#Grand Master of Ceremonies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ahqkas · 2 months ago

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Hii! I love ur writing sm could I get blurbs of the batboys on their wedding day with a gn reader? Tysm if you choose to write this 🙏🙏

♯YOU’RE THE ONLY GOOD THING IN MY LIFE

— gn!reader, mention of reader’s hair in dick’s blurb, i recommend listening to HIM ( for example )

BRUCE WAYNE

THE GRAND BUILDING of wayne manor seemed even more striking today, bathed in the golden light of an early morning sun. the sprawling estate had been prepared for the occasion, elegant floral arrangements lining the grounds, their soft fragrance mingling with the crisp air. despite the planning, the day felt intimate, almost sacred—a rare glimpse into the man behind gotham’s most famous name.

bruce wayne stood in front of the floor-length mirror in his suite, adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly tailored black suit. the tie was already straight, the jacket fitted to perfection, but his hands lingered. a rare sign of nerves. alfred, standing a few paces away, gave him a knowing look, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips.

“you’re fidgeting, master wayne,” alfred pointed out gently, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “i don’t believe i’ve ever seen you this unsettled.”

bruce paused, exhaling slowly as he dropped his hands to his sides. “it’s not nerves,” he said, though the slight quirk of his brow betrayed him. “it’s . . . anticipation.”

“ah, of course,” the butler replied, stepping forward to adjust bruce’s pocket square with practiced precision. “a monumental day, indeed. though, if i may say so, [name] already endured countless dinners with the board of wayne enterprises and spent more time in the batcave than i ever expected of anyone not wearing a cape. i daresay they’re ready for this.”

the bat man chuckled softly, shaking his head. “i know they are. it’s me i’m worried about. for once, it feels like i can’t afford to get it wrong, alfred.”

alfred’s gaze softened, and he rested a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “if there’s one thing you’ve gotten right, master wayne, it’s them.”

bruce’s lips pressed into a small, grateful smile, but before he could respond, the door creaked open, and dick peeked his head in. “hey, it’s almost time,” he said, grinning as he took in bruce’s uncharacteristically pensive demeanor. “you ready?”

the main man of the day glanced at the mirror one last time before nodding, his confidence returning with each step toward the life he was about to solidify.

DICK GRAYSON

THE SUN WAS beginning to set over the city, casting golden hues across the skyline as the ceremony transitioned into the reception. the rooftop of the gotham conservatory had been transformed into a romantic haven, strings of fairy lights crisscrossing above, glowing softly like fireflies. the gentle hum of conversation and clinking glasses mixed with the distant sounds of the city below, but dick’s focus was entirely on you.

you stood a few feet away, talking animatedly with barbara gordon, your laughter ringing out like music to his ears. dick found himself frozen, his heart stumbling in his chest upon the sight of you. you looked stunning, of course, but it wasn’t just that. it was the way you smiled, the way you held yourself, the way you seemed to brighten the space around you.

you were glowing.

this was it. this was his life now—your life now. together ( forever ) .

he shook himself out of his reverie as barbara caught his eye and shot him a knowing look before excusing herself politely from your conversation. you turned toward him, your smile softening into something more intimate as your eyes met.

“hi, husband,” you teased as he crossed the space to you, your voice low enough that only he could hear.

dick grinned, slipping his arms around your waist as he pulled you closer. “hi, my love.” he leaned in, his lips brushing against your temple in a soft kiss. “you having fun?”

you gave him a nod, resting your hands on his chest as you looked up at him. “i think so. everyone seems happy, and the food’s amazing. but what about you? you’ve been running around all day. when are you going to take a break and actually enjoy your own wedding?”

a chuckle escaped his lips while his long fingers traced absent patterns against the small of your back. “i’m enjoying it right now. you’re here. that’s all i need.”

your cheeks flushed slightly, but you rolled your eyes, playfully swatting his arm. “you’re such a sap.”

“and you married me anyway,” he shot back, leaning down until his forehead rested lightly against yours. he could feel your every breath, could inhale the very smell of your perfume. some might say a core memory formed at that moment, one he’d replay every time before he went to bed.

“questionable decision,” you teased, though the warmth in your eyes betrayed your words.

dick laughed, his smile as bright and effortless as the first time you met. he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face before cradling your cheek in his palm. “you’re incredible, you know that? this whole day—it’s perfect because of you. i don’t know how i got so lucky, but i promise, i’m not taking a second of it for granted.”

the sincerity in his voice made your heart ache in the best way, and you leaned into his touch, your hand covering his. “you’re pretty incredible yourself, grayson. and if anyone’s lucky, it’s me.”

he shook his head, his grin turning almost boyish. “nope. i’m definitely winning here. but we can call it even if you let me have this dance.”

you raised a brow, glancing at the small dance floor where a few couples swayed to the soft music drifting from the live quartet. “we’ve already danced, like, three times.”

“yeah, well, it’s our wedding. i’m legally obligated to monopolize you tonight.”

as the music swelled around you, the city lights twinkling in the distance, you knew without a doubt that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

JASON TODD

THE RECEPTION WAS in full swing, the wayne manor gardens glowing under a canopy of twinkling fairy lights strung between towering oak trees. lanterns dotted the grounds, casting soft golden hues over the tables draped in white linens. the sound of music carried through the crisp evening air, blending with laughter and the hum of conversation as friends and family celebrated the night away.

jason stood near the bar, his tie loosened, one hand wrapped around a glass of champagne he hadn’t really touched. his gaze was locked on you across the dance floor, where you were laughing at something alfred had just said. the old butler had a warm smile as he handed you another slice of cake, and you accepted it with the kind of grin that made jason’s chest ache.

your outfit was making you look like something out of a dream. his dream. jason had always thought weddings were too much—too over-the-top, too showy. but now, seeing you like this, he got it.

you spotted him before he reached you, your laughter softening into a warm smile as your eyes met. he held out a hand towards you, his touch gentle but firm, like he was grounding himself in the moment. “dance with me?” he asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear, a rare softness coloring his tone.

you didn’t even hesitate, setting your plate down and slipping your hand into his. “i thought you’d never ask.”

jason led you to the center of the dance floor, the noise around you fading as he pulled you close. one hand rested on your waist, the other clasping yours, his movements steady despite the usual roughness of his demeanor. the music slowed, and the two of you swayed together, your head resting against his shoulder as the world narrowed to just the two of you.

“i still can’t believe this is real,” he murmured after a while, his voice a little rough, like he was holding back more than he was saying.

you lifted your head to look at him, your smile soft and teasing. “what? that you’re married? or that you survived a wedding without causing a scene?”

he huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “both, probably. but mostly you. us. i never thought i’d get something like this. someone like you.”

your heart clenched at the vulnerability in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were something precious. “jason,” you breathed out his name softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “you deserve this. you deserve every bit of happiness in the world. even if you don’t think so.”

“i don’t know what i did to deserve you, but i’m not letting go. not ever.”

“you better not,” you teased, though your voice wavered slightly, emotion thick in your throat.

jason leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered, as if he was memorizing the feel of you in his arms. when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his lips curling into the kind of smile he only ever gave you—soft, private, unguarded. a smile that was yours and yours only.

TIM DRAKE

THE RECEPTION WAS winding down, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating the gardens of wayne manor. the gentle hum of conversation and laughter mingled with the distant chirp of crickets, but tim was oblivious to it all. he stood under the sprawling oak tree where the two of you had first shared a quiet moment earlier in the evening. now, it was just the two of you, the chaos of the day finally giving way to a well deserved moment of peace.

tim looked at you, his suit jacket draped over his arm, his tie slightly loosened, and his dark hair still perfectly messy despite the long day. you were sitting on the edge of the stone bench beneath the tree. the faintest blush of moonlight kissed your features, making you look like something out of a dream.

he hesitated for a moment, as if trying to commit the image of you to memory, before finally stepping forward and offering you his hand. “dance with me?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with that quiet confidence you’d always found so endearing.

you looked up, a small smile playing on your lips. “there’s no music.”

tim shrugged, his hand still outstretched. “doesn’t mean we can’t dance.”

you let out a quiet laugh but slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. he guided you to the soft patch of grass beneath the tree, his other hand resting lightly on your waist. his movements were a little stiff at first, the awkwardness that always crept in when he wasn’t behind a computer screen or a mission plan. but as you rested your head against his shoulder, he relaxed, his fingers curling slightly against your back.

the world seemed to shrink around you, the distant sounds of the reception fading away until it was just the rustle of the wind in the trees and the soft rhythm of your breathing. tim’s heart thudded against your cheek, steady and grounding, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“you know,” you murmured after a moment, your voice breaking the silence, “i think this is my favorite part of the day.”

your husband pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at you. “really? not the ceremony? or the cake? or bruce’s awkward toast?”

you laughed at the memory of bruce’s overly formal speech, but shook your head. “those were great. But this . . . this feels like us. quiet, simple, just real.”

“i like that. us.”

you tilted your head, your gaze searching his. “yeah?”

“yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “because no matter what happens, no matter how crazy things get, this is what i’ll always come back to. you and me.”

the two of you swayed there for a while longer, the rest of the world forgotten as the stars glittered above. and in that moment, beneath the old oak tree and the soft glow of the lanterns, you knew you’d found your forever.

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pucksandpower · 9 months ago

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Going Once, Going Twice

Charles Leclerc x Red Bull engineer!Reader

Summary: getting roped into participating in a charity date auction changes your life forever

The lights in the grand ballroom dim as a spotlight illuminates the stage. The Master of Ceremonies, wearing an impeccably tailored tuxedo, steps up to the microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” His voice booms through the speakers. “Welcome to the 12th Annual Amber Lounge F1 Charity Date Auction!”

The crowd erupts into raucous applause. You clap politely from your seat near the back of the room, shrouded in shadows.

“As always, we have an exciting lineup of eligible bachelors and bachelorettes from the Formula 1 paddock, ready to be auctioned off for a romantic date in support of disadvantaged children everywhere.”

More applause.

“But before we bring out our first participant, allow me to go over some ground rules.” The MC adopts a mock-stern tone. “Winners of each date are required to adhere to Amber Lounge’s code of conduct. That means hands to yourself at all times-” A few hoots and hollers from the audience. The MC wags his finger. “Ah ah ah, none of that now! This is for charity, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s keep it classy.”

You stifle a yawn. You’ve attended this auction for the past five years as a guest of Red Bull Racing, where you work as a race engineer. And every year it’s the same — watch your drunk colleagues get leered at by moneyed Formula 1 fans willing to pay exorbitant sums for bragging rights.

No thank you. You always politely decline the organizers’ requests for you to participate.

“Alright, let’s get this party started!” The MC gestures to the wings of the stage. “Our first eligible bachelor of the evening is ...”

As he announces the first victim, an Amber Lounge organizer you recognize comes rushing over to you.

“Y/N! Thank god I found you. We have an emergency.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, Lucy?”

“One of our bachelorettes had to cancel last minute. Food poisoning.” She makes a face. “We need you to fill in.”

Your eyes widen. “What? No. Absolutely not.” You shake your head vehemently.

“Please Y/N,” Lucy begs. “We need you. The show must go on, for the children!”

“Get someone else,” you hiss. “I refuse to be leered at by old men with more money than sense.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” She gives you a stern look. “It’s unbecoming for someone your age.”

You bristle at the condescension. “I don’t care. Find another victim.”

You move to leave but Lucy grabs your arm, her eyes pleading. “Y/N, the money raised tonight will help provide life-saving surgeries for children in need. Don’t you want to help them?”

Damn. She’s good. You hesitate, cursing your bleeding heart.

Lucy presses on. “It’s just one silly little date. And you might meet someone nice!”

You highly doubt that. With a heavy sigh, you slump back into your chair.

“Fine. But you owe me. Big time.”

Lucy claps excitedly. “Thank you! I promise, you won’t regret this.”

Somehow you doubt that too.

You try unsuccessfully to calm the butterflies raging in your stomach as you wait for your turn on stage. What have you gotten yourself into?

Finally, the MC calls your name. “Our next eligible bachelorette works as a race engineer for Red Bull. But tonight, the only engine she’ll be working on is yours! Let’s give a warm welcome to Y/N Y/L/N!”

Plastering a fake smile on your face, you walk stiffly onto the stage. The lights blind you as the MC sings your praises, highlighting your “beauty, brains, and sass.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

As he finally wraps up, you scan the darkened audience nervously. A sea of unfamiliar faces look back at you, shadows obscuring their expressions. You shudder.

“Alright gentlemen, do I hear 5,000 euros to start?”

Immediately, a paunchy, ruddy-faced man in the third row thrusts up his paddle. Your stomach sinks.

"5,000 from the gentleman in row three! Do I hear 5,500?”

Another paddle shoots up from a bald man smirking lecherously at you. Your throat tightens.

"5,500! Can I get 6,000?”

The bids climb higher and you feel faint. These vultures want to buy you. Own you for a night. Your breaths come faster.

10,000 euros. 15,000. 20,000. Sweat drips down your neck as your heart hammers against your ribs.

Just as you’re about to flee the stage in tears, a smooth voice calls out, “One hundred thousand euros.”

A collective gasp sweeps the room. Your mouth falls open in shock. That’s an absurd amount, even for charity.

The MC gulps. “Erm … 100,000 euros from the gentleman in the back!” He peers into the darkness. “Sir, are you certain?”

“Oui.”

That accent … could it be?

You crane your neck, squinting against the glare of the spotlight. A familiar mop of brown hair emerges from the shadows.

Charles. Freaking. Leclerc.

Your cheeks burn crimson. What game is he playing at?

The MC finds his voice again. “R-right then. Going once, going twice ...” He slams the gavel down. “Sold for 100,000 euros! Congratulations, Monsieur Leclerc.”

Charles saunters casually up to the stage, signature smirk in place. He takes your hand and presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles.

“Bonsoir, ma cherie. I look forward to our date.” He winks roguishly.

You stare open-mouthed, brain short-circuiting. Charles Leclerc just bought you at a date auction.

Il Predestinato.

The golden boy of Scuderia Ferrari himself.

What. Just. Happened?

***

Backstage is chaos. Flashes pop as winners pose with their purchases, champagne flowing freely. You’re quickly shuttled into a cramped makeshift office and handed a stack of paperwork.

“These are your date waivers, dear,” the organizer says briskly. “Standard liability forms.”

You scan the dense legalese numbly. This can’t be real.

A figure plops into the seat beside you, sulking. It’s your friend Ava, Mercedes’ social media manager. She was auctioned right before you.

“Well, congratu-bloody-lations,” she gripes. “Aren’t you Little Miss Popular.”

You glance up distractedly from the waiver you’re signing. “Hmm?”

“Don’t play coy. Bagging the Prince of Monaco himself for your date!” She narrows her eyes. “Meanwhile, I’m stuck going for tea and crumpets with Lord Fartington the Third over here.”

She jerks her thumb at a white-haired man being attended to by a nurse, oxygen tank wheezing.

You wince sympathetically. “Oh Ava, I’m sorry...”

She waves a hand. “Don’t be. At least the old codger’s loaded. Clearly I don’t have your charm.”

You snort. “It’s not like I planned this.”

Ava arches a brow. “You expect me to believe you aren’t thrilled about a date with Leclerc?”

Your cheeks flame as you recall Charles’ roguish wink. “It’s for charity,” you mumble.

“Uh huh. Well, you’re welcome for the extra Instagram followers.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. You hadn’t even considered the social media storm this would stir up.

Before you can spiral further, you’re pulled aside for a “date planning session.”

Charles is already there, looking completely unflappable. He greets you with a heart-stopping grin.

“Bonsoir, Y/N.”

You timidly return his smile. “Hi.”

A coordinator claps briskly. “Right! Let’s get your date scheduled.”

She turns expectantly to Charles. Your stomach flutters.

“I will pick Y/N up tomorrow at 7 pm sharp for dinner at my favorite restaurant in Monaco.” His eyes glint. “Wear something nice, chérie.”

He takes your hand, brushing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. You shudder, face aflame.

“Until then, ma belle.” With a roguish wink, he turns and saunters off.

You stare after him, fingers pressed to the spot his lips touched. A date. With Charles Leclerc. Your brain short-circuits.

“Right, that’s settled then!” The coordinator chirps, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll have a car fetch you tomorrow evening. The press will want photos, of course.”

You distantly agree, mind still whirling. You survive the rest of the paperwork marathon in a daze.

By the time you escape the clutches of the organizers, you’re exhausted. Collapsing into an Uber, you text your roommate Cassie a SOS. Wine and girl talk, stat.

She’s waiting with open arms and your emergency rosé when you drag yourself in the door.

“Rough night, babe?” She asks sympathetically, handing you a generously filled glass.

You groan. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Her eyes widen as you recount the auction. By the end, she’s fanning herself dramatically.

“Shut up. Charles Leclerc really bid 100 thousand euros for you?”

You nod, chugging your wine.

“Holy shit.” She falls back against the couch. “You have a date with an F1 driver. Charles Leclerc. The Charles Leclerc.”

You chuck a throw pillow at her. “Don’t remind me.”

She sits up, affronted. “Are you kidding me? Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your shoes right now?”

You shrug half-heartedly. Honestly, you’re still processing.

Cassie narrows her eyes. “Wait. You do actually like Charles, right?”

“As a person, sure. He’s lovely.” You avoid her gaze. “But a date?”

She tilts her head. “So you’ve never thought about him … you know … in that way?”

You squirm under her scrutiny. “Maybe. Once or twice.” Or multiple times a day.

“I knew it!” She crows triumphantly.

You throw another pillow at her, cheeks flaming. “Okay, fine! He’s totally my type and yes, I’ve fantasized.” You bury your face in your hands. “But fantasizing and actually dating are totally different!”

Cassie rubs your shoulder consolingly. “So you’re freaking out because you actually like him.”

You nod miserably. “What if I make a fool of myself? What if there’s no connection in real life?” You look at her despairingly. “I don’t know if I can handle him rejecting me.”

She squeezes your hand. “Sweetie, from what you’ve told me about Charles, I doubt you have anything to worry about.”

You nibble your lip uncertainly. Cassie may have a point. But still.

“Even if he is interested, what happens after?” you whisper. “I’ll just be another conquest.”

Cassie tilts your chin up gently. “If Charles is foolish enough to let you go, then it’s his loss. But you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

You take a deep breath. She’s right. You can do this. It’s just one date.

You spend the rest of the night gossiping and polishing off the wine. Curled under the covers later, you toss and turn fretfully. What will tomorrow bring?

You replay the auction in your mind. Charles’ smooth voice calling out that astronomical bid. His signature smirk as he claimed you as his prize. The feather-light kiss pressed to your knuckles that still tingles hours later.

A date. With Charles Leclerc. Your pulse quickens once more.

What game is he playing at? There’s no shortage of women who would gladly go out with him. So why you?

You toss and turn, mind racing. Does he actually like you? Or was this all an impulsive stunt — a boast to tell his fellow drivers about later?

You groan into your pillow. This is why you never get involved with drivers. Underneath the glitz and glamour lies a tangled web of ego and politics.

Still … when Charles looked at you with those piercing eyes on stage, just for a moment, you let yourself believe he was seeing the real you. Not just another notch on his bedpost.

You huff, punching your pillow in frustration. You’re being ridiculous. This is Charles Leclerc. Motorsport’s resident heartthrob. You would be foolish to expect more from him than a fancy dinner and bragging rights.

Wouldn’t you?

Anxiety gnaws at your gut as the clock continues to tick. What if this is all some elaborate prank or publicity stunt? What if the date goes horribly wrong?

The silver lining is that at least you helped raise money for charity. Maybe the date itself won’t be so bad. Charles seemed pleasant enough backstage ...

Ugh. You force your eyes closed, begging for sleep to take you. What will tomorrow bring? With the morning light comes your date with Charles Leclerc … for better or worse.

***

The next evening, you’re a bundle of nerves as you frantically rush around getting ready. Cassie helped you pick out a stunning new dress and spent ages on your hair and makeup.

“You look hot, babe,” she proclaims. “Knock him dead!”

You pace anxiously, stomach fluttering. This morning you half expected Charles to cancel or send an assistant with excuses. But instead you got a text from him confirming your dinner reservation along with a winking emoji that made your cheeks flame.

It’s really happening. Your fantasy date with Charles Leclerc.

At precisely 7 pm, the doorbell rings. You nearly trip over yourself rushing to answer it. Swinging open the door, you find Charles waiting on the step, looking unfairly gorgeous in a tailored suit.

In his hands is a massive bouquet of peonies. Your favorite flower, though you’ve certainly never told him that. Your eyes widen.

Charles seems momentarily stunned as he takes in your dress and styled hair. He blinks several times before a slow, heart-stopping smile spreads across his face.

“Bonsoir, mon amour. You look absolutely ravishing.”

He presents the flowers with a flourish. “For you.”

You accept them, blushing fiercely. He even brought your favorite flowers? This has to be a dream.

“They’re beautiful, thank you. Let me just put them in water.” You rush to the kitchen, pulse racing. He called you his love. In French!

You take a steadying breath before rejoining Charles outside. He leads you toward a shiny black Ferrari parked at the curb.

“Sorry, I told the Amber Lounge to cancel the car they ordered for you. I wanted to drive myself so we could talk.” He holds open the passenger door for you.

You slide in, hyper-aware of his proximity in the intimate space. The car smells like his spicy cologne. You’re suddenly very thankful for Cassie’s strategic use of double-stick tape.

Charles pulls smoothly into traffic. His hand rests temptingly close to yours on the gearshift.

“You look very beautiful tonight,” he says, glancing your way. “I apologize for staring earlier. I was just … overwhelmed.”

You blush, tucking your hair behind your ear. “It’s okay. You look very handsome yourself.”

He smiles, visibly relaxing. Soon you’re chatting comfortably about work and hobbies. He asks thoughtful questions about your life and cracks jokes that have you laughing until your stomach hurts.

You’re so immersed in conversation, you don’t notice Charles parking until he opens your door, ever the gentleman. He guides you toward an elegant restaurant overlooking the glittering Monaco harbor.

The maître d’ greets Charles enthusiastically. “Monsieur Leclerc! Wonderful to see you again. Right this way to your usual table.”

You raise your eyebrows, impressed, as he leads you to a secluded candlelit table on the balcony. Charles pulls out your chair for you. Such a gentleman.

“You come here often?” You ask teasingly as he takes his own seat.

“Oui, it is my favorite restaurant in the country,” he admits. “The cuisine is magnifique, and the staff keeps things … discreet.”

Interesting. You wonder just how many dates Charles has brought here. For some reason, the thought makes your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You’re distracted as the waiter brings champagne. Charles turns to you.

“I took the liberty of ordering for us ahead of time, I hope you do not mind. I wanted to surprise you.” His eyes twinkle. “I think you will be pleased.”

You would normally bristle at men ordering for you. But the shy hopefulness in Charles’ eyes melts your reservations.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you say sincerely.

He beams. Soon, a parade of your favorite dishes arrives at the table — seared scallops, truffle gnocchi, crème brûlée. You gasp in delight and surprise.

“Charles, these are all my favorites! How did you know?” You narrow your eyes playfully. “Have you been stalking me?”

Charles laughs, rubbing his neck self-consciously. “No, no, nothing like that. I just … pay attention.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Uh huh. Are you sure you haven’t bugged the Red Bull kitchens?”

Charles winces. “You deserve the truth.” He takes a deep breath. “The fact is, I have, er, admired you for some time now.”

Your eyes widen. What is he saying?

Charles hurries on. “At first it was just a passing attraction. But the more I observed you, the more fascinated I became.” He looks up at you earnestly. “You are kind, funny, brilliant … unlike anyone I have ever met.”

Your pulse thunders in your ears. Charles Leclerc has noticed you — for longer than just last night. You’re reeling.

He fiddles with his napkin. “Over the years I have gradually learned your habits, your likes and dislikes. Little things, like your favorite flower, or food.” He ducks his head. “It allowed me to feel closer to you. Pathetic, I know.”

“It’s not pathetic at all,” you murmur. Your heart swells realizing just how long he’s cared. “It’s incredibly thoughtful.”

His answering smile is radiant. The rest of dinner passes enjoyably as you continue getting to know each other. Underneath Charles’ debonair charm, you find a sweet soul.

You linger over dessert, but eventually Charles pays the check. Back outside, the wind off the sea has picked up. You shiver lightly in your dress.

Charles immediately shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it around your bare shoulders. The residual warmth from his body envelops you, along with his intoxicating scent.

“Can’t have you catching a cold, chérie.” His hands linger, squeezing your shoulders gently.

You clutch the jacket, suddenly shy. “Thank you, Charles. For everything. I had a wonderful time tonight.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” His eyes are dark, tender. “I have waited so long for this moment. You have made me the happiest man alive tonight.”

Your breath catches at his sincerity. Moving slowly, giving you time to pull away, he reaches up to tuck a windblown lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers trail lightly down your neck, raising goosebumps.

When his hand cups your jaw, you lean into the caress unthinkingly. Your lips part. Charles’ gaze drops to your mouth.

Heart in your throat, you sway closer. Is he finally going to kiss you? You’ve been thinking about it all night. His eyes flutter closed ...

A car horn blares loudly, shattering the moment. You spring apart, chest heaving. Charles clears his throat.

“I, er, suppose I should get you home.” He opens the passenger door for you, hand lingering briefly on the small of your back before he rounds the car.

The drive back passes in charged silence. Walking you to the door, Charles softly strokes your knuckles with his thumb.

“I cannot remember when I have had a more wonderful evening,” he says quietly. “I hope we can do this again soon?”

“I’d really like that.” Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Charles presses a feather-light kiss to your hand. “Bonne nuit, ma belle.”

As he drives away, you press your hands to your burning cheeks. You just had the most perfect first date with Charles Leclerc. A pinch me, I must be dreaming date.

Hugging his suit jacket tighter, you lean against the closed door and sigh happily. Maybe, just maybe, your fantasy is on its way to coming true.

***

The week after your dream date drags by endlessly. You float through your days in a happy daze, replaying every moment in your mind. The suit jacket he gave you lives on the back of your chair, filling your room with his lingering scent.

Before you know it, you’re reunited at the next Grand Prix. You wait awkwardly outside the Ferrari garage, clutching Charles’ jacket. Your excuse is returning it, but really you’re just desperate to see him again.

Does he feel the same? Your stomach twists anxiously.

“Who are you waiting for, bella ragazza?”

You startle as Charles’ performance coach Andrea appears beside you, grinning knowingly.

“Oh, um, just returning this.” You hold up the jacket weakly.

Andrea winks. “Of course. I will let our boy know you are here.”

He heads into the garage and you fidget nervously with your hair. This morning it only took Cassie threatening bodily harm for you to change your outfit five times. You settled on a flattering sundress you know Charles will appreciate before you have to change into a team uniform come time for free practice.

Suddenly Charles comes barreling out of the garage like an overeager golden retriever. His face lights up when he spots you.

“Y/N! I was just coming to find you.”

Before you can react, he sweeps you into a tight hug. You melt against him, breathing in his warmth and familiar cologne. He’s really here, in your arms.

He pulls back just far enough to beam down at you, keeping his hands on your waist. “I missed you, chérie. The days apart were torture.”

You duck your head, smiling shyly. “I missed you too.”

You offer him the folded jacket. “I, um, thought you might want this back.”

Charles tsks, pushing it gently back toward you. “No no, you must keep it. Can’t have you catching cold until our next date, non?”

His eyes sparkle playfully. You hug the jacket to your chest, absurdly giddy at having an excuse to keep it longer.

“Charles! Fred is asking for you.” His race engineer calls out apologetically.

Charles sighs regretfully. “Duty calls. But I will see you later, yes?”

He lifts your hand to his mouth, lips grazing your knuckles feather-light. Your breath catches. Then, so quickly you almost miss it, he swoops in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, sending lightning zipping across your skin. With a last lingering look, he jogs off.

You press your fingers to your tingling skin, smiling like a loon. Andrea winks knowingly as you float away on cloud nine.

Over the next few hours, you’re bombarded by smug comments and curious questions from fellow Red Bull crew. Apparently your “secret romance” with Charles is the paddock’s gossip of choice today.

You weather the teasing good-naturedly. After all, you’re daydreaming while remembering the sensation of Charles’ lips on your skin.

After FP2 ends, you’re startled from reviewing data by a knock on your office door. You open it to find a delivery man with a truly gigantic flower arrangement.

“Delivery for Y/N Y/L/N?” He consults his clipboard. “Says these are for you personally.”

You gape at the massive vase overflowing with huge, fragrant red peonies. There must be at least four dozen stems.

“Oh, um, that’s me, thanks.” You take the towering arrangement, stunned.

The delivery man chuckles knowingly. “Popular lady. Have a nice day now.”

Shutting the door, you bury your nose in the velvety petals, inhaling deeply. There’s only one person who could have sent these.

The card confirms it.

Thinking of you each and every second, C.

Red peonies are nearly impossible to find, yet Charles managed it.

It’s undeniably a public statement. Sending your favorite flowers in the color of his team for everyone to see. Staking his claim.

Normally such male posturing would irritate you. But from Charles, it feels different. Sweet. Affectionate, even.

You press your face into the blooms again, heart overflowing. Is this what it feels like to be falling for someone? You haven’t felt this giddy in years.

Somehow, you’ve captured the attention of the amazing, thoughtful, romantic Charles Leclerc. And you have a feeling this is only the beginning.

***

“Keep pushing Checo, just a few more laps to go,” you say into the radio as your driver, Sergio Perez, circles the track in final practice.

He’s been struggling with tire degradation all weekend. You’ve made setup tweaks and simulation runs, but there’s only so much data can tell you. The stopwatch never lies.

At least his pace looks improved this session. You watch closely as he enters the home straight again, sparring with the Ferrari of Charles Leclerc for position.

You try not to stare too obviously as the scarlet car glides by. The visor obscures Charles’ handsome features, but your heart still skips a beat.

Get it together, you scold yourself. You’re at work. Ogling drivers mid-session is unprofessional.

Even if said driver happens to be the charming, romantic F1 sensation you’ve somehow found yourself falling for ...

The session ends without incident. You breathe a sigh of relief reviewing Checo’s improved lap times. All things considered, not a bad recovery from yesterday’s struggles.

You pack up your station and make your way back to Red Bull hospitality to grab a late lunch before qualifying. Scrolling your phone, you can’t resist pulling up a photo from your dream date with Charles last week.

God he looks good in a suit. And that adoring smile ...

“No wonder your head’s been in the clouds lately.”

You jump, nearly dropping your phone. Checo appears beside you, leaning over your shoulder with a knowing grin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, shoving your phone away.

“Oh come on, chica. I’ve seen the way you two stare at each other.” He nudges you playfully. “Like lovesick teenagers.”

You shove him back, rolling your eyes. “As if. Charles and I have barely even spoken.”

A bald-faced lie, but no need to feed the gossip mill further. Checo just studies you for a moment, smile turning knowing. “Ah, so it’s Charles now, is it? No more Leclerc?”

You feel your face heat. Have you been that obvious? “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh come on.” Checo bumps your shoulder playfully. “I saw the way you two were making eyes at each other all morning. Like a pair of lovestruck teenagers.”

You bury your face in your notes, mortified. Has your thing with Charles really been so noticeable?

Checo laughs. “Ah, do not be embarrassed, chica. I think it’s adorable. The race engineer and the driver, a paddock romance!”

You toss a balled up napkin at him in protest, which he dodges easily. “Stop it! There’s nothing going on.”

“Nothing, eh?” Checo’s eyes gleam impishly. “So all those flowers you got yesterday were just for fun? And I imagined you swooning over Leclerc in the garage?”

You flush even harder. Apparently you have not been as subtle as you thought.

Checo slings an arm around your shoulder. “Relax, hermanita. I am just teasing because I care.”

You lean into him, some of the tension easing.

“You know I just want you to be happy, right chica?” His expression grows serious. “Leclerc seems like a good guy. Just be careful with your heart.”

You nod, touched by his concern. “Of course. We’ve only been on two dates.” You hesitate. “But … I really like him. He’s so different than I expected.”

Checo smiles gently. “I am happy for you, truly. You deserve an amazing man.”

You grin. “Thanks, Checo.”

His smile turns impish again. “Just promise me one thing.”

You raise an eyebrow warily. “What?”

“No spilling Red Bull secrets to your new Ferrari boyfriend, eh?” He waggles his eyebrows. “I know he is muy guapo, but business is business!”

“Oh my god, stop! I would never.”

“Please. The heart eyes between you are obvious. Not that I blame you ...” He leans in conspiratorially. “Leclerc is quite the smooth talker, no?”

You lightly smack his shoulder, cheeks reddening. “Stop it. We’re just friends.”

“Mmhmm. Keep telling yourself that.”

He slings an arm around your shoulder. “Just remember your duties if you get distracted mooning over pretty Ferrari boys, yes?”

You make a face at him. “Gross. As if I’d shirk my responsibilities over some silly crush.”

Even if said crush is on Charles freaking Leclerc. You do have some professionalism.

Checo just grins knowingly as you reach the counter. He grabs a plate of food and you follow suit. Settling at a table together, he fixes you with a brotherly stare.

“In all seriousness though chica, be careful with your heart. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

You soften. Underneath his joking exterior, Checo is very protective of you. He’s like the big brother you never had.

“I will, I promise. Charles has been very respectful so far. We’re taking things slow.”

“Good.” Checo pats your hand. “No one is allowed to break your heart and get away with it. Even the Prince of Monaco himself,” he adds with a wink.

You roll your eyes, but smile, leaning against his sturdy frame. “I’ll sic you on him if he steps out of line, don’t worry.”

Checo laughs. “Please do. I have always wanted an excuse to wipe that smug grin off Leclerc’s face.” His smile softens. “But truly, I hope he continues to make you happy, hermanita.”

“Thanks Checo.” You squeeze him tight, overcome with emotion. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” He ruffles your hair fondly, ignoring your cries of protest. “And if Leclerc breaks your heart, I’ll break his legs, eh?”

You laugh. “I’ll remind him of that.” You check the time. “We should head back soon.”

You both bus your plates. As you exit, Checo slings an arm around your shoulders again.

“You’ve got this chica. Just remember, the heart wants what it wants. Even if it seems loco to the rest of us.”

You lean into him gratefully. “Thanks Checo. Seriously.”

He grins down at you. “Anytime. Now let’s go smash qualifying!”

You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you return to your data analysis. As annoying as Checo’s teasing is, it’s also kind of sweet how much he cares.

You know if anyone steps out of line and hurts you, Checo will come after them in a heartbeat. But something tells you that you have nothing to worry about when it comes to Charles.

Still … you appreciate Checo looking out for you. With everyone in your corner, you feel like for once, things in your love life might actually go right.

***

Qualifying flies by in a blur of adrenaline and data analysis. In the end, Max takes pole for Red Bull, with Charles slotting into P2 for Ferrari and Checo P3. A good starting position for both your drivers.

You’re on a high as you leave the garage after the debrief that evening. The sky is dusky purple, the paddock slowly emptying out. You hum to yourself, thinking of celebrating with Cassie over FaceTime later.

Rounding a corner toward the Red Bull hotel, you’re suddenly grabbed from behind and yanked into a shadowy alleyway. Heart leaping into your throat, you open your mouth to scream-

“Shhh, it’s me!” A familiar voice hisses as a hand clamps over your mouth.

You whirl around to find Charles pressed against you, eyes glinting in the shadows. Adrenaline pounds through you.

“Jesus, you scared me half to death!” You smack his chest, pulse racing. “I thought I was being kidnapped.”

“I’m sorry, chérie.” Charles grins, utterly unrepentant. “I could not resist surprising you when I saw you walking by.”

“So you grabbed me and dragged me into a dark alley? Real romantic.” You try to look stern, but can’t quite manage it. He’s just too charming.

Charles’ smile turns sheepish. “My apologies. I did not think it through properly.” His thumb strokes over your bottom lip softly. “I suppose I was … overzealous. I could not stop thinking about you all day.”

Your breath catches at the tender look in his eyes. He sways closer, backing you up against the alley wall.

“Truthfully, I just needed to do this ...”

His lips descend on yours, firm and seeking. For one stunned moment you freeze up — before kissing him back ardently, lost in bliss. His hands thread through your hair, angling you closer as he deepens the kiss.

It’s perfect.

After endless moments, you reluctantly part, gasping for air. Charles rests his forehead against yours, eyes dark.

“I have wanted to do that since our first date,” he confesses, trailing feather-light kisses across your jaw.

You clutch his shoulders, dizzy with euphoria. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about kissing you.”

He smiles against your skin, nipping your neck playfully. “Oh, I think I do, ma belle. Why do you think I bid on you at that auction?”

You still can’t believe your dream man wanted you just as much as you wanted him. It seems too good to be true.

Charles nuzzles your cheek tenderly. “I must be the luckiest man alive to have caught your attention.”

Heart overflowing, you draw him down into another dizzying kiss. Charles groans, crushing you closer. It feels like coming home, being in his arms. Like this is where you were always meant to be.

The distant sound of teams making their way out of the paddock finally breaks you apart. Charles caresses your face wistfully.

“I should let you get back. You need your rest before the race tomorrow and so do I.” He hesitates, looking shy. “Perhaps we could … get dinner afterwards? To celebrate?”

Your lips curve in a teasing smile. “Are you asking me on a second date, Mr. Leclerc?”

Pink stains his sharp cheekbones. “I suppose I am, Miss Y/L/N. If you would do me the honor?”

You tap your chin playfully. “Hmm. I suppose I could clear my schedule for you.”

His answering smile is radiant. On impulse, you grab his collar and pull him down into one last hungry kiss.

“Good luck tomorrow,” you whisper against his lips. “Not that you’ll need it. Don’t tell Max or Checo I said this, but you’re the most talented driver out there.”

Charles looks endearingly dazed as you gently extricate yourself from his arms. With a flirty wave, you sashay out of the alley on shaky legs, mind spinning.

Pausing at the end, you glance back to see Charles leaning against the wall, gazing after you with pure adoration. He presses two fingers to his grinning lips that still tingle from your kiss.

You blow him one last discreet kiss before continuing on your way. Wait until Cassie hears about this!

***

Race day dawns sunny and clear — perfect conditions. In the Red Bull garage, you help Checo run through final preparations, tweaking setup and chatting strategy.

“Alright, the car is dialed in and ready to fly,” you tell him confidently.

Checo grins. “Perfecto. We will beat your boyfriend today, no?” He winks.

You roll your eyes, fighting a blush. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sure, chica.” Checo ruffles your hair before heading to the grid.

It’s a chaotic blur of adrenaline and split-second decisions as you guide Checo through the field. In the end, Max takes the win for Red Bull, with Charles clinching P2 for Ferrari and Checo rounding out the podium in P3.

You rush to congratulate the drivers after, giving Checo a warm hug. “Great drive out there! The tire management really made a difference.”

He smiles. “But not enough to beat our rivals today, eh?” His gaze slides behind you.

You turn to see Charles approaching, fresh from the podium. His race suit is unzipped to the waist, hair adorably mussed. Your mouth goes dry.

Checo smirks knowingly. “I will leave you two alone. See you at the debrief.” He saunters off with a wink.

Charles beams, pulling you into a quick hug. “Congratulations. Your strategy was brilliant today.”

You grin. “Thanks, you did amazing too.” Your face heats realizing people nearby are staring and whispering.

Charles doesn’t seem to care, keeping your hand tucked in his. “I will wait for you outside the motorhome? Then perhaps we could celebrate ...” His smile turns hopeful.

You squeeze his hand, heart skipping. “Can’t wait.”

The debrief drags by endlessly. Finally you escape the garage into the late afternoon sunlight. True to his word, Charles is waiting, freshly showered and devastatingly handsome in a button-down and slacks.

“Y/N!” In two long strides he’s sweeping you into his arms and kissing you ardently, uncaring of the crowd of mechanics around you.

Catcalls and whistles break out. You blush fiercely as Charles sets you down, lacing your fingers together.

“Get it Leclerc!” One of his mechanics yells, making lewd gestures. Charles just flips him off casually, keeping his eyes on you.

“Shall we?”

You nod, face still burning. As Charles leads you away, your Red Bull colleagues join the teasing.

“Don’t wait up tonight boys!” One calls, making kissy noises.

“She’s ditching us for the red guys now!”

“Just don’t go spilling all our secrets, Y/N!”

You hide your face against Charles’ shoulder. He chuckles, wrapping a protective arm around you.

“Pay them no mind, ma belle,” he murmurs against your hair. “They are just jealous I get to spend the evening with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

You sigh happily, cuddling closer as you leave the paddock. The teasing means well — it’s their way of saying they approve. And nothing can dampen your euphoria at being with Charles again.

At the parking lot, a shiny red Ferrari awaits. Charles opens the door for you with a gallant bow before rounding the car and sliding in.

“So, where are we going?” You ask excitedly as Charles peels out onto the road. “Or do I not get to know the secret location?”

He glances at you sidelong, eyes glinting mischievously. “You will see. Let’s just say I … pulled some strings to arrange the perfect second date for us.”

You pout playfully. “Not even a little hint?”

Charles pretends to zip his lips. “Non, it is a surprise, ma petite.” His hand finds yours, thumb grazing over your knuckles. “But I think you will appreciate the … atmosphere I have created.”

The promise in his voice sends delicious shivers down your spine. You pass the drive chatting comfortably, exchanging soft, smiling glances.

After half an hour, Charles pulls up to a beautiful chateau perched on a vineyard-spotted hillside. You gasp as he escorts you inside the charming stone lodge.

“Charles, this is amazing! How did you arrange this on such short notice?”

He smiles, pleased by your reaction. “I may have called in a favor from the owners, who are family friends. We have the whole place to ourselves tonight.” His eyes smolder.

You wander the chateau in a happy daze as Charles gives you a private tour. He’s thought of everything — flowers, candles, and even champagne chilling by the roaring fireplace.

Dinner is sumptuous, featuring all your favorite dishes paired expertly with rich wines from the vineyard. Charles is attentive as always, hanging on your every word.

Afterwards you cuddle together on the sofa, pleasantly tipsy, exchanging lazy kisses as you take in the spectacular starry view through the expansive windows.

Charles nuzzles into your neck, lips grazing your hammering pulse point. “Have I mentioned how ravishing you look tonight?”

You shiver pleasurably. “I could stand to hear it again.”

He smiles against your skin. “You, mon amour, are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” His voice drops an octave. “And it is taking every ounce of my self control not to tear that dress off you this instant.”

Heat coils in your core at the unspoken promise in his words. Your fingers curl into his hair, guiding his lips back to yours. The kiss quickly grows heated, urgent.

With obvious effort, Charles forces himself to pull back, eyes blazing. “As much as I want you, we should take this slow. I want our first time to be special.” He strokes your cheek tenderly. “You deserve to be properly worshiped.”

Your heart swells at his care for you. You really hit the jackpot with this incredible man.

Cuddling against his chest, you look up at him adoringly. “You are … amazing"

Charles’ smile is soft, sincere. “I am only that way because you inspire me to be the best version of myself.” He kisses you sweetly. “I am the luckiest man in the world to have found you.”

You’ve never felt so cared for — so intensely adored. Here in Charles’ arms is exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

One Year Later

Strolling hand in hand with Charles along the Monaco harbor, you’ve never been happier. The sun glints off the water as he brushing featherlight kisses to your knuckles, making you giggle.

Charles lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to your palm as you walk. “What are you thinking about, ma belle?”

You smile up at him. “Just reminiscing about everything that’s happened since you swept me off my feet.”

His eyes soften. “The best year of my life. I fall more in love with you every day.”

Heart full, you tug him down into a sweet kiss. Charles hums happily against your lips.

“Well isn’t this cozy!” An approaching voice interrupts. You pull apart to see Lucy, the Amber Lounge organizer who convinced you to participate in the auction last year, beaming at you both.

“Lucy! Hi.” You accept her enthusiastic hug.

“Don’t you two make the cutest couple?” She winks conspiratorially. “I always knew there was a spark between you.”

You laugh, lacing your fingers through Charles’ once more. His answering smile is radiant.

“I’m so thrilled it worked out.” Lucy glances between you eagerly. “So, given it’s almost that time of year again … any chance you lovebirds would let us auction you off once more? Think of the publicity!”

You tense, old anxieties rising. But before you can respond, Charles’ grip on your hand tightens.

“Actually, I have a better idea.” His voice is lethally pleasant. “How about I simply drop off a cheque for an 100,000 euro donation, and you leave my girlfriend alone?”

A frisson of heat shoots through you at his possessive tone. Charles rubs his thumb over your knuckles soothingly, holding your gazes, before fixing Lucy with a warning look.

“We will of course still attend the gala to show support. But the auction is off limits. Understood?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Lucy gulps. “Y-Yes, of course. My apologies if I overstepped.” She nods at you both. “Have a lovely evening!”

With that she scurries back inside the Amber Lounge.

“Good day to you.” With that, he guides you away down the street, tension radiating from him.

You glance at him in concern once you’re out of earshot. “Are you okay?”

Charles drags a hand through his hair. “Yes, I just … the thought of them putting you on display again ...” He shudders.

Your heart melts realizing why he got so defensive. You halt, turning Charles gently to face you.

“That was very macho and possessive of you back there,” you murmur, walking your fingers up his chest.

Charles winces. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to be so overbearing-”

You silence him with a finger to his lips. “Let me finish. I said it was macho and possessive.” You lean up to purr in his ear. “And so. Freaking. Hot.”

Charles’ eyes widen. Grinning, you shove him back against the brick wall and kiss him fiercely. He grunts in surprise before responding in kind, nipping your bottom lip.

“If I had known getting possessive would get this reaction, I would have done it ages ago,” he gasps out between kisses.

You silenced his laughter with your mouth, desire burning through you. The raw protectiveness Charles showed took your breath away. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for.

Finally you break apart and Charles pulls you firmly against his chest. “I love you,” he breathes against your hair. “More than I can ever express.”

“I love you too.” You can feel the beating of his heart beneath your ear. “Now take me home and show me just how much you missed me this morning.”

Charles’ eyes darken. With a roguish grin he sweeps you into his arms, making you shriek. Laughing joyfully, he carries you down the street toward your shared apartment.

If the rest of your life together is even half as magical as this past year with Charles, you’ll die a happy woman.

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elysianightsss · 4 months ago

Text

I BURN FOR YOU | PART ONE

Simon’s heavy footsteps echo in your ears, the floor boards of the church creaking as he walked. At least he was courteous enough to help you into the carriage, you thought as you grabbed onto his large glove covered outstretched hand letting him guide you inside before getting in himself and sitting on the plump cushion seating opposite you.

The footman closed the door just as your families came out to throw flower petals and wave you off. The sight of them so happy made you more glum than this whole day had.

“Well that was a dreadfully boring ceremony.” Simon quipped, leaning his head back as the carriage started moving. Your gaze did not move from your parents, their smiles made you grimace.

“It’s rather sad that I couldn’t be entertained at my own wedding. Wouldn’t you agree wife?” The man across from you had almost snarled out the word wife.

You simply roll your eyes at him, something he does not take kindly to.

“If I had been in the country when this was all being arranged, I could’ve stopped this from ever happening in the first place. I wouldn’t be shackled down in this ridiculous sham of a marriage!” He snaps, the scar on his chin that goes right through his lips and stops at his Cupids bow, moves with each word he spits your way, fire in his eyes as he does so.

“Trust me the feelings mutual.” You scoff, snapping back at him.

“Oh, I’m well aware wife. I could tell as much as soon as I lifted your veil and saw the scowl on your face.” He chuckles with no humour, it’s dark and unnerving causing you to shift in your seat. “How fortunate I am to have such a beautiful bride” The sarcasm drips from his lips in a way that makes your blood boil but you manage to bite your tongue even if he seems unable to.

“Even when he’s dead, my bastard father still finds ways to meddle in my life. Arranging a marriage behind my back, of all things.” The leather of his gloves squeak when his fists tighten in anger.

“Well, it’s no matter. As long as we pretend for the next three months, we shall be free to live our lives separately once the London Season ends, per our families’ agreement. It should not be too difficult to accomplish such a task, will it wife?” Simon raises an eyebrow but yet somehow manages to keep the scowl on his face.

“No. Husband.” You say through gritted teeth.

He is thankfully silent for the next half an hour, and again he does help you out of the carriage when you arrive outside the manor that is now your home. You gaze up at the structure with awe, it was much bigger than your old home though your father was a Baron and Simon was a Duke.

“I’m leaving the grand tour of the estate to the housekeeper. Oh and do try to remember where everything is, I won’t be walking you to your bedroom each night, wife.” He says briskly as he walks passed you and ascends the stairs.

He pauses, snapping his fingers like he’s forgotten something before shooting over his shoulder at you, “Sleep well, dear wife. I do so look forward to seeing what excitement our marriage brings. I’ll see you bright and early for breakfast tomorrow!” He hollers back at you and so swiftly disappears inside.

“Not on your life.” You mumble to yourself, scoffing at his audacity. “What an insensitive, intolerable arse.” You sigh sitting down on the steps of your new home. You gaze out at the beautiful gardens. The night sky full of stars and a chill had set in, a sign that winter wasn’t far away.

“Excuse me Your Grace.” Looking up from where you had been admiring the patch of red tulips off to your right, you met eyes with a welcome smile.

“I am Johnny, the housekeeper. I run the house and keep all the staff in check. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Duchess.” You smile softly at him and with his help you stand from where you were on the cold steps.

“The pleasure is mine Johnny. I didn’t think there would be a kind soul here given the master of the house but it appears I am mistaken.” Johnny coughs to cover up his laugh but his smile remains.

“Allow me to escort you to your room, Your Grace, you must be exhausted after the day you’ve had.” His Scottish accent soothed you as he held his arm out for you to take. Hooking your arm with his, you let Johnny guide you inside the manor. The decor and architecture was pleasant on the eyes and by the looks of it very expensive.

Johnny leads you up the grand staircase and into the west wing where he pushed open a cream coloured door to reveal your bedroom. The room was large and painted a dark blue, the four poster bed was the biggest bed you’d ever seen in your life. The fireplace opposite the bed was lit, the wood burning nicely and crackling away creating a lovely atmosphere.

Further in just after the bed were two reading chairs facing the large window, you gaze out of it seeing the very same garden you were looking at before. Except the red tulips were right below you and from here you could see the large pond and the stables.

“Through there are your belongings.” Johnny said, pointing to the door just to the right of the bed, behind you. You had quite forgotten he was there but managed not to show how you flinched at his voice.

You nodded, “I can dress myself for bed, please do not disturb the maids. I wish to sleep now.” You communicated trying to sound as soft as you could.

“Of course Your Grace, I bid you goodnight.” Johnny bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him leaving you all alone. You’re just glad it wasn’t dark in your room. Getting changed out of your layered wedding dress and into your nightdress was a task and a half but you feel accomplished as you crawled into the large bed and snuggled down for sleep.

You are woken up bright and early just as your husband had said. Your maids got you bathed, dressed, and downstairs for breakfast in record time.

Your husband was already inside the dining room, a newspaper in his hand and a cup of tea in the other. He acknowledged you with a good morning but you only nodded back to him and sat down in your seat at the other end of the long, seats fourteen, table. Opposite one another, yet so far away.

A layer of awkwardness settled upon the moment with cutlery scratching against plates, and glasses clinking with the table being the only thing that was heard. Even the servents glanced at each other nervously, the atmosphere tense.

Simon couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to you. You hadn’t said a word this morning, you had a sharp scowl on your face, even the way you buttered your toast was harsh.

“You’re awfully quiet.” He tested the waters, but again you said nothing. Only responding with a nod. “Last night you spoke to me. Or is it that you prefer to mutter things to yourself? What was it you called me again? An insensitive, intolerable arse” he laughed, it was small but held such amusement.

“I must admit, I have never heard such crass language leave a proper young lady’s mouth before.” That makes you pause as you’re about to cut into a sausage, he’d heard you bad mouthing him.

Your cheeks warm with slight embarrassment but Your glare is enough to get him to change the subject, “You’ve hardly eaten your breakfast. Is the food not to your liking? Do I need to have the chef prepare another meal for you?’ At this you shake your head no but that only frustrates Simon even more. “Then might I ask if there is something troubling you?” He tries, eyes holding a curiosity that makes you want to curl in on yourself and hide.

“No” You state.

And that’s it. That’s how it continues for the next two weeks of your marriage. Where other newlyweds would be rolling around together in bed in newly wed bliss. You are avoiding your husband and barely speaking to him during meal times something he is more than happy to point out.

Simon snaps one evening after asking you once more if something is the matter, to which you responded, “What’s it to you?” He most certainly does not take kindly to your attitude.

“Well forgive me if my curiosity is somewhat piqued. You are quite talented at making yourself scarce, so I apologize if my inquiry as to what my wife is thinking is a step over your boundaries!” He slams his knife and fork down on the wooden table.

There is a pause where it seems like the whole world is silent. You stare at your husband, watching closely as he tries to calm down from his outburst. Once he takes his fourth deep breath you decide to speak.

“Do you even care?”

Simon lets out a cold laugh at your question, “Out.” He commands to the servents, they make themselves scarce, the doors shutting behind them.

“Whether I ‘even care’ or not is irrelevant. Like it or not, we are husband and wife. And for the next three months, we must at least look like it.”

“Why should that matter here?” You roll your eyes placing your knife and fork down, though much more gently than Simon did.

“You are truly ignorant if you think we don’t have to pretend even within the confines of this estate. Servants have eyes. And ears. And we have little control over what they choose to share with those outside of this household. I have no doubt word of the state of our marriage has already reached London and spread throughout the Ton.” Simon stands, his chair scratching against the floor as he does. His heavy footsteps make the floorboards creak and it reminds you of your wedding day.

“This is truly disastrous.” Simon says bitterly as he pours himself a drink of amber liquid from one of the many crystal bottles on the side table.

“I’m not exactly having the best time of my life here with you either.” You sit back in your chair, folding your arms over your chest. Defensive and detached.

“Oh I’m well aware, you don’t exactly hide your distaste for me well, and I would be lying if I said the feelings were not the slightest bit mutual. But it would be wise to at least learn to tolerate each other’s presence.” He barks irritatedly swirling the amber liquid around in his glass before knocking it back. The glass is finished in one big gulp, it leads him to pour another before returning to his seat.

“Now with all that settled, I would very much appreciate it if you could cooperate with me in our little endeavor, dear wife.” Simon does what you think is a smile but you’re unsure. It looks more like a vicious dog baring its teeth to you in warning before it bites.

A few moments of silence between the two of you. You didn’t want this. A loveless marriage with a man who had absolutely zero interest in you. At least he wasn’t beating you though, or worse. Your brain pushes those thoughts aside and pushes you to think about what could have been instead.

It makes your heart ache and your eyes well up with tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of Simon. You abruptly push your chair back and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind you as you leave.

You’re panting by the time you get to your room, the tears pouring down your face as you heave. You’re on your knees before you know it, sobbing into your hands. The world moves on around you while you cry and pray for a different life. That this is all a dream and you’ll wake up soon in your old house with your old life before your parents decided to give you to this man.

You manage to pull yourself onto your bed where you cry yourself to sleep.

The rain was coming down hard now you noticed, a simple contrast compared to how it drizzled when you had woken up. Well, more like forced awake. The nightmare still fresh in your mind, a life you’d never have, your husband with other women. A loveless marriage and a baron home.

Your nose was blocked and your eyes puffy and sore from your melt down earlier. You washed your face and changed into your white nightgown and dark red robe before lighting a candle and making your way to the library.

The library, you could live and die happily in here. It was full of all your favourites and you always left the room with a smile on your face. A hard contrast to how you had left your bedroom earlier this evening.

You were so immersed in reading when Belle begins to fall in love with the beast that you didn’t even hear the library door slowly creak open.

To be continued…

Taglist | @watyousayin @corvusmorte @callmecurious97

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alwayscorvus · 5 months ago

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Forced Marriage

Jing Yuan x male reader, fluff;

This day has finally come. Day when you and Jing Yuan were going to get married and fulfill your parents' promise.

Several years had passed since signing the agreement as children. Your parents long gone from this world. You both have earned a good name for yourselves. But despite the huge period of time and all your achievements, you have forgotten about one and most important thing. Or you may have actually done it on purpose. You haven't built a bond expected for future partners. You haven't gotten to know each other. You haven't even met. Not counting a few important occasions, banquets or incidents, at which you never exchanged more than two sentences. You knew your current appearance only from paintings.

But now it was all about to change.

You adjusted the collar of your white shirt in the mirror and sent your reflection a hesitant glance.

Suddenly you heard a creak of an opening door. You turned rapidly and your eyes caught a glimpse of a figure of the man that you were supposed to marry in next few hours.

You swallowed a lump in your throat. Weirdly terrified. A feeling once completely unfamiliar to you.

You kept watching as Jing Yuan made his way down the grand, snowy white, marble staircase, positioned in the center of the room. He was moving with incredible elegance. His hips gently swayed from side to side in the rhythm of lions' tails that confidently hunted his prey.

Right behind your fiancé his butler followed. His movements were much more clumsy, struggling to keep up with his master.

-It's a honor.

Said Jing Yuan, bowing low as he finally managed to reach you.

-My pleasure.

You answered with a fake confidence. You weren't sure what to do with yourself. Should you shake his hand? Give him a hug? Confess for how long you had been looking forward to this meeting? After all, you were going to spend the rest of your lives together. Completely inseparable.

Jing Yuan, however, seemed cold and reserved. Completely different from the descriptions. Although his face didn't show much, man didn't fail to send you an unfriendly glance.

You rubbed your sweaty palms against the sides of your suit pants. You really can't remember the last time you were so nervous. Have you ever been this way? Even when handling the biggest contracts on which your family's good name depended, you weren't this worried. Today, however, was very different. As well as the entire last week for which you couldn't sleep.

-Misses Xiǎo Huì probably warned you that it's not gonna be anything big. Everyone will find out about our new status eventually, but I don't want to make a ceremony that shakes whole Xianzhou Luofu. I prefer to let this matter pass as quietly as possible. We came to the conclusion that my marriage... precisely this marriage, may not have the best impact on my position as Charioteer.

Ah, of course. Over those past years since Jing Yuan was a small child, he was able to completely turn around his family's luck and become a Charioteer. He chose a path completely different from his origins.

While you were enriching and expanding a company passed down from generation to generation, he was starting from an absolute scratch. Literally. Because at the time all his family had to offer were debts.

Although you admired his achievements and hard work, you probably would have preferred if he had remained as an ordinary, average Jing Yuan. Or at least if he hadn't been in charge of all citizens… That would have been much more simpler…

Ceremony passed quickly. Too quickly. Whole concept was so abstract to you that you weren't even able to recall whole time spent on all activities. At first you didn't want to interfere in the course of your wedding. You thought that you would let Jing Yuan take the lead and carry it out in any way he wished. However now, you regretted that deeply.

Before you knew it, you got your blessings from all the important figures in Xianzhou Luofu and beyond. While your hands grabbed brushes and signed all needed paperwork.

In the end, inspired by a foreign tradition, you exchanged rings. You needed something that at first glance symbolized and proved your relationship.

However, your movements were completely automatic and not tainted by any feeling. Deep in your soul you laughed bitterly at this.

-This is our shared bedroom - he announced, pointing at the room with a gentle nod.

You looked around in astonishment.

Huge, shadowed bedroom, without any natural light source. Only with candles alone. Candles that emitted a cozy warmth. In theory.

Major attention was focused on a large canopy bed placed in the center. Covered with thick layers of duvets in plum and burgundy colors. Whole place almost screamed with splendor. And was definitely different from a traditional bedroom in these regions. It was most likely a former guest room for high-ranked foreign heads, who felt uncomfortable in an unfamiliar environment.

And this suggested that Jing Yuan didn't want to sacrifice his private bedroom for your shared abode.

-Of course, only for now. Until public interest dies down. If something were to leak outside the gates of this building, we would probably prefer for it to not be an unfavourable gossip, right? -he asked almost cockily- I think that in a few months… Maybe a year or two. We will be able to split up and go our separate ways. I'll take one wing and you will take the other. We'll pretend that it's more convenient for our work. Although… I don't think we'll have to pretend.

You were stunned.

So this is how your marriage was supposed to look like…

-But isn't that better? I mean... you know, you don't even swing that way.

You had just finished venting about your worries over a bottle of soju, when your friend decided to bring you back to reality.

You looked at him dumbfounded. But still, you let him continue. Especially after he poured you another glass.

-Since he is not really interested and calls it just a deal, you can treat it like that too. Say that in the eyes of the public you will play a perfect, compatible marriage couple, and in your own four walls you will lead separate lives. You will find yourself some nice chick, flatter her a little bit and-

You growled in disappointment.

-First of all: fact that Jing Yuan is a man is actually the least of my problems. Secondly, I'm not a cheater. Even if for him it's just an arrangement, for me it's still a certified marriage signed by two fully aware people. Even if nothing happens between us I'm not planning to find anyone else.

Your friend just waved his hand at this and ordered another two bottles of drink from a passing by waitress.

-Do you want something more to eat? - he looked at you with expectation. You merely nodded. You didn't care about the food. You wanted to get back to looking for a solution to your problem as soon as possible - In that case I'll ask for another set of what we had before and maybe some more pork this time. Okay, cutie?

He gave a waitress a charming smile, and she, wholly covered in blush, curtsied and quickly ran off towards the kitchen. At the same time, you kept your focus on the slowly cooling grill that decorated the center of a table.

-Ahhh-… cause you always choose the path of this hopeless romantic. And where did that get you? -he pointed at you with disapproval- Look where you are now.

Your head collapsed on your hands, that were laying on the table. You started doubting the point of this meeting.

-Better tell me what to do to "get out of this place".

-I mean- you can wait, be patient. You can play the perfect and understanding partner, hoping that Jing Yuan will one day reciprocate your feelings. But that may take years, or worse, never even happen. And you-… just look at yourself. You are helpless. Lets be honest, you aren't patient. Or at least not anymore in that case. Especially after so many years of waiting. So we need to try a different approach.

-But what kind of?

-Well… -man smiled menacingly- Time for a shock therapy.

"If you are legalny his husband and if you want to be his husband just act as his husband. In the end he doesn't really care."

You weren't sure if this was the best advice you'd ever heard, but you still decided to get swept away.

Which led you to this very moment.

-I promise, I'm gonna be gentle.

Jing Yuan looked at you with suspicion.

-It's not like I'm gonna do anything bad to you - you said slightly devastated- We are partners, remember?

Jing Yuan only furrowed his eyebrows more. He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight from leg to leg. Behind his back you could almost see an imaginary lion's tail that dangerously wagged in rhythm of Jing Yuan's excessive stomping. It wasn't hard to see that your husband was now seriously considering all the pros and cons. When you waited like on tenterhooks, clenching your thumbs tightly.

-Alright.

He decided dryly and without a long delay sat down on the edge of your shared bed. Probably out of all ideas and demands that you could come up with, this one was not the worst and relatively harmless.

Not wanting to miss the opportunity, you took a seat right behind his back in the blink of an eye.

With shaking hands you grabbed the ribbon that kept his hair tied. You pulled on it gently. Ribbon untied itself smoothly and slipped onto a duvet, without much resistance. Hair, that had been pinned up for whole this time, gracefully spilled on all sides. Thrilled with admiration, you began to gently caress them. In touch they resembled a most expensive silk. They were so delicate that they were just slipping through your hands. You dipped deeper into the snow-white ocean, feeling so pleasant that you wished for it to never stop.

-Do you ever plan to start? -he asked without much patience.

Startled, you almost jumped up. You completely lost yourself in the pleasure, forgetting what you were actually supposed to do.

You grabbed a comb and separated a small part of Jing Yuan's hair.

-How many braids will be fine?

-Do as you wish.

He waved his hand as if shooing away an annoying bug. Jing Yuan probably wasn't aware of your capabilities and had already put himself in a losing position for today. You cheered deeply at that. Since you didn't get a limit you won't restrict yourself either. You will prolong the moment as much as possible.

As you brushed his hair, you also gently massaged his head, which apparently must have appealed to him. Because after a few minutes he forgot to hold back and kept bringing his head closer towards your hand, whenever it moved just a little bit away.

Maybe your ears were playing tricks on you, but you could have swear that in every few minutes you heard a quiet cat's purr.

But you didn't even dare to bring up this subject.

-Huì Fēn?

Jing Yuan's butler paused his hand on a doorknob and turned towards you surprised.

-May I have a question for you?

Trying to relax and focus your attention on something else you began to blindly sort through the papers that were lying on your desk.

-Of course, Sir. How can I help you?

He quickly straightened himself and clasped his hands behind his back.

-It's about Jing Yuan.

Butler's face instantly turned pale.

-I know you have been by his side for many years, you met while you were still in the army… He can always count on your and he has a great trust in you. He has surely entrusted you with more than one secret…

-What do you want to imply by this, Sir? -eventually, he was unable to endure your words. Although his voice was still flawlessly calm.

-Does-… does Jing Yuan have someone? Or-… had someone?

Butler looked at you slightly stunned.

-I can swear that if it's true I won't do any harm to any of them. I just-… I just want to know…

You threw your hands and slightly depressed, sank onto a wooden furniture. You knew that Huì Fēn was not on your side. That he could have told you anything. And lie without hesitation. Anything to avoid harming his rightful Master. And moreover, to help him as much as possible.

But slowly you were beginning to feel exhausted. Long weeks started to pass since your wedding.

Huì Fēn smiled at you with pity.

-If it's about that, I can certainly assure you that you don't need to worry, Sir. Master Jing Yuan has never opened his heart to anyone. And that's what may be your biggest problem, Sir…

Your friend was right. After all, you weren't into men.

Sure, because of a contract made by your parents, you never got yourself into a relationship with anyone. But if you were to hang your eyes on someone in the past, before meeting Jing Yuan, it were always the females. You never imagined yourself with a man before, but you understood that it was bound to happen. And the fact that this someone was your spouse made this act seem neither so distant nor so unpleasant. Slowly, you even began to convince yourself to it. And you weren't doing it against your will. Jing Yuan was actually starting to attract you, despite his flaws, despite his cold attitude towards your relationship. Your feelings were above such a mere things as gender.

You turned from side to side. You really couldn't fall asleep. At first, Jing Yuan stayed up late studying papers and defense plans spread all over the bed. Which actually was your fault, since you insisted on him not doing this in his office but beside you. And after, when he finally decided to go to sleep, your started to overthink.

You almost wanted to growl out of frustration.

However, time to put the next stage of your plan into action has come.

Recent events didn't really bring Jing Yuan close to you, even when there were a lot of them, especially at shared meals.

But you won't give up so easily.

Somewhat timidly you began to move towards your partner. Slowly testing the waters. At first it seemed that you would succeed without any difficulties. At the end, however, things took a different turn.

-Despite so many layers of sheets, you are going to pretend that you got cold?

His clear voice pierced through the entire bedroom and echoed in a silent night. Yet Jing Yuan didn't even budge by millimeter. He also didn't turn to face you.

-So that's why there are so many of them? You wanted to separate yourself from me by them?

Jing Yuan didn't respond to that.

Seeing no objection, you gently lifted your left hand and put it on the sheets where his waist was. Successfully moving a couple inches closer and snuggling your chest into his back.

-You're really hoping that I'll get used to your presence and that's how you'll make me fall in love with you?

He worked you out. And at the same time he was so calm.

-So you give in to the possibility of falling in love with me?

Jing Yuan didn't say anything more. Nor did he push off your hand or move away.

That's not the end of the story…

I will write a sequel someday, but for the time being I don't have a slightest idea when it will happen. So it may take a long time...

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caplanbuckybarnes · 5 months ago

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A Gotham Affair (Bruce Wayne)

Summary: Bruce marries you in front of Gotham's finest.

Warnings: fluff

WC: 950ish

Read on Ao3!

Gotham City had seen its fair share of lavish events, but nothing compared to this. The press had been buzzing for weeks—Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s elusive billionaire, was getting married. For a man as private as Bruce, the mere thought of such a public display was almost unimaginable. But he wanted this moment to be seen, to be shared with the world.

Because today, he was marrying you.

The Wayne Manor grounds had been transformed into a scene straight out of a fairy tale. Rows of white chairs lined the lush garden, surrounded by flowers, twinkling lights, and the glow of the setting sun. Gotham’s elite filled the seats, all murmuring with excitement and curiosity, but none could match the nervous flutter in your chest.

You stood just beyond the manor’s grand doors, your fingers gently smoothing the delicate fabric of your dress as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. You could hear the soft murmur of the guests outside, the soft clinks of champagne glasses, the hum of an orchestra playing in the background. It felt surreal—like you were dreaming.

But this wasn’t a dream. This was real.

Alfred stood beside you, his usual composed demeanor holding a softness reserved for only the most important moments. “You look radiant, miss,” he said with a gentle smile. “Master Wayne is a very lucky man.”

You smiled at him, your heart pounding with anticipation. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

Alfred’s eyes twinkled with quiet understanding. “You’ve both found something special in each other. It’s not every day that Master Wayne allows himself a moment of true happiness.”

Just then, the music shifted, signaling the start of the ceremony. Alfred offered his arm, and you took it with a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you. As the doors opened, revealing the breathtaking garden and all the guests in attendance, your eyes immediately sought out the man at the end of the aisle.

Bruce.

He stood tall, dressed in a classic black tuxedo that seemed to fit him as effortlessly as the Batman cowl. But it wasn’t the suit that took your breath away—it was the look on his face. His normally stoic expression had softened, his eyes fixed solely on you, and for once, there was no mask. No walls. Just Bruce.

The world around you faded as you began your walk down the aisle. You could barely hear the gasps and murmurs from the guests, the flashing cameras, the whispers of disbelief that Bruce Wayne—the Bruce Wayne—was getting married. It didn’t matter. All you saw was him.

As you reached the end of the aisle, Bruce stepped forward, his hand reaching for yours. You felt the warmth of his touch, the steady reassurance he always gave you. You handed Alfred the bouquet and turned fully to Bruce, the weight of the moment finally settling into place.

“You look stunning,” he whispered, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“And you look… unexpectedly calm,” you teased, smiling up at him.

He gave you a small smirk, one that you knew all too well. “For you, I’ll do anything. Even this.”

The officiant began to speak, but your attention was fully on Bruce. You could see the faint tension in his shoulders, the way he held your hand just a little tighter than usual. For someone who valued his privacy more than anything, standing here in front of Gotham’s elite, making such a public declaration—it wasn’t easy for him. But he was doing it for you.

Because he loved you.

When it came time for the vows, Bruce took a deep breath, turning fully toward you. His voice, though steady, was laced with an emotion he rarely showed to anyone but you.

“I never thought I’d find peace, not in a city like Gotham. But you…” he paused, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You brought light into a life that’s been filled with shadows. You’ve seen the darkest parts of me, and yet, here you are. I vow to protect you, to stand by you, and to love you with everything I have, for as long as I’m able.”

You blinked back tears, your heart swelling with love as you whispered, “Bruce…”

“I’ve always had to wear masks,” he continued, his voice soft. “But with you, I don’t need one. You know me—all of me. And today, in front of everyone, I want them to know too. You are my greatest joy. My home.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you took a shaky breath, squeezing his hand. “Bruce, you’ve given me so much more than I ever thought possible. You’ve shown me love, patience, and a strength that I didn’t know I had. You are the man I want to stand beside, not just in the good moments, but through every challenge, every obstacle. I vow to love you with everything I am. Always.”

The officiant pronounced you husband and wife, and in that moment, all of Gotham faded into the background. Bruce leaned in, cupping your face gently in his hands, and kissed you softly. The crowd erupted in applause, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his lips against yours, the way his hand lingered on your cheek as if he never wanted to let you go.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, he whispered, “We did it.”

You smiled, tears of happiness slipping down your cheeks. “We did.”

As you turned to face the crowd, still hand-in-hand, the cameras flashed, and the world watched as Bruce Wayne—Gotham’s most guarded man—stood proudly beside the person who had stolen his heart.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n

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bikananjarrus · 15 days ago

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ezra was never formally knighted. like… he was never knighted… of course, his actions to liberate lothal are more than enough to earn him the title of jedi knight. but i’m just thinking about kanan, whose master died long before she could knight him, was knighted by the force (appearing to him as a ghost, really, of who the grand inquisitor once was). and how kanan was probably looking forward to fulfilling the sacred ceremony that his master couldn’t for him, and how he never got the chance. he didn’t live long enough to see ezra knighted. just thinking about the lost generation of padawans and all the lost jedi traditions, but those who remain are upholding the jedi values of hope and life anyway. and maybe one day, ezra will get to knight jacen, and restore a little bit of tradition back into their lineage.

#i’m on the verge of tears thinking about ezra never getting knighted by kanan btw #also thinking of the parallels to post-order 66 jedi being knighted and padawans trapped behind the stormwall becoming knights #ezra bridger #kanan jarrus #star wars rebels #shatterpoint lineage #swr

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pickingupmymercedes · 8 months ago

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Boy from Stevenage - Lewis Hamilton

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: none, tooth rooting fluff, Lewis being vulnerable

wordcount: +1K

a/n: Felt like fluff was due, so totally self-indulgent nonsense I wrote after hearing bits of his speach for his GQ Awards.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

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You leaned against the doorway as Lewis moved restlessly across the room, his brow furrowed with concentration. A braid kept falling into his face, and he kept tucking it behind his ear. He muttered to the reflection in the mirror, his expression serious as he practiced his speech for the GQ Awards ceremony, rehearsing it with the same intensity he would study race tracks.

A smile tugged at your lips. It was endearing, this nervous energy that usually only manifested before a race, and that so few got to see, filling the master bathroom of his NYC apartment. Tonight, however, the only race was against his stubborn desire to perfectly deliver his message.

When he finally sighed in frustration, you decided to fully enter the room. He caught your reflection in the mirror, and his face softened, the tension momentarily lessened.

"Hey," you tilted your head, offering a small smile.

He straightened, taking a deep breath. "Hi. How long have you been there?"

You shrugged, reaching for the fingers that gripped the marble. "A minute or two. Just… watching the master at work."

He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "More like a nervous wreck."

He gestured vaguely to the crumpled paper clutched in his hand. "Do you think it's alright? I don't want to sound… pompous."

You reached out for him, turning his face to look him in the eye, your fingers smoothing the worry lines on his brow with your thumb. "Lewis," you started, your voice soft. "Nobody's going to think you're pompous. They're going to be captivated."

His eyes, the warm brown that stole your breath every time, met yours with a glint of nervousness. "You really think so?"

A soft smile and chuckle spread through your features. It was a challenge, putting your admiration for him into words. You weren’t one for grand gestures or over-the-top declarations. It was in the quiet moments, the shared understanding, the unspoken language that existed only between the two of you that you showed him how much he meant to you.

"They'll all be in love with you," you finally said, a loving spark in your eyes. "Just like I am."

He chuckled, a hint of relief washing over him. "Smooth, (Y/N)."

You took his hand, gently pulling him away from the mirror. "Come on," you said, urging him towards the plush armchair in the bedroom nestled by the window. "Let's forget about speeches for a while."

He followed willingly, sinking into the chair with a sigh as he dragged you down with him. You settled on his lap, pulling your legs comfortably on top of his on the stool. The city lights became a shimmering backdrop to your comfortable silence.

"I’m really proud of you," your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers danced on his chest and he looked out the window.

His hand automatically sought yours. You squeezed gently. "More than you can imagine," you admitted.

"Sometimes it all feels a bit overwhelming," he confessed, his voice raw. "The platform, the attention, the expectation to be a voice for everything."

"You don't have to be a voice for everything, though," you countered, your voice firm as he locked his gaze on your intertwined fingers. "But what you do choose to speak up about… that's what makes me so proud."

He looked at you, his eyes searching your face. "Even the stuff that makes some people uncomfortable?"

You let out a proud smile and a knowing giggle. "Especially those. You use your platform to speak when others won’t."

He squeezed your hand, gratitude evident in his tone and his eyes. "Maybe you should be writing the speeches after all."

You laughed, a soft sound that filled the room. "You just need to be reminded that you're Lewis Hamilton, not a nervous rookie on his first podium."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, his arms embracing you as he turned his head, placing a soft kiss on your temple. "Thank you, love. But we really need to get going," he whispered, just before he picked you up and put you back down on the armchair, heading back to the bathroom.

As Lewis got in the shower, you couldn't help but steal a glance at the crumpled speech in his hand. You knew he wasn't one to brag about his achievements, but a part of you yearned to understand the weight of the words he was struggling with.

Carefully, you reached out and picked up the paper. It was filled with Lewis's handwriting, edits scrawled across some lines. You scanned the opening, your heart swelling. It wasn't about self-praise or glorifying his victories. It was a heartfelt dedication to the countless individuals who had supported him on his journey, from his early days karting in Stevenage until now.

He spoke of his family, the unwavering pillar behind him, their sacrifices paving the way for his dreams. He mentioned his mentors and heroes, those who had nurtured his talent and those who had inspired him to push to be his best. He even acknowledged his rivals, the competitors that had honed his skills and fueled his relentless pursuit of excellence.

But then, there was a section that was heavily underlined, a paragraph riddled with question marks and crossed-out phrases. It was about the kids that he hoped to have inspired.

He wrote about the grounding effect they had on his own path. He spoke of how he, too, was an impressionable young boy, wishing for something greater.

You knew sometimes Lewis struggled to express his emotions openly, yet here he was, trying to articulate the depth of what it meant to him to be put on the same pedestal as his heroes.

It was the written proof of how much this award, how much this entire platform, meant to him – a chance to not just be Lewis Hamilton, the champion, but Lewis, the boy who had aimed for the stars and received the moon as a gift.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips. You pictured the faces in the opulent ballroom, expecting a typical self-congratulatory speech from the motorsport legend. The surprise on their faces when Lewis poured his heart out, his voice thick with a vulnerability they wouldn't have anticipated, would be priceless.

He may be a titan on the racetrack, but here, in the quiet intimacy of the apartment, he was simply Lewis, the man who might fumble with expressing his emotions but whose actions spoke volumes.

As you two rode in the backseat towards the gala, the city lights morphing into a mesmerizing dance of colors, you snuggled closer to Lewis, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm.

"Hey," you whispered, tracing a finger across the back of his hand.

He jolted out of his thoughts, his eyes looking for yours. "Hmm?"

"You know," you began, searching for the right words, "you don't need to win over that entire room tonight. You just need to make that brave boy from Stevenage proud."

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TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora @goldenroutledge @timmychalametsstuff

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

#f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton #lh #lh44 #lewis #lewis x reader #lewis imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton x you

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 2: Roses and Forget-Me-Nots]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence and murder, bodily injury, Aemond needs comfort, Helaena needs to make a choice, Aegon needs revenge, Red needs stitches.

Word count: 6.4k

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Too much to drink, blood on your teeth; you stumbled going up the Grand Staircase and bit your lip and now all you can taste is warm copper. It’s the past, but the recent past. Viserys isn’t dead yet, but not far from it either, an unquiet ghost who groans from rooms cloudy with incense. Criston oversees Aemond’s training and Grandsire sits the Iron Throne when petitioners come begging for relief from taxes or the requisitioning of their livestock. Helaena plays with her children in the garden. Larys Strong dwells in shadowy corners of rooms, lurking, listening. Mother lights candles for her husband in the sept, tries to forgive herself for being so repulsed by him she shivers when her skin brushes his and comes away damp from the weeping sores.

It’s Criston’s nameday, and the court is celebrating as if it is a prince’s. Mother has ordered the kitchen to prepare his favorite foods—lamb marinated with figs and blood oranges, a myriad of olives, spiced wine, roasted eggplant, dragon peppers stuffed with cheese and onions—and the musicians to play Dornish ballads. In the midst of the festivities in the Great Hall, Aemond has been pulled aside by Grandsire to discuss a pressing concern: an idea, proposed by Master of Ships Tyland Lannister, to split the royal treasury and hide it in several different locations should a war of succession break out after Viserys’ death. No one knows what will happen when Father dies. Everybody is moving invisible pieces on an imaginary board, trying to convince themselves they are prepared.

Now the hour is late and guests are vanishing, and everyone seems to be drunk, the world warm and spinning, and you are going to your chambers to wait for Aemond. What you have together is new and exhilarating, and your pulse is thudding in your ears as you stagger down the hallway. You are going to take off all your clothes and wait for him in bed beneath blankets Helaena has stitched with red bats. If Aemond asked you for everything tonight, you’d give it; but you’re beginning to like his idea to wait. You will never fly a dragon into battle like Aegon the Conqueror’s wives, but this is one war you and Aemond can fight together: thwarting all other matches, at last claiming a victory that the realm must witness. Aemond wants a Valyrian wedding ceremony. He has no fear of your blood.

You are passing Helaena’s chambers when you hear muffled voices inside, things you should not listen to but are too drunk to politely ignore. Helaena is whimpering quietly. Aegon says, sounding like he is close to tears: “I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m almost done…”

You should leave, but you don’t. You are trapped there by the poison that slows your thoughts, by the horror that blooms in you like roses, thorny and maroon. You’ve never had to experience intimacy that feels like a violation. You never will. And you’re the only one of Alicent’s children that’s true for: Aemond’s first experiences were with a middle-aged prostitute on the Street of Silk, something Aegon mistook for a favor; Daeron will have to bed a Baratheon girl he barely knows.

After a few minutes the door opens, and there is Aegon swimming in a white nightshirt stained with red wine. He startles when he sees you, then averts his watery eyes. He is ashamed. He says weakly, his hair hanging in his face: “I try to make it good for her.”

“I know you do.”

“She loves the children,” Aegon explains, although you haven’t asked. “She wants more, and she understands how that happens. Now I only lie with her when she invites me. But that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. I just don’t want you to think that I’m…I’m…that I’m a monster.”

You shake your head, profoundly sad. “No, Aegon.”

“How do you not get…?” He rubs his own soft belly, then makes an arc through the air, miming a pregnancy. “We’re fertile stock. And I can’t imagine Mother allowing Orwyle to ply you with moon tea.”

You smile faintly. “We don’t do that, just everything else.”

A raised eyebrow; Aegon is intrigued. “Really? How adventurous. I’m surprised. About Aemond, not so much you.”

“We’re saving it until after our wedding. Something to look forward to.”

“Unless Grandsire and Mother eventually succeed in marrying you off to a painfully uninteresting, Andal-blooded lord with a formidable army or some nice ships or whatever.”

“And then Aemond will murder him.”

Aegon laughs, recedes again and becomes remote, goes out to sea like low tide. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? My marriage is built on obligation, and yours will be the opposite.”

You say like a confession, something you seek forgiveness for: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

“No, no, I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…I mean…” He sighs, then looks at you, dazed drunk childlike honesty. “You and Aemond being miserable wouldn’t make my life better. I have no wish to disrupt your happiness.”

You don’t know how to respond. Aegon doesn’t expect you to. He gives you a drowsy little smirk, then meanders down the hallway. When he spots a maid, he snaps his fingers at her and orders: “Draw a bath for the queen.”

You retreat to your own chambers, where you walk right past your bed—you now feel no desire at all to creep naked into it—and kneel beside the roost by the open window. Most of the bats you call your babies are out flying, but Kingfisher clings to the dark blue velvet you keep draped over the large wooden box. He peers at you with clever black eyes, his ears perked straight up, and when you offer your palm Kingfisher scrambles into it. You pet him as your thoughts wander, slow, dizzy, morose.

Aemond breezes into the room, first swift and famished, then bewildered as he nears you. “Why are you sad?” And then, because he gets glimpses into your mind as well: “Something with Aegon.”

You shrug, not looking away from Kingfisher. You are trying not to cry. “I just wish the world was different.”

Aemond stares at you for a while. And you’re a little afraid, because if he grabs you and you tell him to stop, you don’t know if he’ll listen. But Aemond doesn’t grab you at all. Instead after a moment he says: “I’ll be right back,” and he leaves your bedchamber. He must go all the way to the kitchen across the courtyard of the Red Keep, because when he reappears he is carrying a small glass jar with a piece of honeycomb inside. He sits down beside you and opens the jar, wets his fingertips with honey, and holds them out to Kingfisher so he can lick them clean.

You smile at Aemond. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he motions for you to dip your fingers in the honey too, and together you feed Kingfisher and watch the others swoop and glide outside, snatching insects from the starlit air like stolen coins.

The only time Aemond touches you that night is to thread your long, silver braid through his hands; and why did you ever begin wearing your hair in a braid at all? Because you heard the reverence in his voice when he told you about Aegon the Conqueror’s wife Visenya.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now you are on the floor of your bedchamber crushing seashells, and the afternoon light cascades in hot and golden, a day that feels more like midsummer than autumn. With each whack of your tiny steel hammer—a gift from Criston on your nameday several years past—a shell breaks into irregular shards to be arranged on the board and then glued down; you have a jar filled with paste made from boiled animal bones and a paintbrush to apply it with. You collect and boil the bones yourself. Helaena and the children went with you to the beach to search for shells this morning, an arduous task as you were on the hunt for rare specimens: blue to mimic Tessarion’s scales. This mosaic is for Mother, a vision of Daeron to hang on her bedroom wall. He was sent away so he might turn out differently from the rest of you, but he will be home again soon. The Hightower army is marching across the Reach to King’s Landing, your youngest brother and his dragon safeguarding it from above.

You don’t have to be in the small council chamber to know that Grandsire rails against Aemond, that Criston struggles to defend him. Killing Luke was a disastrous mistake, no sane person could disagree. Now they debate how to proceed. Grandsire writes his letters: to the Lannisters, to the Baratheons, to the Triarchy. Aemond sees to the gathering of soldiers and supplies, moving tokens around the map laid open on a table in his bedchamber. Aegon wants to fly into battle. Criston tries to negotiate between them, and relays their feuds to Mother. Larys Strong shares the whispers he has heard of the Blacks’ machinations: Rhaenyra sick with grief and struggling to manage her forces from Dragonstone, Daemon abandoning her to take the haunted castle of Harrenhal in the Riverlands. Rhaenyra is a weak queen, and the Rogue Prince cannot stomach bowing to her.

You drop the steel hammer again—whack!—and as the cobalt-colored seashell shatters, Aemond steps into your bedchamber and closes the door behind him. He takes off his sword and his dagger, leaves them on the dresser, then drops to the floor and crawls on his hands and knees to you. He grabs your ankles and drags you under him; you giggle as your hammer tumbles out of your grasp and you wrap your legs around Aemond, pulling him in closer.

Aemond kisses you insatiably, his tongue parting your lips, his long silver hair spilling down to the floor. Then he says: “I have to go away.”

You know this has to happen. He has trained all his life for war, and now it is here. “For how long?”

“A week, maybe. Or a month, or a year. Nobody knows.”

“A year?” You’ve never been away from him for more than a few nights at a time. It is impossible to imagine.

Aemond takes off his eyepatch and flings it aside. His sapphire eye—cold, sharp, glittering fire—unnerves others, but to you it is a talisman of his faithfulness. In the boardgame you played as children, you were always the red bat and Aemond the blue wolf. It was a game of ambition, of cruelty, but sometimes mercy as well, and there were always exactly five players until Mother sent Daeron away to Oldtown. Blue is Aemond’s place in the family. He is cunning, he is arrogant, he is difficult at times…but he knows where he belongs. He would cease to exist without the rest of you. “Rhaenyra is bedbound on Dragonstone,” Aemond says, skating his thumb across your cheek. “Still recovering from childbirth and broken by Luke’s death. Daemon is far away in the Riverlands doing gods know what, there are rumors he’s taken up with some girl there. Now is the time to bring the Crownlands under Green control. House Thorne is already with us, next we will take Massey, Bar Emmon, Rosby, Stokeworth, Byrch, Harte, Hayford, Staunton, and Darklyn. They will bend the knee to Aegon, or they will burn. Rhaenyra will be encircled, and then we can do whatever we want with her.”

“What about the Celtigars of Claw Isle? They are Valyrians, they should honor tradition. The firstborn son always inherits. And Rhaenyra has defiled the bloodline with her Strong boys.”

“They must not see it that way. I’ve heard Bartimos Celtigar is her Master of Coin.”

“Traitors,” you hiss, and Aemond beams and kisses your forehead.

“Don’t worry, I have plans for them. Crabs are delicious when boiled alive.”

So Caraxes is at Harrenhal, Syrax is unable to be ridden and not inclined towards battle anyway, Vermax and Moondancer are both too small to be much of a threat to a dragon as ferocious as Sunfyre, let alone Vhagar… “Where is Meleys?”

Aemond chuckles. “Rhaenys won’t strike on her own. She doesn’t have the courage.”

“She might now that you’ve killed her grandson.” A pause. “Alleged grandson.”

“Luke wasn’t her blood, but Baela and Rhaena are. I’m sure she wants to live to see them grow up. I can’t imagine her flying to war for Rhaenyra and Daemon, the people who murdered Laenor so they could fuck on his grave.”

“He was buried at sea.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“I wish I could help,” you tell Aemond, feeling small and fragile, feeling worthless. If you had a dragon, you could follow him into battle like Visenya.

“Not everyone is meant to have wings,” Aemond says gently, and you wonder—as you have countless times before—if part of him is glad that he’ll always know that you are exactly where he left you, that you’ll always be defenseless. Then he distracts you. “Do you remember how you chased Vermithor all over Dragonstone?”

Of course you do: a trip to the mist-swept volcanic rock arranged while Rhaenyra and Daemon were travelling elsewhere, Grandsire fervently hoping that one of the wild dragons would bond to you and add to the Greens’ arsenal. None of them did, not even the Bronze Fury, the beast you had dreamed of riding as a girl, whose stories gave you a sensation like flying, like falling. “I wanted him so badly.”

“And to show his appreciation, he almost incinerated you.”

You smile up at Aemond, touching the scar that cuts down the left half of his face. After his maiming on Driftmark, he developed a phobia of needles. If he saw Helaena embroidering, he would become nauseous and unsteady on his feet. So he had the maesters teach him how to stitch wounded flesh, and after months of bloody observation and practice he was cured. He is not a man who lets others break him. He makes himself whole again, one brick at a time. “You saved me.”

“I couldn’t have you reduced to charred bones. I like you warm…and wet…and willful.”

Aemond wrenches you over and onto your belly, presses his hips against yours, crushes you into the floor with his weight. His left hand covers yours, your fingers interweaving; his right hand slides under your waist and stops between your legs, stroking you through your scarlet gown. You move with him, laughing, moaning, feeling the chill of the stone floor bleed into your skin.

Aemond whispers: “I need to be inside you.”

It’s a statement that is actually a question; he’s asking for permission. No, he’s begging for it. But you want the same thing. He’ll be gone soon, for a week or a month or a year. “Then do it.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

He lets you up and as he takes off his tunic and trousers, you crawl into your bed, a crimson canopy, curtains that billow in the wind blowing off the ocean. Now Aemond is here too and he’s tearing off your gown so he can possess you: not the sort of coupling that could result in a child, the other way. It’s a sin, of course, but so is incest, and so is murder, and so are pride and envy and wrath, and so at this point what’s one more transgression tossed onto the heap? You aren’t sure if you believe in the Faith of the Seven anyway. Rhaenyra is one of the most immoral people you can think of, and yet she has been abundantly blessed until now: married to the man of her design, absolved of all wrongdoing by Viserys. Why would the Seven shower gifts upon Rhaenyra while your own mother is so cursed? If they exist, they must be brutal masters.

You are lying on your belly on the soft feather mattress, reaching back to touch Aemond’s face and his hair as his lips claim your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. You lift your hips so he can reach under you more easily, where wetness is pooling for him. His right hand caresses you with rough, insistent motions, making you ravenous and breathless, making you need him. With his left hand, he slips two fingers effortlessly inside; and then, once they are slick and dripping, he pulls them out and travels farther back. There is pressure, resistance, and then: a glorious, forbidden fulness that draws a moan from deep in your throat. Your fingernails bite into your pillows, your body moves in time with Aemond as his fingers thrust into you, first slowly and cautiously and then faster as he feels your muscles relax around him.

“Now,” you plead helplessly.

“Not yet.”

“I’m ready, I promise.”

“No, no, you’re not,” he purrs, and when you turn your face to his, he kisses you in a way that is slovenly, bestial, natural like the dark moist earth or the sea. No one else would understand this. No one else will ever need to.

Aemond’s fingers work on you until there is hardly any tension, then he yanks open the drawer of your nightstand to get the jar of Dornish olive oil he keeps there for exactly this reason. He drenches himself with it—his hardness, his thickness, his length—and spills oil all over the sheets in the process. Then he settles behind you again. It was your idea to try this the first time, one humid sunlit morning when you were desperate for each other, when you had an emptiness inside you his fingers alone could not cure. You needed him closer, just like you do now. And your climax was so intense it felt like it would snap your bones and unspool your muscles like loose threads.

As Aemond’s right hand strokes you—coaxing you closer, flooding your bloodstream with sweltering riptide lust—he positions himself and pushes in slowly, so so slowly, and at first there is a burning like there always is, but the oil eases his entry and your muscles are swift to accommodate him, they are supple and trained, and as he fills you there is an indescribable intensity as his heat melds with yours, and when you are this close to him it’s like you can feel everything he’s feeling, hear every thought that flits through his mind, and he knows exactly when to pause to give you more time, when to begin again, until he is all the way inside and he moans and rests his head between your shoulder blades, drinking you in through his lungs and his pores, his long silver hair whispering over your ribs.

When Aemond is sure he can last, he moves in you carefully, divinely. The fingers of his right hand—still circling, still pressing against you with commanding force—have you panting and powerless. It’s overwhelming, the fullness, the closeness, the warm blossoming euphoria…and if you’re sore tomorrow, you won’t care. Aemond could be gone by then.

“Harder,” you plead.

“No, Red, no, I’ll hurt you.”

Your hips quicken the rhythm, jolting back against him, and as Aemond gasps—taken by surprise, trying not to finish yet—a torrent like a wave of scalding blood rolls through you, and instead of dissipating to a froth like seafoam it keeps going, unraveling you, ruining you, until you can’t stand it anymore, and your spine and ribcage ache, and there is pain where Aemond is thrusting into you as he shudders and cries out in a low rasping voice midway between ecstasy and agony, like someone has buried a blade in him, like maybe he’s dying.

“Enough,” you sigh, and Aemond knows what that means. He withdrawals from you, gingerly and very, very slowly. Then he rolls you onto your back as you gasp for air, staring up at the distorted afternoon shadows on the ceiling. He kisses the side of your face again and again, murmuring through your hair in High Valyrian. Has Aemond ever said that he loves you? Not that you can remember. He acts as if he does, but still…sometimes you wonder.

When your pulse is calm again and the sweat cooling on your belly and your chest, Aemond rises and shuffles to the door, still naked. He opens the door and looks out into the hallway until he spies a maid and beckons her over. You see her silhouette just beyond the threshold.

“Fresh linens for the bed,” he says. “And a bath.”

“Yes, my prince.” The maid peeks in to where you are naked on the oil-stained sheets, and you cannot find it in yourself to act shy or ashamed. You aren’t. You smile wickedly at her and she skitters away, blushing and wide-eyed.

You loll together in a hot bath—Aemond drifting off as he leans against the back of the tub, you dozing with your head on his chest as soap bubbles pop in your hair—then he just barely manages to throw on some nightclothes and stagger back into your bed, not wanting his own room but yours, and he is asleep in just minutes. Outside the sun is setting and the sky is turning from flames to indigo, and the bats are venturing out of their roost to feed. You spend a while with them and then, starving, leave Aemond to rest while you go down to the kitchen to scavenge a plate of dinner, something hearty and satiating: bread, butter, venison pie, an apple tart, a pint of ale. You eat alone in the garden as your bats circle overhead. The members of the small council—with the exception of Aemond, dead to the world—are dining together, and Mother is eating with Helaena. You are avoiding Mother for now; after you and Aemond have sinned, you always feel like she can smell it on you, or see it, or hear the echoes of your moans, and there is such pitiful disappointment on her face you cannot bear to meet her eyes. She deserved a different husband, and children who she could recognize as her own.

When you return to Maegor’s Holdfast, you pass Aegon as he is trotting down the Grand Staircase, a goblet of wine in his hand and escorted by Sir Willis Fell. Aegon grins at you and says: “Aemond is practically comatose. You’ve exhausted him.”

“Well, he does most of the work,” you reply mischievously. “Where are you going?”

“To get my armor fitted. Aemond will have to have his finished tomorrow, I suppose. If he’s recovered by then. Try to keep him off you for a few hours, I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“I’ll let him know about the armor. But I don’t think he’ll want to wear it in the saddle.”

“Try to convince him. It could shield him from dragonfire in combat.”

“Right,” you say, and all at once your mood plummets, because this is real: the war is descending like a storm and your brothers must fight in it, must leave you, must risk their lives. Aegon waves goodbye and strides off to the armory across the courtyard of the Red Keep, Sir Willis Fell in tow and looking disturbed but trying not to show it.

Upstairs, Helaena is in the hallway with her children, and you can tell she’s overwhelmed by them: Maelor is yowling in her arms, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera both shouting and tugging at the skirt of her lemon-colored gown. Helaena is looking around for someone, perhaps a maid; uncharacteristically, she is unable to find one.

“Well hello there!” you say, kneeling and opening your arms so the twins can barrel into you. “What are we playing, huh? Hide and seek? Chase? Tame the dragon?”

“We’re trying to find Aemond!” Jaehaerys answers exuberantly.

“Oh, is that right?” You glance at Helaena, and she smiles awkwardly and shrugs. She must know where he is and is attempting to distract them so he can sleep.

She says, a bit flustered: “Mother went to the small council chamber after dinner, and the maid…I don’t know where she’s disappeared to all the sudden…”

“It’s alright, I’ll help them find Aemond.”

“Really?!” Jaehaera says, overjoyed.

“Of course!” Then you wink at Helaena, and she is relieved. “Let’s go check his bedchamber.”

“But we’re not allowed in there,” Jaehaerys says uncertainly.

And no, they usually aren’t; Aemond has too many relics they might break or maps they could rip or stain or knock his tokens off of. “It’s okay if I go with you. I’ll make sure we don’t touch anything important.”

“Yay!” the twins yell together, and then Maelor joins them between chomps on his own fingers, even though the details of the expedition elude him.

You swish in your gown—a pale drained pink, your wet hair in a fresh braid—towards Aemond’s rooms. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera dash after you, and Helaena trails behind them carrying Maelor. You hold the door open so the children and Helaena can enter, then follow them into Aemond’s bedchamber. The hearth is lit and crackling; papers litter his desks and tables, the wooden shelves are heavy with books. Mosaics you’ve made since childhood freckle the stone walls like birthmarks. You pick up a candle, light it in the fireplace, and begin igniting wicks around the room so the children will have more light. Helaena sets Maelor down so he can wobble after his siblings.

“Aemond, where are you?” Jaehaerys calls with a beaming smile.

You say: “Let’s check in the closets, and under the bed, and behind the curtains—” Then you scream and drop the candle, because there is a man in this room, and he has lunged out from the shadows. He traps you against the wall with a blade at your throat. Another man—huge, broad, towering—has cornered Helaena and the children. He holds a butcher’s cleaver in one monstrous fist. Blood drips from it in dark, viscous threads down to the floor.

He nods to Helaena and tells you: “Scream again and I’ll put this through her windpipe, and we can watch her try to learn how to breathe blood.”

You shake your head franticly. “I won’t scream, I swear I won’t.” You are thinking: Criston and Grandsire and Mother are in the small council chamber, and Aegon is in the armory, and Aemond is sleeping so deeply he can’t be roused…so who is going to save us? Who the fuck is going to walk in and stop this?

“Quiet,” the large man growls at the children. “No noise or Mummy dies.”

“Jewels,” Helaena says, taking off her necklace and earrings. The children cling to her, trembling and sniffling, weeping but trying not to make a sound. “We can give you these.”

“We’re not here for jewels, you dumb bitch,” the smaller man sneers. “We’re here for a boy. A son for a son.”

“No,” you whisper, realizing what he means.

“Aemond killed Lucerys Velaryon,” the large man says. “We’re here to kill Aemond. But Aemond doesn’t seem to be around at the moment, is he? Fortunately, any son of the Greens will do.”

Helaena shoves the children behind her, shielding them with her willowy body. From the Dragonpit, you hear Dreamfyre’s shrill screeches. “You can have me instead.”

“You’re not a son.”

“So which one do you choose?” the small man asks Helaena, raking the point of his blade back and forth across the front of your throat, leaving shallow nicks that glow sharp and searing.

Helaena doesn’t answer—she can’t, of course she can’t—and so the large man reaches around her and drags out Jaehaerys and Maelor. He pushes them to the floor and they cower there, clasping each other and tears streaming down their cheeks. There’s a dead maid over by the bed, you notice, the same one who saw you naked in bed earlier; she must have had the misfortune of stumbling upon the intruders. There is a gaping black hole in the wall on the opposite end of the room, the entrance to a secret passageway to the beach, an escape hatch that almost nobody knows about. But Daemon would.

“Which one?!” the large man demands, glaring hatefully at Helaena. “Choose or we’ll kill them both. We’ll kill all three.”

Helaena covers her ears with her hands and shrinks into herself, trying to disappear. Jaehaera hides behind her mother; Jaehaerys is petrified; Maelor, mercifully, doesn’t fully understand. If he was struck on his tiny blonde head, he would be gone before he had time to comprehend that his short life was over.

The men are assailing Helaena: “Choose or we’ll kill them all, we’ll kill them in front of you, we’ll kill them slow.”

“Helaena, pick one,” you sob.

She shakes her head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Aemond, can’t you feel how afraid I am? Aemond, you have to wake up.

“All three?!” The large man taunts. “Alright, that’s fine, we can do it that way!” He raises his cleaver above the boys’ heads, and Helaena attempts to stop him.

He’s going to murder her too, he’s going to sever her arm or cut her throat.

“Maelor!” you burst out. “Maelor, the little one, she chooses Maelor!”

“What?” Maelor says, gazing up at you with vast shimmering eyes. And instead, the large man seizes Jaehaerys by his hair and hacks his head off his shoulders.

Blood spurts like a fountain, blood flows over the floor, blood soaks Helaena’s gown when she bundles her dead son into her arms. Forgetting the knife at your throat, you try to get to her; the blade drops and slits your flesh from your collarbone down to the top of your left breast. A river of red flows in a sheet down the front of your gown. Everyone is screaming—you, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor—but it doesn’t matter now; the men throw Jaehaerys’ head into a burlap sack and vanish together into the blackness of the passageway.

“They can’t get away,” you say numbly, and then you bolt after them. You grab a flickering candle off Aemond’s writing desk and plunge into the tunnel. There are blooddrops on the dusty floor, a trail of gore. Jaehaerys’ head must have bled through the sack. You aren’t thinking, you don’t know what you’ll do if you catch up to them. But if there is a boat waiting to ferry the men and their grisly trophy to Dragonstone, somebody must prevent them from escaping.

Jaehaerys can’t be dead, he can’t be, be can’t be, he was just here and he was smiling—

Someone catches your wrist and you shriek, but it isn’t the strange men. It’s Aemond, still dressed in his nightclothes, his sapphire gleaming, blood all over him and clutching his dagger in his other hand.

He tells you, taking the candle: “Go back to my bedchamber.”

“Aemond, they…Jaehaerys…he…they…”

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “Go back to where it’s safe.”

Obediently, knowing that he needs you to, you flee; you are passed by several knights of the Kingsguard with torches, their swords drawn, in pursuit of the murderers. In Aemond’s bedchamber is a nightmare you can’t wake up from: Aegon is wailing and collapsed on the blood-soaked floor with the mutilated body of his son in his arms, Helaena is slumped and paralyzed against the wall, Mother is weeping as she embraces Jaehaera and Maelor and takes them out of the room, Criston has just appeared in the doorway and stands there horrorstruck. You go to Aegon and lay a palm on his shoulder, the words impossible. Without looking—he already knows it’s you—he reaches up to grip your hand, so forcefully it feels like he’ll crush your bones.

“What the hell is…?” Grandsire says when arrives. Then he sees the blood, the body, and he sways and his knees buckle. Maester Orwyle sweeps in behind him, carrying a small wooden trunk of remedies. He comes directly to where you are standing.

“Princess, your mother asked me to tend to you.”

“What?” you reply dully, and he gestures to the bone-deep gash on the left side of your chest. Abruptly, agony flares there. “Oh. Of course.”

Orwyle leads you patiently to the chair at Aemond’s writing desk, then begins to clean your wound. He pours a small amount of milk of the poppy into your mouth, and you accept it passively. You are barely aware of it as his needle pierces your flesh and begins to stitch it back together.

“Is this what your letters have bought us?!” Aegon is shouting at Grandsire, who doesn’t know what to say. “Not safety even here in our own castle, but killers who breach our walls and butcher my son?!”

There are echoing footsteps, and Aemond emerges from the darkness, crossing into the rage-colored firelight of his bedchamber. “We got one of them. The guards are still searching for the other. We’ll find him, I swear we will. There was a boat in the sand, but we’ve taken it.”

“It’s your fucking fault!” Aegon screams at him. “They were here, they were looking for you, you killed Luke so they killed my boy, he was only six years old, he…he…” Aegon breaks down in sobs, then he crawls across the room to Helaena and clings to her, his head in her lap. Despite her shock, Helaena’s hands come alive again and she holds him.

“Aegon, it’s my fault too,” you say.

“What are you talking about?! You didn’t kill Luke Strong, you didn’t start this war!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says, almost too quietly to hear. “Aegon, I’m sorry.”

“Enough letters,” Aegon seethes, hatred splitting out of him, bloodlust that can never be satisfied. “You’re done, Grandsire. I relieve you of the burden of being Hand of the King. It never sat right with you anyway, did it? Enacting the plans of a degenerate like me. Well, now you can just watch them happen. Criston, we will go to battle now, no more delays. You will lead the infantry and I’ll be in the sky, and when we drag Rhaenyra from her sickbed I’ll let Sunfyre eat her, one limb at a time.”

“Yes, my king,” Criston says, still stunned, gaping at Jaehaerys’ small, headless body.

“I’m going with you,” Aemond tells his brother.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes you do. And I would never let you fly into battle alone.”

Aegon sniffles and wipes the tears from his face with his bloodied palms, leaving stains of clotting crimson there. Then he stands, touches his forehead to Helaena’s as a goodbye, and stumbles towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands.

“To torture that man to death,” Aegon says, and is gone.

Aemond turns to where you are sitting at his writing desk, Orwyle just beginning your stitches. Your eyes—glazed and drugged, grief-stricken and horrified—meet his, and you know that he is thinking that had the blade hit just a few inches higher, you would have bled to death. Aemond approaches. “Move,” he commands Orwyle.

Maester Orwyle meekly retreats; but first, he hands over the needle. And Aemond finishes mending your flesh, one painstaking, practiced stitch at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond tells you goodbye on a bluff overlooking where Vhagar is waiting for him down on the beach. He keeps you a safe distance away; not only have you no dragon of your own, but the beasts also share an aversion to you, they snarl and slink away like they would in the presence of no other Targaryen. The wind is raging and the sun bright, the sky blue and full of slow-moving clouds. Helaena is curled up in the Dragonpit with Dreamfyre. Alicent is with the surviving children. Maelor shrieks and runs away when he glimpses you.

Under torture, the larger assassin revealed that he was indeed commissioned by a messenger sent by Daemon, and that all he knew of his companion was that he was a ratcatcher. Your brothers paraded every ratcatcher they could find in front of you, but none of them were the man with the knife. Aegon, believing their ranks had nonetheless been perilously infiltrated, ordered all the ratcatchers of King’s Landing to be executed. Now they hang from walls and bridges, attracting crows. Some people weep for the dead men, but many more weep for Queen Helaena, who is known to be gentle and kind. The details have reached every street of the city: beheaded in front of his mother, made to choose between her sons. Rhaenyra has given them yet another reason to hate her. Her mortal enemies grow more numerous by the hour.

“What if something happens here?” you ask Aemond, your hands in his, strands of silver hair raked from your braid by the wind. Under your gown, your bandages loop over your left shoulder and below your right arm; beneath them, your stitches throb and your heart aches. “What if we have to leave the city for some reason? What if when you return you don’t know where I’ve gone?”

“Then I will find you,” Aemond says, as if there is no other possibility. “You belong to me, you always have. That will never change. Here, in Dorne, at the Wall, in Essos or the Summer Isles, anywhere on earth, anywhere you go, you are still mine.”

You smile, and when Aemond kisses you, his long hair trashing in the wind, he is tender and harmless, and you are reminded that he can be this way sometimes. He isn’t always fierce. He isn’t always treacherous. “Take care of Aegon.”

“Of course I will.”

“Don’t come back without him.”

“I’ll carry him the whole way home if I have to,” Aemond says, and then he leaves you, stalking down the hill towards Vhagar.

That night, when you climb into your bed, you find a note there that Aemond has left for you. You unfold the parchment, wincing; each movement pains you, reminds you of the muscles that have been slit by the assassin’s blade. You will carry the scar forever. Aemond’s note reads:

Red,

When you are here…think of me.

Soon we’ll have everything.

In place of a signature, he has finished with a sketch of a forget-me-not in blue ink.

You close the note and hold it to your chest, the parchment scratching against your bandages.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond fanfiction #aemond the kinslayer #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction

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dreamauri · 18 days ago

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♪ — 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗬 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗦 - part seven lando norris x fem! streamer! reader (fluff) series summary . . . After unexpectedly making a new friend during a stream, Lando finds himself addicted to playing video games with this girl who he can't get out of his head. His addiction gets worse when he somehow finds himself yearning for her company, eager to spend time with her in any shape or form, whether it's online or maybe possibly in person.

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous )

The campus buzzed with excitement, the air thick with the sound of applause and laughter, students in caps and gowns mingling with proud families. Lando sat in the audience, his cap tugged low, trying to blend in. His eyes stayed glued to you as your name was called. He straightened in his seat, his heart swelling as you stepped onto the stage, radiant in your graduation gown, to receive your degree.

He clapped enthusiastically, his whistle cutting through the noise of the crowd. The grin on his face was as wide as the Pacific, his excitement obvious to anyone watching. When you glanced his way, he waved subtly, mouthing, That’s my girl.

After the ceremony, Lando stood off to the side, nervously shifting his weight as he waited for you. In his hands, he held a bouquet of purple and green flowers—your favourite colours. His nerves only increased when your parents approached, their faces glowing with pride as they spotted their graduate.

“You must be one of Yn’s classmates?” your dad asked, his polite curiosity evident as he eyed Lando.

Lando chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Not exactly,” he began, his voice faltering under your dad’s scrutinizing gaze. “I’m her . . . friend.” He hesitated on the word, glancing toward you as you joined the group.

“Dad, Mom,” you said with a smile, taking over the introduction. “This is Lando.” Turning to your brother, you added, “And this is Chris.”

Chris’s eyes lit up, recognition dawning as he looked at Lando. “You’re cool,” he said, grinning. Lando relaxed slightly, ready to thank him for the compliment when Chris added, “But not as cool as Chase Elliott.”

The mention of the NASCAR driver made Lando visibly wince, though he laughed it off. “Chase, huh? He’s alright,” Lando said with a playful shrug, offering Chris a fist bump.

Chris didn’t hesitate to bump his fist back. “He’s the best.”

“Debatable,” Lando muttered under his breath, sharing an amused glance with you.

Later, after the celebrations and countless photos, you and Lando strolled through the quieting campus. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting everything in golden hues. The sound of distant laughter and rustling leaves filled the air as you walked side by side.

Lando’s hand brushed yours as he spoke, his voice soft. “So, what’s next for you?”

You turned to him, your steps slowing as you looked out at the familiar grounds. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice tinged with both excitement and uncertainty. “Maybe I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Today feels like enough.”

He smiled, his eyes warm as they met yours. “Yeah, today’s more than enough,” he said, taking your hand in his. The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the golden light of the setting sun wrapping around.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The lights of the grand ballroom sparkled like stars, casting a warm glow over the elegant space. Lando barely noticed any of it, his gaze fixed on you. You stood by his side, radiant in a sleek black dress that seemed to shimmer with every step you took. The Richard Mille watch he had gifted you glinted under the soft chandeliers as you leaned in to adjust his bow tie with practiced ease, smoothing out his crisp suit jacket.

“I can’t believe I get to be here with you,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant for your ears alone. His arm slipped naturally around your waist, drawing you closer. His free hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before he lifted it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the back of your hand.

You chuckled, pulling your hand back gently. “Such a gentleman,” you teased, leaning up to press a quick, playful kiss to the tip of his nose. The gesture left him grinning, his cheeks dusted with the faintest hint of pink.

During the ceremony, you sat beside him at a table near the front, your hand comfortably entwined with his beneath the white linen tablecloth. When his name was called as the season’s runner-up, you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. He rose from his chair, the smile on his face as dazzling as the applause that erupted around him.

As he returned to his seat with the trophy in hand, you leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. “Runner-up looks good on you,” you teased softly. “But you’ll get them next year. I know it.” You punctuated your words with a gentle kiss on his cheek.

He turned to you, his eyes glowing with gratitude and something deeper, something more profound. “With you here? I’m already winning.”

The night continued, the atmosphere buzzing with laughter, champagne toasts, and the flash of cameras. But eventually, the two of you found a quiet corner, away from the crowd. Lando had his arm draped over your shoulder, his posture relaxed as if all the pressure of the season had melted away in your presence.

You glanced down at your watch, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you twisted it slightly on your wrist. “I had to wear this, you know,” you remarked, raising your hand to show him the sleek design. “It’s the perfect accessory for the arm candy of the papaya driver of the night.”

Lando laughed, his hand moving to your waist to pull you a fraction closer. “Arm candy? Yn, you’re the real star tonight. Everyone’s looking at you, not me.”

You scoffed lightly, rolling your eyes as you rested your free hand on his chest. “Oh, please. You’re the one with a shiny trophy and a hundred cameras pointed at you.”

His grin softened into something more tender as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. “Maybe. But the only person I care about impressing is standing right in front of me.”

Your breath hitched slightly, your hand curling into the fabric of his jacket. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible for you to resist,” he quipped, his teasing smirk making you laugh.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The chat exploded with excitement as Lando started his Christmas-themed stream. “Alright, everyone, guess who’s joining me today?” he teased, adjusting his Santa hat with a cheeky grin. The screen split, revealing your smiling face. The chat erupted into a flurry of exclamation points and heart emojis, fans flooding the feed with messages of excitement.

“Can you believe it’s been a year already since we met?” he asked, his voice warm with nostalgia as his eyes flicked to your camera feed.

You laughed softly, adjusting your headset. “Feels like yesterday you were calling me at 3 a.m. to play Fortnite.”

“Classic me,” he quipped with a smirk, loading the game.

The match began, and you and Lando dropped into the map, landing on a snowy mountaintop lit up with festive decorations. Lando stuck close to you, his character darting around as he scrambled to collect supplies.

“Okay, I’ve got a shotgun, some meds, and . . . a snowball launcher?” he said, excitement in his tone as he inspected his loot.

“Lando, that’s literally the most useless weapon right now,” you teased, glancing at his inventory as you scouted ahead. “Just stick with me, alright? I’ll keep us alive.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad!” he argued, following close behind. “You make it sound like I’m dead weight.”

“Hmm, let’s see . . .” you mused, raising an eyebrow as you scanned the map. “Who was it that got sniped three minutes into our last game because they couldn’t stop dancing in front of the enemy?”

The chat roared with laughter, spamming Lando’s emotes as he groaned dramatically. “One time! One time, Yn!”

A sudden burst of gunfire pulled you both back into focus. “Incoming!” you called, ducking behind a tree. Your hands moved deftly across the keyboard, your character aiming a sniper rifle at the distant threat.

“I’ll flank them!” Lando declared heroically, charging forward.

“No, wait—” you tried to stop him, but he was already out in the open, firing wildly. “Oh my god, Lando!”

You sighed as his health bar plummeted, rushing to revive him once he inevitably went down. “What did we learn?” you asked as you healed him, the playful scolding clear in your tone.

“Stick with Yn,” he mumbled, clearly trying not to laugh.

“That’s right,” you said with a grin. “Now, let me handle this.” With precision and ease, you took out the enemy squad, your sniper shots landing perfectly one after another. Lando cheered loudly, clapping his hands in mock celebration.

“Chat, can we just take a moment to appreciate how insane Yn’s aim is?” he said, grinning at his camera. “You’re a machine, Yn.”

You shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant. “Eh, someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

As the match progressed, you fell into a comfortable rhythm. Lando focused on looting and building while you covered him from a distance, sniping enemies with practised ease. Despite his antics—like insisting on carrying the “cute snowball launcher” all game—he managed to surprise you with some decent plays, even saving you once when you got ambushed.

“Nice shot,” you admitted as he took down an opponent, genuinely impressed.

“Did you hear that, chat? Yn just complimented me,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Christmas miracle!”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you replied with a laugh, shaking your head.

As the game wound down to the final few teams, the tension grew. “Alright, last squad,” you said, crouching behind a rock. “Let’s not mess this up.”

Lando’s voice was uncharacteristically focused. “I’m on meds and shields. You snipe; I’ll distract.”

It was chaotic, but somehow, you pulled it off. Your sniper shots landed true, and Lando’s kamikaze-style distraction gave you the opening to secure the victory. The words “Victory Royale” flashed on the screen, and both of you erupted into cheers.

“That’s how it’s done!” Lando shouted, throwing his arms up in triumph.

“By me,” you teased, earning a playful glare through the camera.

As the chat flooded with congratulatory messages, you leaned back in your chair, smiling. “Not bad, Norris. Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

“High praise,” he replied, smirking. “See, chat? This is why she keeps me around.”

The game ended, but the banter continued, the chat filling with comments about how much they missed seeing the two of you play together. “Yn’s got a job now,” Lando said, mock-pouting. “She doesn’t have time for you guys anymore. Just me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “Oh, please.”

“Speaking of which,” Lando continued, scrolling through his phone. “When’s your flight landing? Gotta make sure I’m there to pick you up.”

You paused, looking at him through the camera, a soft smile spreading across your face. “She’s spending Christmas with me, you guys, so leave her alone,” Lando declared proudly, earning a wave of amused comments from the chat.

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dunebrat · 11 months ago

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THE PEOPLES PRINCESS

Reader x feyd rautha smut

Summary: you get married off by your father to secure alliances. Despite you knowing your new husbands reputation, you finds yourself drawn to him.

➽─────────────────────❥

As you stepped onto the arid planet of Arrakis, the sun beat down relentlessly, casting harsh shadows across the shifting dunes. You, a princess, were escorted by your father, the ruler of your home planet, to marry the infamous Feyd Rautha. Your first encounter with Feyd was chilling. He stood tall and imposing, his eyes cold as they met yours. You couldn't help but feel a shiver run down your spine at the intensity of his gaze.

Throughout the preparations for the wedding, Feyd remained distant, barely acknowledging your presence. Amidst the bustling preparations, your father sought you out, his regal bearing softened by a look of paternal concern. He approached you with a tenderness that belied his stoic exterior, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and sadness.

"My dear," he began, his voice gentle yet tinged with gravity, "today, you embark on a new journey, one that will shape the course of your destiny."

You met his gaze, a swirl of emotions churning within you. "Father," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, "I know not what the future holds, but I will face it with courage and grace."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he reached out to grasp your hand. "You are a beacon of strength and resilience, my child," he said, his voice filled with pride. "No matter what lies ahead, remember that you are never alone."

Tears welled in your eyes as you embraced him.

Your wedding gown, made from the finest silks and embellished with gorgeous lace and brilliant gems, was a vision of grandeur and elegance. Its flowing procession, glistening in the intense desert sun, followed you like a moonlit river. As you stood in the grand hall, waiting for the wedding ceremony to begin you couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, knowing that once the ceremony commenced, there would be no turning back.

But amidst the fear, there was a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, against all odds, this union with Feyd would bring you the happiness and fulfillment you had always longed for. But you know the man that will soon be your husband is no kind man. But as you stood before him at the altar, his eyes locked onto yours with a fierce determination. When he leaned in to kiss you, you felt a rush of lust.

On your wedding night, as the grandeur of the ceremony faded into the intimacy of the chambers, you found yourself alone with Feyd. The flickering candlelight casting shadows across the room, adding to your senses heightened.

Feyd, with his usual air of confidence, approached you. His eyes, sharp and penetrating, seemed to pierce through the facade you tried so desperately to maintain. He noticed the tremble in your hands, the uneasiness that lingered in your of your gaze.

"You're scared," he observed, his voice a low, rumbling growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, unable to deny the truth of his words. "I am," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Feyd closed the distance between you, his presence startling in its intensity, his lips twisted into a knowing smile. He said, "Fear can be a powerful motivator," with an a hint of humor in his voice. "But it can also be mastered."

With a swift yet gentle motion, he reached out to cup your face, his touch surprisingly tender against your skin. His eyes bore into yours with an unwavering gaze, as if daring you to challenge him, to defy the inevitable.

Feyd's eyes raked over your body, his gaze lingering on the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts.

His voice was low and husky, his words a command.

"Strip." The word hung in the air like an order, leaving no room for negotiation or hesitation. You hesitated briefly before complying with Feyd's demand. You unbuttoned your dress, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of fabric. Underneath you wore nothing but lace underwear and stockings that accentuated every curve on your body.

Feyd's eyes roamed over your body, his gaze intense and unwavering. "I want you to know that I am not a man who will be gentle with you," he said in an even tone as if it were simply stating the obvious.

"I will take what I want, and you are to do as I say." The words hung in the air like a threat.

His gaze was intense, his voice commanding. You couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the way he spoke to you. The words were harsh and demanding, leaving no room for negotiation or compromise.

You stood there, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to process what he had just said. The weight of his words hung heavy on the air between us and for a moment | felt trapped by them.

"I understand," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I will do as you say." The words were barely out of your mouth before Feyd's hand was on the back of your neck, his grip firm and unyielding.

He pulled you closer to him, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both demanding and possessive. His tongue invaded your mouth with an almost brutal forcefulness as he claimed it for himself.

His other hand found its way to your breast, his fingers pinching and twisting the nipple until you gasped in pain.

The pain was sharp and intense, but it also sent a strange rush of pleasure through you. You found yourself responding to his touch in ways that surprised even you.

His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and crevice as if he were mapping out a territory. He pulled you closer to him until his hardness was pressed against the soft folds of your sex.

You could feel the heat radiating from him, his desire for you palpable. His hands moved down to your hips and he lifted you up so that only the tip of his cock was inside you.

He held you there, teasingly close to the edge of pleasure. "Do you want this?" he asked in a low voice that sent shivers down your spine.

"Do you want me to take what I need from you?" The words were a command, not a question. The words were barely out of your mouth before Feyd's grip on you tightened and he thrust into you with a force that left you gasping for air. He fucks you hard and fast, his hips slamming into you with a force that left your body trembling. The pain was intense but it only seemed to fuel the fire of desire burning within him as he continued to fuck you relentlessly.

You could feel the wetness between your legs, a testament to how turned on you were by his rough treatment.

His hands roamed over your body, leaving bruises and marks that would be a reminder of this night for days to come.

Days passed after the wedding night, and you found yourself adjusting to life as the wife of Feyd Rautha. One evening, as you sat alone in the grand hall of the palace, Feyd approached you with a quietly. His usual stoic demeanor softened slightly as he took a seat beside you, his presence commanding yet strangely comforting.

“May I join you?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath the surface.

You nodded, surprised by his sudden display of openness. "Of course," you replied, unable to hide the shyness in your voice.

For a moment, silence hung heavy between you, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric and the distant hum of activity within the palace walls. And then, with a hesitant sigh, Feyd spoke, his words measured yet tinged with emotion. "I know I am not what you expected," he began, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon. "I am not known for my warmth or compassion, but know that I will do everything in my power to protect you, to keep you safe from harm."

"I believe you husband," you replied softly, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on his arm.

#feyd x you #feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd oneshot #feyd smut #dune part 2 #dune movie #dune part two #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you

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tori111777 · 2 months ago

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FRIGHT AND FURY 7

Part 6, Part 8

Summary: Death and Lust have a meeting with conflict

Warnings: Violence, Mentions of loss, Spoilers

Parings: Caracalla x wife!reader

As you walked through the shadowed corridors of the Colosseum, the weight of your past pressed heavily against you. It was the same grand structure, but everything felt different now. The air, thick with the scent of dust and blood, seemed to hold the echoes of your choices—the choices you had made, the betrayals you had committed. The empire was now your home and Caracalla, your husband.

You glanced at the stands, where the dust from the crowd seemed to hang in the air, like the weight of your own guilt. The bloodshed in the arena had always been a spectacle for the people, but now it felt like a reflection of your soul—messy, violent, and far too far gone to repair.

You didn’t dare to look next to you as Lucilla was sitting in a chair. Cuffed in chains, pleading to let her husband live and be let out of the arena. The chains clinked with each movement, a constant reminder of her fall from grace.

You had once called her a mother of sorts, someone who had guided you, shown you the ropes of this brutal court. Now, you had traded that affection for a place at Caracalla’s side. The one you to whom love.

“For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state… An enemy of the people.” The master of Ceremonies called out, signaling the start of the game today.

You saw the gladiator, Lucius step out into the sun bleached sand, the crowed loved him. His towering figure cast a long shadow across the arena as he stood tall, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath. He did indeed look like his mother, you saw it in him.

“From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum — the barbarian Hanno!” That is what they called him. They could never know the truth of it all.

On the other side another man was brought out. “Will challenge General Justus Acacius for his treasons against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the state.” Lucllia son would have to fight her husband. All because of you.

Lucilla’s pleading voice echoed in your ears, “whatever birth right I have it is yours-“ “Too late.” Emperor Geta had cut her off and quick. He was ready to see the game unfold and not listen to a pleading mother’s voice.

“—the Roman traitor, or the barbarian hero? Let the gods decide who will survive this contest.” The master of ceremonies finally finished his speech, letting the bloody battle that was about to begin unfold. But today, it was different. This was no longer just a game. It was personal.

Lucius raised his sword, charging at Acacius. He also hefts his sword and charged onwards as well. The clash of steel against steel rang out across the arena, drowning out the roar of the crowd.

“Acacius is a bull of a man. He may yet send that barbarian to the underworld.” Geta spoke out, he leaned against his chair.

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the combatants, even though every part of you screamed to look away, to turn your gaze elsewhere. But where else could you go? Your love always seemed to pull you back to place no matter what.

In the arena blow, Lucius and Acacius clashed with a ferocity. The general splits Lucius wooden shield, sending him back a bit and off balance. He charges forward anyways towards Acacius, unprotected this time trying to aim for his head.

The flat end of his sword, Lucius was able to catch Acacius broadside of his head. It sends him down a bit, catching him off guard as his helmet comes off and he drops his sword. The crowd's roar grew louder, a chaotic symphony of excitement and bloodlust.

Lucius stood over the fallen general, his chest heaving with exertion. Across the sand, Acacius stirred, shaking off the shock of the blow, his hand grasping for the sword he had dropped. He was a seasoned warrior, but he couldn’t stand for a man trying to survive. Instead the general raises his hand in surrender.

“Acacius has raised his hand! He surrenders!” You hear the announcement be called overhead. Though, the crowd goes silent. So do you, only hearing the pounding heartbeat inside your chest. You looked up and saw both Caracalla and Geta rise to address the people.

“Romans what do you say?” Geta shouts. You could hear the faint murmur of the crowd, their mixed emotions swirling in the dust-filled air. Lucius stood like a towering figure above Acacius, sword still raised but his body taut with uncertainty. The question had been posed, but the answer was unclear.

Some people chanted “Mercy!” Others shouted in a cry out, “Kill him!” You looked to Caracalla. His gaze met yours, cold and calculating. He was watching to see what you would do, he knew you better than anyone else.

Geta stood beside him, raising his fist. He holds it out in midair. There is silence as he waits for the ‘gods justice’ from high above. “The gods have rendered their judgment.”

He turns it over and gives a ‘thumbs down.’

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, their voices a twisted chorus of approval and bloodlust. Lucius's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his expression unreadable as he stared down at Acacius, the man who was now, in essence, a condemned soul. The sun seemed to burn hotter.

“Lucius!” You hear Lucilla yell out, but it was helpless. Yet, her son looked up and tossed his sword to the side.

The crowd, stunned by the unexpected turn, fell into a tense silence. Geta’s face darkened, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. Caracalla was no making a thumb’s down as well, “Kill him! Kill him!” He yelled.

You felt Lucllia gaze watch over you. She knew you had the power to stop all of this but you did not. She knew. She always knew, and yet, her faith in you had crumbled long ago, like everything else in your life.

“You were once a mother too.” She whispered. You turned to her at that, you had vowed to yourself to never bring up that moment again. “How dare you bring that into this.” You snapped back at her. The venom in your words seemed to hang in the air like poison, but it didn’t deter her.

You turned away, your heart beating loudly in your chest, drowning her out.

“Is this how Rome treats its people?” The gladiator cried out from below. “If this life has no value, what are yours worth.” You could see the two emperors getting more upset every second.

“The gods have spoken!” Geta called out in reply. It was a standoff and a ripple of excitement ran through everyone in the stands. One of the brothers closest allies whispered something in Geta’s ear that you could not hear.

“Kill him!”

The archers that surrounded everyone drew their arrows. Though the Centurions hesitate for a moment before Geta says something again. “In the name of Jupiter— kill him!” They release the arrows… striking Acacius right in the chest.

Time seemed to stop right there and then. What did you just do?

More and move arrows flew to his body. One after another. Lucius sunk down to his knees, most likely waiting for an arrow that would kill him. None did come for him though. The crowd’s roar had turned into an eerie hush, their bloodlust suddenly soured by the realization of what had just happened.

The arena was too quiet. Geta and Caracalla look at each other uncomfortably, you just starred at the floor in front of you. Hearing Lucllia’s tears break through her voice. “Damn you to the fire, forever.”

Your husband turned around quickly, “first you’ll get your turn in the pit!” He shouted at her. You could tell he was frightened, the crowd was still lingering in its silence. No one moved for a couple of seconds but the Praetorian started to lead everybody out of the Emperors box before fights started to break out.

———

“We’ve should’nt had killed him.” You said, back in the palace. You clutched your fingers close to your mouth, as you view over the city of Rome in the afternoon.

Caracalla’s voice cut through your reverie. He was standing behind you, the sound of his shoes on the marble floor making your pulse quicken. His tone was low, dangerous. "You're regretting it, aren't you? You’ve tasted your own betrayal now."

“No I’m not I just—“ You had no idea what you were going to say. You did this all for him. Turning slowly, you finally faced him and took his hand into yours and sighed.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly calm. “I’ve seen it in your eyes. I’ve seen that moment of hesitation, that flicker of doubt. I know you better than anyone.”

“I did it for you,” you finally whispered, as though the words could somehow absolve the ache that was twisting in your chest. “I thought I could do it for us—for Rome.”

He moved his hand from your hand to your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, yet the weight of it felt like a silent accusation. You closed your eyes, the bitter taste of regret still lingering on your tongue. "I don't know anymore," you whispered, barely audible, the truth slipping out despite yourself. "I don't know what I’m doing anymore."

"You're not the only one, you know," he murmured, his fingers still resting against your skin. You could feel his hot breath against your lips as he leaned in and kissed you.

You flinched at the kiss, though you didn’t pull away. After a second you leaned into him more passionately. The familiar taste of his mouth, warm and urgent, stirred something inside you. He needed more of you and you needed more of him.

You could feel Caracalla's hands grip you tighter, pulling you closer as though he could erase all doubts with his touch. You could feel the pulse of his heartbeat against yours, a reminder that despite the violence, the treachery, and the choices you had made, you were still bound to him, body and soul.

The kiss deepened, and for a fleeting moment, his hands trailing down your body and feeling all your curves when you pulled away. Caracalla's grip on you had not loosened, as he held onto your waist. You could not read him in this very moment nor tell what he was thinking.

“I do know that I love you.” You said to him. Caracalla's eyes softened for just a moment, "Do you?" His voice was quiet, almost tender, yet the question seemed to carry the weight of the entire empire. His hands, still resting on your waist, tightened just a fraction as if testing whether you truly meant those words.

You searched his eyes, trying to find the man you once knew—the one who whispered sweet promises into your ear before the bloodshed began and that moment, the one who held you in public, as if you were a goddess to him. “How could I not?”

And yet, as Caracalla’s hand lingered on your body, you still felt the pull toward him. The love you had for him wasn’t gone, but it was changing. It was suffocating. You didn’t know if you could survive in this world he was crafting, in this empire of blood and ash.

“You were always mine,” he said softly, his voice low and almost dangerous. “And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

You backed up, his hands softly leaving your body as you turned to look over the railing to see all of Rome in its glory. It was at your feet, what would your father have said? You remembered your wedding day and how he opposed it… yet he wanted you to be happy most of all.

The wind carried the distant hum of Rome, the faint echo of a city still alive. “You look so distant,” Caracalla’s tone was soft but sharp, like the edge of a blade. He was watching you closely, sensing the unraveling of something within you.

Were you happy?

Yes you had to be. Yes you are. The sound of Caracalla footsteps had faded away when he left the balcony, leaving you alone with your thoughts that attacked your mind. It seemed like everyday you were becoming more like him, but you turned him into what he is now. You still blame yourself for what had happened.

You breathed deeply, watching as the birds flew past in the sky, the way the bells rung and children laughing in the street. It was almost like you were young again as your mother read you a story about the gods or the great Achilles. You did not miss it.

You turned away and headed back inside, your fingers grazing over the stone as you left as well.

#ancient rome #caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla #emperor carcalla x reader #fred hechinger #gladiator 2 #gladiator ll #rome #lucilla #emperor geta

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yuyu1024 · 1 year ago

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Prisoner

Pairings: Yoongi × y/n

Genre/tags: Arranged marriage

Warning: 🔞🔞 smut, mention of food/eating, cursing, sensual touching, unprotected sex, making out, needy/clingy, Pet name, lies, kinks, Smoking [lmk if i miss anything]

Words: 3.0k

Disclaimer:

- this story is just made up

- english is not my first language, please be nice 😊

Note: repost. Likes and reblogs are much appreciated 🫶🏻

Check pinned post for more

***

The sound of the wedding bells and the people cheering for your union are still ringing in your ears. You could also still envision your friends and families' warmest smiles and tearful hugs as they congratulate you. Everyone is so happy. They kept on saying that your wedding is the most magical and happiest they've ever seen.

Yes. Your wedding is the grand. The whole castle like church is filled with the whitest flowers that gives an illusion of the place is floating in clouds. You could also see shiniest silvers and krystals all over the place. It felt unreal.

You requested for a simple wedding but you are given more than that and you love it.

The wedding is also filled with people you both love and cherish. So you feel comfortable and loved all through out the ceremony and the party afterwards.

Yes. The wedding is amazing.

Yes. The wedding is to die for.

Yes. The wedding is like a fantasy.

It's because it is... it is a fantasy and no where near reality.

It is only for show to make people believe that you and the man you married is real.

Little did everyone know, your marriage is just arranged. You were just handpicked by the groom because he had no other option. He didn't like the women his parents are suggesting. So he decided to himself to pick someone from the ground and carry to his world. A world filled with darkness and resentment. A very, very, very cold world.

"Miss..." a voice echoes waking you up from your daydream

You slowly open your eyes to see the barely lit room that you are still in. You get up from leaning onto the edge of the bathtub and see your personal maid near the door. Her head lowered not making eye contact with you. She's holding your towel and bathrobe.

"I'm sorry, Miss. But Master asked for dinner to be served soon...he's on his way home."

You look down at your hands peeking from the warm milky water and then pick up the rose petals floating on it. "He's early today..." you mumble quietly

"I heard that the meeting with his father, Mr. Min finished early..."

"I wonder why..." you got up from the bath. She immidiately rush towards you, handing you the towel and bathrobe to use.

"Mr. Min told Master to go home early... because of you Miss..."

"Ah... really..." there is no hint of excitement in your voice. "You can leave now and help them prepare... I'll get ready myself..." you tell the maid, who is still not having any eye contact with you.

You don't sound happy nor sad. Actually, you do sound like a robot with no feelings when you talk.

You were not like this before. Yes you are a quiet person, an introvert and reserved but never like this. You changed quite a lot after getting married. It's not by choice. You just have to adapt with your surroundings.

Living in a big ass mansion with more than fifty staffs and bodyguards but no one to talk to. You have no one to spend your time but yourself. Your world became, quiet.

Yes you do have a husband. You married him. But the man is never home most of the time. And when he is, he does not even make conversations with you unless it's related to his parents; asking you to do this and that. To be present here and there. Telling you what to say and not to talk about. Basically, he only talks to you when its about your deal. Yes, deal.

Funny isn't? You married bound by a contract but that's it. Just by contract. No love is involved.

You know this since the beginning. You signed the marriage certificate plus the contract. You are aware. But you never thought that this will be the kind of life you will have. Alone. But what choice do you have? He offered your parents a huge amount of money for your hands. A money that could let them live a good life even when they retire early. That's how big it is.

And you agreed to it, not because of the money, but because you thought; that maybe, just maybe this is the universe's doing. Him and you meeting under this circumstances but then in the end, getting to know each other and that Maybe...... maybe learn to love each other. But you're wrong. You and Yoongi have been married for more than a year now and its already had taken a toll on you emotionally and physically.

"Miss... Master is just a few minutes away..."

You pause brushing your hair, staring at yourself through the full body mirror. You are wearing the plain black, fitted halter dress that you received as a gift from him. You like this dress because it emphasizes your figure and shows off a little skin because of the slit. He gifted you this dress during your honeymoon. It's probably the cheapest clothing you have in your closet but for you this is the most valuable.

"Do you want me to fix your hair, Miss?"

You put down your hair brush. "No thank you."

Then you sit down and start to put on your shoes. But instead of heels, you put your white canvas shoes.

"Ahm, no heels today, Miss?" She sounds a bit concern

"No." You stand up to look at yourself one last time before going. "My feet hurts so I'll wear something comfy for now..."

"I understand." She hurriedly puts down the heels she had on hand and runs after me.

It is true that your feet is hurting. You've been wearing heels everyday when you go to work. 'Work' meaning is socializing with your husband's family friends and circle. You represent him for charities and parties he can't and won't attend. It's not everyday but these past few weeks, you've been busy. You were away too most of the days of the week. That's why you also barely saw your husband. He's been away for a week and when he came back you got busy too. And tonight, this is the first time you'll be eating dinner with him.

"Tell him to reschedule... I won't be available tomorrow. I have other plans."

You hear him talking to the phone when you enter the dinning room. He's so focused that he didn't even bat an eye when you sit down across him.

"What do you prefer, Miss?" The male servant asks. "We have tender lamb chops braised in wine. Served with pea puree and then wild sea bass with sautéed smoked bacon, red chicory, runner beans and red wine sauce."

"The latter, please..." You try to give a smile to show appreciation but then you halt as you hear your husband slam his phone on the table. It starlted you a bit.

And also, up to now he still hasn't dared to look at you. He just went on to eating his lamb after his phone call.

You want to watch him eat or even glance at him every now and then, just so you could update his image from your memory. You just want to see him, Even just a tiny bit silhouette of his face behind the boquet of flowers between the two of you.

'Fuck.' You curse in your mind.

You always ask yourself why do you even bother wanting to see him or make conversation with him when you know you don't mean anything to him. For him, you are just one of his staff. The only difference is that he talks to about life when he wants to because its part of your business with him. And to add to that, you're only his 'woman' when he needs to release stress. Meaning you two have sex when he needs it. There is no date or time. When he calls you or he comes to your room unannounced, that's it. Saying no is not an option.

But come to think of it, the last time you two had sex was quite a long time ago. It's been months.

'Does this mean... even in sex... he's not satisfied with me? Did he looked for a different woman to do it with?' You talk to yourself

"Leave us." He orders to the servants.

You didn't dare to glance up. You just kept yourself occupied by poking the fish on your plate.

"Your hair got longer..." he says making you pause

Your eyes goes up and see him looking straight at you."Ah... yes..." You answer before looking back down.

"Why ask for the fish if you're not going to eat it?"

You raise your head up again, "hmm?"

He tosses his one up like it's water. "Someone reported to me that you've been eating less lately."

"My appetite is fine... I'm just...off a bit..."

You put down your fork and try to think before you speak again. You can tell him you're tired because how can you be? You have all the assistant you need and more. Plus you are living a lavish life. You could ask for a massage, a facial or swim in the pool whenever you want. You have everything. Except him.

That. You can't mention. You can't dare ask for his attention. He'll get mad. You know he will. He said it in the very beginning of this relationship. That 'You are just his wife in papers. And never expect something more from him.'

"I'll be fine..."

You look straight back at him. You can finally see him clearly. He slightly moved to the side, giving you an amazing view of his face. He's still look as beautiful as you remember. His long hair, sharp eyes, pinkish lips and the scar.

"How's the auction?" He pulls out a cigarette from the pack he have on the table and lights it off. "You bought a vintage jewelry?"

"I did."

"How much is it?" He puffs smoke. His eyes are still fixated to you.

"It's a bit expensive... I'm sorry." You look down at your knotted fingers. "I got it for 1.5M."

"Reasonable."

"I tried to intimidate the other wives... but it didn't work..."

"You need to work on that."

"I will."

"But don't worry about the money... it's going to a good cause..." He stands up and puts off his cigarette on his used plate. "My mother liked the the jewelry set. She said, thank you."

Relief fills your heart and made you relax a bit. You are thankful that his mother liked the one you picked.

It's the only one you bought in the auction. The event is for charity and Yoongi gave you the go signal to throw money like dimes. He said you can buy anything you want.

You liked a lot of things there. Everything is grand, beautiful, meaningful and unique. But none of them bring joy to you. You don't need them so your heart can't afford to splurge.

"I'll go and get ready for bed..." he says as he stand by the window, looking outside.

"Ah... okay..." you look down at your plate and pick up your fork, to continue eating.

"When you finish..." he starts to walk towards the door, "Come to my room."

"Hmm?" You blink, confused. "Your... room?"

He stops just as he got outside the door and adds before totally closing the door "Ask the maid to braid your hair..."

'Braid your hair'. That means he wants to have sex.

"Sure..." you answer in a whisper though he's already not in the room.

***

You are finally walking in the hallway, on the way to his room. Barefoot and naked. Almost naked.

It has been a routine of you to braid your long hair and then just wear a silk robe over to cover your body. He likes it this way. He have particular things he likes and you follow them.

It's almost 9pm. All the staffs are now in their houses. Yoongi asked them to leave earlier so no one could hear and disturb us.

You took a deep breathe before you get ready to knock on his door. But then to your surprise the double door swings open and you see him, in his black jogger pants and a sheer robe over his naked body. "What took you so long?" His brows are furrowed.

"Sorry..." you lower your gaze from his beautiful face to his toned body.

"Get in." He orders, turning his back on you.

You slowly enter the forbiden room. It's like how you imagine it to be; spacious, dark and earth tone colors everywhere. But the things you've never imagined seeing in there are towers of books and comics on the floor. Then there is a gaming area too.

"Do you play?" He asks as he sits down at the corner of his massive bed.

You shake your head, "No... I'm sorry."

He's smoking again. "Come here." He orders as he puff the smoke in betwern his lips. You move closer to him, cautiously. "Why do you look nervous? It's not like it's our first time."

You are now standing in between his legs. "Sorry..."

He rolls his eyes slightly as he puts his cigarette onto the ashtray. "Why do you keep on apologizing?"

"I..." you pause and wait for him to look back at you. "I don't know."

He snorts, "whatever."

He takes off his robe and throws it somewhere behind you. You were about to do the same as his but he stops your hand from untying your robe.

"Are you on birth control?"

You shake your head. "No... we... I mean... you use condom..."

He didn't say anything after that. He just continued; picks up your braided hair thats lying on your chest and pushes it away. Your breathing picks up as you could feel and see him gazing at you. You even felt your body jerk a little when his finger tip brushed over your hard nipple. The sensation is on max. You needed him to touch you. You missed him touching you.

Yes, this relationship may not be real for him but to you, it's something. Plus, we all have our needs. And when it comes to sex, he delivers. More than you can imagine. And you like playing along with his needs.

He pulls the string keeping your robe on you and just watch it fall off your skin like feather.

You feel your cheeks heat up. You are exposed. He can see that you are already turned on. Your breast giving it all away.

"Come closer..." he orders and you follow.

His hands slides over your hips then goes up to your torso, for him to hold on to you. Hug you. He begins to suck one of your boobs like a baby. His eyes are fully close and his grasping onto your skin like he had been so hungry for so long. He's really enjoying it.

You as well.

"Ahh..." you exhale as you throw your head back. His tongue doing all the works and tickling your insides by just playing at your tip.

After a few more seconds, he stops and looks up at you. And you looking down at him.

"You're so beautiful..." you whisper to him as you run your fingertips over the scar on his face.

You lower your head to meet his lips. He welcomed your kiss like it was meant to be there five minute ago overdue. He is into it more than usual.

He finally gets naked like you. His length is hard and up. It's already leaking and looked very inviting for you to sit on. But you're too shy to make the first move.

You did try to sit on his lap though, legs spread out and core is so wet and ready; just a few inches away for his throbbing length. Then his hand goes in between and starts to rub you in the most sensual way possible.

"Holy shit!" You gasps breaking off from the kiss for a second just to take it all in.

A smug on his face can be seen catching you off guard. He had never reacted to you reacting to his touches like this before.

Your hips begin to rock just to feel his fingers on you.

"Y/n..." You look at him after hearing him say your name. "No condom today."

"O-okay..."

"Make me feel good." He says softly but sturn, pulling you close to his length.

The tip touching your opening already made you roll your eyes. He's so warm and big.

"F-fuck!" You cry as he eases himself into you. "Holy shit! Ugh!"

You start to move slowly, feeling it all in you, finding the pace and ryth. you think you could do all night but at the same time make him satisfied.

"You got tighter." He grunts as you go up and down on him while holding on to his shoulder for balance support.

"Holy fuck!" Your eyes starts to get filled with tears. You found your spot and his length is hitting it perfectly. "Fuck!"

You watch him close his eyes and his face showing how good you're making him feel. His broes is furrowed and his mouth open and hissing tiny breathes with you.

You can't believe it. Someone like you who was inexperience with sex, is now married and making your man look so damn sexy moaning.

"I'm gonna come." He hugs you tigh and begins to kiss you again. "I want to come in you." He opens his eyes and meets yours.

"Fucking come in me." You say

He then carries you as he stands up, changing your positions. Now you're the one on the bed and he's on top of you.

"I will rip you apart." He snarls.

Every fucking thrust is mean and yet satisfying. You feel like your insides shuffled from every hit. But it's not pain. It's heaven.

"Fuck!" He hisses as he climaxes with you.

The warmth inside you feels like a warm blanket during winter. It's felt relaxing.

He is breathing heavily, your hands are intertwined and his still on top and inside of you.

"Yoongi..." you say breathlessly as you admire him over you.

He moves in for a kiss. A soft gentle kiss. "Stay with me tonight..."

*****

Part 2

#yuyu1024 #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi fanfic #bts yoongi #min yoongi #bts angst #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts yoongi smut #fem reader #smut #fanfix

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luvvictoria · 13 days ago

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My heart belongs to you

+ pairings. simon ghost riley x f!reader

+ tags. romance, Forbidden Love,Angst,Royalty AU, Loyalty and Betrayal, Bittersweet Ending

+ a/n. Reblog with your favourite line ! It would help me very much to grow my account !! Thank you in advance!!

+ summary. On the eve of his arranged marriage to Lady Eveline, Simon wrestles with the crushing weight of duty and a forbidden love he cannot forsake. His heart belongs to the Queen, with whom he shares a bond built on stolen moments and unspoken devotion. When she unexpectedly visits his chambers, their uncontainable emotions collide, revealing their mutual pain and the impossibility of their love. Tho Simon pledges that his heart will remain hers, both know they must endure the torment of secrecy and separation, bound by duty to others while their love lingers in the shadows of the palace. +credits. credits to @xypvnther on c.ai and tik tok !!

The grand ceremony loomed, its imminence casting a suffocating pall over the Royal Palace. Every corridor, every hall, buzzed with activity, yet within Simon’s temporary chambers, there was only a heavy, oppressive stillness. The air seemed to press against him, thick with the weight of inevitability. He stood by the tall window, his broad back turned to the room, staring out at the moonlit gardens with eyes that were hidden beneath the cold, gleaming skull mask he wore. The mask served its purpose — to hide, to shield — but it could not contain the storm raging within him.

Lady Eveline, his future wife, sat on the edge of the bed, her slender fingers trailing over the ornate embroidery of her gown. Her face was a picture of excitement, her eyes bright as they flitted to the lavish wedding gifts displayed across the desk. Each trinket, each carefully chosen artifact, symbolized the union of two noble houses, a bond forged not by love but by duty and ambition. Eveline seemed to glow with anticipation, lost in dreams of what their marriage would bring. She did not see the rigidity in Simon’s shoulders, the way his hands clenched at his sides as if bracing himself against an unseen force.

To the kingdom, tomorrow’s ceremony was a triumph, a moment to celebrate. But for Simon, it was a loss. He was not stepping into a new life; he was locking himself in a cage. His heart — betrayal to his vows though it was — belonged to another. It had long since been claimed by you.

You were the Queen, the untouchable sovereign whose icy beauty and commanding presence held the palace in thrall. Your gaze alone could silence the grandest of lords, your word was law. Yet behind closed doors, in stolen moments that defied every rule and expectation, you were his. And he was yours. He had pledged himself to you not with ceremonies or oaths but with the quiet, unyielding devotion of a man who had no choice but to love you.

But duty was a relentless master. The world did not care for love or longing. The world demanded alliances, heirs, appearances. Tomorrow, Simon would stand before the court and swear himself to Eveline, knowing that in doing so, he was breaking the silent promises he had made to you. The thought was unbearable, yet he had no escape.

Eveline’s voice broke through his thoughts, light and melodic as she spoke of the gifts and the grand future they heralded. “Look at this,” she said, lifting a jeweled brooch and holding it to the light. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Simon forced himself to turn, his movements mechanical. “Yes, my lady. Beautiful,” he replied, the words hollow in his mouth. His gaze flickered to her face, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in memories of you — the way you had looked at him, not with duty or expectation but with a love so fierce it had nearly undone him.

Eveline shifted on the bed, leaning slightly toward him, her posture casual yet intimate. Her proximity was innocent, but to Simon, it felt like a betrayal. His body stiffened, and he took a half step back, but the moment was interrupted by the soft creak of the door.

And there you stood.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the weight of your presence making the air thicker, harder to breathe. You did not speak at first, your gaze sweeping over the scene before you — Eveline’s bright smile, the casual closeness, Simon’s rigid stance. For a fleeting moment, something flickered in your eyes — hurt, betrayal — before your regal mask slid into place. Your lips parted as if to say something, but the words never came. Instead, you stood there, a picture of composed authority, though the tension in your jaw betrayed the storm within.

Simon’s heart lurched painfully in his chest. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice strained as he moved away from Eveline, as if putting physical distance between them could undo what you had seen.

“I did not mean to interrupt,” you said, your tone cool, each word a carefully measured blade. “It seems I have come at an inopportune time.”

Simon’s jaw tightened. “Your Majesty, it is not…” He hesitated, the words faltering under the weight of his guilt. “It is not what it appears.”

Your eyes locked onto his, piercing and unreadable. “Of course,” you said, the words polite but distant. You turned to Eveline, who had risen to her feet, looking flustered under your scrutiny. “Lady Eveline, I trust you will excuse us. I require a word with Sir Simon.”

Eveline hesitated, glancing between you and Simon, but she curtsied and left without protest. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving the room deathly silent.

“You should not be here,” Simon said at last, his voice low and rough. “If anyone were to see…”

“And what would they see?” you interrupted, your tone icy. “A queen who has foolishly allowed herself to care for a man she cannot have? Or a knight who has betrayed her in more ways than one?”

Simon flinched, the words cutting deeper than any blade. “You know that is not true,” he said, stepping toward you. “What you saw… it was nothing. It means nothing.”

“And yet it looked like everything,” you snapped, your composure slipping. Your voice softened, trembling as you continued. “Simon, tomorrow you will swear yourself to her. You will stand before the court, the kingdom, and vow to be hers. Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you are asking of me?”

“I am not asking anything of you,” he said, his voice raw. “Because I have no right to. I have given up the right to ask anything of you, and it is killing me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Then why?” you whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I must,” he said, his voice breaking. “Because this is the price of loyalty, of duty. Because I would rather live in torment than see you suffer for my selfishness.”

You turned away, your hands trembling as you pressed them to your face. “You speak of torment as if it is yours alone to bear. Do you think I do not feel it too? Do you think it does not tear me apart to know I am losing you?”

He crossed the distance between you, his hands hovering hesitantly before resting gently on your shoulders. “You are not losing me,” he said. “You will never lose me. I am yours, even if the world believes otherwise. Even if I must stand beside her, my heart will always be here, with you.”

“And what am I to do with that?” you asked, your voice breaking. “What am I to do with a love I cannot show, a man I cannot have?”

He turned you to face him, his eyes dark with anguish. “You hold onto it,” he said. “Hold onto it as I will hold onto you. Let it be the secret that keeps us alive, even if it must remain hidden. Let it be ours, even if only in the quiet moments when no one else is watching.”

The tears you had fought so hard to suppress finally fell, and he caught them with a trembling hand. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, bound by a love that could not be undone, no matter how deeply it was buried.

When dawn broke, it would bring with it the ceremony, the vows, the lies. But for now, in the stillness of the night, you clung to each other, holding onto a love that neither duty nor time could erase.

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felassan · 1 month ago

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Dragon Age: The Veilguard art book pages, under a cut due to spoilers:

Top right: The "Lobstrocity" would plunge its face into the sand, and its tentacles would burst out of the sand around you. Top center: This was a fun creature with detailed behavior. Top left: Spitting an inky diversion. Center left: Figuring out the anatomical details of this bizarre creature. Center right: A simple land shark. This version is based on a goblin shark, for a more unsettling appearance. Bottom: The Rivain coastline is dotted with hidden grottoes, ruined fortresses, and uncounted shipwrecks.

Top: Beat boards like these help us explore the look and feel of a group in their context. How do they act? What kinds of settings do we find them in? How do they problem-solve? Center: Exploring how a Rivaini landscape might change with the tide. Bottom: Lords of Fortune having way too much fun searching for lost artifacts.

Top: Lords of Fortune have their priorities. In this case, during a perilous escape, this treasure seeker can't help but stop to investigate a curious glint. Bottom: Rivain's coastline is a mix of beautiful beaches, lost ruins, shipwrecks, and deadly beasts.

Mourn Watch The Mourn Watch are masters of undeath, necromancy, curses, and other dark magic. They probe at the borders of "known" magic, where laws fall away and vaster forces creep through. The Watchers know there's more than just spirits in the Fade. If you work with them, prepare for the boundaries between life, death, and reality to get thin. Top left: Death, science, and magic define the Mourn Watch. Their costumes combine aspects of morticians, academics, conductors, mad scientists, and necromancers. Top right: They may be necromancers, but they're not morbid. They study and admire death, and we tried to avoid designing them to be grotesque. Center left: An undead diorama. Wealthy nobles invest heavily in their life after death. Center: Some armor is built more for ceremony than for practical day-to-day duties.

Top center: The Necropolis is vast. While there's a time for ceremony and study, there's also a time to explore the depths. Top right: A mix of embalmer, anatomist, alchemist, and mage. Center left: While these scholars' studies are lofty, the Necropolis is a dangerous place. There is often a need for protection. Bottom right: The Necropolis is home to the bodies of Nevarrans from all walks of life. Some can afford splendid jewelry and clothing, as well as the required upkeep. Some give way to the natural processes of decay more quickly.

Top left 1: The standard uniform of the Mourn Watch. Top left 2: The Mourn Watch know that not everyone outside the Necropolis is comfortable with their interests, and they know how to dress accordingly. Center: A Necropolis rogue, perfect for exploring dangerous regions that require a light touch. Center right: They worked hard for their anatomical knowledge and delight in showing it off. Bottom: There are some parts of the Necropolis that are far too deadly and unstable to visit without extreme protection.

Top right: Early takes on the Mourn Watch explored the possibility that they not just studied the dead but also were undead. Top left: The Mourn Watch make great use of the undead as assistants in their work. Center: Mourn Watch weapons are based on embalming and surgical tools with added ceremonial magical elements.

Necropolis The Watchers live and work in the upper levels of the Grand Necroplis, a massive, ornate dungeon complex of catacombs, secret passages, and traps. Located right outside (and below) Nevarra City, it is constantly expanding, as upper-class Nevarrans begin planning their elaborate crypts while young. Modest tombs sit next to life-sized mansions and sealed-off royal sepulchers. Some undead are lovingly placed in elaborate tableaux where they can "reenact" scenes from real life. Others rest in coffins. The more robust corpses are armed and trained by the Watchers to patrol for thieves. Center top: The entrance to the Necropolis is like an inverted Tower of Babel. They seek knowledge in the grave instead of heaven. Top left: Occasionally a Watcher goes rogue and uses their knowledge in unsavory ways. Top right: The Necropolis is so large that it doesn't just hold catacombs and tombs but vast landscapes, mountains of graveyards, cities of mausoleums, rivers of unknown magic. Bottom left: A colossal bell whose sound keeps demons at bay.

We wanted it to feel like you could always keep going down. If there is a bottom, no one alive has seen it.

Top: There are certain archetypes that we had a lot of fun exploring. One was the haunted Nevarran mansion. Center left: In keeping with the Mourn Watch faction overall, we wanted this mansion to feel spooky but not gruesome or morbid. Bottom right: This location was home to a member of the Mourn Watch, and it was fun to fill it with details from their time in the Necropolis.

Some areas are little more than tightly packed crawl spaces. Others look like wealthy subterranean neighborhoods. Still others look like vast sunless fields littered with tombstones and statuary. Annotation on illustration near top of page reads "Ossuary built around derelict sky burial tower".

Center: The Necropolis is really huge. This is one of an unknown number of mausoleum towers that stretch up into darkness. Untethered spirits drift by regularly. Bottom left: Exploring the Necropolis. We wanted some locations to border on the surreal.

Center: An unsettling magical path in the Necropolis that forms under your feet as you walk, surrounded by a dark pit of the undead. Center right: Not all Mourn Watchers follow the code. Some go rogue and use their knowledge to create things that shouldn't be created.

An early illustration having fun exploring the exciting things we might find in the Necropolis.

Top: A sketch exploring how far along the mad scientist spectrum we wanted to go. Center: Dinner with the Mourn Watch, with helpful undead servants that have lost their grasp on the definition of "fresh". Bottom: The Necropolis can be unstable, so occasionally the Mourn Watch are required to calm things down.

Shadow Dragons The Tevinter Imperium is Thedas's evil magic empire. Magic holds the Imperium together and is used by both the good guys and the bad guys. The Shadow Dragons are the "good" Tevinters, taking on a corrupt ruling class that has power beyond imagining. They are the underdog resistance with big dreams but few resources. To redeem the Tevinter they love, they might have to make deals with demons both literal and metaphorical. Top: We thought of it like Gotham City from Batman: The Animated Series. A less-grim Sin City with magic instead of guns. Center left: We thought of the Shadow Dragons as secretive, underground, and magical. They have motifs of monks, wizards, rebels, and rogues. Center right: We wanted to create a spectrum from regal mages to most-wanted insurgents. Bottom 1: When designing a faction, we try to live like them in our heads. Bottom 2: We imagined that since many of them are in hiding, a lot of their gear would have to be repurposed than purchased new.

Top right: A disguise that's part mage robe, part Tevinter uniform. Center 1: To start, we broke down Dorian's costumes from Inquisition. If he was the "rock star", what would the average citizen look like? Center 2: What elements of his costume would be common in every market, and what elements were his own special flair? Bottom left: Magic is more accepted in Tevinter, and so their mage robe fashion has had longer to develop.

Top right: The Viper, Minrathous's equivalent of the classic character known as the Shadow. Top center: Armor made from pure magic may not be the most reliable, but it makes an impression. Center left: For each faction, we designed an incredibly lavish outfit.

Top: A common Tevinter soldier's uniform, modified for use by the Shadow Dragons. Center: Sometimes it's fun to design something over-the-top and ceremonial. Bottom left: A suit of armor designed to focus a mage's powers. Bottom right: A Halloween costume for the Shadow Dragons: a demon.

Tevinter Minrathous is where it all happens. The ruling body of Tevinter operates here. The cabal of magisters and the Venatori who oppose the Shadow Dragons are here. It is a city of magical towers and dirty streets, where wealth and luxury exist alongside poverty and suffering. There are no rules in Minrathous, except one: trust nobody. Top right: The palace was designed to be a giant crown that floats over the city. Top left: We designed a magical bridge and an elevator that can float people and goods up to and down from the palace. Bottom: One of the earliest images showing the interior of the Archon's palace. We wanted it to feel like you were high above the city in a luxurious penthouse.

Top: We built Tevinter off of the ruins found in Inquisition. It's a culture based on magic, but also tyranny and control. We wanted to have a sharp, sturdy shape language. It should look like if you tried to push a Tevinter building down, not only would you fail, but you'd also cut yourself. Bottom: The Tevinter Imperium used to be the greatest empire in Thedas. That age is long gone, a truth Tevinter's ruling class are unable or unwilling to grasp. They remain convinced of their superiority, and this complacence has led to the slow crumbling of the Imperium.

Top: It may be cramped, cluttered and humid, but this is where the action is. Don't miss the Cobbled Swan bar on your way to the markets. Bottom: Early in the game, Solas begins his ritual. We explored what that might have looked like from the streets of Minrathous.

Top: The Undercity. Center: Lantern Lane. Center right: The raised bar in the Cobbled Swan. Bottom left: Sculptors' Square. Bottom right: Potters' Path.

Top: In the early stages, we thought a lot about the layers of Tevinter. We started with the ruins of the elven empire, then built up layer after layer of Tevinter architecture. Center: At one point, Minrathous would be occupied by the Antaam instead of the Antivans. Bottom: Very early on we created a thin slice of the game for a visual target. We chose to build a small section of an alley in Tevinter. It was a great opportunity to explore all the details required to make a space feel believable.

Top: We imagined spectacular elven pillars, pulled up out of the ground by powerful elven mages. After those had fallen into ruin, they were used as the foundation for Tevinter buidings. Center: While Tevinter has an intimidating reputation, we also wanted it to be a livable city. There may be evil mages using blood magic, but there are also people just trying to get by. Annotations on the top illustration read: "Treetop motif", "Well preserved Elven pillar", "Magically extracted and farmed stone", "Destroyed Elven pillar", "Magically suspended building", "Defaced and modified Elven pillar", "Rain is collected on rooftops", "Elven foundations with different Tevinter apartments built on top", "Remains of Elven homes used as foundation"

High Town Home to the elite of Minrathous. Here the magic is on full display. Top: Inside the Tevinter chantry. Center: Terraced mansions. Bottom left: An interior view of a Tevinter mansion. Bottom right: A spectacular view of the Archon's palace.

Top: The views from High Town are expansive. Center left: The dwarven embassy. Center right: Built so that dwarves could come to the surface and always have stone above them. Bottom: The Hanging Gardens around the Tevinter Colosseum.

Top: As with all things Shadow Dragon, their weapons are themed around serpents and magic. Top right: A twisted coil of serpents for a mace. Center: In real life and in games, shields are a great opportunity for visual storytelling. Center right: In some cases, we wanted to use floating blades or blades that had been formed through magical processes.

Top: An early illustration showing the Shadow Dragons in action. Center: Graffiti painted by the Shadow Dragons or their supporters. Bottom center: The images depict serpents, mages, and broken chains. Bottom right: Hand-painted murals and graffiti like this are great for visual storytelling, but they also add variety and color to the world.

Top: Tevinter demanded an almost endless supply of book props, from the mundane to the magical. Center: We went from books to scrolls to scroll cases to enchanted display cabinets. Bottom: Some books are just better left unread.

some other pages -

Some opening pages

Foreword

Google Books preview pages Part One

Google Books preview pages Part Two

Amazon preview pages

Page batch

Page batch 2

Page batch 3

Page batch 4

Book art credits:

BioWare art: Matt Rhodes, Ramil Sunga, Albert Urmanov, Christopher Scoles, Nick Thornborrow, Steve Klit

Volta art: Gui Guimaraes, Stéphanie Bouchard, Akim Kaliberda, Alejandro Olmedo, Alexey Zaryuta, Julien Carrasco, Maksim Marenkov, Marianne Martin, Mariia Istomina, Marion Kivits, Matti Marttinen, Mélanie Bourgeois, Pablo Hurtado De Mendoza, Rael Lyra, Rodrigo Ramos, Thomas Schaffer, Tiago Sousa, Tristan Kang, Vladimir Mokry, Yintion J, Joseph Meehan, Stefan Atanasov, Julien Carrasco

Additional art: Marc Holmes, Thomas Scholes

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #body horror cw #injury cw #gore cw #blood cw #alcohol cw #solas

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moondance-r · 4 months ago

Text

SAGAU-adjacent not-Creator Creator 2

Summary: You knew, viscerally down to your bones, that you did not create this world; Teyvat had no grand creator, no single hand designing its wonders. It did, however, have something of a catalytic agent, without which it would not exist.

You.

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It had been an entirely unremarkable day for Diluc until Adelinde approached with a harried look on her face and handed him a slip of paper.

“It came by the Knights’ fastest hawk,” she informed him quietly.

Unrolled, the paper contained only the Favonius coat of arms marking it as official correspondence and a short message written in Jean’s hand, unusually shaky:

Creator sighted by Bard. Come with best harvest, They’re here.

Creator sighted.

A thrill ran down Diluc’s spine. For generations, they had hoped and prayed to see the Creator, and now They had descended during his lifetime. He was excited, but nervous too -- if anything went wrong, their ancestors wouldn’t just roll in their graves, they would burst out of the ground in anger.

“Adelinde,” he said, the tension in his tone enough for her to snap to attention, “prepare the Liberation casks for transport. I leave as soon as they’re ready.”

Adelinde’s eyes widened. “The Liberation casks, Master? But those are...”

“Yes. The Liberator has graced us with Their presence.”

The Liberation casks, named for the Liberator Themselves, consisted of samples of the best wine from every harvest since Mondstadt’s founding. They were first planned to be for the Creator, though as years passed with no sign of Them, the casks that deteriorated in taste were auctioned off for obscene amounts of money, valued as much for their superior taste as for their prestige.

And now he was going to watch all that work pay off.

He arrived to a Mondstadt bustling with activity. Children ran through the streets with armfuls of flowers, while their parents hung garland after garland on every building. As he walked to the Favonius headquarters after arranging for the Liberation casks to be delivered to Angel’s Share, Diluc watched a group of teens be roped into setting up a banner to unfurl across the main street. No one was spared from the festivities.

The Knights of Favonius headquarters was a hive of controlled chaos, and Diluc dodged more than one too-focused knight on the way to Jean’s office. He knocked twice on her door.

“Diluc here.”

“Come in,” was the response.

The Acting Grand Master of the Knights was noticeably frazzled, with clothes askew and splatters of ink on her sleeves. Diluc raised an eyebrow wordlessly.

“Our mutual bard friend alerted me to Their arrival just this morning. They were apparently located off our east coast and have been steadily moving west, and at Their current speed we expect Them to make landfall in another hour or two,” Jean said. That explained why everyone was in such a rush.

“I thought the preparations for it had been made centuries ago?” he asked idly. “The Knights are more inefficient than I thought.”

Lisa pushed the door open before Jean could answer. “The current Mondstadt is different from the Mondstadt of back then after all, of course we’ll need to make some adjustments.” She turned to the other woman in the room. “Jean, I have the ceremony records you wanted. It’s time for you to take a break, don’t you think?”

“There’s no time for that,” Jean said, already flipping through the thick stack of papers Lisa handed to her and making notes.

Diluc sighed, knowing that the Acting Grandmaster was impossible to dissuade when she became so focused. And besides, he wasn’t so dense as to deny the thrum of anxiety in his own chest -- this was the creator of their world they were talking about, the most important personage in existence, during Their first known descent to Teyvat. The mere thought of Their disappointment made him want to rip his heart out of his chest.

* * *

Mondstadt greeted you as a castle town on a lake island, connected to the mainland by only a single bridge. Beautiful yet defensible, you noted. It was yet another indication of this world’s troubled past.

Even across the stone bridge, you could hear cheering and indistinct chatter from a sizable crowd of people of all ages. Beyond the portcullis, a swarm of sparks lit up in your senses, little embers of your power similar to but weaker than the ones in the statue and Barbatos. As your gaze rested on each person in turn, a light breeze blew against your face and Anemo breathed into your ears:

Jean Gunnhildr, human, Anemo, born of Mondstadt.

A blonde woman.

Kaeya Alberich, human, Cryo, born of Khaenri’ah.

A tanned, dark-haired man.

Albedo, homunculus, Geo, created of Khaenri’ah.

A shorter man with pale hair.

Eula Lawrence, human, Cryo, born of Mondstadt.

A woman with light blue hair.

Diluc Ragnvindr, human, Pyro, born of Mondstadt.

A red-haired man wearing the most ornate outfit you had yet seen in this world.

There were more, but you flinched at the onslaught and pressed your eyes shut, causing the clamour to fade into a faint murmur.

“O Sweeping Gale?” Barbatos prompted. You could almost feel the way his attention sharpened, though you shook your head and continued with only the briefest hitch in your steps. He would probably be far too happy if you told him how the world itself was reacting to you.

Focusing on your greeting party wasn’t an improvement, however, as every eye was pinned on you. Jean saluted. “Your Grace, we welcome You to Mondstadt and hope You enjoy Your stay.”

Looking from her serious expression to the way everyone was almost vibrating with excitement, you sadly bid goodbye to any chance of correcting the Creator myth here.

* * *

The festival was a new experience for you, and you did enjoy it, but you had no plans to settle down. A night of meditation revealed that your awakening was linked to the roots of the world. People could access these roots through ley lines, and the biggest and strongest of these was called the Irminsul tree, one of which was known -- or at least strongly suspected -- to be in Sumeru.

You wanted to go there because you needed answers to your questions. Why did you wake now, not during earlier conflicts such as the Archon War or the Cataclysm when Teyvat’s need was arguably greater? And... was Teyvat ready to stand without you, for you to begin the arduous process of detangling yourself from its core? You had already been here for well over 6000 local solar orbits, albeit unaware for most of that time, and you couldn’t stay forever. One day you and Teyvat would walk separate paths; but you would also make sure that it wouldn’t crumble the instant you left the scene. That was what a responsible caretaker did.

However, your mortal body was unable to enter the core, so you could only access Teyvat indirectly through Irminsul. From the map of Teyvat that had been presented to you, the easiest way to Sumeru was to travel over land through Liyue. You were perfectly fine with walking -- you had more than enough time to detour through all seven nations if you wanted -- but Jean protested. Vehemently. In the end you managed to talk her down from a full honour guard to a horse and Diluc as a companion, since his manor was conveniently in the same direction. You had also, with difficulty, managed to avoid having an advance notice sent with news of your imminent arrival, by using the excuse that you wanted to see ‘your acolytes’ in their natural form. For some reason this worked -- you didn’t question it.

(Elsewhere, Venti gave his enthusiastic support. “I want to see Morax’s flustered face!” he crowed.)

Once again, you lamented the abundance of cults in magical worlds. You would have to be careful not to give any inclination that you planned to leave Teyvat entirely.

The journey to Dawn Winery was uneventful, save for a high number of slimes along your route that were, apparently, unusually docile. You’d spent an afternoon happily petting any that came within reach, even as Diluc fretted in his brusque way nearby. As for yourself, you weren’t worried at all; quite apart from your own not insubstantial power, slimes were elemental beings intimately connected to Teyvat, and nothing so aware of the world around them could or would harm you. Their very physiologies wouldn’t allow it.

Unfortunately, this didn’t extend to humans and other creatures who weren’t -- quite literally -- born of the earth, so your mortal journey was still in danger of being cut short. Who knew how long it would take to gestate another body? No, you had to take care of the one you had.

As you came out of the woods and caught your first glimpse of Dawn Winery and its sprawling vineyards, you let out a short, impressed breath. “It’s amazing,” you said quietly. It truly was.

From the corner of your eyes, you saw Diluc turn away with a half-hidden smile. “Welcome to Dawn Winery.”

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