” you stutter, wrapping your legs tighter around him. “Please, my prince, I can’t!”

“Do you want me to make you cum, pretty girl? Is that what you want?” His excitement and desperation mix in a heavy encouragement that has his hips thrusting rougher into your own. It feels so good for you to be able to think about what he’s asked. All you know is that he’s going to let you cum, and that’s all you want right now. You crave it, like the soil craves water, like your lungs crave air.

As you pull him tight within your embrace, you're driven by your need as you nod. “Yes, yes, yes, please.” You gasp at the roll of his hips. “I’ll do anything. Please give it to me.”

He loves hearing you say that. I’ll do anything. Part of him wonders just how far you would go. You’re already fucking him, the prince, in order to escape his brother, another prince. If he had his way—and it’s likely he will—you’ll find yourself in this position more than once following this encounter.

He just supposes you ought to be more careful to whom you speak those words.

“Beg for it,” he demands, his lips lazy against your skin. “Beg for me to keep fucking you. Beg for me to cum in you, to let you cum on my cock. Beg me to give you what you want, pretty girl.”

You’re too far gone to care, and your dignity has long since been shed. You’ve already sold your soul, you’ve already given up the virginity that’s meant to be reserved for a husband—were he ever to find his way to you. You have nothing left to lose but your life, and that has already been sold to the Targaryen reign.

So, as the thunder rumbles, you let the pleads fall. “Please, Aemond, let me cum,” you stutter. “Please cum inside of me. I need you.”

He’s losing control. It’s a confusing, conflicting feeling. He needs the control, he needs to feel it in his hands, especially as he takes you—something that was rightfully his when he decided you were. But you…oh, you just had to be so perfect, so obedient, so good. His control was slipping, and it was your fault, and part of him didn’t even care.

He held you still and he held you down as he fucked his cock into your squelching pussy and cricled his dept fingers over your aching clit. The sight of your tearing eyes as your foreheads pressed together was addicting.

You are the first to cum. The thunder outside of his window is loud, a terrible rumble that almost silences your desperate moans, the sobbing breaths that fall from your lips as you see white. The pleasure overcomes you like the pouring rain that drowns the ground in its consuming cover. You hold him tight, too tight perhaps. But there’s not enough sense in your mind to care.

You clench so tightly around his cock, he doesn’t understand how he was supposed to resist. With a few powerful thrusts, he spills inside of you with a low groan that sounds like a roar with the way it is drowned by the raging crack of thunder that deafens you both. Your cunt swallows his cock and his cum down, milking every last drop as he fucks it into you in deep, short thrusts.

You shake and tremble, still so caught on the ride that is the orgasm still ripping through your body. Aemond’s teeth graze the skin of your throat as his breath fans over your skin.

It takes a long time for either of you to come down. Tremors glide through your muscles as you lay on your back, your limbs very slowly loosening from around him as you lay limply on the bed. Your breaths mingle, an exchange of sobering lust which turns to solemn clarity for you and satiated hunger for him. As his gaze catches your face, he hums as he leans in and captures your lips.

As wrong as you know it is—though you know you’ve passed the point of moral obligation—you can’t help but to kiss him back. This man has consumed you, body and mind and soul. He has a claim on you now that goes even deeper, somehow, than the cum he’s shoved into your womb. You don’t know what you’re going to do, but for now…you simply give in to the intoxication of his desire.

When he pulls out of you, it's with heavy sighs and weak whimpers. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you to sit up, leaning all the way back until he’s laying against the pillows at the top of the bed with you right at his side. Despite your better judgment, you seek his warmth as you rest your head on his chest. Aemond throws one arm over you and the other behind his head.

Neither of you look at one another. It’s an unspoken agreement, while you both think over things in your mind. No gazes really need to be exchanged.

You thought, like some great metaphor, that the rain would begin to slow now that the frenzy has faded. You thought that the thunder would settle and the harsh patter of rain at the window would begin distant flicks of water on glass. But as you lay there, wrapped in Aemond’s embrace, the storm refuses to cease.

It’s a while before you find your voice. When you do, it’s still so quiet, and now hoarse with its overuse throughout this dark night.

“Will…” you lick your lip, swallowing thickly with a sigh. “Will Prince Aegon truly leave me be now?”

Aemond doesn’t respond right away. As he stares at the ceiling, you feel his thumb begin to stroke slow circles into your shoulder. It remains quiet for a long time. “My brother does not care whether you have your virtue or not.” His words would have pulled a gasp from you, were you not subconsciously expecting them from coming from his mouth. “He would have raped you all the same.”

Still, despite your suspicions, despite your inhibitions, you sit up just enough to look at his face. Despite everything, remaining oblivious seems like an easier choice than facing what you already know: he lied to you, and you let him do it because one evil is easier than the other. “What?” you whisper, apprehension in your eyes as you watch him. He stares back at you, taking in the sight of your innocence. He could not have chosen better.

“But he shall not,” he says, a firmness in his soft voice that eases your worry. “He will not cross me, and I shall have you transferred to my chambers instead of his to keep my eye on you.” He takes your chin in his grasp, pulling you close. “I promise my protection, it is yours.” His lips hardly brush against yours, it is you who closes the distance (no matter how much you convince yourself that it is him). You sink into him with a gentle sigh.

“He will not touch you. Now…” his eyes are dark when he says it, “...you belong to me.”

You always knew this was the route. You knew, whether you would ever admit it to yourself or not, that he always meant to own you. And you let him. You let him do it, despite knowing what he is.

He is a Targaryen, and all Targaryens must be beasts in the end, some more than others.

Prince Aegon is a cruel beast, a monster truly favored by none… but Aemond is no less cruel. He is a subtler beast, the kind that lies in waiting, charms with smiles and soothing promises, the kind that bargains in the dark and sways the monsters of the daylight. The difference between the princes is not the difference between good and bad. You know this. You have known this. You always will know this.

But Prince Aemond’s cruelty is kind…and you’d rather be monstrously deceived than beaten bloody and bruised.

Ice and Fire taglist: @divinearchangel @alexxavicry @katsukis1wife @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lover-of-books-and-tea @avalyaaa Tag yourself here...

[libraryofloveletters]

chapter eight: lucky doesn't cover it

Sebastian Vettel x Fem!Reader

Warnings: honeymoon stage, seb is so cheesy and soooo touchy, it's like two teenagers in love really, nsfw themes but nothing graphic, suggestions to sex and nsfw content, liv and millie are so sus of you two, the lies are catching up to you two, secrets are told, family sweetness. - this is low-key a filler chapter, I have drama next chapter *smiles evilly*

Word Count: 3.1k

Author’s Note: sorry for the 4 million year wait, y'all know I love me some seb so hopefully this makes up for the lack of seb lately. don't blame me, tell that man to come out of hiding again!

sugar and spice; all things nice masterlist

---

It has been a few weeks since your first date with Sebastian and things were going well, beyond well actually. You couldn't have asked for a better version of things to unfold.

The two of you had begun dating but decided to keep things quiet, especially from Olivia and Amelia. Neither of you wanted to complicate things for the girls, wanting to keep things as they were in case it didn't work between you two, god forbid.

Liv and Milly were currently in the pool at your place, you had brought lunch out onto the back deck and Sebastian was keeping an eye on them while they were in the pool. The door creaks, Seb glances over his shoulder to see you coming out with a pitcher of juice, setting it down on the table with the food you had brought out moments before.

You leant over slightly, pouring some juice into the cups for the girls when your knee brushes against Seb's thigh. His black shorts left his legs on display and typically, you'd regard his legs as just.. legs but something about Sebastian was different now, you weren't sure if it was because now he was your man or if you had been so pent up and now that you'd getting a chance to release it, it's hitting you at once.

Seb's forearm lays on the arm rest, fingers creeping up the back of your thigh to the hem of your shorts. Almost leaning into his touch, Olivia's voice pulls you from the thoughts in your head.

"Is lunch ready, mama?!" She shouts from the pool.

Clearing your throat, you nod. "Yeah!" You reach behind to swat Seb's wandering hand away, throwing him a glare as you pick up the towels and walk over to help the girls out of the pool.

The man watches as you wrap the towels around the girls, sending them off in the direction of the table to eat and he can't help but smile; how did he ever get so lucky ?

Olivia and Amelia sit across from Seb, the two of them joint at the hip like baby penguins waddling about. The only chair left was the one next to Seb, it had become your usual spot anyways.

The 4 of you chatted, the girls updated you both on class trips, projects and the drama between Susan B and Susan H. Seb was more intrigued than you as you had heard the rundown when you picked them up from school on Friday.

A warm hand rests on your thigh under the table, startling you momentarily. You look over to see if he was trying to get your attention, but he wasn't. "Does Susan B know that Susan H held Josh's hand on the playground?" He asked the girls, clearly caught up in the drama of second grade.

Amelia corrects him. "It was Susan H that held Josh's hand, dad. Susan B was boyfriend girlfriend with Josh first."

"And Susan B saw all of it happen while she was on the swings too," Olivia adds, making sure to emphasize on her words for dramatic effect.

You smile, shaking your head at the second grade drama as your hand rests atop Seb's, fingers interlocking over his. The man squeezes your thigh softly as his thumb rubs gently over your skin.

Lucky doesn't begin to cover it.

--

"Milly!" Olivia shouts, pulling on your hand as you locked the car. You see the blonde girl and her dad, both of their curls unruly and sparkling under the morning sunshine.

Amelia smiles, shouting back. "Liv!"

Sebastian lets his little girl when he sees you with Olivia, knowing you'd stop them from running into the busy parking lot. The two girls wrapped each other in a hug, Milly says good morning to you and you smile, saying it back. You followed closely behind them as you attempted to put Milly's hair into a ponytail while they walked, knowing they had gym class and having her hair in her face would bother her.

"Good morning, Mr. Seb!" Liv smiles at the man, Seb pinches her cheek softly. "Morning sweet pea," he says back with a smile.

The girls were whispering about something, perhaps the fact that Josh was giggling with Susan H today instead of Susan B. Seb nudges your shoulder, leaning into you slightly. "Morning you."

"Good morning Sebastian," you glance at him, knowing better than to start him up before he doesn't stop.

His hand rests on his chest, feigning hurt. "Sebastian? You wound me, woman."

"I try my best," you smiled, turning your head to look at him. Sebastian leans into you, his lips by your ear. “You look nice. I like your top,” he gestures to his chest, his fingers brushing over his sternum - just as he did months ago when you helped him with Milly's bedroom.

The action causes you to look down, your top had slipped a little bit when you grabbed Olivia's bag out of the car.

You roll your eyes, swatting his arm playfully before readjusting your shirt. "Behave, there are children here."

"There are children at home too, but we've done dirty things there too-" "Dad!" Milly shouts, getting her dad's attention. "Did you put my water bottle in my bag?"

"It's in your lunch bag, kiddo." He tells her, fixing the strap on her bag. "Now you two are gonna be late if you don't get your butts down to line up."

The girls hug each of you, switching to hug the other and then run off to line up for entry. You and Seb waved to them from the sidewalk before you head back to the parking lot, his hand resting on your lower back as you walk. HIs hand slipped lower and lower by the second until you stepped away.

Your back is against the pickup, looking at your boyfriend - that's such a funny term. You didn't think at your age, with a 7 year old kid that you'd have a boyfriend again. It seems unreal to you, both in a good way and a bad way.

"Do you have work today?" He asks, noticing you've taken the truck and not your car.

"Yeah, gotta drop by the construction site today."

"What time are you off?"

"Noon-ish probably, I hope. You know how it goes with them," you shrugged. Seb nods, "the girls are staying at school for lunch today, sooo... why don't you come by after you're done work?"

"Are you gonna cook me lunch then, Sebastian?" You asked, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't a big cook but there were a few recipes that he had perfected and liked to make.

He shrugs, making a face. A hand resting behind your head, caging you in between him and the truck. "Figured we could order from your favourite Italian place."

"As nice as that sounds, you know how slow they are. It'll take them forever to deliver."

Sebastian's got a wicked grin on his face, something dirty on the tip of his tongue just waiting to be said. He leans in, lips by your ear. "There's a way we can pass the time."

If you hadn't gotten what he was suggesting before, his lips on your neck gave it away. "Sebastian!" You giggled, pushing him away. "Stop it before we get in trouble."

"We don't go to school here, it's fine."

"We have kids that go here though, and I have work. I need to go before you make me late."

"You're no fun," he tells you, pouting like a child as you get into the truck, your door still open as you look at him. "Stop pouting, you doofus. Come gimme a kiss so I can go," your hand stretched out for him.

Seb smiles, reaching up to give you a kiss before you let him go. "Have a good day, I'll see you after."

"Drive safe," you tell him, shutting the door. You wind down the window. "Not like a formula one driver!"

"I'll try my best!" He shouts, "no promises!"

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you pulled out of the parking lot.

--

Clothes scattered on the floor, your heels kicked off on the steps on the way up to Seb's bedroom and your purse long forgotten by the front door.

"C'mere," Seb grabs your arm, pulling your back flush against his chest. His warmth kept you snuggled into him, not wanting to move anytime soon.

"We really do need to get up."

"What for?" He asks, peppering kisses along your shoulder. You roll your eyes, "you ordered food and frankly, I'm starving."

"Yeah?" He says, you can sense the shit eating grin on his face. "Wonder why you're so hungry."

"Oh hush," you reach back, smacking his cheek softly. "I had work, don't think so highly of yourself."

Seb laughs, untangling himself from you when the doorbell rings. "As if you summoned them, honey." He pulls his shorts on, grabbing his wallet off of the nightstand.

You roll over, grabbing his hand. "I have to go," he tells you and you pout, making a face. Seb smiles, leaning down to kiss your head. "I'll be back in two seconds, and I'll have your chicken parm so you'll love me even more."

"Yeah," you chuckled, leaning back. "Fine."

Seb laughs, leaving you in bed to go get the delivery from the guy. You decided that pasta was too messy to eat in bed so you got dressed, meaning you borrowed Seb's shirt and made your way downstairs.

"Sleeping beauty emerges," he jokes and earns another eye roll from you. The two of you find your way to the kitchen, as you do most times, grabbing what you need before making your way to the table.

It was a very domestic scene; sitting at the table, eating as you discussed what the girls had in school that week. As if you had been married for years.

"I have to get dressed," you announce, getting up as Seb took the empty plates to the kitchen. "What for?" He glanced at you, rinsing the plates out to put them into the dishwasher.

"We have to pick up the girls."

"I'll pick them up, you rest."

"You're sure?" You asked and Seb nodded, "100%, you stay and relax." He kisses you softly, hands cupping your cheeks.

You smile and nod, following him to the door. "Where are you going?" Seb asks.

"I'm going to get dressed."

The man looks at you clearly confused, he had already told you to stay and relax and that he would pick up the girls.

"They can't come home to see me wandering around here in just your shirt, they don't need to see that."

"I do," he raises his eyebrows, a cheeky grin on his face. "Sebastian behave," you groaned, rolling your eyes playfully at his childishness. He smiles, putting his hoodie on before grabbing his car keys.

"I'll see you when I'm back," he tells you, giving you a kiss before heading out.

The drive to the school was normal, 5 minutes and he's parked, waiting for the two girls to come out. The teacher sees Sebastian, waving to him as he signals that he's taking both Milly and Liv home today. It's nothing unusual that you and Seb take turns picking up the girls, it's just whoever was free or closer. Most times Seb picks them up as you're usually at work.

Milly's holding one of his hands and Liv is holding the other, the 3 of them walking back to his car. "Mr. Seb? Where's mom?" Liv asks him, the man looks at her puzzled for a moment.

"Uh she's at our place."

Milly and Liv exchange a confused glance as they climb into the car. "What's she doing there?" Milly asks her father, clearly curious.

"Well, she was running late on her way back from work so I told her I'd pick you guys up and meet her at home."

The answer seemed to curb their curiosity for the time being, Seb driving home with the girls. Your truck parked on the road as you were always certain you'd crash into Seb's car if you pulled into the driveway.

The girls were held expecting you to get out of the truck but Seb instead led them to the front door, unlocking it to let them in. "Hi girls!" You called, stepping out of the kitchen. You had gotten redressed while they were gone, much to Sebastian's dismay.

"Hi mama," Liv says, glancing at her best friend. "Mr. Seb said you were running late from work."

"I was," you tell her, glancing at Seb. The man shrugs from behind the girls as if to say he needed an excuse.

Milly or Liv seemed to be buying the lame ass excuse you and Seb - mostly Seb- came up with. "How'd you get inside?" Milly asks you, knowing her dad had just unlocked the front door.

This story wasn't adding up.

Seb clears his throat. "Why don't you two go get a snack, you can have candy if you want. There's Kit Kat in the pantry." He tells them, the girls drop their bags by the stairs and go running to the pantry.

You look behind you to make sure the girls are gone before walking over to Seb. "Really? I'm running late but I'm in the house? You couldn't come up with something better?" You whispered to him.

The man shrugged, "they're like mini detectives, all scary and judgey. I had to say something!" he whisper shouts to you, "we need to tell them."

"Already? It's too soon."

"We're together all the time, babe. I can't keep kissing you in secret." He says, a look feigning exhaust from the lack of kisses on his face.

You sigh, nodding. "Fine," your hand cups his cheek, kissing him softly. "Let's go."

"Girls?!" Seb calls for them, "can you come here? Y/n and I want to talk to you!"

The girls come in, chocolate on their faces and fingers. You grab a tissue and wrap their faces and hands as they sit on the couch, you and Seb are across from them on the other couch. "What is it?" Milly asks, looking between you and Seb.

"Well," you start, looking to see if Seb wants to speak but he signals for you to go ahead; typical men. "How would you two feel if.. Mr. Seb and I started.. well, seeing each other?" You asked them, the girls both have a confused look on their faces.

They exchange a glance, "what does that mean?" Milly asks, her brows furrowed; the splitting image of her father.

"It means they kiss!" Liv tells her, her hand over her mouth as she giggles. Milly makes a face. "Ew! Cooties!" She giggled, her and Olivia making faces at each other.

You and Seb exchange a look, trying not to laugh.

"It does mean we kiss," Seb says, "but it means we like each other."

"Like how we like each other?" Liv asks, "like best friends?"

"Sort of," Seb smiles, "it's more like when two grown-ups really like each other in a special way. They care about each other a lot, like how friends care about each other, but with even more love."

"So super duper best friends," Liv says, making you laugh.

"Basically, yeah. How do you guys feel about that?" You asked, not wanting to leave any stone unturned.

"Does this mean we're.. sisters?" Milly asks, "cause you're Liv's mom and you're my dad so you're mom and dad.."

"I guess," you say, looking at Seb for some help. "I mean, yeah. You are sisters."

The girls giggle, "cool!" They happen to say at the same time and get up, coming over to hug you and Seb. You smile, "we've got to head home, sweetheart. You can come by tomorrow if you want."

She makes a sad face but nods, her and Milly walking to the door to gather Liv's stuff when Seb pulls you up from the couch and into a hug. "See? Was that so hard?"

"Shut up," you huffed, the man laughed as you two walked to the front door.

You watch as the girls hug each other bye, Milly comes over to give you a hug and you lean down to hug her back. Seb kisses Liv's head before turning to you, giving you a kiss.

"Ew!" The girls chorus, making the two of you laugh.

You and Olivia head home, the two of you going about your evening. Liv does her homework while you worked on some work plans and emails, you had dinner together and then both of you did your night time routines before you joined her in her bedroom for story time.

"Mom?" Liv calls for you as you shut the book, setting it on her nightstand. "What is it, kiddo?"

"Does this mean Mr. Seb is my dad?" She asks, leaving you stumped.

You sit there for a moment, trying to figure out how you'd answer her question. "Well, no. He's not your actual dad but you can look at him like your dad if you want."

She nods. "Do I keep calling him Mr. Seb?"

"Yeah, I would think so."

Seb was in a similar situation at his place, Milly had begged him to watch her favourite cartoon instead of story time and Seb caved. The two of them on the couch when she turns to her dad. "If Liv and I are sisters, does this mean auntie y/n is my mommy now?"

It takes him a second to register the question. He can't say yes, because Milly did see pictures of her actual mother, but it's also not a no.

"In a way, yes. She's not your mommy but you can look at her like your mommy, she'll always be there for you."

Milly seemed satisfied with her father's answer, nodding as she turned her attention back to the tv.

---

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[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Blue and Fire Engine Red Pt 9

“Are you sure you want to do this? I won’t go easy on you.”

Lena’s voice is light in its challenge, but edged with true competition. 

It’s been more than a month since their confrontation, when they’d mutually agreed to keep things going. For much of that time, Lena had existed on tenterhooks, waiting for some other shoe to fall. But Kara was patient, and when nothing happened to threaten their happiness, Lena had finally relaxed, bringing a return to her playful confidence.

Kara bares her teeth in a grin. “Bring it.”

Today is the day of the intramural baseball championships, pitting the best of FDNC and NCPD against each other. They’d thought it would be fun to participate, neither thinking they’d ever manage to face the other in an actual game. Yet here they were, Precinct 42 facing off against Station 13. 

“Hey!” Nia calls from the bench area. “No cavorting with the enemy, Lieutenant!” 

Lena’s face creases into an exasperated eyeroll. Kara cherishes the sight, the memory of her girlfriend’s guarded features still fresh in her memory.

“Duty calls,” she drawls, leaning in for a final pre-game kiss. 

“No smooching the enemy either!”

Lena huffs as Kara guffaws, giving Lena a swat to the butt as they split to return to their respective teams. Kara hears Lena say something about psyching out the competition, but Nia’s disbelief is equally audible.

“Sure, Jan.”

Kara jogs a lap around the diamond, doing her best not to stare at Lena’s legs as she does a series of lunge stretches. When Lena moves to side bends, the edge of her jersey rides up to expose a slice of skin that makes Kara nearly trip over her own feet. When Lena turns and bends backwards, stretching her spine, her grin tells Kara that she knows exactly what she’s doing. 

Suddenly, Lena pauses mid-stretch. Though she straightens casually, Kara sees her eyes scan the field, then the bleachers, searching for something. Concern flashes through Kara, but before she can approach Lena, Winn Schott trots towards her. 

“Hey Danvers. You ready to crush your girlfriend?” 

His smile is broad and bright, and Kara automatically smiles in reciprocation. She hadn’t spent much time with Officer Schott before joining the team, but over the course of the season she’s learned that he’s a good sport, playful yet dedicated. She likes him.

“You know Lena,” she returns, “she’s not one to do things halfway.”

Winn’s nose wrinkles. “Okay, did not need to know that about you guys.” He earns a smack to the shoulder, and breaks into giggles. “Okay, okay, you know I’m joking!” 

Glancing back over the field, Kara sees that Lena has been similarly wrangled, circled up with her teammates. Her focus seems to be entirely on the huddle, so Kara lets her shoulders relax. 

“Come on,” she tells Winn. “Let’s get going.”

The game is close. Too close. It comes down to the final inning, with two outs and the bases loaded. The Hot Shots are at bat, trailing by one, but the Moody Blues need only one more out to end the game. From her position at shortstop, Kara swallows with anticipation as Lena steps towards the plate. The rest of her team cheers, while Kara’s jeers. Kara remains silent, mentally calculating how Lena might play it. She’s been hitting hard all game, making Kara’s team work to collect the ball and wing it back towards the bases before doubles and triples can turn into full homers. And in this suspenseful moment, Kara wouldn’t put it past Lena to fire a line drive directly into Kara’s knees.

She settles in, watching Lena’s relaxed strides to the plate, casually knocking the bat against her cleats to dislodge the packed dirt. Then, she settles into her ready stance, and waits. The pitcher winds up and drives the ball over home plate. Lena doesn’t swing. On the second, she even dodges as the pitch careens too close to her, much to the Hot Shots’ outrage. After a warning from the umpire, the exhausted pitcher takes a beat, spits, then readies himself.

The pitch is so fast Kara barely registers it’s been thrown, but the answering crack of the bat is unmistakable. Kara traces the arc of the ball up, up, and away, across the field and over the scoreboard on the far end, out of sight. Home run. Lena takes her victory lap at a trot as the other runners cross home plate one after the other, picking up her pace when she sees her team surging towards her in celebration.

While Lena gets showered with praise and gatorade, Kara laughs as her team groans and curses, sprawling on their backs in the dirt, exhausted. It’s been a tough one, giving as good as they got, but where the other officers wallow in disappointment, Kara feels exhilarated. 

“Jesus,” Winn says, panting as he crosses to her from second base. “Is she superwoman?”

Kara shoots him a cocked grin, and after a beat of staring his eyes go wide. “Oh! God– Danvers, I did not mean it like that!”

Slapping him on the back, Kara chuckles. “Later, Schott!”

She trots over to the other team, wading into the crowd of bodies until she’s planted herself in front of Lena. She grips Lena’s face with both hands and kisses her soundly, dust and sweat and all. It surprises Lena, evidenced by the slight glaze in her eyes when Kara draws back.

“Good game,” Kara all but shouts to be heard. As Kara smiles up at her, she sees the tiniest wrinkle appear between Lena’s eyebrows. Green eyes lift to scan the area around them, her chin even swiveling to check behind her. Kara’s hackles lift; she knows that look– the sense of being watched. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Lena doesn’t respond, and Kara realizes that she hasn’t heard between the din and distraction. She touches Lena’s arm, pulling her girlfriend’s attention back towards her. 

“Everything okay?”

Lena blinks, staring for a long moment before she shakes her with a disarming smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Hey lovebirds!” Nia calls. “Come on! We gotta treat the losers to pizza and ice cream!”

“It is tradition,” Brainy confirms. “To ease the sting of failure.”

Kara turns back to Lena, smirking. “Oh darn. Guess I’ll have to wait to give you your prize at home…”

Lena’s gaze sharpens as her words register, her previous distraction swiftly turning to hunger. “You know, I have some ice cream in my freezer–”

“Nope!” Kara chirps. “Come on, babe. Pizza and ice cream wait for no man.”

Under the din, Kara hears a plaintive whimper. Her insides melt as she settles her hand into Lena’s hand and gives a promising squeeze.

All in good time, it says. All in good time.

—

Later that night, Kara wakes up deliciously sore, and not just from the game. She lengthens her body under the covers, stretching some of the ache away. It’s a few bleary moments before she understands exactly what’s woken her. 

Lena twitches and jerks in the bed beside her, her brow furrowed with anguish. Her lips move indiscernibly, silenced in sleep. A nightmare. Kara reaches to shake her awake, but retracts her hand at the last moment. She’s heard stories of unsuspecting partners trying to rouse their loved ones awake, only to be made part of the nightmare itself. She knows Lena would never consciously attack her, but in sleep? With a monstrous trauma and undisclosed past hanging over her? Kara knows better than to believe she would be an exception to the possibility.

Suddenly, Lena spasms, lashing out with a long arm. Kara only just manages to dodge before rolling out of bed and onto her feet. “Shit,” she hisses. She flips on the light on her bed stand, casting a glow throughout the room. Lena’s movements are more noticeable now, rocking to either side as though to dislodge something sitting on her chest. Her arm flails again before clenching the sheet in a white-knuckled grip.

Kara considers her options, but before she’s able to make a decision, Lena bolts upright with a sharp gasp, so suddenly that Kara flinches back in surprise. Lena’s head whips back and forth frantically, scanning the room. She jumps when she sees Kara standing beside the bed, eyes flying wide before recognition hits. For a brief moment they can do nothing but stare at each other. Kara’s sure her eyes are as wide as Lena’s which soon glaze with tears. Finally, Lena sighs, deflating a little as she wipes a hand over her face. 

“Fuck,” comes the inevitable mumble. Kara watches tentatively as Lena scans the room again before slowly sliding her legs over the side of the bed, turning away from Kara. Her night shirt clings to her in cold sweat, and her hair hangs limp around her shoulders. 

“You okay?” Kara asks, clearing her throat. 

Lena nods without looking up. “Yeah.” Her voice is little more than a croak, and does nothing to reassure Kara. In the end, Lena sniffles huskily and swipes again at her eyes. “I’m going to get some water. You can go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.”

With that she slips out of the room as quiet as a wraith. Kara stares after her, at a loss for what to do next. In the quiet that follows, she realizes she’s also trembling, her body stiff with adrenaline.

“Fuck,” Kara echoes Lena’s sentiment. She drops onto the side of the bed, resting her elbows heavily on her knees as she rubs her cheeks. She doesn’t feel afraid, but her body does. Only when her hands stop shaking does she rise and venture from the bedroom. Lena doesn’t look up when Kara enters the living room, but doesn’t protest when KAra settles down next to her.

Her shoulders are hunched, arms crossed around her middle, a glass of water forgotten on the coffee table. They sit in silence for several long minutes– Lena not ready to speak, and Kara loathe to break the quiet. Finally, Lena forces herself upright, lifting her head to reveal solemn features. 

“You were smart,” she says roughly. “Getting out of bed.”

Kara takes it as an invitation to take Lena’s hand, who allows their fingers to intertwine. Clearing her throat, Lena looks at her. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Kara promises, shaking her head quickly. “I’m good. Are you good?”

Lena doesn’t respond. Tension still limns her frame, her breathing almost shallow as they sit, as though Lena can’t pull in a full breath. An idea pops into Kara’s head, and she gives Lena’s hand a squeeze. “Hey. Wanna go for a walk?”

The offer is accepted with a quiet nod. After pulling on their sweatpants and sneakers, they step out into the night. They’re the only ones on the street at this hour, and they hold hands as they silently walk towards the nearby park. When the scent of sleeping trees drifts across their senses, Kara finally feels Lena start to relax. The air isn’t quite chill, just cold enough to bring a tint of pink to her partner’s cheeks. 

Halfway across the bridge spanning a small creek, Lena draws to a stop against the wrought iron rail. Kara watches her turn her head to the sky, eyes reflecting every star peeking through the cloud cover. Soft moonlight dapples across Lena’s skin, and Kara feels her heart lurch, stuttering a little with an emotion she can’t quite describe.

“Thanks,” Lena murmurs. “This was a good idea.”

Kara slides closer, until the warmth of Lena’s shoulder melds with hers. “It always helped me, when I had nightmares. After the shooting, there were nights I felt like I was still in that bathroom stall, with the walls closing in.” She smiles thinly. “Sometimes a little breeze is enough to ground a person.”

“Or blow them away entirely.” Lena’s voice is even, but low. Vulnerable.

Kara gazes at her. “Is that how you feel right now? Like you might blow away?”

Lena sighs, then turns her gaze from the sky to Kara. “Let’s just say it’s not the breeze keeping me grounded.” Her thumb brushes the back of Kara’s hand in soft circles, sending a thrum of something deep through Kara. She leans her head against Lena’s shoulder, gazing out across the trees lining the creek while Lena returns her attention to the sky.

“It’s actually one of the things I miss about the desert,” Lena says gently. Kara hums a low question. “The sky. You could see the whole Milky Way out there, painting the entire sky. It was… breathtaking. Even on the most miserable days, it still awed me.”

You awe me, Kara longs to say. You are breathtaking.

She doesn’t.

“Maybe we could go camping,” she suggests instead. “Chase the open sky.”

Lena grunts, but the sound of it doesn’t completely nix the idea. Kara bumps her with a hip.

“I could see you on a Harley for sure.”

Finally, Lena laughs. “Nah,” Lena returns. “We’ll take the truck– sleep in the bed.”

“With all the rust mites? Psh.”

“All right, fine. Just some bedrolls around a fire. Like Xena and Gabrielle.”

Kara grins. “Can I be Xena?”

“Nope. You’ve the soul of a poet, Miss Artiste.”

It draws a chuckle from Kara. When Lena lifts her arm, Kara tucks herself against her, soaking in the proximity. 

I love you, she wants to say. I cherish you.

She doesn’t.

[ellieclaireblack]

sanctuaire | sanctuary

sanctuary | noun your safe and peaceful haven a comforting place of refuge and rest in a noisy, chaotic world

{brother's best friend | fem!reader x james potter} ⪼ warnings: mentions of abuse, eating disorder, mentions of suicide ⪼ word count: 2k

part four: troubles playlist

story: sanctuaire | sanctuary

“y/n” My mother spoke to me. I had to suppress a shudder trying to rock my body. Her stone cold voice made the hair on my skin stand up. My poster got a little straighter, though that was hardly possible anymore. 

Regulus was standing beside me, we were home and Maman looked as displeased and frightening as always. 

“Yes, Maman.” I answered her. Putting on my best blood supremacist voice. Careful to not smile or frown. Neither were accepted by her. As a Black you had to look flawless and superior to everybody all the time. Making sure everyone knew your status. 

“Come and let me inspect you.” My mothers voice tore through the otherwise silent house. My Papa is nowhere to be seen or heard. He was probably in his office. Not wanting to disrupt mother welcoming us. Beside my siblings he was always an alliance in the house. Though a silent one. Only helping when mother didn’t notice. I knew that even though he meant well it was toxic. He was the man of the house, he was Lord Black and still didn’t dare to stand up to his wife. If angered you didn’t want to cross paths with Lady Walburga Black.

Her cold fingers raked my body and I tried hard to stand as still as possible. Letting my mind wander to think about Sirius, about happiness. Anything but my reality. “Regulus Arcturus you are dismissed for now. y/n and I will try on her ballgown.” A pained expression flicked over Reggies face, but was gone by the blink of an eye.

My mother flicked her finger motioning me to follow her and I obliged. My dark green dress lay on my bed and with the help of my personal house elf Amélie I put it on. My whole world shattered when Amélie whispered a quiet “I’m so sorry Mistress”. Before I could even register what was happening my mother stood before me. 

“y/n it looks like you’ve gained some weight. What are we going to do about that? You need to fit in your dress.” Before I could react she pulled her wand, shouted ‘Crucio’ and I screamed. Loudly. The name of my brothers. Anything. I was trying to fight the spell but had no chance.

“y/n. y/n. Come on, wake up!”

Suddenly I was even colder than before and my eyes shot open. A pitcher of cold water had been dumped over my body. It was all just a dream. I was in the infirmary and both of my brothers looked at me. The same scared expressions mirroring their faces.

“I’m sorry. Did I bother anyone? Oh Merlin, did anyone besides the two of you hear?” It was then that I noticed James and Remus standing behind Sirius. How embarrassing. 

“y/n, you can’t be for fucking real. I thought you were dying and you’re worried that anybody heard you. I haven’t been that scared for a long time.” Sirius raised his voice slightly, I winced remembering our mother shouting at me. He looked at me with a painful expression and took one of my hands in his. “Do you want to talk?” He nearly whispered now. I shook my head but didn’t let go of his hand. Regulus took my other hand and James and Remus looked visibly uncomfortable. Not wanting to disrupt our sibling bonding moment. With a nod and some wandless magic I let some chairs appear and the both of them broke out in a grin sitting down in a split second.

Sirius was sitting on Regulus’ bed and me still in my chair, in the same position I fell asleep in. I only now noticed how my whole body hurts. Sleeping in a chair does that to you.

Suddenly the doors to the infirmary were pushed open and three familiar faces ran inside. Florence, Theo and Adam were sprinting towards me. Relieve filling them as they spotted me. “By Merlin's balls, y/n don’t ever just leave without telling me where you’re going. For a second I thought you jumped off the Astronomy tower, since you left this there.” Florence held up the letter from my mother. 

“She wouldn’t die in winter.” Sirius and Regulus said at the same time as I said “I wouldn’t kill myself, it’s winter.” And the three of us broke out in laughter, even though it’s not something regular people would laugh about. We Blacks were a bit strange about sensitive topics. Our friends had puzzled expressions on their faces and looked like we were completely insane. 

“You wouldn’t get it, Prongs.” Sirius told James who just opened his mouth, so he closed it again. Reminding me of a fish and sending me in another fit of giggles. When I calmed down I was reminded of the seriousness of the situation. 

The doors opened and Madam Pomfrey walked in. I took a deep breath and put on my ‘Black face’ again. A face of coldness and superiority. I loved Poppy Pomfrey, but I wouldn’t let a teacher see me vulnerable. Madam Pomfrey was shocked to see so many students in the infirmary at the crack of dawn.

“Everybody who isn’t the young Mister Black out now!” She ordered. I shot Reggie a small smile, squeezed his hand and all of us left the infirmary. While Poppy Pomfrey was the nicest human in the whole wide world, you didn’t want to get on their bad side. Remus stayed back for a second to pass a few words with her, she had a soft spot for him. I knew about Remus’ condition. When Remus was sick after two full moons in a row I had gotten suspicious. 

The first few months of first year had been hard on me. I had never spent so much time apart from Sirius and when I wanted to talk to him he was always with stupid James Potter. The first three years at Hogwarts I had resented James with all my heart. But he was hard to hate, after three years he weasled himself into my heart and now I was proud to call him my friend. Still in first year we couldn’t quite get along. That’s why Sirius didn’t talk to me as much anymore. I didn’t like his new best friend and he hated it.

I found myself spending lots of time in the Astronomy Tower. A side effect of that being always aware of the moon cycle. When I noticed Remus getting sicker towards the full moon and looking horrible a few days after. I spent a whole day researching in the library and finally got to the conclusion that he was a werewolf. I didn’t tell anyone of course. While I resented Sirius some days I couldn’t do that to his friend. So on the third full moon I faked an injury so I could spend the night in the infirmary. I heard Remus talking to Madam Pomfrey, heard her fussing over him and when the word wolf fell I knew I was right.

“Hey y/n what’re you thinking about?” Theo bumped his hip into mine and snapped me out of my thoughts. He knew the troubles of growing up with strict pureblood parents, nearly every child of the Sacred 28 knew how hard it was. Some were better than mine, but all Pureblood supremacist parents were a handful to deal with.

“My mother.” I answered with a half lie. I couldn’t tell my Slytherin friends about Remus. Theo and I shared a look of deep understanding. His mother was quite sweet, but his father was bloodcurdling. My Slytherin friends knew that about the relationship I had with my parents. They didn’t know about the torture and abuse. I made sure to hide it from them, since even though I trusted them I wouldn’t want their parents and the whole pureblood world to find out. My mother would explode.

────────────────  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ──────────────────

The Great Hall was filled with chatter and I plopped down besides Flo. My thoughts on my family. Regulus, who was still in the infirmary. My mother, who cared more about my looks than my health. My father, who never showed up at the right time. Sirius, who was sitting a few tables away, yet seemed unreachable sometimes. 

I pushed the food on my plate around and took some bites, but my stomach and mind were at war. I constantly heard my mothers voice inside my head. Do you really want to eat that? And even though she wasn’t here I could feel her sitting next to me constantly, judging my every move. 

I glanced over to the Gryffindor table. My brother and his friends were all deep in conversation. James was trying to woo Lily Evans again. Remus and Sirius looked so deep into each other's eyes, it seemed they didn’t notice anybody else. Pete was talking to Mary and Alice and they all had smiles on their faces. Their happiness radiating off and bouncing around the whole Hall.

I ignored the way my heart clenched. I wanted to sit with them, to share laughs, to feel so completely pressureless. But I couldn’t. Ignoring the pointed stares of my friends I got up and made my way to the dorms. Not standing another second of being in the Great Hall. 

Back in my room I grabbed my skates and bundled myself up in warm clothes. Since I was a small child I was enamoured with figure skating. Luckily my mother had a good year when she let me start doing the sport. Lots of Purebloods approved of it, so I didn’t need to be ashamed of it. Still to this day I spend lots of my free time skating. Next to reading it’s the only thing that gets my mind to stop overthinking. 

The Black Lake froze until mid March every year since scottish winters were bitter cold. I put my skates on, with a flick of my wand music was playing and I drove some circles to warm myself up. Spins and jumps seemed to clear my mind of every problem. And only after an hour I noticed I had gathered a small crowd. It was mostly Slytherin and Hufflepuff first years and when I went and drove to them some broke out in an applaud. I smiled a content smile. And Adelaide Greengrass, younger sister of Lucinda Greengrass, ran over to me.

“Wow Ms Black that was incredible.” I smiled at the name she chose, we had talked lots of times, but sometimes she used to call me Ms Black referring to our Pureblood ways of courtesy. “Hey Addy, thank you. Do you want me to teach you sometime?” I asked her as I removed my skates and could swear they were sparks in my eyes. I took that as a yes.

In the back of the small crowd stood Regulus. I ran over to him and could barely contain myself from wrapping him in a tight hug. Physical affection in public was a big no-go to my mother and most Pureblood families. With the events of the past few days I wouldn’t want to stir any rumours. “Reggie” I breathed out. The relief and joy of seeing him healed washed over me.

“y/n you needn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Did Maman send you a letter too?” He asked as we made our way back to the dormitory. “Yes. She did. It was as unpleasant as one can imagine.” Reg shot me a pained look. He knew about the strict ‘dietary plan’ Mother expected me to follow. 

He opened his mouth but I held my hand up, to stop him. “Reg, I know you worry about me. You mustn’t. Please. We’ll survive the next few weeks and after the ball we’ll be fine again. Just make sure to not get too close to Sirius. Narcissa and Bella are watching and I know a handful of other people who would love to report every “wrong” step of us to Maman.”

“I know y/n. Still be careful I can’t risk losing you to her.” He took my hand and I squeezed it with a silent promise. I knew I couldn’t make any promises aloud, they were just going to be broken anyway.

a/n: hey guys i'm sorry it took foreveeever to finish this chapter. it's not a 100% proof-read, but i'm way to tired today to proof-read it. next chapter is already halfway done and i'm hoping to be able to upload it as soon as possible.

lot's of love to wherever you are <3 xoxo ellie

p.s. as always: my inbox is alway open for feeback and requests. more james action next time. i just enjoy writing slow burns. sorryyy :)

[ineffable-opinions]

Seme/uke - long response

A decolonial and subaltern take on three posts on seme/uke dynamics that aims to contextualize them while questioning ethnocentrism. I welcome alternative perspectives, corrections and criticisms.

Post #1: Seme/uke dynamics in Be Loved in House...  

@absolutebl responding to @echos-of-ivy

Seme – Uke

About two or more characters in a ship/pairing:

seme 攻め: top (the pitcher) (from origin - attack) also referred to as 左 (left)、タチ (tachi)、トップ (top)

uke 受け: bottom (the catcher) (from origin – receive / accept) also referred to as 右 (right)、ネコ(neko/cat)、ボトム (bottom)

riba リバ: verse (doesn't mind being either a top or a bottom) (from origin - reversible)

seme and uke are sourced from martial arts lingo: seme (martial arts), uke (martial arts) & is related to nanshoku tradition (depictied in ukiyo-e style painting below) of androphilia rather than western norms of queerness. Such differences in culture in queerness is seldom appreciated.

Spring Pastimes. Miyagawa Isshō, c. 1750

Sometimes, androphilic men use seme/uke/riba instead of the following terms which are popular in their queer community:

tachi タチ 凸 - top

neko ネコ 凹 - bottom

riba リバ 回 – verse

Other BL producing countries also have similar terms for seme/uke/riba. And those countries also have terms for top/bottom/verse/side in their queer communities.

For example,

In Chinese BL (danmei), seme/uke/riba -> gong (攻)/shou (受)/hu gong (互攻)[1]

In Chinese tongzhi community -

top: gong (攻) or 1 or 上 or 凸

bottom: shou (受) or  0 or 下 or 凹

verse:  bu fen (不分)or 0.5 or 10

side: 不10 or 纯爱[2]

四爱 (fourth love) is the Chinese term for heterosexual relationship wherein the woman tops. When fictionalized, such romances are referred to as GB (girl boy) romance as opposed to BG (boy girl) and the heroine is referred to as female gong 女攻め.

In Thai BL, seme/uke/riba -> me (เมะ)/ ke (เคะ)/ se (เซะ) & their queer community have these terms.

Evolution

When the work does not involve sexual acts, seme/uke/riba is assigned based on speculation (‘what if’) in line with audiences’ preference. There are a bunch of stuff that are employed to determine the dynamics but owing to variation in taste, audience don’t always agree with each other. Since seme/uke/riba archetypes rose to that status with the yaoi (doujin) boom with development of comiket, etc. tanbi, June, original shonen ai and other such types of BL don’t follow these archetypes. Live action which follows, to an extent, the latter tradition, such as Boys Love (2006), also don’t have uke/seme/riba archetypes, instead follows the archetypes that was popularized by tanbi literary movement. Tanbi literary movement was queer in more ways than one. It preceded/birthed BL (Mori Mari) and influenced it.

As no culture is passive recipient [pun intended], different glocalizations of seme/uke/riba dynamics exhibit different features, both within and outside Asia (eg. original English-language BL publication).

IRL

While being top/bottom/verse/side pertains to sexual preference/choices and acts or lack thereof, it is not devoid of other implications. Here are some interplay between these preferences/choices and the implications to consider:

Are these preference/choices innate or socially formed? Or both? Or neither?

What does it mean to be top/bottom/verse/side – within and outside the queer community?

Performance of masculinity, femininity, neither. Which masculinity/femininity? Is that masculinity/femininity performance – marginalized, soft, protest, hegemonic or amalgamated?

How local and global queer cultures influence it?

Is it some kind of conformation/attempt to fit in? If yes, what kind and why?

How are those choices impacted by history (including that of colonialism), legal/political implication (e.g.: pink certificate in Türkiye), local forms of patriarchy & heterosexism, class, nationality, race, skin color, caste, age, employment (including sex work) or lack thereof, physical location & avenues of exploration, abilities and disabilities, access to internet & other infrastructure, education (including sex education), health conditions and access to medical care, etc.

How do they form expectations regarding oneself and others?

While it can be argued that there shouldn’t be any other implication associated with such preference/choices, one can not simply wish them away as it is more often than not linked to certain social realities.

BL as well as gei comi are genres of fiction, telling tales of male androphilia – these are reproductions of imagination entwined with realities, reflecting desires, fantasies and biases plenty.

Conflation

I disagree that uke/seme/riba archetypes are conflated “casually” with bottom/top/verse in narratives and discussions around them. There is a difference that P’AbsoluteBL probably isn’t aware of:

Uke is the bottom in a ship. A character could be uke in a ship, seme or riba in another. For a character to be a ‘bottom’, he has to be sou uke or total/complete uke. It means no matter who he is paired with he will always be the uke.

Alternatively, a sou uke is a character that makes all other characters become seme for him and go after him.

Similarly, a character could be called ‘top’ when that character is a sou seme or total/complete seme. Unless a character is established as a sou seme or sou uke in the narrative, there is always a possibility that those characters are verse. While most BL involves set ships, it is not rare to find characters who are uke in one relationship becoming seme or riba in another. Sometimes, after a time skip, transmigration, reincarnation, etc. BL characters end up switching within a ship.

In Live Action

While there is plenty of riba ships in other BL media, live action has had very few.

These couples were riba in the novel:

Bai Luoyin and Gu Hai – Addicted – The censorship struck right after the couple had their first coitus interfemoris (based on the chronology in the novel).

Lu Feng and Cheng Yichen - A Round Trip to Love

Lan Yu and Chen Handong - Lan Yu

Dom/sub

While the P’AbsoluteBL is allowed to do whatever, I don’t think correlating dom/sub with seme/uke is a good idea in the context of BL because:

BL has a separate speculative fiction subgenre called dom-sub-verse (Dom/Subユニバース) which have its own conventions. It is one of the many subgenres that took inspiration from omegaverse and has grown parallel to it. It takes dominance and submission from the kink community and explores them as innate/biological traits.

It involves characters who are identified as Dom(ドム), Sub(サブ), Switch(スウィッチ), and Usual/Normal/Neutral(ユージュアル/ノーマル/ニュートラル). Along with the standard elements of BDSM in fiction such as safeword, sub space, sub drop and aftercare, it also involves additional elements such as kneel(ニール), glare(グレア) and collar (カラー). There are commands コマンド (命令) that Dom gives to Sub. Sometimes elements borrowed from omegaverse such as heats/ruts, suppressants and professional Dom also appear in this sub-genre.

Dom×Sub ship: Dom is the seme & Sub is the uke.

eg. Hizamazuite Ai Wo Tou 『跪いて愛を問う』 & Rhetoric 『レトリック』 by 山田ノノノ Mijuku Na Boku Ha Shihai Wo Kou 『未熟な僕は支配を乞う 1』 by音海ちさ

Sub×Dom ship: Sub is the seme & Dom is the uke.

Jouzu Ni Dekita Ne Watasesan 『上手にできたね、渡瀬さん』 by 野萩あき Shoshinsha Dom Ha Hameraretai 『初心者Domはハメられたい』 by やんちゃ Gohoubi Ni Kubiwa Wo Kudasai (ご褒美に首輪をください) by Naruse Kano

Dom×Switch ship: Dom is the seme & Switch is the uke.

Sono Meirei De Ore Wo Abaite 『その命令で俺を暴いて』 by 小夏うみ れ愛の声で暴いて by 泉門くき いでおすわりしてみせて by 由元千子

Switch×Switch ship: One of the switches is the seme and the other the uke. 

強情なSwitchの躾け方 by ことぶき

Dom×Dom ship: One of the dom is the seme and the other the uke.

コマンドミー、プリーズ by 町田とまと サディスティックに暴かれたい by 星崎レオ (uke is a Dom, seme’s identity is not made clear) Kyousei Switch 『強制Switch』 by 彩田あまた

Like most BL genres, it is yet to make its way into live-action BL.

There are plenty of BDSM themed BL as well as training (調教) style BL where seme/riba/uke can be switch or sub or dom.

Problematizing the Problem

Hence, the argument that conflation of seme/uke with top/bottom is “a PROBLEM” is ironic. The main reason given for that argument is that “het consumers [would] conflate (egregiously & incorrectly) top with male/masculine and bottom with female/feminine.” Here are some things that I think is relevant to think about that:

Why would ‘het people’ or any people for that matter think in terms of male-female / masculine-feminine binaries? Do they think in those binaries only and not other binaries such as wen(文)-wu(武)? Why think in binaries and dichotomies at all? Don’t they not think in terms of multiplicity of genders/gender expressions such as various kinds of masculinities and femininities) based off on their local contexts? 

Do queer people not make such/similar conflations? (Hint: they do.)

Is it a problem? While this seems to be the popular notion, plenty of scholars from across the globe has dismantled it.

What exactly do P’AbsoluteBL think ‘het people’ conflate riba characters with? Feminine-feminine? Masculine-masculine? Neither? Both? Something else?

There are different conceptions of masculinities within a culture which get reflected in cultural goods, including BL, from there. Here are some really old depictions:

Qing dynasty Chinese Water and Land Ritual painting depicting a divine civil official and thunder god in military regalia. [Wen - wu]

Paintings of Padmapani and Vajrapani on either side of the Buddha, from cave 1 of the Ajanta Caves.

Moreover, if the problem is hinging on a particular understanding of seme/uke: the one in which seme is not feminine or uke is not masculine enough. If latter is the issue, it can be fixed by sticking to BL media with otokomae uke or macho uke. If former is the issue, there’s more than enough works with maiden seme and josou seme. If one is yet to encounter any such works, one is not looking far enough.

Masculinities in BL

Here are three central characters from Finder series embodies different types of masculinities – a lot of it is presentation, physical attributes, age, power and social standing. Akihito is a young and vivacious uke who happens to be short and sinewy. Asami Ryuichi is a supadari seme: a guy who is tall, well educated, high earning, with good looks. In addition, he cooks and cleans and cares when he wants to. Fei Long is tall, beautiful and cunning and can be regarded as a riba character. But can any of these characters considered not masculine by regular standards?  Isn’t Akihito masculine enough for his age? And if we are to compare Asami, we are sure to find him lacking but then give him time to grow. They have a dozen years between them. Moreover, can average men stand comparison with a super darling? But then in the grand setup of patriarchy, isn’t power concentrated in the hands of the older men who dominates even the super darlings, both in real world and fictional ones.

Ayase Yukiya & Kanou Somuku from No Money

Consider the case of Ayase, would you call him a “feminine” uke? Probably yes. He is small in stature - petite and cute. He is definitely very small in comparison to his seme Kanou. They probably have one of the most exaggerated size differences and an extreme case of the traditional pairing.

The traditional pairing comes from the customary practice of androphilia in pre-modern Japan. It involves relationship between a wakashu and a nenja or from the tradition of nanshoku. The former is not considered a man by the period’s standards and is considered a third gender by some scholars. The latter is considered as a mentor and lover for the former. While the traditional faded with ‘modernization’, tanbi literary movement (among others) kept alive remnants of it through the writings of the likes of Yukio Mishima.

Note that the youth on the left is wearing a kimono whose style (furisode) and color was considered appropriate for adolescents of both sexes but not adult men, which along with the partially shaved pate denotes the boy's wakashū age status while the exposed bare feet indicates the purely sexual demeanor.

The traditional pairing has clearly inspired Japanese mangaka both BL artists and others. Look at the wakashu in customary androgynous clothing, younger, fairer and even smaller than the nenja, with relatively less experience being embraced by nenja who is in customary male clothing.

Check out more shunga about nanshoku to see visual ancestor of “yaoi”. The visual legacy continued with the likes of Go Mishima. The queers did it first.

From the series "Mishima Go Book of Young Man" - Japan - 1972 (Showa 47)

Ayase in No Money fits into the wakashu ideal. Moreover, the creators of this manga explicitly differentiated between feminine uke with wakashu uke by juxtaposing Ayase with Someya who embodies traditional femininity.

Someya and Honda from Henshin Dekinai

Putting it into perspective, it is noticeable that many a BL involves similar pairing. A lot of criticism BL faces is when it sticks to nanshoku dynamics. Interestingly, critics who can’t imagine genders beyond masculine and feminine, fail to tell apart “feminine” characteristics from wakashu characteristics. But there is no dearth of such dynamics getting subverted in numerous ways in BL:

ship with younger, lower class, petite, androgynous or any combination of customary wakashu characteristics in seme/riba.

ship with all parties being of similar age, class, physical attributes, experience, etc.

Emancipation

Shouldn’t typical uke archetype be seen as an example of subversion of the main character masculinity that dominates media landscape? Shouldn’t they be exalted for being what they are? Uke archetype that allows all genders to project onto and gain pleasure from, is that any less than a marvel in itself?

Pursuer & Pursued

In order to analyses if there is a shift in seme-uke dynamic, the P’AbsoluteBL employs the following to categories who is active:

who is pursuing whom

who makes the first call in terms of declarations and physical touch

who seems to be more in charge of the relationship

In BL, these are never reserved for seme/uke/riba. Who takes on which role depends on the narrative. BL rarely have fixed pursuer-pursued. All parties involved in a ship take on active role in different circumstances.

Take, for example, the original edition of Ossan’s Love, Hasegawa Yukiya employs certain indirect tactics to pursuing Soichi Haruta such as cooking, cleaning and caring for him. (These are tasks that seme/riba/uke usually engage in lighter BLs to gain and retain the attention/affection of the one they are pursuing.) Hasegawa also engages in activities they do together as a means to grow closer. Once he learns of his love rival, he switches up the tactic. He pursues more directly and aggressively. Soichi rejects him. He withdraws and returns to the original tactic but without attempts to grow closer. Soichi feels the loss and tries to get close to Hasegawa but is brushed off. He does not back down. Instead, he takes on a more aggressive route of pursuit - making amends and chasing after Hasegawa.

What P’AbsoluteBL implies with “I think BLIHID’s main couple has a REALLY weak seme/uke dynamic from the get go” is made abundantly clear in with “ShiLei does a lot of active pursuit, also he’s very self actualized.” Here, using pursuer/pursued would have sufficed. Instead, P’AbsoluteBL chose to disappropriate established terms ‘seme/uke’ and imbibed them with implications of “active pursuit” as well as “self-actualization” [regarding queer identity] that seme/uke/riba doesn’t carry originally. Most of it based on biases built on equating all BL to one type of BL: the one with traditional pairing that follows royal road progression.

What P’AbsoluteBL actively avoids discussing is that Beloved in House is basically following the super popular ‘domineering president’ plot based on a BG romance.

Live Action Struggles

P’AbsoluteBL mentions an imagined ‘struggles around seme/uke’ in live-action BL. I think the actual issue plaguing live action BL is the struggle to balance business and other interests while being able to do justice to the diversity within BL as a media genre.

source: (chil-chil.net)

In the chart:

ほのぼの – heartwarming – Example: Restart After Come Back Home

コメディ – comedy – Cherry Magic

ダーク – dark – Sing in Love

シリアス – serious – Cornered Mouse Dream of Cheese

キュン – exciting (kyun) – Mr. Unlucky Has No Choice but to Kiss

Japan has trouble in diversifying its live-action in terms of sub-genres and treatment/mood. Even Thailand, despite the amount it produces have trouble offering variety. Riba couple, maiden seme, yarachin characters, yandere X yandere ship, etc. are either very rare or non-existent in live action BL. Moreover, live action BL is seldom explicit and are mostly in the speculative territory with seme/uke/riba dynamics, making it all the harder to diversify.

Tbh, what fascinated me the most is the “I kind of automatically cringed” part of the question. I would love to know what brought about that reaction. I am sure that it would help shed some light on discourse surrounding BL in general.

Post #2: Blushing Maiden Trope & Seme/Uke

Discussion (intended and in italics) between an anon, @heretherebedork & P’AbsoluteBL on actions and reactions during physical relationships.

The discussion centers around “the character placed into the stereotypically feminine role” being repulsed/reluctant/hesitant when it comes to physical relationships. It is directly attributed to “purity culture in BLs”.

BL have a complicated relationship with “purity” or being “clean”. Tanbi roots of BL hinged on sexuality and obsession with beauty to the point of decadence. Shonen ai (original meaning) works also had characters who are usually promiscuous for one reason or the other, never forming very deep relationship (at least not enough to stick to monogamous unions for long) yet endlessly entangled with other characters, often baffling non-queer characters in those works.

from Song of the Wind and Trees

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[Inviting readers to hazard a guess: who is the seme and who is the uke. Answer at the end of this post.]

*

But how explicit the depiction of physical relationships has varied in BL with time and space. Japanese BL with the self-published BL (aniparo / yaoi – original meaning) boom saw very explicit depictions side by side with the commercial BL which have barely any explicit content or those which take a closed-door approach. Now Japanese BL have a wide range in terms of explicit content and have grown to incorporate elements from other genres including gei comi. Korean BL is similarly doing well. It is not uncommon to have chapters or parts of chapter in manhwa and novels dedicated to the celebration of physical relationships. Thai BL also have no dearth of explicit content, especially in web publishing. Chinese BL in its early days had lots of explicit content, especially in self-publishing. But as censors started taking notice and cracking down, authors and platforms clamped down. Most BL were purged of any & all explicit content. Some of it migrated to Taiwanese platforms, AO3 & other foreign hosts. Now all danmei published is “pure love” devoid of even allusion to depiction of any physical relationship beyond above neck action.

When it comes to BL live action, things are a little different. In Japan and to an extend abroad, there has always been overlap between audience of BL and audience of Japanese GVs and pink eiga. Moreover, early live-action Japanese BL was probably aimed exclusively at hardcore BL fans. They were way more explicit on average and did not always involve physical relationship between the main ship. Same seems true about early live-action Chinese BL. A Round Trip to Love Part 2 (2016) even had bondage and SM scenes which wasn’t there in the novel; but then it didn’t have the hard-earned happy ending the novel had either. But now, even dangai with “socialist brotherhood” (社会主义兄弟情) can’t be aired. Meanwhile, Japan’s average BL today lacks much explicit content. This isn’t to say that it doesn’t drop an occasional Sei no Gekiyaku (2020) once in a blue moon. Here are my speculations to why more of those doesn’t get made.

There is another reason for “purity culture” in BL.

Sathaporn Panichraksapong, an MD of GMMTV, a major producer of BL series, claimed that audience members who are mainly heterosexual women look for romantic relationships among the characters rather than sexual relationships.

We know that our audience are [sic] women. Women want to see only two boys having romantic moments together. They don't want to see sex. Sexual relationships in BL are for a gay audience. That's why in SOTUS the Series we have only two kissing scenes. With only these, audiences were already screaming. This is enough for them. (Interview with Sathaporn, GMMTV, 10 Aug. 2017)

Jirattikorn, Amporn. "Heterosexual Reading vs. Queering Thai Boys' Love Dramas among Chinese and Filipino Audiences." (2023).

As Jirattikorn goes on to highlight, this [wrong] perception about the audience (“women”) have changed ever since.

While early BL series tend to portray pure love without showing many sexual relationships, later BL series started to show more sex scenes between the two male lead characters.

Jirattikorn (2023)

“It’s always the character being pursued, who is typically in his first relationship, who Never Thinks Of Sex. They’re often very sweet and innocent and wide-eyed.”

While heretherebedork attributes it to “purity culture”, it can be argued that this has to do with what audience wanted:

I like the way they portray love in Thai BL. It is a kind of puppy love. BL of other nations, like Chinese BL, are darker. In Thai BL, two male characters often start off friends, then develop feelings for each other. It is very light, very sweet. (Krissy, f, 27, Philippines)

Jirattikorn (2023)

and what media houses thought they wanted, as evidenced by Jirattikorn’s interviews with BL fans. This is not to dismiss struggles with purity culture which is often a very slow part of decolonialization.

P’AbsoluteBL goes further to the argument that “purity” is associated with seme/uke dynamics in BL and maps it to typical het pairing (BG):

The stronger the seme/uke dynamic (the more heterosexually dysmorphic and less actually gay) the more likely this trope will manifest. Simply put: the man (because he is hooah a MANLY MAN DUDE) wants sex but the woman (delicate pure flower of cleanliness and joy) does not. And if she does want it she is a DIRTY, worthless, whore - so she MUST protest sex (GASP) at every single turn. (Seme is acting the male and uke the female in these kinds of narratives.) *please sense my sarcasm dumb interwebs, mm’kay?*  

It’s true that the argument seems persuasive but is it right? Probably not. Seme, uke and riba characters can be divided into strong/weak categories based on their characterization - with the strong ones being those who pursue, take initiative, most likely to initiate intimacy at least for their first time, etc. and weak ones being those at the receiving end of pursuits and initiatives. Pairing a strong one with a weak one is probably more traditional –

strong riba x weak riba like in Addicted (at least before time skip)

strong seme x weak uke like in Old Fashioned Cupcake

weak seme x strong uke like in Saezurutori Wa Habatakanai (at least before time skip; pavam Doumeki)

compared to those with both parties being strong (which leads to delectable friction and sparks flying when done right) or both being weak (which leads to audience wondering: will either of them do something? No? Very well!).

BL’s sex negativity

Seme gets overwhelmed by his lust for uke, acts aggressively and has to be shut down or warned off. 

Not only seme, uke and riba characters does this too. P’AbsoluteBL attributes “getting overwhelmed by lust” and “acting aggressively” to seme when it can be attributed to both uke (襲い受け) and riba as well. Other than acting aggressively, characters may employ seduction (eg. Xia Shang Zhou in You Are Mine (2023) - tried and failed & Charlie in Pit Babe (2023) - successful) and/or manipulation (Color Recipe by Harada).

Seme won’t take no for an answer because his needs are too great and his needs take precedence (he’s “the man” after all) and the uke is just TOO CUTE how could anyone resist? (After all the seme is only gay for this one guy because he is so cute. Everything, therefor, is the uke and his cutenesses’ fault.) 

Moreover, P’AbsoluteBL is probably not aware of kawai seme who employ their cuteness to get uke to lower the guard and to seduce. Cuteness is clearly not a uke prerogative.

Like the sailor-costume wearing seme on the cover, cuteness is sometimes invoked through conventionally women’s clothing, cosplaying (maid, sailor, nurse), etc.

If the seme makes the choice to have sex for the uke, then the uke is not at fault and is still technically innocent. Only if an uke wants it, is he actually impure (or actually gay). In H4 when they both comfort and sex shame the bottom after the rape sequence, this is the narrative’s mentality. (A man who does not want sex is assumed to be able to fight another man off.)   Oh and ALSO, the seme must read the uke’s mind and know what the uke really wants.

I don’t even know what went into this argument. There is an entire subgenre: 調教 BL (training / conditioning) that is focused on pleasure training. If a character (seme/uke/riba) wants sex in a narrative, it usually only means that their partner is on the right track. Moreover, when a character wants, actively seeks and are denied intimacy for manipulation reasons, then their partner is made out to be cruel (either 鬼畜 or ゲス・クズ).

In other words, if the uke is interested in sex, he’s made impure by this interest.  Sex of any kind is an act of desperation and indicates lack of control and therefor diminishes both parties but particularly the uke, therefor the uke shouldn’t have to take responsibility of wanting sex, so the decision must be made by the seme for both of them. He is being a “good seme” by doing this. The uke, therefore MUST appear reluctant to have sex, or he is not a good/pure/virtuous person.

Honestly, I haven’t come across BL which gives off this kind of message. However, two-faced scummy characters (seme/uke/riba) get to employ hypocrisy, which includes slut-shaming, to humiliate characters they are shipped with but then such narratives are built to illicit hatred (for scummy characters) and angst and often punished with:

(a) unhappy ending for the couple

(b) breaking up of the ship

(c) groveling which may or may not end in redemption of the scum

(d) switching within ship – uke turns into riba/seme or seme turns into riba/uke – or shift in power dynamics (rich character becomes relatively poorer, junior from school becomes senior/superior in workplace).

A lot of readers find such dramatic plots satisfying and hence it is a successful subgenre.

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Can you guess the seme in these 20 BL manga? Try this quiz on renta.

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Post #3: How do they determine who will be archetype seme/uke?

Discussion regarding seme/uke determination in BL: @elynn0723 & P'AbsoluteBL (intended and in italics).

I think your confusion is partly nested in the fact that seme/uke is not about who fucks who, not really. Certainly not anymore. Seme/uke are narrative archetypes not physical acts.

Disappropritation. Discussed above.

I should say for the record that personality is NOT sexual preference. 

P’AbsoluteBL goes onto give examples (all of which are fictionalized in different genres – GB, BL, etc.) but probably due to being limited by lack of exposure, goes onto ask, “How weird that anyone would think queers do this.” Queers do this. If one is willing to look beyond LGBTQIA+ form of queerness (which is born and brought up in America), one can see queer possibilities. For example, Kothi-Panthi queerness in India/South Asia. It is probably a good idea to pay attention to it when generalizing queerness given how big India/South Asia’s (queer) population is. There are very many similar forms of queerness in other parts of Global South. In many cultures, sexuality doesn’t inform identity but sexual preference does.

[ Aside: Kothi-Panthi model of queerness

This model doesn’t work for whole of India – region (India is so big and heavily populated - different sexual cultures and practices); linguistics (different terms in different region, same terms different meanings in different region, decline of Farsi (used in queer spaces in Delhi) and other queer argot/cant and their replacement with American English internet slang); class & caste (LGBTQIA+ being self-identification of mostly urban/rurban, upper class, English educated v/self- identification common among the sex workers, working class and other lower classes in rural as well as urban spaces who are excluded from consumerist queerness);

NGOfication of queer movement & action; global queering and neoliberal take over leading to americanization –– intermixing & “gay” (and other terms) being used differently by different classes.]

How do they determine who will be archetype seme/uke?

P’AbsoluteBL points to narrative roles - who is “after” the relationship more, and then goes onto claim “the heroine is the main character, the love interest is her love interest. It’s decided for them because it’s a romance novel.” I don’t know if this helps explaining either seme/uke/riba archetypes in BL or pursued/pursuer. Aren’t there romances where hero pursues heroine and the other way around? Aren’t there romances where both party pursue each other?

Even if we assume that androphilic female audience is projecting the sexual mores & expectations imposed on them onto male characters, then by the very act aren’t they subverting those expectations.

How do they determine who tops?

P’AbsoluteBL provides the following schema:

seme = active pursuer

since active pursuer is “the male role”

he should do the penetrating

which has to be done

P’AbsoluteBL also gives a term for this association: heterosexual dysmorphia - "the idea that any couple must fit into predetermined binary gender roles". This is probably coming from a place of ignorance since the example given is confined to musings about sexism concerning the upper class in Global North. Also, at least in the ambit of Kothi-Panthi sexuality, fitting into masculine top-feminine bottom dynamic doesn’t place them into any predetermined binary gender roles. Instead, it only places them in the fluid space of multi-genders: can/are seamlessly float(ing) between being kinnar/hijra/ali and being “cis-men”.

If one is to ask the question: “Which one of you is The Girl?” to a kothi-panthi couple, the kothi would tell you without hesitation: “I am The Girl.” Might even asked you in turn, “Couldn’t you tell?”

Kothi [is the word used by] effeminate men who desire to be penetrated by "real" men whom they call ‘panthi’.

Queer Movements by Paromita Chakravarti & Aniruddha Dutta

Seme/uke/riba archetypes are imbibed with different traits and different spin on personalities that a seasoned BL sommelier might be able to spot easily but would confuse those who are less familiar with all that the genre has to offer. The following excerpt from an analysis by @ranchthoughts reflects the most popular idea about seme/uke dynamics.

Most BL shows can be read through a lens of seme/uke dynamics, which originated in yaoi. The seme is the “pursuer” character and the uke is the “pursued”. There are certain physical (height, skin colour, etc.), social (age, wealth, social capital, etc.), and personality (active vs. passive, extroverted vs. introverted, flirtier vs. shyer) markers which are typically associated with either the seme or the uke. For example, semes tend to be taller, wealthier, older, flirtier, tanner, more active, and have a higher social status, while ukes tend to be shorter, poorer, younger, shyer, paler, and have a lower social status. “Seme” and “uke” roles are also sometimes conflated with masculinity and femininity (semes are “masculine” and ukes are “feminine”) and sexual preferences (semes are dominant and tops and ukes are submissive and bottoms). There are also tropes associated with either the seme or the uke, like ukes typically give cheek kisses and semes forehead kisses. Thus, things like height, age, wealth, personality, presumed sexual preference, and the role they take in tropes can index the character’s status as a seme or a uke, and in turn the character’s identity as a seme or uke in the narrative (pursuer vs. pursued) indexes a character’s personality, sexual preferences, etc., however unrealistic and simplistic that is in real life. In a BL, we would expect the seme (pursuer) and uke (pursued) characters to exhibit most, if not all, of the associated seme or uke traits and roles in tropes, though this is not always true (and some BLs have little to no seme/uke dynamics at all).

There are two interesting things about such an understanding of seme/uke dynamics:

It closely resembles nenja/wakashu dynamics (and its cousins) in the customary and mostly age-stratified androphilia in pre-modern Japan.

Live action BL, at least the ones that were current and popular, stuck mainly to a single type of dynamic: pairing of one seme of a particular kind (スパダリ – super darling) with one uke of a particular kind (ヘタレ – milquetoast). There are barely any riba couple. It is painting picture of BL in monochromes. So much so that Bad Buddy and My School President were seen as some path breaking feat and a break away from “yaoi” tropes by live action audience, rather than seeing them having just another (or less familiar) set of yaoi / BL tropes.

What P’AbsoluteBL identifies as “heterosexual dysmorphia” in “yaoi” is basically what BL inherited from Japan’s pre-modern androphilia including “femininity” in uke from chiago, wakashu and androgynous Kabuki actors and (hyper)masculinity in seme from nenja and others who enacted “the male role”. BL did not passively receive any of these. And for moe, artists and audience alike, subverted it all.

This is true for all tropes that are attributed to seme/uke.

Height difference – Earliest BLs had petite bishonen pairings. Yaoi introduced height differences – all of them: tall seme x short uke short seme x tall uke (this is probably the most sexualized height difference) tall seme x tall uke (with little to no difference) both/all short riba CP/ship both/all tall riba CP/ship tall riba x short riba short riba x tall riba

Cuteness – Used to establish how irresistible a character (seme/uke/riba) is irrespective of their attitudes and behavior are. Oft part of seme’s seduction tactic, especially when uke has a weakness for cute things. Even when cuteness is not one of the seme’s attributes, it is invoked either actively by serving kawai in speech or through actions including cosplay; or passively like in the following example where a typical super darling seme, Asami Ryuichi from Finder unintentionally triggers moe in Takaba Akihito (his uke) by cuddling a baby.

Uke’s cuteness is exploited to establish a sou uke (an uke every other character turns seme for) or subvert the same like in No Money where one of the epitomes of bishonen cuteness, Ayase (uke), who manages to enthrall others however isn’t a sou uke as one might expect and thus subverts the wakashu trope. Moreover, Kanou (seme) wasn’t initially drawn to Ayase due to his cuteness but due to Ayase’s kindness that lifted him out of the abyss of despair, when Kanou was at his weakest.

3. Bulk – BL have main characters (seme/uke/riba) with varying bulk and body types. There is far less diversity when it comes to Live Action BL.

4. Blushing maiden/virginal innocent trope – applies to all sorts of BL characters.

Edit: Conclusion

1. Surprisingly, ethnocentrism and loud echo of colonial masculinity in particular seem to permeate the discourse surrounding BL.

2. I really wish live action BL would have as much diversity as other BL media. Why is it so slow to diversify? Is it because of business interests? Is sticking to super darling X milquetoast pairing with royal road progression a sensible business decision? Or is sexism promoting wrong impressions of what audience want?

3. How come the Japanese terms "seme" & "uke" are used a lot but not "riba"? Where did live action BL audience learn these terms?

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Yaoi = [how P'AbsoluteBL uses it] synonym for ボーイズ ラブ (boys love) manga.

            = [popular use in anglophone BL manga fandom] BL manga with explicit content; as opposed to shonen ai.

            = [original meaning] derivative works, which were mostly plot-what-plot type, that are self-published (doujinshi)

Answer to a question posted above: Gilbert Cocteau – uke in Song of the Wind and Trees

Below is the seme: Serge Battour

from Song of the Wind and Trees

Earliest BL manga had very pretty seme/uke/riba characters (if we are to call them so) and were not too preoccupied with "manliness" or a single type of "masculinity". But, they were surely obsessed with bishonen.

-

[1] 互攻 is also used to indicate POV switching between gong and shou in fiction.

[2] 纯爱 is also used to indicates asexual androphilia.

CP/pairing - involves 2 characters. Ship - involves 2 or more characters.

Inviting @waitmyturtles and @lurkingshan to share your thoughts if any (since I have noticed you guys use the terms "seme" & "uke" as well). Hope you guys don't mind the mention.

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [First Interlude]

What's this? Another update? So quickly? Well, this is a peculiar one. Bear with me 👉👈 it'll make sense soon enough.

Viktor x Fem!Reader------Gothic AU/Spooky Sea AU-----1.8K----SFW

> M A S T E R L I S T &lt; ← Previous // Next →

Synopsis: Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say.

Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts.

Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: At the beginning, there was the keeper that built the beacon...

Tags: Strangers to Lovers| Slow Burn| Tragic Love| Dark Magic| Curses| Reincarnation| Sea Monsters & Mermaids| Dual Timelines

Taglist: @local-mr-frog @lunar-monster @bittercyder

This house forgets too quickly to your liking.

Green wallpaper changed into a boring white one, golden portraits of a broken family burned down in a makeshift fire outside the entrance, there where the smoke could fill your eyes with tears.

The clothes your mother used to wear, loose skirts and puffy sleeves to avoid much friction against her sensible skin burned all the same. Acrid smoke replaced the salty, yet sweet cadence of her essence.

Part of you hoped the same would occur to you, as you’re the last thing of your mother that is left. Even if it’s an amorph, broken shadow, one that would have probably horrified her.

Not belonging there, but neither here.  

A voice calls you from the relucent kitchen, pulling you out of the whirlpool of thoughts you'd been growing used to having ever since she came. Ever since she came and your mother left.

You don't feel your numb fingers from knitting all evening, but you have no choice, as there won’t be any trip to the city to buy clothes this year. Autumn is approaching, the days getting shorter as the wind picks up speed, wishing to take parts of the pitched roof as a souvenir to the end of the world.

Lady Luna Stell appears in your vision, and you can see her long fingers getting bruised and dried with the new chores of housekeeping. She hands you a rusty plater with lemon juice on a pitcher and a single, empty glass.

“Go to the lighthouse and give this to the keeper,” she says, cleaning herself into her stained apron. You stay there, frozen, a lump of fear settled in your stomach.

I can’t go, it’ll call me.

It always does.

The incessant, ruthless sway of the waves crashing against the rocks, echoed in the abyss of the cliff. They call you, and it breaks your heart to ignore them.

“What are you waiting for?” Luna says the disgust dripping from her voice makes you jump on your place, the lemon juice almost flowing over the pitcher’s rim. She scowls down at you. “I swear you’re a useless girl. At least you’re pretty enough to fool a man. You must consider yourself lucky.”

Luna knows the reason behind the strange aura surrounding you like a heavy cloak; the way the midwives first cooed happily at you while a baby, now growing with eeriness and a sense of doubt as you turn into an adult.

You look too much like her—like the madwoman who jumped off the cliff.

You turn away from her scrutiny, leaving behind the house that smells like overcooked meat and salty soup that nobody could eat at lunchtime. Perhaps another reason why Luna seems to be so on edge.

Or maybe the reason lies behind another destroyed fishing boat. All left behind with catch rotting in the sun and nobody on board. The words of your father, and you can only trust them, for you are forbidden to go near the sea.

The sky is clear today, a friendly breeze moving your hair against your face, the echo of your worn-out shoes against the rock, still uneven in the steps, still rough without the caress of feet going up and down, morphing it against its natural state to become it human-made.

You look up at the elongated shadow the lighthouse’s tower cast on it, like a giant that momentarily can hide the sun beneath white cement rock, so vibrant against the bright sunlight that its form is glued to behind your eyelids when you blink away.

The gate is open, the odor of oil painting stuck in your nostrils as you slip inside, looking at the tender garden starting to grow in crooked sprouts someone must attach little sticks to the stems to make them grow upward.

Not someone, but the keeper.

A black mouth welcomes you against the green and white of the gate, and you peek through it, looking neatly inside the lighthouse's ground floor.

Newly wallpaper in blue with wildflowers printed on it covering every wall—the same wallpaper your house used to be before becoming white and geometric; the old furniture all moved here. The squeaky chair you used to read fairytales in, the mattress your mother used to tuck all the way against the window to let the marine breeze in, even in winter.

In this space, everything is as it was used to; time stopping in the round walls of the tower, stopping it from slipping through the door as the only way from here is upward.

“Hello?” you say, your voice climbing the stairs before you are resolute to do it. Polished stairs made of red cedar support each of your feet without noisy complaints; the rail is thick enough to let your mind dare to see down once you're midway toward the beacon’s room.

“Hi?” you ask again, not without feeling stupid now that you are up here. A layer of sweat covering your face, sticky lemon juice falling all over the pitcher.

You’re almost expecting another earful from the keeper once he got to take the messy tray when you hear a grunt, the sound of a metallic object slipping, ricocheting over the wood to lay at your feet.

A golden gear the size of a lemon.

You observe the way it makes the sunlight reflect on the smooth surface, before rising your view to see where you could let the tray and pick up the gear.

The lighthouse keeper, however, is faster.

He stands up from his seated position against the beacon’s power wiring, and now it’s his time for the sun to frame him.

Honey-like eyes widen in surprise to see you standing there, some stains of oil against his pale skin that go down his arms that the rolled-up sleeves cannot cover. It could be the orangey hues of the upcoming dusk, but you can almost see his hair becoming aflame with the light pooling from the wide windows of this room that seems to be suspended in the air.

“Um, hi,” you hear yourself saying, cringing at the sound of your shaky voice resonating around the still space. “Hello. My moth… Mrs. Stell told me to bring you this,” you say, rising the plater slightly. “Where can I put it?”

There are no tables in the room.

From next to him, he retrieves a cane, his stance elegant as he walks toward you.

He’s much younger than you first thought he would be. Maybe a couple of years older than you, but no more than that. What is he doing here as a lightkeeper? You could almost picture him in a fancy suit in one of the so-many parties Luna and your father wanted to drag Adara and you.

For some childish reason, you feel your heart picking up a step as he stops close to you, so much so you can see the two tiny moles adorning his sculpted face; one under his left eye and over the right side of his lips.

Staring is rude, you chastise yourself.

The man points to the closed door behind him. “Good evening, Miss. You can leave it inside there,” he answers, his voice soft and with a cadence you’re sure people can hear once and then remember forever. “The door’s unlocked.”

He kneels carefully, and you can’t stop your eyes from following the movement. A hand grasping the cane as the other picks up the missing gear. The man must have felt your gaze because, after a blink, his golden eyes are settled on you.

He looks almost amused, eyebrows quirked.

You move away, heels quickly following each other as you made your way toward the room. The control panel room, you quickly recognize. With a table filled with books and wrinkled notebooks; a sofa cluttered with papers of machines and cursive calligraphy that flows like water, so easily.

You put the tray on the table, hands piling the books nearby to push them further onto the surface. You also accommodate the stray papers aside, not wanting that your mess of lemon juice get on the pages.

When you emerge from the room, Viktor is waiting for you, playing with an oil-stained rag between his hands.

“I apologize for my rude manners,” he says, his cheeks slightly pink as he extends a hand toward you. “I was caught off guard. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, your fingers sticky from the juice and the sudden sweat that accompanies your frantic heartbeat.

He looks awkwardly from his hand to yours, which is tucked against your stomach.

“Eh,” he says with a wry smile. “I’m Viktor.”

Sheepishly, your fingers graze his palm. And if he finds the texture uncomfortable, you can't see the disgust in his eyes. His hands are slightly cold despite being in constant movement, and you can only hope a hole can open under your feet.

You barely squeeze his fingers, even when he does. Your voice comes out like a trembling breath when you tell him your name.

His eyes squint in amused half-moons when his smile deepens. He tilts his head after a moment, letting go of your hand.

The carefree gestures throw you off guard. He doesn’t know about you, about what people in town say about your mother—about yourself. A desperate part of you wants to know if he's just pretending to like you to keep his job.

For your credit, he doesn’t swipe his hand clean on his rag. Instead, he gestures to the beacon.

“I’m afraid I have to resume work, Miss,” he says, his cane thumping against the floor even when he doesn’t move away. “But thank you for the water. I will return the tray and the dishes tomorrow.”

“I can retrieve them myself,” you hear yourself saying. Because that way you can know if he’s willing to tolerate your presence. You signal to the stairs. “I think it’s enough effort to climb up and down those to make you climb the ones toward my house, too.”

Viktor chuckles. “You’re very considerate, Miss,” he says. Just as your mind is already conjugating the way he will avoid you, he adds: “In that case, you can pass around here at any time. I will be here all day.”

You see the amusement in his eyes, and there’s no way your lips don’t curve upward. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Viktor.”

You turn around, toward the stairs, in case your face can unveil how flustered you feel—a strange kind of hope. Perhaps there could be someone who could make you company. And who could be more willing, than a man desperate enough to take the lonely job of a lighthouse keeper?

[niemernuet]

Small, painless oneshot for this weeks' off-season winter sports fandom challenge, inspired by Stefan Rogentin's first world-cup podium in the Super-G race in Wengen and Gilles Roulin who had exams one day after the downhill. And also by Gilles' sweet story on ig a few days ago. ♥️

The Tin Pitcher

pairing: Stefan Rogentin/Gilles Roulin characters: Stefan Rogentin, Gilles Roulin length: 1'400 words

The small village high above the valley is almost bursting at the seams, with people shuffling shoulder against shoulder through every street and alley, past bars and food stalls. Music blasts from seemingly every house but nowhere louder than on the village square. The ceremony has only just ended, and the crowds are still pressed against the fences, hoping for another picture or an autograph. Stefan can neither hide nor escape, even though he tries both. He barely catches a glance of the person at the far end of the square, the smile he would recognise in every crowd, before Mauro and Beat tackle him. His prize for the second place in the Super-G, an old fashioned tin pitcher, lies heavy in his hand as they escort him to the bar, all the while congratulating themselves on keeping him from sneaking away. The bar is on the roof of a hotel, not theirs though, and through the glaring, flickering lights shooting into the night Stefan can see the track winding around the mountain like a bow, waiting for the next race tomorrow. There is a lot to celebrate today, not just his very first podium in the World Cup or Odi's third place but also, more important than his achievements anyway, Mauro's and Beat's retirements. Still, his heart is not really in it, knowing what is happening at the same time somewhere down the road. He indulges them nonetheless, Mauro and Beat who refuse any nostalgia or sadness tonight, and Marco and Aleks who keep handing him one glass after the other that he discretely starts to dump into the giant pots of boxwood standing around the roof after a while. He manages his escape in the end, once Odi jumps on the bar and throws his shirt into the hollering crowd, and slinks into the night. Nobody spares another glance at him as he walks past the parties in the streets, his pitcher hidden under the jacket.

He has always been good at hiding.

The door clicks softly as he pushes the card into the slot, and quietly he slips into his room. It lies in almost complete darkness, the sickly light of the laptop and tablet on the table barely reaching the foot of their beds. Stefan stays still for a moment, his back resting against the door, and takes in the familiar sight.

"Hey."

"Hey," Gilles answers. His eyes remain glued to the screens, scanning the endless rows of text as he scrolls down the pages. Ever so often he stops, and grabs one of the many sheets of paper scribbled all over with notes, lying scattered all around him. The harsh light from the laptop paints dark shadows under his eyes and around his nose and turns his skin the colour of the trampled snow down in the streets.

"I saw you at the medal ceremony," Stefan says.

"Indeed?" Gilles says to the screen. "Cool."

Stefan laughs softly, and pushes away from the door. He puts the heavy pitcher down on a stack of notes on the table. Gilles' lips move without any sound coming out as he follows a certain text passage, and he does not flinch when Stefan bends over, and presses a kiss in his hair.

"It was," he says as he begins to undress. "Though I have to say the fire was a bit of a surprise."

"Huh."

"Yeah. But it only singed Aleks a little bit, so all's well."

"M-hm."

Stefan smiles. "Also, he will have enough time to recover anyway, seeing as they cancelled the race tomorrow." The cleaning crew that tidied their room today hid his shirt under the freshly made bed, and he has to dig through the stack of pillows.

"Good, good," Gilles mutters.

The fan in the windowless bathroom starts to whir as soon as Stefan flips the light switch. He leaves the door open while he brushes his teeth. "The afterparty was nice too. Beat retired from his retirement, by the way."

"Yes."

"Says he will start for San Marino from now on."

"Exactly!"

Gilles grabs another sheet from the table, and compares his notes with the text on the screen before resuming his lecture. He does not take notice of Stefan turning on the bedside lamp before sitting down on the bed behind him.

"Also, Odi offered to suck me off."

Gilles whirls around in his chair. "He fucking what?"

Stefan breaks down laughing.

"You…," Gilles growls, and he is just about to join him when he finally returns to reality. He jumps up straight in his chair, taking in the night that had fallen around him, and then turns to the laptop to read the time.

"But why are you here?" he exclaims, and turns to Stefan again. "You're supposed to be at your party!"

"I was tired."

"You can't be tired already! You only win your first world cup-podium once!"

Stefan laughs again, and holds out his palm. "That's generally how it goes, yes."

Gilles smiles at him, and puts his hand in Stefan's. It is a familiar weight there, his thumb knowing every ridge and bump of Gilles' fingers as he strokes them. They understand each other even without talking; their secret language that only they know has more than words, and Stefan only needs to cock his head, and put some pressure in his grip for Gilles' smile to fall.

"No!"

"I couldn't stay at the party," Stefan explains, ignoring Gilles' exclamation. "I have something important to do."

"No, please!" Gilles begs, and tries in vain to pull his hand out of Stefan's tightening grip. "Please, you don't understand! I can't…"

Stefan raises his eyebrows, and stands up.

"The exam is in two days!" Gilles says loudly, and grabs the lid of his laptop with his free hand to keep Stefan from shutting it. "I have to learn! Please, no!"

With a smile, Stefan bends down. "You have a race tomorrow," he whispers. "You need to sleep."

He presses a kiss against Gilles' babbling lips and slowly, unrelentingly shuts the laptop until its light vanishes.

"Just one more chapter, I promise I won't stay up longer but I need to go over that last part again, otherwise I can't…not the tablet too! Stefan!"

Stefan laughs as the tablet shuts down with short beep. He wraps his arms around Gilles when he jumps up, not in the least bothered by the flashes of anger shooting out of his dark eyes. They die quickly, like the laptop and the tablet, with another kiss that pulls a defeated sigh out of Gilles. It is far from the first fight they have battled in the past weeks.

"You have learnt, and relearnt, and crammed everything you need to know," Stefan mutters against Gilles' lips, and softly guides him towards the bed. "All you have to do now is keep your cool. Tomorrow you will have a great race, and after another night's rest you will blow the examiner's mind with your knowledge, and next week in Kitzbühel I will finally be able to begin every sentence with 'My lawyer says…'."

"I'm not becoming a lawyer!" Gilles objects while Stefan pushes him down onto the mattress, climbs over him, pulls the blanket over their feet, and turns off the bedside lamp. "It's just the final exam for my Masters of Law. If I wanted to become a lawyer I'd have to acquire a letters patent which means I would have to pass the bar, which means I would need at least five years of on-the-job-experience, and I don't…"

He breaks off when Stefan pulls him close, and with a sigh crumples against his shoulder. The old building is well insulated, and nothing from the party raging outside gets through the thick walls. Slowly, Gilles' breathing comes calmer and flatter while Stefan strokes his hand.

"Sorry I wasn't with you tonight," he mutters eventually, half-asleep.

"It's okay," Stefan answers. "I saw you from the podium."

"Really? But I was in the middle of the square."

"I would find you anywhere."

Gilles hums, and his head drops off Stefan's shoulder down on the pillow. Tenderly, Stefan pulls his arm out from under Gilles' body, and pulls the blanket up to their chins.

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world," Gilles mumbles. " 'm proud of you."

[perlukafarinn]

this is a season 9 au i guess. don’t ask for more specifics, i just wanted to write dean and cas getting drunk and making out “for practice”

Thank fucking God, Dad can’t see me now.

The thought flutters through Dean’s mind, a tiny, bitter thing there one moment and gone the next. He’s too comfortable right now to dwell on such negativity, laying on the couch, warm and loose-limbed.

They’ve been drinking - him and Cas, that is. Sam is nowhere near the bunker right now and honestly, thank God for that too, because all they’ve had tonight is pitcher after pitcher of margaritas.

Not Dean’s idea, for the record. Neither is the music currently playing on the radio, some upbeat bubblegum pop that he usually wouldn’t be caught dead listening to but can right now admit, at least to himself, that he kind of digs.

Cas picked the music, and the margaritas, because it turns out he doesn’t really like beer or hard liquor but he wanted to try getting drunk anyway. Dean’s the sucker who went out and bought all that margarita mix, because he’s finding it more and more difficult to tell Cas no these days.

Which might be why he’s currently letting Cas paint his toenails, with some polish Charlie left behind after her last visit. 

It’s bright blue and Dean is pretty sure Cas is getting it all over his feet but he can’t be bothered to care. It feels kind of nice, Cas’ hands brushing against his skin as he carefully applies the polish. Like being taken care of. 

“Fuck me,” Dean mutters and he’s sure Cas hasn’t heard him over the music but then his hand stills.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just-” Dean laughs, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “Are we having a slumber party right now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Cas resumes his work. He’s sitting on the floor next to the couch, which can’t be comfortable, but he’s probably too drunk to care right now. Just like Dean. “I’ve never been to one before.”

Dean hums, staring up at the ceiling. 

“What does one do at a slumber party?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “This kinda crap, I guess. Paint each other’s nails, listen to music, get drunk on girly drinks. Talk about boys.” He snorts. “Or sex, if you’re not a preteen girl.”

“I’d rather not.”

Dean winces, thinking of Cas’ one sexual experience so far. Yeah, he wouldn’t be eager to talk about that either. 

Still, “You’ve at least rounded first with some chicks worth talking about.” Dean wracks his brain - Meg is the first to come to mind, but he knows better than to bring her up, even drunk off his ass. “Daphne, right? She was hot.”

“I suppose,” Cas says. 

“Why didn’t you ever hook up with her?” The question tastes bitter on Dean’s tongue and he’s not sure why. “Can’t tell me it’d be a sin, it’s not fornication if you’re married.”

Cas pauses his movements. Dean thinks he might have offended him so he raises his head, craning his neck to get a proper look at his face, but Cas doesn’t looks pissed, just deep in thought.

“We did round some bases,” he says, the words sounding stiff and alien coming from him. “But we rarely did more than kiss. Once tongues are involved the whole process becomes...” he makes a face, “unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” Dean repeats. He gets up on his elbows, sparing a glance at his toes - a whole mess of blue, Picasso would be so proud - before looking back at Cas. “Dude. You sure you weren’t just bad at it?”

Cas turns away, blushing. “Possibly. It’s not as if I’ve had much practice.”

“You learned some stuff from the pizza man,” Dean points out.

Cas huffs. The back of his ears have turned red, too. It’s kind of cute. 

“If you want, you can practice on me.”

The words tumble out faster than Dean can stop them. His mouth goes dry when Cas turns to look at him, eyes wide with shock, but there’s a reckless pounding in his heart that makes him push past the doubt.

“Do you want to?” he asks Cas. 

Cas glances down - at Dean’s lips and Dean licks them instinctively, heart racing faster. He’s not sure what he’s doing but his head is buzzing, a combination of alcohol and excitement, and he decides he doesn’t want to think too hard about it. Second thoughts can wait until tomorrow, when he’s sober.

“It would... just be for practice?” Cas asks.

Dean grins, easy. “Call it part of the slumber party experience.”

He tries to sit up further and Cas takes the hint to help him but between the efforts of two drunk, uncoordinated people, Dean somehow finds himself slipping off the couch, landing halfway on top of Cas and halfway on the floor. 

“You’re heavy,” Cas complains. 

“Fuck off,” Dean says but he’s laughing, giddy and for no real reason. He’s drunk and there’s some girl on the radio singing about being in love and Cas is right here, human but alive, smiling at the sound of Dean’s laughter and leaning in and, oh -

Right. They’re doing this. 

Dean is still kind of on top of Cas so he has to grab Cas’ shoulder to keep his balance, which has the added benefit of bringing him even closer. Cas is a little sloppy right at the beginning, teeth bumping against Dean’s lower lip as they kiss. 

Dean laughs, a little breathless already, mutters, “Careful,” against Cas’ parted lips.

Unpleasant is definitely not the word Dean would use to describe this. Cas’ lips are warm and he’s a bit clumsy, a little too eager, but then he sucks on Dean’s lower lip and bites down, gently, and Dean thinks he might have a knack for this, after all.

Dean’s the one to deepen the kiss, licking the seams of Cas’ lips until they part on a sigh. He tastes sweet and sour like those stupid margaritas, and Dean thinks he might be intoxicating like them too, because he’s sure as hell feeling more buzzed by the second.

Cas shifts underneath him, bringing one hand up to cup the back of Dean’s head, fingers digging into his scalp and Dean just about melts, humming nonsensical encouragements against Cas’ lips. 

Dean feels like he’s in free fall, head swimming at the hot twist of Cas’ tongue, stomach swooping when Cas pulls away to take a shuddering breath and then trails his lips down Dean’s neck, licking, biting.

Dean should discourage him - like this whole thing isn’t middle school enough, now Cas is gonna give him a goddamn hickey - but he just tilts his head back, gives Cas more room to work. Cas presses a kiss against his Adam’s apple and then licks the dip of his clavicle, slow and hot like he’s savoring the taste of Dean’s skin. 

At some point, Cas’ other hand landed on Dean’s waist and it’s maybe the only thing keeping him upright. Dean is on fire, he’s melting, he’s dizzy with desire, almost nauseous, and all they’ve done is make out for a couple of minutes. 

“Dean,” Cas says, whispers into his skin, and fuck, he sounds wrecked. “Dean.”

He’s hard. Dean can feel it, poking him in the thigh, but somehow that doesn’t scare him half as much as his own answering hardness, quickly growing uncomfortable in his jeans.

“We should-” Dean pulls away, puts his hand on Cas’ chest to keep him from chasing, “-we should stop. That’s enough practice.”

Cas stares up at him, challenging. “Is it?”

Dean doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a stare down, clambering off his lap and out of his embrace. “Yep.”

He sits down on the floor next to Cas. He hears Cas huff and feels a little guilty, winding the poor guy up like that and then stopping as soon as things were getting good.

But they were just practicing, Dean reminds himself. If they’d gone any further, it wouldn’t have been practice anymore. At least not anything Cas could put to practical use the next time he hooks up with a chick.

Dean swallows past the sudden bitter taste in his mouth. He looks over at Cas, who’s staring at the ceiling.

“Want me to paint your toenails?” Dean offers.

Cas sighs. “...Yes.”

[mellowswriting]

Frankie cutting the backyard with no shirt. 🥵 I had to cut my backyard today and it took me almost 2 hours (my yard is huge, my city had constant rain & I also saved a few tiny frogs)! Some days I feel like a strong, independent woman whenever I cut my yard. Other times, I wish I had a Frankie to help out. Sorry for the venting…but anyways. Frankie if you please. Could be fluff or smut…surprise me 😏

can you blame him? 

pairing || Frankie Morales x Reader

word count || 828

content || suggestive but no smut, Frankie being perfect (as usual) 

a/n || please this is so cute?? also I just had to include the frogs bc I know for a fact that Frankie loves all animals

Main Masterlist  |  Join the taglist!

Frankie planned to get the lawn mowed early in the morning. He’s always been the type to rise early and tackle his responsibilities so he can spend the later part of his day relaxing without worry - but then he started waking up to you, so soft and pretty in his bed. The perfect distraction. So who can blame him when he wakes you with his lips ghosting over your neck and spends the majority of the morning tangled in his sheets with you, seeing how many times he can make you say his name through a moan?

The problem is that the early July heat is intense and Frankie is stubborn. He planned to mow the lawn today, so that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Of course, your offer to help him is brushed off with appreciation, so you decide to make something refreshing for what’s sure to be a tough job. Your homemade lemonade is something he raves about and soon, you’re cutting lemons as the sound of the lawn mower drones on in the background.

It’s admirable, his dedication to keeping his word. You know he doesn’t like the yard to look unkempt, and neither do you, but the idea of braving that heat is exhausting just to imagine. The  front yard is taken care of rather quickly and there’s a moment’s silence before the mower roars to life once more from the backyard. That’s the tougher one, the bigger space that requires more attention - specifically so he doesn’t accidentally harm your garden. You glance out of the bay windows to see him hard at work, his shirt darkening in some places as the heat does a number on him.

Once you’ve slid the pitcher into the refrigerator to cool, you dash upstairs to change into a sundress - a better fit for the hot day. The immediate cooling effect the dress has on you is lost the moment you pass by those bay windows on your way to the backdoor. In the few moments you were upstairs, he’s apparently decided to lose his shirt under the unforgiving July sun and you get an eyeful of your handsome man hard at work.

Even from here, you can see the shine to his tan skin, can appreciate the way his biceps flex as he maneuvers the mower in methodic lines. That hat of his is still on his head, protecting his eyes from the sun, and you’re sure that underneath it, his curls are even more prominent than usual. The sight of him makes you hotter than any hot day ever could, and suddenly you’re beyond glad he’s so stubborn, that he was so hellbent on taking care of the lawn, because the image he makes is something you never want to forget.

Your trance is broken by the sound of the mower sputtering to a stop and you’re quick to slip out the back door, walking quickly through the freshly cut grass. Frankie’s just standing from where he was crouched and there’s a bright smile on his face as he turns to you.

“Look at this little guy!” He holds his hand out to you, voice full of amusement, and you glance down to see a tiny frog huddled against his palm. “I saw him just in time. Isn’t he cute?”

“Yeah, he is.” You say, but you aren’t looking at the (admittedly adorable) frog. You’re looking at Frankie and the happiness that sparkles in his eyes despite the heat and the aches his body surely has from all the manual labor.

Frankie lets the little frog go in a safer area and looks at you, his eyebrows pinching together slightly as he realizes something up. “Whatcha need, honey?”

“Oh, uh… nothing, I just wanted to tell you that I made you some lemonade for when you’re… done.” You trail off slightly, distracted by the way Frankie pulls off his hat to run a hand through his messy hair.

He’s too observant for his own good. “...and what else?”

“Nothing! You just - I just,” You stutter, embarrassment flooding you at your inability to speak. There’s no stopping yourself when you reach forward to tuck a stray curl away from his face, your hand stopping to rest on his cheek. “I just think you look really good like this.”

Amusement lights up his eyes and before you can blink, he leans closer to capture your lips in a kiss and pulls you close by your waist, his hands greedily massaging your soft flesh. A shiver runs down your spine as he practically crushes you to his chest, just another show of his strength.

“How about we take a shower together once I’m done, hm?” He mumbles against your lips and a thrill shoots through you.

“Absolutely,”

Frankie kisses you one last time and ushers you inside with a smack to your ass. And if he rushes through the last bit of the yard, who can blame him?

{Taglist}

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[ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm]

water, water

after a major outage in his neighborhood, harry potter sits in front of an old painting and thinks about water.

i hate being cold or wet. i will go to any lengths to avoid it, including, on occasion, drinking water. i wanted to write about harry's relationship with drinking water and the various tributaries of things that may have resulted in it being skewed or painful. the painting in this fic exists - it's called flowing to the river by john everertt millais. how did that guy get up there?

also on a03

Harry didn't drink water often. If he did, it had to be from his little filtered pitcher, or bottled, when dining out - but never, ever straight from the tap, never conjured. No one really noticed, not in the many (oh dear) years since it started. The act of drinking water, in social settings, usually required offering or asking, and neither happened often enough to cause concern for any one of his friends. It wasn't like he was actively doing any damage - he drank plenty of tea, and little cups of sweet juice Arthur pressed in winter, and Luna's strange infusions that cycled with the moon. His kidneys were fine, please and thank you, not that he'd checked recently, but that's just the sort of thing you can see for yourself thrice daily. Long story short, it was just a little thing, it didn't impact him or the world around him, and there wasn't anything to further discuss.

Then life swerved as it does and dozens of Thames Water pipes froze and burst the night before boxing day, right by Grimmauld place. And Harry was fine, if a little miffed, to stand naked on the cold tile of the shower with no water coming out, and was a bit irked to see that the watering cans held barely enough to sate the babbling ferns in the hall, so he used the last of his BRITA on the orchids and that was that. He went about his day, catching up on unopened cards and contemplating Netflix choices. But by the time the dreaded early winter night descended, the television stayed off, the cards lay strewn about the study, and the evening found Harry sat on the floor by the fourth floor landing, staring at a painting of a stream.

Back when he was in the cupboard, water was sparse and hard to come by. He could steal sips right from the tap when he did the dishes, ducking his head under the stream while pretending to clean out the sink strainer. He had a cracked china cup that sat under his cot, but it was often too dirty to drink out of - it was where he spat his toothpaste out, since only Sundays were shower nights, in the bathroom with the sink. In school he would slip off to the toilets during class and gulp as much as he could, standing over the sink to catch his breath in intervals, bleach wafting sharp and cloying from the tiled walls. He could never taste it properly, as though it passed his throat but not his tongue. He wished for the taste, knew it had to be there, but he was too greedy, too breathless with it. Like wanting heaven and standing at the gate. They once made them read a book about an old man lost at sea, left to eat raw fish in the storm. He described fresh dolphin flesh as sweet, and the word made the whole class gag. But Harry thought he understood, despite the distance, the faith that something would be sweet, despite what was between your teeth right now. But anyway, he got by, and if grey marks skid across his skin when he ran his nails over it in the dim light of his candle, well - no one could see it but him.

There were very few landscapes amongst the paintings at Grimmauld. They were all mostly portraits, a few still life pieces of cindery fruits and overfull pitchers. He'd never noticed, before he moved in, never got to ask Sirius about it, but it occurred to him that it was likely an act of protection, against the hope of other places beyond the townhouse walls. But there was the lemon tree in the kitchen, the painting of a castle on a hill, and this. The river.

It was dim in the way of summer mornings, a soft yellow light emerging from behind a house in the woods. The water seemed to flow steadily in three prongs through the brush. In the middle - an ait, bright with overgrown grass and a sprawling shrub and right in the middle of it all, a man dressed all in white. It wasn't enchanted, but it seemed to move nevertheless - the logs and the reeds by the edge always seeming, for all their painted stillness, as though they were just about to slip through the frame. And Harry was just sitting and watching it.

His head felt a little fuzzy, if he really thought about it. He steeled his sit-bones, let his hands sink to his sides and into the plush carpet. Tried not to think about mites.

Of all the things that bothered Harry in the weeks after Fawkes pulled them out of the chamber, it was that the basilisk had been inside the pipes. He remembered expiring on the floor next to Ginny, trying to keep his eyes kind, his voice steady. He remembered the big, stone face of Salazar Slytherin gaping at him from the rock above, the water and blood that soaked his trousers. And still somehow, the last stupid thought that flickered through his mind as he thumbed at his wound was: it'd been in the pipes. It'd slithered through their water. Its skin had only just shed. The wave of nausea that rolled through him was quickly quelled by Fawkes' tears, which healed not only the wound but, as Harry later discovered, several little issues that Harry never gave much thought. Cuts from chocolate wrappers, a slightly curving spine. But the thought remained, somehow more insistent and compelling than the dangers he'd faced at school thus far: the snake had been in the water. The water wasn't safe. Hogwarts wasn't safe. Having to speak to the dry, embossed tap to gain entry seemed like a perversion. Somehow this drove the point home more than trolls in dungeons, vengeful spectres, the things in the Forest. So he ordered a stick of charcoal off an ad in the prophet, and drank only from the bottle by his bed. And then all was well.

The air in Grimmauld place was dry and warm. Harry's spit felt viscous on his tongue, the roof of his mouth distant and dry. In the painting, the man in white was looking at something in his hands, not at the river. Why not at the river? Why not at the house?

Somehow all of Harry's growth spurts hit him during late summers at the Burrow, when the heat and sun pushed against your hair, your eardrums. Sometimes he would faint from standing - "all the blood's just learning new places to go, dear," Molly would tut, spelling little gusts of wind at the back of his neck that led him back from unconsciousness until its vignette receded from his sight. Sometimes he would retch yellow bile onto the doorstep, never quite making it to the loo on time. It soured his mouth, it dried him out - but. But. Arthur cleaned the Burrow's fixtures with vinegar alone, some fanatic muggle hangup, and Harry just - couldn't. He couldn't drink the water that came out of mesh he knew had been unscrewed and dipped in little pungent cups, left overnight on various shelves and tables. Could pour it, in braver moments, sometimes even let it pass his lips - but could never swallow. The smell lingered in his nostrils long after he'd gone to bed, in Ron's orange room, breath stilted under covers, trying to to burn it out, oversaturate his senses. On his last mission abroad with the Aurors, they shipped them off to Norway, to a ski lodge in the Lyngen Alps. He remembered standing on the terrace at midday, watching a crowd of young people dressed in all white by the lake. A slim, short man was holding up a blonde teenage girl just over the surface of the water, reciting something to the rapt attention of the gathered teens. With one last word, he dunked her in the water. When she emerged, her head cradled, coughing and crying, everybody cheered. He hadn’t felt any different when Ron pulled him out of the lake, came back for him, broke them through the ice. He never felt more like himself. Saved and given life - did salvation count if it the life given was the same one from before? He wondered if the baptised ever opened their mouth under the water. There was too much of it, down there, too much of it to taste.

He started at what must have been firecrackers, then the sound of laughter from out back where the bins and gardens were. His breath was slow and loud. The inside of his nostrils seemed blocked, somehow, tightened, like a mouth set to whistle.

In 6th year, finally, they learned Aguamenti, and Harry's heart soared with relief. It was like learning to read a new language in a foreign land, giving way to things and places previously inaccessible. Harry thrived in class that week, all thoughts of pensive drops and blonde hair pushed aside as he cast jet after jet of cool, perfect water, aimed at cups, and flowerbeds, and straight into his mouth, with the curtains on his bed drawn tight. It was like heaven, like he always wanted. It tasted different depending on his moods, on the room he was in, but it was never less than perfect. He remembered riding the trains that summer, the ragged woman who mumbled to herself over her bags, whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. Surely, he thought, this is the closest someone could ever feel to being God.

He didn't feel, in contrast, godly when he cut Draco open all those months later. Violence was dry and blunt and human, no matter the weather, no matter the place.

Harry's eyes were heavy in his head. He hadn't blinked in a while, but he didn't want to close them. He felt like the white-clad man in the painting would go off if he did. His fingers felt swollen, their cuticles tight, and he leaned harder on them to snuff out the feeling.

"Water, water."

That was the last thing Dumbledore really said to him, the last thing no one heard, just for him, away from sentient castle walls and trojan horses, too low for the ears of the living dead. And the fucking shell wouldn't fill, wouldn't hold a drop. And the lake was filled with corpses. Dumbledore died thirsty and no one knew but him. The thing that made him feel holy didn't mark him in its glory and abundance, but in its refusal to perform. When he went round Ron and Hermione's, he always praised their snack cupboard, raided it with the kids. "Why don't you just keep some at home,"Ron would grouse, but they didn't understand. it wasn't that he didn't deserve it, it was that once you had something you liked, it only stayed until it didn't. Sweetness never grew, only dulled, with time. In all things, except - well. No matter. Now he was alone.

He was alone with the man in the painting. He would have cried if there was anything to make tears from, but he just let his eyelids shut over his burning tightline, and swallowed congealed spit. When he closed his eyes, the man in the painting was gone too. It was just Harry and his little desert floor. He was alone -

- and then he wasn't.

A body, pressing against his. The unmistakeable, impossibly silky spill of hair.

Draco, soft and warm from the floo. He'd once been cold, surely, when Harry left him to bleed into the grout. But here, now, long and insistent fingers ran along his neck, the backs of his ears. A flat chest pressed against his shoulders and pulled him backwards gently. Tipped Harry's clouded head onto a bony clavicle, let him inhale citrus and vanilla in small huffing breaths. The indelible sweetness, the thing that never choked.

"Harry," whispered that dear, deep, precise voice. "Darling."

Draco leaned away slightly, right arm cradling Harry to him, gentle in the sway of low blood pressure. Harry let his gaze track silvery eyes with some other thirst. Draco's left arm moved to the floor, then up, and then cool, ridged plastic pressed against Harry's lips. The mouth of a bottle. Grey irises danced hemmed in by the happy little lines on the corner of Draco's eyes, as though the colour could splash and pour right trough them. Harry's let his lips part slightly against the plastic by his mouth. The water in the painting was still there, when he looked, still following its path.

"Drink."

----

[floutlaws]

it's a cold welcome. not everyone in town is nearly so thrilled with his arrival. he senses the cold chill of sally's glare even through the dirt-stained windows; shivers as annie's water splashes up his back. but her embrace is warm as a familiar bed, her cool water sweet relief from the dusty tracks he's been treadin', where it's not rained in days, and he's been survivin' on body-warmed water from the skin at his side. all full of joy, he picks her up and spins, once, twice, before settin' her back down, takin' her hand to let her lead him indoors. 'well, now, had to take my time findin' a gift befittin' of such a fine lady,' he says, wresting the pitcher from her and gulping. he scrubs his mouth with the back of his wrist; wetness clings to his moustache like morning dew. 'aw, i got a li'l somethin' for dodge too. oughta lessen the sting.' for dodge, and his daddy, and for pocket, too. he doesn't call it what it is — ain't it sweeter to call it a gift? — and he doesn't ask why dodge is the very first name on her tongue, doesn't ask why despite his absence and the sun's heat still lingering in the air he can sense the warmth on the opposite side of her bed. she don't ask none about the women who warm his bed while he's away — the men neither — and ain't it sweeter that way? nor does he yet reveal the gift he's promised her, instead dangling the promise like a feather in front of an eager kitten. ain't it more fun like that?

by the next hour, everyone will know that robin is back in town (a victory march and a walking omen: his presence is a symbol for all, but good or bad depends on what side of the coin you're looking at). sally's already told her that robin is bad news incarnate-- she hates having him around the saloon and will loudly declare that to anyone who will listen. that won't stop annabelle from inviting him inside, though. sweetness seeps from him as he stands in front of her, bowing his head like a catholic taking penance (she doesn't think he's ever prayed a damn day in his life, not unless his daddy was telling him to). ' you big oaf, ' she laughs, awash with a happiness that seems touched with starlight. she wraps her arms around his shoulders, splashing water from the pitcher up his back-- thank god and whatever robin believes in that it's just water, 'cause sally would wring her neck otherwise. she's on her tiptoes for it, but that doesn't stop her from holding on tight. ' you been gone a whole season! you get off on making me wait around, mister? ' but she's still laughing, turning her head to nuzzle right into his neck. ' you visited dodge yet? i bet he's gonna blow his brains out when he sees you. outta happiness, mind. '

[samstree]

The One with the Coastal Customs

Geraskier, 1.8k, Fluff, Crack, Secret Relationship, Kaer Morons at their best, humor, Jaskier takes one for the team

Inspired by Friends. Read on AO3

Breakfast at Kaer Morhen is full of chatter as always. With Ciri and Yennefer joining them a few days ago, loud arguing and laughter always fill those once empty halls.

Jaskier picks at the rye bread on his plate, not paying attention to Lambert’s clearly exaggerated monster story, though Ciri seems completely entranced, prompting him to go on with anticipation.

His mind is still full of last night’s visage of Geralt pressing him against the wooden door and kissing him senseless. The witcher had to come to his bedroom after everyone else turned in so no one noticed. After the whole mountain incident last year and Geralt’s following apology, they thought it wise to keep their blooming relationship in secret for a while.

Let’s not tell everyone in a rush. Geralt was the one who proposed the secrecy. Whatever we have here is ours, Jask. I don’t want them to interfere or mess it up. You are too important to me, He said. Besides, what could go wrong?

Jaskier, at the time, agreed to it whole-heartedly. The witcher was so sincere that day, his golden eyes flowing with adoration and vulnerability that Jaskier could not deny him anything.

Despite some inconveniences, Jaskier has to admit it does make things excitingly hot. He almost feels like a naughty student sneaking out of class to make out with a lover again.

Jaskier’s hand comes up to touch the skin on his neck, the same spot where Geralt nibbed and sucked gently last night and left him a sobbing mess. Next to him, Geralt catches his motion with a look before a faint smile quirks up the corner of his mouth.

“Grape juice?” the witcher passes him the pitcher with the most unaffected tone in the world but his other hand travels up Jaskier’s thigh teasingly.

He has to choke in a gasp.

“…and bam! The third wyvern drops dead.” Lambert ends the story proudly, “And that’s why I’m the best witcher at this table. You have a lot to learn from me, princess.”

Ciri giggles as Geralt and Eskel chime in to call out all the lies in that tale. The room erupts in jabs and loud arguments.

Yennefer is the only one who remains silent throughout the whole meal. Her violet gaze only falls on Jaskier once, piercing with intent, before looking away like nothing happened. Even though their exchanges are a lot more amicable these days, the sorceress tends not to acknowledge Jaskier’s existence very often.

From the corner of his eyes, Jaskier sees Vesemir leave for the library. The older witcher still has work for him to finish today.

“Right, duty calls.” With a screech of chair, Jaskier stands so he can leave too. “I’ll see you later.”

He rests his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and leans in for a kiss. Geralt’s lips taste like the sweetness of grape juice and Jaskier revels in it for a moment before pulling away.

Everyone at the table is staring at him.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Jaskier freezes on the spot, a million thoughts going through his mind. Is it time to announce it to the world? They are ready for everyone to know and get involved, aren’t they?

But with one look at Geralt, he abandons the thought. The witcher has gone pale, and stiff as a statue. Panic starts to creep into those beautiful honey eyes, so subtly anyone else would have missed it.

Geralt is not ready.

Jaskier swallows. Well, there’s nothing to it.

He turns to Eskel, who’s holding a spoon mid-air and studying him with confused surprise.

“Eskel. See you later too.” He cups the older witcher’s jaw and presses their lips together. Eskel, the sweet man, even holds on to his wrist by reflex. He ends it with a pop before going around the table, careful not to trip over a chair.

Lambert can only be described as dumbfounded when Jaskier leans in, and incredulous afterwards.

“Have a nice day, Lamb.”

Yennefer looks at him with the same scrutiny. Wait, why is she looking smug? Fuck, the mage is looking scarier than the day they met. This one he might regret the most later.

“My favorite witch. It’s so good to have you here.” Jaskier opens his arms dramatically before going in, the familiar lilac and gooseberries filling his senses. Oh, her lips are so much softer.

When he stands to straighten his doublet, the whole table is still looking at him in silence. Geralt is tense as a statue while Lambert’s mouth hangs slightly open.

“Right.” He pats Ciri on the back and runs away from the scene, keeping his footsteps as steady as possible.

 *

Ciri is the first one to break the silence.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Language.” Yennefer berates her, seemingly unfazed.

Geralt swallows a lump. If Jaskier is willing to go such length to keep the promise, he can try to look inconspicuous for a moment.

A blush is creeping up on Lambert’s face, but he tries to hide it with biting words. “Geralt, what the fuck is wrong with you bard?”

“Watch your language too.” Eskel’s voice is steady with amusement. “Why do you mind it so much anyway? He’s being friendly. It was nice.”

If Eskel wipes his lips casually with a pleased look, nobody mentions it.

“In what world is that friendly?” Lambert scowls.

“It’s –” Geralt clears his throat, “He went to the coast last year. In the south. Must have picked up some local customs. That’s…um…how they greet each other. In the south.”

Lambert stares at him. “Doesn’t feel southern to me.”

Geralt gulps down all the juice in his cup. When he puts it down, Yennefer is studying him like a predator might a prey.

“Interesting custom.” Her violet eyes sparkle with curiosity.

Geralt has never been more grateful for his witcher trials for allowing him to remain calm under extreme pressure. His heart still beats slowly without revealing anything.

They are fine as long as it doesn’t happen again.

 *

It happens again.

Jaskier sucks at Geralt’s lips with heated passion, drawing a soft moan out of the witcher. Neither of them pays any attention to the flurries of snow falling into the empty courtyard around them.

“I’ve missed you today.” He moves down to Geralt’s jawline, and then his neck. “Where’d you go?”

“Had to repair the wall at the back, or the whole keep crumbles.”

“Hmm. Should have let it.”

Jaskier captures those lips again just when he hears people entering the courtyard, and pushes Geralt away with force.

It’s too late.

Eskel and Lambert stare quizzically at Jaskier, their training swords in hand. Behind him, Ciri is also in full gears, ready for lessons. The way she tilts her head in bewilderment is such a spitting image of her dad.

“Well.” Jaskier pats Geralt on the bicep. “Thanks for helping me clean the stable. That’s…nice of you.”

Roach snorts in the stable behind them.

He walks towards Eskel and kisses him again, and then Lambert. Boy he’s just noticing how tall the younger witcher is. Jaskier has to tiptoe a little bit. “I’ll be off then.”

When he passes Ciri, the girl just moves out of the way like he’s the plague. “See you, uncle Jask!”

Jaskier nods at her, carrying himself as naturally as possible, and enters the building.

 *

The gwent is going great. It seems that Geralt is going to win again.

Jaskier yawns. He’ll never see the appeal of the game, so he just reaches over Lambert to grab the lute. Maybe a little practice will be good–

“Okay, bard. You need to cut it off.” Lambert stops Jaskier’s motion with a hand on his chest.

Jaskier blinks.

“I don’t care whatever–” Lambert gestures around Jaskier’s whole being. “– coastal customs you picked up from the south. It’s not…how we do things around here. We are not in the south and it’s fucking weird. So quit it.”

“Okay?” He blinks again.

“I know you like witchers more than the average man out there,” Eskel adds, “and you want to show us. I appreciate it, Jaskier, but it might not make us the most comfortable.”

“What now?” Jaskier looks around the room. Yennefer and Ciri are sitting by the fire with some magic book spread out between their knees, watching the situation unfold.

“Quit the kissing, bard.” Lambert scowls.

Eskel smiles politely. “Yeah, it’s best if you did.”

Oh.

Jaskier can see the two witchers are clearly not at ease. Lambert’s face is a ripe tomato and Eskel is acting way too formal with all the niceties.

“Okay. Of course.” Jaskier raises his hands in defeat. “I will stop assaulting you with the overly familiar foreign customs. Message received.”

“Thank the gods. It was disgusting.” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier looks into those golden eyes he loves so much and wonders if he can express ‘I’m gonna put a pillow over your face tonight’ with a neural glare. The bastard only raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“If you do need to let it out somehow, Jaskier, maybe your friends at that fancy academy of yours are open to it.” Yennefer says, chill as the winter sky, “Or some of your lovers.”

Maybe Jaskier’s eyes are deceiving him, but he swears the sorceress glanced in Geralt’s direction when she said ‘lovers’.

The ladies resume their discussion about spells and magic, and the gwent game continues. Geralt does end up winning.

Jaskier plucks his lute, imagining a million ways for his witcher to make it up to him later.

Oh the sacrifices he has to make for this ridiculous man.

 *

“The sacrifices I have to make for you, my dear.” Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder, cuddling up to his witcher’s warm body.

“What sacrifice? I thought you were enjoying it.”

“They are quite good kissers though, especially–” He cuts himself off. It’s best not to discuss your lover’s brothers that way, or ex-lover, for that matter.

“Then what are you moaning about?”

“But my reputation!” Jaskier protests, “My name will be tarnished forever. Jaskier – barker and molester of witchers. None of you will ever let me sing your heroism anymore.”

“Hmm. Don’t you forget about Yen.” Geralt’s voice rumbles deep in his chest.

“Oh yeah. I’m surprised she didn’t turn me into a toad on the spot.” He plays with Geralt’s long hair. “By the way – I just have this inking – do you think, perhaps, Yennefer might know? About us?”

“Oh she knows.”

Jaskier bolts upright, looking at Geralt incredulously.

“Since when?”

“The day she arrived?” Geralt guesses, “I’m sure she took one look at us and figured it out. It’s not my fault she’s so smart–”

Jaskier picks up a pillow and throws it at Geralt’s smug face.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

Geralt finally breaks out laughing. He catches the bard’s feral attack and pins him into the mattress. Jaskier’s angry little pout is too adorable Geralt has to kiss it away. Uninterrupted this time.

“Is it worth it though? All the sacrifices?” Geralt's breath ghosts over the skin at Jaskier's throat.

The bard only glares at him for a moment, before letting out a sigh long-sufferingly.

“For you, my dear. Always.” He pecks Geralt’s soft lips one more time. “As long as no one turns me into a toad.”

[leonstamatis]

obligatory dunn keyes kissy #6

ehehe.

06. on the cheek

“You’re going to do great out there,” Dunn says. She rocks back on her heels and then falls forward again, nerves making her a little restless, a little twitchy.

“You think so, huh?” Bertie asks. “Well. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Dunn shakes her head and smiles; it’s only a little forced. “I know so. Come on, you’re like, one of the best pitchers in the league. Of course you will.”

Bertie rolls xir eyes and laughs a little. “Charmer.”

“So long as it works!” she chirps.

If circumstances were different, Dunn thinks, she could have really gotten on with Bertie.

Not that they don’t get along, but. It’s different, and not always in a good way. Instead of going out for lunch together or showing xem all her favorite places around town, it’s sleeping on his couch because neither one of them wants to be alone — and, probably a little more honestly, because if she sleeps on their couch, she can pretend that Brock will be there when she wakes up to grumble about how she’s giving herself back problems.

Her back does ache a little more often now. He was right about that; just another thing she has to tuck into a box in the back corner of her mind, along with reminders to ice her arm after practice and to eat something before going on a run.

Anyway. None of that is the point. She forces herself to focus back in on Bertie — alive, standing in front of her with a ball in one mechanical arm and a glove on xir remaining human hand.

“Am I going to see you on the field today?” xe asks.

Dunn can’t help the way her lips press together, her stomach drops. She shrugs and leans toward the edge of the dugout, where the grass of the field takes over, and sticks her hand out. When the sun hits her skin, she disappears. The shadow beneath is the only evidence that she’s there at all.

“Only if you really, really mess up,” she says, fighting to keep her voice light.

Bertie watches the empty air where her hand should be. Dunn wiggles her fingers; xe doesn’t see it.

“Right,” xe says, slowly. “I’m sorry. I… haven’t been very good at keeping track of the active roster.”

Dunn has. Not because she wants to; she’s one of their best worst players, caught in the constant shuffle of voicemails and faxes. Hard to ignore it, really, although she manages better when she’s not near the field. Occupational hazard.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Win it for me, though?”

Bertie’s mouth twists to one side. “Sure. I’ll do my best.”

Dunn has an idea, then. She pulls her hand back and shoves it into her pocket again, ignoring the way Bertie’s eyes go wide when it reappears. She leans forward, up onto her toes, and presses a kiss to xir cheek. Something she’s done dozens of times, just… not with xem.

“See you later, Tito,” she says, instead of telling xem about the stain of pink lipstick against xir cheek. Xe’ll figure it out, eventually.

Bertie smiles then, wide and sparkling. “See you later, Dunn.”

[crescentsteel]

Keeping a Secret - Part 5

pairing: Tsukishima x f!manager of Sendai Frogs genre: sexual tension/crack/fluff/slow burn wc: 6.8k

[a/n]

Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist uwu

AO3

Part 4 || Part 6 || masterlist

“Your lips aren’t disgusting,” Tsukishima says quietly, but loud enough to reach your ears. You did hear him the first time though. You just didn’t understand what he meant so you brushed it off as garbled words induced by your sleep-deprived brain. 

You didn’t expect him to contradict the subtle insult you unconsciously threw at yourself. From his reaction to your suggestion a while ago, you’d think he’d be glad that you instantly discarded it instead of pushing it further. 

You pull back just enough to see his somber expression meeting your baffled one.

“I thought you didn’t want to do it again,” you mutter softly even though the kiss snapped you out of your drowsiness.

“I changed my mind,” he simply says.  

“Uhhh. Care to elaborate?” you ask, still confused as to what his change of mind entails. Does he now agree to your earlier proposal? Or is he just saying that he doesn’t mind kissing you again? 

...Wait, isn’t that the same?

Okay, so apparently your mind is still fuzzy and not digesting the situation clearly. His closeness isn’t helping either. 

Maybe you’re actually still asleep and you’re having sleep paralysis on their sofa. In just a matter of seconds, Tsukishima’s face will turn demon-like and scream at how moronic you are for dreaming about this.

“You’re allowed to kiss me when it’s just the two of us,” the boy sitting in front of you announces.

Tsukishima tries not to look away so you wouldn’t think he feels awkward agreeing to your suggestion the same way you offered it. You look way better and more alert after he kissed you so he’s expecting you to say something sassy to get back at his brutal words. 

Instead, you wrap a hand around your throat. Before he can even process what you’re doing, your hand is already joined by the other. 

“What are you doing?” he asks both confused and worried as your hands tighten on your neck, but you don’t answer. He only confirms that you’re indeed choking yourself when you start gasping for air. 

“What the fuck!” He hurriedly yanks your hands away from your throat, gripping each wrist and pulling them away from one another. 

You inhale sharply from the absence of your hands blocking your windpipe.

It didn’t work. You’re still in sleep paralysis and with absolutely no idea how to get out.

You close your eyes and dejectedly lean on his chest. “I’m too tired to tell if this is real or a poorly conjured dream. Demon, begone,” you mumble while feebly knocking your head against him.

“Tsukishima will think I’m an idiot,” you add.

He usually doesn’t care about the aftermath of his words. The more they get under a person’s skin, the more it amuses him. But you seem to have really taken his words to heart this time, and he hates the fact that he’s bothered by it. He’d rather be annoyed by you than plagued with guilt.

He admits he was being a complete dick earlier, but he didn’t expect it would get to you like this, to the point that you’d even think you’re dreaming.

He sighs, accepting that he needs to deal with the consequences of his sharp tongue. “You’re not an idiot, y/n,” he softly says. You lift your gaze and look at him like he’s grown two heads. “So stop acting like one already,” he spurs on, unable to help himself as his true nature immediately returns.

You detach yourself from him as life returns back to your eyes. “Okay, I’m not dreaming. You’re definitely Tsukishima.” You shake your hands, probably to shake off the lethargy from your nap, then slap both your cheeks with your palms. 

You steady yourself as you face him again. You verify the vague exchanges you two had with one question. “I take it we have a deal then?” 

He holds your resolute stare, trying to come up with some set of rules but weariness is already hitting his cognitive capabilities. However, there is one that’s extremely necessary for the both of you to follow. 

“No one should know about this.”

You scoff at his answer. “No one  will  know about this,” you repeat his words with a more convincing variation. So despite the insane premise of the arrangement and its lack of detail, he agrees.

“Deal.”

--

Tsukishima heads straight to the kitchen as soon as he gets home. In spite of the audacious agreement you now have, neither of you felt awkward when he walked you to the main road to see you off. Once again, you were right. Accepting that he is also attracted to you somehow cleared his head. He still doesn’t like it, but it’s better than constantly being irritated at the strange pull you have on him. 

Since you’ve proven yourself to always be right, he’ll give this a go. It’ll only be until the end of the project anyways, which won’t be long from now considering the timetable you laid out. 

As he gets a pitcher of water, he sees Akiteru approaching the kitchen as well. He moves away from the fridge to make way in case his brother is going to get something from it. But Akiteru passes him by and leans on the counter next to him instead. 

He pours himself a glass while growing prickly of Akiteru’s not-so-subtle staring.

“If you’re going to say something, just say it,” he snaps. 

Akiteru laughs lightly at his displeasure. “She’s very lovely,” his older brother comments randomly, and yet he already knows Akiteru is without a doubt talking about you. 

Lovely?

His mind instantly goes back to when you were: (a) dancing like a crippled fledgling; (b) squawking like a dying seagull to imitate a crocodile; and (c) choking yourself because you thought you were dreaming. 

“If an alien in a human suit is lovely, then sure,” he answers dryly as he returns the pitcher back to the fridge.

“She’s really just a classmate?” his older brother probes. 

Akiteru has been insinuating for a while now that he should get a girlfriend, as if not having one will cause him to miss out on this ‘great’ experience of life. So now that he’s finally brought someone home, Akiteru had decided in his head that you’re a potential romantic partner. 

“How many times do I need to answer that?” he responds sourly. 

His brother smiles apologetically, but his face shows a regaled glimmer. “Sorry, Kei. I must have misunderstood since I don’t kiss my classmates on the lips.”

He stills right as he was about to bring the glass to his lips. 

He did not hear Akiteru’s steps back then. If he did, he’d quickly give himself adequate distance from you. He’d blame you for the distraction, but you weren’t really doing anything outrageous at that moment. You were actually unobtrusive and reasonable for the first time. It was him and his guilt that preoccupied him well enough to not notice Akiteru.

He finishes his water and leaves the glass on the counter. “Goodnight,” he says without looking at Akiteru as he hurriedly goes back to his room. 

It hasn’t been an hour since you two made the deal but someone -- worse, his own brother, has already found out. His only consolation is that Akiteru doesn’t really talk with his social circle so there’s no need to be worried. Also, Akiteru is not really the type to babble about stuff like that. 

The disadvantage is also the same as its advantage, it’s Akiteru. He might get all excited and continue assuming that there’s more to the two of you than this limited agreement, when the truth is you’re just two individuals who agreed to make out in secret.

But that’s something he wouldn’t dare reveal to anyone, most especially to Akiteru.

When he reaches his room, he immediately texts you. 

‘We meet in your place next time.’

Hopefully, Akiteru will forget whatever he saw tonight if you don’t come back. 

--

Surprisingly but not really, you and Tsukishima are getting along swimmingly since you made the deal. ‘Swimmingly,’ meaning he still ignores you and regards you as a pest during practice. During your private meetings, however, he is agreeable. 

It still seems unbelievable to you when you actually think about it. You and Tsukishima exchanging kisses when no one’s around? You’d have a good laugh if someone even suggested that idea to you before you shared that first, completely unintended kiss.

It is indeed comical, how you two would sit across each other, and with only a certain glance, both of you already know what’s up. Eventually, it became a bother to stand and go over to one another just for a kiss so you two sit side by side now.

Tsukishima is funny though. Sometimes, he wouldn’t act upon it because he expects you to take the initiative. You don’t mind doing it, but it’s fun to see him all bothered while trying to study. 

“Tsukishima, you look weird. Are you okay?” You feigned concern even though you clearly know why. 

He didn’t spare you a glance at all and just mumbled, “I’m fine,” while typing.

“Hmmm, alright! I’m done so we can wrap up now,” you let him know as you started fixing your stuff up. You thought that he’d hold on to his dumb ego and follow suit since you’ve finished cleaning up, but he still hadn’t done anything. 

You held back a smile when you felt him grab your arm. You swiftly composed yourself before turning to his direction. 

“What?” you ask like you don’t have a clue.

He glowers at you. “You know what.”

You pursed your lips to the side as you gently shake your head. “I am very confused right now,” you acted persuasively.

He puffed tempestuously before he grabbed your nape and roughly descended down on your lips, utterly disregarding his unnecessary pride. You willingly reciprocate it. You latched your fingers in his wrist beside your cheek as you responded to each suck and nip of his lips.

When it ended, you smiled into his mouth which effectively gave you away. 

He harshly pulled himself away from you. “You fucking knew,” he muttered furiously.

You scrunched up your nose and grinned mischievously as you gently tapped his cheek. “Of course, I knew. See you tomorrow at the match, Tsukishima,” you said, gesturing to his scattered belongings.

Needless to say, he was extra salty with you during the match with the Lions. But hey, at least they won the game. 

However, despite the Lions now out of the picture, your workload isn’t any better because winning only means needing to prepare the next opponent’s profile. You’re just a bit thankful now that unwarranted and unexpected kisses are no longer bothering you since the two of  you acknowledged the stupid attraction you have for each other.

Still, that doesn’t mean that your body has magically recovered and you’re no longer stressed all of a sudden. Because you are. You are stressed as fuck. With your academic load also on the line, you can’t rest yet.

You’re starting to feel overwhelmed and whenever that happens, you succumb to your one coping mechanism: stress eating. 

You’re about to meet Tsukishima but you have a few minutes to spare, so you head to the nearest cake shop. You buy a mini cake for yourself and one slice for Tsukishima. You don’t feel like sharing yours so you just get him his own. 

With a paper bag in hand, you see Tsukishima waiting for you by your dormitory’s entrance. You waste no time and ask him to follow you even though he probably already knows where exactly your room is. 

One would think that when the door closes, you two would jump on each other’s arms and just get on with your deal, but nah.

You two get to your usual seats with your mind solely on the cake you bought as both of you take out your notes and laptop. 

After you pull up the journal you need to look at for the day, you eagerly bring out the cake.

‘Hnnnngg,’  you groan internally. The cake’s design is so pretty that you almost don’t wanna eat it. But of course you will. You’ve never had strawberry shortcake from that shop before, so you’re curious to taste if it’s as good as it looks. 

Just as you’ve been ogling at your cake, you catch Tsukishima staring at it as well. “Do you want some, Tsukki?” you ask before you give the slice you got for him. 

“Why would I want something childish?” he asks back with a scowl. 

“I don’t see how a cake is childish but okay.” You would’ve felt bad, but you’ll have the extra slice for yourself anyways so it’s not really that bad.

Normally, you would like to savor the pastry while doing something fun, but you don’t have the time for it right now. You’ll just eat it while doing your assigned stuff for the day. 

For someone who thinks cake is childish, he keeps glancing at you with tiny hints of envy every time you take a bite. When he sees you catch him peering at the cake, he instantly flicks his eyes back to his laptop.

To verify your hunch, you moan exaggeratedly the next time you take a spoonful of the cake, instantly earning you a menacing glare from the blonde across you. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just so good, you know. The bread is so fluffy. The cream is not too sweet. The strawberry filling has actual bits of strawberry.” You enact a chef’s kiss after your detailed remarks. 

“Amazing. Best I’ve ever had. 10/10 would recommend and buy again,” you give a positive review before getting another slice.

When you get another spoonful, you groan again and roll your eyes for added effect. You look at Tsukishima and you can tell that it’s getting to him. Yet, he’s still not saying anything. He only keeps staring as if silently imploring you that you should let him have a taste as well. 

As if you’ll bend to his will just like that. 

“If you want some, just say so,” you taunt him with a smirk as you scoop the last spoonful in the plate, giving him not much time to swallow his pride and ask. 

Before you can put it in your mouth, he stops you. “Fine,” he says as he grits his teeth. “I want some.” 

Tsukishima really is funny. It’s only cake but he sounds so angry and embarrassed just because he asked for a tiny piece. How can you not tease him just a bit more?

You take the remaining piece and move beside him. You get the spoonful of cake, extending your arm and offering it to him that way. 

He looks at the cake and then you. “I know how to eat,” he enunciates coldly at your attempt to spoon feed him. 

You shrug it off with an ‘okay,’ then proceed to withdraw your hand so you can have it for yourself. 

“Wait.”

You comply and let your retreating arm stay in place. A faint pink tint surfaces on his cheeks as he leans down and takes the cake from the spoon with his mouth. When he starts munching on it, he looks away and slump a little while savoring the small remains you gave him.

You press your lips together to repress a smile cause you know he’ll be even more embarrassed. But holy crap, Tsukishima is so cute like this! You want to take a picture of him right now and just ogle at how adorable he is when he’s this flustered. 

The Sendai Frog’s nastiest middle blocker, standing at 6’3, likes strawberry shortcake. You’re reeling internally at your astounding discovery. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he snarls with the tiny blush still on his face.

You can’t help it anymore and give him a tight-lipped smile. “Nothing,” you squeak out from how hard you’re trying not to gush at his cuteness.

He suddenly regains his composure as he narrows his eyes while studying your face. 

It’s your turn to be conscious from how he seems to have discovered something about you as well. 

“What?” you ask warily.

You’re completely caught off guard when he puts a hand on your shoulder and lunges down. His lips capture the skin just beside the corner of your mouth, delicately sucking on the skin before brushing his warm tongue against it. 

You go rigid on your seat at the totally unexpected action from him. It’s not even a kiss but you feel goosebumps prickling your skin while the air you’re breathing gets stuck in your throat. 

That’s all he does then hoists himself back up, his features devoid of any emotion as if he didn’t just do something bold. His hand on your shoulder goes up to spot he just licked and strokes it with his thumb. 

“You eat like a ten-year old,” he says blankly. 

Just like that, the situation is reversed. He now has the upperhand while you’re completely frozen as your mind helplessly tries to come up with something, anything, to hide the fact that you’re a complete muddled mess on the inside.

But nothing. Your mind does not work and all its attention is still on the little stunt Tsukishima pulled just now. 

Being the manager of the Frogs, you’ve always seen them as cute little puppies you need to take care of. You’re the one in charge of them so you always feel like you’re the one in control. The sense of control is even more reinforced with other male athletes getting swept away with your antics during matches. 

Even with the several kisses you shared with Tsukishima, it’s only now that you’re rendered utterly disconcerted. Your lips start to tremble while your brows contort with horror from the foreign feeling that’s creeping on your whole body.

Fuuuucck, you curse silently at your mind’s incapability to come up with a solution to handle the situation. 

To make it worse, the corner of his lips start to tug up, forming a smug grin that suits him ludicrously well. 

“You okay, y/n?” His pompous demeanor lets you know that the question is not out of concern. He is very much aware of the effect he has on you. He’s just milking it.

And it’s fucking working.

He drags his thumb to your chin and tilts it up to get a better view of your features growing even more at loss by the second. “What’s wrong, hmm?”

You press your quivering lips together as you harshly avert your gaze from his. “Nothing,” you say too softly, losing the playfulness you had not long ago.

“What’s that?” He pretends to not hear it. 

Seems like you’ve had enough because you swat his hand away from your chin and cover your whole face with both hands. 

His grin spreads wide from your surrender as a chuckle escapes his throat. To entertain himself even more, he pries your hands away from your face. It’s easier than he expected since your wrists are like twigs with no strength in them.

Your face is a furious shade of rose as you glare at him with both shame and anger. You try to retrieve your arms but he’s obviously way stronger than you. “Tsukishima, you smooth li’l shit, let go of me!”

With that, he releases you as he cackles from your remark. He can now see the merits of acknowledging the inexplicable magnetism between him and you. Now that he doesn’t have to feel conflicted about it, he can relish breaking your previously impervious defenses by teasing you this way. 

There wasn’t even any cake on your face. He just made it up to get back at you for toying with him like one of your dumb admirers. 

You give off one enraged puff then you go back to face your laptop.  You try to look fine but you’re trying too hard. He can tell that you’re still bothered by it even when you’re focused on your screen now. 

He gets back to his own as well, the same grin he had earlier still there. He thought you’re going to keep ignoring him for the rest of your meeting, but before he can even focus on his own task, you awkwardly slide him the paper bag you had. 

“I actually got you a slice in case you wanted one,” you huff timidly while meeting his surprised gaze. You don’t say anything else and get back to working. 

That was… thoughtful of you. You got him one even if he didn’t ask for it. And despite teasing you like that, you still gave it to him. If it was him, he wouldn’t have bothered.

He gets the cake and saves it for later at home. He’d like to enjoy it alone away from your cheekiness, ridding you the chance to make fun of him the second time.

When he looks at you again, you give him a brief glance before settling in to do your assignment. He does the same since you two have frolicked enough for the day. 

He had learned something about you from your former meetings:  you have unbreakable focus when you start concentrating on something. You don’t talk. You don’t fiddle with your phone. You don’t even peel your eyes away from the screen unless you’re checking something on your notes.  

The remarkable thing is how efficient you are. You work fast and come up with decent output. He’s seen it both in your write up for the project and in the reports you give to the team.

It’s almost impressive, if not for its inevitable downside: you run out of steam just as fast, which is what seems to be happening right now. He’s ignored the first two yawns he’s heard from you, but he can’t dismiss the third consecutive yawn. 

He looks at your direction and confirms that you’re indeed starting to drop your attentiveness. Your eyes are becoming lazy and you’re just pressing your keyboard too hard one key at a time. 

“Oy, it’s still early for you to be sleepy,” he scolds you.

You tap your face, a futile attempt to wake yourself up because your eyes are still dazed when you look at him. “It’s the cake. I overfed myself and now I want to sleep like one.” You groan as you realize your mistake. “No worries though. I just need coffee,” you mutter. 

He slams his palm on the wooden surface of your table. “Do not get coffee,” he warns almost threateningly. He does not want a repeat of what happened the last time where you’re one wheeze away from death because of your damn coffee.

“But I need it,” you protest.

“No, you don’t. What you need is rest.”

“Don’t wanna. It felt weird last time. I don’t like slacking off when someone else is being productive,” you insist further.

He sighs irritably at your obstinacy. There’s no need to rush because you two managed to get back on the schedule you set, but then again he understands why. You’re trying to get as much shit done before your responsibilities become too much for you. 

That’s probably how you’ve been getting by for the past three years, being a university scholar while managing the team. If being a student while being an athlete is already difficult for him, how much more  for you who has grades to maintain while working as well?

If it were anyone else, they’d have exploded from the humongous amount of work that entails. Yet, you come to the gym with that carefree attitude of yours like you’re not burdened in any way. In all the times you’ve met with him outside the gym, not once has he heard you complain about it. 

You don’t whine. You just do what needs to be done.

It’s something worth respecting, to say the least. But you should really rest when your body tells you to. 

“I’ll stop doing the report and watch volleyball clips from last year’s Olympics. Take your nap,” he says. 

Your face brightens up at his suggestion. “Can I watch with you?”

“No.” The point of him watching is so that you can rest easy, not for you to join him. However, the look on your face tells him you won’t budge unless he lets you watch with him. 

“I swear, it’ll do me better than a nap,” you press on. 

He rubs his temple with irritation as you leave him with no choice but to agree. “Fine.” You squeal at his approval and scamper to his side. 

He opens his folders of volleyball clips he’s yet to watch while you tuck your knees together the same way you did last time you watched documentaries for your project. 

Halfway through the first clip, he feels your head bump his shoulder. He peers at you from his peripheral and sees your hazy eyes fighting off sleep. He doesn’t say anything and just waits for your drowsiness to successfully take over. 

By the end of the first video, he feels your head bobbing forward which he can no longer ignore. “Can’t you just go to your bed and sleep?” he asks almost desperately. 

You fix your posture and open your eyes again. “I’m fine.”

He rolls his eyes and gives a resigned huff as he skids his laptop to your front. You shoot him a puzzled look while he positions himself behind you. 

“Continue watching then.” He scoots closer until your back is pressed to him, effectively caging you as he extends his legs on your both sides. There’s no use trying to convince you to sleep when you’re this stubborn. So, he’ll just provide you the means to do so. 

You frown at him which he answers with a raised eyebrow. In the end, you just shrug it off and go back to watching. 

Just as he anticipated, you’re already unconscious in a matter of minutes. Your head falls back to his chest. He lets you settle deeper in your sleep, watching you unconsciously find a position you’re most comfortable in. By the time the second video ends, you’re no longer wiggling around and have found refuge on the front of his shoulder with your arm loosely wrapped around his bicep. 

Although he did say that he’ll slack off with you, he sees no reason to uphold it now that he’s finally got you to rest. Unlike you, he works at a normal pace. He needs to continue doing his own tasks so when you wake up, he’s already done as well. 

He carefully reaches for his laptop and closes the video currently playing. He gets back to working on the current draft of the project, feeling the strain on his back with nothing to support him while you lean against him. 

He shouldn't be doing this. There is no reason for him to be inconvenienced this way by you. This isn’t part of the deal.

But seeing how you’re working so hard yet still face everyone else with that vexatious cheerful smile of yours, he deems you deserving of that serene look on your face while you’re peacefully snuggled within his grasp. 

Just as he allowed you to kiss him, he also allows you to hold on to him like this. 

--

“Hey, number 17!”

Tsukishima hears someone yell. He’s sure that it was him who’s being called because he recognizes the voice. It’s someone from the Jaguars, the team they’re up against after winning against the Lions the previous game.

Still, he’d like to pretend that he doesn’t know it’s him the other athlete is shouting for. The gym is filled with other number 17s from different teams anyways. He can easily dismiss it. 

However, he hears his last name not long after, automatically singling him out from the other players who also wore his jersey number. 

Even though he despises small talk, it would be rude to ignore other players when they specifically call for him in public. Not that he bothers about what other people think of him, but more about how he represents his team. 

In high school, he didn’t care at all. But things are different now in the professional level. He’s forced to engage in insignificant nonsense with other players. 

He just hopes that this time it won’t be one of those times and that whatever this is is actually important

He turns around lazily and sees not one, but two Jaguars approaching him. It’s their starting setter and their pinch server. “I thought you couldn’t hear us, dude,” the setter says. He doesn’t reply and just stands his ground while waiting for what they’re going to say. 

“Anyways, mind if we ask the number of your manager?” 

It’s worse than nonsense. They approached him because of you.

They turn towards each other and simper at how they seem to think that it’s a genius idea to ask him instead of you. 

“You can ask her yourself. She’s just over there with the rest of the team,” he passively suggests. He’d be glad to lead these two poor hopeful souls if they want to. He’s sure you’d be more than happy to entertain them, in your own kind of way. 

“Nah. We know how she disses everyone. That’s why we’re asking you, Tsukishima-kun,” the pinch server counters. 

He’s the least protective of you compared to the rest of the team. He doesn’t care if you flirt all day long with these people or if you give your number to every single person here at the stadium. 

But whatever these hoodlums the idea that  he’ll  be the one to give your number to them? It’s not his to give. It’s yours. “It’s not really my decision to make,” he responds. 

“Is she really that good of a manager that you won’t share her?” 

He would’ve not perceived anything out of it if not for the malicious grin that surfaced on the setter’s poor excuse of a face. The two athletes step closer and speak in a volume only for him to hear. 

“Come on now. Don’t tell us you guys are not touching that hot piece dangling itself in front of you.”

‘Lowlives.’ 

That’s the most fitting word he can describe these two uneducated imbeciles who talk like you’re a slice of meat. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially you who madly dedicate yourself out of actual interest and affection for the team and the sport. 

Yet, these two fucking dimwits are insinuating that you’re available for him and his teammates to sleep around with. It’s more than just disrespect. It’s an absolute mockery of the effort and commitment you have for the job. 

It’s not his place to be angry. He’s not the one being slighted. But the image of your exhausted features fighting off sleep to do the report of these scumbags in front of him makes him want to do something about their blatant lack of intelligence. 

“Don’t look so scary now. We’re not going to steal your manager. We just want to know what it’s like to have a hot one managing us,” the setter once again proves his brainlessness to Tsukishima, successfully provoking him to do what he’s been itching to do. 

He offers them a too-pleasant smile that he gives to people who are about to get a taste of his snide irony. “Sorry, but it’s not really my problem that no one wants to manage a bunch of unsightly goons.”

A vein on the setter’s temple looks like it’s about to pop out as his hand yanks Tsukishima’s collar. 

“The fuck did you say?!” The setter of the Jaguars lashes out, quickly losing his temper amidst the public gymnasium.

The feigned smile on Tsukishima’s face is replaced by a genuine smirk as the two dimwits react exactly the way he wants them too. Although he can rile them up even more than he did, something tells him that these peabrains will actually resort to violence if he does so.

They’ll definitely be held out from playing the game if they do get violent, but so will he if he gets involved. 

Even though he looks unmotivated and lazy, he actually likes being on the court. And if he’s going to be honest, he looks forward to blocking the tosses of the setter who’s clutching his shirt at present.

“You shitty blocker,” the pinch server backs up his teammate. 

The shift of attention from you to Tsukishima doesn’t surprise him at all. From slandering you, they quickly move to verbally attacking him. His eyebrow twitches up from the remark but doesn’t bother responding to it. 

Why would he when he’ll just prove them wrong later? Instead of engaging with these two, he should be getting back to the rest of the team to get ready for their match. 

He’s about to grab the setter’s wrist to yank it off him when a set of feminine fingers beat him to it.

“My, my. Thank you for wanting to be friends with one of our players, but he really needs to warm up now,” you say with congenial sympathy to the upcoming competition. 

They seem to have forgotten that you’re the reason why they approached him. The setter releases Tsukishima’s shirt with a glare before the two Jaguars walk away.

“Bye, bye! Let’s get along well, yeah??” you shout and wave at them way too enthusiastically. You probably didn’t catch them talking about you, which is a good thing because you didn’t need to hear that kind of horse shit.

You put a light hand on his shoulder, making him anticipate a lecture from you for dawdling around. But you only tell him that you two should go back already. 

As you both turn around, the smile on your face drops while your grip on his shoulder tightens. 

“Did it bother you that much?” he asks as you both walk back to the court. 

“You bet it did. The gall of them to call you a shitty blocker, those fuckfaces. I swear to God, I would’ve,” you take a sharp breath then slowly let it out as you take your hands off him. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just the usual gibberish talk among athletes,” you say to yourself, more than to him.

“What about what they said before that?”

Your brows scrunch up as you try to figure out what he’s talking about. “You mean when they assumed I’m sexing everyone from the team? Nah. I know some people think I’m a slut because I’m too sexy for their lame asses. I’m used to it so I don’t really care about crap like that,” you explain way too casually. 

He thought that at this time and age, people would be a little more progressive with how they think. Apparently, he was wrong. He’s always observed how you put yourself out there, entertaining any flattery that’s thrown at you. It’s also very obvious how open you are to showing affection for the team.

But he didn’t think people would have such indecent assumptions about you. What surprises him even more is you’ve been aware of it for some time now. Still, you continue being yourself.

“But Goooood. Their childish shit talking really pissed me off.” Your previous attempt to calm yourself down fails as anger graces your features once again.

“Promise me something, Tsukishima,” you tell him a few steps away from the court.

“What?” 

“Up your blocking game and win. I want to see those fucktard’s faces pulverized with defeat,” you announce as you seethe with fiery determination.

“There’s no need to promise,” he says calmly before the curve of his lips form a subtle yet definite grin. You immediately get his message as you mirror the arrogant pride on his face with a smirk of your own.

—

You’re not particularly competitive. Even as the captain of your own team before, you did not play to win. You played with your very best because you want to experience all the sport has to offer.

Maybe that’s why you stopped playing and decided to be a manager. You love the sport, but not as an athlete. You just love pushing people to their potential and being their support so they can give their all during matches.

Although you do like winning, you’re not hellbent on it. As long as the team gives their everything and you see them at their best, you’re happy with that.

This match is an exception.

At 23-24 with the Sendai Frogs on their match point, you’re clutching your notebook way too hard that the pages become crumpled and the edges dig in your palms.

When you saw Tsukishima earlier approached by the two Jaguars, you didn’t intervene immediately. You were near the area, watching and listening as to how things will unfold. You didn’t hear much of their mumbled conversation, but you caught enough words to put together that it was you they’re talking about. 

You do gain a lot of attention, but some of them are not exactly wholesome. Apparently, being outspoken and open equates to being easy to bed.

You just wish they said something more interesting because you almost yawned at how unoriginal their speculation is. You fucking around with the Sendai Frogs? Groundbreaking. 

What amused you though is Tsukishima’s response. Right at that moment, you wanted to kiss his snarky mouth. Not because he defended your honor, but from the clever snide comeback he quickly spat at their faces. 

Your amusement was quickly ruined when one of them laid a hand on him. You didn’t care that the fuckfaced setter did it in public. Even if he did it with no one around, your blood still would’ve boiled. But when he said that Tsukishima was a shitty blocker? The palm of your hand itched to get roughly acquainted with the opposing setter’s face. 

If this isn’t a tournament, you would’ve had a hard time deciding whether or not you’d have done it. But since this  is  a tournament, you can’t do that. You need to be civil and maintain good relations with every team, even if some of their members lack basic decency and  proper manners. 

Luckily, there is a way to get back at them: that is to win this match which has got you to the edge of your seat as soon as it reached the 20s of the second set. 

With Tsukishima, Eiji, and Kogane in front, there’s nothing to be scared about. It’s just that you really want them to score that last point already. 

The ball gets to your court and is received by Kogane, effectively cutting out your most optimal set-up to attack. 

“Tsukki!” Kogane calls out. Tsukishima runs to the center of the court, right in front of the net. The opposing blockers observe him to predict who he’s tossing the ball to, only to leave him completely open as he dunks the ball to the Jaguars’ side of the net.

You were sure it happened fast, but the pounding of your heart made it seem like the ball hitting the ground was in slow motion. You wait for the referee’s signal, hoping that there were no misplays on the Frog’s end that would prolong the game. 

The referee whistles and extends his arm to the Frog’s court, letting everyone know that it’s your team’s win. Cheers from team members themselves roar inside the gymnasium, soon joined by the applause from the audience. 

You’re supposed to check the losing facade of the Jaguars, but the joy and relief of winning floods you that you completely forget about how they insulted your clever middle blocker. You leave your tally notebook on the bench and rush to the court along with other members. 

You’ve always been impressed with Tsukishima’s blocking skills, but to win from his offensive mindfuckery with the other team just sent you to a whole different level of being proud. So it’s him you first go to. 

Without putting any thought to it, you wrap your arms around his waist. You don’t mind that he’s sweating and that his body heat is emanating from his skin. You’re too thrilled that he scored the winning point to even care. 

“Good job, Tsukishima!”

Right after saying it out loud, you feel him tense beneath your touch. You lift your gaze up to him and meet his eyes which are wide from shock and panic. Immediately after, your eyes do the same when you realize what you’ve done.

The loud cheers from the team have stopped.  You slowly turn your head to see why, even though you already know the reason.

It’s like a paused scene from a movie where everyone completely halts whatever they’re doing. The only difference is they stopped with their attention completely on you, specifically on how your limbs are enclosed around Tsukishima’s waist and your cheek flat on his chest. 

Shit. 

You’re hugging Tsukishima in public, in front of the whole team.

Part 4 || Part 6 || masterlist

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[ygo-is-gayer-than-i-remember]

Yugioctober Day 4: Favorite Card

(Prompt list)  (Read it here on Ao3!)

Summary: Seto, Yugi, and Atem get a postcard to remember their vacation.

“Bus map?”

Atem shuffled a few things around in his backpack.  “Check.”

“Water bottles?”

“Check.”

“Extra sunscreen?”

“What for?  You already applied sunscreen.”

“Babe, look at me.”  Yugi gestured down to his body

.Atem gave him a suggestive grin in response.  “I’m looking.”

Yugi rolled his eyes.  “I need sunscreen, alright?  And so does Seto.  You’ve got two super pale boyfriends who fry in the sun.”

Atem zipped up the backpack and stood up from where he’d been crouching to wrap his arms around Yugi’s waist.  “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You’re such a sap,” Yugi teased, but he leaned into a kiss anyway.  He gave Atem an extra peck on the nose when it broke.  “Now go get the sunscreen.”

“As you wish, aibou.”

A couple of minutes later saw everything secured for their first day of sightseeing except for their other partner, who was still inside.  While they waited, the two of them sat on the porch of the Ishtars’ manor sharing a pitcher of iced lemonade, grateful they had the chance to relax before their coming adventure.  It was another hot day under the Egyptian sun, but they were dressed for it.

Yugi had on a grey tank-top sporting a picture of Silent Magician, black shorts, and his usual belts and collar, plus a black wide-brimmed hat over his hair, which he pulled back into a ponytail, and several layers of sunscreen slathered on every inch of visible skin.  Atem’s hair was tied back too so he could wear a woven tan hat decorated with a simple white ribbon around the middle.  The top few buttons of his white cotton button-up were open to frame the cartouche sitting against his chest, and the bottom was tucked into the waist of an emerald green skirt that flowed down to his ankles.  He looked perfectly at home in the heat.

Seto, on the other hand…

The front door opened.

Seto was not fashion-challenged by any stretch of the imagination.  He had the best taste in suits out of anyone Yugi had ever met.  His trench coats made him stand out in a crowd and gave him a certain dramatic flare up on stage or in front of a camera.  He always looked quite content in the snow with his soft cashmere scarves and leather gloves, the former of which Yugi had stolen a couple of.  He knew how to dress, comfortably and appropriately, for plenty of things.

Heat was not one of those things.

Seto stood in the doorway in his usual black turtleneck, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and a pair of tight black slacks underneath his leather boots.  He had decided to finish off the look with a pair of dark sunglasses and a thick black umbrella.  All the black he was wearing made his light skin almost glow.

“Seto, you look like a vampire.”  Yugi’s teasing was accompanied by Atem’s giggling.

Atem pointed to the umbrella.  “What is that for?”

“It’s to protect myself from the sun,” Seto said with a huff.  “I despise the feeling of sunscreen on my skin.”

Yugi raised an eyebrow.  “So you aren’t going to put on sunscreen?”

“No.”

“Then you better make good use of that umbrella.”

Seto grinned at him and popped open the umbrella with a flourish.  “Trust me, I will.  Now let’s go.”

—————————————————————————

Seto and Yugi were very glad to have Atem and the Ishtars around while they were exploring since neither of them knew more than a few words of Arabic.  Malik and Rishid had been thrilled at the chance to show them around the city, and after a couple of hours on their feet, they all took a break to have a delicious lunch in a park with Ishizu before she took them to see some of the nearby ruins.

While they were touring the ancient temples, Malik, in a moment of brilliance, decided to have them join up with a tour group and listen to the guide talk about the history of the site.  This had exactly the effect he hoped it would, and they were all incredibly amused by Atem’s grumbling and protesting to the many “facts” the guide got wrong.  After a string of comments correcting certain details about a festival dedicated to Sekhmet that involved a lot of alcohol, the tour guide became so enraged at his, quote, “smart-ass attitude,” that a heated argument almost turned into a fistfight, and they were asked to leave.  Thankfully, Ishizu was able to explain the situation to those in charge so none of them would be permanently banned from the premises.  Malik didn’t stop laughing for almost five minutes.

Now, sitting on a wooden bench under a mesh awning, the three men watched as the sun began to barely touch the edge of the horizon over the glittering Nile.  The Ishtars had decided to give them some time to themselves before they went to dinner, just the three of them.  Rishid had helped Atem pick out the best restaurant in the city and made the reservations.  After all, it was a special occasion.

Yugi offered Seto a bite of his kofta kebab.  “Are you sure you don’t want some?”

“I’m sure,” he replied.  Atem reached across his lap to snatch a bite of the half-eaten kebab.  “We’re having dinner in an hour and you two aren’t going to have any appetite.”

“You underestimate how hungry one can get after an exciting day on the town, Seto.”  Atem pointedly finished his sentence with another bite of spiced meatball.

Instead of dignifying him with a response, he instead swooped down to capture Atem’s lips in a gentle kiss.  Atem smiled at him as he pulled away.

“There, I got the flavor without needing to eat it.  Will you both stop nagging me?”

The two of them shrugged and finished the kebab, passing it back and forth as they exchanged bites.

Yugi swallowed his last mouthful and said, “You know, I think I saw this really cute little stand down the street where they take your picture and print it on a postcard.  What do you think?  Should we do it?”

Atem’s face softened.  “I think that sounds wonderful, aibou.”

Seto was still for a minute, but looking into the pleading eyes of his boyfriends, he relented with a sigh.

With an excited whoop, Yugi led them both down the street to where a woman, smiling brightly as they approached, had a little stand set up with a computer, a camera, and a photo printer.  She exchanged a few words with Atem in Arabic, and Atem translated for Seto and Yugi about some of the finer details that didn’t involve pointing to the fonts or borders available on her computer screen.  After a few minutes, they were ready to take the picture.

Seto removed his sunglasses, put aside his umbrella, and stood slightly behind Yugi and Atem for obvious height reasons, one hand on each of their shoulders.  Atem removed his hat and crossed his arms over his chest, and Yugi made his fingers into the shape of a heart after setting his own hat aside.

They took a few shots like that when, suddenly, something wet hit Yugi on the top of his head, catching him completely off guard.  Seto’s nose scrunched up in disgust.  Atem was just staring, baffled.  The woman scrambled to offer him a tissue, which he used to wipe off whatever had hit him.  He examined the evidence.

A bird had taken a dump on his head.

Looking between the tissue and the befuddled faces watching him, he just burst out laughing.  Atem followed suit, quickly becoming breathless and teary-eyed from laughing along with him.  Even Seto joined in after a moment as the mirth of his partners got to him.  When they had all settled down a bit, the woman gave Yugi a few more tissues to help get the rest of the bird poop out of his hair with a little help from the water in their water bottles.

The woman brought them back to the computer to look over the photos and choose which they wanted.  She flipped through the ones of them posing, which they liked, of course, but then started showing them a few that were completely different from the rest.  Apparently, she had snapped a few shots of them while they were all laughing.

Yugi pointed to one of them with a huge smile.  “What about this one?”  It had all of them there with grins on their faces, Atem and Yugi bent over in hysterics while Seto was chuckling with his face in one hand.  The scene had them bathed in the light of the setting sun.  Seto and Atem both agreed; it was perfect.

“She wants to know what we want it to say,” Atem explained after a quick conversation with the woman.

“How about ‘one year’?” Yugi offered.  “Maybe we can make a tradition of it and take a picture every year!”

Seto snickered.  “If we do, try not to get shit on every year.”

“No promises.”

The woman printed out three copies of the image for them to take with them, and they paid her for the trouble and thanked her profusely.

“I like your idea of a postcard every year,” Atem said.  He linked his arm through Yugi’s and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  “It will show how far we’ve come.”

Yugi nodded and took Seto’s hand with his free arm.  “I think we’ve come pretty far already.  Plus, even if we do, I think this one is always going to be my favorite.”  He took his time giving both of his boyfriends a kiss, pouring all of his love into every touch.  “Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary, you dorks.”  Seto earned a snort from Yugi.

Atem admired his own copy of their postcard with a soft smile.  “May there be many more to come.”