#and its perfect for old man jokes

[cao-tick]

There is two side of the philever fandom:

The "Genius Forever and Old Man Phil"

And

The "Hardcore Philza and Silly [yandere] wet cat"

[The poly fans are here too /patpat]

AND THEN WE ALL UNITED FOR THE GREATEST "They are two great dads watching the sunset"

Forevers character is so funny. Competent, rich, genious man, who is cracked at the craft and cares deeply for his family. He uses his huge brain to protect the eggs at all costs. He is thoughtful, determined and consistent in his goals.

Enter Phil. A random gremlin of a man who happens to look like someone Forever knows.

Proceed to reduce Forever to a complete idiot. This man is now feral for one thing only - the love of a man whos only traits are violence on sight and boosh boosh.

[mr-kriiingle]

op why did you have to turn off the reblogs for the on the scale of 1 to 10 how homophobic is ur dad poll......

[crushpunky]

drew and actress!readers on hot ones

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

this is based partially off of the new hot ones interview with the obx cast. just imagine drew and actress!reader are on opposite teams rather than drew being the question person lol. yall really seemed to like the last interview-fic i did so voila <3

“I’m already sweating.” Madison said, fanning herself as they filed into the studio. Lights and a white backdrop surrounded a table covered with wings, four chairs on each side. They’d already been briefed on how things were going to go, the eight of them divided into two teams and answering questions, their answers deciding whether or not they’d be subjected to one of the very hot wings laid out in front of them.

Drew came up behind y/n, pulling out her chair for her before heading to his own seat opposite her. She smiled at him, soothing her dress down as the rest of the cast sat down. Madelyn, Rudy, and Carlacia took seats on her team whereas Drew sat with Chase, Madison, and JD opposite them.

“You better not be expecting me to go easy on you, Starkey.” Y/n grinned, resting her chin in her hands as she looked at the man across from her, his eyes crinkling as a smile crept across his face.

“You better not be expecting me to go easy on you, my love.” Drew raised his eyebrows teasingly.

“Ok, are we ready?” One of the producers asked, to which the cast responded with excited (or perhaps anxious) cheers. The camera focused in on Chase, who reached and spun the bottle of hot sauce sitting in front of them, the ultimate decider of which team would go first. It spun for a moment before landing on Madelyn, her teammates erupting with hollers as Chases picked up one of the cards.

“Alright, Mr. Rudy,” Chase smiled cheekily. “Outer Banks has hooked viewers with its countless twists and turns, however, name one storyline you think should’ve never made it out of the writers room.”

Everyone let out some groans and giggles as Rudy began to lose himself in thought… and continued and continued to think.

“Is there a time limit on these?” JD quipped, causing Rudy to roll his eyes, stroking his chin in playful contemplation.

“This is off to a great start.” Y/n said, elbowing Rudy lightly.

“Ok, ok!” Rudy said. “I’d say… I wish they didn’t switch to the second treasure so fast. They should’ve stuck at the first treasure longer.”

“That sounds like an answer to me!” Carlacia clapped as the team opposite them picked up their wings with a groan. They each took a bite, chewing for a second before they all reached for the drinks in front of them.

“Shit.” Drew swore as he took a long sip of milk, his cheeks already beginning to flush a bright red.

“Don’t worry there’s more where that came from.” Y/n grinned as Drew shook his head. Y/n reached in front of her, grabbing another one of the question cards.

“Oh, JD,” Y/n read in a sing-song voice, “Outer Banks centers around a group of teenagers, but our cast ranges from 24 to 33 years old. Which of your costars is the least convincing teenager?”

The table erupted into “oohs” as JD surveyed his co-stars, a nervous grin on his face before his gaze landed on Chase.

“I think I have to say Mr Chase Stokes.” JD chuckled.

“Is it because of the beard?” Chase teased as y/n and her team picked up the wings in front of them. With a deep breath, y/n took a bite, her mouth immediately bursting with heat. With a groan, she reached for the ice water in front of her, hoping to soothe the fire in her throat as her eyes began to water.

“No more jokes, baby?” Drew asked as y/n fanned herself off with her hand. Y/n rolled her eyes, tossing the old question card at him. Drew picked the next card, his gaze locking onto the girl in front of him.

“Oh, perfect. Y/n,” Drew began, “part of Outer Banks’ charm is the chemistry between the cast. That being said, who here is the worst scene partner?”

“Oh no!” Y/n groaned, putting her face in her hands as the table broke out in gasps and laughter. She stole a glance at the second wing in front of her, royally coated in fiery hot sauce before thinking of an answer.

“Ok, ok! I’m going to answer, but,” y/n said with an anxious giggle, “you have to let me explain!”

Her co-stars leaned in, each of them with looks of anticipation covering their faces as y/n sat up straighter in her seat.

“My answer is…” y/n paused for dramatic affect, chewing at her bottom lip nervously, “Drew, but—”

Everyone erupted into shrieks and laughter, Drew’s jaw dropping at his girlfriend’s answer. Madelyn covered her mouth, locking eyes with Carlacia before they both turned to y/n.

“No, no, no! You have to let me explain!” Y/n reached across the table, grabbing Drew’s hand, his mouth still agape.

“This is going to be good.” Rudy chuckled.

“He’s not a bad scene partner, he is just so different from Rafe and always makes me laugh, so it takes us a million takes to get a scene done!” Y/n clarified, Drew’s shocked expression melting into a small smile.

“See, you’re just such a funny guy and I love you so much that it makes it hard to do scenes with you. It’s a compliment, really, baby.” Y/n finished with a quirk of her eyebrows, her costars swooning as the couple gazed at each other softly.

“Good save, good save.” JD teased as he and his team reached for another hot wing. The game continued for several more rounds, various questions, and, of course, lots of spicy wings, until they finally made it to the finale.

The table was moved out, their seats being arranged in a circle for a cutthroat game of musical chairs that would ultimately determine the winner of the game. Round after round, the numbers dwindled until one chair and two players remained: y/n and Drew.

“No mercy, y/n!” Madelyn shouted from the side as y/n and Drew rounded the chair slowly.

“C’mon Starkey boy!” Chase cheered. Y/n looked up for a moment, her eyes meeting with Drew’s as the music suddenly stopped. Before she knew it, Drew’s arms wrapped around her torso, lifting her off her feet with a shriek. He quickly sat down in the chair, pulling her down with him, and winning the game.

“Sorry baby,” Drew smirked, pressing a kiss to y/n’s cheek. Y/n groaned playfully, tossing her head back to rest on Drew’s shoulder as the two of them laughed in the chair.

“You’re lucky I love you, Starkey.” Y/n grinned, kissing Drew’s jaw.

“Do you? Do you really?” Drew teased, nuzzling his nose into the crook of y/n’s neck, causing her to squeal with laughter. In all her life, y/n would’ve never expected that she in all her competitive nature would be ok with losing a competition, but here she was, happy as ever.

[bbyobbyo]

seventeen as dads headcanons

content: reader is married to svt, normative(?) family structure, literally just unhinged thoughts, not proofread lol

note: was trying to write an actual fic but then got distracted sorry, dadventeen brainrot is so real

Seungcheol

Super protective “don’t touch my family” dad outwardly

All of his kids’ friends are straight up SCARED of him

But within the household he's the one sneaking ice cream when you say no, albeit guiltily

Shopping trips with him will always result in buying something for them and he is very willing to be taken advantage of

“Babe if I can’t spoil them now, they’re gonna grow up and move out before we know it!”

Tries his best to be handy around the house, but probably makes it worse, ends up calling Mingyu to come fix it

Jeonghan

DEFINITELY a “go ask your mom” dad

This man not only powerless, he doesn't even want the power, he's just here to have a good time and if you say they can't, then sorry kiddo

You can’t tell me that he doesn’t bring up becoming a family prank channel at least once a week

LOVES bragging to everyone else about his kid’s achievements, cannot shut up about them to anyone in a 5 foot radius tbh

His kids definitely talk to him about everything, which is great because he is SO nosy.

Has a list of all their best friends, enemies, and crushes at school somewhere on his notes app for future reference when they come to him for advice

Joshua

The REAL practical joke dad, admittedly made them cry a few times when they were younger and felt really bad about it

Perfect sweet husband and father in image, all of his kids know he’s actually lame af

Dominates the summer barbeques, UNDISPUTED GRILLMASTER

Super dependable, will drop everything if his family needs him and never goes back on his word

Gives surprisingly good fashion advice

Jun

Definitely walks around the neighborhood with his baby in a sling carrier strapped to his front, POINTS AT EVERYTHING OF INTEREST

When they start learning how to speak he adopts all his baby’s weird mannerisms (it started off as a cute joke but then realized he couldn’t stop)

Cries at every baby milestone until they’re like 10

Will not stop bringing up embarrassing childhood moments, especially in front of their kids’ friends/significant others

Cuts fruit for them instead of apologizing

Hoshi

Will fully ally himself with his kids

Like legit would do anything for them. ANYTHING.

I’m talking borderline go to his kid's school to beat up their hypothetical bullies himself sort of dad

The kids can always count on him to say yes if you say no

Absolutely DEVASTATED when they grow out of the tiger stuff he buys for them and become angsty teens

“What do you mean tigers aren’t cool? Do you not love your old man anymore?”

Wonwoo

Quiet doting dad

Definitely more affectionate when the kids are younger but gets into the awkward advice-giving stage when they grow up

LAME DAD JOKES GALORE, groaning is a regular activity in this household

Tries to google basic algebra every time his kids ask for help on math homework because he doesn’t want to admit he forgot everything

Chaotic af unsupervised. “Guess we’re having pizza again tonight kiddos” kinda dad because he cannot and should not cook

Jihoon

Another quiet dad, but make it savage

I feel like he would just love roasting his kids (affectionately of course)

And always overwhelmingly acts of service so his kids know they are loved

Allowance randomly appearing under their pillow, their favorite foods magically stocked in the fridge, always relenting to one last bedtime story no matter how tired he is

Would let you have final say but he makes it really clear he’s on their side and empathizes with them but its out of his hands

“Next time just don’t get caught, okay?” *winks*

Minghao

Loves loves loves just spending time with his babies

Doesn’t matter what he’s doing he just wants to be in the same room as them or cuddling and holding them

Emphasizes equality in your relationship so his kids can grow up with those values and learn to respect others

TURNS EVERYTHING INTO A LIFE LESSON OH MY GOD

Doesn’t believe in allowances but will cave and literally buy them anything they want if they ask

Would rather die than miss any important event (competition, speech, recital, talent show, graduation, etc.)

Mingyu

Absolute super dad, what can’t he do? Nonstop home improvement projects, cooks anything his kids are craving, offers to drive everyone everywhere

But also the whiniest dad ever lol constantly complains about people “ruining his system”

Absolutely FUCKS at the school bake sales, earns them twice the target fundraiser amounts because he's dilf material and knows how to get the moms to spill their pockets

Likes to have the final say, but you’re both usually on the same page in regards to discipline so his kids aren’t getting away with anything

Just the most supportive dad in the universe, the kids learn to never take him for granted

Seokmin

You already know his kids are gonna be spoiled rotten. He will be the favorite parent by default sorry I don't make the rules!!

His arms are the very definition of a safe space

Leaves all the discipline to you because he cannot keep a straight face when delivering a lecture (one time he made them cry and also ended up crying because he felt so bad)

Does so much embarrassing shit just to cheer his kids up when they have a bad day, acts surprised when they tell him he's cringe

Such a pushover that they are probably gonna make fun of him when they're older, but that's okay because they know there's no universe in which their dad will stop loving them

Seungkwan

As long as he can pick them up still, his kids are never on the ground for too long

Two words: SPORTS. DAD.

He could practically captain the cheerleading teams at their school with how many events he's been to

Knows all of his kids’ friends parents, they all get together and have coffee once a month actually

Nags nonstop and complains about everything he has to do for them, but is always diligent and does it without question

Gets so pouty when they start getting embarrassed to show affection, he WILL get his cheek kisses if it's the last thing he does!!

Vernon

Chillest dad in existence?!?

Literally as long as his kids are safe he doesn't give a single fuuuuckkk

“Sleepover? Yeah, call me when you're done and I'll pick you up.”

He WILL argue with you if he doesn't think there's a good reason to say no to them

So cute and encouraging to all their weird hobbies and phases throughout the years. “Lemme see” and “Really? Show me” are regular phrases in his vocabulary

His kids are definitely gonna inherit his legendary facial expressions afnngjdg

Chan

Super affectionate and doting, but also quite strict with them at times

“I just want the best for you, I want to see you succeed”

HAS A PHOTO OF THEM READY AT ANY TIME, lockscreen is a different shot of his kids every day and is eager to show it off even if no one asked

Not so subtly signs his kid up for dance lessons

Just the most encouraging dad ever, makes sure that they know making mistakes are a part of life and that he will always love them no matter what

[benevolentbones]

beach day | spencer reid x fem!reader part 2

part 1

warnings: heated kissing!!! slightly suggestive.

word count: 1.2k

a/n: here is part 2!! hope you all enjoy, thank you for the support and 200+ followers!! reblogs & comments appreciated !!

the sun was at its highest point, casting burning rays down onto the white sand. you and garcia were splashing around, emily and jj had run off to look for seashells and derek was building a mega sandcastle with jack while hotch and spencer were sat by everyone’s bags.

“i’m getting a little cold now y/n, im getting out to warm up.” garcia announced as she began to wade back out of the water, you decided that it would probably be a good idea to take a break maybe get a drink to rehydrate, so you followed the blonde back to the towels.

“honestly hotch the water is perfect are you sure you don’t want to come for a swim?” you grinned as you walked back.

“i think i’m good here.” he mumbled, smoothing down the hawaiian print shirt that adorned his tall figure.

“well in that case- lets get ice cream.” penelope chirped, as he dried herself off putting on a violently floral beach coverup over her swimsuit.

“ice cream!” jack came running back, practically leaping onto his dad, covering them both in sand.

“well that’s one way to summon a five year old.” you laughed.

hotch sent you a joking glare before picking jack up. “yeah lets get some ice cream.” he agreed passively.

“morgan, ice cream lets go hotch is buying!” penelope yelled to derek who was now two feet deep in a hole he was digging.

“wh- i never said…fine.” hotch shook his head in disapproval as he walked away, jack still in his arms, with penelope and derek in tow.

“get me my favourite!” you yelled out as they left, earning a dismissive wave from hotch.

you turned to face spencer, who had now picked up your towel and was using it to block his legs from the sun. his face was buried in his book, with only a few pages remaining.

“can i use my towel, spence.” you smiled sweetly once his doe eyes met yours.

your two piece clung to your body, saturated in sea water. little droplets of water trickled down your bare skin, spencer’s intense stare watching as they connected to each other and fell from your figure.

he cleared his throat before speaking, “i-uh yeah here.” he quickly pass your towel to you, your finger briefly skimming over his causing heat to rise in your cheeks.

you towel dried your hair, wringing your salty locks out.

spencer closed his book, setting it down on the blue cooler to his right. he eyed you, as you began to pat your torso dry, wrapping the towel around yourself, over your two piece, like you had just stepped out of the shower.

“when did you last put suncream on?” you questioned, flicking your hair off of your shoulders.

“i don’t know- maybe four hours ago.” spencer pondered.

you gasped loudly in a playful manner, immediately diving into your beach bag and pulling out your trusted factor 30 suncream.

“i- y/n i think i’m fine.”

“you’re supposed to reapply every two hours- you should know this.” you muttered, shuffling towards spencer’s seated figure.

spencer let out a small groan, although secretly he thought it was cute how concerned you were.

“stand up please.”

“i’m not moving.” a smug smile resting on his face, he wanted to test how serious you were about the application of suncream, surely you’d give up.

you let out a prolonged exhale, dispensing suncream onto your hand.

“you gave me no choice!” you exclaimed, climbing onto the beach chair. spencer’s eyes widened as you practically straddled the man, one leg resting over either side of his lap.

you pushed back his hair with one hand, gently applying the cream to his face with the other. his face burning at your close proximity, he was staring directly and your towel clad form.

once you finished applying it to his face, you reached for the bottle again, you moved down to his neck, then to his arms. at this stage spencer was compliant, doing whatever you needed of him.

“give me your arm.” you muttered, taking his forearm and rubbing in the cream on any visible skin. spencer stirred as you shifted your weight to one side, getting comfortable on his lap.

spencer knew you were a confident person, it reflected in your work on the field, but he never expected you to go this far.

“i know you’re enjoying this.” you joked, your small laugh ringing in his ears.

“s-shut up. i say you couldn’t wait to get your hands on me.” he rebutted your remark, and now it was your turn for your face to flush.

“so what if i did…” you mumbled, taking his other arm in your hand. spencer’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to read your expression, he wasn’t certain if you meant it. so he decided to find out.

“is that why you wanted my hands all over you?” he questioned. it was a bold move, even for spencer, he couldn’t quite believe those words came from him.

this caught you off guard, you dropped spencer’s arm and stared at him, his hazel eyes stared back with intensity.

“and what if i said yes, dr.reid?” you replied, chewing your bottom lip waiting for his reply.

spencer lifted his dominant hand, slipping it under your towel to rest on your waist. you breath hitched in your throat as his warm hand came in contact with your chilled skin.

“maybe you need a top up.” he mumbled, his grasp on you not faltering.

you studied him, the fresh layer of suncream on his facing causing his skin to glow from the few rays of sun that managed to shine through the gaps of the umbrella.

your hold on the bottle of suncream loosened causing it to fall into the sand below. you brought your right hand up to his face, resting it against jaw as you smoothed your thumb over cheek.

he gave you a small smile, embracing your hold. you reluctantly leaned closer, shifting your position on him. spencer could tell what you were doing, quickly closing the gap between you and pressing his lips to yours.

it was gentle at first, a soft brush that sent shivers down spencer’s spine. you immediately brought your other hand up, running in through his hair. spencer’s grip on your waist tightened, as he brought his other to rest on your thigh.

you shuddered at his touch, your beach towel slipping away from your torso and pooling by your hips. spencer deepened the kiss, as you leaned forward, pressing your body against his. you kissed back hungrily, trailing your hands to cup his face.

spencer pulled away, taking in your features. your eyelids were heavy, your lips slightly swollen. a grin spread across his face as you leaned back in pressing a kiss to your jaw, then to below your ear.

“spence?-“ you breathed out, resting your arms around his shoulders as he continued peppering kisses along your neck before returning to your lips. spencer had wanted to kiss you for months, and now it was finally happening, he wanted to savour every moment.

his lips were soft, his kiss much more tentative this time, spencer’s hands tracing over your figure.

you both pulled back to gaze at one another, heavy breaths slipping from your lips. you could practically feel the heat radiating off of spencer. you both sat for a moment, in silence, taking in what had just happened.

“will you go for a swim with me now?” you questioned.

“i think i’ll need to after that..”

taglist!! @0108s22m @rainoftearss @potatovoyager @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @luvmia222 @shardsofmarxx @silver138 @lover-of-books-and-tea

[lovelytsunoda]

its going to be a cold winter | lando norris

summary: it’s landos first christmas with his girlfriends family, and as long as he doesn’t let his ugly christmas sweater catch fire, he should be fine. right?

pairing: lando norris x female reader

warnings: family christmas content, lando and y/n both have some major moments of self doubt, but it's mostly just holiday fluff. some suggestive content, but barely any. i'm sorry its so short lmao i kind of lost steam towards the end, but i started out super strong!! it's a fic about nothing lmao enjoy it.

frank sinatra played softly in the background of the country house as y/n puttered around, straightening the christmas pillows and lighting the pine candles throughout the house. her dad got a fire burning in the living room, and the kitchen smelled like warm apple pie. snow was falling gently outside, blanketing the roof of her old audi.

lando would be here any minute, and it was important that everything be just perfect.

it was their first christmas together, and y/n was anxious as all hell about having lando visit the house where she grew up. she knew that the country house was different from the house where lando grew up, and the lifestyle he was accustomed to now.

of course, she didn't know that lando was just as nervous as she was, anxiously drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he pulled off the highway. what would her parents think of him? would they find him pretentious? too much of a player?

it was obvious as he steered his top-of-the-line mercedes into the gravel driveway, parking next to his lover's aging audi sedan that the environment where she grew up was so different from his. a decrepit volkswagen beetle sat next to the garage, no doubt a project for her dad to tinker with.

snowflakes dusted his hair as he attempted to maneuver the laundry basket full of wrapped presents out of his narrow trunk. he knocked on the door, hiding his shaking hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. he could hear music coming from inside, see the shadows of a figure rushing to open the front door.

"lando! you made it." y/n beamed, opening the front door, a wide smile on her face. she threw her arms around him, kissing him softly before brushing the snow off of his jacket. "i'm glad you're here. everybody is so excited to meet you."

lando stepped inside, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. as his hands began to thaw, family members came rushing at him from all sides, gushing about how they were glad he'd found the place all right, and how it was so lovely to meet him. y/n shooed them all out of the main hallway, but not before her mother managed to shove a christmas sweater into his arms, insisting that he wear it.

"let's try that again." y/n grumbled, clearly biting back a curse word as she wrapped her arms around lando's midsection, resting her chest just over from his heart. "thank you for coming. and mom's sweaters are horrific, please don't feel like you have to wear it."

lando chuckled, unfolding the sweater, which prominently featured a reindeer with a blinking nose, activated by a button hidden in the right sleeve. "why wouldn't i wear it? this thing is hysterical."

"here, let me help." she smiled, helping him out of the jacket. "and you didn't need to bring gifts either. nobody would have been mad if you didn't."

"baby, i think you're worrying too much." lando laughed, pulling the sweater on over his black t-shirt. "everything is going to be fine."

"says the man who worried the entire drive here and called me over his bluetooth three times before he got of the m60." she joked, poking him over the heart. "this is new for both of us."

the pair wandered through the house, converging in the living room with the rest of the family. a christmas tree stood against an exposed brick wall, and two young men in christmas sweaters just as atrocious as the one lando was wearing were sat by the fire with their arms around their partners. a four year old girl was running around the room with a jingle bell paddle in her hand, shaking it up and down. from the expressions on the faces of the other guests, she had been doing that for a while.

"lando, this is my cousin, james, and his wife alexandra. and this is my brother will and his girlfriend clara. the little munchkin in the red dress is eliza, james and alex's daughter."

"nice to meet you!" will said, getting up from the floor. "y/n has told us so much about you!"

"only good things, i hope." lando joked, shaking will's hand. she could see the nervous crinkle at the corner of his eyes, hear what was slightly off in his voice. she reached out to lay a ahnd on his back, fingers splayed, hoping it was reassuring. she felt him relax under her touch, and her heart burned with love for the mclaren driver.

eliza ran over towards him, waving a set of antlers in her hand. "these are for you." she giggled, standing on her tiptoes and reaching for lando's head, despite only coming up to his torso.

beaming, lando knelt down and allowed eliza to put the antlers on his head. he sat next to y/n on the couch, curled up with her as they listened to alexandra talk about how she met james.

"you don't need to wear the antlers if you don't want to. lize will lose interest in like, ten minutes."

lando made a face. "of course i want to. i want your family ot love me, and clearly its pretty easy to win eliza's affections."

she laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "i'm going to go and help mom and aunt deb with the honey potatoes. you'll be okay here by yourself?"

"of course he will!" will shouted. "we'll take good care of mr. mclaren for you!"

in the kitchen, y/n found her mom and her aunt puttering about, adding honey to the roast potatoes and pulling the apple pie out of the oven. it was wrapped in tinfoil, with brown sugar and apple goo oozing out of the graham cracker crust. she tied her hair back into a tight knot, reaching over her head to take a bone china mug out of the kitchen cabinet.

"i really like him." her mom said, a knowing smile on her face as she hugged her daughter. "you did good, sweetie."

"he's really good with eliza." deb noted. "so, are there any wedding bells nearby in your futures?"

"aunt deb!" y/n whined. "we haven't even been together a year yet."

"look at alex and james. they were only together for six months."

because they wanted to fuck and the church said they couldn't do that unless they were married, she thought cynically.

"i really do like him. he was so scared to come here today. i think he thought you'd find him pretentious."

"we could never." her mom laughed, pulling her in for a hug. "go spend some time with lover boy. your father and your uncle are coming in from the barbecue with the turkey in a few minutes."

"thanks mom." she kissed her mom's cheek before she grabbed her mug of hot chocolate and rejoined the other young folk in the living room.

lando stood next to the tree, laughing gleefully as eliza ran circles around him, wrapping him in tinsel. alex was laughing to herself, filming the encounter on her iphone. y/n stood watching in the doorway. lando looked up and met her eyes, winking at her dramatically before attempting to blow her a kiss.

later that night, after barbecued turkey and honey potatoes, with a dessert of warm apple pie and vanilla ice cream, lanod joined his lover on the couch with two fresh mugs of hot chocolate. she curled into his arm, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. the fire was crackling, and everybody was gathered around the tree for the gift exchange.

"i love you, lando norris."

"and i love you, y/n y/l/n." he replied softly, a peice of silver tinsel falling out of his hair.

"and i can't wait to get you out of this ugly christmas sweater." she whispered, voice husky. my old room is up in the loft above the garage, and it's pretty soundproof."

"i like the way you think, angel girl."

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition. 

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later. 

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games. 

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears. 

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by. 

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister,  arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…”  You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests. 

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”  

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens. 

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden.  “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air. 

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’. 

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

“That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.” 

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud. 

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own. 

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned. 

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms….  Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?” 

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing. 

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow. 

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss. 

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase. 

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece. 

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...” 

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.” 

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?” 

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

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[dontbesoweirdkira]

howdyyy, what do u think of plat yan! dick grayson (or platonic yan father bruce wayne up to u) with a batsis who is very disinterested with him primarily bc when she was younger she idolised him a lot but now not so much. there are comics where grayson has cheated on his partners before so imagine batsis coming to realise as she aged and matured that her doting brother is a bit of a playboy…. a lot like a playboy actually—

You know, this is actually extremely realistic. There's nothing like the rose color glasses falling off and realizing just how messed up your family truly is.

I'd like to think that there was plenty of jokes and mentions about Dick being a playboy but Batsis would just be absolutely clueless. You probably just thought it was a reference to his charming appearance or the way he gets hit on at least once whenever he goes out. Not really that he was an notorious heart breaker.

Like i don't think the other batkids had serious talks about it in front of you because of your (then) age or maybe it was a request by Dick so he could keep on his perfect mask with you?

Ironically, he wouldn't want any man to treat his little sister (or any of them) the way he does to other women but he has a problem. I will say though, it makes absolute sense that Dick or even the others would have issues keeping relationships or even have sex addictions. I mean it's a real issue that many people are struggling with right now. But can you imagine your father constantly bringing home women and cheating your entire childhood? Like Bruce introduces some of these women to them, they get attached to this potential mother then it's ripped away to be discarded for the new catch. I think that definitely warped Dick's view of women and romance stems from that. *intense mommy issues* But also i mentioned before that it's hard for him to maintain relationships while taking on the fatherly role in the family. His obsession with making sure all of his siblings are cared for and protected(mixed with being nightwing), makes it all the more difficult. Maybe that leads him to just hooking up with and being sloppy in his relationships. Maybe its just a means of stress relief and that causes him to almost dehumanize/objectify the women he "romances".

I'm not saying this is justifiable, cheating is disgusting and his behaviors are something that needs to be corrected regardless of mommy issues but for headcanon sake we are entertaining the concept

I'm not sure how you'd exactly find out about it. Maybe one of the kids let it slip and didn't bother to do damage control because you're old enough now? Maybe you spoke to one of his exes that is still friendly with the batfam? Or maybe your brain started to develop and you realized he wasn't hanging out with that new super model as just friends all night...it was something more and his girlfriend definitely didn't know about it.

Regardless, I think when you finally found out about everything, your world crushed. I don't think you'd hate him but you just feel yucky about the whole thing. Now when you look at him something in your stomach just sinks. You might even wonder if you can trust him. I mean if he's got that much of a problem to be dishonest with his lovers, then why would it be so left field to suggest he lied to you too when he said he loves you or that you were his favorite? The transition from you idolizing him to being standoff-ish would be extremely noticeable to him. I mean it's hard to ignore when you were his mini me. Even as you got older you followed him around and never skipped an opportunity to be near.

He wouldn't think that it was because of the playboy thing, maybe just you needing some space as a teen. Everyone has gone through that phase before but when he notices your shift is only directed towards him, he's a little upset about it. He doesn't understand what he did wrong? One day you guys are eating ice cream together while having a sleepover in his room to you treating him like a disease.

Eventually your big brother corners you and makes you to confess whats bothering you. He apologizes if something he said rubbed you the wrong way but you couldn't keep treating him this way.

"uhm..i dunno, dick? I found out how you've been treating you partners and i think it's kinda gross. I guess i just don't really wanna be around someone who treats women like that right now..."

I think Dick's reaction would be complete shock....who tf told you?! He has no defense but he tries to muster up one before realizing this is just making him look worse when EVERYBODY knows how much of a whore he is lol. He'd back off of you and maybe even mutter an apology before walking away to go collect himself.

He's furious as well...whoever told you will be getting an earful because they just ruined something precious to him. (yeah they did. totally not his OWN actions) If it was one of his brothers, he will be throwing hands.

Dick does very much care about others perception of him, i've said this before. He knew he had a problem and his other siblings have spoken to him about it and it affected him but never enough to change. It's just a far deeper issue than wanting a quick fuck in the expense of his partners...But seeing his baby sister look at him with just so much disgust and disappointment was enough to cause him to spiral. He's not proud of his actions and knows he's hurt and discarded of many, many women for his own satisfaction. It's deplorable. I can imagine him taking maybe a few days to himself, he's just in his head while being overtaken by heavy guilt.

I'm not sure if Dick would actually change for you though? I think he is even debating it. Yeah he's a yandere for his batsis but is his obsession with you enough to kick the other one to the curb? That's up to you. A hopeful person would say, yes he would. Anything for his babybat! He's going to do whatever it takes to prove himself again, anything to make you proud. This habit isn't worth it if hes loosing you.

My opinion? No, he won't change after his guilt wears off. He'll just pretend like he's reborn. Dick would try for like a week and then go right back to doing his habits. He's a manipulative piece of work and yeah, lying to you is bad but he wants his cake and to eat it too. He's not willing to give up anything that gives him a euphoric boost. Shh...what you don't know, won't kill you.

[enchantedflameandflower]

billy teaching his girl how to smoke a cig would be so attractive

I feel like maybe they would go out to a bar or something and in like a tipsy confession she says “i’ve never smoked” or something like that ”idk how to smoke properly im always coughing its so embarrassing blah blah blah”

Need my man to guide me through it

Billy x you! Nsfw 18+ only for smoking, smut, piv, creampie, hint of exhibitionism

Thank you SO MUCH for this ask anon! Once I got the idea for the vibe it just took off. Hope you all enjoy!

~

It’s late, almost midnight, and you’re sitting up on the roof of your apartment building with Butcher and a cold bottle of beer each. The air is a little chilly but not bad and no one else seems to ever come up here so it’s nice. You’d met Butcher at the bar but it had been crowded and annoying so you’d invited him back to your place. 

The building seems to be mostly made up of elderly people but you love it. They’re kind and quiet and you love being able to help them when they need. The random baked goods you receive from time to time don’t hurt either. There’s one old lady specifically that Billy has charmed completely. He’s definitely got her wrapped around his little finger, that one. 

And you enjoy the quiet at night. You’re sitting cross-legged on a sort of concrete platform on top of the roof that’s at the perfect height. Billy is sitting next to you, his big booted feet planted on the ground of the roof.

You can’t help glancing over at him, and you know affection is shining in your eyes but you can’t help it and you don’t care. You’d started this sort of friends with benefits casual thing a couple months ago but you were falling for him hard and you knew it. Yeah, he was rough around the edges, really rough, but there was so much more to him and you had never cared what anyone else thought. 

And damn if he wasn’t the sexiest thing you’d ever seen. Tall, dark and brooding as fuck. 

“I thought you quit,” you murmur, nodding toward the cigarette he’s puffing lazily next to you. 

He smirks. “I did. Don’t know what ‘cher talkin’ ‘bout.” He takes another drag then holds it out toward you.

You pause for a second but then you take it between your fingers. “I always feel like I’m not doing it right…” you half joke. “And then I just cough.”

Billy looks at you. “All this time on planet ‘earf and ya don’t know how to smoke proper? It ain’t that hard, love…” He grins mischievously. “Just wrap those pretty lips ‘round and suck. But slowly, not too much. An’ let it out slow like, too.”

You nod, pursing your lips around the cigarette but Billy scoots closer immediately. 

“Not so tight, love, relax. Little more slack…ya know, like how ya move your lips when me cock’s slidin’ in.”

You’re immediately pulling the cigarette out of your mouth as your cheeks flush. “Butcher!” 

He just grins and inches back on the platform before he tugs on your wrist, pulling you to sit in his lap and guiding your hand back up. “Try again.”

You try not to think about how good his hard thighs feel beneath you and put the end of the cigarette up to your lips but let it rest there between the two instead of gripping it. You take a slow inhale in, and then slowly blow it out again, watching as the swirl of white smoke drifts gently away. 

Butcher squeezes your hip. “There ya are, doll, see?” he grins, his dimple showing and you know he’s thinking his metaphor is what made all the difference.

“You’re a menace,” you murmur, handing the cigarette back to him. 

Butcher takes a long drag, then after a moment lets go. The thick smoke curls out from his full lips and between the both of you as he exhales. There’s something so fucking sexy about the way he does it and the glimmer in his eyes as he catches you looking at him. He continues to exhale, the smoke kissing your mouth. You breathe it in, swearing you can taste him on it. 

Holding the cigarette up to your mouth again, Butcher watches as you pull lightly and his dark hazel eyes go even darker with heat.

The look makes you squirm in his lap and his big hand clenches your waist. “Ya keep that up and I’m gonna end up takin’ ya right here on this concrete,” he threatens - promises? - a low husk to his voice now. 

Yeah…the thought of that and his gruff tone make you wet for him immediately. It’s been a couple weeks since the last time you slept together and suddenly now you need him so much it hurts. 

He must be able to tell by the look on your face because the corner of his mouth lifts in a wicked smirk. “Ya like that idea, dontcha doll?” 

“Maybe…” you murmur and he tsks at you. He gives you the cigarette and you hold it up to your mouth again as his hand slips down between your thighs. Your leggings and your thin underwear do next to nothing to shield your already throbbing clit from his rough fingers.

He presses in firmly, rubbing his fingertips in a little circle, and his smile widens. “I can already tell, hot and slick for me, aren’t ya.”

Two can play this game, you think. Leaning forward, you bite his full lower lip and he growls, sliding his hand in your hair and tugging you close to capture your mouth fully with his. He tastes like cigarettes and beer and something uniquely him, masculine and rich.  

His tongue slides over yours, hot and possessive and it turns your insides to jelly, somehow making you want him even more when you thought you were already at the max. You moan into his kiss as his tongue strokes into your mouth. The sensation makes you shiver, your center throbbing for him, clenching around nothing. How you wish he was already buried inside you. Butcher holds you closer against him and only breaks the kiss when you push at his chest, gasping softly for air. 

His eyes are dark with need and his gaze is intense. His eyes flick to your lips and you know they must be swollen and pink from his kiss. Your breath is still coming in little pants but you panic a little under his steady stare.

“What?” you ask, a little scared of the answer, but the look in his eyes is making you think crazy stupid things that couldn’t possibly be real, you had to be dreaming…

“Ya don’t even know how bloody gorgeous you are, do ya?” he husks. 

“I - ” you swallow, your muddled brain trying to make sense of what he was saying. Fuck. His hand is still pressed between your thighs and you groan as he shifts you closer. The motion presses his thick knuckle right against your cunt.

“Fuck Billy…need you, please…” you gasp, wriggling against his hand, your eyes fluttering closed.

You don’t want to wait to go back downstairs, you don’t want to wait another second, you want him right here, right now out in the open air, all of his teasing way too much to bear. You’ll beg for it if you have to.

But you don’t. 

Billy is moving the instant you stop speaking. He lets go of you to strip his battered old coat off and you squeak, throwing your arms around his neck, the cigarette still between your fingers, to keep from getting dumped right off his lap.

He tosses his coat on the cement next to you then reaches down to pull your shoes off, before standing and flipping you over to lay you down across his coat. 

“Such a gentleman,” you tease, smiling up at him from your prone position. The cement is still cold and hard beneath you and his coat, but you don’t care and you know you’ll appreciate the lack of cement burn in the morning. 

“Oi, when am I not?” he grins devilishly  and before you can answer he’s pulling your leggings down your long legs, and everything else with them, stripping you bare from the waist down.

He catches your gaze, then his big hand slides from your hip to your side, pushing your shirt up. He bends down to nip and bite at your stomach then drags his mouth over your skin, beard tickling and rubbing, until he reaches your breasts. You wiggle and arch to help him push your shirt and bra up the rest of the way under your arms until you’re naked from your tits down, spread out for him on the cement platform in the night air.

“You’re a fuckin’ sight, ain’t ya,” he rumbles, his eyes taking their fill of you as his rough hands smooth over your body and the chilled air licks at all your naked skin. “Think anyone can see?” He glances up to the right of you, at a taller building next to this one that clearly has lights in some of the windows. 

You whimper, squirming and closing your eyes. “Oh god…” you breathe. 

“Splayed out naked, out in the open here and practically beggin’ for me,” he hums.

“Billy,” you gasp. You aren’t sure if you want to just hurry up and get it over with or if you’re actually going to explode with pent up lust but either way you need him to fuck you now.

Billy seems to acquiesce and he palms your breast, tugging at your tight nipple with one hand while the other undoes his buckle and the button of his jeans. 

He takes the cigarette out of your hand and puts it back in his mouth, holding it with his teeth and taking another long puff as he unzips his jeans, pushing them just low enough on his hips so his thick cock can spring free. He flicks the cigarette aside on the cement then uses both hands to tug on your hips, pulling you to the edge. 

“Fuck…Billy,” you groan as he slots his swollen length against your slick cunt and presses your thighs further part then starts to push in. 

“Don’t need to tell me twice…” he rumbles. 

You stretch for him as he slides inside you, but he’s so big and you have to take a breath to relax enough to take him all the way. 

“So fuckin’ tight,” he groans in a gruff voice, and he shifts to slip his thumb over your clit to help ease his way inside. 

The moment the tip of his thumb circles the slick, tight bud, pleasure bursts inside of you and he thrusts all the way in, filling you up. 

It’s so good. You cry out loud, then quickly lift your hand to cover your mouth and muffle the sound but Billy grabs your wrist, pulling your arm away. “N‘uh…need to hear ya, love. Need to know how much you need my cock…”

“Everyone will…hear…” you whimper as he thrusts inside you again. 

“Won’t know it’s you, doll. Let them listen. Let them hear how good my cock makes you feel…”

All you can do is moan as he thrusts again and then again, his fingers teasing at your stiff nipple and then your clit again, driving you mad, always knowing where to go next. But you need more, you need all of him. 

“Harder…please…Billy…” you moan, clenching around his cock as he buries it deep, gripping the edges of his coat with your fingers. 

“Tha’s my good girl,” Butcher growls, thrusting harder and picking up his speed, hitting that perfect spot inside of you over and over.

You’re crying out with each deep thrust now and you don’t care who hears. When you wrap your legs around his hips, he leans down and presses against you, catching your shoulders and holding on as he groans against the curve of your neck. You can feel the vibration from his chest just as he thrusts, hitting every nerve ending on the way. It makes you cry out loud again, desperate and wanton. The sound echoes off the brick walls, making you blush harder as the pleasure of it zings straight to your clit. Fuck why does it turn you on even more…and it’s so annoying how quiet he can be even when he’s making you crazy. 

After another moment though, all thought leaves your mind and all you know is how fucking good Billy feels as you balance on the knife edge of bliss. The base of his cock pushes right against your clit as he gives one last hard thrust and then starts to pulse deep inside of you. It’s more than enough to make you come too. You’re crying out his name before you can stop yourself in choked moans and gasps that can definitely be heard in the next building as your body shudders in overwhelming pleasure.

Butcher slumps against you as he finishes emptying himself in your body and you curl your arms around his neck, your cunt still fluttering around him as the waves of pleasure from your climax only slowly start to abate.

The cigarette lays forgotten going cold beside you as he finally pushes himself up and tucks his cock away. You can still feel his come leaking out of you, mixed with yours, warm and sticky on your thighs but you can’t even find the energy to cover yourself.

When he starts to slide your clothes back on for you, you make a little noise, tiredly protesting at the mess still between your legs, but he hums and shakes his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in that smirk he has with a glint in his hazel eyes. “Have to wait ‘til we get back down to your flat, love. You like it, dontcha? Feelin’ what ya made me do?” he adds, his voice still gruff and low with sex. 

You make a sound of resignation but it is kind of hot, his small possessive way of marking and claiming you. You’re his.

When he has your bottom half dressed again, he grabs your hand and tugs you up, helping you pull your bra and shirt back in to place. You feel completely boneless and blissed out, and you quirk your lips in a half smile as you look up at him. “Fuck Billy…” you whisper. 

He chuckles softly and pulls you close against his broad chest in a hug, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get ya back inside and practice some more with that pretty mouth o’ yours, love, eh? Need ya too much.”

~*~*~ Thanks again anon, hope you like! Also thanks to @butchersdarkbird for letting me chat about it, @shirley-girly for giving me the perfect idea for a line for Billy on her reblog of a previous post and @dwinchesterspie1967 for the idea of including extra of his devilish smirk ❤️

@jynx15 @kus-babygirl @weallhaveadestiny @karlurbanism

@dustie-faerie @violent-darkness @bohemianblasphemy

karl urban masterlist

[haztory]

['sex' by the 1975]

⤷ atsumu miya x f!reader; best friends, references to infidelity, pining, sexual content (w.c 3.1k)

“it’s not sex.” he insists between mouthfuls. a drop of mustard dots the corner of his mouth. you stare incredulously.

“are you joking?” you ask. atsumu just shrugs his shoulder, intense focus saved for the burger held in his hands. practically inhaling a third of it in one bite as he brings it up to his mouth.

“‘s not like it’s the real thing.” he bobs his head side to side in consideration of the sandwich before he’s grabbing at the fries in your lap, “can i haf some.”

the carton lays practically emptied from his pilfering next to your abandoned chicken nuggets. three remaining, absent of consumption in favor of a bewildered stare at the man seated beside you on his bed. 

“fingering is penetration, that’s sex.” you say simply.

atsumu raises a brow, “yer gyno having sex with ya?”

“that’s different.” you level a stare at him, one that’s serious and fierce and that communicates everything you mean in the single look alone. he meets it with one of his own, familiarity and uncommunicated languages all the rage between the two of you. “she doesn't make me cum.”

“neither does yer boyfriend.” he shrugs, taking another large bite of his burger as you screech in offense. your hand meets his bicep with a sharp slap and he grabs at it in pain. “ow! ya were the one that told me that!”

”some people take a minute to figure it out.”

”sounds like its taking a lot longer than a minute.” he mutters to himself. “look, its a lost cause. just dump the guy before it gets anywhere. ya haven’t had sex yet, he’s got a weird face, dude cant tell a fake orgasm from a real one. why are ya fighting me on this?”

“fingering is sex! your body count would be zero if fingering didnt count.” you insist loudly and atsumu rolls his eyes. he crumples the foil his burger came in and throws it across the room, cheering loudly when it makes it into the bin in the corner of his room. 

his room is much the same since the last time you visited. photos of passing years sit framed on the desk— an image of he and osamu with their arms wrapped around each other, taken right before atsumu left for the olympics. another of you and atsumu placed right next to it, you leaning over his shoulder and him laughing loudly, beer bottles held deftly in hands and drunken flushes decorating your faces. momentos of faded high school memories, interspersed with flashes of young adult realities. 

its more sophisticated than it once was. minimal in furniture, and of the items that decorate the room they’re the perfect reflection of a twenty-four year old athlete. his closet is lined with designer gifted clothes, but his desk chair remains stacked with undone laundry, the basics of his everyday life found in the plush cushion more than on the hangers. the jacket you’re currently wearing was stolen from the top of that pile just after delivering a pointed comment at how cold he keeps his apartment. 

its a far cry from the bedroom he used to share with his brother, the one you remember at the dusk of previous memories. it was cramped and contained, lines between the two boys constantly blurred and you having to learn rather quickly where to step and when. but even now, as he lives on his own in a city a bit further from you than you’re comfortable with, not much has changed. you still sit on the left side of the bed and he takes the right; you still eat burgers on his bed and steal his jackets, and he throws papers into trash bins and insists he could’ve made it professional were he not already in volleyball; you still moan and complain about the woes of daily life and he still listens to them endlessly, interjecting the same amount of dumb enthusiasm as you know him to have. 

there is still much in common that remains between he and you. trusted familiarity, endless comfort; a bubble that remains whole and precious, unaltered despite life dealing its hand to you. you’re convinced there’s no one else in the world that gets you quite like atsumu does. 

there’s also no one in the world that works you up, quite like atsumu does.

atsumu stands from the bed, retrieving your own trash from your lap and chucking the rest of it in the bin. lithe and lean, he moves with a body that is sculpted to perfection as he turns off the overhead light and instead turns on the desk lamp, submerging the room in the lowly warmth of its glow. days are shorter now and the sun has just made it return home, leaving you to the dim luster of a pleasant comfort. 

its quiet, intimate. words entirely inappropriate to describe the weekly hangout with your best friend of seven years. 

pushing thoughts aside, you fight to remember what the whole point of the conversation was about. a boyfriend, right. your boyfriend.

right. 

“and he does not have a weird face, he’s just… interesting. it’s what i liked about him.” 

“revolting. i’m this close to spiking a ball in his face. it would be plastic surgery for the dud.”

“you’re being mean.” you tell him. 

atsumu scoffs loudly, “and yer being stupid! yer the one that’s complaining to me about it. yer really gonna date a guy who can’t figure it out when he fingers ya? what happens when ya actually have sex with the bozo?”

“it takes practice. i don’t blame him for not being able to get me there on the first try. i see him later tonight so i’ll talk to him about it. it’s hard to figure out how to turn someone on and then try to, you know, get me there—“

“woahwoahwoah—timeout.” atsumu hold his hands perpendicular to one another, forming a ‘t’. his eyebrows practically touch the hairline of his bleached hair. “he doesn't even turn you on?”

“not everyone is good at everything, like you.” you mean it sarcastically, but it comes out short and meek. it’s embarrassing to have to cover for the misgivings of your current beau, but there’s an obligation to. a point to make, especially to the man in front of you. 

you’ve met the ex-girlfriends, heard their feedback for the man before you. an average of six out of ten in boyfriend material, but he knocks the ball out of the park when it comes to the bed—or so you’ve heard. 

(aya, the most recent girl to have made her grand exit, followed you on instagram and asked you to not be a stranger. whether that was so she could have her in for atsumu or because she really wanted to be friends is still up for debate, but the gesture ended with a message in your directs.

[9:17] it sucks, he’ll always be more in love with volleyball than any girl he could ever date. and even if he didn’t, you’re his number two anyway, so there’s really no way i can win.

[9:20] i’m super sorry, aya. if it’s any consolation, i really liked you two together. he’s just slow, i’m sure you guys will figure it out.

[9:20] you were our biggest argument. 

[9:20] so no, i don’t think we will.

[9:21] i’ll miss that dick tho, best orgasm of my life. rip

there’s not much you can say to a message like that. there’s not much you can say to the surge of smugness that courses through you either, so you don’t.

you don’t tell atsumu about it.)

“alright. sit up then.”

his voice startles you. “what?” 

suddenly, he stands before the side of the bed, looming horribly tall over you as he peers down at you. he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants, the fabric unintentionally pulling down ever so slightly and the waistband of his black boxers peeking out in greeting. the light of the desklamp casts a halo over his silhouette.

your attention is drawn upward and it’s hard to deny the familiar pang that tends to strike through you every so often in times like this. the simple effect of being near him. atsumu is unfairly handsome, and while it’s hard to put a name to the feeling that pulses inside of you when the light catches him just right or when a smile is even more charming than usual, the ache is always the same.

it’s fleeting, you convince yourself. something you refuse to settle on for too long. contexts and suppressed hopes pushed to the back of your mind along with the other unspoken things.

“come on.” he gestures two fingers upward. “i’ll show ya how easy it is to turn a girl on.”

its curiosity that has you standing up on your knees on the comforter, nothing more. its the wonder of how exactly your best friend makes his move on women that leads you to be so close to him, chests practically touching. breaths intertwining as atsumu stares a kind of serious into you that you’ve never been in the receiving end of before.

“im gonna touch ya.” his voice is low and your heart beats erratically in your chest. you nod. 

lifting his right hand, cold fingertips run across the heated skin on the back of your arm. digits trailing upward as he paints a pathway up. and it’s nothing—just his hand on your arm, nothing new or different, and yet your breath hitches. innocent in theory, but something solidifies on atsumu’s face, the familiar signs of determination playing out on his face. it’s less babied now, more formed and angular with the growings of an adult man, but it’s the same focus in his eye, the same clench in his jaw. 

his fingers trail up then down, repeating a circular figure on your skin. the sounds of your mingling breaths the only whispers between you two. your eyes dart down to his lips, but his stay fixed on you. studying every flicker of your eye, every inhale. 

his fingers break from their pattern and trails down to your wrist, then your palm, then your own fingers. tracing them, dancing with them, intertwining them slightly only to pull them away. 

“we should stop.” you whisper after a moment of his caress.

“why?” he asks and a quick glance to his gaze reveals that he knows why. he’s just making you spell it out.

it’s unfortunate that the only reason you want to stop is out of principle, and not because you truly have any reservations about any of this. your boyfriend of three months all but an annoying buzz in your ear.

“this feels like cheating.” you tell him simply. atsumu cocks his head to the side, charming smirk pulling across his lips. 

“i’m touching yer arm. this isn’t anything, yet.”

“you shouldn’t be touching my arm like this.”

“why? cause it’s working, right?” his voice drops to a low rumble, words vibrating through you and shooting straight to your core. “see how easy it is?”

“that means this is cheating then, right?” the question is posed, but it’s obvious it’s more to convince yourself than him. because all that he’s done is touch your arm and you’ve felt the bubbling of that unnamed something heat within you. it feels the exact same as it did seven years ago when you met him; feels identical to the moment four years ago when a drunken night led to a drunken kiss that was forgotten about the next day; feels the exact same whenever he looks at you like he does now, like you're open for the taking. a pointedly very different response to the dread that comes when getting intimate with your actual boyfriend. 

and while atsumu may be doing this to prove a point, to rub it in your face that he was right and you were wrong, you don’t trust that you’ll be able to not carry this with you. to not want more than you should. 

“nah.” he says simply, knowingly. “if i kiss you then it’s a problem.”

“oh, so kissing is cheating, but fingering isn’t?”

“can you shuddup? always runnin’ that damn mouth.” he renders you quiet. 

satisfied with your silence, he brings his left hand to cup your jaw, thumb and index finger grasping your chin and tilting your head to the left, leaving your neck exposed. he leans in, nose tracing a line up the column of your neck until he meets the juncture between that and your jaw. it’s a simple movement, and yet it feels like eternity in his hands. his breath hits steadily against the expanse of your cheek as he whispers into your ear.  “does he touch ya like this?” 

the gasp you release is guttural.

the arm previously fiddling with your fingers quickly wraps around your waist, pulling you flush to him. you have no choice but to embrace him with your own arms, hands cupping the back of his neck to steady yourself. it’s impulse to run them down the expanse of his back, to feel the muscles that he’s worked so hard for, but you resist. keeping yourself locked on his neck and nothing more, as though you being pliant to his ministrations wasn’t jeopardizing enough.  

his thumb inches upward, stroking the corner of your lips sweetly. “does he take his time with ya? cause i would.” 

its then that his lips meet the skin of your neck, tingles erupting from the connection. all of its effects causing an inadvertent clench within you. “it’s not about shoving fingers inside and just doing it. its about doing it the way you like it. and i’d make ya tell me how ya like it. since yer always runnin’ that damn mouth, might as well put it to good use.”

its all-encompassing, the traitorous burn between your thighs. and yet, this is the unnamed something, all that you’ve pushed away.

“astumu—” you whine and its in that exhale of yours that he releases a sigh of his own. one that almost sounds restrained.

“tell me to stop.” he says quickly, lips mouthing against your neck as he utters the words. 

and you don’t want him to. not really. the desire is feverish, unlike anything you’ve felt before and to end this is to end the sweetness of something you’ve yet to taste. if it were to be with anyone you would want it to be with him.

you could take the teasing, the “i-told-you-so” from osamu, the obliteration of a friendship for the uncertain promise of something more. but it isn’t right. not like this. if mountains were to come to a head, you want it to happen because they were gravitated to each other, not because the earth told them to do so.

“stop.” you tell him, and it’s like a hot brand that strikes him. he’s immediately pushing away from, untangling his limbs from you and stepping back into the swath of darkness in the room. 

his breaths are deep and heavy, that much you can tell from the distance. shuttering exhales that wrack his chest. you can hardly make out his irises, only see the intensity of dark pupils. it’s hard to believe that he could be feeling the way you do, just from the simple touch alone. a quick glance down to his grey sweatpants proves otherwise. 

a moment, then two, pass by. ragged breaths filling the distance, words spoken in the silent language you’re both fluent in. 

“does this mean i’m easy then?” you ask quietly, an effort to ease the wall of tension. 

“no.” he shakes his head gently, “just means i know ya.”

he knows what he means to say, the words and all of their yearning practically knocking against his teeth to escape. it’s the long haul, almost a decade long game of carefully advanced chess pieces to get to this point. blocked, temporarily, by the appearance of the new guy. a boyfriend of yours that atsumu met once, a guy he barely attempted to learn the name of. for reasons of his own, their knowing pertinent only to him. held deeply within the urges of being seen, the desires of having you wholly, completely.

there are plenty of other ways that he could do this—probably be more eloquent about it. admit pushed away feelings when you’re not in the midst of ranting about how your boyfriend just can’t get you off. 

but the tension irks him. thick enough to cut a knife, always following the two of you in the long held stares and closeness in which you two gravitate towards each other. the answer to your boyfriend problem is standing right in front of you. he knows what he wants you to do when you see your boyfriend later tonight. 

there are certain shoes that atsumu is convinced he could fill better than your boyfriend.

your face is flushed, and the desk lamp makes you look angelic under the lowlights, and you're wearing his jacket like you always do in a way that makes him believe it was always meant for you. and he’s not entirely convinced, even without the cloud of lust that hangs over him, that you don’t want this just as bad as he does.

osamu once said that atsumu wouldn’t admit his feelings to you even if they hit him over the head. they’re here, now. settling in the distance between you two, bobbing in the capsizing waves of want. they ache to be spoken, knock repeatedly against his gritted teeth. 

but a choice is made in that moment, with you looking at him as wild as you are. atsumu will admit to the selfish and prideful part of himself, but this—you— aren’t something to just take. the taste of your neck, the feel of your body against him, it must be given to him, earned. not because he needs to make a petty point, but because you want him to. 

he cares for you too much to be reckless in how he plays his cards. even if osamu will bust his balls for it later.

you have a boyfriend. and he can’t force you to change that. it wouldn’t be right, he’s given you the taste, he hopes it will be enough.

“like that.” he says after a moment, pushing down his pride and long held desires for you. “tell him ya like it like that.”

a/n: why is it that whenever i stop writing for kuroo, the one i always want to write for is atsumu. also big ups for my beta who entertains me and proofreads me at all hours of the day. i love you sanju!!!!!!

[malisorn]

𖤓 || 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

Pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary | Aemond has begged for many things in his life and for one last time, he gets down on his knees and begs for you ๋࣭ ⭑

Warnings & Suggestions | Fluff & tiny bit of Angst, soft dark!aemond, heavily inspired by Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want by Deftones (originally The Smiths)

Speak the wrong thing, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

These words have rotted deep inside Aemond's mind ever since he was a child, for he has always been the butt of a joke to his own brother and nephews.

In the beginning, he lets them jest all they wish, enduring their laughter as if it meant nothing. But after times and times of the same old jokes, it is no more fun, it has never been fun.

He started to defend himself, spit back at Aegon's words and try to fight, but still he failed. And in the last resort, he found himself on his knees, crying over and over again.

“Please, please, please, give me the biggest dragon in the world.” Tears streaming down as he begs the gods. He promises to be a changed man if he ever has a dragon.

And the gods seem to have heard him but nothing in the world has ever come without its price. For the very first time in his life, Aemond got his wish as he rode Vhagar through the dark night sky. And for a minute, he felt like he had own the world. After countless nights of practicing High Valyrian, imagining a dragon in front of him as he shouted the word out loud.

“Dohaerās!”

“Lykirī!”

“Sōvēs!”

Now, slowly patting the back of Vhagar, this is real, seeing his tears dropping on Vhagar, this is truly real. He has finally proved himself worthy to be a dragonrider to his father, a perfect son to his mother and a true Targaryen to his brother and his nephews.

His thoughts run short when he notices the Velaryons and the Strongs from below.

“I will not fear them, Vhagar has proved me worthy of her, I will not fear anyone.” He thinks to himself as he comes down to face them.

“It’s him!”

“It’s me.” Aemond feels confidence runs through him like a raging fire, pushing him to all the ways to say things he's always afraid of.

“Vhagar is my mother's dragon!” The girl argued hard with no less confidence than him. “Your mother's dead.” Aemond worries he is too bold but there is no stopping from this moment. “And Vhagar has a new rider now.” He continues with pride on his face.

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena shouts with her twin sister’s comfort from the back. Aemond was silent for a second as he observes everyone around, none of their dragons can compare to his. Arrax is young, Vermax can barely obey and Moondancer is nothing to Vhagar. Smiling at his realization, “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride, it would suit you.” He looks at all of them. Threats shouted with punches exchanged, Aemond has insulted them just as they once did to him but never in his life has he thought something so brutal would happen to him.

“The scar will heal but the eye could never do the same, your grace.” Aemond grips the chair hard, he has lost his eye. He looks at his mother with tears full of pain. “Please, please, please, mother, help me.” He thinks to the mother and his own as the maester stitches his scar.

And his mother tried to help him, with the same pleadings in her eyes as she looked at his father, The King, the one who can truly give him everything but the King didn't return the same look in his eyes, he gave those to only his daughter and bash away Aemond's pain. However, his mother couldn't give up, she stood with duty heavy on her back, running to takes Lucerys’s eye. Everything from that night still haunts him and he couldn't look at the King the same.

Aemond did become a changed man, just as he promised to the gods in exchange for a dragon. Not the kind of change he has imagined. Instead, he has become a brute, poisoned with hatred and not even an ounce of sympathy left inside of him.

The Sept is no longer his place of comfort and he rarely begs the gods for anything. Aemond believes he has gotten everything he ever wanted, everything he needs to be a Targaryen. But no, it is far from the truth. Deep inside, Aemond feared that if he ever dared uttering a single wish to the gods, they would take something important from him in return. It could be his other eye, his title, his dragon or even his own life-

“Please, please, please, let this woman be the bride of mine for I have endured the pain my whole life. Let her be mine, for this will be my one last wish.”

Aemond feels bitterness twists through his words, he feels like a fool being down on his knees. After all these years of resentment, he broke all his promises and ran all his way back to the gods one more time. He said his prayers sternly, the gods must answer his wish after all they've done to him, he believes himself deserving something as dainty and perfect as you.

All of his thoughts slowly fade as his blurring sight clears into the vision of you standing right in front of him, wearing a pure white gown with wild flowers in your hair.

With each time he blinks, each breath he takes, every single piece of you has finally revived into a wish he has always yearn to be blessed. The way you talk, the way you smile and how you spin around with that white gown of yours, he has never been allured by a woman's beauty like this.

The gods have answered his prayers, you are now his bride.

“I am forever grateful to be your wife, my prince.” The sweet words dropping from your lips. He didn't know whether he wanted to be eternally confined by your love or to be freed from your lure. After nights of endless prayers, thinking that his wish has been torn aside and forgotten. But at this sight with you as his bride and from now on, his wife. Aemond feels seen, listened and answered, not only by the judgment of the gods but also by you.

He turns to look at you once more, “Same as I, to be your husband is truly a gift from gods.”

Feeling all smug with his answered prayers, Aemond seems to forget that nothing in the world has ever come without its price. Now, he can enjoy his days and nights with the love of his life but soon, the gods will find their ways and take anything they could in exchange of his one last wish.

masterlist for more

requests are open! feel free to ask ♡

images' credits

Society Lady With a Spray of Lilac by Hermann Clementz

Dancing Fairies by August Malmström

Peacocks and Delphiniums by Jessie Arms Botke

[elflutter]

— santa baby

santa!joel x f!reader

synopsis

you find an intruder dressed like santa in the living room of your childhood home on christmas eve. what could go wrong? or, you learn that santa is real. and extremely charming. and handsome. and he fucks, hard.

wordcount: 5.6k

ao3 | masterlist | fic notifs

tags/warnings: explicit (18+ mdni), christmas fluff/humor/smut, rom-com vibes, crack/silly fic treated semi-seriously, no use of y/n, age gap (reader is a mid 20's grad student, joel is in his 50's), unprotected piv, pet names (baby, baby girl, sweetheart, honey, little girl), brief daddy kink, santa kink(?), joel is santa, soft!joel, strangers to lovers, reader initially thinks joel is an intruder that poses a threat but is never actually in danger, so light thriller elements

When your eyes flutter open, it takes a moment to process the sight before you. Firelight still crackles in the hearth; the comforting scent of freshly baked cookies wafting in from the kitchen. The picturesque tableau of the perfect living room on Christmas Eve is interrupted by only one issue: the presence of large black boots standing before the mantle, attached to a towering man in a fur-lined red coat.

The first possibility— you’re dreaming. You must have been drunker than you thought when you dozed off in the plush lounge chair earlier that evening, warmed by the fire across from you. You do have weird dreams after drinking too much.

But... you only had a couple glasses of eggnog. Your blood alcohol content is definitely not high enough to be dreaming up a stranger decked head to toe in red sneaking around your parent's living room in the middle of the night. If this were a dream, the stranger would at least have a decent beard to complete the Santa look, right? The patchy shit framing his jaw is, quite frankly, an insult to mall Santas and Christmas card illustrators everywhere.

Trudging through the dregs of sleep, each thought like pushing through molasses. You rub your eyes to clear your head as your mind settles on the horrifying, disastrous, second possibility. Some fucking psycho is in your parents living room, on Christmas Eve, dressed like Santa Claus.

The stranger hasn't noticed you open your eyes, back still turned towards you, broad shoulders on display where the velvet of his coat pulls taut. His body shifts as he reaches for something above the hearth, adjusting the stockings… And methodically removing them from the hooks on the mantel! Is this motherfucker really swiping the stockings you and your siblings managed to hand-sew as a gift to your parents a few years ago? They aren’t even full of stocking stuffers yet! Not to mention that they are, quite frankly, of shitty construction and devoid of any material worth. What did this asshole want with them?

Rage simmers within you like a pot of water left too long on the stove, but fear wins out as reality washes over you—stock-still in your seat, blood frozen over in an icy river beneath your skin. There is a burglar just feet away from you, his huge shoulders filling out the joke of a red jacket he wears, strong frame easily visible beneath the costume. And your family won’t be able to clamber downstairs fast enough to stop him from doing some serious damage to you even if your scream did wake them up. So… motionless you remain. 

You must have been asleep when he walked in. And he had left you alone. Pretty shit move for a burglar– probably should have chosen a house without a 20 something year old passed out in the living room, but okay. Whatever. Maybe you can just close your eyes, pretend you never woke up, and he won't hurt you.

But then knock off Santa does something unexpected—he puts the stocking back on its hook, hanging a little heavier now. What kind of thief is this guy? He definitely isn't very good at it.

Maybe… the icy river rages back to life in your veins, dread cracking through its frozen surface. Maybe he isn't a burglar at all. Maybe he put something dangerous in the stocking like poison, or a bomb, or—

Shit. Fuck. You are definitely alone, in the middle of the night, with some sick fucking Santa themed serial killer. 

Strange man? yes.

Breaking and entering? Yes.

In the dead of night? Yes. 

Burglar? Definitely not.

Deranged serial killer is like, the next option down the list. To someone else, burglar to serial killer may seem to be a large jump to make. But in this moment of pure panic, you find no other logical conclusions.

Serial-killer-Santa has moved onto the next stocking, rummaging for something in the bag slung over his shoulder, still facing away from you.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Your body is wide awake now, each second passing in slow-motion while Serial-killer-Santa fills each of your family’s stockings with who-knows-what. Whatever it is can’t be good. Right?

What is this guy’s plan? Does whatever he put in the stockings do the job? Is he filling them up for shits and giggles before going around the house and doing it himself? And, most importantly, what the fuck are you supposed to do?

There is no way you can get past him unnoticed to grab a knife from the kitchen. Gears turn as you run through your options. Something close by will have to do. Your eyes scan the room for anything you could use to fight him off.

There is no way you’re letting this fucking creep kill your whole family on Christmas Eve. Who the fuck does that?

Finally, your eyes fall upon your saving grace. Wrought iron fire tools, old-fashioned and quaint in their appearance in their stand beside the fireplace. They could also very well be your doom—they sit just few feet away from fucked up Santa. He could turn at any moment and see what you’re doing. Without the element of surprise, you have nothing.

You shift in your seat, holding in your breath as you wait for the creak of furniture that never comes. Without even breathing a sigh of relief, you inch across the plush rug covering the old wooden floor, lowered to all fours. Each movement is calculated, your body taut with tension. Knee, forward, stop.  Hand, forward, stop. Over and over, for what feels like en eternity. Breath held until your hands wrap around the handle of the little shovel standing beside the hearth.

Fucked up Santa is an arm’s length away as you draw the shovel up and out of its holder, careful not to make a sound. Between the shovel and the fire-poker, you figure blunt force trauma is the more dependable option. Just knock him in the head, and you’ll be safe. Feet tuck beneath your knees, knees beneath your hips, hamstrings burning as you push yourself up little by little. Until, with a swing backwards for momentum, you bring it down on Santa’s head hard.

Did it just fucking bounce off his skull?

You try again.

Bounce.

Again.

Bounce.

Again, again, again.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

What the fuck?

Panic surges through you, a sinking pit where your stomach should be. What little control you had over the situation is ripped from your grasp and it leaves your mind reeling as you try to come up with a new plan to get out of this encounter intact. The bored drawl of his voice finally rouses you from your racing thoughts.

“You done?”

The shovel is still held tight in your grasp, ready for another swing, when those big brown eyes disarm you. His forehead is creased into a scowl and his lips are slightly downturned at the corners, like you are nothing more than a pestering inconvenience. But those damn eyes—burnt amber and gentle; they draw you in like a fly to honey.

You’re certain your eyes bulge out of their sockets, your mouth hanging open like a fish out of water, stunned as you’re caught between drinking in the sight of him like the sweetest ambrosia, and knocking him upside the head one more time to see if it’ll take.

Maybe-serial-killer Santa drags a huge, gloved palm down his face; body sagging in exhaustion or frustration as he lets out a breath. The bag he had been holding flops on the ground beside him.

You track the movement of his hands—are the gloves to keep from leaving any DNA behind?

He must feel the fear radiating from your body because he holds his palms out like you’re a baby deer he’s trying not to scare off. “Look, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Great, the devastatingly sexy trespasser tampering with your fireplace says he won’t hurt you. Luckily criminals are known for their credibility!

The man nods encouragingly when you don’t bolt after his first statement. “This is my last stop of the night before flyin’ back home.”

Your eyebrows draw together. It’s not like you can run, so the only option you see is to engage with this weirdo. There aren’t any flights out this late, the airport is closed. Is he rich, or is he delusional?

“What like, a private jet or something?”

His lips quirk up in a smirk, “like reindeer.”

Oh, great. Delusional. Maybe your sense of self preservation is finally depleted, because you scoff.

His grin widens. “Don’t believe me?”

“Reindeer don’t fly, asshole. ‘Specially not for delusional intruders on Christmas Eve.”

His chuckle is soft and warm, comforting like a fresh cup of cocoa.

“I’d say that’s the only type ‘a person they fly for, sweetheart.”

Knock off Santa does have a point. And the term of endearment has your blood rushing between your legs. But, still. There’s no way… right?

“Ya want to see?”

So. Your life just got a lot weirder. It turns out Serial-killer-Santa isn’t Serial-killer-Santa at all. The reality is even more improbable than that: he’s just… regular Santa. Old Saint Nick. Father Christmas. With reindeer and snow magic to prove it. You think those melting-chocolate eyes have something to do with how quickly you accept the whole thing—kneeling in fresh snow with a stranger in the front yard well past midnight, hairy whiskers and warm breath against your skin as a reindeer eats straight from your palm.

Not-fucked-up-Santa’s gaze weighs heavy in your chest. A soft grin tugs at his lips. There is something enchanting about the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself. Gruff and sure, with warm eyes and secret smiles that belied his rough exterior. On his knees beside you, he affectionately scratches behind another reindeer’s ears.

The snow is freezing where it melts through your pajama pants, but the warmth in your chest makes it all worthwhile. You can’t believe you thought this guy was some kind of evil psycho. After you spent the last half an hour together in the front yard, you swear he reminds you of an overgrown teddy bear.

You nod towards the reindeer he’s petting. “What’s its name?”

“Prancer.”

Your laugh rings like a bell, rising into the night sky. You shake your head with upturned lips. “Prancer like in the songs?”

The man nods. “Just like ‘em.”

You look down, suddenly shy, eyes tracing reflections of Christmas lights atop the fresh coat of snow.

“So, what about you?” You ask, realizing you aren’t actually sure what to call him.

He cups both sides of Prancer’s face playfully, the reindeer leaning into get more chin scratches. He responds absentmindedly, “What about me?”

“What should I call you?” You ask, recalling different names you’ve heard over the years. “Santa Claus? Kris Kringle? Saint Nicholas?”

“The name’s Joel.”

Your head quirks to the side, surprised. “Joel like Jolly?”

He huffs a low chuckle, standing up with a fond pat on Prancer’s back. The lights lining the roof glint in his silver hair. “Joel like it’s what my momma named me.”

You raise to your feet as well, snow crunching beneath the slippers you slid on before following Santa—Joel—outside.

He rests gloved hands on his hips, standing with one knee popped out a little. Assessing you like he knows what you’ll say next.

“So… what’s with the other names?”

His little grins are becoming a familiar sight, warming your bones like the living room hearth. “Only started this gig a few years back.” Joel tilts his head upwards, taking in the inky black sky and its silver dusting of stars.

“Kris was the last guy. Before that it was Nick.” He lets out a sigh, breath a white cloud; nodding towards the team of animals harnessed to his sleigh. “The reindeer live forever. Santas… not quite. Usually get about a millennium, give or take a few decades.”

You nod, processing. “What Christmas is this for you?”

Joel rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “The third.”

Your eyes widen and you can’t help but laugh. Even if it is a little morbid. “Wait, Santa died two years ago?!”

Crossing his arms, Joel replies with a subtle twinkle in his eyes, “I’m Santa. Been over that already.” Chuckling under his breath he adds, “you ain’t the brightest light on the tree, huh sweetheart?”

Your hand finds his shoulder in a playful shove. “You know what I mean, asshole!” Huffing a laugh of your own before you continue, crossing your arms over your chest in mock defense. “And my GPA this semester was three point nine. So I’m plenty bright.”

That leather-clad hand reaches out to cup your cheek and your heart soars before Joel catches himself.

Hovering awkwardly between you, he speaks. A muttered out I can tell, darlin’ before he lowers his hand in a stilted movement.

Before you can think about it, your palm is wrapped around his wrist, and he slots his fingers between yours. Heat is radiating off his body like a furnace—whether it’s from Santa magic or the fur lined coat, you aren’t certain.

You blink up at Joel through lowered lashes, standing at least a head taller than you. “Aren’t you gonna ask my name, Santa Claus?” Voice lilting and flirtatious, you wonder if a little bit of that liquid courage still thrums in your veins.

“Don’t need to. Already know it.” As soon as the words pass through his lips, his eyes widen and he’s backing away from you, leaving your hand achingly empty.

“Shit, uh–” Joel clears his throat, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “That came out wrong. It’s just—”

Putting him out of his self-imposed misery, a giggle bubbles up in your chest. “The list?”

Joel nods, shoulders sagging in relief. “The list.”

Your body floats towards Joel’s again like you are attracted by some magnetic force. Eyes wide and doe-like, you surprise even yourself with the next question. “And which list is my name on?”

His face is so close you can feel his breath hot against your cheek. Black leather cool against your ear as he tucks a tress of hair behind it before cupping one side of your face in his big palm. Your heart beats like a wild drum inside your chest.

 Mere inches separate his lips from yours when he answers your question, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His voice is low and rough, with a teasing edge. “Don’t know, baby. You been a good girl?”

You swallow the lump stuck in your throat, absolutely certain he can hear the way your breath catches. All you can manage is a little nod.

Joel raises the other gloved palm to cup the base of your skull in both hands, tilting your head up towards him. The space between your lips is thick with tension, begging to be crossed. But you are as frozen as the air around you. Enchanted; not by the magic or impossibility of who this man claims to be; but by the way his silver hair glints in the starlight, curling at the base of his neck. By the way his fingers spread warmth where they touch, and the way you long to feel the work-roughened skin beneath them. By the way his eyes smile before his lips, and the way he makes your insides dance in leaps and twirls like the sugar plum fairy.

His voice comes out in a whisper. “You gonna be a good girl for me right now?”

The smallest nod of your head before he clarifies—“words, baby.”

You have half a mind to be embarrassed by the way you’re about to beg, but you know Joel is just as desperate as you feel in this moment. That he needs to hear what you want, that you feel this feeble string of fate pulling taut between your hearts, that already this may be something more than lust. Spellbound in the way he makes you feel seen, by the care he’s already shown you; the way he delays going home to rest after the longest night of the year to comfort you and ensure that you know you are safe, that he isn’t a threat to you or your family.

Your pleading whisper matches his. “Kiss me, Joel.”

The moment the words escape into the chill between you, Joel closes the meager distance keeping him from you. His lips are warm, chapped and rough where yours are smooth. His touch is feather-light where he still cups the base of your skull; his kiss just as gentle. Hands brace his chest, a rock upon which to hold steady against each wave of sensation. His mouth moves against you tender and timid, as if any movement too sudden could break the spell you’ve cast upon each other.

But you ache for more; for the heat and passion simmering beneath your skin. Longing for not just his gentle touch but also his jagged edges. When you trace the heat of your tongue across the seam of his lips, he opens for you like a bright red flower blooming in white snow. Suddenly tenderness is traded for hunger, and your fingers wrap around the white fur of his collar. Tugging it downwards, begging for his body flush against yours. Begging him to bare himself before you.

Hands gently wrap around your wrists in an urge you to pause. Voice wobbly as if he is holding himself back from continuing too. “Not here, baby girl.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath as he kissed you. But you must have been, because your little huffs puff white plumes into the air as you catch it.

“Come up to my bedroom?”

The moment Joel nods his assent, you take him by the hand to lead him inside, an unspoken promise lingering in each step.

You gently pull the door to you bedroom closed behind you. Your back rests against the white surface; the gentle cool of the wood so juxtaposed to the way each nerve ending in your body crackles with flame. Fingers turn the lock without looking, eyes fixed on the way Joel devours your body with sight alone. The bedside lamp is still turned on, warm light washing over the planes of his face. Letting you study each line and freckle now that he is lit by something more than the night sky.

It does not surprise you that he is even more devastatingly handsome in the light. Now that you can see the little wrinkle of concern between his brows, the lines that frame his eyes commemorating each scowl and belly laugh that you didn’t get to see. Your heart swells with gratitude for what you can see—how the worry line ease and the crows-feet deepen as he matches your timid grin with a one that splits his face in joy.

He speaks your name like it’s the one Christmas wish he doesn’t have the power to grant. All his magic, and he looks at you as if you’re the most enchanting thing in the room. “Can I kiss you again?”

You surge forward to capture his lips, more desperate now for the time spent parted as you walked through the quiet house. Hands bump into each other as you struggle to rid your bodies of the layers separating them. Melting against Joel at the first touch of his gloveless hands upon your skin; they bear the callouses you knew you would find. His fingers light trails of white-hot sparks with each touch across your skin, unbuttoning your knit cardigan and coasting his hand along the skin beneath the hem of your shirt.

Unlike the frigid air outside, your skin holds no chill. Despite your lack of proper dress, you never felt cold as you stood with Joel in the yard. Your lips pull into a smile against his, heart full with the knowledge that he did that for you.

His chest is toned and belly pleasantly full as you strip him of his coat and shirt. Pants pool on the carpet soft beneath your feet, shoes abandoned in the foyer. Your gaze stops short on the bulge outlined in Joel’s red (of course) boxer-briefs as his catches on your mismatched bra and panties. Fingers trace along the softness of your abdomen, slowly reaching around to the clasp of your bra, eyes locked with yours in a question. You quickly nod, and Joel’s fingers deftly unclasp the fabric before he lets it fall unceremoniously to the floor.

His pupils, already darkening his irises, blow even wider as he studies your pert nipples and the supple flesh of your breasts. One hand finds each, each gentle squeeze sending heat straight to your core. Surely the gusset of your panties is already soaked. Before you can lament the loss of his touch, he cups your chin in his hands. Lips find yours, reverent and gentle, as you slowly walk him to the bed.

The back of his calves meet the side of your mattress, urging him to sit on the edge before you climb into his lap, legs straddled on either side. Your fingers tangle through his gray locks– his rest upon your waist, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the skin beneath your breasts. Lips hover just a hairs breadth apart, eyes locked in a heated gaze as you grind against him, his bulge rubbing the fabric of your panties against your slick folds.

He warns, “don’t have a condom, darlin.’”

It’s a stupid decision. The sex-ed outreach ambassadors at your school would definitely be horrified to see a grad student engage in such reckless behavior. But as you breathe out a response, you mean it. “Don’t care, Joel. Need you.”

His lips ghost against yours in a brief tease of a kiss before pulling back to speak against them. “Can’t get you sick. Perk of the job.” He steals another kiss before continuing, “you on somethin’?”

You nod, relief mixing with wonder at how he keeps finding little ways to take care of you. At the way he’s keeping you safe. You sound breathless when manage to speak, only getting out a simple, “IUD,” in response.

His hands guide your hips against the hard outline of his cock. You can feel his grin against your lips as you kiss him deep and long. His scruff rubs against your face and you trace it with your fingertips, stopping to rub the smooth little patch of skin you find along his jaw. You can’t believe you thought this sweet scruff was a sad excuse of a beard. He grinds his hips upward and you both groan at the friction. You think surely you could swim in all the slick pooled in your panties. The feeling of his cock against your seam has your cunt aching through the fabric keeping your centers apart. That feeling in your belly builds with each movement against him, and you think you could come like this.

“Joel, please.”

The deep edge of dominance in his voice sends a fresh wave of arousal washing over you. “Please what, baby girl?”

Your reply comes out in a needy whine— “need to feel you!”

Joel hums low in his throat as his teeth graze the shell of your ear. He buries his face in your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo—cinnamon and vanilla.

“Need Father Christmas to touch this sweet little pussy, hm?” The kiss he presses against your temple is so at odds with the filthy words that leave his lips. “Filled up your stocking out there, now you need t’be filled up right here?” Joel taps gently against your panties. “That it?”

His eyes find yours expectantly, your mind swimming in the sensation of his cock rubbing against your seam and his finger painfully close to where you need him most. You blurt out the first words that come to your mind—a little moan of yes, Daddy—the assent that he needs to hear before he touches you the way you want. You don’t mean to call him Daddy, didn’t even realize you were thinking it before it slips out. Heat rises in your cheeks. It’s his own damn fault, calling himself Father Christmas. You hope you haven’t scared him away; broken the haze of lust that has fallen over you both.

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by a broken groan as his hips buck into you. “Oh sweetheart.” His voice sounds wrecked, want cracking the last word— whiskered lips curve into a knowing grin. “Just need Daddy to take care of ya.” A drag of his cock against your dripping cunt through the layers of underwear. “S’ok, honey.”

Joel’s huge palms guide you to grind against him steadily. “Santa’s here. M’gonna take care of you, gonna take care’a my girl.”

His girl.

Panties pulled to the side, a calloused index finger runs through your soaked folds. Each touch sends sparks thrumming through your veins. You bury your face in his neck, hips bucking when the pad of his finger grazes your clit. Breathing deep to inhale his scent; pine and peppermint. A low groan tears out of Joel’s throat as he dips a finger inside your aching cunt, pumping in and out as your walls convulse around him.

“So damn wet for me, baby.”

You moan out a high pitched mhm. Joel rubs his thumb against your clit as he moves in and out, only one finger inside and you already feel deliciously full—but you need more. Adding a second finger inside you, you swear he can read you like an open book. Knows just what you need.

The stretch of two of Joel’s fingers is nothing like when you touch yourself; you can’t imagine how his length will feel. He can already reach so deep, easily rubbing against the spongy little spot hidden inside that makes you see stars with each pump of his fingers in and out.

“Good fuckin girl, takin’ what I give ya,” Joel breathes into your hair. “Think this pretty pussy is ready for my cock?”

“Yes, Joel, please, fuck—” his fingers brush against your g-spot one last time and cut off your begging with a keening whimper.

You watch entranced as Joel’s tongue darts out to taste you on his soaked fingers before sucking them in his mouth. He hums around his fingers contentedly. “Knew you’d taste sweet, baby girl.” Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head, speaking into your hair. “I could stay down there until the sun comes up, just tastin’ you.”

You won’t deny that the idea excites you. But you can feel his hardness press against your core, panties partly covering your folds now that Joel’s hand isn’t there to hold them to the side. You feel so empty, your achy cunt pulsing around air. So desperate to be full of him that any course of action except Joel splitting you in half with his cock seems unacceptable.

Your head pulls back, batting your eyelashes with the sweetest puppy-dog eyes you can muster. It doesn’t take much pretending for you to look so needy– it surprises you, the burn already starting behind your eyes. You’re certain you’d cry if he denies you a second longer.

“Taste later, Joel.” Lips press against his scruffy cheek. “Need your cock, please.” Lips press against the other one. “Now.”

Something about Joel, about the way he takes care of you, his rough-edged gentleness—you’re downright desperate. And it feels good.

Joel’s belly laugh is full of warmth, loud in the quiet of the house. “Later, huh? I’m holdin’ you to that.”

You’re grateful that your bedroom is far enough from the rest of your family’s to worry too much about the sound carrying and waking them. But still, you shush him with a scandalized grin. “Joel!” You whisper-laugh. “Not so loud.”

He lifts you from his lap like you weigh nothing, laying you back gently against the mattress. You add Santa-super-strength to the mental list of things about Joel that turn you on. He harrumphs, pouting playfully as he rids himself of his underwear.

His length bobs heavy, hanging thick and long between his legs. Goosebumps pebble your skin; his fingers are big. But his cock is huge.

Strong legs straddle either side of your hips, lips brushing against your ears as he speaks, “weren’t so worried ‘bout bein’ loud when you were beggin’ for my cock, little girl.” The words are harsh, but his voice holds no bite—teasing.

Joel’s name falls from your lips again. This time it’s a needy whimper.

He thumbs the hem of your panties, gaze serious as it meets yours. “Can I take these off, darlin’?”

Immediately, you nod. “Joel, please.”

Gently tugging your underwear off, he throws it backwards to join the rest of your clothes somewhere on the bedroom floor. His palm cups your pussy, the curls covering your mound slick to the touch.

He hushes the little whines leaving your throat. “Sh, sh, sh. S’ok baby girl.” Running a finger through your soaked folds, his voice is reverent, “gonna give you what you need.”

Joel’s cock his heavy against your thigh as he lines it up with you. Body covering yours like a blanket, propped up on his elbow above you. He runs the head through your puffy folds once, twice, thrice; each nerve on fire with every teasing motion. Finally, he notches his hard length at your entrance, waiting for you to nod before he slowly pushes inside.

There is a pressure in your core like you’ve never felt as he stretches you open. When you finally take him to the hilt, he stills to let you adjust to his size. Joel’s nose brushes yours, sweat glistening on his forehead in the warmth of your room.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

He hasn’t even moved yet, but your breath already comes in shallow pants. The tip of him brushes a spot so deep inside that you feel like you’re made of jelly. “So good, Joel. So good.”

He rolls his hips slowly, cock still wedged within you. You cry out, nipples brushing his skin as your back arches into him. Voice breathy, you only manage two desperate words– “I’m ready.”

Finally he moves, pulling nearly all the way out before he thrusts back in, deep and languid. Joel pumps his cock in and out, keeping his pace slow and comfortable. Like he’s still afraid to hurt you.

The stretch of your walls around his length has your skin prickling, clit swollen and begging for attention. Pleasure builds in your belly, but you need more. Nails dig gently into his back, urging him on.

“Harder, Joel, please,” you manage between panting breaths.

It’s like the leash that holds him back frays and snaps at your permission. Your fingers tangle in his silver curls, the pad of his thumb swirling around your puffy clit. Your cunt spasms around him as tension pulls taut deep in your abdomen with each rough snap of his hips against yours.

He fucks you mercilessly, for minutes or hours. You lose track of time as he pulls earth-shattering pleasure from your body.

“That’s right, good fuckin’ girl. Come on my cock, baby.” His comes out rough and breathy, sounding as wrecked as you feel. “Give it to me, baby.” Each instruction spurs you closer to the edge, coaxing you toward release with every mind numbing brush of his cock. It’s so deep inside that he must be hitting your cervix. He growls low in his throat, “let go f’me”

Joel’s thrusts quicken, frenzied as you writhe beneath him. With a few more tight circles around your aching clit, your eyes roll back as your release hits you. Walls flutter around his cock as he fucks you through the aftershocks, his thumb stilling its movements.

His pace doesn’t let up as he chases his pleasure, your arousal coating his cock in a slick squelch with each snap of his hips. “So good for me, so fuckin’ good.”

A desperate wine tears from your throat, stars painting your eyelids at his praise and the tip of him brushing against your g-spot as he fucks you hard and deep.

“Y'want ol' Santa to put a little snow inside ya, baby girl?”

The rasp of his voice has you begging for him to fill you with his spend. Needy whines of yes, Joel, please, fuck, yes!

He makes a strangled noise as his hips stutter, face buried in your neck as he spills within you, fucking his spend deeper as your cunt milks him dry. After a few shallow thrusts to ride out the aftershocks, he falls limp on top of you.

In this moment, you aren’t worried about the mix of your come and his dripping out of your cunt and onto the bedsheets. You aren’t even worried if your family heard Santa fuck you stupid.

All you care about is Joel, the softness of his curls between your fingertips. The feeling of plush lips against yours as he kisses you gently, his large palm cupping your face. You lay there, limbs tangled, in the arms of this man who was a stranger just hours ago.

You hope he never becomes a stranger again. After all, you do owe him a taste. You get the sense that you’ll be making good on that promise.

fuck neil druckmann, support palestine

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i've had such a busy christmas eve and need to go pass out now but i might add more detailed notes later lol if you enjoyed and want to leave feedback it would make my day!! need santa!joel bad idk it's embarassing

idk if i would have written a santa!joel fic if i hadn't been inspired by mr. winter by @kedsandtubesocks! please go read it ✨

dividers by @saradika-graphics

follow @elflutter-fics for notifs! i may some mutuals in the replies 🤍

[selinay-in-wonderland]

ART THE CLOWN X FEMALE READER (CHRISTMAS EVE) 🎄🍪

—————————————————————————-

It was a quiet Christmas Eve. The kind you liked most. The warmth of your little home contrasted with the snow falling gently outside. You’d just finished putting away the small decorations, the soft glow of twinkling lights reflecting off the windows. Your modest tree stood by the corner, decked with ornaments you’d collected over the years—nothing extravagant, just little pieces that made you smile.

You hadn’t planned on having company. You rarely did. Between your shyness and social anxiety, you preferred the quiet of your home, where things were predictable, where you didn’t have to worry about what people thought of you.

You curled up on the couch, your oversized sweater enveloping you like a cozy hug, and sipped from your mug of hot chocolate. It was the perfect night—a small, peaceful Christmas Eve all to yourself.

But then, you heard it.

A soft creak. The sound of footsteps, almost imperceptible but there.

You sat up, your heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t the wind, and you knew it wasn’t the creaky old floorboards. You hadn’t left the door unlocked… had you?

Before you could fully process the thought, the footsteps grew louder, closer. Your pulse quickened as you stood, holding your mug like a fragile shield.

Then, out of the shadows of the dimly lit hallway, he appeared.

A man—no, a clown—stepped into your living room, dressed in a stained, tattered Santa Claus suit. The fur lining of his costume was yellowed with age, and the red fabric was smudged with dark stains you didn’t want to examine too closely. His white, painted face was frozen in a grotesque grin, black eyes gleaming as they locked onto yours.

You gasped, dropping your mug, the hot chocolate spilling onto the floor, but you were too stunned to care. Your mind raced—Who was this? How did he get in? But your body froze, your usual response to confrontation kicking in. It wasn’t that you weren’t scared—you were—but fear for you often manifested as being trapped, unable to react.

Art the Clown stood there, perfectly still, his head tilted to one side, his black lips stretched into that eerie, permanent smile. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just watched you, as if waiting to see what you would do.

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. This had to be some kind of prank, right? Someone dressed as a clown for Christmas? Maybe one of your neighbors playing a joke?

But as your eyes met his, you realized there was something off about him—something much darker. There was no mischief in his eyes, no playful spark. Just emptiness. And yet, despite the eerie stillness of his body, you sensed that he was studying you, just as confused by your reaction as you were by his presence.

Your instinct told you to run, to scream, but instead, you took a step back, your voice barely a whisper. “Who… are you?”

Art didn’t respond. Of course, he wouldn’t. His silence was his trademark. Instead, he raised one gloved hand slowly, mimicking a wave—mocking, almost theatrical. His smile stretched wider as if to say, Look, I’m friendly.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but instead of running, you stood there, frozen by a strange combination of fear and curiosity. You had always seen the good in people. Always. Even when it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t that you were naïve—you just believed that there was always something redeemable in everyone. Maybe this person, dressed up like Santa, had some kind of reason for being here. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.

“I-I don’t know who you are,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “But… if you need something, I can help.”

That’s when Art’s grin faltered ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing in confusion. He took a step closer, his movements eerily graceful, like a predator assessing its prey. But there was no malice in his expression—just that unsettling, twisted amusement, tinged with curiosity. He was intrigued by you, by your calmness, your lack of panic.

You took another step back, your breath shaky. “It’s… Christmas Eve,” you added, feeling ridiculous for trying to explain something so obvious. “Are you lost?”

Art mimicked a deep, exaggerated frown, his shoulders slumping dramatically as if he were the one in need. His gloved hands fluttered to his chest in mock despair, his entire body language shifting to exaggerate the sadness you had suggested.

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Was this really happening? A murderous-looking clown was in your living room, dressed as Santa, miming some bizarre performance in response to your kindness.

Your kind nature kicked in again—the part of you that wanted to see the best in people, that always assumed there was a reason behind even the strangest behavior. He was miming like a performer, sure, but maybe he didn’t mean any harm. Maybe he just needed help, attention, or… you didn’t even know anymore.

“I-I have cookies,” you stammered, not sure what else to say. “If… if you’re hungry?”

Art’s eyes gleamed at the offer, and he straightened up, his smile returning in full force. He gave you an enthusiastic thumbs-up, his head nodding vigorously. You couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of relief wash over you. Was he seriously accepting your offer of cookies?

You moved slowly toward the kitchen, your body tense as you kept an eye on him. He followed, his movements completely silent, gliding almost like a shadow behind you. The only sound was the faint jingle of the bells on his Santa hat.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the plate of Christmas cookies you had baked earlier. You set them down on the kitchen counter, your heart racing as you tried to process what was happening.

Art leaned forward, inspecting the cookies with exaggerated interest. He picked one up, held it to his ear, and gave a comical nod of approval before pretending to take a huge bite out of it. His body convulsed in an exaggerated chewing motion, as if savoring the flavor, though he didn’t actually eat it.

A nervous laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. Despite the fear gnawing at your insides, there was something about his antics that almost made you forget the danger. Almost.

He pointed to the cookies, then back to you, giving you a thumbs-up. You nodded, unsure of what else to do. “Y-You’re welcome,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Then, without warning, Art’s eyes narrowed, his smile twisting into something more mischievous. He reached into the sack slung over his shoulder and pulled out a small, wrapped present. He held it out to you, wiggling it slightly in his hand, as if daring you to take it.

You hesitated. The wrapping paper was torn and stained, and something about the way he presented it made you uneasy. But then again, everything about this situation made you uneasy.

With shaky hands, you reached out and took the gift. It was light, almost weightless, and you had no idea what could be inside. You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you carefully peeled back the paper.

Inside was a small, cracked snow globe. The glass was chipped, and the tiny house inside was barely visible through the clumps of fake snow stuck to the bottom. It was… sad, really. Broken.

You stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Art, unsure of how to respond. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Art’s eyes flickered with something you hadn’t seen before—confusion. He wasn’t used to this. To someone accepting his strange gestures with such sincerity, such gratitude. His smile faltered for just a second, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of you.

Then, in a swift motion, he straightened up, his grin returning in full force. He mimed tipping a hat to you, his body language exaggerated and theatrical, before turning on his heel and gliding back toward the door.

You stood there, clutching the snow globe, your mind racing. What had just happened? Who was this man—this clown? And why hadn’t he hurt you? He could have easily… but he hadn’t.

As Art reached the door, he paused, turning back to look at you one last time. His eyes lingered on you, and for a brief moment, you saw something beneath the eerie exterior. Confusion. Curiosity. Maybe even a flicker of… respect?

Without another sound, he disappeared into the night, the door closing softly behind him.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the spot where he had been. Your heart was still racing, but the fear had faded into something else—something more complex. You had no idea who he was or why he had come to your house, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you.

As you sat in the soft glow of your living room, your gaze drifted back to the broken snow globe resting on the mantle. It seemed almost magical, despite its fractured state. Intrigued, you picked it up again, cradling it in your hands and feeling the weight of its history. The delicate glass felt cool against your skin, and the world within it was still, waiting for your curiosity to stir it to life.

You tilted the globe gently, watching the tiny flakes of faux snow swirl around. With a soft shake, you let it settle again, and that’s when you noticed it. Nestled among the miniature decorations of a quaint little house was a small figure, partially obscured by the swirling snow.

You leaned closer, your heart quickening as you focused on the little scene within. As the snow began to settle, the figure came into full view, and you gasped, your breath hitching in your throat.

Inside the globe stood a miniature version of Art the Clown, perfectly crafted in exquisite detail. He wore a tiny Santa suit, complete with bright red fabric adorned with fluffy white trim. The suit hugged his small frame, the colors vibrant against the stark white of the snow. His face was painted in the signature stark white, with exaggerated black eyebrows arched in a playful expression. His lips curled into a wide, almost mischievous grin, revealing sharp little teeth, which only added to the character’s charm rather than fright.

A tiny Santa hat was perched atop his head, tilted to one side, and it danced slightly as the globe settled. His eyes were bright and lively, capturing the essence of the man you had just encountered—curious yet playful, a mix of innocence and mischief. It was almost as if he was beckoning you to join in on some festive fun, despite the bizarre nature of his presence.

Around him, the miniature landscape was adorned with tiny gifts, faux snowflakes, and even a small, decorated Christmas tree. The entire scene felt alive, imbued with a strange magic that made your heart swell. You could almost hear the jingle of distant bells, feel the warmth of Christmas spirit that enveloped the globe.

Then, without warning, a chill swept through the room, causing you to shiver slightly.

Suddenly, the glass of the globe cracked, sending a shockwave through the room. You gasped and dropped it, but instead of shattering, the globe exploded in a burst of shimmering mist that filled the air, swirling like smoke.

Out of the mist, a shadow emerged, and your breath caught in your throat as Art materialized before you, stepping out from the darkness, his expression eerily calm. He was right there, in your living room, just as he had been before—but somehow more solid, more real.

His eyes locked onto yours, an intense gaze that spoke volumes, and yet he remained silent. The room felt charged with tension, the air thick with a mix of fear and something you couldn’t quite identify. He took a slow step closer, and your heart raced, caught between terror and an inexplicable attraction to his dark presence.

As he approached, you couldn’t look away. His costume was slightly tattered, his face painted with the same twisted smile, but now it felt oddly intimate in the closeness of the moment. You felt drawn to him, despite everything that screamed to run away.

But then you noticed something—your heartbeat echoed in your ears, and for a split second, you thought you saw vulnerability flash in his eyes. Was it possible? Could there be more to him than the monster you feared?

The lights flickered again, casting a warm glow that softened the edges of his terrifying appearance. In that moment, it felt as though time stood still. You could either embrace the fear or take a step forward, drawn by an unexplainable connection.

And just like that, as if sensing your hesitation, he reached out a gloved hand, palm up, inviting you to choose. The gesture was both terrifying and strangely comforting.

You took a deep breath, knowing you were standing at a crossroads—one path leading back to safety and the other into the darkness, where the lines of fear and fascination blurred.

You reached out, hesitantly placing your hand in his, feeling the coolness of his touch. A rush of emotions surged between you, as if the moment had the power to change everything. In that shared silence, you realized that despite the horror, you felt more alive than you had in a long time.

As you held his hand, the atmosphere shifted. The air thickened with unspoken promises, and Art's eyes glimmered with a dark intensity that sent shivers down your spine. He leaned closer, and without a word, he began to move, guiding you into a slow, hesitant dance.

Your heart raced, a mix of fear and thrill coursing through your veins. The world outside faded, leaving only the soft flickering of Christmas lights and the haunting melody of a distant carol. Art twirled you gently, his grip firm yet surprisingly tender. It felt surreal, as if you were trapped in a dream where the lines between danger and desire blurred into an intoxicating haze.

You moved in sync, the dance a strange blend of elegance and unease. Every step felt like a delicate negotiation—a silent agreement between you two. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it felt like to make a deal with the devil: exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly captivating.

As he spun you around, the shadows danced along the walls, elongating and twisting in the soft light. You found yourself laughing softly, the sound escaping your lips before you could stop it. Art paused, his head tilting slightly, as if confused by the sound. You were surprised by your own reaction—how could you be laughing when you were dancing with a killer?

But then, you looked into his eyes, and something shifted. In that moment, the darkness around him seemed to melt away, revealing a glimmer of humanity beneath the surface. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that resonated with you, a reminder that even the most monstrous of beings could yearn for connection.

He pulled you closer, the warmth of his body contrasting with the chill that had initially filled the room. It was as if the dance was a ritual, sealing the unspoken bond that had formed between you. The world outside was forgotten; all that mattered was this moment.

With each step, you felt your fears dissipate, replaced by an unexpected thrill. The gentle sway of your bodies, the rhythm of your hearts—it was intoxicating. This was no longer just a dance; it felt like a pact. You were choosing to embrace the darkness, to see past the clownish façade and into the depths of his enigmatic soul.

Then, just as you thought you were losing yourself completely, Art’s expression shifted. His grin widened, revealing a playful glint in his eyes. With a sudden burst of energy, he spun you out, your body twirling in a flourish. Laughter bubbled up again, this time more freely, filled with exhilaration and delight.

He drew you back in, and the moment was electric. You could feel the weight of the world pressing against you, the realization that this was a moment you’d never forget. In the quiet chaos of the dance, you found a kind of freedom—one that defied the boundaries of fear and embraced the beauty of the unknown.

And then, as the music faded into the background, you locked eyes with Art, the reality of the moment crashing down around you. You both stood on the precipice of something dangerous, something that could change you forever.

With a breathless smile, you knew that the dance was more than just movement; it was a shared understanding that you were both caught in this dark world together.

In that instant, you realized you weren’t just dancing with a monster—you were dancing with a soul that craved connection, just as you did.

The shadows flickered around you as you continued to sway in silence, knowing that, in this moment, you had forged a bond that was both thrilling and terrifying—an unbreakable contract made in the stillness of Christmas Eve.

[banj0possum]

Infernal Infatuation

Demon x Gn Reader

I've had a little idea for a while but never managed to write it out. This is gonna be a 2-part fic so better strap in folks :)

CW: murder, gore, shit friend-group, brief mention of animal slaughtering, demonic themes

🔥 You cursed yourself as you sat uncomfortably squished between the car door and one of your friends who didn't even awknowledge your distress.

🔥 Why did you have to listen to your friends? Why did you agree to their text about joining them in trying to perform a "cool demonic looking ritual" they found online? Why is this car so sticky???

🔥 It was loud and generally overwhelming inside the car, blaring music was coming from the speaker, everyone was moving around and singing along to the songs at the top of their lungs, and it looked almost 2am from how dark it was.

🔥 Your friends figured that you all could get in trouble if you performed their little "game" where lots of people could see and decided to drive out somewhere along the highway that had little to no people passing through, especially during that time of day.

🔥 One of your friends, Justin, remembered an old abandoned warehouse that was near and unmonitored, the perfect place to mess around.

🔥 The car turns and drives off the road, rolling along a bumpy terrain as you can see the warehouse grow closer as the car's headlights illuminate its rusty exterior.

🔥 An uneasy feeling grows within your stomach as everyone gets out of the car laughing and checking out the building. You can't keep your eyes off it as its old walls held a sense of dread and doom.

🔥 Audrey, the one who asked you to join, wrapped an arm around you and laughed. "What are you doing you weirdo? C'mon! We got a monster to summon!" She jokes as she catches up to the others. You sigh and shake off the last bits of fear in you.

🔥 Audrey takes out her phone and reads the instructions for the ritual. Your other friends helped in lighting candles, drawing the pentagram and sigils while Justin recorded everything, laughing like it was some everyday prank. You just sat there, getting more and more concerned about the situation.

🔥 You ask Audrey if you could leave, the scene getting a bit much for you but she scoffs, calling you a pussy. Your brow furrows and you sit back down, very hurt by her comment.

🔥 Once everything was set, everyone stood around the pentagram. You join hands as Audrey reads out the chant, Justin still snickering to himself behind his phone.

🔥 "Oh yeah, it says everyone has to make a blood sacrifice of something but we got that covered." Audrey laughs and pulls out a jar of blood from the duffle bag she brought. Apparently they just took the blood from a pig and settled on it, but you feared about the consequences of cheating the ritual so you take a small knife you carry around all the time for self defense and cut a tiny slit in your finger, you drop it in the center while everyone carelessly pours the pig's blood in.

🔥 Everyone goes silent before a low rumbling is felt in the ground, like the earth itself was pulsing.

🔥 Suddenly, the candles are blown out, the smoke from the wicks swirling around the center of the circle as the ground shook violently. Everyone but you start exclaiming in astonishment like it was a magic trick in a circus.

🔥 You step back as the swirl of smoke forms into somewhat of a humanoid shape. The pentagram starts glowing red as the smoky figure opens its pitch eyes, the smoke dissipates to reveal what looks like a man, his grey skin was scattered in black tattoos that covered his arms and back as well as parts of his face. He had ghostly white hair that framed his sharp face perfectly. His tail swished behind him what went from his skin's grey to black the closer it got to the tip. He blinks and white pupils appear in his black eyes. He wore nothing but dark red pants that was held up by a rope or ribbon that was secured along his waste.

🔥 He looks at everyone as your friends all had mixed reactions, some were screaming their heads off while others were laughing and cheering over how their little trick worked.

🔥 Audrey in particular, was ecstatic, taking pictures of the demon as it stared at her.

🔥 "Oh my god, I didn't know he would be so hot!-" She was about to place he hand on his chest when he grabbed her wrist. She yelped and tried to let go but his grip was as strong as iron.

🔥 She starts screaming and trying to push him away while everyone else laughed at the scene. You could only step back and watch as Audrey continued yelling at the boy to let go of her, now scared out of her mind.

🔥 The dreaded ringing of laughter stopped all of a sudden after a loud, wet crack. Blood gushes out of Audrey's arm as he steps back from the grey man, you shake as you still see her now ripped off arm still in his grip.

🔥 Your friend's laughter is replaced with screams as the demon kills off your friends one by one, you run off and take cover behind an old truck in the warehouse while you hear the gruesome sounds of flesh ripping and your friends' screams diminishing with every life taken by the monster you summoned out of pure stupidity and recklessness.

🔥 The sounds stopped for a moment before you hear the sound of footsteps slowly coming towards you. You cry silently, praying to whatever was watching over you to help you, for a saving grace, a miracle, anything to get you out of there.

🔥 Your eyes blink open as you see the man kneeling down at you with wide eyes, the blood of your friends getting absorbed into his skin, giving his eyes a redder tint. You close your eyes, tears falling down your cheeks as you wait for your painful death.

🔥 But it never came.

🔥 A soft touch to your wet face makes you flinch as the demon coos at you and wipes away your tears, rubbing your cheek.

🔥 "Why are you so sad Master? Your sacrifice was much appreciated."

🔥 He spoke with a soft, sultry voice. You stutter out a "What?" as he cocks his head.

🔥 "Yes, those lowly creatures were very annoying, but their blood was the greatest gift I've ever received, such generosity deserves just service, right?" he smiles.

🔥 You were confused; Master? why would he be calling you that? Still frazzled by the events that happened to you, you stood up and started walking away, the moments you've witnessed still not sinking into your soul yet.

🔥 The demon stays where he was a bit longer before catching up to you, still smiling like he didn't just kill 5 people right in front of you.

🔥 "Are we going to your abode, Master? I'd be happy to carry you, you seem a bit exhausted." He said, going in front of you and offering his arms.

🔥 You laugh nervously at him, "N-no! No heheh.. uhm.. I'm fine walking to the car.." You walk by him, as his elvish ears perk up. "Car? I've never been in a car before!"

🔥 Now here you are, driving back to your house in blood-soaked clothes in your now dead friend's car with a demon who was busy sticking his tongue out of the cat window like a giant dog.

🔥 The silence was unbearable as the uneasiness of having such a dangerous creature next to you swallowed you whole, you didn't bother turning on music as he tried turning the dials and broke it.

🔥 "So..uh...why didn't you kill me? I know I'm your 'master' now and all but uh...Why not the others?"

🔥 "You really didn't know how it worked? Well, those idiots took a dumb shortcut and offered the blood of an animal. You, Master, generously gave your own blood for me, speaking of which.." He takes your hand that had the cut and licked it. You pull back your hand in disgust and try to carefully rub off the saliva but find that your finger no longer hurt. You look at it and see the cut fully healed, not a scar left.

🔥 You look at the demon who gave you a toothy smile and sighed.

🔥 "So..what do I call you?"

🔥 "My name is Dorik! May I know your's, Master?"

🔥 "Uh..I'm (Y/N).."

🔥 "What a fun name! (Y/N)..I like it!" He turns his head back to the window and giggles at the wind in his face. You couldn't help but giggle at his cute behavior. Looks like you have a new companion for a while...

🔥 Oh my god your friends are dead...

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

My baby, my baby…

Summary: Leon is a man pushing 40 and you’re a girl in her early 20s. You confessed your feelings but things went south.

Warning: age gap. literally any older version of Leon. reader is young. female reader. haha guess what? it’s sad again.

a/n: I love mitski <3 still mad I didn’t go to her concert. Guys I love writing, I feel like I’m god waiting for shit to happen. TEEHEE.🤭 also, should I make a part two with smut?

(pt.1) (pt.2)

“You're my baby, say it to me” - Mitski, I Bet On Losing Dogs

You hated him. Well not really. You just hated the way he made you feel when you two were in the same room. Your heart beat faster and you felt your face grow hot. You had butterflies in your stomach every time he did something. And you felt stupid because he’s a man twice your age.

You did what you always think is best, avoid him. To which you failed miserably. You both worked on the same team on the DSO, of course you were bound to be next to him. It was as if the universe was mocking you. You couldn’t help but feel guilty. This man, poor innocent man, probably doesn’t know that he has someone so much younger after him. He must be worried about missions and not dying, while you were here crushing over him.

It didn’t help the way he would talk to you, distant but polite. He didn’t hate you, he just thought you were too young to experience such a miserable life the DSO puts on its agents. He wants you to live life. To be a normal girl in her early 20s. He wanted you to have the life he wished he had. He wished you would live your 21st year way differently than when he was 21.

But those thoughts remained unspoken. Neither of you actually spoke about anything besides work and missions. You tried to find excuses to talk to him but he would just stare at you in silence as you talked. He wasn’t mad, he just stood there. (Like this lol🧍‍♂️)

Professional and polite conversations turned into jokes. One time, during a meeting, you were sitting next to Leon and the poor man looked like he didn’t get an ounce of sleep. Chris was talking about some mission in Antarctica and Leon couldn’t help but grumble a stupid joke about all the penguin shit roaming around. It was such a stupid joke but you laughed. When Leon heard you laugh, he turned his head your direction and stared at you with a raised brow. He smirked to himself and laughed a little bit. It was funny to both of you.

From that moment, he became more warm towards you. When he saw you, he would nod at him. And you being you, a delusional lover, gushed about how much he is in love with you.

You managed to break the ice exterior he had because he would look at you with soft eyes every time you got near him.

-

But things changed when you confessed your feelings to him. The softness in his eyes disappeared and he looked at you with the same distant look he had. “I’m too old for you, y/n…” He spoke with a quiet but firm tone. The two of you were currently alone in some room inside the DSO building. You thought this was the perfect time to let your feelings out.

He took a step towards you and stood in front of you, “You should focus on someone your age, sweetheart,” He mumbled as he brought his hand to your face and brushed some strands of hair behind your ear. He then ran his hand down your cheek with a gentle touch. You couldn’t help but lean into it. His thumb gently grazes against your bottom lip as he ran his fingers around your side of your face.

You were upset, you wanted him despite the age gap. “Please… I only want you,” you whispered and leaned into the palm of his hand.

Leon stared at you and then sighed as he brought his hand down your chin to lift it up more. He wanted to see those beautiful eyes of yours, even if they began to show how sad you were. “It’s wrong for me to have you,” he whispered gently as he examines your face.

You felt your eyes become full of emotion, “It’s not fair…” your voice came out strained and barely audible, it was a miracle Leon still understood you.

"I know." Leon sighed, unable to keep himself from looking you with a soft look. You were his soft spot after all, "Trust me; nothing would please me more than to be with you..."

“Then let me have this one chance…please?” You begged with pleading eyes. "I shouldn't," he breathed, eyes traveling down to your lips before returning to scan your face, "It wouldn't be right for me to take advantage of you..."

“I want you to take advantage of me, to use me… I just want to be yours,” you whispered as your eyes shifted down to his lips and then back to his eyes.

"You're sure about this?" His breathing quickened as his eyelids drew heavy, his gaze locked onto the soft curve of your lips. You nodded, “I wouldn’t be asking you if I wasn’t sure,” you whispered as your hand intertwined with his.

He squeezed your hand, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he leaned down until your faces were just mere inches apart.

He breathed slowly, eyes scanning your gaze, "Promise me one thing..."

You stared at his eyes and nodded, “yeah?”

"Promise me..." He breathed out slowly, allowing himself to lean in closer to you until his breathing was near whisper. "...That you will not regret this.”

“I won’t,” you whispered as you closed your eyes and felt Leon's lips finally make contact with yours, kissing for the very first time. It was a gentle, tender caress that made your cheeks flush with color, his broad hands gently resting on your hips while the tips of his fingers grazed the skin of your waist. You brought your hands to his broad shoulders and rested them there. You felt your knees grow weak from the gentleness of the kiss. His lips felt so soft against yours, he tasted the flavor of your chapstick and he couldn’t help but love it even more.

He sighed against your lips as the gentleness of the kiss began to build into something more passionate. His lips pressed against yours firmly, a hand cupping your chin to keep your face closer. His lips parted slowly, urging your lips to part as well. When you felt his lips part and his tongue press on your bottom lip, you gasped and he dived his tongue right into your mouth. His tongue finally danced against your tongue, inviting a response back from you. Your grip on his shoulders increased ever so slightly as you moaned in the kiss, sending the vibrations to his tongue as both your tongues danced passionately.

He moaned softly in response, his hands sliding around to your back once more holding you as close to him as he could. His tongue continued to swirl around your mouth, gently sucking at your bottom lip. His hold on you was strong and firm, a silent command to stay pressed against him. His hold on you only grew stronger as he kept you pressed up against his body. A hand ran through your hair, keeping your head held in place. His tongue and lips continued the dance of teasing and pleasing, your own lips responding in kind. The passion built within his embrace, his breath growing labored and his heart beating rapidly against his chest. It felt so surreal.

You moved your hands down to his chest and gently pulled back to catch your breath. You panted as you tried to breathe and remain focused. Your brain felt mushy from how good the kiss was. You finally got the chance to taste his lips.

His lips parted from yours, and he breathed out slowly, his breathing rapid and throat parched. His hand slid to your lower back as he kept you pressed close to him. He brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face, then gently tucked it back behind your ear. "Are you ok?" He whispered, voice still strained, but his body relaxing slightly.

You nodded and breathed out a small “yes,”

Leon let his grip on you loosen slightly, allowing a small distance to form between the two of you. He brushed the side of your face, and his hand moved to grasp yours.

"Good," He whispered slowly, his gaze falling to your lips, "So very good..." he sighed and let his hand slid back down your back before letting go, "Forgive me if I got a little carried away..." He took in a deep breath, his voice now returning to a normal tone, "I've wanted to do that for a very long time..."

You eyes nestled bulged out of their sockets after he said that, “You did?” You asked softly in disbelief.

He nodded slowly, his gaze flicking between yours, “Yes. Ever since the moment we first met, I was attracted to you, even though I knew it was wrong. I wanted you, wanted to hold you close, kiss you, and make you mine…” his eyes growing distant, "I've wanted you..." He took a deep breath, then gently caressed your chin with a hand, his lips gently grazing your forehead.

You closed your eyes and felt the softness of his lips plant a kiss on your forehead. A gesture so gentle and soft it could bring anyone to their knees.

He breathed out slowly, closing his eyes for a second before opening them to peek at you through his lids. He raised a brow and sighed, adjusting the hold on your chin to gently tip your head up.

"But as I said, I'm too old for you," he brushed his fingers across your jawline, "And I fear that our relationship would be met with judgment and ridicule..." he looked at you with saddened eyes. He wished he could kiss you anytime, to be with you in public and not have to worry about the judgment. In his eyes, you were the most beautiful woman to ever step foot on earth. It was sad, really. How much love he had for you but he hid it for your sake. He loves you so much he didn’t want you to get hurt.

You furrowed your brows together and looked at him with those sad eyes of yours. But his heart ached the most with the strain of your voice, “I don’t care what anyone says…”

"But you should," he replied softly, "You're still young... You should find someone closer to your age,” he caressed your cheek once again as he looked into your eyes "What about your family?" He sighed, "What if your parents disagree with us? They'd say that I'm taking advantage of you and manipulating you because you're young..."

“Leon, please, I’m an adult. I can make my own choices…” you whispered with a sad tone, “I don’t care if you’re 20 years older than me. I want you… dare I say I love you…”

Leon fell silent as your words sank into him. He froze in place, for a few moments, he was speechless, his facial expressions shifting through multiple emotions.

"Love me?" He whispered, leaning down towards you, "Y/n… you don’t love me. You love the idea of me you have in your head.” He whispered softly as he caressed your cheek once again. His voice so soft and tender and full of sadness.

Your throat was caught up into a knot. Did you screw things over already? Or were they already screwed up before this began?

You bit your bottom lip to contain the threatening tears that were about to spill. He saw this and gently brought his thumb over to the corner of your eyes and wiped them for you.

“I love you…” you nodded and felt your eyes get glossy, “I love you, Leon…” you whispered, “This feeling I have… it’s controlling me. I can’t breathe when I’m not with you. I need you…”

“Don’t cry, angel,” he whispered as he kissed your forehead again and gave you a sad smile. “How do you know this is not just infatuation?”

You stared into his blue eyes deeply, “Because I’ve never felt this way towards anyone before..”

His eyes were locked onto yours, a million thoughts running through his head. As much as he wanted to be with you, this was never meant to happen. You’re way too young. You needed someone else, someone better than him. He sighed and looked out the window. What was once a sunny day became a rainy one. He looked back down at you.

"Go home, y/n…" he whispered.

He let go of your face and took a step back. You watched him go with sad eyes, you wanted to chase after him so badly but you felt frozen in place. It was bittersweet. You got the kiss you wanted but at the cost of him leaving you.

You sniffled and cried silently as you walked out of the building and to the bus stop. You put on your headphones and began to listen to some music while you watched the raindrops race down the window.

Leon watched you from the second floor window. He felt a pang of guilt in his heart. He knew you’d cry but he couldn’t let you get too attached to someone like him. He was broken, never meant to be fixed again. While you were everything. In another universe, maybe the two of you could’ve been together.

[shegatsby]

Love Thy Enemy

Summary; Y/N Atreides had always been a stranger to the entire galaxy, her bed wasn’t her bed, her home wasn’t her home due to the fact that she was sent to accompany and be sisters with Irulan. She had limited access to her actual family and over the years they grew distant. She thought she would be like Reverend Mother, alone, yet powerful, and soon she would realize that there was no need of being alone when a wild creature had his eyes on her for a long time.

A/N; HI!!! Its been a long time since I wrote a series but i cannot resist Feyd. English isn''t my first language so go easy on me. There will be smut in the future chapters. TAG LIST IS OPEN!!!!!! (Reader has a lover and Feyd's going to find out lol 😉😉😉)

Warnings; None. Female Bene Gesserit Reader x Feyd-Rautha, enemies to lovers! reader is reffered to as she/her.

Words; 1.520K

Chapter 2

Chapter One – ‘’Meeting in flesh and blood’’

‘’Right behind you!’’ Irulan screamed as she was riding her horse to match Y/N’s. Y/N was a skilled rider, the wind in her long hair, she laughed at Irulan’s attempt of winning the race and focused on the finish line. Planet Kaitian which was the second Capital of the Corrino Empire had so many opportunities for Padishah Emperor Shaddam’s daughter Irulan and his beloved Y/N. The planet had forests, lakes and rivers so Y/N didn’t miss much of her home planet Caladan, she sometimes tossed and turned in her bed thinking of her family members but she was taken to Kaitain years ago. Irulan and Y/N were the same age and when Shaddam couldn’t have more children he asked Duke Leto Atreides to bring his first born daughter to be sisters with Irulan. Leto tried to find so many ways to refuse Padishah Emperor yet he was the ultimate power in the entire galaxy and Leto had no choice but to give his daughter Y/N. She was one years old when the arrangements were made. She could see her family at political events or celebrations, she had been in Caladan few times yet she felt stranger to the planet and she felt stranger to Kaitain as well. She has always wondered if, by any chance one day she would feel the sensation of ‘’being at home’’ nowhere and no one was her home. Maybe this was her fate.

When she finished the race her horse calmed down, Irulan followed behind. ‘’I swear you’re cheating and I am going to find out.’’ She was joking of course, Irulan and Y/N had a close relationship yet Y/N never forgot that she was a princess and there for needed to be treated more cautiously than the other lords and ladies of the galaxy. Together they hopped off of their horses, ‘’Walk with me.’’ Irulan’s  voice was soft yet direct. Her short blonde hair got messy, hem of her white long dress covered in mud, she was carefree when she was with Y/N.

Y/N had the color of her house Atreides. Green. Her green dress felt so light, they were walking on the grass for few minutes in silence., Y/N knew that Irulan wanted to say something.

Palace’s gardens were evergreen, gardeners achieved perfection. Gardens smelled of flowers at any time of the year. Irulan stopped in her tracks, they turned to soak in the scenery before their eyes, the entire planet was under their feet. Servants’ chatters could be heard, no matter what they were never alone. ‘’Soon my father will throw a ball for me.’’ She looked distant, Padishah Emperor Shaddam never had parties without a solid reason, it must be political. Before Y/N could ask Irulan explained simply, ‘’I will meet the man I have to marry.’’ Y/N knew one day that she had to marry someone in order to protect the power they had over the galaxy but she never thought the date would come this quick. Y/N had already a lover, only Irulan knew because he was from a lower house. She had a childish hope that one day she would marry him.

Irulan laughed in sarcasm, ‘’How I wish to be you, sister!’’ it was obvious that Irulan dreaded the situation.

There were no arrangements for Y/N and she was free for a long time or so she thought.

‘’I trust in Emperor’s decision. He won’t wed you to someone unworthy.’’ She tried to encourage her dear friend but Irulan stood there like a stone. ‘’Let’s head back.’’ Y/N said. A hollow silence followed them to the dining hall. Emperor couldn’t attend because he was dealing with preparations of the ball. The white marble fire place was lit and orange colors danced in the room, the dining hall was adorned with lavish furniture and a long wooden table. The wood came from Giedi Prime, it was called Pilingitam.

 Irulan seemed troubled, ‘’What’s on your mind sister?’’ Y/N asked. She was concerned for her, if she knew that she had to be concerned for herself…

She watched Irulan’s palm slithering on the Pilingitam table,’’ Majority of the houses will be at the ball,’’ she looked up to meet Y/N’s curious eyes, ‘’The Harkonnens will be too.’’ Y/N’s blood ran cold, she remembered the times where Emperor used to take them to Giedi Prime for political reasons. They had to sit and watch the games in the black and white arena. Gladiators killing each other…

She remembered a boy with pure blue eyes and full lips, ‘’I will fight there too when I’m old enogh.’’ He was sitting next to Y/N in his black outfit. He closed the tiny gap between him and Y/N, and he spoke quietly, ‘’Will you come and watch me?’’ he was speaking as if killing was a normal act. His knee touching Y/N’s, she remembered distinctly that the boy interlaced his little finger with hers. They were ten and yet Y/N could see Baron Vladimir’s influence on his poor nephew.

Y/N didn’t need to go back in her memories to detest the Harkonnens. Their families were in and out of war for centuries. Thankfully for a long time peace was kept. ‘’I will manage.’’ She insured Irulan with a genuine smile yet it wasn’t enough. Y/N brushed it off, after dinner she had mental training anyways.

Until the day of the ball she corresponded with her lover, Pyramus

He was a tall man with dark curls and jet black eyes. His beard always tickled her face.

She spent her days training and accompanying Irulan. Irulan grew restless as the they approached.

One by one the ships started to arrive, one could look up to the busy blue sky and see. Y/N’s family arrived early to see her and spend time with her. Lady Jessica, her mother, immediately questioned her about Y/N’s Bene Gesserit training, Duke Leto was happy to see her daughter once again. Paul, her one year younger brother gave her a tight hug.

They were united once more, she escorted them to their quarters in the palace and retrieved to get ready for the event. She wore a green dress with emeralds on her chest and waist, her maid braided her hair in Atreides style. She also wore an emerald tiara. Paul Atreides knocked on her door to escort her to the ball room, he looked sharp in his dark green suit. ‘’You seem nervous.’’ He questioned, -Y/N knew that her mother was teaching Bene Gesserit ways to her brother,- yes she was nervous because she was going to be reunited with her lover. ‘’Too many people.’’ She responded. Servants were running with food and wine on the corridors, music could be heard from a distance. Members of houses were having conversations about spice, politics, etc.

The doors of the room were open, inside was lit by the yellow warm lights coming from glowglobes, guests laughing and drinking. Tallest member was Baron Vladimir due to hanging in the air, eating like a mad man but she ignored him.

Her eyes searching for her lover, so blind to an outsider who got her under his radar.

Paul and Y/N walked to the table of their house, ‘’You look lovely my girl.’’ Duke Leto kissed her daughter’s forehead, it didn’t go unnoticed by a certain someone. He was a snake, silently slithering close to his prey.

Padishah Emperor Shaddam and his daughter Princess Irulan were announced and slowly entered the room, everyone bowed. They took their seats and Emperor greeted everyone, thanked them for coming to his feast and he also announced that he would choose the life partner of his daughter among his unmarried male guests. Duke Leto found himself watching his daughter with sad eyes, he wondered if he could see her wedding one day. Would she be happy and fortunate like him? Only time would tell but he prayed quietly.

It was time to dance, couples held each others’ hands and marched to the dance floor, Paul excused himself and went to ask the princess to dance with him. Leto happily asked Jessica to dance with him, Y/N wished that they were officially married but to keep his position as a powerful bachelor, other houses worked for him hoping that one day Duke Leto would marry one of their daughters. It was a well played game of chess on Atreides’s part. Y/N watched Irulan and Paul talking silently and dancing.

Soon Pyramus came with a huge smile. He kissed her hand and winked at her, ‘’My beautiful lady, would you be so kind and accompany me on the dance floor?’’ she tried so hard not to grin, ‘’Of course my lord.’’ He was in his house’s color, yellow. Hand in hand they mingled among the other couples, ‘’I’ve missed you.’’ He whispered. ‘’Not here.’’ She used the voice on him and his mouth closed in a second. Only their eyes talked.

They heard a rough cough and turned to face the intruder, Y/N had no idea that she would meet him in flesh and blood, ‘’Feyd…’’