#The Royals Upstairs

[sandythereadingcafe]

REVIEW:

THE ROYALS UPSTAIRS by Karina Halle at The Reading Cafe:

'the premise is emotional and engaging'

[thereadingcafe]

[askthechronoverse]

Just dumping my new tags!

[dragonastra]

Condos and townhouses have NO right to be this expensive in the suburbs. Why would I pay more than a house to still share walls with other people????

[thatswhatsushesaid]

betrayal most foul!!!

[peachysunrize]

The King’s Retribution ⥃ prince Aemond Targaryen

Summary: when he walks back to the Keep, Aemond finds his brother’s wife in distress while her youngest child keeps her awake. Maybe it’s time to show the King that no one can humiliate the one-eyed prince.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, rough sex, lactation kink, reader is Aegon’s wife, post B&C, s2e3 inspired, dacryphilia, Aemond feels humiliated after the brothel scene, hair pulling, doggystyle, they do it in Aegon’s rooms👀 kind of a chubby/overweight reader because she has baby weight, tell me if I’ve missed something. English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.6k+

A/n: a very special thank you to @aemonds-holy-milk for this incredible request!!! And a very honorable mention and thank you to @arcielee for helping me with the plot and beta-ing for me! Your touch made this much hotter and better!🩷 Reblogs and comments are more than welcome<33

Aemond pushes the door to one of Maegor’s tunnels, peeking through to see if anyone is around. He scoffs when he finds the hallway empty, with no guards, no maids or handmaidens. He walks upstairs to the royal chamber’s floor, one hand pushing his hood off while the other twirls his dagger.

He is filled with such rage that he can burn this castle down without Vhagar’s help. The sting of humiliation keeps poking through his ribs, making him heave with each breath he takes. He had to keep his composure back in the brothel, he had to show his power by walking outside the room naked as the day he was born to regain some control his brother took away from him.

He walks past the rooms of his family, skipping a stair here or two as he follows the path to his chambers in silence, until he reaches his brother’s doors, catching the sound of a soft hiccuping and muffled wailing of a child.

Aemond unsheathes the dagger as he steps closer to the unguarded door, shaking his head in disbelief at his brother’s ignorance, especially after what happened to Jaehaerys. He opens the door slowly, not wanting to startle whoever is inside — a nursemaid or the queen.

He finds you sitting in front of the fireplace with baby Maelor crying fat tears in your arms as he tries to latch onto your exposed breasts to fill his tiny, hungry belly. Aemond’s eye wanders over your bare upper body; heavy swollen teats leaking with milk, a tired and teary expression on your face as you try to lull your son back to sleep, tending to him, caressing him, loving him. 

He has never seen a sight more beautiful than this.

He sheathes his dagger and pushes it into his belt before knocking on your door gently so as not to scare you and his nephew. He watches you closely as you snap your head in his direction, the tension leaving your shoulders as you smile at him sadly.

“Aemond,” you call him, gasping when your son bites your already sore nipple with his gums, trying to latch on to it but failing. He cries harder, face twisted angrily, his chubby cheeks red and puffy with how long he’s been searching for some comfort.

“Please, please don’t — mommy is trying,” you cry with him softly, standing up to pace around the room while you rock him, shushing him and wiping his tears. You are trying your hardest to feed him properly, but every second is wasted in vain as he cries and fusses in your arms.

Aemond closes the door behind him, enraptured with the sight you made—watching you walk around the room, half bare and beautiful to his eager eye.  He unfastens his cloak and belt that holds his daggers and sword before laying it on the nearest table, walking towards you with his hands locked behind his back.

You look like The Mother coming real, a god he should worship at your altar.

“Oh, my darling boy,” you coo at Maelor, sniffing as he sobs harder, his little fists flying on your chest as he searches for your breast, mouth parted and ready to be filled with his late-night meal.

Aemond stands behind you, not too close to intrude on your personal space, especially in such a vulnerable state you are in, but to keep looking at you. His eye roams across your nude chest, your fuller stomach, and hips that carry the remaining weight of having pushed a babe into the world.

He listens to your words, remembering the sight of his brother mocking him at the brothel, while he was being cuddled and taken care of — what an ugly laugh he has, Aegon. 

His gaze darkens as he looks at you, his queen, his brother’s wife, his brother’s possession, being so vulnerable in his presence with your breasts out and your child finally suckling on them. His eye finds your form once more as Aegon's words replay in his ears — ‘My brother will not sample another.’ He will make sure to teach his brother a very valuable lesson and serve him a good punishment.

His cock starts to swell beneath the layers of his clothing as he stares at you with a newfound passion; you have always been a lovely figure in his mind, too sweet and beautiful to be wed to his brother, and yet, now your features seem to be bolder in his eye.

He strides forward when he hears Maelor crying again, this time much softer but a cry nonetheless. You scurry to cover your breasts when you feel him behind you, trying to look at least a bit modest now that your child is less fussy.

“I’m sorry, Aemond, I-I forgot you came to visit,” you say in a hushed tone, waiting with bated breath for him to say something.

He looks down at his nephew over your shoulder, reaching to wipe a drop of milk from his round cheek near his mouth, his fingers brushing against your sore nipple accidentally. Both of you inhale sharply — him with the new rush of desire and you in surprise. 

“What a messy eater,” he says, his eye meeting yours as he brings his wet finger to his mouth, licking the remaining of your milk off while he keeps eye contact with you, dropping his eye to your lips as soon as they part in surprise before he meets your eyes again — they look darker, cloudier, more lustful. Your lashes flutter, and your rosy lips let out a shaky breath as you keep your gaze on his pink tongue licking his finger.

“It runs in the family I’m afraid,” you reply, averting your eyes from him, pressing a kiss on top of your son’s head as you bounce him, trying to hide your embarrassment.

Despite how crude your husband is, he’s never been one for making you flustered by such a simple gesture, and yet, his brother seems to be the complete opposite; bold, daring, and he’s surely taking whatever he wants.

“May I?” Aemond asks, standing in front of you with extended arms, reaching to take Maelor in his embrace. You gently pass him over, and as soon as your arms are free you bring them to your chest to cover your breasts.

“I-I need to—would you mind holding him for a moment?” You pull the front of your shift up as you ask him, and he can’t help his gaze not fall back on your chest but looks upward to your eyes quickly before you catch him and nod.

He hugs Maelor close, resting his little head on his shoulder as he walks towards his crib, glancing at you walking past the privacy screen. Aemond shushes his nephew, rocking him gently while he hums a tune his mother used to sing for him to lull him to sleep. It seems his efforts have worked when Maelor grows quiet, tinted cheeks stained with tears and fingers fisted tightly. Aemond lies him down slowly, brushing a finger over the few strands of his nephew’s silver hair before his attention is turned to you walking towards him with a warm towel over your chest.

“He has been restless as of late,” you sigh, leaning down to brush a kiss on your son’s forehead, standing on Aemond’s good side, “as have I, as everyone in the Keep. It seems he feels the loss of his brother.”

“We are all shaken by the loss of Jaehaerys,” he replies, his good eye looking up at your face, taking in every up and down of your face.

“Yeah,” you smile at him, ducking your head as soon as the tears gather in your eyes, “yeah…”

He takes a step closer, reaching to wipe the tear that fell from your eye, cupping your cheek in his large hand, “What ails you, my queen?”

“I just…” words die in your throat as he rubs soothing circles on your cheek, tracing the shape of your cheekbone with his thumb. “I’ve been feeling so unloved.” Your voice comes out a fragile whisper.

“Why is that, my queen?” He asks, swallowing harshly at the thought of his fool of a brother being neglectful to you. He’s been given the most beautiful maiden in the realm as his wife, so dutiful and sweet, but taken for granted because Aegon can’t simply keep his cock in his breeches for so long.

“Did you happen to see him when you were out?” You ignore his question, looking up at him from beneath your wet lashes that frame your eyes so perfectly.

He nods, his strong hold on your face never faltering, if anything he’s now more determined to punish Aegon, to take something he has been given on a silver plate but failed to care for. His touch is warm and welcoming, it grounds you to this moment of brief recognition of your feelings. Aemond seems to understand it, willing to give more, but his main purpose of this visit is to hurt Aegon the way he has hurt him.

“Was he—“ a sob is stuck in your throat as you try to utter the words, “in the b-brothel?”

Aemond looks down at his muddy boots, recalling how his brother saw him, how he laughed and undermined him in front of his friends. Aemond forgets about your question for a second, pressing his lips into a thin line and gritting his teeth before he looks back up at you, not before looking one last time at your chest, watching your milk soak through the fabric.

“I-I apologize, maybe it’s best if you leave—” You move away from him, making his hand fall from your face as you try to put back the little dignity you have left before you embarrass yourself more in front of him.

Something shifts inside him as you hide yourself from him, putting more distance between as you move toward the bed. His brother was right; he has not sampled another and has always sought out the Madame, but maybe it ought to change, maybe the fire of his brother’s cruelty might quell if he takes his most precious possession from him.

“Allow me to help you, my queen,” he walks toward you slowly, his eye seizing you up, taking in the sight of your curls around your shoulders, your skin glowing under the orange hues of the candles.

You turn around, watching him take long steps until he’s standing in front of you. He raises his hand, brushing his knuckles on your collarbones, his eyes dropping down to your cleavage. You exhale shakily, whether it is in requited desire or surprise, he does not know, but you do not push him away, just a weak protest that ‘we should not do this, I am your brother’s wife.’

“My brother is a fool who demeans others to feel powerful, and he has done this to us both,” he dips his down on your neck, his hot breath fanning on your ear, “let me show you what you have been deprived of.”

“You wish to help me just to teach your king a lesson?” your voice comes out with a slight tremble as you reach to brush your fingers through his silky hair. “Is that truly why you want me?”

“I despise when Aegon takes what is his for granted,” he says, “He is a fucking twat who takes for granted the treasures he has been given: the throne, the crown, you. And he humiliates you, his queen, by stepping inside that sinful place," he mumbles against your skin, tracing his lips over your neck while his nose nudges your cheek. 

“What do you want to do?” you whine when he bites your earlobe; you cling to his shoulders.

“I wish to fuck you like a hound,” he groans into your ear, his hands coming to grip your full hips.

“We will experience his wrath, Aemond,” you try to protest, but with how focused he is on marking your skin, you cannot help but melt in his arms.

“He is the king, I’m a kinslayer,” he hovers his mouth over yours. “I will kill him too if he dares to subject you to his anger.”

“We must be quiet-mhm—” he cuts you off, smashing his lips to yours, swallowing your protest. His hands move to your waist, gripping and caressing wherever he can reach, his tongue meeting yours in a soft battle of dominance. 

You moan into his mouth when one of his fingers traces a line from your hip up to your breast, squeezing the heavy flesh in his large palm. He groans against your sweet lips in delight, loving the weight of you in his hand. His thumb swipes across the wet towel before he pulls it out of your shift and drops it on the floor, leading you backward past the privacy screen to the bed.

You tangle your fingers in his soft hair, reaching to pull away the tie and letting his shiny silver hair frame his face beautifully while he kisses your breath away.

He lies you on the bed, breaking away from your lips for a second to look down at you, making room on top of you with his gaze fixed on the way your milk soaks through the fabric. He grabs the sides of your shift, ready to rip it apart before you put your hand on his, shaking your head, mumbling a hushed ‘we need to be quiet’ before taking off the dress yourself, lying under his heated gaze all bare except for your small clothes.

“My brother is a fucking idiot,” he mutters before he leans down to lick a path from your neck to your heaving chest, swiping the tip of his tongue over your nipple. He hums as he tastes a few beads of your milk, but abruptly stops when you whine, looking up at you with a questioning look.

“Maelor, well, he can’t latch onto his wet nurses. They are a bit s-sensitive— oh!” Your hand flies to your mouth when Aemond closes his lips around your bud, sucking like a babe being starved for hours, finally having his fill.

His other hand moves to your other breast, pinching, squeezing, and playing with the flesh while he gets drunk on your milk, helping the weight of discomfort vanish immediately.

Your nipple falls from his lips with a lewd ‘pop’, and he moves to the other one, giving the same attention while he leaves sticky lines of your milk across your chest, sucking on your teat quickly, nearly growling at the taste.

You cannot do anything besides moaning behind your hand and arching your back, pushing your chest further into his face. You throw your head back as your hips buck into his, his bulge rubbing against your covered core.

Aegon has never done this for you, it’s always been his duty to plant his seed inside you with little to no care for you to just make an heir, and after Jaehaerys, he’s been ever more distant — no more dinners, no walks in the garden with you and the kids.

His interest weakened the more you started to show, your soft dolce features turned into one of a woman, a mother-to-be, so he sought his pleasure in the brothels to fill the void you could no longer fill. You were non-existent in his eyes, and for once, you are glad, because the other Targaryen brother seems as if he’s in heaven while he feasts upon your breasts like a deprived babe. 

He lets go of your nipple finally, giving the fat of your breast one last kiss before he works his way up to your lips. He unlaces his pants and breeches, urging you to reach and undo his doublet, dropping it down on the pile of clothes. He breaks away to gasp for air while he grabs the back of his linen shirt and stands on his knees stark naked, his cock red, angry, and ready to burst inside you. His mouth shines with drops of your milk and spit.

He grabs the back of your thighs, spreading your legs to his hungry eye, licking his lip as his gaze falls on your soaked cunt. Aemond’s patience runs thinner than before, he moves closer to you, and his hair falls around you like a silver waterfall.

He strokes himself a few times before aligning himself with your entrance, pushing in until his cockhead is inside your warm cunt before he slams all the way into you. He muffles your scream with his own lips, hands coming to rest around your head, caging you under him as he starts thrusting.

Finally, he thinks, finally he has taken something that belonged to his brother, something so precious and fragile. You are nothing like Sylvie, you are soft and delicate, you taste deliciously sweet, and oh so responsive. 

He relishes the way you scratch his back as he fucks you with abandon, snapping his hips into yours furiously as he lets the pent-up anger he feels pour out of him. It is the anger he had inside because of his brother’s idiocy, the words that cut him deep like a sharp dagger.

But no more, no, it is time to take whatever belonged to Aegon. You are just a beautiful touch to it, and he would make sure his brother knows who’s been here, on his bed, giving his wife the pleasure she has never experienced before.

“My queen,” he shushes you, reaching down to collect a drop of your milk before reaching to smear it on your lips, licking it off them. His cock pistoning inside of you quickly, but he is mindful of the baby sleeping on the other side of the privacy screen.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, breasts bouncing with each deep thrust as you try to keep your voice at bay.

He remembers his brother’s words once more; ‘did you fuck her like a hound?’ No, not with the Madame, but he will fuck the queen of the seven Kingdoms like one now.

He pulls out of you, leaving you clenching and whining at the empty feeling before he flips you over on your stomach, pulling your hips up as he spits into his hand and strokes himself before making home inside your tight cunt again, his cock reaching deeper with this position.

You fist the pillows under your hands, biting the fabric to muffle your noises, and Aemond notices that it is your husband’s pillow you are lying on.

He chuckles lowly, one hand gripping the fat of your hip while the other runs down the curve of your spine before he fists your hair in his much larger hand, pushing your head into Aegon’s pillow even more.

“Breathe in his scent while I fuck you like a dog in heat, yes, good girl,” he groans, his limbs tingling with pleasure and anger, letting his emotions take the best of him as he picks up his pace. “Yes, remember how much of a pathetic husband he is, think of how he can never give you pleasure like I can while I fuck my child inside you.”

Tears run down your face from how intense he is taking you from behind, his hips snap into your arse. Your wetness drips down on the bed sheets, but there is little you can do but take what he gives you — a blinding and mind-blowing pleasure you have never had with your husband.

Aemond reaches around your body to find your pearl, rubbing quick and steady circles on the bundle of nerves, leaning down to prep your spine with feather-like kisses, taking in your mesmerizing scent, and looking closer at your tears, taking pure satisfaction in seeing what a mess he has made out of Aegon’s wife, the realm’s queen.

You come with a sob, teeth digging into the soft cushion while your legs shake, walls clamping down against his girth, eliciting a deep throaty moan from him. He lets go of your weeping cunt and grabs your bouncing breast, squeezing the heavy flesh in his hand while his face falters, his thrusts deepen.

When his climax washes over him, it’s all white hot pleasure that rushes through his veins. He shakes atop you while his cock twitches and shoots ropes of his warm spend deep inside you, filling you to the brim. He kisses your tears, his face pushed against your cheek as he lets out broken gasps and groans.

He untangles his fingers from your hair as soon as he calms down from his high, bringing his milk-covered hand to his lips to lick it clean while he meets your eyes.

You look angelic, glowing with the aftermath of your release. The Mother came to life, he thinks.

He pulls out of you gently, minding how sensitive you must feel after the brutality he bestowed upon you. Aemond helps you under the covers, not caring to clean either of you up before he lies down next to you wrapping one arm around you while you curl next to him with your head on his chest.

He notes how quiet you are, drowsy and sleepy in the aftermath of your climax. He takes pride in how peaceful you look, and how good he must have made you feel. His good eye falls on the nightstand on his side, finding his brother — no, the Conqueror's crown — glinting under candlelight.

“I will kill him,” he whispers, “I will make sure our son sits upon that chair and holds Blackfyre. I will kill him, and no one shall ever know it was me.”

[screenviolense]

me: well time to make ivy's little cottage house! can't wait to design her place me: spends the entire time making the "guest" bedroom that hortensia would stay in when visiting because ivy is actual the best half sister in the world

[cherienymphe]

Smells Like Teen Spirit (Rafe Cameron x Reader)

Warnings: NON/DUB-CON, abusive relationship, domestic violence, attempted murder + suicide, mentions of blood, loss of virginity, underage drinking, jealousy, kook!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ cont.

summary: Being one half of the royal couple of Figure 8 isn't what it's cracked up to be.

~

The first time Rafe hit you, it was on your birthday.

Like every year, your parents threw you a big party that hosted no less than a hundred people. A good number of those people were friends from school and familiar faces you’d grown up with. The other bunch were family friends that had more in common with your parents than you. You took their pretty cards filled with money and thanked them with a smile, relieved when they scampered off to congregate with the other forty somethings.

It was the same party every year. Half the people of Figure 8 in attendance, an abundance of gifts you could barely keep up with, and a light scold or two from your mother to smile and greet the next person who came in. Your hair was flawless and your dress was the perfect length.

The only difference this year was the presence of a boyfriend at your side.

“Rafe, if my dad sees us, I will never hear the end of it.”

Your tone was light and teasing, and you said it with a smile, but there was a hint of seriousness there. It really didn’t matter how older you grew to be, you were sure you’d always be your daddy’s little girl. The older man already hadn’t been the most excited when you told him you were dating Rafe Cameron, Ward Cameron’s son, and you were positive that the Cameron family’s reputation was Rafe’s only saving grace.

You’d just turned eighteen then after all and was already flaunting your new adult status.

The blue-eyed boy in front of you merely chuckled, tightening his arms around your waist and leaning in to kiss you again. The house and the yard were filled with almost too many people, so you hadn’t hesitated when Rafe discreetly guided you upstairs.

“He’s too busy talking about his new boat, isn’t he?” he wondered. “He’ll talk all night if they let him.”

You lightly tapped his chest, but you didn’t voice any disagreement.

Your back was leaning against your bedroom door, the muffled sounds of some classical music reaching your ears through the wall. Rafe’s hands were tight on your waist, and you both felt and heard him chuckle again, his lips still pressed against yours. Only this time, he kept laughing—softly and to himself—and you gave him a slight frown when he pulled away.

“I was just thinking…” Rafe pulled you close again. “How hilarious it would be if he was going on and on about that damn boat…none the wiser to his daughter getting fucked on her birthday right upstairs.”

This time you hit him a little harder, and Rafe only laughed again.

“You’re not funny,” you scolded, deflating a little as you pulled away from him. “Way to ruin the mood.”

You said it quietly as you sat down on the edge of your bed, but Rafe heard it clearly, and when you looked up at him, you recognized the look on his face instantly.

“Funny,” he started, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against the door. “Mentioning sex usually has the opposite effect on most people.”

You rolled your eyes with a turn of your head, looking towards your window. The atmosphere was different, now, and you didn’t know if it was your fault or Rafe’s. He joked like that sometimes, and you knew it, so you could recognize that maybe you were being too sensitive.

The topic at hand, however, was a sensitive one for you.

“I really don’t want to have this fight, right now,” you mumbled.

You could feel his gaze on you, but you didn’t return it, determined to just stare down at the people in your yard. The air was thick, the tension even thicker, and you reached up to rub your arms, trying to rid them of the goosebumps that had appeared. Rafe hated being ignored, and you knew that, but you couldn’t bring yourself to continue the conversation because you knew what was brewing.

Rafe was the perfect boyfriend. He was pretty—the kind of pretty that even some girls would be jealous of. He came from the kind of family that taught him about manners and respect. He never hesitated to do what he could to make your life easier despite growing up wanting for nothing. You didn’t think it was possible for an already spoiled girl to be spoiled some more until you started dating Rafe and he proved you wrong. He treated you like a princess, so yes. Rafe was the perfect boyfriend.

Mostly.

“I’ve been really understanding, you know…”

Rafe’s voice was low, and your gaze dropped to your lap.

“…but we’ve been dating for what? Eight months?”

You swallowed, eyes burning.

“Do you know how hard Topper and Kelce would laugh at me if they knew my girlfriend of almost a year refuses to have sex with me?”

You scoffed, finally looking at him, brows pulled together.

“You make it sound like I’m punishing you,” you breathed. “Rafe, this has nothing to do with you, I… I’m just not ready.”

“…and still no ETA on when you will be, huh?”

You blinked at him, lips parting at his callous tone and words. You looked away, blinking back tears because you would hate it if you cried on your birthday of all days.

“You’re being an asshole.”

You whispered it, and you heard Rafe huff.

“I’m not trying to be,” he told you, and you heard him move closer. “…but come on. I get it…”

The bed dipped as he sat down next to you, and you felt his hand on your face, fingers grazing your cheek.

“You’re nervous, and it seems scary, but you’re treating me like I’m some stranger on the street, and not…your boyfriend. You know I’ll take care of you. I always take care of you, and that’s why I don’t understand it,” he bit out. “I treat you like gold, and here I am, eight months in and wondering if you even feel the same way.”

You whipped your head around to stare at him in disbelief, looking between his eyes. You didn’t know how he could be serious, but as you gazed at him, you realized that Rafe was very serious. You took a moment to scoot away from him just a tad.

“I show you everyday how much you mean to me, Rafe…but because I won’t have sex with you that means I don’t love you? So just forget all the other stuff, I guess,” you sneered.

Rafe reached for you when you started to turn away, shaking your head and lightly pushing at his hands. Today was your birthday, and you were fighting with your boyfriend…because sex was something you just weren’t ready for. You snatched your arm out of his hold, standing on unsteady legs.

“When you first brought this up, I told you then that I wasn’t ready, and you made it clear you were okay with waiting. Was that a lie?” you asked him, meeting his gaze.

Rafe ran his hand down his face, huffing to himself.

“No, but I just didn’t think I’d still be waiting almost half a year later.”

He was standing, now too.

“So, why are you? No one’s forcing you to stay here, Rafe,” you sadly told him with a shrug. “You don’t have to be with me if sex is that damn important to you. There are plenty of other girls out there who will happily give you what I don’t want to.”

You crossed your arms over your chest.

“…and I know because I see the looks they give you…and the looks they give me.”

You were used to envy. You’d been on the receiving end of it all your life. Growing up on this side of the island guaranteed that from birth, but you also knew it was because your standing was only rivaled by Sarah Cameron. If Rafe’s sister were anyone else, you might have found yourself involved in some one-sided rivalry, but Sarah was a lot like you.

Just a girl born into fortunate circumstances.

However, what you weren’t used to was envy because of the man you loved. When it came to your house and your lifestyle and everything else, it never bothered you because no one could take those things from you. Rafe, on the other hand… You knew what he was like and what he was used to. It was why you’d been very honest about your sexual history and lack thereof from almost the beginning. If Rafe was going to leave you for someone else all because you wouldn’t have sex with him, you would have rather he do it early.

Not now…not eight months in because now you loved him, and the thought made you want to cry, and it would take just as many months to get over him.

“If I wanted any of those other spoiled bitches then I wouldn’t be here,” Rafe told you. “Besides, you think I’m just going to walk away with nothing after investing so much time and money and energy into you?”

You reared back at that, eyes widening just a tad, and Rafe seemed to realize how that came out. He sighed, reaching for you just as you stepped away from him. You heard him curse when you left the room, ignoring the sound of him calling your name as you hurried to mix yourself in with all of your guests downstairs.

Rafe talked about you like some business investment he was waiting to get a return on. It hurt, a lot, and while you wanted to believe he hadn’t meant it like that in his head, you couldn’t help but to wonder if that was really how he saw you. Your mother smiled at you when she saw your face, none the wiser to your temporary absence. Your own smile was forced as she introduced you to their new golfing buddies.

You didn’t know when Rafe came back downstairs, only quickly glancing away when your eyes connected with his after some time. If your parents noticed your distance from him, they didn’t comment on it, and after a while, you barely noticed it yourself. You immersed yourself in your friends, halfway listening to boyfriend troubles and semester woes.

This was the only thing you and Rafe ever fought about. Plenty of your friends had boyfriends before who tried to pressure them into doing things they didn’t want to do. You were always the friend to tell them to dump them without hesitation, so why hadn’t you done the same? Was it because Rafe was so perfect in all other aspects of your relationship? The back and forth hadn’t ever been so serious before…not until tonight.

As you sipped on the drink you weren’t supposed to be having, you remembered the hurt you felt when Rafe implied you didn’t love him. What a crazy thing to say. You treated him just as well as he treated you, never mind the fact that you told him every day how much you loved him…but because you wouldn’t fuck him that meant otherwise?

It was enough to make you angry.

“Finally stopped hiding from me…?”

You tensed up for half a second, relaxing with a sigh as you heard him come closer. You were out by the water, now, sitting on the boat dock with one leg swinging. It had been nothing but just you and your thoughts for a good thirty minutes, and you guessed it took that amount of time for Rafe to realize you were no longer in the house.

“I don’t know yet,” you honestly told him.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t,” Rafe quietly said, getting straight to the point.

“…but I don’t know. You don’t even think I love you just because I won’t have sex with you. For all I know, that’s exactly how you see me,” you mumbled.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Says the guy ruining my birthday!”

You were looking up at him, now, tearfully, and you shook your head. Saying it aloud made you realize just how shitty it was, and you sniffed, pulling yourself to your feet.

“Just go home, Rafe…”

He stopped you from walking by him, and you ignored anything he was trying to say. The more he leaned in, that was when you smelled it, and your frown deepened at the stench of alcohol on his breath. You didn’t know why the smell made you so angry. It was a party, after all, but maybe it was the fact that if anyone of the two of you deserved to drown their sorrows in booze, it was you. Not Rafe. Pushing at his chest, you scoffed.

“One argument…and you’re already getting drunk?”

You jerked your face away from his hand, glowering at him.

“Don’t you want to at least wait for Ward to give you the daily disappointment speech?”

The slap wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been, but it was hard enough to make your face burn.

You were staring at the water from when your head had whipped to the side, and when a nightly breeze blew by, kissing your skin, only then did the dull burning sensation fade away into a painful one. Your lips were parted in shock, and you were slow to reach up and touch your cheek. The silence was loud, and when you finally looked at Rafe, he looked as shocked as you felt.

All of your breath had left you, and your brain was short-circuiting, desperately trying to reconcile your boyfriend with the same guy who’d just slapped you. It didn’t seem real, and yet the dull pain you felt said otherwise. A few tears escaped against your will, and it was only then did Rafe move. His face fell, but you were already backing away.

“Y/N-.”

“Don’t touch me,” you tearfully spat. “What is wrong with you?”

He didn’t listen, grabbing your arms anyway, and you were still in too much shock to really fight back. Rafe cooed at you, trying to take your face into his hands no matter how much you protested. You wanted him far away from you, and your brain was unsure of how to achieve that, still grappling with the memory of his palm connecting with your cheek.

“Hey, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to do that,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. “Baby, stop.”

You shoved at his chest, hitting it, but he wasn’t deterred. He only rested his free hand on the back of your head, holding you against him, and the feel had more tears spilling over. You kept trying to get away, but Rafe refused to let you, repeatedly apologizing and shushing you. You could feel the cool metal of his ring against your scalp, his lips there too as he kept telling you he was sorry.

Your chest was so tight, and it ached just as much as your face. Your mind was still fighting to make sense of what had happened tonight, and despite Rafe’s apologies for his entire behavior, you told yourself that this was the last straw. Rafe had ruined your birthday in more ways than one, and you were done. You had to be.

…because you deserved better.

The first time you had sex with Rafe—with anyone ever—you’d been terrified.

…and drunk.

An entire month after your birthday, and you didn’t know if you were more shocked or angry that you stayed with Rafe. You had been so determined to leave him that night. He had ruined your birthday beyond repair, and you knew that anytime you looked back on the night you turned nineteen, you’d only remember Rafe slapping you on the dock.

…but you’d also remember his profuse apologies, and the tears in his eyes as he begged you to forgive him.

He was drunk. That was what he kept saying, that he was drunk and acted before thinking. It was barely a reason and certainly wasn’t an excuse, so why did you stay? It was stupid to stay…and yet you did. You let Rafe kiss your face and lead you back to the party that had long died and smile in the face of the parents whose daughter he’d just hit.

You’d answered the phone as he called you, taking almost half an hour to just tell you again how sorry he was and how he didn’t know what came over him and how it would never happen again. You’d never known Rafe to be so apologetic in all the time you’d been dating him. It would’ve been sweet if it weren’t for the circumstances, and the whole time, you’d only been able to listen in silence with your fingers grazing your face.

You hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for days, going over it in your head again and again. Torn between listening to your gut and telling yourself that it had just been a one-off thing, a bad drunken night. After all, what you’d said to him hadn’t been the nicest, knowing how he felt in regard to Ward and his relationship with him. It didn’t make it right…but you had provoked Rafe. You’d said it to hurt him…to make him angry… Right?

…but that wasn’t the case a month later.

Things between you and Rafe hadn’t been the same since. He still doted on you, and your parents still adored him, and you were reluctant to admit you still loved him, but you could never get that night out of your mind. You could never forget how swift it had been, how no thought to you had been spared. Rafe had only been focused on retaliating, hurting you, and it was something you often struggled with. You believed it wouldn’t happen again…but what if it did?

Without even realizing it, you became less argumentative with the blond. You gave him less pushback, you smiled more and became more agreeable to his suggestions. You spent more time with him, making him happy. You believed him when he said it wouldn’t happen again, but in the back of your mind, something in you was doing everything you could think of to make sure it didn’t.

…and that was why you still didn’t quite understand how the fight had started.

Something about Topper…or Kelce.

You were so drunk, it was hard to remember.

“I saw you!”

You had blinked at Rafe from your place on the couch, staring up at him in wonder and confusion. Another Friday meant another party, and promising your mother you’d be back by a certain time, you’d allowed Rafe to help you into his truck. Nothing about the night had been out of the ordinary, and it was why you found yourself wracking your brain.

“Rafe, I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you softly told him, trying to understand why he was so mad.

The only son of Ward Cameron knocked the glass of water right out of your hand, and you flinched at the action, blinking at the sight of shattered glass on the floor. You’d gotten it to try and help you sober up before you went home, and you stared at the spilled water with parted lips. You were too drunk to fully grasp the severity of the situation you were now in.

Suddenly Rafe was there, too close, leaning down over you with his hands resting on the back of the couch. You leaned back and away from him, eyes wide as he looked at you like you were something he’d find on the bottom of his shoe. Like he was so disgusted with the sight of you, and again, you wracked your brain to understand what you’d done. To understand how to fix this.

Rafe’s blue gaze had been cold, icy, and you hadn’t missed the tick of his jaw. The alcohol in your system hindered your thinking, and that had seemed to make Rafe angrier, like he was furious you couldn’t put it together. Read his mind. Overwhelmed, you hadn’t been able to stop a few tears of frustration from escaping, and that just seemed to really send him over the edge.

“You were in his lap,” he had bit out, and only then did you finally understand.

Your odd relationship with your boyfriend these days had driven you to drink more than you ever had. You’d been sloppy…clumsy, and Topper was nice enough to help you back to your feet after you’d quite literally fallen right onto his lap. You wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but one look into Rafe’s eyes had you swallowing it down.

He was very serious…and very angry.

You reached for him, but Rafe only slapped your hands away, straightening and looking down his nose at you. It was a look that made you feel so…cold, and with one blink, you remembered that you were alone. Sarah was God knows where, and the remaining Camerons had gone out to eat. The house was usually empty during this time, but it wasn’t this Friday night.

It consisted of you…and your angry boyfriend.

“I should…I should go. Call my mom,” you mumbled, pushing yourself to your feet.

Your attempts to get by Rafe went unsuccessful, and with each block to your path, something deep within your gut just…dropped. Your gaze met a familiar blue one, and nothing about it was warm, welcoming. Rafe seemed to be so mad at you about something so silly, but instead of just talking about it later when you were both much clearer headed…he didn’t want to let you leave.

“Is that what you’re gonna do?” he’d mocked, a mean look on his face. “Call mommy and daddy to come get you?”

Sarah.

You reminded of him of Sarah.

That was what he’d said, what he’d thrown at you. His tense relationship with the other girl was no secret to anyone, least of all you, and you winced at every insult he threw at you. Spoiled brat. Perfect princess. Uptight prude. It shocked you for a lot of reasons, but mostly because Rafe wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t sober, but you’d hardly seen him drink all night and not nearly as much as you, and he was insulting you with confidence, throwing all of these things at you that you never knew he felt.

“I’m just going to go home, okay? You’re being an asshole, and I don’t know why, so I just…”

At some point, your back was grazing the wall, and Rafe was hovering before you, a look in his eye like leaving was the very last thing he wanted you to do. Every move of yours was mirrored, every turn met with one of his own, and for the first time ever…you were afraid of your boyfriend.

When Rafe hit you that night, you hadn’t been scared. Not really. You’d been angry…shocked…disbelieving. Not scared though. You’d just wanted to be away from him, you had even wanted to hit him back, but not once did you remember feeling scared for your life. Not like this night, and you couldn’t keep it together.

“Rafe, please, I just…I just wanna go home,” you choked out, touching your temple. “We can talk about this tomorrow.”

You were so confused as to how you got here. The night had taken such an unexpected turn, and more than anything, you wanted to sleep it off and write the whole thing off as a bad dream. You wanted to get some more water and take a shower and skip to the part where you had a pounding headache in the morning. You didn’t understand how a night of partying had turned into an argument with your boyfriend.

Although, you supposed it wasn’t much of an argument. Mostly Rafe yelling at you and you trying to understand why. Rafe was determined to make this into something it wasn’t, and when it became clear that he wasn’t going to let you leave without dead-ing this whole thing, you frowned at him.

“I fell. You know I fell, you know…”

Your words died in the air as Rafe rolled his eyes, and something in you was telling you that Rafe was going to believe what he wanted to believe. He was determined to make something true, and it startled you to realize that you’d lost this argument before it even began. Slipping from in between Rafe and the wall was a mistake.

A mistake that had consequences.

Your purse was halfway across the room before you could even grab it good, Rafe suddenly in your face again. He was yelling about a whole bunch of nothing, and when you turned from him again, Rafe made sure it was the last time, gripping your upper arm so hard that you actually cried out. His other hand followed suit, and he shook you, hard enough to make your head whip back and forth.

The only time he listened to you was when you asked him to let you go.

…and he did just that…shoving you in the process.

The kitchen counter slowed your fall only a bit, but it added to the pain more than anything else. Trying to get up proved fruitless, because Rafe was there, kneeling before you with one hand on the counter. The other was on your face, forcing you to look at him. You were too drunk to make full sense of everything he was saying, to grasp the danger you were in. When you finally did, it was too late.

…because Rafe was already ripping the dress he bought you a week ago.

You thought it was a joke at first—some awful and insensitive scare tactic—until you were reaching up to pull at the hand around your throat. Your other hand slapped at the cabinets below in panic, and with a knee between your legs, it was impossible to close them. You knew that you were alone, but that fact didn’t stop you from crying out.

“You really expect me to just watch you throw yourself at my friends? Huh?”

The kitchen floor was cool against your back.

“…and laugh about it?”

He was fumbling between you both, and the room was spinning too much for you to understand why. You felt nauseous, and Rafe was hurting you, and you were cold. Not to mention that your head had started to hurt, but you also realized that everything was hurting.

“But you won’t even touch me.”

You felt like you’d been punched in the gut…only lower.

The pain of Rafe’s intrusion had you wailing, and the difference in your reactions couldn’t have been starker. It was hard to decipher, but you were sure that Rafe had moaned, a low drawn-out sigh as he sheathed himself inside of you. You could feel Rafe’s chest heaving against yours, could feel his heartbeat, could even hear his shaky breath.

You, on the other hand…

You couldn’t move. You felt frozen, restricted by something unseen, and when you tried to fight against it, you gasped. One shift had you wincing, and tears spilled over almost immediately. Your hands were pressing against his chest, now, desperately trying to push Rafe away, pushing off of you… out of you. It was no good, Rafe in a whole other world you weren’t privy too as he pulled back.

The feel had you wincing again, and you thought…

Well, you thought wrong.

Your relief was short-lived, and Rafe ignored everything you said as he started to thrust inside of you. His hips barely left yours, only enough to create friction, and you pushed your forearm against his neck, fighting to get him to stop. The pain wasn’t something you could wrap your head around, and you didn’t know if you were grateful or not that you were so drunk.

Every snap of Rafe’s hips made you cry harder, harsh sobs escaping and echoing in the otherwise silent kitchen. The sound of your bawling was only rivaled by the groans that escaped Rafe, your boyfriend pointedly ignoring your plight. One of his hands pushed against your face, forcing your head to the side…as if he didn’t want to see your face.

See the reality of what he was doing to you.

You thought at some point that the pain would go away, subside, but it felt like it only got worse with each thrust of his cock. Rafe was a man on a mission with only one objective in mind, and you were having the hardest time sorting your thoughts, realizing that in this moment you were a means to an end. An objective to be met through the use of your body.

…but you supposed it was more than just that.

Rafe was always entitled, a trait you found somewhat endearing much like towards an entitled child, but it hadn’t occurred to you that he’d feel entitled to you too. Before the night of your birthday, you knew the one thorn in your relationship, the one thing to actually put a crack in your relationship. Deep down somewhere, you expected Rafe to just leave you. After all, why wouldn’t you?

There was no universe in which you’d ever consider the possibility of the alternative.

The possibility that your boyfriend would just take what he wanted.

It didn’t last long—or maybe that was the alcohol in your system sparing you—but you couldn’t even be relieved. Even after Rafe pulled out, spent and satisfied and out of breath, the pain still remained. He was talking, and you didn’t know if he was talking to himself or you, but you paid it no mind. You could still feel him deep in your gut, and you rolled onto your side, curling into yourself.

You didn’t hear him the first time, but the second time Rafe told you to get up, he was forcing you to your feet. It hurt, and you could barely walk, and your confusion only grew. His hold was tight, and his tone sounded off, and you discovered why when headlights from the yard bled through the windows and into your line of sight.

He was rushing you to get upstairs, but you kept stumbling from both the pain and your blurry vision. Rafe didn’t let you go until you were just inside of his room, and as you collapsed to the floor, you could hear the door opening downstairs. You couldn’t stop crying even if you wanted to, and you hadn’t even realized Rafe had left—to give some half-baked excuse for the broken glass, no doubt—until he returned, suddenly kneeling at your side and begging you to stop crying.

You tried to push him away, but your movements were sluggish, weak, and you weren’t able to hold your own as he pulled you to your feet. Rafe stumbled into the bathroom with you, an arm around you and holding you up as he started the shower. You didn’t want him touching you, but you were physically unable to stop him. Every step hurt and made you stumble, every wave of your arm made you sway, and when the warm water ran over you both, there was nothing you could do as he washed away every remnant of his assault.

You were at Rafe’s side on his birthday, a small smile on your lips as he kept an arm around your waist. Rose thanked you for coming, not that she would expect anything different, and Wheezie asked if you would be staying over. The youngest Cameron had taken a liking to you—all of them did really—and she looked forward to having you around. You wanted to tell her no, but that wasn’t what you said. Instead, you said:

“Its’ Rafe’s birthday. Why wouldn’t I?”

The dark-haired girl beamed, adjusting her glasses, and her satisfaction was contagious. You knew that Rafe’s dynamic with his family was tricky at the best of times, and while you were sure they loved you just fine, something in you also wondered if they liked who Rafe was when he was around you. They were happy to host you for as long as they could.

They had no idea that it was only 24 hours earlier when Rafe tried to kill you.

Trying to leave Rafe resulted in the last thing you ever expected.

That night—and all the other nights that followed—haunted you. When you closed your eyes, you could only see Rafe at his lowest, holding you down and hurting you. You could only feel the pain of him forcing himself inside of you, and the pain that lingered when he was no longer there. The memory of bloody water swirling down the drain was a constant in your mind. As well as the memory of Rafe putting you in his bed, pulling his shirt down to your knees.

You should have left the night of your birthday, you should’ve gotten out then, and none of it would have ever happened, but you told yourself that late was better than never. You told yourself that you learned your lesson and you didn’t have to experience any more hurt to leave. Your eyes were open, and while you didn’t know if you’d ever go against Rafe legally for what he did, you did know that you were leaving him. You had to focus on each step at once. Trying to think so far ahead was enough to scare you.

Right now, you just needed to leave him.

His entire visage had been eerily calm as you broke up with him, voice shaking as you did. Even he hadn’t been able to deny how your relationship had deteriorated, become something unrecognizable and unhealthy. The morning after, you felt like you were existing outside of your body. You could see Rafe leaving apologetic kisses along your face as you stirred, but you couldn’t really feel it. You couldn’t feel his hands either, not until they found a home between your legs, at least.

Your protest was almost immediate, but Rafe had assured you it was fine…and you were scared.

So, you believed him.

Experiencing pain and pleasure at the same time was foreign to you. Rafe’s previous assault was not something to be ignored, but it felt odd to come around him and hiss from the pain of it at the same time. He was gentle, pressing his lips to yours and grazing his fingertips against your skin. His thrusts had been slow and careful, but the damage had been done, and every push of his hips brought out conflicting reactions.

That was how it always went.

Even after the pain and bruises were long gone, you couldn’t stop being afraid of Rafe. After all, he’d made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t respect any kind of refusal from you. What kind of relationship was that? How could you thrive in that? Rafe may have been your first everything, but you weren’t naïve. He was an abusive asshole…and you were just too scared to do something about it.

Until last night.

You thought it would be easy. You even remembered internally laughing at yourself for how dramatic you’d made it in your mind. You thought… You thought that Rafe would move on, let you go. After all, he’d finally gotten what he wanted, and you had even exhaled when he nodded, a soft ‘okay’ soon to follow.

“Let me drive you home,” he’d said.

“Okay,” you’d replied.

You didn’t know why you thought it would be that easy.

Things with Rafe hadn’t been easy in months, and your attempted breakup was no different.

You realized that when the needle on the speedometer started to rapidly climb, the sound of Rafe’s revving engine loud in the truck. You asked him what was going on, where he was going, even though deep down you knew. You knew Rafe better than anyone probably, so you knew the answers to your questions before you even asked them.

“Rafe, stop,” you’d begged, reaching for his arm, but the blond simply fixed you with a wry smile.

“Why?” he’d wondered with a shrug. “So, you can leave me? Why would I want that?”

The houses and trees were flying past you outside the window, and you never felt more powerless than in the moment you were trapped in Rafe’s truck, unable to do a thing as he raced down the road towards the end he’d already picked out for the both of you. Any attempt to grab the wheel only resulted in Rafe jerking it—jerking the vehicle in the process—and scaring the shit out of you.

Retracting everything you’d said earlier only resulted in a harsh slap to the steering wheel, a dry laugh from Rafe soon to follow.

“You think I believe that load of shit? Huh?”

“Rafe-!”

“You just tried to break up with me not even thirty minutes ago,” he screamed.

He wasn’t wrong, and you still wanted to, but you were more afraid of dying than living a lie. You pleaded with your boyfriend, assuring him that you didn’t mean it. He only laughed again, and you got the feeling that Rafe was genuinely amused by you. By your tears, by your fear, and by your desperation.

Your heart was racing so fast it could be classified as painful. Your hands were sweating and constantly sliding against the door from where you tried to hold on to it. You pulled at his arm when he swerved into the other lane, swerving back just in time to miss an oncoming truck. Your stomach twisted painfully, bile rising in your throat, and at this point you couldn’t even see the road because of your tears.

“Rafe, please, please just talk to me,” you cried.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel, blue eyes focused on the road with not a glance spared towards you, and you pressed your hand to your mouth. You looked out of the window again, unable to make out a thing, and when you reached for Rafe this time, he didn’t slap your hand away. He didn’t protest when you wrapped your arm around his waist, leaning into him and resting your hand against his chest.

You knew that your tears were staining his shirt, and you didn’t know if you stopped fighting as some unconscious tactic or simply because you were accepting what was impossible to escape. Rafe had to have been going a hundred miles an hour, this kind of speed something your brain could barely fathom. It was after some time when you felt his hand on your head and some time after that when you gradually felt the truck slowing.

You were still shaking long after it came to a stop in some wooded area, and the silence in the vehicle was loud. Rafe was just playing with your hair while you trembled against him, and when he stopped, it was only to trail his hand to your neck, gripping the back of it harshly as he forced you to sit up. You knew you looked as distraught as you felt, but Rafe…

Rafe looked calm and in control and nothing less.

His blue eyes ran over your face, drinking in your trembling lips and wet cheeks, lingering on your wide eyes the longest. You felt him rub his thumb along your skin, and when he hummed, it harshly pressed against the side of your neck. Suddenly, the corner of his pink lips curved just the slightest, and nothing about it was soothing.

“I wasn’t serious… You know that, right?”

You didn’t respond because he wasn’t kidding, and you both knew it. Rafe shifted, moving closer, and he brought his other hand up to touch your cheek, wiping your tears away. He studied your eyes, leaning in and grazing your lips.

“It was just…something I didn’t mean. You understand though. Doing things…saying things we don’t mean,” he slowly said to you, swiping his tongue between his lips. “Right…?”

The drop in his voice and the slight raise of his brows had you swallowing, and he was looking at you like he dared you to disagree. Fighting the urge to throw up, and with a shaky nod, you told Rafe what he wanted to hear.

“Right,” you whispered, and he chuckled.

“Alright,” he breathed with a blinding smile, pulling you into his side. “Kelce is throwing together some small thing at his house. I told him we might stop by…”

He trailed off, leaving room for a comment, and you only shrugged.

“That’s fine with me.”

Your voice was barely audible, but Rafe heard you fine, starting the truck and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I knew it would be.”

You’d been quiet the whole night, and you’d been quiet all day, only existing as silent support to Rafe on his birthday. If anyone noticed your reserved demeanor, no one commented on it. No one knew that as you wished Rafe a happy birthday, you were afraid of what could happen if you didn’t smile hard enough. When he kissed you, you could only think of how he’d kissed you after threatening to kill you both. Every time Rafe held your hand, it felt like a chain tethering you to him.

You dreaded the moment the party would thin out and everyone would start trickling from the home in pairs, heading back to the comfort of their own homes until just Rafe and his family remained. Eventually they would call it a night too, and you and Rafe would be alone, and you wouldn’t have a choice but to kiss him back when he eventually kissed you.

…and kiss you he did.

“You almost ruined my birthday, you know,” he mumbled into the kiss, making you pause for half a second.

Your only response was a quiet apology, and Rafe sighed into your mouth.

“That’s okay, baby,” the blond purred. “You know I’ll let you make it up to me.”

You were terrified of your boyfriend, and that was why you let him undress you. You let him wrap his arms around you and hold you close and press kisses to your skin. It was surreal to have sexy with someone you were afraid of, like you were being held hostage in your own body. If Rafe noticed—and you were sure that he did—he didn’t care.

He was content to lay you down and bury his face into the crook of your neck. In fact, you were sure Rafe liked your fear, liked that you were so scared of him. You thought it made it all the more fun for him to push his cock into you and feel you tremble in fear. You just knew there was something in Rafe that took great pleasure in making you momentarily sacrifice your fear of him for ecstasy instead.

He forced your head back, and your chest arched upwards into him. You gasped at the feel of his tongue on your skin, gliding over a hardened bud and tasting you. His hips came down slowly, like he was savoring the feel of you clinging to his cock. He sighed with every thrust, and you were never able to swallow down your own moans once Rafe started stroking that fire building within you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, nipping at your lip as he plunged his cock into you.

One of your legs were thrown over his shoulder, and the stretch burned in a way that wasn’t painful but wasn’t the best either. One of your hands was wrapping around his arm, trying to ground yourself as the other twisted into his sheets. You couldn’t stop gasping, clenching down on him every time Rafe hit that spot in you that made you lose your breath.

When he pushed your leg back more, you yelped in pain, but Rafe only hummed. His thrusts became rougher, and he only hummed again when you hissed. Your hand rested on his chest, pushing against him slightly—a nonverbal communication—but Rafe ignored it.

“Rafe…”

His hips were slapping against yours, and you couldn’t even pretend to enjoy it. Your other hand came up too, and he slapped it away, that same hand wrapped around your throat only moments later. You let out a choked cry, reaching up, but Rafe didn’t stop, continuing to fuck you and choke you.

“Look at me-look at me,” he quietly spat.

Too afraid not to, you did, your distressed gaze meeting his even one in the low lighting. He was so close, nose almost brushing against yours, and he looked between your eyes. His hand tightened around your neck, making your heart skip a beat, and his free hand covered your breast, squeezing it, and your free leg kicked at the sheets.

“I will kill you.”

Your nails pressed into the skin on his arm.

“Do you understand me? You try to leave me again…and I will kill you.”

Your heart was threatening to burst from your chest, and the ceiling behind Rafe’s face was starting to blur. The edges of your vision were growing faint, darkness creeping along the outer rim.

“I will dump your body on the side of the road, and I will get away with it.”

His words and cadence were slow, purposeful, and you knew that Rafe was entirely serious. Tears had long spilled over, and you couldn’t stop crying. Rafe shook you, your neck straining from the action, and the whole time he kept fucking you. His lower movements didn’t stop once, sliding into you over and over and stroking your walls all the while he threatened you.

He roughly let you go, and you coughed, touching your throat and shaking uncontrollably. When Rafe shifted, your leg falling to the bed, you pressed your hands to your face, sobbing into the palms of them. Rafe caged you in, thighs meeting yours with every thrust, and he didn’t seem to care at all at the sight of your distress. In fact, he kissed the back of your hands, humming with every stroke, and you could only think that if you had broken up with him on your birthday then he wouldn’t be threatening your life on his.

Ward Cameron may have felt a lot of things about Rafe, but he wasn’t going to let his only son go to jail.

You should have known that when you called the police, throat tight and phone call tearful as they asked what your emergency was. Telling the woman on the other side of the phone that you were hiding from Rafe Cameron inside of the bathroom wasn’t easy. Telling her that he had a gun was even harder, and something in you wondered if they would’ve been as urgent if they hadn’t heard his booming voice from the other side of the door as he threatened you.

You were sitting on the steps when a familiar car pulled into the driveway behind the cruiser, and you felt your face crumble. There was some relief as the older man went back and forth with Shoupe, but it dwindled the longer it went on. When Ward turned his head towards you, you dropped your gaze, eyes tracing the blood on your foot from where a few shards of glass had nicked it. You didn’t dare look up, not even when you heard his footsteps approaching despite the loud protests from the Sheriff.

When Ward said your name, it was cautious—gentle—and you shook your head.

“No.”

Your name rolled off of his tongue again, and you interrupted whatever he was going to say.

“No, no, no! No,” you cried.

You knew what he was going to say, where this was going, and you refused. You were tired, so tired, and each time you’d tried to do the right thing after your disastrous birthday, you got screwed over. Each time, Rafe was one step ahead or using that charming smile and devious words to convince you it would never happen again. Every slap, every shove, every hand around your throat was proof of all the lies that left his lips.

You were sure that the only truth Rafe had ever told was when he said he’d kill you.

 It was silent between you two for some time, and you heard Ward sigh. You bit your lip, worrying it so much you started to taste blood, and you sniffed, wiping your face as you refused to look at the man. When he took another step towards you, you flinched, and only then did you look up to see the way Ward’s face fell.

You watched him press his lips together, only a thin line, now.

“I want you to tell me what happened.”

You scoffed.

“You know what happened. I’m sure Shoupe told you,” you forced out, and Ward exhaled through his nose.

He briefly glanced over his shoulder, looking at his son in the back of the cop car.

“I want to hear it from you. I want to know how a couple’s quarrel turned into-.”

“A couple’s quarrel?” you repeated in disbelief, tears falling as you exhaled. “He threw a vase at me. He put a gun in my mouth.”

You couldn’t tell how Ward took your words, but he did put his hands on his hips.

“Now, Y/N…you know it’s a crime to lie to the police.”

His response didn’t surprise you, and you nodded, your laugh humorless. Ward knew you were telling the truth, he knew just how unhinged Rafe could be, but he didn’t want him in jail. He couldn’t have the Cameron name tarnished by the arrest of his only son on domestic violence charges. Ward would rather handle this in private, away from prying eyes…and it disgusted you.

“I’m not lying, and you know I’m not lying,” you choked out.

“Why would Rafe do this? Right out of the blue?”

You were on your feet, now, sneering at the other man.

“It’s not out of the blue. Rafe has been treating me like shit for months!”

“…and this is the first we’re hearing of it…?”

The eldest Cameron tilted his head to the side, studying you, and you felt your breath leave you. You watched him touch his chest, gaze soft as he seemed to plead with you.

“Now, I’m not saying that’s not true…but you know that’s what they’re going to ask you. They’re going to ask you why you didn’t tell anyone…and they’re going to note how convenient this all is.”

You knew that, and you looked away, hands falling at your side.

“Rafe says you dropped a vase, and it started an argument.”

“He’s lying-.”

“…and anyone can say you’re the liar.”

You pressed your hands to your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut as more tears fell. Even through your lids, you could see the change in colors from the flash of the squad car, and when you opened your eyes again, the procession of red and blue lit the yard.

“That gun is legally his…and no one saw him do what you claim he did.”

“Why are you protecting him?” you loudly wondered, looking at the man in disbelief.

You’d eaten dinner with his family, even watched his daughter some nights, and he’d smiled in your face on numerous occasions, treating you like his own. Now, though…when push came to shove…Ward Cameron was showing you that you were not one of his own. Rafe was his own…and you were now a threat.

He took a step towards you, and you reached out to grip the rail to keep yourself from falling.

“I am just telling you what will happen if you continue with this,” he slowly started, and you crossed your arms over your chest, refusing to look at him. “They will take Rafe away, and I will pay his bail, and he’ll come home with me. There were no witnesses, and everything is pure speculation, a simple case of he said she said.”

You knew that he was right, and you felt yourself start to shake.

“…and in that scenario, I can’t help you.”

You knew what he was saying. You knew that he was talking about protecting you from more than just scrutiny and the law—he was also talking about protecting you from Rafe. Your lips parted, and you shakily exhaled. You felt like you were going to collapse, legs unsteady, and when you looked over…your eyes finally met a familiar blue pair.

You were positive that Rafe hadn’t taken his eyes off of you since they’d put handcuffs on him. If looks could kill, you were sure that you’d be six feet under, and you frantically blinked. No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him, and your stomach churned at the memory of his hand on the back of your neck. His other held the gun, angrily forcing the weapon into your mouth as he sneered at you.

Something about returning the smile from some pogue at The Wreck—blond and rowdy and kind of familiar.

You recalled that his name was JJ.

The fight had started almost as soon as you got inside, and you shuddered at the flare of pain in your arm, recalling the way Rafe had shoved you into the wall. You’d only slid down just in time to miss the flying vase. Just thinking about it was enough to paralyze you with fear…and then you thought about what would happen should you choose to have a legal battle with Rafe and his family.

…and lose.

You let out a choked sob, looking away, and letting your face fall into your hands. You collapsed back down onto the steps, Ward’s voice reaching you.

“You tell Shoupe this was all one big misunderstanding…and I can do so much more for you. …but I can’t help you if you go through with this.”

You couldn’t stop crying, because you were trapped…and you knew it. Your parents had money too, just as much as the Cameron’s, but that only evened the playing field, it gave you no advantage, and you were back to square one of your word vs Rafe’s. You knew he would be far more forgiving if you just…did what Ward said. You knew that if you went through with this and lost, Rafe would wring your neck.

“I won’t let my son go to jail, Y/N. One way or another…”

You knew he was telling the truth, the conviction in his tone matching the certainty in your chest.

“…but at least this way, I can help you.”

Your knees bounced as you wrapped your arms around yourself, your tearful gaze focused on the perfectly manicured grass. You curled in on yourself, head falling, and your shoulders shook from your sobs.

“He scares me,” you struggled to say, and Ward placated you.

“I know…I know he does, but you have to let me help you.”

You pulled the ends of your sleeves over your hands, wiping your face. The night was still lit up with red and blue, and you closed your eyes, stomach sinking. It took everything in you to give Ward a shaky nod, and you kept your eyes on the ground as Ward waved the other man over.

You felt like you were betraying yourself, arm still aching and throat still raw from all of your screaming. A lot of your trembling was still from what had happened hours ago, and like that day in his truck…and the night of his party…you’d really thought you were going to die. You couldn’t go through that again, but Ward said that he would protect you because you knew Rafe better than anyone, and you knew that if you tried to press charges against Rafe and didn’t succeed…

He would kill you.

“Y/N wants to talk to you.”

You glanced up at the sound of your name, holding Ward’s gaze for a few seconds before finally meeting Shoupe’s.

“I want… I don’t-I don’t wanna press charges.”

Your words tumbled out, and for a moment, you were sure that Shoupe hadn’t heard you properly. You came to realize that he heard you fine, and his confusion wasn’t from a lack of understanding. You watched him rest his hands on his hips, looking between you and Ward.

“Now, Y/N…” he started, seemingly trying to organize his thoughts. “I heard that phone call. I heard what you said and I heard him yelling.”

“It was just a regular argument, Shoupe,” you whispered with a shrug. “It was stupid. A stupid vase…”

“That he threw…”

The pause was heavy, and you glanced away.

“That I dropped.”

You shook your head when he said your name, and you licked your lips, gaze pleading as they met his again.

“Please, just let him go. He didn’t do anything to me. It was a stupid fight that I exaggerated because…I was angry and things got out of hand, and this just went way beyond what I intended, so…”

The other man didn’t look like he believed you, at all, and you watched him glance at Ward—who hadn’t said a thing—before looking back to you. He sighed, fixing you with a look you couldn’t name.

“Are you sure…?”

Your only response was a nod, unsure if you could lie any more without breaking down. With an aggravated sigh—aggravation at you or at Ward, you didn’t know—Shoupe signaled to his deputy to let Rafe go. Ward was pulled to the side as the two men had a hushed and heated conversation, going back and forth, while your gaze rested on Rafe.

You felt like you were doing the worst thing possible as you watched them guide him out of the backseat. He looked far from happy as they uncuffed him, and just like all night, his gaze refused to leave you. The flashing red and blue bathed him, blue eyes glinting almost dangerously, and you pressed your lips together while you watched him rub his now free wrists.

The other men were distracted as Rafe slowly made his way over, and you didn’t dare move. You were too scared to, and as much as you wanted to pull your eyes away, you couldn’t find the strength to. It was just hours ago that you’d stared into that face as he yelled at you for something as harmless as a smile. Only hours ago, he was pushing you around and threatening you.

…and now those same hands were reaching for you and pulling you to your feet.

You cried for so many reasons as Rafe wrapped his arms around you, rocking you from side to side and shushing you in what was meant to be a soothing voice. They were tight, and you cried harder, apologies slipping past your lips before you realized what you were doing. Rafe was always quick to forgive if you were quick to apologize.

“I know,” you heard and felt him murmur into your hair.

“Please, please don’t…”

You both knew what you were begging for, and he gently shushed you.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out again, repeating it as many times as you thought you should, hoping and praying that it was enough. “You have to know that…”

Your words died in the air at the sound of his voice.

“I should be angry with you…but I understand,” he softly told you. “You were scared, and you should’ve been.”

You sniffed, staring at the red and blue grass.

“I went too far, and you were right to be scared.”

Rafe pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there, telling you the words that brought you temporary relief.

“I forgive you.”

[watermelonsugacry]

https://x.com/hs_news_/status/1795678779970662517?s=46&t=xX9XI-7pJPjEXE_Xxj4eNw

Its them!!!🥹🥹😍

Maybe y/n was spotted in public after a very long time(we know why) and the fandom goes crazzzyyyy!!!

He’s all over her and them shopping for groceries and stuff and him searching for her favourites to satisfy her cravingssss!!!!

And fans be like..which god did you pray y/n?????🥹🥹🩷🩷🩷

Roaming Rome

SUMMARY: The MIA couple has finally come out of hiding and walk the streets of Italy. (1k)

GENRE: 1dbandmember!yn, married!ynrry, pregnant!yn

Since 2010 masterlist

Italy has been their safe space. 

These past couple of months have been nothing but the bliss and relaxation that they’ve been needing for the past two years of being on tour—for the past 14 years of their career in the band. This is by far the longest break they’ve taken from performing on stage, interviews—from the rest of the world.

Since going on their second honeymoon, the couple has kept a low profile traveling to some of their favorite places: walking along the beaches in Jamaica, getting tipsy at their favorite karaoke bars (before they got pregnant) in Tokyo, and going to see Swan Lake at the Royal Opera House in London.

But since discovering that baby Styles was growing in YN’s belly, they’ve decided to momentarily pause their travels in Rome. When the time comes, they’ll travel back to England where their baby will be born. Their baby is an Englishman, through and through.

Being the dutiful husband that he is, Harry has been running errands while his wife sits at home to keep her growing belly away from the watchful eyes of paps and fans, seems like a must. Still undecided about when to share their news with the rest of the world, YN keeps herself busy with things like making music or reading to her belly.

She humors Harry with her pregnancy milestones. Like the time she called him into the shower to let him know that she officially can’t see her toes anymore (which led him having to put her socks on for her). Or the time they were watching a movie on the couch and she suddenly wondered if she could still do the splits with her baby belly. He watched with a humored smile at her impromptu demonstration and laughed when she wondered if she could still twerk too. After finding out she still could, he told her to be careful because “that’s how you got pregnant in the first place.”

So as much as he doesn’t mind running errands, he can’t help but wish that his love was beside him. Call him lovesick, but when hasn’t he been?

Before he’s ready to take off, he taps his jean pockets before calling out to his wife, “Babe!”

“Yeah?” Her voice comes from somewhere upstairs.

“Have y’seen my keys?”

“Yeah, up here!”

When he enters their bedroom, he stops in his tracks. He sees her sitting on the end of the bed in a sports bar and her jeans unbuttoned as she bends over to tie her shoelaces—well, trying to.

“Hey, hey,” Harry quickly goes to her struggling fingers and begins tying the laces himself. “Be careful, my love. Squishing my baby in there.”

“Yeah well, tell yeh baby that is he could stop pressing down on me bladder,” YN plops down on the bed behind her with a huff, her arms spread out. “I’d really appreciate that.”

“She can’t help it, darlin’.” One of the many late night conversations (debates) they’ve been having lately is what they think their baby is going to be. Harry’s wishing for a girl while YN’s very adamant about them having a boy. “She’s growing big and strong in there,” He places his hands gently on her belly and coos, “It’s that right, my sweet girl?”

“Stop,” She laughs once his kisses on her taut skin begin to tickle from his facial hair. She pushes his head away with a playful shove, “Stop, you’re smothering him.”

Once he’s finished securing the laces into a bow, he stops to question, “You gonna take a walk around the garden again, baby?”

Being housebound by choice can come with its downsides. So to avoid the inevitable cabin fever that has already begun to bubble up inside of her, one of the ways she keeps herself sane is taking walks around their private villa. There’s truly nothing like strolling around the property filled with giant trees, bushes with various flowers growing the perimeter, and feeling the summer sun on her skin. 

The time off has been very much needed, but if she were speaking freely, she has to admit that she’s getting bored.

YN lifts up her hands towards her husband and he gently helps her stand up on her feet. 

“No. M’joining you today.”

Her words make him physically pause.

“You sure?” He hesitates. As much as the thought of having her by his side again excites him, nothing is more important than making sure that she’s comfortable. With her going out, it increases the possibility that someone can not only recognize the two, but figure out that her belly is getting bigger with their child growing. 

They aren’t ready to share the news with the rest of the world yet, but when they do find out, it's going to be on their terms.

“Yeah. I want to.” She puts her hands on her belly and the smile she gives him is enough reassurance, as is. “Wearing one of yeh hoodies can be big enough to cover him. And as long as I don’t hug anyone, I think I’ll be alright.”

He leans down to press a kiss to her lips, sealing the deal. Before he pulls away, he mumbles against her lips, “Her.”

“Just go get my bag, Styles,” she laughs, eyes squeezing shut when he feverishly presses kisses into the crook of her neck.

And oh how the fans immediately take notice—not of her belly, but of how sweet Harry’s being on her. It’s been a while since the people have seen him with his other half and if they didn’t know any better, it seemed like he hadn’t seen her altogether in weeks. He constantly has an arm around the tops of her shoulders and will press a kiss into her hair when walking down the cobblestone pathways. The one time he lets go of her hand is to buy her a small bouquet of flowers from the local vendor. And it would be silly of Harry not to see his wife’s pregnancy cravings kicking in when they pass by a gelato shop. And it would also be silly to be surprised when he has to switch cones with her when she suddenly likes his flavor better.

And there's something so glowly, so radiant about her that the people can't quite put their finger on it.

After putting their errand bags in the car—they almost forgot the reason for going out—Harry goes to open the door for his wife but pauses when he sees the look on her face. He sees how her eyes scan to somewhere in the distance with the tiniest furrow of her brows, her eyes beginning to squint. He doesn’t even try to hide the amused look on his face and instead leans a forearm on the vehicle as he patiently waits for what’s to come. Her nostrils widen a bit, “Do you smell pastrami?”

Harry can’t hold back his laugh. Being in shape for a two-year long world tour was a must. Since then, the couple has maintained a fairly healthy lifestyle—moreso Harry while YN still likes to enjoy a bit of junk food every now and then. Yet, it’s been a while since she’s indulged in something like a beefy, greasy sandwich. 

Yup, definitely pregnancy cravings.

The inevitable comes sooner than later as they turn their attention towards the two ladies saying their names. Harry—already taking in a breath to gently decline the request to take a picture with the two fans—is interrupted by YN’s sweet acceptance. 

The couple stands behind the two ladies as they take a group selfie. Thankfully, YN has her flowers to discreetly hold in front of her belly as she gives the camera a smile. But before they depart, YN asks them where’s the best place to get a pastrami sandwich in the area.

Yeah, pregnancy cravings for sure.

.

.

taglist:

@ashtongivesmebutterflies  @cacapeepee @thurhomish @armystay89 @be-with-me-so-happily

(Let me know if you wanna be added I'm starting a new one!💚)

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

How You Turn My World; Chapter 1

Your day started with chaos, and my dear, it looks like it will continue to be chaos. But only time will tell. The Underground holds many surprises in store for you.

Characters; Grim, Lilia Vanrouge, Deuce Spade, Ace Trappola

Content; Gender-neutral reader, cat shenanigans, building the plot

Content Warnings; Swearing, illusion to marijuana but there is none

Word Count; 4.6 K

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

Don't put my work into AI; I'll make sure you go to the Underground and don't return. Mwah mwah, kisses~

Ah, the joys of cat parenthood. Days spent cuddling your little bundle of furry joy. That’s what your friends preached. That having a feline roommate was easy and rewarding. That you would benefit by having a cute and fuzzy companion that didn’t demand much of anything. That you would love your little kitty friend like a child. Well, either your friends were liars with questionable senses of humour, or you drew the short stick when it came to choosing a furry companion. And there’s always the possibility of it being both, what with having Ace as a friend and all, but you just hoped it was just your shit luck and not that you had shit friends.

Seriously, though, what higher power did you manage to piss off to deserve the royal hobgoblin of a cat you have? He has shit and pissed in your plants on several occasions. Demolished every single curtain he laid eyes on like he had a personal vendetta against them. Stole your breakfast off your plate right as you were about to take a bite. Puked on your last pair of good white shoes, which still had stains on them because they wouldn’t come out. The cherry on top of it all though was that he insists on yowling and crying in the middle of the damn night for no good reason. Rudely awaking you from the dead of sleep because he demanded attention. With how loud he was, you were surprised that you hadn’t gotten a noise complaint from any of your neighbours… yet. But then again, you could hear the upstairs neighbours’ children screaming bloody murder every so often — what were their names, the Clovers? They were probably so used to it that they threw you a bone, or they didn’t want extra grey hairs from filing a complaint to the landlord. So maybe Grim wasn’t all that bad, but he was still a gremlin child. 

“MROWWWWWW!!!!!” Ah, so tonight was no different then. Grim had decided that you needed to be woken up before even the birds started to sing, needed to be yanked out of the land of dreams. That whatever had caught the attention of his singular brain cell was more important than you recharging so you don’t accidentally say the wrong thing to your boss. Since last time you had slipped up and called him dad, even though no one in their right mind would leave him alone with a rutabaga unattended, and he went on a two-hour long monologue about how much of a kind and generous person he was for you to see him as a father figure. And your salary wasn’t high enough, nor would it ever be, to deal with his eccentric and maddening behaviour.

Maybe, just maybe, if you ignored him and stared at the ceiling long enough he would stop his caterwauling and go to sleep. “MROWWWW!!!!!” Apparently not.

Just one night, ONE NIGHT, of peace and quiet. PLEASE. But you knew that if you didn’t get up soon, he would get up on the bed and put his fluffy butt in your face… like he did last night and the night before that. Sighing, you begrudgingly got out of your cocoon of warm, fluffy, blankets, and hoped you would soon be back in them after dealing with Grim. Hopefully, he was just complaining about his food bowl not being as full as he would like it.

What was the time anyways? Three-thirty in the morning? Ugh, Grim! What did Ace say about it, ah, yes, “Primetime witching hour. Demons and all sorts of creepies” yada yada yada. But you didn’t pay any mind to him, as his annoying smug look would taunt you in your mind even though he was probably sound asleep, blissfully asleep. Something that you wanted to be doing, but woefully you were not.

Stepping out into the main living space, you shot the grey fuzzball the stink eye. “What the hell do you want? You absolute gremlin!” You hissed through gritted teeth, very much annoyed with your brat of a fur child and wanting nothing more than to crawl back to bed, hell, even the loveseat would suffice.  

The offending feline just trilled at you in response, and his tail vibrated, happy that you had come out to see him. How is he so cute but so annoying? He rubbed against your legs before trotting off to one of his hidey holes, which also served as his nest of your stolen socks. He has a weird obsession with socks. But he popped back out, holding something in his mouth. Something small and fuzzy that didn’t look like any of his toys.

“Prowwww,” he dropped it at your feet as if saying that catching whatever it was, was the equivalent to paying his share of rent. Which, it was very much not.

You closed your eyes and pinched your brow. Please be one of his toys. PLEASE be one of his toys. You chanted to yourself in your mind and then opened your eyes. Unfortunately, it was not one of his toys. The small, fuzzy thing in question seemed to be a mouse or some other kind of rodent. It was too late (too early?) for this, and quite frankly you didn’t have the brain power to confirm whatever the hell it was. All you knew was that it looked like a mouse, therefore it was a mouse.

“Is this what you’ve been screaming about this whole time? A mouse,” you sighed. Shaking your head, you went to the bathroom, grabbing some paper towel so you could at least put it outside for something else to eat, or go back to nature in some other way. It was better than just being left to decompose in the communal garbage bin. When you came back out though, it was nowhere to be seen. Now, either Grim decided to eat it like a good kitty cat, or, with your luck, it was still alive and was now running amuck in your apartment.

Grim’s chattering was coming from the kitchen now, and he was up on top of the fridge. It was running amuck in your apartment, how lovely.

“Why, why, are you like this?! Get down from there!” You really didn’t have the energy for this.

Grim just blinked at you before his eyes dilated. He leapt down from his perch on the fridge and was pawing at a corner by the window. Looking down and you couldn’t make out anything on the floor. But you had the oh-so-brilliant idea to look up toward the ceiling. The ‘mouse’ was very much alive, and wasn’t a mouse at all, since it was flying around and banging itself against the corner.

“YOU CAUGHT A FUCKING BAT?!”

He had indeed caught a fucking bat. And bats were normally fine, when they were outside. Not when they’re flying around your apartment at three o’clock in the morning and your cat is losing his goddamn mind trying to catch it. So no, this was very much not fine. 

The bat was about as pleased as you were with this whole situation and kept on flinging itself against the glass of the window, desperately trying to get back outside. How the hell did it get inside in the first place? That could be pondered on upon at a later time, as the first priority was getting it back outside.

“Don’t fly towards my head, bat. I’m just trying to get you back outside. You’re a nice bat, right? Nice bat, nice bat,” you whispered in a non-threatening tone. Could the flying mammal understand what you were saying? Mostly likely not. Hopefully it understood that you, unlike your cat, were trying to help and did not want some fresh bat as your late night snack tonight.

After what felt like forever fuddling with the window to open with a broom in hand, just in case the bat decided to dive bomb your head, you finally got the cursed thing open. 

Grabbing Grim, who was still trying to catch the bat for a second time tonight, you got back to your bedroom and locked the door shut. You hoped that the bat would take the hint that it now had a path to freedom, but only time, and a bit of sleep, would tell. Slumping against the door frame, you sighed and looked over at Grim. He was playing with the door stop, the boing, boingg, boinggg sounds filling in the quiet. Whether it was to amuse himself, or to annoy you was a fifty-fifty bet.

Just as you were about to crawl back under the covers a string of anxiety connected in your head. Shit, did Grim get bit? DAMMIT GRIM! After leaving a somewhat desperate and tired call to your vet’s voicemail, alongside an apology for the late call (early call?), you peeked outside to see if the bat was still flying around. According to Google, the bat should be tested for rabies. You did not trust your no brain cell having fluff ball to know better than to get bit by a possibly rabid bat. But it was gone, so yet again, you were out of luck.

You had enough with today, even though it had just really begun. Pulling up the covers, you sighed in the dark warmth of your blanket cocoon. Grim was busying himself by trying to pounce on your feet, but you ignored him, falling back to sleep and hoping that the rest of your day wouldn’t bring any more shenanigans, migraines, or small flying mammals.

…

…

…

By some miracle, you managed to get Grim to the vet the very same day. Your boss agreed to let you work from home because he is ever so kind and generous… It did help that one of the other higher-ups nearly nagged off his ear upon hearing about the condition of your cat. Even through the phone you could hear it, and could only imagine the spectacle it must have been. Oh well, you had the day off and that is what mattered… but you would be lying if you said that you didn’t cough out a laugh just imagining the scene on the other side of the phone.

You were relieved, Grim on the other hand was not having it. To be fair, you did trick him into his crate with some tuna. He made his disdain known to all though by crying the entire way there. You almost felt bad for him, almost being the key word. 

“You have no one to blame for this but yourself, ya know.” You huffed at him, feeling your shit sleep all too well. “Crying about it won’t help you any.”

Grim let out a pathetic little mew. His little, bright, blue eyes being the only visible part of him, which peered out miserably from the crate. Caving to the kitty manipulation, you poked your finger in as a peace offering. Grim booped his nose to your finger and then proceeded to nibble on it; such a vicious beast.

The vet visit went as well as you could hope it could, as Grim only tried to maim the vet a few times. Hey, it was an improvement from last time, as he had actually peed on them. So yes, trying to maim was vastly better than seeing your figurative child pee on the doctor. You’re pretty sure your vet didn’t go through years of schooling and thousands of dollars into debt just to get peed on by your unruly cat. But Grim was won over by the offering of that cat gogurt, his nose and stomach betraying him. Note to self, stock up on some of that stuff.

The rest of the visit went on without a hitch; he had some blood drawn, got his booster shot for rabies, and even managed to squeeze in a bonus nail trim. There was no evidence of any bite or puncture marks, so Grim by some miracle, did indeed have enough brain cells not to get bit.

“Grim will have to be watched for about forty-five days,” the vet hummed, checking Grim’s chart. “Since you don’t have any other animals it shouldn’t be too difficult to keep him in quarantine. If you see any symptoms be sure to bring him back, just in case.” They gave you a tired smile, and then turned that smile towards their cantankerous patient. “And thank you for deciding not to pee on me this time, Grim. I’m not so bad, see?”

Grim swatted at them, which was his answer to the vet’s question. In Grim’s book, the vet was that bad.

Ignoring his attitude, as you would whenever you came across a screaming toddler and exhausted parent while doing your grocery run, you turned back to your vet. “Thank you, and sorry for Grim. If it makes you feel any better, he’s just as much as a gremlin child at home as well.” At least today went better than last time.

The vet chuckled goodheartedly, “Don’t worry about it, I have more unruly patients than little Grim here.”

Damn, they have seen some shit, haven’t they? … Maybe I should, I don’t know, bring them a gift basket next time I’m in? Or maybe a gift card for a spa day or something??? You should really get them something for the amount of dry cleaning they probably needed to do.

With the visit over, and Grim having a clear bill of health, you shoved him back into his carrier with zero decorum, closing the door as fast as possible before he could escape and try to hide behind the counter like he did last time. I know your tricks, cat. Speaking of bills, the one that was waiting for you at the front desk was enough for you to point an icy glare at your unruly ward.

“You’re lucky that I love you, asshole.” And much like the vet you too got a swat as your thank you. Wonder if this is what the Clovers feel about their children? At least their kids didn’t wake them up in the middle of the night with a bat they caught… You shook your head, moving past those thoughts, and hauled your wailing cat back home.

…

...

By the time you got back to your place, it was just a little past noon. The rest of your day was wide open, and you didn’t really have anything else to do, since taking Grim to the vet was the most urgent of your tasks. Your place could benefit from some tidying, since your boss had recently been demanding more as of late and has been even less useful than he usually was… which was saying something. Seriously, how does he have his position? It was baffling. You swore you could hear his monologue playing on loop in your head whenever you thought of the man, which you tried to keep to a minimum for your own sanity… whatever little of it still remained that is.

Shaking your head to rid the annoying voice, you put on your favourite playlist and got to work. You took your time, putting away the dishes, vacuumed the main room, and even got rid of the dust on the high shelves. But your place was small, so it didn’t take very long for you to tidy up, and deep cleaning could wait for another day when you had enough energy to mentally and physically deal with that undertaking.

You knew that your email probably had a few messages, but it could wait. You weren’t on the clock and therefore didn’t have to check it. Only do the stuff you’re required to do when you get paid, it makes your downtime way more enjoyable.

But, you were bored. The cleaning helped with it, but with the majority of it done and the more intense stuff waiting for another day, you had nothing else to do. And while doom scrolling through social media may fill in the time, it too, was boring, predictable.

… There were two people though who were the exact opposite of boring and predictable. And yes, they did give you your fair share of migraines and questioning your life decisions more than you usually do, they were your best friends. And you were in need of having a movie night with them.

Opening up the group chat, you typed in a message.

| The Responsible One | You guys down for a movie night at my place tonight?

And almost immediately, Ace replied.

| Ginger, derogatory | depends  | ya got fiid?

Deuce responded shortly after.

| Mama’s Boi | Yeah, I’m down | What time? | . . . | And what’s fiid?

|The Responsible One | How does 6 sound?

| Ginger, derogatory | IT WAS A TYOP | *TYPO | I MEANT FOOD | F O O D

| Mama’s Boi | 6 works for me

| The Responsible One | I took a screenshot of that btw love you Ace | Thanks Deuce for actually giving me an answer. | What FIID do you guys want?

| Ginger, derogatory | FUCK YOU | … but yeah 6 works 4 me | any is cool with me

| The Responsible One | Yes yes, fuck you too Ace | Bring your own snacks it is then | See you guys at 6!

That gave you about ninety minutes to hide your good snacks, since the last time, Ace had made himself too comfortable and ate all your fancy treats that you paid way too much for. But like they say, you deserve to ‘treat yoself’ … Ace still owed you for those snacks though. They were fucking expensive, prick.

…

Ninety minutes didn’t take very long, but you managed to hide some of the mess that you hadn’t tackled in your bedroom; it could stand to wait. And the first of your dork friends arrived right on time, count on Deuce trying to be punctual… even if he was panting like he had run a marathon to make it.

“You know,” you sighed, “you didn’t have to sprint here.” You grabbed a glass, filled it with some ice water, and handed it over to your flushed and heaving friend. Please don’t pass out on me. “It’s not a race.”

Deuce took the glass and downed it, still catching his breath. He lifted up the tote bag he was carrying, “Mom made brownies.” A series of coughs escaped him, but he gave you a bashful smile and showed off the multiple Tupperware containers filled to the brim with still warm chocolatey divineness. “Didn’t want them to get cold! Oh! She also made extra for you too!”

He is such a sweetheart… but he’s also pretty dense at times, still a sweetie though. You could have just warmed them back up in the microwave — yes, they weren’t the same as fresh from the oven, but still — you didn’t have the heart to tell Deuce that though. He looked so proud that he made it on time and that the brownies were still warm. What did you do to deserve Deuce as a friend? 

“Also,” he fished around the tote bag, “I brought extra popcorn, since we ate all of yours last time.” And he pulled out an unopened bag of popcorn, the bashful smile turning bright.

Deuce took a step forward, but stopped and backpedalled, taking off his shoes. After he set them neatly by the door, he made his way to the kitchen, and set all of his assorted belongings on the meagre counter space. Once he unloaded the tasty cargo, he made his way over to your loveseat, which had seen better days, and sat down, getting comfortable.

He was looking at you, and there was a little crease in between his eyebrows. Deuce only wore that look when he was worried. “Are you feeling okay? You seem a bit… off.” 

You gave him a tired smile, “Meh. Tired, stressed, not enough money. You know, the usual.” You noticed that his frown was only deepening, so you took a seat next to him and patted his shoulder. “Seriously, Deuce, I’m okay. Plus you got enough on your own plate without worrying about me. I’m going to be fine.”

Deuce pursed his lips, but let out a long sigh, accepting your answer without much fuss. You were capable of dealing with whatever it was, he knew that. You were one of the most capable, and stubborn, people that he knew. You would be fine in the end. “Whose turn is it to pick the movie this time?” He asked, stretching out, trying not to bump into you.

“Hmm, your turn actually,” you hummed. “But–”

Bzz! Bzzz! BZZZ! Someone was buzzing your door, repeatedly pushing at the button. Only one person you know did that. BZZZZZZZZ! And he wouldn’t let up until you answered the door.

Groaning, you got out of your spot and peaked through the peephole. On the other side was none other than Ace, who’s leg was bouncing and he kept on pushing your damn buzzer.

You only opened the door when he decided to lean on it, making him almost fall… almost. Maybe next time would be the day where you would see him eat dirt. “Happy you could join us on this lovely evening,” you drawl, doing a little bow.

Ace rolled his eyes at you, “Seriously? Feeling petty tonight I see.” He too took off his shoes, since the last time he wore them in and tracked in mud from outside, you made him clean it up. He learned his lesson that day, and really didn’t feel like cleaning your floor again.

You smiled at him, “Yeah, yeah I am~” You dropped the smile and went back to your comfy spot beside Deuce. “Also,” you turned around right as Ace was about to plunder your fridge. You glared at him, and he backed off, giving you a sheepish look. “Don’t even think about stealing my food, there’s popcorn and you have food at your home. Unless you want to start paying for my groceries, stick to what’s on the counter.”

Closing the fridge, Ace busied himself by making himself some popcorn, and sneaking a brownie or two in his mouth as he waited for the microwave to finish making his treat. While he was busy in the kitchen, you and Deuce were slowly going through the seemingly endless catalogue of movies. 

“What are we even watching tonight? There’s no special occasion,” Ace mused, sitting on the counter, swinging his legs back and forth. “Action? Horror? Sci-fi? Perhaps,” he paused and made a kissy face, “romance?~”

You stared at him, until he dropped the kissy face. “Never do that again,” you deadpanned, turning back to the screen. “Found something?”

Deuce was hovering over a title, Labyrinth. “Can we watch this? Mom said it was one of her favourites when she was a kid.”

Ace plopped into the armchair, and started chowing down on his fresh popcorn. “Dude, your mom probs just had the hots for, uhhh, Jared? Or whatever his name is.”

You threw a pillow at him, but missed unfortunately, and Ace flipped you off. “First off, Ace, his name is Jareth not Jared. And yeah, we can watch it,” you said, stretching back and getting into prime comfortable blob position. Oh yeah, you weren’t getting back up. 

Once Deuce got up and brought some snacks back in, you started the movie. And damn, these brownies are divine. You really needed to ask Ms. Spade for her recipe. The popcorn was decent, overall meh, but the brownies! THE BROWNIES!!!

You all settled down after being rationed your snacks, and you pressed play. Ace and Deuce both nearly choked on popcorn when Jareth appeared.

“WHY ARE HIS PANTS SO TIGHT?!” They both choked in unison. 

You just rolled your eyes and ignored them, trying to focus on the movie. Other than you nearly having to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on the both of them, the movie continued without incident, until a certain gremlin decided to start crying right as Magic Dance began playing. Seriously Grim, must you choose the most inopportune time to act like Toby does in the movie? But that’s life with a cat.

You paused the movie and looked at Deuce. You were in prime comfortable blob mode, you weren’t getting up. Deuce patted you on the shoulder and went to go see what on Earth Grim was screaming about. Ace just continued to scarf back brownies, thank goodness you hid some away before he got here, or else you wouldn’t have any come tomorrow.

But Deuce came running back out of your room, since that was where Grim was. And you were about to question why he looked like he’d just seen a ghost when something blurred right past him; something small, fuzzy, and flying.

The damn bat is back?! Yeah, you definitely felt like you were cursed.

Now, you could either get up and deal with the bat, since Deuce was just trying to shoo it outside the window with a mop and Ace was screaming much like Grim was, or you could stay warm and comfy and hide under the blanket, pretending that this wasn’t your waking reality…

Option B was really tempting right now, to be honest. Sighing, you got up, massaged your temples to collect yourself, before arming yourself with a broom yet again. Grim has his rabies vaccine, you don’t, so you weren’t taking any chances.

“WHY IS THERE A BAT IN YOUR APARTMENT?!” Ace hissed, ducking as the bat swooped near him.

You opened the window right open, almost threatening to take it off its bearings, “Because the universe hates me, that’s why!” Was it dramatic? Yes. Did it contain a seed of truth? Yes. So that’s what you went with. Was it really an exaggeration though? In the past twenty-four hours it really felt like the universe was sending you a personal ‘Fuck You ♡ ' letter with a kiss mark on the envelope.

You and Deuce tried to work together as a team to coax the bat outside. Come on, the window is wide open. Come on bat, get your fuzzy ass out of my place. 

All that was happening though, was some scene that belonged in a Three Stooges act. With Ace and Grim screeching — yes they counted as one collective unit — Deuce trying his best, but not getting anywhere, and you feeling like you were about to explode from the stress and noise. Even on an impromptu day off, you didn’t get a break, not really.

Getting whisked away by the Goblin King is looking real appealing right now. The bat swooped down close to you, and your instincts kicked in and you swung at it, making it crash land into your coffee table, right into the popcorn. And alongside the popcorn getting spilled everywhere, there was also a poof of green sparkles.

When the green sparkles subsided, there was a strange person with long black hair and red streaks, wearing something that looked straight out of a Ren Faire, and he was standing on your table. The strange man looked straight at you, and you looked back, blinking fast. Did Ms. Spade give us a different kind of brownie? Or is this actually happening?

He snapped his fingers, and you watched as he slowly disappeared into another poof of green sparkles. You were backing up, since hey there was a stranger in your place out of nowhere, but thanks to your shit luck, you tripped over your own feet, tumbling into them. And as the green poof subsided, both you, and the stranger, were nowhere to be seen. Leaving a very confused Ace, Deuce, and Grim to wonder what the hell happened to you.

And honestly? You were thinking the same. Where the FUCK am I?!

...

...

...

...

Tags; @busycloudy, @eynnwwyjth, @identity-theft-101, @ithseem, @krenenbaker, @ryker-writes, @twistwonderlanddevotee, @xxoomiii

~~~~~~~

Author's Note; And I'm finally showing this to the world, after months of collecting dust in my Google Docs. I have no idea how long this fic will go on for, and the length may be dictated by how much feedback and interaction this gets, so yeah. General rating for this is Teen but might change in the future; I won't tag people if that happens though, cuz, yeah.

If you enjoyed this story, and want to read more of my stuff while I slowly work on more installments to this fic, check out my masterlist! Please ignore any spelling mistakes, I write and die with no beta.

[sorrowfulrosebud]

The soft grass underneath you and Katsuki provided comfort as the two of you laid close together, hands encompassed tightly as your shoulders touch.

Both pairs of eyes focused on the stars above you, yet your peripherals were trained on the other. You had managed to sneak away from the dorms in an unplanned rendezvous after curfew, knowing that Aizawa was gonna ground your asses. But, that was future you’s problem.

“Katsuki?” You asked softly, rubbing your thumb on his hand. Katsuki looked at you and let out a small “hm?”.

“Do you think… do you think we’re together in every universe?” You turn to look at him, your cheeks warm and gaze soft as you peek a gaze at your docile boyfriend.

His eyes widened a second before he pushes your cheeks close to his lips, pressing a feather light kiss before nosing your jawbone. His arm snakes under your neck as his large hands caress your shoulder, the other reaching your waist.

“Either way, I’d cross every damn universe there is and join us together. We’re the perfect couple in every dimension, universe and plane. I’d be stupid not to chase you,” he promises, squeezing you tighter to star gaze with you.

The heavy metal of Katsuki’s armour proved too heavy for him to relax in, so it was left in a heap in the corner. The head knight had personally assigned him to be your royal guard, and the mutual (but forbidden) affections bloomed.

Carmine eyes were soft for once as his hair was gently pushed out of his face. His weary head rested in your lap as you held his calloused hand, pressing the occasional kiss. Your crown had been ditched, not caring for the silly trinket as you soaked up your lover’s attention in your chambers.

“Your majesty?” Katsuki coughed, cheeks growing slightly pink. You hummed in acknowledgment, slowing your movements as a silent means to continue.

“Do you think that, I mean… I’m not exactly of royal stature. If we were lovers in another universe, or if I were royalty and you were my bodyguard, would we still have this bond?” Katsuki asked, voice hushed as you petted him.

You gave his hand a kiss, before bending down and pressing your lips to his.

“Katsuki, even if we were two lowly peddlers in the street, or if you were a royal and I was your servant, then I would still pine after you until my dying breath,” you affirmed, softly petting his cheek.

“I knew you would say that, princess. It just hurts that somewhere, there’s a bastard me who gets to live our dream life without secrets.”

Katsuki trudged through the door, toeing off his boots as he enters the carnage of the house. You looked so tired as you had managed to wrangle the quadruplets into their afternoon nap.

Despite the baby food in your hair, bodily fluids and coffee stains on his your ratty old T-Shirt, you had never looked more beautiful. You were at home, taking care of the babies YOU gave him, taking care of the home YOU wanted to provide for your family.

He owed his very existence and life to you, so he can feel his heart breaking as he sees you quickly wipe your exhausted tears. You smile wanly at him as you go to give him a hug, but grimace at the idea of hugging him in your current state.

“Oh I’m sorry baby, I look a mess right now. I’ll go clean up for you so I don’t look so gross,” you say, ready to go upstairs.

As you pull away, Katsuki pulls you tighter and kisses you firmly. Your resolve begins to crack as he feels you tremble in his arms.

“Katsuki, no. I’m filthy at the moment, you deserve better-,” you start as he shushes you.

“Baby, you could wear a bin bag and look better than any model in the entire world. You’re doing amazing to take care of our babies and do everything else,” he murmurs into your ear, fearing that if you tried pulling away then you would completely crumble.

“You’re working so hard though, you’re saving people’s lives and I’m here crying over a few toys on the floor, baby food in my hair and snot on my shirt,” you whimper, burying your face into his beefy chest.

“(Y/N), you just pushed 4 babies out of you. You quit your job so that our babies wouldn’t be left with strangers. You still manage to get the house tidy, but you know I only give a damn if you and the babies are alright. On top of that, you manage running any of MY errands that I didn’t manage to do. You’re a fucking superhero baby,” he murmurs, squeezing you tighter.

“But you deserve so much better! You deserve someone who has time to put makeup on and do their hair and, and-,” you were interrupted by Katsuki shushing you.

“Baby. I would choose this life over and over again, no matter what I was offered. I will always choose you, I will always find you, I will always want you. I’m taking time off work to prove that and we’re taking a holiday together,” he said firmly, wiping your tears as you hiccup.

“I’m always going to choose you too.”

Katsuki and you sat comfortably on your porch bench, occasionally swinging as you nestled into each other. Today marked your 50 year anniversary, and the two of you chose a quiet celebration.

You had lost a lot of friends over the years; some were lost in villain raids, and some succumbed to their injuries years later. It wasn’t until Kirishima passed from a heart attack in the field did Katsuki retire, choosing to live the rest of his natural life with you. No more hero work. No more pain. No more villains or heroes. Just you two in your little country home with your chickens, cats and dog.

“Would you ever do it again?” Katsuki asked, his mouth lines trembling a little.

“Do what, sweetpea?” You ask, rubbing the soft loose skin on his hands. Katsuki sighed and looked away.

“Would you ever consider a different person? I’ve only ever caused you harm. My work, my personality, my overall being,” he asks, looking away as his mouth twitches. You let out a small “oh”.

“Never in a billion million years, my love. I chose you for a reason. I chose you because I love you, despite your flaws. We have had such a wonderful adventure together, some good moments and some bad. You’ve gained and lost a lot too, Katsuki. You’ve lost friends, mentors, family…” you reason with him, heart breaking at his shiny eyes.

“When it’s my time, I want to know that I made you utterly happy. I don’t want to leave you knowing that if you could have, you would have never had met me, never spoken to me and not have to deal with my baggage. I want to proudly say I lived my life fully and without regrets. YOU’RE my life baby,” he sobs softly, years of self-loathing catching up to his old and creaky body.

You wove your bodies tightly together, holding each other as the two of you shed loving tears together in bliss.

“Katsuki? You okay, pup?” Katsuki’s sandy ears perked up as he sat upright in bed. You knuckled your eyes out of sleep as you looked at your mate. He was often plagued by nightmares, even after falling deeply in love with you, after being abandoned by his pack.

You, ever the kindly human, took him in. Fed him, sheltered him, cleaned his wounds. 2 years later and you were his mate, sole confidant and lover.

Katsuki panted a little, before snapping his head to you. His hackles were raised, teeth bared self-consciously as he tries to calm down. You held up your hands, showing you mean no ill will. Slowly, your hand extending to your mate’s ears, rubbing the soft spot between them as he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.

“Hmmm, thank you,” he muttered lowly. He rearranged himself on the pillow so he could face you. You smiled at him and kissed his nose, giggling when he goes cross-eyed.

“Do you want to tell me what you dreamed?” You asked quietly, petting his cheek as his tail whomped against the mattress. He huffed.

“Jus’ a stupid nightmare, nothing special,” he muttered, grabbing your hand and kissing your palm.

“I’m here if you need me, pup,” you told him, getting yourself comfortable again, trusting he would tell you.

“… my old pack got you. In my dream. We had a stupid argument, and I hurt you. You were killed,” he said quietly. Almost full of resentment. Your eyes widened, prompting him to continue.

“Are you happy with me? I mean, for fucks sake, I’m a fucking wolf-man creature and you’re a human. Our relationship is as unnatural as nature can allow, but we still play house,” he ranted lowly, fists clutching the sheets.

Your hand found its way to his, interlocking your digits and being mindful of his claws. Sandy ears pricked your way as you stroked his chest.

“I don’t care that you’re half man, half wolf. I love you for who you are, not what you are. I was aware of everything that you’ve faced, and I still chose to take you in. And I would do it a million times over,” you said firmly.

Katsuki let out a shaky sigh, before nuzzling into you.

“I hope in every universe we’re together.”

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 28 || The Effect You Have

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language & fluff.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 4.1k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——IT ALL BEGAN SO SIMPLE. Once Gojo got you home, he opened the trunk of his car to reveal the fifteen dresses he'd purchased for you, all of which he forgot to tell you had also been tailored for you as well.

He left that part out because the two of you had gone to get a dress tailored once just a few days ago. The dress you wore to Sukuna's party was specifically tweaked to fit you perfectly and after that, Gojo took the extra step of having the tailor keep your measurements for future dresses.

It was a detail he decided to leave out because he'd been planning for this for a while now and he didn't want you to think he was weird in any way-- even though the gesture was rather nice of him. Gojo was also sure to leave out how expensive each dress actually was, never wanting to reveal the fact that he'd spent his entire bank account on you if he could.

You went upstairs first, carrying only one dress with you as you did so. When you got into your apartment, you quickly noticed that Shoko had left some time ago, giving you the space for a while. Since it's a Friday, you recall that she has one class and then usually likes to go out and do something right after.

Within minutes after you walk into your apartment, Gojo is entering with the remaining dresses piled up in his hands. You would've helped him carry more but he insisted otherwise.

He takes all the dresses into your room and places them on your bed, just as you instruct him to. Once he's done, the man goes ahead and seats himself onto your mattress with an expectant look in his eyes.

You blink, one dress still in your hands as you wonder why Gojo's looking at you in such a patient way, "What? Why are you still sitting there...?" You ask simply.

Gojo shrugs, "I mean I didn't buy all those dresses for no reason..."

You scoff out a laugh, "Ohh, you want me to try on the dresses for you?"

He flashes you this innocent little smile, "Mhm..."

You narrow your eyes at him, "You'd see the dress whenever I wear it though..."

"That's not true, I'm not gonna be at this nightclub every time you go, I'm just taking you tonight since it's your first time there," Gojo explains.

You stare for a second, then nod, "Uhuh... Fine then, I guess I'll try on the dresses for you..."

He smiles, "Let me know if you need help putting them on-"

"You're not slick, Satoru," You cut off as you turn and dip into your bathroom.

The sound of him chuckling is heard as you move around and begin to change yourself into the first dress. Like all the others, the dress is beautiful and so obviously expensive, despite whatever Gojo tells you about it not being pricey.

You're careful to put the item on, quickly noticing how it fits like a glove and how pretty it looks on you. This first dress is silk and dark blue, almost royal blue, backless, and rather enticing. Just looking at yourself in it makes you feel odd.

The dress you wore to Sukuna's party was one thing, after all, you've been to plenty of parties before so it was your typical dark red party dress. But this dress... Well, you know Gojo said the club was pretty fancy but based on this first dress and the glimpse you caught of the other ones, it seems like classy is what you're gonna have to go for.

When you consider yourself to be done, you open the bathroom door with your eyes down on the dress as your free hand moves to smooth it out. Gojo's eyes are all over you instantly and when you look up, you're not too surprised to see him moving to get off the bed.

"Why are you getting up?" You chuckle, watching him casually approach you.

Gojo's soon standing in front of you, towering over you like always, "I needed a closer look."

"You might need glasses because I'm pretty sure anyone could've seen everything perfectly fine from my bed," You say in response.

He smiles and tilts his head at you, "Gimme a spin."

You fold your arms under your chest, "Say please."

"Please?" Gojo utters as if it were second nature to do so.

With a roll of your eyes, you slowly turn yourself around and give him a full three-sixty of the dress. Gojo's got this big stupidly happy smile on his face as you do so as if he couldn't be more at peace watching you perform such a simple act.

When you're done and come to a stop facing him once more, he's still smiling at you. "Well?" You ask.

"Y'know I'm gonna say you look beautiful in everything, right?" He sighs, the look in his eyes just dripping with affection.

You swallow, "Then what's the point of me trying all these on...?"

"I'm gonna help you figure out which one you should wear tonight!" He says cheerfully, "Gotta' make sure you make a good first impression on Nanami."

A brow is raised in question, "You do know he's seen me before, right?"

Gojo does this gesture with his hand as if to wave off what you just said, "That doesn't count."

"Right, sure it doesn't." You say, shaking your head at him.

"Oh, I also bought you shoes," Gojo suddenly tells you, turning away and heading back over to your bed.

You watch with wide eyes as he flops down onto your mattress, "What? Why?"

"Uh, to go with the dresses, sweetheart." He hums.

"Well, where are they?"

"Check your closet," Gojo says, laying down on his back and staring up at your ceiling, "Shoko said they came earlier this morning."

You blink, not sure how exactly to react just yet. It's so unusual for you to get spoiled like this. It's one thing for him to buy you a dress every now and then, and another thing for him to pay you for your sinful acts but to go out of his way and purchase this much for you is just...

New.

Your feet move to your closet and the second you open it, you're met with a shitload of new shoeboxes. "Wh-What the hell..." You say softly.

Gojo sits up slightly, holding his body up with his elbow and looking in your direction, "Hm?"

"Satoru..." You whisper, your eyes darting all over the fifteen different boxes of shoes in front of you. "You didn't really..."

"I did," He hums, "I swear they aren't as expensive as you think they are-"

"Shut up," You cut off. He closes his mouth quickly and you crouch down to the first box that catches your eye. "Satoru, these are Christian Louboutins...."

"Oh, I forgot I got those..." He replies.

You move the box around in your hand to inspect the item, "They're like a thousand dollars for each pair on average..."

"Okay...?"

Your eyes go to the other boxes nearby, "I'm seeing seven different pairs..."

"Seven different colors," Gojo explains with a casual shrug.

You take a second to reply, wondering what the hell is wrong with this man and trying to figure out why he'd go out of his way like this. "That's roughly seven thousand dollars on just shoes." You point out after some quick estimates made.

"Okay.....?" He chuckles, "They're shoes for you."

Your heart throbs in your chest in reaction to his emphasis on the shoes being for you-- as if he were implying that the price will never matter if it's something for you. Carefully, you place the box back down, too scared to even open it and look just yet.

"I..." You release a sigh, "I don't understand you..."

For a moment, Gojo goes quiet. You can't see his face so you don't catch how his expression grows worried. He feels like you may even be upset with him for a moment, which is the exact opposite of what he'd hoped to achieve with this.

After a moment of thought, "Is it too much...?" He asks softly.

"Yes, yes it is." Your response is quick and you go on to ramble immediately, "Why the hell would you buy all this for me just for me to go to one little nightclub? There are thousands of other heels you could've bought for me that aren't nearly as expensive. I'm gonna feel like I'm literally walking on eggshells the entire night because of how expensive these are. What if I break them? What if they get dirty-"

"So..." Gojo cuts you off, raising a brow, "I should've bought you a backup pair for each shoe?"

He sounds so genuinely confused that it's almost funny. "No Satoru, you shouldn't have bought me anything this expensive to begin with." You say calmly.

He blinks, "Why not?"

"I..." You sigh again, "It's weird."

"Weird how?" Gojo questions, not understand your reaction at all. He thought you'd be happy about this kinda thing, he's seen the way your eyes light up whenever he pays you so what's the difference here? "I'm buying things for the woman I love, what's so weird about that?" He questions.

"Stop saying that."

His brows pinch together, "What? That I love you? Or, that you're the woman I love?"

"It's all the same, just stop." You tell him.

"Why?"

"Because..." Your words fall off your tongue as you lose the reasoning behind why you want to hear him stop uttering such a phrase.

Every time he says those things it's like you can hear the truth behind his words. Almost as if in no universe could you deny the fact that you wholeheartedly believe he's in love with you. And for some reason, that belief of yours confuses you.

Gojo grins a little, "Because what sweetheart?"

"I don't know how to feel when you say things like that." You finally explain.

"There's no right or wrong way to feel, y'know..."

You shrug, "Well, it makes me feel... weird."

A sneaky little smile spreads across his face, "Is it because you love me t-"

"No." You deny it instantly.

"Alright then," Gojo sighs, "What is it?"

"Sympathetic." You correct him, somewhat figuring out what it is you feel as he utters those three words to you.

"Huh?"

"Every time you say that you love me or do things that make me feel like you love me... I begin to feel sympathy for you." Your explanation makes his heart race for some unknown reason.

Gojo swallows, "W-Why?"

"Cause' it's like... the things you do are making up for the bullshit you make me do. A-And it's all so fucked up because the last thing I want to feel is sympathy for my blackmailer." You stammer, steadily getting worked up over this small conversation.

Gojo lets out a sigh of relief and then smiles softly, even though you're not looking at him yet, "Listen, I'm not spoiling you like this because I want you to forgive me for what I've done. I... I don't ever expect to make up for it. But, if getting you new expensive things can put a smile on your face, even if only for a second, I'd sell a limb to be able to provide that for you."

Your head whips around to the man, "What?"

"Anything," Gojo says, meeting your gaze. He's so serious that it's almost dark the way he looks at you, "I'd do anything for you."

There's this sharp feeling in your chest. It's like you could feel the gravity of his words weighing your heart down. Almost as though, you knew he was serious.

Nearly overwhelmed by his seriousness, you quickly turn your head away, "I appreciate that..." You murmur, unsure of a better way to respond.

"Great-"

"But," You interrupt, "I don't understand why."

"Those three words." Gojo explains, "That's why."

"Because you love me?" You ask.

"Mhm." He hums in response.

"Well," You slowly begin to stand up and move out of your closet. "I don't understand that either."

Gojo watches as you grab another dress to try on and take it into the bathroom. He gets how you find his feelings for you confusing and has no intentions of explaining them just yet so instead, he results in saying something rather simple.

"Love isn't meant to be understood, sweets," Gojo tells you just before you shut the bathroom door.

You merely hum in response to that and the rest of you trying on dresses goes pretty smoothly.

With each dress, he'd comment on either how the material looks good on you or how the color makes a certain feature of yours stand out, all of his comments well thought out and making you feel all warm inside. You eventually even start trying on the heels with these dresses and each outfit is something you never thought you'd find yourself wearing.

Not that they didn't fit your usual style or anything but the prices that followed the items you wore were just something you'd never given yourself the leisure of even looking at. So to have such pretty and expensive items on your body and in your closet felt really nice.

Eventually, you land on the last dress. The color alone made you not want to wear it because simply looking at it reminded you of that morning you spent with Gojo. It was baby blue and rather small on you. There were these thin spaghetti straps that went over your shoulders, a decent amount of cleavage was revealed, and once you got down to how it just barely stopped at your thighs, there was this small slit in it.

It was cute and when you turned around, you noticed it hugged your ass nicely. Even so, you didn't want to reveal yourself in it to Gojo because you had a feeling you knew what his reaction would be.

"It's been fifteen minutes, love. Need some help?" Gojo calls out from the other side of your bathroom door.

You looked to the bottom of the door and noticed his shadow was there, smiling to yourself at how he so clearly knew you were purposefully taking a while. "No, I don't need help..."

"Thennnn what's taking you so long?" He hums.

"Nothing." You say before moving to open the door.

You're quickly met with Gojo standing there, leaning against your doorframe like always with a little smile on his face. His eyes are on your face, not yet dropping down to the dress.

Slowly, he allows himself to get a look at you and you watch the way he smiles. "You are so..."

"Beautiful?" You finish, having heard him say the same thing for the past hour or so, "Yeah, I know-"

"Perfect," Gojo corrects, "You're absolutely perfect."

You roll your eyes at his compliment for the millionth time, "Whatever."

He moves a hand to your waist and suddenly pulls your body close to his. Your chest presses up against him and your eyes frantically search his in question of why he's suddenly touching you.

Then, you catch that look in his gaze that you haven't seen in a while. It's the look that makes your knees go weak, that begging and pleading look of his that so clearly tells you he wants his lips on yours. You hate the way you recognize it so quickly now.

Gojo leans down to you, his arm slithering all the way around your waist, "This is the one." He whispers to you.

You blink, "The one what?"

"The dress you should wear tonight," He clarifies.

"Why? Does Nanami like blue or something?" You ask curiously.

Gojo shrugs, "I think so."

"Oh.." You murmur, watching as Gojo's face nears yours.

He stops himself just an inch away from your lips, his head tilted and his eyes low on yours. He doesn't say anything just yet, simply looking at your lips with the strong desire to place his own over them.

"Can I..." He trails off a little, almost as if he's nervous to ask his question.

You don't know why but you just nod, permitting him to kiss you.

What was it about this man that made you miss the feeling of his lips over yours? You don't know. You have no idea why every time Gojo's lips press into yours and you kiss him, your knees go weak, your brain stops working, and you feel so drowned in love.

You don't feel the same for him but damnit you can't deny how much you enjoy the way he kisses you. Sometimes, like right now, it's gentle and slow, his lips carefully and strategically moving over your own until his tongue is in your mouth, affectionately making out with you as his hand travels up and down your back.

Other times it's hot and heavy, both of you chasing the feeling of each other's lips as if time will one day stop you from feeling that connection.

Currently, you find yourself lost in his kisses, panting softly by the time he pulls away and both of you moving in for more just as quickly as you pulled away. So lost in it, you don't even think as he eases you into your bathroom and lifts you onto the counter, his lips desperate against your own.

Gojo's not kissing you like he wants to have sex with you or anything, he's kissing you like he just enjoys the feeling just as much as you. It's like he melts into your mouth, releasing small hums and even smaller whines into your parted lips as he sinks into the moment.

His hands go to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hand and kissing you like his life depends on it, and as if he's worried you'll slip away from his grasp at any given moment. After which, Gojo's hands would be on your thighs, sliding up your legs and just barely going up and under the dress, eager to just feel your skin.

As he does so, you think you get dizzy when he pulls away just to whisper, "I love you," In the lowest voice you've heard from him.

And it's not just one time he does that, it's constant that he breaks the kiss just to whisper those three words into your lips as if he wants you to never forget it as if he needs to chant the phrase in order to pass the needed level of understanding behind it.

"So much," Gojo utters, "I love you so fucking much." His lips are back on yours within the next second, needy tongue shoving into your mouth that you so gratefully accept.

You're unsure of what you've done to make this man be so deeply in love with you like this. Maybe the day you find out, you may reciprocate the feeling but as of now, the the only thing you can do in response to his repeated claims is kiss him back.

You could never utter those three words back to him. I love you. It's a phrase you've reserved for someone else. A sentence in which you direct toward an entirely different man. Even now as you make out with Gojo, you still think of who's stolen your heart.

Somewhere deep down inside, you tell yourself that it should be him instead. It should be Choso telling you that right now. It should be him holding you so lovingly, kissing you so tenderly, and longing for you the way Gojo does.

That's who you should be with at this very moment and yet, there you were, against Gojo's lips hearing how in love with you he claims to be.

As of now, you could only await the day in which you'd be where you're supposed to be.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

After about forty straight minutes of locked lips with Gojo Satoru, the two of you eventually pry yourself off of each other. You hadn't even realized you kissed him so long and you didn't even notice the way your lips made it to his neck at one point.

It was almost subconscious the way you left hickeys on his neck, marks that he had no intention of stopping you from making. Gojo actually held your head at his neck at one point, thriving in the feeling of you against him.

When the two of you were done, you watched him admire the work you'd left on his neck as he gazed in the mirror. His fingers traced over each one and the man wishes he could keep them there forever. To have evidence of you on his skin was something he'd wish to keep forever.

Even so, the two of you eventually left the bathroom and it was decided that the final dress you tried on was what you were going to wear that night.

Gojo left later that afternoon and told you he'd be back to pick you up when it was time to go. You still didn't quite understand why it was so important for him to take you there but you didn't argue with him about it.

Shoko eventually stopped home later that afternoon and she teased you about going out for the second night in a row. This time, even though she wasn't going with you, she went ahead and got ready with you-- the two of you helping one another with makeup and accessories.

She even made a comment on the dress you were wearing, saying that it was really pretty on you and that she loved the color. She also not-so-sneakily made a comment on how she recalls Gojo having a tie from high school that matches it but you brushed her words off.

And of course, to your surprise, the tie in question ends up being around the neck of Gojo Satoru when he comes to pick you up. Why would he match his tie with your dress? You don't know and you didn't care enough to ask. It's not like you and him would be side by side throughout the night anyway, you were supposed to be meeting Nanami.

The nightclub in which you were set to be was located all the way across town and the drive took forever. The ride was filled with low music and Gojo telling you things he thinks Nanami would look for in a woman.

He tells you that you have to be careful not to be too bold with him because Nanami may misinterpret what you've approached him for, going on to tell you how the guy apparently gets hit on a lot and turns a lot of people down. So basically, you'll have to be careful with your flirting.

You take a mental note of everything he's saying and by the time you get there, you think you're ready for the whole thing. You've only seen Nanami twice, once in a photo and another in person but you could spot the man in a crowded room since he has rather distinguishing features.

Plus, Gojo told you he'd be at the bar and probably the furthest away from the dancefloor so you'd most likely find him there.

Even so, Gojo wanted to at least be in the building with you so he walked you to the door and entered the building with you. The man even gave the bouncer at the entrance a death glare for ogling you. After that, the two of you entered and you quickly noted how fancy the place really was.

It wasn't your typical club with people partying and drinking all over the place or loud music blaring throughout the building. Instead, there were people dressed very classy and almost elegant in certain areas. The dancefloor was filled with a few couples, all of whom danced to some slow jam.

You actually liked the scene in front of you. The only thing you felt nervous about was looking out of place. Luckily, by Gojo's side, you fit right in since he was wearing a suit and pulled himself together rather nicely. But, you wouldn't be around him the entire night.

And that was what worried you.

GOJO SATORU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

GETO SUGURU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

TOJI FUSHIGURO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢

KAMO CHOSO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢 / 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ZEN'IN NAOYA ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ITADORI SUKUNA ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮???

NANAMI KENTO ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: ???

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[drivestraight]

wildcard!!! I know that you are more focused on writing works centering max, lando and oscar. I wonder if there is any chance you will write about lestappen again in near future. I just love your lestappen works so much and I'm sorry if this question makes you feel uncomfortable 🥺🥺

from here

near future no, but here’s about 5k of my abandoned (little brother of the) prince of monaco charles x driver max wip ❤️ as a gift

The Guardian is first in the round of interviews. A woman named Marie sits across from the sofa, beside cameras, light panels, and mics.

“To start,” Marie says, donning a sympathetic smile. Max struggles to take her at face value. “I want to acknowledge that I’m sure this isn’t how either of you would have liked your relationship to come out. How are you two doing?”

Max tries his hardest to keep a neutral expression. He scowled his way through the hours of media prep yesterday and got scolded each time.

He shifts on the sofa. For a couch made for royalty, it is not very comfortable.

Of course, it comes much easier to Charles, who returns a warm smile. He keeps his eyes on Marie, but places a hand on Max’s thigh, to comfort him. God, everyone’s going to love this, aren’t they?

Horribly, the physicality does help. Max takes a deep breath.

“You’re right,” Charles responds. “It is not at all ideal, but we are thankful for all of the grace that has been extended to us these past few days.”

Max purses his mouth.

Marie glances at him, waiting for agreement. Instead, Max busies himself with studying the details of the room they’re in. The Salle Des Gardes: cobalt walls, beautiful flower bouquets, and centuries-old portraits framed with gold. It’s so beautiful it makes Max uncomfortable.

At his silence, Marie moves on, smiles, and says, “Well, it’s great to have you both here.”

“Yes,” Charles says, “it is. Right Max?” he probes, squeezing Max’s thigh.

Somehow, Max manages not to glare. He clears his throat and manages to hum in concurrence.

“So,” Marie says, “I guess we can start from the beginning. I’m sure everyone would like to know how you two met.”

Max is grateful at how quickly Charles jumps to respond, “I have been a big fan of F1 ever since I was a child,” he replies, “but I did not meet Max personally until the Monaco Grand Prix in 2021.”

“On the podium?”

It was collateral damage, really, Max’s champagne spray getting all over Charles during the celebration. Max hadn’t even known, until Charles told him many months later.

Charles nods. “Yes, on the podium. A little after the race, he was invited to dine with my family, as the winners always are, and we… liked each other. We got on very well that night.”

Yes, Max thinks. We talked, we ate, we drank, we got into a huge fight about Ferrari, we got kicked out of the venue hall, then we hooked up in the toilets upstairs.

Sure, they got on well that night.

“We started seeing each other quite a bit, after,” Charles finishes.

They saved each other’s numbers, and every now and then, between Max’s races and between Charles’ royal obligations, they’d meet up in Monaco.

“Who asked who out?”

Charles turns his head and looks at Max, expectantly.

Max glares, but Charles only lifts a brow, unwavering. “I did, I guess,” Max concedes, trying not to roll his eyes at the way Charles glows, dimples pressed deep into his cheeks.

In a way it’s true. Max had been the one to shove Charles up against a wall and kiss him, drunkenly and furiously.

For the next two years, it was easy, despite who they were, perhaps because of who they were. They were on the same page about what it was they had: purely an arrangement of convenience. Entirely physical, no-strings attached. They’d meet in Max’s flat, maybe have a drink and talk about the most recent race, and get to it. After, Max would let Charles use his shower, then Charles would leave. Not once would Charles ever sleep over.

Still, they were exclusive, in a way. Max found something good, something safe, something easy, with someone who was on the same page as him. They were physically compatible. They wanted the same things from each other. Max didn’t see a need to look elsewhere, and neither did Charles.

Max had no interest in making it any more than it was. Neither did Charles.

For two years, it was simple like that. Max bribed his doorman, and Charles swore his security detail to secrecy. Charles hadn’t told anyone about Max. Max hadn’t told anyone about Charles. No one needed to know. What was there to tell? The F1 world champion and the Prince of Monaco’s little brother were friends with benefits? They were barely friends.

“Yeah?” Marie asks, looking surprised. “What was it about Charles that interested you?”

Charles’ expression is rapt and curious, his focus singularly on Max now.

Well, Max thinks. If they want him to speak from his heart, that’s what he’ll do.

“Of course,” Max says, smiling for the first time since the news broke, “it was not his personality.”

Marie laughs, amused. Charles makes an unbecoming noise, his entire face scrunching up.

“Max!” he squawks, outraged.

“What?” Max asks innocently, tipping his head to the side. He is starting to have a little fun. He finds Charles’ hand on his thigh, lays his over his knuckles, his thumb brushing at his wrist. “I thought we were of course wanting to be honest today. Your personality is not the first thing people notice about you.”

Annoyed, Charles purses his lips. “And what is?”

Max hums in faux contemplation. “Your face, of course.”

Charles’ brows knit together. Max relishes in the fact that Charles is the one on his toes this time. “You only like me for my face?”

Rolling his eyes, Max says, “It is the only good part about you.”

Charles squints, licks his lips, and levels Max with a look. Max knows that look: he is thinking, planning. 

It is pin-drop silent for a short moment. Suddenly, the room feels very small.

Charles leans in closer, marginally, but enough that Max’s breath hitches, and slides his hand higher up, his fingers firm against the inside of Max’s thigh. “Really? None of the other parts you like?” 

Max lets his eyes wander: from the mole on Charles’ cheek to the one on his neck, from the dip of his Cupid’s bow to the stubble on his chin. It is distracting and it is unfair, how beautiful Charles is.

“Really,” Max says, gaze returning to Charles’ eyes. He will hold his ground, even if he doesn’t mean it. “None of it.”

/

Thirty minutes later, Marie and all the cameramen leave. They are given half an hour in private to rest before their next interview. Le Parisien this time. At least then, he thinks, they’ll be more significantly more interested in Charles than they will be for him.

Even though they’re technically free now, the palace made it clear that they are not to leave this room until they’ve finished the last interview.

Once the doors shut and they are alone, Charles turns and glares at him.

Since the news broke yesterday morning, this is the first time they’ve truly been alone.

“Your team will not be happy with that. You saying you like me only for my face.”

Of course that’s what Charles will take from the interview. After Marie asked all her questions about the genesis of their relationship, her questions pivoted to Max, about what it means for him to be the first openly gay Formula 1 driver in decades.

Each time he was asked a question, Charles squeezed his knee, running circles with his thumb. 

Max hadn’t met with his PR team beforehand—Monaco’s royalty took priority, monopolized him and all of yesterday. He had no idea what Red Bull wanted him to say, what the optics were, so he spoke from the heart.

His answers were simple: it means nothing to him. It means nothing to what he has achieved. He never wanted to be an inspiration. An icon. An idol. If he is, then he is, but that was never his intention, that was never his goal.

Nothing changes.

“Obviously, I was joking,” Max mumbles, standing up and pacing around in front of the sofa. There’s a whole table filled with refreshments, and Max is hungry—he’s always hungry—but the season is in full swing, and he needs to keep his weight down. He wishes they had Red Bull or something, but they only have tea and coffee. He settles for shoving his hands into the dress slacks he was forced into, pressing the tip of his Oxford shoe against the border of the carpet. “And I do not think your team will be very happy with you feeling me up on camera.”

Charles huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest, defensively. “I had to make it seem like we like each other, after what you said.”

Max scoffs and sits back down on the couch, toying with the seam of the green plush pillow beside him. “I think everyone is pretty convinced that we like each other,” he mutters, and then, mortifyingly, his stomach growls. Loudly. It’s the afternoon now, and he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

And Charles stands all of a sudden. Max watches, confused, as Charles makes a beeline to the table of refreshments, shoes clacking against the hardwood until he reaches carpet. There is a way about how Charles moves, magnetic to the eyes. He grabs a small scone, then heads back to Max.

Closer and closer, until he’s settled between Max’s spread thighs, towering over him.

Bossily, he shoves the scone in front of Max’s face. “Eat. We have a long day.”

Max sighs. He’s explained this to Charles before, his diet. “Charles,” he says, hoping that’s enough, not wanting to give the whole spiel again.

“It is a royal order,” Charles says seriously. He presses the scone against Max’s mouth.

Max angles his head away. “I am Dutch, if you didn’t know.”

“You live in Monaco,” Charles insists, “and I am the Prince.”

Max snorts. “You are the little brother of the Prince.”

In lieu of a verbal response, Charles sighs and places his hand on Max’s cheek, leveling Max with a look, that same one from before. His palm is soft, smooth, but his thumb is firm where it presses against the seam of Max’s lips, coaxing his mouth open. The ball drops; the rally ends. At the end of the day, Max is starving. He cuts his losses and bites, gaze fixed on Charles as he chews on the stupid scone. Once he’s swallowed, he expects Charles to let up, but Charles raises a brow, pressing the scone against Max’s lips again. Max groans, understanding, and takes another bite, and another, and just as he’s about to finish the scone, Charles quickly pulls it back, and eats the last bite himself.

Max rolls his eyes. Of course. Charles giggles, and wipes off a crumb from the corner of Max’s lip. Even when Max’s face is clean, Charles keeps his hand on Max’s cheek, smoothing out his frown.

They linger like this for a few moments, and Max feels the anxiety leftover from the interview start to dissipate, his shoulders laxing.

“I know you did not want this,” Charles says quietly. “I did not want it either.” Max swallows, his chest feeling tight. “But it’s like this, and we have to do it together. If it is to work, we have to make it look real.”

“I know,” Max says, starting to feel bad. Charles got fucked over with all of this too. Today, Charles is more calm, more—present, than he was yesterday, a quiet wreck in the briefing. His mental resiliance really is something. He places a hand on Charles’ waist, pulling him in closer. “I was of course there in the briefings.”

Charles pokes harshly at Max’s cheek, like he is trying to sculpt an artificial dimple. “I do not think you were listening.”

Max closes his thighs around Charles’ legs. He is very warm, and they have half an hour before the next interview. Hm. They might as well spend it wisely.

“Can you read my mind now? Is that another one of Prince Charles’ royal powers?”

Before Charles can respond, Max tightens his grip on his waist, before sliding his hand lower, to grab at Charles’ ass. Charles’ eyes widen, his mouth parts in surprise, and he sucks in a gasp.

“Max,” he whispers, blushing a soft pink. His hand drops to Max’s shoulder to steady himself.

“We of course have time,” Max points out, bringing his other hand to Charles’ other cheek, tugging him closer through the fabric of his slacks. “And we have a long day.”

It’s been months since the last time they did this. Not since before winter testing.

Max only now realizes how much he’s missed it.

“Not here,” Charles mumbles shyly, looking around, as if there’s anyone else here. Despite his protests, he doesn’t make any effort to fight Max’s hold.

Maybe, Max thinks, Charles misses it too.

“Why not?” Max asks. “Do you not like being watched by the portraits? They are your ancestors, right? I don’t think they’d mind.”

Charles sighs, but Max catches a small smile on his face. Regardless, Charles shakes his head, stubborn. “It is not the portraits I am worried about. What if someone comes in?”

“It will be their fault for not knocking,” Max snorts. At Charles’ withering glare, he sighs and says, “No one’s going to come in. There are guards outside.”

“Still,” Charles argues, pink all the way up to his ears now. His eyes drop to Max’s lips, then back up to his eyes. “We will be… messy for our interview.”

“But it will seem like we really like each other a lot,” Max jokes, grinning.

Charles doesn’t take the joke well. He pouts and pinches Max’s ear with his fingernails. Max laughs and releases Charles’ ass. “Fine, fine,” he concedes. “At least come here?”

Charles pulls his mouth to the side. “Will you behave?”

Max shows Charles his palms, hands positioned before his chest. “I will behave,” he assures.

Charles shoots him one last look, before sighing and climbing up onto the sofa, knees on either side of Max’s lap, and sitting. Immediately, he buries his face in the side of Max’s neck, his hair tickling Max’s ear, and lets out a contented noise.

Max barely got any sleep last night, all wired up, and from how exhausted Charles looks—feels, melting into him, breathing softly, maybe the first moment of silence he’s had all day—he can tell it must have been the same for him.

For a few minutes, they stay like that. Max closes his eyes, stroking Charles’ back. There are too many layers between them. Max kind of wishes he took his suit jacket off, or at least his tie, before he asked Charles to sit on his lap. Too late now, Max thinks, nosing at the spot below Charles’ ear. He notices, in this time, that Charles must be wearing a new cologne. It is nice; he smells nice. Charles always smells nice.

Max presses a harmless kiss on the side of Charles’ neck. Then another and another, until no space is left unkissed. He moves to the center of Charles’ throat, and Charles lets it happen, lets Max pepper small kisses along the ridges, his mouth closing, softly, over his carotid, Charles’ heart pulsing like a rabbit between Max’s lips. Charles likes that: the little kisses. When Max reaches the cut of his jaw, he starts to be a bit more bold with it—licking and biting gently, Charles’ stubble rough against his tongue, tracing the contours of him.

Charles starts to let out little pants, his hips starting to roll ever-so-slightly. Max slides a hand between their chests, what little space is left between them, and finds Charles’ crotch, gently palming over the bulge. He’s half-hard already. Max hums, pleased.

Finally, he makes the move and makes it stick: firmly, he kisses Charles, right on the lips. It is a tender kiss, but deep and filled with intent. No more pretense.

Breathily, Charles mumbles against his mouth, “This is not behaving.” He sounds annoyed, but he keeps kissing Max back, keeps grinding his ass on top of Max’s crotch.

Max pulls away, laughing when Charles immediately chases his mouth and makes an unhappy, surprised noise, laughing when he opens his eyes and sees Charles’ eyes: dark, pupils wide and wanting.

“Okay,” he says, voice a little raspy, even to his own ears. “We can stop.”

Charles’ jaw drops. Outrage is a cute look on him. “Oh,” he says, brows furrowing, exhaling through his nose, “you are—”

He doesn’t finish. He only shakes his head, grabs Max’s face with both his hands, firmly, and kisses him, furiously.

Charles’ mouth is soft and plush, but his kiss has a fire to them, an intensity; this part has always been the easiest, with him. The physicality. Everything else, that’s the difficulty.

Their noses brush, and Max pivots away, only slightly, to kiss at the corner of Charles’ mouth, light and teasing. “Yeah? What am I?”

Charles finds his lips again, positions Max’s head right back where it was, and plants a kiss square on his mouth. “Horrible,” Charles says, and kisses Max again. “Annoying,” he says, and kisses Max again. “The worst,” he says, and kisses Max again.

“Don’t let anyone hear you say that, of course,” Max says, helping Charles take his suit jacket off. “We have to seem like we like each other.”

Charles doesn’t deign him with a response, merely rolls his eyes and tosses the jacket to the side. He is gorgeous like this: eyes blown and glossy, his mouth parted, wet, begging to be kissed.

So Max kisses him again, his hands rucking Charles’ button-up from his slacks, until he can slip his hands under the fabric, finding his waist. He uses this newfound leverage to flip their positions, to maneuver Charles so that he’s on his back and horizontal on the ugly, uncomfortable sofa. Charles yelps; his chest heaves, and his throat bobs. He is so pretty like this: in the painfully bright light of this room, it is even more vivid, and for the first time since the news broke yesterday, Max thinks, maybe this will be worth it.

Max takes the moment to burn the sight of him into his retinas: his mousy hair messy around his head like a halo, his kiss-swollen lips parted and wanting, his clothes, even, rumpled and wrinkled in a way that Max knows he hates, in a way that he never lets anyone see.

Half an hour. Half of that is probably gone by now, Max reckons. They’ll have to hurry. He can take his time, another time.

He forces himself to focus. He takes off his own jacket before he forgets, shoves Charles’ thighs apart so that one leg is splayed off the couch, then he drives his knee between them. He swoops down once again, and Charles sighs dreamily into his mouth. Max slides his hands down Charles’ chest until he’s found the buttons of Charles’ slacks, undoing them with deft fingers.

“This is—” Charles starts, lifting his hips, helping Max pull his bottoms to his thighs. Multi-tasking, Max kisses down his throat, skips down to his stomach, and kisses at the happy trail leading from below his belly-button. Distracted, Charles moans and writhes beneath him, throwing his forearm over his eyes. Cute.

“What was that?” Max asks, amused. He kisses Charles’ hip bone lightly, and wraps his fingers around the base of Charles’ length, adoring the way Charles’ hips buck at the touch. He traces a vein with his thumb, his precum making the slide easy, then spits into his hand—not like they need it—and starts to jerk him off. Brows knitted together, Charles squirms, so Max keeps his body steady with a hand on his stomach, feeling the flutter of muscle there. 

Charles tries again, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can meet Max’s eyes. His face is pink, and his breaths come squeaky. He scrunches his nose, prissy and aristocratic, and says, “This is a very old couch. And my suit is very expensive.”

Max sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll keep you clean,” he promises, and takes Charles into his mouth, hollows his cheeks, and sinks as far down as he can go.

/

Against all odds, they have some time to spare. They spend it fixing each other’s clothes and sex hair, making each other look at least somewhat presentable. Unfortunately, while Max had kept his promise and kept Charles clean, Charles hadn’t returned the favor; now there’s a probably irreparable stain on the antique couch. Oops, Max thinks, and he makes Charles sit on it for their next round of interviews.

It isn’t so bad.

Thankfully, F1 was the only one they’d been on video for. Charles, for the rest of the day, is hazy-eyed and loose-limbed. Max capitalizes on his distraction, teases Charles as much as he can and knows how to—Charles lets it all happen.

And he seems, almost, as if to enjoy it.

But maybe Max is projecting.

/

By dinnertime, Max is finally released. Charles is whisked away by his brother before Max even tries to get a word in, so he doesn’t try. He gets driven home, orders Brad-approved takeout, and calls his dad. Lets him know how the day went. After, he calls his mum, then his sister, and then Raymond. At 8 PM, Brad comes over for training. They talk about things that don’t matter. At 10 PM, Max showers, brushes his teeth, turns off the lights, and crawls into bed. He checks his messages. He frowns when he notices that Charles hasn’t texted. Max isn’t sure why he was expecting him to.

He checks his other texts. He sees that Gemma has texted him his media schedule for the weekend. He doesn’t bother reading it, leaves it for tomorrow. He puts his phone down on the table, closes his eyes, and thinks.

In all this time, the world hadn’t stopped spinning. Even now, it doesn’t stop spinning. Media day is in three days. Infinitely worse: it’s Monaco. Charles will be there; for all of it, he will be there. Normally, WAGs and—now, Max guesses—BAHs are off-limit topics, but there’s no guarantee his sexuality will be. They will want to prep him. Make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid. Charles will be there, and they will have to act in love. Max will have to dodge cameras and avoid journalists the entire weekend. He will have to make statements. He will have to respond. Charles will be there.

On Sunday, Charles will be on the podium.

On Sunday, Max wants to win.

Too much to think about. Too much to worry about.

One day at a time, Max thinks. One day at a time.

/

Voici got a hold of the story first. Apparently, evidence had been slowly building up for months—quotes from Max’s building neighbors and a now-fired member of Charles’ security detail.

The most incriminating evidence, however, were the pap photos taken of them kissing in Max’s car.

They’d been so careful—but maybe, over the last few months, they’d grown complacent.

The story broke the day of the cancelled race in Imola, first thing in the morning. Four hours later, Le Parisien got a hold of it, and that’s when shit started to really hit the fan.

Red Bull was blindsided.

So was the Crown.

/

Max had been blissfully unaware until around noon when he woke up. For many hours, quieted by Do Not Disturb, his phone had been blowing up with calls from Raymond, from Christian, from his father. Everyone important in his life. Before he got a chance to call any of them back, he spotted the ESPN notification at the top of his screen:

Max Verstappen: Formula 1’s reigning world champion and first gay driver in decades?

Below that, an Apple News notification:

Monaco’s Sweetheart breaks hearts worldwide? The inside scoop of Prince Charles of Monaco and Max Verstappen’s 2-year long affair.

In a way, nothing in any of the reports had exactly been false.

/

Max was driven to the palace, silently escorted to a meeting room, and he was seated next to Charles, who was quiet and playing with his hands in his lap and looked like he might throw up. In that moment, Charles looked—small. Charles looked—afraid. Max had never seen him like that before. Max wanted to say something, wanted to ask him if he was okay, but the meeting was in full swing; they hadn’t even paused for Max’s entrance. He settled with placing a hand on Charles’ thigh, his heart rabbiting in his chest. Charles laid his hand over Max’s. It was all Max could do. Max was afraid too.

Once he arrived, however, they switched to English, and explained the plan they came up with while he was sleeping: to confirm the status of their relationship, and run a full press tour. Immediately, without coordinating with Red Bull. That the Prince’s little brother was not only dating a man, but dating the F1 world champion, needed an immediate response, and Charles’ image takes priority over Max’s.

They needed to take control of the narrative, spin it in the right way: They’re in love.

Max didn’t understand. He interrupted halfway, “But we’re—” He glanced at Charles, silent beside him. “We’re not actually—”

Finally, Charles spoke up. He lifted his head, turned to Max, and said, “It does not matter.”

“But—”

“Max,” Charles said, with finality. His eyes were shaking. He looked more upset than Max had ever seen him. “It does not matter.”

And that was that.

/

Tuesday morning, Red Bull post official statements on all their social media platforms, and Max’s social media manager posts a statement from him that he didn’t write. He doesn’t see any of it himself. He stays offline.

That afternoon, he’s in a few virtual meetings with marketing, and they confirm with him the schedule Gemma sent, that they’ve canceled the shootings he had with Checo, and that they want him to focus on keeping a low profile.

He has done more than they needed him to, thanks to the insistence of the Crown.

The interview with Marie won’t be released until Thursday, but Red Bull had received an early preview from the Guardian. To his surprise, the team is satisfied with it. They of course aren’t exactly pleased with some of his responses, and they request that he answer differently and less abrasively next time, but Max is guessing that their expectations were so low that he managed to exceed them, somehow.

They hadn’t even wanted him to speak to any press in the first place. Neither had Max, obviously, but Charles—it would have been silly if Charles had done the interviews alone. Charles needed him there. So.

Wednesday, he streams on Twitch with RedLine. It wasn’t exactly news to them or anyone close to him, the gay thing, but the Charles thing, well—it was a surprise to everyone. Even Max. The boys ask him if he wants them to steer clear from making any jokes about it, and Max says he doesn’t care either way. The last thing Max wants is for his friends to walk on eggshells around him; the last thing Max wants is for things to change any more than they already have. So Crane jokes about it, Bennett jokes about it, and Max also jokes about it. They permaban anyone in chat who jokes about it.

 And that’s Wednesday.

/

Thursday isn’t the hell he was expecting it to be.

Red Bull managed to pull strings and get Max out of the press conference and TV pen appearances, and Checo’s been left to handle the fanzone all on his own, so Max stays inside the Red Bull Energy Station, keeps his head down as much as possible, ignoring the roars of reporters outside, only speaking with his engineers and mechanics.

Tomorrow, though, he won’t be able to get around media.

Don’t worry about the press, GP tells him in the paddock, clasping a hand on his shoulder. It’s all noise. Just focus on driving. Nothing changes, at least from our end.

Max tries his hardest to believe it.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Bonus Part — Fin x Reader.

Summary: A reimagining of how things would have gone if Reader had decided she wanted Fin — despite him being her friend’s father.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Heavy on the smut. 18+, minors dni. Some jealous and possessiveness. Mentions of forbidden relationships/affairs. If the choices Reader makes in this are something you’re against, I urge you not to read! 🫶🏻

Rita’s is like no other place you’ve been — or seen — before.

Is this what you’ve missed out on, trapped within the frozen maw of Windhaven? There is no place like this there, of such vibrancy and euphoria. The music, the coloured faelights, the energy — it all makes you feel…on top of the world.

Like there’s life outside the misery you’ve known.

Mor knocks a shot back, grimacing as she slams the empty glass onto the bar. A sudden burst of giggles leaves her as she says, “My father would have my head if he could see me right now. Literally.”

You don’t doubt that for a second, because Mor looks resplendent, not just in her natural beauty, but her joy. She has danced and drank and kissed and danced some more. And seeing her like this…it makes you glad that she convinced you to come out with her tonight.

“My father would have my head, too,” you tell her over the music. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

At that, she rolls her eyes, and she reaches for two more shots. “Here’s to saying fuck the males,” she knocks her glass against yours. “May they all perish.”

You’ll happily drink to that. With the alcohol that has you in its grip, you’re buzzed on thoughts of storming back to Windhaven and confronting all your demons. Confronting anyone and everyone who has ever hurt you and made you feel less than you are. Your father. Lord Devlon. Azriel—

You banish that thought as the liquid slides down your throat with a satisfying burn. You are in Velaris, not Windhaven. A new place with new people, where anything feels possible. The thought is heady and dizzying.

Someone calls Mor’s name, and she glances over her shoulder, her beautiful eyes lighting up again. You truly don’t know how often she’s able to escape the Hewn City and get away to Velaris, but judging by the amount of friends she’s introduced you to tonight, she’s certainly made her mark here.

“Let’s go dance with them!” Mor yells over the music, grabbing your hand.

You think that dancing might be the answer to everything you’ve never known, and so you gladly follow; gladly throw yourself into the thrall of the busy floor.

But that’s when you see him.

Something…some deep power…compels you to look up. Coaxes your eyes to that area a level above, where the city’s VIP guests spend copious amounts of money on copious amounts of alcohol and drink it from their cushy velvet booths. They’re reserved for associates of the High Lord, a not-so-formal place to meet to discuss not-so-casual things.

But none of that matters. There could be an entire circus up there right now, and still all you would notice is — him.

He notices you, too.

The High Lord’s eyes zero in on you from up above. You watch, rooted to the spot, as he takes in the sight of you, from your braided back hair, to your painted face, your dress and the legs exposed by them. He looks like…like he’s finally setting his sights upon an image that was merely fantasy up until now.

He braces his arms on the balustrade. And he just stares.

You want to know what he’s doing here. Whether he’s at Rita’s for business or…or for pleasure. You’ve heard that there are rooms upstairs for people willing to pay the price. Perhaps there’s a lover up there with him somewhere, waiting to explore every last inch of that glorious, sculpted body—

The bleating jealousy that makes your heart twist is…unexpected. And not ideal; not one bit.

He is Rhysand’s father. Things may have been fucked up royally with Azriel, and you may have been burned by the experience — but Fin is Rhysand’s father.

Your friend’s father.

Your friend’s father who has just so happened to help keep you feeling alive these past weeks. With his layers-deep allure, the sweet, sweet words that roll off his tongue. His hospitality, his generosity. His kindness. All of it, you’d attributed to him being a natural charmer, a High Lord who knows precisely what to say, what to do.

It strikes you in that moment — just how much it’s all sunk its way into your bones and made you feel…dangerous.

He watches you like a cat with a mouse. Watches as somebody grabs your hand and yanks you into the tightly knit dancing bodies. The music pulses through you from head to toe, a frenzied tune of strings and keys that somehow come together to create the feeling of being borne aloft. Being on top of the world.

As you become lost to the sensation of dance, you’re glad to forget all your thoughts about Fin. You don’t want to wonder what he’s doing here. You don’t want to imagine what those strong, rough hands might get up to, where they might venture.

You become sandwiched between two males who dance with you in a way that makes you forget your wings were ever stolen. They touch you and touch each other, and you welcome it all, happy to be someone, somewhere, else. At least for a while.

But there’s suddenly a foreign touch to your shoulder. That of a cold, meaty hand that stills your movements and draws your attention. The two males happily slink away and begin grinding on each other, and you spin on the spot to find a tall, stocky male who looks like he punches people in the face for the hell of it.

“Y/N?” He checks, and you nod. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you. Upstairs.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyes searching for Mor and finding her just as she’s following a male and female to a cloaked-off area at the back. That’ll be her occupied for the remainder of the night. You’re officially going solo.

But not for long. Not as the bouncer juts his chin in the direction of the staircase and begins to lead you there. Perhaps it makes you a fool, but you follow without a word.

He pulls back a rope and gestures for you to go on up, and then he’s refastening it behind you and turning back to train a keen eye on the dance floor. It’s purely the alcohol that hits you with enough of an ego to climb those stairs like you belong amongst the chandeliers and velvet booths.

But you look good — amazing, even. You know you do. And looking like this, things like scars and other insecurities seem so trivial. You’ve taken back the right to feel as beautiful as you are. You wear your Illyrian features proudly, and you’re pretty and lithe and graceful—

And your heel catches on the top step of the staircase, almost sending you sprawling to the floor — if not for the warm hand that catches your elbow.

“Easy.” Fin rasps into your ear, setting you steady on your feet.

Your numbed, inebriated senses are not immune to the effect of his voice, it would seem. The deep baritone, rough as jagged rock, pushes its way into your skin, your veins, and spreads far faster than any alcohol could.

“Pardon me, my Lord,” you answer, and you’re unable to shove down the hysterical giggle that claws up your throat. “Fuck, you’re the High Lord.”

He cocks a dark eyebrow. “And you are drunk.”

“The whiskey they serve here is immense.”

“I’ll be sure to extend your compliments to Rita herself.”

Is that, you wonder, who he’s up here meeting? Perhaps the elusive Rita is a close associate of his. Perhaps they do deals in both business and pleasure.

And taking in your fill of the High Lord right now, in a dark button-up shirt and fitted breeches of a slate grey, you would not blame Rita one little bit.

Gods, he’s exquisite. Rhysand may resemble Roza more than he does Fin, but…with two parents of such stunning beauty, it’s no wonder your friend is as handsome as he is.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you make no secret of the way your eyes linger on him. Tonight is dangerous, and you’re enjoying it.

“Nor I, you,” he narrows his gaze down at you. “Imagine my surprise, considering that when I left the palace earlier this evening, you were curled up in the library with a book. And yet, here you are. Wearing…” mahogany eyes take in the short cut of your dress, “…that.”

“Mor surprised me with a visit.”

“My niece ought to be more careful not to press her father’s buttons too much,” a muscle in his chiselled jaw ticks. “And I think you ought to be more careful not to push mine.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Bold. So foolishly bold of you. You’ll regret it once sober, you’re sure. “Was there a particular reason you summoned me up here, my Lord? I was rather enjoying dancing.”

“I noticed. And I’m taking you home.”

“What—”

Before you can even finish the word, Fin’s gripping your elbow again, and darkness sweeps you away.

Being winnowed while drunk is not a fun experience.

You feel the cosmic, air-light step from one place to another. Your stomach lurches, your head spinning. You can barely get a hold of yourself as you cling to Fin and prepare your feet to touch solid ground.

And then the darkness is gone, and you’re back in the toasty, warm glow of the palace’s library. Your knees buckle, trying to drag you to the floor, but Fin keeps you upright.

“What the…” you gawp up at him. “Why did you bring me home?”

He ensures you’re able to stand on your feet before pushing away from you. Doesn’t even look at you as he commands, “Get to bed.”

“I was enjoying myself.”

“Just as those males were enjoying you, too. You’re drunk and you need to sleep it off. Get to bed.”

He strides towards the door, his knuckles white from how hard he grips the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. But sword or no, you refuse to give up so easily.

“No,” you say simply. “I will not.”

Fin stops. Goes still. And then he turns back to you.

His temper is clear on his face, but he doesn’t storm back over like you’re half expecting him to. Instead, his eyes shutter, and he seems to take a deep, soothing breath. When he’s looking at you once more, he flicks his wrist in your direction.

And immediately, gone is the haze of the alcohol.

Immediately, you’re completely lucid, completely steady on your feet. Not a lick of inebriation remains, as if you had, indeed, slept it off.

“Did you just sober me up?” you’re outraged by the mere idea.

“Yes.” Fin admits shamelessly. “Now you won’t fall victim to a hangover in the morning — a favour from me, to you, and I ask you in return to get to bed. And don’t even think about trying to venture back out. I’ll know.”

Your blood boils. And the anger isn’t simply because of your ruined fun, but because…because it stings, the way Fin is treating you with such contempt. Scolding you like you’re little more than a petulant child. He’s been nothing but wonderful since you came to Velaris, and yet now, he speaks to you like…like most of the males back in Windhaven do.

It makes you see red.

“What right have you to dictate how I spend my evening?” you snap. “I was under the impression that my free time is my own, and if I wish to go and get drunk and dance like a fool, that is up to me.”

Cold, beautiful anger hardens Fin’s face. He stalks closer, squeezing the hilt of that sword so, so tightly. “What right have I? This is my home. My city. My court. I am your High Lord, and you choose to behave in such a way when I’ve opened my home to you and offered you refuge? When I’ve given you a place to run to and left my resources at your disposal?”

You rock back on the heels of your feet, staring at him. Every word lands a hit — as good as if he’d nocked them in a bow and fired them right at your heart. It stings. Gods, it stings. You want the careless oblivion of the alcohol back.

Because you grapple daily with the pain, the anxiety, of feeling unwanted. And you…you had begun to think that Fin actually cared for you. Actually enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his.

You’d begun to care about his thoughts and feelings where you were concerned. And begun to believe that it wasn’t just the hospitality and courtesy that he would dole out to any runt on the street.

His eyes seem to track the way your expression changes, your shoulders slump. You swallow. The anger is replaced, simply, by hurt.

“If I am a burden, my Lord, I apologise,” you rasp. “I don’t intend to be one. I appreciate your generosity, and I…I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”

You hope you can keep your tears at bay long enough to escape to your room. You’re pelted with shame, embarrassment, hurt. You step forward and hurry past the High Lord, desperate to book it out of there, to get to bed.

But his hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to a stop. And he says, quietly, “wait.”

That hand on your wrist holds the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

You pin your gaze to the ground, unable to look at Fin. You hear him swallow.

“That isn’t—” his voice is gravelly. “I didn’t mean that.”

You don’t think you can speak. You remain a statue beneath his touch.

But so gently — such a contrast to the whirlwind of his actions before — he’s walking you backwards. Slow and careful. You feel your back hit the wall, and he lets go of your wrist and seems to curl his fists at his sides. There’s a desperation to the action that only then coaxes you to look up at him.

His expression is…pleading. For what, you’re not sure.

“You are the furthest thing from a burden,” he says, quietly, on an exhale. “Your presence here is very much welcomed, I assure you.”

You don’t dare breathe a word. Every last bit of your very sober courage is being thrown into maintaining eye contact. There’s none to spare for speaking.

But your lack of response seems to trouble Fin. His eyes rake over your face, searching for something. He swallows again.

And then his eyes shutter, and he whispers, “Mother above, what are you doing to me?”

You don’t know how to answer him — whether he’s even talking to you at all. He takes in a very slow, very deep breath, as though it’s the only thing that’s stopping him from…doing something. What, you’re not sure.

But you can feel it, sense it — the ferocity with which he’s swallowing down words and holding himself back. Like he wants so badly to say something, but can’t.

His eyes open, clearer than they were seconds before, and he says in a far gentler tone, “Get to bed, Y/N,” he inclines his head. “Sleep well.”

With tense, squared shoulders, he turns — and it’s you, this time, that stops him. You halt him with a hand on his arm, and you could swear you feel the muscles flex under his touch.

“Wait,” you say, not ready to let him go, not prepared to leave things between you like this. “Stay and talk with me for a while.”

His jaw clenches like he’s gritting his teeth. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“Why? We talk all the time, you and I. And there are clearly things you’re holding back from saying—”

Your words are cut short as he suddenly meets your gaze with the intensity of a blazing fire. You think it might burn you. You hope it will.

“It’s a bad idea,” he grounds out, gutturally, “not because of what I want to say. But because of what I want to do.”

“What—”

“You are my son’s close friend. You are Roza’s guest,” he tugs his arm out from under your hand. “You are far younger than I am. I am trying my hardest — I have been trying my hardest — to be a good male. And right now, a good male would take his leave and go to bed, so I bid you goodnight, Y/N.”

“Fin—”

“I hope you sleep well.”

“Fin,” you grab for him again. “What if I don’t want you to be a good male?”

Beneath your touch, he stops. Goes preternaturally still.

Words punch out of you with terrifying gall — and truth. “What if I want you to do those things—”

Quick as a flash, he’s pivoting, and he has the upper hand. Has you pressed so tightly up against the wall, his body boxing you in.

And gods, the feel of it might set you on fire. A brush of your hands, a kiss on the backs of your fingers — they’re nothing compared to the weight and press of his muscles against your body. You want your clothes to melt away, and his, too. You want your hands on his bare, hot skin.

“I don’t think you realise what you’re saying,” he growls.

“I do,” you breathe. “I am completely sober. Completely clear of mind. And I am telling you, Fin, I want you—”

A strangled noise is the only warning you get before the High Lord’s mouth is on yours.

The kiss is pure power. It passes from him, into you, roils through your veins and makes you feel like somebody remarkable. It’s the cloak of darkness and the kiss of sin. Of somebody capable of very, very bad things.

And it’s immediately addicting. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get enough.

You claw at his shirt, tugging him closer, closer, and his broad hands cup your face as his mouth devours yours.

This kiss…it’s been building. The need for it has been working its way beneath your skin for a while. All the heated glances, the late-night conversations. All the thoughts, in the dead of night, of what Fin might be doing in his own bed. Wondering whether he was thinking of you.

It’s so, so forbidden. So wrong. But it feels so godsdamn right.

And the way Fin’s tongue slides between your lips and strokes into your mouth — it tells you that he feels it, too.

Your hands glide from his waist, round to his back, and you yank him harder against you. So desperate are you to feel him. Feel what you think you do to him.

He makes another low noise. And then he’s tearing his mouth from yours. But he lingers close, your foreheads touching.

“Better than I’ve been imagining,” he pants, his hands still clutching your face. “Much better.”

“You’ve imagined kissing me?” You know he has.

“I have imagined,” his thumbs sweep your cheeks, “doing all sorts of things with you, Y/N. Things that would make even the most salacious of a person blush.”

Such a relief — to know that it’s not all just some wild fantasy you’ve cooked up in your mind. That you’re not just some wayward, longing young female who craves the affections of an older male to patch her deep wounds.

No, it’s not that. It’s desire. It’s need. And it burns inside your veins until you think you might erupt into flames.

“I’ve imagined them, too,” you say, without a lick of shame.

Once again, his eyes are shuttering. Once again, he takes that slow, steadying breath. And as you watch him do so, you can’t bear the thought of him still grappling with right and wrong. You can’t bear the thought of him squaring his shoulders and walking out of here, leaving your lips bruised, your body aching, your heart hurting. You can’t bear it—

“I want you to do those things,” you lift your chin, gaze unflinching. “I want you to touch me.”

Fin’s eyes reopen.

He stares at you.

His throat bobs.

You have never seen somebody look so wild, so ravenous. There is heat everywhere, in his stare and in his taut body. His eyes flick down to your lips.

That mere glance at them is the deciding factor, it would seem.

He growls, the sound not at all one you’ve ever heard from a person, and he yanks you up into his arms and kisses you again.

So naturally, your arms twine around his neck, your legs locking around his waist. You can feel the strength of him against you, in the way he holds you. You can taste his crackling power.

He doesn’t falter in the kiss nor his steps as he carries you away from the wall, and you’re suddenly being placed down on the library’s desk, sending books and parchment and pens and ink pots flying. They all clatter loudly to the floor, and neither of you care.

But Fin does pull away to look at you, and there’s wicked, boyish charm in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitch up. He merely says, “Oops.”

You surge up and kiss him again.

He sighs into it, like your mouth is the answer to all his questions. And when heated hands land on your thighs, you part them, allow him to slot his body in between. The mere feel of it has you pushing up against him, finding him hard—

But again, he pulls away. He scans your face and rasps, “Tell me you’re sure.”

You do not balk from his intensity. From the fact that this is the fucking High Lord of your court, who was changing this world and building a reputation long before you were a mere thought in your parents’ minds. You do not balk from the fact that there are a million different reasons that this is wrong.

You think only about the fact that it feels right.

And that translates into your voice as you say, firmly, “I’m sure.”

You think you see the words course through his body. They change something — forever.

“This isn’t about Roza,” he breathes — breathes heavily, like it’s taking everything to tamp down on the desire to devour you then and there. To say what needs to be said.

You shake your head, “No.”

“Nor is it about Rhysand.”

“No.”

“It’s about me and you.” He destroys what little gap exists between your bodies, his hardness pushing through his breeches, right up against your centre. His hands brace on the desk, either side of you. “And gods, I want you, Y/N. I want you so much, I can scarcely bear it.”

“Have me,” is all you manage — before he strikes.

You think, hope, that his mouth might find yours again — but he’s barely brushing it before his lips settle on your jaw. His hands travel up your legs, fingers biting into the flesh. They find your hips, thumbs delivering explorative sweeps. They tug your dress up as they climb, exposing more of you to the warmth of the room. Exposing more skin that you know he wants to lay claim to.

And when the hem of your dress is ruched around your waist, you smile — at your little wildcard exposed. That he finds no underwear hiding what sits between your legs.

Your choice to forgo a pair seems almost foretelling, now — like some part of you knew the night would end like this, and you wanted to be ready.

Fin’s eyes dip to your slick, exposed cunt. The hunger in them is almost intimidating. You open your legs just a little wider—

But his rough hand is gripping your chin, almost hard enough to hurt. And he snarls deeply, “It drove me to madness — seeing those two males dancing with you. Touching you.”

Pleasure bolts down your spine, and from the way his nostrils flare, you know the scent of your arousal is consuming him.

“Did it?” you stare back at him, welcoming the discomfort of his brutal grip.

“I wanted them dead. I wanted to draw my sword and gut them for even looking your way. For touching what I want to be mine.”

That pleasure again — skittering over your skin. His words do something to you. You bite down on a moan.

“It is yours,” you tilt your chin up to him, smiling when he immediately glances to your lips. “Take it.”

“I warn you,” he lowers his face to yours, “I don’t like to share.”

“And I warn you, High Lord,” you watch as your words land, drawing a deep, raw scent from him. “Neither do I.”

With a growl, he snaps. The kiss he gives you is not slow or sweet. His hand continues to grip your face, and his mouth attacks yours, his tongue sliding between your lips. You can’t help your moan, this time, as his taste overpowers you — a taste that you can only describe as pure thunder.

But it ends too soon, as he begins to leave a trail of heated kisses and bites and sucks along your jaw, down your neck, your collarbones. Your head falls back, and the touches are like little zips of lightning — lightning cleaving through the night sky.

“Pretty dress,” he hums against your skin — and that’s all the warning you get before that dress is ripped apart. Torn to ribbons.

No part of you is left to Fin’s imagination.

He tears his mouth from you and steps back to drink you in.

Instinct roars at you to curl in on yourself and hide. To remember that you are scarred, and flawed, and not to the liking of many — including yourself, a lot of the time.

But something about Fin’s weighty, scorching stare stops you from moving a muscle.

You lift your chin and hide nothing as he takes his fill. His eyes travel a journey from the top of your head and down — down your face, your neck, your breasts. Down your stomach, your waist, your hips. Down to that fine dusting of hair on your pelvis that tracks a thin path to—

Fin drops to his knees with a low noise. His hands wrap around your legs and prise them further apart.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he levels his face with the very centre of you, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight.

The sight of the High Lord on his knees before you — on his knees for you.

As though he senses the direction of your thoughts, his eyes flick up, and he smiles.

And then he dives in.

His tongue wastes no time in sinking between your folds, licking a broad stripe right up the centre of you. At the first stroke, your head falls back, your arms wobbling where they’re braced on the desk.

“Look at me,” Fin growls. “Only me.”

His voice of pure High Lord power drags your eyes back to him. And thank the fucking Mother it does.

You see everything in the way he feasts on you. His tongue laps at your wetness, and it coats his lips, his chin, coats him in you. The damp heat of his tongue is liquid fire. It promises to scorch you, end you, and rise you anew like a phoenix from the ashes.

Your fingers sink into the strands of Fin’s hair and tug. Judging by the noise he makes, the way his pace picks up, you think he likes it.

He utterly fucking devours you, like he’s fought a centuries-long wait to do so. And whatever magic commands his mouth — you know you cannot possibly last against it.

“Oh, gods,” your moan breaks from you, hips bucking up. You think your voice might be loud, but you don’t care. “Fuck—Fin.”

It all happens at once — his name falling from your lips, the growl rumbling in his throat, the flicking of his tongue against your clit and the finger he plunges into you, curls inside you. Every part of it is lightning strikes to your veins, and you come apart, utterly break.

Your climax slams into you and steals your breath. You’re nothing but a gasping, panting, trembling shell. Your mind is somewhere else entirely.

With your head falling back, eyes pinned to the ceiling, chest heaving, you don’t catch the swiftness with which Fin stands, licking your wetness from his lips. With which his clothes are gone in a blink of an eye.

But then he commands, “Look at me.”

It’s the second time he’s said it. Your head lolls forward once more.

You swallow the breaths you’re still trying to get down. Try to stop your body fucking shaking.

But it’s no wonder it does, as you look at him.

Your High Lord is nothing short of exquisite. He is art. Your fantasies have done him no justice.

That golden skin of his seems to attract the glowing light of the room. It bathes him, but it does not steal the attention. It outlines every fine plane of his body, the sculpted muscles on show, the nicks of injuries that have scarred and silvered over time.

There is not a single part of him that isn’t pure, refined power. And when your gaze drops to below his waist…a shudder wracks through you.

His cock stands hard and leaking at the head. You watch, your mouth watering, as he wraps a hand around its length and gives a long stroke.

“Fin—”

“When you look at me like that,” he prowls closer, “there is no way I can consider this forbidden.”

He’s within reach. Your fingers inch towards him. You want to touch him, taste him—

But he curls a hand around yours and stops you in your tracks.

“Not tonight,” he says. Pure promise is laced within the words. “No playing tonight.”

As if he hadn’t just played with you. You want to protest, to get your fucking mouth around that considerable length, but his hand tightens around yours.

And then he’s flipping you over, so fast that you don’t have time to even register it. You land on your front, your belly and breasts pressed against the desk. Fin lays his palm against your back and drags it slowly down. And in the wake of his touch, he leaves kisses. Kisses to your shoulder, your back. They’re…soft. Tender.

“Have I disappointed you?” he murmurs against your shoulder, folding his body over yours. You don’t think it’s an accident that the head of his cock nudges that sweet area between your legs.

It’s all you can do to breathe, “I wanted to taste you.”

“And you will,” he drops the brush of a kiss to your skin. “But now is not time for that.”

You don’t need him to tell you what now is the time for. Not as his hands find the flesh of your hips, and he yanks you to the very edge of the desk, moving with you. The feel of him so close to where you want him is downright cruel.

“Have you thought about me fucking you?” he asks, those hands travelling to rove your ass.

Your nails bite into the desk as you answer, “Yes.”

“Did I make you scream?”

You bite down on your lip at the feeling of him spreading you apart, opening you up to him. “Yes.”

You feel it — his cock sliding between your folds. Not pushing in, but dragging torturously against your sex. From your entrance, up to your clit. The head of his cock pushes against it.

And the moan that rips from you is downright filth, as he rolls his hips and allows your wetness to slicken his length. It feels so fucking good. To you, and to him.

A breath shudders out of him, and he purrs, “Are you going to scream for me now?”

“Fuck yes,” the words tumble from your lips. “I want you, Fin.”

Just like that, his restraint snaps. The High Lord strikes.

He drags his length through your folds and enters you with a single, powerful thrust.

A shout leaves you, and you’re clawing at the desk, trying to keep your grip against the pleasure that courses through you. Fin fills you and stretches you. He pulls out and slams back in to the hilt.

“Fuck me, you’re tight,” he growls, his hands sinking back into your hips. He begins a steady thrusting, sliding in and out of you with a drag that makes you feel every glorious inch of him. “Gods.”

“So good,” you pant. “Want you harder.”

The plea seems to make him groan, and he wastes no time in picking up the pace. His hands bite into your skin as he fucks you faster, harder, your moans and pleas and curses falling from your lips without any nudging from you. The pleasure is all-consuming. In seconds, it’s buried within your veins.

“You like that?” The grit in his voice has you clenching around him. He’s so fucking filthy, so fucking sultry, as he snarls, “you going to be a good girl and come for me?”

Gods, yes, you are. Already, release is coiling tightly within you, and it’s a force entirely of its own right, inching closer and cresting the hill, ready to sink its claws into you. Fin’s cock hits deep, and out of nowhere, his palm is flying through the air and making contact with your ass cheek. That is all it takes.

The pleasure of it all is too much — the sting of the slap, the depth and thrall of his thrusts, the way he growls and grunts as he lays claim to your body, your pleasure.

You cry out, your orgasm blasting through you with unstoppable force. The long strokes of Fin’s cock fuck you through it, through earth-shattering pleasure, through what feels like a mind-altering experience.

“My filthy girl,” he pulls out of you suddenly, and though your cunt still clenches and twitches, desperate for more, more, more, he flips your trembling body onto its back once more and tugs you up, slipping back between your legs. “Fuck, I can’t tell you how relentlessly I’ve thought about making you scream for me like that.”

Past words, you can only reach up and pull his head down to yours to capture him in a kiss. Your taste still coats the tongue that he slides between your lips. It spurs you on to deepen it, luxuriate in the feel of it. And you become so lost in it that you tug hard at the strands of his hair when he enters you again in one great, sweeping thrust.

His arm folds around your back, hand grasping at your shoulder, and it seems to afford him perfect purchase to pound into you. Sounds fill the air of his skin slapping against yours, of the breaths and moans you huff into each other’s mouths. You think the two of you, together, might be loud enough, forceful enough, to bring the City of Starlight to rubble around you.

Fin’s lips tear away from yours, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are growing quicker, sloppier, reaching a feverous pinnacle that will surely break.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me come, Y/N,” his sweat-slick brow presses against your neck. “Taking me so well like this. Squeezing me like this. You’re going to make me fucking blow.”

You want that — more than anything. To feel the power of him spilling into you.

You squeeze your thighs against his, dragging your free hand — the one not sunken in his hair — down the muscles of his shoulders, his back, his waist — to his ass, where you dig your nails into the tight, toned flesh and encourage him to pump into you harder, faster. The feel of it makes Fin shout.

“Come for me,” you choke around your pleasure. “Please, Fin…want you to come.”

An animalistic growl rips from him, and he slams into you one, two, three more times, and then stills, throwing his head back with a roar that shakes the library. Hot, thick ropes of his seed seem endless as they’re unleashed inside you.

The force of it shatters you both, you think. With his trembling as thorough as yours, your nails are still raking over his skin as his brow presses to the crook of your neck. Strands of hair stick to the back of his. Your fingertips smooth over them tenderly.

It feels like eons that you stay there like that, holding each other up from collapsing under the weight of your mutual release. You want to hold him like this, always. You don’t care what others may have to say about it, what they may deem to be wrong about it. You want him.

He pulls back, as though sensing the thought. Meets your eyes. For a beat or two, he simply studies your face, something like clarity on his own.

And then he dips down and drops a kiss to your brow. Such a tender act, in the wake of such passion.

 No words are needed. Not as he scoops you up into his arms, leaving behind the mess the two of you have created. There’s a flash, and he’s winnowed you to your bedroom. A fire roars to life immediately. Fin places you down on the bed.

You watch through hooded eyes as he makes his way into the bathroom. Moments later, he’s returning with a warm, damp washcloth, and he perches beside you.

“Open your legs for me,” he whispers, and you do.

The High Lord of the Night Court is gentle as air as he takes care of you, wiping between your thighs and delivering soft, soothing strokes to your skin. A pleasant soreness sits in your lower belly. He leans down and presses a kiss there like he knows just that.

And then he’s sitting up, and it frightens you — the thought of him walking away, of this ending here and now.

So you lay a hand on his arm, breathing, “Stay with me.”

He pauses, eyes roaming your face like he’s assuring himself you mean it. And then he dips his chin.

“I would be honoured,” he rasps.

And thus, the affair begins.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The need you and Fin have for each other is…insatiable.

Every moment he’s away, you’re thinking of him, longing for the moment he’ll appear in your room and rip your clothes off. If anyone else in the palace — staff, servants, associates — are aware of what’s going on, they don’t give it away. And that suits you just fine.

You can’t get enough. You’re giddy with it. Giddy from the multiple, interesting circumstances you’ve landed yourself in.

Like when you lured him out of a meeting and dropped to your knees in a fucking broom closet, taking his cock into your mouth until he was canting his hips forward and spilling down your throat. Or when he fucked you on the balcony of his personal quarters, your body pressed up against the balustrade, the two of you open to the elements and your moans loud enough to reach the stars above you and the city below you. Or when he took you to watch the ballet, and up in the cushy surrounds of your private viewing box, you watched the performance with him deep inside you, his fingers indolently playing with your clit, his low voice in your ear reminding you to keep quiet.

It’s…exciting. Enthralling. It changes everything.

And as he pulls out of you now, sweaty and panting, and collapses beside you in his bed, you’re not sure you could ever tire of this feeling.

He wants you. He wants you so ferociously, like nobody has ever wanted you before.

As you catch your breaths, he props his head up with his hand and stares at you through hooded eyes, glazed with lust. He leans down and grazes a kiss to your mouth.

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he ponders as he pulls back, moving a hand to brush his fingers over your breast. “All this need — wanting you constantly.”

You lean up on your elbows, tilting your head, “Do you want it to stop?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Never.”

Never. Never is a very long time. It makes your stomach flip — the enormity of it.

Fin circles the tip of his forefinger around your pebbled nipple, watching with predatory fascination as he adds, “But this will, inevitably, blow up in our faces at some point. We haven’t exactly been secretive — not that I want to be. But people will talk.”

You lean up to brush your mouth over his. “Let them talk,” you say, and kiss him.

Immediately, he melts into the kiss. Your mouth seems to have an effect on him that you never thought yourself capable of. Always draws a long, pleasured sigh from him as he sinks into it, welcomes it.

He kisses you and kisses you, so greedily, so desperately. His hand snakes up to cup your cheek. He’s already hardening against your leg.

But he pulls away, dropping his forehead against yours. And he breathes, “Make a bargain with me.”

You trace a thumb over his bottom lip. You’ve never made a Night Court bargain before; never had reason to. “What bargain?”

“When this blows up in our faces,” he grips your hand, folding his own over it, “we face it together. You and I.”

“You and I?”

“You and I” he kisses your hand. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I don’t try to be. I can be brutal and callous, and I can lie and play games,” another kiss. “But not with you. Never with you. I will look after you. Take care of you. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

Words that you’ve always longed for someone to say to you. Words that should not be taken lightly, should not be said without meaning.

But you know he means them. You can tell he does.

You watch closely as your fingers interlace with his. And you whisper, “Together?”

Fin’s thumb sweeps over yours. “Together. We’ll face it together.”

“Then it’s a bargain.”

A flash of splintering pain zips around your midriff. You glance down to find the tattoo now inked there. The black line that draws a perfect circle around your waist, like a trail of night-kissed lightning.

You look up at Fin to find a roguish smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, I like that,” he hums.

And then he’s leaning down and pressing kisses to that circlet signifying your promise to one another. Kisses the entirety of it, flipping you on your front in the process.

And kisses lower, until you’re screaming for him again.

pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-a-girlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl

[lazycats-stuff]

Could you do a batfam x batbro reader? Where reader is the 2nd youngest and they all accidentally forget his birthday, and they see him all teary eyed and they all feel really guilty and go to apologize to him except plot twist, batbro also forgot that it was his birthday and was teary eyed because he saw a really emotional scene in a video game he was playing and it made him tear up

Oh no... So much chaos... And short... AHHHHH.

Summary: (Y/N) and the family forget (Y/N)'s birthday.

Warnings: (Y/N) forgets his birthday, so do the others, recipe for disaster and chaos

Today is a one special occasion for the Wayne family? Which one, I can hear you asking? Well, it's (Y/N)'s birthday today! It's a reason to be happy, right? Well, it seems that today, everyone has forgotten about (Y/N)'s birthday.

Even (Y/N) himself has forgotten about it. So everyone went on about their day, doing the things that they wanted. (Y/N) had plans to play God of War and finish up the game.

He absolutely loved the said game and Kratos kind of remined him of Bruce. Atreus kind of represented all of them and (Y/N) loved Atreus with everything in him.

This game was a gift for his last birthday and it was from Bruce too. After promising to Bruce that he would get good grades in school, Bruce hinted that he might buy the game for his son.

And what does (Y/N) do?

He studies and tries very hard in school and thankfully Bruce doesn't expect him to get straight As. He just wanted (Y/N) to do his best in school. That's something that he wants for all of his children. He doesn't want to kill any of them with with studying.

All of them are intelligent in their on their way in Bruce's eyes and he would nurture that. Which parent wouldn't, if they have the means of course.

(Y/N) was playing the game in his room, just enjoying the game. He was sad that the game was over, but hey, he didn't mind it. Be happy that it happened, right?

(Y/N) watched in silence, just crying softly at the ending. Oh he was going to buy himself Ragnarok, even if it was the last thing he has ever done. He needs to see Atreus and Kratos in another adventure. He put his controller down, crying at the end.

It touched him in the feels. Bruce and him have a similar type of relationship. There was, at first, some emotional reservations, but as the time has passed, the two have grown more closer. (Y/N) had to lay on the bed and hug his pillow to calm himself down.

As (Y/N) was crying upstairs, everyone was downstairs, just lazing around. It was silent, except from the TV where Jason was watching a TV show. It was all fine and dandy until Tim sat up out of nowhere, looking at his phone like he has seen a ghost.

" Tim? " Bruce prompted and the others looked at Tim. " What's wrong? "

" We forgot (Y/N)'s birthday! " Tim said, becoming paler and paler with every second that has passed. Oh no, oh no... Shit!

" No, it's not- " Jason stopped, looking at his phone. Oh no.

They have actually and ever so royally fucked up. Oh God.

" Oh no! " Dick said and Damian put his face into his hands. Bruce felt like shit. Oh God...

" Oh no. " Bruce said, rubbing his forehead.

" What are we going to do? " Jason asked, pushing his hair back.

" We are going to go upstairs, apologize with everything in us and then buy so many presents that it will look like Christmas. " Bruce announced, standing up from the couch.

" You are going to be first Bruce. " Jason said and Bruce just went upstairs, shaking his head.

" This is the reason why he didn't come down, he is too sad to come down. Angry at us too. " Dick said as they walked up to the door. Bruce couldn't disagree with that.

The question as to what was going to happen when they enter? (Y/N) could either explode at them or he could be too heartbroken to even talk to them. There was no in between with (Y/N).

Bruce opened the door and everyone has seen (Y/N) on the bed, crying.

" Oh (Y/N), we are so sorry. " Bruce has started, walking up to the bed and hugging his son tightly. " We didn't mean to forget. " Bruce said and (Y/N) stopped crying.

" What did you forget? " (Y/N) asked through the hiccups. What did they mean about that?

" We forgot your birthday and we are so sorry. " Dick jumped in and (Y/N) frowned, confused beyond belief.

" It's my birthday today? " (Y/N) asked, looking at his family members. What was the date today?

" Hang on. " Jason now, jumped in. " Hold up. Did you forgot your birthday? " Jason asked and (Y/N) nodded. Jason frowned and now Damian had to jump in.

" Then what are you crying about? " Damian asked, tilting his head. (Y/N) confuses him so much sometimes.

" I finished the God of War... And it hit me so hard in the feels. " (Y/N) said, breaking down into sobs once more. He buried his head into Bruce's chest and Bruce just rocked him back and forth.

The brothers looked at each in shock. Oh my God. He is the most human one in the family. No, Alfred is in the mix too. Alfred is also the most human member of the family.

" Would buying God of War Ragnarök be okay? " Jason asked, knowing that (Y/N) loves the game and Ragnarök came out a while ago. (Y/N)'s head perked up at the sound of it.

" Oh you are buying it. I don't care the fact that it's my birthday, if you don't buy it, I won't talk to any of you. " (Y/N) said, not caring that he was sounding like a spoiled brat.

Is it wrong to just want Atreus and Kratos to go through adventures? To get closer? And he wanted more of Brok. If something is to happen to him, he will die.

" Sure thing, how about we do that now? " Bruce proposed, making everyone a little confused. " We can buy it and then we can stop by to find you some cheesecakes. " Bruce said and everyone has agreed with the idea.

" Now, everyone get ready, you (Y/N) wash your face and we are going to meet in 20 minutes downstairs. " Bruce said and everyone shuffled out.

" Now, are you sure that game has bothered you? " Bruce pressed once they were alone. (Y/N) nodded, hugging his dad back.

" Yes B. I was sad about the ending, not about the birthday. " (Y/N) said, wiping the tears away. " Okay, I'm happy to hear it. Now get ready. "

[moonbaby26]

Title: Wine

*Crossposted to AO3 Here*

Pairings: Doflamingo x Fem!Reader, Doflamingo x Crocodile (implied), Doflamingo x Fem!Reader x Crocodile (implied)

Warnings: language, non con, full on cruel Doffy taking out his own insecurities on reader, warlords being pompous assholes, vaginal sex, sex as punishment

Synopsis: Inspired by Day 1 prompt of #Doffytober2024 “Wine”. You were one of the kitchen servants in the royal palace in Dressrosa. Unfortunately you were also alone, responsible for attending to the king’s needs during one of his late night meetings. Doflamingo is more stressed than usual due to who his current guest is, and you end up bearing the brunt of that aggression after a simple mistake.

A/N: I know Doffytober is more a fanart tag, but I can’t draw. Soooo…yeah 😅. I couldn’t call this a Doffy blog without contributing something! Just a quick oneshot.

Fic Masterlist

——————————

You were cursing to yourself. That damn brat Dellinger had slammed into you. And you knew it was on purpose. The wine you’d been balancing within perfectly poured glasses for the young master and his guest was now all down your front. The remains of the bottle along with the rest of it, now shattered and sparkling across the stone floor of the palace corridor as you still heard Dellinger’s deranged giggling fading into the distance.

There was no time to clean this up. So you turned straight back into the kitchen. You were alone in here this late at night. Thankfully at least. Because you’d just have to change quickly. More white uniforms were in the far cabinet.

But you set out new wine glasses first. That now broken bottle out in the hall had been the only year left of the tawny port the king preferred.

Why he even liked it you had no idea. It was far too sweet to your pallet, even as a dessert wine.

Yet you knew exactly which other varieties were still in the racks here, and there was no time to go all the way back down to the palace wine cellar to search further anyway. 

So you grabbed another bottle, this time your preferred choice to end the meal you knew had already been sent upstairs earlier for their business meeting.

With the new wine bottle and glasses set out, you then went to stripping. Your stained shirt was already off. Your soaked pants falling around your ankles next as you had just been stepping out of them when the kitchen door swung wide open.

You gasped, reflexively grabbing the metal serving tray that’d still been nearby. You held it in front of you as if it were a shield.

And if it had been literally anyone else, you likely would have still thrown that tray at them in the moments that came after. But as it was now, you were completely frozen in your surprise. And your fear.

“Young master...” You finally said in a voice that didn’t even sound like your own.

And Doflamingo had been scowling, bad posture and all as he’d first barged through that door. But you saw the way he’d straightened up. The way his scowl faltered in the briefest look of confusion as he took in the sight of you.

“Where the fuck are your clothes?” Came the immediate vulgarity you’d so often heard when he berated you and your fellow workers.

You knew you were nothing more than another insect in the strict social hierarchies he’d furthered during his short time as Dressrosa’s new king.

It felt like he was now scolding a misbehaving animal.

Your only option was to admit fault and submit immediately in hopes the punishment would remain only verbal. He’d listen to no excuses you knew. Especially any that concerned his own shithead crew.

“I spilled the wine, your highness. I was changing and was then going to pour more to deliver to you and your guest.” You were trying to keep your face muscles tight. Trying not to let your lip quiver for as painfully aware as you now were that the meager serving tray was not large enough to cover much of you.

And the air in this kitchen was cold as chill bumps were starting across your bare skin.

But you saw that blood vessel beginning to rise in the king’s forehead. His own lips pulled to the side to reveal more of those perfectly white teeth in his familiar sneer.

“First, you kept us waiting.” He growled out. “I summoned you over ten minutes ago, you little twat.”

And he was starting to walk again, starting to close the gap between the two of you with his long strides as your fingers gripped harder and harder against that tray.

“Second, you spilled the only bottle I had left of that year then? I already saw it in the corridor. So don’t you dare deny it. I should make you lick it off the goddamn floor!”

You felt a wave of nausea go through you. Panic is what it truly was as his large hand had moved so quickly. He’d grabbed that tray. Ripped it right from your arms as it was then thrown with a violent clatter against the far stone wall.

His grip had been hard enough to bend the tray, and the impact enough to chip the stone itself.

But you didn’t avert your eyes from him now. Even as you couldn’t tell exactly where his own glare was focused. 

Was it most on your terrified face as he leaned further in?

Or on your chest barely covered in a tattered old bra you should have thrown out weeks ago? And would have if you’d only had the money to indulge in newer clothes.

Or down to your thighs maybe? Pressed together as if they would hide anything else from him, with only the small strip of fabric that had also been washed and dried to nearly nothing over time. Frayed and distressed, now shielding the last of your decency.

The insanity of feeling this insufficient, humiliated and standing before the king in such poverty highlighting garments was not lost on you. 

But it fit further into his ideas of what you really were didn’t it?

You were just a mongrel to this devil.

Those soulless red lenses of his sunglasses seemed to remind you of this too. As you saw your own pitiable reflection in them while his sneer changed into a smile that was somehow even worse.

Because there was not a trace of mercy in any of it.

He was going to punish you now.

And it would be physical this time.

Doflamingo hissed like an animal even through his false smile.

And in that moment you thought only of a snake with its fangs already out. And the fear of having to watch it strike when nothing could be done to move your body away from him in time.

You screamed, a sound that was fully primal as well as his hands closed briefly like shackles around each of your arms and his body hit against yours.

“Louder.” You heard him grunt when your spine slammed down onto the counter behind you.

He wanted the whole castle to hear you. He wanted them to know. 

Your underwear was torn with a single pull from his hand next. He didn’t even have to use his string to cut it. The weak fabric just ripped as if it were paper in his grip.

“Young master! Please!” But you rather be hit. You rather be cut.

This was too far, even for him. You couldn’t…

��Please what?” The king only laughed right above you.

You could feel the intensity of his body heat. You could smell his rich cologne as he untied his bright colored pants so easily. 

He freed his hardening length without hesitation, not even a flicker of empathy in this man as your tears began and you still refused to look at anything but his face. 

He was smiling back at you too, as his hand fished in an inner pocket of that feather covered coat which remained over his broad shoulders like a cloak.

A little foil covered square came out of that pocket as he brought it to his grinning mouth and bit it quickly to tear it open.

Of course the luxury of a condom meant nothing to you in the horror of this moment.

Yet he spoke again while he lowered his hand to unroll that thin cover over what you now knew was fully ready between his legs.

“You know you don’t deserve this level of attention…do you, little mutt?”

The overwhelming arrogance was dripping from what really should have been a forked tongue by this point. 

Once the condom was on, his rough hands shoved your bra up, pushing it uselessly to your collarbones before he squeezed that soft flesh painfully while he positioned himself at your entrance.

“You’re not even that pretty either.” He added so purposefully too, just for that additional touch of cruelty before you felt the beginnings of that lower pressure.

And you didn’t care about these words, truthfully. He wanted to hurt you however he could now. It was a mental game just as much as it was a physical humiliation.

Your steady tears weren’t yet enough to satisfy him.

But you did gasp as that pressure spiked abruptly. 

He was big. Very big, as you squeezed your wet eyes shut and endured the first of his shameless moans while he pushed his way inside of you.

That and the disgusting sound of the suction your channel soon created around him, slicked at first only with whatever synthetic lubricant that condom had been precoated with.

He began to thrust faster as his hands stroked down your body though. He was feeling everything, touching everywhere despite all his heartless words.

If you really disgusted him so much, that was not shown in the way he couldn’t keep his hands off of you now.

But your eyes were still closed as you tried and failed to fully dissociate from each additional complicated feeling. 

It was only self preservation to attempt and relax, you knew that. You tried not to hate yourself as that first tremble went through your thigh either from how deep he was then moving rhythmically inside of you.

You weren’t resisting him in any way now. 

And he was getting wherever he’d wanted to be all on his own. You could hear his breathing change soon enough. You felt his hands grab onto your hips as he groaned again, that pace still increasing.

But even your fierce will to not look at what carnal crime was now being committed against you had its limits.

Because the added element of an all new male voice was finally enough to make you turn your head as your eyes reopened in a return of fear. 

“Well this is a lovely picture.” 

The words came across with all the warmth of a morgue as the new uninvited also strode their way into the kitchen.

Doflamingo snarled above you, seemingly caught off guard himself even as he did not pull his cock out of you. He actually bottomed out even deeper in response to the interruption. His short fingernails still well sharp enough to hurt as he held your hips against his own in something that nearly felt possessive instead.

Like a predator not wanting to share its current meal.

“Fuck off, reptile. I’ll be back upstairs in a minute.” Doflamingo growled to the other warlord.

“That’s the first true thing you’ve said tonight. Because it does only take you a minute, now doesn’t it?” Sir Crocodile scoffed, only walking closer as you felt him taking in the pathetic scene of your bared body currently pinned beneath your king’s.

Doflamingo sneered defensively again as that smell of cigar smoke encroached in tandem with the other man’s highly judgmental aura.

“I don’t have all night, you whore.” Crocodile’s voice darkened more then as he addressed Doflamingo. “I sail at dawn regardless. So if you want to finish this arms deal, then I suggest you get to compromising. Instead of riding the unwilling help.”

“This brat spilled our wine.” Doflamingo retorted, and for the first time it felt ridiculous to be reminded that this had been your great crime. So childish and nonsensical of a response, especially with him still fully sheathed inside of you like the monster he really was.

But you were only staring at Sir Crocodile by then. Because he was making eye contact with you while Doflamingo just complained.

Crocodile was looking at you as if you were actually a human in that moment.

“Good. Because your taste in drink is shit. I got tired of waiting and came down here to pick my own anyway.” Crocodile responded in irritation regardless, then noticing the other bottles still in the nearby wine racks.

“Fuck you.” Doflamingo spat, beginning to move his hips against you again only when the other had turned back away. But the Heavenly Demon’s wary attention clearly remained on the other pirate even as his cock continued to pound into you.

“Keep wishing.” Crocodile’s true disrespect of the other was palpable too, while his hand grabbed one wine bottle after another by the neck, turning them to read the labels.

And the way this retort clearly got beneath the king’s skin was of no help to you of course. Doflamingo only thrusted more erratically in his growing frustration, hurting you more.

His aroused panting had stopped too. His self-pleasure within you had been interrupted with the threat of the other’s presence and he was now almost embarrassingly struggling to recapture that high.

And Crocodile noticed, glancing back over then when you made another noise of pain at the king’s roughest thrusts. “Are you actually having sex or just humping her with all the skill of an unneutered dog?”

You winced as Doflamingo’s hands somehow gripped you even harder at this insult and his voice loudly erupted.

“Just fucking go back to my office already! Let me finish what I started!”

You’d never heard the Young Master sound this flustered.

But in the meantime, Crocodile’s continued perusal of the remaining wine bottles had led him back to the one you’d set out just before Doflamingo’s attack. 

Still being brutally fucked, you were now helplessly watching as Crocodile set his cigar down. He checked the label on that bottle too before deciding to pour himself a tasting portion.

He sipped it, then making abrupt eye contact with you again. He spoke to you too, with all the casualness as if you’d just been standing here alone together.

As if Doflamingo wasn’t still balls deep between your legs.

As if the other pirate wasn’t even here with you and Crocodile at all right now.

“Is this the wine you were trying to bring us instead, Miss?” Crocodile asked, swirling the glass a bit before taking even a second taste.

And why you did it, you didn’t know. Even a nobody like you could recognize the freshly lit fuse of Doflamingo’s flaring temper as his body heat seemed to increase at these words.

“Yes, Sir Crocodile.” You answered so quietly.

Just before the king’s hand clutched around your throat to silence you and he yelled again.

“Go. Upstairs!” His orders which usually held the weight of a near god in this country, seemed to roll harmlessly off the other however.

Crocodile only filled that glass completely now with the wine you had chosen. He put his cigar back in his mouth before picking the glass off the counter to carry it with him.

He gave the two of you a parting look of only mild interest this time.

“Leave that one alive when you’re done then. I need better kitchen staff anyway. We can make a trade of some sort.”

And there was silence for a painful amount of seconds, before Doflamingo did release your throat abruptly. His smile had vanished. 

“You’re serious.” The king stated with a foreign air of incredulousness.

“You have a poor eye for talent.” Crocodile huffed, refusing to further explain himself as he did exit the room as unceremoniously as he’d come. 

And Doflamingo just stood there for a while, like his brain was trying to catch up.

He then looked back down at you. You who was still keeping his cock warm for him as he frowned.

“He actually likes you. You lucky little shit.” 

Yet his voice was different then. Because for the first time it did feel like he was talking to you instead of at you.

To your further shock his long fingers now moved over your clit as he began to rub it as well.

“But this just made you have a value. So you better remember who you really work for if I send you home with him…”

You couldn’t stop your abdomen from tightening then as Doflamingo rubbed that little bundle of nerves so purposefully now.

And it was a different kind of smile this time as he watched your reaction beneath him.

“The next time I’m in Alabasta, I’ll expect you to butter him up for me too. You can be the appetizer for that gator. But remember, I’m the entrée.” 

One that apparently paired well with your particular wine choice which Crocodile now favored as Doflamingo’s strings grabbed the whole bottle instead.

He took a crass guzzle from it after pulling it into his hand, rocking into you as deep as he possibly could again. 

His odd expression seemed to say he didn’t think it was half bad either.

Either that or he was finally starting to enjoy your body again without the distraction of the other warlord in the room.

“You aren’t off the hook with me either though. I’ll want my taste too the next time I see you.” He grinned, starting to pant again then as his fingers ran over your mouth. 

He leaned down over you more, body heat further mingling with an added intimacy that made your insides churn even as your orgasm finally threatened to overtake you.

Doflamingo’s voice whispered as he pushed his fingertips past your lips next, bidding you to suck them. “Maybe then we’ll just start with three to begin with. A cute little mutt, and her two warlords. But I’ll let you choose the wine for each round that night.”

You could see the way his mask was finally faltering now, his own lips parting while he watched you suck him subserviently and his fingers slipped in deeper.

“Is that a deal…my little cur?”

He actually shuddered once you nodded, with your tear stained cheeks and all as your channel clenched reflexively around him below your waists.

And that squeezing of your body around his did finish him off at last. His body still trembling as he rode that orgasm all the way through and came within the condom.

His larger frame was so heavy and uncomfortable when he draped briefly over you in the aftermath before pulling out. But his voice was nearly as soft as his spent cock then.

 “Good girl…such a good girl.” Came that rare praise only at the very end. “Behave in Alabasta, and I’ll see you soon.”

And the devil smiled at you one more time.

“Keep his bed warm for me.”

————————

End. Thanks for reading!