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acourtofquestions · 1 month ago

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Kingdom of Ash

Chapters 36-37

Had it been like that in the iron coffin?

Aelin gave no indication that the smothering dark bothered her, and had shown no inclination to illuminate their way. Hadn't even summoned an ember.

But the Little Folk, it seemed, had come prepared. And within heartbeats of entering the pitch-black river passage, blue light had kindled on a lantern dangling over the curved prow. Not light, not even magic. But small worms that glowed pale blue, as if they'd each swallowed the heart of a star. They'd been gathered into the lantern, and their soft light rippled over the water-smooth walls. A gentle, soothing light. At least, for her it was so.

Before Aelin had been given an ancient Faerie Queen's crown, her birthright and heritage.

The queen had stashed Mab's crown in one of their packs, as if it were no more than an extra sword belt. She hadn't spoken, and they had not asked her any questions, either.

Instead, she'd spent these past few hours sitting in the back of the boat, studying her unmarked hands, occasionally peering into the black waters beneath them. What she expected to see beyond her own rippling reflection, Elide didn’t want to know.

He'd crawled after Maeve on the beach to save Aelin. And he had found her during her escape-had ensured Aelin made it out. Did it wipe away what he'd done in summoning Maeve in the first place? Even if Maeve had set the trap, even if he hadn't known what Maeve intended for Aelin, did it erase his decision to call for her?

The last time they'd spoken as friends, it had been aboard that ship in the hours before Maeve's armada had arrived. He'd told her they needed to talk, and she'd assumed it was about their future, about them.

But perhaps he'd been about to tell her what he'd done, that he'd been wrong in acting before Aelin's plans played out. Elide stopped twisting the ring.

He'd done it for her. She knew it.

But the queen sitting silently behind them, no trace of that sharp-edged fire to be seen, nor that wicked grin she'd flashed at all who crossed her path ... Two months with a sadist. With two sadists. That had been the cost, and the burden that Aelin and all of them would bear.

That silence, that banked fire was because of him. Not entirely, but in some ways.

The collar had not been real. But the army Maeve had summoned was.

A blink into the gloom was the only indication that he was aware of her every movement. Aelin breathed in his scent, let its strength settle into her a bit deeper.

Their paths would meet again, or they would not. And if he found the final key and then brought it to her, she would pay what the gods demanded. What she owed Terrasen, the world.

Yet if Dorian chose to end it himself, to forge the Lock ... her stomach churned. He had the power. As much as she did, if not more so.

It was meant to be her sacrifice. Her blood shed to save them all. To let him claim it ... She could. She must. With Erawan no doubt unleashing himself on Terrasen, with Maeve's army likely to cause them untold grief, she could let Dorian do this. She trusted him. Even if she might never forgive herself for it. Her debt, it was supposed to have been her debt to pay.

Perhaps the punishment for failing to do so would be having to live with herself.

Having to live with all that had been done to her these months, too.

The blackness of the subterranean river pressed in, wrapped its arms around her and squeezed.

Different from the blackness of the iron box. The darkness she'd found inside herself.

A place she might never escape, not really.

Her power stirred, awakening. Aelin swallowed, refusing to acknowledge it. Heed it.

She wouldn't. Couldn't. Not yet. Until she was ready.

She had seen Rowan's face when she spoke of what his deception with the collar had prompted her to do. Had noted the way her companions looked at her, pity and fear in their eyes. At what had been done to her, what she'd become.

A new body. A foreign, strange body, as if she'd been ripped from one and shoved into another. Different from moving between her forms, somehow. She hadn't tried shifting into her human body yet. Didn't see the point.

Sitting in silence as the boat was pulled through the gloom, she felt the weight of those stares. Their dread. Felt them wondering just how broken she was.

You do not yield.

She knew that had been true—that it had been her mother's voice who had spoken and none other.

So she would not yield to this. What had been done. What remained. For the companions around her, to lift their despair, their fear, she wouldn't yield.

She'd fight for it, claw her way back to it, who she'd been before. Remember to swagger and grin and wink. She'd fight against that lingering stain on her soul, fight to ignore it. Would use this journey into the dark to piece herself back together-just enough to make it convincing.

Even if this fractured darkness now dwelled within her, even if speech was difficult, she would show them what they wished to see.

An unbroken Fire-Bringer. Aelin of the Wildfire.

She would show the world that lie as well. Make them believe it.

Maybe she'd one day believe it, too.

Days of near-silent travel passed.

Three days, if whatever senses Rowan and Gavriel possessed proved true. Perhaps the latter carried a pocket watch. Aelin didn't particularly care.

She used each of those days to consider what had been done, what lay before her.

Sometimes, the roar of her magic drowned out her thoughts. Sometimes it slumbered. She never heeded it.

They sailed through the darkness, the river below so black that they might as well have been drifting through Hellas's realm.

She hadn't asked him why he remained in his wolf's body. No one asked her why she remained in her Fae form, after all.

Rowan straightened, eyes sparking at her question-or at the fact that she'd spoken at all.

He'd kept by her these days, a silent, steady presence. Even when they'd slept, he'd remained a few feet away, still not touching, but just there. Close enough that the pine-and-snow scent of him eased her into slumber.

Silence at the order, even from Rowan. Aelin pointed to the lip of shore by the cave mouth. "Stop the boat," she repeated.

The queen had been reckless before Cairn and Maeve had worked on her for two months, but it seemed she'd had any bit of common sense flayed from her.

"Well, I don’t have any, so forgive me if I remain alert." No, she'd once told him that while magic flowed in the Lochan bloodline, she had none to speak of. He'd never told her that he'd always considered her cleverness to be a mighty magic on its own, regardless of Anneith's whisperings.

"It will take time for her to readjust."

She stared at him with those damning eyes.

He braced his forearms on his knees. "We got her back. She's with us now. What more do you want?" From me, He didn't need to add Elide straightened.

Elide straightened. "I don't want anything." From you.

This was where they'd have it out, then. "How much longer am I supposed to atone?"

"Are you growing bored with it?" He snarled.

She only glared at him. "I hadn't realized you were even atoning."

"I came here, didn't I?"

"For whom, exactly? Rowan? Aelin?"

"For both of them. And for you." There. Let it be laid before them.

"I told you on that beach: I want nothing to do with you."

"So one mistake and I am your eternal enemy?"

"She is my queen, and you summoned Maeve, then told her where the keys were, and you stood there while they did that to her."

"You have no idea what the blood oath can do. None."

"Fenrys broke the oath. He found a way."

"And had Aelin not been there to offer him another, he would have died." He let out a low, joyless laugh. "Perhaps that's what you would have preferred."

She ignored his last comment. "You didn't even try."

"I did," he snarled. "I fought it with everything I had. And it was not enough. If she'd ordered me to slit your throat, I would have. And if I had found a way to break the oath, I would have died, and she might very well have killed you or taken you afterward. On that beach, my only thought was to get Maeve to forget about you, to let you go-"

"I don't care about me! I didn't care about me on that beach!"

"Well, I do."

This was what came of opening that door to a place inside him that no one had ever breached. This mess, this hollowness in his chest that made him keep needing to make things right.

"Resent me all you like," he said, damning the hoarseness of his words. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Hurt flashed in her eyes. "Fine," she said, her voice brittle.

He hated that brittleness more than anything he'd ever encountered. Hated himself for causing it. But he had limits to how low he'd crawl.

He'd said his piece. If she wanted to wash her hands of him forever, then he would find a way to respect that. Live with it.

Somehow.

Gratitude shone in her eyes.

Rowan only gave her a nod. Don't worry about it.

Yet Aelin turned away, shutting off that silent conversation as she surveyed the space.

Time. It would take time for her to heal.

Even if he knew his Fireheart would pretend otherwise.

So, Rowan looked, too. Across the tomb, beyond the sarcophagus and treasure, an archway opened into another chamber. Perhaps another tomb, or an exit passage.

"We don't have time to find a way out,"

Rowan murmured as she strode into the tomb.

"And the caves remain safer than the surface."

"I'm not looking for a way out," she said in that calm, unmoved voice. She stooped, swiping up a fistful of gold coins stamped with forgotten king's face. "We're going to need to fund our travels. And the gods know what else." Rowan arched a brow. Aelin shrugged and shoved the gold into the pocket of her cloak. "Unless the pitiful clinking I heard from your coin purse didn't indicate you were low on funds."

That spark of wry humor, the taunting … She was trying. For his sake, or the others' maybe her own, she was trying.

Rowan gave the Lion a slashing grin. "You heard the lady."

A flash ruptured from where Fenrys had been sniffing at a trunk of jewels, and then a male was standing there. His gray clothes worn, but intactin better shape than the hollowed-out look in his eyes.

Aelin paused her looting.

Fenrys's throat bobbed, as if trying to remember speech. Then he said hoarsely, "We needed more pockets." He patted his own for emphasis.

Aelin's lips curved in a hint of a smile. She blinked at Fenrys—three times.

Fenrys blinked once in answer.

A code. They'd made up some silent code to communicate when he'd been ordered to remain in his wolf form.

Aelin's smile remained, just barely, as she walked to the golden-haired male, his bronze skin ashen. She opened her arms in silent offer.

To let him decide if he wished for contact. If he could endure it.

Just as Rowan would let her decide if she wished to touch him.

A small sigh broke from Fenrys before he folded Aelin into his arms, a shudder rippling through him. Rowan couldn't see her face, perhaps didn't need to, as her hands gripped Fenrys's jacket, so tightly they were white-knuckled.

A good sign—a small miracle, that either of them wished, could be touched. Rowan reminded himself of it, even while some intrinsic, male part of him tensed at the contact.

A territorial Fae bastard, she'd once called him. He'd do his best not to live up to that title.

"Thank you," Aelin said, her voice small in a way that made Rowan's chest crack further.

Fenrys didn't answer, but from the anguish on his face, Rowan knew no thanks were in order.

They pulled away, and Fenrys cupped her cheek. "When you are ready, we can talk."

About what they'd endured. To unravel all that had happened.

Aelin nodded, blowing out a breath. "Likewise."

She resumed shoving gold into her pockets, but glanced back to Fenrys, his face drawn. "I gave you the blood oath to save your life," she said. "But if you do not want it, Fenrys, I ... we can find some way to free you—"

"I want it," Fenrys said, no trace of his usual swaggering humor. He glanced to Rowan, and bowed his head. "It is my honor to serve this court. And serve you," he added to Aelin.

She waved a hand in dismissal, though Rowan didn't fail to note the sheen in her eyes as she stooped to gather more gold. Giving her a moment, he strode to Fenrys and clasped his shoulder. "It's good to have you back." He added, stumbling a bit on the word, "Brother." For that's what they would be. Had never been before, but what Fenrys had done for Aelin .. Yes, brother was what Rowan would call him. Even if Fenrys's own—

Fenrys's dark eyes flickered. "She killed Connall. Made him stab himself in the heart." A pearl-and-ruby necklace scattered from Gavriel's fingers.

The temperature in the tomb spiked, but there was no flash of flame, no swirl of embers.

As if Aelin's magic had surged, only to be leashed again.

Yet Aelin continued shoving gold and jewels into her pockets.

She'd witnessed it, too. That slaughter.

But it was Gavriel, approaching on silent feet even with the jewels and gold on the floor, who clasped Fenrys's other shoulder. "We will make sure that debt is paid before the end." The Lion had never uttered such words not toward their former queen. But fury burned in Gavriel's tawny gaze. Sorrow and fury.

Fenrys took a steadying breath and stepped away, the loss on his face mingling with something Rowan couldn't place. But now wasn't the time to ask, to pry.

Aelin continued picking her way amongst the treasure, however. She'd been more selective than the rest of them, examining pieces with what Rowan had assumed was a jeweler's eye. The gods knew she'd owned enough finery to tell what would fetch the highest price at market.

"We should go," he said. His own pockets were near to bursting, his every step weighed down.

She rose from a rusted metal chest she'd been riffling through.

Rowan remained still as she approached, something clenched in her palm. It was only when she stopped close enough for him to touch her that she unfurled her fingers.

Two golden rings lay there.

"I don't know the Fae customs," she said.

The thicker ring held an elegantly cut ruby within the band itself, while the smaller one bore a sparkling rectangular emerald mounted atop, the stone as large as her fingernail. "But when humans wed, rings are exchanged." Her fingers trembled-just slightly. Too many unspoken words lay between them. Yet now was not the time for that conversation, for that healing.

Not when they had to be on their way as swiftly as possible, and this offer she'd made him, this proof that she still wanted what lay between them, the vows they'd sworn ...

"I assume the sparkly emerald is for me," Rowan said with a half smile.

She huffed a laugh. The soft, whispered sound was as precious as the rings she'd found for them in this hoard. She took his hand, and he tried not to shudder in relief, tried not to fall to his knees as she slid the ruby ring onto his finger. It fit him perfectly, the ring no doubt forged for the king lying in this barrow.

Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. "To whatever end," he whispered.

Silver lined her eyes. "To whatever end." A reminder-and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they'd sworn on that ship.

To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terrasen, ancient promises to the gods be damned.

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

"I'll make the tattoo again." She swallowed, but nodded. "And," he added, "I'd like to add another. To me—and to you."

Her brows flicked up, but he squeezed her hand. You'll have to wait and see, Princess.

Another hint of a smile. She didn't balk from the silent words this time. Typical.

He opened his mouth to voice the question he'd been dying to ask for days now. May I kiss you? But she pulled her hand from his.

Admiring the wedding band sparkling on her finger, her mouth tightened as she turned over her palm. "I'll need to retrain."

Not a single callus marked her hands.

Aelin frowned at her too-thin body. "And pack on some muscle again." A slight quiver graced her words, but she curled her hands into fists at her sides and smirked at her clothes—the Mistward clothes. "It'll be just like old times."

Trying. She was dredging up that swagger and trying. So he would, too. Until she didn't need to any more.

Rowan gave her a crooked grin. "Just like old times," he said, following her out of the barrow and back toward the ebony river, "but with far less sleep."

He could have sworn the passageway heated. But Aelin kept going.

Later. That conversation, this unfinished business between them, would come later.

#Chapter 36 #Kingdom of Ash #Sarah J. Maas #Aelin Galathynius #Rowan Whitethorn #Elide Lochan #Lorcan Salvaterre #Gavriel #Fenrys #first read along with me no spoilers please more spoilers in further notes with tags quotes reacts annotated etc perspective 1 Elide #The way they all keep asking is that what she felt like-Finally dozing-Therapy boat time-They stole something beautiful&bright #If not even Elide can standup it’s short-The quiet time space-Forgive urself4him-Lets give it all2Erawan-Not fragile-Not hiding well #Never yield-the fact the lilfolk were prepared for no magic-it gives Jess day meets Millie Bobby brown princess movieWhealing glowworms #is Elide afraid of the dark?she did say rattle the stars-always heartbeats to measure timeWlilfolk-eyes gleamingWanimalistic brightness #Fenrys dozing@queens feet-get they snuggled close-position of honor at feet-Gabriel explains golden hair silvered by moonlight (beam?)#the ring-none of them want to know-knowing where to find HER-Closer2her than he'd sat in weeks-sending her attention (knowing where 2 find)#4long heartbeats she let herself look at him-she knew it 2 #P2Aelin-4long heartbeats she let herself look at him-she knew it 2-inky black hair spilling over a coat of whitest snow #Her fingers curled in her lap-the fact living has begun to feel like punishment-a better lie-the swagger fire back #Chapter 37-perspective Aelin pt 1-if only there was tech-3days time-whats the tell?So long travel-let him take it so she can kill Erowan #Not the weights again-the avoided speech like Lys-To answer questions that he was perhaps not yet ready to discuss.#Might begin simply screaming and screaming at what had been done to them to Connall-is the far her animal form-THEM-but as the blue light #of the lantern touched it gold glittered along the rocky floor.Ancient gold-genius-stop the boat-they listened to her Cadre-didn’t wait or #stay or care-Aelin didn't bother to see who obeyed as she strode into the cave-Lorcan refrained from saying that;good pick-Not firelight #She hadnt shown an ember since theyd entered the cave-power notes-Her dark eyes slid to him-from you-why river?-knees!#reverse Lysaedion-well I care u idiot-looked away looked anywhere but at him-life with ur #reverse Lysaedion-well I care-looked away looked anywhere but at him-lifeWoff what had needed2stop she needed2see he could only guess #Kings has made it-watched-As if she wouldnt couldnt touch her power-he saw every side-my last/accent-wait hug notice #Unravel it-fill in-pretend-where?-pirating is nice-another mark theirs&loved enough tove said it-whatever end-known-silver lined #u wish-what isn't recognized-Sardothien swagger-leashing the power-as close to a wedding4them as we’ll get

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fangirl-dot-com · 7 months ago

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😾Really Nice Guy Who Hates Only You

*part of the reverse trope series*

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Celebrity!Reader Genre: Fluff/Miscommunication/Humor/SMAU Summary: Oscar was known to be the epitome of a polite cat. His reputation is that he is genuinely nice to everyone. Well, everyone except for you.

*once again, I have loved writing for this series and it seems like everyone loves these chapters (as they have the highest notes out of all of them). I'm really excited for what is to come! I have loved making all the special tweets and other additions to the posts!*

TAG LIST IS CLOSED

Oscar had been in a bad mood. The garage could practically feel the cloud that surrounded the Aussie as he walked through the garage on Saturday morning for the sprint. The scrunch of the nose and the constant side eyes also gave it away.

Normally, Oscar tends to be more on the quiet side. But today, he was even quieter. Gone was the polite cat, and it was replaced by a very grumpy feline.

“Hey Oscar! Come meet our guests!”

Oscar let out a sigh as he turned around and put a very fake smile on his face. This is the moment he had been dreading ever since you stepped into the garage. He did, or couldn’t, understand why you were wearing his number on the back of the jersey you wore.

It disgusted him.

You were very pretty though, he had eyes. Your hair went very well with the papaya orang and your smile could pretty much kill a man in a 10-foot radius. Except that right now, Oscar wanted your perfect hair to catch on fire and he’d avoid the smile.

When he finally got closer, he stopped a few feet in front of you, not wanting to get too close. Two hands clapped him on the shoulders as Lando started to shake him.

“So Os-cah, this is Y/n L/n, 2-time Grammy Award winner and probably the prettiest guest we’ve ever had.”

All right, so Lando was a gonner.

Oscar fought the urge to roll his eyes right into the back of his head so he wouldn’t have to look at you anymore. But your smile was oh-so pretty. You looked at him with wide eyes as you held out your hand for a shake.

However, Oscar just looked at it, then looked at you.

“Welcome.”

Lando reeled back, confused at his younger teammate’s coldness. The two watched as your smile faltered just a bit. (If Oscar had any remorse, he didn’t show it.) You were quick to recover and spread another smile, even if this one wasn’t as real as the first.

You put your hand down as you greeted, “It’s such an honor to finally meet you! I’ve been a fan for what feels like forever.”

Oscar grunted. “Can’t say the same.”

You absolutely wanted to whimper. You had been waiting to be invited to a Formula 1 garage ever since you won your first Grammy. And well, you had other offers from Red Bull or Ferrari, but the McLaren garage is the one you wanted to be your first. So, you had declined and declined until you knew that you could meet the driver that you had been following for so long.

But now that you finally met him, you wondered why he was such an asshole.

You pushed down your feelings and continued. “That’s ok. My music isn’t for everyone. But I wanted to congratulate you on your rookie season last year!”

“Thanks.”

Ok, Lando knew something was up and he couldn’t take the hurt-puppy-eyes coming from you anymore. The Briton was about to say something, but Zak had decided to interrupt with another celebrity guest.

“Guys, this is Sabrina, she’s also joining Miss L/n in the garage today. Ladies, we have two headsets for you in the back when we’ll go over some last minute car things if you’d like to listen in!” Zak explained.

It only hurt when Oscar eyes lit up at your fellow musician, brushing past you to personally introduce himself. Lando was now left with a very sad Grammy winner on his hands. He gently put his arm around your waist to bring you to the side.

When a long sigh escaped your lips, Lando felt awful.

“Y/n, I swear he’s normally the nicest person on the planet. Oscar always seems to love everyone, no matter the guest.”

Your eyes flitted over to where Oscar was now animatedly talking to Sabrina about her new album. You let out a scoff.

“Yeah, everyone but me. Maybe I should have just taken the offer from Red Bull or Ferrari.”

Lando pouted. He knew that you had been a fan of Oscar’s way back to the start of his F2 season. And then you had purposefully put the word McLaren in many different songs. Hell, your newest album titled “Momentum” was basically a love letter to your beloved team. You even had plans to become an investor once you could make the first payment.

The Briton felt lost. “I was going to find Max and Charles if you’d like to join me?”

You took one more look at Oscar, not surprised to see him glare at you from the side. That action made up your mind and you agreed to go with Lando.

Taking with Max and Charles was like a breath of fresh air. The two were great conversationalists and pretty funny. The Monegasque even invited you into one of the media buildings to look at the behind the scenes, which put you in awe.

The two rivals, thought, couldn’t understand why you were attached to Lando when you had a giant 81 on the back of your jersey.

“Have you met Oscar yet?” Charles asked. When you tensed, he knew that he had asked a wrong question. Your expression quickly became sad.

“Yeah. But I don’t think he likes me very much,” you muttered.

Max scoffed. “That’s absurd. He’s quiet, but he’s nice to everyone.”

Lando winced. “But for some reason, he was being really rude and just standoff-ish.”

You looked so dejected. “At first I thought he might not be a fan of my music, but then he was super smiley with Sabrina and we co-wrote most of mine and her songs. So it’s not the genre.”

The Briton wanted to try to bring your spirits back up, but he noticed the time and said that you and him had to be back at the garage. You said your goodbyes to the Dutchman and Monegasque before you followed Lando back to the garage.

On your way in, Oscar sent you yet another glare as he got ready to be in the car.

Although he had been mean, you still said, “Good luck.”

Maybe he heard you or didn’t, but he never responded or acted like he took it to heart.

When Oscar was able to overtake multiple cars and finish the sprint in P2, you were ecstatic. His terrible attitude did not hinder your joy for the Aussie. You didn’t secretly call yourself the #1-Piastri fan for nothing. Sabrina laughed next to you as you hopped up and down, glad that your driver finished well in the points.

It was sad for Lando who didn’t make it past P5, but the Briton explained that qualifying for the actual race is when it truly counted.

You watched with stars in your eyes as Oscar walked up after Charles to be interviewed by Jensen Button.

The former driver asked the first question.

“Oscar, first congrats on the P2, you did a lot of overtaking. Was that in the strategy?”

The Aussie laughed, really showing that he indeed was polite to everyone.

“Well the strategy is always to win, but we were close with all the upgrades. It’s been good and I’m ready for the races to come.”

A few more questions were asked and exchanged before Jensen somehow brought you up.

“So we saw that Y/n L/n and Sabrina Carpenter were both in the McLaren garage. And we all know that Y/n is a massive McLaren fan as well as your fan. Have you listen to any of her songs?”

Many people definitely saw the change in facial expression when your name was brought up. The smiley Oscar was replaced with a bored one.

“Well, I don’t really listen to artists who bash or make fun of my driving.”

Jensen gave me a very curious look. “She actually praises you in most of her songs.”

The Aussie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like the one where she said she crashed her McLaren like Piastri.”

Your eyes widened, along with everyone else in the garage. Those were definitely not the lyrics to one of your songs. Lando also had wide eyes and he was looking right at you, who seemed to be on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“I would never do that,” you said, looking into Lando’s hazel eyes. The Briton looked puzzled. He had specifically played or sung songs for the Aussie that mentioned McLaren or Oscar.

You kind of just sank into the background, trying to process what could have gone wrong. Lando on the other hand raced to catch Oscar as he was walking into the garage.

“Mate, what are you doing?” Oscar asked as Lando was directing him to one of the driver rooms. Lando slammed the door and turned to Oscar.

“What are the lyrics to Y/n’s song?”

There was another eye roll. “Lando you sung them to me like two weeks ago.”

Land shook his head. “But tell me.”

Oscar huffed, “Small talk, big love. Act like you don’t care but I disagree. When I crashed my McLaren like Piastri.”

“Stop!”

The Aussie cocked his head.

Lando continued, “Those aren’t the lyrics you muppet. It’s ‘When I crashed my McLaren like past me.’ A few years ago, Y/n used to wreck a lot of cars at a teen. She got better and decided to buy a McLaren when your seat was announced for 2023. And then she crashed it on accident after she got broken up with.”

A look of realization washed over Oscar’s face and then a look of dread. A giant sigh left his lips. Lando thought he was going to pass out or something but the second Papaya driver quickly ran out of the room. He stopped short of where you had sat in the back of the garage and quietly started to step closer.

Your head was in your hands but you looked up when you heard footsteps. You were shocked to be looking at Oscar, who had a guilty look on his face. You shot up out of your seat and began to ramble.

“Oscar, I swear, I would never back and diss you in any of my songs. You’re truly my favorite driver and I was so excited to meet you. I have put your name in my songs before, but it’s only been praise. I’m so sorry that you’ve been thinking that I’d make fun of your driving and-“

Oscar held out a hand to stop you.

But now it was his turn to ramble, hands flying everywhere.

“You’re sorry? I’m sorry. I’ve been an utter asshole to you all day. That was horrible of me. Lando sung me the song a few weeks ago, but it was pretty mumbled because he couldn’t remember some of the words and I heard Piastri instead of past me and I just thought the worst and…”

Lando was having a field day watching you watch Oscar with stars in your eyes as he apologized over and over again.

The Briton pretended to dust his hands off as he watched Oscar pull out his phone and offer it to you.

“Another day, another matchmaking completed.”

y/n_l/n has posted

y/n_l/n thank you so much McLaren for the amazing day today! It was truly a dream come true to meet my all time favorite driver! little surprise for everyone else - Florida is yours (inspired by a special someone) 🧡

liked by mclaren, its_papaya, oscarpiastri, landoscar, and 3,205,195 others

queeny/n OH MY GOSH NEW SONG AFTER THE MIAMI RACE??

y/n&f1 wouldn't the song be written for Logan then?

y/nxoscar she said inspired - didn't mean that it's actually about him

oscah81 P2 SPRINT RACE AND POSSIBLE NEW WAG

landonorris I too would like a song pls

charles_leclerc we all know she wrote golden about me ♥️

maxverstappen1 I claim midnight rain then

landonorris ☹️

y/n_l/n it's ok lando - working on one now!

y/nsgrammy to think that Oscar thought she dissed him when she's like his biggest fan ever

oscargirlie y/n get's us with the second picture

oscarpiastri was the second picture necessary? and Florida? when did you have time to write that??

y/n_l/n 1. yes, it was very necessary, 2. I wrote it when you ignored me

oscarpiastri and you still wrote me a song?

y/n_l/n of course! most of my songs had you written in mind ☺️

oscarpiastri so. . . dress?

y/n_l/n 😳🤭

loscar-land your honor I love them

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frmisnow · 4 months ago

Text

1:37AM : BAROLO ! - (nsfw)

summary. you had been avoiding your ceo as best as you could after the intimate drunk meeting you had shared, so what do you do now when you both are forced on a business trip?

notes. second chapter! hope y'all enjoy🍷✶𝄞

warnings/includes. (3.3k words / smut!) non idol! ceo! jungkook x f! employee! reader, smoking (reader's first time), masturbation heavely implied, fingering, giving m. head, pussy eating, drunk!!!, tad bit of angst at end

"we didn't sleep together, you fell asleep on my coach, i wasn't going to take advantage of you"

his words from a few days ago remain firmly in your head. you had done so good at avoiding him: taking the long way to not walk by his office, instantly running off to god knows where when you saw him - only for the very man you've been dodging so well, to ask you to go on a business trip to milan.

the flight was quiet.

the only thing that was hearable was the sound of a lighter getting light up every hour or so. he smoked.

it was his private jet after all, you didn't blame him. your mind trails off to your ex once more, you had thought you had managed to get rid of him in your mind completely, but he always managed to sneak back in.

he resented smoking, called smokers 'self-indulged assholes' if they did it in public. he was the kind of man who thought the world revolved around sheerly him, to think that another person would calmly invade said-world with a bit of smoke, was beyond unforgivable for him.

you glance towards jungkook, taking in the calm assurance in his eyes as he takes another slow puff. he seemingly notices your stare, his tone soothing, "do you want one?"

you physically feel your ex trying to pull the hand you're reaching out to take what jungkook offered, back. but he doesn't succeed, you win. you had never smoked before, you go based of what you've seen in pop culture. lightning, drag, wasn't it?

you can visably see jungkook fighting a smile while he reaches out for the cig, hanging it between his very own lips as he leans forward in his seat, one of his hands gently guiding your fingers so the cigarette was now in between your own plush lips

you slowly breathe, the smoke stinging your lungs and making you cough. he lets out a tsk, clicking his tongue disapprovingly as he looks at you from under his eyelashes, "inhale deeper," the voice not mad, more like gentle scolding.

the hotel room was mostly quiet, besides the soft hum of the AC and the faint noises of the dazzling city through the open window. you both had shared a few more words earlier, incrediably vague, until you parted ways to your respective rooms.

you couldn't quite fall asleep, you blamed it on loud milan when you in reality couldn't stop thinking about his fingers which had been on your lips, your fingers trace over them, imagining his tattoed ones doing just that. you had to ask him what the history behind those was, next time. next time?

your hands wander to your tits, where his eyes had lingered more then once if your memory didn't fail you. and you imagine his hand wrapping around yours, guiding you.

"i want you," the words you had whispered against his mouth replay in your head multiple times.

just as your fingers trailed further, there was an abrupt knock on the door. you glance at your phone: it's 1:37 a.m.

as you open the door you see a image of your boss, you haven't quite seen yet. jungkooks hair is visabily messed up, his shirt loose around the neckline. "couldn't sleep," he mumbles, his tone sounding almost like an confession, he shouldn't say, "do you want to take a walk with me?"

you give in, you don't want to give much thought into how weird it was for a boss to ask his employee out on a walk at almost 2am.

the uber drops you off at a 24hr shop which seemed out of part for the milan you've seen so far (through car windows)

"if you want a snack or a smoke or something," he looks at you, "and then we walk"

you don't know what prompts you to say, "wine" with so much confidence but you do regardless. please make me feel like that night, i want you the words linger in your head shortly, words you'd never say out loud.

if he's surprised he didn't show it, moreover he looked satisfied, pleased with your answer. and that's exactly what you liked about jungkook: he knew how to read the room. did he hear you touch yourself? maybe. did he mention it? no.

he leads you deeper into the store, towards the back where there were rows of alcoholic beverages, the lights dim. he moves to stand behind you, his chest almost touching your back, as he reaches to grab a bottle of barolo from a high shelf.

the music in the background is some indie tune, you had heard before, you nod your head along to the sound absentmindedly.

you can see him smile at the corner of your eye, not a smile that was mocking or finding something funny, more filled with general admiration.

"you like this song?" he asks, his voice quiet, nearly a whisper almost as if it was a secret while he placed the bottle down to the cashiers table, pulling out his card, black.

you nod with a genuine smile.

you end up settling down on a bench in a nearby park, opening the bottle. you sit crosslegged, looking over the park at night, genuinely intrested, "so what music do you like?"

"i like...indie stuff, mostly," jungkook responds, turning his head to look at you, the light night breeze running over his hair, "but i have a soft spot for a few italian punk rock songs from when i was younger."

"ever seen any of them live?" you ask, taking a sip from the bottle, "y'know you are in milan after all"

he can firmly smell your perfume. the same one that had stuck to his coach for days which made it simply unbearable to sit on it, without thinking about you.

jungkook laughs, the sound soft, almost as if it wasn't entirely voluntary. he runs a hand through his hair, the ends just falling back into his face. "no," he says, tilting his head back a little, "i haven't."

"maybe you should," you respond casually. you don't know why you were giving such tips to a business man with a multi-million empire to his knees. did he even have time to go to silly little concerts? what kind of life did he live?

he laughs again, you loved the sweet sound of it, "maybe i should," raising the bottle to drink once more, "would you go with me?"

you reach out to take another large sip, you need some more alcohol in your system to answer him, "maybe"

he watches you intently as you reach for the bottle again, his eyes flickering to your throat as you tilt your head back to drink.

"maybe," he says again, smiling to himself, "that's so vague of you, maybe."

handing the bottle back to you, repeating, "maybe," his voice teasing.

you repeat the same word once more as you both laugh. you can feel the alcohol begin to warm you from the inside, the feeling of slight dizziness setting in.

meanwhile he's looking at you, his eyes wandering over your face, resting on your mouth, the way your lips are tinted red from drinking the wine.

"why are you looking at me like that?" you mutter though your tone grazed on something reminding a joke. stupid fucking question.

jungkook's smile remains if not widening while he moves closer, "how am i looking at you?"

"like you want to fuck me," you mumble, chuckling at your words like it was a ridiciulous thought on it's own.

"does that bother you," he whispers, his voice low, his words just a little bit slurred from the alcohol, "knowing i want you like that."

you raise your eyebrows, taking another sip, "so you're admitting it?"

jungkook raises his eyebrows, copying your movement, a lazy, almost cocky smile on his face. he grabs the bottle from your hand, raising it to his lips, drinking a mouthful of wine, holding eye contact with you as he does. and you're convinced he wants to see you dead.

he hands the bottle back to you, his smile still present on is face, "yes," he says, his voice low, the sounds almost like a soft moan, "I'm admitting it."

"you're actually so sexy when you're like this," you respond, clearly just as intoxicated as he was. 'like this' when you are not scolding me for not bringing the right documents, is the part you leave out.

he laughs, louder if that wasn't the alcohol talking. "sexy when I'm drunk," he teases, his words slurred, "is that it?"

"maybe," you babble which just makes the both of you giggle again.

he takes the bottle out of your hand, setting it down on the ground, the empty glass making a small clinking sound as it hits the concrete.

"you're drunk," he says, his words still a little slurred, the sound teasing, "i think you need to shut up."

you grin at this man's sheer audacity, replying, "i think you need to learn how to take a compliment properly"

jungkook just moves closer, not responding for a few seconds until you were so close that your noses touched, "you like compliments?"

he practically makes you lie down on that damn uncomfortable bench, "you want me to tell you how sexy you are? cause i will"

"i won't fuck you on a bench, kook"

"i never get to be just kook," he mumbles, something reminding a pout on his face, an adorable sight. "i'm always boss, or sir."

you don't know how to respond, you want him to be kook to you but that is something that is practically out of your control. so you moan.

you can hear jungkook say something — something about the city, something aboout the driver's taste of music? the words slip through your head as soon as they are said and all you manage to do is laugh.

the car feels to fast, milan is way to blurry and for a second you seriously ask yourself if you had taken any drugs. jungkooks hand slides over your thigh as you tilt your head, letting out a breathy chuckle.

the chuckle turns into a suppressed moan as his fingers brush over your underwear. you can barerly think straight, dare tell him to stop though you wouldn't even want to, even if you could.

you nod or at least try to; you didn't know why in the first place, it’s hard to tell if your head is moving or if you’re just imagining it. your eyes are half-closed, barely able to focus on his face, but you can feel his fingers slipping under the edge of your panties, brushing against your slick, aching core. "you're so wet f' me"

you make a mental note to rate the uber driver five stars later, because of the sheer noises that man had to hear. you were incrediably grateful for the music covered it up at least a bit.

just as you were about to cum, the car came to a sharp stop. the poor driver's voice pulls you back to reality, announcing you've arrived to the hotel.

jungkook brings his juiced fingers to his lips, licking them with a small 'pop' noise. for a second you actually consider pushing him onto the dirty ground in front of the hotel and fucking him right then but you regain compusure through a groan.

you both stumble through the lobby if you saw it properly one of the large clocks showed it was 2:51am but there was a big chance that your eyes were fooling you.

he practically pushes you towards the elevator as the door closes, jungkook looks adorably confused at all the various floor buttons, his finger unsurerly moving from one to the other.

"don't think," you pull him closer by his shirt while jungkook's hands instantly craddle your face, no thoughts in his head. you press as many random buttons as you could while he presses his lips onto yours.

his hands get tangled in your hair, he pulls you even closer as if he wants to breathe your soul in, moaning into your mouth.

the elevator opens with a little 'ding' and you have to look around to see if it's the right floor, you had surprisingly gotten lucky. the hallway lights automatically turn on at your movement, they feel way to bright.

you both reach the door of his room as he fumbles with they keycard, trying to slide it into the lock, cursing under his breath whilst you laugh. the door refuses to open which just makes him release a giggle, cute very untypical, "how do these even work"

logicaly he should be a man who has opened multiple hotel doors like this before but it was most certaintly the alcohol in his system that made everything a bit to fuzzy to handle. jungkook finally manages to slide the card into the door, the light turning green with a small click.

he pulls you with him, tugging you towards the bed, his movements messy as he almost falls once on his way. flopping down onto the covers, pulling you on top so you're straddling him.

it's a pretty view, him under you. he really did look hypnotized in a way whilst you ran your fingers over his facial features, they are not as rough as you thought, on closer inspection.

"you got to many clothes on," you mumble, removing your own shirt and shorts in a clumsy haste.

"then take them off"

you grin, your fingers moving to his shirt to pull it over his head, the action surprisingly slow and tender though it was probably the wine making your mind all foggy.

jungkook looks up to you like you are the moon and the sun, his eyes droopy, his words a stark contrast to his loving gaze, "you're taking to long, c'me here"

"you are in no position to give me orders," you reply, working on his pants.

his head falls back against the sheets, the smile on his face evident, "i think i am, i'm the big, mean boss man"

big, mean boss man - that's how you need to save him in your contacts, you chuckle at the thought, pulling away his boxers. his cock springs free, already hard and throbbing with need.

"shut up or no head," you don't wait for his response, leaning forward to press a tentative kiss onto the tip before taking him into your mouth, savoring the taste and texture.

jungkooks hands tighten in your hair, guiding you with a mix of need and tenderness while he bucks his hips. you move your head up and down with precision, taking him deeper with each passing minute.

he curses, curses in a manner you've never seen a man like him do. and you feel a sense of pride in knowing that you have this man practically wrapped around your finger or better said — mouth.

his release is sweet, warm. you swallow each drop especially when he asks you to clean him up, you lick it all off. here and there you look up to him with your lashes and he moans each time.

you can firmly feel something shift in the air when you release him with that little 'pop' noise, reminding of how he left you without an orgasm in that damn uber. at least you had made him cum.

following, he gently pushes you onto the bed. you look over to your right, evidently amused noticing a closed wine bottle on his night desk. perhaps it automatically came with the hotel, it seemed expensive.

a hazy thought lingers in your mind, a blend of the lack of sleep and the alcohol still coursing through your veins. you reach out for the bottle, fingers grasping the cool, smooth glass.

with a tipsy giggle you uncork the wine, bringing it to your lips to get a quick taste before ultimately pouring about a good one third of it over your tits.

you can barerly make out jungkook's face, why did you mind seem so hazy? but you can hear his words, "you're a mess" his tone isn't insulting rather he says it like it was a just a mere fact.

but he calmly licks the liquid of you with the same ease as you had done with his cum.

“such a fucking mess,” he repeats, his words softer now, almost affectionate, as he sucks his way down the curve of your tit, "my mess"

his hands wrap around your thighs, putting them on his shoulders. he raises his eyebrows at your state, "all for me?" it sounded like a question though it was clear he didn't expect an answer — he certaintly didn't wait for one either.

the feeling of his hot, wet tongue against your core is a stark contrast to the coldness of the wine-soaked skin in combination with the ac, creating a delicious tension that had you whining for more.

jungkook’s hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he works his mouth over you, each flick of his tongue and suck of his lips calculated to drive you to the edge of sanity. he alternates between gentle, teasing licks and more aggressive, demanding sucks, making sure you’re fully engulfed in pleasure, one way or another.

jungkook eats you out like it's a part of his job, with much care and ease. an grunt or a groan vibrating against you more often then not.

his name slips over your tongue multiple times, and you would've been embarrassed for your porn-like moans if it wasn't for the release washing over you.

it falls over you in one motion and it would've felt like to much if it weren't for jungkook: jungkook, who's fingers wander over your thighs and tummy gently as if trying to bring you back on earth. jungkook, who gives you all the time in the world and whispers reassuring little sweet nothings against the sensitive skin.

when he sees you're somewhat ready to function again, his arms softly lie you onto him, one of his hands working through your hair attentively while his other reached out and lit up a cigarette.

the room has a special scent — wine, sex cigs.

jungkook takes slow, deliberate drags as you trace patterns over his chest, circles, hearts. his fingers absentmindely moving to lightly drum over your back while he takes another hit.

“want a puff?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips, and without thinking, you nod, your brain swimming in a delightful stupor. he brings the cigarette to your lips, and you take a tentative drag, the smoke filling your lungs.

“breathe it in, babe” he murmurs, the nickname slipping from his lips like a forbidden secret. “like you did before.”

you do as he says, managing it properly this time as he gives you an approving hum instantly going in for a kiss.

you wake up with sunlight on your face, your first instinct is to smile, the curtains were open, did you forget to close them yesterday?

but as your senses sharpen, you realize something. something: or rather, someone is pressed against you. panic bubbles inside you as you register that jungkook lies beneath you, deep asleep, a peaceful smile grazing his face.

what had you done?

thankfully you remembered everything, though it was much more a curse then a blessing. you hadn’t wanted to cross this line.

there was no future here — he only desired you when you were both drunk.

and what was even worse was that you actually felt your heart clench when you looked at his clueless, oblivious face.

you wanted, no- you needed to disappear before the reality of this situation hits the both of you. it was a dick-move but that was what he had done that night, wasn't it?

but just as you begin to shift, a low, sleepy murmur escapes his lips, and he stirs beneath you. his eyes flutter open, a lazy smile making it's way onto his lips as he registers you on top of him, blissfully unaware of your inner conflict.

"good morning, babe," he reaches forward to brush one strand of yours behind your ear, you were convinced there was nothing currently working behind those eyes, "did you sleep well?"

🍓 tag list — @chansloverr , @marimarvelfan , @bxcndd , @1-in-abillion , @ahgasegotarmy116 , @copycat-namjesus , @malkaimoon , @geminiml95 , @taiwan0618 , @jungkookfics , @rrosiitas , @stuti2904

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heartthrobin · 4 months ago

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the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle.

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports.

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge.

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner.

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers.

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor.

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed.

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish.

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster.

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge.

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you.

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone.

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move.

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face.

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches.

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.”

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again.

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.”

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor.

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick.

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.”

He’s brushing past you.

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded.

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable.

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?”

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked.

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration.

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him.

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.”

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle.

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own.

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.”

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness.

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms.

It’s quiet.

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks.

“Why’re you out here alone?”

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him.

Why do you care?

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters.

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.”

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t.

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent.

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room.

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.”

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours.

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!”

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow.

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction.

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way.

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it.

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets.

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

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hiiikiko · 1 month ago

Text

𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖜𝖊𝖇

[1: spider-man’s more awkward than i thought..”]

spiderman!ellie x reader | tlou m.list

synopsis: ellie is in your biology class, she’s the quiet teachers assistant, who also happens to double as your agency’s part time photographer, but you notice that lately she’s been acting strange..

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You never really noticed her before, to you, she was just the nerdy TA and your agency’s assistant photographer but right now, you needed her to be your saviour. You were failing your biology class, a side effect of how many modelling gigs you’ve picked up to pay your tuition but what good was paying your tuition if you couldn’t even pass your classes? That’s how you ended up practically begging Ellie to tutor you.

“God, please, Williams,” you sighed, taking her hand in yours, “I’ll do anything! I’ll even pay you or I could speak to the agency—.”

“I-it’s fine, Y/l/n, I can do it,” she pried her hand out of yours and nodded, “Just put in a good word with your boss, yeah?”

You practically jump when she says that, “Oh thank you, thank you so much! Um, do you have my number?”

Ellie bashfully nods, “Uh, yeah, I have all the model’s numbers..”

You nod, “Okay, cool! Let’s meet at my place tonight, yeah? Maybe around 6? I’ll send you the location and the door code.”

Ellie straightens up, “Uhh.. can’t do six.. can we do it earlier? Maybe 4..?”

She looks a little nervous about asking, her eyebrows are furrowed and she’s staring into your eyes, anxiously waiting for your response, “Oh.. yeah that’s cool!”

With that, you go your separate ways.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

At your apartment, you prep it for your visitor, shoving your clothes into your laundry hamper, putting out some snacks, straightening up your ‘living room,’ it wasn’t really a living room, given that you lived in a small studio apartment, it was really just a corner of your apartment with a couch, rug, and coffee table. Come on, it was New York and you’re a college student! This is as good as it’ll get for now.

Just as you’re folding a blanket, you hear a thud against the glass door leading out to your balcony. Just as you’re about to take a step towards it to inspect it.. ding dong! You jump a bit, forgetting all about the peculiar sound and making your way towards your front door. Peaking through the peephole, you see Ellie, she’s awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck, camera bag resting on her shoulder and her bangs messily in her face.

“Hey,” you smile and open the door to let her in, “Uh, make yourself at home.”

“T-thanks,” she nods, taking off her shoes and putting her bag down, “Nice place you got.. very, uh, homey. Oh, you a fan of Spider-man?” She nods at the Spider-Man poster on your wall and the Spider-Man t-shirt you’re wearing.

You giggle at her attempt at making small talk, “Thanks, can I get you anything? Water.. soda.. tea..? And, yeah, I know it’s kinda ‘fan girly’ of me but he’s just so fuckin’ cool, y’know? ”

“I’ll take a water,” she sits down on your couch, she looks really tired, not sleepy tired but she looks like she just fought Captain America.

“Shall we get started,” you place the glass in front of her and sit on the floor, the fluffy rug underneath aiding as a cushion, she nods and the two of you get to work.

The first few tutoring sessions went just like that, they were stiff and awkward but eventually, you realized that Ellis isn’t just a nerd that occasionally takes your pictures, she’s also really funny and is actually a really good teacher, she’s patient but doesn’t treat you like you’re dumb. She talks you through the formulas and makes sure you understand each chapter by quizzing you. She’s actually not awkward about this after all, she seems confident when she’s talking about cells. Watching her is nice, her eyes light up when she gets to a chapter that she is obviously interested in and a small smile falters on her lips. You never really realized it before but not only is she really smart, she’s also REALLY hot. Like, the way her veiny arms l flex when she reaches over for her glass of water, the veins flexing under her tattoo, the way she gazes at you through her eyelashes, and her smirk when she gently teases you for getting a problem wrong.

On one particular tutoring session, the rain pattered heavy against the thin glass on your balcony doors, creating a serene, almost cozy atmosphere. You and Ellie were sitting close together on the floor, a thick textbook resting on the coffee table in front of you, you could feel her breath against your neck and her voice was deep and raspy, almost like she’d been out in the rain earlier, and—

“Hey, you with me?” Ellie waves a hand in front of your face, “Hm, maybe we should stop here for now, yeah? It’s getting la— shit, it’s 7?!”

Your expression fell at the thought of her leaving, so you thought ‘fuck it’ as you decided to try and get her to ‘sleep over.’

Ellie scrambled to get on her feet, grabbing her bag and putting her battered converse on, “Oh, you’re leaving? But it’s pouring out there, wanna spend the night?” You graze her arm with your hand, you know it’s wrong to wanna sleep with your TA and your coworker but.. it had been so long since you got any.. and shit, how could you stop yourself now? You could feel her lean muscles underneath her baggy jacket.. you had no idea she even worked out.

Ellie’s eyes flicker to your hand, almost like she was considering it, “S-sorry.. I really gotta go, see ya Friday, yeah?”

And before you could say anything else to try and convince her to stay, she was out the door and you could hear her footsteps echoing down the stairwell.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“The nerve that girl has!” You throw your hands up, “She didn’t even consider it.. I mean, look at me! An up and coming model offers you the night of her life, you say yes!”

Your friends nod in agreement, “I just don—.” Just as you’re about to make another comment, you see Ellie come into the lecture hall, a band-aid on her eyebrow, ouch. What in the world could have happened between 7 p.m. and this morning?

Your friends turn to see what’s got your tongue, then one of them speaks up, “Haven’t you heard? She is always getting weird scratches.. a guy in my last class said that she tends to get in a lot of fights, crazy, right?”

Ellie gets into fights? You scoff at the idea, no way, she’s the most gentle person you know, you can barely feel her touch when she adjusts your hair during shoots, besides she’s way too awkward, you can imagine her trying to talk herself out of a beating, no way. Right?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

During that night’s tutoring session, you ask her about the bandaid, “Oh,” her hand darts to her forehead, “This? I, uh, got it when I fell off my skateboard..”

Convincing enough, right? But the tone in which she said it betrayed her statement, damn, she was a shitty liar.

“Hm,” you hum, still not completely convinced.

Ellie’s eyes rest on yours for a moment before going back to this week’s chapter. Usually, you could focus pretty well but right now all you wanted was to ask her more about the cut, right as you’re about to bug her again, she interrupts you with a question of her own. “Hey, uh, are you booked for that shoot on Sunday?”

You can tell she’s trying her best to act as nonchalant as possible but the way she’s nervously tapping her pencil against the textbook, the way her teeth gently bite her soft pink lips, and the way her eyes look like a deer caught in headlights betray her rather calm tone.

“Yeah, didn’t Regina tell you? She booked me a few weeks ago, something about how they want a ‘fresh young face’ or whatever,” you on the other hand, have mastered the art of being nonchalant, your voice calm and your eyes never leaving the paper of your textbook.

“R-really?” Ellie looks like a puppy who’s owner just shook a bag of treats before forgetting she’s supposed to be feign the whole ‘mysterious loner’ shtick, “I mean, uh, cool, cool. I’m gonna be there too, so, uh.. yeah.”

“Mhm,” the rest of the night carries on like nothing happened, Ellie continues teaching and you continue ‘listening,’ which was a little hard because your eyes kept drifting to her eyebrows again.

There’s something about her that you just don’t get.. if those rumours are true, which you highly doubt because look at her, she’s smiling while talking about RNA… be so for real right now, there’s no way BUT if it is true, why is she so gentle? Sure, she’s clumsy but her personality, she’s not hostile, hell, she blushes whenever you graze her hand. You know how the rumour mill works and it doesn’t just churn out baseless rumours, most have some kind of truth to them, so, how did someone make one about Ellie being so violent, you wonder.

“Uh, Y/n?” Ellie’s eyes move towards the balcony doors, “Can you, uh, please stop staring? You’re making me nervous..”

Your face erupts in a blush, the sweet red colour creeping up your neck, coating your ears, and finally, sweeping over your face, “S-sorry, just spaced out.. haven’t been getting much sleep, you know?”

Ellie nods, “Yeah.. I get it.. neighbours arguing a lot ‘nd stuff, right?”

You nod before realizing, “I never told you that.”

Ellie lets out a forced chuckle, “Uh, you did! Well, you didn’t tell me directly, just heard you say it… God, please believe me, I’m not stalking you, I just heard you say in passing, I swe—. Um. I should go, it’s getting late..”

“Huh, it’s only 6..?” You stand up with her, hoping she doesn’t leave so soon.

“Sorry, but I really should—?”

You grab onto her bulky jacket, tugging on the sleeve a bit, causing it to slip down her shoulder a bit and reveal her shirt underneath, huh, it looked like…

“Hey,” she blurts out and straightens out her jacket, “Wh—?”

“Oh my god, is that a spider-man tshirt?” You jump up, a smile creeping onto your face.

Ellie is washed with relief, “Uh, yeah! Gotta love the, uh, the guy, right?”

Nodding you say, “Totally! You should’ve said something sooner, I’m like his biggest fan, I even have an, allegedly, signed poster of him!”

Ellie’s ears burn bright, “R-really? Can I see it?”

You scramble to your room and pull out a small signed flyer, “See?”

Ellie gently holds it then she snorts and mutters, “Yeah, that’s not real.”

Your expression falters, “Wh-what? As if you’d know,” you pull it from her grip, your pride hurt and internally kicking yourself for spending so much on what could be a damn knock off.

“Oh, I think I’d know a thing or two about ‘Spider-Man’,” she chuckles.

“What does that mean,” you shoot her a glare.

“Oh, nothing.. I just, uh, met him” Ellie is scrambling for any way to cover up her loud mouth.

“No way, really?!” You jump up.

“Y-yeah, a few times actually.. back in my first year of college, he let me take some pictures of him a few times for the paper.”

You squeal and begin to bombard her with questions, “What was he like? Is he tall? How does he sound? Wh—?”

Ellie is patient with you and answers all of your questions, stretching she takes a look at the clock and jumps up, “Fuck, I really should get going, it’s rainy and the parade is tomorrow and that means more cr —.”

“More, what?”

“Uh, more cramped subways!” (Ellie is internally patting herself on the back for coming up with a word that begins with ‘cr’ instead of saying criminals.)

“Oh, alright.. see ya.”

Ellie is out the door quicker than you could say ‘your friendly neighborhood spider-man.’

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s the day of the parade and everyone’s spirits are high. Today, everyone is celebrating the election of the new city mayor. There will be a parade, drone show, and a market. Even you’re excited. You and your friends are making your way through the crowded streets when you bump into Abby, your ex. She must be here for her family, Abby’s family was widely renowned. Her dad isn’t just a highly esteemed surgeon, he’s also CEO of Oscorp and has very close ties to the city officials. You don’t really want any drama, so you pass by without giving as much as a nod.

“Hey, Y/n,” you hear through the crowds, a groan leaving your lips before looking up and meeting green eyes instead of blue ones.

“Ellie! What’re you doing here? I thought you would hate this kinda stuff.’

She holds up her camera, “Just takin’ photos, the Daily Bugle needs some front page stuff and they assigned it to me.”

“Oh, very cool,” you smile, “S—,” Just as you’re about to ask her if she wants to check out the stands with you, you feel a hand grip your shoulder, it’s Abby, fuck.

“Hey, Y/n, long time, huh? Wanna come see my dad, he’s been asking about you, oh, so has Manny.” Before you could reject her, Ellie is already walking away and Abby is steering you to the city hall building.

Abby drones on and on about her latest lacrosse victories and about her latest conquests, you just nod and try to space out. Normally, you wouldn’t go with her but you so desperately wanted to meet with her father. Being in premed meant you need as many connections as possible, so you were hoping Mr. Anderson could give you some pointers.

As the two of you round a corner you feel a rumble then hear a boom.

“What the fuck was that,” Abby stops and runs up the stairs, your feet are frozen in place but you quickly pull them from their cemented state and chase after her, “Abby, stop! It’s too dang—!”

Then came the second boom and suddenly, you felt the ground beneath you crumbling, fuck, this is it, isn’t it? Just as you’re about to accept your fate, you feel hands grip your waist and you’re flying..?

Through the dust, you can make out a red and blue silhouette. “I-it’s you!’

The masked figure looks at you, “Yeah.. i-it’s me.”

Uh, Spider-Man is a lot more awkward than you thought..

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ittybittyfanblog · 15 days ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition)

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus (+ maybe the other MLs!) and an oblivious player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, maybe some suggestive language?? will add more tags as the story progresses A/N: This is gonna be a multi-chapter fic! I’m still not sure whether to do the boys in rotation, or just focus on one ML per series. Don’t take my word for it atp tho – I’m not even sure if I can actually finish a series lol. Also, I’ve had the creative liberty of changing stuff from the actual gameplay here and there. (Except for the self-awareness. That’s most definitely real.) Hope you enjoy~!

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3

It’s a quarter past eight and you’re still on your desk working overtime on a Friday night.

You let out a big sigh, leaning back on your office chair after an unhealthy duration of bad posture from hours of slouching down in front of your computer. There’s nothing ergonomic about the way this job is killing you, and the ache in your lower back can attest to that.

An irate orange tabby plops himself in front of you, blocking your view of the glaring screen and you figure that it’s time for a break.

“Me-oow.”

“I know, I know,” You answer tiredly, standing up to dodge a stray paw clawing your way and you hear cracks in three different places that are honestly unbecoming of a woman your age. You haven’t even reached thirty yet, for god’s sake. “I’m a bad mother. But mom also had to skip dinner to make it to the seven PM meeting, so cut me some slack, okay?”

A high-pitched “meooowr!” is the only response you get; it seems like there’s no excusing late dinner time this time around.

As much as you’d like to hem and haw and complain, the main reason why you’re still keeping this job is because you can work remotely. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re stuck most days at home working hours past your regular nine to five, having to be on-call around the clock at all times, and that you’ve consumed more sodium than a nitrite victim with the way you live off cup ramen, then, really, it beats working in an office where you’d physically have to clock in and out from exactly nine to five.

Your right eye twitches. No, I have not fallen in love with the system that exploits me, thank you very much.

“Here is your Fancy Feast, your highness,” you tell the hungry feline who’s already ignoring the hand that feeds for the bowl full of white fish paté. He eats healthier than you, sure, but you work like this for him to eat like this. The life of a single mom is an uphill battle, but extremely rewarding.

You raise your hand to pat your son’s head lovingly, aborting the gesture halfway when you hear a warning growl. Alright, tough crowd.

After nuking a half-eaten takeout box in the microwave and grabbing a cold Bundaberg from the fridge, you hunker down on the “chaise lounge” (see: an old wingback and a rattan ottoman you’ve refurbished as a makeshift seat a few weeks back when you had guests over) for a late meal.

You barely register the taste of lukewarm rice on your tongue, mouth moving mechanically while your mind runs on autopilot about everything and nothing at the same time.

Maybe it’s time to check Jobstreet again

Is there like a laundromat near the area that’s open twenty four seven

Eugh, I hate cold peas

What do we feel about Chromakopia?

I will… die alone

I really need to stock on some fresh produce this weekend–

Ping!

A notification from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts – and like a well-trained dog pavlov’d into responding, you visibly perk up at the sight of your lock screen lighting up and the familiar banner you’ve already memorized by heart.

Your Galaxy Explorer rewards are here. Did you put my hotel’s address as the shipping address?

Ah, just like clockwork.

You press on it with a quiet, bubbling anticipation, chewing on the plastic spork as you wait impatiently for the silly mobile game that’s been your short respite at intervals – for more than you’d care to admit – to boot up.

Offhandedly, you wish that the devs would add more variations to the game’s push notifications; more random, personalized stuff like maybe a reminder to drink water, or a fun update about their day. What you’d give – pay – for a: "Less on the overtime, kitten. I miss you,” dialogue from a certain character, but you digress.

Oh, well. Probably better this way, lest you dig yourself deeper into delusion.

The game greets you with the usual picturesque view of a silver-haired man sitting cross-legged on a chair, looking all the bit at ease in his signature crimson and white button up. The warm ambience of the Destiny Café at night draws you in, already pulling your attention away from the never-ending stream of thoughts in your brain.

“Before seeing you, I thought today would be another dull day,“ Sylus comments airily. The way he drawls out the words in that deep timbre of his voice never fails to make your heart flutter – just a teeeensy bit.

“Ever the charmer,” you sigh happily in return, situating yourself more comfortably on the sofa, almost horizontal from how far you’re leaning back on the cushion. “You’re looking awfully normal tonight. What, no pineapple glasses for your favorite girl?”

Having bypassed the initial cringe of talking to yourself after literal months of gameplay, it almost comes off natural, the banter. You’ve already accepted the fact that you’re crazy about a fictional, pixelated man – what’s pretending to have actual conversations with him gonna do? It’s not as if he actually hears you yap your nonsense; there are worse things in the world than a parasocial attachment to an otome game character.

Your little jab at the sometimes random addition to his choice of attire earns you a laugh from the man itself– or at least it looks as though it does, making you blink momentarily in surprise. Happy coincidence, I guess.

You shake your head, cracking a smile, then proceed to do the routine of completing the daily agenda and then some.

It’s tedious business, sure. You’ve dedicated hours upon hours on this game and you’re honestly starting to feel pretty bored with some of the gameplay elements, but you *do* like the ritualistic nature of ticking off the tasks one by one. It’s almost ironic – the way you dutifully do one thing after the other in this game, just to avoid the pile of work that’s waiting for you in real life.

It’s not as if anything, or anyone’s relying on you to do your daily log-ins, so you suppose it’s due to that lack of pressure as well.

Pulling yourself away from the five-star Xavier memory card you’ve grinded to level seventy, you stare despondently at the sad little 2 on your remaining energy. The embarrassing amount of materials you lack to ascend the card seem to mock you, even as you exit the Memories window. Another goal for another day, perhaps.

All tasks on the daily agenda are complete, except for one that you’ve always saved for last.

You’re met with a standing Sylus on the game’s home screen, arms crossed and wearing an expression you’d almost describe as impatient, if you didn’t know any better. The sight makes you grin.

Cheekily, you poke his crotch.

You’re looking forward to getting a playful remark, or if you’re lucky, a blush along with an embarrassed retort about your shamelessness.

What you get, however, is a resounding scoff. Your eyes snap back to his face – from, ahem, your prolonged staring at the area below his waist – and you do see the familiar tinge of pink on his cheeks, but what he says in response catches you off-guard.

“You spend that much resource for a card that isn’t mine?” Sylus tsks, both his voice and expression coming across as… affronted? “Kitten, I’m actually hurt.”

Huh?

You haven’t heard that line from him before. Was there a recent update you weren’t aware of? The man in question then appears to look amused, from the way you’ve been rendered speechless by the unexpected dialogue.

All at once, you gasp when you realize what the new response means.

“That’s so smart,” you say giddily. You see Sylus cock his head to the side, synchronously quirking an eyebrow—expectant. “They actually added a feature that lets them know which memory I’ve upgraded last, and make you react to it. Oh, that’s so cool!”

If you weren’t too busy being excited over what you think is a new update from the game, you’d see the chagrined look on Sylus’ face. But when you glance back at him, all trace of the emotion is gone before you could notice anything different.

“Don’t worry, Crow Man. You’re still my favorite,” you assure him, making his mouth tick upwards in a semblance of a smile. He looks pleased all of the sudden, his demeanor shifting into something more relaxed.

Then a pout forms on your face. You crinkle your nose in frustration as you complain, “It’s just really hard to level your cards up at this point. It takes ages and a shit ton of energy just to level you up past seventy five.” Sighing, you add, kind of bitterly, “And I’m too broke to be spending money on growth packs.”

Checking the time on your phone, you see that you’ve already spent more than an hour on your self-imposed break time and you know that you ought to get back to work soon. With a groan, you pull yourself to sit upright, savoring the last few minutes of free time before you slave off for the rest of the night.

You’re about to clean up what’s left of dinner when you notice the oddly thoughtful look on Sylus’ face.

There’s a deep furrow in his brows as he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. He closes his eyes shut for a few seconds. He's never done that gesture before... Ugh, he looks really hot–

Suddenly, you see a flicker— then a weird, sort of graphic distortion happening in the background. Uh, what??

A beat; then a glitch on the screen. “Ah, shit.”

The game crashes.

You exhale loudly as the game’s interface goes back to the loading screen, tapping your thumb impatiently as the bar slowly loads to 15%... 50%..... 81%.......

“Maybe make sure to patch up first before releasing an update next time, jeez— Huh?”

For a quick second, nothing seems to be amiss. But then the first thing you see on the home screen is Sylus’ figure standing before you, wearing an expression one could only describe as a cat that ate the proverbial canary.

He speaks— and it’s another intro you haven’t heard him say, ever.

“You should’ve told me sooner, sweetie,” he almost coos the words out, making your eyes bug out in shock.

“Now, why don’t you go check your–” he pauses, and his mouth moves as if he’s rolling the word out, testing it. “Inventory?”

Sylus slides his gaze towards the upper left corner of the screen, a coy smirk still ever-present on his face.

There, you see something you haven’t noticed earlier: two notification badges. One on your mailbox, and another on the Hunter’s Info tab. Bewildered, you press on the mail icon first, despite the insistence for you to start with the latter.

You see a new message: [For You]

A small gift, to bridge our worlds closer. – S

Nothing is attached to it. You read it twice, perplexed.

“You’re quite the contradictorian, aren’t you?” Sylus tuts as soon as you return back to the home screen, his gaze boring into you even when he tilts his head sideways in mock exasperation. “Mmm, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”

Helplessly, you open your inventory next.

Your jaw drops.

“What. The fuck,” You whisper to yourself, voice wavering in disbelief at what you’re seeing, and the sheer amount of what you’re seeing. “This– this can’t be real.”

You see that all the materials you own, from the bottle of wishes to the ascension crystal boxes, have been multiplied a hundred times over.

And on top of that–

Ninety nine thousand red dias????

You cannot believe how this– this recent… update (or is it a bug? Infold sure isn’t this generous) didn't make the news. Even as someone as uninvolved as you are with the community and the game’s latest releases, something like this for sure would’ve made headlines on Twitter (X), at least. But you haven’t heard anything. Nada.

Holy shit.

You feel a little light-headed, both from incredulity and excitement. Needing a moment to calm yourself down, you exit the Inventory tab in a daze.

You stare at Sylus. He stares back at you with what looks to be mirth in his eyes.

Skeptically, you mutter, “did–did I get hacked or something?”

Anticipating another unexpected dialogue to prompt up, you wait for a full minute without saying anything else. And for a moment, the man in front of you looks indecisive, contemplative.

There’s something very odd, very… human in the way he’s looking at you. He looks as if– as if he’s—

His face falls back into a neutral expression. Not unlike how his idle animation usually looks.

…

….. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to initiate a conversation any time soon, so you hesitantly poke him on the nose.

“Even in the worst-case scenario, there’s no need to panic.”

You’ve heard that one before.

So he’s back to normal now. You temper the small disappointment that blooms in your gut.

Shaking your head slowly, you try to make sense of all the stuff that just happened, but a sharp bite on your ankle pulls you out of your reverie.

“Ow–!” The sight of your cat flopping near your feet reminds you of the time. More importantly, the backlogs waiting for you at your desk.

“Wait, shit– I gotta get back to work.” This… unbelievable stroke of good luck (?) is gonna have to take a backseat for now.

You grab the carton box and the half-empty bottle of sparkling peach as you stand up. Making quick work of throwing the container in the trash and gulping down the rest of your drink, you rush into your room and back in front of your PC.

Cracking your knuckles, you gingerly set your phone against the monitor. Setting the timer to one hour in Quality Time, knowing fully-well that you’re going to have to keep extending it until the wee hours of the morning – or until your battery dies, whichever comes first – you give Sylus one last look, letting out a long exhale before locking in.

“Just keep me company for the night, alright? I’ll figure out what’s going on once my shift’s over.”

It could just be your overactive imagination, but you swear you hear a quiet chuckle from the man polishing his gun in your peripheral.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #sylus qin

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awrkive · 2 months ago

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[ masterlist of series the love prognosis by awrkive ]

legend

❀ ; fluff ♡ ; smut ✧ ; angst

main masterlist

↳ warnings are stated in the link of each chapter itself as well as on this navi page — all of my works are 18+ so minors, DNI !!

summary for as long as you can remember, you've always been a hopeless romantic. the girl who’s always dreamt of cheesy encounters with her soulmate, grand love declarations, and a cute little beach wedding to boot. but reality pretty much slaps you hard right on the face, because love, unfortunately, doesn’t come grand — it’s simple and it’s quiet, but it is quite painful, especially when the love that you’ve been seeking for all your adult life has just been right under your nose all this time.

tags medical!au, surgeon!jk, surgeon!(fem)reader, corporate lawyer!mingyu, rommates!au, f2l(?)

status; completed

moodboard • playlist • tlp!jk visual

tlp tag ( fic discourse ) • taglist ( CLOSED ) • tlp extras ( texts + social media shenanigans) • amm ( ask the characters anything )

drabble #3: in which jk meets oc for the first time

drabble #1: in which doyeon confesses to jk in med school

drabble #2: in which taehyung figures jk out

main story;

𓍯 the love prognosis

one: in which you give another romantic relationship a try again after four years

↳ genre & warnings: ❀ ; ♡ ; ✧ ; explicit sexual content: cunnilingus, dry humping, making out ; mature language ; alcohol consumption ; slight angst: arguments

two: in which everything is suddenly not the way they are anymore

↳ genre & warnings: ❀ ; ✧ ; mature content: making out ; mature language ; alcohol consumption ; angst

three: in which you navigate the possibility of a completely different relationship with your best friend, jeon jungkook

↳ genre & warnings: ❀ ; ♡ ; ✧ ; explicit sexual content: mature language ; alcohol consumption ; unprotected sex ; protected sex ; multiple sex positions ; multiple orgasms ; oral sex (f&m receiving) ; angst ; fluff

drabble #4: in which you find jungkook in loose plaid boxers incredibly hot ( ♡ )

drabble #5: in which jungkook proposes

[ faq about tlp story ]

ask #1: jk and mingyu undergrad days

ask #2: tlp timeline

#fic: tlp #p; mlist #jungkook fanfic #made this mostly for myself cos i tend to forget about my tags and stuff 😭

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giuliettagaltieri · 10 months ago

Text

Claim the Heritage

Pairing: President!Coriolanus Snow x First Lady!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: The Wife

Warning: casual dominance, marital quarrels, tension, vulnerability, explicit smut, cunnilingus, p in v, unprotected sex, body worship, brat taming, self destructive tendencies

Word Count: 4364

6 of 6

Coriolanus Snow has a knack of pushing himself too far.

He expects too much from himself and does everything in his power to meet those expectations.

As a student and a starting politician, he has done great things, contributing fresh insights to Panem. And now that he is the President, he has the power to do things with his own hands. No longer having to need the approval of people of higher status, not when he’s the President, nobody has power greater than his.

You worry that he might be forgetting his other responsibilities.

He is after all, not just Mister President but also your husband.

You see him often in the corridors and you exchange nothing more than sultry glances. It was fun the first time you have done it but you are left wanting now.

At night, the two of you come home late, too tired to get some action going.

You have needs that long to be fulfilled.

And your unfed desires manifested in your temper.

The men in the room are discussing the recent power outage that paralyzed Panem for a day. A malfunction caused by severe water temperatures in the hydroelectric dam in District 5 caused a cascading error in the system. The Capitol and a portion of District 1 and 2 were able to continue their operation due to generators but the other Districts suffered from it. And the one day pause of labor caused a slight drop to Panem’s stock charts.

All eight of your husband’s subordinates are trying to raise their opinions about the matter, how they will conduct another investigation as they are quite convinced it was human error, and how they will punish the one responsible for it too.

Their voices are starting to irritate you, making you tap your foot under the desk. Coriolanus seems to be ignoring them as he reads through the report. How he can manage to focus, you have absolutely no idea.

You try to regain your composure by taking a sip of water but it does not help, not one bit. Deep intakes of breath also seem to be not working.

Coriolanus is still reading the report, his back against his chair as one of his hands toy with his pen. His fingers are looking rather breathtaking today.

You look away before anyone could notice your desperation.

“Frankly, you are all arguing about matters that have been resolved already.” He murmurs and you are thankful for it as the room quiets down.

“What do you mean sir?”

You bite your cheek to stop yourself from berating the man. But Coriolanus can see that arch in your brow any day. You are pissed.

“You have something to say, wife?” He smiles knowingly at you and you look at him sharply but his smile only widens more.

“Well, all of you are being foolish!” You finally burst. Coriolanus leans back in his chair as if he is watching a rather interesting show. “There is a report given, and a very good one at that. Do you all have poor reading comprehension that you cannot understand that this is not a human error!”

The room falls silent as the men stare at you with their cheeks pinking in embarrassment.

Coriolanus clears his throat and leans closer to his desk. “I believe what the Missus wants to say is that we must be coming up with solutions to prevent this from happening again rather than point fingers.”

You glare at him again but Coriolanus is not looking at you but the men who are nodding in agreement. You hear a chorus of apologies from the men and you can’t help your bottom lip from jutting out in irritation.

“We can strengthen the system. A collaboration with District 3, perhaps?” A man says nervously, eyes flitting to you for approval but you don’t acknowledge him.

The other men raise their support. They have to stay in your good graces. All eight of them are dispensable. If you talk to your husband to eliminate them, there will be nothing they can do.

They are proud men, but they too are necessary associates, albeit shortsighted at times.

You lean on your chair and swivel it so you are partially facing your husband. “Another source of power.”

He nods at you to continue.

“A solar plant.” You say. “It is a good back up.”

Coriolanus rubs his chin and considers it for a moment. “Indeed. May I ask you to write a proposal, my love?”

“Of course.” You say and you begin tidying up your stuff. Coriolanus picks it up and addresses the men in general.

“I appreciate your…enthusiasm in helping our great nation. Good day, gentlemen.”

They all file out of the room, thanking the President and you. They all seem to sweat when you dismiss them with nothing but a brief nod.

Coriolanus leaves his chair and he eyes the pout in your lips.

“Have a great day.” You say as you stand.

“Leaving so soon?” He raises a brow.

You stop in your tracks to look at him weirdly. “You asked me to write a proposal?”

He hums at this and presses a chaste kiss on your lips. “I will be seeing you at lunch, then.” He guides you to the door and you both exit the meeting room to go to your separate offices.

His behavior is really really starting to irk you.

You are lying if you were not hoping that he would stop you and at least help out with the tension in your body.

But you guess not, he is a busy guy after all.

Coriolanus buries himself more and more with work.

You worry that he might be close to self-destruction.

The crops in District 9 suffered from a locust infestation and it kept him up very late for a few weeks.

You started to miss him very much. Try as you might to stay awake in your room, it is not until nearly sunrise when he joins you.

It hurts and you hate yourself for being selfish.

One morning as you share your breakfast, you notice that he is barely touching his food as he reads the report about the red tide poisoning in District 4.

“Corio, eat.” You say before your lips wrap around a strawberry.

He only hums in response as he flips to the next page of the report.

You glance at him and see the dark circles under his eyes, his skin looking dehydrated, and it is evidenced by the cracks in his lips.

“You will die before you turn thirty if you keep that up.” You say lowly before you suck on your finger absentmindedly, your eyes now scanning your bowl for the next strawberry you’ll eat.

This caught his attention.

“What did you just say?” There was a challenge in his voice and you hesitate for a moment, heart wanting to submit and apologize but the Swansworth blood courses through your veins and you fear you will shame the strong women before you if you fold so easily.

You look at him dead in the eye. “You will die before you turn thirty if you keep that up.” You smile at him sweetly. “Was that clear enough for you, or do I have to repeat myself again?”

His jaw tightens, his eyes sharp. He does not take mentions of his death lightly. Had you been anyone else, you would have your tongue cut off and live as an Avox.

“You really are your father’s daughter.” He sighs, trying his best to hide the amused smile you put on his face.

You wanted to retort but your words die in your tongue. Coriolanus glances up at you when you don’t speak. Usually, you would have bitten another comment at him. But you were only looking at your strawberries sadly, finger tracing the bowl that held them.

The sound of paper crinkling had you looking up. He folded the report away, he had the necessary information he needed anyway. Coriolanus knows you are watching him and he scoops a mouthful of truffle scrambled eggs. You gave him the sweetest smile he had seen on your face for weeks, and it was motivation enough for him to eat the breakfast that was served to him. Yet, he still finishes first.

You pout unknowingly when he wipes his lips with the napkin and walks over to kiss your forehead.

“I will be seeing you later for your report.”

“See you.” You reply with less enthusiasm.

He watches how sadness swam in your eyes and he leans closer to peck your lips and he is off.

You did not have much energy for work afterwards.

The meeting was at 10 in the morning and you arrived in the meeting room at 10:02. Coriolanus was not pleased.

He did not back you up when the other men in the room asked questions about your presentation. It was their job to pick apart your proposal and you only show them how flawless it is. They are finally satisfied with it after a while, your throat burning from how many questions they asked.

You are infuriated with your husband. You feel like he is throwing you to the wolves. Not that you can’t tame the said wolves but it made your blood boil.

“I have decided to call this solar plant, Coriolanus 9.” You attempt a smile and they actually bite. “In honor of our President, and us.” You purposefully let yourself blend in with the men in this proposal. You need to boost their morale from time to time.

All eight of them murmur their agreement, smiles wide as they feel honored just by being included in the project.

After a few more questions from them, your husband finally adjourns the meeting.

His lack of support was not appreciated and you are determined to get out of this stuffy meeting room.

“Gentlemen, that would be all.”

What about you?

Your lips part in protest but Coriolanus raises a finger at you, making you close your mouth as you narrow your eyes at him.

After the men filed out, you got up briskly, your chair wheeling back in a great speed.

“Careful.”

“Oh, so you’re talking now?” You snap, your hand placed on your hip.

Coriolanus only leans on his chair as he looks you in the eye, his chin tilted upwards.

“I am…” he pauses as he scratches his chin. “upset with you.”

You scoff. “You are upset with me? I am upset with you!” You point at him harshly. “You were the one who asked me to make a proposal and present it afterwards! But what did you do? You did not support me or give me assurance!”

“I was confident in your proposal.” Coriolanus stands up calmly, his hands in his pockets, his thumb jutting out.

You give him one final glare and you huff, turning your nose up as you look away. “I am done talking to you today.”

Coriolanus grips your arm before you can walk away.

His hand is warmer than usual and you frown.

“Do you need me to put you in your place?”

The threatening growl in his voice washed away all the fight in you.

You bite your lip nervously, the entire bottom lip disappearing behind a row of teeth. You shake your head and you tear up from how pathetic you have become for this man.

He smooths your hair and places a warm kiss against your temple. “Be good.” He murmurs.

You watch him collect his things and he throws you one final warning glance and he exits the meeting room. Your hands grip the hardwood table to steady yourself.

How dare he!

You are his wife, not some District whore that needs to be reprimanded, you will not allow such disrespect again!

Coriolanus is not surprised to see you miss lunch. His assistant tells him that you are having luncheon with Mrs. Plinth. And that…you canceled all your plans for the day. And the rest of the week.

He taps a finger on his desk and wonders if he pushed you too far earlier.

Coriolanus glances at your photo in his desk. Your smile was brighter then.

A slight pounding in his head makes him grimace and he groans.

There were two more bills he needed to get through before he could relax. Coriolanus inhales sharply, forcing his eyes to read through the files.

It was night time when he came home. He missed dinner again.

Coriolanus had an unsettling feeling in his stomach when he entered your home. It was dark and cold.

There was enough security outside but no signs of life inside.

Your servants usually retire after dinner and come back only in the mornings to serve you your breakfast.

But where are you?

Coriolanus doubles his steps to check your bedroom, you are not there.

His heart starts pounding, cold sweat dripping from his temple as he runs around his mansion in his tight suit. He wanted to ask the peacekeepers stationed outside if you are even in your mansion when he catches a glimpse of your sheer robe in your sunroom. He steps closer and sees you there, asleep in your plush chair, curled up around a book.

For a moment, he just stares at you, calming himself down. No one has taken you and you did not leave. Coriolanus seats himself to the identical chair across you and just looks at the rise and fall of your chest.

You must have fallen asleep as you were having your afternoon read. It appears you might have missed dinner, as none of the lights are on. The servants must have left it off so as to not disturb your sleep.

The night deepens and he just sits there, still convincing himself that you are still with him.

Coriolanus believes he will be there until morning comes but fate has other plans and your book slips from your hold, the hardcover making a loud slamming noise against the otherwise silent evening.

You jolt awake from the noise and when you reach for it, you catch a glimpse of him and you jolt for the second time.

“Heavens!” You clutch your chest tightly, your eyes glaring accusingly at him. “Do not scare me like that!”

He laughs hollowly.

“Apologies.” He mutters.

You lean back in your chair, holding your book in your lap.

“Have you eaten your dinner?” You ask just to break the silence.

“Not yet and neither did you.” He uncuffs his sleeves and loosens his tie.

You purse your lips. “I had tea and cakes this afternoon.”

“When did tea and cakes pass as dinner?” He drapes his waistcoat on the armrest together with his tie.

You choose not to answer as you have a feeling the question was rhetorical.

Coriolanus rests his arms on his thighs and clasps his hands as the silence lengthens. Moonlight was emitting a pale glow, it reflected on your faces and everything else was still.

“My father casts a very large shadow.” He tells you.

You nod. You both have that in common. But you do not want to tell him as his case was different. You are aware of his struggle while growing up, the things he has done that could have tarnished his name, and now, he has become the President, a leader of Panem, and the footsteps that his father left for him to follow might be too large for him.

“I wanted to do everything right. To do things how he would have done it. Maybe even more.”

You play with the edges of your book as you listen, afraid that if you’ll talk, his walls will come building itself up again.

“He was not the best father. Nor husband.” He chuckles bitterly. “I was sure, I would be just like him too.”

You bite your lip as you will yourself not to cry in front of him.

“But I enjoy your company, wife.” Coriolanus tells you truthfully. “I love you.” He confesses, making your chest tighten. “I do not wish for this marriage to fail.”

You cannot help how a tear rolls down your cheek.

“Come here.” He commands and you throw yourself to him, sobbing to his chest. “I am terribly sorry for being a lousy husband.”

Your tears soak his dress shirt as Coriolanus peppers kisses on your head.

“Been neglecting my wife, how awful of me.” His hand grips on your bum possessively. “When she should have been worshiped day by day.” His tone changes ever so slightly into something you hear only inside your bedroom walls.

You do not protest when he lays you on the chaise lounge. Your sobs turn to sniffles when Coriolanus parts your thighs and bunches your dress until it shows your abdomen.

“Corio.” You whisper his name like a prayer and he mumbles yours against your skin. You watch as he plants his lips on your scar. A scar that you got from taking a bullet for him.

It was not the last time you whispered his name in the dead of the night.

“Your petals always have the sweetest nectar.” He groans and you feel yourself shy away, hips hiking up and away from him but his arms tighten their hold around your thighs and he looks at you from there, his eyes giving you a silent warning.

“S-sorry-ah!” You gasp as his tongue darts out to lick the juices off your slit. His tongue pokes at your pearl and you break eye contact with him when he wraps his lips on your tiny nub.

Coriolanus looks at you with his eyes now lazy but his tongue, the opposite!

He kisses you and in an act of total impulsiveness, starts tracing his name on your clit. Coriolanus Snow was owning you in every way possible.

He had you reduced to your most carnal self. Your hands were on his platinum hair, gripping them tightly in your hold, selfishly pulling him in. Your thighs are resting on his broad shoulders. And your cunt, it was making a mess on your chaise lounge and on your husband’s face.

Coriolanus groans as he parts your lips so he could kiss your opening. His thick finger, that you have been craving, sliding on your juices before he plunges it knuckle-deep. It might have been a mistake on his part given your sensitivity after having to be forced to join him in his self-induced celibacy. Your lewd mewl brought rouge to his cheeks.

You bring your hands to your mouth to hush yourself and Coriolanus took that as a challenge. He sits up, sitting on his ankles to press your thigh to your chest as his finger prods at you from the inside.

You are writhing underneath him. Telling him how good he is making you feel. Oh, and he reveled in it. Every sound that comes from your lips, it fueled his desire more and more.

A second finger was added and you shriek from the stretch, it has been a while, he needs to be more gentle! But Coriolanus cannot help himself when you look so pretty. Your cheeks wet with tears, eyelashes clumping up, as your hands formed tiny fists. Any form of his self control has disappeared when you are gushing and pulsating around his fingers.

He knows you’re nearly there, so close!

You pant, closing your eyes as his fingers massaged your walls, coaxing you to climb higher and higher and-

“Coriolanus!” You yell furiously when he pulls his fingers out.

Your husband grins at you as he wipes his face from your slick.

“I seem to recall that someone was not a very good girl this morning?” His hands trailed at your hips and you almost tear up from frustration.

He was supposed to be making it up to you! He had no reason to bring up the events this morning.

In an act of defiance, you huff and you reach your own sex to flick at your clit. Your fingers are more delicate, making you gasp at the gentle pleasure.

Coriolanus grins as he watches you play with yourself. Enjoying how you grow more and more frustrated as you cannot give yourself the same pleasure. You shriek angrily as you pull your fingers away, you slam your tiny feet on the chaise and Coriolanus laughs.

“Are you done being a brat?”

You are too stubborn to answer but you do not stop him when he maneuvers you until you are on your stomach, you groan softly in discomfort when he pulls your hips so your cunt is presented to him beautifully.

His fingers are prodding your entrance again and you mewl when he pops his tip in. Coriolanus stays there for a moment as his hands, rough from his time as a peacekeeper, grips on your waist firmly.

“There’ll be no stopping, alright?” He reminds you. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”

You lift your head from the plush of the chaise lounge and you give him a nod.

“Put your head back down, my love.”

You do as he tells you and you brace yourself.

Coriolanus enters you with a sharp thrust, and your whimper is muffled by the cushions. Your husband thrusts at a steady speed, his eyes watching the impact ripple on your body.

Your breath hitches with every kiss his tip makes on your cervix. Every slap of his hips against you makes the crudest sound, sending a jolt of arousal through you. President Snow is a man of the most refined of tastes, the pinnacle of order. But when he beds you, he is just as raw, just as unrestrained.

“Don’t know why I deprived myself of your wet cunt for so long.” And his mouth spewing the most vulgar of things.

He uses his weight to push you further in the mattress so he can fuck you deeper. Your cunt spasms and you moan shakily, almost sobbing.

“Chase it, my love.” He groans deeply.

And you unravel, lewd sobs spilling from your polished tongue as your back arches, cunt creaming around his cock.

Coriolanus watches you sob, your shoulders shaking as his thrusts do not relent. His eyes flicker to where your bodies meet, your warm juices are dripping on his taut sack.

“Corio…Corio please! I don’t think I can anymore….”

“Hm?” He reaches to grab your chin. “Thought I told you that we’re only done when I say so?”

You look at him with tears sliding down your cheeks. You can’t even focus on him, body shuddering when your tummy feels another tight coil.

Coriolanus inhales sharply when he feels the familiar pulsation of your warm softness.

His tip twitches as it bumps your plump cervix. And when you call his name with your broken voice as you cum, he shoots his seed in you.

“Hah…hah.”

He is panting from on top of you, his hand placed against your bottom to keep himself up.

Coriolanus gently pulls himself out, watching the gossamer webbing of your arousal on his cock. He smacks your bum and you tighten your cunt to keep his seed from spilling. He scoots closer so he is holding you, your back against his chest as your legs tangled together.

The two of you gaze at the moon from the enormous windows of your sunroom. It was calm again. Nothing but your heartbeats and the gentle breathing lulling each of you closer to sleep.

“Corio.” You call his name softly.

He hums in response as he pulls you closer, just needing to feel you against him.

“The people of Panem are not your fucking masters.”

His brows meet and he glances at you, wondering where all of this is coming from.

“They cannot have you always cleaning up their mess like you are some District servant.”

He shifts you so you are facing him now. His stern brows meet to let you know you are on thin ice.

“You govern your people. You don’t coddle them. Let the District officials do their job. They must learn to solve their own problems and the Capitol Bureaucrats must see to it that they are doing it in ways that align with your judgment. And you lead them from the top.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

You yawn like the adorable thing you are. “So Snow lands on top.”

He clicks his tongue smoothly. “You are only attracted to power.”

“My love.” You say rather darkly. “You are power.”

Coriolanus falls silent, contemplating your words, letting himself process it.

He sighs as he looks at you in endearing defeat. “You just want a vacation, don’t you?”

You fight back a smile as you smack his chest.

“I am being serious, Coriolanus Snow.”

He pulls you closer, teeth glinting as he snickers. “I understand that, Y/N Snow.”

“Y/N Swansworth-Snow.” You remind him and he laughs.

“Of course, of course.”

You lean your head on his chest and your cheek soaks his warmth.

“You know, you are not your father, Corio.”

He winces. “I know…I’m just-”

“You are better.”

That sinks deep in him.

He now understands why there was something in you that pulled him in. No one in Panem, or in this world, could understand his soul in its most naked form. You are his stability. Someone whom he cannot scare away when he is darkest.

Because it seems like you might be exactly just like him. Just as cruel, just as evil, with no regards to anyone but each other.

And he is fine with that, even if the world is burned to ash around you.

“My love for you is catastrophic.” Coriolanus murmurs against your skin and you smile as you close your eyes.

You run your finger on his chest. “And my love for you is all-consuming.”

Coriolanus and you are obsessive, ablazed with reckless passion, villainous in nature, but it is easy to justify when you are both equally drunk with dangerous devotion.

The people of Panem be damned.

The odds will forever be in your favor.

Hunt for Glory

#coriolanus snow x y/n #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x reader #young coriolanus snow #coriolanus smut #coriolanus x reader #the hunger games #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunt for glory

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ktownshizzle · 2 months ago

Text

Terms & Conditions | Chapter 1

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?

Genre: Fluff, eventual smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au

Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, I might include scootergate in a future chapter but please know it will be written sensibly imo and with so much love for our Yoongi (I just wanna protecc him at all costs even thru this silly story!), some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range, tbh nothing too bad in this chapter

Word count: 6.3k hehe (approx. 25 mins to read)

Posting date: October 9, 2024

Notes: So it’s my birthday, y'all. 🎂 Hope you enjoy this little treat! 🎈And let me know if anyone wants to be tagged for future chapters. Just leave a comment. Formatting this better soon, really just wanted to get this out!

Your first meeting with Min Yoongi goes exactly as you expected: awkward as hell.

The day kicked off with some solid foreshadowing.

On the subway, you somehow managed to sit directly on someone’s hand, giving yourself a completely unsolicited grope for breakfast. Awkward.

Then you hit your usual café, chatting with your mom on the phone while waiting for your drink. Just as the barista handed over your order, you wrapped up the call with a bright and cheery “love you!”—only to realize too late that the barista thought it was meant for him. Awkward.

Things only got weirder from there. As you checked your emails on your phone, you walked straight into a pole, and you made eye contact with a cat who just looked at you, tail swaying, like it was somehow pleased with your suffering.

So naturally, you hoped that your first day with Min Yoongi wouldn’t follow the same cursed trend. But, of course, you weren’t that lucky.

You can feel the office buzzing with excitement as you step in, but you’ve all been told to keep it low-key. Nobody is allowed to make a big deal about him, but in some ways, that just makes it an even bigger deal. You’ve refrained from searching his name on Naver. It’s enough that you know him as 1/7 of South Korea’s biggest boyband. You don’t need to stalk him because that’s just gonna make this weird.

Speaking of weird, the female security guard gives you a wink as you clock in, and you return with a simple nod back, because honestly you’re tired of being treated like you wanted this. Like you asked for this “opportunity”. Some of the girls have called you the "blessed one" to have been chosen to work alongside him in your small, shoebox office. Truthfully, you don’t really care as long as he gets the job done.

But you're feeling scared for many reasons you can’t quite express, the pressure mostly coming from the fact that every fucking person in this office is so motherfuckin’ wet for this dude. Is he even that hot? Nobody is that hot for real. Unless it’s Cha Eun Woo (you just picked up the new Vogue issue and ooof)–now that is a different story.

Your throat is dry as hell, and your stomach is in knots. There’s no time to freak out though as you just received a ping that he’s on his way.

You clear your throat, adjust your stance, and try to appear composed and professional, despite the fact that your insides are churning. You spot your tiny plastic garbage can on the corner of the room, in case you need to hurl, but the garbage lady forgot to line it again for fuck’s sake.

You pull your knit sweater down to cover the tiny belt that holds your linen pants, the only thing holding something together in this room, ‘cos you are actually spiraling–kind of?

Fuck he’s here.

The doors to your office open, making the little wind chime you hung there tinkle, and you spot the top of his head from behind the pudgy middle-aged guy that walks in front of him—your boss. Two men flank him, one of them you know as someone from his company, because he was the one doling out NDAs the other day like how they do beef jerky samples in the supermarket. The other, more buff guy, his bodyguard, most likely. Until you know their real names, you’ll call them Beef Jerky and Beefy.

Okay, focus.

Min Yoongi finally steps into your line of vision.

Dressed in his military uniform, he was quiet, unassuming, expression unreadable. His eyes were pretty sharp, a bit intimidating, like he was thinking about something more important than whatever this is. His hair was a bit messy in the front, but somehow it worked for him. He wasn’t huge or anything, just lean and kinda laid-back, with this easy posture that made it seem like he didn’t really care who was looking. Honestly, nothing too special.

But then, there was his aura, something you couldn’t quite ignore. It wasn’t flashy or loud, but there was this energy about him, like the room shifted just a little when he walked in. He didn’t have to say a damn thing, yet somehow, you found yourself aware of him. It wasn’t just his looks. It was the way he carried himself, calm and confident, like he didn’t need to prove anything. Must be nice to be rich and powerful…

“Miss?” Beef Jerky leans to his side to get into your sightline.

Shit, what did he say? Anyway, you shake your head, and proceed to just introduce yourself.

“Hello, I’m the manager,” you bow, perhaps too stiffly. “I’ll be overseeing your work during your service here.”

He bows politely, too, eyes briefly meeting yours before looking away. “I’m Min Yoongi, pleasure to meet you,” he says in a tone that feels blunt, almost rehearsed.

Your boss Hyun-woo, who you recently found out is his distant uncle, stands beside him, clapping his shoulder. “You are in good hands here, Yoongi. She’s my best, most trusted employee in this entire office.”

You blush at the compliment, feeling a wave of self-consciousness as you struggle to make the interaction less awkward. You close your fists willing yourself to get a fuckin’ grip.

“I will leave you both to get acquainted.”

Your boss along with the two individuals leave the room. The door closes with a soft click.

Annoyingly, something is stuck in your throat and you clear it with a quick sip from this comically huge-sized tumbler your roommate got for you when you had a pesky bout of UTI last year.

“I’ve, uh, prepared your tasks for today.” You gesture to his desk, quickly pulling up the list of assignments on your tablet. You show him his username and password scribbled on a post-it by the monitor. He picks it up and inspects it. You spend time explaining the basics of the work here. Word processing. Nothing to it really. It’s about efficiency, accuracy, and confidentiality, because of the many private government records that you handle day to day.

“Do you have any questions?”

Crickets.

The office feels larger now, the silence between you echoing awkwardly. “Ooo-kay. If you don’t have any questions, that’s fine. But don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything I can help you with,” you add, hoping to sound approachable but instead sounding robotic, like an email sign off. You wince inwardly.

He just nods again, offering nothing more. He sits and picks up the paper on the top of the file. You guess that’s your cue to leave. And by leave, you mean round his table so you can sit on yours, the one across from him.

You walk back with this weird stutter in your chest. For a moment, you wonder if he finds you too formal. It’s not like you’re trying to be intimidating, but professionalism has been your go-to ever since the promotion. And it’s not like you need to wow him with your personality, so you can become fast friends. If the NDA you signed was to be taken to heart, it would be better to not establish any form of relationship with him outside of team lead and team member, what with the exorbitant number of potential violations and potential fines for breaking it.

When his keyboard starts clickety-clacking, dread sinks in your stomach that it’s going to be like this every day—strictly business, no small talk, no casual exchanges. You’re not the most sociable person, but once in a while, you do appreciate a bit of interaction. You sigh internally, returning to your own tasks, trying not to overthink the situation anymore. For now, at least.

Throughout the morning, you cannot help but steal glances at him. Damn, what skin care does he use? He literally looks radiant, like he’s glowing from within. Fuck, you have to look away because this is precisely why they trusted you to take him under your wing. You are a consummate professional, not a creep like the girls from accounting, especially trampy Danbi. You chalk it to unfamiliarity and curiosity, which you know you will quickly overcome. But for now you cut yourself some slack. Obviously, there was a legit celebrity in the room, and he seems to radiate some undeniable aura. It also feels strange to have someone else in this tiny office that you’ve occupied alone for so long.

Honestly, you’re still baffled as to why he was assigned to you, specifically. Well, that’s not entirely true. You know it’s because Hyun-woo has blind trust in you, having seen you as one of his go-to employees. Truth be told, you think he treats you like a niece. Is that weird? Maybe. He lets you assist some of the other artists who’ve come through for personal or one-time projects and you have always delivered for him, never engaging in any office gossip.

But still, you can’t shake the feeling of frustration. Why did this have to happen to you? You just got your promotion and were so excited to mentor someone, to be that “cool boss” you always envisioned. But now you’re stuck with this temp—who’s really not a temp but a world-renowned idol. It’s all so awkward.

Once in a while you catch him yawning, so in a desperate bid to cut through the tension, you ask, “Um, do you like coffee?”

He shifts to sit straighter. “Nah, I’m good. Thank you.” he responds, quickly looking your way and training his eyes back to the screen, hands typing away.

You nod, feeling slightly deflated. “Right. Got it.”

The day drags on, and you can’t shake off the feeling of being an over-eager manager trying too hard.

Within the first week, you discover very quickly that Yoongi is all about business. He is just here to finish his service as discreetly as possible. He clocks in on time, disappears for an hour for breaks, and clocks out on time as well. You don’t know where he disappears during those breaks, but you suspect in Hyun-woo’s office to get more privacy. He barely speaks to you. He greets you with a small bow in the morning and responds with a grunt or a hum. It’s all very… whatever. It is what it is, so you stop trying to be anything but his boring manager. You hand him his tasks every morning, check his output by EOD, like clockwork.

Unfortunately, it was one of those manic Mondays. The pile of documents grows faster than you can manage. Calls keep coming in, requests needing immediate attention, and your desk looks like the utter chaos that is the inside of your brain. You glance at Yoongi across from you—he’s focused, calm, completely unfazed by the sudden rush.

“Do you need help with that?” His voice startles you, low and soft. You honestly even forgot how it sounded, having little to no interaction everyday.

Before you can respond, he’s already pulling the spare chair from the corner and is at your side, sorting through the forms. His hands move with unexpected speed, and soon, the paperwork starts shrinking. You offer a weak smile, trying to appear professional. “Thanks. I wasn’t expecting today to be so hectic.”

He only nods in response, his focus entirely on the task at hand. You glance at him, noticing for the first time how sharp his features are up close—dark eyes, cute pointy nose, and freckles dusting some parts of his cheeks. His tongue, pink and moist, peeks out from the side of his lips as he concentrates. Ok, you need to look away RIGHT NOW.

You’re aware of the attraction most women probably feel for someone like him. Exhibit A—Danbi, who cornered you that morning in the toilet “for the scoop” and you’re sick of her. But if you’ll be honest, it’s hard not to notice that Yoongi indeed has a… pleasant face. But you are a professional. Yes, you are. This whole mysterious, brooding vibe is not going to get to you attracted to him in any way, shape, or form. You’re his manager. You signed those NDAs. Never mind that his lips are just the perfect shape, pouty, plush… and smirking.

Shit. He’s smirking because you’re caught.

You look away hastily and start opening some random file in your computer and pretend to be immersed reading it. In truth, you need some air, but it would be too damn obvious if you stepped away.

A few minutes pass in silence. You’ve quelled the initial onslaught of hormones and are back to work mode. You’re happy that he is so efficient and you smile as you get through the initial bulk of paperwork. You’re starting to relax, getting into the familiar groove of getting a file and processing it, until your fingers accidentally brush against his while reaching for the same folder. The touch is brief, but it sends a jolt through you, your heart stuttering in response. You glance up, half-expecting another awkward moment (because you can’t stop feeling like such a fool in front of him), but Yoongi remains composed, as he pulls his hand away and waits for you to take the document.

You do, but your pulse quickens. Just an accident, you tell yourself. He probably didn’t even notice. And if he did, he probably doesn’t care.

But now, as you continue working side by side, there’s an unspoken understanding. You realize, despite his quiet demeanor, he’s someone you can rely on, someone who won’t leave you stranded when things get tough. And that’s actually really nice. It’s what you wanted when Hyun-woo said you were going to have a team. Granted it’s just the two of you for now, but still, it’s nice to have a partner.

Later in the week, you find yourself in the break room, needing a coffee fix. There was a place down the street with cheap and good coffee, but unfortunately you didn’t have the time to pop in with so much work on your desk. So free and awful coffee it is today.

You enter just in time to see Yoongi struggling with the coffee machine. You have never seen him anywhere else in the building apart from your office, so this was quite a surprise.

“Need a hand?” you ask tentatively, stepping closer.

“I think I broke it,” he replies, hearing exasperation in his voice for the very first time.

“Hang on, let me,” you unplug and plug the machine, fiddle with some of the buttons, waiting for it to sputter to life.

You’re leaning against the counter, waiting for the coffee machine to wake up. You know it takes forever, but it’s too familiar at this point. Yoongi stands next to you, his usual quiet self, hands in his pockets.

“I’ve timed it,” you say dryly, glancing at him. “Two minutes and forty seconds.”

He watches the machine as if expecting it to hurry up. “Been here for more than that.”

You smirk. “Maybe it’s on a break.”

He quirks an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smile. “I’ll try that excuse next time.”

You hand Yoongi his coffee, mumbles a thanks, and waits for you to finish yours before both of you settle into the break room’s small table. It’s past lunch, and you know neither of you have eaten, so you reach for the cold ham and cheese sandwiches stashed in the fridge. “Hope you don’t mind,” you say, sliding one across to him.

He looks at it for a moment before picking it up. “I’ve had worse.”

“High praise.”

He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Could be worse. Could be that coffee.”

You raise your cup in mock agreement. “Fair point. Don’t even know why I drink this shit. I mean this thing.” You slap a hand over your mouth. Did you just curse in front of your subordinate? Government offices are a stickler for these things, being on the traditional side.

He chuckles at your shocked expression, and teases, “Isn’t that a code of conduct violation?”

You gnaw at your lip, suppressing the smile that wants to stretch out, but you fail. “It is. But you’re no snitch.”

He motions to zip his lips and throws an imaginary key over his shoulder. Dork.

The conversation lingers in that easy rhythm. You talk about the workload, the other departments, nothing too personal. You glance over at him, noticing how more at ease he seems, as if he’s getting used to being here—around you.

“How long have you worked here?” he leans back, stretching his arm out on the back of the chair beside him.

“Five years,” you respond, tapping the side of your lip with a napkin.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, slightly taken aback by how blunt he is. You clarify, on guard, “Tired of what exactly?”

He gestures around. “The office. The routine.” He keeps his eyes trained on you, which is a rarity as he always seems to be looking at you but never directly like that. That’s when you knew his question was sincere. That he wasn’t trying to offend you, just trying to get to know you.

You shrug. “Sometimes. But it’s not that bad. Besides,” you smile wryly, “now I have someone to talk shit about this coffee and sandwich with.”

He chuckles, light and throaty, a sound that you realize is tickling something in your brain. “Guess we’re in this shit together now.”

You nod, feeling something warm settle in your chest. The wall between you is thinner now, not entirely gone but close enough to see past.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask, half-joking, half-hopeful.

He raises an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I have two years here. Hope the coffee machine doesn’t beat me to my discharge date.”

Two years. The thought makes you smile. You really don't mind spending that amount of time with him. In fact, it kinda made you a little happy.

As you step into your cozy apartment, the familiar scent of home hits you. Your roommate’s been cooking again, so it also smells like galbi jjim. Yummm.

Your place isn’t much—a small two-bedroom in Yongsan you’ve shared with Chae since Uni—but it’s got character. You both moved in when it was bare and bland, but with a little effort and a lot of creativity, you’ve turned it into something that actually feels like home. The furniture is mostly Scandi-style—clean lines, muted tones, and a lot of beige—but you’ve sprinkled in your own touches everywhere.

There’s that round white table you scored second hand, now always topped with whatever flowers Chae picks up from the market, and the rattan pendant light that casts this soft, cozy glow at night. The tiny kitchen still feels big enough when it’s just the two of you, with mismatched mugs stacked up and a bright orange pan hanging on the wall for no real reason other than it looks cool.

In the living room, a hybrid shelf is stuffed with books, vinyls, and random trinkets from all the places you’ve been. A Chinese lucky cat sculpture from that street market trip. A polaroid of you two drunk at noraebang, one of many others tucked under the glass coffee table. Trendy prints hang on the walls—well, some lean against the walls, because you’ve never gotten around to actually hanging them. It’s perfectly imperfect. It’s not much, but it’s home.

You hang your bag on the rack by the door and head to the kitchen, where Chae is stirring a pot, hips swaying to the music blaring from her phone. Of course, as she holds a silver spoon, she belts out the lyrics from the BTS song with the same title. And you only know this because she has made you watch some edits to this song that left an impression on you.

The thought of revealing this thing you’ve been holding out on her has your stomach in knots. But again, there’s an NDA involved, and you don’t want to violate anything. But just the same, you’re desperate to talk to someone about this strange new development in your life. You just hope you don’t regret risking your job by telling her.

“Hey, Chae!” you call out, and she turns, beaming at you. “How was work?”

“Busy as usual,” you reply, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “But I have something to tell you.”

Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Ooh, do tell!”

You hesitate, but excitement spills out. “I have a new workmate. And you know him.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s one of my exes.”

“No, no.” You take a quick swig of water and twist its cover back in place.

“From Uni?”

You shake your head, water still swirling inside your mouth.

“Is it one of my weird cousins?”

You gulp. “What? No! Also we haven’t talked about why you gave one of them my number. He’s blowing up my Kakao.”

She cackles unapologetically, “Sorry, I need to get them off my back. So, are you going to tell me who this mysterious person is?”

You breathe out a sigh. “Min Yoongi from BTS.”

It’s like a bomb explodes in your roommate’s brain. She drops the spoon, and you wince at the clatter. “What?! No!”

“Yeah…”

“Don’t you even joke right now.”

“I’m not!”

“Are you serious???”

You nod, half-amused by her reaction. “Yeah, he’s assigned to my department for his service.”

“Min Yoongi?” she repeats, eyes wide, almost breathless. “You… I… Do you know how famous he is? He’s like a fuckin’ national treasure! He has a diplomatic passport and everything, keys to the White House… ”

You chuckle at her enthusiasm, but you can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. “I mean, I guess? But I signed an NDA. I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

She pulls you to her room, and you follow, rolling your eyes. Her space is a shrine to Bangtan, shelves lined with albums, posters, and even plushies. You’ve never given her shit for it, because you also had an EXO phase, but you got rid of most of your stuff through ebay when you needed some extra money.

“Wait, you have to understand him!” she exclaims, rifling through her collection. “You need to learn about his music, his artistry. He’s incredible!”

“Honestly, he has an above average WPM, that’s all I need to know.”

“WPM?” she asks.

“Words per minute. He’s an encoder.”

She gives you a WTF look, then shoves her photocard album in your arms.

“Open that,” she tells you before she flops on her bed with a wistful look. “What's he like? You have to tell me. I need to live vicariously through you.”

You can’t help but laugh at her excitement, flopping down on the bed next to her. “Well, he’s a quick study, very efficient, and also very reserved.”

“…and very hot?” she asks, winking.

“Chaeee!” you groan, burying your face on one of her plushies, the brown one. “I mean, he’s not… bad-looking.”

“Not bad-looking? Girl?! He is sexy as fuck!” she grabs the plush off of your face and you try to school your face to seriousness, but fail.

“I dunno. It’s just work.”

“Just work?!” she echoes again, eyes sparkling. “You’re working with a literal genius! Do you know how many girls would kill for this opportunity?”

Don’t you know it? Danbi and her crew are still up on your face everyday trying to get any morsel of information you’d be willing to throw their way. You sigh, but smile at her enthusiasm. “Alright, I’ll tell you more. But just remember: NDA.”

When your roommate seems satiated, she leaves you a trail of crumbs that unknowingly leads you to a rabbit hole. Two words, she said mysteriously, before you disappear into your room. “Agust D.”

That night, curiosity gets the better of you. You grab your laptop and fall down said rabbit hole, watching every Agust D music video, concert clip, and interview you can find. With each passing moment, you become more entranced, not just by the music, but by the man behind it. The raw passion in his lyrics, the confidence in his delivery—it really is quite… in Chae’s words: sexy af.

As the weeks progress, you have graduated from robotic nods to actual smiles. The greetings feel more familiar now, almost like you're becoming friends.

You walk into the office, a small smile creeping onto your face as you see Yoongi already at his desk. He looks up and meets your gaze, returning the smile with a scratchy hello. The atmosphere feels lighter today, a far cry from your first awkward encounter.

“Ready for another exciting day of paperwork?” you tease, taking your seat.

“Dope,” he replies dryly, but there’s a playful glint in his eye.

Moments later, Yoongi’s head pops from the side of his monitor so that he’s in your view. “Uh, I have a bit of a problem with this file,” he says, brows furrowed with a hint of frustration in his tone.

You immediately jump into action, eager to help. “Let me take a look.”

As you move closer to his desk, you can’t help but notice the way his fingers move over the keyboard, veiny and strong. Images of him playing “Seesaw” on the guitar flood your mind. How can you unsee that?

You shake your head, trying to refocus. “Okay, let’s see…” But your brain keeps drifting, and you find yourself more distracted than ever. His mouth, and his deep voice, as he mumbles his troubles with the document, keeps pulling your attention. You try to push the thoughts away, frustration mounting.

“Is this the line you were talking about?” you ask, forcing yourself to concentrate on the screen.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I just can’t seem to make sense of it,” he replies, glancing at you.

“Let me just…” You lean closer, your heart racing as his shoulder brushes against yours. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

How can you focus on work when all you can think about is this thing he does with his tongue. It feels impossible.

Yoongi watches you, an amused smile playing on his lips. “You look like you’re trying to solve a complex equation.”

“Honestly, I’m starting to think my brain is broken.”

Yoongi glances at you with a smirk. “If your brain is broken, then mine’s completely fried. I tried to make toast this morning and almost burnt my apartment down.”

You laugh. “Maybe you should stick to Uber eats.”

“Agreed. It’s safer for everyone involved,” he quips, his eyes sparkling with amusement, before it turns into something slightly more serious. “Not that there’s anyone else, umm, involved. I, uh, live alone, so…”

His comment makes you smile, and you can’t help but feel a rush of warmth at the way he stuttered the last bit out. You don’t know what to make of it, so you just left it at that.

About to clock out, Yoongi stands from his desk, bag over his shoulder.

“You know, despite my toast incident, I’m actually a pretty great cook. That toast was a fluke,” he declares, his tone half-serious, like it has been bothering him for quite some time.

The way he looks worried that you may think he is terrible in the kitchen, is not lost on you. You raise an eyebrow, “Is that so?”

He shifts the bag on his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at you. “You don’t believe me.”

“Give me a taste then,” you say, biting your lip. You made it sound really suggestive, but you can’t take it back now. Not when he seems to get it, and he seems kind of into it.

He leans with a playful glint in his eyes, “Alright. I’ll bring kimchi jeon, but you also have to give me a taste.” he pauses, pushing his tongue on the inside of his cheek, before continuing. “Of your…”

“Pasta.” You say, cheeks warm, but voice steady. “Friday?”

He smirks, then he’s out the door.

You bury your face on your palms, smiling like a fool as your heart beats loudly in your chest. What the actual hell is happening?

It’s Friday afternoon, and the office is quieter than usual—most of the staff are already winding down, eager for the weekend. You glance at the clock, knowing it’s almost time for the little food showdown you’ve been looking forward to all week.

You and Yoongi walk together to the break room, both armed with your dishes. His kimchi jeon and your pasta.

You warm your containers in the microwave before you settle down on a corner spot.

“I hope you’re ready to lose,” you tease, sliding the container of Carbonara across the table. Yoongi raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with that infuriatingly calm smirk.

“You seem confident,” he replies, popping open the lid of his dish. The scent of kimchi fills the room, and you have to admit—it smells incredible.

“Smells good,” you say, trying not to let your surprise show.

“Of course it does. I told you I could cook.” He clips a piece of the jeon with his chopsticks and holds it out to you. “Try it.”

You lean forward, the chopsticks brushing against your lips as you take a bite. The flavors hit you immediately—spicy, savory, just the way you like it. You chew slowly, pretending to think it over even though you’re already sold.

“Not bad,” you admit, leaning back with a grin. “But it’s gonna take more than that to beat my pasta.”

Yoongi scoffs, but there’s amusement in his eyes as he picks up a fork and twirls it into your pasta. He takes a bite, and you watch him carefully, waiting for his reaction.

He chews, then pauses, glancing up at you through his lashes. “Alright… I have to admit,” he says, his tone casual but the look in his eyes a little too serious, “this is really good.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s it? Just ‘really good?’”

He leans forward on his elbows, his gaze steady on yours. “Fine. It’s amazing,” he says, his voice softening just a bit, though there’s a teasing smile on his lips. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s already there,” you quip, biting back a smile.

Yoongi laughs, a sound that’s more relaxed than usual, and you catch the way his eyes linger on you just a little longer than necessary. “You know what? I’ll give you this one,” he concedes, sitting back with a defeated sigh, though the smile never leaves his face. “You win.”

You hoot, then immediately cover your mouth with your hands, remembering you are in your place of business.

He grins as he takes another bite of your Carbonara, forking pieces of bacon straight to his mouth. There’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something softer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hasn’t before. You are thrown for a loop. Maybe it’s the way he keeps sneaking glances at you between bites, or the quiet hum of satisfaction when he takes another forkful of your dish. Whatever it is, you want it and you like it.

You push your chair back, stretching your arms above your head as the day finally comes to a close. It’s been a long one, but productive—and surprisingly enjoyable. After sharing lunch with Yoongi earlier, things felt lighter, less awkward. Still, when you glance at the window, seeing the sheets of rain coming down hard, your shoulders sag slightly. It’s pouring, and you didn’t bring an umbrella.

As you slip on your parka after snapping the detachable hoodie on, Yoongi catches your eye, “You’re not planning to walk in this, are you?”

“I can take the subway,” you say quickly.

Yoongi chuckles, shaking his head as he shows you his keys. “Just let me give you a ride, it’s not a problem.”

You hesitate, but eventually, you sigh. “Okay, sure. Thanks.”

The two of you dash out into the rain, laughing softly as you both get soaked within seconds. By the time you’re in his car, your hair sticks to your forehead, and the chill of your wet clothes clings to your skin.

But you’re glad that you’re finally inside. He blasts the heater and the warmth is immediate, fogging the windows as the downpour intensifies. He fiddles with the stereo as you settle in, and Epik High’s "Born Hater" comes through his car speakers.

“Born hater!” You announce, and you catch yourself, embarrassed at the way you had to say the title of the song so emphatically.

“Cute,” Yoongi mumbles as he looks at you like he is actually endeared and you think you would catch fire despite being soaked.

“Ok hater, what’s one thing you hate?” He asks as he puts the gear on reverse.

The question is sudden, casual, and it throws you off for a moment. “What?” You laugh, furrowing your brow. “Like, what do you mean?”

He shrugs, his grip loose on the steering wheel. “Just one thing you hate. Something small. What’s something that drives you crazy?”

His arm moves behind your seat, while one hand takes the wheel and maneuvers the car seamlessly back out of the parking spot—and you don’t quite understand why you think that lone action is so sexy. It’s a miracle you’re still able to think and respond to his simple question. “Okay… I hate it when people chew with their mouth open.”

Yoongi chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, I’m guilty of that.”

“What about you?” you ask, feeling more at ease. “What’s something you hate?”

Without missing a beat, he grins. “Mushrooms. I can’t stand them.”

“Mushrooms?” You snicker. “What, like all of them?”

“All of them,” he says firmly. “They taste like dirt.”

“Wrong.” You shake your head, laughing. “They do not. You’re just picky.”

He turns to you, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Nope, I’m right. Name another thing.”

“Pickles,” you say.

“Get out of the car,” he deadpans and you both laugh.

“Not even on pizza? I actually can’t eat pizza without it.”

“Yeah, it’s still a no for me,” you say, rubbing your palms on your pants.

“Are you still cold?” He asks.

“A little,” you say, your damp clothes still causing a bit of a chill.

At the next stop light he reaches for something in the back seat and places a folded scarf of some sort on your lap. Grateful, you mutter a thanks as BIGBANG’s “Haru Haru” comes next.

You sigh, smelling his faint cologne on the garment, and melt in your seat as you pull the fabric over your shoulders, “I love this song…”

“Me too,” he says. “I listened to this song a lot when I was in high school.”

“Yeah, me too,” you share a smile before his eyes go back on the road as the green light comes. “What were you like in school?” you ask.

He raises an eyebrow, considering your question for a second. And his response was blunt, as he tends to be. “Was a loser. Kept to myself. Worked on music when I could. School wasn’t really my thing.”

“Figures,” you tease.

He doesn’t glance at you, but there was an amused grin playing on his lips. “What about you? You look like a popular kid.”

“Oh, I was definitely a loser, too. Overachieving student who tried way too hard to please everyone,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh, looking at the pouring rain outside. “I always thought if I did everything right, I’d end up happy, but…”

“… but now?” Yoongi asks, tone softer than you’ve ever heard him before.

You hesitate, unsure why this feels like a deeper question than it should. But you wanted to give him some honesty. A tiny piece of you to hold on to if he wants. “Now… I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out, I guess.”

“You will,” he promises, glancing at you in the corner of his eyes and you meet his gaze with a shy smile.

“Thanks.”

Silence falls between you. The music fills the space as the rain lets up, and the streets blur outside the window. It feels like a moment—one you don’t want to think too hard about, because thinking too hard about anything with him feels dangerous.

He pulls up outside your apartment, the car coming to a smooth stop. You don’t move right away, letting the last bit of the song play out as you sit in the warmth of the car.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, finally unbuckling your seatbelt, but your voice feels quieter than usual.

“No problem.” His eyes meet yours for just a second, and it lingers—like there’s something else he wants to say, but doesn’t.

You step out into the cool night air, still feeling his gaze on you as you make your way to the door. When you glance back, Yoongi is still parked there, watching you, and just to lighten the mood you call out, "Bye, loser!" He shakes his head with a tiny grin, "Later, loser!" before he finally pulls away.

Your heart’s racing the whole way up the stairs, each step making it louder, faster, like it’s echoing off the walls. You enter your apartment and press a hand to your chest, trying to calm yourself down, but it’s useless—he’s been stuck in your head since you stepped out of the car. Hell, he's been there for days. You wonder if he could feel the headrush too, all the way from Hannam, where he went completely out of his way just to drop you off.

What you don’t know is Yoongi, back in his apartment, though a little later, is doing the same—sitting there, trying to calm his pulse, still thinking about the long drive, and why he didn’t mind the distance. And as he lay awake in his large bed, smiling like a lunatic, replaying the moments of the day, he knew there really was only one reason:

He likes you.

A/N: What do you think??? I'm so excited for this series!!! Again, just leave a comment if you want to be tagged on the next chapters! Thank you so much for reading! ~k

Edit: Answer this story-related Poll

Chapter Two >

#myg x reader #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #yoongi fluff #myg x y/n #myg fic recs #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts fanfic #bts idol au #min yoongi x oc #yoongi fic #bts fic #bts x reader

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st4rfckerz · 1 year ago

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2:37 am | stepbro!anakin x reader (pt. 1)

word count: 2.5k

warnings: MDNI 18+, dubcon, stepcest, dry humping, slight aftercare, dead dove do not eat.

summary: during a sleepless night, your stepbrother, anakin comes to your aid.

a/n: this is inspired by a video i saw on twitter AND a dream i had, so i just had to write about it.

pt. 2 here

you never expected your father to remarry after your parents' divorce. but much to your surprise, your father did just that. not only did he remarry, but he also brought a new family into your life - a stepbrother named anakin.

you quickly learned that anakin had a troubled past. he's always got some new story about a friend getting arrested, an incident involving drugs or something else. despite his antics, you couldn't help but find him attractive, his messy hair, constant teasing, and his intense gaze all got you feeling hot under the collar. but you knew he was off-limits as he was your stepbrother, and your feelings for him were something you tried hard to suppress.

it was another sleepless night. you were reading a book in bed, trying to get your mind off the fact that sleeping is just not something your body wants to do. you were wide awake.

you set the book down and looked at the clock that stayed on your nightstand.

2:37 am.

you let out a heavy sigh, then you set the book down and leaned back in your bed, trying your best to focus back on the book. but, as always, your mind was elsewhere.

your thoughts were abruptly interrupted as you heard a few light knocks at your bedroom door.

"who else could be awake this late?" you thought to yourself. after placing your book on your bed, you went to open the door. you slowly open it and raise your head to see anakin.

"you're still up." anakin says in a whisper, his voice quiet and deep. the faint glow of your lamp's warm light illuminated his face, displaying a small grin pulling at his lips. anakin crosses his arms and leans against your doorframe.

"couldn't sleep," you respond softly, trying to keep your voice quiet. "what about you?" you try not to feel intimated as anakin's eyes carefully scanned yours. although his body was slumped slightly against the wall, he still appeared to be towering over you.

"couldn't sleep either, can i come in?" he asks. you stepped to the side, out of his way, and watched as he walked slowly into your room. anakin glanced around your room as you silently closed your door. his gaze lands on the book lying on your bed.

"catcher and the rye?" anakin asked curiously. smirk on his face and his eyebrow raised. he flips through a few pages before taking a seat on the side of your bed.

"i've read about five chapters tonight," you sigh, taking a seat next to him. "still not tired."

anakin snickered quietly before sitting down next to you. he gave you a look that was difficult to interpret until he spoke again.

"it's your little boyfriend again, isn't it?" anakin said as he shifted in his seat. it was as if he was trying to find a more comfortable position to be in. his knee accidentally knocked yours, making your body tense up slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing.

"yeah," you huff defeatedly. "there's just been a lack of communication i guess." you look down at your fingers that rest on your lap, avoiding anakin's lingering gaze.

you often complained to anakin about your boyfriend and how you felt he was treating you unfairly. anakin didn't like your boyfriend and he would often tease you, hinting at how he felt about him. anakin secretly wished that he could have your attention instead.

a small chuckle erupts from anakin's throat. "he doesn't fuck you." he says bluntly. you quickly snap your head up, your wide eyes meeting his. your silence speaks volumes, your attempt to find words faltering before they even leave your lips. the room fills with a charged tension as your face turns hot and pink, a flush of embarrassment spreading across your cheeks.

"maybe." you reply quietly as you look back down at your lap. as embarrassing as it was, you knew anakin wasn't wrong. your boyfriend never made you cum. ever.

anakin knew immediately what he was doing to you. in fact, anakin knew exactly what was really going on in your mind and it was a bit too obvious. he could tell you were sexually frustrated by the way you always avoided his intense eye contact and how you blushed nearly everytime he'd speak to you.

"when was the last time you came?" anakin asks. he drops his head down lower, you could feel his breath on your neck as he spoke.

"i-i don't know." you stutter. your heart begins to race as anakin interrogated you. anakin's eyes moved up and down your body. he saw how nervous you were starting to get and he liked it.

"poor girl, must be really frustrating, hm?" his lips come even closer to your ear, so close that they're almost brushing against your skin. "i can fix that..." he whispers.

"anakin, what are you talking about?" you lean your body away from his.

anakin saw that you tried to lean away but he stopped you. with a firmer grip, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you closer to him. he lowered his lips to your ear again and spoke.

"you know what i'm talking about, and you know exactly what i can help you with." he purred with a sly smile. "i've seen the way you look at me." you feel his hand slowly traveled towards your exposed thighs.

"anakin sto-" anakin was relentless. you tried to push him away and he fought back. anakin's hand tightened on the side of your face, gripping your chin with force. his lips pressed firmly against yours. your mind went blank and for a moment and you felt a certain excitement building up inside you, despite the fact that you felt guilty about what you were doing. you tried to think of your boyfriend and how this would only make things worse, but those thoughts slowly faded away. you wanted this.

anakin's firm hold on your jaw started to relax as his lips devoured yours. as the kiss continued, his arm that was tightly wrapped around your waist was released and his hand traveled towards your thigh once again, his fingers gently rubbing the skin.

"just let me help." anakin spoke in a slightly deeper, more enticing tone than before. you felt his warm breath on your skin as he softly kissed down your neck, his tongue slowly making its way up your neck. his hand moved to your hair, gently rubbing the back of your head as you felt his fingers slowly creep towards your inner thigh. your veins are filled with an increased level of arousal, and you can feel it pooling in your panties.

the sound of your heart pumping and adrenaline coursing through your body overwhelmed your thoughts. the need to become as close to anakin as possible overtook everything else.

anakin brought you both higher up on your bed and you lay on top of him, his hands wrapping around your arms as he pulled you closer. his lips tasted so sweet and as soon as your tongues met, you felt a rush of sensations, like never before. your breath was taken and your heart pounded in your chest. he moaned softly and you felt him grasp at your hips, pulling you closer to him.

anakin's hands slowly slide down your waist. with a firm and assertive touch, he begins to skillfully remove your shorts, his fingers deftly unfastening the garment and sliding it down your legs.

the sensation of cool air against your exposed skin only intensifies the heat that envelopes them. the tingling anticipation courses through your veins as you remain seated on anakin's lap, your kiss unbroken.

anakin's touch is both possessive and tender, his hands trailing up your legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

he pulls away from the kiss before speaking again, "lift yourself up." he said in a soft and low voice, a slight smile forming on his face. you did as he asked and he quickly removed his black, plaid pajama pants. anakin's boxer-clad erection protruded against the fabric, stealing your attention.

"eyes up here, angel." he teases with a knowing smile playing on his lips. anakin's gaze held yours captive, his dark eyes filled with an irrepressible hunger. he pulls you back over towards him, his body against yours.

as you settle back down against anakin's bulge, a soft, involuntary moan escapes your lips. the sensation of his throbbing length pressing against your drooling cunt sends a jolt of arousal through your body, a sweet ache of desire stirs your senses.

a smug grin dances upon anakin's lips as he observes your reaction, relishing in the control he holds over you.

"just follow me." he whispers. you had no words to say and did as he instructed. you nodded your head to let him know that you heard and understood him. with a firm but gentle touch, anakin's hands find their way to the small of your back, guiding your movements and synchronizing your rhythm. a low, throaty moan escapes his lips.

"fuck." anakin breathes out.

with each rut of your hips, the pleasure builds, your bodies moving in sync. the friction between you and anakin heightens the sensations pulsing through your bodies. a wet patch grows on your panties, a clear sign of your arousal.

anakin's eyes beam with amusement as he grazes his fingertips along the damp fabric.

"god, look at that," he purrs. his touch is feather-light, tracing the outline of the wet patch, sending shivers of anticipation through your body. "you're killing me." anakin lulls his head back against your headboard, catching his bottom lip in between his teeth. his eyes were glued to the way your hot pussy rocked so deliciously against his throbbing cock.

your head hangs low, and your breaths become shallow and little whimpers escape your parted lips.

"feel good?" anakin asks. you nod your head in response. "use your words baby." his words send a spark of electricity down to your core.

"y-yes, feels s'good ani." you pant. anakin groans quietly when he hears you refer to him by his nickname.

"that's my girl." he coos. with a sudden flick of his wrist, anakin lifts up your small shirt, exposing your breasts to him. anakin's lips latch onto one of your exposed nipples, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. he alternates between gentle sucks and flicks of his tongue, coaxing the sweetest moans from your lips. simultaneously, his free hand palms the other breast, squeezing and massaging it with a firm grip. your back arches instinctively, pushing your chest further into his mouth as you drown in the sensations he evokes.

"ani, i'm close," you whimper as you feel that long forgotten coil begin to form in the pit of your stomach.

anakin removes his big hand from your nipple and returns it to the fat of your thigh. your bodies move in sync, the rhythm building with a fervent need. anakin's grip on your thighs remain unyielding, his strength displaying the control he holds over the both of you.

"let it go angel, cum for me." anakin mewls. you could tell he was close to his own orgasm by the way his stomach repeatedly flexed under your hands.

the knot in your stomach finally snaps, releasing a wave of pleasure that courses through your body. a loud, unrestrained moan escapes your lips, but before the sound can fully escape into the air, anakin's hand swiftly clamps across your mouth, muffling the sound.

"shhh, we don't need anyone hearing us." anakin whispers. as the sound is stifled, anakin's own release crashes over him. his body tenses, muscles contracting as he spills his seed into his boxers.

"s-shit," a string of filthy whimpers escape anakin's lips. you take in deep, ragged breaths, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.

anakin gently brushes a strand of your sweaty hair away from your forehead, his touch tender and reassuring. he can feel the rapid rise and fall of your chest as you breathe heavily, your body slowly coming down from the intensity of your shared orgasm. anakin's arms instinctively tighten around your waist as you rest your forehead against his shoulder.

"you feel better?" anakin's voice, quiet and breathy, breaks through the silence that envelops the room.

"so much better." you respond with a light chuckle. anakin gently tugs you away from his shoulder. his eyes locking onto the dampness spreading across your underwear. the sight of the wet spot elicits a mischievous smirk from his lips.

"yeah i can tell." he jokes. his fingers trail along the edges of the wet patch, the fabric damp and clinging to your sensitive skin.

"here, let me help you with these." after easing you off of him and onto your feet, anakin sits on the side of the bed. he helps you take off your stained panties, his touch gentle and considerate, his fingers sliding under the fabric to ease it down.

anakin's gaze lingers for a moment, taking in the sight of your glistening folds. with a shaking breath, he quickly turns around, his heart pounding as he retrieves his pajama pants. facing away from you, he slips them back on, his movements slightly hurried as he tries to regain his composure. anakin's pants hang loosely on his hips, the fabric draping casually over his slender frame.

you change into clean underwear and pull on your discarded shorts that resided on the ground. the soft fabric glides against your skin, providing a gentle caress that contrasts with the electric tension that still lingers in the air.

as you turn back around, you see anakin holding your soaked underwear in his hands. you felt embarrassed and awkward at this moment yet anakin's face was filled with a slight smile.

"i'll put these in the laundry room for you." he smiles as he makes his way towards you. a wave of comfort sweeps over you as anakin pulls the cozy comforter over your body after you climb into bed. you feel safe in anakin's presence, his protective nature always made your chest feel fuzzy.

leaning down, anakin's lips press against your forehead. the weight of his lips against your skin sends a jolt of warmth through your body, a sweet sensation that lingers even after his touch is gone.

"thank you, ani." your voice was soft, and almost innocent, considering what had just occurred in your room. anakin turns on his heel, making his way towards the door. the sight of his retreating figure stirs a whirlwind of emotions within you.

anakin steps into the hallway, he glances back, his eyes meeting yours displaying a glint of affection.

"sleep well sis." anakin smiles and closes the door behind him, leaving you snuggled comfortably in your bed.

he locked the door after leaving you to sleep and walked straight into his room, not even taking a look at the laundry room.

as you fell asleep, you wondered how this would affect your relationship and you hoped that anakin wouldn't tell anyone. you thought back on the event, still flushed with guilt, yet something about it felt different. something felt good about it, despite its wrong-ness.

#nai writes ୨୧ #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin #anakin skywalker x you #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x you #st4rfckerz

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

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🎀𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕞𝕝𝕚𝕟'𝕤 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥🎀

Hi! I'm Gremlin, I write COD stuff and adore Konig. Mostly write on AO3, but some fics are posted here. I write yandere/perverted/dark stuff mostly, so please be advised. The tamest of my fics are dealing with perversion and romanticized possessive behavior, and the worst ones are straight up kidnapping and torturing. Ask me anything!! I don't deal with extreme degradation, humiliation, piss/scat, hurt/no comfort, but I am fine with dub-con/soft non-con, yandere, kidnapping, perverted behavior etc. I won't write for Nikto, Nikolay or Makarov. I also don't write anything related to the death of the major characters, angst and hurt/no comfort. Shoot me a DM!

My AO3 My ko-fi My TikTok(if needed)

𝒦𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑔 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

【Ｏｎｅ　ｓｈｏｔｓ】 Moo business (monster!Konig x CowHybrid!fem!Reader) Cleaning services (perv!Konig x fem!cleaner!Reader) A bomb threat (And how it got you a boyfriend) special forces!Konig x fem!college!Reader 1295 kilometers (Konig x fem!Reader, a train ride) Also on AO3!

【Ｓｅｒｉｅｓ】

Cabin in the woods (yan!Konig x fem!Reader x yan!Horangi) Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 (updated) Also on AO3!

If you need to be mean (husband!yandere!Konig x wife!fem!Reader) [Konig hates his new promotion. Being a colonel only makes him more miserable while forcing to constantly communicate with people below and above his rank. However, meeting a cute civilian on his latest deployment makes his life a bit sweeter.]

The Horror and The Wild (yan!Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader) You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Lovefool (yandere!kidnapper!Konig x fem!Reader) [Konig got himself a little trophy from the battlefield.]

Drinking song for socially anxious (monster!Konig x MonsterCaretaker!Reader) [People learned to live alongside monsters. Hybrids are better soldiers and warriors, but they have problems controlling themselves on the battlefield. This is where you came from, as the newest caretaker of a weirdly quiet percht hybrid who seems to never talk to anyone.

You are eager to take care of him, though.]

The Horror and the Wild (emperor!Konig x fem!Reader) Fantasy/Medieval AU

[You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor.

Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one.]

GHOST X READER Your Ride will be here shortly(poly!yan!141 x fem!Reader) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig

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torpublishinggroup · 2 months ago

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This advertisement is for Swordcrossed by Freya Marske.

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

Mattinesh Jay is the chronically responsible eldest son and dutiful heir striving to keep his family’s business running. Luca Piere is a menace of a con artist desperately trying to escape his past by taking up the blade. When the pair meet, swords clash, and sparks fly. Soon, they’re entangled in a conspiracy that may bring Matti’s house to ruin if they don’t work together.

Want to see if it’s to your liking? We’ve included an excerpt from chapter one below.

Chapter 1 Matti laid his fingers on the polished edge of the bar’s wooden surface and forced himself to stop counting sheep. And yards of twill. And looms in need of repair, and outstanding debts.

Instead, he counted today’s collection of ink smudges, bruise-black on the brown skin of his hands: six. He counted the number of blue dyes that would have been used in the fabric of the bartender’s layered skirt: four, possibly five if the palest shade was true dimflower and not just the result of fading.

The tense throb of pain like a fist clenched in his hair eased, grudgingly, to a quiet ache. Bearable. Normal.

It was busy in the drinking house, the post-dinner hour that usually found Matti heading back to his study to finish the paperwork that a member of his family had tugged him away from in order to eat. Matti counted the number of flavoured jenever bottles on the shelf behind the bar—fifteen—in the time it took Audry to finish serving her current customer and sweep her sky-coloured skirts to stand in front of Matti. “And here’s a face we haven’t seen in a while! Something tells me you’re here for a celebration, Mr. Jay.”

Matti hoped the smile he’d pulled onto his face wasn’t the wrong size, or the wrong shade of abashed. “News travels fast.”

“Mattinesh Jay and Sofia Cooper. A match surprising exactly no one.”

Matti kept the smile going. There was a silence in which Audry politely didn’t say, Pity she’s in love with someone else, and so Matti didn’t have to say, Yes, isn’t it?Audry said, “Wait here a moment. I’ve got something in the back that I think will do nicely.”

Matti cast a glance over the room as Audry disappeared. His cousin Roland made an extravagant sighing motion and pretended to check his watch when Matti’s eyes landed on their table. A burst of laughter came from a dark-skinned woman nearby; she was wearing a dress that rode high at the knee to reveal a fall of lace like frothing water, a northern style of garment that Matti’s own northerner mother seldom wore these days.

At the closest table the Mason Guildmaster, Lysbette Martens, was deep in conversation with a senior member of the Guild of Engineers. Martens met Matti’s gaze with her own and nodded brief acknowledgement. He was sure she was weighing his presence as consciously as he was weighing hers. This was a place to be seen, after all.

“Here you are. Red wine for young lovers.”

Matti turned around again. Audry named the price for the bottle as she uncorked it and set it on the bar. Matti paid her, ignoring the lurch like a fishhook in his stomach at the amount on the credit notes he was so casually handing over. Mattinesh Jay, firstborn of his distinguished House, had no reason not to indulge in one of the finest bottles of wine that money could buy.

No reason that anyone here would know about, anyway.

Matti took the bottle in one hand and hooked three glasses with the other. Making his way over to the table, his mind circled back to dwell on the wrong sort of numbers. The money in Matti’s purse was painstakingly calculated: enough for the first round of engagement drinks, and enough for him to hire a top-of-the-range duellist who would step forward in the awkwardly likely event of someone challenging for Sofia’s hand at the wedding itself.

Matti’s skin prickled cold at the very thought of what might happen if Adrean Vane challenged against Matti’s marriage to Sofia and won. His family’s last hope would be gone. Matti would have failed them in this, the most useful thing he could do for them.

He was so caught up in this uneasy imagining as he wove through the room that he collided, hard, with another person’s shoulder. Matti was both tall and broad, not easily unbalanced; the unfortunate other member of the collision made a grab for Matti’s coat, couldn’t get a good grip, and tripped to the ground with a caught-back “Fu—”

Matti tried to step backwards. They were crammed into a small space between tables and there were people moving around them. His first panicked instinct had been to keep the wine bottle upright and the glasses safe, so he didn’t have a hand free to steady himself on a chair.

He wasn’t quite sure what happened next, except that he ended up wobbling and stepping forward instead, and he felt his boot come down on something that was not the floorboards. A small, pathetic, grinding mechanical sound crawled up Matti’s nerves, heel to head, and reached his ears even amidst the noise of the busy room.

“Sorry!” he said at once. “I’m sorry. Was that—Oh, Huna’s teeth.”

The man on the floor jerked his head up, staring at Matti, and Matti stared back.

For a moment all that Matti could see was the wide, straight line of the man’s mouth, set beneath an equally straight nose, and the frame that set off the whole: the dark, luminous copper-red hair that seemed to be trying to grow in about ten different directions.

The man’s tongue darted out in a nervous mannerism, wetting his lower lip. Something in Matti’s own mouth tried to happen in a yearning echo.

“Would you please lift,” the man said precisely, “your godsdamned foot?” Heat flooded Matti’s face. He snatched his foot backwards with enough force that his heel collided with a chair leg.

The redheaded man stood, his fingers closed convulsively tight around a small velvet bag. His brown coat was shabby and made of a coarsely woven fabric, though his shirt was good and his trousers had probably been equally so before they’d been overwashed into a patchy shine.

“Fuck fuck shitting—fuck,” the man said in tones of despair, with a lilt to his accent that placed him at least one city-state farther east: Cienne, or possibly Sanoy. He shook the contents of the bag into his palm and ventured into new realms of inappropriate language as he did so.

Enough people had witnessed their collision, or had their heads turned by the stream of expletives, that there were a fair few necks craning to see what was in the man’s hand. Matti, at whom the shaking fingers of this hand were pointed most directly, couldn’t help seeing for himself the ragged, glinting pile of cogs and jewels and glass. Only the intact cover—monogrammed in a swirling, engraved H—spoke of this pile’s previous existence as a pocket watch. A very expensive pocket watch, by the look of it.

The man’s breath hissed out through his teeth. “Guildmaster Havelot is going to use my arm bones as a fucking lathe. He only had it made to order, and he only trusted me to pick it up, didn’t he? Two hundred gold. Fucking fuck.”

“I’m so sorry,” Matti said again. He recognised the name: Havelot was the Woodworker Guildmaster in Cienne. “Truly. I can—” He stopped. The abrupt lack of his words created a silence that seemed to suck noise into itself, as conversations died to murmurs and the onlookers sensed something interesting.

The man looked straight at Matti with a stubborn lift of his chin. His brows, the same absurd colour as the rest of his hair, had sprung up into the beginnings of hope; as Matti’s silence grew longer, they lowered again. And then lowered farther. He swept a look down and then slowly up Matti’s own outfit, and now pride warred with scorn in the way those maddening lips pressed together.

Matti felt sick. His own coat was made of the finest wool, a midnight blue cut perfectly to his figure, and the rest of his clothes were of the same quality. He was holding a bottle of extremely good wine. Anybody looking at him would make immediate assumptions about the amount of ready money that Matti might have, and the ease with which he would be able to reimburse a poor clerk, if he’d just ruined a pricey piece of artificer’s skill that the man’s employer had trusted him to travel all the way to Glassport to collect.

Of course they would make these assumptions. That was the point.

Matti swallowed and felt the burning heaviness of his purse redouble. He’d be left with enough to a hire a duellist, yes, but not one of the highest skill. It wouldn’t buy himself and his family the absolute security they needed.

His friends were looking at him. It seemed like every pair of eyes in the drinking house was looking, and in another moment the murmurs of curiosity would turn to murmurs of disapprobation. I thought Matti Jay had more honour than that, they would say. What’s two hundred gold to someone like him?

Besides, the plain fact of the matter was that Matti had broken the watch. And he couldn’t pretend that he and this man with his proud mouth and poor coat, patched at one elbow, were on an equal footing. Even if he were left without a bronze, Matti would still have influence, connections, the weight of his family’s name. That was still worth something. For now.

So that was that.

“I—I really am sorry.” Matti set the wine and glasses down on the corner of the nearest table and pulled his purse from inside his coat. He kept his gaze on the man’s face, on a pair of eyes that were either grey or brown—impossible to tell from this angle—and urgently willed them not to look away. To a degree that seemed irrational, he wanted to banish the judgemental expression from the man’s face. “Of course I’ll cover the cost. Two hundred gold. Who did the work?”

The man glanced down at the metal scraps in his hand, as though the answer might be hidden in the pile. “Speck,” he said at last. “Frans Speck, in Amber Lane.”

“He’s a fair man. Tell him what happened and he’ll rush through the repair job,” Matti said. He held out the century notes.

The man tipped the wreckage of the watch back into the bag and closed his hand around the money, slow and wary. His fingertips had rough patches that scraped against Matti’s own, sending a tingle up Matti’s arm.

“I appreciate it,” the man said. He looked less cold now, though still nowhere near warm. “You’ve saved my life. Really.”

Matti forced himself to smile. Forced himself to say, “It’s nothing,” as though it really were nothing.

The man nodded awkwardly at Matti and tucked both money and bag into a pocket. Then he turned and was gone, headed for the door.

Matti somehow made his way to his table and sat down. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear anything else, and he wanted to shout at his own blood to be quiet and let him think. He needed to be alone in his study. He needed to contemplate his options, and make lists, and pore over the accounts for the thousandth time, in case they transmuted themselves into a picture of prosperity instead of the ugly, desperate reality that nobody outside of Matti’s immediate family knew about.

“Two hundred gold,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Two hundred.”

“We saw. Hard luck,” his cousin Roland said, making a face.

Perhaps it was stretching the term to call Roland and Wynn his friends, but they were the closest thing Matti had to members of that category, and the only people he’d been able to think of to form his wedding party. At least the three of them never found it too hard to pick up their acquaintanceship again, even if it had been months since their last conversation.

Wynn turned the bottle of wine to inspect the yellow butterfly on the label. “How appropriate that we’re drinking wine from your betrothed’s own winery.”

“Audry’s idea of a joke, I think,” Matti said. The word betrothed had landed in his ears like a piece of music played in an unfamiliar key; his mind was still turning it over, trying to decide how it felt about the melody. His hand was shaking as he poured the first glass, sending the stream of dark wine shivering and slipping. He’d steadied it by the time he poured the second.

“Huna smile,” he said, opening the toasts by lifting his own glass. “Thanks for agreeing to stand up with me, you two.”

“Drown your sorrows in this one, and by the time we hit the next bottle you’ll remember that you’re here to celebrate. And that once you’re married to Sofia Cooper,” Roland went on, lowering his voice sympathetically, “Jay House will be rolling in enough money to replace a hundred watches.”

Except that Matti had to get himself successfully married in the first place. And he’d just lost his best guarantee of doing so.

He let the old, gorgeous wine flood down his throat until a good third of his glass had vanished. He felt lightheaded; it had to be panic, because the wine couldn’t be working that fast. Panic and a sense of becoming unmoored. And the image of the man’s face, pale and sharply beautiful, gazing up from where he was kneeling at Matti’s feet.

“A fair effort,” Wynn said, when Matti put the glass down. “But I’ll show you children of Huna how it’s done.” He raised his own glass. “Agar fill your plates and cups.”

Matti smiled and drank again, accepting the toast. Maybe the wine was working after all. He could still feel his panic, the wound-up watch of his worry, but he shoved it away into a recess of his mind: its own small, dark velvet bag. It would be safe enough there. It would last until tomorrow. Matti’s ability to worry was shatterproof.

For now, he was going to drink.

#Bramble #Booklr #New books #Tbr #Swordcrossed #Freya Marske #LGBTQ #Fantasy #Romance

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boolger · 3 months ago

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A lapdog at a farm - chapter 1

AO3 link. next chapter -> Call of duty. Explicit, 18+, minors do not interact. read the tags. wc: 4,147

Maybe support me on kofi?🥺👉👈

Farmer!John Price x Hybrid!Reader, hybrid! Kyle Gaz Garrick x hybrid! Johnny Soap MacTavish x hybrid! Simon Ghost, John Price x Nikolai.

Summary: When Price was young and left his childhood home, a farm in the middle of nowhere in England, he didn’t enter the military. Instead he moved to London, got a degree and a good career, earning good money. He got you, a human dog hybrid as a pet, after feeling lonely - and you lived your best life for years, spoiled and pampered, Price’s lapdog who got praised at every party. Loved and fucked every night. That was until Price decided to return to his roots and go back to farming - dragging you along to the middle of nowhere, away from all the wonders of the big city. Expecting you to accept this sudden change in lifestyle and pretend to be a farm dog. Bad luck however, because you fucking hated it, and became more and more unruly. In hopes of getting you to calm down and to keep his live-stock and farm safe, Price then got three working dog hybrids - and all at once, your life was even worse than before.

tags: Rape/non-con elements, dub-con, dog!hybrid!people being kept as pets, alternative universe - farm, dark, farmer!John Price, working-dogs, punishments, mating cycles/rut/heat (no omegaverse), the dove isn't dead but its dying, reader is a brat, knotting, animal tails and ears, mentions of trauma, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, collars, rough sex, breeding kink, biting, threesome, foursome, everyone is fucking your honor, enemies to lovers, chubby reader, reader has a pussy

author's note: Hi sinners <33 Just a heads up; the reader is gonna be a spoiled brat. If you want a smart and sweet reader who isn’t mean at times, well. Bad news. This ain’t it.🥰The reader is she / her and has a pussy and is chubby. I tried my best to keep the descriptions somewhat vague otherwise. Reader is a cocker spaniel hybrid. I will tell the others along the way. In this universe, hybrids have ears, tail, claws beneath nails and canine fangs. There will be heats and ruts but there is no omegaverse. They will have personality traits of their dog breed and so on. Now. I know there aren’t wild wolves in the UK… but in this fic there is, ok? mwah.

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The countryside was peaceful compared to the city; the absence of the bustling streets and constant traffic, created a quietness that was indescribable.

Out here, at the new farm, the noises only came from animals that lived in the stables and barn or the occasional rumble as a tractor turned on. The wind caressed the never ending fields of wheat and the long rows of fruit trees, under which the goats and sheep walked most days.

The stress here wasn’t the same kind as in the city. Sure , there were stressful moments and sometimes Price looked like he needed to sleep for more than just the few hours he got everyday.

But he didn’t have to worry about the morning traffic, waiting in a queue for an overpriced, questionable tea or coffee. There was no need for him to wear a suit, no noisy, overfilled train cars in the underground. No crowded dog or hybrid parks, no meetings or rules to follow - except those John Price decided for himself.

He was happy, so much was clear to you. It had been three months since the move - Johnhad gone back to his roots, buying back the farm that his parents had used to own a little while ago, using some of his endless wealth on renovating the place. There was no step on the stairs that was loose, like it used to when he was a kid - sure they still creaked, but you weren’t afraid they would disappear from beneath you.

It was modernized, but most of the old charm left. Price fit right in; the furniture he had inherited and never believed he would use was suddenly in the living room. His knowledge of the business world was abandoned in the city, for the knowledge of farming that he still had left from his youth. John got a couple of farm hands and workers, who helped him with the big place.

It was like he reclaimed his own self that had been buried beneath the suits, ties and paperwork. Now he didn’t smoke his cigars from stress, but from pleasure, clearly much content.

It was like the farm had truly made John Price happy once more; his smiles more genuine, his true self stepping forth. Returning to his childhood home and taking over the farm had been the best decision Price had made. There was no question about it.

… and you hated every bloody day at the farm.

The early morning hours in bed with him, being disturbed by the farm waking up, the rooster crowing and John leaving the bed, giving you a pat in between your ears, taking all the heat with him. The constant bugs, the muddy stables and the big animals, the helpers who always teased you for not fitting in, the lack of friends you had out here. The foxes’ screams in the night, the wolves howling, and the cows occasionally mooing sounded like creatures stepping out of nightmares.

You were not made for farm life. Literally. Simply not made for it.

Some would argue that you, as a hybrid pet, didn’t have a say in it and sure , legally you didn’t. But you were a lapdog, an elegant pet. Not a farm dog. Created to be cared for and cuddled, you were a purebred cocker spaniel hybrid; you weren’t made to run around on a farm, following John on his duties And doing work.

Sure, you had the instincts to hunt a few things here and there, but it was mostly balls and the occasional bird or squirrel. You weren’t a guard hybrid, not really a working dog.

You had had enough trauma throughout your life - you deserved not to be forced into this! You had grown up being trained to be a lapdog, not a working-dog like you felt like John expected you to act like now.

You wanted John to be happy, you really did - you loved your Master! When he bought you a few years ago, when you were still aggressive and unruly (… more than now at least), you had thought he would tire of you like everybody else had. But with patience, rules, training, praise and punishment and a whole lot of sex later, you were a perfect hybrid pet for the city! People always praised how well you looked, laughing when Price said you were really a little troublemaker. You would follow him throughout the fancy apartment, on your daily walks, sometimes for meetings.

But why the fuck did it have to be a farm? He worked somwwhat the same time that he did before, genuinely seeming to enjoy himself. Forgetting about poor you!

Out here, there were no hybrid daycare that you would go to when he had long days, there were none of your playmates nearby, everything stank of animals and there were no places nearby for you to get your hair and fur styled and pampered! No nail technicians, no fancy cafes, no shops for John to buy you things in! No special made coffee or chef-made meals every other evening, no freshly baked croissants.

You felt like you had tried . You really had.

But after the first week, you had your first breakdown - and as the weeks passed, they didn’t stop. At first, John was sympathetic, like the perfect owner he was.

Cooing at you, kissing your forehead, as he gently scratched your ears. Kissing away any tears, saying it was okay - that you were just overwhelmed, that it would be okay. That you would come to like it out here.

Big fucking joke.

He had tried every trick in the book, in an attempt to please you and made you less upset, but as days turned into weeks and tantrums began to appear, you knew his patience began to disappear.

He followed professional advice and then the advice of the neighbors down the street, Rodolfo and Alejandro (who had caught you running away at one point), tried some of the workers’ advice. He had given you your own room, and it was mostly designed like your own, perfect to the pale green paint on the wall, all your toys and dog beds, your CDs - everything. He had tried hauling you along every day, trying to give you a routine to follow - but after two weeks, he gave up, not having the energy to deal with a tantrum that got worse and worse each day. He went on walks with you, fucked you silly, tried his best — and you didn’t want it.

No, you wanted to go back to your old life. Not this country life that you hadn’t signed up for, with horses that neighed loudly whenever you passed them; they were definitely going to trample you at the first chance, you knew that. You could hear foxes scream in the night, warning you of the dangers. The goats and sheep were so fucking loud and no you didn’t want to go pick fresh apples off the trees - had he seen the size of the spiders crawling on them?

When you in one of your biggest tantrums took off and bolted from the farm in distress, Rodolfo and Alejandro had almost hit you when you emerged from the corn fields onto the road.

You had cried the entire drive home, no matter what the two men had tried saying, especially as Rodolfo called Price in advance — your master was livid . The worst thing was, that it was not that kind of anger where he yelled at you before punishing you - no, this one was almost silent, a sharp grip on your collar as he dragged you along after thanking his neighbours.

He had belted you then, ignoring your crying and screaming, only stopping when you broke, sobbing and going quiet. He had explained it to you then, what could have happened, what dangers you could have ended in - and as you sobbingly apologized and tried to explain, that you wanted to go back to the city, John had sighed .

Said that he had pampered you too much since he got you, which had made you greedy and attention seeking. Which only made you cry more, as you hid your face in his neck, fingers digging into his shirt, ass cheeks burning.

“Spoiled rotten, little birdie,” he mused, though you could hear the softness in him, your tail wagging a little, hoping to get him to be less mad.

“‘M sorry,” you had whined in distress, upset with yourself as well, ears tipping down, “wanna be good but I don’t like it.”

Your rather dull escape attempt resulted in several things. An AirTag on your collar, so that he always knew where you were. A remarkable lack of treats, sex and then… the crate .

You fucking hated the dog crate.

Sure, it hadn’t been nice of you to bite one of his pillows into a simple pulp of fabric, feathers everywhere. Or create chaos in the kitchen… or get drunk on his fancy whiskey (that one had ended worse for you, hangover was a bitch and there wasn’t much sympathy from John). And yes, you might have ripped most of the flowers surrounding the house up, until one of the workers had caught you. Maybe pissing yourself in the middle of the living room while staring him in the eyes and ignoring his warnings had been a little…excessive.

But the dog crate? You hated that thing with a burning passion.

Hated it when he locked you up, ignoring your whimpers and whines, your promises to behave, ignoring your little howls as he left.

Mean. The farm had made him mean. Perhaps you had become a bit unruly too, but it was like he didn’t take your clear suffering seriously.

Mean and happy - unruly and suffering. What a pair you were. One of the workers, KAte Laswell, who was a big helper and often stayed over for dinner, suggested a fucking shock collar. You had growled, only stopped when John sent you a sharp look.

You had even heard him talking over the phone with somebody, saying that he didn’t want to rehome you, but he didn’t know what to do.

That had made you melt a little and you had cried as you had crawled into his bed a couple of hours later, begging him to not abandon you. Fears of never getting to see John again or being loved again by him made you cling onto him as he kissed away your tears, gently fucking you.

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It was a random morning a couple of days later, that you found him still in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, humming to himself while smoking a cigar.

He looked nice like this. Despite how he sometimes muttered about being too old, he wasn’t really that old. Late thirties, and perhaps it was the peace on his face or the sun rays that kissed him, which made him look younger. But still. There was a decade between you, but days like this, you were reminded that it didn’t matter.

“Are you going to stare all day or are you going to join me, Darling?” He asked teasingly, pulling you from your thoughts. You let out a little huff and kissed him good morning, receiving a pat on the ass before you sat down on your own seat. It had been a while since the two of you had eaten together - often he was up at the crack of dawn, so his calm behavior and gentle humming was unusual to say the least.

“Why are you not working?” You asked carefully, as you ate some of the bread, trying to ignore how it wasn’t a fancy sourdough one - though you were pretty sure he had picked it up from a local bakery in the village which was a little drive away.

“Because,” he put the paper down, then tapping some ash off the cigar into his ashtray, before looking over at you, a pleased smile on his face, “you and I are going on a trip.”

“A trip?” You didn’t even bother to be embarrassed about how your voice got higher with excitement or how your tail thumped against the backrest of the chair as you wagged it, “where are we going? When? Can we go now?”

Price had laughed, a happy sound that you knew not many got to hear; it made your heart beat a little faster, made you feel butterflies in your stomach.

“Well, we got to do a few things first to get ready, and you ,” he used the cigar to point at you, your tail wagging a little faster, “need to not freak out when I tell you where we are going.”

Despite the warning, tears streamed down your cheeks when he told you. John didn’t get mad as a part of you had expected; he knew your abandonment issues first hand, knew how you had been left behind before, from one bad owner to another.

“You’re going to sell me and leave me with a mean owner and I’m gonna die of hunger and thirst - and - and —“

“Not gonna leave you, princess,” John crooned, covering your face in kisses as you hiccuped and sniffled, clinging to his clothes, “you know that. My favorite puppy. Pretty girl.”

Despite your tears and small sobs, your tail wagged at his words, “silly puppy,” he mused with a smile, gently scratching your lower back, “‘m not gonna sell you. Ale and Rodolfo are looking for a hybrid, I figured we could go look at the auction as well.”

“What if - what if - what if you’ll like them more?” You sniffled dramatically, sure that your life was only going to become worse than it already was. One thing was this bloody farm and the crate, another thing was having to share Price. You didn’t like the idea one bit. If that happened, you were going to show him how a proper tantrum was thrown - the crate would probably be the least of your worries.

As if to prove his love, John bent you over the table, fucking you in between the clattering dishes and cutlery, tea and coffee almost spilling over. Despite how many times your owner fucked you, it made you lose control of your mind every single time. His cock reached so deep inside you that it bordered on pain, your mouth open as you panted and moaned at each thrust; your soft stomach being pressed against the edge of the table, one hand holding onto the back of your collar, the other on your tail. The table rattled, John groaned and moaned, your fingers desperately trying to hold onto anything.

“My princess,” he snarled darkly into your ear, “you’ll always be mine-“ a moan, a grunt, “- no matter what happens, yeah?”

“Yes ye-ah- yes, sir, I’m yours - ah ah - I’m yours!” you managed in between pants and wails of pleasure, fear of abandonment forgotten in the ocean of euphoric satisfaction.

You came harder than you had for a while; the reminder of your worth, of how you deserved his worship, making you cream around his throbbing length, legs in spasms afterwards. He pushed deeper, filling you up with a loud roar like sound, his hands moving to grab onto the fat of your ass and hips as he came. Pain and pleasure made your toes curl and a content sigh left you, your tail wagging against Price as he chuckled.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The auction hall was filled to the brim with humans and hybrids alike. Every owned hybrid followed their respective owners, all wearing mandatory leashes so no pets would be confused with the ones that were being sold. You wore your own pink one with pride, gem stones sparkling. A matching leash connected to the D-ring on it, that also bore your tags. You were convinced yours were the most beautiful in this entire place.

“They’re bonded,” Laswell pointed out, pointing to the papers that hung nearby, showing off general information about them, “gotta get all three.”

You dared to look at the little board with the informations about the three hybrids they were looking at.

“Ah, we don't have space for three, mi amor.”

“eso es una pena,” Rodolfo answered, while you looked over at John - who kept looking at the three hybrids. You dared to peek over at them.

All three of them were enormous .

Two of them wore muzzles, meaning they were biters. At least at the auction. You shouldn’t judge then, not really, but you did... Even though you had worn a muzzle five years ago, when Price had chosen you. You hadn’t tried biting people out of malice; you had been scared and angry at the world. Angry for being abandoned once more, over the fact that you were most likely being passed on to another abusive master. You leaned a little closer to Price, taking in his scent.

Even from the start, despite all the problems and your attitude problems, he had been sweet. Strict at times — probably not enough — but kind.

The biggest one looked like a Great Pyrenees breed, most likely. The fur on his ears and tail looked shorter, badly cut. Probably due to matting or if he refused to get it cut. His hair, a dark blonde almost brown, was in a buzz cut. He had scars, all over - unable to hide because of the lack of clothes most hybrids were given, only underwear. There was a lot in his face, though you suspected a bunch were hidden by the muzzle. He stared into nothing, his ears curled back, though they moved now and again, listening to different sounds.

“Hard to get sold,” Laswell commented and you looked over at her in synchronicity with John, “they’re ex-military.”

Like he had been called to them, a man who wore one of the seller badges appeared.

“They’re obedient once they fall into place,” he happily explained, going full seller-mode, “they’re just not too fond of the auctions - too many people.”

“Makes sense,” Price mused, clearly interested - much to your annoyance. The fact that he asked follow up questions made you frown, fingers tightening in his shirt. He was here to look. To help Alejandro and Rodolfo, who both had continued their walk. You dared to look over at the hybrids again. All three were staring at you and John.

“How come they were discharged?”

“One of them got a hearing loss -“ he nodded towards them, “the one with the mohawk. And they’re a bonded pack.”

“So only retiring him was out of the question,” John concluded once more looking over at them.

You felt your tail go in between your legs. He couldn’t be seriously considering those three . you couldn’t help but let out a small whine. Price gave your leash a little tug.

“They’re working dogs,” the seller continued, his eyes flickering to you, making you huff, “so they’ll need something to do, not just be pets.”

“Oh I know. I have a farm. Need some work dogs - this one isn’t guarding much.”

They all laughed, your tail going even further between your legs with embarrassment.

“You can’t be serious,” you whined in a whisper to John, not caring that you sounded needy - spoiled would Laswell had said and you ignored her as she rolled her eyes.

“Hush, Princess.” John didn’t even look at you.

“You have animals there?” The seller asked, “one of them is a herding dog - the border collie.”

“I do - several. That’s why there's a need for guarding dogs as well, bloody wolves have been terrorizing us.”

You knew he was telling the truth; he had muttered about dead sheeps and goats several times - even a calf had lost its life to the wolves in the area, despite he and Laswell having shot two already. Even foxes had gotten into the coop, despite the fences.

“They’re good at that too, with their training,” the seller offered, clearly interested in selling them or at least getting John to bid on them. “The one with the mohawk, Soap , will have hearing aids with him, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

You looked over at this “Soap”, scrunching your nose. They were still staring, the biggest one bending down to listen to the third one, a beautiful black man, whisper in his ear. No doubt judging you.

“It says here they don’t do well with others,” you muttered, in a desperate attempt to sway John, pointing to the board with their papers. It did indeed say so, to which you wanted to argue that YOU should be his main focus in this whole thing - how would he even consider adding them to your household if these dogs could get a hold of you?

“It’s in the sense that they’re not really housetrained to be social family pets,” the seller swooped in, pushing your argument away, annoying you even more, “they’ve had missions all their lives. They need to have something to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll get along with them, sweetheart,” Price answered, giving you a small scratch beneath your chin as he finally looked over at you, a glint in his eyes, “some company will do you good.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. Hardly . Price’s smile told you that he thought this was a great idea however. You dared to look at the men again. Still staring, fucking bastards.

The black man seemed like a mix of some breeds, German shepherd and… you looked shortly at the board. Belgian malinois. Fancy. He wasn’t as tall as the big one, but broad and with scars as well. There was a more slender look to him, but his six pack proved he was strong. His curly hair wasn’t too long, probably cut not too long ago. He was looking at you curiously, making you raise your upper lip a little, as if to warn him.

The one with the hearing loss looked like some sort of border collie - covered in scars as well, some of his skin looking like it had been too close to fire. He was broad like the two others, his upper arms the size of your head. He even sent you a cheeky grin, even daring to wink at you. You just looked away, tipping your chin up a little.

“You can look closer if you want, sir?”

You were pulled back into the conversation at once and before you could argue, John had already passed on your leash to Laswell and walked towards the men with the seller. You whined, distressed that he was really, actually considering this.

“You’ll be fine,” Laswell commented calmly, with empathy in her voice for once, though she didn’t look at you, merely at John and the others.

“He is gonna lose interest in me,” you whined, perhaps a little dramatically, bottom lip wobbling a little as you could feel tears welling up in your eyes, “then he’ll leave me in the crate all day and only care about them an—“

“Calm down,” Laswell said, “you’ll work yourself into a fuss.”

“He can’t do this to me,” you argued in a sullen voice, already imagining John forgetting all about you, focusing on these three hybrids for the rest of his life, leaving you cold and lonely inside the dog crate - maybe even rehoming you, “he promised he wouldn’t get rid of me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Laswell answered just as calmly as before, “John loves you too much, you’re just being spoiled. Hanging out with some working dogs will do you good.”

“They probably have fleas,” you said, your prejudices seeping into your words, knowing you’re being mean, judgmental against your own kind, “they’ll kill me and eat my dead body.”

Laswell laughed. “No they won’t. Worst thing they’ll do, is probably knock you up.”

A high pitched, scandalized sound left you, despite knowing you had an implant. Laswell laughed again, giving your leash a little yank and then scratching you behind your long ears.

“Settle, Princess. That won’t happen without John’s permission.”

You almost cried at the sight of John shaking the seller’s hand.

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They all met up again for the actual auction part and you sat at John’s feet, sniffling a little. Crying hadn’t helped, in fact John had just petted and kissed you, calling you sensitive. Alejandro had gotten a hybrid earlier that they didn’t need to bid on - she was for sale for a certain price. Something about being too intense without enough space to roam, having attacked others before.

Fucking great. Beasts all around you.

John won the bidding on the three working dog hybrids he had been interested in - because of course he did. He spent way too much money on them too, according to you.

One more - or well, three more fucking things to hate about this “farming life” that had been forced upon you.

Maybe John had gone mad.

next chapter ->

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