#and the underlying expectation that it *should* be him at first

[odysseys-blood]

literally how i feel any time i read this line. absolutely NOT

i think he's a great mirror type character for the mc depending on how much you draw on the default ra-on and their characterization, but more specifically their feeling of inferiority to solomon (which i take for my mc loyal). both the mc and bael are stuck filling in for a role for a king that neither feels they're well equipped for or were even born to hold and the fact that bael's so used to taking the fall that he's automatically ready to do it for you too is just. man. orz

[greengoblinswifey]

imagine having an affair with your stepfather hwang in-ho

warnings— stepcest, minors DNI.

Stepdad!In-ho was the last man you expected your mother to bring home, but from the moment you met him, there was something about him that made your pussy throb. Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered a little too long when he thought no one was looking, or the way his smooth voice dropped low whenever he spoke to you. It felt wrong, the pull you felt toward him, but you convinced yourself it was nothing. He was just attractive, that was all.

Stepdad!In-ho proposed to your mother suspiciously fast. Barely a few months after meeting, a diamond ring gleamed on her finger, and she was gushing about wedding plans. You tried to ignore the way he met your gaze as she showed off her ring, his lips curling into the faintest smirk. “Fast, isn’t it?” you had commented. “Why wait?” he replied smoothly, taking a sip of his drink. His gaze flickered to your tits briefly before returning to your mother, but you felt it.

Stepdad!In-ho had a presence that filled a room, making it impossible to ignore him. He was always composed, always in control, and somehow, that only made him more frustrating. More intriguing. More attractive. Every brush of his hand on your waist when passing by, every lingering glance, every low chuckle at something you said—it was as if he was playing a game only the two of you knew existed.

Stepdad!In-ho never crossed any lines—yet, but he didn’t have to. The tension was in the silences, in the way he stood a little too close, in the way your breath hitched when he looked at you like he saw something he shouldn’t. You knew it was wrong to think about him like that, but knowing didn’t stop the heat that pooled in your core whenever he was near.

Stepdad!In-ho was good at keeping secrets—you could tell. Maybe that was why you found yourself drawn to him. Because despite everything, you wanted to know what lay beneath the surface. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted you to find out.

Stepdad!In-ho had a habit of appearing at the right place at the right time, always watching. In the hallway late at night when you left your room for water, when you passed him in the living room, when your mother wasn’t paying attention. His gaze never wavered, never faltered. And yet, he never said a word about it. Neither did you.

Stepdad!In-ho wasn’t one for unnecessary conversation, but when he spoke, his voice carried weight. “Be careful,” he once murmured when you nearly bumped into him in the kitchen, steadying you with a firm hand on your waist before stepping back like nothing had happened. The touch was brief, insignificant. But it lingered in your mind longer than it should have.

Stepdad!In-ho made sure your mother never wanted for anything, lavish gifts, weekend trips with her friends, anything to keep her occupied. And that left you alone with him more often than you expected. The air between you was always filled with underlying sexual tension neither of you acknowledged. Until one evening, when your mother was away, and you finally cornered him, not expecting him to retaliate, not expecting the shift in his expression when you tested the boundaries you both had pretended didn’t exist.

Stepdad!In-ho smirked, his usual unreadable expression giving way to something else. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” His voice was deep, amused, but there was something dangerous beneath it. Something that made your pulse race. You didn’t answer. And for the first time, he didn’t hold back.

Stepdad!In-ho didn’t stop you. The moment your lips pressed against his, you thought he would push you away, tell you this was wrong, but he didn’t. Instead, his hands found your ass, squeezing and pulling you closer, his grip firm like he had been waiting for this moment just as much as you had. You could feel how hard his big cock was pressed up against you.

Stepdad!In-ho was always composed, always in control, but not now. His lips moved against yours with purpose, claiming, his hands roaming in a way that made your pussy throb. When he finally pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was lower than usual. “You know there’s no going back now, right?” You swallowed hard, nodding. You didn’t want to go back.

Stepdad!In-ho took every opportunity to fuck you after that. When your mother was home, his touches were fleeting, his fingers grazing yours as he handed you something, standing just a little too close when no one was looking, his lips brushing against your ear when he leaned in to say something low enough that only you could hear. But when she was away? He didn’t hold back.

Stepdad!In-ho was always in control, he never let you doubt where you stood with him. “I own you now,” he whispered against your skin one night, after he had emptied his cum inside you. “You’re mine.” And all you could do was whimper, his words sinking into you.

Stepdad!In-ho had only one rule—“Don’t tell your mother.” But he didn’t have to worry. You would never tell her. Not when you wanted his cock like the air you breathed. Not when it felt so wrong but so right at the same time.

Stepdad!In-ho fucked you on every surface of the house he bought for you and your mother. That included the bed he shared with her. You were his now, after all. By the time he’d be finished with you, you’d be a dumb, babbling mess. Trembling and fucked out. Your pleasure was his responsibility, and he loved to make you feel good as you moaned daddy in his ear. The nickname was innocent at first, even your mother was on board with it, but you and him both knew exactly what you meant by it.

Stepdad!In-ho took you anywhere, anytime. After a while, he stopped caring if your mother was in the house during one of your escapades. He’d simply put his hand over your mouth and tell you to “shut the fuck up and take my cock.” Being the good girl you were, you did exactly as you were told. She didn’t think twice about the amount of time you were spending together. In fact, she encouraged it, wanting her daughter and her new stepfather to get to know each other better.

Stepdad!In-ho’s best decision was marrying your mother. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have gotten such a tight, wet pussy to get every night. He wouldn’t have gotten a pretty young thing on his arm. He wouldn’t have had his good girl to do anything he wanted. You were everything he could ever want. His real life fantasy fulfilled.

[nottswitch]

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN CAPRICORN

venus in capricorn is reserved in showing their feelings, but not for the lack of them – they’re just used to exercising self-control in order to protect themselves. this placement tends to be serious in their intentions, and expects the same from their partner.

bodyguard!mattheo riddle x rich girl!reader

warnings: 18+ mdni, gunplay, dry humping, brat taming, employer x employee, degradation/praise, cursing

nav // event / more

"brat."

it was the word that mattheo used for you quite often, so much so that it started to lose its meaning. you couldn’t help yourself, and you didn’t really want to – it was too fun, riling your oh-so-serious bodyguard up, plus, it was just in your nature. and damn did he look hot all bothered…

you teeth sank into your bottom lip as his strong hand pinned you firmly to his lap, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip under your flimsy nightgown. mattheo watched you with an emotionless expression, yet you could see an underlying hint of desire in his eyes – over the last few months of him working for you, you had grown to notice the little signs, becoming too observant for your own good. his pupils were just a bit more dilated than usual, his breathing was just a little more shallow.

of course, you decided to use it to your advantage. you ground your hips on top of him, expecting the usual hardening around his crotch, and you did get it. except this time, you felt something else, something even harder than his cock.

mattheo raised an eyebrow, watching how your eyes widened at the realization.

"didn’t expect it?" he asked smoothly, yet you could swear you could hear amusement thinly woven into his voice. you shook your head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"you’re off for the day," you muttered, eyes flicking between his stoic face and down, between your bodies, where your inner thigh was pressed against his hipbone. he let out a small huff of air – was it irritation? was it that hint of amusement you managed to catch?

"i’m always on. you should know that by now.”

his free hand moved to the side, and moments later, your suspicions were confirmed – a gun. his gun, hidden somewhere behind the waistband of his pants, now dangling dangerously between his fingers in front of your face. the sight shouldn’t have been so,,, arousing.

"is it…?" you trailed off, somewhat scared to know the answer to your implied question.

"is it loaded?" mattheo prompted, and for the first time, a small smirk made the corner of his lips curl up. "wouldn’t you like to know…"

you very much would, actually, but for some reason, words evaded you at the moment. your tongue stuck out, and before you knew it, you were licking the barrel, cold and metallic, and for a moment, you thought you could taste gunpowder, but it was most likely just your colorful imagination.

"fuck,” mattheo breathed out, the sight in front of him making his hardened cock twitch between your thighs, straining against his pants. to relieve some tension, he gripped your hip tighter and started guiding it to grind against him. "this what you wanted, huh? the fucking gun? gods…"

you moaned, but this time it wasn’t one of those exaggerated moans you always used to tease him, no – this one was deep, genuine, as you felt yourself getting wetter and surely soaking the fabric of mattheo’s pants. he seemed to feel it, and it only heightened the state of his arousal. it was getting harder and harder not to snap, so in order to reestablish some sort of control over his reaction, he pushed the gun further into your mouth. your lips closed around the barrel, and the sensation of it was, for some godforsaken reason, the hottest thing you’d felt in a while.

"so fucking naughty, princess. who would’ve thought." mattheo groaned, his hips pushing up against yours as he felt the wetness starting to seep onto his aching length. "what if your daddy wants to review the cv footage later, huh? he’s gonna see his pretty little daughter behaving like a gun slut."

your eyes widened at the thought of your dad seeing exactly what you were doing right now, but deep inside your soul, you knew mattheo was bluffing. he’d be in as much trouble as you, if not more. it was a calming realization, but it did nothing to soothe the fire building up in your belly as you continued to grind against mattheo’s rock solid bulge.

"god fucking damn, princess. the dirtiest fucking slut i’ve ever seen." mattheo felt his composure slipping, which wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for. his hold on your hip grew painful, and he started moving the gun in and out of your mouth with an intensified pace. you eagerly took it, not in the right mind to think of the fact that it was wrong – supposed to be wrong, anyway. all you could do was feel, feel, feel.

"just like that, fuck… for being such a damn brat, you’re taking this gun so well," mattheo muttered in a low growl. he could feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, the feeling of your clothed yet heated pussy sliding on his dick turning his usual mask of indifference into something he didn’t want to admit yet. "go on, princess. show me how bad you can really be."

and at that moment, you knew you’d be as bad as he wanted you to be.

[malfoyscoffee]

call me theo ౨ৎ theodore nott

pairing theodore nott x fem!slytherin!reader about fluff, angst | 1.7k words | exes to lovers warnings mentions of time skip, use of y/n, and a dumb theo

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

That marked the end of your two-year relationship with Theodore. As he said his final word, you turned away, walking down the winding steps of the Astronomy Tower, holding back the emotions until you returned to your dormitory.

The night blurred into a haze of tears, finding comfort in Pansy’s shoulder as both of you nestled on the dorm floor. Hours passed in a cocoon of sadness before Blaise, Mattheo, Lorenzo, and even Draco appeared with snacks and muggle movies, trying to lift your spirits.

Wrapped up in your distress, you didn't think to ask how they found out about your breakup. Unbeknownst to you, amidst his own pain, Theodore asked his friends to comfort you instead of him.

Three weeks had gone by since the breakup. As promised, you and Theodore went back to being friends, just like before, merely two friends within the same tight-knit circle. But beneath the surface of friendliness, your friends noticed the underlying tension between you and Theodore, silently wishing for a reunion.

It was a random morning in the Great Hall when you announced to your friends that you would be occupied before dinner to take on the extra credit assignment for Herbology. Your friends looked at you strangely, the assignment was unnecessary for someone with such high marks, but inside you wanted a distraction from everything. 

Back in the common room, the attention shifted to Theodore, the elephant in the room finally about to be addressed. 

“So, what led to the breakup?” Blaise relaxed in his chair while Theodore sighed, looking at the ceiling. 

“She didn’t say why, but she mentioned that you initiated the breakup,” Draco said casually, trying to hide his interest in the situation.

“I told her she deserved better.”

Silence.

Suddenly, Lorenzo burst into laughter.

“Salazar, Enzo,” Pansy stood, disregarding Lorenzo's reaction. “So, let me get this straight,” she pointed her finger at Theodore, “You're saying the reason the group has been down is because you decided she deserved someone better?”

Mattheo set aside his cigarette, “Didn’t expect you to be so naive, mate.”

Blaise nodded, “Thinking that's an explanation. Y/n adores you, where will you find a girl better than her?”

Theodore’s face paled, “She’ll find someone better and eventually leave me. I couldn’t handle that.”

Draco stayed composed, “So you ended it first. Well done, Theo.”

Theodore buried his face in his hands, letting out an exasperated groan. “You all know she has a promising future after graduation. Why should she stay with me and be held back?”

“Did you talk to her about this, or did your insecurities make the call?” Lorenzo’s words made Theodore freeze, lost in thought.

Pansy packed up, checking the time. “Dinner’s soon. Let’s go.”

The boys followed Pansy, leaving Theodore alone, contemplating if his decision was right for your relationship.

"I got the job!"

Strolling around Hogsmeade with Blaise and Pansy, you stumbled upon a new place—a wizarding coffee shop. Your liking for muggle coffeehouses sparked your curiosity, pushing you to ask about potential employment.

Excitement bubbled as you shared the news with your friends in the Great Hall.

“We’ve got a place to visit now.” Lorenzo grinned, aware it might bring some joy after a while.

Pansy nudged Draco, "Let’s study there. OWLS are coming up and some muggle coffee might help."

Draco glanced at Theodore, who sat in silence, unsure of what to say. “That sounds like a plan. I could use some muggle coffee.”

They all knew Draco was convincing Theodore to join.

"When do you start?" Mattheo asked between sips of hot chocolate.

You remembered your upcoming schedule, “Next week, Wednesdays and Saturdays? Once I’m trained, next Saturday, I’ll treat you all to some amazing muggle coffee."

The group agreed, planning to meet at your workplace next Saturday.

“Five cups of regular iced coffee, please.” You operated the muggle machine, engrossed in fulfilling the order.

“Oh, hey, Theodore. Are the others here?” You looked around, causing Theodore’s shoulders to slump slightly.

“They're at the big corner table. Enzo insisted the natural sunlight would help with studying…”

A soft chuckle escaped, “You can go back, I’ll bring the drinks over when ready.” Theodore nodded, returning to the café’s corner.

Blaise grabbed the first cup but stopped when Pansy teased him. “Don’t hog! Share!”

“How does it taste?” you asked, turning to your friends.

“Y/n, muggle coffee is amazing.” Mattheo praised, soon followed by Blaise signaling he finished his drink.

“I should tell my father about this place,” Draco chimed in, and before you knew it, all the cups were empty.

“I should get back to work, see you at dinner.”

“What time do you finish?” Theodore's sudden interest surprised everyone.

“Y/n?”

"I'm done around six," You said while feeling a bit overwhelmed inside.

Theodore nodded, indicating your return to work.

Numerous customers kept you busy. Though you didn’t need money, the experience was enriching.

While your friends left at five, Theodore stayed. He moved to a quiet spot facing the counter where you worked.

Ignoring his shift, you focused on the new customers who walked in.

“Y/n, it's six, you can leave,” your boss said, offering a pastry.

“Thanks,” grabbing your coat, you started to leave the kitchen.

“Are you done?” Theodore was poised by the counter, waiting for your response.

“Theodore, did you wait?”

Signaling to walk together, he said, “I had a few assignments that I wanted to finish early so I stayed longer.” His nervous fidgeting gave away his lie, his habit you remembered from your past relationship. 

You hummed, touched by his waiting. 

“I might visit often. I didn't mention earlier, but the coffee’s great.”

Walking back to Hogwarts, feelings for Theodore surfaced since the breakup.

How could you move on when he acted this way?

For two months, Theodore kept his promise, visiting the café every Wednesday and Saturday, bringing schoolwork, and leaving with you.

You felt the emotions returning but you were scared to get hurt. After all, he initiated the breakup, right?

Your friends noticed Theodore’s absence on your workdays, understanding where Theodore was without verbal explanation. 

“One large iced coffee, please.” You prepared a cup, “And your name?”

“Theo.”

“Oh,” You looked up at Theodore. “One large iced coffee for Theodore.” You repeated his order and placed the cup down. 

“Why don’t you call me Theo anymore?” His disappointment was evident.

Meeting his gaze, you explained, “Because we’re just friends.”

Theodore observed the cup, then you.

“You know what, I think I forgot something at my dorm. I’m going to go.” His tone was sharper than he meant, leaving the café abruptly.

“Now you're the clueless one. Salazar, why do I have two of them?” Lorenzo dramatized, earning an eye roll from you.

Theodore disappeared after the café meeting. Unaware of his whereabouts, your friends gathered in the common room, waiting for his return.

“I mean, Y/n, Enzo's right,” Pansy said, sipping the muggle coffee you brewed for the group.

“He ended things months ago. I don’t see why you're all on his side.” Frowning, you didn’t grasp their empathy toward Theodore.

“Y/n, listen,” Blaise interrupted, “Regardless of who initiated the breakup, Theodore has come to your café twice a week for months, just to spend time with you.”

Draco echoed Blaise’s sentiments. “OWLS were done a month ago, yet he still visits. Give Theo credit for trying.”

You sighed, “I care for him, but I don’t want to be hurt again. He should just tell me. His actions are misleading if he doesn’t want to reconcile.”

Lost in thought, the warmth of the common room enveloped you, the crackling fire providing a soothing ambiance.

As evening approached, your thoughts circled Theodore’s sudden exit from the café, leaving you unsettled, your mind in disarray.

Unnoticed, the common room door creaked open. Theodore entered, visibly anxious. His eyes met yours, a blend of hesitation and resolve painting his expression.

The room fell silent as Theodore approached you, a mix of emotions playing across his face. Without a word, you got up and led him out of the common room.

The two of you reached the Blake Lake, facing each other, as the tension filled the air. Theodore struggled with his thoughts, torn between holding back and speaking up.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he started, a hint of regret in his tone. “I didn’t mean to leave abruptly. I've been struggling, Y/n.”

“Struggling? With what, Theodore?”

Gathering his thoughts, he spoke earnestly. “With everything between us. The breakup wasn't about not caring about you. I was scared.”

“Scared?” Your voice softened, understanding blooming within.

Theodore nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I was scared that you would realize I was holding you back and leave me. So I thought if I let you go, you would be better off.”

Your heart ached, his honesty striking a chord with your own doubts. “But, Theodore, you never gave me a chance to choose. You made that decision for me.”

“I know, and I regret it every day.” Remorse filled his words, and his vulnerability was evident. “I visited the café because I wanted to be near you. But I understand if it’s been confusing for you.”

Silence hung, emotions swirling like a storm.

“I never stopped loving you,” you whispered, emotions stirring within.

He met your gaze, “I don't want to lose you again, Y/n. I want us to start over, I'll do everything to make things right.”

“Let's take it slow, Theodore. Start over and let's see where it takes us.”

A soft smile appeared on his face, relief in his eyes. “I promise, I'll do everything.”

"I've missed this," Theodore confessed softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions.

You gently squeezed his hand, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Me too. I think we both needed this time to figure things out."

Theodore stopped walking, turning to face you with resolve. "I want us to try again, to be together, properly this time.”

Your heart skipped a beat, warmth spreading through you at his words. You looked into his eyes, seeing a depth of sincerity that reassured you more than any words could. "I want that too, Theodore. Let's give us another chance."

With that shared agreement, a sense of relief and joy washed over both of you. Walking hand in hand, Theodore smiled for the first time in months.

“Now, will you call me Theo?”

[aestherin]

I CAN SEE YOU

track 02: make me

Given how much you loved making art, you could've held so much more exhibitions by now, if it weren't for the immense dread that comes with it. Not because of the exhaustion, but because of your own blood.

"Great! This is great!" Your father laughed, continuously patting your shoulders at the sheer delight of seeing the surges of people arriving at the gallery.

Funny, how they were very light pats yet never fail to weigh you down.

"Now you have to make better artworks so that the next exhibition could be better too!" He grinned. Still keeping you beside him, your father's eyes roamed around until he found a business friend of his. He gracefully nodded at the said friend's direction. In your family's dictionary, this gesture was meant to be an invite.

"Nice exhibition, [Name]." The stranger remarked as soon as he got near you and your father. "When's the next one?"

They both laughed.

And you found it sickening.

Was it really that funny to make light of your hard work and effort? Why are they talking about it as if it was easy to do? As if your paintings were mere commodities — machine-produced, basic, and standard.

Or maybe you were the problem. Maybe you were over-analyzing stuff and putting meaning into things that shouldn't and didn't have them in the first place. Maybe these two men were saying these things because they believe in you and your ability. Maybe it was a good thing.

Maybe you were in the wrong, thinking that they did not really appreciate what you just put out.

But was it really wrong to feel frustrated when people keep expecting more, when really, all you wanted at that moment was to take a break?

"Uhm —"

"You should start on the next one as soon as possible."

The additional statement of the stranger in front of you did nothing to quell your restlessness. One of your brows raised subtly without you noticing it.

"Actually, I plan to take a little break," you abruptly replied. You internally winced at how your voice sounded. The usual mask coating your words — the mask of softness and calmness — was absent. Instead, what seeped through was impudence.

And in the presence of your father, that was tantamount to committing a grave sin.

You fucked up.

The man in front of you just nodded and smiled awkwardly, bidding hurried yet still formal goodbyes to your father.

"[Name]!" Your father wasn't roaring, but there was an underlying threat to his deceivingly calm voice. There always was. "That is not how we talk to our business partners."

'Your business partner, father,' you thought.

"I apologize for my behavior earlier. I was merely exhausted."

He clicked his tongue. "A lifetime of learning etiquette and still making minor mistakes as a full-grown adult? How disappointing."

You remained silent.

"You better hope that disrespect you showed to him earlier wouldn't affect our long-term business relationship with them, unless you want to end up like your disappointment of a cousin."

He's talking about Eula.

Your elder cousin, who to you, was everything but a disappointment. How is it that they disapprove of her, when the only thing she has ever done was follow her dreams and speak for herself? How is it that they view her as a failure, when she was what you looked up to?

Perhaps, you might've even envied her. Her guts.

If you had them, you would have cut off the whole family a long time ago as well.

You took a deep breath, donning another calculated smile as you saw more people approaching.

I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau

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[snoopyhq]

˚ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ i want your drama, the touch of your hand

type: viktor x reader

summary: making up with viktor after a particulatly nasty fight

warning(s): suggestive/borderline nsfw content after the red line divider !!!

word count: 1320

a/n: literally had this thought occur to me while i was boxing at my job yesterday and bad romance came on shuffle on my phone, MAN... the original version but also think the moulin rouge "backstage romance" version MWAH

Hour two, still no talking. The atmosphere within the apartment was heavy with unspoken resentment and hurt. Both of you had woken up in particularly bad moods, and it seemed that being in each others' presence simply amplified that.

Every little thing he did 'wrong' was ticking you off, and everything you said that was slightly unpredicted or off in tone would set him off, and it finally boiled over during dinner.

"I don't like lemon zest. I thought you knew that," he commented. He twirled a strand of the linguini through the fork, pushing the food around on the plate. In that moment, he looked like a petulant, petty brat, and it took all your strength not to reach across the table and slap it out of his hand.

"Maybe speak up next time. Or better yet, you could cook for a change then, since you seem to always have a smart remark about it!"

Viktor set down his fork. The lines between his brows furrowed.

"Don't speak to me that way please," he said, meeting your gaze. "I understand you may be frustrated, but I was just stating my preference. Something I thought you would know, since we do live and spend much of our time together, do we not?"

Anything else he may have said after the first statement didn't matter. You were already in an angry mood, and very much did not appreciate being told how to act.

"Don't police my fucking tone, Viktor. I'll speak however I want to dammit!"

He said nothing, picked up his fork again, and ate the rest of his meal in silence. The wall was slowly rising between the two of you once more. Viktor didn't wait for you to finish your food. He took his dishes, stood up, and walked off, the sound of his cane tapping against the tiles echoing too loudly in the space. You did your own dishes that night, and he did his.

Now there was a warmth lacking, even as the mattress dipped and sighed with every toss and turn. You were doing your best to keep your back to the other. It hurt, but your prides were nearly as sharp as your minds.

One of you had to break. You didn't want it to be you.

The loud banging noise from your upstairs neighbor finally did something.

"Goddammit, that idiot dropped something again," you complained.

"Someone please ban him from buying anymore hideous garden statues. That balcony is straight out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare," Viktor agreed.

You snorted, and quickly tried to cover it by clearing your throat.

"Am I only useful when I'm entertaining you?" he asked softly.

"Shut up. You know that's not true," you finally turned to face him.

"Then..."

"Viktor, I swear."

"That denial implies you care for me. Please, show and not just tell me," he requested sweetly.

"Oh yeah? Show you how, exactly?"

"I'm cold. I miss your warmth. You are cruel when you take away my routinely expectations."

"Fine. Come here," you finally reached out, and clasped his hand in yours.

This wasn't going to completely fix all the underlying emotional distress you were both dealing with, and it certainly wasn't going to fully rid what had transpired. But it was a start, made all the more worth it when he closed the gap, arms already wrapping around you tightly.

"I hate it when we fight," he whispered.

"Me too. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken out my frustrations on you."

"I'm sorry too. I should not have nitpicked so much, and I should have realized policing your tone wasn't going to make things go well."

NSFW AHEAD !!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED !!! MINORS DNI PLS !!!

Viktor gasped, the sound breathy as it fell from his beautiful lips, now slightly swollen from how much you'd kissed and nipped at them. Your hands were in his hair, and you delighted in his reactions with every sharp tug. His amber eyes were dark. They gazed up into yours, practically begging for more more more.

You were happy to indulge.

"Tilt your head back a bit more for me," you rasped in his ear, pushing him back against the pillows. He complied easily.

"Please...," he groaned.

You pressed another kiss to his pulse point. It was one of his more sensitive area, and wasn’t helped when you followed it up with more kisses on his beauty marks.

He sighed.

“You always kiss me like you’re discovering oxygen for the first time again.”

"Because you always take my breath away." You murmured in response. You knew he was going to tell you off for such a stupidly predictable statement, and he did. You shrugged and kept kissing him again and again, silencing any more protests he had with your choice of words.

He nipped at your lower lip, enjoying the small little hiss you let out. He loved that. It never grew old.

His lips left yours, reluctantly, but moved on to your flushed cheeks and down your jaw. Viktor’s hands began gently trailing down your body, tracing and touching and feeling, committing you to memory. Everything about you was perfect, and he was in awe of it all.

As if to translate his thoughts through touch, he squeezed your thighs. He especially had a thing for them, always had. It was like they were made for him to hold.

“You’re so touchy already, Viktor? Insatiable,” you teased.

"But you love it when I can’t keep my hands to myself. You can't lie to me about that,” he cooed in a soft, lilting tone. His fingers traced along your thighs again, digging into the soft flesh.

“Yeah, yeah. enjoy that smug look while you still can,” you grumbled, not denying his words.

You suddenly lunged at him, kissing a trail down his body, giggling to yourself at his surprised yelp.

"Hey!" he laughed breathlessly, his stomach doing somersaults as you kissed along his body. His eyes fluttered closed as he felt your lips press to his skin. He loved when you did this, especially when you would leave soft little marks on his hips.

And speaking of that. You were currently working away at his hips now, trying to hold back the urge to just sink your teeth into him.

He couldn't stop the soft sighs and moans that escaped him. Gods, the touch of your lips on his delicate skin was sending shivers throughout his body.

"You don't have to be ah… gentle all the time." he murmured breathlessly, his fingers now the ones tangled in your hair.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Just bite me already, coward," he demanded.

He liked when you were a bit more rough with him. In fact, he preferred it. You not treating him like he was fragile. It made him feel better than being treated like a priceless doll, hidden away behind locked glass.

“Fuck, finally.” With his permission explicitly given, you finally sink your teeth down into him.

He let out a sharp moan, his hips rolling up a bit automatically.

"Keep going, please." he whispered. “Keep proving to me you’ll keep me warm for the rest of our days.”

You looked up at him, so wonderfully vulnerable and so violently true. His emotions were etched onto every angle of his face. Viktor was never once to mince words when it came to acts of passion, and you were fully reminded of exactly why you adored him so.

“I will. You’re forgiven,” you smiled. “Consider this worship my apology to you, and your acceptance, yours to me.”

You slowly pushed his legs apart, practically aching with the reverence and love and affection you felt for him. You could feel his breath hitch as yours ghosted over his inner thighs.

If this was how you two were to make up after a fight, maybe you should engage in conflict more often, you mused to yourself. It was going to be a slow, feverish night.

[libraford]

I'm not bothered by the conversation so much as I am a growing approach to activism which makes it impossible to interact with other people. Which echoes a lot of that conversation I had with Ginger this week.

He refuses to have friends that are not faithful to Jesus. Like, he can have a productive conversation with a non-believer and nearly connect with them socially, but if he learns that they don't go to church or don't believe in christ, he finds it difficult to take them seriously because their words were not god-inspired.

Ginger was in a cult. I do not mean this colloquially- Xenos/Dwell is a prominent pseudo-christian cult in central Ohio that preys on college students in need of community. There are rules about who you can date, who you can hang with, they practice gay coversion therapy, and will tell you not to visit your family if they're not Christian.

There is a lot of focus on purity. Actions, thoughts, social groups- it's very controlling about what you can and cannot do.

So. When he goes out into the world with us sinners, it becomes difficult to interact with general society.

We were talking about Merve, one of our foremen, and I said: "the first time I was in a car with Merve, he introduced himself as a Democratic Catholic Pervert. And honestly- yeah that's a good summation."

Ginger didn't like that at all. "Well he's not a very good catholic with all that talk of pornography, he should be ashamed of himself- honestly shouldn't even call himself Christian."

Merve is very much a womanizer, but it's all talk. He's gross about it sometimes and it rubs me the wrong way, but in all fairness- he warned me. Outside of that, he's what I expected from a 60-something landscaper.

"Well, I think whether he's a good Christian or not is up to God, not us."

And he got a little pissy over that comment because I caught him judging.

He only hangs out with 'the faithful' at work, which consists of three guys who are religious in a similar way and it's caused a bit of a rift in the culture. It's gotten a little... preachy. It wasn't preachy before.

So I am making... parallels to this behavior and a particular strain of activism that's been affected by purity culture.

Nothing is ever good enough. If it touches racism, it's banned forever and you have to spread the word about how it's racist. Where doing things that are well-intended puts you in the spotlight for the underlying and actually bigoted reason you're doing a nice thing. And prevents you from doing the nice thing in the future.

Because yes you did a nice thing, but it wasn't enough- you could be doing more.

Yes you did a nice thing, but you did this nice thing instead of tackling this bigger issue.

Yes you did a nice thing, but it was through this program that you didn't know was funded somewhat unethically.

Yes you did a nice thing, but your motivation for doing it wasn't the goodness of your heart, it was motivated by guilt.

Yes you did a nice thing, but it took a horrible event to do it when you should have had the morals of goodness ingrained in you and you should have done this from the start.

Yes you did a nice thing, but you only did it when it started impacting your life and you should be thinking of others first.

Yes you did a nice thing but the nice thing doesn't align perfectly with my worldview.

The goalpost is forever moving backwards.

No one likes to be called 'racist.' It's a really easy weapon to use when something does something you don't like. If you look at anything closely enough, you will see it's racist roots. You could say the same for misogyny, homophobia. Our society is built on hatred and inequality. Untangling it and living a morally pure life free of ridicule is impossible.

Recognizing the roots of an action to be bigoted is the first step. The second step is knowing it when you see it. Step three is pointing it out.

But there are more steps.

Pointing it out, or calling it out, and chastising someone for ignoring or not knowing something actually isn't all that helpful. Because it leaves you to wonder- okay, now what? What can I do to remedy this situation?

Which is the next step- actionable items. Yes, I have done something wrong- I am sorry.

I am sorry. Now I will try to make it right.

I will try to make it right by donating, by volunteering time, by listening to the people who have been hurt and lifting their voices.

Part of healing from an oppressive Christian community is realizing that people are going to sin whether you like it or not. And barring harm to themselves and others, you're gonna have to let them.

If my tarot practice is derived from a 15th century racist, then it was derived for a 15th century racist. Refusing to participate in a past-time that helps me connect with my family doesn't make it not racist. It will still be racist. But I'm not sure who it's hurting in 2024 and I don't have a time machine and I'm not being given clear instructions for how to unracist it.

[writingwithcolor]

Not all Second-Language Speakers are Made Equal.

@waltzshouldbewriting asked:

Hello! I’m writing a story that features a character who’s first language is not English. He’s East African, specifically from Nairobi, Kenya, and is pretty fluent in English but it’s not his primary language, and he grew up speaking Swahili first. I’m struggling to figure out if it’s appropriate or in character to show him forgetting English words or grammar. From what I’ve researched, English is commonly spoken in Nairobi, but it wouldn’t be what was most spoken in his home. For context, this is an action/superhero type story, so he (and other characters) are often getting tired, stressed, and emotional. He also speaks more than two languages, so it makes sense to me that it would be easier to get confused, especially in a language that wasn’t his first. But I’m worried about ending up into stereotypes or tropes. For additional context: I’m monolingual, I’ve tried to learn a second language and it’s hard. A lot of how I’m approaching this comes from my own challenges correctly speaking my own, first and only language.

Diversity in Second-Language English

You seem to have an underlying assumption that second language acquisition happens the same for everyone. 

The way your character speaks English depends on so many unknown factors: 

Where does your story take place? You mention other characters; are they also Kenyan, or are they all from different countries?

Assuming the setting is not Kenya, is English the dominant language of your setting? 

How long has your character lived in Kenya vs. where he is now? 

What are his parents’ occupations? 

What level of schooling did he reach in Nairobi before emigrating? 

What type of school(s) did he go to, public or private? Private is more likely than you think. 

Did his schooling follow the national curriculum structure or a British one? Depends on school type and time period. 

Does he have familiarity with Kenyan English, or only the British English taught in school? 

Is this a contemporary setting with internet and social media?

I bring up this list not with the expectation that you should have had all of this in your ask, but to show you that second language acquisition of English, postcolonial global English acquisition in particular, is complex. 

My wording is also intentional: the way your character speaks English. To me, exploring how his background affects what his English specifically looks like is far more culturally interesting to me than deciding whether it makes him Good or Bad at the language. 

L2 Acquisition and Fluency

But let’s talk about fluency anyway: how expressive the individual is in this language, and adherence to fundamental structural rules of the language.

Fun fact: Japanese is my first language. The language I’m more fluent in today? English. Don’t assume that an ESL individual will be less fluent in English compared to their L1 counterparts on the basis that 1) it’s their second language, or 2) they don’t speak English at home. 

There’s even a word for this—circumstantial bilingualism, where a second language is acquired by necessity due to an individual’s environment. The mechanisms of learning and outcomes are completely different. 

You said you tried learning a second language and it was hard. You cannot compare circumstantial bilingualism to a monolingual speaker’s attempts to electively learn a second language. 

Motivations?

I understand that your motivation for giving this character difficulties with English is your own personal experience. However, there are completely different social factors at play.

The judgments made towards a native speaker forgetting words or using grammar differently are rooted in ableism and classism (that the speaker must be poor, uneducated, or unintelligent). That alone is a hefty subject to cover. And I trust you to be able to cover that!

But on top of that, for a second language speaker, it’s racism and xenophobia, which often lend themselves to their own ableist or classist assumptions (that those of the speaker’s race/ethnicity must be collectively unintelligent, that they are uneducated or low class due to the occupations where they could find work, or conversely that they are snobby and isolationist and can't be bothered to learn a new language). Intersections, intersections.

If you want to explore your experiences in your writing, give a monolingual English speaker in your cast a learning disability or some other difficulty learning language, whatever you most relate with. And sure, multilingual folks can occasionally forget words like anyone else does, or think of a word in one language and take a second to come up with it in the other language. But do not assume that multilinguals, immigrants, or multiethnic individuals inherently struggle with English or with multiple languages just because you do.

~ Rina

[soulofapatrick]

Giving Into Temptations - Xaden Riorson x Female Reader

Summary: Part two of Don't Tempt Me

Warnings: Smut; P in v; cockwarming

Words: 4.6K 

Notes: I just had to make part two and it's not proofread and written after a break so sorry for any mistakes/repetition

Y/N's POV

The sound of rushing water stops, leaving only the quiet crackle of tension in the air. I hear Xaden moving in the bathroom—quick, efficient movements, the sound of his hands adjusting the faucet, testing the water. For a few long moments, I sit there, feeling the heat of my own words still lingering between us, replaying the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught when I suggested he join me. I don’t regret saying it. Not even a little. But now, with the silence stretching between us, I wonder what’s running through his mind.

Footsteps approach, heavy and deliberate, and then Xaden steps back into the room. His expression is unreadable, his golden-flecked eyes shadowed with something I can’t quite name. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me from where he stands, as if deciding whether or not to speak. Then, with a sigh that sounds like he’s battling himself, he moves toward me, reaching out.

"Come on," he says, his voice lower than usual, raspier. "Water’s ready."

He extends his hand, waiting for me to take it. I hesitate—not because I don’t want to, but because something about this moment feels different. He’s always been imposing, always carried himself with that unwavering confidence, but right now, there's something softer in the way he looks at me. Something unguarded.

I slide my hand into his, and his fingers curl around mine, firm and warm. The contrast between his calloused palm and my own sends a shiver up my spine. He doesn't say anything about it—just helps me up, steadying me as my sore muscles protest. The ache in my body is undeniable, and I probably should have been listening to Vireth when he told me to stop, but the damage is done now.

Xaden doesn’t let go as he guides me toward the bathroom, his other hand finding my waist like he’s afraid I’ll collapse again. Maybe I will. Every step reminds me how exhausted I am, how much I’ve pushed myself beyond my limits.

The warmth from the bath curls into the air as we step inside, steam clinging to my skin. It smells faintly of the lavender oil he must have added to the water—something soothing, something that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I don’t always have to fight so hard to prove I belong here.

I turn to look at him, expecting him to let go now that we’re here, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hands stay on me, lingering at my waist, fingers pressing slightly into the bare skin between my sports bra and the waistband of my underwear. His gaze drops to the bruises lining my ribs, his jaw tightening.

“You push yourself too damn hard,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice a quiet accusation. His thumb ghosts over one of the deeper bruises, and I feel his restraint in the way he touches me—gentle, but simmering with frustration.

I don’t answer. What is there to say? He’s right, and we both know it. But I don’t regret it. I can’t afford to.

Xaden exhales sharply, shaking his head before finally—reluctantly—stepping back.

“Get in before the water gets cold,” he says, his tone gruff, but there’s an underlying softness there, something he doesn’t want me to hear.

I don’t move. Not yet. Instead, I tilt my head, watching him carefully. He meets my gaze, and for a moment, I swear I see the battle in his eyes—the war between every instinct telling him to leave, to put space between us, and the deep, undeniable pull that keeps him here, rooted to the spot.

My fingers find the hem of my sports bra, and I peel the damp fabric up over my ribs, my muscles protesting the movement. I know he’s still watching me—can feel the weight of his gaze like a brand against my skin—but I refuse to meet it. Instead, I focus on my breathing, slow and steady, as I pull the bra over my head and let it slip from my fingers onto the floor. The air against my bare skin is cool in contrast to the steam curling through the room, sending a ripple of heat down my spine that has nothing to do with the bath.

I take my time sliding my underwear down my legs, my fingers brushing against the bruises lining my hips, a reminder of how hard I pushed today. Of how hard I always push. I step out of them, standing completely bare under the dim bathroom light, knowing his gaze is still locked on me, burning.

Even without looking, I can picture the way his jaw must be clenched, how his fingers might be curled into fists at his sides as he fights every instinct screaming at him to move. To touch. To close the space between us.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, I turn, stepping carefully into the bath, the heat of the water licking up my calves, then my thighs, until I sink beneath its welcoming warmth with a quiet sigh. The tension in my muscles loosens almost immediately, and I let my head rest against the cool porcelain edge, closing my eyes for a brief moment.

I should feel self-conscious. Exposed. But I don’t. Not really. Not when his silence is thick with something else entirely—something raw, barely restrained, and entirely too tempting.

And still, I don’t look at him.

The silence stretches between us, thick with something unspoken, something charged. My body hums with awareness, my skin prickling under the heat of both the bath and his relentless gaze. I keep my eyes closed for a beat longer than necessary, as if that will somehow lessen the intensity of the moment. It doesn’t. It only makes the tension coil tighter, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“Are you trying to fucking kill me?”

His voice is low, breathy, like the words have been torn from him against his will, and the sheer frustration laced in them is enough to make my eyes snap open.

I turn my head slowly, and—gods help me—he looks wrecked.

Xaden stands rigid, his broad shoulders stiff, every muscle wound so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t shattered under the strain. His fists are clenched at his sides, veins pressing against the golden-toned skin of his forearms like he’s holding himself back with every ounce of control he possesses. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and his lips—his lips—are slightly parted, like he’s just realised how parched he is and that I’m the only thing that could possibly quench him.

But it’s his eyes that do me in.

Those gold-flecked onyx irises burn, searing a path over every inch of exposed skin, dark and predatory, his pupils blown wide with something dangerously close to hunger.

And then, as my gaze drops lower, I see just how much I’ve affected him.

The evidence is straining against his jeans, a prominent, undeniably enticing outline pressing against the dark fabric. My mouth goes dry. Heat pools low in my stomach, winding tightly through my limbs, and suddenly, the bath feels entirely too small, the room too hot, the air too thick to breathe.

I should say something. Should break the moment, laugh it off, defuse the impossible tension crackling between us before it ignites into something I know we won’t be able to stop.

But I don’t.

Instead, I drag my gaze back up to his, meeting his with deliberate slowness, letting him see every thought running rampant through my mind.

I raise a single brow, the ghost of a smirk playing at my lips, and that’s all it takes.

Something snaps.

Xaden curses under his breath, something low and guttural, and then he’s moving. Fast.

His hands fly to the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric barely clears his arms before he’s tossing it to the side, forgotten. My breath catches at the sight of him—of the solid planes of muscle, the ink that stretches across his arms and chest, the way his skin is already flushed like he’s been fighting this battle for far too long.

His fingers go to the buttons of his jeans, fumbling in his haste, jaw clenching as he struggles with the damn things like they’re his mortal enemy.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress the laugh bubbling in my throat as he growls in frustration, finally forcing them open. But when he shoves the denim down his hips, he nearly trips over his own damn feet, his balance thrown as he kicks his shoes off at the same time.

A very undignified thud echoes through the bathroom as one shoe hits the wall.

And then—fuck.

Xaden looks up at me, half-dressed, breathless, and so fucking wrecked, and the sheer heat in his gaze burns through whatever amusement I had, replacing it with something molten.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, tension still coiling through his muscles, but there’s something else in his expression now. Something that makes my own breath stutter.

Like he’s already mine. Like he’s made peace with the fact that he’s about to break every rule he’s set for himself.

Xaden is back on his feet in seconds, the last shreds of his restraint gone. He practically rips his boxers down those thick, muscular thighs, the motion so desperate, so reckless, that the waistband almost gives out under the force.

And then—gods help me—my gaze drops.

My breath catches. My pulse stumbles.

I don’t mean to look. I don’t. But gravity itself seems to drag my gaze downward, past the hard ridges of his stomach, the sharp lines of his hip bones, to—

Oh.

Oh.

A sharp inhale gets caught in my throat, my fingers clutching the porcelain edge of the bath like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. A slow, involuntary heat creeps up my neck, settling deep in my stomach as I try—try—to force my gaze back up. But it’s impossible.

Because fuck.

He’s big. Thick, heavy, fully erect, standing proud against his stomach. And the worst part? The moment my eyes betray me, lingering too long, a sound escapes me—a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch of breath. But it’s enough.

Xaden hears it.

I feel the shift in the air before I even meet his gaze again.

When I do, it’s devastating.

His eyes are burning, dark as molten gold, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling with a barely restrained tension that vibrates through every inch of his body. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching me watch him, taking in every single reaction, every single thing I’m failing to hide.

And then—fuck him—his mouth curves. Just slightly. Just enough to make my pulse stumble.

He knows.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Exactly how wrecked I am.

And from that slow, wicked smirk pulling at his lips?

He’s savouring every fucking second of it.

Xaden steps forward, closing the small, agonising distance between us, and fuck. It’s right there.

My breath shudders as the heat of him seeps into the steam-heavy air, his presence overwhelming in a way that makes my pulse trip over itself. He’s so close now, towering over me, muscles taut with restraint, water-darkened strands of black hair falling across his forehead. But it’s not his face I’m struggling to focus on.

No.

It’s him. Right there. In front of my face.

And gods help me, I want to do something.

My fingers twitch against the porcelain edge of the bath, an ache settling deep in my core that has nothing to do with my exhaustion and everything to do with the way every primal, desperate part of me is screaming to reach out—to wrap my hands around him, my mouth—fuck—I don’t even care how.

As if sensing the exact second I start to spiral, Xaden exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers pressing against my shoulder. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, tight, wrecked.

I drag my eyes up, catching the way his jaw flexes, how the veins in his forearms strain like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then, just to make absolutely sure I understand, his hand finds the curve of my neck, thumb grazing the hinge of my jaw as he leans in close enough that his breath is a ghost against my lips.

“Be a good girl and behave,” he murmurs.

Fucking bastard.

A slow, deliberate heat spreads from where his hand lingers, all the way down my spine, settling low in my stomach. My breath is shaky, uneven, but I force myself to hold his gaze, to not react—to not give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much those words affect me.

I fail. Miserably.

His smirk deepens, smug and knowing, before he nudges me forward in the water, shifting me just enough to slide in behind me.

The moment he sinks into the bath, a low groan escapes him, the sound vibrating through the space between us, sinking into my skin. Strong, calloused hands find my waist under the water, guiding me back until my spine meets the solid wall of his chest and my ass meets something very different. 

And fuck.

The heat of him, the sheer size of him, makes my entire body lock up. Every muscle goes rigid as I try to convince myself this is fine, that I can handle this without combusting on the spot.

But then his lips brush my ear.

“Relax.” His voice is pure sin, rough with restraint. “I’ve got you.”

I don’t think relaxing is an option anymore.

Not when I can feel him, hot and hard against me, pressed so intimately that my breath catches in my throat. Not when his hands, large and calloused, find my waist beneath the water, his thumbs brushing slow, burning circles into my skin.

A shiver ripples through me, and I know he feels it because his grip tightens, fingers flexing like he’s fighting every instinct to pull me closer.

“Xaden—” My voice is barely a whisper, but before I can even process what I’m trying to say, his hands begin to move.

Slow. Deliberate.

He traces the curve of my sides, trailing the bruises with a careful touch, his palms mapping every ridge, every muscle, like he’s memorising me.

Like he wants to.

And it should be soothing—it would be soothing—if it weren’t for the fact that every shift of his hands sends a fresh wave of awareness through me, heat pooling low in my stomach, turning my bones to liquid.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath uneven. “This isn’t fair,” I manage, trying to ignore the way my entire body reacts to his touch.

Xaden hums, the sound deep, amused, dangerous. His breath is warm against the side of my neck as he leans in, his lips barely ghosting over my skin.

“Life’s not fair, violence,” he murmurs, his voice like smoke and embers, like temptation itself. His fingers tighten at my waist, pressing me just a fraction more against him, until there’s no mistaking exactly what I’m doing to him.

A quiet, wrecked sound escapes me before I can swallow it down.

And gods.

I don’t think I want to relax anymore.

Xaden’s hands remain steady on my waist, but there’s a subtle shift in his touch. His fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate exploration of the skin beneath his hands. The warmth of his touch sends ripples of heat over me, and it’s as though I can feel every inch of his fingers against me, the way they trail over my skin, brushing lightly against my ribs before descending lower.

His touch is careful at first, like he’s testing, sensing the boundaries I haven’t yet laid out. The water between us becomes a barrier of heat and tension, and I can feel him getting closer, his breath mingling with mine, quiet and measured.

Then, with deliberate patience, his fingers shift down to my legs, gliding along the smooth skin of my thighs. My pulse quickens, and I struggle to keep my breathing steady, not knowing whether to lean into the touch or brace myself against it.

When his hand nudges my legs apart ever so slightly, it’s a gentle but insistent movement, a tease that has my heart pounding in my chest. It’s almost as if he’s savouring the slow build-up, the way he’s tracing every line of my body with his fingertips—each touch purposeful, each stroke drawing out more of the tension that I can’t escape. 

Suddenly he’s lifting me a bit, one strong arm around my waist against. A soft sound of surprise leaving my lips when I feel the tip brushing against my soaking entrance, a soft question on his lips. I’m nodding before I realise it, gripping the arm around my waist and completely forgetting that this isn’t me. I don’t fuck for fun but Xaden sends every rule of mine out the window, especially when he’s slowly and carefully sinking me down until he’s fully sheafed inside me. 

My head falls back onto Xaden’s shoulders he hands go back to exploring my body but all I can focus on is the delicious stretch of him, the tip feeling like it’s pressing against my cervix. No-one has stretched me this much and it’s almost too much to handle and Xaden can tell, the way the rough pads of his fingers run over where we’re connected. His lips brushing my neck, biting down and littering my skin with hickeys that I am in no way going to be able to cover up tomorrow. 

I’m opening my mouth to speak but he silences me by circling my clit, a smirk pressing into my jaw as he continues to roll lazy circles over my clit, my walls fluttering around his girth filling me up. I can already tell I’m not going to last long with the mixture of stimulation and I’m gripping Xaden’s arm that is paying attention to that bundle of nerves as my thighs clench together. He’s moving his lips from my jaw to my ear, murmuring, “Come for me baby.”

Those words plus one more tight circle on my clit has my aching back arching, drawing Xaden even deeper than I thought possible and my walls are clamping down around him, feeling hi twitch inside me as waves of bliss roll over me. I can feel Xaden rocking his hips up ever so slightly and before I know what’s happening he’s sinking his teeth into my shoulder and his dick is throbbing, filling me up with rope after rope until I feel it dripping down into the water and he’s letting out a low groan of pleasure. 

His breath is ragged against my ear, each inhale a sharp, uneven sound that mirrors the frantic rhythm of my own. His body is still pressed tightly against mine, and I can feel the heat of him seeping through the water, the warmth of his chest against my back as his arms tighten around me.

"Fuck..." he breathes, his voice strained, rough with the effort to regain control. It's low, almost a growl, but the vulnerability in it—how breathless he sounds—has my heart hammering in my chest. The intimacy of the moment makes my head spin, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, needing the coolness of his skin to steady myself.

Every part of me feels alive, humming with the aftershocks of what we've shared. My lungs are still struggling to keep up, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. I close my eyes, trying to slow the frantic pace of my breathing, but with Xaden so close, the air feels thick, charged with a quiet tension that doesn't seem to want to fade.

His lips brush against my neck, a soft, breathless kiss that sends a shiver racing down my spine, and his hand, still resting on my hip, flexes slightly. "Take it slow," he murmurs, his voice low and raw, like he's trying to soothe me, but I know it’s just as much for himself.

I want to say something, to break the silence, but every word feels heavy, every sound trapped somewhere deep in my chest, caught between us like the air we share. His presence, the heat of him, the way he's holding me so close—it’s all too much, too overwhelming in the best way possible.

And as I try to regain my breath, the world outside seems to disappear, leaving only the two of us, tangled in the aftermath.

The warm water, the steady rhythm of Xaden’s breathing, and the weight of his body against mine have me feeling utterly relaxed, more than I’ve ever felt before. My muscles, still sore from training, are languid and loose, and I can feel myself beginning to drift, the world around me fading into a haze of warmth and comfort.

I try to fight it, to stay awake, but my eyelids are heavy, and the rhythmic pulse of the water, the sound of Xaden’s heartbeat, and his steady presence make it hard to keep my thoughts straight. Everything in me is exhausted—physically, emotionally. I feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, and it’s like a lullaby, pulling me deeper into sleep.

The gentle pressure of his hand on my hip only makes it worse, a soothing presence that makes me feel safe and cherished, like I could stay here forever. I let out a soft sigh, nestling further into him, too tired to do anything but let myself be held.

But then, I feel him shift, his hand nudging me gently as the cold begins to settle in, and I realise the water has started to cool. A part of me knows I should get up, but my body protests every movement, too spent to function properly. The weariness pulls at me, a fog I can’t shake.

"Come on," his voice is soft but insistent, the edge of concern threading through the words. "We need to get out before we both freeze."

I barely manage to lift my head from his chest, my eyes half-lidded as I try to push myself up, but the effort is too much. My body feels like lead, and the warmth of the bath is so comforting, I can’t seem to summon the energy to do anything but slump back into him with a soft groan of frustration.

I hear him curse softly under his breath, and before I can protest, his arms shift around me. In one smooth motion, he’s standing, lifting me with ease. I’m held against him, wrapped in his strong arms, and I’m so out of it, so weak from everything we’ve just shared, that I don’t even think to object. I rest my head against his chest again, too tired to fight it, and just let him carry me.

He moves with surprising grace, effortlessly holding me as though I weigh nothing at all. His body is warm, and I can feel the solid strength of him beneath me as he carries me out of the bath, stepping carefully through the bathroom and towards the bed. The movement causes a slight shiver to roll through me, but I barely register it, too lost in the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

The cold air that hits my skin as he pulls me from the bath is a shock, but it’s quickly replaced with the warmth of his hands as he gently helps me sit up. His touch is careful, almost reverent, as he grabs a towel and begins drying me off, his hands moving slowly over my skin, taking extra care around the sore muscles from training. The friction of the towel feels comforting against my damp skin, like he’s erasing the tension that’s settled in my body.

Every pass of the towel makes me feel lighter, his movements deliberate, yet tender. He’s so close, I can feel his breath against my skin, and I can’t help but be hyper-aware of every little sensation, every brush of his fingers. He finishes drying my legs and feet, then wraps the towel around my shoulders, pulling me into a standing position for just a moment. The dizziness that tries to creep up on me from being so relaxed is immediately washed away by the firm grip of his hands, steady and sure.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me for a moment, his gaze steady and warm, before picking out one of his oversized shirts from the pile of clothes he keeps by the door. It’s big enough to drown me, but he’s surprisingly gentle as he slides it over my head, the fabric billowing over my frame like a soft cloud. When the shirt falls to my knees, he gives a satisfied nod, his hand lingering on my arm for just a second before he guides me back to the bed.

I’m so exhausted, every inch of my body heavy with fatigue, that I barely manage to crawl into the bed, curling under the thick covers as Xaden moves to the side. But I can’t stop watching him, my eyes half-lidded as he dries himself off with a towel, the water dripping down his chest in rivulets. His muscles flex as he works, and I feel my breath catch in my throat as I take in every inch of him—his broad shoulders, the tautness of his abdomen, the way his hands move over his body with practiced ease.

He doesn’t seem to care about modesty, or maybe he simply doesn’t need to, because before I know it, he’s slipping into the bed behind me, his bare skin pressing against mine. I feel the heat of him, his presence a constant, undeniable force against my back. He doesn’t bother to pull on any clothes, his bare chest brushing against me as he settles in, his arm wrapping around me, pulling me close.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, my body sinking into the warmth of him as I try to adjust to the feeling of being so close, so tangled in his presence. His heartbeat, steady and calm, thumps against my back as he presses his lips to my shoulder, a small, contented sound leaving him. It makes me shiver, not with cold, but with something else—something deeper, something I can’t quite define.

Xaden’s arm tightens around me, but his touch remains gentle, his warmth seeping into my skin as I finally relax into him, the exhaustion of the day and our shared moments taking its toll. I let myself breathe deeply, every inhale filling me with the scent of him—musky, warm, a hint of something like cedar and saltwater.

I close my eyes, but not before I catch one last glimpse of him, the outline of his face in the dim light, his expression soft but still holding that intensity I can’t shake. It’s enough to send a flutter through my chest, the lingering tension in my body finally dissipating as I let sleep claim me. His body behind me is a steady, reassuring presence, and in his arms, I feel like I’ve found a place I never want to leave.

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

@xadenswhore @fanficscuziranout @daisydark @Mariahoedt @marrass @universallyrascaldreamercookie

[thevoidstaredback]

How To Balance Your Daytime and Nighttime Activities So That You Don't Burn Yourself Out More Than You Already Have

Tim was waiting for them at the door, sitting one the steps of the Manor's entrance, when they arrived. He grinned an jumped up when he saw the car, not quite running down to meet them. Danny nearly jumped out of the moving car to catch Tim.

"Hey, Danny!"

"Hey, Tim!"

Dick got out of the car after turning it off. He rolled his eyes at the two kids. "Hey, Dick." Tim and Danny snickered at him, ditching a handshake in favor of a high five. "You two have met in person once, why are you so close?"

"Occupational hazard," Danny answered.

"Why? Are you jealous?" Tim teased.

"I am not!" Dick protested, "I'm just curious."

The two didn't believe him for a second. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm not!"

The large oak doors to the Manor opened slowly, not creaking once, pulling the three's attention to the top of the stairs. Just inside of the open left door was an older gentleman in a pressed, three piece suit. "Master Dick," he smiled, "Welcome home."

Dick smiled up at him. "Hey, Alfred. It's good to see you."

"You as well," he stepped to the side, inviting the three inside. Dick walk in first, followed by Tim. Danny took up the rear.

Holding out his hand, Danny said, "You must be Alfred. I'm Danny. It's nice to meet you!"

Alfred closed the door before taking Danny's hand. "Likewise, Master Danny."

"Oh, please, none of that 'master' stuff."

"'Mister' it is, then."

Danny didn't like Bristol, Gotham, New Jersey. It was plastic and fake and reeked of money. The trees and lawns and bushes were all exactly alike, and each property was marked off by wrought iron fences nearly ten feet tall that stretched on forever in every direction.

Wayne Manor, though, had a different feel to it. It still smelled of old money, and the greenery was all perfectly plastic looking, but it felt warm. No. It was almost as cold as the other properties in the area, but there was an underlying warmth to it that was slowly being choked out. Like red dye in a glass of water.

Alfred, Danny decided, was not human. He was perfectly human in every way, but there was something about him that nudged at Danny. His posture was perfect, his clothing pressed and not touched by even a speck of dust. His shoes were shiny, his gloves whiter than snow, and his hair lay perfectly. Danny knew for a fact that Wayne Manor was this man's haunt, even if the man is still of the living. The building was perfectly cared for, and he was sure that Alfred knows where everyone and everything are as long as they're within the Manor property lines.

"Thank you for having me," Danny bowed his head slightly. Alfred's smile grew ever so slightly.

"Please," Alfred nodded, "I must thank you for taking care of Master Dick while I have been unable to.."

"It's not problem, really," he said, "I like helping people."

"Should we be worried about whatever..that is?" Tim whispered to Dick.

"I don't think so?" Dick whispered back.

"You don't sound so sure."

Alfred was the first to move, stepping naturally in front of the group to take the lead. "If you'll follow me to the drawing room, I will bring in refreshments while you all talk."

Dick laughed politely, "Don't be so stiff, Alfie! I'll come help you in the kitchen; leave those two to chat." He winked like he knew something neither Danny or Tim did. They ignored him.

"Very well," Alfred accepted, "I expect Master Tim to show Mister Danny the way."

"Yeah, sure," Tim nodded, "C'mon, Danny, it's this way."

The Manor was large on the outside and inside. The foyer was easily thirty feet tall, a crystal chandelier and white frosted wall scones brightening up the black marble floors and beige walls. A pristine, dark green rug ran up the stairs. On either side of the stairs, imbedded into the walls under the landing, were birch double doors. Dick and Alfred went through the ones on the left, presumably to the kitchen. Tim led Danny through the ones on the right.

The hallway Tim and Danny were no in was only ten feet tall. The floor had become dark oak planks covered by a long, dark red carpet. The walls were the same beige as the foyer, but these were decorated with pictures and paintings of landscapes and cityscapes. Potted plants on small tables and short benches were spaced along the walls. About fifteen feet from the birch doors was a dark wood archway leading into another room.

"This is the drawing room." Tim introduced.

The room followed a similar theme as the hallway. Dark wood floors and beige walls. There was an unlit, red brick fireplace directly opposite the archway, a TV a few inches over the mantel. Bookshelves that were obviously only decoration lined the right wall. A white, circle area rug covered most of the space, accompanied by dark blue and oak furniture, and scratchy white throw pillows. The decorations all matched the hallway, too.

It was all very impersonal.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked after a moment of Danny looking around.

"Nothing," he said, "it all just seems a bit.. manufactured?" He looked at Tim. "Don't take that the wrong way! It's a beautiful building! I'm just- I'm not used to this is all." A lie, but Tim didn't need to know that.

Tim laughed. "It's not my house, so don't worry about it."

Danny's head tilted to the side. "Oh? Then where do you live?"

"Why?" he smirked, "Gonna follow me home if I don't tell you?"

"Maybe." he shrugged back.

The single birch door on the left wall opened, letting Dick and Alfred into the room. They put two trays on the coffee table, one with different snack foods and the other with a few drinks. Alfred was quick to leave the room again.

"Welp," Dick clapped, "I'll leave you two in here to talk. I'm going to-" Danny leveled a glare at him. "-sit here and join your conversation."

Tim stared between the two for a second before laughing again. "Dude! You have to teach me how to do that!"

"Why? Think it'll work on Bruce-man?" That got both Tim and Dick laughing.

"Only one way to find out."

Danny laughed along with them for a few moments before sighing. "I hate to ruin the moment, but I did drag Dick here for a reason." He stepped back a few feet, motioning to Dick.

"Er- Right." Dick cleared his throat. "Tim, I'm sorry for yelling at you when you stopped by Bludhaven."

Tim blinked, giving Danny the impression that he was not used to apologies and the like. Hm. That'll have to change. "It's, um, okay?"

"Great-!"

"No it's not." Danny interrupted, "He yelled at you. You don't have to say it's okay."

"But it is?" Tim reasoned. "I'm used to it."

That's going to change, too.

Part 11 Part 13

[prythiansprincess]

── .✦ DAY THREE | [02/16] : ENZO. ♡ ₊˚⊹

prythian's princess presents... day three of the valentine special ⋆.˚ .ᐟ up next, a pretty face that no one can resist: enzo.

[edging kink] — a sexual technique for delaying orgasm, by bringing yourself or your partner to the edge, and then cooling down for a while before starting again.

[degradation kink] — a sexual preference characterized by individuals deriving arousal from acts of humiliation or degradation within a controlled and consensual context. 

home ✦ special ✦ more

lorenzo berkshire loved to play games.

his favorite one was the intricate battle of wills between the two of you; the never-ending game of sexual tension and mutual loathing that spanned the entirety of your relationship. enzo knew how to push and prod, lived for the thrill of provoking and instigating for his own entertainment and there was no one more entertaining to him than you.

over the years, he had gotten good at identifying your weaknesses, picking at the sore spots over and over again until he got the result that he wanted — anger, hatred, loathing. there was nothing that enzo loved more than fighting, arguing, and bickering with you. the two of you pushed each other's limits and drove each other to the point of insanity only to do it all over again without ever addressing the underlying attraction that caused these explosive clashes in the first place.

enzo was content to play this game with you day after day. sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, but the only thing that truly mattered to him was that no one got under your skin like he did. he liked knowing that he had this hold on you; relished in the fact that only he could elicit such a reaction. perhaps he underestimated his own expertise because he truly hadn't expected you to snap.

you were already having a terrible day to begin with when enzo decided to corner you in the corridor, that smug smirk present on his stupidly handsome face as he tugged on the hem of your skirt.

"nice skirt, sweetheart," enzo drawled. "did you wear this just for me?"

"piss off, berkshire." you snapped. "i'm not in the bloody mood."

enzo chuckled as you tried to shoulder past him. with his towering figure, it was easy to cage you between his arms, palms pressed against the wall as he leaned down and sneered at you. "someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he teased. "what's the matter, love? is it that time of the month again?"

"shut the fuck up," you growled.

a mischevious glimmer twinkled in his gaze as enzo ducked his head down, bringing his face mere inches away from yours. "make me."

enzo expected you to huff and puff, to angrily push past him, leaving him to stare at that perky arse of yours that was barely covered by your tight little skirt, but that wasn't what happened. one second enzo was staring down at you, smiling smugly at your incensed expression, and the next second he was being tugged down by his tie as you kissed him angrily.

there was so much venom and vitriol in the way your teeth clashed together, passion and hatred and tension finally bubbling up to the surface until neither one of you could take it any longer. all that pent up aggression poured out in the form of kissing and touching, your lips and hands exploring uncharted territory. enzo whined pathetically when you yanked him down by his tie, his cheeks flushed and lips kiss-bitten.

“I should have shut you up a long time ago, berkshire,” you taunted. enzo whimpered when you brought him down to your level, his honey eyes cloudy with lust. “i’m going to enjoy taking all my anger out on you.”

that’s how enzo ended up bound in the broom closet, struggling against the restraints while you bounced on his cock. he wanted to touch you, kiss you, feel you, but you made it clear that he wasn’t the one in charge. you were calling the shots now.

“please, honey, i’ll be good I promise,” enzo pleaded with tears in his eyes. “just untie me and I swear i’ll make you feel so good…”

“stop whining or i’ll gag you next.”

enzo was already painfully hard from the torture of you grinding against him and not being able to do anything about it. it had been an hour since you started this cruel routine, bringing him to the edge over and over again, but never giving him what he wanted.

“but it hurts,” he pleaded. “fuck, it hurts so bad. I just want to cum.”

you frowned, shaking your head at him as you slowed the roll of your hips until only his tip poked at your entrance. the absence was worse than the edging. “you should have thought about that before acting like such a dick. maybe next time you’ll learn to leave me alone when I tell you to.”

he wouldn’t. it didn’t matter what you did to him, enzo would never leave you alone. he physically couldn’t. he was drawn to you in a way that defied all logic. but it wasn’t like he could admit it out loud.

instead, enzo whined and squirmed, whimpering that he was too hard, he was too sensitive; it was too much and not enough all at the same time.

you slapped him across the face and enzo actually moaned. a whiny, pathetic moan that he would have otherwise been embarrassed of. but because it was you, the pleasure overshadowed the shame. he was too fucking turned on by this side of you.

“shut the fuck up, berkshire,” you growled as you gripped his chin and forced him to look at you. “this is what you get for being such an asshole. after all the shit that you’ve pulled, do you really think i’d let you cum so easily?”

“please, honey. please, i’ll do anything. anything you want.”

your pleased chuckle sent a shiver down his spine. “you’re so fucking pathetic. begging, really?” enzo bit his lip as you degraded him, aroused by the humiliation. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

enzo sighed in relief as you started moving your hips again, your warmth hugging around his cock once more. he was barely hanging on to his sanity yet enjoying every second of it. “fuck, thank you. god, that feels so good. please, please, don’t stop, baby.”

“don’t thank me yet,” you said. “i’m only using you to get myself off. if you make me cum, then i’ll think about untying you, but until then, shut the fuck up and take it.”

[wqlfstqr]

◟𖥻 love notes : percy jackson

▰▰ pairing: percy jackson x fem!reader

Valentine's day is coming close and y/n starts to receive love notes from a secret admirer. Meanwhile, Percy's panicking because someone got ahead of him.

warnings: mentions of cabin 10 reader, couple mentions of some random camper I added just for the plot, miscommunication but like it gets resolved at the end.

It's only a week before valentine's day and the entire aphrodite cabin is buzzing with excitement. Every night, they gather around one bed and share their gossip of the day: who was asked out by whom, who was spotted crying after training, who do they want to be their valentines.

She was sure of who she wanted to be her valentine. Percy and her had been spending a lot of time together lately, and she was crushing hard. But she wasn't sure he felt the same, at least not until the notes started to show up.

At first, when the first few notes started appearing on her bed, she wasn't sure who it could be. But then they became more obvious and she couldn't help but connect the dots: the one saying her hair was beautiful that day just after Percy had helped her brush it, the one complimenting the sweater Percy had let her borrow, then talking about her favorite flowers after she had told Percy she loved tulips.

And then: 'You looked pretty today, i love how blue looks on you.' that had to be Percy, right? it was his favorite color, and he had told her earlier that her shirt was nice.

She doesn’t share this with anyone, but she's so sure it's Percy leaving the notes that she starts making comments about it, hoping he confesses soon.

When he compliments her blue shirt again, she smirks at him. "Do you think it looks good on me?" she asks, expecting him to tell her about the letters.

"Yes! it's very pretty." He replies, unaware of the underlying meaning under her question, before he turns to follow Grover.

Maybe she didn’t get a straight up confession from him, but that only feds into her suspicions.

"Percy, would you say you have a recognizable handwriting?" She asks out of nowhere when they're training, she's supposed to be helping him with archery while he helps her with swording.

He's immediately distracted because that's who he is— he looks at her and the arrow he releases is far from hitting the target but he doesn’t even realize it.

"Maybe it's recognizable because of how ugly it is." He shrugs, finally looking at where the arrow fell and dropping the bow. "You should see my math notes, they look like ancient Greek threw up in my paper."

She's sure that he's downplaying it because he knows that she's onto him. In the notes, he has a very pretty handwritting, he only wants her to think that it's not him.

By the weekend, as the days keep getting closer and the notes keep coming, she's completely sure it has to be him. But he hasn't admitted it even after her efforts to drop hints at it. She thinks that maybe he's just shy, so in another desperate attempt, she mentions the notes.

"You know, i've been getting the sweetest notes lately. You wouldn't happen to know who's sending them, would you?" She finally asks, trying to act nonchalant as she looks up from her book.

Percy's head turns so fast that he gives himself whiplash, and then he blinks at her, trying to process what she just said. "you what?"

"Love notes, almost every night. I think whoever's behind those will ask me to be their valentine." she grins at him.

Percy's internally panicking— What. The. Hell. Is somebody getting ahead of him and sending her letters? who is trying to steal his valentine?

He stands up from her bed so fast that it takes her off guard. "I have to go, Grover needs my help with— uh— yes." He mutters, and then he's almost running out of her cabin.

Now more than ever, she's sure that he's simply nervous because he got caught. He'll probably confess to it soon enough.

Instead, Percy's panicking on his cabin while Grover sits on the edge on one of the beds, his eyes following his best friend as he paces around the place like a maniac. "Somebody got ahead of me, Grover! they'll ask her out before I can"

Grover gives him a deadpan look. "Then why haven't you?"

Percy stops, looking utterly confused until he understands that Grover is asking why he hasn't ask her to be his valentine yet.

He sighs. "I don't know, man. She's just so sweet and pretty and funny— I guess I just get nervous every time I try." frustrated, he runs a hand through his already messy hair. "Who even is sending her those stupid notes, anyways? I can totally do better than that."

"In the name of Pan, Percy! If you're scared of someone asking her first, then do something." Grover tells him, he already feels dizzy just by following Percy as he's pacing around.

Percy frowns. "Like what? should I drown the mystery letter guy?"

"Of course not!" Grover sighs, must he explain everything to these demigods? "you said it yourself, you can do better than those notes. So do it. Romance is literally her thing. You just have to start sending her your own gifts and letters to show her that you really like her, and then she might get the hint."

He stops pacing again, considers this and then nods, determination settling in. "Yes! I can totally do that. That's perfect! G-man, you're the best."

That's how the next morning, y/n wakes up to not just a note, but a tiny box sitting on her bed. When she opens it, she finds a tiny silver sea-shell charm attached to a delicate chain.

She quietly gasps. The notes before were sweet, but this is beautiful. And now there's no denying Percy's the one behind it, he must be fully confessing through gifts now.

The next days, she hopes for Percy to say something. Anything. She even wears the bracelet everyday just so he can point it out, but she only gets a smile out of him. But the gifts keep on coming.

After dinner one day, she comes back to a blue hoodie placed neatly on her bed. It smells suspiciously like Percy. And there’s two notes now, one complimenting her hairstyle today and the other one says 'You should keep this one, since blue looks much nicer on you.'

What confuses her is that the handwriting on those two notes is too different to even belong to the same person. But she doesn't think about it too much, because the hoodie takes her whole attention— she sleeps with it that night.

Then, the next day it's a small jar with sand, seashells and some sea glass pieces. There's still two notes, and she doesn’t understand this at all, but she still focuses only on the one placed on top of the jar, 'Something from my favorite place for my favorite girl'

She's so over the moon that she spends the whole day smiling and giggling. His favorite girl. Valentine's day is coming soon, and there's no way he's not going to ask soon.

After sword training, there’s a chocolate bar placed on her pillow and she can't help but giggle at the sight of it. Because she mentioned she was craving something sweet to Percy earlier. And now there it is, her favorite chocolate with a note: 'Thought you deserved a treat after all that sword fighting.'

It's only a day before valentine's when she finds a small glass bottle on her nightstand with a message inside, she immediately pulls the note out of the bottle and smiles when she reads it.

'I've been meaning to tell you how much I like you. But everytime I try, I just forget how words work. Which is ironic, because I could fill pages talking about how pretty you are, how much I love hearing you talk about the things you're passionate about, how my brain turns to mush— or seaweed more like, when you smile to me.

— P.'

Her breath catches in her throat once her eyes reach the final line. It is Percy. She was right!

A delighted squeal escapes her lips before she can stop it, the excitement bubbles out of her, an uncontrollable rush of happiness as she clutches the note to her chest, jumping up and down.

Suddenly, the door swings open and her sister comes to a halt in the doorway, eyebrows raised. "What's with all that noise? Did you get another note from Peter?"

She's so happy, that she just giggles, thinking that her sister got the name wrong. "Percy, silly."

"No, Peter from cabin nine? he's been asking me to help him put those notes in your nightstand everyday."

The giggles and jumping stop immediately. "Wait— Peter?" she repeats, voice suddenly unsteady. "Not... Percy?"

Her sister tilts her head, confusion all over her face. "Percy? No, I don't— He hasn't said anything to me. Why? did something happen?"

y/n's stomach drops. She doesn't answer. It's not possible. It has to be Percy. The shell bracelet. The hoodie in his favorite color. The sand and shells from the beach. The seaweed joke on the note. It has to be him.

Unless she was misinterpreting everything. Of course that's something she would do, her lovesickness got the best of her and she started seeing things as she wanted them to be.

The heartbreak is instant. She feels ridiculous. She drops the letter on her bed as if it was burning and, ignoring her sisters talking about how Peter will probably ask her out soon, she runs out of the cabin.

The disappointment feels suffocating and heavy on her chest as she walks with her head low. She keeps walking, and walking. Until she's at the pier, which feels even worse because it reminds her of Percy and yet again she feels stupid.

Her heart aches as she lets herself sink into the ground in front of the water. She wants to cry but also laugh at herself. What a joke.

She's there for what a feels like a long time. Maybe hours. Just staring at the ocean in front of her while going through the past few days in her mind, trying to conceal the fact that some Peter from cabin nine was the one behind those letters. She doesn't even know a Peter to begin with.

She's halfway through her third time scolding herself when she hears footsteps behind her, closer and closer until someone is suddenly sitting beside her. Quickly, she wipes the few tears.

But when she finally looks at the person beside her, she nearly forgets how to breathe.

Because there, sitting beside her, is Percy Jackson. And he's holding a bouquet of tulips.

His eyes soften when he sees her, his gaze following the trail of tears in her cheeks as his expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

She blinks at him, unable to process anything as she looks between him and the flowers. Her favorite flowers.

But she didn’t want to get her hopes up again, so she looked away quickly. "Percy if you need my help asking someone for valentine's, maybe I can help you later."

Percy blinks at her before he's able to process her words, then he looks downright offended. "What? No! these are for you."

She whips her head towards him, her eyebrows raised as if she doesn’t believe him. "What?"

"Yes! for who else? I was—" he takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling nervous. "I went to your cabin to ask you if you wanted to be my valentine, but your sister told me you were gone because you were freaking out about some Peter sending you notes."

She stares at him, mouth slightly open. "You wanted to ask me to be your valentine?"

He nods softly, nervously scratching his eyebrow. "Yes but I totally understand if i'm too late and if you want to go with that guy."

"No! I mean— I just—" She trips over her own words, her heart hammering so hard she thinks it'll jump out of her chest. "I thought you were the one writing those love notes. But apparently it was Peter from cabin nine. I just— I started freaking out because I wanted it to be you."

Percy's face scrunches in confusion. "Peter from cabin nine?"

She feels the embarrasment again, her cheeks turning pink. "I thought it was you because those gifts, they were so much like you and—"

He finally understands where she's coming from, and he lets out a breathless chuckle, interrupting her before she keeps talking.

"No, no! I was the one leaving those gifts. You were right about that." He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I wanted to ask you to be my valentine but I always got too nervous, and then you mentioned those notes and I freaked out because someone would ask you before I had the chance. So I started leaving those gifts hoping you would know it was me, but when you didn’t mention anything about them—"

It takes another shaky breath for him to continue. "I thought maybe you weren't interested in me like that, but then I thought maybe the gifts weren't obvious enough so I was going to give it another shot." he gestures to the tulips in his hands. "And ask you myself."

She blinks at him, her mind struggling to keep up, specially when he keeps on rambling. "So you left those gifts? the bracelet? and the jar with the seashells? and the hoodie?" When he nods, the relief washes over her as she lets out a laugh. "Oh my gods, Percy! I thought I was ridiculous for thinking it was you!"

"You're not ridiculous." He nudges her shoulder with his. "Maybe I should've approached it in a least... confusing way."

"No way, I loved those gifts." She returns the nudge, unable to contain her big smile. "I was just confused over, Well— Peter from cabin nine with those notes."

"Oh yeah, no, that's totally your fault for having so many secret admirers." He teases her, grinning widely.

She rolls her eyes, but another laugh burst out of her lips before she can reply. "And you're one of them."

"I don't know, I don't want to be so secretive about it anymore." He tells her, offering the bouquet in his hands. "So, there's something I've been meaning to ask."

Percy doesn’t feel nervous anymore, but the way she beams at him as she takes the bouquet makes his heart skip a beat. "Go on."

He doesn’t know why he was ever nervous, because the question rolls easily out of his lips. "Will you be my valentine?"

She holds the flowers to her chest like it's the best thing she has ever received. "Of course." she then caughts him by surprise when she leans to press a kiss against his cheek.

He exhales in relief, leaning back on his hand. He knows his face must be red, but at least she doesn't comment on it as she goes back to admire the tulips. After a second, he smirks. "Soo... about this Peter, you know I can be intimidating, right?"

She laughs, slightly pushing his shoulder. "Percy, don't be rude! I'll turn him down tomorrow."

"That's a shame." he replies, even though he doesn’t look shameful at all with the grin plastered on his face.

She shakes her head, smiling softly. "He never stood a chance anyways."

Percy chuckles, reaching for her hand to give it a small squeeze. "Good."

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's devotion (part 1)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are a warning themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla (tell me which pairing I should focus on, please)

Words: 2,8k

Disclaimer: English isn't my first language (I'm french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Part 2

-

The marble floor chills my knees as I scrub, the rough bristles of my brush rasping against the stone, lifting away the grime left behind by sandaled feet. My fingers are raw, my knuckles cracked from soap and water. The scent of oil and damp stone clings to the air, thick with the lingering aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine from earlier feasts. My back aches, but I do not stop. Stopping means being noticed.

“Y/N.” A voice cuts through the quiet, low and urgent.

I look up. Claudia kneels beside me, her face damp with sweat. Her tunic clings to her skin, her eyes darting about like a frightened hare.

"Lucius is sick. Fever." Her fingers curl around my wrist, gripping hard. "You must serve the Emperors tonight."

I recoil slightly, though I do not pull away completely. My stomach knots.

"Me?"

"Who else?" Her voice is hushed, but sharp. "You know what happens when orders aren’t followed."

I do. I have seen it. The punishments are swift, brutal. I have no choice.

I push myself to my feet, brushing dust from my tunic. The linen is rough against my skin, but that is the least of my worries. My Ichthus pendant shifts beneath the fabric, a small weight against my ribs, its presence both a comfort and a warning.

The Palatine dining room looms before me, impressive and opulent, the doors opened by the Pretorians guards. Braziers with candles cast flickering light over marble columns, their polished surfaces reflecting scenes of conquest and gods in golden relief. The air is thick with incense, a heady mix of myrrh and cinnamon that does little to mask the underlying musk of sweat, wine, tangled with the lingering smoke. Heavy tapestries hang from the walls, their deep reds and golds a sharp contrast to the dull gray of the stone. The long table before me is draped with a rich purple cloth, its surface cluttered with silver platters piled high with meats and fruits, wine flowing freely from golden goblets. The air smells of roasted meats, spices, and the faint musk of sweat and incense. Servants move quietly, their sandals barely making a sound on the cold floor. Every corner of the room feels weighted, heavy with power and the sharp, expectant gaze of those who sit at the head of the table.

Being silent, I step inside, my eyes low, my body tense.

Emperor Geta reclines on a couch draped in deep purple fabric, his golden curls slightly disheveled, his tunic a shimmering blend of silver and dark blue embroidery. Rings weigh down his fingers, glinting in the dim light. Across from him, his brother, Emperor Caracalla, sits more rigid, broader of shoulder, softer in the face. Isn’t ironical from someone with such a reputation? He lifts a cup to his lips without looking at me, his grip tight around the handle, knuckles slightly whitening. His tunic is red, with gold ornaments, the color matching his jewelry.

I step forward, the amphora of wine heavy in my hands. My pulse thuds in my throat as I tilt it carefully, the thick, ruby-red liquid flowing into Geta’s cup. The scent rises—rich, aged, laced with spices I cannot name. A drink I will never taste. My own wine is bitter, watered down, tasting of sour dregs and dust. This wine is liquid gold. Made by the Gods for the gods, as I heard.

Neither brother acknowledges me. Their conversation continues, words slipping between them like the edge of a blade.

“The legions are restless,” Geta says, swirling his cup, watching the wine cling to the sides. “You’ve heard the rumors.”

Caracalla scoffs and lick his lips before he pouts like a child.

“I hear everything. And I crush what needs crushing.”

Geta smirks, taking a sip. “So you say.”

The tension between them crackles like a storm on the horizon. I step back, keeping my hands folded before me, head bowed. I must be invisible. I must be nothing.

The doors open again, and a new tray is carried in. The rich scent of roasted fowl, honeyed dates, and spiced garum fills the air. My stomach twists. The taster, a woman older than me, her hands calloused from years of servitude, steps forward. She does not hesitate. She lifts a knife, slices into the meat, then the vegetables, brings them to her lips. Chews. Swallows.

Caracalla watches her closely, his fingers tapping against his goblet. His gaze is sharp, calculating.

“And?” he asks, his voice like a blade drawn from its sheath.

The taster inclines his head. “It is good, Augustus.”

Caracalla doesn’t respond, only reaching for his knife, playing with it, waiting for the effects of a potential poison to act on its victim. His shoulders remain tense, his eyes never leaving the taster. I glance at the older servant only briefly as she retreats on the side. Her hands do not shake, but I wonder if her heart does.

I stand still, waiting, watching from beneath lowered lashes. The Emperors laugh, their conversation shifting from war to more trivial matters: women, entertainment, the foolishness of senators. Their voices rise and fall, their words edged with cruelty and indulgence. I try not to listen, but their words coil around me, impossible to ignore.

My heart beats against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that doesn’t match the leisurely pace of their meal. My pendant presses into my skin, a silent prayer written in silver.

They do not see me.

I must make sure they never do.

Again, when their cups are empty, I step forward, the amphora of wine heavy in my hands. My pulse thuds in my throat as I tilt it carefully, the thick, ruby-red liquid flowing into Geta’s cup.

A giggle. High, sharp. Caracalla.

My blood turns to ice.

I shiver, my breath catching in my throat. A presence, heavy, scorching like a brand, settles on me. I don’t look. I dare not.

“You. More wine.” Geta’s voice is smooth, languid.

Without a word, I comply, the amphora steady in my hands despite the tightness in my chest. His fingers brush mine as I pour. A slow touch. My pulse pounds, but I keep my expression neutral, my voice low. Unfortunately, I can feel his gaze lingering on me.

Breathe… Just breathe…

“Look at me, woman.”

I hesitate, then lift my eyes on his own his iris, brown, deep as the earth after rain, studying me with something unreadable. He tilts his head.

“I have never seen you before.” He comments with a tone full of curiosity.

He shifts his focus on Emperor Caracalla who smirks, flashing us like thunder his gold tooth.

“Brother? Have you noticed her?”

“A servant? Should I?” he chuckles.

Geta's lips curve slightly before turning back to me. “Your name?”

I wet my lips and clears my voice, bowing my head.

“Y/N, Augustus.”

Caracalla hums and pats his fingers on the wooden table, in a strange rhythm, almost a soothing one. I know better than falling in his trap. I heard the rumors about their behavior, their hysteria, their violence, their anger for blood.

“That’s not your real name. That accent… You are not from Rome, mmmh.”

As a knot tightens in my stomach, I nod. My real name feels foreign on my tongue, yet I speak it, which makes Caracalla giggles and claps in his hands.

“Too complicated. The Roman version suits you better.”

The older twin leans back, satisfied and licks his lips, tilting his head on the side.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since Martius, my Emperor. Two months.”

My reply seems to satisfy them and soon, their focus come back on their plates full of food. The taster still stands, unharmed and the young Emperors begin their meal. As young as terrifying.

At some point, the large doors swing open. Praetorian guards step aside. A flood of silk and painted lips enters. The scent of perfume, heavy and cloying, fills the hall. Laughter, high and lilting, rings against the walls. Women dress so thinly, in clothes way too revealing, fills the place. Their concubines and whores, I realize. Heat rises to my cheeks. The air thickens, pressing against me like a weight.

They are not only Emperors, they are knows as kings of debauchery.

Geta flicks a wrist and slams his cup on the table.

“You may go.”

Caracalla chuckles. “Look how red she is. Shy little thing. Probably a virgin.”

I turn sharply, my heart pounding against my ribs as I slip from the room, leaving before my shame burns me alive.

*

Next day, same hour, same place, I step into the dining room again, heart pounding in my chest. The emperors, Geta and Caracalla, are already seated, their eyes following my every movement. The heavy scent of roasted meats and wine fills the air. I bow my head as I approach them, my hands trembling slightly as I prepare to serve.

“Ah, Y/N,” Geta murmurs, his voice smooth, teasing. “Come closer.”

I glance at him. His dark eyes glimmer with mischief. I swallow hard but approach as ordered. A goblet of wine rests in my hands. I kneel beside him, offering it with a steady arm.

“Not yet,” he says, his smile widening. “First, feed me.”

My breath catches in my throat. I know where this is going. I’m pretty sure he’s done this before to taunt other servants. A cruel game, and I am the unwilling pawn. Unfortunately, he picks a cluster of grapes from the bowl before me and holds it out, his eyes locked on mine with an unsettling intensity. Without a word, I grab one up, bringing it to his lips. The weight of his gaze presses down on me as he opens his mouth and bites into the fruit. My skin prickles. His fingers brush mine, sending a jolt through my body.

What is this? What’s happening…?

The touch is deliberate. I know it’s meant to embarrass me. He licks his lips, slow, tasting the juice, then brushes his lips over my fingers. I shudder. The sensation is enough to make my knees feel weak, but I force myself to remain still. My heart is hammering in my chest and blood boils in my veins. Veins they could slit if they just wanted it, without a single reason.

Caracalla laughs, his voice rich and cruel.

“Look at you, Y/N. So shy, so innocent” he comments, leaning back in his chair, his eyes flickering over me like a predator eyeing prey.

I feel his fingers on my thigh, just above the fabric of my tunic. Heat spreads across my skin. My breath catches, my heart racing. He presses gently, but the touch is enough to make my face burn with shame. I shouldn’t allow any men to touch me this way, inappropriately. I should reserve all of this for my future husband, one day…

Dear Lord, please, don’t hate me. I’m sure you know I don’t have a choice…

“Do you act this way for all men, or just us?” Caracalla keeps asking to make fun of me.

I try to speak, but my throat feels dry. He leans closer, his voice soft, dangerous.

“Are you a virgin, Y/N?”

I don’t answer. A wave of anxiety grips me. My body stiffens. Caracalla’s eyes, usually blue like the sky, are darkening just like the Mediterranean sea during a storm, and I feel his gaze sharpen.

“Answer him,” Geta commands, his voice smooth and insistent.

I hesitate, my pulse thrumming in my ears. The room feels too warm, too tight. Slowly, I nod.

“Yes. I am.”

The brothers exchange a glance, one that sends a chill down my spine. I wish I could disappear, but I hold my ground, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. A quick glance at the other servant, who’s standing nearby, offers me a flicker of comfort. Her eyes tell me to remain calm, though my heart is racing in my chest. Suddenly, Caracalla’s hand lingers on my thigh, his touch softer now, almost gentle. The tenderness doesn’t ease my anxiety. If anything, it makes it worse. I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my tunic.

Then, as if their gods are toying with me, there’s a sudden rustling sound. I glance up, startled, as a small monkey, dressed in a brightly colored tunic, clambers onto Caracalla’s shoulder.

“Dondus, my sweet girl” Caracalla says, his voice full of amusement, “I think she likes you, Y/N.”

The monkey’s beady eyes twinkle as it hops from Caracalla’s shoulder to mine. I stiffen, trying not to show my discomfort. The creature sniffs at my hair, its tiny paws brushing against my neck, in a soft manner, almost playful.

But then, Dondus does something unexpected: the cute little creature tugs at my necklace, the Ichthus pendant I wear close to my skin. My breath hitches. Before I can react, the monkey yanks it free, the chain slipping from my neck with ease.

I feel sick. The color drains from my face as the necklace dangles from the monkey’s tiny paws. I try to steady my breath, but the tightness in my chest grows. The Ichthus is all I have left of my family, but it also betrays my faith… A faith I have to hide. Even if those Emperors are not the worst Emperors when it comes to the persecution of Christians, we are still frowned upon, sometimes rejected and condemned in harder ways than regular citizens.

“That’s mine,” I whisper, but the words feel lost in the heavy silence of the room.

Caracalla laughs again, his voice mocking as he watches me. “She’s not even upset, Geta. I think she likes our little Dondus more than you.”

Geta glances at me, his smile widening.

“She’s been so... obedient.”

I don’t know what to say. My throat tightens, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. The warmth from Caracalla’s hand still lingers on my skin. But all I can feel is the emptiness where my necklace once lay.

Dondus hops back onto Caracalla’s shoulder, still holding my necklace in his tiny hand. The little monkey looks up at his master, almost proudly. Caracalla grins, his gaze shifting to the pendant in the creature’s grasp. He reaches out, taking it from Dondus with a flick of his fingers, inspecting it with mock curiosity.

“My, my, my...” he murmurs, his lips curling into a sly smile.

Geta chuckles softly, his voice rich with amusement. “Christian,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery, with a spark of distaste.

As I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, I lower my gaze to the floor, trying to hide the shame that claws at my chest. The pendant is now dangling between Caracalla’s fingers, and I can almost hear the mocking laughter in his silence.

“You wear this?” Caracalla’s voice cuts through the stillness, dripping with mock disbelief. “Tell me, Y/N, what do you think of the gods?”

 “I respect every religion,” I reply, my voice steady, though my heart pounds in my chest. I know where this is going. I swallow hard.

Geta snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “Respect? Is that what Christians are taught? To respect everything?” He leans back in his chair, a knowing look in his eyes.

I meet his gaze, refusing to falter. “Indeed.” I answer quietly.

Caracalla lets out a low chuckle, and I feel his eyes on me, cold and calculating. His fingers stroke the inside of my thigh again, just like the day before. The warmth from his touch spreads through me, but there’s no comfort in it. Only tension.

“Where was your god when you needed him?” Caracalla’s voice is soft, but there's a dangerous edge to it. “Where was he when you had no choice but to come to Rome and serve us?”

The question hangs in the air, and I take a slow, steady breath, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “It’s His will,” I say, my voice calm, though the weight of the words presses on my chest. “My God has a plan for all of us.”

The silence that follows is thick with their amusement. Geta laughs first, a low, taunting sound that makes my skin prickle. Caracalla’s lips curl upward, his fingers still tracing over the curve of my thigh, sending shivers through me. His brother’s laughter fades, but his eyes remain sharp.

“Your god has no power here. Rome has no need for him. Rome’s devotion is the most important.”

He strokes his lips against my neck, making me bite my lower lips.

“You’re ours now. You’ll never escape.”

My heart skips a beat. His words are cold, cruel. I try to push the fear away, but it lingers in my chest, tightening with every passing second.

But then, Geta surprises me. He stands up, his hand outstretched. Before I can react, he pulls me toward him, forcing me to sit on his lap. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. His fingers slip around my waist, gripping me tightly, and I can’t help the surge of heat that rises in my face. My body stiffens, my mind a whirlwind of confusion.

It’s wrong, and yet… it isn’t.

“Your god won’t help you, Y/N,” Geta whispers, his voice soft and dark. “Not here. Not in Rome. You’re mine now. And your god? He’s powerless against us.”

PART 2

- - -

Okay, this is the first time I've written in English in a long time, and for these characters. I hope it's not too bad! Should I write another part? If so, what would you like to read next?

Who should the reader end up with? Geta? Caracalla? Both?

Let me know <3

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

[reflectionsofacreator]

[takes a long drink from my Arizona iced tea] so like one of the central themes for FFXV is like, growing up, sure. You know that, I know that, whatever. Coming of age, coming into your own, taking the mantle of king, whatever you wanna call it. Cool, awesome, we love a good coming of age story!

But I find the sub theme of that one to be probably the most fascinating? By and large, all the chocobros have to deal with the fallout of being lied to by the adult figures in their lives, and it's the most prevalent with Noctis and Gladio. Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of it in Ignis and Prompto too, but the particularly insidious way that Noctis and especially Gladio were lied to sometimes gets me.

See I don't even really think it was actually all that intentional. Not really a conscious act by Regis and Clarus, or the society around them? More like... I dunno, the lies that you get told by your parents as a little kid and you grow up to realize that the world is a lot different than you thought.

That being said, Noctis was absolutely lied to by his father; both about the nature of the King of Light and the idea that he'd succeed Regis as reigning monarch. Regis did it out of love, knowing that Noctis would die young, and reasoned that Noctis should get to have a relatively normal life, but it was still a lie. Gladio, likewise, was lied to by his father and Regis, told that he would be the next monarch's Shield, that he would fulfill a role that's got a pretty set expectation in their society.

See, Gladio expects Noctis to act a certain way, to act as King, and he gets increasingly frustrated when Noctis doesn't, or can't live up to that. He's not precisely wrong to expect it either, given their roles and their statues, and knowing that they're taking the throne during a full blown war. The problem is that Noctis was never taught how to be the thing that Gladio was told Noctis was going to be? And that's what causes friction with them all the time. It's fascinating, watching it play out and realizing the underlying issues with their relationships actually have very little to do with them as people and instead because of what they were told to expect from each other.

Gladio is also his own kettle of fish that I don't think the narrative is quite self aware enough to articulate properly, or even get into. Gladio falls into the trap of toxic masculinity very often -- struggling to articulate his feelings, expressing most of his feelings as anger, picking fights rather than talking about what's going on, using his strength as both a character aspect and bonus, etc. The list goes on. There's also the fact that he's sort of portrayed as a bit of a womanizer and the masculine ideal; tall, rugged, strong, etc which plays into all of that. XV plays him very straight (and straight) with these concepts, and just sort of ... expects it to be fine? Which is at odds with how the other three bros interact and are more emotionally available towards each other, leaving Gladio as one of the weaker bros in canon.

It kind of sucks too, because like, there's so much to unpack with him? His DLC is about wanting to have the strength to protect Noctis on the surface, but really when you look at it... you could also argue that the DLC is about Gladio's fears that he'll end up as dead as his dad did (ha, try that for alliteration) and the crushing weight of failure. Gladio has every right to fear his mortality, fear the fact that he is, nominally, the first in line on the battlefield and the the last defense for Noctis. If Noctis is to die, they will go through him first, and that's! Scary! But the game doesn't really get into that, hardly at all, and it makes picking up the pieces for Gladio kind of frustrating. Out of all the bros, he's the one I have to dig the most to find any kind of depth despite being prime real estate for it.

Anyways Gladio and Noctis' dynamic is fascinating if you actually start to unpack it, especially because it's built on the lies that their fathers fed them as children (that they themselves also bought into). I'd go so far to argue that between the two pairs, Noct/Gladio is in much more of a dire need to sit down and actually hash out what they are to each other, outside of their king/shield dynamic. Noct/Iggy certainly has shades of that, but Ignis has decided that they are friends and that he will defy fate if he must, let the world burn if he must, to save Noct's life. That has some depth beyond king/retainer that they're presented as. Noct/Gladio are sort of just... falling into the king/shield dynamic because they're expected to, and it sort of hampers their relationship and their communication.

I'm gonna scramble them both like eggs, probably into an omelette. They make me Think you know

[coco-loco-nut]

loml part 2

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: it’s time for you to finally have some happiness, even if you’ve sworn off drivers

part one masterlist ttpd masterlist

——————

A year after the break up, you are still living in George’s Monaco apartment. You keep to yourself, sticking to a simple routine and avoiding Formula One when you can. You could’ve gotten your own apartment with the divorce settlement and your job salary, but George insisted that you take care of the apartment for him.

George and Carmen were with you every step of the way, helping you pick up the pieces and bringing you back to as close to normal as you can.

“I’m done with drivers, I will never date one ever again,” you tell George one afternoon. George was almost offended but you added on the second half.

You go out for a run like you do every morning before work, and on your way home you stop in a bakery you’ve been eyeing. After placing your coffee and pasty order, you accidentally bump into someone.

“I am so sorry, I- Charles. Hi,” you look at the equally stunned man.

“Hi, how are you doing,” Charles says gently, sounding concerned. That isn’t what you expected out of your ex’s friend.

“Better, how’s, um, how is he?” you ask a little bitterly, internally cringing at the clear discomfort on Charles’s face. His name is called alongside yours, so he picks it up and sets it on a table, silently inviting you to join him, and you do.

“I don’t know. After the whole Kelly thing, I argued with him and we haven’t really talked since,” Charles admits, you look stunned.

“I’m sorry that happened,” you can’t really hide your bitter expression as the thought of Kelly runs through your mind. Not even a month after you separated, Max was off playing happy family with his new girlfriend. Your divorce wasn’t even legalized yet.

“I’m not. He lost someone incredible just because he wasn’t willing to put in the work for a good and healthy relationship,” Charles looks you in the eyes. You finish your pastry and process his words and his underlying meaning.

“Charles, everything is still so fresh, I don’t know,” you look out at the streets. You couldn’t deny he was attractive, but you didn’t want to reinvolve yourself with Formula One.

“One date, we can take it as slow as you want to. I know it must be hard, but you deserve to be happy,” Charles reaches out and touches your hand gently.

“I have to get to work. You should have my number, Charles,” you softly smile, leaving the cafe. Charles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Naturally, he asked George for permission first. He knew George was acting as your overprotective brother, and George knew you better than anyone at the moment. Despite you swearing off drivers, George felt that Charles might be what you need.

The first date goes well, and so does the second, and the third. Charles prioritized privacy, and you were grateful. He shows up to your door for the fourth with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, ones that Max always forgot to get. He always gave you chrysanthemums, fitting that he would choose a funeral flower seeing as how he killed the relationship.

“Cheri, are you okay?” Charles asks, seeing you tear up a little.

“Max never did this, and when he did they were always the wrong flowers,” you shake you head slightly, fending off the anger and sadness.

“Well, if he wanted to treat your right, he would. I want to treat you right,” Charles presses a kiss to your head. You invite him in while you find a vase to put the flowers in.

“I want that,” you tell him, his hands find yours.

“Be my girlfriend?” Charles asks, you nod happily.

“There is this restaurant that I’ve been wanting to try, down the street. Maybe I can take my boyfriend there,” you smile, heart racing.

“Lead the way, mon cœur,” Charles tells you. You lock the apartment behind you and take his hand as you lead him down the street to a restaurant that opened a couple months ago. The two of you are so caught up in each other, you don’t notice the table across the restaurant.

Max watches you walk into the restaurant, hand in hand with Charles - the guy who used to be one of his closest friends. You look stunning, and happier than you were the last few months before the separation. Of course Max saw you for divorce meetings, but this is different.

“Max is here,” you quietly tell Charles.

“Don’t worry about him, he won’t cause a scene,” Charles reassures you, knowing his old friend. You are grateful for the man sitting across from you.

“What did I do to deserve you?” you ask, causing Charles’s hear to soar. can’t believe he is finally happy.

Charles is by your side during the rough days, especially the day that should’ve been your wedding anniversary with Max. You couldn’t help but to be upset, and healing takes time. Charles didn’t push you to do anything, he just kept you company and followed your lead.

When you were together for six months, you felt comfortable enough to reintroduce yourself to Charles’s friends and family. It helps that the two of you adopted a dog.

“These are my sons, Ollie and Oscar,” Charles tells you as you stand in the kitchen, watching over the dinner you had been working on. He would’ve invited Liam, but that would be awkward for everyone.

“It’s lovely to meet you, I’m Y/n. I suspect you know Leo from social media. Would either of you like wine, or anything from the fridge? Please, help yourself,” you stop yourself from fussing. Charles recognizes it as your hormones kicking in, making you fuss over them.

“Thank you, need any help?” Ollie asks as Oscar plays with Leo.

“Thank you, but you are a guest. I couldn’t let you. Now, I think Charles has a really expensive bottle that will pair well with this meal, let me grab it and pour a couple glasses,” you wink.

“Only the best for you and the kids, Cheri,” Charles yells from the dining room where he is setting the table. Ollie takes the glass you poured for him, he wouldn’t mind you being his grid mom.

“Charles, come help me bring food in while the boys sit down,” you tell him, giving Oscar and Ollie a little glare when the move to help you.

“Of course, mon cœur,” Charles smiles, carrying the heavier plates in while you grab the wine bottle and the two empty glasses for you and Charles.

The two boys try to make sure they don’t come off as interrogating you, but you don’t mind. They are avoiding the elephant in the room, and both you and Charles know it.

“You can ask, I don’t mind,” you say gently, knowing it’s eating Oscar alive. He’s like you and George if you two had an idgaf attitude.

“Is it true that you and Max, um,” Oscar pauses looking for the words.

“Yeah, he’s my ex-husband. He did me a favor though, without him I wouldn’t be with Charlie,” you look adoringly at your boyfriend.

“Ask George and Carmen, they will give you the best version of the story,” Charles laughs and so do you.

“This is really good, I might need you to cook after races for me,” Ollie changes to topic, groaning a little at how full he is.

“She’s our mom, of course it’s good,” Oscar replies, you can’t fight the grin on your face.

“Of course I will. I can send some frozen meals for you to heat up along to the with Charles,” you tell them.

“Or you could come to the races and keep me company,” Ollie says, looking at you hopefully. You are one hundred percent adopting him. Charles looks at you a little panicked, you never really talked about being in the paddock as his girlfriend. Of course, he has publicly talked about how he has a girlfriend who he adores, but no one knows it’s you, except for a few people.

Max never told anyone about your relationship, despite him seeing your date and reporters asking him about you. It would be an asshole thing to do after he moved on so quick, and you deserved better than what he had done to you already.

“I’d love to, but don’t regret it when you are being mothered,” you point your fork at them.

“Wait, why only Ferrari,” Oscar pouts.

“I can visit you too, I’ll even bring cookies,” you tell Oscar. He pumps his fist in celebration.

Charles is happy to hear you are okay going to races again. You have to be a little stealthy about it at the start. You go the first couple times as George’s guest, and slowly increase how long you are with Charles each time.

Things change when you miss your period. You and Charles have always been very careful, but there have been a couple time that you forgot a condom.

“What does it say, mon cœur?” Charles sits beside you in bed, rubbing soft circles on your shoulder. You take a shakey breath and turn the stick over, ready to be shown another negative.

“Positive, I’m pregnant. I thought I couldn’t have kids,” you feel Charles brush tears from your cheeks.

“We will be the best parents, I’m so happy,”he reassures you, and you can see how happy he is. From then on you go as Charles’s partner, Ollie is happy to have you with him in the garage, and even accompanies you to visit Oscar. Ollie claimed it was to protect you and the baby against Max, but that doesn’t work when Max is talking to Lando at the same time you visit Oscar.

“Hey, how are you doing?” Max asks a little hesitatily.

“I’m really well, how are you?” you ask, pushing down the bitter parts of you. You truly are very happy now.

“I’m okay. Do you think we could talk at some point this weekend? I think it’s been long enough and you deserve closure for yourself,” Max scratches the back of his head.

“Message me on Instagram. We can find a time,” you agree, needing to get a couple things off your chest. That time is the next morning in an open room in Red Bull hospitality.

“You wanted to talk,” you say as you sit down across from Max. Charles was apprehensive when you told him of your plan, but he trusted you and was supportive of your choice.

“I wanted to apologize for how I treated you at the end, it was unfair to you,” Max tells you, clearly pushing through his pride. “So, I’m sorry. I can’t say it’s easy seeing you happy with someone who isn’t me. Are you happy?” Max asks, needing to know.

“Of course I am. It was really hard to move on. Charlie makes me extremely happy, and he’s given me the greatest gift I could ask for,” you smile, subconsciously putting a hand on your stomach. Max feels his stomach swirl with jealousy. Charles is living the life he should be living, Charles is doing everything he should be doing for you, but he fucked it all up.

“I, uh, wow. Congratulations, I know how much you wanted a kid. I’m happy for you, schatje,” Max says, pushing down his jealousy. It’s his fault he lost you, now he has to live with the consequences and be mature about it. Maybe if he hadn’t gotten with Kelly so soon he would be with you, but it’s too late now.

Max did try. He constantly asked George where you were, or to convince you to talk to him. George was protective though, he saw how hurt you were and knew you needed to heal on your own time. So he did what any overprotective best friend would do, talk reasonably and show Max why he needed to stay away.

“Thanks, Maxie, that means a lot,” Maxie, a dagger through Max’s heart. “I can’t be friends with you right now, but maybe someday. I like this version of you, maybe Kelly was the right one for you after all,” you can see the pain in Max’s somber eyes, the same one you see from the end of your relationship, and the same one that haunts you.

“I really am sorry,” Max’s voice cracks. “You’re the love and loss of my life,” tears well in his eyes as he looks at you.

“You’re the loss of mine as well,” you stand up and move towards him, pulling him into a hug. “You are going to be okay, Max. We weren’t right for each other, but now you can move on,” you say softly. In your heart you can feel the closure you’ve needed. Max felt it too, and when the day came, he would be ready to be a good friend.

Until that day, he is publicly supportive of your family with Charles. Max repairs his relationship with Charles first, then he slowly repairs it with you. When Julianna Herveline Leclerc graced the world, he was one of the first people to send a gift and well wishes. And when you and Charles finally make it to the alter, Max is standing beside Charles, happy to support the two of you.

[radiance1]

Just remembered about the Vortex's lil guy au and decided to write a lil about it.

***

When the Justice League arrived to stop a newly risen villain's scheme, which involved taking holding an entire city hostage with the use of a machine that could control the weather, which also involved expanded after successfully taking over the city.

When they achieved victory, they did not expect a child to be powering the machine.

Shazam, surprisingly, was the first one to react. "Danny!?" He said as he flew over to the boy, gently picking him from the confines of the machine (after they it had been deactivated) and into his arms. "Danny...?" He said a moment later, unsure of himself as his voice wavered a bit.

He shook the boy a bit, not too hard though, so as not to do any accidental harm. Blearily, the boy blinked opened his eyes, staring up at Shazam's worried face. "Shazam?" He murmured, voice rough and scratchy, as if it wasn't used often.

Either this boy-Danny-didn't speak much beforehand, or he was trapped in that machine so long that his voice became like this from a long period of disuse.

Shazam seemed to have thought so as well, and by his expression, it seemed to be more of the later as he floated down beside the rest of the League.

Danny blinked slowly before looking around the area, eyes glancing over every member present, then his surroundings and then finally back to Shazam and, with a curious tilt of his head he simply asked. "Did I get possessed again?"

A wave of concern washed over the group at the way the boy so casually asked such a question. As if it happened often enough that he grew used to it and, if the 'again' was any indication, it might just be the case.

"No." Shazam shook his head, readjusting his hold on the boy as he started to try and wiggle himself out of his arms. "Are you okay?"

"Yep." Said Danny, not even taking a moment to consider the question. As if he didn't just come out of a machine that feed upon his powers for who knew how long. Shazam's eyes narrowed in a glare that could almost give the Bat's a run for his money.

"Danny." The Champion of Magic chided, and the boy's eyes glazed over for a moment as Shazam simply readjusted his hold again. A moment later the boy blinked, a small purse to his lips and the vaguest amounts of concern slipping onto his face. "Oh," The boy said, no longer trying to wiggle himself from Shazam's hold. "My magic is acting weird, that's not good."

"Well yea since you, you know, had your powers drained and all?" Green Lantern said, the end of his question dipping into a question as the boy turned his head in his direction with too empty eyes that, for some reason, unsettled him.

"Who're you?" He asked with passing interest.

Whatever unsettlement Green Latern felt, it was immediately replaced with the vaguest amount of offence as the boy's words somehow wounded his ego more than such a simple question should have once it registered.

Who then immediately proceeded to ignore him.

The boy then blinked again, turning to Batman and giving the man a small wave. "Hello again, Batman." The Dark Knight simply grunted in his direction and nodded. Then pointed to each and every member present and slowly called out their names.

"Wonder Woman, Superman, Martian Manhunter, " Both of the aliens names were whispered with an underlying awe. "The Flash and Aquaman." His finger than landed on Green Lantern, and the boy furrowed his brows. "So who're you?"

"How do you know spooky but not me?!" Green Lantern ignored the Bat's glare in his direction at the use of the nickname, wounded pride and genuine bafflement allowing him to do such a thing.

"We met before." Danny state simply, as if that was the answer to all questions. "You?" He asked again.

This could not get worse. Green Lantern thought.

It could get worse. Green Lantern realized a few moments later after trying-and failing-to get the boy to recognize him as the members present were snickering at his plight.

Even Wonder Woman was trying to hold down a smile.

His eyes accidentally wandered in Batman's direction to see his reaction and he let out a quiet sigh of relief to see the man unmoved with only the slightest amount of disappointment that he didn't crack. Though it was wildly overshadowed by his ego being salvaged-

Batman's lips quirked up into a smirk before falling so fast that he had trouble believing if it was even there in the first place.

Green Lantern's jaw dropped as he stared at the Bat incredulously, who simply stared back. Unmoved, like a stone. As if he didn't just smile at him.