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koolades-world · 10 days ago

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Spellbound Secrets

chapter ten: the human world

synopsis: The House of Lamentation caught fire one night, and you were the only one they recovered from the wreckage. The brothers were in the house as well when you went to bed that night, but they were nowhere to be found. The pact marks are faded, and seem to be getting more and more indefinite by the day. You and Solomon get to investigating but oddly enough, nobody can seem to remember the missing brothers. It’s up to you, with the help of Solomon, to find your beloved demons, lest you never see them again.

authors note: omg oops did not realize a whole month had gone by without an update! my bad lol. for some reason i only thought it was two week? oh well, we're back and better than ever now. did some more work on the plotline too. all i'll say is that i'm a sucker for troupes and hope that you don't mind if i sneak a few in haha. thank you for your patience!

To say you were eager would be an understatement. Upon hearing the news that you'd be leaving for the human world that day helped you shake off the excess sleepiness like it was nothing.

"What time are we leaving?" You sat straight up.

"I knew you'd be excited." Solomon chuckled. When you sat there, staring at him expectantly, he realized he hadn't answered your question. "How does after dinner tonight sound?"

"It's settled!" You hurried out of bed, and quickly began getting ready for the day. While it was a late start, it was still a start nonetheless. You finished getting ready quicker than you ever had before, and made your way downstairs to enjoy a late breakfast. Simeon was in the kitchen, doing the dishes.

"You slept in today." Simeon commented as you made yourself a cup of coffee.

"Everyone needs to have a lazy day." You shrugged. The angels didn't know about your escapade last night, and you hoped to keep it that way.

"It's a great feeling." He responded. "Luke wanted waffles for breakfast this morning, so leftovers are in the fridge. You'll see them when you open it." As he was walking by, he set down the coffee creamer and a spoon next to you.

"Thank you." You absentmindedly prepared your coffee the way you liked it, while mentally buzzing about what your trip might be like.

"Solomon told me about your vacation. Are you excited?" Simeon asked.

"Very. I love the Devildom, and it's amazing in it's own way, but I miss the human world. I miss the rising sun every morning, the food, the atmosphere, and just humans in general." It had been a moment since you'd seen the real sun. Before the fire, you'd had a lamp imitated the sun installed in your room that had been a gift from the brothers. You knew it wouldn't hold a candle to the real thing though.

"I understand the sentiment. I miss the Celestial Realm sometimes too. But, I've enjoyed my time here, and I've learned much thanks to the exchange program." Simeon nodded.

"I didn't know the Devildom existed until the moment I got teleported here." You laughed, recalling that confusing day. While it had been hectic, that was the day you met the demons that would change your life. Thinking of that day invigorated you, and had you more determined to find the truth.

"I remember that day like it was yesterday. Your expressions were so cute." Solomon, who'd presumably just entered the room, chimed in.

"You're just saying that." You turned your back to him to hide your smile.

"He's right. It was a winsome look on you." Simeon agreed. Solomon came up behind you and pinched your cheeks, lifting your mouth into bigger smile.

"You guys are too sweet. We were all in the same boat. Enough about that. Where's Luke?" You were desperate to leave that conversation topic behind.

"He's in the back garden. He's tending to the plants Barbatos gave him, and he's very determined to keep them healthy." Simeon pointed through the kitchen window. If you squinted, you could see the top of his hat behind some of the bushes.

"He doesn't know we're leaving yet, right?" Both men in the room shook their heads. "I should go tell him then." You set your mug down, and moved to head to the door before you were stopped.

"You might want to wait until later. He won't let your out of his site if he hears you're going to be gone longer than a few hours." Solomon chuckled.

"You're right. But, when are we going to tell him then? We can't just vanish on him." You asked.

"We can tell him tonight at dinner. We're leaving after that so we don't have to worry about grocery shopping until tomorrow." Solomon sounded oddly delighted at the prospect of grocery shopping. You, on the other hand, were much less enthusiastic. Cooking for both of you was one thing. Fending off Solomon from helping you was another.

"Alright. That's fine, I guess." You rubbed the back of your neck, picking at the wisps of hair.

"Do you still feel guilty?" Simeon could probably tell from the look on your face.

"Yeah. But, it can't be helped. Solomon, will you come help me pack?" When he raised an eyebrow at you, you elaborated. "I don't know anything about where you live, so I don't know what kind of clothes to bring. Plus, how will we coordinate our outfits?" You needled.

"Alright, I'll go with you." You could tell he'd given what you'd said some more thought. You actually wanted him to come with you so you'd be able to enter your room with his comfort. Solomon had been the one going in and out of your room to get what you needed from in there.

"We'll be back later." You told Simeon.

"Do you want your coffee?" The angel gestured to the cup you'd left sitting on the counter.

"Just leave it there. I'll finish it later." You waved him off. You knew you'd probably forget about it, but at least this way you'd feel a little less wasteful. With that, Solomon left the room and ascended the stairs, leaving you to trail behind him.

You weren't completely sure if you were ready to go back to your room yet, but you knew you had to try. You felt as if you'd made progress since the day you were discharged from the hospital. There was also things to be missed about your space.

As soon as Solomon cracked open the door, memories came rushing back in. You moved to the center of the room, welcoming the rush. While that feeling of everything about the room existing being wrong persisted, the familiar was like a warm hug. Solomon lingered in the doorway behind you. You made your way around the room, inspected things that caught your interest. They felt, and seemed exactly the way you'd last seen them. The only things that had seemed to be touched was your clothes drawers and closet. Everything was messier than you'd left it, but you could tell Solomon had tried his best to keep things tidy. You took a seat on your bed, and spent a while longer in silence, drinking in the sights.

"It's identical. I still can't believe this exists. This shouldn't be here." You hung your head.

"It's so odd. I can remember the original room, but I also remember this room." Solomon said gently. The two of you sat in the stillness for a while.

"I lost almost everything in that fire, and nobody even knows it." A smile filled with self pity formed on your face. Solomon seemed like he wanted to say something, but you held up your hand. "Before you protest, I'm glad I have you though. Where would I be without you?"

"Dead in a ditch somewhere?" He took a seat beside you on your bed, offering his not so helpful opinion.

"Sounds about right." You let out a snort as Solomon patted you on the back.

"Would you feel any better if I told you I had a surprise for you?" Solomon asked.

"Last time you said that, I turned blue for a week." You recalled that day. It was much funnier looking back on it now, but in the moment, you could've have thought closer to the opposite.

"This is a different surprise, I promise."

"If you say so." You tried your best not to sound convinced, but you were already looking forward to whatever he had planned.

"For this surprise, you're going to need a nice outfit." He chirped.

"Are you taking me on a fancy date?" You finally turned to him, interested in his expression.

"You'll see." His eyes sparkled. He had something big planned, and you were hoping it had nothing to do with his cooking.

"I'll get out my nicests outfits, and you can let me know which I should bring." You hadn't opened your closet since the House of Lamentation. You were a bit hesitant, but with everything else you'd endured, especially reentering your room, you felt that you had it in you to do what you needed to. The two of you had fun packing, and while you never fully forgot where you were, it was easier to brush it aside with Solomon at your side. Since it was the beginnings of winter in the human world, you packed lots of warm outfits. Devildom days were sweltering, and the nights were freezing. You were a little sad you wouldn't get to break out your summer pajamas, you were excited to wear all of your day to day winter clothes.

Once you were finished packing, you set the bag in Solomon's room next to his already packed bag. The two of you were ready to go. You were antsy, to say the least. It would be good for you to get out the house, and back to the human world. You spent the rest of the day sitting on your hands. At dinner, Solomon was the one to break the news to Luke. He looked upset, but took the news well. Rather than focus on eating, Luke insisted on holding your hand for the rest of the meal.

When it was finally time to go, Solomon suggested the both of you change to warmer clothes so you wouldn't be cold when you teleported to the human world. You bundled up, and happened to arrive downstairs faster than the sorcerer. Luke and Simeon were standing in the foyer, waiting for you.

"I'm going to miss you." Luke hugged you for what felt like the hundreth time.

"I won't be gone for too long. I'll be back before you know it." You squeezed Luke back as tight as you could.

"Are you sure you have to go?" He pleaded.

"Do you remember what Solomon said?" Simeon asked. You hadn't been told what their secret conversation was about, but you figured it must've been something on your surprise.

"I hope you have fun. It's exactly what I would want if I was you." While he still seemed sad, you could tell he was telling the truth. It made you think that little bit harder about what it might be. Your thought process was interrupted by Solomon plodding down the stairs. His large duffle bag was slung over his shoulder. A thick scarf was wrapped around his neck, and a long overcoat covered most of his body. It almost reminded you of what he usually wore, but it was very becoming of him.

"Ready, my dear apprentice?" He offered his arm to you. After repressing a smile, you took it.

"Stay safe, you two." Simeon waved. Luke joined in after wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. With a dramatic sweeping of his hands, he teleported the two of you to the human world. It was quite different to the teleport he'd made out of the catacombs of the House of Lamentation. They journey was smooth, and before you knew it, you were staring up at the sky instead of a ceiling.

"You're going to love my house." Solomon sounded excited. You looked up and saw house on top of a hill, surrounded by fields. It was dark, so you couldn't tell exactly surrounded the house, but as the two of you gazed at the house, a light popped on. From what you could see, the house seemed cute.

"It's not as cold as I thought it was going to be." You shivered.

"Take a guess as to what I'm growing." Solomon led you over to the nearest field. You leant over a fence, squinting.

"It's winter though." You wracked your brain for plants that could grow in conditions like this.

"Lean closer and take a deep breath." He urged you to figure out for yourself, rather than just tell you.

"Alright…" When Solomon asked you to smell something, it almost never ended well. But, you trusted him. So, you did as he asked. You could smell the crisp air, but once you got past the stinging, you smelt something that was all too familiar.

"Lavender. It's lavender." You glanced back at Solomon to see if your guess was correct. His grin told you more than enough. You reached forward and brushed the light dusting of snow off the plants. You saw the distinct purple flowers. "How are you growing lavender in winter?" When you stared at him in disbelief, he chuckled.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" You realized he was probably talking about his magical abilities.

"Let's talk about this tomorrow. I'm ready to get to bed." You swatted at his shoulder when he laughed at your oversight.

"Follow me then, dearest."

#gn reader #spellbound secrets #obey me #obey me!#obey me x reader #obey me shall we date #obey me solomon #obey me simeon #obey me luke #omswd #obey me! shall we date?#obey me! shall we date

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abbyslev · 1 year ago

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𝑩𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑺- 𝑱𝑱𝑲

A/N: HEY BABIES i’ve been working on this lmao i’m currently in my jjk obsession era i fear 😋 I HOPE EVERYONE ENJOYS THIS HAHA I HAD SM FUN WRITING IT!! ESP GOJOS LMAOO lmk if you guys want PARENT GOJO HCS BECAUSE I HAVE SO MANY CUTE IDEAS LMAOO

WARNINGS: not proofread i fear 💔

yuuji bsfs hcs here!

YUUTA

prepare yourself

he’s very shy at first, never had friends really so when he saw how cool you were he was very shy to talk to you

ofc you initiated conversation !!

he noticed how maki was very close to you, yet you were less tense and way nicer

you showed him around and he noticed everyone knew you which kind of intimidated him

he started opening up about his interest and you two traded numbers after a while

after a month or so you two started hanging outside of class and training

late night dinners!!

you randomly buy each other stuff from the convenience store !!

gojo started sending him on missions with you and you had so much patience with him

you were very sweet and walked him through everything

of course in the middle of a battle he’d stay and watch over you, yet watching intently to make sure nothing went wrong

late night calls

always always always helping him study!!

you could tell maki was holding back a crush and yuuta DEFINITELY had a crush on her

you were trying to get them to date

he holds your bags when you guys shop!!

training together, he asks you don’t hold back on him

sharing food. you put on his plate whatever you don’t like and he will gladly eat it up!!

you like to mess with his hair a lot, especially since it’s already pretty ruffled

once he opened up to you completely, you know when he’s upset

you know how to comfort him best

showing up at his door with takeout late at night (you had to beg gojo to get it for you)

staying in his dorm while y’all eat and play street fighter

you teach him more about your power and your energy, to which he looks more into !!

takes interest in your interest, you do the same !!

matching outfits on non-school days on accident

panda laughs at you both btw

you guys are inseparable basically, if one’s not there, neither will the other!!

MEGUMI

a lot of people think megumi is this cold, hard kid with no emotion

WRONG

you grew up with him, basically being raised by gojo too

he took a liking more to you than gojo i fear

as kids, you two would fall asleep against each other while his divine dogs protected you both

gojo ofc had to have a photoshoot

megumi genuinely respects you as a sorcerer, seeing the endless nights you’d spend in your room training

he claims he uses full force on you when you two train, but he’s obviously lying

meg can be a picky eater sometimes, so he puts it on your plate

he appreciates when you slide your soup to him without a word though

he likes his space, and he greatly appreciates that you know that!!

sometimes he wants to sit with you in silence, and sometimes he wants to be alone, and somehow you can read his mood perfectly

he will tease you sometimes when you guys are alone

if you’re sitting on his bedroom floor, he will ruffle your hair or even crack some jokes

he actually does play some video games, whichever ones you get him as presents

he’s not on his phone much, but he does text you back fairly quickly

doesn’t like you going on missions alone, and if you do, he may send a divine dog with you sometimes

genuinely doesn’t understand how you can stand gojo sometimes

which by the way, he uses to make you two match as kids

gojo literally tried to put meg in a dress and got kicked in the face

how do you get kicked by a seven year old? don’t ask

very very supportive, but also very honest

you call him before you go on dates and ask his opinions on your outfits

“isn’t that a bit much skin? what if she’s like…i don’t know…not into that? Is that how it works?” poor him he doesn’t know

if he finds a cute girl and he tells you about it, YOU WILL TALK TO HER ABOUT HIM

he gets all shyyyyy

meg still gets shy telling you things

pretty much trusts you though

“lemme see em hehehe” as he gets his divine dogs out for you so you can play fetch w them :((

his doggies also comfort you a lot so since he’s not very emotionally available he’ll let you vent while petting the dogs

only lets you call him megs. one time panda tried it and got the death stare from megumi

“why can only they call you megs” “cause i’m his favorite :D”

doesn’t let anyone be mean to you, HE WON'T BE ACCEPTING THAT BEHAVIOR

pls take care of bb megs HES THE BEST OK

TOGE

it was kind of a rough start

you didn’t understand his cursed speech and you definitely got stressed with “bonito flakes” and “kelp”

you would ask him things but you couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t reply

shorty after you met panda and maki and they explained

which right after, that night you bought a notebook so you could communicate

toge thought this was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him

you guys ended up trading numbers and stayed up LATE sending each other videos and gushing about video games

toge actually is pretty interesting, he hates not being able to talk about stuff with you

you finally got around to understanding his language !!

that made everything much easier

one time you were cold and he wrapped his scarf around you </33

don’t let his lack of speaking abilities fool you, this man WILL BE YOUR WINGMAN

you see a cute girl across the street, he’s chasing them down

you two are an unbeatable duo, which is why you complete harder missions together

training is ok, he can’t really use his voice so it’s just you two wrestling

on missions you keep throat medicine on you for him

you help him study a lot, he’s actually very smart

study sessions usually end up with you two on his bed, junk food everywhere and controllers in your hands, hushed arguments between the two

you usually buy his lunch and bring it to him, but if y’all are out together, he pays for everything like the gentleman he is

your biggest supporter!! if you fail at a move or can’t perfect something, he text you words of encouragement

pls protect toge he deserves the world

GOJO

dear god hold on

how you survived high school gojo is beyond anyone’s comprehension

you basically rasied meg too

he’s tall… HE WILL USE THAT TO HIS ADVANTAGE

hiding things from you all the time

if you are texting your situationship or something gojo WILL take your phone and read everything outloud

if you fall on your ass or something embarrassing happens, instead of helping you he will record to humiliate you in front of his kids

which btw they are your kids too !!

esp megs, you raised him and (though he’ll never admit it) he sees you as a mom

you submit to nobara’s shopping addiction i fear

you’ll be in the middle of a lesson and HERE COMES GOJO BARGING IN

the students stare at him in fear as he lift up one side of his blindfold to show you a funny video he found

also don’t worry about having to pay for anything, he’s got it covered

you try and deny him but he’s like “we all know you need it” annoying ass

you also swear to never take him to family gatherings again

but you do every single time

the one time you took him your cousins fawned over him and your aunties asked if that was your husband and you had to explain he was your best friend

gojo waved at your cousins and even fucking posed ????

you yelled at him on the way home but all he did was smile

you used to tuck in megumi in bed and gojo would be like “don’t let the curses bite” and you would stare him down

gojo sends you on wild missions, yet still makes sure they’re safe enough for you

he takes a liking to yuuji, meg, and nobara so he sends you to watch over them

he knows your parental instincts are STRONG so he knows you will protect the kids with your life

one time megumi was being very open and honest with you about a problem and gojo interrupted you guys

megumi never talked about his emotions again i fear

if you ever get seriously injured he will joke around and take you to Shoko, but he’s really worried and doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you

keeps you out of his battles, and will even fight yours

see a girl you like? he’s on his way to let her know and maybe even get her number for you!

will literally bring you food at two in the morning

it's just who he is

knows he seriously fucked up when you pull his hair, lift his blindfold up and see your face like “>:(”

you usually call him saturo so when you say “gojo SATURO!” he knows he fucked up

he loves his kids…yet he leaves them with you and now you have to deal with their bickering

on your off days he loves to take you to shopping and out to eat! it’s his favorite

“max out my card” as an apology but all you want is a real explanation to why he blew up your room and why his kids were laughing

you flick his forehead a lot

you and utahime gang up on him a lot i fear

though she’s very serious and you just like to tag along

he buys you cool little trinkets

“what’s this?” “a special something” and its literally just a snow globe

not very emotionally available either so he just jokes around and tries his best to help you

you understand he can get upset and refuse to show it, so you just sit beside him and draw shapes on his knees until he says something

his phone is full of you throwing fits and angry photos

occasionally cute ones of you guys together

he sends you thousands of photos of either him, scenery, his kids or strangers

you do the same obviously

one time you and shoko hung out and sent gojo a pic and he screenshotted shokos smeared lipstick and sent it with a “??”

you post him on your insta and all ur friends slide up asking for his @

yes his ego gets bigger

your favorite thing to do is grab the back of his head and yank off his blindfold and curse at him

use to shove megumi in your arms and scream into his hands

“HE WONT EAT THE FUCKING VEGGIES PLEASE JUST HELP”

megumi gladly ate the veggies you fed him

rivalry fr

“EW PUT SHOES ON” as he wiggles his bare feet in your face

will teleport to your room randomly

you also steal his glasses randomly

he KNOWSSSS when theres a woman in room

will start spam texting you for details

he is part of the sassy man apocalypse i fear

you and shoko shoo him away for some “girl time” and he goes “i AM one of the girls” with a little sassy eye roll

i could write about this man forever LMAOO

fav

NANAMI

its not a spoken title but trust everyone knows your nanamis best friend

i mean why else would he allow you in his office just so you can gossip ??

gojo complains about being mistreated

whenever he buys books he buys two, one for you one for him

buys you lunch!

since he does love food, friday and saturday night dinners are a must

you guys like to try different foods from different countries!

every once in a while he will drink wine with you

you guys are pretty much a deadly duo

will give you flowers! it’s sweet

he’s not big on social media but he will go on there to like your newest post

gojo complains again i fear

you planned a super big vacation for you both for his birthday and even got some days off for him

that was the only vacation he’s ever been on, and he couldn’t thank you enough

though you wanted to pay, he ended up paying for everything you wanted at the trip

you spent so much money on reservations and plane tickets, he was worried

he refuses to let you pay for anything!

he’s not a pro at dates, but he will help you plan out a date

also buys you a new outfit and helps you get ready

“Did you get her flowers? should we get her anything else, or is this fine?”

biggest supporter, but also does not enable bad actions like fear

“well you’re not my dad” “fine then, go and get butthurt”

he’s very sarcastic and straightforward with you, you love it

he’s very organized about his outfits, so you’ll mess with him by saying his shirt is untucked or something

when he carries you on his back because you’re super drunk you’ll be like “you loveeeee mee”

“you keep telling yourself that.” but he indeed loves you so much

opens doors for you, car doors, keeps hygiene products for you in his car, never lets you pay, always has a jacket ready for you, carries your bags, gets you dinner, this man is THE gentleman

“NNAAAAAAANAMIIIII” “oh god, what now?”

you bust into his office anytime

you guys like reading the morning paper and sharing your thoughts on it

you got eachother thin little matching bracelets

he does wear his :(( all the time :(( he never takes it off :((

CUTE CUTE CUTE YOU GUYS ARE BESTIES

tags: @saenora

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valaruakars · 2 years ago

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Let's Get Physical (Part 7)

Viktor/F!Reader || 6.3k || Modern!AU + Gym!AU || SFW

Bitches hate you for your overzealous approach to supporting your friends and deeply anxious behavior. Viktor is not bitches.

A/N: Omg. We're here. We're back on our bullshit. Thank you to everyone who beta'd and/or provided me free therapy about this for that past um... seven months. Oops. Thank you to everyone who reached out over the (unintentional) hiatus with encouraging comments and asks. I hope you'll understand why I took so long to handle this with care and unpack some of my own issues. Very cathartic. Would recommend.

Part 1 → Part 2 → Part 3 → Part 4 → Part 5 → Part 5.2 (nsfw) → Part 6 → Part 7 (Ao3 Link)

Before you know it, two weeks and a day have passed. They make no palpable difference.

Except maybe in your quadriceps.

The same weights you’ve been using feel almost effortless, too easy. You don’t fatigue as quickly into heavy breathing and the urge to cheat yourself a rep or two—not lunging with the dumbbell gripped at one of its wide ends, not squatting while it’s clutched close to your chest. It’s suddenly not enough.

Nobody’s around to see it, but progress is progress. Turns out, you’ve finally graduated to heavier weights on this lonely leg day you’ve committed to.

That’s a bit of a misnomer, though. The day is mostly past you now. It’s evening—crisp and wispy, sky like striated fire outside the garage—and as the sun sets, you’re reminded of the late start you’re up against. All because you forgot something.

A good attitude is optional. A scrunchie you can live without. But your shoes? Leave them forgettably kicked off in two different directions on your bedroom floor and you’re fucked. It’s a small miracle you’re here, dragging around weight plates, setting up a barbell. There was a very real danger of tripping and falling into bed—totally by accident, never to get up again—when you drove home and stomped upstairs to grab them.

But whether or not he knows it, likely the latter, Viktor keeps you accountable when no one else can. It’s because the only running you truly love is the risk of seeing him, which still requires proper footwear. And for you to leave the house.

Though by the time you whipped into the driveway and thrust the gear shift into park, it’s empty. He’d left already; you didn’t get to see him off on his reluctant shuffle through the garage. But lucky you—he tends to come straight home after physical therapy. Call it friendly concern that you’re paying attention.

It’s probably an odd way to think about a friend. You need to work on that.

Your phone vibrates dully on the padded bench beside you. Nearly knocking your water over in the process, you grab it to find a text from Jayce—the usual culprit. You slide it open, accidentally brushing the top of the screen with shaky fingers. It catapults you to the beginning of your most recent messages before you can read the new one.

Mon, Oct 10

[Jayce Talis, 5:56am]: Did you leave the back door unlocked last night? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: And the pool lights on? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: Was Viktor in the pool?

[7:32am]: Holy shit. Good morning. [7:33am]: No, no, and why do you think I know these things??

[Jayce Talis, 7:45am]: Sorry, it’s all good. He’s alive.

[7:46am]: ???????

[Jayce Talis, 7:49am]: You guys didn’t hang out after I left?

[7:57am]: Idk if you would consider it that. [8:02am]: But has anyone invited him to cards on Saturday??

[Jayce Talis, 8:17am]: He already said no. [Jayce Talis, 8:18am]: Although… [Jayce Talis, 8:19am]: You could try telling him it’s strip poker. Haha :)

[8:20am]: Blocked. Reported. Banned. NOT DOING THAT.

[Jayce Talis, 8:21am]: No wait! I was kidding. He’s not a creep :(

Tue, Oct 11

[Jayce Talis, 3:38pm]: Wait did you actually block me?

[3:50pm]: Yes.

Sun, Oct 16

[Tayce Jalis, 8:00am]: Can I have my t-shirt back today?

[8:31am]: Oh the really old anime one? I left it with some stuff to be washed, ask Viktor. [8:32am]: Maybe the dryer did you a favor and ate it.

[Tayce Jalis, 8:34am]: Hey! Naruto is timeless.

Today

Tayce Jalis unsent a message

Not fast enough to scroll back down, caught revisiting those unremarkable little messages, and now you’ll never know what Jayce’s butt managed to text you this time. Oh well. Keep your secrets.

You toss your phone down behind you with a leathery slap. Back to working on the whole stop pining after Viktor thing.

Right, and your legs.

The barbell bites into your hips as you roll it into your lap and adjust it, the bench presses into your shoulder blades. It’s heavier and harder to manage, but you do, driving down into your heels to get your ass off the ground, hefting yourself into a nice, solid bridge. From there it’s as easy as dipping your hips, which isn’t quite easy at all. No, it’s brutal.

It burns from your core down to your thighs; has you clenching your jaw, gritting your teeth with the strain. Even your biceps are active, lifting some of the steel-hard pressure off your hip bones.

You’re so zoned in—no thoughts, head empty except for the number six over and over until it’s seven—that you only hear the hiss of your breath in and out, the hammering rush of blood behind your ears. You don’t hear Viktor come home.

Not until he’s standing above you.

He had the heinous metal on metal sound in his old beige car fixed—that grinding, grating death knell in its engine. One of several potentially life threatening reasons the check engine light was always on—maybe still is. And though you much prefer him living, it’s harder to hear him coming over the steady music without paying attention.

Bad timing for Miss Carly Rae Jepsen on your Upbeat Workout Jams playlist, considering you do really, really, really like him. Him and how he stands at the end of the bench, staring down; how he fixes you with that sliver thin smile, a manila folder tucked under the arm of his long cardigan.

You seize with embarrassment, frozen on the upswing of your hips. “Hi,” whispers out on the end of an exhale, caught ragged in your throat.

You can’t do pelvic thrusts in front of him.

You just can’t.

It’s bad enough that you’re sweaty in every skin to skin crevice and certainly flushed, t-shirt sticky and legs trembling as they hold your awkward position, but then there’s him.

He wears that same look much better. On him, it’s healthy color across the cut lines of his cheeks; it’s still-damp curls at the nape of his neck and the jump of his lean throat when he swallows, dry when he must’ve forgotten a water bottle again. It’s suggestive. It’s hot.

And it’s the endorphins that make you feel that way, surely, more than any affinity for men in gray sweatpants that are far more revealing than they must realize.

You clear your throat, finding your own parched voice. “Watch your feet,” you warn, on the side of caution, dropping butt and barbell to the ground with a metallic thud. You let your head drop back against the bench pad, staring up at him with the dazed satisfaction of calling it quits. Only for the moment, of course, as you blindly feel around for your phone to turn the music down.

And good fucking god is what you see unholy. Viktor shifts his weight before you can look away, and the ache in your core redoubles—different, deeper than any lactic acid buildup. Did his pants shrink in the wash or is it really that m—?

Nope! Absolutely not!

You can tread no further with that thought because, really, there’s no such thing as having a platonic appreciation for your friend’s dick. Not when the friend is Viktor.

“You’re not finished yet?” he asks. Innocent. Oblivious to your mental struggle out of the gutter.

Typically you would be by now. Equipment racked, the citrus scent of disinfectant on your hands, picking at innocuous conversation while you walk inside together. How was your day? Did you hear they’re demolishing the old physics building? There’s a guest lecture next month that might interest you.

“About another thirty minutes,” you breathe, “and then I’ll be done. I’m running behind.”

“Ah, interesting. That looks to me more like sitting,” he says, which is terrible enough to earn an eye roll, and snarky enough that your lips wobble and break into an insurmountable smile.

“It’s called resting, thanks. This would go faster if you stopped distracting me,” you huff, muscles loose, lips looser.

The little spark of mirth in his eyes, so bright and awake, makes your stomach clench vice tight. “Mm. There’s no rush,” he shrugs, “but… Rio might enjoy a visit.”

Your smile is skeptical as he pulls the file folder from beneath his arm. “Oh really?” It widens as he starts to fan you from above—chilly in the garage, but you’re still sweating buckets. It’s futile, although he’s sweet to try and help.

He nods, gravely serious, “She told me herself.”

You crane your neck unconsciously to let it cool the sweat that lingers there, sighing as little wisps of loose hair billow feather light and tickle your feverish skin.

He isn’t holding it right, though. His grip is too loose on the edge.

At once, a flurry of white comes raining down on you. It’s instinct that your eyes clamp shut against the onslaught.

“No, no, no,” he hisses as if begging could stop gravity.

It doesn’t, of course.

His papers flutter and scrape across the floor. An unlucky one sticks to the sweat on your scrunched up cheek. He’s quick to dip forward and snatch it back first, the easiest to reach.

You blink off the surprise and snicker, “Oh, how the tables have turned. Who’s the clumsy one now?” Rolling the barbell away over your outstretched legs, there’s nothing in its path to be crumpled beneath the weight.

But Viktor doesn’t answer with a crooked smile or a quiet laugh, no dry wit to be found. His dark, heavy brows furrow and he insists, “No, just—just let me,” while he crouches to the ground, distributing his weight between his cane and the end of the bench.

“It’s okay,” you insist, reaching to gather what’s scattered between you, “I’ve got it. No big deal.”

“To you,” he mutters, snatching two away before you can turn them over. Makes him lose balance. He narrowly catches himself before he can veer face first into your spandex lap,, blunt, bony fingers digging into your thigh at the hem of those skin tight biker shorts. It crushes the papers all the same.

“Top secret nuclear codes?” you tease, drowning his muttered apologies. It sounds stupid and obvious that you’re trying to distract from the fumbling tension when his hand stays put for moments too long. Yours, too, on his shoulder to brace him.

Just until he’s able to sit himself solidly on the ground beside you.

He purses his lips, “My work is with reactor cores, not weapons.”

It’s only been a week since you got an impromptu lecture about nuclear fusion in the kitchen. It’s not like you’d forget so quickly. “I know—”

Impatient, Viktor reaches over your lap, too close for comfort. Whatever you were about to say is struck from your train of thought.

His cardigan drags soft and pilled with wear across your beat up knees. Beneath it, his sweat smells sharp and strangely appealing. It’s fascinating, that draw to something so base and human. It’s unsettling, the way your heart responds like it beats between your legs.

You follow his hand, unabashedly curious, and watch him pick up another overturned paper. Below it, the next sheet is stuck face up to the floor with what you cringe to assume is a drop of your sweat, bleeding the ink of a diagram. Multiple diagrams, actually.

Of stretches.

The familiarity sparks excitement.

By the time he peels up the corner of the page with his fingernail, you’re sure of what you’re looking at. It’s common ground, of a sort; the excuse to end all excuses.

“These are from the physical therapist?”

He sighs, sitting back in an awkward fold of spindly legs. Looks wearier, now, with his shoulders collapsed like the exhaustion of going has finally caught up. “Yes,” he admits, because you’re smart and he’s smart, and any other answer would be an obvious lie.

You’re doing it again—digging your fingers into a soft spot that feels as ripe as it does intrusive. We do not talk about it much, he once said, but it’s hard to stop once you’ve started. You just have to know: “Do you do them?”

His eyes cut down to the papers in his hands. “When time permits.”

“How often does it permit?”

“Occasionally,” says Viktor, which might mean somewhere between rarely and never.

Early mornings, late nights; classes to teach, lab hours to log, projects, papers, and a dissertation that looks done to you, but he laughs bitterly when you suggest it. Still has to find time to eat and shower and sleep, but his eyes are always restless purple and there are wrappers from meal replacement bars scattered around the house, too high calorie for Jayce to be the culprit.

You wonder what will happen when it all catches up with him. Worse, you worry.

Beseechingly, you reach out. Your grip is gentle as you take hold of the printouts at their edge. “Can I see?” you ask, not grabbing or pulling or taking, just there and ready.

His lips form a tight, considering line. “If that is the last of your questions,” he slowly replies. Prickly, but relenting, he lets go before you can ever agree.

So you don’t.

His eyes are on you as you flip through the stack—you can feel it as a strange, shy tension like bated breath, watching and waiting.

Page by page, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Some you’ve even done yourself, but with simple modifications. Hell, bridges are just hip thrusts performed flat on the floor, without the weight. Nothing he’d need help with, which is ideal when you’re not qualified to do anything but make space for him; to emphasize that he’s welcome and wanted, maybe offer up a sweaty-palmed high five if you’re feeling spunky.

You peel your legs off the floor and resituate, tucking them as your turn to face him, direct in every sense. “You could come do these with us on Sunday mornings after we run, before you get started on work. It would make Jayce happy, and Vi has a really funny way of being encouraging—”

He pulls a face—a nose scrunched up, barely concealed, abso-fucking-loutely not sort of scowl.

“Or…” you’re quick to try, “Just with me, when I’m here. It’ll take, what—fifteen? Twenty minutes?”

“It’s a poor use of time,” he says. It’s as avoidant as it is clumsy, with a dismissive edge still dull enough to bruise.

And that’s because: “You stop and talk to me for longer than that sometimes,” you remind him flatly.

He sighs sharply, toying absently with the cane laid across his lap. “That is different.” He says it like it’s obvious; like it’s frustrating that you don’t know how obvious it is.

“Well, what if we could do both at the same time?” you propose. After all, he’s got such a hard-on for efficiency, if that’s what’s stopping him. “I know you’re a good multitasker…”

His jaw works, trapping his thoughts behind imperfect teeth.

“And we probably keep this floor cleaner than the carpet…” you prod, because the silence of a man who can and has talked your ear off is disquieting; because you don’t always know when to stop; because this feels like a negotiation.

“My bedroom suits my purposes just fine,” he says, eventually.

But you never said which carpet. The thought of him sequestered in there, even for this, is fucking depressing. Arguably disgusting when you’ve walked across that rug and felt the grit of dirt, crumbs, and debris that the pattern hides through your socks. And worse: It’s a choice, so why is he making it?

Abruptly, the rubber tipped end of his cane meets like against the rubber tiled floor. He pulls himself up on it with difficulty you can’t ignore, but shakes his head when you move to help. The only thing you do is hand him up the battered stack of papers, tucked back into the folder from which they came, when he stands up fully. You won’t hold them hostage, even if part of you wants to. It wouldn’t keep him from leaving, his back to you such a familiar sight.

You just want to understand, though, if nothing else. To crack him like a cipher.

Softer, you try: “I wouldn’t judge you.” It’s the last, desperate little thing you can think of. They’re like magic words to you.

But the problem is: They don’t work on everyone.

To his credit, his tone isn’t harsh. It’s indifferent, like stating a sterile fact. “This has nothing to do with you,” he says. “I haven’t skipped an appointment recently, and that should be enough.”

Indigence might suit you in those moments you grow a seedling backbone, but it doesn’t suit this. You can’t help it though. His frustration has bled into you, caught like kindling. “Is it?”

“You and I do not share the same sense of priorities,” he replies, but it’s not an answer. Not really.

The urge to turn him upside down and shake him until something definitive comes out is overwhelming—so straightforward until he just… isn’t. “If you’re not going to say yes or no, can’t you just lie and say you’ll think about it?”

He looks you over inscrutably, sitting there in his shadow. “Why would you assume it’s a lie?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you huff. But you do. Experience and a certain friend who actually bothers to text you back have given you the answer. “Jayce says you’re stubborn and I’m starting to think he’s right.”

Viktor nods conclusively, but doesn’t care to share what’s going through his head. As evasive as ever when he cares to be, just murmurs,“You should finish this.”

And then, for a reason that is simply beyond you, says: “I will see you later.”

But for once, you’re not sure if you want to.

—

You rap your knuckles against his open door.

Seriously—who were you kidding, thinking for even a second that you wouldn’t be here, doing this?

Yes, it’s well after eight now and you’re pitifully hungry, but it wouldn’t feel right to leave without saying anything. In writing a note or sending a text, you’d simply be spelling out, ‘I’m a coward!’ in far more words. It’s best, you decide, to be polite and mature and just say goodnight despite the awkward taste in your mouth that is very reminiscent of your own foot.

And you get to say it to his back, which should be easy.

But then there’s Rio on his desk like a pissed off paperweight, swimming the foggy side of her holding tank—sorry, prison—without any hope of escape. They’re the angriest, most pathetic wiggles you’ve ever seen. Habitual, given how tongue-smudged and abraded the plastic has become.

“You see?” he says, gesturing to the sound of her scrabbling in his bright rubber kitchen gloves. “It’s just as I said.”

“I think it’s more about you ignoring her.” Rio pauses, slipping down the side. Her little face conveys it perfectly: “Father is cruel? Father is… unyielding? Father hates Rio?”

“No, no… Although, eh, yes, I suppose she does sound like that…” he muses, nodding. “I think she must wonder those things about you, actually.”

Your shoulder hits the door frame, shrugging against it where you lean. “I probably don’t matter much to her.”

There’s a heavy pause, enough for him to breathe in and hold it. Breathe out, softly: “You do.”

And suddenly, you can’t find it in you to leave. Did you ever truly have the will?

The truth is there on your feet—those perpetually mismatched socks. You’d hoped for this, secretly, else you wouldn’t have left your shoes off at the door.

It’s warm when you walk in. A space heater that’s been running too long glows electric orange on the floor near his desk. Makes the smell of churned earth and vinegar cleaner that much stronger. And while the clutter is clearly endemic, it seems the fuzzy, stagnant mugs are not. They’re all gone from his desk and the bedside table, replaced by sticky notes, pill bottles, and an avalanche of papers.

You come up and give Rio’s tiny, clawed foot a high-five through the plastic. “Has she been doing this all night?” you ask, looking over.

Knee on the desk chair for leverage, he’s elbows deep in her tank, rooting those waxen, fake plants back into the substrate with unnatural posture. It’s that stiffness you’ve always noticed—ramrod straight from the mid-spine up. It’s easier to see in profile, in a thin shirt that clings to his back, that there’s nothing visibly forcing it.

“On and off. She tires quickly now,” he says, arranging a broad-leafed plant near her favorite rocky shelter—scrubbed clean, still damp. “When she was younger, it would go on much longer while I did this.”

“How old is she exactly?”

His sigh is almost lost beneath the hum of the space heater. He answers, “Fifteen,” in the soft, subdued way of someone who hates to be reminded.

There’s many things you’re too afraid to ask him. Such hits as: Why did you dig yourself a hole this deep, does Jayce text everyone about you, and would I even stand a chance if things were different? But right now, most of all, it’s how long do geckos live?

You don’t think you’re going to like the answer.

Viktor clears his throat. “She’s very, eh… spritely for her age,” he adds, fondly this time.

You hum a soft sound in agreement, too shaky through the legs to squat down to eye level with her. When you bend your knees to try, you realize you’ll probably never get up again.

He glances over as you straighten up. “You can sit,” he offers without really saying where. It’s obvious, though. The only option—his rumpled bed, never made, with all its mismatched pillows. One has definitely been stolen from the couch, three are yellowed and missing pillowcases which is… ew.

But you’re not going to refuse. You’d like to hold Rio, after all.

You swallow hesitation and tuck yourself onto the end of his mattress, balancing on the firm edge. At least the intrusive thoughts are fleeting. Only briefly do you wonder what he thinks about at night. What he does. What he wants for.

Not you. That’s for sure.

Your elbows lock out where you grip the ridged edge of the bed. The weight of things gone unsaid, of things left unresolved bears down; it prickles warm at the back of your neck and you can’t stand the waiting silence.

“So…” you drawl, letting your voice fill the void.

“Hm?”

“Are you going to hand her to me now, or…?”

“Ah, no, I’m finished,” he says over his shoulder. “She needs to go back in the tank.”

“Then why am I sitting here?”

“Because I have something to ask you.”

Straightforward. Right. You forgot just how terrifying that can be.

“That sounds just as bad as saying we need to talk,” you mutter, heart twisting into a suffocating, arterial knot.

“We do, though,” he says, too literal, too preoccupied with placing Rio back in her clean terrarium to notice your soul leave your body—preemptively abandoning ship.

But he’s merciful, at least. He doesn’t keep you in suspense.

“I just want to understand at what point you developed such a vested interest in, eh… fixing me, I suppose,” he asks, like wondering what the weather will be tomorrow or what the dining hall might serve for lunch. Conversationally. “Did Jayce put you up to this?”

Your eyes narrow in thought. “No…?” you reply. It comes out too shifty as you toy with the serged edge of his blanket. Jayce put you up to something alright, though that hardly matters anymore. But, in a way, does this count? Would Viktor think that this counts?

“A sure answer, please.”

Fuck.

“It’s just that I would lump that in as part of being friends with you—except I’d call it, y’know, caring?” You draw your leg up onto the bed, closer, tucking your foot beneath your thigh. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

Viktor flips the grate down with a finality that lights your nerves like a beacon to flee. “So he asked you to do what, exactly?”

“Nothing,” you squirm.

He pivots, solidly on two feet. Doesn’t sit down in the desk chair quite yet. “It wouldn’t be the first time for this behavior, and, with you, I’m sure it was not the last. Do you know that he once provided Caitlyn with a written list of topics not to bring up to me?”

You shrug, “He’s a good friend...”

Now you’re staring down the barrel of being just the opposite—of throwing Jayce under the bus.

“What did he ask?” Viktor presses.

And you break. Made brittle by your desire to put him first, of course you do.

“All he wanted was for me to give you a chance, which was pretty reasonable after you called me annoying—” that word comes out with a bite to it you didn’t intend; sensitive, sore, “—but I never told him about that. He’s just… worried about you in his own way, I guess.”

Viktor quietly raises an eyebrow, and that’s all it takes to snap you into fours next. It practically falls out of your mouth: “He keeps texting me to make sure you’re still alive. Sometimes I think he’s joking, but then one time he told me he had a nightmare that you drowned in the pool, so part of me actually thinks he’s being serious.”

“He is.”

“Wait, really—?”

“Is that why you come so often now?”

Wednesday. Friday. Sunday. Monday too, sometimes, if the day before hasn’t left you sufficiently sore enough. The pain means progress. It must.

“Well, no,” you blink, “that’s mainly because I have a lot to work on.”

“Do you?”

You gesture to yourself. All of you. The way your stomach folds and rolls and fucking exists unappealingly beneath your sweatshirt when you slouch—it could be better. The way your thighs pancake out, smushed against the bed—not getting better, but discipline and toning might shape them into something near desirable. “Yeah, obviously.”

He treads lightly. “I… would not say it’s obvious.” But his eyes are cast down as he carefully removes his rubber gloves and discards them in a bucket of cleaning supplies. He’s not rude enough to agree, but you worry, in all those moments you can feel him looking at you, that he’s thinking it. After all, he’s willowy, sharp and elegant in a way you’ll never be. Soft and fleshy. Never quite right.

“And that’s because you’re, what, zero percent body fat?” you sigh, gesturing to him incredulously. “I’m not implying that’s healthy or ideal—honestly, I’d share some if I could—but…” Your hands curl to your chest, clasped tightly in one another when there is no one else to hold them through the indignity of admitting, “I’m the one that needs fixing. Not you.”

He was right, though, when he said it earlier. This isn’t about you. “Where did you come up with that, anyways?” you ask.

The lines on his face, those deep, concerned creases between his brows, spell out what the fuck. You don’t understand what’s so hard about that question—what he can’t figure out, why the confusion lingers in his eyes. “This… This is the second time you’ve offered to help me.”

“I was trying to be supportive. Encouraging, even—that’s also a good word for it.”

“It all feels the same,” he tells you, taking his turn to sigh. “Which is to say patronizing, sometimes.”

And that was not what you intended. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a saint or anything. That’s not entirely it.” You fight the turtle-like urge to retract into your sweatshirt, which would arguably be more stupidly embarrassing than admitting: “I was just looking for… common ground, I guess. Ways to hang out without dragging you out with us.”

“Are we not doing that right now?”

“Sure, but I feel bad about it.” There’s the silvery peek of his computer, buried on the desk. “I’m keeping you from more important things.”

“You’re not,” he says—no, placates, but the disbelieving press of your lips makes him reconsider. “Well, eh, perhaps, but I can manage. I’ve dealt with Heimerdinger’s high expectations and, mm, sadistic deadlines for years. The weekends work well to make up for lost time, and there is all night after this too.”

“You should sleep.”

“I can’t. Not well.”

You give a creaky little bounce—not much of one, no spring to it—to demonstrate: “Maybe because your mattress feels about as hard as sleeping on the ground.”

“One problem of many, yes.”

You count yourself among them, in one way or another. You’ve been leaking these awful insecurities all night.

Is it any wonder that another slips?

“It’s just—the last thing I want is to bother you. Everyone, really, but especially you.”

“Is that because of me?” he asks quietly. “Because of what I said?”

Oh, you’ve carried this around since day one. Let it color his tone and his words and his actions. Let it haunt you trying to reach for others, the freshest nick in a line of scars that was never stitched properly. That’s what you get for letting all those little anxieties run wild with knives in their hands. That’s what you get for forgiving him before he ever asked for it, as if that would make things easier. For you. For him. For everyone.

It hasn’t.

Viktor crosses the three steps between you on bare, nobby feet. His weight dips the bed beside you ever slightly, like he’s hardly there. But he is, by the way his leg bumps your knee, and you scoot over to give him space.

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, grasping at some distant thread. They’re as awkward as he is in saying, “I can’t recall what I meant at the time, but it… it wasn’t that. It would’ve been fine if you thought less of me for it, but not of yourself.”

You shake your head. “It’s—don’t worry, it’s not all you,” you say, softening his guilt, perhaps at your own expense. “I have a lot of anxiety, and that’s a long running thing, okay? It’s mostly… me.”

“That’s… good to know. About you, I mean. Not that it’s—it’s good. Just, eh, helpful to know.”

“I guess that’s generally the benefit of being upfront about things,” you shrug as if it comes easy.

“I would prefer that, I think.”

It doesn’t, but the light, fizzy feeling of relief makes you want to try, if only to have more of it. Maybe more of his shy little smiles too. This time with more intention, and less leaky word vomit.

“Okay…” You shift to face him fully, mirroring his posture in leaning back on your hand for support. “Then in no uncertain terms, I want you to know that I’m not trying to fix you.” Been there, done that, got the shitty dunce hat. People don’t change unless they want to. You know that. “I just wish you were kinder to yourself, but that’s on you. So if you ever decide you want better, whatever that means, I’ll be there. Only if you want me to and only on your own terms—no physical activity required.”

“I might want to consider it, you know…” His voice lowers, softer and softer with hesitation, to the point that you find yourself leaning in. Noticing, as he seems to have noticed, that your hands are a hair’s breadth apart. “As a future prospect, if anything. But you have to understand, I don’t enjoy being watched.”

“I get that.”

“Mm, no, I imagine people stare at you for very different reasons,” he mutters. “Not pity. Envy, perhaps.”

“I promise, most people don’t want these thunder thighs,” you huff, resisting the urge to slap them like a used car salesman. These babies can fit so much soul-crushing insecurity, which is a terrible pitch, really. The occasional bouts of self-loathing are not your strongest selling point.

He lets out the strangest bark of a laugh, so dry it’s almost ugly, as if he can read your mind.

But you didn’t mean to derail. “Sorry, continue.”

“Right…” Viktor draws in a long breath, quiet for a moment before he figures out how to word it. “It’s as simple as that I would rather go unseen. It’s very, ah, personal. And painful, sometimes.”

You think of the age old adage: If it hurts, don’t do it. “Um, not a doctor, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be?”

“So they say,” he nods pensively, eyes ticking over some distant thought, maybe a memory. “It wasn’t like this before. The discomfort wasn’t… serious. That’s how I was able to ignore it for so long.”

“Ignore what?”

Not the brutal slam of the garage door across the house, for one thing. The pictures on the wall must be hanging crooked now.

Viktor sits straighter—if that’s even possible—and calls out: “Jayce?”

Footsteps—softer, distant.

His eyes snap back to yours. “It’s been a week since he’s come home,” he tells you in a quick whisper. “Mm, well, in the evening. He’s here in the morning—”

“To work out at the ass crack of dawn? I know.”

“You were invited?”

“He knows better than to think I’ll get up that early. I saw on his Instagram.”

Footsteps—louder now.

Viktor nods sagely. “Ah, yes, the stories. By my count, he has written, eh, ‘rise and grind’ forty three times since the first of the year.”

“That’s…” Your math isn’t great but, “More than once a week,” you whisper back, on the cusp of giggles as Viktor nods. And then, it hits you. “Wait—”

But the footsteps have stopped.

And instead, there’s Jayce’s stoop-shouldered figure braced in the doorway. He sniffles loudly.

He’s still dressed in the khakis and blue button down he wears to work—rumpled, sleeve cuffs smeared darker. His eyes have that red, raw, burning swell of someone who's tried very hard not to cry, and failed spectacularly.

Viktor finds the words you’re looking for with immediate precision. “Has something happened?” he asks, voice tight, hand tighter on your shoulder as he leans around you to look his roommate over. “Jayce?”

They spend a lot of time apart. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that they’re best friends too.

He swipes at his nose as it runs into the raw little divot above his lip. Beyond sadness, there’s a guilty cast to his dark, hazel eyes, turned down to the floorboards, but you can’t find your voice to tell him that this isn’t what it looks like.

“Are you… injured?” Viktor tries again.

Jayce shakes his head. No.

“Is your mother alright?”

“She’s fine,” he rasps. “Um… Can I just—?” he asks, gesturing weakly to the two of you.

Which you think must translate to: “You want to come sit?”

“Yeah.”

Viktor’s of course comes without apprehension, without judgment. Only with the apparent surprise that he even needed to ask.

But Jayce, in several long legged strides, doesn’t come sit. No, he collapses face first onto the bed behind you, all broad, shaking shoulders and quiet sniffles seeping out from behind his arms. They hide his face and nothing else. Hands curling, clenching into his shirtsleeve, there’s the thick band of a tan line striped across his middle finger.

You turn yourself around, scooching closer, folding up cross-legged to face him.

You’ve never seen him like this—laid so low. A sweat stain blooms dark at the small of his back, up between his shoulder blades, but sweat is sweat and Jayce is Jayce. You reach out to rub his back despite it. “It’s alright…” you whisper. Feels like putting band-aids on a bleeding heart, but it’s all you have.

Soft cotton weave catches the peeling skin of old blisters as you soothe your hand in circles. His shirt leaches the vetiver smell of cologne, but somewhere beneath it, there’s an elegant, cloying perfume still lingers. It’s no secret where he spends most of his time these days.

You meet Viktor’s searching eyes and mouth: Mel.

He nods gravely as if to say he drew the same conclusion.

Say something—that’s your next silent suggestion, canting your head toward Jayce.

But instead, Jayce takes a deep, wet, shuddering breath and asks, muffled into the mattress, “Can… Can we go to Taco Bell?”

“Sure…” you murmur. He could’ve asked you to drive him two states over to bury a body and you would’ve agreed just as thoughtlessly. Anything he needs. “We’ll take you.”

He doesn’t move. Just sniffles at a prompting little scritch to the nape of his neck, where his hair fades out to shadowy, peach-flesh fuzz.

So you ask, “Do you want to go change, and then I can drive us?”

“Can I just have a minute? Please?”

“Why?” demands a perplexed Viktor, still soft spoken. Desperate for an answer that isn’t made of cobbled assumptions; blunt in its pursuit.

And worried. You can tell that he’s worried.

As if you’d been the one to ask, the personification of wet, doleful misery lifts his head and looks up at you. His face is a ruin of dark, clumpy lashes and tear-tracked skin. His lip wobbles, the pressure of withholding little sobs building, building, building. But speaking it aloud makes it real. Speaking it aloud breaks the levee.

“I think we just broke up,” he finally whispers.

And cries face-down for another hour after that.

#arcane #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #reader insert #arcane x reader #my writing #literally beating tumblr with a stick i've been formatting this for fOURTY FUCKING MINUTES #GOD.#negl crying like a little bitch from the relief of finally posting this #pour one out for heraldeez who has to listen to me #just like jayce fr fr

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avalil18 · 9 months ago

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This Town

Summary: you come back home for a year but you find yourself deeply in love with your childhood friend again but once it’s time to part ways it gets hard.

Warnings:fluff, tears

——————————-

Y/n POV

It was a cold morning in Athens and I was waking up in a room that wasn’t mine. It was joes. Joe Burrow, my best friend since kindergarten and the only person i have ever loved is holding me in his arms. I’m supposed to leave back to New York City today. My work needs me back after I’ve been gone for a year. My dad passed away last year and I came to spend time with mom to make sure she has been doing ok. She is doing much better but I’m still worried. Thankfully the Burrows are right across the street and come over all the time to check up on her. Joe and I confessed our feelings towards each other a couple months ago but we haven’t told our families yet. We want to keep it on the low for now. But I am devastated I have to leave joe. I cried in his arms last night as he shed a few tears himself. I didn’t want to leave him but I have to get back to work and he has to start off season training tomorrow and Athens is two hours away so he is leaving late this morning as I am leaving late tonight so we have to say goodbye. It was seven in the morning when Joe and I both got up.

“Good morning!”-joe

“Good morning Joey!”-you

I kissed him on the lips

“What time do you leave?”-you

“Eleven”-Joe

“What about you? What time is your flight?”-joe

“My plane takes off at 8 tonight.”-you

“Oh ok”-joe

“I don’t want to go.”-you

“I know, I don’t want you to go either. But we will call every night I promise.”-joe

“Deal!”-you

Joe kissed me again and I put my head on his chest.

“We should get up.”-joe

“Yeah, I bet my mom is waiting for me.”-you

“At seven in the morning?”-joe

“I know crazy! But she gets up early.”-you

“Oh,ok!”-joe

We got up and went to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth as Joe fixed his hair. After we were done we went downstairs.

“Good morning!”- Robin

“Good morning!”-you and Joe say in unison

“Here do you guys want some coffee?”-Robin

“I would love some, but I better get going I need to pack and make sure everything is ready.”-you

“Ok! We will stop by later y/n to say goodbye!”-Robin

“Ok! Sounds perfect!”-you

Joe came up to me and walked me out.

“I will see you later?”-you

“Yes! See ya later!”-joe

I gave him a peck on the cheek and walked across the street to my house. My mom was in the kitchen making breakfast and coffee and asked me how the night was. I told her that I was sad to leave and Joe came and comforted me. I think my mom knew something was up but didn’t say anything. Once I was done having breakfast I decided to go up stairs to get ready and finish packing.

I put on leggings and a crewneck. I ran my fingers through my curled hair that flattened a little bit and put some light makeup on. I then got to packing. Putting last minute stuff in like toilet trees, a coat, and my shoes. I then decided once I was done with that to look at my emails and do some work. After a few hours of sitting at my childhood desk that still had little drawings on it I decided to be done with work. As I put my computer away I heard the doorbell ring and ran downstairs. Joe and his parents were at the door coming to say their goodbyes since they are going to be gone the whole day.

“It was so great seeing you again y/n! You have always been like a daughter to me and i am so proud of you for all that you a have accomplished and taking care of my son.”-Robin

“Awww Robin! Thank you for taking me in as apart of the family and I will miss you! I promise to call and text!”-you

“Good!”-Robin

After hugging Robin I moved to jimmy, joes dad who has always been a father figure to me.

“So proud of you y/n! And thanks for being friends with my weird son.”-Jimmy

“Haha! Of course, and thank you!”-you

After hugging Jimmy I moved to Joe. We were standing outside saying our goodbyes to each other but Joe is leaving now and I can’t stand to let him go.

“Hi!”-you

“Come here you weirdo.”-joe chuckled

He wrapped me into his embrace and just held me. Tears started rolling down my face as I buried my head in his chest. I could tell joes eyes started to get filled with tears.

“I’m going to miss you Joe, so much.”-you

“I know, but I’m going to miss you even more.”-joe

I looked up at him as my arms were still wrapped around his waist as his were to mine. I then put my hands on his cheeks.

“You are going to do great this season Joey. I know it! Just breathe and focus, don’t worry about anything else. And please don’t go hurting yourself ok?”-you

“I promise y/n, and thank you! I know you are going to be great being back at work and will get that promotion I just know it! I will miss you so much.”-joe

He then pulls me in for a passionate kiss leaving our parent’s mouths wide open. I of course kiss him back more passionately and pat his shoulder telling him to get on the road before I start crying even more. He nods and pulls his family in to one last hug before getting in his car and looking back at me then driving off. I turn around and cross my arms with tears streaming down my face. As I walk up the steps I hear distant tires screech and a car door being slammed and I turn around to see Joe running up to me as I walk down to see what’s going on. He then runs up to me and pulls me into a very deeply passionate kiss then the first. I kiss him back.

He pulls away and puts his forehead on mine as one of his hands is rubbing my cheek as the other is on my waist and my arms are around his neck.

“I love you y/n, just thought you should know that.”-joe

I chuckled

“I love you more.”-you

“Not possible!”-joe

He then pulls me into another kiss then heads back to his car and drives off into the distance. My mom held out her arm as I crashed into her side and hugged her.

“It will be ok baby!”- your mom

“I know.”-you

We walked back into the house and hung out until it was time for me to leave.

“You got everything?”-your mom

“Yes! My Uber is here! I love you mom so much!”-you

“Aww sweetie! I love you to! Be safe!”-your mom

I hugged her and went out the door into the car and off I was.

————————

A couple months later

“Can’t believe I’m back!”-you

“I know! I’m so happy your job moved you to Cincinnati!”-your mom

My job promoted me which means I move to Cincinnati. I flew in last night with all my stuff and moved into my new apartment just near Paycor Stadium. It was game day and Joe has no idea I’m here and has no idea I moved back. Joe and I have been calling and texting nonstop so it was hard not to tell your boyfriend that you are moving back and finally get to spend time with him. I told joes parents and they said I have to come and surprise Joe at his first game and I happily agreed.

I was wearing black leather pants that snatched me up with a black body suit and my fur leather coat with boots. Robin,jimmy, and my mom and I were walking onto the field. I was so nervous to see Joe but also really excited.

“Yo y/n!”- tee

“Hey tee!”- you

“I don’t know you are in town!”-tee

“Yeah! I actually just moved back! I’m here to surprise Joe and tell him the news!”-you

“Omg that’s awesome! Congrats! Joe is over there next to coach!”-tee

“Thanks!” Catch you later!”-you

Tee waved goodbye and I started heading over to Joe. He was in an all white uniform looking so dang cute. As we were walking Joe and I made eye contact. He made a very confused face and his coach even looked over and patted him on his shoulder and walked away. Joes then realized it was me and a big smile grew on his face as he ran over.

He picked me up and twirled me around.

“Oh my god! I can’t believe it! What are you doing here?”-joe said putting me down as his hands were still on my waist

“I came to see you! And to tell you that I got the promotion and I’m now going to live here full time!”-you

“Seriously! Y/n that’s awesome! I’m so proud of you!You deserved it! Wait, does that mean I get to see you everyday?”-joe

“Yess!”-you

“YESS!”-joe

He picked me up again then kissed me. I was kinda surprised because I know he hates PDA but the fans were going crazy over Joe and seeing him pick someone off their feet and kiss them. But I wasn’t complaining!

“I got to go! But I love you y/n! Have fun and I will see you after!”-joe

“Ok! I love you Joe so much, and you are going to do amazing and remember what I told you just breathe.”-you

“I will, baby!”-joe

He then hugged his parents and my mom and jogged away. Then we all went up to the suit to watch the game! And of course they won! I was so dang proud!

————————————

Authors note: so cute! Idk what it is with me and writing about childhood besties but I love it!🤭🩷

#joe burrow

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deadgirlwalking91 · 6 months ago

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new update - 'thank you for the venom', chapter 8: 'stay quiet, stay near, stay close, they can't hear'

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight Summary

Lute makes a decision regarding Adam's proposition.

No weekend preview today... instead, I'm positing the whole chapter ;) hoping to shift my posting schedule to the weekend instead of a Tuesday, so let's see how this works. Thanks all for reading and engaging so far, hope you like this one. It was a fun time to write! Cheers @branded-rose for beta-ing and for patiently answering all my "but does this make senseeeeeee" questions. You have the patience of a saint to deal with me haha.

This was a predicament that Lute never, in her wildest dreams - or nightmares - expected to find herself in.

Sure, lately her interactions with Adam had been teetering more towards civility, as opposed to constantly wanting to rip his throat out with her bare hands. And their meeting the other week, despite her stomach-ache later and awful bloating later that night, had been somewhat tolerable.

Though, the feeling in her stomach after that meeting was nothing compared to the liquid-hot magma that was simmering at the moment, threatening to spill up into her chest and flow throughout her entire body.

Granted, she should have known better, should have been prepared that something like this would happen. As soon as she set Adam straight on her sexuality, she knew it was only a matter of time before he pulled his predictable bullshit and hit on her. After all, she’d be the final notch on his bedpost when it came to the women in his army.

The straight ones, anyway.

What she didn’t expect though, was to enjoy it.

It wasn’t like Adam had never been close to her physically - in fact, it felt that in the few months since he found out about her revamped training regime, he’d found multiple ways to invade her personal space to antagonise her. And it worked. Executed to perfection by him, really. He knew how to get under her skin, and he excelled at it.

This, though? He was getting under her skin, just not in his usual manner.

Because this time, despite the rational part of her brain screaming at her to snap out of whatever stupor she’d found herself in, she was hot, bothered and turned the fuck on. And she needed to leave before she did something stupid about it. Now.

Especially considering if she stayed, she’d probably keep drinking, which given her current state of mind, was not smart. She’d already had enough.

Shakily, Lute slid off her stool, gripping the padded seat for support as she found her feet. Wine on an empty stomach was never a good idea. It went straight to her head, clouding her judgement. Fuelling potential bad decisions.

Sober Lute wouldn’t let her boss tell her he wanted to take her home for the night and have his way with her. Or let him put his hands all over her in public while she held them against her body, in full view of her sisters, like he owned her. Like she was his, and his alone.

And she would never, in a million years, have thought that she wanted to be taken to his place so he could have his way with her. She needed to move away from him, so that the tiny shred of willpower that she was desperately clinging to wouldn’t be whittled down to nothing.

Smoothing her dress down, she cleared her throat before turning to Adam, who was now leaning against the bar counter, smirking down at her. Bastard.

“I need to go,” she declared, her voice faltering as she lifted her chin in a last-ditch attempt at bravado. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the office.”

He folded his arms, his arrogant smirk only growing as he looked her up and down, his eyes lingering hungrily at the hem of her dress.

“Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go, Lutey.”

Exhaling deeply, trying to control her heart thumping in her chest, Lute ignored him as she strode towards the door leading to the gardens outside. She needed to find Vaggie, to pretend she was feeling unwell so they could leave, immediately.

She had to get home as soon as possible before she changed her mind and ran back to Adam, and she could only do that with Vaggie’s support.

Not that she’d breathe a word of what had happened to her.

She threw the door open and briefly closed her eyes as she felt the relief of cold air, the gentle breeze welcomed on her burning face and chest as she scanned the courtyard for her friend. Despite the pleasant, mild night the outdoor space was mostly deserted, save for a small group of exorcist angels seated around a table chatting excitedly amongst one another. Lute wandered throughout the gardens, keeping an eye out in hope that she’d spot Vaggie amongst the exotic flowers and greenery.

No luck.

Sighing, she approached a secluded corner in the far end of the courtyard, hidden by a large, leafy tree. The space was unoccupied, but her head was reeling from her encounter with Adam inside the bar and she needed a moment to process her thoughts, to try and come up with a game plan on how to move forward.

She leaned the side of her body against the wooden fence that lined the perimeter of the venue, facing away from the rest of the yard, her features relaxing for the first time since walking away from Adam. Her chest heaved, the pounding in her heart ringing in her ears as she raked a hand through her hair, trying to recreate the sensation of his fingers running along her scalp.

Her hands dropped to hold herself around her waist, recalling his possessive hold on her like she belonged to him.

Remembering his bare hand splayed across the top of her bare thigh, inching further and further up her leg until he toyed with the hem of her dress, and how the only coherent thought that ran through her head was how she wanted him to keep going, to feel his way under the material until…

She swallowed nervously, trying not to let her imagination run too wild.

“Get it together, Lute,” she muttered to herself, sharply pinching the soft flesh of her inner arm in an attempt to shock herself out of her lustful stupor. It had no effect except for leaving a gold-tinged mark on her pale skin. “He’s only doing this because he’s realised you’re just another number he can add to his body count. Nothing more. You don’t matter to him. You don’t want to matter to him. He’s an incompetent idiot.”

Hugging her arms around herself, she puffed her cheeks and rubbed her thumbs into her biceps, attempting to distract herself from her thoughts. She let her chest rise and fall rhythmically, and, after some time, her pulse slowed.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, zoned out, focusing on her breathing, when she felt two large, firm hands take hold of her hips from behind. Yelping in surprise, her heart rate skyrocketed once again, and she didn’t need to turn around to know those hands belonged to the very man she had walked away from earlier that night.

“What the fuck, Sir?” she gasped, her grip on her arms tightening. “What do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

“You never gave me an answer,” she heard him say, his raspy voice quieter than usual. Softer.

“I was just leaving,” she lied, her body betraying her brain as she turned around, her hands shifting to instinctively rest on his chest. Swallowing nervously, she looked up into the yellow features of that hideous fucking mask that she hated so much.

She wasn’t quite so sure though, that she still hated what laid underneath anymore.

It was unlikely she’d ever find out.

“Leaving all by yourself, babe?”

“Yes,” Her breath hitched in her throat as his hands started roaming her body once more, one coming to rest on her lower back, the other cradling the back of her neck. “Specifically, without you.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Then why haven’t you gone home, hmm?”

Her eyes involuntarily fluttered shut as he ran his thumb down her jawline, letting it come to rest against her bottom lip where he gently tugged at it, parting her lips slightly.

It took every shred of the minimal willpower left in her body not to give in completely to him then and there. She just couldn’t bring herself to be yet another number. To be branded another one of ‘his girls’.

She could almost hear Vaggie’s stern voice in the back of her mind, reminding her that she was better than that, that she was smarter than that…

“Come home with me.”

“No.”

She opened her eyes, and gold met yellow as she stared into his soulless, digital face.

Think, Lieutenant.

It was in that moment, somewhere amongst the fog that clouded her judgement, that Lute found the exact solution to her predicament. What if there was something in it for her? What if she got what she wanted? Something to finally satisfy her curiosity?

There was a ninety-nine percent chance he would decline, anyway. Probably tell her to fuck off. If that were the case, no harm done. She’d avoid becoming the very thing she hated, and while she wouldn’t get what she wanted, she could live with that. They could forget this night ever happened and go back to hating each other and trading blows as per usual.

But if he said yes… then she might be able to justify it.

“Unless,” she said slowly, glancing downwards at her feet, carefully trying to articulate the words in her mind before they left her mouth. “Unless you give me what I want.”

She felt his grip on her neck tighten, shooting shivers down her spine, rattling her. “Go on.”

“I’ll -” she took a breath. “I’ll go home with you. But only if you take the mask off. I get to see your face.” She looked up at him, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to feign confidence.

Adam’s hands fell by his side as he stepped backwards, shaking his head.

“As tempting as your little proposal is, it’s not happening, Lute.”

“Okay,” she shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant despite the pang of disappointment that nagged at her. “Then I guess I’m going home alone tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” Lute crossed her arms and glared towards the centre of the courtyard, trying to see if Vaggie had ventured outside so she could grab her and leave without looking back.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Adam’s mouth. “You seem kinda pissed. Something you wanna share with me, babe?”

“No.”

“Admit it, you thought what happened back inside was kinda hot.” With one stride, he’d managed to close the distance between them again, their bodies just touching - though she was slightly disappointed that he’d managed to keep his hands to himself this time.

Lute snorted. “Please, Sir. I’m not stupid. I’ve seen you pull the exact same moves with the other girls in the past. I was just…” she trailed off, unsure how to finish her sentence.

“Just what, hmm?”

His hands found her hips again, pressing her against him, and her wings fluttered involuntarily.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory.”

“Which is?”

He flashed her a wide smile, dragging his fingertips slowly up and down her sides. He was deliberately antagonising her. Teasing her. “You’ve got it bad for me, babe. I don’t blame you - I’d have it bad for my boss, too.”

Lute’s eyes widened, horrified. “You have it bad for Sera?”

“Shit!” Adam cursed, fingers digging into Lute’s waist. “I fucked that up -”

Lute tilted her head back slightly and laughed, shoulders quivering as her hands came to rest on his forearms.

Accidentally, of course.

Adam snickered, shaking his head. “I haven’t screwed up a line like that in years. I’m usually smooth as fuck.”

“First time for everything, isn’t there, Sir?” she smiled up at him, amused, momentarily forgetting the unusual predicament she had found herself in. A rare, peaceful silence passed between the two of them; one where they did nothing except smile at each other.

It seemed there certainly was a first time for everything.

“Yeah, he mused, uncharacteristically quiet, cocking his head to the side slightly and frowning. “I guess there is, Lutey.”

Adam pulled one of his hands away from her waist, causing her hold on his arm to slip. Hesitating slightly, he brought it to the chin of his mark and lifted ever so slightly before stopping completely.

Lute’s breath caught in her throat as the realisation of what he was doing hit her like a ton of bricks, her heart now racing so fast she was sure he could feel it rocketing away in her chest.

“Wha -”

“Close your eyes.”

She gripped his arm tighter. “No way, you’re finally taking that hideous thing off, I’m not -”

“Close your fucking eyes, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

Groaning in frustration, she reluctantly obeyed her commanding officer, squeezing her eyes shut. “Fine, they’re closed. Tell me when to open.” His other hand fell from her waist, her other arm coming to rest by her side as he moved away, putting distance between them once again.

She desperately wanted to peek, to let just one eyelid open slightly so she could see what he was doing. Did he have to fix himself somehow before revealing his true identity to her? She held her breath, trying to listen for a sign of what to expect when she was allowed to look.

Nothing.

Tapping her foot impatiently, she puffed her cheeks in frustration. “Can I open them now?”

“No, you impatient bitch! Do not fucking open them until I say. I mean it, Lute, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Fine, whatever, just hurry up.”

Two warm hands suddenly cupped the sides of her face, tilting it upwards, a single thumb grazing her cheekbone.

“What are you doing?”

“Remember, keep them closed,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

She couldn’t think; him being so close to her was making her head spin, her heart flutter, her throat tighten.

Then, without warning, he closed the space between them and kissed her.

It took Lute a moment to register that the mask had gone, and that the mouth against hers was warm and soft, kissing her with an eagerness that caused her to melt against him completely.

His lips moved expertly against hers, capturing her mouth over and over as his hands left her face and grabbed at her hips, shifting her so that her back was flush against the wooden fence.

Lute sighed into his mouth, her own hands instinctively flying upwards into his hair, running her fingers through the coarse strands, trying to imagine the colour, the style, how it framed his face.

Oh, how she longed to see his face.

“Hold on, babe.” Adam whispered against her lips, and before she could respond, he gripped the back of her thighs and hoisted her up, his hips pinning her roughly against the fence.

Wrapping her legs around his middle for stability, Lute moaned softly as he slowly ran his tongue across her bottom lip, silently asking her for permission to enter her mouth. And when their tongues finally collided, his hands started hungrily roaming her thighs and ass under her dress, grabbing at and rubbing her bare skin like he couldn’t get enough of her.

She tried to concentrate on his touch, how he was practically manhandling her like she was his little plaything, his large hands desperately kneading at her skin.

Warmth pooled between her thighs as she wondered what else he could do with those fingers.

Disentangling one hand from his hair, she let it drop so she could cradle his face in one hand. She took her time feeling the stubble along his jawline prickle the soft inside of her palm as he continued working her mouth with his own, keeping a firm, steady pace, not showing any sign of stopping or slowing down.

The sensation of touching his face and hair, but not seeing him was exciting, enthralling, exhilarating, and she made the silent decision that if it just so happened that he ended up fucking her against the fence, then so be it. Dignity be damned, she was horny as fuck and they’d gone this far, what did it matter if they ended up going all the way?

Her dress was hiked up around her waist now, exposing her thin, cotton underwear to him. Groaning loudly at the sensation of his hardened length pressing against her, she tensed her legs and ground her hips into his. She started rhythmically rolling them back and forth, the friction causing her arousal to build, almost sending herself over the edge at one point before she backed right off. She didn’t want to spoil herself in case things escalated further, plus she had a feeling there was no way she’d be able to keep quiet if she did come. Given they were in a public place, that could be a problem.

When Adam eventually broke away, both of them gasping for air, she threw the back of her head against the fence in protest, groaning at the feel of the night’s air on her face.

“You kept them closed,” he breathed, a hint of relief evident in his voice as he eased his hips off hers, her feet giddily touching the ground once more. “Aren’t you a good lieutenant, obeying orders? That’s why you’re my best girl, Lute.”

Breathless, she nodded, blindly grabbing his face to draw his mouth down to hers as she let out a needy little whimper. Because above all, she was a damn good lieutenant and it was about fucking time he recognised it. Took him long enough, too.

“Just so you know,” he whispered against her, letting her tug at his bottom lip with her teeth, “I don’t do this shit. Ever.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, not paying attention to what he was saying as one of his hands found its way to the thin strap of her dress, slipping it down to expose her shoulder.

“I mean it, babe. I don’t kiss on the mouth, and I’ve never taken this off for anyone.” Down came the other strap, her shoulders fully exposed to the cool night air now. She suddenly became aware of just how hard her nipples were. They painfully rubbed against the material of her dress, adding to the pleasure she was already feeling in other parts of her body as she pressed against him.

“Mmmhmm.”

Lute simply didn’t care what he was talking about at that moment; truthfully, she wasn’t registering a single word that he was saying. Right now, she was too busy focusing on the sensation of his massive hand under her dress, teasing as he ran a finger just underneath the seam at her inner thigh. She whined in frustration, bucking her hips in the direction of his hand, indicating that she wanted him to quit messing around with her and get to the fucking point.

“Lute, are you out here? It’s time to go.”

A familiar voice rang clear in her ears, causing Lute to stop dead in their tracks as she was trying to undo the zipper of her dress one-handed.

Vaggie.

“Shit!” She broke the kiss, whacking Adam forcefully on the arm in hopes that he’d get his hand out of her underwear and pay attention to the fact that Vaggie was about to catch them making out against the fence.

“Vaggie!” she hissed, ducking her head into his chest. “Tell me if she’s coming this way, my eyes are still closed! I can’t see where she is!”

“Keep them fucking closed until I say otherwise,” he growled, moving away and Lute had to bite the urge to protest when she no longer felt him touching her.

If Vaggie found her here, secluded in the corner with Adam… she would know. She was incredibly astute, and even if Lute could come up with a brilliant excuse as to why she was alone and dishevelled with her boss’ hands up her dress, Vaggie would never, ever in a million years buy it.

The judgement alone would be enough to kill her.

“Lute?”

“Open.”

Lute’s eyes fluttered open, darting towards the door where she could faintly make out a familiar, grey bob heading back inside. Exhaling, she slid downwards against the fence until she hit the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her, grateful that Vaggie hadn’t bothered to look for her too hard.

In her relief, she’d even almost forgotten about Adam until he joined her on the ground, mask and hood firmly fixed back in their usual place, much to Lute’s disappointment..

“If she’d seen us…” she started, trailing off as she rested her head against the fence. “She’d gut me with her spear in a heartbeat.”

“Why?”

Lute turned, frowning slightly at Adam. “Because for years, she’s heard me complain about what a rude, obnoxious, disgusting, incompetent asshole you are. And she’d tell me I’m worth so much more than just being another notch in your belt.” She jutted her chin out and drew herself up taller. “And she’s right. I’m strong, and intelligent, and a damn good leader to those girls.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

“I don’t need you to,” she shot back. “I don’t need your validation.”

“Then what are you going on about, woman?”

Lute chewed her lip nervously, unsure if she should be blunt or dance around the issue. “I think you only hit on me tonight because you’ve found out I’m straight.”

Adam snorted. “That’s bullshit.”

“The timing is very coincidental, Sir.”

Adam cleared his throat. “Look, yeah, I didn’t think you were into guys. And maybe that’s my bad, because honestly, I didn’t give a shit about getting to know you. You’re a bitchy, mouthy little brat who doesn’t know when to quit. But,” he added, noticing Lute’s face had hardened in anger, “You do a fucking great job as my lieutenant. The girls know it, I know it. Fuck, even Sera knows it, or otherwise she wouldn’t have taken your idea seriously.”

Lute nodded, her expression softening. “Thanks.” She fiddled with the hem of her dress, unsure how else to respond.

“Why did you do it?” she found herself blurting out, avoiding his gaze as a blush crept up her cheeks. She wasn’t entirely sure she was prepared for his answer.

Adam cocked his head at her. “Do what?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Do - do what we did before.”

She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask ‘why did you almost fuck me against the fence?’

He shrugged. “I figured we should just get it out of our systems. Years of sexual tension and all that jazz.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what, Lute?”

“Get it out of your system?”

He stared at her, expressionless. “Yeah. Did you?”

“Yep. Gone. So out of my system.” she lied, waving a hand in the air, feigning nonchalance.

It was, in fact, not out of her system. Not after she’d felt his lips against hers, or how his coarse hair felt in her hands as the strands slipped between her fingers. How his identity was still a complete mystery, but at least now she knew he was real under that mask.

Still, their little encounter had left her yearning for more. So much more. She needed to know the colour of his eyes, whether his hair was dark or light, what his skin tone was.

How his body would feel on top of hers as he buried himself inside her.

“But…” she continued, breaking her train of thought before her imagination began running wild. “Can we never speak of this again? Pretend it never happened?”

“Yeah, alright. Fine,” he answered dully, and she noticed his mood suddenly turning sour.

“I mean it, Sir.”

“I said fucking alright!” Adam snapped, turning away from her.

Lute crossed her arms and glared in the opposite direction, irked by his sudden change in demeanour. “Good.”

Neither of them spoke for several seconds, instead choosing to avoid looking at each other completely.

“Well,” Adam said abruptly, pulling himself up to a standing position, still not looking at Lute. “I’m out. See you tomorrow morning in the office.”

“Bye, then.”

She reluctantly watched him leave, and sighed, knowing that despite the night’s crazy turn of events, their parting exchange proved that tomorrow would be just another day in the office.

Groaning, she banged her head against the fence again.

Dammit.

Adam took his seat at the bar again, nodding at the bartender as they caught his eye and pointed to a glass.

The night had… escalated. Far more so than he imagined it would, despite said escalation being his doing.

If only they hadn’t been interrupted by Vaggie, that cock-blocking little bitch, he was sure Lute would have agreed to go home with him.

Sighing, he pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time and noticed a text message notification at the top of his screen. He clicked onto it, frowning.

Layla: Hey, raincheck tonight? Something’s come up.

He’d forgotten all about his plans with Layla amongst the excitement of that night’s events. And yet…

He had no desire to see Layla that night. Or any other woman, for that matter.

Not unless she had platinum hair, a smart mouth and could put away two dozen ribs, preferably in a tiny, red dress.

Adam: All good, chat soon.

She replied almost instantly.

Layla. No worries. Besides, you seemed preoccupied tonight - not that I blame you. She looked hooooot ;)

Smirking, he shoved his phone back in his pocket and accepted the drink from the bartender. Layla was the ultimate hype-girl, and for that, he was thankful.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lute making her way hurriedly to the front door, pausing momentarily to glance at him before ducking her head and slipping away into the night.

Tonight may not have been the night to sleep with Lute, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t going to happen.

He just hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

***

Next time: Another training mishap puts Lute in a tricky situation for a week or so.

#hazbin hotel #adam x lute #guardrock #guitarspear #guitarspear fic #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin lute

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 1 year ago

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Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 8: The Woes of Womanhood (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 8: The Woes of Womanhood

With the return of Prince Daemon, and Princess Rhaenyra, the Red Keep braces itself for the inevitable implosion of scandal once more.

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: Nothing of note, except longgg chapter ahead. Alicent, Daemon and Rhaenyra interactions ahead!

Word Count: 7.1k

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: hello all! i'm sorry for this very late and much needed update to se zaldrizoti' prumia, which is why this chapter is longer than usual haha. my exams are finally over and i'm on break now, so i will be devoting myself to writing more all the way till school starts again.

also: i added in an extra rhaenyra and reader interaction at the end of chapter 7. it's not crucial to the understanding of the plot, but it does explain why rhaenyra is significantly more civil with the reader in this chapter, so do check it out :) if you're lazy to go back and read it, here's a separate post i made of it! happy reading!

p.s. check the a/n at the end for some future plans I have for this fic :)

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics !

109 years after Aegon’s Conquest, 5 months later

The persistent cries of a babe echoed throughout the Queen’s chambers, and the wet nurses and nannies watched with pity as Alicent attempted to soothe a wailing Helaena, to no success. “Shh, it’s alright, Helaena. Don’t fuss, please,” Alicent implored softly, looking a little close to tears herself.

The doors to the nursery opened quietly, and you stepped in, concern etched on your face upon hearing all the crying. The skirts of your dark red gown swished as you walked, alerting the people in the room to your presence. Stark relief was painted on their faces as you walked over to Alicent and she handed Helaena wordlessly over to you. You adjusted Helaena in your arms, cooing at her softly, “There, there, little princess. Ry iksos sȳrī, dōna dārilaros.” Gradually, Helaena started to calm down, staring up at you with wide purple eyes as you sang a soft lullaby in Valyrian to her. When her eyelids finally fluttered shut, you gently placed her back in the cradle, rocking her a few more times for good measure.

Alicent was sitting in her bedchambers adjoining the nursery, head bent, looking weary. Nonetheless, she shot you a smile as you entered the room quietly, moving to pour her a cup of tea. “I fear sometimes I would be bereft without you” Alicent’s voice was soft, as you walked over to her, handing her the cup of tea. “I would feel like a hollow shell without you.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you comforted her, “You know you’re doing the best you can.” “And yet, I can barely soothe mine own daughter who is only five moons old,” Alicent bit her lip, cradling her cup of tea. You could tell from the nervous bobbing of her throat that she wanted to pick at her nails again, which was why you brewed her the cup of tea. She was unable to pick at her nails if she was holding something hot. And so it had become habit for you to hand her a cup of hot tea whenever she was distressed like this.

“Not everyone is born to be a natural at parenting, Alicent,” you consoled her. “And babes are difficult to understand, much less comfort.” “I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, if I cannot even be an adequate mother to my own children, how do I even bear the title of ‘Mother of the Realm’?” Alicent sighed, looking downcast. “My children are more taken with you than they are with me. It is a little disheartening to see.” You inched closer to her, and she placed one of her hands in yours, another holding onto her teacup. You squeezed her hand gently - another strange habit that the two of you had unconsciously developed. It reminded you so much of Rhaenyra, and your thoughts wandered to her, and how she was faring on her marriage tour.

In truth, apart from Helaena, Alicent was still mulling about the conversation with her father nearly six moons ago. Though Otto had not brought up the subject in earnest again, Alicent had noticed Otto’s visits to her apartments increase over the past few moons. His visits, which were already quite frequent, had built up to a daily occurrence, with Alicent uncomfortably glancing at her father as his green eyes rested on you whilst you bustled around, serving the both of them or soothing Alicent's children. Alicent was compelled to do something, anything, to warn you of her father’s deepening interest in you, but with Helaena’s birth and her still acclimating to the duties of a Queen, as well as her uncertainty over her father’s intentions, she had kept mum.

“You know,” Alicent’s voice startled you out of your train of thoughts. “You would make a great mother someday. Should you wish to marry, of course.” “Are you chasing me away from your service, my Queen?” you teased her playfully. Alicent’s eyes widened with panic, “Oh no, I was just mentioning- since you are wonderful with Helaena and Aegon and-” You squeezed her hand lightly, “I was just jesting, Alicent. I know you meant it as a compliment.” Alicent’s shoulders loosened slightly, as she laughed. “Oh. Forgive me, Y/N. My mind was occupied. But I really do mean it, you know,” she said earnestly. You smiled at her, though it did not reach your eyes. Your thoughts were still consumed by the conversation you had with your father at the Kingswood. The past six moons have been devoid of any correspondence from your father, something you would have greatly relished all those moons ago. Yet now, it only served to make you feel like you were on the edge of a cliff, unsure when you would plummet. You shook it off, not wanting to feel the unpleasant crawling feeling under your skin whenever you thought about your father.

“In truth,” you began quietly, “I already am a mother.” Alicent looked puzzled. “I do not know whether I will be fated to be a mother of my own children in this lifetime, but in my view, you are like a daughter to me, Alicent. So in a way, I already am a mother.” Alicent’s eyes grew misty, as she said quietly, “I feel you are akin to a mother to me as well, Y/N. Words cannot express my gratitude towards you for your guidance over the past few years.” You smiled, moving to brush one of Alicent’s loose strands of hair out of the way.

The both of you were interrupted by the sound of a soft knock at the door as another lady-in-waiting of Alicent’s, Lady Eliza Butterwell, a shy maid of fourteen entered the room and curtsied.

“I apologise for the disturbance, Your Grace. But the King has called for the court to gather in the throne room.” Alicent’s brows furrowed. “Whatever for?” Her next words shot an odd thrill through you, one that you haven’t felt in several years. “Prince Daemon has returned to King’s Landing on Caraxes, Your Grace. With a crown.”

The way to the throne room was swarmed with courtiers, but you were fortunate enough to find yourself as one of the spectators at the front. You caught a few faint whispers as you walked into the throne room, "Daemon..." "The Triarchy, all dead..." "The Myrish have never been more humiliated!" "At last, my ships can travel through the shipping lanes without fear of being attacked again..."

You played with the rings on your fingers nervously as you watched Viserys sit himself on the throne, his expression brooding. He afforded you a small nod when he glimpsed you in the crowd, to which you replied with a small bow of your head. Your eyes were so busy watching the entrance however, that you failed to notice the watchful gaze of Otto Hightower on you. His gaze soon turned away when Viserys caught him looking at you, his lips pressed together.

It all came to an end however, as the crowd quieted, and the distant clink of armour could be heard. Your eyes were narrowed and your eyebrows furrowed as Daemon swaggered into the hall. Your eyes were drawn to his now shortened hair, and a crude makeshift of a crown seated upon his head. You could sense a change in him, and not just in appearance.

Your lips turned downwards as Daemon sauntered too close to the throne, and was met with the sword of a Kingsguard to his abdomen. The fool. Your eyes narrowed even further when Daemon lifted a beaten hammer at Viserys, seemingly in challenge.

“Add it to the chair.” A loud clatter reverberated through the room as Daemon dropped the hammer on the floor with a flourish. You had to bite back a smile. The years have not tempered his flair for the dramatics.

The tension was palpable between the two brothers as Viserys stared at his brother, trying to decipher his true motives. “You wear a crown. Do you also call yourself King?” “Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me: King of the Narrow Sea.” So they really did prevail in the end. You smiled slightly to yourself. Of course Daemon would miraculously manage to reverse the odds. But you felt bolts of alarm going off in your head as you registered Daemon’s words. The fool, is he meaning to challenge the King? Has war clobbered him such that he has lost all his wits?

“But I know that there is only one true king, Your Grace.” You loosened a subtle sigh of relief as Daemon genuflected in front of Viserys, taking his crown off. “My crown and the Stepstones are yours, Your Grace.”

The court watched with bated breath, as Viserys rose from the throne, climbing down the steps and standing before Daemon.

Daemon registered a movement at the corner of his eye, and turned to meet the distrusting glare of Otto Hightower, which Daemon returned with equal venom. So, the leech still lives. How unfortunate. His gaze then trailed over to a familiar figure clad in dark red.

You.

Violet eyes met yours, and he let his eyes trail lazily over your figure. He noted the coil of tension in your muscles as you observed the proceedings. His lips quirked up into a smirk, and you narrowed your eyes at him, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. Daemon noticed, concealing a chuckle, which seemed wholly inappropriate at this moment. He directed his gaze back to Viserys, staring back at him unflinchingly as he scrutinised Daemon for any ill intent. Brother, really? Daemon wanted to scoff when he saw Viserys glance at that cunt of a Hand. Do you distrust me so?

“Rise.” Daemon got to his feet, looking at Viserys as he clapped a tentative hand on Daemon’s shoulder. He has grown more haggard through the years, Daemon noted with concern, his eyes trailing discreetly to the leather gloves Viserys now wore. Has marriage not been treating you well, brother? What have those cunts done to you while I was gone?

You applauded with the rest of the court as Viserys swept Daemon into a stiff, but genuine brotherly embrace. A smile tugged at your lips as you watched Viserys escort Daemon out of the throne room, and Daemon shot you an arrogant smirk as he passed you. Subconsciously, you felt the lightest you had been in these three years.

It was a refreshingly cool day and the air was abound with a celebratory mood as the court gathered in the gardens for the “small” feast heralding Daemon’s return. Dressed in a cream gown with a ruffled off the shoulder overlay, your gauzy dusky orange skirt overlay billowed slightly in the cool breeze. Your cream skirt was embroidered with gold swirls faintly reminiscent of roses, which matched the golden belt inlaid with seven large rubies Viserys had gifted to you recently. A golden rose dangling off a chain hooked on the belt glittered in the sunlight.

Viserys was holding court in your small party of four, consisting of you, Alicent, Daemon and him. Otto stood away at a respectful distance, likely out of disdain for Daemon than by choice.

“No, no, no, no, I will not revisit this debate. You were always Mother’s favourite,” Viserys declared heartily. His gloved hands were resting on both Daemon and your shoulders, as he chattered to Alicent happily. “Our mother, she had no regard for customs, traditions or rules. And I sadly, was no great warrior.” Viserys sighed as you and Daemon shared an amused glance. “Lady Primrose was always partial to you though, brother,” Daemon pointed out. Viserys chuckled, “That’s because you nearly drove the poor woman up the wall with your antics. Or should I say, the both of you did,” he wagged a finger at the both of you, expression accusatory yet his eyes were smiling and full of warmth.

You and Daemon exchanged identical smirks. “Well, if you weren’t always such an-” you were cut off as Viserys clapped a hand over your mouth, and Daemon sniggered at your indignant expression. “Ah, I thought the passing years would have cooled your temper, Y/N,” Viserys chided. Daemon lifted his eyebrows in mischief, “Indeed, byka zaldrizes. It has been three years, and you are still as hot-headed as ever.” You narrowed your eyes playfully at him, “Only because you deserve it, Your Grace.”

“Now you know why the two of them nearly drove Y/N’s mother to madness when she was raising all three of us,” Viserys laughed to Alicent, whose expression was courteous, yet taut with awkwardness. She felt supremely out of place in the midst of your reminiscing, and you shot her a sympathetic smile. Daemon’s eyes followed your every move, even as he made a jape at his brother, “Come now, brother. Do not absolve yourself of any responsibility. The three of us all had our fair share of rebellion.” “I never said I was absolving myself of any responsibility,” Viserys joked goodnaturedly, clapping Daemon’s shoulder. “Though the fact remains that the two of you made up the bulk of trouble caused in the Red Keep.”

Your eyes widened slightly when you saw someone enter your conversation. Rhaenyra tried to look subtle as she sidled into the gap between you and Alicent. Viserys didn’t notice, still chattering happily to Daemon, but you saw that Alicent had a similar expression of surprise.

“Congratulations on your victory,” Rhaenyra smiled warmly at Daemon, seemingly ignorant of the reprimanding glare Viserys was now levelling at the unexpected appearance of his daughter. Viserys released Daemon’s shoulder, moving to take a heavy swig from his goblet. Daemon shot you a look that clearly said: whatever happened here? You discreetly tilted your head in a ‘I’ll explain later’ motion, and Daemon redirected his attention back to Rhaenyra. “Thank you, Princess.”

The ensuing silence had never felt more painful. “Perhaps Prince Daemon would care for a tour of the gallery? He hasn’t yet seen the new tapestries gifted to you by Norvos and Qohor.” You bit your bottom lip at Alicent’s very obvious attempt to thaw the stifling atmosphere between the five of you, and at Viserys’ mocking expression of disbelief and concentration. “Would you like to see the tapestries?” Viserys could barely contain his mirth, and Daemon had tilted his head downward to muffle his laughter, while you looked disapprovingly at the two of them. “He has no interest in such things!” Viserys guffawed, clapping Daemon’s shoulder, oblivious to Alicent’s crestfallen expression.

Daemon felt a glare upon him, and he looked up to see your frown as both brothers were in stitches. He smirked at you, clearly amused by your protective mothering of the young Queen.

Ah, my little rose, caring too much for others, as always. Daemon mused to himself.

“I’d like to see them.” Viserys’ expression immediately turned into one of barely veiled irritation. “Well then, you should not deprive yourself.” You winced at his snappish tone, as Rhaenyra shot him a cold smile. “I shall enjoy them alone.”

You were about to excuse yourself to go after her, when Viserys clapped a hand on your shoulder once more, ordering a servant to refill your wine goblet. Alicent gave you a nod which conveyed her understanding, and she excused herself from the group, heading towards the bench where Rhaenyra was brooding after being chastised. Viserys was all too happy to see her go, directing you and Daemon into another conversation about your late mother and Prince Baelon, as well as your shared childhood.

After a rather taxing conversation with Viserys and Daemon, you managed to excuse yourself as Viserys was occupied with some courtiers eager to curry favour with the King. Heading to the Godswood for some reprieve, you exhaled in relief when you found the clearing to be void of any presence. At long last, some peace. You closed your eyes and felt the summer breeze caress your face gently, smiling happily.

You heard an infernal clearing of a throat behind you, and you reluctantly turned around to meet Daemon’s twinkling violet eyes, his lips turned up in his signature smirk.

“Seven Hells, must a lady kill to have some peace for a minute?” you grumbled. Daemon chuckled, moving closer to you. “Having killed as much as I did in the Stepstones, I would say you do not need to resort to such drastic measures, byka zaldrizes.”

You rolled your eyes in mild frustration, “I suppose it would be far too impolite of me to ask for you to leave me in peace, then?” Daemon smirked as he loomed over you, his eyes scanning you shamelessly again, like he did three years ago in the throne room when you first saw each other after so many years, “Court etiquette would deem it so, byka zaldrizes. But if I recall correctly, you were never one to ask when it came to me.”

Vexed, you made a beeline for the tables set in the open corridor that was shaded by a trellis creeping with wisteria flowers. Daemon followed, watching you like a hawk as you loaded a plate high with lemon cakes, strawberry tarts, currant compote, gingerbread and figs. Daemon leaned over your shoulder and snatched a strawberry tart from your plate, grinning as you whirled your head around to glare viciously at him.

You ventured to sit beneath the Godswood tree, setting your plate of treats on the ground, and crossing your legs in an unladylike manner. Daemon smirked as he watched you: this was a familiar sight from your shared childhood. He unhooked his scabbard which Dark Sister was sheathed in from his belt so that he could sit down next to you and lean back against the trunk of the Godswood. He secretly tried to make off with a lemon cake, but you smacked his hand away, causing him to lift his hand to his chest with a wounded expression on his face. You dipped a gingerbread into the currant compote, munching on it.

“You’ve changed, you know,” Daemon remarked, finally successfully thwarting your attempts to stop him from pillaging from your platter of sweets and lifting a lemon cake to his mouth. You offered him an exasperated look, yet he could detect the faint hint of fondness in your glare. The both of you had been like this since you were children, always sneaking off with lemon cakes and strawberry tarts from the royal kitchens and huddling under the Godswood, giggling and munching on your stolen goods until you were discovered by the servants.

“I could say the same for you,” you eyed his new haircut. “You always used to have a preference for longer hairstyles.” “Well, that was before someone decided to cut off my hair during my sleep once,” Daemon snarked, running his hand through his hair. You snorted, “You can’t still be hung up on that, can you, my Prince?” “How can I forget the only girl who was foolish enough to use Dark Sister in such a manner?” “I believe the word you were looking for was audacious, my Prince,” you smiled winningly at him. Daemon only rolled his eyes, reaching over to snatch the strawberry tart you were holding in your hands, causing you to let out a sound of protest.

The two of you sat in silence in the Godswood for a while, as you nibbled on your sweet treats. “In all honesty,” Daemon’s head snapped up in interest. “I think I’ve changed little over the years, but so much simultaneously.” You eyed the fig in your hand with despondence, “Do I sound foolish?”

“Yes,” Daemon answered, causing you to chuck a grape at him, which he caught with annoying ease. “Seven hells, let me finish before you resort to violence, byka zaldrizes. I think you sound foolish, yes, but I happen to think you have changed a great deal. And for the better.”

You mockingly gaped at his last remark, “A compliment from the Rogue Prince himself? Have the Seven Hells froze over?” Daemon narrowed his eyes, moving to smear currant compote on your gown, but you squealed and darted further from him. “Curb your disbelief, will you?” he scoffed, taking a bite out of his gingerbread dipped in currant compote. “It’s not just the hairstyle I fashion that has changed, you know, byka zaldrizes.”

“Well,” you mused, “I suppose you do seem changed by your exploits in the Stepstones. More mature, perhaps, to a minute extent.” Daemon raised an eyebrow, “Coming from you, that is high praise, byka zaldrizes.”

“I thought you might still be irate, or disgruntled after Viserys unnamed you as heir.” Daemon snickered slightly under his breath, remembering how wroth he was when the messenger from his brother came. “Well, they say time heals all wounds, byka zaldrizes.” You smile weakly at the mention of the word ‘time’, recalling your father’s ultimatum. “Let’s hope you can refrain from causing any more trouble this time then.” Daemon’s face twisted unpleasantly, “You mean, if that cunt of a Hand doesn’t decide to slander my name once more.”

“Speaking of, you seem quite…close to the new queen, hmm?” You heard the displeased edge in Daemon’s voice as he refused to address Alicent by name. How childishly Daemon-like. “I’m her chief lady-in-waiting, Daemon. Is it not natural for me to be close to her?”

“This is different,” Daemon leaned forward, eyes alight. “You care for the girl, don’t you? Far beyond the limitations of devotion that a lady-in-waiting has for her queen.” You looked at him, unimpressed. “I do not see how that is any of your business, but yes, I do. Alicent is akin to a daughter to me.”

Daemon gave a snort of gravelly laughter, “You ought be careful, you know. Your maternal instincts might incite some trouble for you some day.” You bristled, “She’s a young girl, Daemon. As someone who is older than her and used to court machinations, I would consider it an obligation to acclimatise her to her new role. Being Queen is no easy feat, you know. Unlike being a Prince.” Daemon smirked, “And yet, you would not be in this position had I not opened your eyes to your fragile political standing a few years ago, did I not?” You rolled your eyes, taking another lemon cake. “If you are expecting some gratitude, I would regret to inform you that your hopes are gravely misplaced.”

“I never expect anything from you, byka zaldrizes,” his smirk widened as he observed you while you nibbled on the lemon cake. “Truth be told however,” Daemon’s voice carried some genuineness, though he attempted to disguise it, “I am…pleased you took my advice to heart. Not a great many deal of people do.” You were mildly taken aback by how sincere he sounded: perhaps the Rogue Prince had a soft spot after all. “Well, it was sound advice,” you admitted, trying to sound pained. “Which was unexpected, coming from you.”

“Perhaps you should admit that I’m a better influence than you think I am,” Daemon teased. You rolled your eyes, “Now, now, let’s not get a moment’s victory swell up your ego.” “Oh, I’ve won plenty of victories, byka zaldrizes,” Daemon snarked back, smug, “I dare say I have enough cause to be as proud as I am.” “Says the one who lost in a contest of arms,” you muttered under your breath. Daemon raised an eyebrow, flicking your forehead. “Ow!” you scowled, “What was that for?”

“A reminder that insolence will not be tolerated in front of your Prince,” he grinned evilly at you. You narrowed your eyes, dipping a finger in the currant compote and moving to smear it on his forehead. Irritatingly, Daemon’s reflexes were much quicker than yours, and he caught your wrist with ease, tugging your hand towards his mouth to lick the compote off your finger while you shrieked. “That’s disgusting!” you sputtered out. Strangely, you felt a warm, rolling sensation at watching Daemon sucking the compote off your finger…however, you soon gagged at the thought.

Daemon looked pleased with himself as he released your wrist, “I prefer not to let food go to waste.” You huffed, “I was wrong. War has not matured you in the least.”

“Well, most of the court is terribly lacking in maturity anyway.” Daemon shrugged, leaning back against the trunk again. “Speaking of, how have you been faring in this court of vipers? Has your father finally found someone who is sufficiently tolerant of your impudence to marry you off to yet?”

Your face visibly fell at his last question, causing Daemon to frown slightly. “Have I misspoke?” Daemon cursed himself after that last question. ‘Why do I care?’ He thought to himself. He studied your dispirited expression. ‘I don’t know why…I can’t stand seeing her like this.’ His memory trailed back to the day of that blasted tourney, where he swore he watched your heart crack into two.

He never wanted to see that expression grace your face again.

“The question of…marriage,” you spat out that word with such distaste. “Is a complicated one. My father has given me an ultimatum: I must marry before the year ends, or face being disinherited and disowned by House Tyrell.” Daemon was never a man to be shocked, but now he looked positively dumbfounded. “Surely you’re jesting?” Daemon thought back to his vague impression of Lord Matthos: the man had seemed kindly enough, albeit he always looked much older and weary for his age, which could be attributed to your infamous temper and tendency to reject any prospective marriage matches he tried to make for you. But still, Lord Matthos cherished you, his only surviving child. Or so Daemon thought.

You shook your head despondently, “How I wish I was.” You sighed, your head drooped. “I thought…after so many years of resistance, my father would have finally given up on me. But it seems I was gravely mistaken,” your voice was resigned. “Laughable, is it not? You tried to warn me three years ago to save me from this fate, and I thought I had avoided it.”

Daemon let out a jagged laugh. “Responsibilities are hard to evade, byka zaldrizes. Even as a Prince, I was forced to wed for the sake of duty.” You turned to face him, and he was taken aback to see the tears glistening in your eyes. “But you can evade them,” you pointed out quietly. “You could mount Caraxes at any time, fly to Dragonstone, King’s Landing, Essos, or wherever else to avoid your wife. But me?” You choked out a laugh, “I’m just a woman, Daemon. I have no dragon, or even a cock.” Your voice sounded bitter. “I always envied you for that. You men of the realm have more liberties than you give credit for. You can go wherever you please, fuck anyone you please, and to no consequence. I wish I could do the same.”

Your words suddenly brought Daemon back to a memory of his childhood that he had long buried. He was nearing his 14th nameday, and he had finally convinced Viserys to sneak out with him for a night of revelry and debauchery in Flea Bottom. When he and his brother had returned to the Red Keep just before the hour of the bat, he had found you in his chambers, arms crossed and anger creasing your features, demanding an explanation of his whereabouts. When you had learnt that they were mucking about Flea Bottom, your face had turned indignant.

“Why had you not asked me along?” your words surprised Daemon, and he guffawed. “Y/N, I’m not sure if you realise, but Flea Bottom is not a place for girls like you,” Daemon said bluntly, moving to fling himself on his bed. “And why not?” you raised your voice. Daemon had levelled an unimpressed look at you. “You’re a lady, Y/N. Ladies shouldn’t be seen in places like Flea Bottom. Now go away, you’re giving me a headache.” Daemon flopped his head into the pillows, groaning at the creeping hangover as a result of the amount of strongwine he had drank this evening. He thought you would just huff and go back to your rooms, but he was surprised to hear your next words tinged with hurt.

“But…” you chewed on your lip. “You never even told me you were going. You tell me everything, even if I don’t want to listen.” Daemon had let out a groan of frustration, “And? Did you really want to hear that I was going to fuck some whores on the Street of Silk?” He heard your gasp, and it only solidified his belief that you were trying to nag at him like some prim, proper lady your mother was always training you to be. “I thought not. Now fuck off, I need to sleep.” He buried his face in his pillows, so he didn’t even notice when you left.

It was only until you left that he realised he had brought back some cakes for you that he never had a chance to give to you, since you avoided him like the plague for the next few days.

So that’s why you were mad at him. Realisation dawned on Daemon. It wasn’t because you were chagrined by his frequenting of brothels, it was because you felt hurt at being excluded. The three of you had used to do nearly everything together, and Daemon had considered you like a little sister after his mother’s death, though from the way the two of you bickered and roughhoused with one another, you were more like another brother to him instead. But something had changed after the first time he had paid a visit to the Street of Silk, and without him knowing it, he started treating you like a woman instead of his closest companion.

He looked back at you. You were hugging yourself now, face despondent as you thought about your bleak future ahead. He suddenly felt the urge to embrace you, to wipe the gloom from your features. Yet while his heart willed it, his mind did not. So he could only take a deep breath and say in an unusually gentle voice, “I understand what you’re going through. I…” he struggled to get the words out. “...I’m sorry.” You turned your head in his direction, slightly disconcerted by his apology. “What for?”

‘For you being a woman, for you being helpless to your fate.’ He tried to formulate a response. ‘For not being able to do more to help you. For everything.’

“For your situation,” he managed to choke out in the end, though they were not the words his heart wanted so desperately to say. You gave him a small smile, your eyes distant with sadness, “I never thought I’d hear you apologise…but thank you.” Although it is useless in preventing my fate.

Daemon was internally frustrated with himself at his failed attempt at getting his emotions across, and at wiping the gloom from your face. Unsure of what to do, he picked up another strawberry tart and offered it to you. Dumbfounded, you opened your mouth and he gingerly fed you the tart. Despondent, yet utterly mystified, you studied him carefully, but his face gave nothing away. In the end, you dismissed this as just Daemon behaving unusually again. It was only normal after the bloodshed he had seen in the Stepstones…right?

Despite your own predicament, it seemed relations in the Red Keep were taking a turn for the better. Over the past few months, Rhaenyra had gradually patched up her estrangement with Alicent, much to your delight. Rhaenyra had even warmed a bit to Alicent’s children, though she still regarded Aegon with a bit of disdain - you weren’t quite sure if it were due to his position as Viserys’ only son or because of Aegon’s tantrums. Helaena seemed to be comfortable around Rhaenyra however, always silent and content whenever Rhaenyra picked her up. While Viserys was still notably displeased by Rhaenyra’s abandonment of her marriage tour, he appeared fairly resigned by his daughter’s wilfulness.

It was due to Rhaenyra’s warmer relations that you found yourself in the company of Rhaenyra more and more these days, like now. You were engaged in a game of cyvasse with her, although you were losing quite badly due to Rhaenyra’s aggressive play style.

“I win!” Rhaenyra exclaimed with delight as she captured your last remaining key piece. You groaned, but smiled good-naturedly at her. “Well played, Rhaenyra.” Rhaenyra laughed, “Tis only your first time playing. You held up rather admirably in my opinion, but your defence needs more work.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” you smiled, reaching over to pour yourself another cup of tea. Elinda Massey, one of Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting, entered the room to deliver a parchment to her, and Rhaenyra frowned as she opened it.

“What is it?” I questioned. “A summons from Father,” Rhaenyra sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “It appears a few lords, notably Jason Lannister,” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, “Have been inquiring about my prospective matches yet again. Father wishes to reopen talks of marriage when we break fast tomorrow.”

You eyed her sympathetically, “I’m sorry, Rhaenyra.” Rhaenyra snorted, “Whatever for? Jason Lannister is the one who needs to apologise for being such a brash, brazen fuckhead.”

“Rhaenyra!” You doubled over with laughter at her description. Rhaenyra crossed her arms. “Tis true, is it not? If only the Lannisters had as much wits to spare as they have gold.” You tried to contain your laughter, “I can see your uncle is rubbing off you.” Rhaenyra smirked, “Well, I should hope not. Did you hear about his latest exploits?” You smiled ruefully, “How could I not?” Daemon was never one to stray far from trouble for long, and war had not tempered his lusts in the slightest. He had taken up with his old companions of the City Watch, drinking in taverns, bedding whores, and the like. You were not wrong to say Daemon had not matured, but you didn’t know the full story.

Rhaenyra stood up and walked to the window of her room, sighing as she clasped her hands behind her back. “Sometimes, I do wish I could be more like my uncle.” “An absolute scoundrel?” You answered, walking up to her and offering a goblet of Arbor gold. She smiled and took it.

“A man. With an abundance of freedom to spare despite the fact he is married.” You raised your eyebrows, this sounded eerily similar to your conversation with Daemon under the Godswood a while ago.

“It’s not just his freedom I desire,” Rhaenyra looked pensive. “Were I born a man, this bother of a marriage tour would never have occurred in the first place. There would be no call into question about my legitimacy and suitability for the throne due to my gender. And-” Rhaenyra struggled to contain her frustration.

You gave her a sad look. Of course you understood what she meant, you had wished that yourself.

“I hate to confess this but…” Rhaenyra bit her lip, “...I’m afraid of what the path of marriage has in store for me. I do not want to end up like my mother - I’ve seen enough of how she suffered in her tenure as Queen, trying to give Father the heir he so craved. I do not wish to just be some broodmare for my husband.”

“Sadly, we are women, Rhaenyra,” you reminded her solemnly. Rhaenyra huffed in exasperation, draining her goblet with one huge gulp, putting it down on a nearby table before pacing around her room. You watched her in commiseration. “I almost forgot to ask - how is…your situation faring?” Rhaenyra asked delicately. You sighed, “About as well as you’d imagine. I must either live as a nameless commoner or as a married woman in two moon turns.” Rhaenyra circled back to you to take your hands in hers and squeezing it tightly. “Have you told my father yet? Perhaps he can arrange a betrothal for you, or convince your father to change his mind.” You gave her a close-lipped smile. “I wouldn’t want to trouble Viserys in this way. He is busy enough as it is.” And you still couldn’t resign yourself to the fate of marriage just yet. Nightmares had been plaguing you more incessantly nowadays, all either of being married off to some lord who was old and balding or someone whom you despised, of Aemma’s various miscarriages and her eventual death in childbirth. More oft than not, you would wake up in the middle of the night with cold sweat.

Rhaenyra flashed you a sympathetic look, squeezing your hands so tightly in hers that they were growing numb. “In any case, I will be here for you, whatever you may choose.” You bowed your head in gratitude, “Thank you, Rhaenyra. But I couldn’t possibly, I wouldn’t know how to repay you.”

Rhaenyra waved her hand dismissively, “Father always says you are family. And you are like a mother to me, especially after Mother died. Dragons look out for their own kind.” Your eyes grew misty at her words, as you murmured your gratitude under your breath.

You noticed Rhaenyra looking out her window wistfully. “Is there something else on your mind?” You inquired. Rhaenyra turned to you, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Y/N, you’ve been to the city before, have you?” You looked puzzled at her question. “Yes, my mother had chaperoned me once, but it’s been a few years since that. Why do you ask?”

Rhaenyra looked deep in thought. “In my governance classes with my tutors recently, they had been stressing on the importance of knowing the people of the land you're about to rule. Granted, they were talking about nobility, mostly, but I’ve always been curious as to the inner workings of the lives of the peasants.” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “The peasants?” Rhaenyra looked sheepish as she dropped your hands. “I’ve never really been to much parts of King’s Landing apart from the Dragonpit and the Red Keep. It gets a little boring after being cooped up in here for so long, you know?” An uncomfortable expression creased your features: Rhaenyra sounded like an exact mirror of your young self, eager to explore, to have fun. But now, you were grown, and much more cautious.

“You could ask Ser Harrold to bring you around the city,” you suggested, but Rhaenyra looked opposed to the idea. “Then when people see me coming, they’ll think of me as the Princess and scrape away like subservient, mindless goats. I want to catch a glimpse of their lives, of their true thoughts about me as heir.” “So you mean to go alone then?” you looked unsure, but Rhaenyra nodded eagerly. “That would be the plan, yes.” Her face suddenly became a bit more serious and thoughtful. “It might be my last chance to sneak out for adventure. Once I am married…I do not think my future husband will be very approving of this notion.”

You were quiet for a while, before you spoke up again, a sudden enlightening occurred to you, “Rhaenyra, you know…marriage need not be an end to indulging your desires.” Rhaenyra gave you a perplexed look. “What does that mean?” “You’re not just some highborn woman, Rhaenyra,” you took her hand, eyes twinkling. “You are the Princess. The heir to the realm. Even your husband will have to submit to you in the future as your king consort, will he not?” Rhaenyra was beginning to see the light in your logic, and her face lit up, though it dimmed again as she spoke, “But my father…I cannot guarantee that he will not rebuke me if I step out of the line..” You considered her words carefully, “That may be true…but so long as you don’t bring shame to the kingdom, and keep your exploits discreet, you will still be able to retain some level of freedom to pursue your desires.”

Understanding was beginning to dawn on Rhaenyra, as the gears in her head began spinning. “You might be right.” She lifted her head in pride, “I am a Targaryen Princess, and heir to the throne after all. What should I have to fear about the opinions of others?” You squeezed her hand gently. “So you see, marriage might not be the end to your freedom as you thought. You are a smart woman, Rhaenyra. Do not let marriage confine you.” You were excited yourself. You didn’t have the same power Rhaenyra would have over her future consort, but still, you hoped that with Rhaenyra as an example, mayhaps there can be greater liberty afforded in marriages for highborn women, including yourself.

Feeling confident of your own words, you looked into Rhaenyra’s violet eyes and smiled, “Always remember that you are the blood of the dragon, Rhaenyra. As heir to the throne, you have more advantages and liberties than most ladies of the land could ever hope for. Leverage them wisely, and be smart about your privileges to carve out the life you want to live.” You went silent, before adding, “Aemma would’ve wanted you to.”

Rhaenyra’s face was suffused with a rosy glow, both at the prospect of regaining some semblance of control in her life, and at your mention of her mother. Aemma was always a soft spot for her, evident by the ruby falcon necklace Rhaenyra had taken to wearing everyday without fail. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about, Y/N,” Rhaenyra smiled gratefully at you. “It is good to have someone of the same mind as I am here in this Keep.” She squeezed your hand in gratitude. “Out of everyone, I understand most of what you’re going through.” You smiled motherly at her. “I would do anything to help you fulfil your desires. Always remember that I’m here for you.”

Meanwhile, concealed amidst the secret passageways in Rhaenyra’s apartments, a cloaked figure listened intently, a smirk tugging on his face as he listened to the discussion between you and his young niece.

It appears my niece has a desire to see the city, hmm?

I think I can make that happen.

In the morrow, you were trying to calm Aegon in Alicent’s solar as he threw a tantrum, protesting today's choice of breakfast: which was porridge. When you heard faint footsteps and the sound of the door to the solar opening, you looked up, pulling a smile on your face while trying to prevent Aegon from grabbing his plate and smashing it. That smile faded however, as you took in Alicent’s grim appearance. You soon learnt about the reasoning behind her upset expression, and you gritted your teeth, feeling like smashing up a plate yourself.

Daemon.

That fucking cunt.

Translations: Ry iksos sȳrī, dōna dārilaros. - All is well, sweet princess.

Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98 @travelingmypassion @zae5 @norestfortheshelbywicked @soleilgrec @anehkael @midnightprincess18 @lilith--666 @saay-karani @dumbhxeredrose @syviiss @nyenye

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy @kmmg98 @norestfortheshelbywicked @hb8301 @hc-geralt-23

those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist in the comments or through this form!

A/N: And that's chapter 8! Chapter 9 should be released sometime next week, and Act 1 will conclude at Chapter 10.

Also, I've been thinking about setting up a writing Instagram account, where I will post regularly on my daily progress on my fics as well as behind the scenes of my fic writing (e.g. my mental breakdowns over writers' block, sketches of character's outfits and advanced previews of upcoming fics). Let me know if you guys will be interested in that in the comments!

Additionally, I've also been thinking of publishing one shots of Daemon and the reader's childhood as well as alternate realities of how the fic could've gone if some characters had made different choices. This will be after the completion of Act 1 of course, and I already have some ideas hehe so stay tuned!

As always, thank you for reading this far! Let me know what you thought about this chapter 💕

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theminecraftbee · 9 months ago

Note

🐢 how long have you been watching hermitcraft?

since late season seven! i joined shortly after the turf war ended and mostly watched for the last few months (started watching... february 2021 i think?). i started as more of a mumbo and grian watcher and got into joe hills at the end, when he was the only one still playing on the server, and never looked back, haha.

#answered #ask game #reformedpeasant

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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

Text

Pas Quotidien

Pairing: Benedict Bridgeton x fem!reader, Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader (past & implied), Modern AU.

Summary: Modern AU. At 4am all sorts of things can arise…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, oral sex (m to f), flirting, bit of sexual tension, spot of brotherly competition, allusion to threesome.

Word Count: 4.7 k

Authors note: It's the baker Benedict AU no one asked for! This all started because of a hilarious typo with a mutual, so this is dedicated to them, ironic given they don’t eat bread. Unbetaed. I’m sure this is riddled with baking inaccuracies. Everything I learned about bread, is from Bake Off. Also yeah I know it’s not remotely sanitary. They’ll disinfect when they are done. Listen it’s fic, just go with it. Also yes the title is a play on the bakery chain Le Pain Quotidien. Well done for spotting.

It’s 4 am, and the bakery shines like a cosy beacon on this rainy night—the pavement outside glittering in the raindrops and the windows steamed from baking inside.

You push open the jaunty-coloured wood-framed glass door, the little brass bell above it tinkling delightfully as you do so. A warm blast of air bathed in the scent of baked delights greets you, and it’s like a soothing embrace around your chilled body.

He looks up, surprised to see you, or indeed anyone, at this hour as he stands towards the back of the space behind a huge marble counter, kneading dough.

“Ben,” you greet, shucking your raincoat. His responding smile makes your stomach flip just a little. It really shouldn't; he's just an acquaintance.

“What in the hell are you doing here at… 4:13 am,” he queries good-natured, glancing at the wall clock.

“Passing by on my way home,” you grin; some decadent carbs seem like the perfect thing to round off your late girls' night out.

“I should bolt that damn door to stop drunken reprobates wandering into my shop before I open at seven,” he jibes lightly.

“Too late now, my friend,” you giggle and swipe a macaron from the display case, hopping up to sit on the serving counter.

“Oi! That’ll be two pounds, please. And stop dirtying my serving space, if you don’t mind,” he chides affectionately.

“I’ll get the Dettol out myself,” you shoot back, not moving, and he rolls his eyes, exasperated.

You groan as you take a bite of the macaron, which melts in your mouth, a sugary almond explosion with tart raspberry filling.

“Fuck me, that's so good,” your praise muffled around the treat.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” he chuckles and keeps kneading.

“You should. I’d marry this macaron; I’d have its bloody babies,” you declare, still slightly tipsy, finishing it with a second bite.

“But you just ate your husband,” his amiable laugh echoes on the pristine white subway-tiled walls.

“I'm a black widow baby,” you sing the line probably tunelessly, but he seems to enjoy it nonetheless.

“Dangerous,” he shoots back, and something in his crooked smile makes the room temperature creep a little higher.

“Maybe…” you simper and gesture for him to continue working, hopping down on the staff side and wandering closer.

Your eyes are drawn to him. Watching him work. A dusting of flour on his forearms, a streak on his cheek. A black apron, almost white with flour, over a fitted T-shirt. You try not to stare at his arms as they flex, but you mostly fail. Lots of kneading makes for very shapely arms, apparently.

“What are you making?” you inquire, genuinely interested.

“Pain de Campagne,” he supplies, the French accent dripping perfectly from his tongue. A sign of those months spent chez Paris at patisserie school. And definitely not remotely attractive, No, not at all.

“Looks like hard work,” you offer casually.

“Always worth it in the end,” he assures with a wink, an errant curl flopping onto his forehead as he pushes on the dough. Oh, that’s not helping.

“I couldn’t do that,” you proclaim.

“Yes, you could; it’s not difficult; it’s just a technique. I can teach you,” he shrugs.

“Haha,” you deadpan.

“I mean it. Apron’s hanging over there; the sink is there to wash up thoroughly,” he gestures around him.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope,” he responds, popping the ‘p’ rather obnoxiously.

“Fine,” you throw your hands up, deciding this could be fun. You’ve certainly never done baking at this time of night (or morning, depending on your perspective) before.

Washed and aproned up, you move closer, and he stops kneading to turn towards you.

“Well, you’ll need to remove your jewellery if you don’t want it ruined,” he laughs. “Also, roll up your sleeves. Then rewash your hands,” he lectures.

“Okay, okay, Mr Bossy,” you grouse.

There’s that rich chuckle again, the one that seems to slide down your spine like honey. Instead of dwelling on it, you do as asked, leaving your rings by the sink.

“That’s better,” he smiles as you return to his side, and your shoulder bumps his arm with a smirk.

Flouring up is his next instruction, and you do so, ensuring your hands and wrists are well powdered.

“Okay, so stand here,” he says, stepping back, and you slide into the spot he was just standing in. “Alright, now grab that dough,” he nods.

You do so, your finger sinking into it. It’s pillowy light.

“Oh my god, it’s so squishy!” you exclaim, and he can’t help his guffaw at your outburst.

“Yes, very apt. Squishy indeed. That’s the gluten; it’s what makes the bread rise,” and suddenly, he is standing right behind you.

Two arms encircle you and cover your hands. They are warm, dry with flour, and so large you can no longer see your own. You try not to stare at the map of veins stretched over tendons as they curl around yours, guiding your movements.

“Now the key is to stretch the dough out and really get it aerated,” his voice is calming and patient but so close to your ear like that is, well, slightly throwing you for a loop.

As he guides your hands through vigorous moves, you feel his forearms over yours and his elbows bracketing your body. It seems so, well, there’s no other word for it; it’s intimate. His chin almost rests on your shoulder as he walks you through the motions. Your biceps begin to ache as the work continues, and you have a newfound admiration for what it takes to run a successful little bakery like this. You can’t imagine getting up at 2 am and doing this every day. You also really understand his arms now.

“I think it’s there now,” he remarks quietly, stilling your movements, his words soft beside your ear. You can feel his body solid behind you, not quite touching but so close you can feel the heat radiating on the back of your knees and shoulder blades.

“Are you sure?” you check, and you’re honestly not sure what that question refers to.

“Mmm hmm,” he hums, and it feels like it vibrates through you.

“What comes next?” you don’t mean it to be a whisper, but it is.

“Second proving,” he answers, and somehow it sounds sexy. “It’s got to rise some more. Get even squishier,” he adds with a wry smile that you see out of the corner of your eye.

“Are you making fun of me, Mr Bridgerton?” you narrow your eyes and lean back against him as if giving him a slight body check.

That was a mistake. He seems to curl around you even more. Heat seeping through the thin layers between you, the air feels even more humid as a trickle of perspiration runs down from your hairline over your temple. You see his eyes track the movement sideways on.

“You've not done it right if you’re not just a little sweaty,” his voice pitched low, and suddenly it’s not the only part of your body that feels damp.

“Applicable to so many things,” you assert, unmistakable in your intent, rocking back just a fraction.

“Very true,” he opines. Then he guides your hands down onto the cold marble on either side of the large mass of dough. “This always cools me down,” he murmurs, his fingers sinking between yours and pressing onto the smooth surface.

“Delightfully refreshing,” you agree; your pulse is hammering as he seems to lean you further over the counter. The press of his body entirely wanted.

“Yes, it feels good on your skin,” he mumbles, and there is a flurry of movement as he expertly picks up the dough and throws it aside on the long wide surface. Then his hands are back on yours, leaning and pushing you forward until your elbow bends and your forearms rest on the cool marble.

“Is that helping?” He whispers, and now the message is blatant.

“I still feel too hot,” you reply softly, biting your lip and shooting him your best flirtatious sideways glance.

“Then we will have to get more of your skin on this surface,” he lectures, and the hands move from covering yours to your waist, where the apron strings are tied around your front. You stutter his name as he expertly plucks the bow open.

“Tell me to stop,” he goads as the strings fall away, tugging them from around your sides. You clamp down on your lip, not wanting to make a single noise in protest.

There is a gentle snag on the underside of your chin as he lifts the apron up and around your head, then lets it fall to the floor as he drags you back upright against his body. His name is on your lips again, breathy and anticipatory. Almost disbelieving this is happening.

“Lock. The. Door,” he rumbles, his breath hot in your ear. Each word is a sentence that sets something alight in your veins even as he steps away.

You scurry around the counter and bustle to the front door flicking the deadbolt. Behind, you hear him putting the dough into the large proving drawer and then the lights suddenly flick off, plunging the room into atmospheric shadows. All you can hear is the pitter-patter of rain on the street outside and the occasional swish of puddles under tyres as the odd car, mostly Ubers, drive by.

“Get back over here,” he growls, and your knees want to give way.

Are you really going to do this? Let this delicious man lay you out on his marble worktop and do whatever he wants. There’s a screaming chorus of ‘hell yes’ in your mind as you do your best to walk with a seductive swing in your hips silhouetted by the window behind you. He has taken off his apron and now stands in a fitted t-shirt and jeans. Even in this low light, he looks so good clothed you almost don’t care if you don’t see him naked. Almost.

You squeak slightly as large hands grab your waist and pull you into him roughly, looking at each other eye-to-eye for the first time. It’s quite breathtaking how beautiful he is this close up.

“We have 45 minutes until we can make loaves.” The almost pun is not lost on you. “How would you like to fill that time?” he buzzes.

“What do you suggest?” your voice cracks, slightly hypnotised by his stare.

A corner of tongue peaks out of his mouth, and you track it across his bottom lip, fascinated by the slick trail it leaves behind that glimmers in the streak of the streetlamp from outside.

“I suggest we cool your naked skin on this nice balmy surface and see what happens from there,” it's velvet soft and so rich you want to bathe in his voice.

“Okay…” you mutter, almost swaying now.

You watch large floury hands dust white trails onto your black shirt, popping each button. Your own breathing sounds too loud. Just as the last one relents, and your blouse hangs open a fraction, both hands move, cupping your jaw and tilting your head as his mouth descends. The slightly grainy texture of the flour on his fingertips against your skin adds a frisson.

The first brush of his lips on yours is electric. Tentative at first, it soon grows, heatedly mashing together in waves of intensity, mouths peaking open, and tongues touching. His hands move again, this time tugging your top from your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the ground. Just in your bra and jeans, you band your arms around his neck, sinking tighter into the embrace, revelling in the feel of those dusty hands sweeping down over the dip of your back. Your lips meet over and over.

He tastes of sweet baked goods - like almond croissants and madeleines - probably a batch he baked before you came in, and you sag against him wanting to swallow him and chase more.

“Ben…” you gasp into his mouth as a hand ventures inside the back of your jeans and grabs the bare flesh of your bottom.

“Get naked,” he commands softly “you feel entirely too overheated in all this clothing,” he teases.

You chuckle; it’s only jeans and underwear you have left at this point. But then, the bakery is very warm, and all that dough work was very athletic. You fumble with your button and zip as his hand kneads your bottom with that firm motion he used on the dough. It feels wonderful, his lips trailing down your neck, his other hand helping peel your jeans over your hips. They hit the floor, and then you are being lifted off the ground and placed onto the marble, the cold, smooth surface making you squeak as it touches your bottom.

“Feeling cooler already?” he asks, a lopsided grin tugging at his handsome face as his hands round your knees and drag them apart, stepping between, the metal fastener on the hip of his jeans catching the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You nod in response as he moves in for another fiery kiss, your mouths at the same height now. His fingers curl around the back of your knees, pulling your legs up and wide as your hands sink into his hair, loving the baritone noise he makes over your tongue as you pull lightly on the thick chestnut strands. Those large hands slowly make their way up your thighs, caressing your skin, warm powdery tips setting your skin afire. As you kiss, they slide around your hips and up your back, winding delicate patterns until they reach the clasp of your bra.

“You still seem too warm to me,” his tone velvet smooth, “better take this off just to be safe,” he adds seductively and expertly flicks the hooks undone. He gently pulls the straps off your shoulders, and you can't help but giggle over his lips as he raises an eyebrow and comically flicks the bra away. It sails into the air, landing god knows where.

“Much better,” he hums sensually, his lips back on yours, bodies pressed together, the slightly bobbled fibres of his top catching your nipples.

“Take this off,” you implore between kisses, tugging at his t-shirt. He smirks and half-steps back, whipping it off and throwing it to the floor.

“Baking does wonders for the body,” you sigh, trailing a finger down the divot between his defined abdominal muscles as he huffs a laugh at your statement.

Then there is no talking for a while as he takes your hand from his torso, kisses your knuckles chastely, then runs his tongue obscenely down to your fingertips, drawing all of them into his mouth as you stare wide-eyed, feeling the strength of suction on each digit, the lathe of his tongue. It's a blatant preview of what is to come, and you can’t stop your breath from becoming uneven.

Your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet smack, and he is leaning in, driving your whole back onto the cold marble; he grabs your feet and places them wide apart on the countertop, your toes curling over the edge.

He is staring down at you, a heavy gaze cataloguing everything from your kiss-dampened lips to your lacy underwear. With your legs spread so wide, you know he can see your arousal, can smell it in the air. The remnants of flour tickle your bottom as you curve your back upwards, looking at him entreatingly just to touch you somewhere, anywhere.

“Please, Ben…” you murmur, and a trace of a smile ghosts the corner of his mouth. He leans right over you but doesn't make contact, breathing warm air over your collarbone, down over your left nipple and across to your right, pebbling painfully at just the wisp of sensation.

“Are you feeling colder yet?” his voice is deadly, gravelly and dark, skittering over your ribs.

“No…,” you admit, “Im feeling much hotter.” Your body flushed with arousal and anticipation.

“Hmm, what a shame,” he offers in mock sympathy. “I think the only remedy may be to remove these….” you gasp as his hand covers your underwear, and it’s so large that, as his fingers hook into the top of the material, the heel of his palm bearing down onto your clit, which he grinds a little for good measure.

Before you know it, he tilts your hips and drags the knickers away from your body, down your legs. You now lay utterly naked, exposed and almost shivering with desire, the hot steamy air from the ovens contrasting wonderfully with the chilly marble under your back.

Now he runs his nose over your skin as he skirts lower, inhaling almost obscenely, scenting your body. There's no mistaking the aroma in the air now, and he seems feral for it, his pupils blown wide as he tilts his head to look up at you.

“Let hope you locked that door really well,” he banters and then you almost scream as he suddenly moves lower and ploughs his tongue roughly into your slit, groaning as he does so.

“Holy shit Ben,” you cry out and throw your head back; the only thing you can see now is the steamed window, upside down, rivulets of rainwater and condensation streaking like trails of golden thread under the yellow lamplight outside.

The prideful noise he makes at your expletive just ratchets you higher, and you know you are leaking onto his chin now. He sucks forcefully on your clit, his tongue rolling a wave that makes your toes curl harder around the counter edge and your fingernails scramble for purchase on the marble. You move one hand between your legs and grab his hair, scraping against his scalp, tugging, making him snarl.

Then it’s a heady swirl of sensation as he expertly transports your body and mind away from the frisson of fear about passersby seeing this debauched tableau, should they linger on the pavement outside. To somewhere routed purely in your body and the way he conducts it like a symphony with his lips and tongue, one arm banded strong around your thigh, the other spidering up to pinch and tease your nipple. You know the whimpering noises you make are echoing loudly up the walls, but you cannot stop yourself.

“Come for me,” he pants desperately; just as a long slender finger nudges you open and strokes gently inside you, you see stars.

“Don’t stop Ben, oh god, please, don’t stop,” you chant, feeling yourself spiralling higher, his tongue lathing at just the right rhythm to make your eyes roll back, just the right amount of suction to make your skin feel hot and tight, ready to burst.

He dangles you over the precipice for a few seconds, then, with an edge of his teeth, takes you over. Your body goes stiff, and he holds you down forcefully as you bear down against his face and writhe, staccato breathy cries echoing up the walls as you clench hard around his finger and blood pounds in your ears.

For a moment, you just lay there whimpering as he gently caresses your belly with gossamer fingers and delicately kisses your inner thighs.

“Fucking hell,” you exhale, “that was…” you trail off breathily, unable to form a sentence, and he huffs a warm bemused breath over your dewy skin. “Do you want to…” you almost feel sheepish offering sex for some reason.

“Oh no,” he chuckles darkly, “I’m just getting started here….” His mouth is back on you, making you whine loudly, overwrought and still fluttering from your orgasm.

“I can’t again….”

“Oh yes, you can,” he assures in a tone that is lethal.

You tilt to look down at his handsome face framed by your still quivering thighs when something makes your heart leap into your mouth.

“Brother, why on earth are the lights off?” an unmistakable voice rings out from behind the door into the kitchen area—Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, Benedict’s older brother, head of the family, CEO of Bridgerton Investments and very troublesome to your hormones. He must have entered via the back of the building.

Your head shoots up, but Benedict puts a finger over his lips, signalling you to stay quiet, so you do. The menace doesn’t stop teasing you, though—licking a long, slow, decadent swipe up your folds as you breathe heavily and swallow your moan.

“Stay here, don't move; I’ll get rid of him,” he whispers, jumping to his feet, and with a wink, he pulls on his t-shirt and is off.

You stare, incredulous, as he loosely hangs an apron around his neck to conceal a rather delicious-looking bulge in his jeans, then disappears through the kitchen door. Did he really just tell you to stay sprawled naked on his worktop?

“Brother,” Benedict’s greeting is muffled through the wall. “I was napping between proving rounds; hence the lights are off. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not staying, on my way to catch a flight, just dropping those keys we talked about,” Anthony replies as you lay stock still, too drowsy from bliss to do anything but take slow breaths. “I’ll just grab a croissant for breakfast and be on my way.….”

“No!” Benedict squeaks. “I’ve… I’ve run out!” he scrambles the lie.

“Please,” Anthony dismisses, “I know you run your bakery better than that. And I know they'll be warm; I can smell they came out of the oven less than an hour ago.”

“Ok fine, but I’ll get it for you,” Benedict rushes out, and it sounds like he’s trying to block the door, but it’s too late.

The kitchen door swings open, and Anthony is striding towards the display case, Benedict bustling behind him, trying to block the sight of you naked on the worktop across the room. Anthony doesn’t glance to the side yet, but you’re frozen. Your muscles just unable to move. The stupid part of your brain justifying in the dark, perhaps he won’t see you at all. It’s all happening so fast, and your heart is pounding again.

“Switch the bloody lights on, will you?” Anthony gripes and reaches for the switch. Suddenly the shop is all lit up. And you’ve lost your chance to hide—to run.

“Fuckkkkking hell!” Anthony cries as he spies you over Benedict’s shoulder, his attempt to shield you unsuccessful.

Suddenly your body is responsive, and you jump down and curl into a ball behind the worktop, mortified, before he can see your face, see it’s you.

“Is this what you are doing at 4 am?? Fucking on your workspace? And with all these bloody windows?!?” you hear Anthony exclaim, sounding shocked.

“No!” Benedict defends, “I’ve never done anything remotely like this before I….”

The fact he admits that makes something in your heart melt just a touch.

“It’s unsanitary, brother,” Anthony cuts in. “It could get you shut down if you’re found out,”

“I know that!” Benedict decries.

Still, you hide, pulling on your knickers and top, head still fuzzy from the mind-blowing orgasm. You cannot find your bra for the life of you; glancing up, you see it hanging on a blade of a ceiling fan. Fucking hell, Benedict. You know you can’t hide forever, and your mortification will only worsen the longer you pretend this isn’t happening. So you slowly stand up, already wincing.

“Y/n?!?” Anthony splutters, and you want the ground to swallow you up. You also don’t miss how his eyes drop to your nipples, poking obviously through your shirt without your bra, then, as they come into view, to your bare legs beneath the shirt.

This is awkward. So awkward. About eight months prior, you had a drunken but amazing quickie with Anthony, but since it’s just been flirty banter, assuming that’s where it would stay. Thinking it was just harmless fun. But as you see a flash in his eyes now, it looks an awful lot like jealousy as well as desire. Damn, it’s attractive.

“Anthony,” you nod, trying to appear nonchalant.

“You are fucking my brother?” he gusts, disbelieving.

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Well, what the hell is this then?”

“We… we hadn’t got that far yet,” you respond quietly, and Benedict looks agog at you.

“So this is the first time?” Anthony is grilling you as if his younger brother isn’t even there.

“Yes,” it’s timid.

“Why him?” Anthony growls, and something in your body is at war. You know he won’t ever hurt you, but seeing this man all physically riled up and bothered is, well, holy hell, it's hot.

“I like him,” you whisper.

“More than me?” he takes a step closer, and you see over his shoulder that Benedict tenses.

“I didn’t think there was anything between us”, you confess honestly. “Anthony, you've made no other move since that night months ago.”

“You had sex?!” Benedict splutters.

“Once,” you placate, meeting his eyes, “drunkenly.” It somehow feels essential to add that secondary detail.

Anthony scoffs, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“It’s not that you suddenly want me, is it? It’s that you don’t want him to have me, isn’t it?” you goad.

You know you’ve hit the nail on the head when Anthony goes for cutting. “I barely even remember it at this point,” he sniffs.

“Fine, then get out, so I can fuck him,” you challenge, nodding towards Benedict, intentionally using crude words to shock him, shock them both. Benedict’s face is a picture, but you also see traces of lust and victory. That perhaps you want him just as much, if not more.

You watch a vein throb in Anthony’s temple and know if he made a move to claim you in some stupid moment of male pride or familial one-upmanship, right now, you’d let him. Frankly, you’d let them both fuck you right here, and you’re not ashamed to admit it to yourself. You cross your arms defiantly, knowing your haphazardly thrown-on blouse frames your breasts.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch?” you retort.

Anthony takes a step closer, and the tension notches up, your chest heaving just a little more. You can’t look at him directly; you fix on a spot over his left shoulder. If you glanced over his right, you’d be caught in Benedict’s gaze, which also feels dangerous right now.

“Choose. Right now,” Anthony orders, low and slow.

You make a noise of derision, but he just stands there, raised eyebrow, hands flexing slightly at his side. You see, on the periphery of your vision, Benedict leaning in. Keen to know your response.

“Right now,” you exhale, “I’m choosing to leave.” You nettle, not appreciating being used as a power play on his little brother. But mostly, not wanting to admit you can’t answer that question.

You peek over at Benedict. “I’ll be back for my rings and my bra once you remove it from your damn ceiling,” you wink at him and enjoy the surprise on Anthony’s face as his eyes naturally shoot up.

Then you feel both of them watching you as you grab your jeans and shoes, stalking towards the coat rack and starting to dress to go out in the downpour.

“Okay, fine,” Anthony’s voice calls out in a loud sigh, “you don’t have to pick.”

You pause in the motions, turning back to them.

“What are you saying?” you frown.

He looks over at Benedict, and some kind of silent shorthand is exchanged.

“It’s a private jet; it can wait for me,” Anthony states with a killer look.

“Many hands make light work?” Benedict adds bewitchingly.

Are they really suggesting… both of them? Together? Their eyes are both hungry, and their faces are hopeful. The spike of want and triumph in your veins is almost breathtaking. The pile of clothes drops loudly from your hands to the wood floor.

“Okay. I’m listening…,” you enunciate slowly, a smirk growing on your face as you take a pace forward.

There are two very seductive smiles back at you.

This night is definitely ‘pas quotidien’.

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