#Who they are is not who they will always be when you travel

[snowballseal]

How they react to you having a lot of tattoos

LaDS X Reader

Anon Request: I was curious if you would be willing to write the boys reacting to a partner with a lot of tattoos? I feel like MC is pretty covered up and as someone with full sleeves and a large back piece, it’s always interesting to see how people react to seeing them.

Note: Y’all killing me with these fun requests 🥺 I love this. I only have a few minimalist tattoos, but I want MORE. Thank you for the lovely request, anon. The scenarios were fun to think of.

Word Count: who’s to say 🤷about 1000 each

---

Rafayel

The first time Rafayel sees your tattoos is when you go on a date to the beach. You’re not even thinking about it as you change in the bathroom. When you decided to become a hunter, you knew you would have to cover up your tattoos. The policy, while being outdated in your mind, isn’t all that bothersome since you prefer to wear long sleeves anyways.

So it never occurred to you that Rafayel had never seen the full expanse of the ink on your body.

Which is why, when you step out and his eyes go impossibly wide as he looks at you, mouth dropping open, you’re first and foremost confused.

“What?” 

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you feel an inkling of insecurity curl in your chest as you look down at your two-piece. It’s nothing immodest, just a blue bikini that you thought was cute and also met your standards for support. It’s a little frilly, but a part of you thought he’d love that. 

“Do you not like it? I don’t uh, I don’t have anything else to wear…” Your voice comes out uncharacteristically meek.

That seems to snap Rafayel out of his daze. The artist shakes his head, the tips of his ears going positively red, as he still can’t rip his eyes from the lines decorating your skin. He reaches out, tracing the gentle petals of a flower on your waist.

“How come you’ve never shown me these, cutie?” He asks, voice touched with awe.

Oh. Heat creeps up your neck. So that’s what he was on about. You glance down at your body. You suppose it is a little jarring. It’s not like you’re covered head to toe, but you’re definitely a well covered canvas. Both of your arms have partial sleeves that curl up around your shoulders and continue along your collarbone. A large collection of flowers adorns the right side of your waist, traveling down your hip and turning into a pattern of vines down your leg. You have a few other ones, some silly, some heavy with meaning.

“Sometimes I forget I have them,” you admit a bit bashfully. Rafayel gives a low hum and your breath catches as his fingers continue to trace the lines on your waist, his touch warm and ticklish. “I’ve had some of them since before I started training.”

“I have to say, I’m a bit jealous that another artist has touched your body,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something low. His hand slips around your waist, drawing you closer so he can trace his lips over the intricate ink on your collar bone, ocean eyes glinting up at you with something possessive yet overflowing with adoration. “But even I have to admit this is beautiful work. Befitting my queen.”

Your cheeks go warm. As red at the tips of his ears. There’s something so reverent about his touch and it makes your heart flutter wildly, but you’re all too keenly aware that you’re still in public.

Not that it stops you from poking the fish.

“Would it make you feel better to know my newest one is for you?” You ask, reaching to touch his cheek with a teasing smile.

Rafayel’s face lights up. He draws back immediately, looking over your tattoos like an eager child until he spots the fresher ink on your left leg. You stifle a giggle as he drops to his knees, fingers curling around your ankle to pull your leg off the ground so he can get a better look. 

“Rafayel!” You bark out a laugh, balance stolen away. It forces you to lean on him just so you don’t fall over. “Geez, I could have just sat down, you know!”

“This is for me?” Rafayel, oblivious to your complaints, grazes his fingertips tenderly along your skin.

Shaking your head, you give his hair a playful fuss, “Yes, you impatient fish. It’s not done yet, but it’s about us.”

It’s the beginnings of an ocean scene. A beach circles right above your ankle, depicting the silhouettes of two younger kids, their hands clasped in a promise. As the ink continues up your leg, it transforms into what looks like a night sky, but instead it’s water, swirling lines of blue and purple, full of schooling fish, one in particular standing out, bright red among the cool tones. A familiar symbol. And on the back of your calf swims a graceful looking figure, reaching for the light, edges blurred between fish and man and water.

A lump forms in Rafayel’s throat as he touches the red fish, a familiar warmths spreading across his chest as the same symbol glows faintly. Seeing it on you fills him with an emotion he can’t quite explain.

“You do realize what this means, right?” Those ocean eyes flicker up to you. They glint like dark pearls, iridescent and beautiful, yet carry a depth of emotion that makes your breath catch.

“I do,” you answer unwaveringly.

Rafayel’s lips pull into a small smile. He never expected someone to do something like this for him. Though, of course you would. And it’s beautiful.

“It’s a stunning piece,” he murmurs eventually, leaning forward to press a kiss to your knee, right above the ink, his hair tickling your thigh, “Though I still think the canvas is the most beautiful thing of all.”

A snort escapes you and you bite your lip, heat rushing back to your cheeks, “You’re ridiculously corny, Rafayel.”

“I know.” His smile shifts into a wolfish grin as he stands up, scooping you into a hug. You squeal as he spins you around, holding on tightly despite knowing he’d never drop you. It’s only when you’re positively red that he stops, his mirthful eyes watching your face. “It’s worth it if I get to see this face. I swear, cutie, if you do more things like this, I might become unbearable.”

“You never could,” you giggle and loop your arms around his neck, “Though, I was thinking maybe next time, you could come with me?”

Rafayel raises an eyebrow, “Oh? You want to get matching tattoos? I’ll admit, I’ve never considered it…but if it’s with you, I can’t think of anything more fitting.”

“You’ll have to design it, of course,” you hum, tone turning a little more excited, “Oh, I can’t wait! It’ll be so fun! We can do it the next time I take a break, and after swimming season, obviously.”

Leaning in, Rafayel gives you a short kiss, laughing against your lips, “Anything you want, my lady. As long as it’s with you, I’ll enjoy every minute of it.”

---

Zayne

The first time Zayne sees your tattoos is when you reunite at Akso. You’re not sure how long it’s been, having only seen him every so often at Grandma Josephine’s for dinner. All you know is that he’s been busy, and is now one of the most remarkable young doctors in Linkon.

And also your new primary care physician.

“Knock knock.” 

You rasp your knuckles lightly against the door to his office, eyes lingering on the nameplate displayed prominently beside it. A strange sense of pride swells in your chest. To think, your childhood best friend would reach such heights.

“Come in,” Zayne calls, voice as aloof as ever.

You slip into his office and let the door shut behind you. The doctor sits at his desk, flicking through a file on his tablet. You hesitate on the edge of his peripherals, not sure exactly what to do or how to act. It’s been a long time since you two have been truly close, not since- But you’ve missed him.

A lot.

“My apologies, my previous surgery ran longer than expected so I am still collecting your records.” You blink, his voice drawing you back out of your thoughts. “You may take a seat if you’d like.”

“Okay.”

Maybe you’re the only one who feels weird about it. He seems completely unaffected, like you’re a normal patient, ever the professional. You awkwardly drag a stool a little closer to his desk, just far enough to not seem weird and so it doesn’t feel like you’re looking over his shoulder.

After the silence goes a tick too long, you can’t help but break it, fingers fiddling nervously with your sweater, “How have you been, Doctor Zayne?”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You haven’t changed one bit. 

“I’ve been well, thank you for asking. Work has become quite constant, so I’m afraid I haven’t been able to accept many of Josephine’s dinner invitations.” His eyes dart over to you briefly before focusing back on his screen. “You look like you’ve been doing well since we last saw each other.”

“I have,” you chirp, anxiety easing up a bit, “I’m really close to being finished with training and finally joining the Hunters Association. You should try to make it to dinner this week though! Grandma really misses you. She talks about you all the time.” You falter, cheeks warming a little. “...We’re all really proud of you, Zayne.”

Zayne’s fingers freeze against the tablet. An indecipherable look crosses his face, but he schools his features quickly and gives you a small smile.

“Thank you…you both have always been so kind to me,” he murmurs and finally turns to face you, “I’ll try my best to make it to dinner this week.”

Your face lights up, excitement sparking in your eyes. “Okay! I’ll let her know! She’ll probably make all your favorites. They haven’t changed, right?”

Zayne shakes his head, and you can’t help but kick your feet giddily. It’ll be nice to catch up. You have so many questions, and also so many stories to tell from your training days.

“Now that those plans are made, shall we proceed with your exam?”

“Right, right.” You almost forgot that’s what you’re here for. Nerves coming back, you shuffle on top of the stool. “What do you need me to do?”

“First, if you would remove your jacket, I’ll take your blood pressure and listen to your heart,” he instructs, voice settling back into something professional and neutral.

As Zayne turns away to fetch whatever tools he needs, you make quick work of taking your jacket off. The room is a little chillier than you expect. You wrap your arms around yourself to chase away the goosebumps that erupt across your skin. Your eyes stay glued on Zayne though, watching as he pulls a stethoscope and blood pressure monitor from one of his drawers.

“Do you usually do exams in your office?” You ask offhandedly.

“Not usually. As a cardiothoracic surgeon, I don’t often conduct general exams,” he hums, cleaning off the blood pressure cuff with a sterile wipe.

“Am I special or something, then?”

“With the rarity of your protocore syndrome, I thought it would be most effective to handle your care myself, yes. Though if it makes you uncomfortable we can-”

Zayne’s words cut off as he finally looks back at you. Surprise flickers across his face.

You freeze like a deer caught in headlights, though you don’t know why. Is there something on your face? A stain on your tank top? You glance down, finding nothing of the sort.

“What? What is it? Do I have something on me?” Your hands flicker up to your face, but you don’t feel anything.

Zayne blinks and shakes his head as if coming out of a stupor. The lightest blush warms his ears.

“My apologies. I just wasn’t aware you had so many tattoos.”

Oh. Holding out your arms, you look over the expanse of ink on your skin. You guess it’s a lot. It has taken you a few years, but you’ve effectively covered your arms and shoulders in art. Most of it is florals, with small, meaningful symbols or items hidden in the foliage. You also have a few others, though they’re covered by your clothes.

“I guess you wouldn’t have seen them,” you hum thoughtfully, “I wear a lot of long sleeves to Grandma’s dinners. And work requires us to cover them up.”

“They’re quite intricate.” He sets his tools aside, drawing his chair closer to you. His hand reaches for your arm, but pauses, his eyes darting up to yours. “May I?”

“Go for it,” you whisper, feeling a little bashful now that his attention is focused solely on you.

His fingers graze your wrist lightly, as if he’s scared to press too hard. You watch as he silently turns your arm over, taking in every minute detail of your tattoos. He lingers a little longer on the small, anatomical heart at the center of it all, surrounded by gentle jasmines. They’re incredibly well done, even he can see that, and they all look like they were done some time ago.

Something melancholic and sentimental settles in his chest.

“I remember when you were just a little girl, crying over her popsicle…You truly are all grown up now, aren’t you?” His voice is thick with something you can’t quite pinpoint, his touch turning impossibly tender as he traces the lines up your elbow.

Your heart flutters a little too wildly for your likings. “You’re all grown up too, mister chief cardiac surgeon. That’s a lot bigger than some tattoos.”

Another smile pulls at his lips, breaking his impassive facade.

“These have all healed well, though,” Zayne says, a spark of mischief flickering in his eyes as that strange emotion recedes, “You must have taken good care of them, and that alone is an impressive feat for you. That’s how I know you’ve grown up.”

A mock gasp escapes you and you pull your hand away to press it against your chest. If only to break the contact so he doesn’t notice your racing pulse.

“Doctor Zayne, I am deeply offended at your insinuation,” you insist vehemently, “I am a responsible person, soon to be an amazing hunter! I know how to take care of myself.”

“Says the woman who walked on a sprained ankle for a week out of pure stubbornness.”

“How was I supposed to know it was sprained?”

“I told you it was.”

---

Xavier

The first time Xavier sees your tattoos is after a mission that doesn’t go quite right. You come home with a bandage wrapped around your shoulder and chest, and the added instructions to change the gauze once a day. Which, of course, you can’t do yourself.

“Xav?”

Xavier glances up from where he’s sitting in the sun, a book long forgotten in his lap. Those sleepy blue eyes land on you questioning. You shuffle awkwardly in the doorway, a roll of gauze in your hand.

“Would you help me real quick?” You mumble, a soft blush warming your cheeks, “I can’t uh, I can’t change them myself.”

“Of course,” he hums immediately, standing and stretching languidly, much like a cat. “I am at your service, my lady.”

“Thanks,” you sigh, shoulders sagging, which sends a twinge of pain down your arm.

It was a nasty cut. You had been so focused on fighting one wanderer that you hadn’t noticed another smaller one appearing behind you. It was your fault, and thankfully it didn’t hit anything serious, but it was in just the right place to make moving your arm difficult.

Xavier silently leads you back into the kitchen. Taking the bandages from your hand, he pulls out a chair and motions for you to sit. You do so carefully, not wanting to jostle your body too much. The hunter sets the gauze aside and kneels down in front of you, his fingers finding the hem of your sweater and pausing, placid blue eyes turning up to you in question. 

Ever the gentleman.

A tiny smile pulling at your lips, you offer him a small nod. That’s all he needs to pull it off, his hands moving slowly, with the utmost care. Thankfully, the room isn’t too cold, the setting sun pouring through the window and warming the space. The fabric musses your hair as he slips it over your head, and you instinctively reach up to fix it.

Completely missing the way Xavier’s eyes go wide as he looks down at you.

There aren’t a lot of things that catch the hunter off guard. But the ink covering your skin certainly does. Even with the bandages, he can tell it’s expansive, curling around your shoulders, dipping down your upper arms, painting the entirety of your back. It’s reminiscent of Starry Night, hundreds if not thousands of strokes forming delicate lines that follow the natural curves of your body, flowing so beautifully that they practically beg his fingers to trace them.

And as always with you, Xavier has a startling lack of self-control.

You blink at the feeling of his fingers grazing your uninjured shoulder. His touch is so light, you could almost mistake it for a breath. Almost like he’s worried he’ll hurt you.

“Is something wrong?” You ask, voice twinged with concern as you try and twist to look at where his touch lingers against your skin.

“Stay still,” Xavier orders gently, and you freeze, brows arching in confusion. Realizing you're panicking a little, the hunter leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, offering a soft explanation, “You never told me you have so many tattoos. I simply want to appreciate them.”

“Oh.” Your nerves fizzle out, replaced with an embarrassed tinge of excitement. So that’s what this is about. “I forgot I haven’t shown you them yet. I guess I’m so used to them that I forget they’re there, especially since I have to cover them for work.”

Xavier shifts behind you, fingers following the lines over your shoulder. They bleed into a wash of color, dark blue and purple and pink splashes across your back. A small planet of light sits between your shoulder blades, numerous stars dancing around it. His touch lingers on the planet, a flicker of light spilling from his fingers as his evol reacts unprovoked.

“What made you choose this?” He asks, voice wavering imperceptibly. 

“I’m not sure,” you hum, shrugging your good shoulder, “I’ve always liked space. My grandma used to take me to the planetarium a lot when I was young, and I used to have dreams about it, of floating between planets and exploring the stars. I always felt drawn to this one planet, it was so pretty and it looked like it was made of light, but I could never reach it…”

Philos.

Something twinges in Xavier’s chest. How strange. You don’t remember the planet, that’s for certain, yet some part of you was still connected to it. To your home. To him. All this time…

“It’s beautiful,” he all but whispers.

Heat tinges your cheeks. That’s not usually what people say. It’s not for everyone, you know that. It’s a lot of ink, but you dreamt for so long about getting it. Still, most people usually just make offhand comments, not exactly rude, but not exactly compliments either. Like, oh that must have hurt a lot. Or, you must have saved a lot of money, huh?

Never beautiful.

And yet Xavier traces your ink with what almost feels like admiration. It makes your heart flutter with an uncharacteristic shyness, shoulders jolting up to your neck.

That’s when you remember your injury.

Letting out a low hiss, you drop your shoulder quickly as pain sizzles down your arm. Both of you had practically forgotten about it, caught in the moment. Xavier’s brow furrows again, an apology floating past his lips as he draws his fingers away - much to your disappointment.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, offering him a weak smile, “I just pulled it a little funny. We should probably check it, though.”

“Alright, I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs as he reaches for the edge of your bandage.

“...Thanks, by the way.”

You’re not sure what exactly you’re thanking him for. Helping you or his sweet reaction to the art decorating your skin. Maybe both.

And Xavier must know. He leans down, lips ghosting over your shoulder is an adoring kiss.

“Of course, my star.”

---

Sylus

The first time Sylus sees your tattoos is, of course, on the night you attend the auction. There’s no hiding the ink covering your body when you’re wearing a dress, after all. If anything, though, you think they’ll help you fit in a little better in the N109 Zone.

And you love the reaction Sylus gives you when you step out into the foyer.

For the briefest moment, his eyes go wide. Shock, perhaps the rarest emotion you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing on him, flashes behind those carmine eyes. In an instant, it disappears though, hidden with his usual cocky expression, one of his fine brow ticking up in amusement.

“I’ll admit, sweetie,” the man hums, “You’ve surprised me.”

You flash him a cat-like grin, satisfaction burning deep in your veins, and give a little theatrical spin, “Not what you were expecting, huh?”

Hardly a single part of your body remains untouched by ink. Most of the designs are artistic. Flourishing lines twisting and curling around your muscles, strangely reminiscent of the form his evol takes. They form a network of delicate webs across your body, sometimes forming shapes, sometimes with words written along the fine linework. 

It’s hauntingly beautiful. Sylus can’t help but let his eyes slowly rove over your form, taking in every detail. They’re like a map, and his fingers are itching to explore every part of you, to see just how far the ink slips below the hem of the dress. A dress which he bought for you yet can’t be bothered to even notice now, not with such a dazzling sight set before him.

“Who knew the kitten would turn into a tigress at night,” he murmurs, voice going low and teasing as he slowly circles around you, a predatory glint in his eyes.

Your boldness wavers. 

Sylus always seems to have that effect on you. Like a lamb straying from the herd and being found by the wolf. Prey before a predator starved, maw open and hungry, as if he could consume you whole. And all you can do is hold your ground, even if your legs shake, like that little lamb’s.

“Careful, Sylus,” you whisper, trying to appear unshaken by not following him with your eyes, despite the unease you feel not knowing exactly where he is, “This tiger has claws.”

You feel more than hear his presence come up behind you. A shiver traces down your spine when his breath skates over your ear, warm and far too intentional. In the same way, his fingers trace reverently down your arm, following the path of your ink, until they can intertwine with yours and draw your hand up to his lips.

“And that’s how I prefer you.” His voice is low, a mere rumble against your skin as he kisses your knuckles. Another shudder. “After all, it would be a shame to declaw such a beautiful creature. Even if she likes to scratch.”

God, you hate him.

You hate that it takes everything in you to rip yourself away from his enticing warmth. You hate that your heart is racing against your ribs, like it’s trying desperately to escape. And you especially hate the absolutely smug grin that plays on his lips (and the fact that you want to kiss it so badly).

“You’re teasing me,” you breathe unsteadily, putting space between the two of you.

Something dark flashes in his eyes, “Whatever do you mean, sweetie? I was merely giving you a compliment.”

“Then you give weird compliments,” you fire back, arms wrapping around yourself. “It sounds more like you’re making fun of me.”

Sylus pauses. Those ruby red eyes narrow on you thoughtfully, his lips pressing into a thin line. A tick of silence. Then his expression smoothes into something almost soft, and he takes a few measured steps towards you. Long fingers graze your palm again. A question.

And you give in far too easily, not fighting as he intertwines your fingers once again. His other hand skirts along your exposed shoulder, following the lines of your tattoo as they fade at your neck. You’re frozen under the sudden tenderness of his touch, your pulse racing against his fingertips.

“My apologies, kitten. That wasn’t my intention,” he murmurs, eyes boring into yours with an unnerving genuineness, “I simply meant that your tattoos are...befitting of your character. You are truly…” He looks you over once more, his gaze leaving a tantalizing heat in its wake. That dangerous smile curls his lips again. “Captivating.”

You inhale shakily.

No one has said something like that to you before. Not that you can remember, at least. It would sound cheesy from someone else, but from Sylus? The intensity of his tone leaves you feeling as unsteady as your heart. Lightheaded.

All you can do is blink up at him, eyes wide and doe-ish. No smart retort or comeback. Your mouth, in fact, feels remarkably dry. It fills the man with a touch of pride, rendering you so speechless.

Not one to let you stay dumbfounded for too long, though, Sylus lets out a smooth chuckle and taps your chin, “Careful, sweetie. If you look at me like that, I might just think you’re falling for me.”

Which of course works. Because he knows you better than you know yourself.

“I am not!” You squawk, face going up in flames. “You just surprised me, that's all! I didn’t know you were capable of such niceties.”

Sylus grins, drawing away as you swat at his hand, “Then it seems that we’re even.”

You scowl at him. So not fair.

“Now, would you like to accompany me to this auction, sweetheart?” He offers his arm. You keep your pout up for only a few seconds before giving in and slipping your hand around his elbow begrudgingly. Sylus hums in amusement, leaning in to press a ghost of a kiss against your cheek. “Looking like this, you’ll have no trouble getting the results you’ve been searching for, tonight. You’ll be the perfect distraction, my dear.”

“Well then, let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?”

---

Not gonna lie, Sylus' was probably my favorite. In my head I was kind of picturing the tattoos that Anthony Padilla has (from smosh, yes, sue me), and I just think he would totally call you a tiger since he likes calling you kitten.

Hope y'all enjoyed!

I'm really feeling some angst next possibly...

[edensxgarden]

landoscar hires their girl as their personal assistant so she will quit her job and travel with them 🪼🪼🪼

Im sorry but i just COULDN'T help but turn this into dark!landoscar 💔. 

Lando and Oscar who love their girlfriend so, so much. They were so beyond obsessed with her and they would never even dream about doing ANYTHING to ever hurt her. 

Except.. maybe they could and maybe they actually were planning something that would definitely, definitely hurt you but.. in the end it would all be for the better!!! 

It all started when you missed a mclaren 1-2 because you just couldn't miss some important bullshit at work and they had to end the race weekend with their painfully aching cocks thrusting up into their hands instead of into you. 

So they decided on something very evil together on the way home, something they knew they should feel guilty for but they really couldn't bring themselves to care. 

So as soon as they got home they made a note to fill your needy cunt up so many times, your tight hole was literally pushing out their cum as you squeezed around their tongues, whimpering and whining out your little praises and congratulations between desperate pleas of their names. 

And once they were finally done with you, they tucked you in, kissing your forehead and letting you doze off, all innocent smiles and cuddles. 

But once you were finally out, Oscar grabbed your phone from the bedside table, quickly finding the your boss' number and sending the most heinous things he could possibly think of before handing the phone to Lando to do the same. 

So it was more than expected when you got home the next day hours early, sobbing about being fired, how you didn't even understand what you did. 

Good thing they deleted the messages. 

Oscar took you into his big strong arms as lando pressed soft kisses to your neck and shoulders, both of them cooing about how everything will be ok. 

It took a few hours before lando finally slipped the idea into conversation, lightheartedly mentioning how at least now you could come to their races with them. 

You quickly realized, maybe it was all for the better. You could depend on your boyfriends, they had more than enough money to support you. You didn't need to have a job, you could always rely on them. 

You went to bed, tears dried and heart full, so beyond grateful for your sweet boyfriends who were always there for you <3 

And the next time oscar and lando got a 1-2, they had you there cheering them on and giving them something much better to come back to the hotel to. 

Lando gripped your hips from behind, using his bruising hold on you to slam his hips into you, until his dick was so deep inside you, his leaky tip was drooling in your tummy. 

And oscar was so deep in your throat, you were drooling and sputtering as his hands in your hair moved in tandem with landos to push you up and down their fat cocks.

 You were so cockdrunk. Your brain was so hazy and broken and your eyes were so teary, you couldn't even notice the little smirk lando and oscar gave eachother. They both smugly looked at eachother, knowing you would never ever know the way they flipped your entire life upside down. Now, you could forever be their sweet little cockslut, completely and utterly dependent on them forever. <3 

[leclercsluvs]

LN4 | Our Forever Moment

an: i still don't really know how much i like to make written fics, but i have ideas for them so i'm going to continue to try and write them, i think. my first language is NOT english, so sorry if there's any mistakes <3 pairing: lando norris x fem!reader, vasseur!reader (this is gonna be fun, lowkey not important, gets mentioned like a few times because i forgot) warnings: swearing (like twice) inspired by: mine - taylor swift word count: 6.2k

As she’s being dragged to another race, she wonders when her dad is going to realize she's always running off and never in the garage of his own team, she doesn’t know that he’s fully aware she’s never there. She’s been welcomed by everyone she’s visited though, which does make him happy. She mostly goes to Mercedes and Red Bull, but lately Mclaren has been looking quite interesting. 

“Are you going to stay in the Ferrari garage today? Or am I gonna have to send someone over to Red Bull or Mercedes to find you?" Fred looks at yn with a playful smile.

“I didn’t think you noticed.” She's quite shocked. He always seemed to switch off being a dad whenever they stepped into the garage, so it never even occurred to her that he even wanted her there.

“Who do you think sends someone after you at the end of the day?” He turns back around as they get closer, “I think you, Charles and Carlos would be great friends if you gave them a chance,” they turn and walk into the Ferrari hospitality. “Oh speaking of boys, have you found a boyfriend I need to approve of?” He quickly looks back to see her surprised face before he turns back to see where he’s going, even though he could probably navigate it blindfolded.

“Well first of all, you wouldn’t need to approve of him, this isn’t the middle age,” yn lets out a small laugh, “and second, all of my relationships have failed, you’re partly to blame for pulling me to almost every race, and then I guess I’m just not girlfriend material.” She follows her dad around, because even if she does get pulled to all races, she usually doesn't hang out here for more than 5 minutes before she’s off to find Max or George. 

“Chérie, anyone not willing to spend the short time you're home isn’t worth your time,” he stops in his track turns around and puts a hand on her shoulder, “and I’m not sure if I ever said it, but if you truly would prefer to stay home and only travel to a few, that is fine. I would understand.”

She gives him a reassuring smile, “I know. You wouldn’t have been able to drag me out of the house if I didn't truly want to be here.”

He gives one quick smile before continuing walking, and before she knows it, she’s left to herself because he’s needed for something important.

~~~

It doesn’t take long for Charles to spot yn, sitting by herself, because apparently everyone else is busy today. “Yn? what are you doing here? I thought you’d be off doing something with Max?” Charles looks around to see if Max is around and he just hadn't seen him, but it’s a lost cause, which he should have realized, Max wouldn’t be seen anywhere near anything related to Ferrari. Except for Charles of course.

“No he’s busy. Everyone suddenly got busy.” She looks back down at her phone and the messages between her and her friend, however it would be rude to text back while Charles is in front of her, so she turns it off and stuffs it in her pocket. “I don't really remember the last time everyone, well except for you I guess, was busy at the same time.” 

“Well, I’m meeting Lando and Oscar for lunch, do you want to join us?” Charles asks with a smile, flashing some cute dimples. Not that anything could ever happen between the two. As attractive as Charles may be, her dad was his boss, and nothing good was going to come out of that. 

“I think I’d like that,” she smiles back as she picks up her bag with her essentials, “it’s nothing fancy right? I didn’t really get dressed for something over the top.” She looks down at the ripped jeans and the oversized t-shirt that she’s wearing. Not exactly the cutest outfit.

~~~

“So you still live with your dad?” Oscar asks curiously, they all seemed fairly happy she was invited by Charles. And Oscar, who she hadn’t really spent any time with, has been asking a lot of questions. 

“I do. I may be 21, but living at home is just a little easier. And I like spending time with my dad, even if I run off to other teams at the first chance I get.” She answers as she takes another bite of her food. Lando has been awfully quiet and it didn’t go over yn’s head. She was fully aware of how glued his eyes were to his food. 

“Is it weird? That your dad is responsible for a Formula 1 team?” Oscar almost forgets to eat, because of all the questions he’s asking.

“It was in the beginning, but I've gotten used to it by now,” she takes a sip of water. “Is he always this quiet?” yn looks at the way Lando is poking his food “and is he always just poking his food?” She questions, making Lando's eyes move up for just a split second and then back down to his food.

“No. He’s usually pretty chatty, maybe he’s just nervous for tomorrow," Oscar says, finally eating some of his food. “He doesn’t usually get like this before a race though,” Oscar leans his head a little to the side as if thinking about it, before poking a finger in Lando’s side making him jump a little. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” Oscar asks.

“Maybe he’s got a new crush,” Charles jokes, taking a bite of food just as Lando suddenly coughs and gulps down water.

“Are you okay?” Yn asks as Lando suddenly gets up from his chair avoiding any and all eye contact.

“No, I’m actually not feeling so great. I think I’ll have to cut this short if I want to be good to go by tomorrow.” He quickly gathers his things as everyone looks confused. “Bye!” And then he’s out of there.

“Well that was weird.” Oscar says as he goes back to eating

“Do you think it was me?” Yn looks at the rest of the men sitting around the table, a little sad that she may have ruined their lunch.

Charles smiles. “Yes,” he says, looking at yn, “but in a good way. I think I might be right, even if it was just a joke.” He lets out a laugh. “I’m sure there’s some truth to it.” He goes back to eating, and so does yn, deciding that maybe she’ll talk to Lando in private.

~~~

On his way back to the hotel, Lando struggles to figure out his emotions. Of course yn is absolutely gorgeous. But considering she’s Fred's daughter he wouldn’t dare to think of her as anything but a friend. He may not race for Ferrari, but he still has a lot of respect for the man. And Lando knows about his reputation of not being able to keep his relationships going for long. Hopefully he can just subtly ignore her. Because the feelings, and thoughts he had during that lunch were not friendly. And before he even considers anything, he needs to make sure his feelings for her are romantic, and not just him finding her pretty.

~~~

Lando spent close to 4 months avoiding yn to the best of his abilities, and when he wasn’t ready and she caught him off guard he made up some weird excuse about needing to look at data, test the car, try some new Mclaren merch for photoshoots. Yn usually knew they were lies, and wondered why Lando was so set on avoiding her. To be quite honest, it brought down her mood, and she spent more and more time in the Ferrari garage and hospitality. Her dad sensed something was wrong. She was rarely there and suddenly she never left? Something was going on and he was going to get the bottom of it. 

“I see you’re spending time here today,” Fred sat across from yn. She was eating lunch. Alone. That was how she spent most of her time lately. All alone. Lando had unknowingly made her really anti-social.

“I guess.” She poked a little at the salad she had bought. She didn’t really want it anymore. 

“Did the others have plans?” Fred asks, looking around.

“I’m not sure.”

“Is something bothering you?” Fred asked, concerned for her daughter who used to have a lot to talk about. A lot of people to talk to, and who never spent time at lunch alone in Ferrari.

“Nope.” Fred sighed. He wasn’t going to get any answers. If it was because she genuinely just didn’t feel like talking today or if there was something wrong, he wasn’t sure. But he was gonna ask Max, or maybe Lewis to talk to her. He didn’t want her to be lonely. He got up from his chair. He had to get this started immediately. 

Fred’s quest to find Lewis was surprisingly easy. He found the soon-to-be Ferrari driver hanging out with Charles and Carlos near their own garage. “Lewis! Can we talk?” Fred called out before he reached them. Lewis just nodded and started walking towards Fred.

“Is it about my contract?” Lewis asked cautiously. He knew he hadn’t been performing that great in the Mercedes this year and was afraid Fred was going to only make it a year so he could be finished with him.

“No. I need you to talk to yn. She's suddenly spending a lot of time with Ferrari, but alone. Which, as you may know, isn’t where, or how, she usually spends her time.'' Fred looks really concerned, and it’s like it’s transferred to Lewis immediately. He’s known yn ever since her dad started dragging her along. She would usually spend time with George when she went to Mercedes, but sometimes when George wasn’t there and she just wanted to be somewhere else, Lewis and yn would play some games. Usually chess. Lewis was definitely better than yn but she still loved it. They could often lose track of time and suddenly one from the Mercedes team would come and get Lewis to either do some media related stuff or because it was time to get ready for a race.

“Of course! Now that you mention it, I haven't seen her around Mercedes for quite some time now. I’ll see what I can do, if I can't figure it out, I'll have Max ask her. They’ve always had quite a special bond I don't understand” Lewis gives the man a reassuring smile and a clap on the shoulder “Don’t worry, we’ll get her back to her talkative self very soon.”

“Thanks Lewis,” Fred looks relieved, but only for a second when his eyes widen. “Do you think Max did something to her? To make her feel this way?” He looks around as if he's scanning the surroundings for Max. And good thing he isn’t around. It wouldn’t have been a good outcome.

“I doubt it. He’s always been nice. Especially to her,” when he realizes how that may sound to the man in front of him and the way his eyes narrow, he quickly adds “as a friend. Not romantically. I’m pretty sure he’s actually in a relationship.” Fred seems to almost relax at those words and gives Lewis a quick pat on the shoulder

“Hurry up and get my daughter back. I miss her.” and with that he walks off. Hopefully not to find Max. And if so, Lewis sure is glad he isn’t Max right now.

~~~

When Lewis finally finds yn sitting just on the outside of the track he’s surprised she was allowed. But then again she probably just mentioned being Fred's daughter and she was allowed. “Hey there. Looking cozy. Mind if I join you?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just sits down next to her on the grass.

“What do you want?” She asks. Not really feeling the company right now.

“You haven’t been spending much time with George lately. Have you been spending more time with Max?”

“No.” Straight to the point. But not really the point Lewis was looking for.

“Have you been spending time with Charles and Carlos? Since you’re spending so much time with Ferrari at the moment?”

“Would that be a crime?” She looks at Lewis, and he sees something different. Her eyes don't look as alive as they usually do. They’re missing the glow that makes yn herself.

“Yn, is something wrong? You know you can talk to me. Or Max,” he waits for a second, not sure if he should continue, but as she starts plucking at the grass without answering he decides she needs to know. “Your dad is worried about you.”

“Oh.” She answers, plucking a few more grass straws

“Did something happen?” Lewis asks, trying a different approach.

“I don't know. Maybe you should ask Lando.” Lewis is unsure what Lando has to do with this entire situation, but he promised Fred to get to the bottom of it, so he will.

“Did he do anything?” Lewis is ready to fight Lando. “If so, I’ll gladly talk to him”

“Well, maybe he’ll talk to you,” yn shrugs and gets up from the grass. “I have no idea what I did to him. He seemed happy enough about me being invited to join him, Oscar, and Charles for lunch a couple months ago, and then during lunch he was so quiet, barely looking up from his food and then he suddenly said he wasn’t feeling great and needed to leave.” Yn turns around and looks at Lewis, tears starting to form in her eyes. “He has ignored me ever since. Every time I’ve tried to talk to him he either runs away or makes up some dumb excuse to get away from me,” she wraps her arms around herself as if to protect herself. “I’m sorry,” she says, shakes her head and turns around again and starts walking away. “I shouldn't have put all of this on you. I'm probably just overthinking it anyway.”

"Wait!" Lewis is quick to get up from the grass and gets a hold of yn’s arm, ”I’m glad you told me. Let me talk to Lando. See if I can figure out why he’s avoiding you. Maybe there’s a reason,” yn smiles a small smile, but it’s better than the empty expressions she's had lately. “Nice to see you’re still capable of smiling.” Lewis returns it with a smile of his own and guides her towards the Mclaren hospitality. “Now let’s get to the bottom of this.”

“Thank you. Not just for this, but also for always putting up with my bullshit.” Yn looks straight ahead. She wasn’t exactly planning on saying any of that, but oh well. It won’t hurt anyone. 

Lewis just laughs and pushes her lightly. “You should be grateful. It's impossible to keep putting up with it.” If he wasn’t laughing while saying it, she would have been hurt, but she just laughs with him and follows him, to hopefully get some answers from Lando.

~~~

Lando was not expecting to see Lewis, so he wasn’t able to run off as quickly as he usually does, and when he spots yn behind Lewis, he tries to make up some excuse about having to talk to an engineer about a possible car problem but Lewis stops him. “Lando. That’s enough.” He puts a hand on Lando's shoulder before he gets a chance to run off. “Why do you keep running away from yn?”

Lando sighs, he can’t run away from it anymore. “I kinda would prefer for this conversation to happen between just me and yn.” He runs a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. 

Lewis looks back at yn, then at Lando, then back at yn, “are you fine with that?” He asks, while she nods and follows Lando into his drivers room

“So.” Lando starts, not really sure how to get the conversation going.

“Why have you been ignoring me for the past 4 months?” Yn asks, wanting to get this solved as soon as possible. “Did I say something that upset you so much during lunch that day?” Yn can feel the tears threatening to spill over, but she would like to get through this conversation without crying.

“No! Oh my god. Not at all!” He turns around because he’s not sure he can look at her while telling her this. “I think I might, sort of, have feelings for you.” The room is filled with silence. Lando is almost afraid she ran out of the room, If it wasn't for the fact he could hear her breathing. 

“So you decided the best action was to avoid me?” Yn asks, with a playful grin. If she had known this was all it was she would have had someone talk to him earlier. 

Her playful tone makes Lando turn around with a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have ignored you or run off every time you tried talking to me. I was just afraid I would end up spilling a full love confession, and I’m not sure your dad would be too happy with that.”

“Well he doesn’t get a say in my love life.” Yn closes the distance between her and Lando. 

“I suppose you’re right.” Lando takes a step forward, making the distance between them smaller.

“So are you going to be doing anything about it?” Yn tilts her head slightly.

“When I have planned it,” Lando smiles and takes a step back as he feels a vibration in his pocket. “Damn, I actually do have to go now,” a text from his engineer asking him to come back for a meeting. Lando grins and walks towards the door, “but you're totally free to stay here until I’m back. And trust me, I’ll be spending the entire meeting planning the perfect way to ask you out.” He flashes a quick smile before he's out of the door and yn is left alone in the room. But this time being all alone is different. She doesn't feel all alone. She’s the happiest she’s been in four months.

~~~

“I have the perfect plan.” Lando and Oscar are doing a track walk just to have something to do and make sure the track is fresh in their memory for the practice the next day. 

“Yeah?” Oscar isn’t really sure it’s going to be as perfect as Lando thinks it is. “Are you totally sure about that?” He questions, raising an eyebrow, while taking in the surroundings of Monaco.

“I’m 100% sure.” Lando nods. He knows exactly what he’s going to do. He’s in fact not going to ask directly. He’s made a fun little game, and got a few drivers in on it. “Just promise me to not ruin it when she comes to you.” Oscar sighs. He obviously isn’t going to spoil it.

“How are you going to ask her? If you aren’t doing it directly.”

“That’s a surprise.” And no matter how much Oscar pushes, Lando doesn't tell. Just smiles and shakes his head.

The next day when yn arrives at the paddock Alex greets her as soon as she’s arrived. “For you.” He says and hands her a letter.

“For me?” Her face is full of confusion as she opens the letter. 

“Dear yn, I’ve made a little scavenger hunt for you. I hope you’re going to have fun. At the end you’ll find a surprise. Here’s the first clue.”

That’s the end of the letter. “So what's the clue?” If anything she's even more confused now, it doesn’t even say who it's from. It could be from George. But she doubts it. He’s never done anything like this before.

“Oh right, I almost forgot,” Alex rushes and pulls a small lego car from his backpack. more specifically a Mclaren lego car.

“So I'm guessing I have to go to Mclaren?” She questions and looks at Alex who just shrugs. So that’s where she heads to next. Who knows how long this is going to last. She does think it’s going to be fun though. She’s always loved clues.

As she gets closer to the Mclaren garage she finds Oscar standing looking around holding a letter in his hand. As he notices her, he walks towards her. “Here. From a mystery man.” He says, hands her the letter and walks off trying to look mysterious.

Yn laughs and opens the letter. This time, there’s no text. Just a card. “Happy fathers day.” She reads out loud. That’s all the card says. “I guess that means i’ll have to go to my dad?” She wonders out loud. Would this person involve her dad? Would her dad want to be involved? “Hm, probably just ferrari.” She says as she notices the card is mostly red.

She walks over to the Ferrari garage but can't find anything and decides it might be at the hospitality. As she enters the building she notices Carlos standing with a smile on his face and a whistle in his hands. “Here you go.” He hands her the whistle as she reaches him. 

“That's it? Not a letter? Anything to guide me more than-'' she looks down at the whistle now in her hand, “a whistle?” She looks back up at Carlos who looks around.

“Consider the first letter of the whistle.” He whispers and quickly walks off, whistling. 

“The first letter of whistle is w. So..” she thinks for a second. “Williams?” She laughs and quickly walks over to the Williams hospitality, but to her surprise finds no one, and decides it must be their garage then.

Here she finds Logan happily holding a small boat toy. “For you.” He says and hands it to her. Happy to be included. She smiles and wonders if this is the last one.

“Thank you, Logan.” She sends him a smile and walks to the dock to find a boat. Not really sure which type of boat, big or small. But she’s determined to find it. 

When she gets to the dock, she fears it’s going to take a long time, until she spots Charles casually sitting on a yacht. As she approaches she notices a full basket of red bulls sitting beside him. “I guess I’m going back to the track. To Red Bull. Their garage?” She is sure to get those 10k steps she’s supposed to get every day. 

“Yeah, if you want something to drink on your walk, I have plenty,” he pushes the basked towards yn and gestures for her to bring it, “in fact, let me join you on the way back, I was only sent here to give you the clue, and I don't drink Red Bull, so I can return it.” He smiles and gets up, taking the basket full of cans. “Are you having fun so far?” Charles starts walking back towards the track with yn following.

“Yeah. It’s a lot of fun,” she answers as she opens a can of the regular Red Bull, "I'm excited to see who set all of this up though” she looks ahead and takes a sip of the can.

“I can’t wait for you to see who arranged it,” he says. And that’s all he says. Yn tries to get more clues about who it is, but Charles’ mouth is shut. He’s not letting anything slip. And they arrive at Red Bull way earlier than yn was expecting so she doesn't get nearly enough time to interrogate Charles about who it is. 

“I see you’ve come to terms with the fact Red Bull is the best.” Max teases as Charles and yn are within hearing range of a normal voice. While holding a bouquet of flowers?

“Ha ha ha,” Charles smiles, as he hands Max the basket full of red bull cans, “I’m just keeping yn company, and decided to return these as I won’t be able to drink them.” Charles laughs and gets into a conversation with Max until yn clears her throat, reminding them she’s still there.

“I’m looking for a clue,” she says, begging that it's close to being over because she’s tired of walking from one side of the track to another over and over.

“Oh right,” Max hands her the bouquet of flowers he was holding. She takes them in her hand and her eyebrows furrow.

“What kind of clue is this?” She looks at Max whose eyes go wide.

“I forgot this.” He pulls a letter out from his pocket and hands it to her.

“Another letter. Is this the last one? I don't know how much more walking I can do.” She looks so defeated but reads the note.

“If you received this letter, that means you figured out all the clues. I know you were just there, but you can find me on Charles’ yacht. Where the big surprise is waiting.”

She looks up as she finishes reading. “He’s got to be kidding. I swear to fucking god, if this is George and he just made me walk from that yacht, back to the track and then back to that stupid yacht i’m going to go insane.” You look back at the letter. 

“My yacht isn’t stupid.” Charles pouts as Max hits him on the arm. “Ow?”

Yn sighs, “I guess I’ll get going. Thanks for the flowers I suppose.” 

“Oh they were not from me. They were from him. Just hurry up,” Max looks down at his phone, “practice starts kinda soon, and he can’t be late.” Yn starts walking back towards the yacht. She can't wait to kill the man that made her walk this much.

Lando however has been setting everything up ever since yn and Charles left. Strawberries covered in chocolate, and since he doesn't like chocolate, strawberries without chocolate, candles on a small table on the sun deck. As yn gets closer, Lando walks down to greet her. “I swear to fucking god George if this is yo-” her sentence gets cut short as soon as she sees Lando. “You set all of this up?”

“Yeah. You didn’t seem to like it that much?” Lando rubs the back of his neck. He wasn’t the best planner of a scavenger hunt.

“I kinda wasn’t the biggest fan of walking all the way out here, back to the track and then back here again.” She crosses her arms, but seeing the concerned look on Lando’s face she relaxes her arms and walks onto the yacht with a huge smile. “It was still kinda fun.” 

They spend a little while on the boat, sitting with their feet almost touching the ocean. Lando is not really sure if he should put an arm around her or not. He decides not to move too quickly and they just sit next to each other. “Oh I almost forgot,” she turns and looks at Lando. “I was supposed to tell you to hurry up, practice starts soon and you can’t be late,” she looks down at the strawberries, “but you distracted me.”

“Oh shit!” He gets up quickly and puts his shoes on, “meet me at the track! I would love to spend some time with you between practice 1 and 2!” He hurries up and practically runs all the way to the track.

~~~

For the next couple of weeks Lando spends a lot of time wondering how quickly to move forward. They spend a lot of time sitting near water, almost like the first time, except they don't have access to Charles' yacht every day. Every time Lando wonders if he should put an arm around her, but he never does. Until one day, when they’ve been sitting at the end of the gangway on the dock, their feet so close to the water, if they stretched them out their toes would be dipped in the water, and Lando’s arm comes closer and closer to making its way around yn. “Just do it already,” she says and leans on him, putting her head on his shoulder, “I've been waiting for the last many weeks for you to do it.” Lando can’t help but let out a small laugh and put his arm around her. 

“I wasn’t sure if you even wanted it.” He looks down at her quickly before looking back at the water. 

“I've been waiting for you to make some sort of move, so I knew if it would be appropriate to do this.” She says, as she sits back up straight and puts her hands on Lando’s cheeks and pulls his face closer. He puts his hands on her waist and pulls her closer while making sure none of them fall into the water. Her lips meet his softly, a tentative brush that sends a wave of electricity through her body. The kiss deepened, growing in confidence, and everything else faded away. All that existed was the two of them.

When they finally break apart, Lando puts his forehead against hers, a smile stuck on his face. He would never be able to forget this moment, and she wouldn’t either. “I’ve dreamed of this moment ever since that time Charles invited you to lunch.” Lando shares, not aware that yn has shared the same feeling since he shared that he had feelings for her.

“I was sure you’d do something about it sooner.” Yn lets out a small laugh and leans against Lando’s shoulder as he puts his arm around her.

“I was too afraid you didn't want to,” he says and lets out a sigh. “And I guess I just never thought to just ask.” 

“Well, you should have.” She smiles, before looking up at him, and he can’t help but smile back. They sit like that for a while. Just enjoying each other's company.

~~~

A couple weeks later, when they’re lying on the couch in Lando’s apartment, watching a movie, yn can’t help but smile, thinking about this moment, and how she never thought this would be a reality in her life. “Can you believe it?” She says in a soft whisper, her voice barely even audible.

“Believe what?” Lando asks, while his other hand mindlessly runs through the soft strands of her hair.

“This. Us. I never thought I’d be in such a happy relationship while traveling so much.” She says, softly tracing small circles on the back of his hand, that’s draped across her waist.

“Well I’m glad you're happy,” He says, placing a kiss on the top of her head, earning a soft hum from the woman. “You know, you could bring some stuff here. Just enough for a drawer if you don’t want to get too serious.” He mumbles, nuzzling his head into the crook of her neck.

She can’t help but smile, because she had been thinking of asking. “That would be nice, especially considering how much time I spend here.” She brings his hand up to her lips and places a soft kiss there, before going back to the movie.

~~~

It didn't take long for her to basically move in. It wasn’t official, but it might as well have been. She spent more time there than she did at her own home. But Lando didn’t mind. In fact, he loved having her there. They even started spending time together publicly, whether that was around Monaco when it wasn’t a race week, or if it was in the paddock. The fans had noticed how close they had gotten, and speculation quickly began. Were they a couple? Just friends? No one knew. Did Fred? No. But he wasn’t stupid, he knew something was going on, but he didn’t want to ask. But he didn’t mind, as long as yn was happy. And she was, for the first couple of months. And then it seemed like Lando had other priorities. Of course she knew racing was important to him, and she didn’t expect to suddenly be on the absolute top of his priority list, that would always be F1 and she knew that. However, that didn’t stop the feeling of neglect starting to spread through her. She knew he had a packed schedule, but she would often find herself wishing he had more time for her, yet it just seemed he got less and less time for her.

As the relationship between them progresses, small arguments make it to the surface. Usually sparked by the fact yn feels unimportant, or that Lando misses a date or an anniversary. It’s never his intention, and he always makes it clear that he loves her, but as it continues to get worse and worse, she begins to question it. She even stops believing him 100%.

It was 2 am. Lando had just returned back to the hotel after the race in Singapore. He silently opened the door to the room he was sharing with yn, expecting her to already be sound asleep on the bed, but to his surprise she was sitting up, leaning against the headboard with the bedside lamp on.

“Can we talk?” She asks, her voice soft but filled with a hint of vulnerability.

“Of course.” Lando quickly closes the door and walks over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Look, I know racing is extremely important to you, that it’s everything to you, but,” she pauses for a moment, not really sure how he’s going to take this. “What about us?” She asks, her voice shaking slightly.

“I know it’s been tough, and I’ve not been the best, but I’m under a lot of pressure right now,” Lando looks up at her and he can see the way his words hurt, and he can’t help the defensive tone that creeps into his voice. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Didn’t have a choice? You’ve always had a choice! You chose to sign up for all those PR events. All the additional promotional videos. Do you know how it feels to always be the last thing on your mind?” Her voice raises a little as the frustration takes over, and she searches Lando’s eyes for a reaction, just some sort of reaction.

“I never wanted you to feel that way,” Lando sighs and looks her in the eye, he genuinely never wanted her to feel like she was his last priority. “But this is my career, it’s what I’ve worked towards my entire life.” 

“And where do I fit into that? When you talk about your future, you’re talking about your next race, the next podium, the next win. I can’t continue to just sit back and wait for you to finally have time for me. I can’t continue to just be a spectator in your life, Lando.” The hurt is visible on her face, and she turns away momentarily to look out the window. The rain is subtly falling outside, and small drops of water roll down the window.

“I thought you understood when we got together.” He says, trying to defend himself. “This is my life, my dream. I never wanted you to feel like you're not important.” His voice softens, but his tone is still defensive as he tries to avoid addressing the core issue.

“I did understand. And I’ve been nothing but supportive, but it’s been months of you forgetting a date, or something else. And I’m not asking you to quit racing, I would never do that. All I’m asking is that I become a priority too. Because right now it feels like you’ve made a choice. And it’s not me.” Tears start to swell up in yn's eyes, and Lando is at a loss for words. He never wanted it to get to this point, but he doesn’t know what to say. He looks away, and that’s the last straw for yn. She swings her legs off the bed and grabs her suitcase that she packed as soon as she returned from the race, since they were planning to leave early in the morning anyway. “I’ll give you some time to think about all of this. But I won’t be waiting forever. Figure out if this is something you want. Because I can’t keep doing this.” And with those words she leaves the hotel room, and into the elevator.

She walks out into the rain, with tears flowing freely from her eyes. She stops and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want it to end between her and Lando, but she also can’t continue to just be a bystander in her own relationship. As she grabs her suitcase and is about to begin walking she hears Landos voice. “Wait!” 

She turns around and sees him walking in long strides toward her, the rain already drenching his hair. “I don't want to lose you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” he says as he reaches her. “I remember how it felt when we were sitting by the water on our first unofficial date. Every time I look at you, it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time all over again. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He places a hand on her cheek and gently rubs his thumb along her cheekbones. “Please don’t leave. We’ll make it work. I’ll make time for you. You’ll be my first priority, I promise.”

She looks up at him with an aching heart at the raw emotion in his voice. For a moment she wants to believe him, to just forget all the missed moments, but the pain is still too much. 

“You say that now, but what happens when life gets busy again?” She asks in a whisper, her voice shaking as she speaks. “What happens when I become the last thing on your mind again because something else takes priority?”

Lando’s hand trembles slightly against her cheek, but he doesnt pull away, and neither does she. The rain falls a little harder, and their breaths are visible in the cool air of the night.

“I won't let that happen.” His voice is filled with an urgency, a need, that she’s never heard before. “I know i’ve failed you, but this time-”

“”This time,” she interrupts him and takes a step back, resulting in his hand slipping from her cheek. “How do I know this time is any different?” She looks at him with tearfilled eyes, waiting for an answer she might not want. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Lando takes a step closer and his eyes are filled with so much love and hope.

“Because this time, I know what it’s like to lose you,” his voice is trembling and he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. “And I can’t. I can't lose you.”

[meo-eiru]

begging u to introduce some of those fine gentlemen fr

especially if they’re doms bc. im a whore

Ok so for the ones who have lore

This one is Ro. He's basically this all powerful dragon who travels from kingdom to kingdom and spends a few weeks at a castle there to his liking. He's technically not allowed to do that but the nobles can't say anything to him since he could just wipe their country off the map if he feels like it. He finds the mc on the street as a homeless orphan and thinks she has potential as a mage so he decides to spend a few more years in that country and raise her to his liking.

On a matter of scariness I'd say he's actually more scary than Micah. Not only is he more powerful, he's also easier to anger, and you don't know what he might do when he's angry. Also unlike Micah who was aware of his affection for you right from the get go, Ro thinks of you more as a rare gem he owns and by the time he realizes his true feelings it's too late.

This is one of the stories I'd like to turn into a full webcomic one day.

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

Next we have these 3, well there's a 4th one but I couldn't find a drawing of him. Basically a reverse harem story about 4 ancient mages and a girl who seems to weirdly attract them. I'd say the blue haired one is definitely the poster boy but the drawing is quite old and I actually changed his design a bit, I think it was too busy.

I'm gonna be honest, this is a fanservice story. You know how there are always shows with female characters wearing impossibly revealing stuff to literal fights? I thought, hey how about I do the same but with men.

We have 4 mages, the mage of light, the mage of dark, the mage of mind and the mage of emotions.

Again a story I want to turn into a webcomic one day

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

This guy is the literal personification of Love. He was made out of love, he lives through love and IS Love.

He is the beautiful type of love, he is the innocent type of love, he is the dark type of love. The love that will suffocate you, the love that will make you wish you never experienced it, the love that'll bring you to tears from it's kindness.

He knows you yearn for love, a love you can be sure could never die off, a love that will follow you even if you no longer want it.

Even if you can't love him anymore he will continue suffocating you until you become completely his.

This is a story I want to turn into a visual novel in the future.

The other characters have lore too but I don't want this post to get too long, I think it should be enough to talk about these for now

[aurumalatus]

𝗖𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 2.5k

genre/warnings. pixelprincess!au (princess!reader x knight!kinich), one bed trope, princess is nervous to sleep alone with a man (who isn't)

summary.

after a long journey, kinich and the princess finally turn in for the night at an unfamiliar inn. the only problem? there's only one bed.

author's note. i'm finishing this at like 5am so if there's any errors i'll look over it/fix it when i wake up LOL. for now, please scream and cry about knight!kinich with me. reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!!

𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It’s too warm.

As a princess born and raised in the land of Pyro, you’re accustomed to heat—thrive in it, even. It’s one of the reasons you dread trips like these so much. Foreign nations, even those with the mildest of temperatures, tend to feel a bit too chilly for your taste. Your father often jokes that you could withstand the heat of the Sacred Flame itself.

At the moment, though, you wouldn’t mind cracking open a window or two, even in the dead of winter.

The journey here had been difficult enough, boring as it was. Kinich had threatened to leave you alone in the woods a few times if you kept poking at him, but it was all you could do to not fall asleep. Attending foreign dinners always resulted in long journeys like these, though you know how important it is to maintain close relations with allied countries.

A few bumps in the road made this trek especially long, however—a number of bandits and blocked off paths added an irritating amount of time to your travel, until you and Kinich decided to rest for the night before heading home tomorrow. It had been difficult to even find a place—most inns had been full by this time, but you’d been fortunate to find one with a single open room.

A single, open room containing a single, solitary bed.

That aside, it’s a nice enough room, really. The dark mahogany furniture is carved with intricate nature-like patterns, flowers and leaves that crawl up the legs of the chairs and the foot of the bed. The whole place smells pleasantly of teakwood—a scent that, for better or worse, you tend to attribute to Kinich.

Your knight sits in front of the darkened fireplace, fiddling with a flint until it strikes with a small flame, then enkindles the rest of the wood. A flushing warmth instantly permeates the room. Usually, you would thank him for his efforts—he knows how cold you get—but now, you feel a thin sweat forming at your brow.

Kinich stands, brushing off his hands and admiring the firelight. The lighter strands of his hair glow in its radiance. “That should last us for a bit.”

He tugs at the clasp of his cloak, pulling the garment off and tossing it onto the chair in the corner of the room. It’s a thick fur with ornate green and gold trim; you’d given it to him as a gift during the Winter Festival a year ago. You let your eyes follow the motion, watching the dark cloth drape over the furniture—somehow, you feel too awkward to look at your companion right now. He glances at you, as if wondering what you’re doing just standing there, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Actually, I’m a bit warm,” you say, thumbing at the edges of your sleeves. Kinich raises a brow, genuinely concerned.

“...It’s wintertime,” he says, an obvious statement that seems to ask what the hell is wrong with you.

“Yeah, and I’m warm,” you retort, arms crossed. He looks at you, then looks at the fire, then looks at you again.

“Alright, but if you get cold later, don’t come crying to me,” he says, kneeling down again. Then, under his breath, he mutters, “though I have a feeling you will anyway.”

He toys with the kindling for a bit longer, until the raging flames die into smaller embers and the room cools down. As much as he gives you a hard time, he prioritizes your comfort as much as he possibly can. 

With the temperature now taken care of, there is still one other source of discomfort in the room, you think, glancing back toward the bed. It looks temptingly comfortable, with thick sheets and fluffy pillows, but you can’t fathom sleeping in it at the moment. 

“You realize that we can’t sleep here, right?” you say, staring down at your feet.

The dark-haired knight is busy rummaging through his rucksack, only half paying attention to what you’re saying.

“I don’t see why not. The bed is big enough.”

He’s right; it’s a king-size, and the two of you would have no problem fitting. Still, the thought of sleeping in a bed with him makes your face warm in a way that can’t be blamed on the fire.

“...There’s only one,” you manage.

Kinich looks up at you, deadpan. “An astute observation. Maybe you’ll be able to count to three by next year.”

“You little—”

The nervousness turns to irritation at his nonchalance—honestly, the thought of sharing a bed with a man you aren’t married to seems a bit inappropriate. And though you won’t admit it, you’re a bit offended that he doesn’t seem even slightly nervous to sleep with you. Kinich isn’t a nervous person by nature, that’s true; it takes quite a bit to get him to show any sort of strong emotion. But a small part of you is disappointed that he doesn’t seem to care about the situation at all.

“You realize it’s just us, right?” you say, urging him toward the root of the issue. Even just stating that fact makes an anxious lump form in your throat.

Kinich considers your words for a moment, pausing his ministrations, before meeting your gaze directly.

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” he says, raising a brow. 

The implication makes your face heat up, and you find it almost worse that he had addressed the elephant in the room.

“It’s not that!” you argue hastily. Kinich seems unbothered by your protests, fiddling with the intricate straps of his armor and the laces of his boots. He works about removing them in a fashion that’s so robotic that you’re sure he must’ve done this millions of times. 

“What is it then?” he retorts, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Do you snore?”

“I do not—”

“Sleep talk?”

“No, it’s just—”

“Sleepwalk?”

“No! But—”

“Great,” Kinich decides, clapping his hands together as if to end the discussion. Rising to his feet, he gestures to the bed, even going so far as to pull the blankets back invitingly. “Then sleep.”

It’s hard for you to win against him, especially at times like these—truth be told, you actually are quite tired. With a huff, you begrudgingly climb into bed, nearly hanging off the edge with the ample space you leave.

Kinich doesn’t join you yet; he’s still fixing his clothes and tidying his other belongings. He takes good care of his things, you’ve noticed, almost neat to a fault. There’s a strict routine he follows during the night; before bed, he always takes special care to maintain his weapon.

You watch as he oils and sharpens his blade, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s always been very particular about the thing, as if it was an extension of himself, as long as you've known him. His movements are notably precise and intricate, and overwhelmingly gentle. Lost in watching him, you just about jump out of your skin when his eyes suddenly flicker to you. 

“You know, most people rest with their eyes closed,” he hums, amused at having caught you in the act.

“You’re annoying,” you mumble, sinking deeper into the pillows to hide your embarrassment.

He shakes his head. “And you’re supposed to be sleeping. So I guess no one’s happy.”

You pull the blanket up until it brushes your chin. You don’t need it; your skin feels like it’s on fire, but somehow it feels too vulnerable to be uncovered right now. 

“You’re telling me you don’t feel weird about this? At all?”

He sets the sword aside and finally removes the last of his armor, simply left in his training tunic and loose pants. The shirt is tighter than you remember, you think briefly. You force yourself to look away.

“Should I?” he asks, brushing off his clothes. “Are you going to do something to me?”

The corner of his lip twitches, and you nearly roll your eyes—he amuses himself way too much.

“No!”

“Then we’ll make a deal. I won’t do anything to you if you don’t do anything to me. Then, we’ll both peacefully sleep so that I don’t have to deal with your crankiness in the morning.”

Irritatingly, he’s right about that too. The two of you will have to head out early if you want to make it home for your lessons, as well as Kinich’s other guard duties. And, truthfully, you don’t tend to be a morning person—it’s all Kinich can do to even wake you up on time.

You huff, shutting your eyes. “Fine.”

“Oh?” You can hear the mirth in his voice, and it only makes your irritation grow. “So you were planning on doing somethin—”

“I wasn’t!”

Kinich doesn’t say anything more, likely sensing that you’re on the precipice of genuine frustration—he always knows your exact limits, even when you don’t say so. 

For a few minutes, you really do try to sleep. But your heart is still pounding, and as much as you try to ignore it, it threatens to burst out of your chest. You reason that you would feel this way no matter who you were sharing a bed with—it’s just not a feeling that you’re used to. It’s certainly not because it’s Kinich.

You imagine him sleeping beside you, and your fists tighten until your nails form crescent-shaped imprints in your palms.

Definitely not because it’s Kinich.

Your stomach turns as you listen to your companion move around the room, organizing his things. Everything about him is so calm and quiet, including his footsteps—they’re barely a whisper across the floor. The anticipation nearly swallows you whole, and you wait for something to happen—the blankets to pull back, or even a dip in the mattress.

For several long, torturous minutes, nothing happens at all. In fact, you can’t even hear Kinich anymore, not even a single breath.

Did he leave the room? 

Gathering your courage, you silently will yourself to open your eyes, afraid of what you’ll see. It takes you a bit, too absorbed in the awkwardness, and three silent mental countdowns later, your eyes finally snap open. Instantly, you discover two things:

Kinich is not in bed with you.

Kinich is nowhere near you at all.

Instead, the knight is sitting across the room, back against the door, head leaned back and both eyes shut. His greatsword lays across his lap, fingers already curled around the grip—he’s always ready, as usual. 

“What the hell?”

You don’t mean for it to come out so loud or so aggressive, but your hand is too late to clamp over your mouth.

Kinich cracks one eye open, fixing you with a lazy stare.

“I thought you said you don’t sleep talk,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion.

“I don’t—forget it, what are you doing over there?”

He sighs, pulling a knee to his chest and resting his chin on top. He looks much softer like this, in training clothes and lacking his headband—the curtain of his hair parts a bit as he leans over, and you catch a glimpse of the scar there. It’s thin and silver, barely peeking from his forehead.

“Unless I was mistaken, you seemed uncomfortable with the prospect of sharing a bed with me. I may not have been raised a prince, but even I wouldn’t force something like that on a lady.”

Your teeth sink into your lip. The explanation makes you feel stupid and guilty at the same time. Stupid, because you’re really not sure what you’re even afraid of if Kinich climbs into bed with you. Guilty, because you’d been so argumentative with him, even when he was trying to respect your wishes.

There’s three beats of silence.

“I changed my mind,” you manage to squeak out.

“You don’t have to,” he says, tracing the blade of his sword. An expected answer. “I’m fine sleeping here, really.”

And you know he really would be—he’s certainly slept in worse places. But something about him sleeping there while you warm up under thick blankets leaves a rotten taste in your mouth.

“Well, I’m cold now,” you say, shifting under the covers, “so can you come sleep?”

He looks unconvinced by your plea, head tilted. “Weren’t you the one who said it was too warm?”

You pout in reply. “I changed my mi—”

“—changed your mind, yeah, yeah, I get it.”

Kinich rises to his feet, slow and steady. He seems more tired than he lets on, likely the result of the events from earlier—he had been the one to deal with the bandits, after all. You merely watch as he strides toward you.

“Just remember, you’re the one who offered,” he warns, crossing to the other side of the bed. “So don’t kick me in your sleep.”

You don’t say anything at all, firmly fixated on staring at the wall—you don’t think you could stand to look at him right now. When the sheets get pulled back, you suck in a breath.

To your embarrassment, something warm draws up from your quick-beating heart as Kinich lies down behind you. You chalk it up to natural human reaction—you’ve never shared a bed with someone like this, after all. He’s gentle as he lays down, the mattress barely reacting to his movement. You squeeze your eyes shut as he adjusts, shifting the blankets and pillows, hoping he won’t sense your overwhelming nervousness.

“This okay?”

You chance a look in his direction. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with sleep, but they seem to pierce right through you. He’s being very particular about the distance between you—close enough that you can feel a bit of his warmth, but far enough that none of your limbs are touching.

This is fine, you think to yourself, drawing in a long, slow breath. This is totally fine.

You nod meekly, and Kinich sighs, shuffling into a more comfortable position as you turn away.

“Good,” he murmurs, warm breath pooling at the back of your neck. It makes you shiver, somehow both relaxed and on-edge, even as he curls slightly closer to you. “Go to sleep then, Princess.”

He’ll be awake for a while, you know. He never goes to sleep before you do—even once you do, it’ll probably be another half an hour before he follows suit. The thought leaves you hyper-aware of his every breath.

So, for the next fifteen minutes, you lie awake, hopelessly thinking of the man laying next to you. And, for the next fifteen minutes, he lies awake too. Your mind grows foggy, begging for rest, but you still feel something tugging at your chest. You wonder if Kinich feels the same way.

“Kinich?” you finally whisper.

There’s a pause, like he’s deciding whether to reply seriously or to scold you for not sleeping. His voice comes out hoarse, a deep rumble from his chest.

“Yes, Princess?”

A yawn crawls out of your throat.

“...are you warm enough too…?”

Your voice trails off as you finally succumb to the clutches of sleep. Kinich listens as your breathing turns to an even rhythm, calm and serene. For once, he’s glad that you’re not looking at him—if you did, you would see the way his skin is flushed a deep red, from his ears to his neck.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, letting his eyes flutter shut. “I am.”

[hanafubukki]

Been thinking about a time travel au where you go back to the past and follow Lilia’s life. You always show up when he needs it most.

The amount of time you’re there could differ from hours to days and sometimes years (rarely), but you always disappear.

You didn’t age but Lilia did (time seems to work for you differently compared to him). Not only that, Lilia is the only one who can see you.

Some instances when you meet with Lilia includes:

The first time is when he’s been newly appointed as the Right General. He’s shocked to see you as you wonder about your whereabouts. He tries to question you, threatening violence if need be. The raucous brought other guards along but they couldn’t see you. Safe to say, he doesn’t live it down the next few decades. Meleanor teasing him that he must be nervous in his new position. You’re left questioning about your situation and how come only he could see you before you’re gone.

You join him during patrols sometimes. Keeping him company as he looks for the princess during her escapades.

Other times, you share a meal together (well, he eats and you two talk, and thank the Greats for that because his food looks questionable at best).

Sometimes, you show up during his trainings and you can’t help but wonder if the way he moves, giving emphasis to his muscles and length, is done purposely or not but you are not complaining at the beautiful view. What do they say? I hate to see you go but I love the view. And did you love it.

Another instance is when Lilia is about to be hit by a tank during his mission to deliver a message and look for Levan. Your shout has him escaping death but not without injury.

You keep him company on his track to Black Scale Mountains. Extra vigilant for any enemies while he’s holding the egg. The one to watch his back during the rare moments he would rest.

The days that were the toughest yet were the following months after Meleanor’s passing. It was also the time you felt the most frustrated and useless. Lilia during those times were desolate. Practically a vegetative state. It took you time and years of frustrations. Words heated and full of hurt on both sides. But you never let go of him nor he you.

You’re there when he’s on his mission to hatch Malleus. You’re there throughout his travels. Angry in his place when he’s treated with callousness. With worry when he collapses in fatigue. You dance with him in cold winter nights when all is quiet. Just you two and one else.

You’re there when Malleus hatches. Cries with Lilia at the little dragon, so stubborn and yet fiery for a newborn. You’re there when hair is burned and cotton candy is snuck in.

You’re there when peace talks are finalized and Silver is found. You’re there for diaper changes and late nights.

Until one day, you’re not there anymore.

At least not as a ghost, but as you. A person. Living and breathing. Someone everyone can see.

You’re in this world that is familiar but different in ways you are not used to.

Awkward and anxious as everyone stares at this new comer. You don’t know what to do or say.

But then…

“There you are sweetheart. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I had to use that line 💞☺️😘🫶 how could I not? It was the perfect opportunity. 💚💚

[satanghulu]

pact marks pt 3

✦ CAST: satan, asmo, beel, belphie ✦ SUMMARY: brothers’ reaction to you hiding your pact marks ✦ WARNING: urm the twins’ part got slightly angsty, mentions of lesson 16! ✦ WC: 2.7K

[PART 1] | [PART 2] | [PART 3] | MASTERLIST

══════════════════

Satan

Satan hates that the mark is gone but tries to play it cool to get back into your good books.

.

The sound of the door slamming made Satan snap his head up, watching as you stomped your way in somehow avoiding all the books strewn on the floor, even in your anger-induced haze. 

“Well, seems like someone’s having a great day,” He sounded bemused, slotting a bookmark into the page of his current read. He could feel the flicker of wrath calling out to him as the rim of your eyes flashed green.

You planted your hands on your hip and hissed, “Why didn’t you tell me?” The furrow between your brows told him that you were angry but it didn’t take a genius to figure that part out. But at this juncture, he couldn’t tell if it was directed towards him or yourself.

“Tell you what, my dear?” A bewildered Satan sat up straight, inching his thighs open as you forcefully made a space for yourself. The intensity of your gaze only made him more confused as you huffed again in exasperation.

“That pact marks could be hidden!” You whisper-screamed as you peered at his expression, frowning when you didn’t see the hint of realisation you wanted. Instead, you let out a loud groan, bringing a hand up to pinch the tip of his ear as your form of punishment. 

“Ow--Hands off!” Satan smacks your hand, rubbing at his ears woefully. He watches as you lean past him to pick up his novel with a contemplative look as if you wanted to throw the book at the wall.

He pauses, waiting for your next move. With a disgruntled air, you slid the book further away on his bed as you took its place beside him. Satan continues to examine your expression thoughtfully, the gears turning in his head as he slowly shifts his head up. A strand of blond hair falls from where it was tucked behind his ears, and you resist the urge to move it out of the way.

‘Wait. Come again?’ His thoughts came to a screeching halt when he finally processed your words.

“Solomon taught you.” He said, his words sounding more like a statement rather than a question, to which you replied snappily with who else?. He turned to appraise your appearance to which you held his stare, unphased.

Damnit, he was hoping that you wouldn’t have found out about it just yet. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?” You narrowed your eyes, bottom lip jutting out in frustration as you wagged a finger at him accusingly. 

He couldn’t bear to see your angry expression towards him any longer. Satan grabs your finger gently, bringing it to his lips as he lowers his voice to a whisper.

“Can’t a demon want to see his mark on you?” For added dramatics, he flutters his lashes while giving your finger another kiss. Immediately, your face flushed red as you tried to jerk your hand out of his grip.

Satan holds onto you tighter. His touch travels up your arm to grab you by the shoulder, pulling you into his space. “Dislike it?” He murmurs into your ear, noting that it has turned red. You timidly shake your head, resolutely not uttering a word. 

Although he finds it a shame that he couldn’t see your expression.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about it…” You said with a small voice, face buried in Satan’s shoulder. You were unwilling to show him your face, slightly annoyed that he had won over your anger so easily.

“Well,” Satan pulls you back to give you a sullen stare. “It’s not like I made any pacts before and magic tends to affect everyone differently.”

(It was the half-truth, kinda. But pact marks are always able to be hidden, no matter the person. But he wasn’t going to tell you that.) 

You gave him a long look, searching his face for any tells of a lie.

“Fine. I’ll take it as you didn’t know this time.” You relaxed your posture, slinking into his hug. “But, next time--“ 

“There will be no next time, love.” 

(There absolutely will be.)

══════════════════

Asmo

Asmo would be the most understanding, second to Beel. This would largely be because he already has a pact with Solomon. Also, he understands that sometimes the marks could ruin the aesthetic of a particular outfit but still? He just thinks you look so pretty with it.

.

The feeling of cold fingers on your back trailing up your back gives you a fright, as you turn to smack the perpetrator. Thankfully, your reflexes were fast enough to stop the stack of paper from flying at his face.

“Babe!” Asmo whines, giving you a hurt stare. “What would you do if you hurt this perfect face?” He brings an elegant finger up to the side of his face, showing off his porcelain skin as the light hits at the right angle.

You flicked his nose.

“Do you need me now?” You questioned, gesturing at your pile of paperwork in front of you. Mammon had dumped all of the bills on you before fleeing in the direction of RAD, as Levi chases behind him right after.

You assume that he wouldn’t be back in the house for the night at least, to evade Levi’s scrutiny. Thus, you had started sorting the bills to at least, lessen his workload so that Lucifer wouldn’t whoop both of your asses. (Despite Mammon being your caretaker.)

A manicured hand taps on your thigh, demanding your attention.

“Pay attention to me.” The Avatar of Lust is stunning as always, a pout plastered on his face as he grouses cutely. You chuckle and shove the paperwork aside, Mammon be damned. He could do his own paperwork and you had a much cuter distraction right in front of you.

“Yes, honey?” You match his tone, locking your fingers with his as he continues to tap on your thigh incessantly like a peacock flaunting its feathers. “I wanna see my pact mark.” A glint in his eye shines, a bright smile playing on his lips.

You sigh.

“So that’s why you were touching my back.” He nods at your statement, a perfect eyebrow arched as if to ask you what’s wrong with it. 

Resigning yourself to your fate, you turn and lift your shirt slightly to give Asmo a better view. You try not to flinch as his cold fingers sweep past the area where the mark was supposed to be.

A hum comes from behind you. Asmo tugs your shirt down, giving you a tap on your back to indicate he is done with his little inspection. 

“Satisfied?” You asked as you arranged your shirt properly. 

“Maybe if you go au naturel, I’ll be able to have a better look.” This time, Asmo’s lips curled into a grin as his head tilted to the right suggestively. You let out a chuckle, patting his shoulder. “Next time, buddy.”

A thought crosses your mind as you stop in your motion.

“You’re not…unhappy?” Asmo cocks his head to give you a contemplative look, not saying anything. A flutter of motion catches your eye as he suddenly leans in to press a kiss on your cheek, leaving a trail of delicate sweetness in his wake.

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ as he stood up, patting your head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” A graceful hand wraps around your wrist as he tugs you up, beckoning you to follow him.

“Come on, it’s self-care day today!” He cheered, lifting your arm up above your head and bumping your hip hard with his.

You grinned. Typical Asmo.

══════════════════

Beel

Beel would definitely be the most understanding. He gets your reasoning if you want to cover it up. Though, he is still a demon. He will have this nagging feeling that something is wrong but he’s not sure why.

.

“Beel?” You padded softly into the kitchen, yawning as you rubbed your eyes. The kitchen’s lights were turned low but the refrigerator’s door was wide open, the dim light still hurting your cornea.

Only the sound of crunching answers you as the demon was too transfixed with the leftovers from dinner. You had made human-world food today, feeling homesick and craving for a pick-me-up. As always, Beel had made his stance known about the food. But, he must have really liked it. (At least much more than you had presumed.) The fridge was completely devoid of your cooking, the usual snacks he ate for supper untouched.

You had also made much more than the usual portions because you intended to bring it to RAD to let everyone try it. Well, you should have known. Though, you really had made extras of extras… 

“Oh.” Beel waved his hand at you, finally noticing your presence. He hurriedly swallowed whatever was in his mouth and beamed at you happily. “You’re still up?” 

You nodded, finally remembering what you had initially come here to do. “Water.” Your voice was scratchy as Beel sent you a thumbs-up before continuing to consume his supper. 

You squeezed past him to grab your glass and the water pitcher. After quenching your thirst, your eyelids no longer felt heavy and instead, you now felt wide awake. Still holding your glass of water, you headed to where Beel was sitting and hopped on top of the counter beside him.

“Want some?” He offered his spoon to you, motioning for you to take a bite. You shake your head, telling him that you have already finished your night routine. Both of you sit in silence, the sound of Beel’s chewing fading into white noise.

The steady cacophony of Beel’s chewing slows your thoughts and just as you were about to doze off--

“Hey.”

You startle awake, sleepy eyes searching for the source of the voice. “Oh, were you about to sleep?” Beel looks apologetic, large hand flying up to move your head to lean on his shoulder. In a daze, you grabbed his hand instead as you tried to blink the sleep away.

“It’s fine. Is there something you need?” You yawned, letting go of Beel’s hand in favour of covering your mouth. He shakes his head solemnly. Yet his face was pinched, as if something was bothering him.

You wondered if he had gotten into an argument with Belphie. However, you recall they were just fine during dinner, and knowing Beel, he would be more upset if so. He also couldn’t have possibly gotten into any tiffs with the brothers seeing as you didn’t hear a single peep from them. 

“Are you worried about something?” You asked softly, hand placed over his to give him some reassurance.

He shakes his head.

You had an inkling the matter was plaguing him was involving you. But the only change so far was the pact marks. Oh, the pact marks.

“Is it the pact marks?”

Beel stiffens up as if he was caught doing something wrong. You continue to wait patiently, rubbing your thumb in a circle over his. 

“Kind of.” He admits, avoiding your gaze. “It’s just that… You cooking human-world food and then hiding the pact marks. It feels like you’re…” He looks away, unable to continue.

“I’m leaving?” You finished his sentence, lifting three fingers to grasp his chin carefully. 

He nods, sighing. “I know you won’t and it’s irrational.” He turns to look at you with a strong gaze, lower lip trembling slightly. “Can we stay here for a while?”

You lean into his touch, Beel instinctively wrapping his arms around you.

“Of course.”

══════════════════

Belphie

Opposite of his twin. He hates that the mark is gone yet he wouldn’t be able to say anything much seeing as the mark manifested around your neck, reminiscent of the time he gave you a tight hug.

.

Belphegor’s been avoiding you lately.

It’s impossible not to notice the sudden distance he puts between both of you. This doesn’t mean to say he goes out of his way to make you feel unwelcome; rather he goes out of his way to be polite to you.

At breakfast, he sits two seats away from you. He passes you the cutleries when you ask, hands never touching you. He scampers off to class with Satan as soon as he is done. It’s Belphegor, the Avatar of Sloth; when has he ever been known to be punctual?

Yet for all his aloofness, he comes into your dreams every night. He watches you – he sits at the edge of your vision, chin on his palm as his tail swishes calmly behind him. But you wake up in your own bed with your heart thrumming with confusion and affection, all the same. Sometimes, it feels as if he observes you in reality too.

It was frustrating. 

You don’t want to force the youngest out of his comfort zone to talk about his feelings but it was starting to get ridiculous. He’s thousands of years older than you and he can’t even bear to talk about his own feelings?

You huffed.

You’ve made up your mind to talk to him but he’s as slippery as an eel when determined. When Belphegor wants to hide, no one should be able to find him. Well, except for one person.

“Where is he?” You dug out a burger from your backpack – you had stopped by Hell’s Kitchen after an unsuccessful search in RAD. Beel pauses around his mouthful of food, scrutinising the outstretched offering in your hand.

“Rooftop.” He glances hesitantly at your expression. “Please take care of him.” You nod, shoving the burger into the pile of food beside him. You pretend not to take notice of the underlying meaning in his words.

-

You climb the stairs to the twins’ room, footsteps echoing softly in the silence of the house. The rightmost window was wide open, the cold breeze making you shiver in your pajamas. You stick your head out of the window, noticing there is no path up. Belphegor must have flown up in his demon form. Was he that desperate to avoid you?

Quietly, you muttered a levitation spell; sending vibrations through the air as you swayed unsteadily.

Imagination. Imagination. Imagination.

Slowly, the spell stabilised and a sense of pride twinged in your heart. You gently landed on the roof, spotting the tell-tale sight of Belphegor’s cowprint from the back. The wind nipped at your nose as you walked over, a chill running through you.

Both of you sit in silence.

“The Pool of The Abyss is out tonight.” He lifts a finger to point at the sky, gaze trained upwards. Humoring him, you turn to look at the night sky – the stars glittering in the endless abyss, a stunning sight that takes your breath away each time.

“Are you going to continue pretending?”

His breath hitches as he stays quiet. The silence stretches uncomfortably long, your hands falling to your side as you bite your tongue to let him think. His tail lashes back and forth, catching your attention.

“I’m sorry.” He bites out.

You shift closer, finally seeing your chance of reconciliation. “What are you apologising for?” Your nightwear flutters in the wind and Belphegor gestures for you to lean into him. 

“Everything.” He sighs wearily. “The-” You rub soothing circles on his left thigh, as his tail curls around your middle to provide warmth. “The incident and just. Everything.”

“It’s--“

“Don’t say it’s okay.” He cuts you off, frowning as the tail tightens just a little. “It’s not. You know that.”

You nod.

“I got reminded of it when I saw the mark was gone.” He pauses again, moving to place his head on your shoulder, seemingly to avoid your stare. “I just wonder how much of a better life you would have if you never came to the Devildom.”

You bring your hand up to touch your neck – your skin doesn’t feel any different to the touch with or without the pact marks. Closing your eyes, the magic buzzes in the air as you undo the spell hiding your pact marks. Belphegor craned his neck to watch the movement, face twisted as though the mark sullied your skin.

Belphegor takes a deep breath as he reaches out to touch you.

══════════════════

a/n ▸ the path to forgiveness isnt always linear! Satan - on your temple Asmo - tramp stamp Beel - below your navel belphie - front of neck…………where he strangled u lol On a side note, the lnd men has been populating my fyp too much. I believe asmo smells like peaches (thank u bee for the idea), it suits his colour scheme so much. (ALSO, if you know how prada candy smells like, yeah i associate that with him) I also wholly contemplated making reader summon belphie when he was hiding from them just for shits and giggles. also this isn’t my fav but it’s been marinating in my drafts for weeks so imma js post it LOLZ

[aerithmybbgmypookiemywife]

Toy Salesman! Childe x Partner! Reader

your husband is a travelling toy salesman, but is he really just a travelling salesman?

A toy salesman who played a balalaika arrived at your village and quickly became the talk of the town. Not only did he have handsome looks but he was charming too, parents also commented that his toys seemed to be of good quality so they approved of him.

You met him when your little brother wouldn't shut up about wanting a new toy, so your parents told you to accompany him to the toy salesman. As soon as you laid eyes on him, he was the prettiest man you have ever seen... You found his red-tinted nose from the cold cute too.

A little flirty too... But... it turns out it was only towards you.

The short fling didn't last long as he had to leave the village for another one. You thought that was the last time you'd ever have anything close to love but you were wrong. As he came back... and back again... again... again... again...! Soon, your relationship that was just a fling turned into... being a couple!

"Childe!" you smiled as you ran up to him, he opened his arms as he wore that charming smile on his face. You jumped right into his arms as he held you tight, spinning you around a little out of excitement. "You're back... I missed you..." you mumbled as you buried your face in his neck.

He let out a small laugh, "Yeah... It's really great to be back to you." he slowly placed you down and kissed the top of your head. "Come on! My brother was waiting for you... My mother also cooked some soup for us!" you told him but he grabbed your hand, stopping you. You turned to him, confused.

But your eyes widened when he slowly showed a gold ring, before he could even say a thing, you just hugged him and kept chanting 'Yes!'.

The wedding was simple, it was held in the town square. You were surrounded by family, friends, and neighbors during your special day which made you happy but... Leaving them for another town did hurt a little.

"Are you sure? Why can't you both just settle here?" your mother asked. "Well... Childe's work requires him to go from town to town so we decided it'd be best to just move somewhere that can help him with his job." you replied. Your father sighed, "I... still don't really understand what you see in him. He isn't rich, and I fear for your future as he's just a mere toy maker." he commented, your mother smacked his arm.

"Dear, if you ever feel lonely or if anything happens, you can always come back here. You're always welcome back here in the village, alright? Don't hesitate to ask for our help." your mother told you to which you nodded.

You said your final goodbyes and soon set off with Childe to a bigger town with bigger opportunities. When you arrived at your supposed new home, you were surprised! It was huge! You asked how he was even able to afford it to which he just laughed off and said that he saved up.

Things were going great between the two of you, you were starting to adjust to your life there but... Something seemed off... Like Childe was hiding something... It's just... Suspicious how much money he spends to spoil you... Could he really earn that much money as a toy salesman?

Of course, you were grateful, but at the same time it... was suspicious...

Childe seemed to notice you were deep in thought, "Is there something wrong Y/n?" he asked, hands wrapped around your waist as he pulled you closer to him. The two of you were in bed making it a little harder to try to avoid his question.

You hummed in response. "Really?? It seems like you're mad at me... you avoided my kiss this morning." He told you to which you let out a small laugh, "I just got embarrassed because of my morning breath, I just woke up at that time." You replied. It wasn't really a lie... you hated giving kisses when you still hadn't freshened up in the morning but at the same time, you had your suspicions that you didn't really know the full truth of his job.

He didn't say another word and only just hummed in response. You then closed your eyes, thinking that was the end of it only to get jumpscared when he starts leaving wet kisses on your neck.

Safe to say the two of you got intimate that night as you folded so quickly, under zero pressure too. You cursed at yourself in the morning though as you were too sore to even try to investigate what your husband could be doing behind your back.

The following day, you decided to go to the snowy forest, you just chose to distract yourself from any useless thoughts. You were looking for snowberries to make a lotion with. "Hmm... I should give Childe a lot of it... His hands are rough and calloused after all." you mumbled. You soon notice a familiar figure, that build... That structure... That height... Hair... Oh my god...? "Childe!" You shouted his name.

He turned to you, his facial expression looked like he was glaring at you for a second before switching to a smile. "My love! What brings you here?" He asked. Weird, he's not one to call you pet names. "I thought you were supposed to be in another town, what are YOU doing here?" you asked as you looked around.

"Where's your toy st-" he cut you off. "That's not important. Look... How about we just head home, hm?" he asked as he gave you a smile. Weird... Very weird... His smile didn't make your heart skip. Instead, it left a shiver down your spine...

"Al... Alright..." you mumbled as he started heading towards the town, you followed him from behind. Your gut tells you something is very wrong... But you just can't put your finger to i-

Wait... He doesn't have his toy stand... he usually has that... Plus why would he be in a forest- Oh... Oh...!

"Childe... Have you... Thought of something to do on our anniversary for tomorrow yet?" you asked. "Hm? That? Hmm... Maybe we should go to the town for a date." he responded. Your anniversary was months away.

You stopped on your tracks, who the fuck was this man? You knew damn well Childe would never ever forget your anniversary, that... that... weird feeling in your gut... it was... Telling you to run.

So there you go, you fucking booked it. You turned your heel around and started running away from it. It was hard to run away in your heavy clothes, you felt like you were being suffocated or you were running out of air from how much you panted.

It quickly noticed you running away but you didn't dare turn back to see how far away it was from you. That was NOT your husband, that was an imposter... If so then... Where is Childe now?? Is he dead?? What the absolute fuck is happening!?!

You could hear a loud rustle of feathers behind you, why would it sound like fathers...? God it just confused you even mo- "AAAAAAHHHH....!!!!" You let out a loud scream as the creature seemed to have flown in front of you. You abruptly stopped running, causing you to fall down, butt first in the snow.

You couldn't even describe what the fuck you were looking at right now... It looked like a crow but... Big...??? It was frightening... And that... Fucking eyes... It sent a shiver down your spine.

"Ah... How did you even know? It was a perfect disguise..." It spoke as you only trembled in fear, slowly backing away. Is this how you die...?? On the hands of a monster, you don't even know about...? It slowly approached you...

You whimpered in fear as you quickly started backing away, your body froze when your back hit a tree. Was this really how you die?? Without knowing whether your husband is dead or alive?? Oh god... What happens after it kills you?? Will it kill other people in the town too?? What will it do to you?? Is it going to eat you alive or just kill you firs-

*Thud*

You watched the creature's head fall to the ground. Your lower lip trembled as your body felt pure relief when you saw Childe holding some sort of weapon. The head opened its mouth but Childe just crushed it. Childe had an indifferent look on his face, his eyes looked lifeless but...

He looks up at you, his eyes having a gentle gaze. "Y/n..." he rushed to you as he wrapped you around his arms, you held him tight as you sobbed. "Hey... It's okay now, I'm here..." he reassured you.

You didn't know the full truth of his job, but it might be better to not know more. All you knew was that Childe would never bring harm to you.

[lovelookspretty]

lies for lunch

rafe cameron x reader

— in which y/n returns to her hometown, the outer banks, to work as ward cameron’s assistant at cameron development, but living under his roof for the summer leads to unexpected tension with his son, rafe.

warnings: animosity, rafes daddy issues, safe !!

authors note: for the sake of the story i need y/n or you or whatever to have a person of familiarity whos hung back in obx to act like you’ve known each other for years, SO U HAVE A FICTIONAL BROTHER 😭

for the past ten months, you’ve been working at cameron development, helping ward negotiate deals and obtain permits. it’s been almost like being his assistant through everything. what started as an internship turned into a full-time job with actual pay after all this time.

they were right—hard work and determination can really pay off. you just didn’t expect to get so lucky with how quickly things moved. after a series of private meetings where ward discussed traveling back to north carolina to work in his hometown, he suggested you come along.

the relationship isn’t weird or inappropriate. you’re one of the few employees ward genuinely appreciates, which is more than he can say about the burnouts that float through the company. since you’re from the outer banks yourself, ward thinks it makes sense to bring you along to continue working for him and the company for as long as possible.

but anyway, you’re absolutely thrilled to be back in the outer banks. it’s more than just a job opportunity—it’s a chance to reconnect with everything familiar, everything that’s been tugging at your heart since you left.

the occasional visits have been fine, enough to keep the homesickness at bay for a while, but that constant, quiet longing for the place you grew up never really goes away. but now? now you’re staying in obx for the summer. no more fleeting weekends, no more rushed goodbyes. you’ll have time to breathe, to soak it all in. to be home.

the airport air is still fresh in your lungs when you slide into the backseat of the car, your bags dumped beside you. before the door even clicks shut, your fingers are already scrolling through your contacts. there’s only one person you want to talk to right now—your brother.

“hey,” you say, stretching out the word, a grin tugging at your lips as you hear the familiar click of him picking up.

“hey,” comes his easy, laid-back reply, his voice filling the small space around you like it always does. like home. “did you land?”

you bounce slightly in your seat as the car hits a bump, your grip tightening on your phone for a second. “yeah,” you confirm, digging through your bag absentmindedly. “i’m about twenty minutes from figure 8, so i’ll be there around noon. are mom and dad home?”

there’s a slight pause on his end, the sound of him shifting around, probably sprawling lazily on the couch back home. “nah, they’re not,” he finally says. “i swung by to check, but i guess mom’s out at lunch with her friends, and dad’s working today.”

you let out an involuntary groan, the disappointment settling in your chest. of course, it would work out like this. “this is what i get for trying to surprise them.”

his voice comes back, laced with mild amusement. “it’s your fault for not announcing you’re coming a day earlier.”

he’s right, but you don’t want to admit it. instead, you plow forward. “look, can you at least call mom and ask if she can be home soon? ward wants me to head straight to him as soon as i land, but i really wanna stop by as soon as i can. i can’t be there later than two.”

on the other end, you can almost hear the exaggerated sigh that you know is coming. the kind that’s loaded with all the typical dramatics. he’s probably rolling his eyes too, even though you can’t see him. “yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters, clearly unable to resist playing up his irritation. “i’ll take care of it. just text me when you’re on your way. still can’t believe you’re working for wc.”

with that, the call ends abruptly, and you pull the phone away from your ear, blinking down at the screen in mild confusion. wc? who calls him wc? you furrow your brow, lips tugging into a slight frown as you shoot off a quick text to your brother.

‘ 1st, nobody calls him wc. and 2nd, what??? ’

your phone buzzes again. his reply is as cryptic as ever.

‘ just a coincidence that in ny u ended up working for someone from obx still. don’t u remember him growing up? ’

you stare at the message, trying to piece together what he’s talking about, until another text follows almost immediately.

‘ he has like 3 kids. rafe, sarah, wheezie. i saw rafe down at the pier a few weeks ago. we used to see them at parties when we were younger. ’

rafe? sarah? wheezie? none of those names ring a bell. you rack your brain, searching for some kind of recognition, but you come up empty. a soft laugh escapes you as you quickly type back, ‘idk who that is lmao sorry’ and lock your phone, leaning back in the seat with a sigh.

ward cameron has three kids. it’s a strange thing to realize, that the man you’ve been working for these past couple of years has an entire family you’ve never heard of. but then again, work was always work. personal details were rarely exchanged unless necessary. and now, you can’t help but think—would you meet them? would they be anything like ward?

your brother mentioned seeing one of them recently, so you can assume at least one of ward’s children still live here. you wonder if the rest do too.

your thoughts wander as the car turns down another road, bringing you closer to the heart of figure 8. it’s been a long time since you’ve been back here, long enough for some of the details to feel fuzzy, but the feeling of the place—that never changes. the salty air, the warmth of the sun filtering through the car windows, the sense of familiarity that sits low in your chest, almost like relief.

you try to imagine what the next few months will be like. working for ward in the outer banks is worlds apart from working for him in new york. for one, the pace is different—slower, more laid-back. and for another, you won’t be disappearing into a faceless crowd when the workday ends. you’ll be here, surrounded by people who might actually know your name. or at least remember your face.

the car slows down, the gravel beneath the tires crunching softly as you near the cameron estate.

“thank you!” you call out, waving as the driver pulls away, leaving you standing on the driveway with your bags at your feet. for a moment, you just stand there, taking it all in. the cameron house looms in front of you.

you bend down, grabbing the straps of your bags and hauling them up, careful not to drag them across the grass. even though this isn’t your home, there’s an odd comfort in the way it feels.

you’ve been here before—well, not here exactly, but close enough. working summer jobs in figure 8 as a teenager had given you a glimpse of this world. a world where you were always on the outside, always temporary. back then, you were just a girl from the cut, doing what you had to do to get by.

no one looked at you twice. but now? now you’re here for something more. wanted, even.

the thought of it makes your stomach twist with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. you adjust the weight of your bags on your shoulder and step up to the door, knocking firmly before dropping your things to the floor with a soft thud.

a small sigh of relief escapes your lips as you straighten up, rolling your shoulders to shake off the stiffness from the journey. you’ve been lugging these bags around for hours, and your arms are starting to feel like lead.

as you wait, you take a moment to fix your hair, fingers smoothing back stray strands that have fallen into your face. it’s only then that you hear a rustle in the bushes to your left. your heart skips a beat, and you freeze, mid-motion, your eyes flicking toward the sound. you stretch your neck slightly, peering over your shoulder, but there’s nothing. just silence. your pulse settles again, and you let out a quiet laugh at yourself.

the door suddenly swings open, and you drop your hands to your sides, your face breaking into a smile. standing in the doorway is a girl, and instantly, you’re struck by how put together she looks.

her long blonde hair cascades down her back, and she’s dressed in a cozy white knit sweater paired with shorts. it’s casual, effortless, but there’s something about it that screams figure 8 wealth. but what really catches your attention are her socks—brightly colored, with little monster faces peeking out from the tops.

you smile a little wider at the sight. you’re starting to like her already.

“hey, i’m y/n,” you introduce yourself, stepping forward and extending your hand.

“it’s so nice to meet you! i’m sarah,” she replies, her smile just as warm as she reaches out to shake your hand. her grip is firm but friendly, and before you know it, she’s ushering you inside with a wave of her hand. “come on in! my dad isn’t here right now, but i can actually show you to our guest room. it’s, like, right next to mine. it’s so homey. you’ll love it.”

her energy is almost overwhelming, but in a good way. she’s excited, and you can’t help but feel a little relieved.

“i mean, yeah, sure,” you say, bending down to grab your bags again. but before you can get a good grip, sarah is already stepping in to help, lifting one of the bags with ease. you follow her inside, the door clicking shut behind you as you enter the home.

it’s everything you expected and more—bright, airy, with high ceilings and tasteful decor. it’s the kind of place that feels almost untouchable, like something out of a magazine.

as you make your way toward the stairs, you can’t help but glance around, taking it all in. the house smells faintly of lemon and clean linens, and the soft hum of the air conditioner is the only sound that breaks the quiet. it’s beautiful, but it’s also a little intimidating.

“so, is there anyone else home that i should worry about if i, like, wanted to shower?” you ask as you follow sarah up the steps.

sarah shoots you a smile over her shoulder as she leads the way. “i think you’re good. my brother and sister are here, but they won’t bother you. wheezie’s doing her homework, and rafe . . . well, he’s probably not even home.”

her tone is casual, like she’s talking about the weather, but you can’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity. you remember your brother mentioning a rafe in his text earlier, but the name still doesn’t mean much to you. maybe you’ll meet him later, maybe not. either way, it’s not something you’re too concerned about right now.

you reach the guest room door, and sarah twists the knob, pushing it open with a flourish. “here! this is your room for the summer.”

you step inside, and your breath catches in your throat. it’s . . . gorgeous. simple, but elegant, with soft cream-colored walls and wide windows that let in streams of natural light. the bed is large, with crisp white sheets that look impossibly inviting, and there’s a small sitting area in the corner with a plush chair and a side table. it’s more than you ever expected.

“wow,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping over the room. “this is . . . really nice.”

sarah grins, setting your bag down on the chair. “told you! if you’re gonna shower, i’ll leave you to it. but if you need anything, my room’s right next to yours.” she gestures vaguely toward the door. “the bathroom’s across the hall from mine. my dad will probably be home in, like, half an hour? him and rose just ran out to do something before you got here.”

you nod, but your mind snags on the name—rose. ward’s wife. it’s funny, now that you think about it, how little you actually know about ward’s personal life. you’ve worked with him for years, but he’s always kept things strictly professional. it’s only now, standing in his home, that you’re realizing just how much of his life is a mystery to you.

sarah gives you one last smile before slipping out of the room, closing the door behind her. and just like that, you’re alone. you let out a long, slow breath, your fingers absentmindedly twisting the rings on your fingers as you take a moment to center yourself. it feels surreal, being here. like stepping into someone else’s life for a while.

you cross the room and pull back the curtains, revealing a stunning view of the island and for a moment, all your worries melt away. it’s beautiful here. peaceful. maybe this summer won’t be so bad after all.

you grab your bathroom bag and a fresh set of clothes, the weight of the morning starting to press on your shoulders as you make your way to the bathroom. you pause outside the door, hearing the muffled laughter of sarah and wheezie from across the hall.

their lighthearted chatter pulls a soft smile onto your lips, a sense of warmth in this house. it's comforting, in a strange way, to be surrounded by family—even if it's not your own.

the bathroom is sleek, modern, almost too luxurious compared to what you're used to. you lock the door behind you and let out a long, relieved breath. the hot water feels like an escape, like it's rinsing away the tension of the trip, the awkwardness of being in someone else’s home, and the nerves tangled in your chest about what comes next.

as the minutes pass, you try to calm the buzz in your mind. you know you need to hurry—the last thing you want is to be caught mid-shower when ward and rose return. you quickly towel off, pulling on your new clothes with an urgency that betrays your attempt to stay calm.

you grab your bag off the counter, unlock the bathroom door, and step back into the hallway. as you cross toward your room, you stop abruptly. there, by the door, are three guys, clearly in the middle of something. confusion furrows your brow—who are they? why are they here?

one of them has his back to you, looking into the room, while the others glance in your direction, the closest one nudging the other to signal your arrival. great. more people.

the one in the doorway catches your eye. his hand is rubbing his jaw, his stance casual, like he owns the place. for all you know, he does. his other hand is stuffed in his pocket, his expression unreadable as he turns toward you.

you can feel the weight of their stares, but you offer a polite smile, trying to act unbothered even though you feel a little out of place. honestly, the house is big enough for all of them, and you're too new to figure out who’s who just yet. you’re not even sure who lives here or if they’re just guests like you.

before any introductions can be made, ward’s voice booms from the front of the house, pulling you from the awkwardness of the moment. “is she here?”

you move past the tall boy, dropping your bag off in the guest room, and make your way downstairs. your heart leaps when you spot ward and rose. the grin that stretches across your face feels genuine, a relief after navigating the uncertainty of the last few hours.

“hey,” you say, stepping off the last stair to shake their hands. “thank you for letting me stay in your home, by the way. i met sarah. she’s great.”

ward gives you a friendly nod, his demeanor warm but business-like—he's already familiar with your work ethic and you know that he expects the same here.

“yeah, wait ‘til you meet rafe and wheezie, though,” he says, glancing at rose, who’s already inching away, clearly not interested in small talk, and it stings more than you’d care to admit. but you brush it off, focusing on the fact that you’re here for work, not approval.

“did sarah show you your room?” ward asks, guiding you toward the kitchen.

“yeah, she did!” you nod, falling into step beside him. “it’s really nice. i also used the shower, honestly. also super nice.”

he chuckles lightly, gesturing to the open space around you. “help yourself to anything while you're here. bathrooms, the kitchen, the living room—whatever you need as long as you're working with me here.”

when you reach the kitchen, ward turns to face you, and you're about to answer his question when the boys from earlier walk in, their presence shifting the energy in the room.

the tall one—who you now realize must be rafe—moves with an air of familiarity, heading straight for the fridge without so much as a glance your way, though his friends have sprawled out on the couch nearby, keeping half an eye on the situation.

“you grew up here?” rafe asks, pulling something from the fridge with a nonchalance that borders on arrogance. his tone isn’t rude, exactly, but there’s a challenge in his words, like he’s testing you.

you shift your weight slightly, feeling his attention on you now. “yeah, i did.”

“humor me,” he says before his father can talk, smirking as he continues, “figure 8 or the cut?"

there it is—the divide. figure 8, the land of privilege and wealth, versus the cut, where people like you are from. it's a question loaded with judgment, but you stand your ground.

you hesitate, unsure whether to entertain your boss’s son. “that’s . . .” you begin saying, noticing the small hint of a smile on his lips as he twists the bottle cap off. “i lived in the cut.”

ward quickly steps in, raising a hand to ease the tension. “y/n,” he says, using your name in a way that reminds you you’re under his wing here. “you don’t have to answer his questions.”

there’s a quiet pause before he officially introduces rafe, confirming what you already suspected. “this is rafe,” he says, nodding toward his son, who watches you intently. ward pauses as he brushed over it quickly, “and his friends,” like he doesn’t want to say it.

you give a small wave in return, feeling the awkwardness creep back in. you’re not sure what to make of the boys yet, but the dynamic between them feels . . . off. guarded. like there’s more going on than meets the eye.

ward claps his hands together, breaking the silence. “time for lunch. rafe, can you please tell sarah and wheezie to come down?” he asks, already heading toward the patio doors. “y/n, feel free to find a seat at the table.”

you murmur an ‘okay’ and follow ward outside, the breeze hitting your face as you step onto the patio. you take a moment to scan the setup, unsure where to sit, but ward motions for you to pick any spot. the table looks inviting, the outdoor space just as luxurious as the inside. it’s surreal, really, being here—like stepping into a different world entirely.

the table outside is a lavish spread, every dish meticulously placed as though the meal is a display of the cameron family's status. some of the food is freshly prepared, you can tell by the steam rising from the platters, while other dishes have clearly been delivered, probably from some upscale restaurant.

everything is pristine, almost too perfect for a casual lunch, but you remind yourself this isn’t just any ordinary lunch. this is a welcome—to ward’s world, to his home, and into the lives of the camerons.

this lunch wasn't really about you, though. it’s more of a formality for ward’s return to north carolina.

as you sit at the table, alone for now, your gaze drifts to the patio, the large windows giving you a glimpse into the house. your thoughts wander to art, and you can almost hear his voice in your head—his dry humor, his sarcastic quips. he’d love this, probably have a million things to say about the whole setup.

the camerons, so far, seem nice. well, most of them. sarah is definitely the easiest to get along with, the type of person you instantly feel comfortable around. but rose? you're not even sure she’ll show up for lunch. and rafe . . . you’re still figuring him out. there’s something about him, something unreadable that leaves you on edge.

as your eyes sweep around the room inside, they land on rafe. he's with his friends, the same group from earlier, laughing and talking like they don’t have a care in the world. there’s an ease about him when he’s with them, like he’s more at home in their company than anywhere else.

you can’t quite put your finger on it, but something about him feels . . . dangerous? no, maybe not dangerous, but unpredictable. like he could switch from charming to something much darker in the blink of an eye.

and then it happens—he looks at you. directly at you, like he knows you’ve been watching him. the way he smiles is almost smug, as if he’s aware of the effect he has on people, on you. your heart does a small flip, caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze.

then, just as quickly, he says something to his friends, who erupt into laughter, and you feel the uncomfortable prick of self-consciousness. are they laughing at you? god, you hope not. the last thing you need is to be the butt of some joke you don’t understand.

you pull your focus away, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your cheeks, and you shift in your chair, suddenly too aware of how out of place you feel. this isn’t your world, not yet at least. you’re still figuring out the rules, where you stand, who you can trust. it's like being in a play without knowing your lines.

“i know my kids are going to be a handful when they’re all together, so . . . be prepared for that,” ward’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you turn slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. there’s a warmth to his tone, something almost paternal. “but they’re good.”

you force a small smile and nod, though you’re not sure how much you believe him. you have a feeling ‘good’ might mean different things in the cameron household.

“you’re a year or two older than sarah,” he continues, and you turn back to face the table, focusing on the clean lines of the polished wood, the way the sunlight catches on the glassware. “you’re not that far off in age with rafe, either. sarah’s probably going to be your best friend. she can’t help it.”

there’s a lightness in his voice, and you get the sense that sarah is the glue that holds this family together, the one everyone relies on to keep things civil. “but rafe . . . he’ll warm up to you.”

will he? you can’t help the slight lift of your brows, amusement flickering in your expression as you consider his words. you don’t agree, but you can’t say that. something about rafe feels like he’s not the type to easily ‘warm up’ to anyone, especially someone like you—an outsider stepping into his territory.

“yeah,” you murmur, your tone filled with doubt, “i’m sure of it.”

the cameron family finally gathers at the long, polished table outside, sunlight filtering through the trees and casting dappled patterns across the plates. you take in the scene quietly as everyone finds their places, the quiet shuffle of chairs pulling out, scraping slightly against the patio stones.

it’s a family affair, but rafe’s friends have tagged along—an addition that seems unsanctioned by ward but tolerated nonetheless. ward positions himself at one head of the table, with you and sarah flanking either side of him like you’re all part of some carefully orchestrated tableau.

rafe is at the opposite end, far enough that the distance feels intentional, deliberate. you can’t help but notice how he’s checked out, his gaze drifting, uninterested. to your right, one of his friends, the blond one, settles beside you, and his presence feels awkward, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible, aware of the invisible tension in the air.

on the other side of him, the other friend sits, both of them quiet for now. down sarah’s side, wheezie sits next to her sister, then rafe at the very end. the empty chair beside wheezie feels like a gap. technically it’s rose’s chair if she were to have changed her mind.

“so what are you?” wheezie asks, breaking the initial silence, and you can see sarah’s immediate reaction, the quick glance she shoots her sister, a mild scolding in her eyes.

the phrasing is blunt, too blunt, but then again, wheezie is a kid—still learning the art of conversation, still figuring out the way words land.

before you can answer, ward steps in, his voice calm but authoritative. “y/n is my assistant,” he says, filling in the blank you hadn’t yet decided how to describe. you pause mid-chew, a small bite of food lingering on your tongue as you listen to him explain. “she’ll be working with me here in north carolina for cameron development over the next few months.”

you nod slightly, not sure how to react to being discussed like you’re not there. you’ve been in situations like this before, professionally at least, but it feels different now, being talked about in front of his family. a piece of you wants to assert yourself, to explain your role in your own words, but it feels like there’s no room for that right now. so, you stay quiet.

“that’s cool,” sarah says, her voice warm and genuine as she glances over at you, a small, encouraging smile on her face. she seems like the type who would get along with almost anyone, a natural mediator. “what do you do? as his assistant and all.”

from the corner of your eye, you catch rafe’s subtle shift, his gaze flicking toward sarah, his expression sharp for a moment, like he’s not interested in this conversation but is still somehow annoyed by it. you wonder what’s behind that look, what tension simmers under the surface.

you swallow and clear your throat, aware that everyone’s waiting for your answer now. “uh, yeah,” you start, your voice sounding more casual than you intend, like you’re trying to downplay your actual responsibilities.

“your dad has his job—he oversees the projects, handles the big picture stuff. i come along when he needs help with negotiating contracts and leases, hiring architects, engineers, contractors, all that. i also scout available land for potential developments.” you pause, glancing around the table. “just stuff like that.”

there’s a moment of silence, and for a second, you think maybe your explanation was enough. but then, like a crack in the veneer, rafe speaks, almost mockingly, “do you also get him coffee whenever he asks? do you fuck him, too?”

his words hit like a punch, unexpected and crude, cutting through the air with a kind of reckless confidence that leaves you momentarily stunned. for a second, the table feels frozen, like no one’s quite sure how to react.

the blond boy next to you nearly chokes on his food, a strangled half-laugh escaping before he catches himself, suddenly aware that rafe’s comment shouldn’t be funny.

your stomach twists, a flush of heat creeping up your neck as you force yourself to stay composed, staring straight at rafe from across the table. his gaze is fixed on you, unflinching, like he’s testing you, waiting to see how you’ll respond.

it’s infuriating—the audacity of it, the way he tosses out the insult so casually, like it’s no big deal.

ward sets his fork down with a soft clink against the plate, his fingers intertwining as he leans forward slightly. the tension shifts, thickening around the table, and you can feel every set of eyes on you, but your focus remains on rafe.

“rafe,” ward’s voice is calm, measured, but there’s a warning in it. and yet, rafe doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. he stays locked onto you, like you’re locked in some kind of silent standoff, and part of you wonders what he’s trying to prove.

after a beat of silence, ward adds, “can i talk to you inside the house?” it’s not really a question, more of a command, and finally, rafe moves. slowly, he pulls the napkin from his lap, tossing it onto the table before rising from his seat.

ward turns to you, his expression softening into something apologetic, and you nod slightly, acknowledging his silent apology even though you’re not sure what to do with it. as they disappear inside, the tension lingers, heavy and uncomfortable.

you force yourself to take another bite of food, though it feels like chewing cardboard. the uneasy feeling coils tighter in your chest. this is off to a rocky start, to say the least. sarah and wheezie seem fine, but rafe . . . rafe’s going to be a problem.

sarah reaches across the table, her hand brushing lightly against yours, and you glance up to meet her eyes. there’s sincerity in her expression, a quiet kind of empathy. “i’m so sorry for him,” she says softly. “rafe has a tendency to act like an idiot on a daily basis. don’t let anything he says get to you.”

before you can respond, the blond boy—topper, you think—finally speaks, his voice quiet but carrying a hint of amusement. “he doesn’t have a tendency to act like an idiot every day,” he says, shaking his head slightly as he takes another bite of food, a small smile playing on his lips. it’s the first thing he’s said to you directly, and the casualness of it surprises you.

“oh, he absolutely does,” sarah retorts with a light laugh. “and i’m sure you get yours from him.” she turns to you, smiling again. “y/n, this is topper and kelce, if you hadn’t already been introduced.”

before you can say anything, wheezie pipes up quickly, almost as if she’s sharing a secret, “sarah and topper used to date.” her voice is soft, but the reaction from sarah and topper is immediate—they both look over at her, like this was something she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

“what?” wheezie says, glancing around the table innocently.

you can’t help but smile at the sibling dynamics playing out in front of you. it reminds you of your own relationship with your brother, the way siblings know each other’s secrets, their histories, the things that outsiders wouldn’t catch unless they were paying attention. in this brief moment, amidst the tension, you find a sliver of familiarity, of something you recognize.

you pull your napkin off your lap, rising from your seat, feeling the tension still clinging to your skin like humidity. you adjust your clothes, smoothing down fabric that doesn’t need smoothing, but it gives your hands something to do.

“where’s the nearest bathroom inside?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but you can feel the strain in your voice, the way your words almost trip over themselves.

“once you’re in the kitchen, it should be the door in the hallway if you just keep walking straight,” sarah tells you, offering a small smile. you nod in response, forcing yourself to return the gesture, though it feels hollow.

you step away from the table, and sarah seizes the moment to nudge wheezie, probably to scold her for spilling her relationship drama with topper.

as you make your way toward the bathroom, your steps slow. it’s not like you really need to go. you glance behind, making sure no one’s paying attention, before diverting your path to the front door instead. the knot in your stomach tightens with every step.

the front door is slightly ajar, and through the opening, you spot rafe. he’s leaning back in a chair on the porch, his head tilted toward the sky as if it’s the only thing he can stand to look at.

ward’s standing near him, mid-conversation, and their voices pull you in, despite knowing you shouldn’t eavesdrop. you lean against the doorframe, just out of sight, your heartbeat quickening.

“you didn't have to fly out some girl that works at the company just because she’s doing good,” rafe says, lifting his head from the chair, his voice tinged with frustration, like he’s been holding it in for too long. “i could've taken the job, especially because i’m already here.”

there’s bitterness in his words, but beneath that, you catch something else—something raw. rafe’s trying to understand why he’s being left out, why he’s not the one ward trusts.

“exactly, rafe,” ward replies, his tone firmer than before. “you're twenty-one and you’re still here. she’s twenty and she's been working with me for nearly two years. don’t you think that says something?”

his words land heavily, and for a moment, there’s silence. you feel the weight of the comparison ward’s making, and it sinks into you too, even though it shouldn’t. rafe chuckles, standing up, but it’s not out of amusement. it’s a defense mechanism, a way to shield himself from whatever hurt ward’s words are causing.

“y/n is here because she’s good at what she does,” ward continues, his voice steadier now, trying to end the conversation.

“alright, dad,” rafe says, nodding, but his expression betrays his words. “let's say i believe that—because i don’t—why am i not in her place?”

ward sighs, shaking his head like he doesn’t understand how rafe isn’t getting it. “rafe, think about what kind of job she has. how could i trust you with that?”

the words sting, and even though they aren’t directed at you, you feel a strange sense of guilt crawling under your skin. you know you’ve earned your place, worked hard for it. but hearing it spelled out like this, in such a stark contrast to rafe, it makes you feel . . . uncomfortable.

rafe rubs his chin, his fingers brushing against the stubble there. he doesn’t say anything, just nods like he’s processing it all, or maybe pretending to. he turns to head back inside.

and that’s when he sees you, standing there, caught in the act of listening.

his eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, you don’t know what to do. your throat tightens, but you force yourself to keep your head high. you can’t apologize. you don’t need to. this is your job, after all, the one you’ve worked damn hard for.

still, the silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. rafe doesn’t say anything, just turns away, walking back out toward the patio. you exhale, realizing you’ve been holding your breath. the knot in your stomach only tightens as you push yourself off the doorframe and head toward the bathroom, your footsteps almost echoing in the stillness of the hallway.

you stop in front of the bathroom door, staring at it like it might hold some answers you don’t have. your hand reaches for the knob, your fingers curling around it, but you don’t turn it. instead, you stand there, replaying the conversation in your head, trying to make sense of what you’ve just heard. rafe’s resentment, ward’s trust in you—it’s a lot to take in, and you wonder if you’re supposed to feel . . . what? proud? guilty? it’s hard to pin down.

before you can figure it out, you hear footsteps approaching. your hand drops from the doorknob just as ward’s voice reaches you.

“hey,” he says, his tone softer now, though there’s still an edge of frustration lingering there, probably from his conversation with rafe. “you and the girls getting along good?”

you plaster on a smile, nodding even though your thoughts are still tangled from the scene outside. “yeah, we’re good.”

ward mutters a small ‘good, good’ as he walks past you, heading back to the patio. you watch him go, your arms crossing over your chest as if that’ll hold you together. you follow behind him slowly, a quiet unease settling in your chest. this family, with all its complications, feels like a storm you’ve just walked into.

and then there’s rafe. if he already resents you, you can only imagine how his friends—topper and kelce—will react. boys like them, they stick together, and you know that dynamic all too well. the chances of them giving you a fair shot seem slim.

you brace yourself as you step back outside, a small sigh slipping past your lips. this job, this place—it’s not going to be easy. but nothing worth it ever is, right?

“so you're from the outer banks?” sarah asks as soon as you sit back down. there’s an edge to her voice, like she’s making an effort to seem casual but is still trying to figure you out. you can’t blame her. she’s probably just trying to get a feel for who you are, maybe ease the tension that’s been hanging in the air since you got here.

“where from?” she adds, glancing at you over the rim of her glass.

you pause, fork hovering just above your plate, feeling a flicker of unease. it’s a simple enough question, but you can already feel the weight of your answer.

“near quinton,” you say, cutting into your food with deliberate care, keeping your tone light. “a little south.”

you don’t look up as you speak, focusing on the neat little slices you’re making in your lunch, as if perfecting that action could keep the conversation from slipping into uncomfortable territory.

“i’m surprised we haven’t met before today,” you continue, the lie slipping out so smoothly you almost believe it yourself. “my friends and i knew just about everyone before i left the island.”

but the truth sits heavily in your stomach. you don’t know them. sure, your brother mentioned that your families had crossed paths when you were younger, but the memories never stuck. whatever brief moments there were, they’ve faded into the backdrop of your childhood.

rafe, however, doesn’t let your words slide by as easily. he latches onto them like a dog with a bone, straightening in his seat, eyes gleaming with interest.

“your friends?” his voice cuts through the air, almost too eager, too sharp. it’s like he’s waiting for you to say something wrong, give him an opening to tear into you. sarah watches him warily, her eyes flicking between you and her brother. she’s looking for help—maybe from her dad—but the tension is palpable, thickening by the second.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and the vibration pulls you from the uncomfortable scrutiny rafe’s casting in your direction.

“who do you know here?” he presses, and his tone is challenging now, like he’s daring you to prove something to him. to justify your place here, in this house, at this table.

you lift your gaze then, meeting his eyes with a steady look, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. but there’s something in the way he’s staring at you that makes your skin crawl, like he’s already made up his mind about you, about what kind of person you are.

it’s fucking exhausting.

“hate to interrupt you, ray,” you say, letting a mocking lilt creep into your voice as you rise from your seat. you keep your movements controlled, measured, not too rushed. “but i have a phone call.”

you pull your phone from your pocket, waving it slightly, feeling a small rush of satisfaction when rafe’s jaw clenches ever so slightly. “let me just take that really quick so we can continue our conversation.”

you don’t wait for his response, because you know whatever he says will just add to the irritation simmering beneath your skin. as you step out of the way, you hear him mutter, “it’s rafe,” under his breath, like correcting you is somehow important to him.

“it’s actually my brother!” you whisper-yell back, flashing the screen of your phone in his direction, making sure he sees the call.

as you walk away, you feel the tension ease just slightly, but it’s still there, humming beneath the surface. this place—figure eight, tannyhill—it’s like a tangled web, and you’ve just stepped into it, with people like rafe already ready to watch you stumble.

you press your phone to your ear as you step out of the patio and into the cool air of the home, and you try to calm yourself, leaning against the wall as your brother’s voice greets you on the other end.

you know you’ll have to go back in there, face rafe again, but for now, you allow yourself a brief moment to breathe.

considering making this a few-part series (maybe) !! let me know if you’d be interested thru replies, anons, or dms <3

@tiaamberxx

[jinwoosungs]

09/26/24; 12:20pm

- the academy arc -

yandere!sung jinwoo x fem.reader

anonymous asked: Hello! I've always admired your writing, and finally thought of an ask for you! What about yandere jinwoo with an oblivious reader? Its kinda funny how the reader has so much influence over him, and dont realize it, after all, how could they think he's dangerous when he's all soft for them, and only them... Oblivious to all the danger he causes to others

warnings: incredibly dark themes; harassment and petty bullying.

you felt butterflies erupting all across your abdomen, feeling your gaze darting all across the new sights and scenery of your high school. feeling a bit uncomfortable, you pull at the collar of your blouse and adjusted your tie at least a hundred times leading up to this very moment.

tightening your grip on your bag, you hardened your resolve and nodded, stepping into the school with as much confidence that you could manage. avoiding the crowd of students, you kept to yourself and take the flight of stairs up to the second floor. you trail your eyes across the labeled classroom before entering the one labeled 2-a.

you pass by a boy wearing a single glove, reading his textbook while flipping the pages with a bored expression. he sits near the back row, and you take the opposing corner, trying to remain as small as possible while getting out your pencils and notebooks for the day.

the sight of you settled off to the side makes the boy stop reading, and you caught a glimpse of how he was staring at you from your periphery, but wasn’t brave enough to meet his gaze. instead, you distract yourself by writing reassuring mantras in your notebook.

it’s going to be fine.

today is the first day of class for everyone.

surely no one is going to notice how you’re the newbie.

as the minutes ticked by, you became increasingly aware of the students that walked in, laughing while talking about their breaks. just as the bell rings, signifying the start of the day, your homeroom teacher just had to notice you as he forced you to introduce yourself to the whole class.

throughout it all, you were a stuttering mess, forcing out the syllables that made up your name all while feeling like your knees would give away at any minute now. the heat was felt burning against your cheeks, traveling down the length of your neck by the end of it all. when the teacher lets out a grunt of approval, you sat back down as quickly as you could.

a rich chuckle was heard coming from your left, and you took a quick peek over to see the same, perfect boy who had been studying softly laughing at you. his attention was on his open textbook, but you could tell that he was still looking at you from his periphery, those grey eyes drawing you in-

you clear your throat and look away from him, feeling the warmth now spreading to the rest of your body. the hours kept ticking by until finally, it was lunchtime. you grab your lunchbox from the confines of your bag, but found that you didn’t have much of an appetite.

as you debated on what to do for lunch, a loud whistle makes you gasp, looking over to see a group of rowdy looking boys making their way towards you. you visibly stiffen, willing them to go away, but your prayers were all for naught when the entered the classroom, already sauntering their way closer to you.

“man, when i heard there was a new girl here, i didn’t expect her to be so cute.”

you cling to your lunchbox, ready to bolt when needed. your anxiety was shot through the roof now, watching as the boys came closer to you when they suddenly stopped dead in their tracks. it appeared that they had a difficult time moving, like there was an invisible wall that kept them from coming closer to you. noticing their strange behavior, you visibly relax, watching their stiff movements as they walked out of the classroom and fell into a pile in the middle of the busy hallways.

laughter was heard erupting all across the hallways, and you breathed out a sigh of relief. the same soft chuckle was heard, and you look upwards to see your classmate standing before you. he had perfect, ebony locks of hair with grey eyes that shone with a startling clarity. “hey, are you alright?”

“oh, i’m fine! thank you for asking…”

the boy shakes his head. “there’s no need to be so stiff around me. just think of me as your new friend.”

your mind was spinning now, practically on cloud 9 at the thought of having this cute boy as your new best friend. you smile up at him, watching as he sheepishly brushes back his hair before reaching out a hand for you to take. “the name’s sung jinwoo, and would you like to have lunch together with me?”

you nod and stand from your seat with your lunchbox in hand. “of course!”

jinwoo gives you a kind smile, stepping out of the classroom with you. you see the same rowdy boys glaring daggers at jinwoo, yet he doesn’t relent, standing protectively in front of you. the boys end up scoffing before walking away. as jinwoo leads you in the opposite direction, you remain blissfully unaware of how shadows seemed to dart away from jinwoo while aiming toward the group of boys who dared to make you uncomfortable.

{ … }

the trio of girls had purposely intercepted your walk to school, pulling at your hair before tossing you aside, making you land against the hard pavement of the sidewalk. you had the air knocked out of your lungs when you suddenly felt the contents of your packed lunch land over your head.

tears were felt filling at your eyes, and you watch as a girl leans down closer to you, her blond curls framing at her face while icy blue eyes glare down at you, “who the hell do you think you are, getting so close to my jinwoo like that?”

her lackeys stand beside her, all sneering at you while exchanging looks of disdain towards you. ah, it seems as though your seemingly perfect life was coming to an end, with jinwoo’s own fanclub coming after you now. you had barely been basking in your school life and newfound freedom with jinwoo for a month when the drama suddenly started.

it started about a week ago, when you found safety pins on your seat and your notebooks ripped to shreds. you did your best to ignore it while hiding your troubles from jinwoo, yet it only seemed to strengthen the bully’s hatred for you.

and now, it had come to a boiling point, as the three girls continued to mock and sneer at you, teasing you, making fun of all your imperfections while stating how you were a mere “charity case” for jinwoo.

by the end of their torment, you were a sobbing mess, all alone as the girls quickly left you behind with their harsh laughters echoing in your ear. the stickiness felt from having your lunch dumped all over you made you feel worse than you ever felt, and you knew that you couldn’t go to school like this.

while you were wallowing in your misery, you remain completely unaware of the way your shadow lengthened, reveal jinwoo as he steps out of it. he says nothing, simply falling down to his knees before taking you in his arms. “i was worried about you not being in class today.”

hearing his voice makes you cry out to him, facing him as you hugged him closer to you. jinwoo didn’t mind how messy your uniform was, simply holding you closer to his chest. he lets out soft coos of your name, allowing you to let out all of your tears and frustrations. while keeping your head kept protectively against his chest, his eyes began to glow a startling purple hue, already commanding his soldiers to get rid of three, new targets.

{ … }

after your encounter with the bullies, the next day, you felt a strange sense of dread consuming you. you truly wanted nothing more than to skip-

or transfer-

yet jinwoo stops you from even considering moving away from him. and after much convincing from his end, (“don’t worry, i’ll be by your side the whole time if those girls come back!”) you relent and head to school with him.

upon entering your classroom, you felt a strange sense of relief filling you. you saw no signs of those nameless, petty girls, and you visibly relaxed. upon entering the classroom with jinwoo, he seemed to flash you a knowing grin, as if silently telling you i told you so.

needless to say, with those girls seemingly gone, (maybe even transferred to a different school?), you were able to resume the peaceful school days with jinwoo by your side.

and of course, he shared his lunch with you because he “always made extra” and knew of your healthy appetite.

of course he walked home with you every single day after your club activities, simply because “it was dangerous for girls to walk home at night” and he was your “best friend who wished to keep you safe.”

you saw no red flags-

becoming so blinded by his own brilliance that it made you blissfully unaware of the neverending darkness settled in the depths of his heart and soul.

{ … }

it was amazing how you couldn’t see just how obsessed sung jinwoo was with you.

ever since that first day, where you had entered his classroom and introduce yourself, becoming a mess of stutters in the process-

you had completely captured jinwoo’s heart.

throughout that first day, he kept sneaking glances at you, thinking of way to properly approach you before wrapping his tendrils of darkness around your heart, further trapping you within his web.

with beru and igris talking his ear off, knowing of their king’s desire to capture your heart as well, they were obnoxiously supportive, thinking of ways to help with winning you over. and just as he was ready to approach you-

those damn men had to ruin it all.

jinwoo could see the fear and discomfort in your eyes-

the way you stiffened in response and how you looked like you wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow you whole.

but he stops them from coming any closer to you, using his abilities as the shadow monarch to freeze them, controlling their jerky movements until they were tossed out of the classroom.

later that night, after beru had dealt with them, jinwoo reappears and gazes down at their lifeless bodies.

arise.

he commands their shadows to awaken, tying their souls to him for all eternity as they now obeyed his every desire and whim. even when the teachers questioned their absences, jinwoo made sure to dispose of their corpses. he had thought about erasing everyone’s memories pertaining to them-

but he was achingly aware of how it would alter your memories as well, which made him hesitate when it came to executing it. for now, as long as you remained blissfully unaware, then he would allow yours (and everyone else’s memories) to remain intact.

after all, what did he have to worry about? to the whole world, he was the ideal student, making 100’s on all of his assignments while doing his best to win the heart of the girl he adores. no one has any reason to suspect him of any foul play.

and he was going to use this seemingly perfect image of him to his advantage.

once jinwoo saw you again, he pretends to bump into you, successfully gifting you his freshly made soldiers by having them morph into your shadow as you remained clueless to his abilities.

after all, seeing your smile and how much happier you were with them out of your life was like receiving a piece of heaven for jinwoo. he lived for your laughters and could feel his devotion for you growing by mere seconds.

that was his first act of love and devotion toward you.

and the second act?

i believe we know when that was, too.

red hot anger was felt coursing through jinwoo’s veins when he found you broken and tossed aside, with the contents of your lunch thrown over you. though it pained him a great deal to watch your suffering through the eyes of his shadows, he had to confirm the identity of your pursuers before taking action.

as you sought comfort within his embrace, jinwoo commanded at least a hundred of his soldiers to stalk those who dared to bully you, not even feeling an ounce of regret when not even their corpses were found due to how they had all been ripped to shreds.

jinwoo didn’t bother extracting shadows from his latest victims, knowing that you would be so much happier without any traces of them close to you.

so, as he lay in bed with you sleeping so soundly within his arms, he silently vows his loyalty to you alone. his heart already burning with an inferno of emotions when it came to you and how you made him feel so alive-

and he never wanted this feeling to end.

he would never tell you the truth of his darkness either, or the things he had done to keep you safe and happy, oh no-

for why would he when you could forever remain his precious girl, living in a perfect sandbox that he had made specifically for you, all while swearing to protect it with his life?

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[goldsbitch]

Not on the menu

Making out in public is not something to be shameful, right?

light smut, minors DNI, angst

note: this is my first Franco fic. this man came, served and what are we suppose to do?!

When it feels this good, it's worth breaking few rules.

You and Franco. Very well protected love affair. A fling. Just two young people who somehow end up in each other's beds whenever the opportunity arises.

Working in F2 as one of the production assistants was more exciting than one might think. Everyone would always praise F1, the size of the teams, the budgets, the glam surrounding it. F2 was different, more loose and less on the spotlight. Full of professionals, who just like drivers, worked their asses off just for a chance to progress into F1. But you were just so young, just starting and unlike with the drivers, you had no rush, plenty of time for that in the next years. It was all about learning, getting to know people and also, occasionally, having some good fun. It's hard to keep young people on a leash. Lot of travel involved, hotel rooms and many people mingling around, leads to just one thing. It wasn't special or albeit scandalous to fool around with a fellow crew member, in fact many marriages started like that, no matter the rank or department. Life on the road has its habits.

So when you first ended up on a dance floor with the ever-so-charming Franco at one of the opening events for F2, it was not such a surprise that you ended at his hotel room. Way less wondering eyes and almost no glam was at these evenings, the exact opposite of F1.

By some miracle, you managed to keep it a secret, apart from few closest friends, who served as an excuse for you two to actually hang out together. These few trusted souls witnessed their fair share of tipsy make outs and laughed collectively at your hickeys, which turned out to be his speciality. You never texted, never addressed your fling when sober. Deep down you knew you were curious to see how he was as a serious partner. But he never gave off that kind of a vibe. So you protected yourself, remained cool and decided that this was the peak your relation would ever be, and that was ok enough.

"So what about you and Franco?" a friend of you both asked you, once again. You hated when she did that. In her mind, it would be a great idea to have two of her friends together. But the truth was, she was way closer with him than you were. Nothing wrong with that, but it only reminded you of how shallow your interaction were. In order to keep you dignity while fooling around with a player, you pretended to be one as well. "You know how these things are, it's just physical. I don't think he's the kind of person I'd like to date." False. You knew that, but..! You stayed on the ground, he was just a bit out of your league. Simple as that. Soon enough he was gonna catch the eye of some model and you'll be old news. The whole thing would be way worse if anyone knew that you would actually be open to at least try and date him. It was hard to stop the daydreaming sometimes. "Yeah, that makes sense," was the only thing your friend, disappointed by your response, answered. You only wondered if she had conversations like this with him as well about you.

Life was good that one evening in August. At the time, you had no idea it will the last evening of that era. It was one of the typical dinners the wealthier members of the teams organized, a nice chill place to wind down after stressful days. You were sat few places from Franco, who was charming as ever. Raining smiles on everyone and stealing glances with you.

A text notification - Bathroom?

You gulped, locked eyes with him and gave a small nod. His smile was probably crafted specifically for you, somewhere in the depths of hell. Impossible to resist.

He got up and you followed a minute later, giving a knowing look to your mutual friend. She understood and happily covered for you in case someone else caught on.

It wasn't exactly the right thing to do, lock yourself in a room dedicated for nursing mothers. But better than blocking a bathroom.

"Aren't you a little old to be in this room?" you asked when you joined him and secured the door behind you. He was leaning over a counter, fingers tapping on the top. "I can't help it, I am hungry," Franco responded and gestured you to come closer to him. With a challenging look, you took few steps towards him. "This is a restaurant, you're at the right place."

"The things I want are not on the menu." He was done playing sneaking around and crashed his lips onto yours, as if to prove his hunger. He was just too good with his tongue. Taking you, like his little victim, making you forget the outside world still existed. His hand went to grab your neck, behind your ear, because by then he had figured out that keeping you in check was the thing that made your knees weak. His lips were locked with yours, in heated frenzy, not allowing any breath to be wasted. You knew how to play the game as well, and with a soft bite into his lower lip, drawing a gasp from him, you pulled away slightly, not allowing him to take full control. "Oh," he said, trying to steal another kiss from you while you pulled away more with satisfied smile. "Is this how it is now?" he continued, tone laced with intrigue and challenge. Your tongue reached to lick his lips once again. His hand suddenly lessened the pull towards him. "Oh, hermosa," he whispered, "two can play this game." Butterflies occupied your stomach. He stepped back and to your questioning look responded with another bloody wink. And then, then he grabbed you by the hips and lifted you up in the air and sat on the counter. You gasped, only amusing him more. Lost for words, you only raised your eyebrows. "Better," he said and with audacity only young boys have lifted your shift up. Without much of a thought you put your arms up and helped him get you slightly more naked. His eyes were shamelessly focus on your chest. "Almost there," he said and gestured towards your bra. "Go on. Take this horrible thing off." You chuckled, because as charming and suave he was, taking a bra off was a moment where he failed each time. Desire fueled you into making this quick. Now that you were sat, his eyes were at a similar lever to your boobs and there was something hot about his hungry look, watching you undress even more. Once you were finally fully bare, he observed you and the locked eyes with you once again.

"Pretty," was the only thing that he said before putting his lips on your left nipple for a gentle peck and then on the right one, which received a light bite. He decided to stay focused on that one, few kisses here and there and began to suck on it while his hand pinched the left one. Arrows of pleasure flew into your lower belly. He knew your weakness, he must have because this was sending you into other dimensions. Anything that feels this ecstatic would make anyone crumble. Whatever he did seemed to always work on you. He wasted no time with gentle touches. Not enough time for that. After nearly sending you over the edge with his lips dancing around and sucking on your nipple, moved a bit upwards and went for his signature move - marking your breasts with hickeys so purple it would take a week to heal. You bend your head backwards, trying to contain any loud noises your body wanted you to make in reaction to his actions. Another twirl around your sensitive nipple, bite into your skin and a hard squeeze. You did not want him to stop, too deep in it to think straight. But that must have been his plan from the beginning, because he put you on edge and then back away. You almost let a soft "No..." escape your mouth. With a puzzled look you slowly came down and remembered you were still in public. Heavy breaths and you gulped your way back to normal. He stepped back a bit and observed his mark on you. With an approving nod, he had the audacity to fix his boner up so that it was not so obvious. "Looking forward to seeing you later?" he asked with a tone that indicated the answer was obvious. You just nodded and reached for your bra, hoping his hickey was low enough it would not be visible. But, he had never made that kind of a mistake. You hopped down and gave him one more kiss, a slow and gentle this time, before he parted back to the dinner table. You joined in a minute, after fixing yourself up and trying to make your cheeks less red. Thankfully, there was only one another amused person when you came back to the table. Your friend raised her brows at you and drank her wine as if nothing ever happened.

Everything shower, hair on point, favorite perfume - you were all set and ready for how the evening would inevitably progress. This time you even made sure to clean your room. You got too comfortable with your expectations. Watching his every move, you noticed immediately when his expression changed from a casual smile to focused frown when reading a text on his phone. Was it something serious? Would he confide in later, sometimes it happened by accident. Secrets shared among tangled sheets. He got up and sent you a cheeky wink. You had to bite your cheek in order to stop the smile your body wanted to respond with, a small bruise burning inside your bra.

It took you fifteen minutes to realize he was not coming back from his phone call. You had his number, you could easily text him. But you didn't. And just like that, he was off to F1.

[beegomess]

T.N. || Can you be my sister?

Summary: On a hot summer day, you find yourself alone in the family mansion, accompanied by Theodore, your boyfriend, and your little sister Sofie, who is eager to learn spells before entering Hogwarts. After a magical experiment that ends in a comic accident, the trio comes together in an afternoon of the girls... and a Theo. Warnings: none

Open orders!

The sun rose strong that summer morning, filling the mansion's garden with a vibrant light, despite the gentle breeze that blew through the trees. The heat persisted, and the shadows of the trees seemed more and more inviting. The garden, meticulously cared for, exhibited perfectly arranged flowers, symmetrical bushes and a fountain that twinkled under the sunlight.

You were alone in the mansion, while your family was traveling, when Theodore, your boyfriend, arrived at the door, accompanied by Sofie, your 11-year-old little sister. The little one, always excited in her presence, could barely contain the enthusiasm when she saw her. Since he had lost his mother and was at the mercy of his father's constant bad mood, the environment in the Nott mansion was gloomy, almost suffocating. The garden there, which was once colorful and vibrant, had become gray, devoid of the life that Sofie wanted so much. She also had few friends and almost no female figures around.

Since you and Theodore started dating, however, everything has changed for Sofie. She quickly began to see you as the sister she never had. At events and meetings, she always looked for you, seeking refuge in your company, and loved when you could spend some time together. Her presence brought color and lightness to her world, something she seemed to desperately yearn for.

That morning, Sofie almost dragged Theodore by the arm to you, her face illuminated with excitement.

- It's going to be fun! - she insisted, gently pushing Theodore towards the garden. - We can play outside!

You smiled at the scene. Despite pretending to be bothered, Theodore had a visible affection for his sister, and it was easy to see how attached she was to you. Soon, the three were in the garden, and Sofie, with bright eyes, looked around, full of expectation.

- Theo, you have to teach me something! - the girl asked, her eyes shining with expectation. - I'm going to Hogwarts in a few days, I want to get there knowing cool spells!

You cast a suspicious look at Theodore. Teaching spells to an 11-year-old child, you thought, already predicting that it wouldn't end well.

- I don't know if that's a good idea... - you warned, but Theodore just shrugged, a carefree smile forming on his face.

- I'll teach you something simple, no big deal. - he said, pulling the wand. - Sofie, pay attention. I'll teach you "Depulso".

- Depulso? Theo, that's kind of aggressive for a child... - you started, but he was already turning to his sister.

- It's not that dangerous, trust me. - Theodore replied with a wink. - Besides, she needs to learn to deal with spells a little more... practical.

You just shook your head, but approached, ready to intervene if necessary.

Sofie, always quick to learn, took the concept quickly. With her eyes wide and her wand in her fist, she was ready to try the spell.

- Depulso! - she exclaimed with determination, pointing the wand at a nearby stone, which was thrown away.

- Very well! - Theodore praised, satisfied.

The girl was clearly proud of herself, but, amid the excitement, her focus faltered. In the next movement, while turning the wand distractedly, he unintentionally pointed directly at Theodore.

- Depulso! - she said again, not realizing what she was doing.

You barely had time to react before seeing Theodore being thrown back hard, right against one of the biggest trees in the garden. He hit his back on his torso with a dull sound, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

Sofie turned pale, her eyes full of shock and terror.

- Theo! I... I didn't want to! - she screamed, dropping her wand and running towards her.

- Sofie, calm down. - you said, bending down to be at her height and putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. - He'll be fine.

With Sofie a little calmer, you went to Theodore, who was slowly recomposing himself. He rubbed his back with a grimace of pain.

- I warned you... - you said in a light tone, extending your hand to help him get up.

- Yes, yes, you warned... - Theodore murmured, accepting his help and getting up with difficulty. - But it's still impressive. She learned fast.

- Too fast, by the way. - you commented, looking at the little one who, still worried, watched everything with wide eyes.

The sky was already dark when you finally collected yourself into the mansion. Theodore, lying in his bed, tried to move as little as possible. Each movement seemed to cause a new wave of pain, and his ribs, where he had hit the tree, were painfully swollen and purple.

- You should have been more careful. - you said while preparing an ice pack to relieve his pain. - You know Sofie still doesn't have that much control.

- I thought she could handle it well... maybe I underestimated the power of the spell. - Theodore replied, trying to hide the discomfort in his voice.

As you put the ice against his ribs, a slight moan escaped, and he tried his best to maintain his posture.

It was at that moment that the bedroom door opened slowly, revealing a hesitant Sofie. His eyes were full of worry, and the guilt was evident on his face. She entered silently, looking at Theodore with a mixture of sadness and remorse.

- Theo, I'm sorry... - she murmured, approaching the bed. - I... I didn't want to hurt you.

Theodore forced a smile, trying his best to hide the pain.

- It's okay, Sofie. I'm... I'm fine. - He said, his voice failing slightly.

You watched the scene with a tender smile. It was obvious that Theodore was lying, but the intention was clear: he didn't want Sofie to feel worse than she already was.

- Are you in pain? - the girl asked, her eyes wide and sincere.

- No, no...- Theodore lied, the persistent smile.

Sofie, however, seemed unconvinced. She looked at you and then at Theodore, before muttering:

- I'll stay here for a while, just to make sure you'll be fine.

With a resigned sigh, Theodore did not stop her, and Sofie sat in the chair of her dressing table, watching carefully as you finished fixing the ice pack on Theodore's ribs.

- You have a huge stain here. - you commented, lifting his shirt enough to see the bruise that spread through his ribs.

Theodore just moaned in response. While you were packing the ice pack, he took a piece of paper from the bedside table and, with difficulty, wrote a few quick words. You read the note and, without saying anything, smiled slightly.

"I'm dying of pain, I need something stronger"

Sofie yawned once more, her eyes filling with sleep.

- Your brother will be fine, I promise. - you said softly, going to her. - But I think it's time for you to sleep.

She agreed with her head, no longer having the strength to protest. You took her in your lap gently, and Theodore watched her with an affectionate look. With her falling asleep in your arms, you took her to the next room, where you put her on the bed carefully, covering her with the light blanket.

The next morning, the sun did not enter through the curtains, and the heat of the previous day seemed to have given a small truce while the rain fell heavily outside. Theodore was still in bed, motionless, but with a look that showed that he was feeling a little better, although the pain was still evident on his face.

You moved slowly, wanting to avoid any sudden movement that could cause Theodore discomfort, and got up from the bed in silence. He watched you with a faint smile, still half asleep, and nodded lightly.

- Good morning. How are you feeling? - you asked, leaning over to give a soft kiss on your forehead.

- As if he had been hit by a spell. - Theodore replied with a slight humor in his voice, despite the pain, and you laughed softly.

Theodore was sitting on the bed, trying to settle down while you passed a medicine over the large purple bruise that spread down your back. He moaned softly at every touch, but tried to keep his composure.

It was at that moment that the door opened slowly, and Sofie, still in pajamas and with disheveled hair, appeared with a worried expression. She hesitated a little before entering the room, looking at her brother with eyes full of guilt.

- Theo? Are you... better? - she asked shyly, taking small steps towards the bed.

Theodore, when he saw her, smiled tenderly, although the pain was still evident on his face.

- Yes, I am, Sofie. - He tried to look convincing, but he couldn't completely hide the discomfort. - Nothing I can't stand.

Sofie climbed into bed carefully and sat next to him, watching the bruise on Theodore's back while you finished passing the medicine.

- I'm sorry about yesterday... - she murmured, her eyes still full of remorse.

Theodore laughed softly, but soon regretted it when the pain made him shrink.

- It's okay, I was a terrible teacher. - He looked at Sofie with a tired smile. - But don't worry, I'll still teach you more things... but maybe something less destructive.

- Do you promise? - Sofie asked, already with a glow of expectation in her eyes.

- I promise. - Theodore said, with a soft nod.

As soon as Sofie looked around her room and saw more clearly the items on her dressing table, her eyes shone with curiosity. The perfume bottles and delicate combs caught his attention. She cheered up instantly and, with quick steps, ran to the chair, sitting facing the mirror.

- Can you do a hairstyle on me? - she asked, her pleading eyes reflected in the mirror while she fixed her hair with her small hands.

- Of course. - you replied with an affectionate smile as you approached, taking a delicate comb from the dressing table. - Let's see what we can do with these curls.

Sofie laughed excitedly, and while you carefully began to braid and fix her hair, Theodore just watched from the bed with an amused look, still trying to stay still.

Sofie smiled broadly at the mirror, visibly excited by the prospect of spending the day by her side. After braiding your hair with colored ribbons, you decided to enjoy the rest of the day with light and fun activities.

You watched Sofie's favorite movies, those with magical adventures and enchanted creatures that made your eyes shine. With each exciting scene, she looked at you with a huge smile, commenting on what she liked and what she hoped to find at Hogwarts.

- Will I learn spells to talk to animals like them? - she asked at one point, pointing to the screen.

- Maybe not in the first year, but maybe one day? - you answered with an encouraging tone.

After a few movies, you went to the kitchen to decorate cookies. Sofie plunged headlong into the task, spreading colorful coverage on all sides, while you laughed at the disastrous attempts to draw shapes. In the end, half of the cookies seemed more fun than perfect, but that didn't matter. What was worth was the laughter and the light moment they shared.

Back in the room, Sofie got excited about the idea of doing makeup, so you decided to try different colors and styles. Colored powder, shiny lipstick and sparkling eye shadow were soon scattered on the dressing table while one made up the other. She laughed out loud every time she missed a line or exaggerated the color, and you had fun following her tireless energy.

- Look how it turned out, Theo! - Sofie exclaimed, turning to her brother in bed, who pretended to be amazed.

The day passed quickly between laughter, jokes and colorful sweets. The connection between you and Sofie grew with each activity, and Theodore, even in pain, seemed happy to see the two having so much fun. It was one of those simple but special days that would be kept in the memory with affection.

____________________________

masterlist

xoxo, bee🫶🏼✨

[inkonparchment]

American Wedding

Leon Kennedy x f!Reader

You've never seen him, you’ve never met him and yet here you are, Mrs Kennedy, a fate that was always to be yours since the day you were born. The golden band on your ringer catches dust at the train station, hoping that at the very least, he's kind.

warnings: this is set in late 1800s. reader is described as having long, silky hair. allusions to mental and physical abuse (not by Leon). misogyny. marriage of convenience. arranged marriage. implied age gap. absolute zero research for era appropriateness.

word count: 3k

a/n: ink write something normal for once challenge = FAILED. i saw an edit of Leon to the song american dream where the lyric goes "M-R-S dot kennedy" and thus i went insane. enjoy whatever the hell this is. or dont idk man sometimes i confuse myself.

You’re alone.

There’s not a soul in sight at the train station, the bench creaking under your weight when you had sat down, hot wind blowing up the dust. There’s nothing but barren land stretching on for miles, littered by small rocks and shrubbery. A tumbleweed had passed when you had been the only person to get off at the station, heavy suitcase in hand, tugging your hat firmly on your head. Steam had exhaled from the engine, the slow rumble of the wheels startling you as it took off.

You has pursed your lips, squinting against the harsh sun as you scoured your new environment. Signage indicating the town you’re in, a decaying wooden shed with old benches and a bored looking clerk snoring behind the barred opening indicating ‘Ticket Counter’.

So you sit and wait. Because what else can you do? You take your hat off, afraid it will blow away by the strong wind, placing it on your lap, hands neatly folding on top of it. Your hair has loosened up from the neat bun your mother had made for you, the strands tugged and pulled by the winds. You glance down at your hands, the gold band glittering on your finger, the familiar sensation of nausea burning at the back of your throat.

It’s a stark contrast against the pure white of your most perfect dress over the most delicate looking corset you had ever seen in your life. You think back to this morning, almost feeling like a lifetime ago, numb to it. It flashes by in your mind in messily taken snapshots; the church, the white dress, your father standing over your shoulder with a stern look on his face, watching like a hawk and ignoring the way your hand shook when you signed the papers.

It was the most luxurious ink pen, black with silver indentations, acquired by your father from his travels. It was perhaps his most precious belonging, cradling it with much care and only brandishing it out to sign all his important deals. And wasn’t that what you were? A deal to be signed away?

So you wrote your name next to the man's who was to own you now, in the pretty cursive you had painstakingly learned under your father's tutelage. You flinch, remembering his screaming when one single line would be out of place. I will accept nothing less than perfection, he would bellow at you, vein throbbing at his temple.

And that’s what you do like the perfect daughter you are.

M-R-S dot Kennedy.

You’re confused why you felt so remorseful, sitting like a hollowed out version of yourself, unable to register your mother’s congratulations, her tears wetting the shoulder of your pristine dress as she held you, your father triumphantly receiving his congratulations from the pastor. You knew this was going to happen, the idea reinforced since the day you could understand words. After all hadn’t your mother met your father like this too?

Your mother had done your hair, delicately twisting your long hair up and decorating them with flowers. Men are kind to pretty things, she had said to assure you, glancing at your blank expression in the vanity of your room. She had softly patted make up on your face, stumbling over her words as she tried to explain what to expect at night. Just...try not to move much, it’ll be over soon.

Your mother had given you a lick of girl hood, doing what she could to let you live past your teenage years without a husband to weigh you down. You were allowed to frolic in the estate on your horse, but not for too long. You have to keep your skin perfect, you don’t want to look like a wrinkled prune for your husband.

You had learnt the ways of the kitchen, mastering dishes after dishes, a reprieve from your father’s tempers, a room he would dare not venture in, instead choosing to snap his fingers at his wife to fetch him whatever he wished.

It was a sanctuary for you and your mother, a place where the shadow of her past self would glimmer, a version you had never known, the version who would tell you stories of the Greek heroes and their tragic ends. She had fought hard for you.

At least that’s what the blue and black bruises on her skin would say.

Your father had glanced at you with pride flashing in his eyes and that had soothed you. Finally you had done something to please him, the soft, awkward pat of his hand at your shoulder, snapping you awake. You couldn’t even revel in it, suddenly finding yourself standing at the train station, ticket in your hand. Your father had said that your husband would pick you up, gruffly saying that it would not be wise to run, to attempt to escape your fate. There would be no kindness then.

Tears gather in your waterline, difficult to discern their cause. The barren landscape makes you want to vomit, a stark contrast from the grassy green pastures of your home. And you consider running, your father’s warning echoing in your ears, just taking off in the direction of the sun, abandoning your suitcase. You won’t survive if you do, with no money or precious jewellery on your person, knowing that you would collapse under the scorching sun. But perhaps that end would be better than whatever life waits for you with your husband.

Leon Kennedy.

The man- your husband, that was supposed to pick you up. Your grip tightens on your lap. Maybe he has forgotten, owing to his graying years, his memory not the way it used to be. You’ve conjured up an image of him, someone old and graying, hair missing from his head but his eyes still full with his youthful lust, scouring his prize up and down like a hungry dog. It makes you retch, panic bubbling in the pits of your stomach. That has to be it. Someone who is too old to be on horseback. Why else would he not be present at the church? To whisk you away himself? To have you as soon as he could?

But its fine, you soothe yourself, you’ll be fine. You’ll keep your head down and be a good wife, no delusions of romance set in your mind. What use was it anyway? Love never saved those Greek heroes, you would be a fool to think it could save you. Maybe if you play up the role of a perfect little wife, swollen with his children, he may allow you some breathing room, some books if he is generous. But its okay, you’ll steel yourself and survive, you’ll leave no room for error. You’ll be his most prized possession.

The sound of crunching gravel makes you snap your head up, the sun piercing in your eyes through your tears. You turn your head to see a horse pulled carriage come to a stop. The man commandeering the vessel hops off from the seat, dust clouding around his pristine shoes. He is sharply dressed, you notice, clad in his black suit. The hat hides his face from you, holding it down with his left hand on his head as he walks over, the shimmer of gold catching your eye. You feel your heart hammer in your chest. The wooden floorboards creek as the man steps up on the platform, taking off his hat when he does and straightening up to his height.

Your breath catches in your throat. He is beautiful, glittering in the afternoon sun, his sun bleached hair falling perfectly across his face. He sports a small stubble, face sculpted like a devoted art piece, cool blue eyes stark against the bronze of his skin, wrinkles decorating the corner of his eyes. His suit is pristine, the white of his inner shirt nearly blinding, hiding a well muscled torso from your view, arms bulging against his jacket. He holds his hat against his chest, standing with his hips thrown out, one thigh straddled with a leather holster holding an ivory black revolver. He regards you calmly, eyes stuck to your form before flitting to your suitcase.

You look away, tearing your eyes away from his enraptured form. You feel yourself already failing your promise to be the perfect wife, enamoured by a strange man when a husband awaits for you. So you sit prim and proper, back straightened like you had been taught, ignoring how your heart leapt with every single step he took.

You hope he saves you, takes you roughly by the arm and force you on his carriage, never to be heard from again. After all isn’t that what angels do?

You hold your breath when he comes to stand near you. But still you don’t dare to look at him, hurriedly tugging your hair behind your ear. It’s the way he says your name that freezes you, fingers still against your hair. You’ve never heard it like that before, almost in disbelief, convinced that you heard him wrong. It sounds...sweet, like it means something in the low baritone of his silky voice.

You turn to look at him, the pink of his lips catching your eyes before you avert your eyes, instead focusing on the golden band wrapped around your finger. You nod, spine stiff.

Wordlessly, he picks up the suitcase and shuffles to the side, gesturing towards the carriage with his hat. A world of confusion explodes in your mind, limbs arrested as you struggle to decide what to do. He can’t be him just because he knows your name. Maybe your husband sent someone else in his place, his ranch hand perhaps. You purse your lips, palms slick with sweat as you heave yourself up and begin to walk with shaking steps towards the carriage.

You fix your hat atop your head before stepping into the sun, hiding your hands from the harsh rays should they taint you. You admire the stallion, graceful in his poise, its brown coat gleaming under the afternoon sun, walking around it and reissuing the urge to trace his coat against your fingertips. He looks well loved, well taken care of. You’re too busy staring at the brilliant creature that you don’t notice the man stowing your luggage in the back, hat back on and taking in your dazed form.

He approaches you like how a person would approach an easily startled animal, slowly and silently. He watches as you stiffen up at his presence, holding out his hand to you to help you up. You take it, your soft hand a contrast against his roughed skin, slotting perfectly in his palm. He hold you steady as you climb up, sitting demurely in your seat and wait as he rounds up and joins you. And with a click of his tongue and a tug of the reigns, the two of you begin to move.

This is it, a ball forms in your throat, my last moments of freedom. You close your eyes, feeling the wind fan against your cheeks, savouring the dust that catches in your eyelashes. You blink, watching as the landscape remains unchanged, jostling in your seat against the rough landscape of the road. The man’s presence is burning against you, the cloth of his suit brushing next to the sleeve of your dress. Your eyes flit to his tan hands, fixating on the ring on his left hand. You glance at yours, admiring how similar it looks to yours, yours just a bit thinner than his.

You dare to look up at him, focusing on his side profile. Freckles dot his sun kissed skin, his hair long and caressing his high cheekbones. His eyes are what take you, so blue that it makes you want to drown into them, cool contrasting the suffocating heat. He turns his head and locks gazes with you, heart stuttering in your chest.

“Who are you?” You blurt, unable to stop yourself.

He releases the reigns from his hand closest to you, tipping the brim of his hat, “Leon Kennedy.”

You blink, your heart stuttering. “I… I thought you’d be older.”

He smiles faintly, his gaze turning toward the dusty horizon. “You’re not the first to think that.” There’s a pause. “I suppose I expected…different too.”

If the shock is evident on your face, he doesn’t acknowledge it. But you can feel it in your bones, flooding your whole being. This man is your husband and he is so far beyond from how you imagined him. Your insides twist, forcing you to look away, heat burning your ears.

At least he isn’t hideous to look at. But you don’t let it sway you, knowing that sometimes the prettiest faces hide the ugliest facades, stomach lurching at the thought of various women that he must hide under his arms. And suddenly you find yourself praying that some kindness falls your way.

“I’m sorry for being late,” Leon addresses you softly.

All you can do is meekly shrug your shoulders, mumbling out a “It’s alright.”

The rest of the ride is silent, the sun moving down as the hours pass by, now turning the sky into a deep shade of orange, wisps of cool air around you. Fences start to come in view, the outline of a house appearing in the distance.

Leon pulls the reigns, bringing carriage to a stop, pulling up to grand looking house, clean and proper, the walls a deep shade of brown, looking heavenly against the backdrop of the sky. Your mind is abuzz, throat dry, hoping and pleading that the sun does not leave . You’re frozen in your seat, curious looking laborers gazing at you, suddenly feeling at display.

The carriage jostles as Leon steps off, immediately at your side, looking at you earnestly, more kindly than what you’re used to. He hold out his hand to you and it takes you a few moments before your brain spurs into action, your hand once again enveloped by his. You stare at how your golden ring clicks against his, cool to touch and shining together. He helps you down and you stand like a good wife, waiting as he disappears to grab your luggage, waving away the ranch hand who comes up to offer.

Leon comes to stand next to you, watching you as you watch the house. He clears his throat, your eyes finding his, jutting out his elbow to you. You gulp, slide your hand in the nook of his arm, fingers splayed against his strong bicep, his eyes searching for something in your face before he leads you inside.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. The material of the dress agitates your skin, nervousness grabbing a strong of you. Your mothers words come back to haunt you, remembering how she said laid out the corset and dress on your bed. I...chose this so that it’ll be easier for him, men tend to get...impatient.

You see nothing, smell nothing and feel nothing, eyes rigidly on the floor as you feel yourself slip away like with practiced ease when your father’s loud voice could be heard echoing in the walls, the soothing sensation of paper under your fingers enough to satiate your nerves.

When you blink, you stand in a decent sized room, a four poster bed with cloth draped over it on one side of the room. The colours of the curtains are a soft, pastel blue. There is a  dresser, the most beautiful and intricate designs decorating its surface, its size more than sufficient for you to stow away your belongings.

There is a vanity too, grand and delicate looking, a row of expensive looking perfume vials sitting atop the desk, a silver hair brush and a humble selection of make up. Leon sets your suitcase down without a noise, standing at the doorway, hat now gone as he watches you glide around the room admiring the paintings decorating the walls.

A breath hitches in your throat when you finally approach your bed side, eyes widening at the bookshelf tucked away in the corner with a cushioned chair next to it. You trace your fingers against the spine of the books, gasping and pushing your hair behind your ears to get a better look when you spot the book of Greek fables. You clutch it to your chest, tears once again collecting in your eyes as you twist around to look at Leon.

He offers you a small smile, nothing but fondness and gentleness behind it. He grasps the doorknob, beginning to close it behind him. “This is your room. I hope everything is to your liking.”

He glances at you, a flicker of concern crossing his eyes. “If there’s anything you need… anything at all…”

You stiffen at the gentleness in his voice, uncertain of his meaning. “No please, this all is more than enough,” you murmur.

His notices the tear that escapes your waterline. “Rest. You must have had quite the journey to come here.”

And so you dare. “Mr. Kennedy," You call out, making him stop in his tracks, “I...Are we to not...” You lose the strength, letting out a shaky breath as he patiently waits for you to finish your sentence, “We are husband and wife, are we not?” And you hope he understands, mortified at even thinking to speak on the subject with him. 

His expression softens, looking at you tenderly, understanding dawning on his face. “Yes, we are. But that is not something you need to worry about. I will never force you to do anything that you do not wish to do.” His smile returns, reassuring you. “And it’s Leon. Only Leon.” 

The door shuts and with it you crumble to the floor, pressing the book closer to your chest, the rug soft under your fingers. And you can’t tell if these tears are of despair.

Or if they’re of relief.

[houseofhyde]

v. another man's legacy

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. prince aemond calls all with fire in their blood forth to dragonstone with promise of a grand announcement, unawares of the king's own announcement. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, extended family drama, possible spoilers for events that take place in fire & blood! smut ( unprotected piv, creampie, [redacted]'s cum used as lube, fingering, exhibitionism? possibly? maybe? if you squint? ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 13k. hyde’s input. i ideally wanted this posted a week ago but i've unexpectedly had quite a busy month, sorry besties. lowkey hate how this turned out, wrote it in a rush, but hopefully you enjoy the chapter x ( if you see a typo, no you didn't )

another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october ) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The ravens are put to work.

Daybreak, nightfall. Sunrise, sundown. Highwinds, dry air. Blue sky, grey storms. Between man’s certainty of life and death, a new one arises: the promise of feathered wings flying high over the streets of King’s Landing. Dark wings, dark words  — a phrase your late septa had sworn by, fear in her eyes everytime a bird dared arrive at Winterfell carrying a message — it does not ring true to the ink that fills the recent parchments.

The guardsmen saw me home safely through the southron sands, past the Stormlands, and alas, to King’s Landing. I pray for safety in your own travels.

You had written it in a hurry and sent it with even more haste, the innocent intentions of wishing well to a man bound to you in marriage. You had awaited no reply, in truth, yet when the raven perched itself upon your window sill at the Hour of the Wolf, you felt your heart try to flee out of your chest.

Whispers travel faster than ravens, I knew of your arrival already. It is good to read of it in your own hand. You need not fret on my safe-being, for I sit upon a mount from where no man may harm me. 

No name, no signature. A rule unspoken yet well-kept. Should words be seen by unintended eyes, there is no space for errors, big nor small, for errors lead to questions, questions lead to answers, and answers lead to exposure.

It is truly a bore to attend courts as of late. No one lends me the privilege of a dance and, the few who do, seem to possess two left feet. I fear for the health of my toes, crushed under the weight of misplaced steps.

Your days in Dorne have come to mark a significant shift in your life, moulding you into a different version of a woman who always existed within you. You returned to the capital not only wearing a new dress, but a new attitude. A life divided by two key phases: Before Dorne, and After Dorne. And, yet, all that has truly changed in your life is this: the letters.

We danced this evening, when you visited my sleeping mind. Naked, sweet, pliant. It felt so real. I could taste you, smell you, feel you. I woke with a most horrible discomfort in my loins. You have ignited a longing in me befitting a petulant child, not a man of my class. How am I expected to live with never having you again?

There is a creature inside you that wishes to collect his words,  like a crow collects a shiny trinket. Assign them a drawer at your bedside, a place for them to live near your resting head and hopefully whisper themselves into your dreams, the only lands you are able to get a glimpse of his blonde hair, and lean arms, and soft mouth. That would mean danger, however, a trail of evidence for someone to find. Each parchment lives on as nothing more than a pile of ash in your hearth.

There is rumour of Lohar’s death. Assassination, they say. It ripped apart the triarchy, half of them fighting, the other half fleeing. I must be honest when speaking on the swelling of my own pride. You not only heed my warnings, but also took my advice. Perhaps my next advice will be that you meet me beneath moon and sky, and let only our bodies and the gods bear witness to what we do.

Words grow bolder as minds grow desperate. You find yourself in a rut, counting days as if it does not add to your own torture. Insatiable, a term you have scarcely used to describe yourself in past times, yet it is all that feels adequate since that night upon foreign sheets. Your husband takes you, like a hound takes its bitch, and you welcome him. Close your eyes, picture that same silver hair, but another’s face, hands, voice. It ends how all couplings end between you — an unanswered prayer between your thighs, a bud on the permanent precipice of bursting into bloom, only for Aegon to rip it out by its roots and spill his own seed in its place. But for a moment, while his hips beat relentlessly against the swell of your arse and his nails dig crescents into your skin, you feel it: a subtle, low-burning pleasure. Not much, but enough, more than before. 

Give me cause and I shall give you no rest, my Lady.

“Are you not enjoying the boar, wife?” Aegon’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts and brings your surroundings back into focus.

The King’s chambers, a table set for two, a handful of maids carrying pitchers of wine, and a nervous harpist, plucking a disjointed tune with shaky fingers. You pity the man. It is one thing to play to a court of dancing bodies and chattering mouths, it is another to play in the privacy of the King and Queen Consort as they dine in one another’s company.

You cough out a denial, shake your head as if to emphasise, “it is as tender today as it was yesterday, my King.”

“You’ve hardly touched it.”

“My thoughts feed me tonight.”

“Any that you care to share?”

No. “Of course,” Aemond takes the centre frame in your mind’s eye, not so much an image as he is a concept. You push him aside. “I attended this morning. Your dealings with the smallfolk, I watched from the balcony that sits over the throne room.”

“I saw,” he seems to light up as the topic is brought forth. Intrigued enough to lay down his cup and rest his forearms along the table, leaning closer as if awaiting some great secret to spill from your lips. You wonder if he would be half as amused if your mouth followed through on his unspoken request. “Well go on then! What did you think?”

“What did I… Think?” Your husband nods his head with enthusiasm, his unruly locks of hair shaking as he does so. It is hard to picture him any other way than this, unkept and unbothered, nothing like the rest of his Valyrian bloodline, with their meticulous braids and their well pampered image. Were it not for the striking colour that grows out his scalp, you would hardly believe Aegon is a Targaryen. His dark eyebrows shoot up expectantly. “You did well. You were cooperative and understanding. Just, too. No matter the personal issue they laid at your feet, you truly tried to solve things as best you could. You were… Aegon, you were kingly.”

“Do not sound so surprised,” rose tinted cheeks, a splash of bloodrush upon his soft skin. The wine must be getting to him and yet… And yet you wonder if it is something more, a rush of excitement at praise. He had never wanted this — the crown, the throne, you — until push came to shove and he felt the sweet weight of the Conqueror’s legacy rest upon his head and the grip of Blackfyre in his fist. Whether driven by ego or a genuine wish to do well by the people of his realm, Aegon has taken on his duties as of late with a grace no one, not even his own blood, had expected of him. A mess made in times of war, he spears ahead to clean up what rubble and ashes remain of the land. “I’m sure you’re wondering what prompted my invite to sup here, alone.”

“You are my husband, I am your wife. Who else would I share my meals with?”

“I am sure there are names ahead of mine on that list,” the smile he flashes is jaded. “Sometimes I worry you wish to forget our marriage.”

“Aegon, husband, I would never do such a thing.” And yet, you have. Naked in the Dornish heat, another name upon your tongue, another man inside your cunt. 

“Leave us,” two words, enough to send the serving wenches out in a flurry of footsteps. The drag of a harp across the floor, loud and resounding as the musician slips his way out the room, closing the door behind himself. And then it is truly just the two of you, inspecting the other under a gaze cold enough it reminds you of the snow that falls over Winterfell. “The letter,” your heart leaps to your throat, blocking the space and robbing you of your breath. He knows, he knows, he knows. He knows of the letters, and the deceit, and all those complicated feelings you hold for- “That I sent to you during your time with my sister. I have not forgotten it. I expect you haven’t either.”

Air fills your lungs, your heart settles back down in the cage of your chest. The shake in your hand remains, and so you fill it with the weight of your other hand, clasp them both into stillness. “No.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll recall my mention of a chat we’re overdue. There is no time like the present,” the little of your dinner that sits in your stomach stirs. Flips. Threatens to claw its way back up and out of you, spill itself all over the table. That would not rouse any suspicion, surely. It would be a perfectly rational response to your husband, bound to you in cloth beneath the Seven, requesting to chat with you. Aegon continues, as if unaware or simply unbothered by the distress bursting out of your seams. “It is not lost on me, you know? The looks you cast my way, the disdain that has slowly wiped itself over our union, a permanent stain that hovers over every interaction we share. I believe it is time to admit to-”

The chamber doors burst open anew.

“Your grace,” Maester Orwyle, out of breath, sweat lining his brow, and his chain hanging heavy from his neck. Never has his face been such a welcomed sight.

“I believe I ordered that my wife and I be left alone.”

“Apologies, your grace, but this is a pressing matter,” the maester holds up a scrap of paper, the edges curling in on themselves. “I carry word from the Crown Prince, Aemond Targaryen.”

You sit up a little straighter at the mention of his name. Days of private correspondence, nights of fantasised meetings, you have forgotten just how commanding his name sounds when spoken aloud. 

Aegon sinks deeper into his chair, a boredom taking over his features as he waves his hand, “well then, go on, spit it out!”

“Prince Aemond has requested the presence of all members of House Targaryen at Dragonstone,” his sandal-covered feet make gentle pitter-patter against the floor as he approaches the table, laying out the note for Aegon to grab at and inspect for himself. “The letter brings promise of an announcement from the prince.”

The great Targaryen dynasty.

Built on the ashes of burnt kingdoms and the man-shaped collateral damage of one family’s lust for control. Centuries of legacy, an infinite amount of tales that better fit the stuff of legends and scriptures. Lavish castles, luxurious clothing, Valyrian steel. A puritan bloodline, a family tree that circles itself. The smell of a dragon’s breath, the shine of silver-blessed hair. And this is what it has been reduced to.

Four dragons. Two crippled by war, wings with crooked bones and punctured skin. One a mere hatchling, no older than three, with a sickly pale colour and an unhealthy disposition that keeps it curled around its bonded rider’s shoulder, unwilling to stray far. And then there is the eldest of them, unchanged by the war, already well-versed in the age-old Targaryen tradition of burning enemies to a crisp. 

The Martells are the first to arrive. A small boat, with a handful of guardsmen, two ladies in waiting, a wet nurse, Princess Helaena, and her two children. The Prince of Dorne has remained at the seat of his house, unwilling to leave it defenceless in the early hours of peace.

The Hightowers arrive next. Three great ships, stuffed to the brim with armed men, and mute maids, and shy squires. Amongst them, the lowly Garmund Hightower stands at command, but it is his wife who’s presence has truly been requested: Rhaena Targaryen. The last time you had seen her, no war had transpired and she had been betrothed to another. If only Aemond had not taken to the skies that fateful night…

Above the Hightower fleet, another representative of House Targaryen flies, sat atop the blue beauty, Tessarion, the left side of her still marred with scars and puncture wounds littering her left wing from the battles she had endured during the war of kin. Daeron had insisted she fly, however, having not taken to the skies in moons, since the wedding at Winterfell.

The Velaryons do not answer the summoning. It is said Baela Targaryen, infuriated at her cousin’s request, had to be shackled to her bedpost, ranting and raving threats of greeting  Aemond Targaryen in Dragonstone — with a sword down his throat.

And then, at last, the King’s fleet arrives. An outlandish six ships, with more guards than dare fit on the island, enough chamber-maids to fill the Great Hall, and the main figureheads of the Green Council. Up above flies Sunfyre, a watchful eye amid the clouds, yet his back remains riderless. The King, instead, stands at your side aboard the ship, his mother and grandsire on the opposite end of him.

At last, you step foot on Dragonstone, and that is when you notice her.

Vhagar, a mass resting atop a hill, too large to nest within the caves, too lonesome to answer the call of her kind, the excited screeches taking place on sand as Tesarion and Sunfyre circle one another, jostling against the keepers who attempt to wrangle the pair into the mouth of a cave. You watch as the giant she-dragon merely lifts her head, peering at the antics, before laying back down, uninterested in the commotion of everyone’s arrival.

To tell the truth, you are not all that interested in greeting everyone either, too many heads bowing in your direction as you smile and exchange pleasantries by your husband’s side. The commotion of an extended bloodline retracing the halls of its ancestral home, unwanted as it may have been, only makes it all the more easy to slip away once you cross the threshold of the castle, however, letting your feet sneak off to your own private summoning.

Once you arrive, I recommend you find your way to the library. Alone.

The raven had arrived hours before you departed the capital, shaking out its feathers as you awoke from your slumber. You barely had the time to read over it once before the doors to your chambers came barreling open, an army of ladies waiting to grab all your loose threads and sort them back into place. Wash your hair, scrub your skin, rouge your lips. Tighten your bodice, clasp your necklace, rest the dainty tiara atop your head.

Running your thumb over the dried ink, you trace the words he wrote to you, before tucking the note safely back into the sleeve of your dress.

The library is miniscule in comparison to the one living within the Keep, yet it still manages to steal your breath away, stumbling through the door. Rows of dark oak bookcases, stuffed full of colourful, aged, leather-bound, cloth-bound spines of books. The smell of old, the smell of history, with a hint of spice and a flare of cinnamon. Candles with their wax melting into the surfaces they rest upon. Chairs, cushioned by green leather and detailed with dragon-like carvings. A table littered with scrolls, and ink, and feather quills, signs of life having been here. But no sign of Aemond Targaryen.

Boredom brings your feet to a halt within the row of bookcases furthest from the door, curiosity leads your hand to pulling at the spine of an aged book. Dragons: A Record of the Hatched. The smell of dust infects your nostrils as you flick through the wrinkled pages, from end to beginning.

Morning has yet to be listed. You let a few pages flick past, find yourself staring at the sketch of a familiar creature. Syrax. A splotch of ink covers the name of her rider. Turn to the next page, and there sits the Blood Wyrm, with Aemon Targaryen followed by a splotch of ink listed under his riders. Page after page, dragon after dragon, sketch after sketch, the names of the Black Council sit hidden behind stains of black ink.

An uneasy feeling stirs in your stomach and a sadness burns at your eyes, staring down at how easily their existences are being erased from history. How long, you wonder, until Rhaenyra Targaryen is nothing but the beggar Queen in a folk song, another name lost to time and another life lost to the throne? How long until the stories of the Black Council are more myth than fact?

How fickle of a thing, life. Order dictates that a name promises a legacy, a memory, a marking in a family tree to be listed until the end of time. And, yet, so easily man picks and chooses the scraps of history that will remain, when time has long passed and all who lived through it have perished back into the ground.

The sickening feeling wells inside you, uncomfortable and heavy, and so you turn another page, and another, and another, until you find yourself faced with Vhagar. The sketch does no justice to her sheer size, cramped within the page, but your eyes do not linger long enough to care. Instead, they are reading over the list of riders to find the one they seek. Aemond Targaryen. You lift a hand off the edge of the book, fingers skirting forward to trace over the lustrous A of his name.

The weight of the book shifts, resting carefully in the palm of your left hand, teetering on the edge of slipping, when something grabs at you. With a great smack, the book crashes to the floor, a cloud of dust bursting out as its pages snap shut. Arms wind around your waist, loose yet firm in their hold, and a spread of warmth blankets over your back.

“They just reached the crypts. We have less time than I had hoped.”

The voice is a whisper in your ear, a fleeting kiss against your neck, the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Gentle, soothing, delicate. Something given only to you, meant only for you. It warms a chill within you, melts away the frost encasing your heart, heating you to the bone and soothing the uneasy feeling in your loins. It is the feeling of tired limbs sinking into soft sheets, it is the feeling of stepping through the familiar gates of Winterfell, it is the feeling of home. It is Aemond.

The arms that bind you to him pull a little tighter, a momentary rob of your breath. Your hands claw at his wrists, squeezing down to feel the firmness of bone beneath skin, skin beneath leather. No ink, no paper, no written promises. Tangible, tactile, sentient. Him, him, him. Firm at your back, calm in your heart, forgiving in your ear. Your tongue itches to tell him you have endured that longing, the very same he confessed to, head deep in his cups, mouth stained in the strawberry jam of your tarts.

“You erased them. Their names, they no longer exist,” the words are an accusation, your tone is not. It is just — sad, empty, disbelieving. The mourning of strangers, a family you met once upon a time, a table set in honour of a dying man, a family feud brushed falsely aside. Until the tension snapped, until Aemond raised his cup. Final tribute.

Final.

Tribute.

“Traitors have no place in our history,” fingers tug at the green velvet of your dress, moulding the golden stitching of a dragon out of shape. You resist his call to turn, not when his words feel so cold compared to his touch. “By order of the King.” 

“They were your family, your blood,” you say, willing it to mean something, willing him to show a moment of vulnerability, like his confession amid tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets. A rusty chain in need of oiling, his remorse sits buried beneath layers of oxidised irony, a faux coldness the sorrowful look in his eye so often contradicts.

You turn, at your own will, and find that very look staring back at you. Momentarily, it bleeds with something, the sharpness in his stare softening as he takes in the features of your face, as if he needs reminding of how you look, to tune his imagination more deftly to your true image.

“They tried to kill you,” it is a whisper yet the prince almost seems to spit it out, as though it is a struggle to let the words form on his tongue, his eye widening as if the memories all come barreling in, the sight of blood on your skin, blood on your sleeping gown, coin beneath his table. “Do not ask me to mourn them.”

“And what of it, if I do ask it of you?” It is daring, to straighten your back and tighten your grip on his wrists, only to drop them and grab for his face, instead, as he tries to flee from your eyes. You hold him there, thumb smoothing over scarred cheek. “Would you mourn them?”

His mouth does not answer.

Instead, it kisses you.

Everything melts away under his lips, all thoughts, and questions, and pleadings. Words drift away, your mind rids itself of all the letters that do not belong to him. Aemond. Why would you ever need more than those six letters?

It is the seventh time the prince has joined his mouth to yours. You know this not because you have tried to keep count, but because each one is as striking as the last, as utterly world-bending, and fear-ending, and noteworthy.

There was the night in your chambers, from sudden kiss, to hesitant lips, to sinful tongues. Two nights later, the weight of Helaena’s teary eyes still heavy on your shoulders, you fell tangled amongst sheets with him once more. Breaths exchanged, whimpered names, a carnal hunger that only grew the more you both fed it. Twice, with no respite between, as the moon hung stars in the sky. And when the sun began to paint an orange hue, he woke you just to have you once more, eyes barely departing from sleep, bodies laying on their sides, a leg thrown over his waist, and a hand cradling your mouth against his own.

The last kiss had tasted of sorrow and longing. In the early hours of the morning, a flurry of soft knocks at a door opened to him, wide awake and dishevelled.

“I could not do it,” he had muttered, cradling you closer with each step he took into the room. “Not again.”

Though the matter of this it had never been clarified, you knew, you understood. You agreed. Not again could you see yourselves departed from another, without so much as a proper goodbye. Suddenly, that momentary longing you had to return to the Keep had been nothing but a bout of insanity, and all you wished was to fall asleep one more night in Dornish sheets. Instead, you would later count sheep whilst attempting to ignore the turning of wheels and the whinnying of tired horses.

That kiss came with no warning, his mouth on yours in one blink of a teary eye, and lingered longer than either of you dared acknowledge. Each time one seemed ready to let go, the other pulled closer, pressed harder, kissed deeper. An ending, no pause. No see you later, only goodbye. A picture-perfect ending to an affair already gone too far with, left behind by both of you as you raced to return to reality, abandoning the whispers, and the sighs, and the unspoken vows to bury themselves beneath layers of sand and silk.

But this kiss, the one that has your back pressed against the wooden bookshelves and all sense bleeding out of your ears and spilling onto stone floor, is no goodbye. It is hello. It is I missed you. It is welcome home. 

It is a kiss for the simple sake of a kiss, like true lovers do, meant nothing more but to fulfil a craving for one another’s taste. 

“You look lovely in green,” he brushes the compliment against your lips, eye slipping shut and unaware of how your own trace down the healing flesh atop his eyepatch, no sign of the thread of your dress still embedded in his skin. You should be happy he has healed up, yet there is a twist in your gut that longs for the return of something belonging to you being threaded into him, a physical marking of your place in his life, no matter how small a space it occupies. “Have I ever told you so?”

A sting in your eyes. You try to recollect the last time anyone had told you such a thing, paid you such an earnest compliment, and come up empty handed.

You shake your head.

“What a coward. I should have told you, everytime,” he gifts you an eighth kiss, a fleeting peck against your mouth, yet the tingly feeling lingers on, a reminder that he has touched you. “I thought it, each time I saw you wear it.” A ninth kiss. “Each time I saw you wear anything,” a tenth, eleventh, twelfth kiss. “Each time I saw you.”

“Aemond,” you pull back from him, in hope of remembering what you had been saying before he laid his mouth on you.

The brush of a hand up your thigh has you forgetting all over again, head falling back against the books with a gentle thud and a subtle sigh. If he notices the way your legs slip open with no resistance, or how the left one hooks itself so easily over his hip, the prince says nothing. 

A trail of goosebumps, following the path of his palm up the length of your inner thigh, tugging at the layers of underclothing and smallclothes, meaningless scraps of cotton that only waste time.

Time. 

“We don’t have much time,” you hate yourself for saying it, and even more when he reminds you of the bliss of his kiss down your neck. “You said it.”

“Then we make do and act with haste.”

It takes you longer to register what Aemond says than it does for his fingers to make good on his promise, slipping wordlessly beneath garments and meeting warm skin, wet skin, a buzzing bud of nerves that lives between the apex of your thighs. 

In a pathetic display, a singular circular rub against you, followed by a gentle stroke between your lower lips, has you biting the inside of your cheek, noise stifled in the act. Satisfaction crosses through the prince’s eye, a quirk in the corner of his razor sharp lips. Teasing, playful, he is watching you writhe over his touch.

A harrowing memory dawns over you a moment too late, when Aemond has already gone and spoken his thoughts aloud.

“Eager, Lady Stark?” The tips of two fingers, long, and lithe, and a welcome intrusion in your cunt as the prince curls them, pressing against an eye-roll inducing spot within you. “Tell me, your grace, was it the taste of my tongue or the ludicrous act of sneaking off to meet me, under the very same roof as your husband, that has you soaking my fingers?”

Your lips part. You try to speak, no words are produced.

The prince must mistake it for bashfulness, a challenge to best, for he slowly thrusts his fingers, back and forth, brushing a little deeper each time, curling a little more sinfully against the soft walls of your core, the occasional brush of his thumb over the warmth of your pearl.

No longer biting your cheek, a traitor’s moan, gentile and heard only in the space between you, bursts out your mouth. You speak his name, trying to get the words right, trying to warn him of the unknown spoils he is knuckles-deep in.

Aemond mistakes it for just another call of pleasure.

And then, all by himself, the realisation seems to fall over him.

Hand slips out from under cotton smallclothes and green velvet, fingers that shine wet, shine white beneath candlelight. You stare at them in a mixture of horror, shame, and ruined dignity, apologies already rushing off your tongue before the prince can even speak a word of the seed that drips down his knuckles.

“Aegon, he- Gods, I am sorry,” his silent observation of the white fluid only makes your loins tangle in their own web, a twisted sickness creeping to the back of your throat, the blood draining from your face. “He insisted on coupling, this morning. I did not think-”

Your rambling is interrupted by the sudden intrusion of Aemond’s soiled fingers, thrust against your tongue and coating it in your husband’s flavour.

It should disgust you. It should bring a wave of shame, flooding over you and dragging you beneath its unforgiving surface, drowning you in its overwhelming currents. Remains of an act of marriage, mixed with the taste of your act of passion, and the taste of his skin, beneath it all.

But it is hard to feel shame, when Aemond looks at you with so much approval in his eye, when he’s feeding his fingers deeper, till they bump the palate of your mouth and trigger that teary-eyed effect you remember, all too well, from his chambers’ floor, your knees bruising into stone, his hips fighting against the urge to buck up into the warmth of your mouth.

“It seems I owe my brother some gratitude,” the clink of metal, a belt tugged loose. Somewhere, beneath where your eyes dare stray from his hypnotic gaze, his free hand works himself free from the confines of his breeches. Shooting under your skirts and dragging them up the length of your legs as you lick one last time at his fingers, watching how they slip out your mouth and shine once again beneath the candlelight. Not a trace of Aegon remains, except for between your thighs. “He’s gotten you prepared for me, whether he be so aware or not.”

With one leg hooked around his waist and the layers of your gown bunched around your own, the prince pins you between the bookcase and a hard place, a hard thing, notching at your centre and reminding you of the pleasures of the flesh, the pleasures of Aemond’s flesh.

With one roll, then a second, and a third, of his hips, the prince’s cock sinks slowly inside your cunt. There is a small ache, a sensitivity left behind by Aegon’s earlier frantic motions over the edge of a table, the corner of it digging into the meat of your thigh over, and over, and over again with each uncoordinated thrust. The wince escapes you before you can even try to correct it. The prince stills, instantly, a hand cupping at your cheek and a kiss pressing against the tip of your nose.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he whispers. Gentle, earnest, reassuring. Tears well at your eyes again, you try to blink them away, and scold yourself for getting so wet in the eye, so often. A tear escapes you regardless, charting its own course down your cheek. Aemond catches it with the tip of his tongue, warm against the cold of your face. “Tell me, it will not cause me anger. Tell me if you do not want this.”

Memories of those same words, that same voice, the same body. But a different room, a different position, a different state of undress. Naked, denial, hesitation, then. Clothed, touching, anticipation, now. The prince, buried deep inside you physically, is still giving you the option of an end, of an exit, of pushing him away and repositioning your clothing and leaving, like nothing has ever happened.

It only serves to reaffirm what you do want.

Him. 

Somehow, the surety of this threatens a new wave of tears that you almost shed. You want to collapse into him, sink into the vessels of his arms, let yourself be lost to eternity within his hold. You want to tell him the truth, to tell him what Aegon had wanted of you in his letter, in his chambers, to tell him what Helaena had prophesied. The Stranger. The truth feels too complicated a thing, however, and the sin of lust is a more pleasurable subject to get lost within. You do not have much time, the prince would not wish to waste it on silly things, like feelings, and fears, and where your relationship with your husband stands.

The leg at his waist holds him closer, reaffirming your grip at the first sign of him stepping back. You don’t let him, won’t let him, “it’s fine. I’m fine. Please, don’t let me go.”

The prince proves he can listen well, no more questions falling from his lips, movement resuming in his hips. Slow, smooth, back and forth gyrations, a remedy to the dull ache below your womb, the lubrication of Aegon’s seed aiding in the slide of his cock within you.

A back that digs into the surface behind it, yet you ignore it in favour of the delightful thrill of Aemond working into you each time a little faster, a little harder, a little less restrained. A hand that finds cause amidst his Targaryen tresses, tangling in the locks as the prince’s forehead lays itself to rest upon your own. A set of mouths that hover inches apart, a single breath of air exchanged back and forth in sync with the rhythm of his thrusts.

Time. Time. You do not have much time.

But who is counting the seconds while the pair of you merge into one against the spines of books carrying the words of history? It is best it all be forgotten — the duty, the King, the announcement Aemond has promised his kin — in exchange for just another moment here, pressed one to the other, forgoing titles like Prince, and Queen, remembering only the shape of mouths, and the burn of skin.

The prince’s fingerprints carve out bruises along your thigh, gripping, and pulling, and kneading at the skin, a leverage to grasp onto as he continues to fuck into you. Sweat drips down your neck like wax drips down lit candles, disappearing beneath the lace atop your dress’ bodice and slipping between the valley of your breasts. Warm all over, you crave no refuge from it, from him, tugging him closer, arching your back, losing yourself in the feeling of friction. One foot still pressed to the floor, perching on your tip-toes, your composure buckles alongside your knee and, if not for Aemond’s fast-moving hands, quick-thinking mind, you would be moments away from crashing, elbow first, down to the floor.

Instead, you feel the prince hoist your leg around his waist, ankles locking behind his back with a reinforced grip as he takes on the weight of both your bodies. The effort he puts into fucking you manifests in a series of grunts, clenched teeth that hold back words, bite back filth.

One hand still tangled in his hair, the other stretches up, reaches behind you, scrambling to find purchase on a panel of wood from the bookcase. It finds, instead, the top of a book, slipping down its leather spine. The book falls, crashing to the ground near the one you had been reading with a great sound. A domino effect, in which two, three, four more heavy, bound by string and wrapped in leather, books fall from the shelves. Thud after thud, after thud, no doubt heard from anyone passing by.

The prince does not flee. If anything, he appears almost spurred on by the scandal and mess, a hand sliding from your waist to pull and bunch the layers of your dress higher, as if wishing to unveil to the naked eye the sins transpiring beneath the green of it, the repeated plunge of his manhood into your core, soaked in a vile mixture of your own pleasure and Aegon’s spend.

“This is what you wanted, hmm? What you needed, Lady Stark,” his voice is a whisper, his teeth biting at the lobe of your ear and pulling a shocked gasp from you. “To be filled by a man’s seed, the kind that knows how to get the job done. Not the King’s poor excuse. No. No, not Aegon’s. Mine.”

Time, and how little of it you both have, feels all the more unimportant, that familiar feeling — of everything warm, and soft, and delightful — begins to tighten at your loins, poking and proding at your dizzied conscious as you feel his cock bullying itself deeper, and deeper, impossibly deeper inside of you. The end is near, within your grasp, waiting for the right thrust, or the perfect grind, or the best friction, to finally let the thread snap.

A knock, loud and forceful, at the wooden doors to the library, is followed instantly by a voice. “Is someone in there?”

Movement stops, both of you frozen, bodies tangled in a crucifiable state.

The handle turns, you gasp, Aemond slaps a hand over your mouth. 

For a moment, you feel a weight fall off your shoulders, that ever-looming fear you have dragged along with you — a ball and chain attached to your heart, ever since your return to the capital  — that all your guilt sits written upon your face and, soon, someone will read it and see the treason you have committed, the adultery you have engaged in. For certain, they will have your head separated from the rest of you. Perhaps, the King will find enough grace in his heart to forgive his brother. After all, what blame does he truly possess? He is a man, unmarried and unburdened by the threat of a bastard’s life ever swelling within him. At the very least, you will die swiftly and be able to put all your lamenting to rest at last.

Then, the door fails to open and the prince’s voice is in your ear.

“I locked it. Do not worry.”

Mouth still covered, all you manage is to continue staring at him, eyes wide with fear, heart beating against the confines of your ribs. As if to worsen things, you watch as something flashes behind his eye, and he pulls his hips back only to thrust right back into you, the bookcase rattling softly behind you.

“Who goes there?” Aemond calls out, voice steady, unwavering. Even as he repeats the movement, the slow pull-back of his cock, the quick refilling of your core. “Announce your intentions to your prince.”

The golden handle goes still, a throat clears, and metal clinks, as if a knight were straightening his posture. “Forgive me, Prince Aemond, I did not mean to interrupt, I know how dedicated you are to your studies,” the voice is familiar, something that strikes deeper fear within you and more daring in Aemond’s features.

“Do you think he knows,” the prince croons against your skin, a sickly sweet, well-deep sound that entices you to throw yourself, head first, into it. The dull pleasure between your thighs is slowly rebuilding itself into something monstrous, something you lost sight of at the echo of knuckles on wood, with each thrust the prince drives into you. “Just how dedicated I am to studying you?”

“I was sent in pursuit of the queen,” the man at the door continues when he receives no word from Aemond. Your nails dig scratches into the bookcase. Your heart doubles, triples in speed with each beat it takes, yet you do not push Aemond away, you do not shake your head, you do not so much as move an inch away from him. Your ankles tighten their grip on one another at his back. “Have you seen her?”

Aemond nods, a cheeky grin taking shape upon those lips. As if staring right into your soul, the prince reads you effortlessly, watching as the seconds pass by and sanity slips surely out of your reach, the haze of lust fully overtaking the fear that fights against it.

Another book falls from the case. The man outside is too consumed by the sound of his own voice to notice. At least, you hope. “I’m her sworn shield, you see. Ser Arryk Carg-”

“Have you tried any of the guest chambers?” He cuts the knight off, confident in his words, as if he does not stand mere inches from your face, manhood buried to the hilt inside of you. “Perhaps Lady Stark grew tired of our Graces’ company and desired some much needed respite?”

With a rush of flustered agreements, and a couple of apologies, Ser Arryk clinks away, a mass of metal that grows further away with each step he takes. Not a moment too soon does he leave, for at last the tension snaps and you’re crying out into the prince’s palm, eyes rolling back into your skull as you reach your peak. He follows not long after, a series of grunts that follow the pistoning of his hips before he stills, as deep within you as either of your bodies allow, spilling himself inside your walls.

A few laboured breaths pass between the culmination of your coupling. Your feet meet the ground once more, the aid of Aemond’s hands guiding them down from their pedestal. Weak in the knees, you sink forward, sink into him, hands reaching for any inch of him. The prince meets you halfway, mouth finding your own once more, lips melting together in a fleeting kiss.

Time. You don’t have much time. 

“Aemond,” you whisper, half to grab his attention, half to savour the shape of his name on your tongue. Now is the time to tell him, even if it is rushed out amid heavy breathing and on shaky legs. He needs to hear of it from you, before the threat of Aegon grabs ahold of him, thrusts the news upon him off-guard. “Aemond, there is something you must know-”

He cuts you off, a chaste kiss against your forehead before hands shift your weight backwards, resting you against the bookcase. The same hands adjust the skirts of your dress.

“Turn left down the hall and up the first staircase you see. There you shall find some guest rooms,” he steps back and takes the warmth of him too, leaving goose-skin to bloom along your neck as cold air bites at sweaty skin. “You will need to move with haste, before your sworn shield reaches that wing of the castle.”

The door to the library shuts gently at his back, and there the prince leaves you, chest heaving, lips parted, heart racing. An ache blooming between your legs and the stain of his seed sliding down your thigh.

The very same state Aegon had left you in, hours earlier.

Never has the castle been so full of life.

The flicker of candlelight brightens every hall, painting shadows over slate walls. Voices of men, women, and children carry through the space, ring through every corner. It reminds him, momentarily, of hosting an army of soldiers, mind dragging him back to the dark days and darker nights lived within Harrenhall, echoes of haunted shrieks and unpleasant sleep, men huddling under the crumbling ceiling, mere leagues away from the charred bones of a House that no longer stands. Beneath the molten breath of a dragon, it truly does not matter what name a man wears, he will never be Strong enough to endure the skin-splitting, blood-boiling, eye-popping heat.

In truth, Aemond loathes the sudden company.

Moons now he has lived at peace, Lord to the island and Prince of Dragonstone, waiting idly for the day to come where his duty as heir at last calls upon him. But then he just had to go and open that damned letter, answer a call that never should have been laid at his feet, and fly out to the dusty lands of Dorne. The new warmth in the air to blame for all his impropriety, landing him tangled with you in his own muddied desires. Since then, the prince has known no peace: his bed now too quiet, his castle now too empty, his… you now too far away.

The restlessness is what drove him to act, hours spent with his nose thrust between the pages of books, wrist cramping and fingers aching as they wielded a quill, delicate swirls filling empty pages. When he ran out of things to read, and history to recount before sending it off in ravens to the maesters at Oldtown, he took to the courtyard, determined to make men out of squawking squires, so puppy-eyed and pink-cheeked, they seemed to have hardly lived a day away from their mothers’ teats. And when that became a bore, a lost cause he dumped back on the shoulders of the master of arms, the prince took to exploring. A lonesome activity, peaceful enough to find an emblem of rest for his soul in the echo of his own footsteps bouncing off cave walls. It was there, deep in the dark corners of the island, he stumbled upon a discovery, a reason to call upon the King, an excuse to see your face. After all, where the King goes, the Queen is expected to follow.

Were matters left in his hands, the only raven sent would have been the one flying out to King’s Landing. Unfortunately, the rational words of a maester had him agreeing that this was too momentous a thing to not include all those of his bloodline, no matter if that blood be thick or thin.

And here he now stands, seeking out that quiet his castle had lost the moment their ships all docked ashore. Falsely, he had believed he would find it hidden away in the hall that houses the throne of Dragonstone, away from the rapidly filling dining hall. The unwelcome sight of a crown sitting lopsided on a head of silver hair halts his step.

“Tread carefully, brother,” Aemond watches how the other man’s shoulders rise with a jump, startled by the sudden sound of his voice announcing his arrival. No guards stand nearby, no guests watch on. It is just them, the King and the Crown Prince, and the heavy presence of Dragonstone’s seat, currently being warmed beneath Aegon’s rump. “Your throne is in King’s Landing. That one belongs to your heir, to me.”

Propped upon his throne, the King swings both legs over its side. Aemond ponders over the man’s distasteful care for grace, an image that so wholly encapsulates his attitude towards ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and feels himself fighting off a frown. How can it be that the gods chose Aegon to man the task of carrying on the dragon empire?

He, a drunken fool, a boy more interested in spreading a whore’s legs than a book’s pages. He, a graceless soldier, a threat to his own safety each time he wields a blade. He, a useless husband, a leech draining the life out of a wolf-pup, locking her away in a kennel with not a lick of water nor a stroke of affection.

Aemond could recite the pages of every book, back to front.

Aemond could thrust his sword through the chest of his uncle with one hand, while the other steered Vhagar free from plummeting through the surface of the God’s Eye.

Aemond would keep the wolf at his heel — morning, noon, evening  — close by and content for eternity, free to roam beyond the four walls of a castle.

“Worry not, I just wanted to make sure you’re keeping the seat warm.” As if to make matters worse, Aegon gives him one of those smiles, the kind that flashes half of his teeth and accentuates how foolish he looks, unkempt hair swaying as he rises off the seat. The crown slides a little closer to the left, his ear caught beneath the band of it.

“The others are taking their seats at the table,” he shifts his weight, one foot to another, one hand clasped over the other behind his back — just like your ankles had been. The pommel of his sword pokes out the opening of his leather coat, pointing ahead at an approaching Aegon. Strapped to his side for nothing but purely decorative reasons, the younger brother suddenly feels the hackles rising in his neck, a need to unsheath the steel itching at his palms. No one would have to know, no one would see him hold a blade to the King’s neck. “And here you are, hiding away in a damp room, sitting in my seat, and-”

“A seat I gave you,” Aegon cuts in, a smug lilt lifting his words and delivering them harshly into Aemond’s ears. Where the younger of the two delivers accusations with the seriousness they deserve, the older brother has always thrown a blanket of humour over every argument, debasing the sentiment, luring his opponent into a false sense of safety.

“You have no child to call heir. As the eldest of your male siblings, I am next in line, by right. You have given me nothing.” Nothing but a dull ache in the head. 

That respite he had come searching for, now so out of reach. It has the prince longing, wishing he could travel back in time to being burrowed between the shelves of books and the warmth between your thighs. He should have stayed longer, kept the door locked and you close, for as long as you would allow him. 

But he had been spooked.

First by your sworn shield, a confirmation that your absence had been noted and the two of you were far away from the lack of watchful eyes of the Water Gardens. Then, by that look that came over your face, the words that left your mouth. Hesitance, vulnerability, shame. Aemond, there is something you must know. If this something was the reason for your shift in demeanour, he did not want to know. For once, he wanted to taste just how sweet ignorance could be.

A laugh pulls him back to the present.

A cackle, in truth. Shoulders shaking, cheeks wrinkling with the stretch of Aegon’s lips, eyes reflecting the dull flames that remain on the candles. The King paints an unsettling image, the mixture of lighthearted laughter lit beneath the growing darkness of the hall, the echoes of noise bouncing off the walls, swirling atop Aemond’s head like a murder of crows, each one waiting to spot something shiny to dive down and peck at.

An arm is thrown over his shoulder, five tight fingers clamping a grip on the back of his neck. Can you feel your wife’s fingerprints, singed into the skin you are touching? His brother fortunately cannot hear his inner thoughts, too busy bending himself at an awkward angle, his shorter stature struggling to turn the prince towards the door.

“Lighten up, brother!” With a clenched fist, Aegon delivers a weightless punch into his bicep, the hand at his neck squeezing him even closer, the King’s chest pressing into the prince’s elbow. Reluctantly, he follows in the footsteps of the elder, letting himself be led over and out of the hall. The door thuds shut at their backs, neither of them sparing at it. Out in the hallway, the world seems brighter, louder, a distant hum of chattering voices coming from the left. In sync, uncomfortably close, the pair move towards the noise. “Is the lack of whores in this decrepit place leaving your cock so lonesome you now see it as a weapon? Say the word and I’ll have your favourite madame shipped over. Or better yet, come home. We’ll visit the streets together, just like when we were boys.”

Boys. The word makes Aemond feel sick, empty stomach twisting up inside him. His older brother had never grown out of that mindset — boyish, foolish, reckless. At times, Aemond had wondered if the King had robbed him of his boyhood, kept those years for himself and left the younger nothing but the misery of being a man — grown, wise, calculated. 

Two sets of guards stand at either side of the double-doorway, swords hanging at their sides, armour fixed to each inch of skin, floor-length spears clenched in their right fists. One after the other, they bow their heads as the Targaryen men pass by them.

A table stands in the centre, set with the shiniest of tableware and topped by pitchers full of wines, meads, and baskets spilling fruits down their sides, and assortments of breads and cheeses. He counts a total of six birds, roasted and sitting on silver platters up the length of the table. In the very centre, an entire pig shines pink beneath the light, an apple clamped in its mouth and a bed of leaves cushioning it upon the platter. And, gathered around it all, any guest with a name worth mentioning.

Children, cousins, siblings, wives.

Martell, Hightower, Targaryen, Stark.

Across the room, standing at her husband’s side, with a stiff-lipped smile and a barely-there attempt at engaging with the woman dishing out congratulations, stands Rhaena Targaryen. Grown a head and a half taller since the cousins had last crossed paths all those years ago, sat around a table not so different from this one, her white curls cascade down the back of her black dress, denoted with the shine of red rubies and golden stitching. In a sea of Hightower green, she stands out like an aching thumb painted in colours of her dead queen. For her audacious bravery alone, Aemond feels a smirk twitch at the corner of his lips. It falters the moment you come into focus.

A vision wrapped in green, you stand before his cousin, smile a blinding light that pulls him into its vortex, numbing him to all else that surrounds him. The emerald gowns, the mustard robes, the golden chains, the auburn hairs, it all grows mute, a dull grey beside the colour you wear, possess, exude, a rainbow that strikes its mark across dark clouds.

Your lips are moving. You are talking, with both hands clasped at your front and fingers that fidget with the rings housed upon them. A pause in conversation, an exchange of laughter. There is an air of hesitance in everything you do, standing before Rhaena Targaryen and the small bump that protrudes out her midriff. The desire to swoop in by your side, to snake his hand into your own and give those nervous fingers a solid squeeze of reassurance, to watch the stress flood down the length of your spine and melt away to torment some other body, it burns at Aemond.

But, he does not move. He cannot move. And, even in a world where he can, he doubts his presence would do any good at diffusing the tension that swells in the air around his cousin. Quite the opposite, truly, his face alone may be what drives her to at last snap and drop the forced smiles.

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Aegon’s voice cuts in, and the room bursts back into colour. The hall grows loud, a renewed noise the prince had unknowingly blocked out the moment his eye found you. The same eye he drags away to look at his brother who has just caught him unapologetically staring at you like you are the only person in the hall. Humour still dances over his features, a daring grin spread upon his mouth as he glances between you and Aemond. “She’s even prettier on her back,” the hand at Aemond’s neck slips down, a sharp smack delivering itself upon it. “Maybe someday I’ll let you try her, brother, let you get a taste of how it feels to be king for the night, between her thighs.”

Visions of you, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, lips dropped open, burn behind Aemond’s eyelid with each blink. In the library, legs clinging to him, sweat slipping under your dress. On the bed, bare to his mouth, hands tugging him deeper by the hair. If that is what it feels to be king, he can die happily without ever knowing the weight of the Conqueror’s crown upon his head, because how could that possibly feel better?

“I was not aware you were so fond of her,” he finds himself retorting, stealing any excuse to look at you.

Helaena has reached your side, one arm linked with yours, and he can see how visibly relaxed you are in her presence, shoulders back down where they belong instead of pointing up to your ears.

“Perhaps I was not. But let’s say I’ve had a revelation of sorts.”

“Oh,” the sound escapes him dripping in… something. Envy, disappointment, confusion? He hates to give his brother any chance to pry into his own mind, if ever Aegon possessed the wits to do so, and finds himself clearing his throat, fixing his neutral expression back on, reopening his mouth. “And what would that revelation be exactly?”

Both you and Helaena part from where his cousin stands, arms still linked and eyes too caught up with one another to notice the way you both almost smack into two members of the Kingsguard, Giggling, like two young girls who share the biggest secret, you make your ways further down the length of the table, searching for the little cards that hold your names, mark your place along the table. He itches to follow after you both, to pull back your chair and offer it out to you. Maybe he could even lie, switch your card around with his brother’s to have you just that little bit closer.

“That I enjoy being king. And I want to continue being one, for as long as I like,” the reply has Aemond’s head snapping immediately back to his brother. No longer is he painted like a fool with humour, but something different. Something Aemond has never seen reflected on his features. Determination, it almost seems. “I do not want to just be king. I want to be good at it,” he continues speaking, head turning to where their grandfather stands, smiling politely back at you as he pulls out your chair. “And, if I want to be a good king, I need to be a good husband.”

Aemond wishes he never inquired about the revelation.

Is this what you had wanted to tell him? Is this what he must know? That no longer are you a pair split in two, but a union. A united force. A marriage. A good husband, and a good wife, and absolutely no one else in between. Had the only reason you had even gone to the library been to put an end to the madness transpiring between you and the prince? Aemond had given you an out, but had he given you enough time to truly think your answer through, before he put his hands on you once more?

“I do appreciate all the… kindness you have shown my wife,” your name curls over Aegon’s tongue and the sound is a poison to Aemond’s ears. Wrong, out of place, he does not deserve the grace of speaking such a pretty name. “Over the years, dancing with her at feasts, and even keeping her safe on that boat up north. I think I’ll do those things myself from now on, however, take that burden of mine off your shoulders.”

He wants to protest. Wants to say you are far from a burden. Wants to insist on his usefulness, on how he can keep you blissfully busy upon the ballroom floor while Aegon sneaks off to mess around with women of coin and drown in his cups. Wants to use Aegon’s own words against him, that a King should not waste his time travelling sea, or dirt, or anywhere else you may be, when he has the skies at his disposal. 

But his tongue is made of lead and he is too weak to speak, frozen as he watches you speak across the table to his mother. Suddenly, the fact that all but himself and the King have taken their seat strikes upon his conscience. That hand claps against his back again and, though it is weaker than the last, Aemond wavers under the impact, swaying slightly.

“Come, brother,” Aegon whispers, a chuckle sneaking out. “Let us sit. Your King is eager to hear what announcement you bring.”

Seventeen.

That is the number of times your eyes have betrayed you and turned to sneak a glance at him. 

He crests the top of the table, sitting by himself and staring down at his summoned guests. Power suits him, especially the kind that rolls off him in waves, pride in his eye at the way everyone is looking at him, hanging on to every last one of his words, patient anticipation for the why and the what of Aemond’s ravens. He is close. Close enough you can swell the spiced freshness you have come to recognize on his skin. All that sits between you and the prince is Aegon.

Aegon, who currently has a mouthful of pork and a hand resting, possessive, at the back of your chair. It is a distracting fact. One that robs you of the ability to pay Helaena and your good-mother the attention they deserve, only half hearing their exchanges of mutual flattery, complimentary words on dresses, and hairs, and smoothness of skins. Every so often, a young girl tugs at Helaena’s sleeve, seeking her mother’s help with cutting the food on her plate.

Otto Hightower sits across from your husband, engrossed in conversation with his three grandsons and Ser Criston, who you barely recognize out of his armour. The hand’s pendant sits pinned to the leather jerkin he doubtlessly has borrowed.

Further down the table, guests sit entranced in their own bubbles of conversation, a hollow chatter that buzzes throughout the room. The table is no longer the picture of perfection it once had been, platters of half eaten carcasses, and stains of spilled wine, and sparse grape vines housed in empty fruit-bowls.

All it takes is the clink of a knife against a glass for the bubble to burst.

Silence befalls the table as every head turns towards Aemond, expectantly, only to find him frozen and with equal question in his eye. Down the other end of the table, someone clears their throat, a chair scrapes back, and Rhaena Targaryen stands up.

Her lips are stretched wide, so far up her cheeks you can almost hear the way her skin cracks under the pressure of it. You half expect the corners of her mouth to split open. She reaches a hand down towards the table and, where you think she is going to grab at her goblet, she reaches for an empty plate and a fork.

“Pardon my intrusion,” she calls out with not a hint of apology, smug satisfaction candying her voice. All eyes follow as she steps away from her seat, yet none seem as panicked as those of her husband, who borders somewhere between scolding her and dashing after her. He remains seated, however, as the Targaryen girl travels slowly up the length of the table, plate and fork gripped tightly in her hands. “But I cannot sit still with the joy this all brings me.”

Eighteen times now.

To unsuspecting eyes, you are certain the prince appears unbothered, unshaken. The way his finger twitches over the wood beneath it tells you a different tale.

It would be so easy to reach out and intertwine your hands. Just a simple stretch of your arm, you would not even have to scoot your chair closer. If only your husband were not between you, a boulder in the shape of a man unbothered by his cousin’s display, shovelling up another mouthful of food.

“To sit here, at this table, surrounded by so much… family,” Rhaena continues her advance, coming to a halt halfway up the table. Turning her attention towards the glistening pig — or, better said, what remains of it. With no apology, she squeezes a space for herself between two seated bodies, the subtle swell of her expectant womb bumping at the shoulder of a woman you scarcely recognise — a hightower, no doubt about it, wrapped in green and the emblem of their house denoted across her left breast. “Such a beautiful site we all make. Why, I wonder, has it taken us so long to gather like this?” She pauses, only a moment, and you watch how her piercing gaze zeroes in on the man who sits at the head of the table. “Ah, that’s right. The last family feast ended in fisticuffs and.. Strong accusations. But we were just children back then, weren’t we, cousins? We have grown. I do hope so, at least. It would be such a shame to learn there is still someone among us who cannot take a mere… Joke!”

A stomach-turning noise fills the hall as you watch Rhaena stab her fork into the pig’s eye.

The left eye.

Nineteen times. Aemond’s jaw sits impossibly clenched, so much that you fear for the survival of his teeth.

Back by the pig, Rhaena raises her fork to the air in a sickening toast, eye secure in its prongs as she smiles a little wider and loudly proclaims, “To House Targaryen! Long may she reign!”

Heads shift, back and forth, no hands moving for their cups until the King himself does so, laughter bubbling out of him followed by an obnoxious, “Hear, hear!” Within an instant, glasses rise and heads tilt back, welcoming the burn of wine down their throats.

Twenty, and you see that even Aemond follows suit, though his eye remains glued on Rhaena’s back as she carries herself triumphantly to her chair.

No sooner than she scrapes herself back into place, another clink rings out. Once again, all heads turn to the prince and, once again, he greets them with his own confusion. Close by, it is Daeron who’s legs stretch to a stand, hand clasping at a goblet. 

With a clearing of his throat, the youngest of the siblings commences. “I hesitated on whether I wished to deliver this news at the table, however, cousin, you have inspired me.” Ever the polite man, it would not be hard to take his words towards Rhaena as true, as honest, as appreciative. The fierce loyalty that exists for his Green family, on the contrary, has you believing it is nothing but a means for peace at the table. “After the many happy years I have spent living in Oldtown, I have decided it is time I take my leave. It is time I return home,” he pauses, glancing over at his mother. “To King’s Landing. And, if the King finds place for me, I would like to do so as a knight of the Kingsguard, under the command of the very man who taught me to wield my first blade, Ser Criston Cole.”

Without a pause for silence, Aegon is shooting out of his chair and rounding the table, pulling his brother into his side and clapping a hand over his chest, “I’m sure I’ll find a space for you! Seven hells, we can hang one of the other six and have his armour melted down and reworked to fit you. Can’t we, Ser Criston? Pick amongst yourselves, whoever’s the weakest link.” There’s an eruption of laughter, and you take it as an excuse to sneak a twenty-first look. The doubt on his face matches your own, a worry that the poor fools at the table think the King speaks in jest.

Cups raised, wine sipped, seats refilled. Aegon returns to your side a ball of energy, hands fidgeting without control. First, one lands on your thigh closest to him and clamps down on the meat of it. The same hand shoots up, fingertips brushing over your cheek, tangling in a loose thread of hair and tucking it behind your ear, pulling a little tighter than you think he intends. At last, he returns it to the spot behind your chair, fingers drumming a nervous energy into the carved wood, and a third knife meets a glass.

This time, it is Aemond, and you have your twenty-second chance to look at him.

And keep looking at him, just like everyone else is, eager ears awaiting to hear what brings them all to the island. 

“I will not waste your time with unnecessary words,” but you wish he would, if only to listen to the soothing lullaby of his voice enough to memorise it a little better, refine how your sleeping mind tries replicate it when you are drowning in the waters of dreams and his is the only face you want to conjure by your side. “I have already taken enough of your time, dragging you all out here.”

Pause for laughter. And for him to shoot a pointed look down the table at his cousin and her plate-full of pig’s eye. See, he seems to be saying, I can joke. 

“It is no lie that our house is half of what it used to be. War is a god, however, and it demands a sacrifice in the shape of death. The dragons we lost are not a stain on our hands, but all of those who dared mount them with treacherous intentions.”

No sound has ever haunted you as deeply as the screech of a dying dragon.

It is a memory you do best to suppress, the screech of Helaena’s she-dragon struggling to escape her attackers, horrific shrieks carried from the Dragon Pit all the way up to your window at the Keep. The momentary burst of freedom, the flash of Dreamfyre rising out the crumbling roof of the Pit, only to crash back down in one final scream, the city turning silent moments after. Your good-sister had been inconsolable for days, a mess of tears, that bond between princess and beast lost forever to the rioting of smallfolk.

“But, we can rebuild what they took from us. That is what I wish to show you all,” Aemond continues. He nods his head towards a serving wench and, with a screech, the doors of the hall open, making way for two men, a heavy chest carried between them, and a man carrying the chain of a maester around his neck. The chest travels up the hall, all the way to the prince’s side, before coming to a rest gently on the floor. With ease, he twists a key, tugs off the lock, and throws the lid open, hands disappearing within. When they emerge, it is with an oval shaped rock in each one. No, not rocks. Eggs. 

The maester at Aemond’s side holds out two more eggs. Each a different colour of scaly, rough surface. There is a golden one that reminds you of Sunfyre’s own scales. A black one that, as Aemond turns it in the light, undertones of a dark green shine through, and a pale lilac egg that appears near white. The most striking of the four — and the one you feel your eyes drawn to the moment it is unveiled — a bright, sapphire blue colour.

“A clutch of four,” he says, a look of pride on his face as he stares out at expressions of amazement. “I found them in the depths of the caves. Our maester has already confirmed to me they show promise of hatching, with time and patience. We will have a new generation of dragons.”

The first to move is Alicent, who rises out of her chair, hands clasped over her heart as she makes her way over to her son. Careful of the eggs in his hands, she wraps herself around his slim waist. “Aemond,” she speaks so softly, you doubt the other end of the table hears her. Hesitant fingers reach out, halting, only to let themselves brush down the length of the golden egg at the prince’s insistence. “This is wonderful news! You have… Oh, my sweet boy, you have saved us, ensuring the future of your house.”

Those words are enough to send the room into a ruckus of applause. Voices cheer, hands bang down on the table, cups are toasted and emptied. But you pay them no mind, not even a single glance over your shoulder.

All you care to look at is Aemond, and the earnest smile that takes over his face. Happiness looks good on him. It warms the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks, the length of his neck, a rosy hue blooming beneath porcelain skin. He deserves to look like this all the time, radiant beneath the spotlight of people’s praise, the validation of being recognised for the things he does on behalf of his family. The rug is ripped from beneath his feet, however, with the clearing of a throat and a fourth clang of a knife.

Celebrations cease and chairs are refilled as their king comes to a stand.

“I’ve never been one for speeches. In truth, I find them to be a bore,” Aegon laughs at his own honesty, and the others are quick to follow. “But, listening to you all, well, it inspired me to give it a try. First, I want to thank all of you in this room. It’s no secret the trials and tribulations that have tested our family since my coronation. You, who fought for my claim, are the true heroes of our realm, and your king is proud of you all. If only my father were still here, I’m sure he’d feel the same, pride for those who defended the heir he chose with his dying breath,” a choked back laugh echos from down the table as Rhaena saws her steak knife through the eye. “If any doubt still remains towards my claim, I believe my dear brother’s discovery is a sign from the gods, the gift of more dragons. And, for that, I thank you, Aemond.”

“It is I who must thank you, brother,” the prince interrupts, eye looking just past where the King stands, cup in hand, and at where you sit, hand tugging at your husband’s sleeve and an unspoken pleading furrowing your brows. It seems I owe my brother some gratitude, Aemond’s voice replays in your mind, so real you can almost feel the shelves at your back, the smell of dust and books in the air, the sound of Ser Arryk knocking at the door. “For naming me as your heir and gifting me Dragonstone.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, brother. These dragon eggs are the dawn of a new era for us all, one of prosperity,” heads that nod in sync, radiant joy still beaming from Alicent’s face. The smile on Aemond’s face, however, is gone, stolen by Aegon. “But they are not the only gift the gods have favoured my reign with.”

The urge to drag your husband back down into his seat spikes at those words. You want to shovel food into his mouth, fill his stomach with wine, sew his lip shut. Anything, before he says something foolish, something he should not.

But as you tug harsher at the sleeve of his doublet, the King misunderstands. He turns to you, fingers twisting themselves in an uncomfortable grip with your own and pulling you to stand at his side, that same hand curling around your back and holding you tight against him.

“Apologies, it seems my wife wants to help me do the honours,” you shake your head, shooting Aegon a look he does not even notice, too busy smiling out at the table full of his family. Too busy pulling you that little closer, both of your sides smushed together. Too busy smoothing the hand that still houses his glass down the golden embroidery of your dress, an honour to his own dragon. Too busy bringing his hand to a stop atop your lower stomach, knuckles brushing against the green velvet. “After many years of marriage, the gods have at last blessed my wife’s womb with a child of our own. A new heir.”

If anyone cheers, if anyone raises their glass alongside the King, if anyone congratulates you, you do not hear them. You do not see them.

All you see is Aemond, frozen in his chair, face a mirror for anger, and white-knuckling his grip on his chalice, refusing to drink, refusing to toast.

Refusing to look anywhere else but your sorry eyes.

You send a letter, the eve of your return. 

I did not wish for you to find out like that, from him. You must believe me. 

By morning, no reply arrives. By noon, no reply arrives. By evening, no reply arrives. As a day turns to two, and two turns into a moon, no reply arrives.

The ravens no longer perch upon your window.

+ extra hyde !

this week, a new bombshell has entered the villa! so aegon bestie is trying to be a better king/husband. how are we feeling about that, chat? definitely don't see this being a point of contention.

in completely unrelated news, rumour has it that taste by sabrina carpenter can be heard on dragonstone at full volume, on repeat, 24/7. sources say the noise is coming from prince aemond targaryen's room.

my irl bestie is reading this fic on ao3 & now i'm so hyperaware of any smut i write. hopefully, i rectify my own apprehension towards writing the filth these two deserve in time for next chapter, because they're supposed to fuck, no more of the silly couplings they've done so far. thankfully my bestie and i are long distance right now so i won't have to look her in a the eye for a while.

see you next month <3

[k-nayee]

Ghost Town BNHA

wc: 2.8k a/n: Song Inspiration: Ghost Town by Benson Boone; recommend you listen while reading!!

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You fill me up 'til you're empty...

The late afternoon sun casted a warmth over school grounds as you chatted with  Uraraka and Midoriya.

It was nice as the three of you walked together; even the greenette, who usually had a hard time speaking to girls, laughed along with your teasing comments.

Bakugo stood a little ways off, watching. His crimson eyes were sharp with a certain tension in his expression that hadn’t been there earlier that day.

Normally he would’ve made some snide comment by now, especially seeing you standing so close to the timid boy.

But today, Bakugo wasn’t himself.

He approached you in deliberate strides, his jaw set. You noticed the way his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, almost as if he was holding himself back.

As he neared, you felt a flicker of something—nervousness? Excitement?—you couldn’t quite place it. Bakugo always had a way of stirring something inside you, no matter the circumstance.

“Oi,” he barked, voice unusually serious. “We need to talk.”

I took too much and you let me...

Conversation around you fizzled as Uraraka and Midoriya exchanged confused glances. You, too, blinked in surprise. Normally, Bakugo wasn’t this direct—not with you, anyway.

He was blunt, sure, but not like this. There was a hardness to his tone, an edge that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You smiled, trying to keep things light. “What’s up, Katsuki?”

He didn’t respond, his eyes flickering to the duo. You take the hint and turn to the pair, giving them a quick wave. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

As your friends walked away the air between you and Bakugo thickened. He turned abruptly, heading toward the school building without a word, leaving you no choice but to follow.

When you reached an empty classroom, you slip inside, Bakugo shutting the door behind with a soft click. The familiar scent of chalk and old textbooks filled the space, but it did nothing to ease the growing tension.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there with his hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. His usual gruffness was gone—replaced by something much colder, much more distant.

We’ve been down all these roads before...

You watched him, waiting, hoping that he would explain whatever was weighing him down.

“Katsuki?” you step closer, voice soft. You offer him a bright smile, the kind that usually softened his rough edges.

But today, it didn’t reach him. He barely looked at you.

A sinking feeling began to settle in your chest. “Is something wrong?”

The silence hung between you like a heavy curtain. You reached out, your fingers just grazing his sleev—

“I want to break up.”

And what we found don’t live there anymore...

You took a step back, feeling as if his words had physically struck you. Your heart pounded in your chest until it echoed in your ears, drowning out the silence that had fallen between you.

“…What?” The word barely escaped your lips, a fragile whisper as your mind struggled to comprehend what he’d just said.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, and for a fleeting moment, his crimson eyes met yours. He stiffened at the sight of you—vulnerable, confused.

Your brows furrowed in pain, your lips pressed together in an attempt to hold back the hurt. Seeing you like this made something inside him twist sharply.

But just as quickly, he tore his gaze away, refusing to let you see the storm raging inside him. 

“This,” he said, gesturing between the two of you with a sharp wave of his hand, “only happened out of obligation.”

Obligation...

The word hit you harder than the breakup itself.

He continued, his tone bitter.  “You know how the old hag was. Always on my ass, hounding me to give you a chance.”

It's dark...

Your mind reeled. You met Bakugo in middle school and from that moment you’d been drawn to him.

He was rough and brash with a fire that burned everything he did, and that only made you more determined to get close to him.

Your crush had been obvious, but you never shied away from it. You pursued him with a confidence that even now looking back you admired.

And yes, Bakugo had been difficult—dishing out the usual sharp remarks, disrespect dripping from every word. But still, you never backed down.

You tolerated it—not out of weakness, but because you refused to be intimidated by him.

You met his fire with your own; challenging him and pushing back, not afraid to give him the same energy he threw at the world.

It's cold...

At first you were just an affectionate annoyance to him. Always hanging around, always inserting yourself into his space. But with time, you grew on him—though he’d never admit it.

You became a part of his life, slipping past the walls he put up around everyone. He never asked for it, but he came to expect your presence—to crave it in ways he didn’t understand.

And now, standing in this empty classroom you could barely recognize him.

For a moment your voice felt lost. The Bakugo in front of you—saying these words and shutting himself off—was a stranger.

Something inside you knew he was lying. He had to be.

“…You’re lying.” Your voice came out weak, trembling.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Your words hung in the air fragile, and you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

But you knew Bakugo. He was a lot of things—angry, hotheaded, unpredictable—but he wasn’t a liar. Not to you.

If my hand is not the one you're meant to hold...

You searched his face for any hint of truth, any crack in his exterior. But his expression was hard, closed off in a way you hadn’t seen in so long.

“I’m not, and you know it!” His voice was sharp, louder than before with anger lacing every word.

His lips press into a thin line as his teeth into the flesh to keep the words trapped inside—the sorrys, the desperate apologies. Taking one last look at your face, he turns away with a scoff.

His chest tightened as he try to hold back the wave of guilt that threatened to swallow him whole.

But he couldn’t let it out. If he did, it’d be over. He wouldn’t be able to do this.

Wouldn’t be able to let you go.

"You are!" Your voice cut through the silence more sure this time. He could hear the determined steps you took toward him, the confidence in your voice making it even harder to breathe.

You were close now, close enough that he could feel your warmth even though he kept his back to you. He didn’t dare turn around.

"Tell me you don’t love me if you’re serious." You dared him, forcing him to confront the truth you already knew. "Because the Katsuki I know will tell me the truth, because he isn’t afraid of the consequences."

You know I'll stay don't you tempt me...

The words echoed in his mind, bouncing off the walls he had built around himself. And for a second, just a second, Bakugo faltered.

His resolve wavered at the sound of your belief in him—a belief he didn’t deserve, not after everything he was about to do.

Your confidence made his head spin, made the words in his throat turn to ash.

But no matter how much your voice reached out to him the doubt gnawed at him. The weight of every fear and insecurity clawing at the edges of his mind.

Do it, the voice whispered. You don’t deserve her. She deserves better, someone who can give her the kind of love you can’t.

The voice grew louder, drowning out everything else. They took root in his mind; poisoning every thought and emotion until all he could feel was the crushing weight of his own incompetence.

But all this weight is getting heavy...

"You want the truth?” Before he could stop himself the words ripped from his throat.

Turning around to face you with a vicious glare, his voice was laced with venom. “I can’t keep letting an extra like you drag me down!"

The second the words left his mouth the air between you seemed to freeze. Your footsteps, even the sound of your breathing—it all stopped.

The world felt like it had come to a standstill.

Bakugo's heart hammered in his chest as he forced himself to keep going. "You're not even in the hero course!"

Though meant to hurt and push you away, as soon as they left his mouth, he felt a sickening twist in his gut. Still he couldn’t stop. He had to finish this.

“Keep following me around like a pathetic dog. I will be Number One, and I refuse to have any baggage slowing me down!" His voice rose, louder and harsher than he meant.

Every syllable spoken was coated in venom, cutting deeper and deeper with each passing second. And then—silence.

Been holding up what wasn't meant to stand...

No words. No movement. Just...nothing.

Bakugo grit his teeth, jaw tight as he waited—waited for you to scream, to lash out, to fight back like you always did. But nothing came.

The silence stretched on, wrapping around him like chains, pulling him down deeper into the pit he had dug for himself.

Then, came the sound of your sniffles. Soft and faint, the sound of your heart breaking. For years, you always worried that you weren’t good enough for Bakugo.

You didn’t have the flashy, powerful quirk that the others did. Hell, you weren’t even in the hero course! You were just a simple General Studies student.

That insecurity had haunted you for as long as you could remember. It always lingered in the back of your mind, whispering doubts whenever you saw Bakugo training, pushing himself harder than anyone else.

And it had only gotten worse when you started dating him. You couldn’t help but wonder if people looked at you and thought, How could someone like her ever deserve him?

I turned this love into a wasteland...

But Bakugo had always been there to shut those thoughts down. Harshly. Brutally. He never let you get away with doubting yourself, always snapping at you for thinking so low of yourself.

His scolding had been tough, unrelenting, but it was his way of caring—his way of showing you that he believed in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.

And now...he was throwing all of that in your face.

His words cut deeper than you ever thought they could. He was attacking the very thing he had always defended you against.

The thing he had never let you believe about yourself. You weren’t in the hero course. You didn’t have a strong quirk. You weren’t like him.

Maybe you never would be.

The weight of his words pressed down on you, making your chest tight and throat constrict. You were so overwhelmed, so hurt, that you didn’t even notice one crucial thing.

He never said it.

Bakugo never said, “I don’t love you.”

But in your frantic state, your mind couldn’t latch onto that detail. Instead, it spiraled; twisting in on itself, unraveling every belief you’d ever held about his love for you.

Before I turn your heart into a ghost town...

Was everything he ever told you a lie? Was this how he truly felt all along?

'Was I just fooling myself this whole time?'

The thoughts came at you fast like a storm. Everything you thought was real—every tender moment, every quiet confession, every time Bakugo had pulled you close, even if he didn’t say the words outright—it all felt like it was shattering into pieces in front of you.

It was all too much. You couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t be here in this moment.

Not with him, not with those venomous words still hanging in the air between you.

Your vision blurred and you could feel your heart pounding wildly in your chest, threatening to tear you apart from the inside.

Panic set in. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. Every part of you screamed to get out, to run, to escape.

'I can’t let him see me like this. I can’t...'

Before you knew it your hand was on the door, slamming it open with a force that rattled the frame.

Show me everything we built so I can tear it all down...

The sound echoed through the empty halls as you bolted, your sobs finally breaking free from your lips.

The world outside the classroom was a blur. Your tears streamed freely now, hot and stinging against your cheeks. You didn’t care who saw you.

You just needed to get away, to be anywhere but here. Suddenly, your shoulder slammed into something—someone—knocking you off balance.

You gasped, the impact jarring you out of your spiral for a split second.

Your eyes barely registered the green hair before you stammered out a tearful, jumbled, "S-sorry!" Your voice cracked by the sobs that you couldn’t control.

Down...

Down, down, down...

Izuku stumbled back wide-eyed in shock, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But before he could ask what was wrong, you were already gone.

His fingers brushed the air where you had just been, mouth opened as if to call after you, but the words never came.

He watched helplessly as you disappeared down the hallway, your sobs echoing behind you like the remnants of a broken heart.

His hand hovered in the air for a moment longer, his brows furrowing in concern. “Wha...?”

His gaze flickered to where you had come from, the half-open door to the classroom still swinging slightly from your frantic exit.

What the hell just happened?

With a sinking feeling in his chest Izuku slowly approached the classroom door. Peering through the half-open door, he froze.

Tear it all down...

Inside the empty classroom stood Bakugo. The blonde had his back to the door as stared out the window.

Izuku had known Bakugo for a long time. He’d seen him angry, frustrated, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. But this...this was different.

This time he was silent. Completely and utterly still.

“Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice was hesitant, quiet, as if he were afraid to break the silence.

Not receiving an answer, the freckled greenette took a cautious step into the room, one foot out just in case he needed to make a quick escape. “Why was ____ crying? Is everything al—”

“Izuku.”

Izuku’s words died in his throat as his eyes widened in shock. His name. Bakugo never called him by his real name. Ever.

Not unless something was really, really wrong.

Down...

“Y-Yeah?” Izuku stammered. He took another step forward, but he froze again when Bakugo finally turned around.

Heart-broken, teary vermillion eyes are the first thing he sees.

His face was twisted, lips trembling as if he were desperately trying to hold everything in. The raw emotion on his face—the vulnerability—was something Izuku had never seen before.

It was like looking at a stranger.

“Kacchan...” Izuku’s voice was barely a whisper. For a long moment, the two boys just stood there staring at each other in silence.

Izuku was in disbelief at the sight of Bakugo. His childhood friend, his rival, the one person he had always thought was untouchable—completely crumbling before him.

But the more time passed, the more Bakugo’s carefully constructed façade began to shatter. And then, with a strangled yell Bakugo folded in on himself.

His body shook violently as he hunched forward, arms wrapping around his middle as if he could physically hold himself together.

But it was no use. The dam had broken.

Down, down, down...

Izuku’s heart lurched in his chest, legs moving before his brain could even process what was happening. He rushed forward, catching Bakugo just as the blonde collapsed from the weight of his own emotions.

“K-Kacchan—Bakugo!” Izuku’s voice was panicked, his arms holding the teen to steady him, though he barely knew what to do. “What’s going on? What happened?”

Bakugo wasn’t supposed to break like this. He wasn’t supposed to fall apart. He was strong. Stronger than anyone.

And yet, here he was: trembling violently, sobbing uncontrollably in Izuku’s arms.

“I… I had to…” Bakugo choked out between gasping, shuddering breaths. His voice was barely recognizable, thick with pain and regret.

His hands clutched desperately at Izuku’s arms, as if they were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I had to do it… I had to…”

Izuku tightened his grip, his mind racing as he tried to process what Bakugo was saying. “Had to? Had to do what?” he asked, his voice shaking as he looked down at Bakugo’s tear-streaked face, alarm written all over his features.

He’d never seen Bakugo like this—no one did.

Bakugo’s head fell forward, his messy blond hair shadowing his eyes as he gripped Izuku’s arms harder. “I had to let her go,” Bakugo rasped, his voice breaking as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks.

“...I had to.”

I'll tear it all down...

[satorusluvrgirl]

VOLLEYBALL STAR BOYFRIEND! KAGEYAMA TOBIO (head cannon)

synopsis: in which your dating the most famous volleyball player on the schweiden adlers.

warnings!: time skip kageyama, female anatomy, college student reader, nsfw, sfw, phone sex, oral (m receiving), creampies, p in v, dirty thoughts, slapping, spanking, public sex, angst, fluff, pet nicknames (like baby, doll, pretty girl, and good girl)

SFW!

volleyball star boyfriend!kageyama who loves when you come to his games, especially since he gets to see you in his jersey.

volleyball star boyfriend!kageyama who loves to meet up with you during breaks so he could kiss you and tell you how grateful he is that your watching him play.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who comes home from a long practice, wrapping his arms around your waist as you cook him his favorite meal. whispering in his ear how much he missed you.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who takes you on fancy dates when you score good on your exams for college

volleyball boyfriend! kageyama when he’s being asked about his relationship, he rolls his eyes and says “that’s none of your business.”

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who gets teased by his teammates about you.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who picks you up from college and opens the door for you, he loves seeing you in his BMW.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who pays for your clothes, meals, bills, and college tuition. he doesn’t like when you spend a single dime. even if it’s just ice cream.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who holds you close when walking to stores because there’s is a lot of paparazzi taking pictures. he had to break one of their cameras since they were getting to close to you.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who has his lock screen page as you and him kissing on your guys first date.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who gets grumpy if you don’t give him his morning kisses.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who loves taking naps with you throughout the day when you had a stressful day at college or when he loses a game.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who is always watching you from a far when attending volleyball get togethers with other teams because your wearing a sexy dress to tease him

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who loves when you wear sundresses especially the ones that show your cleavage a lot.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who hates when you guys fight so he closes the jars tightly and places things you would need high up on the shelf’s, so you can call him over for help.

NSFW!

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who gets so horny when he has to travel away for games so he calls you and ends up having phone sex.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who loves when you give him head, he loves to see your eyes with tears as you gag on his cock. calling you a “good fucking slut”.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who hates when you flirt with his friends on purpose, so he takes you home and starts fucking your guts, putting your head into the pillow, whispering, “can they fuck you like this huh? they can never make you f-feel this good.. h-hm?”

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who loves when you wear dresses around the house so he can easily slip in his cock when your off guard doing something.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who fucks you in the in the locker room when his teammates leave, him holding you against the lockers as he thrust in you, whimpers and moans coming out of your mouth. poor you, he always has to cover that mouth of yours. “be quiet, doll. your gonna get us caught”

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who comes home after a loss and starts immediately fucking you, he takes his anger out on you by picking up his pace and bullying his cock deep in you, hitting all your spots, letting whining moans out as you place your hand on his forearm. but he just forces your hand down on the sheets.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who makes up after an argument by kissing your neck, his hands down your clit rubbing it in circular motions for you to calm down. “cmon doll, let me make it up to you.. yeah?”

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who grips on your thighs when eating you out. he holds onto them like if your going to run anywhere, leaving marks on your thighs. he really loves them so much he kisses the marks he left, caressing them with his thumbs. “i love these thighs”.. he whispers between kisses.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who punishes you when getting a bad grade on your test. he bends you over his lap and spanks your ass for how many questions you got wrong on the test, making you count each spank. “ah, this is what you get baby, you should’ve studied” he cooed in your ear.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who loves when you cream around his cock, he fell in love with the sight that he always made you cream around him before he cums in you.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who slaps you when your being to loud. he loves when your vocal but can’t stand when your being way to loud and whiny so he needs to shut you up. “I told you not to be fucking loud, doll” SLAP.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who is always looking at your boobs when working out and doing cardio on the treadmill. his lewd thoughts always getting the best of him as he feels his cock rising but quickly grabs it and looks away from you.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who calls you a pretty girl when having sex in missionary. seeing all your faces in pleasure, especially when you look up at him and deep into his eyes. “such a pretty girl making those pretty faces f’me” he whispered in your ear as his balls are slapping against your ass.

volleyball star boyfriend! kageyama who always says I love you after having sex. he feels like the won the lottery with you and always wants to make you feel loved especially after being such a good girl for him. “thank you, baby. I love you so much. you were such a good girl f’me” he said breathlessly.

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