#How to decant wine

[decanters1]

Decanting wine can change the way you enjoy every sip! Learn the best methods on my blog. Click the link to read more!

[dirtybiowareconfessions]

Confession: I think Zevran should shove a wine bottle up my ass with just the top sticking out and use me as a human decanter.

[dykeredhood]

Claire Randall: I’ve never owned a vase 🤝 me: why don’t I own a cheese knife

[adragonprinceswhore]

One Whore Is As Good As Another

Aemond x Brothel worker x (drunk) Aegon

Summary: Desperate to prove he's no mere boy, Prince Aemond leaves his taunting brother and seeks out another conquest. Momentarily, he feels back in control, until his brother reappears.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, reader is a brothel worker and has Valyrian features, targcest, rough sex, oral (m. receiving), face fuccin', P in V, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, titty slapping, humiliation, degradation, dysfunctional brothers

Word Count: 2000

A/N: I had this idea when I read the leaks for episode 3, and let's just say Aegon's awfulness worked great as inspiration. Filthy drabble ahead!

You've seen Prince Aemond's long, silver hair flash by in the corner of your eye countless times in the past weeks.

You never get the chance to observe the prince up close. He only appears fleetingly, confidently striding through the Blue Pearl towards the room where Madame Sylvie awaits him.

She seems to be his favourite; the only one allowed to touch the imposing young man. Sometimes he spends hours with her, though you are not privy to the details. All you know is that most men entering your place of employment conduct much shorter visits.

You do not envy your madame. Entertaining a Targaryen prince is no easy feat, from what you've heard.

Still, you do wonder what it would be like to catch his eye. For him to choose you, like he had chosen the madame.

Had he ever caught sight of you, like you did him? Had he ever seen the shimmer of your silver hair reflect in the corner of his eye?

Does you Valyrian heritage look as alluring as that of the statuesque prince, despite being born a bastard?

These thoughts had merely been fugitive, indulgent fantasies.

Until tonight.

Prince Aemond stands naked in the middle of the vast space in the heart of the Blue Pearl, seeing eye gazing out over the intertwined bodies moving in differing rhythms.

No one had asked for your services as of yet, and you'd therefore been tasked with refilling chalices and plates for the patrons.

The prince's gaze settles on you as you pour wine into a few cups scattered around, ensuring no one chases pleasure parched.

He walks towards you in slow, confident steps, seemingly uncaring that he is fully nude.

'Tis a brothel after all.

Placing the decanter back on the table, you curtsey as he draws near; trembling fingers fumbling with the thin material of your gown,

"Wine, your grace?"

"Do you work here?"

'Tis not the wine that caught his attention.

"Yes. How may I be of service?"

His eye scans the place, searching for a more secluded spot. He gestures towards a plush settee tucked away in a corner with a nod, prompting you to follow him there.

Walking next to the prince, you can truly admire the sharp features of his face. His hair is as fetching up close, and his skin resembles milk; so clear and smooth.

Clean.

Not fit for the filthy surroundings you'd been brought up in.

"Are you my uncle's bastard?"

His query catches you off guard,

"I-, I do not know, your grace. Mayhaps"

You could be his cousin.

Or his sister.

It matters little here; the gods had decided both of your fates when they ruled it fair he be born a prince and you a bastard to a whore in Flea Bottom.

Despite the evident uncertainty, your answer seems to please him.

Prince Aemond's hums, seeing eye narrowing and the right corner of his mouth twitching briefly, perhaps nearly breaking into a smile.

The possibility of you being his uncle's daughter excites him.

"Lay down"

You do as told, reclining on the settee. The corner the two of you occupy is fairly out of sight, yet there is no curtain hindering wandering eyes from seeing your act. It surprises you that the otherwise secretive prince would chose such an exposed place for your coupling, yet you say nothing.

The choice is his.

He inspects your form as you lie down; gaze traveling from the round softness of your breasts to the smooth skin of your inner thighs. The gown you wear leaves little hidden, and the prince's searing stare causes your heart to drum quicker in your chest.

The unpredictability of what he'll do next; of what he wants from you, causes as much unease within you as the determined look in his eye elicits.

He hums, head nodding faintly to himself, before he moves towards you, lifting one long, lean leg so he may straddle your chest.

His cock is right by your mouth, already growing larger as he gazes down at your face underneath him.

Perhaps 'tis the gaining of control that arouses the prince so; seeing you laid out for him with nothing but obedience to offer.

He feeds you his half-hard cock; not too brutish to force it all in your mouth at once. A prince still keeps his manners, you suppose.

Taking him in, you feel the skin of his member; hot and with a taste like salt. It's heavy in your mouth, and the awkward position the prince has you in does not allow you much movement.

He looks down at you; one eye stoney and unmoving, with shadows and light dancing in it. The other expressive and fierce.

Hungry.

Both his hands grab the back of the seat as he leans forward, forcing more of his cock down your throat. It prevents you from breathing, yet you do your best to appease him, sucking and swallowing him to the best of your ability.

You feel his balls slap your chin as he rocks into your mouth, pleased grunts escaping his lips.

A few more thrusts and you start to feel dizzy, not receiving enough air with the prince's manhood in your mouth and his lower belly pressed up against your nose.

You gently tap his leg and he abruptly pulls away from you, hurriedly moving off of you to stand next to the settee.

You cough as you inhale air once again, looking up at him with glassy eyes and wet lips, shining with spit.

His face is still harsh and demanding, and your gaze flickers down to his cock.

Decorated in your spit, it has grown double in size and is now red; like vexed skin after a beating.

You lay still, breathing rapidly to regain your senses. After giving you a moment to calm, Prince Aemond gestures for you to stand, and sits down on the settee.

He grabs your hips, dragging you towards his lap, and so 'tis your time to straddle him, take his cock in hand and sink down on it.

You know how to play these games. You know how to appease the men seeking your touch. Still, the moan you emit as you take in the prince is not solely performative; the stretch of his member fills you to the point of pain.

You bite your lip in a vain effort to concentrate, set on pleasing and serving your prince. Moving up and down in a slow pace, you grow wetter and more accustomed to his intrusion, and soon, your own pleasure follows.

"A-, ah, Prince Aemond", you call out, hoping the flattery will make him favour you even more. Mayhaps as much as he favours your madame.

He grunts and places his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him so he may rest his face against your scarcely clad bosom. He's enjoying you; reveling in your cunt, and it feels like the highest of praise.

You continue to call his title, his name, moving faster and harsher up and down his length, until,

"Brother!"

You catch the flash of a figure stumbling towards you in the corner of your eye, certain you know who it is before looking up;

King Aegon.

His lips are curved into a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded and hair tousled,

"I knew you had it in ya!"

The king ends his exclamation with a slur, clearly far too drunk to be staggering around Flea Bottom unattended.

You'd never been eye to eye with the king before; word around the street was that he found the Blue Pearl far too dull. He requires more to quench his thirst for depravity.

And yet, seeing you ride his brother's cock seems to be to his liking,

"Come on, girl, ride the dragon!", King Aegon shouts before falling into a fit of laughter. His hand smacks your arse as if you were a mare, urging you to go faster.

You search the prince's face for approval, but he's not looking at you anymore. His dark gaze is trained on his brother; still harsh and determined. You take his silence for compliance and move faster; quick breaths of exhaustion and moans of pleasure slipping out from your still wet lips.

"Making her do all the work-",

Aegon's still laughing between the words he slurs out. Standing behind you, one of his hands move to cup your left breast, and he squeezes it roughly; too drunk to appreciate tenderness,

"-I can see why"

Prince Aemond is still silent; still staring at his amused brother.

"No, no, no, this won't do", the king mumbles as he releases the harsh grip he'd had on your breast,

"Remove your gown, bastard"

Again, you seek Prince Aemond's eye for instruction, but he does not grant it. So, you grab the hem of your thin attire and pull it off over your head, exposing yourself to the Targaryen brothers.

'Tis not like you've never been naked before; you entertain most guests nude. Still, there's something about the royals' presence, their ongoing, silent battle, that leaves you feeling more exposed than ever before.

King Aegon hums in appreciation at the sight of your bare teats, the same rough hand coming up to slap the side of one of them, chuckling as they knock together.

You pick up the pace to ride your prince again, yet the king does not leave you be. His voice is still amused, though tinted with something darker, as he commands his brother,

"I want to see you fuck her like a hound, Aemond"

The prince does not reply, and your pace does not falter. You were tasked with pleasuring the prince, and if he did not reply to his brother's orders, neither would you.

Though he is your king.

"Fuck her like a hound! Come on!"

King Aegon sounds more agitated now; impatient. He does not like that his brother does not obey him instantaneously; that he would refuse an order.

The prince is as stubborn as his elder, and in between the brothers, is you;

Caught between two dragons waging a war of wills.

"Get up", Prince Aemond grits through clenched teeth.

You comply, standing swiftly only to be turned and roughly placed back on the settee on your knees.

The prince places a hand on your lower back, pushing you to arch, and enters you in one stroke, reaching far deeper than your previous position had allowed.

He quickly sets a brutal pace; fucking your squelching cunt harsh and quick.

You desperately hold on to the back of the seat, vainly searching for some control as the prince takes his pleasure from you.

Behind you, you hear his laboured breaths and grunts, and the entertained cackle of the king,

"That's more like it!"

He walks around the settee to face you; watching your body as it sways back and forward with the prince's rough thrusts.

Leaning in closely, so closely that his wine-soaked breath is right by your cheek, King Aegon inquires, "How does royal cock feel?"

You know how to play these games.

"Heavenly, your grace"

He hums and touches a strand of your hair, twirling it around his finger, "Is that what your mother thought as well?"

He does not bother with waiting for an answer from you; truly, he's not interested in knowing. Instead, he circles the settee yet again to stand next to his brother, mesmerised by the sight of his cock driving in and out of you,

"Where on her will you spill?"

Prince Aemond stays silent, pace never faltering.

“Face, teats or arse?”, his brother asks, but before his stoic sibling answers, he decides for him,

"Spill on her face. You got to appreciate those, uh, familiar features"

A few more rough strokes and the prince pulls out, grabs your waist, and turns you around so that you face them both. He pushes on your shoulder in a silent order for you to get on the floor, once again with his member in your face.

With a quick hand he strokes his slick cock, seed shooting out like arrows, landing on your cheeks, in your hair, on your lips.

He's breathing heavily, yet does not say anything, nor does he moan or grunt. He simply decorates your face in pearly luminescence, matching your silver hair and lilac eyes.

When he's done, he turns, and you see his older brother lay a comradery hand on his shoulder, commending him for "a good fuck".

As the brothers walk away together, you see the tension in Prince Aemond's shoulders ease ever so slightly.

The burdens of being a royal.

A/N: If the HotD writers want Aemond to be obsessed with his uncle, I'll comply! I like to write these little drabbles as a fun way to practice writing without much pressure, so please be kind, it's all just for fun!

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Imperator

Also on AO3

Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 6.7k words

Summary: Once, you only had the memory of the curious barbarian poet, entertaining guests at a party with both violence and verse. But it's not until you see him again, now as emperor, that you get to know the man underneath the titles.

Warnings: Minors DNI this fic is 18+, power imbalance (emperor/servant to freedwoman), mutual pining, slow-ish burn, sort of forbidden love?, lots and lots of fluff good lord, some jealousy, some angst, lovey dovey smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), maybe some historical inaccuracies lol (I care a lot okay), and iii think that's it but lmk if anything else!

--------------

"Love will enter cloaked in friendship's name."

– Ovid.

-------------

“The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth the descent, and easy is the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.”

That was the first time you had ever heard him speak, the deep timbre of his voice riddled with contempt. Moments before, he had killed another gladiator, his blood spattered on him like a gruesome adornment. But there was no savagery in his fierce eyes, no mere bloodthirst in the sneer directed at Emperor Geta, your Dominus. His glare was even, like a cold, blue flame that promised not just violence, but retribution as well.

You’d recognized the poem immediately, just as taken aback as everyone else. Nobody moved, the room’s collective breath held in anticipation of the inevitable repercussions of such an offense. Emperor Geta made the slightest move to raise his sword and you gripped the decanter of wine tighter, but your face remained impassive.

“Virgil,” supplied Macrinus, trying to placate him with a broad smile. “He was taught poetry just to amuse you, Imperators.”

There was another momentary pause in which neither twin was sure if they should believe him. But then, Caracalla snorted, standing up to clap the taller man’s shoulder.

“A poet,” He said, laughing. “That’s genius, Macrinus.”

“Yes, certainly very amusing,” Geta said begrudgingly, his jaw clenched. 

He and the gladiator had not stopped staring at each other for one moment, like two vipers poised to strike. 

“Good, I thought you’d like that,” Macrinus said, approaching his fighter to grasp his shoulder, perhaps in warning. “We live to serve you both.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing your poet at the upcoming games in the Colosseum,” he spits out, throwing the sword aside with a loud clatter. “Let’s see how his verses work for him then.”

Macrinus nodded at his steward to take the gladiator away. He was smiling, seemingly amused, as the steward approached him. As he was being shoved back to the atrium, his eyes took one last baleful look around the room. For the briefest second, you thought his eyes met yours, striking you like a piercing arrow, but then he was gone. 

You had no time to dwell on it though, as Emperor Geta returned to his seat and raised his glass to be refilled. But that didn’t mean you would forget so easily, even if your paths might never cross again. All you could do was offer a prayer to the Gods for him. 

—--------------------------

The next time you saw him, he was no longer a barbarian gladiator hailed from a distant land, but the new – and rightful – Emperor of Rome. His name was not Hanno, but Lucius Verus Aurelius, and he was the son of the recently passed Queen Lucilla, whom Rome still mourned. 

He was not cruel like the twins had been, rarely raising his voice, much less his hand. His demeanor was usually calm, but sometimes he stalked the halls restlessly, as if unsure what he should be doing. He still rose with the sun and trained for a couple of hours in the morning, already used to the routine he’d had as a gladiator, but after that, it was all politics. Endless scrolls of parchment to pore over, meetings to hold with the senate, and lending a patient ear to the populace’s needs. The weight of an empire was on his shoulders, and yet he didn’t bow under it. 

During the day, you served his wine and silently hovered around for anything else he might need. At night, you drew his baths, kept his torches lit, and prepared his bed. You would have helped him disrobe too, already used to it from your days of serving Geta, but he chose to do so himself. He was not quite used to his every need being attended to, self-sufficiency deeply ingrained in his being. Mostly, he waved away other servants, leaving you instead to care for him personally. 

There were times when you caught him looking at you as if you seemed vaguely familiar, a furrow in his brow when he couldn’t place you. You couldn’t fault him for not remembering you from Senator Thraex’s party, but there was a certain thrill at having piqued his curiosity regardless. Still, you kept your head down and offered no hints, as was your place. 

Until one night, while he watched you add aromatic oils and test the bath’s temperature, he finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days.

“What is your name?”

You were startled at first, not having expected him to address you at all. You told him your given Roman name, Domicia, and bowed your head respectfully. He pushed himself off the doorway and stepped into the bathroom, humming thoughtfully.

“Of the home,” he said, referring to the name’s meaning. “Are you Roman? Is that your real name?”

You shook your head in answer to both questions. “I have been in Rome for many years now, though.”

“I have not,” he said, a note of melancholy in his voice. “Yet I grew up here, in these very halls…”

He trailed off, looking around absently, lost in his memories. You could not begin to imagine what he had been through, what he had seen. You had heard of his being sent away as a child, with absolutely no choice in the matter, and could empathize with him. 

All you had ever known was a humble life in your native country, until you were stripped of your freedom and brought to the capital of Rome. Neither place felt like home, just the past and the present, and perhaps he was viewing things the same way. You could imagine, even understand, the bittersweetness of returning to a place one thought they might never see again. 

“We are honored and grateful to have you back, Dominus,” you said. “I hope things have been to your satisfaction.”

“I have no complaints,” he said, yet he sighed. “Though becoming accustomed to being here, in my current position, is going to take some more time.”

“If there is anything I can do to make it easier for you, please let me know.”

He inclined his head gratefully, your eyes meeting for a moment. “Thank you, Domicia.”

He had the barest of smiles on his handsome face, but you could tell it was genuine. You felt one corner of your lips tugging upwards, but you looked away out of propriety. Even if you were in the same room, you were leagues apart, and it would do you no good to try to imagine otherwise.

You stood up, grabbing the decanter from a nearby table to have it refilled. “Your bath is ready now. Would you like refreshments other than wine?”

He nodded and you bowed, making your way out. By the time you returned with more wine and a platter of olives, bread, and cheese, he was already in the bathtub, leaning back with his eyes closed. Your feet padded softly on the mosaic floor to avoid  disturbing him, and you left his refreshments on the table near the tub.

You settled at one side of the room just in case he might need anything, staring off into the middle distance and letting your mind drift. He glanced at you sidelong, his curiosity having only grown after your brief conversation. He still had that nagging feeling that he had seen you somewhere before, but he didn’t want to ask outright.

You felt his gaze on you but pretended not to, keeping your eyes averted. You thought again of the poem he’d recited, how different his demeanor had been then. You wondered what other verses he’d been taught, and if you might ever hear him recite anything again. He had a voice for poetry, somehow turning the words into a sort of enchantment, keeping one entranced.

“Doesn’t it feel… strange sometimes?” he said suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. “When things settle and you realize how far you have come? How much you’ve had to sacrifice for it?”

You hummed in agreement, waiting for him to say more. 

“Sometimes, I even wonder if it was all worth it.”

Still lost in a haze of verses, you spoke before you could even think it through.

“Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.”

He sat up, surprised. “You know Virgil.” Recognition finally dawned on him. “You were at that party, weren’t you?”

You nodded. “Your words then were just as sharp as your blade.”

He huffed, leaning against the edge of the tub as he remembered his barely contained hatred. “Were you taught poetry to amuse, as well?”

“No, I used to read it with my mother when I was younger.”

“Who else have you read?”

“Ovid, Sappho, Horace…” You became a little flustered as he raised his eyebrows. “My mother was a bit of a romantic.”

“And you?”

It was your turn to huff with amusement, looking down at your hands. “I don’t believe I inherited that trait, no.”

The truth was that in a place such as Rome, love was quite hard to come by. You didn’t actively search for it, its ephemeral nature making you less inclined to, but you were no complete stranger to it. You’d never let it take root, though, for it was not something you could afford to have. 

“What about you, Dominus?”

“Me?” he said. “I suppose… I’m not entirely sure anymore. I used to be, at one point.”

His haunted expression told you not to press him for details, so you just nodded sympathetically. The two of you lapsed into silence, the weight of tragedy hanging between you. You’d had a lot more time to become numb to your circumstances, but it was clear the pain he was experiencing was still fresh. 

“I will be forced to remarry eventually.” He sighed heavily. “Produce heirs to carry out the lineage, show Rome a unified front.”

“Well, whoever you marry shall be the most fortunate woman in the empire.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, looking over at you. “You really believe so? You’re not just flattering me?”

“Of course,” you said, giving him a cryptic smile that made him laugh again. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“Oh, I am sure you are.”

After some time, he rose with a small splash, prompting you to immediately approach with an outstretched towel. His nudity barely registered in your mind, having already glimpsed him a few times. You wouldn’t dare to look at him directly, even if you were more than a little curious. You tensed as his fingers barely brushed yours in the exchange, but you quickly stepped back to give him more room.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, water dripping down his sculpted arms and chest. You went to start tidying up, studiously keeping your eyes on your task. He watched as you picked up the refreshments to take to the main chamber, a part of him wishing you would look at him instead. 

“One more thing,” he said and you immediately turned around. “Please, I want you to call me Lucius.”

Your face heated up at the mere thought of it. “I could never be so bold…”

“I insist,” he said, holding up a hand as you began to stammer again. “Perhaps only when it is just the two of us, if you’d prefer.”

“I will certainly try my best,” you said with an awkward grin, trying to keep your composure.

He chuckled. “Good enough for me.”

—-----------------

Weeks passed, and while Lucius still hadn’t managed to get you to call him by name, he had certainly gotten you to open up more. In the evenings, the two of you swapped more poetry, often sharing your own interpretations of the verses. At some point, he even had scrolls fetched from the library for you to read to him. He enjoyed the mellifluous sound of your voice, so at odds with your serious expression when you were concentrating. To have him as your sole audience was already titillating,  but the fact that he paid close attention was even more of a rush.

During the day, you anxiously looked forward to those handful of hours in which everything else disappeared. No speak of Rome, politics, or bitter memories, content with being each other’s brief escape. You still held yourself at a certain distance, though, always aware of the chasm between you. Yet he never made you feel inferior, often encouraging you to share your thoughts and opinions with him despite your reticence. You would even dare to say he cared, or at least that’s what you wanted to believe.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you were getting attached, for that would be too unrealistic of a fantasy, but you could not deny the butterflies in your stomach that often appeared while around him. His easy, handsome smile, the kindness in his eyes, his patient indulgence when listening to you, and the effort he put into making you laugh…

But the spell was abruptly broken the day he received a visit from his friend Ravi, who had brought someone for him to meet – a respectable Roman lady. A widow, as it happened, just like Lucius. Her hair was perfectly styled, falling in ringlets that framed her lovely face. She wore a lavender-colored dress with a matching veil, much fancier than anything you’d ever owned, and was adorned with golden jewelry. More importantly, she was freeborn, and thus a perfectly good candidate for marriage.

You swallowed hard, otherwise keeping your expression neutral. You hadn’t thought he would start meeting potential brides so soon, and you certainly hadn’t expected how it would make you feel. At least, Lucius also seemed surprised, not expecting his friend to try to set him up without consulting him first. Still, he assumed the role of gracious host and welcomed them warmly, leading them out to the gardens. He glanced over his shoulder at you as you silently trailed behind them, but you didn’t meet his gaze.

The three of them reclined on the couches of the outdoor dining area, shaded by a wooden pergola. It was a beautiful sunny day, the birds singing accompanied by the gurgle of the large fountain at the center of the garden. A gentle breeze stirred the foliage, carrying the faint, sweet smell of a dozen different flowers. 

You served them wine and hovered close by as another servant brought them food to snack on. Lucius had deliberately sat across from where you stood just so he could keep an eye on you. You’d withdrawn into yourself, trying your hardest to remain indifferent instead of worrying about whether the meeting went well or not. If it did, then you had to be happy for him, but if it didn’t… Well, at least that would buy you a little more time, if nothing else.

“Such a lovely garden,” the lady, Ilaria, said as she looked around. “One could never tire of such a view.”

Lucius nodded absently but said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I could see you fitting in perfectly with all the other flowers here,” Ravi cut in, smiling with as much charm as he could muster to make up for it.

Ilaria inclined her head, modestly waving off the compliment. “Oh, you flatter me, Ravi.”

He gave Lucius a subtle, pointed look to encourage him to follow his lead. Lucius sat up and cleared his throat, only just focusing on the conversation. He had been trying to get your attention as subtly as possible, but he hadn’t been successful. 

“Er, yes, it’s always a treat to spend time out here. Certainly helps to clear the mind.”

Ravi shook his head a little and tried not to snort with amusement, thinking he was a lost case. Ilaria smiled, unbothered, taking a handful of grapes from a platter and popping one into her mouth. 

“I’d wager there is much on your plate, Imperator,” she said. “And having to manage the household staff on top of everything else… Must be a little overwhelming for you, no?”

“Well, I am a very busy man, yes, but it hasn’t been all that bad,” Lucius said. “I’ve certainly had a great deal of support to see me through.”

His words managed to reach you, softening you up infinitesimally. This time, when he glanced at you, you finally looked back. The ghost of a smile was on your face, but you quickly looked away before it could actually manifest.

“I see. Well, I’m very glad to hear that,” Ilaria said, sharing a curious glance with Ravi, who looked slightly apologetic. “Though perhaps you have considered that having someone run the house for you would take a big burden off your shoulders. I would be more than happy to lend a hand if you’d consider it.”

His eyebrows raised slightly at her boldness, not missing the eagerness in her gaze, poorly concealed behind her innocently helpful demeanor. He certainly did not want to get her hopes up, but he smiled graciously to soften the blow.

“Ah, perhaps in the future, when I have more time to worry about such things,” he said, politely noncommittal. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Her smile wavered and then froze, not wanting to seem too disappointed. “Of course, Imperator.”

For the remainder of their visit, Lucius let them do most of the talking, any remarks he made were studiously polite and yet still a little aloof. Finally, after a few hours, he excused himself, needing to return to his duties. Ravi seemed hesitant, like he wanted to stay behind and speak to him privately, but he would have to wait for another day. He escorted them both out, thanking them for visiting, but he did not exactly invite Ilaria to return to the palace. Her disappointment was more palpable then, but she hid it with as much grace as she could muster.

When they were gone, he turned to you with a shake of his head and a sigh, grinning with bewilderment.

“I do not enjoy being ambushed,” he said as if he felt the need to explain himself. “Decent enough as she seemed.”

You bowed your head in agreement, more relieved than you would like to admit. You had no real reason to have been upset earlier, given that there was nothing between you except for a certain kinship. Even so, it was clear he had not wanted you to be hurt, and you were very thankful for that. You offered him a small smile and some tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

He inclined his head towards the eastern hallway leading to his study. “Come, I would like you to read some documents to me. I can get work done faster that way.”

The tablinum was spacious but cozy, with a door to one side that led to a smaller patio. Before, the twin emperors had never used the room, but now it seemed well lived in. There was a mess of scrolls and wax tablets all over his desk that he still hadn’t let you organize. On the wall behind, there was a recently completed fresco of a gladiator riding a chariot pulled by two horses. For another wall, he had commissioned a portrait of Vesta, goddess of the home and the hearth, but it was still a work in progress. He was particularly proud of that one, an unspoken gift for you, his muse.

You lit the oil lamps in their alcoves, bathing the room in warm light. Lucius sat at his desk with a heavy exhale and scanned his notes to remember where he had left off the previous day. You sat on a stool beside him, unfurling the scroll he handed you and resting it on your knees. The texts you read didn’t always make sense to you, but you understood their importance. The fact that he was entrusting you with such work was an honor you did not take for granted.

“Start in that middle section. There is some stuff I would like to revisit,” he said, taking up his stylus. 

You nodded, finding what he was referring to and starting right away. You read to him for the next couple of hours, only stopping if he needed you to repeat something or in case he needed more time to make his notes. A few times during the latter, you glanced up to take in the focused furrow of his brow, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pondered. You wondered what he might be thinking about, wishing he would impart some more knowledge on you. 

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, shadows deepening in the corners of the room. Another servant brought him dinner, but he didn’t seem too hungry yet. He handed you his cup of water when he heard you clear your throat a few times, insisting when you were reluctant to take it. 

When he was done for the day, he stretched his arms over his head with a groan and slumped in his seat. You neatly rolled the parchment back up and stood so you could stretch your legs. 

“I hope I haven’t tired you too much,” he said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. “You can take the rest of the evening off from reading if you’d like, but I would still appreciate some company.”

“Well, I still need to draw your bath and…”

“Somebody else can take care of it,” he cut in with a shrug, not preoccupied.

You hesitated. “What would you have me do instead, then?”

“Just sit back down, relax for a moment,” he said, getting up. “Here, you can have my chair. Much more comfortable.”

You were about to protest, but he gave you a look that said it was not up for discussion. You pursed your lips, uncomfortable at the idea of being idle, especially while taking up his seat. Still, you obeyed and sat down, hands folded on your lap. Feeling a little bold, you looked at him as if to say ‘satisfied?’ and he huffed in amusement.

“Wait, stay still,” he murmured suddenly, leaning down.

You froze as his face hovered mere inches away from yours, his breath fanning over your cupid’s bow. Delicately, he removed a stray eyelash that had been resting on your cheekbone, and he pulled back a little so you could see it on the pad of his finger.

“Make a wish,” he said.

All you could do was stare at him for another breathless moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely. You licked your lips nervously, drawing his eyes there before they returned to hold your gaze. Your heart was like a nervous bird fluttering wildly in your ribcage. Your mind was mostly blank, but the one thought that popped up was ‘I wish he would close the distance right now.’

You gently blew the eyelash away, your wish scattering into the air alongside it. The Gods must have decided to grant it immediately, for he did not pull away, instead slowly leaning in. His lips brushed yours tentatively and you closed your eyes, rejoicing for the barest second before you forced your face to turn away.

“We shouldn’t…” you murmured, the words hard to utter when a desperate want clung to your throat like honey.

“Why not?” He whispered.

“It’s not– I’m not…” You vaguely gestured towards yourself, unsure of what the right words were. 

He pulled back to look at you better. “Was I too presumptuous?”

You shook your head. “Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” He pressed.

“Dominus, please.”

“Lucius,” he pleaded, loathing the title. “Say it, please.”

“Lucius,” you said finally, though your eyes still spelled defiance when you glanced at him. “Is it not obvious? We both know it’s impossible.” Your lower lip trembled slightly. “I have a heart, too, you know? I don’t want it to be broken.”

“I know that, of course I know that!” He said, placing his hands on your shoulders and crouching in front of you. “I have no intention of breaking your heart.”

“Surely you understand where I am coming from, though.” You sniffed, keeping tears at bay. “I am not wife material, like the lady Ilaria. I have nothing to offer, no dowry, no family name, or even an inkling of Patrician blood. ”

“I do not care for such things. I would never demand them of you. Even if we cannot marry, I will not marry anyone else that isn’t you,” he said with a firm, determined shake of his head. “But I can still give you my name, along with your freedom. That’s all that matters to me.”

You gasped, the shock of his words akin to a bucket of ice water being dumped over you. Now you let the tears spill over, like a dam had finally burst. He kissed them away, his hands cupping your face gently.

“I have been thinking of nothing else since I met you. I’ve already made the arrangements… I suppose I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You honor me,” you said, smiling despite the tears. “You always have.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked. “You have given me more than you think. You brought me the peace I have been so desperately seeking for a long time.”

“I-I don’t even know how to thank you.” You placed a hand over his. “If you desire to give me your name, then I shall give you mine in return.”

You told him your name, the real one, which you had been hiding ever since your Roman name was given to you. He had never asked you for it, knowing that one’s name was the only thing one could truly own in this world. And now for you to give it freely… He repeated it, testing its shape on his tongue, and smiled radiantly.

“Pairs rather well with Lucia Veria, if I do say so myself,” he said with a proud chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’ll have it, that is.”

You knew by the disarming earnestness in his eyes he wasn’t just offering the name, but himself, as well. His whole heart in the palm of your hand, should you choose to care for it. You felt as if you had already made that choice a while ago, when you first recited Virgil back to him.

“I will,” you said with an elated chuckle. “Of course I will.”

He took your hands in his, kissing both of them. “Then first thing tomorrow, we will make it official.”

More tears flowed as a result of an overwhelming rush of both gratitude and love. You had tried to ignore your feelings, not uprooting them but instead silently letting them grow unacknowledged. For once, it had seemed worth the risk of heartbreak. After all, the love hadn’t stemmed from something as fleeting as lust, but a mutual understanding and respect. It was more than you could ever ask for, and yet everything you desired.

You leaned your forehead against his, your noses brushing as he tilted his head back. This time, it was you who brought your lips to his with a tentative sort of tenderness, propriety still at the back of your mind. He responded in kind, letting you set the pace so as not to scare you off. If you weren’t shaking so much, you might have noticed he was shaking, too. 

In that kiss, there was the promise of mutual devotion, sweet and sincere. You were still holding each other’s hands, as if afraid you might drift apart if you let go. You understood then why odes were written about this feeling, as all-consuming as the churning waves of the sea. All those verses had never resonated with you more. 

Perhaps you had inherited the romanticism, after all. 

—------------------

The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, the fresh sweetness of it bringing you a sense of tranquility. You leaned against the windowsill, looking up at the stars and trying to piece together constellations. The world seemed drastically different now that you had your freedom, so vivid, so open, so alive. You even noticed it in your posture and the lightness with which you walked, as if you were floating. Lucius had said you were radiant with it.

He’d insisted on taking care of you the same way you’d cared for him, eager to show you his gratitude. You had been hesitant at first, but at his unwavering conviction, you relented, curious how it might feel to be spoiled. All that day, he had served you reverently, taking time off from his duties to focus solely on you.

You couldn’t help getting flustered at all the attention, his ardent gaze like a caress every time it met yours. His touch had so far been entirely chaste, but even the smallest, most innocuous contact was heightened with anticipation. The brush of his fingers over yours when he handed you something, a guiding hand on your lower back, even a touch on your shoulder to make you aware of his presence.

There were a few sneaked kisses in both the garden and the tablinum, each one of them leaving an undercurrent of warmth under your skin that promised more. It was like a slow, drawn-out game of chase, neither of you in a rush to reach its conclusion. If anything, it only made you want each other more. 

After the sun had set, when the two of you drifted along as if in a drunken stupor, Lucius went to prepare a bath for you in his chambers. You were nervous and exhilarated, every moment spent waiting for him to be done an exquisite agony. Until finally, he poked his head around the bathroom door.

“It’s ready now,” he said, beckoning you with a smile.

You followed him into the bathroom, hands wringing anxiously. Flower petals were scattered on the mosaic floor, leading towards the steaming tub. Flickering candles bathed the room in a warm glow, making your shadows dance on the wall. You looked at each other, both knowing what the next step was but hesitant to initiate it. He averted his gaze first, gesturing towards the door.

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?”

You shook your head, desire making you a little more brave. “I… I would love some help undressing, though.”

His spine straightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “With pleasure.”

He crouched to slowly pull the hem of your long tunic upwards, rising with it. You lifted your arms so he could get it over your head, the fabric falling to the floor unceremoniously. Your eyes were fixed on his face, drinking in his expression as he took a step back to get a better look at you. The bare expanse of your skin robbed him of breath, his eyes roaming over every curve and plane of your figure. He wanted to sink to his knees again and lay his forehead at your feet in worship, but he stood still, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“The evening star is the most beautiful of all stars,”  he said in a low voice, quoting Sappho.

Warmth spread from your chest to your face, and you smiled coyly as another verse came to mind. “Come to me once more, and abate my torment…”

You offered him your hand, which he took, and he led you to the tub. You daintily stepped in, sighing contentedly as you sank into the water’s enveloping warmth. He knelt next to the tub, leaning against it with one arm propped on the edge. 

“Have I told you enough times that you are beautiful?” He said. “I don’t think it has been enough.”

You huffed with amusement, looking down as you fought a geeky grin. “Well, about a hundred times with just your eyes. A few times out loud, though.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to show you in other ways, too… If I may.”

You nodded, silently granting him permission. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on your lips before standing up. He took it upon himself to bathe you, starting out by scrubbing your scalp. You leaned into his touch, eyes closing in bliss. He smiled at your soft, pleasured hum, and vowed to elicit as many more as he could. 

Things took on an almost ritualistic quality, with him focused entirely on his task. You were loose limbed, letting him move you about as he used a cloth to scrub your skin. He didn’t try anything that might be deemed unsavory, though you let his tender, reverential touch reach places no one had touched in a very, very long time. But he didn’t linger, to your slight frustration, not wanting to jump into things too quickly. The flames of your desire were stoked slowly, warmth running through you like sweet wine. 

When he was done, he helped you step out of the tub and immediately got to drying you off with a towel. You caught his eye for a moment, his pupils blown wide with equally fervent desire. You stopped yourself from clutching his arm, wanting to anchor yourself to him, but he could still tell you were growing restless. He kissed your shoulder, tapping the tip of your nose playfully with his finger.

“Not done quite yet,” he murmured, not missing the way you involuntarily pressed your thighs together. “You’ve always been very patient.”

“For the first time, I fear it might be running thin…” you said, to which he smiled. 

He grabbed a small glass bottle of rose oil and lathered some in his hands. He anointed your body with it, the heady scent of one of Venus’s favorite flowers permeating the air. As he reached your chest, you took hold of his wrist and brought his palm to rest over your heart. He felt it beating rapidly, your chest rising and falling with each panting breath.

His eyes fell to your lips, slightly parted with want. He grasped your chin with his free hand, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I have been thinking about this for a long time,” he said, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “But I hadn’t wanted to touch you until now, when you actually felt like you had a choice in the matter.”

You clutched his wrist tighter, his thoughtfulness only making you want him more. All those hours he must have spent yearning, unaware that you were stuck thinking of him too. As emperor, he had the right to take whatever he wanted, but having previously been a gladiator, he understood the monumental importance of bodily autonomy. Very few people in Rome had such a privilege and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to rob you of it. 

You kissed him in response, much fiercer, hungrier, than all the other kisses you had shared so far. A desperate sound escaped his throat and he clasped you against him tightly. Swiftly, he scooped you up into his strong arms and carried you out to the bedchamber as he would a bride.

Gently, he set you down on the bed and pulled away to remove his tunic. This time, you were not meek about his nakedness. You brazenly stared at him, eyes mapping out the lines of his muscles, the pink, raised skin of his scars, and the soft trail of hair on his abdomen that seemed to suggestively point downwards. 

His shoulders were squared with pride at your ogling, a sly smile on his face. He’d had an inkling before of your attraction, but to see it on full display was narcotic, and he felt himself pulse with an aching need.

“Come closer,” you said softly.

He did, climbing over you, his warmth immediately enveloping you. You hid your face on the junction between his neck and shoulder, embarrassed at all the thoughts rushing through your mind.

“What is it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with amusement.

“Nothing,” you said, voice muffled against his skin. “I just… I do not think you realize how badly I wanted this, too. I-I don’t want to ever stop.”

He chuckled indulgently, nudging your head so you’d look at him. “Neither do I.”

He kissed you again, and again, and again. You were so close to him that the lines of your bodies became indivisible, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Your knees hiked up to his hips in a silent plea, but he did not give in quite yet, wanting to prolong things for as long as he could.

Still, unable to resist a little bit of mutual torment, he slid upwards until his hips were aligned with yours. You gasped as you felt the velvety underside of his erection against your slick folds, each small movement making you tremble. Your brows furrowed and your lips parted in a wanton expression, your eyes shiny and half lidded as you looked at him.

“Lucius,” you whimpered. 

“I know,” he murmured soothingly, kissing your neck. “I know.”

Neither of you were willing to break apart from your embrace, so there wasn’t actually much of a preamble. Feverish, he sank into you slowly, your nails digging into his biceps as he stretched you open. That first round was frantic, almost animalistic, all the pent up longing finally being released. His body rolled over yours with the power of the sea’s waves, leaving you awash in ecstasy.

Neither of you lasted very long, but it didn’t matter, as you were nowhere near spent. Lucius, still in the afterglow of his orgasm, lazily began to kiss you all over, wanting to discover every mole and freckle, every tender spot that made you squirm, and every other little detail that made you you. 

He settled between your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, but he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you closer. 

“What are you– Oh,” you gasped at the first flick of his tongue, the entirely new sensation disarming you. 

He tasted his essence mixed with yours, a groan rumbling in his chest. You tightly grasped the sheets under you, arching against his face. You bit your lip to stop yourself from making the most undignified sounds, but it was hard to focus, especially as his fingers were added into the mix. Your body burned brighter than any brazier, his arms pinning you down as he conquered you with his mouth. You shattered once more, crying out as he helped you ride it all the way through. 

After, you lied side by side, facing each other. You’d still not had your fill of him, but you needed to gather your strength for the long night ahead. You shared a breathy chuckle, as if still in disbelief it had finally happened, and he kissed your sweat-slick forehead.

“Now that was poetry,” you said jokingly, making him laugh again. 

“You put every verse to shame, my love,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You kissed his palm, adoring, and tangled your legs with his. A swell of emotion unlike anything you had ever felt rose within you. It was as if he had awakened a new part of you that you hadn’t known was dormant, bringing you back from an existence that consisted solely of drifting through days that blended into one another.

He was just as grateful to have found you, his peace, his solace, the woman who would always guard his heart. He murmured your name reverently, a reminder that you were his, and he was yours. You drew closer to him, like a moth to flame, and pushed him onto his back, straddling him. His hands came to rest on your hips and your eyes were full of mirth as you held his gaze.

“As it happens, I find myself compelled to compose some more with you.” You grinned playfully, hands sliding up his chest. 

He mirrored your grin, not minding the idea one bit. “Relentless, just like the great muse Calliope.”

“Well, when inspiration strikes… It can’t be helped, can it?”

“No,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

------

[archivequinn]

Freedom ⚔ emperor geta x fem!reader

Summary: You are a servant of Emperor Geta and one night Geta asks you to do more than a servant. ao3 link Words: 6,093 Warnings: SMUT. SMUT IT'S SMUT SO MINORS GO AWAY. +18 oral sex, public sex, little bit dirty talk and whatever, unprotected sex, cumming inside. credits for dividers: @strangergraphics

This is my first time trying smut so I apologise if it was bad, my first language is not English so I apologise for any translation mistakes! If you like it, you can support me by RBing so that I can have a bigger audience. I hope you enjoy reading it. 🧡

When you step into Emperor Geta’s chamber, an icy cold hits your face, like the breath of a tomb. It feels as though Emperor Geta’s invisible eyes are watching you from between the walls.

In the center of the room stands a bed, rising like a throne, draped with a perfectly laid dark red velvet cover that declares its dominance. The patterns embroidered with golden threads shimmer like flames, but even daring to examine them up close requires courage. Seeing a wrinkle on those covers would be a crime inviting the Emperor’s wrath.

You silently place the basket in your hand into a corner. On the table sits a half-finished wine goblet. Beside it, there’s a plate with dried fruit remnants—it’s clear that Geta left in a hurry. As you tidy the table, your hand trembles while holding the goblet, because if it were to fall, it would be a harbinger of the disasters to come.

The moonlight streaming through the window falls on the columns next to the bed. The curtain sways slightly, and even this small motion breaks the silence enough to make you flinch.

You think Geta is ready to spend the night here now. Every corner has been straightened, every speck of dust wiped away, and everything is exactly as it should be—because if it’s not, Geta’s madness will find you with the first light of day. You take one last look at the bed’s cover, ensuring it’s perfectly smooth, and then check the table.

With trembling hands, you lift the wine decanter. Made of silver with delicate engravings, the decanter glimmers like a blade in the moonlight. If Emperor Geta decides to drink suddenly during the night, his goblet must always be ready. You’ve heard this rule countless times, and you know all too well how severe the consequences can be if you forget even once.

You tilt the decanter gently and begin pouring wine into the goblet. The thick, dark red liquid flows slowly into the glass, filling the room with a faint scent of wine. At that moment, in a fleeting lapse of attention, your hand slips from the decanter’s handle. For a brief instant, the decanter seems to float in the air before crashing to the ground like a lightning bolt meeting the earth. A sharp ringing echoes off the walls of the chamber.

The wine spreads rapidly across the marble floor like a bloodstain. That dreadful red seeps outward with a mercilessness that rivals the covers on Geta’s bed. Your breath catches in your throat, and your heart pounds as if it might burst out of your chest. For a moment, you’re frozen in place, as though any movement might magnify the horror of your mistake.

Geta must not see this. Absolutely must not!

You drop to your knees and frantically try to wipe the wine with your hands. Your fingers slide helplessly across the slippery marble, the crimson red staining your skin. Your breath grows uneven, sweat drips from your forehead into your eyes, but you can think of nothing else except cleaning the spill. You begin wiping the floor with the hem of your dress, desperate and panicked.

Just then, the ominous creak of the door’s hinges freezes your entire body. The door swings wide open, and Emperor Geta storms in like a raging wind. The moonlight illuminates one side of his face, while the other vanishes into darkness.

His eyes dart immediately to the ground, to the shattered decanter and the wine stain that looks like blood.

For a moment, your gaze locks on his crazed eyes, glowing in the moonlight. The corner of his lips twitches upward—it resembles a smile, but there is no warmth in it—only menace.

“Do you have something to explain to me?” he asks, leaning down toward you, his voice dropping to a whisper.

In that instant, even breathing feels impossible. Your arms fall limply to your sides, and you’re frozen, unsure of what Geta might do as the wine stain continues to spread across the cold marble.

“Please, forgive me… My Emperor. I… it was an accident,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you sink to your knees. Bowing your head to the floor, you cover the wine stain, as though you could erase your shame along with it. You clasp your hands together, bowing before him in a pleading posture. Your heart pounds mercilessly in your chest; the knowledge that a single word from him could seal your fate makes it hard to breathe.

“Stand up,” he says in a tired, deep voice. Not out of anger, but more out of exasperation. “I don’t have the energy to deal with you today. Clean it up and leave the room.”

His words carry the weight of a command, yet they lack his usual fury. His hair is slightly disheveled, and the faint shadows under his eyes reveal how exhausted he is.

“Yes, my Emperor. At once,” you reply, springing into action. Though your movements are clumsy, your trembling hands continue wiping the wine with the hem of your dress. As the stain on the marble floor slowly fades, Emperor Geta walks heavily toward his bed.

For a moment, you find yourself staring at his leather sandals and the fine silk fabric clinging to his frame.

Suddenly, Geta stops and begins to undress.

You hold your breath, lower your head, and focus on the remnants of the wine as if those stains were the most important task in the world. But the soft sound of his silk tunic falling to the floor causes your eyes to involuntarily shift toward him.

Geta had discarded the tunic, and under the moonlight, the breadth of his shoulders and the definition of his muscles resembled that of a Greek statue. His shoulders, the contours of his back… they seemed like a flawless work of art, delicately crafted by a master sculptor.

This magnificent man, whose name traveled on the tongues of everyone in the palace, always made you scoff. “You admire that madman? You must be out of your mind,” you’d think to yourself. Yet now, as you tried not to look at him, you couldn’t explain why your heart was racing so fast.

You swallow hard and lower your gaze back to the ground. The wine stain is completely gone. Quickly, you stand and place the shards of the decanter into the basket. “Forgive me, my Emperor. With your permission, I’ll take my leave,” you say, bowing your head and moving toward the door.

But just as you reach it, you hear a voice behind you.

“Wait.”

You freeze. Your eyes remain fixed on the wooden surface of the door. “Yes, my Emperor?”

“You forgot to extinguish the candle on the table,” Geta says, his tone sharper now but still tinged with fatigue.

“My apologies, I’ll do it immediately.”

You are forced to turn back. Without lifting your eyes from the ground, you walk toward the table beside the bed. As you lean forward to extinguish the candle, you can feel Geta’s presence looming above you; he’s lying on the bed, but it feels as though he’s still watching you. Your hands tremble as you hastily snuff out the candles.

“Tell me something. I can’t sleep.”

You raise your head slightly, looking at him in surprise. Is he joking, or is this some kind of game? There’s a glimmer in his eyes—tired but still menacing.

“What would you like me to tell, my lord?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Geta, reclining on the bed with his back propped against the pillows and one arm lazily stretched out to the side, speaks with a faint smile on his lips. “I don’t care. Tell me a tale, a story. But don’t be boring, not until I’m asleep.”

The subtle threat in his words seeps into your very core. Even as your knees still tremble, you find yourself standing in the middle of the room—before him, less like a servant and more like a prisoner. You clench your hands, clear your throat, and begin to speak about the first thing that comes to mind—your village. At that moment, you struggle to string your words together, avoiding Geta’s gaze.

“I… I come from a small village west of Tarentum, my lord,” you say. The words spill out slowly, your voice low but trying to remain steady. “There, my father was a farmer. Our land was small, but it was fertile. Every spring, the plains would turn green; the air would smell of lavender everywhere. At sunset, the light would shimmer over the fields like golden dust, and at night, the sky was full of stars. My mother… she used to weave small tapestries at home with my siblings…”

You pause for a moment, swallowing hard as the warmth of the memories washes over you. But Geta’s impatient voice snaps you back to reality. “And then?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, one eyebrow raised.

Your eyes drop to the floor, your breath tightening as if you’re reliving it all over again. “Then… then your armies came. At first, we saw the smoke. Rising over the forest, from the other side of the village. My mother told us to run, but it was too late. The soldiers… they set everything on fire. My siblings… they got lost in the chaos. My father tried to fight, but…”

The words catch in your throat. You clench your hand into a fist, taking a deep breath. “Then they found me. A soldier grabbed me by the hair and dragged me away. Since that day, I’ve been here, serving in the palace.”

Your words hang in the air, heavy, as a cold silence settles over the room. The final images of your village flash through your mind—the smoke, the screams, the scent of scorched earth. But Geta’s face betrays not the faintest hint of emotion. Instead, his eyes travel over you, scanning you from head to toe.

“So, a farmer’s daughter,” he says, his voice carrying a mocking undertone. “From lavender-scented fields to cleaning my chambers. What a charming story…”

The ridicule in his words cuts into your heart like a sharp blade, but you remain silent. In moments like these, silence is survival. And yet, you notice how the pain your story stirs within you has captured Geta’s attention. Perhaps some fragment of it has touched something deep within his deranged mind—or perhaps he’s merely found his entertainment for the evening.

The deep silence of the room swells, spreading like the shadows on the walls. Geta slowly turns his head, fixing his gaze on you. At first, you think you’re only imagining his eyes on you, but when your eyes meet his, you’re certain—he’s truly watching you.

“Well…” he says, his voice drowsy but tinged with a faint curiosity. “There was someone in your village, wasn’t there? Someone who made your heart race?”

The question catches you off guard. Your face flushes as you lower your gaze to the floor, clasping your hands tightly in your lap. “No, my Emperor. There was no one,” you reply softly.

Geta’s eyebrows draw together slightly, as if your answer wasn’t what he expected. Resting his head against the pillow, his gaze shifts to the ceiling, and his tone takes on a contemplative edge.

“Love…” he repeats, as though savoring the word. “Sometimes I wonder if it truly exists. Poems are written, wars are fought. But I…” He pauses, his gaze shifting back to you.

The exhaustion in his eyes deepens, giving way to a profound emptiness. “…I’ve never felt it. Not once.”

You swallow hard. For an emperor—especially one as cruel and mad as Geta—to make such an intimate confession feels almost unreal. For the first time, his face seems open, vulnerable, as though a part of his mask has slipped.

You want to say something, but the words stick in your throat. For a fleeting moment, your heart swells with an odd sense of compassion for him. The fear inside you gives way to what might be the one thing Geta needs most in that moment—understanding. But you are only a servant. How much right do you have to speak?

"What do you think?" he asks suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts once again. "Does love exist? Or is it just a fairy tale?"

You don’t know how to answer. "Your Majesty, I…" you whisper, but the words hang in the air. He has already turned his gaze away from you and back to the ceiling. Taking a deep breath, he narrows his eyes, his fingers tracing along the edge of the pillow.

"It must be a fairy tale," he mutters to himself. "Too absurd and hollow to be real."

As your heart continues to race, the words slip from your lips almost on their own, "I’ve never been in love, Your Majesty. But I believe true love exists."

The moment your words fill the room, a faint look of surprise crosses Geta’s face. You expect him to make a mocking remark, but he doesn’t. His eyes fix on you, as if trying to understand what you mean.

"True love?" he repeats, his voice both curious and skeptical. "What does that even mean?"

"I don’t know. But it must be something that stirs your heart, fills you up, and makes you forget the emptiness," you say softly but with conviction. "Like believing without seeing. You can’t hold it in your hands, you can’t see it with your eyes, but you feel it. A glance at your eyes, a touch in your voice is enough. It makes you forget your fears, it completes you."

Geta remains silent for a while, as though he’s absorbing your words. The tired expression on his face gives way to deeper contemplation.

"That has never happened to me," he says finally, his tone softened. "I’ve seen hundreds of people. I’ve taken what I wanted. There were even those who claimed to love me—or so they said. But… something inside me has always been missing. Always."

Could the emptiness within a man who has lived like a king be the despair of someone who has never truly chosen anything in his life?

"Perhaps what you’re looking for is still waiting for you, Your Majesty," you say quietly.

"Leave," he says at last. "But come back early in the morning. I want to… talk more."

Bowing your head, you quickly make your way out of the room.

As the first light of morning strikes the stone walls of the palace, you carefully prepare the table in Geta's chamber. Silver trays, gold-embellished plates, and food still steaming… Everything must be perfect. Your heart is still racing from the strange conversation you had last night. Perhaps you had dreamed it all; how could an emperor speak so candidly with a servant?

Lost in thought, you suddenly hear Geta’s voice. “You’re so quiet. Are you that happy to see me this morning?”

You quickly turn your head. Geta is standing by the door, the long fabric of his robe elegantly draped around his body as he watches you. Behind his cold gaze is that familiar weariness, but there’s also a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

“Your Majesty…” you begin, but you falter, unsure of what to say.

Geta walks slowly toward the table and pulls out a chair before sitting down. Gesturing toward you, he speaks. “Set those trays down and sit.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, your heart nearly stopping. “I—”

“That was an order,” he interrupts, his tone still gentle but carrying an authority that leaves no room for argument. “Sit at the table.”

Wiping your trembling hands on the folds of your apron, you slowly take a seat at the table, though perched on the edge of the chair, ready to rise at any moment. Noticing your hesitance, Geta raises his eyebrows and shakes his head slightly.

“This trembling of yours is starting to annoy me,” he says with a hint of mockery. Then, taking a piece of fruit from his plate, he pops it into his mouth. “Keep talking. What you said last night was interesting. Tell me about your village.”

You swallow hard. The situation feels so strange that you almost forget how to form words. But Geta’s gaze remains fixed on you, filled with an impatience to learn more.

“My village…” you begin hesitantly. “Everything was simpler there. Our small houses, our fields… But I miss the horses the most, Your Majesty. Riding them along the edge of the fields in the morning… I was free then.”

“Free.” Geta repeats, as though hearing the word for the first time. He leans back slightly in his chair, resting his chin on his hand. “Riding? Is that what it feels like?”

A smile spreads across your lips, a warmth you haven’t felt in years lighting up your face. “Yes, Your Majesty. When you’re on a horse… the wind whips through your hair, the world shrinks. It’s like… your chains disappear. It’s just you and the wind.”

Geta watches you in silence for a moment. The emptiness in his eyes seems to fill slightly; he appears to truly be trying to understand what you’re describing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles—a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“I wish I could feel this ‘freedom,’” he says thoughtfully. “I’ve ridden horses many times, but I’ve never felt that way.”

He picks up a piece of bread, extends his arm to the edge of the table, and pushes it toward you. “Eat,” he says simply. “You look hungry.”

“Your Majesty, I can’t. I…”

“This morning, the rules are subject to my whims,” he interrupts again, his gaze hardening slightly. “And I want to have breakfast with you.”

Reluctantly, you take a piece of bread and begin eating slowly. Geta watches your movements intently, as though even this simple act fascinates him.

“You know,” he says after a while, his tone softening. “Everyone in this palace… they’re all the same. Artificial voices, fake smiles… Even their mediocrity is false. But you…”

He pauses for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours as he continues. “You’re interesting. Your village, your stories, your belief in freedom… Ordinary yet sincere. And for the first time, I think I like that.”

It’s impossible to describe how strange you feel. Yet at the same time, you grasp the truth behind Geta’s words—his loneliness, the pieces of humanity still hidden somewhere deep within him. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” you whisper. You can’t say anything more because even the slightest word would shatter the magic of this moment.

As you clean the table, your mind remains caught on Geta’s words. Why would an emperor like him find an ordinary servant interesting? And why would he openly admit it? These thoughts swirl in your mind as you notice Geta leaving the room. The echo of his footsteps, the heavy door closing behind him… You’re left standing there in silence.

A few hours pass. The morning’s conversation is almost forgotten amidst the palace’s bustling daily routine—until another servant rushes in, out of breath, and says, “Emperor Geta is waiting for you in the back garden.”

The garden? And with you? Why? No explanation is given; only the command is to be obeyed. With sweaty palms and your head lowered, you follow the order.

When you arrive at the garden, the sight before you surprises you once again. Two horses, meticulously prepared, stand waiting. Geta is beneath the shade of a tree, hands clasped behind his back, impatiently looking at the ground. When he notices you, he lifts his head, and for a moment, the stern expression on his face softens. “Come,” he says, beckoning you with his hand. “You said you missed the horses, didn’t you?” “Your Majesty, but…” you murmur, your breath catching. “I… I haven’t ridden in years. Is this… proper?” Geta approaches you with a slight smile and places a hand on your shoulder. “When you’re with me, everything is proper. Now, stop making excuses and get on the horse.”

You hesitate as you approach the horse. Your hand brushes against the cold leather of the saddle. It doesn’t feel natural, as it did when you were a child. But Geta watches you patiently. Finally, with a trembling breath, you climb onto the horse. Geta steadies you with a firm grip around your waist, ensuring you’re secure before swiftly mounting his own horse with practiced ease.

The movement of the horse creates a brief moment of tension in you, but as the steps smooth out, your body adjusts to the rhythm. Something you had almost forgotten begins to resurface: the touch of the wind on your face, the freedom within the gentle trot. Your eyes well up involuntarily.

Guiding his horse skillfully, Geta rides closer to you. “See? You haven’t forgotten how to ride,” he says. His voice seems stripped of its usual arrogance, replaced with admiration and curiosity. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve missed this feeling so much…”

Geta remains silent for a while, as though he’s sharing the same feeling, though he’d never admit it. He orders the guards trailing behind you to stop. Now it’s just the two of you, heading toward the depths of the woods in the back garden.

Geta approaches the horse you’re riding. He halts his own horse beside yours and, without warning, pulls himself up onto yours, giving you no time to turn and look at him. His hands grip your waist firmly as he whispers, “Let go of the reins. I’m steering now.”

Your heart begins to race. Feeling his strong arms around your waist, the warmth of his breath brushing against your neck… No matter how much you try to relax, your body tenses. “Calm down,” he says in an almost teasing tone. “I won’t let you fall.”

As the horse quickens its pace, you feel Geta’s hold tighten. His grip is firm but reassuring. The space between you has completely disappeared. For a moment, you sense the rhythm of his breathing aligning with the beat of your heart.

After a while, Geta pulls the reins, slowing the horse to a stop. “You see?” he says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “Stop tensing up,” he murmurs.

In that instant, you catch a sincere spark in Geta’s gaze—a spark that seems to beg you to see him not as an emperor, but as a person.

With the reins back in his hands, the horse’s movements return to a steady rhythm. Having the Emperor this close to you, feeling his breath on your neck, is utterly overwhelming.

“Calm down,” he whispers again. But instead of soothing you, it has the opposite effect. Calm down? That’s impossible. Because Geta’s presence seeps into you, breaking through the palace walls and settling deep within.

For a while, you ride in silence. The horse’s gentle rhythm, the sound of hooves hitting the ground, creates a melody of its own. But the silence is broken when Geta leans closer to your shoulder, almost pressing his lips to your skin. “May I ask you something?” he says, his voice low, almost intimate. “Of course, Your Majesty…” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You said you truly believe in love. Do you know where to find it?”

This was not the question you were expecting. For a moment, you don't know what words to choose. But with Geta's hands holding you tightly and the sense of security created by being this close to him, you gather your courage. "Yes," you finally say. "I believe it's real. But maybe... it can only be found rarely." Before you know it, Geta pulls on the reins to stop the horse, and you feel as though all time in the world has halted. The rhythmic breathing of the horse envelops your lightly swaying bodies. Geta slowly leans in, his head passing by your shoulder, his chin nearly resting against it. "Turn to me," he whispers. There is something beyond a command in his voice—a fragile yet passionate call, an invitation of desire. You turn slowly, your body trembling slightly. Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, both of your breaths catch. "Your ordinariness… it's far more beautiful than I thought," he says in a low voice. And with those words, he brings his lips closer to yours. The first touch is light and cautious, as if he's afraid of breaking the magic of the moment. As one hand gently brushes against your back, his other hand touches beneath your chin, drawing you closer. The warmth between his lips makes you forget the chill of the wind. As you feel his breath and the weight of his touch, time seems to come to a complete standstill. Your heartbeat quickens, but you realize it's not from fear—it's from a sudden, unexplainable pull toward Geta. When your lips part, he tilts his head slightly and rests his forehead against yours. "This… this is what I wanted to feel," he says in a low voice, almost as if speaking to himself. And then, again. As Geta's lips meet yours once more, all the sounds and movements of the world seem to disappear in an instant. The horse's slow, steady breaths, the soft rustling of the wind, the distant chirping of birds... all of it fades into the background. His lips move gently and carefully, as if he’s trying to savor the moment and explore you at the same time. The hands on your waist act as an anchor, pulling you even closer to him as if ensuring you won’t fall. The pressure of his fingers is light yet commanding; it both supports and completely possesses you. At first, you are lost in the magic of the moment, but then Geta takes the kiss a step further. When he slightly parts his lips, his warm breath grazes yours, and you feel the delicate, inviting touch of his tongue against your lips. The sensation spreads through your body like an electric current. When you respond, the kiss becomes deeper and more intense. The movement of his tongue is slow yet passionate, as though he’s exploring you with every motion, wanting to fully claim the moment. The taste of Geta's lips… how does an emperor taste? For a fleeting moment, you notice the subtle traces of wine and spices on his lips; at the same time, the flavor seems to reflect his dual nature—both noble and wild. But instead of unsettling you, this combination draws you in further. His fingers settle lightly just above the curve of your hips, holding you with a gentle firmness that reminds you of his control. You can feel the faint press of his chest against yours, and your heartbeat begins to synchronize with the accelerated rhythm of his. The movements of his tongue grow bolder, more fervent, as if he doesn’t just want to feel you but conquer you entirely. The mingling of your breaths during the kiss creates a sensation that is both soothing and maddening all at once.

As you and him ride the horse deeper into the forest, the trees seem to close in around you, their leaves whispering secrets only known to lovers. Geta's hands tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer, his lips claiming yours with a hunger that can no longer be denied. The horse snorts softly beneath you as you dismount together.

Geta lifts you off the saddle and sets you down on the soft grass beside the lake. He gazes at your blushed face for a moment before his mouth descends upon yours once more. His tongue dances as he slowly works his way down your neck, leaving trails of kisses that make you shiver.

His teeth graze against the tender skin of your throat, sending shivers down your spine. He sucks gently, his mouth hot and demanding. His hands roam over your legs, tracing the curves of your thighs with a gentle touch that belies the passion burning within him.

As Geta's hands continue to explore your body, you can't help but feel a growing sense of desire. His fingers dance across your legs, tracing the curves of your thighs with a gentle touch. He pauses at the waistband of your dress, his fingertips grazing against the soft fabric as he pulls it upwards.

His mouth never leaves your neck as he sucks gently on it, his tongue strokes and nips at the tender skin. Your core burns with an intense longing for more.

Geta's hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, his palm pressing against the warmth between your legs. You gasp softly into his mouth as he begins to stroke you through the fabric of your panties. His fingers move in a slow, deliberate rhythm that sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

You feel yourself getting wetter by the second, your desire for him growing with every passing moment. His touch sends sparks flying through your veins.

As Geta's fingers deftly undoes your dress, you feel a thrill of anticipation run through your body. He pushes the fabric aside, revealing the curves of your breasts to his eager gaze.

His mouth descends upon one of your nipples, sucking it gently. You gasp softly as he begins to lick and flick at it with his tongue. His fingers knead at the other breast, rolling and pinching it gently as he continues to lavish attention on the other one. 

Geta's mouth moves from one breast to the other, his lips and tongue working in tandem to drive you wild. He sucks your nipples hard, making them pucker and stiffen with desire. His teeth graze against them, sending shivers down your spine as he bites gently.

As he works his way around your chest, Geta's hand dips lower, slipping beneath the hem of your dress once more. This time, however, it's not just for show - he slides a finger beneath the fabric of your panties, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

You're wet and ready for him, and he knows it. His finger strokes against your pussy, gathering the moisture that's pooling there before sliding back up to tease you once more. 

Geta's fingers continue to stroke against your pussy, teasing you mercilessly as he works his way down your body. 

Finally, he dips lower still, his mouth closing over your pussy like a warm blanket. His tongue darts in and out of you, stroking against your inner walls.

You're powerless to resist the sensation of his mouth on you. Geta's tongue strokes and laps at you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes you feel like you're melting into his mouth. As he eats at you, Geta's hands move up to cup your ass cheeks, pulling you closer to his mouth as he devours you. You can feel yourself getting hotter by the second, your desire for him reaching a fever pitch.

As he eats at you, Geta's hands move up to cup your ass cheeks, pressing you closer to his mouth as he devours you. You can feel yourself getting hotter by the second, your desire for him reaching a fever pitch.

Geta's tongue moves in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, stroking against your inner walls. He uses his nose to rub against your swollen bud, creating a sensation that's both gentle and intense.

He begins to move faster and more furiously, as if trying to drive you wild. He uses it like a fuckin' tool, plunging it deep into your pussy and then withdrawing it slowly before repeating the motion.

Your body is trembling with anticipation as he continues to devour you.

Suddenly, Geta adds his fingers to the mix. He inserts two fingers into your pussy alongside his tongue, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he continues to eat at you.

The sensation is overwhelming - it's like nothing you've ever experienced before. You're powerless to resist the pleasure that's building inside of you, and you know that it won't be long before you come.

Finally, with a gentle pressure on your clit, Geta's fingers bring you over the edge. You cum hard and fast, your body trembling with pleasure.

As you're still recovering from the intensity of your orgasm, Geta turns you around gently but firmly. He bends you over, his hands grasping at your hips as he pulls them towards him.

With a swift motion, he takes off his clothes. His cock springs free from its confines, standing tall and proud as he leans against you.

You can feel his hardness pressing against your back, and Geta's hands move up to stroke himself.

"My God," he whispers into your ear. "Your body is perfect for me, just like I guessed it would be."

He whispers sweet nothings into your ear as he begins to slide slowly inside of you.

"You're so tight," he breathes.

He pauses for a moment, his cock buried deep within you. You feel yourself relaxing around him, accommodating his size and shape with ease.

"I'm going to make this last forever," he whispers. "I want to savor every moment with you."

With that, Geta begins to move faster and more urgently, his hips pumping in and out of you in a slow but deliberate rhythm. His fingers are between your legs now, rubbing circles around your clit with a gentle pressure. Geta's other hand is cupping one of your breasts, squeezing and releasing it with each thrust. His thumb brushes against your nipple, sending sparks through every cell in your body.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes. "I love how you respond to me."

As he picks up speed, his words become more urgent and passionate. You can feel him getting closer and closer to orgasm, his cock throbbing with desire as he continues to pump in and out of you.

He leans in to kiss you deeply. His lips are soft and gentle, but his tongue is insistent as it explores your mouth. You can feel him inhaling your scent, drinking in the aroma of your skin.

Despite his best efforts to be gentle, you can sense that he's on the edge of pleasure. His cock throbs with desire as he continues to move inside of you.

"May I cum inside?" he whispers against your ear. "Please?"

You nod silently, unable to speak through the intensity of the moment. 

With a final thrust, he comes deep within you. You feel his cock pulsing with release as he empties himself into your pussy.

As he comes, you feel your own body responding. Your pussy tightens around his cock as you come hard and fast, the pleasure building to a crescendo.

Together, you ride out the wave of pleasure, your bodies trembling with release as you cum together in perfect sync.

Geta turns to you, gently wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close. The warmth of his body envelops you so strongly that it almost makes you feel safe, and you struggle to steady your breathing. "Look at that," he murmurs, tilting his head toward the sky. "I watch this every day. The sun sets, the stars come out. Yet... it feels like this view has meaning for the first time." He takes a deep breath, as if trying to suppress the adrenaline still coursing through him. "You know," he continues, turning his head slightly to lock eyes with you. "I've tasted power my entire life. Palaces, armies, victories... But I never understood what freedom feels like. And that absence has always suffocated me." He holds you tighter, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. "But now... Here with you... For the first time, I can feel what freedom is. It's like... the world belongs only to the two of us." For a while, neither of you speaks, simply breathing together. As the sky fades into complete darkness and the stars emerge, Geta's arms wrap around you like a shield. In that moment, there is only him. Just Geta and you. The rest of the world feels distant, its voice silenced. Maybe neither of you wants to end this moment. Maybe you both know this infinity, this freedom, is too beautiful to be real. But in this moment, you belong to no one and nothing. Only to each other.

taglist: @userchai @runningupthatvecna @multyfangirl @scarletwolfxox @mylittlepimp @25bohemianmoons @nicholaschavezslut69

[immoral-stranger]

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 // 𝐌𝐕𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒. 🪐 “I like to stick to walls. Observing conversations, lifting them when they fall.” – Foster the People, Fire Escape.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word count: 5k

Warnings: There's a dinner party and reader is a chef, so a lot of talk about food. Reader is also very self-deprecating. Allusions to issues regarding mental health and self-worth, but it's not really the main story. It makes sense, I promise, I just don't know how to warn about it.

A/N: My sister requested this after we watched the movie Sommartider (very swedish), so there's a similar scene in that. I personally find this one very cute. ♡

The apartment smelled of butter and garlic, the scent clinging to the sun-warm kitchen, filled with light that spilled through the sheer linen curtains. It was small but charming, a snug little nest tucked into the hills of the French Riviera, not too far from Nice. You stood at the counter, hands damp from having peeled potatoes, a half-prepared gratin tray in front of you. It had been a gift from your parents, a fittingly named Marseille bleu Le Creuset roasting pan. You would’ve never bought it for yourself—too expensive—but as a gift, you’d been thankful to receive it. 

“Did you decant the wine like I told you?” Imogen’s voice drifted from the other room, where she was preening in front of the gilded mirror you’d picked up at a flea market. It wasn’t her style—too rustic, too worn—but she’d said it added “charm” to your place, always opting for a backhanded compliment instead of the truth. She hated your style because it was the opposite of hers. 

You didn’t look up from your work. “No, uhm—”

“Kinda busy,” she interrupted, breezing in. Imogen always moved like she was on a runway, even barefoot in her sister’s modest kitchen. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, and she wore a silk blouse that you suspected cost more than your entire apartment deposit. Sponsored, most definitely. She paused to eye the tray in front of you. “What even is that?”

“The base to dauphinoise potatoes,” you said, flicking a glance at her. She didn’t care about the answer; she never did. Imogen asked questions to fill the air, not to gather information. You also suspected that she loved the sound of her own voice so much that she never felt the need to shut the fuck up. 

She wrinkled her nose, but it was half-hearted, like a habit she wasn’t willing to break. “I still can’t believe you do this out of pure enjoyment.”

You shrugged, lifting a knife to thinly slice another potato. “Everyone needs to eat, Imogen.”

“Yeah, that’s what Uber Eats is for,” she said breezily, perching on one of your barstools. “No need to go to culinary school.”

You turned to give her a pointed look, hand on your hip. “And who do you think works in the kitchens at the restaurants you order from?”

Imogen made a face, part exasperated and part amused, and waved you off. “You do not always have to poke holes in other people’s logic. It’s an unattractive trait.”

Before you could respond, the sharp trill of the doorbell cut through the room. Imogen’s eyes widened, and she hopped off the stool in a single fluid motion. “Oh god, that’s them—” She smoothed her blouse and gave herself a quick glance in the reflection of a hanging copper pot. “Do I look good?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but your voice softened in spite of yourself. “You always do. It’s your job.” 

As Imogen floated toward the door, a knot of tension twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy—it never had been. It was more complicated than that: a mix of frustration and yearning that you didn’t want to untangle. Imogen walked through life as though she owned the air around her, while you had spent most of yours holding your breath. 

She pulled the door open with a practiced flourish, stepping aside to let Daniel stroll in first. His confidence and laughter preceded him, a quick kiss placed on Imogen’s cheek, and she giggled in a way that made you want to hurl. 

Daniel moved with the kind of ease that made it impossible to tell if he was posing or simply existing. Former Formula 1 driver, now Imogen’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, who appeared far more interested in globetrotting and sponsorships than in anything truly meaningful with her. With a bit of self-distance, you actually really enjoyed Daniel’s presence. He was funny and kind, even though you had nothing in common. 

“Danny, always good to see you,” you said, managing a polite smile as he stepped into the kitchen, lifting your attention from the food preparations. 

“Whatever it is you’re cooking smells wonderful,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “This is Max,” Danny added, stepping aside to reveal the man behind him. 

Through a gap, you could spot Imogen in the entryway, observing your reaction and how you greeted the both of them. It was almost like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or, worse—embarrass her. You, of course, knew who she had invited over for dinner. You’d had to sit through hours worth of gossip all the times you and Imogen caught up on each other’s lives. So, having two world-famous athletes stand in your kitchen wasn’t as surreal as it may sound. 

Max was taller than you’d expected, his broad shoulders and quiet presence making the doorway seem smaller. Clad in a simple black t-shirt, he seemed like any other guy your age. He looked relaxed but not indifferent, his gaze curious as he took in your modest apartment.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the rising amusement. “Danny, I don’t know if it’s funny or offensive that you think I don’t know who he is.” 

They both chuckled slightly at your words, and it was like you could see how tension released from Imogen’s shoulders, instantly becoming a couple centimeters shorter. 

“I would shake your hand, Max, but I have oil all over mine,” you said, holding up your slick fingers as evidence, before returning to the food, dealing with a marinated cut of meat. 

“Right,” Danny said, clapping Max on the shoulder and steering him further into the room. “She’s got this whole culinary genius thing going on, doesn’t she? Always smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Not exactly,” you said, though the compliment made your cheeks feel warm. You glanced up at Max, who was still watching you, his smile small but genuine.

“Well, don’t let us interrupt your masterpiece,” Imogen said airily. “We’ll stay out of your way. You’ve got this under control, right?”

You only nodded, turning back to the food. It wasn’t until you heard Imogen’s laughter trailing into the living room that you allowed yourself to relax. There was a faint comfort in being in your element, even if you weren’t entirely alone.

In the background, you heard them talk as Imogen poured up glasses of wine for everyone. The wine she had forgotten to decant—that you knew needed air to taste decent. You heard her talk about the wine like it was something special. You, however, knew that she had stolen all of her knowledge from when she shot an ad for a winery somewhere in South Africa, and it didn’t particularly look like either Max or Danny cared that much. Ironic, for someone who had their own wine company, but you also got tired of hearing Imogen talk about things she didn’t really care enough about to research but talked about anyway to seem interesting. 

As she poured the fourth and final glass, you saw Max pick up two of them in your periphery. You tried to not visibly tense up as you heard his steps approach across your creaking wooden floors. He set both the glasses down on your kitchen island with a careful clink. 

With a wordless nod, you thanked him, picking one of the glasses up and swiveling the red liquid around to aerate it. 

Max lingered near the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the array of ingredients you had spread out around you. “Is that you?” he asked, nodding toward a framed photo on the wall. 

It was one of the few remnants of your short-lived modeling career—an editorial shot of you, disturbingly close up, showing skin texture and flyaway hairs, vivid watercolour-like makeup in patches around your face and neck. You didn’t even look like yourself in it, which maybe was why it was the only photo of yourself you could bear seeing every day as you spent time in your kitchen. 

“Totally narcissistic, I know,” you snorted, keeping your eyes on the frying pan sizzling on the stove. 

“No, uhm, I didn’t mean it like that.” Max’s tone softened. “I think it looks cool. You must model too then?” 

“Nope.” You shook your head, glancing up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “I mean, I tried to, but I quit a while ago and went to culinary school.”

“That explains all this.” Max said, gesturing to the kitchen.

“I may have gone overboard,” you admitted, laughing softly. 

Imogen, perched on the edge of the sofa like a cat surveying her domain, twirled a lock of her hair idly before cutting in smoothly. “Is she boring you with her food talk, Max?” Her voice had that lilting quality you recognized well—equal parts teasing and dismissive, designed to simultaneously charm and belittle.

You stiffened instinctively, your movements freezing, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan. 

Max, however, straightened slightly, his casual stance shifting. “Not at all,” he replied, his tone easy but resolute, as if dismissing her suggestion entirely. Then he turned toward you. “Actually…” He hesitated, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, probably not,” you said, trying to recover from sounding too surprised. “Imogen always says that I’m like a dictator in the kitchen and that my recipes are unreadable.” 

Max stepped closer, peering down at your notebook with recipes, pages filled with messy handwriting, arrows, and scratchy diagrams. “No, I get it. It’s like a mind map. Makes it easier to see the process,” he said after a moment. “Even if I don’t know what half of these things mean. What even is… a wild turkey?” 

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised that he could make sense of your ramblings. Looking over, you saw his finger point to one ingredient. You let out an unguarded laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “It’s bourbon, for the marinade,” you explained. “Does this look like turkey meat to you?”

The meat sizzling in the frying pan was obviously some cut of beef, to judge by the colour. You didn’t need to be a culinary expert to know that. 

“No,” Max admitted with a grin. “And it would be weird to measure meat in tablespoons.” 

Your lips quirked upward, and you reached for a pear from the fruit bowl beside you, along with a cutting board and a little knife. You were hesitant to give him one of your good knives, worried he’d cut himself the first thing he did. It was quite common for people to do when they were unfamiliar with the sharpness a chef’s knife could have. 

“I guess you can chop that pear in little cubes, if you want to help.” 

Max took the pear from you, turning it over in his hands as if he were inspecting some foreign object. “A pear?” 

“It’s for the salad,” you explained, already turning back to your own task. 

“You can put pear in a salad?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a pear since I was about seven.” 

You arched a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder to see that he was fully sincere. With swift movements, you took the knife and cut a slice of the pear before dipping it into a vinaigrette you’d already prepared. 

“Try it, for science,” you said, holding it up for him to taste. 

Max hesitated before taking a small bite, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. Then he nodded, his expression lightening. “Huh, you know what you’re doing.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you dismissed his comment, turning to look at the stove again. 

Max chuckled in response, shaking his head. He then stepped closer to the counter as he grabbed a knife. His movements were unpracticed but deliberate, the pear wobbling slightly as he began chopping it into uneven pieces. You felt the familiar itch of not being in control, almost taking over your own movements. But, you stopped thinking for a moment. Dinner wouldn’t be ruined just because the pear wasn’t in perfect cubes. And Max was actually putting in effort, biting down on his tongue, a line forming between his brows as he focused.

“Are you always this much of a perfectionist,” you asked, viewing his motions, “or are you just showing off in front of me?” 

“I’ve never put this much brain capacity into anything before,” Max joked, adding a laugh as he examined one of the misshapen pear cubes. 

For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. Imogen and Danny’s laughter floated in from the other room, a sharp contrast to the quiet concentration shared between you and Max. You didn’t usually let anyone help in the kitchen—it was your sanctuary, your domain—but for some reason, with Max fumbling his way through chopping fruit and throwing curious questions your way, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. 

When the food was done, the four of you gathered around your dining table, decorated with pottery and plates that you had collected throughout the years. Nothing matched, just like you preferred it. The golden hour crept through the windows as the room filled with light from the sun and flickering candles. 

And the dinner went fine, just like it always did, even though you couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario of accidentally poisoning someone, or forgetting an allergy, maybe dropping the main dish right on the floor. Your sister and her company ate like they enjoyed it at least. The added blur of wine helping with the atmosphere. 

You were always the most quiet one in group settings, only speaking when spoken to, really. But you liked it that way. The stories Max and Daniel could tell from their lives were vastly more interesting than anything you had experienced anyway. Imogen too lived a more eventful life with fashion weeks and world travelling. Everyone seemed to like it that way too, the scrape of forks against plates punctuating Danny’s latest story. 

“…and when I finally got the bloody thing out of the house, the neighbour’s dog chased it straight back in,” Danny concluded, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. Imogen giggled, dabbing her lips with a napkin in that poised way of hers.

Max chuckled but shifted his gaze to you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “So, how did you end up going from modeling to cooking?” He asked, after Danny was done telling the detailed story about a snake entering his house back home in Australia. 

You didn’t realise for how long you’d been quiet until you were now forced to speak, your voice sounding foreign to even your own ears. Setting your fork down, you answered, “I gave myself one last runway season to see if I could support myself. I walked three shows, while Imogen walked like thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” Imogen corrected, not missing a beat. She reached for her wine glass, taking a delicate sip before adding, “I’ll always believe you could’ve done it if you didn’t give up so easily.” Her tone was light but pointed. 

Your lips tightened. “I didn’t give up, Imogen—I moved on.” 

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” she said with a faint shrug. “You never see yourself as anything special, always such a plain Jane.” 

The words settled heavily in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. For a brief moment, the table fell silent, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. You forced yourself to maintain an even expression as you reached for your glass of water. 

“It’s kind of hard to when you’re having dinner with three child prodigies,” you answered, letting out a pathetic laugh to conceal your emotions. 

For someone who was so afraid of you embarrassing her, Imogen really had no issue with her own words causing embarrassment for others. 

Max frowned slightly, his hands stilling as he turned toward you. “I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with something else—discomfort, perhaps.

“Yeah, right,” Danny said, nudging Max with an elbow. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, mate. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Max smiled faintly but didn’t reply. There was a softness in his expression that made your stomach twist, though you quickly moved your gaze to look at your plate; the uneven shapes of pear in the salad were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 

The conversation shifted, as it always did with Imogen, back to her. Something about a designer or a photographer saying she was the best model to work with. Something about a socialite event where ridiculous things had happened. Ridiculous meaning stupidly expensive or over the top. You wanted to laugh, knowing that they most likely didn’t use the real thing for the crazy champagne fountains she talked about, or that the sturgeon caviar they had served was a cheap knock-off, because no chef in their right mind would use the amount she mentioned. 

You zoned out as she talked, only starting to pay attention again when the conversation drifted towards what they were doing tonight and that they might need to call a cab soon. 

“Oh, where are you going?” you asked, unsure if you actually cared. 

“A sponsored event on a yacht in the marina. You know the jewelry company I did an ad for?” she replied casually, her tone almost bored.

You nodded, though the familiar ache of exclusion began to settle in your chest. You knew the exact advert she was referring to, not because you cared, but because those freaking pictures of her were everywhere. In stores, on every social media app, on digital billboards across multiple cities of the French Riviera—hell, you’d even seen it at a bus stop. 

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” she added. The statement wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same. “You never do.” 

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass as you gave a small nod, keeping your face neutral. “No, I guess you’re right.” 

Max hesitated, glancing between you and Imogen. “I mean, she could come if she wanted to, right?”

“Yeah,” Imogen said, tilting her head as though the idea had never occurred to her. “I guess I could make a call to get you on the list.” 

“Don’t bother, you know it’s not my scene anyway,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you intended.

Danny grinned, leaning back in his chair. “A wild night for her is solving a crossword puzzle with a pen you can’t erase.” 

“Or,” Imogen added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief, “when she’s brave enough, watching an episode of Criminal Minds instead of Friends like she usually does.”

Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls with the kind of ease you’d never quite mastered. It wasn’t malicious—at least not intentionally—but it still left a weight in your chest, heavy and familiar.

You kept your head down, pushing the last bit of salad around your plate, and told yourself you didn’t care. This was the dynamic, after all. Imogen had always been the star of the show, and Danny loved playing her supporting act. You had other friends who understood you better, who you had more in common with. Max, though—Max had been a surprise. And even now, as their laughter rang on, you caught him glancing at you from across the table, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

The dinner ended not long after. They had places to be, important people to talk to—while you had sitcoms to watch and dishes to take care of. You were happy to see Imogen every once in a while when she and Danny were both in Monaco, and you loved cooking for people, no matter who they were. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little happy knowing that Imogen was busy with work all throughout the upcoming month. 

As they filtered out, their voices trailing off into the warm Riviera night, the apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Locking the door after them, you slid down onto the floor, sitting with your knees tucked up towards your body, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hands, not caring if mascara crumbled all over your face. You felt empty, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. The half-drunk bottle of wine on the kitchen counter looked temping as you considered finishing it yourself. 

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Max trailed behind Danny and Imogen as they strolled toward the cab waiting just down the street. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and the stars twinkled faintly above the rooftops.

Danny was cracking a joke, and Imogen’s laughter rang out like a bell, but Max barely registered it. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his mind somewhere else entirely—back upstairs, at the table, watching you push your food around with that faint, detached smile.

He slowed his steps, his feet dragging. The idea of the yacht party, the glitz and endless small talk, suddenly felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Max hated events like that. Everyone knew that. And while it was nice to catch up with Danny since they didn’t see much of each other nowadays, he found Imogen insufferable. He could play padel with Danny tomorrow if he wanted to talk more with him. Before he could think better of it, Max stopped altogether.

“Hey,” he called after them, making Danny and Imogen turn around.

“What’s up?” Danny asked, his brow furrowing.

Max hesitated, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I think I forgot my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Imogen gave him a bemused smile, her head tilting slightly. “You sure? It’s not like we can wait forever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, already stepping back. He waved them off. “Have fun.”

He turned before he could see their expressions and made his way back to the building.

The walk up the stairs felt oddly daunting now, each step heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own indecision was pulling him back. The soft hum of the building at night—the faint creak of pipes, the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors—seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. Max reached your door and hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainly near the wood.

What was he even going to say? He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this felt different. He didn’t want to overstep. What if you didn’t want company? The evening had already been a mixed bag of awkward moments, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.

Max sighed, his arm lowering slightly, just about ready to turn back when he heard your voice from the other side of the door.

“I miss you too, like craaazy,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough through the door. Max froze, his curiosity getting the better of him. You sounded close, as though you were standing right by the door. Picking up the pieces, he figured you were talking to someone over the phone. 

“Imogen and Daniel came over for dinner earlier, and he brought a friend of his, and it was the most awkward thing ever,” you spoke again. 

Max frowned slightly. He was the friend, of course. While he’d sensed some discomfort during the evening, particularly whenever the conversation turned toward you, he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Who would you be talking to like that anyway, debriefing something that had just happened? Did you have… a boyfriend? 

“Mum,” you added, your voice cutting through his doubt, “of course it was a boy.”

He relaxed a fraction, leaning slightly closer to the door without realizing it.

“A cute one, too,” you admitted. 

Max blinked, warmth creeping into his face. A cute boy. That was a twist he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t help but grin, his chest lifting slightly at the thought. And you definitely didn’t have a boyfriend.

“You don’t have to ask if I bottled it. You already know I did,” you said after a brief pause, your voice quieter now. “I’m not like Imogen. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be that easygoing.” 

Max was back to frowning, this time for a different reason. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wanted to knock, to interrupt, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you,” you said, your tone softening into affection as you ended the call. “Tell Dad I said hi. Buh-bye.”

Max barely gave himself a moment to think before he raised his hand and knocked. There was a pause, long enough for him to wonder if you’d heard, and then your voice came through the door. 

“Did you forget something?”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell that you were expecting it to be Imogen coming back for something. Not him. 

Max smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, the words coming out more confidently than he expected. “I think I did.”

For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard rustling from behind the door, almost as if you’d stumbled to reach it. The lock clicked, and the door opened, revealing you with wide, startled eyes. You looked more tired than you had before, makeup and clothes a bit askew. He assumed Imogen had something to do with how polished you’d looked at the beginning of the evening. 

“Max?” you asked, your voice pitched slightly higher in surprise.

He cleared his throat, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was wondering…” he started, shifting his weight but keeping his tone light, “if maybe, I could stay here and be boring with you?” 

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, though the words sounded stupid the moment they left his lips. He half-expected you to laugh, but instead, you blinked at him, your surprise melting into something softer.

“Uhm, yeah,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Sure.”

Max stepped inside, and for the second time that night, he was struck by how inviting your apartment felt. The uneven warmth of the terracotta tiles beneath his feet, the mismatched chairs around the small dining table, and the array of plants lining the windowsill. It was nothing like he was used to, yet it felt like the picture-perfect definition of the word home.

Moving into the kitchen, his eyes landed on something on the counter—a tray of something, its surface dusted with cocoa powder.

“You made dessert?” he asked, tilting his head toward it.

“Yeah,” you said, shutting the door behind him, smoothing out your shirt with your hands. “I made tiramisu. Want some?”

Max didn’t hesitate. Moments later, he was seated on your sofa with a fork in hand, his first bite of the tiramisu silencing any lingering awkwardness. “Fuck me, this is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.

You laughed, a soft, almost shy sound that Max couldn’t help but find adorable. You really couldn’t handle compliments well, and Max was going to use that to his advantage to make you wonderfully uncomfortable. “And you were going to have all this dessert for yourself instead of going out with us?” he asked, setting his fork down briefly to give you a look of mock betrayal.

“Well,” you said with a small shrug, sitting down beside him with your own plate of dessert. “I wasn’t really invited in the first place.”

Max frowned. “That’s not fair. They should’ve—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “Really. It’s not my scene anyway.”

Max studied you for a moment, his fork hovering over the dish. You were the opposite of so many people that he knew. And so similar to himself that it was almost scary to him. 

Tucking up your legs under your body, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa before you continued talking. “I tend to stick to the walls in places like that anyway. Just observing conversations, trying but failing to lift them when they fall.” 

“Do you also feel like you’ve got a foot in your mouth whenever you open it?” he wondered honestly. 

“Exactly. Always putting my foot in my mouth,” you replied with a chuckle. 

“Sounds impressive to me,” he joked with a grin. “I’m not that agile.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You were the one to bring it up.” 

For a moment, the apartment settled into a quiet hum, the faint sounds of the outside world barely audible through the walls. Max leaned forward, setting his plate down on your coffee table. The TV was noticeably black in front of the two of you.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what is it tonight? A crime show or… what was the other thing?”

“Friends,” you replied, reading in his reaction. “You’ve never seen Friends?”

Max’s brows lifted. “Not really. Maybe bits and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you much about it.”

“Oh my god,” you said, your tone equal parts horror and humor as your eyes widened dramatically. “You have a lot to learn.”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me everything I need to know.”

You smiled, a real one that softened your whole face. You picked up the remote, turning on the pilot episode. Max wasn’t really paying attention, but he liked how certain funny things made you audibly laugh. The more you watched and the more tiramisu you ate—the more the comfortable feeling spread like a fire through your living room, silently burning as he placed an arm around you and shared your blanket. 

This wasn’t where he’d thought he’d end up as he had entered your apartment the first time tonight, but now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress

[readychilledwine]

Reading with Eris Vanserra Handcanons

Warnings - mentions of smut, mentions of alcohol

A/n - my brain is prepping for finishing @erisweekofficial drafts, and this happened 💕

🍁Eris Week Masterlist🍁Eris Masterlist🍁Master Masterlist🍁

Reading is one of Eris's favorite pastimes, so he was so grateful it was one of yours as well.

You two have a specific spot you read in at the Forest House - your bed chambers, in a pile of blankets and pillows, in front of the huge fireplace.

Eris likes a glass of wine or whiskey when he reads. You always make sure he has a crystal decanter filled with the one or the other. You love hot chocolates and teas. Eris makes sure he brings it to you, then he keeps it warm for you.

No snacks in the blanket nest. Ever. Eris has a sensory issue with crumbs in his comfort spots. If you two decide to snack, you go to the balcony in your chambers where he's set a table for you two

Eris is a man of taste. He isn't above reading anything, but you've noticed romance is his favorite. He says they are quick, easy reads. You know it's secretly because this male is a drama whore.

You are a little pickier. You love historical fiction and poetry. You like how they both romanticize everyday things in life and provide you with a safe escape

Eris is a touchy male in private, so expect to cuddle while reading. His head on your lap, you between his legs, you sitting with your legs across his and leaning into his chest. He just wants to feel you when you two are reading

Eris will DNF poorly done novels. You will torture yourself through it due to morbid curiosity.

You both keep reading journals and talk about your books with each other once they're finished. Eris once rated a romance novel 5 stars, a rating he never gives, leading to you reading it. He was generous. It was 4 stars at best with some of the best smut you think Helion has ever written under his pen name.

You two have a massive bookmark collection, and it only grows. Eris tries to collect a new novel and bookmark for you every time he leaves Autumn. And, since you are stuck in Autumn per Beron's orders, you will find and press beautiful flowers and leaves for Eris, enchanting and sealing them for him to use and think of you.

Eris's 100-year anniversary gift to you was a room renovated for a personal library for you two and his mother. You three made it a goal to fill every shelf, no matter how high, and ensured the library could only be accessed through your chambers, creating a safe place for his Mother.

Eris will let you fall asleep when you two have reading dates. He will carefully close your book, keeping your place with whatever book mark he can reach, then he will lay there and finish his chapter or book.

You both know reading time is one of the most important things you share. It's silence filled with comfort and love. It's easy. It's release. Even when you two end up becoming parents, silent reading time is something you get your little ones into the routine of.

Just one big family of readers, curled up in front of mommy and daddy's fireplace in a cuddle puddle.

[sloanesallow]

tell me

Sebastian doesn't want to be married, but he's always been known to make the best of a difficult situation. (A little different than what I usually write, as this is technically an unnamed MC...though it's still very Sloane coded.) Sebastian Sallow x F!MC (Unnamed) Tags: MDNI, NSFW! Sexual content, arranged marriage trope, first time, stupid sexy Sebastian. 2.7k words [Ao3] | [Wattpad] | [Tumblr Masterlist]

There was only one semi-formal introduction between Sebastian and his betrothed after the engagement was announced, awkward glances exchanged as their families bartered over the marriage contract and dowry. She is a stranger to him, and will likely remain one—it’s rare for these types of arrangements to blossom into anything meaningful. As much as he wants to resist and run, Sebastian honors his familial duty and begrudgingly agrees, observing the way his wife-to-be holds back tears.

Poor girl.

The wedding ceremony isn’t any better.

Sebastian spends the night before in a haze of firewhiskey and denial, blacking out with the hope he’ll wake up and it’ll be a bad dream. Instead, he wakes up with a splitting migraine that worsens his already sour expression. The only reason he decides not to drink more is because of her, the anxiety and fear radiating off his bride as they exchange meaningless vows in front of a handful of guests. They are in this charade together, for better or worse—best not to alienate his only potential ally by making a drunken fool of himself.

He sits through the reception with disinterest, worried more about her fiddling with the golden ring on her finger, and how she hasn’t touched her food or wine. Sebastian isn’t stupid—he knows she is terrified of the inevitable when they retire to the wedding suite with the expectation of consummation. There’s very little he can do to calm her nerves, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try.

As soon as the door to their bedroom closes, he sighs, tugging loose his collar before crossing over to the decanter on the nearby table. He glances at her—his wife—watching as she stands in the middle of the room, fidgeting like a trapped animal. Sebastian fills a shallow glass with whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as he brings the offering to her. She flinches, even as she shakily takes the drink without meeting his gaze.

“You’re trembling,” he states the obvious, studying the curve of her lips as she takes a small sip. “No need to be so damn frightened. I’m not going to devour you.”

She gasps, snapping a hand to her mouth as the whiskey nearly sputters from her lips. Sebastian would find her reaction humorous if the circumstances were different. He removes the glass from her grasp, setting it down before looking at her again. She’s a delicate thing, petite and fair, in stark contrast to his looming presence.

“Husbands take what they want,” she whispers as if it is fact.

Sebastian frowns, wondering what other falsehoods she’s been brainwashed into believing.

“Look at me,” he says, gently lifting her chin with the softest touch. Her eyes are wide and glossy and beautiful. “I’m not a monster. I would never take what isn’t offered.”

She sucks in a breath, gaze darting across his face as if she is seeing him for the first time. He’s being honest—if she were to refuse him, he wouldn’t force her—but they both know failing to consummate the marriage will lead to ruin.

“We’re strangers,” she says in the same quiet voice as before.

“Strangers,” Sebastian repeats, pulling his hand away but remaining close as if to test if she will dart away at the first chance. For a moment, he weighs his options. “It doesn’t have to stay that way.”

Her expression shifts, ever so subtly into curiosity as he takes a step back. He keeps his movements slow, not wanting to startle her as he starts to undress, unclasping the heavy belt around his waist. It falls away, along with the heavy fabric of his wedding kilt, a pile on the floor that he soon adds his boots and socks to. Sebastian smirks when he notices his blushing bride’s eyes scanning his physique, fixating on the hem of his linen shirt that rests against his thigh.

“Trust takes time to build, darling,” he croons, watching the quickening rise and fall of her chest. He gestures to her wedding dress. “Let me help you.”

She hesitates before turning around, a visible shiver running through her when he brushes his fingers against the nape of her neck. He toys with the ringlets that have escaped her elaborate updo, plucking free iron pins without a care for where they land in the room. Only when her hair cascades across her shoulders does he continue, tracing the path of her spine down to the fastenings that bind her. He deftly loosens them, listening to her soft exhale when the fabric slips away from her form. Beneath is a simple chemise that does little to hide her femininity.

“T—thank you,” she whispers and Sebastian is struck with the wicked thought of what she’d sound like moaning his name.

He lets out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Her skin prickles with goosebumps beneath his touch as he caresses her shoulders. The softness of her is distracting, causing a stirring inside that he did not entirely anticipate. He would be an idiot to not find her attractive, but this is not a fling or passing fancy he can easily bed without thought—this pretty little creature is his wife.

Sebastian continues his gentle massage, thumbs working free a knot of tension between her shoulder blades. It’s a simple but intimate gesture, one that he hopes settles her nerves. He leans in, catching the way her eyes flutter closed and her lips part with a soft sigh. “How does that feel?” he asks, breath fanning across her neck. “Better?”

She barely nods, still trembling as he slides his hands down her arms before resting them on her waist. He feels the curve of her body beneath the chemise, fingers flexing against the cotton before loosening his grip. The heat in his gut grows. Sebastian is well aware of the complexity of the situation and knows perfectly well that this night—their first as husband and wife—will set the tone for the rest of their marriage.

“Tell me what you want,” he encourages, daring to ghost his lips across her skin.

“I—” she falters, breath hitching. “I don’t want…” she trails, and he listens carefully to her tone. She isn’t refusing him. “I don’t know,” she clarifies, turning her head to look at him. “I’ve never—”

Sebastian arches his brow at her confession, though he isn’t shocked by her virginity. Most brides of her upbringing are. What surprises him is the idea that she’s never explored her own body, provoking a devilish curiosity.

“Never?” he repeats in a husky drawl. His fingers twitch at her sides, teasing at what he could teach her. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, darling.”

“And there’s no need to rush,” he murmurs, this time pressing a soft kiss beneath her ear. She shivers and he grins. “We have all night…and every night after that to…explore.”

Sebastian is fully aware of the effect he’s having on her, feeling the way she tenses and yet leans into him, caught between societal expectations and the natural yearnings of her body. But he doesn’t want her to feel obligated—no—he wants her to want him. He makes his offer, “I can show you, if you’d like. Help you discover all the things that bring you pleasure.”

He moves one hand up to cradle her chin again, deciphering the shimmer of her eyes. She lets out a shaky breath. “Y—yes. Please.”

Please.

The corner of his mouth twitches up at her tentative consent.

“Good girl.”

He spins her around to face him, drinking in her flushed cheeks and the way her eyes darken at his words. It’s thrilling, but as hungry as Sebastian is for her, he reminds himself to savor the moment, if only for her sake. He cups her cheek, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip.

“Breathe, love,” he instructs in a whisper before kissing her. It’s soft—she’s soft—and he tugs her closer, hands tightening around her waist just enough to elicit a gasp. He takes the opportunity to lick into her mouth, swallowing the tiny, surprised sound she makes. Her hands find his shoulders, but instead of pushing him away, she melts, head lulling to the side when he breaks away from her lips to kiss down her jawline to her neck.

Sebastian spends some time there, alternating between little nibbles and soft, open-mouth kisses across her clavicle. He pulls the sleeves of her chemise down to expose more of her beautiful skin, capturing her lips again as he slowly lowers the hem some more until the cotton slides off her body completely. His eyes scan over bared flesh, an appreciative groan echoing in his throat as he gently cups her breasts.

“Are you sensitive here?” he asks, thumbs teasing her nipples that pebble beneath his touch. Her only answer is a sharp inhale and a brilliant blush. Sebastian lowers his head to wrap his lips around a taut peak, humming at the taste of her and how she arches, pressing closer. He lavishes her chest with attention, alternating from one breast to the other until her breathing is labored and she lets out a tiny mewl that makes his cock throb.

“I bet,” he muses against her skin, trailing his kisses as he lowers himself to the ground to kneel before her like the goddess she is. He lingers near her hip, one hand sliding from her waist to her thigh. “You’re sensitive here, too.”

Sebastian glances up at his wife through thick lashes, gauging her readiness before he dares to touch her. All he sees is desire, all her attention focused on his next move. He advances, watching as her eyes flutter closed and the most sinful sigh escapes her parted lips. His fingers trace through her sex, opening her to his exploration.

“Do you want me to kiss you here, darling?”

This time, she moans, and Sebastian takes that as a yes. He pulls away, softly chuckling at her little whine as he coaxes her to lie down on the bed. Starting at her ankles, his hands glide up her calves, over her knees, and across the smooth expanse of her inner thighs as he parts her legs, settling himself between them. His lips follow, and he looks up at her again as she trembles in anticipation.

“Tell me,” he breathes, right where she needs him most. “Tell me what you want, Mrs. Sallow.”

She whimpers, and it’s like he’s activated some secret part of her that’s lain dormant until now. Her pupils dilate and she eagerly nods. “Y—your mouth,” she answers, desperate as she furrows her brows in frustration. “Please…”

“Well,” he cheekily replies, suddenly realizing how much fun he will have corrupting her with lessons in carnality. “Since you asked so nicely.”

His mouth finally meets her warmth and the sensation is electrifying. Sebastian savors the taste of her, swirling his tongue against her entrance before focusing on the tiny pearl of nerves that make her cry out in pleasure. She grips the sheets tight as her hips buck up, and he grins at the reaction, one hand steadying her as the other moves to join his feverous ministrations.

“Do you like that?” he asks between laps of his tongue, gradually pushing one finger into her heat. She’s tight, and her body clenches even more at the intrusion, but she’s so wet and so ready for him that the digit slides in with little resistance. Sebastian groans, suckling on her clit as he withdraws before pushing in again, each time a little deeper until she is moaning with every labored breath. He adds a second finger, curling them until he finds the sweet spot that makes her back arch and thighs quiver.

“Yes,” she moans, and it’s so enthusiastic that Sebastian grinds his hips against the mattress to provide himself some temporary relief. He’s hard, straining almost painfully as he imagines himself sheathed inside her, how she’ll look with her legs wrapped around his waist, neck tossed back in ecstasy.

He steadily increases the pressure, finding a rhythm that has her writhing and keening for release. And then she tenses, her core clamping and fluttering around his fingers as her body trembles. Sebastian’s chest swells with pride, that dark, possessive thrill coursing through him again as she spirals.

“There you go, love.” His voice is ragged as he eases her through her first climax.

It won’t be her last.

Sebastian slowly leans back on his heels to take in the sight of her, flushed and wild-eyed, struggling to catch her breath as her eyes fixate on him. He peels off his linen shirt, allowing her a moment to ogle his naked body, smirking when her gaze continues to linger on his cock.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes,” she answers before he can compel her to.

Sebastian nods, settling back between her thighs, his hands sliding up to grip the back of her knees as he spreads her a little wider, exposing her slick center to his gaze. He’s momentarily transfixed, fighting back the urge to plunge forth and ravage her like a man starved. With one hand guiding his length, he positions himself at her entrance, both sucking in a breath as he slowly, slowly pushes in.

“Fuck,” he breathes, repeating the curse over and over as he watches her body swallow him, the tight, velvet heat of her threatening to unravel him before he can even start. “Just relax,” he manages to say, half for himself as he clenches his jaw. “Breathe for me, love.”

He gives her time to adjust to the fullness, even as his resolve wavers at the heavenly sensation. Only when he sees her expression soften does he move, shallow thrusts that gradually deepen, hands bracing her thighs as he watches his cock disappear inside her over and over. Her tiny whimpers morph into heady moans, and he switches his focus to her face.

“You take me so well, darling,” he praises, near-delirious with the pleasure coursing through his veins. “I knew you’d be perfect.”

Sebastian barely manages not to lose himself, rolling his hips in a steady cadence that promises them both an exquisite end. He wants—needs—to feel her come around him, come with him. The sounds she makes tell him she’s climbing that precipice once more, on the verge of another shattering orgasm.

“That’s it,” he moans, leaning over her as he braces his weight on one arm, his other hand sliding beneath her to tilt her hips. The new angle produces a new kind of friction that he chases, his body colliding with hers in urgent, needy thrusts. “I’ve got you, just—fuck—come with me.”

And she does, brilliantly so, a broken cry that he swallows with a devouring kiss. Sebastian follows her over the edge, snapping his hips forward one last time as he spills himself deep, a shudder running through his entire body. The tremors take a long time to subside, but he eventually slumps, barely managing to keep his body from crushing hers as he collapses against the mattress. In the post-coital haze, he glances over to find his wife with a similar, blissed-out expression.

“Are we still strangers?” he jokes, rolling to encircle his arms around her limp form. He smiles, heartbeat fluttering as she softly giggles. Sebastian thinks he likes that sound the most.

“No,” she replies, though it’s obvious that she’s still bashful despite—or because of—their newfound intimacy. “Acquaintances, perhaps.”

Sebastian laughs, and the dangerous thought that he could fall in love with this woman crosses his mind. Instead of allowing the idea to take root, he closes the distance between them to kiss her, languid and unhurried.

“In that case,” he starts. “I should tell you about all the wicked things I want to do to you,” he murmurs against her lips, grinning when she moans. “Tell me, wife,” he says. “Do you want me to worship your body?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, please.”

[fanaticsnail]

Drinking Drabbles

Masterlist Here

Themes: Two of scenarios with a few one piece characters x reader, gn reader, suggestive in some, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, romance, friendship. Drink responsibly!

Characters: Rosinante/Corazon, Mihawk, Buggy, Sir Crocodile, Koby, Smoothie, Fukaboshi, Vivi

Notes: Trying to get my sparkle back. Expressing gratitude to Discordant's OP OC discord server for hanging out and suggesting characters for me to try for. Love the characters, and I adore writing for new ones to me.

Drinking with Rosinante / Corazon

Looks like: sharing a glass of wine over dinner, hearing the uproar of laughter at the head of the table - his brother cackling at a joke he told. Sharing subtle glances, pouring a new glass for one another while stealing a moment where your fingers brush together while reaching for the same bottle.

Also looks like: Sharing rum in the cold, willing your bodies to keep warm while caring for the sick child in the snow. The burn ignites in your throat, but the heat is makes the night pass in a more comfortable fluidity. The only blanket available to you is tucking the child in, but you both make do by sitting beneath the dark cloak. Shrouded in feathers, sharing those touches you longed for back at the dining table, the rum feels more like home now than that wine ever did.

Drinking with Mihawk

Looks like: a bottle of his private reserve label, uncorked by a methodological approach of a saber to the glass lip. Expertly decanted, rested for the appropriate amount of time, and shown how to enjoy the glass properly. He does not invite your glasses to touch, for fear it would disturb the wine with such a crude approach, but he does indicate for you to drink it with him in unison.

Also looks like: drinking straight from the bottle neck, poured by his hands and coaxed back into your lips by cradling your head and ensuring you don't spill a drop, before doing the same for himself. Anything to get through the voice of the clown at the table. He will have you closer to him for moral support, and will enjoy ensuring you are both equally topped up while glaring at Buggy for the duration of your stay with Cross-Guild.

Drinking with Buggy

Looks like: Something fruity, decorated with an outrageous amount of umbrellas and shaved ice dancing at the brim. It's too sweet, too bubbly, and too much all at once. Paired with a nasally cackle, lively music, linking his arms with yours and dancing a jig on the table, drink sloshing from the side, everything is perfect for the clown: the star of the show.

Also looks like: Aiding him to drink straight spirits as he sits on the bathroom floor, icing the bruises he's received at the hands of Crocodile and Mihawk while he openly sobs and apologizes for looking pathetic. A quiver to his lips, the swell in his bruised eye, he expresses his gratitude by silently whispering it as intimately as he can to you.

Drinking with Crocodile

Looks like: a circular short glass with a small cubic stone cooled by frost, drinking the most expensive and lush whiskey to ever be produced. Not dampening the flavor with water falling from ice, simply cooling it to enjoy over the palate. Everything is lush, filled with luxury, and likely paired with a cigar as he gazes at you with a predatory look in his beady expression.

Also looks like: Sneaking it in your clothes and fishing it out once below the cells in Impel Down, feeding him through prison bars and apologizing that it's not his favorite. He's looking up like it is his lifeline and an angel is offering him their tether to the great beyond. Those eyes that once looked like a predator on the prowl now humble themselves before you as he sits on his calves and drinks messily from the glass lip of the rum bottle.

Drinking with Koby

Looks like: Sitting at the table surrounded by Alvida Pirates, letting the pink-haired ‘chore boy’ fill your tankard from the barrel and giving him praise for it. Alvida chastises you for expressing gratitude to the smaller pirate, but you hush her with a crass joke and continue to dote on him while you drink. You offer him a sip from your glass that he throws back with practiced precision, causing you to laugh with him and invite him to sit with you for the remainder of the evening.

Also looks like: Bound in chains, on your knees and contained within the brig, a pink haired captain, once pirate from long ago, offers you a kindness of a drink while transferring you to Impel Down. He was not as quiet as he once was, but his kindness was still present as you knew it to be. You humored him by drinking all he offered you with your hands tied behind your back, as submissive as he was all those years ago. Your gratitude is on your lips, smiling as a drop is collected and wiped by the pad of Koby's thumb. He utters apologies, and you reassure him that you won't take it personally.

Drinking with Smoothie

Looks like: Sitting at the table, surrounded by her siblings, enjoying something a little on the sweeter side. Something mixed in with juices, a precious concoction that paired beautifully with the sweets offered at the table. Brushing glasses with one another, your eyes meet hers and she gifts you a rare, soft smile reserved for when he desires to showcase her sweetness.

Also looks like: Draining the life out of her enemies, blood gushing over her full lips and spilling down her chin, she bows her head to you and gives you a mischievous grin. Pulling up a cloth, you press the material to her lips and remove all blemishes of fluids from the human she drank from. You would rather watch than participate in this brew, but she enjoys watching you squirm as she presses her lips delicately to yours soon thereafter.

Drinking with Fukaboshi

Looks like: A room filled with tension, barely a look shared between you while negotiations between humans, mink, and fishfolk sit and discuss how to progress in a proper manner. Once decided, all raise their sake bowls and salute them with one another. Finally making eye contact with the mer Fishman, you both share a glance before pressing the sake to your lips and draining it of their contents to solidify your fresh alliance.

Also looks like: Tucked beneath the figurehead of the vessel you served aboard, sharing a moment with one another in the silence. All softness, all secretive, all in a world carved just for you, you both enjoy a swap of culture. He, a bottle from his homeland, you, a bottle from your own. Discussing the differences in textures and flavors, you both feel a pull in your chests as the sun slowly slips over the horizon.

Drinking with Vivi

Looks like: Sitting around a table, shrouded in darkness and surrounded by the vapors of sour cigar smoke, and raising your glass to your glorious leader a the head of the table. Bananawani in the corner, several of the members strike up conversation, and you and Miss Wednesday are no different. There was something in her tone and demeanor that seemed out of place, but you paid it no mind because you had secrets of your own. Drinking and cringing a little at the burn, you both drank and discussed the various interweavings of Baroque Works and where your missions would take you next.

Also looks like: An uprageous celebration for the return of Arabasta’s princess, drinks of all bubbles and honeys swirling in a variety of glassware. Watching as she flawlessly navigates the room full of her supporters, she gives you a look like the one not so dissimilar from your years serving together in Baroque Works. Catching you in the corner, she brushes her glass against yours with a hidden smile peaking at the corner of her lip: a silent promise that she will keep you by her side all the remaining of her days as ruler.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @ane5e

[decanters1]

Wine Decanter: Why It’s More Than Just a Fancy Bottle

A wine decanter is more than a decorative piece—it's a tool that enhances the wine's flavor. It works by aerating the wine, which helps release its natural aromas and softens harsh notes.

Decanters are particularly helpful for bold reds and older wines with sediment. They elevate the experience of drinking wine, turning it into a richer and more enjoyable moment. If you love wine, a decanter is a valuable addition to your collection. Read more!

[spacechalk]

Glass

            After it was all over, Aziraphale sat on the edge of a bluff and let his feet hang over the side. Rivers and farmland stretched before him. In the distance he spotted a church crouched behind a copse of trees. His heel knocked loose a pebble. He watched it tumble into empty space and wondered what it would feel like to follow.

            Behind him he heard the gentle rumble of an engine. The sound of a door slamming shut was muted, as was the crunch of boots on gravel as someone approached. He didn’t look around.

            A wine bottle was thrust before his eyes. Automatically, he noted the vintage. He must have gone to some effort for this.

            “Drink?”

            Aziraphale nodded.

            Crowley dropped beside him, sending another cascade of pebbles down the cliff. He produced two wine glasses and handed one to the angel.

            Once the wine had generously been decanted, Crowley knocked his glass against Aziraphale’s with a bright ring that vibrated through his fingers.

            “I believe congratulations are in order,” he said, taking a swig.

            “Hmm,” Aziraphale murmured. He peered into his glass. He could see his reflection along the outer rim.

            Crowley cleared his throat. “They underestimated you.” He hesitated, then made an aborted gesture with one hand. “I underestimated you.”

            Aziraphale took a long pull from his glass.

            Crowley planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, trying to catch Aziraphale’s eye. When the angel didn’t look up, he turned away, face etched with resignation. He kicked a heel against the cliff and watched dirt shower down.

            Aziraphale took this opportunity to eye the demon’s profile.

            “How does it work?” he asked.

            Crowley looked over his shoulder. “How does what work?”

            “No Heaven. No Hell.” The icy hand that had been stalking him the last few months seized his heart. “How do you know good from evil?” A dark void threatened to open up beneath his feet. If he put one foot wrong he would fall in and keep falling, forever. He struggled to breathe. “What if you can’t? What if there…isn’t? At all?”

            Suddenly there was a hand on his arm. He could hear his breath harsh in his ears as he looked at it. He looked up into Crowley’s yellow eyes.

            “It’s okay angel. Breathe.”

            Aziraphale could feel tears gathering in his eyes. “The sheer – arrogance,” he murmured, “to think that I – ”

            “Arrogant?” A strangled laugh struggled in the demon’s throat. “Aziraphale – you are the only person I met in all of Hell or Heaven who cared – at all – to even try to figure out what was right and wrong,” he said intently, every line of him leaning forward, eyes wide, trying to make him understand. “The arrogance to try? What about the arrogance of thinking you don’t have to?” His breath pulled rapidly in and out of his chest.

            The tears Aziraphale had been fighting spilled over.

            “I’m not sure this is going to be comforting but – I don’t think anyone knows for sure, certainly not me,” Crowley said. His grip on Aziraphale’s arm tightened. “I’m not sure that what the Almighty imparted in the garden was knowledge of good and evil so much that it was knowledge that everything is complicated and all of it matters so much. It deserves your conscience and your doubt. It deserves your best effort.”

            He tilted his head, tried to catch Aziraphale’s eyes. “I am not worried about you at all,” he said, lips quirking in an attempt at a smile. “You, who gave your sword away at the very Beginning. You’ve always had a heart for these things.”

            Aziraphale raised a hand to wipe his eyes and Crowley let go, turning to look out over the landscape below. Aziraphale immediately missed his grip; but he was still close, shoulders brushing together.

            “’Sides,” Crowley said, aiming for nonchalance and falling staggeringly short, “I’ll still be here. It’s easier together, I think.”

             Crowley looked out at the fields and Aziraphale looked at Crowley. He was swamped by the urge to put his head on Crowley’s shoulder and only just managed to resist it.

            Aziraphale looked into his glass. “About what you said – in the bookshop –” he began.

            Crowley flung up a hand to head him off. He drained the rest of his glass in one go. “We don’t need to talk about that,” he rasped.

            Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Don’t we?”

            Crowley shook his head emphatically. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I said anything. Or…” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to Aziraphale’s lips before careening away. “…did, anything. You don’t need to say…what you’re going to say. I promise I won’t do it again.” He sloppily crossed his heart and pushed himself to his feet.

            Aziraphale listened to his footsteps crunching back toward the Bentley. A kind of calm anger poured in and began filling up his chest. His face set like stone. “That’s a shame,” he said out loud.

            The footsteps paused. “What was that?”

            “I said – ” Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet and turned around. Crowley stood halfway to the car, bottle and glass in one hand, keys in the other.

            “I said,” he said, “it’s a shame that you will never again tell me that you love me; will never kiss me again.” He twisted his hands together, fingernails biting into skin. “I was rather hoping you would.”

            Crowley stared at him.

            Aziraphale moved forward until they were only inches apart. He held Crowley’s eyes.

            Crowley hesitated for a long moment, searching his face. Finally he swayed forward, almost helplessly, head tilted, and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s.

            Aziraphale inhaled sharply and leaned into the kiss. He brought one hand around to grip Crowley’s shoulder, and used the other to cup Crowley’s face. A tremor ran down Crowley’s body. Aziraphale brushed his thumb along Crowley’s jawline and deepened the kiss. That icy hand retreated and Aziraphale dared to hope he would learn how to keep it at bay. He felt like he had stepped outside in winter and found a patch of sun.

            He pulled back and smiled to himself at the dazed expression on Crowley’s face. “Do you want to get rid of…” he indicated the bottle and glass still in Crowley’s hand.

            Crowley slowly dragged his eyes away and looked at the offending objects. “Hm? Oh, right.” Unceremoniously, he tossed them away, stuffing the keys back into his pocket as he did so. His arms encircled Aziraphale and pulled him back in for another heady kiss.

            The glass hit the ground, but instead of shattering into shards, it shattered into seeds, which germinated far too rapidly, extending tender green shoots and fragile white roots until a patch of wildflowers had rooted in the gravel beside the road, an eddy of pink, red, purple, and impossible blue.

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire (the daughter)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: the princess

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The chamber was quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Alicent Hightower shifted in her seat. She sat opposite her father, Lord Otto Hightower, in one of the more private sitting rooms of the Red Keep. The firelight cast a warm glow over the polished wood of the table between them, its surface cluttered with scrolls, a decanter of wine, and two goblets.

Alicent studied her father carefully. He sat rigid, as always, his posture betraying no sign of weariness despite the hour. His eyes were fixed on a letter before him, though Alicent doubted he was truly reading it.

Clearing her throat delicately, she broke the silence. “Father?”

Otto didn’t look up. “Yes?”

Alicent hesitated, her hands clasping the edge of her gown. “I’ve heard… talk.”

That drew his attention. He set the letter down, his gaze shifting to her with an air of patient expectancy. “What kind of talk?”

Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she pressed on. “About the princess—Daemon’s daughter. They say she… fell from the sky.”

Otto’s expression tightened ever so slightly, but he masked it quickly. “Do they now?”

Alicent’s brow furrowed. “So, it’s true?”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and reaching for his goblet. Taking a measured sip, he finally replied, “The princess did indeed have a mishap while riding her dragon. She fell. I happened to be… in the way.”

“In the way,” Alicent repeated, her tone tinged with disbelief. “That’s how you describe it?”

“How else would you describe it?” he countered, setting the goblet down with a soft thud.

Alicent leaned forward, her voice lowering as though she feared someone might overhear. “You mean to tell me that the daughter of Daemon Targaryen—a dragonrider—fell from the sky, and you, of all people, were there to catch her?”

“It was hardly a matter of choice,” Otto said, his tone clipped. “She fell. I caught her. End of story.”

But Alicent wasn’t so easily deterred. “And the fortune-teller? Was that part of the story too?”

Otto stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I see the court has been busy gossiping.”

“I’m not asking as part of the court,” Alicent said softly, her gaze steady. “I’m asking as your daughter. Is it true?”

He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he relented, his voice low. “The fortune-teller said a woman would fall from the sky into my arms. Yes.”

“And then she did,” Alicent said, her tone laced with awe. “The gods… they—”

“They played a cruel joke,” Otto interrupted, his voice sharp. “One that has caused far more trouble than it’s worth.”

Alicent frowned. “How has it caused trouble? From what I hear, the princess is unscathed, and you’ve been the subject of courtly amusement. It’s hardly a scandal.”

Otto leaned forward, his tone measured but firm. “You don’t understand, Alicent. This is not some harmless jest. This is Daemon Targaryen’s daughter we’re speaking of. The very idea of my name being associated with hers is enough to stoke the fires of suspicion and enmity.”

“Father,” Alicent said gently, “the court already talks of you and the princess. Surely you know that. Would it not be better to address it rather than let it fester?”

“To what end?” he asked, his tone laced with frustration. “Shall I proclaim that it was mere coincidence? That the gods have no hand in it? Or should I play into the prophecy and risk inflaming Daemon’s wrath?”

Alicent studied him, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps you underestimate her.”

Otto raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“She is not Daemon,” Alicent said simply. “Yes, she is his daughter, but she is also her own person. From what little I’ve seen, she is intelligent and willful. Perhaps even… different.”

“Different,” Otto repeated, his tone skeptical.

“Yes,” Alicent said, her voice gaining confidence. “She may surprise you.”

Otto stared into the fire, his thoughts churning. “Surprises are rarely a boon, Alicent. Especially when Targaryens are involved.”

Alicent smiled faintly, a spark of amusement lighting her eyes. “And yet, you caught her.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “It was reflex, nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, her tone teasing. “Or perhaps the gods did have a hand in it, whether you wish to believe it or not.”

Otto said nothing, his gaze fixed on the fire. Alicent watched him for a moment longer before rising to her feet. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her expression soft.

“Whatever you choose to do, Father, remember this: the gods may be cruel, but they are rarely wrong.”

With that, she left the room, her gown trailing softly behind her. Otto remained seated, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy cloak. The flames in the hearth crackled and danced, their light casting flickering shadows across his face.

For the first time in many years, Otto Hightower felt uncertain. And he loathed it.

The gardens of the Red Keep were a rare oasis amidst the endless stone and politics of King’s Landing. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, dappling the cobbled pathways and flowerbeds with golden light. Birds chirped in the hedges, and the faint scent of roses lingered in the warm air. You sat on a stone bench beneath a sprawling lemon tree, the breeze teasing strands of your silver hair. Beside you, your younger cousin, Princess Rhaenyra, was sprawled inelegantly on the grass, plucking petals from a daisy.

“You’ll ruin your dress,” you remarked, though your tone lacked any real reproach.

Rhaenyra shrugged, tossing a handful of petals into the air and watching them flutter down. “It’s only a dress. Besides, it’s too warm to sit properly today.”

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the bench. “You’ll find any excuse to shirk decorum.”

“And you sound like a septa,” she shot back, though her words carried no heat. She rolled onto her side, propping her chin on her hand. “Why are you always so serious?”

“Someone has to be,” you replied, smoothing a crease in your gown. “You certainly aren’t.”

Rhaenyra grinned, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. “That’s because I have you to do it for me.”

Before you could respond, a commotion echoed from above—a crash, followed by raised voices. You both looked up in time to see a flurry of parchment spilling from a balcony above, the sheets fluttering like oversized snowflakes as they descended toward the garden.

“What in the name of the Seven…” you muttered, rising to your feet as the papers began to land around you.

Rhaenyra laughed, catching one of the documents as it drifted down. “Well, this is new. Do you suppose it’s a sign from the gods?”

You snatched the paper from her hands, scanning its contents. The neat, precise script and the seal at the bottom were unmistakable. “These belong to Lord Hightower.”

“Hightower?” Rhaenyra sat up, her curiosity piqued. “What’s he doing, throwing his precious documents into the gardens?”

You glanced toward the balcony, your brow furrowed. “It wasn’t intentional.”

At that moment, the sound of hurried footsteps reached your ears. Lord Otto Hightower appeared at the edge of the garden, his usually composed demeanor fraying at the edges. His cloak billowed behind him as he strode forward, a mixture of irritation and urgency written across his face.

Behind him trailed Lord Lyonel Strong, looking slightly sheepish, and a Kingsguard knight who was busy dusting himself off. The culprit was clear—a servant boy scrambling to gather himself off the floor of the balcony above, his face pale with dread.

Rhaenyra nudged you with her elbow, a wicked grin on her lips. “Oh, this is going to be entertaining.”

“Behave,” you murmured, though you couldn’t entirely hide the amusement tugging at your own lips.

Otto’s keen eyes scanned the garden until they landed on you and the scattered papers. He drew closer, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Princess Y/N.”

“Lord Hightower,” you replied, holding up the document in your hand. “I believe this is yours.”

He stopped before you, his gaze flickering between you and the papers strewn about. For a moment, he looked as though he might say something sharp, but he took a deep breath instead. “Thank you, Princess Y/N. It seems fate has a cruel sense of humor today.”

Rhaenyra, ever the provocateur, couldn’t resist. “Fate does seem to take a particular interest in you, doesn’t it, my lord?”

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he ignored her comment, bending down to retrieve a nearby sheet of parchment. You stifled a laugh as you knelt to gather another, holding it out to him. “I trust this is all of it?”

“Perhaps,” he said curtly, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the paper. “Though I imagine it will take some time to ensure none have been lost.”

“Well,” Rhaenyra said, standing and brushing off her gown, “it’s fortunate my cousin was here to save your precious documents. Imagine if the wind had carried them into the Blackwater.”

“Indeed,” Otto replied, his tone dry. “The realm would surely have been plunged into chaos.”

Rhaenyra grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort, but you stepped in to smooth over the tension. “I hope nothing too important was damaged, my lord.”

Otto glanced at the papers in his hand, his expression softening slightly. “Nothing that cannot be rewritten, though it will cost me hours of labor.”

“Then perhaps you should thank the gods it was only hours lost,” you said lightly. “It could have been far worse.”

Otto’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his usual mask of indifference faltering. There was something unreadable in his expression, something that made your heart skip unexpectedly. But then he straightened, his composure firmly in place once more.

“Indeed,” he said, inclining his head. “Thank you for your assistance, Princess.”

You nodded, stepping back as he turned to leave, his cloak sweeping behind him. Lord Strong followed, casting a quick smile in your direction, and the Kingsguard knight trailed after them, muttering apologies under his breath.

When they were out of earshot, Rhaenyra let out a low whistle. “I think you’ve just saved the Hand of the King from disaster.”

You gave her a pointed look. “And you enjoyed every moment of it.”

“Of course,” she said with a grin. “Though I must admit, I’ve never seen Otto Hightower quite so… flustered.”

You shook your head, suppressing a smile as you glanced toward the retreating figure of the Hand. Fate, it seemed, had an odd way of crossing your paths.

The royal solar was filled with the lingering smell of wine and roasted meats, remnants of the king’s late supper. Viserys I Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair by the hearth, his tunic rumpled, a goblet of wine in hand. Across from him, his younger brother Daemon lounged with his usual careless grace, his silver hair loose around his shoulders, a dark cloak draped over his chair. The faint hum of activity in the Red Keep buzzed just beyond the closed doors, though it was muted here in the king’s private quarters.

Viserys took a long sip of wine, his gaze flickering toward Daemon, who had returned earlier from what was undoubtedly another night of debauchery in the city. The king chuckled softly to himself before speaking.

“You know,” Viserys began, his voice warm with amusement, “Rhaenyra has been in a better mood these past weeks. I think having your daughter around has done her good.”

Daemon’s expression darkened slightly, though he kept his tone light. “She’s always been fond of Rhaenyra. I told you years ago she would make a fine companion for her.”

“It’s more than that,” Viserys said, setting his goblet down on a nearby table. “She seems… steadier. Less hostile to the court, less prone to mocking words and sulking. Your daughter has a way of grounding her.”

Daemon smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “Grounding? My daughter? I don’t think that’s a word I’d ever use for her.”

“Perhaps not,” Viserys admitted, chuckling. “But she’s had an effect nonetheless. Even Alicent remarked on it.”

The mention of Alicent brought a flicker of annoyance to Daemon’s face, but he said nothing. Viserys continued, his tone growing more thoughtful.

“Of course,” he said, “it’s not just Rhaenyra who’s taken notice. The court’s been buzzing with talk ever since… well, the incident.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed. “What incident?”

Viserys gave him a knowing look. “Don’t play coy, brother. I’m referring to your daughter’s… dramatic descent. Falling from her dragon and landing—of all people—on Otto Hightower.”

Daemon’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as his eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Viserys.”

“Can you blame me?” Viserys said with a grin, reaching for his goblet again. “It’s not every day that the Hand of the King is caught off guard in such a spectacular fashion. The poor man looked as though he’d swallowed a lemon the size of the Stepstones.”

Daemon leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t want to hear you mention my daughter and Otto Hightower in the same sentence. Ever again.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his brother’s reaction. “You’re being dramatic, Daemon. It was an accident.”

“An accident that the entire court is now gossiping about,” Daemon growled. “Do you think I don’t know how these things spiral? The rumors are already flying, aren’t they?”

Viserys shrugged, his expression turning serious. “The court will always find something to talk about. It’s harmless, Daemon. No one actually believes—”

“Doesn’t matter what they believe,” Daemon snapped, cutting him off. “The fact that anyone is even talking about it is an insult.”

Viserys sighed, setting his goblet down again. “You’ve always been protective of her, but you can’t shield her from the world, Daemon. She’s a Targaryen. People will talk no matter what she does.”

Daemon stood abruptly, his cloak swirling around him as he began to pace the room. “I won’t have my daughter’s name tied to that man. Not in jest, not in rumor, not in prophecy. Otto Hightower is a snake, and he’ll twist this to his advantage if he can.”

Viserys frowned, watching his brother’s agitation. “Otto has his faults, but he’s loyal to the Crown. And to me.”

Daemon turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Loyal to you, perhaps. But don’t think for a moment that he wouldn’t hesitate to use her against me—or you, for that matter—if it served his interests.”

Viserys waved a hand dismissively. “You’re seeing shadows where there are none.”

“Am I?” Daemon retorted, his voice cold. “The man despises me. He’s never hidden it. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, my daughter literally falls into his arms. Do you think he’ll simply forget about it? That he won’t seize the opportunity to play the dutiful savior?”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “Daemon, you’re letting your hatred for Otto cloud your judgment.”

“My hatred is well-earned,” Daemon shot back, his voice sharp. “And if you value your Hand’s life, you’ll make sure he keeps his distance from her.”

Viserys’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he held his temper. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“Perhaps,” Daemon admitted, his tone hardening. “But I’m not wrong.”

The brothers stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them thick with tension. Finally, Daemon turned away, his voice quieter but no less resolute. “She’s my daughter, Viserys. I’ll not have her tangled in the webs Otto Hightower spins.”

Viserys said nothing as Daemon stalked toward the door, his boots echoing against the stone floor. When the door closed behind him, the king sighed heavily, reaching for his goblet once more.

The gods, it seemed, delighted in making fools of them all.

The Red Keep loomed around Daemon as he stalked through its corridors, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls. The hour was late, the halls mostly deserted save for the occasional servant or guard who wisely stepped aside as the Rogue Prince passed. His mood was foul, and his thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea.

Viserys’s words echoed in his mind, feeding the fire of his frustration. The idea that anyone—least of all Otto Hightower—would dare to even think of his daughter in any capacity infuriated him. The man was insufferable, always lurking, always scheming, and now the court was buzzing with the most ridiculous gossip.

Daemon’s lips curled into a sneer as he turned a corner, the dark crimson of his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. His boots struck the floor harder than necessary, his simmering anger evident in every movement. He clenched his fists, wishing he had something to strike—or someone.

His unspoken wish was almost granted when he turned another corner and nearly collided with the man occupying his every ireful thought.

Otto Hightower.

The Hand of the King was walking briskly toward the Tower of the Hand, his expression as composed as ever. He carried a stack of documents under one arm, the weight of his duties evident in the furrow of his brow. He stopped short when Daemon appeared before him, their eyes locking.

The air between them was charged, heavy with unspoken animosity. For a long moment, neither man moved, each sizing up the other in silence.

“Prince Daemon,” Otto said at last, his tone cool and measured. He inclined his head slightly, though there was no warmth in the gesture. “Out for an evening stroll, I see.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a mockery of a smile. “If I’d known the Hand of the King would be gracing the halls, I might have chosen another path.”

Otto raised an eyebrow but didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s fortunate we crossed paths, then. It saves me the trouble of seeking you out.”

“Seeking me out?” Daemon drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I wasn’t aware you enjoyed my company.”

“I don’t,” Otto replied flatly. “But there are matters of the realm that require your attention. Despite your… reputation, you remain the king’s brother.”

Daemon took a step closer, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Careful, Hightower. That tongue of yours is cutting, but it won’t save you if you test me.”

Otto didn’t flinch, though his grip on the documents tightened ever so slightly. “My tongue, Prince Daemon, serves the realm. And the realm has no time for threats or childish antics.”

Daemon let out a humorless laugh, the sound echoing in the empty hall. “Childish antics? That’s rich, coming from the man whose court is aflame with gossip about my daughter falling from her dragon. You must be thrilled, Hightower. The gods themselves have handed you the perfect jest.”

Otto’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—in his eyes. “The court will talk, as it always does. I have no control over idle tongues.”

“Don’t you?” Daemon challenged, his voice a low growl. “You’ve never been shy about wielding words as weapons. Tell me, Hightower, what’s the plan this time? How will you twist this to your advantage?”

Otto met Daemon’s gaze evenly, his tone calm but firm. “I have no plan, Prince Daemon. Your daughter’s unfortunate mishap was nothing more than that—an accident. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to entertain such absurdities.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his anger barely restrained. “Stay away from her.”

Otto tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Your concern for your daughter is commendable, but misplaced. I have no interest in her beyond ensuring the stability of the realm.”

“You will stay away from her,” Daemon repeated, his voice deadly quiet. “Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Otto studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly. “If that’s what it takes to put your mind at ease, consider it done. But I’d advise you to save your threats for those who warrant them.”

Daemon’s hand twitched, as though he was tempted to strike the man before him, but he forced himself to stay still. Instead, he took a step back, his dark violet eyes blazing. “You’d do well to remember who you’re speaking to, Hightower.”

“And you’d do well to remember where you are, Prince Daemon,” Otto replied evenly. “This is the king’s court, not the Free Cities. Your antics have limits here.”

With that, Otto turned sharply and continued on his way, his boots striking the stone with purpose. Daemon watched him go, his fists clenched at his sides, his anger barely restrained.

When Otto disappeared into the shadows of the Tower of the Hand, Daemon let out a slow, frustrated breath, his mind racing. He didn’t trust the man—he never had, and he never would. The thought of his daughter being anywhere near Otto Hightower was intolerable.

The Rogue Prince turned and strode back the way he’d come, his cloak billowing behind him. If the gods thought they could toy with him and his family, they were sorely mistaken. He would protect what was his—no matter the cost.

The morning was crisp, the air unusually clear for King’s Landing. Otto Hightower strode through the courtyard of the Red Keep, his boots clicking against the cobblestones as he made his way to the Great Hall. The day's council meeting loomed ahead, and his mind was already occupied with matters of the realm: disputes over grain shipments, unrest in the Riverlands, and the latest schemes from the Free Cities.

He adjusted his cloak, pulling it tighter against the faint chill, when a sudden commotion caught his attention.

A stablehand came darting out from the direction of the training yard, his face pale with panic. He tripped, scrambling to his feet, before shouting, "My lord Hand! Loose horse—coming fast!"

Otto turned just in time to see the beast—a massive, dark-coated destrier—bolting toward him. Its reins trailed on the ground, and its hooves pounded the stones with ferocious force. He instinctively stepped back, his hand gripping the hilt of his dagger, though it would do little good against the animal’s sheer momentum.

Before he could act—or even think further—a blur of silver and red streaked into his vision.

You.

You darted out of nowhere, your silver hair streaming behind you as you cut across the courtyard with astonishing speed. With practiced grace, you seized the reins of the horse mid-stride, your boots skidding slightly on the cobblestones. The destrier reared, its powerful legs kicking out, but you held firm, your voice sharp and commanding.

“Easy, boy!”

The horse snorted and stomped, but your steady grip and soothing words worked their magic. Within moments, the destrier calmed, its frantic energy dissipating as it stood still, sides heaving.

Otto could only stare, his heart pounding—not from the near miss with the horse, but from the sight of you.

You turned, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you led the horse toward him. “It seems even the Hand of the King isn’t safe from mischief in his own courtyard.”

Otto blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. When he finally found his voice, it came out more curtly than he intended. “That was reckless.”

You arched a brow, a hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “Reckless? I just saved your life.”

“I would hardly call it that,” he replied, though his tone lacked conviction. “The horse—”

“Would’ve run you down,” you interrupted smoothly. “You’re welcome, by the way. We are even now.”

Otto inhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain his composure. “Yes, well… I suppose thanks are in order.”

You handed the reins off to the sheepish stablehand who had finally caught up, then turned your full attention to Otto. “You suppose?”

There was something in your tone—a teasing lilt, playful but not mocking—that made Otto’s heart skip a beat. He cursed himself for the reaction, for the way his gaze lingered on the way the sunlight caught the silver of your hair, or the faint flush on your cheeks from exertion.

“It was commendable,” he admitted, his voice softening slightly. “But dangerous. You could have been hurt.”

You shrugged, brushing off the concern. “I’ve dealt with far worse than a loose horse.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, “but that doesn’t mean you should seek out trouble.”

“I didn’t seek it out,” you countered, a mischievous glint in your violet eyes. “It seems trouble has a way of finding you, my lord.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sounds of the courtyard—distant chatter, the clinking of armor, the faint rustle of leaves. Otto’s pulse quickened, though he couldn’t quite explain why.

“Perhaps it does,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.

Your smirk softened into a small smile, and for the first time, Otto noticed something beneath the surface of your playful demeanor—a warmth, a depth that caught him off guard.

“Well,” you said, taking a step back, “try not to get trampled before the council meeting. I’d hate to see your carefully worded letters go to waste.”

He almost smiled at that, though he quickly masked it. “I’ll take that under advisement, Princess.”

With a graceful nod, you turned and began to walk away, leaving him standing in the courtyard, the destrier’s hoofbeats fading into the background.

Otto remained rooted to the spot for a long moment, his thoughts in disarray. It was absurd, he told himself, to feel… whatever this was. You were Daemon Targaryen’s daughter, a young woman of high station and fiery temperament. You should have been nothing more than a fleeting annoyance in his already overburdened life.

And yet.

His hand unconsciously brushed against the fabric of his cloak, where the faintest touch of warmth still lingered from when you had handed him the reins.

“Gods above,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he resumed his walk toward the Tower of the Hand. “Are they punishing me… or rewarding me?”

The thought unsettled him, but he couldn’t deny the flicker of something he hadn’t felt in years—something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name.

[sassenach77yle]

7x11 “A Hundredweight of Stones”

My glass was empty, the decanter halfway full. I poured another and took hold of the glass carefully, not wanting to spill it, determined to find oblivion, no matter how temporary.

Could I separate entirely? I wondered. Could my soul actually leave my body without my dying first? Or had it done so already?

I drank the glass slowly, one sip at a time. Another. One sip at a time.

There must have been some sound that made me look up, but I wasn’t aware of having raised my head.

John Grey was standing in the doorway of my room. His neckcloth was missing and his shirt hung limp on his shoulders, wine spilled down the front of it. His hair was loose and tangled, and his eyes as red as mine.I stood up, slow, as though I were underwater.

“I will not mourn him alone tonight,” he said roughly, and closed the door.

95 NUMBNESS~An Echo in the Bone

[bullet-prooflove]

Guilt: Alden Parker x Reader

Tagging: @mandy426 @caffeinatedwoman @elefrog25-blog @kmc1989 @toheavenwmydrms

Companion piece to:

Pillow Talk - Alden realises he's a shitty husband.

Two Points For Honesty - Alden makes a confession about his time on the run with Viv.

Wild Flowers - You confront Viv about what happened with Alden.

The Duck Pond - You try to tell Alden how you're feeling.

Wishful Thinking - You realise Alden's not coming home.

It’s after ten pm when Alden gets out of the interrogation room, his eyes are gritty, his back’s sore and there’s a headache brewing right behind his eyes from prolonged exposure to the fluorescents. He’s been locked in that room for four hours trying to illicit a confession from their suspect and so far no dice, something he’s not looking forward to telling Vance when he raps his knuckles on the door.

“Aren’t you supposed to be Gloucester right about now?” Vance asks him as he steps into the room and Alden shakes his head before he takes up residence in the chair across from his director.

“No.” Alden sighs, his palm rubbing over the nape of his neck. “That’s next week.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.” Vance says as he uses the mouse to navigate his computer, bringing up the vacation calendar. “It’s your wedding anniversary tomorrow right, the 26th?”

It can’t be but Vance is turning the screen around so he can see it and yea, he should be in Virgina right now partaking in a twilight wine and charcuterie event with his wife.

He takes his phone out of his pocket, dread building in his stomach as he studies the screen intently.

Three missed calls, two voicemails and a text.

I’m heading out, it reads. I’ll be turning my phone off for the rest of the night.

No kiss, no smiley face, nada.

You’re done with him, he can tell and Alden, he doesn’t blame you. He’s done some shitty things over the past six months but this tonight, it’s by far the worst.

“I can’t believe I did that.” Alden says as he stares at the screen. He can feel your despondency over through the words as he studies them intently,  his eyes stinging. “I can’t believe I forgot…”

You… He forgot you.

Vance purses his lips together, his fingertips rapping on the surface of the desk before  before he reaches into the bottom drawer and removes a bottle of bourbon and two crystal tumblers.

“You have been under a lot of pressure recently.” He remarks as he begins to decant the amber liquid into the tumblers. “The Raven, this case, working with your ex. I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you or for Lisa.”

“No it hasn’t.” Alden says picking up the glass and staring into its depths. “Lisa’s trying but Viv’s been yanking her chain… The two of us we’ve not really been connecting recently.”

“How long has that been going on?” Vance asks him as he leans back in his chair, his eyes on his friend and Alden swallows hard against the emotion that swells in his chest whenever he thinks about the turning point of your relationship.

“Since The Raven.” Alden says quietly as he sips from his whiskey. “I think it’s more of a me problem then an us problem. I’m… struggling, I guess, to come to terms with the shit that happened, with what almost happened.”

That's the thing that's tearing him apart inside, the other thing he hasn't told you.

“Lisa…” Vance begins, searching for the words. “She’s not like other people, her emotional intelligence is off the charts that’s why she excels in what she does. She knows there's something you're not telling her and a secret like that, it eats at a marriage.”

"You're saying I should just come right out and tell her?" Alden questions, even though it's the last thing in the world he wants to do.

 "I'm saying there are two kinds of guilt.” Vance tells Alden. “The kind that's a burden and the kind that gives you purpose. I think you’ve been letting this weigh you down for too long, you need to utilise it, let it be the fuel that fixes your marriage, let it remind you of the husband you want to be.”

“That is quite a speech.” Alden says finally, setting his glass down on the desk before he raises to feet.

“I take it I won’t be seeing you for the rest of the weekend?” Vance says as he watches Alden head towards the door.

“No.” Alden responds, his hand coming to rest on the handle, his head tilting towards Vance. “It's time to come clean to my wife.”

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[revasserium]

love language

ft. opla!zoro and opla!sanji

zoro.

he’s never been one for loud proclamations of love — or really loud proclamations of anything (other than maybe becoming the world’s greatest swordsman, but even then) — because to him, actions have always spoken louder than words; so he tells you in not so many words but in ever so many actions — in the way he’s always half a step behind you, his arm close enough to brush against yours, his eyes scanning the city street, the restaurant, the skyline of a furtive, dream-scape sea, for any kind of harm that might befall you; in the way he presses a palm to the small of your back, or the way he instinctively moves to stand between you and anything he deems a threat; in the way he smiles when he watches you, an implicit, helpless thing; in the way that everyone can see it but himself, and he’d deny it if ever asked, but in the softness of his body whenever you’re near (because soft isn’t a thing he’s ever been terribly good at, but with you… it never feels as hard as it once seemed); in the way he knows you by the sound of your footsteps, the rhythm of your breaths, the cadence of your heartbeat when you’re happy or scared or nervous; in the hawk-like way he refuses to let you out of his sight, even if he knows the stupid cook will tease him about it for weeks to come; in the way he falls asleep next to you, closes his eyes and knows that this is what safety feels like, and that trust like love, doesn’t come easy, but with, it’ll always, always be here.

sanji.

he is ever the one for loud declarations of love, the loudest and most declarative — because he believes that there’s power in words and power in saying the words out loud — because to him, a promise isn’t a promise till it’s a promise said, and he promises to love you every day, and in every way he knows how — he tells you in the mornings, whispers it into your ear as he kisses you awake, offers you breakfast on a silver platter; he tells you about the menu for the day, asks if you’d prefer a white or a red wine with lunch, muses that since it’ll be mostly seafood, white would be better but… he’ll decant whichever one you want; he tells you in the afternoons, wrapping his arms around your middle to pulls you back into his chest, pressing soft kisses into the crook of your neck, holding you all the tighter when you giggle and try to wriggle out of his grasp; he tells you when he calls you his ‘dream’, his ‘angel’, his ‘sun and moon and stars’; he tells you in the quiet that lapses between you when you help him clean up after dinner, after dessert’s been had and all the wine’s been drunk; he tells you with his lips on yours, with the way he pours himself into you, harsh and almost reckless, because he doesn’t know any other way to fall in love, any other way to tell you just how much you mean to him other than to, well, tell you like this.