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azmageddon · 2 months ago

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Silence (Part Two)

Pairing: Azriel x Cassian’s twin!healer! reader

Summary: It’s your turn to find the silence deafening.

Warnings: Short section of spiciness, but definitely not smutty. Also, you can pry the angst from my cold, dead, hands. Give me all the angst. Also painfully inaccurate to the original storyline.

A/n: Sorry it took so long! I’m obsessed with making everything perfect. Enjoy! Let me know what you think and what else you want to see.

“I have one for you too, Y/N.”

You looked up from where you were leaning against the wall at the back of Rhys’s office. Everyone’s eyes were on you and you could have sworn that Azriel, who was leaning against the wall next to you, had stopped breathing all together.

“Me?” you asked, confused.

Rhys only nodded, holding the invitation out further in his outstretched hand. You shuffled your way forward, Mor and Amren stepping aside to give you space. When you finally reached his desk and gripped the letter, you gave it a swift tug, but Rhys didnt let go. The two of you stood there for a moment, hands attached to the letter in a quiet tug-of-war over his desk. You caught eyes with the High Lord. They seemed to say be careful before he finally released the envelope.

Worry hummed across the bond, mixing with yours and sitting in the pit of your stomach. Turning back toward your spot in the back of the room, you risked a quick glance up to Azriel and saw concern plain on his face.

“Watch your face,” you reminded him in his mind and he quickly returned to his stoic, unreadable expression. “Wouldn’t want to blow our secret over a silly invitation, would you?” You tried to keep the conversation light and carefree, but it was difficult when dread had crept into your mind. If Azriel felt your nervousness, he didn't acknowledge it.

“You know,” he replied, “I’ve been rethinking keeping this a secret. Don’t you think it’s time they knew?”

“But it’s so much fun sneaking around.”

You could feel Azriel’s metaphorical eye roll through the bond and suppressed a chuckle while you took your place back against the wall. “I just thought it would be nice after keeping it a secret for nearly 400 years. But we can talk about this later. Open the letter so I can read it, too.”

You did as he asked, slipping your finger under the delicate fold of the envelope and pulling at the wax seal until it released with a pop. Slipping the invitation nestled inside, you turned it around so as to read the looped cursive sprawled in fluorescent gold ink across the page. You felt Azriel shuffle closer to get a better opportunity to read over your shoulder.

Y/N,

It is with great pleasure that we request your presence at the Masquerade Ball hosted by her majesty, Queen Amarantha of Under the Mountain. Please kindly reply within a fortnight. Punctuality is of the utmost importance.

“I don’t like the look of this,” came the voice of your mate in your head.

***

“How do I look?”

Azriel’s eyes snapped up from the book he was reading and instantly dragged themselves across your body. A groan from deep in his chest vibrated through the room and you were hit with a wave of arousal across the bond.

“Down boy,” you teased, stepping toward the vanity at the corner of the room to touch up your makeup. You felt Azriel’s eyes glued to you as you moved. Your dress, dark and revealing, was something Rhys insisted you wore to the party. You were used to outfits like this, the fabric accentuating your full hips and showing off your years and years of hard training. It reached up over the curve of your breasts and plummeted, reaching nearly low enough to expose your belly button. The Night Court demanded respect from those outside the bubble that was Velaris, and your High Lord chose to express the Inner Circle’s blind confidence through dress.

“Gods, if I knew you were going to wear that I would have argued with Rhys more to let me accompany you two.”

You sat at the vanity and reapplied your lipstick. From over your bare left shoulder came a lone tendril of Azriel’s shadows. It snaked along the curve of your collarbone and circled around your neck a few times before settling itself snuggly around your throat like the most priceless of necklaces.

A shiver went through you as the shadow gave a gentle squeeze. “Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t insist on you and Cassian to join us. You’d have thought he would use this opportunity to show off the strength of the Night Court to the other courts.”

Quiet as his shadows himself, Azriel’s large fingers slowly replaced the wisp of temporary jewelry. It dissipated at its master’s touch, and his hand gently, but firmly, tilted your head back so as to give him better access to the pulse point currently beating wildly at your neck. His lips brushed over the shell of your ear and you let out a soft moan.

“I’d like to see you out of that dress,” he whispered against your skin.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard at his words. A quick nip at your skin had you gasping out a response. “I can’t,” you managed. “Rhys will be here any second.”

Azriel trailed a rough calloused finger along the membrane of your wing and you felt a flush of desire and pleasure run through your body. The need for him flowed through your veins and it seeped deep into your bones. He could tell your willpower was faltering. Every emotion and neediness that you felt was pouring through the bond into his own soul.

“So tell him you’re not ready yet. I won’t take long.” Another nip at your skin, this time at the cleavage of your breast, had you nearly giving in. Your eyes fluttered closed and your chest heaved as he peppered kisses along your neck. But before you could utter another word, there was a knock at the door.

“Y/N?” came the voice of your High Lord. “Are you ready?”

Knowing neither of you could actually delay your departure, you sprung apart. Jumping up so quickly, you felt your chair tipping backward, only to be caught by one of Azriel’s shadows.

“One minute!” You called through the door and turned back to your mate.

“You have to go,” you whispered in a rush, quickly grabbing your bag from the bed and your shoes from their place beside the closet. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”

In your frantic dash across the room to retrieve your items, Azriel gripped your shoulders, halting you. His lips crashed into yours, passionate, hungry, and hurried. It left you breathless and you gasped for air as he pulled back, traces of your lipstick staining his own lips.

“Later, Shadowsinger,” you whispered as you reached up on tiptoe to place your lips against his again, more gently this time.

“I’ll meet you at the exit to say goodbye with the others,” he said into your mind and, stepping into a swirl of mist and shadow, he was gone.

***

“Az, the Autumn brothers are here.” Across the bond, you felt Azriel perk up. He must have been focused on something, perhaps reading a report or reviewing paperwork for his next mission. But at the sound of your voice in his head, you could feel his attention shifting to your gossip.

“Did they dress up?” he asked. “Please tell me Eris came as something ridiculous. Like a chicken or something.”

“Gods, no.” You suppressed a smile and glanced over at the heir to Autumn Court. The only costume he wore was his flaming red hair and permanent scowl on his face.

“Actually,” you continued across the bond, “It looks like Rhys and I aren’t the only ones who refused to dress up. In fact, the only ones who have costumes are the Spring Court.”

Amarantha was saying something, servants coming around to pass out wine in goblets that rivaled the finery of Rhy’s own private collection. You took one without thinking but hesitated before taking a sip. You recalled the words toast and finest wine coming from your hosts lips at some point. When your High Lord, who hadn’t left your side all night, didn’t drink from his yet, you followed his lead.

You barely paid attention all night, anyway. One arm constantly linked into your High Lord’s, you had to play the part of the mysterious, ruthless, second-in-command of the Night Court. Not many outside of Velaris knew much about you, except that you were an exceptional healer and twin the Night Court General. You played the role Rhys had expected you to, and Gods, did you play it well. Not a male in the room could take their eyes off of you, with your long flowing hair, curvy, yet muscular, body, and strong, unclipped Illyrian wings.

But frequently, you found your thoughts drifting back to your mate and the strong fingers you had wrapped around your throat a few hours ago. You hoped they would find their home there again upon your return to The House of Wind later tonight.

A wave of arousal hit you that wasn’t entirely your own and you realized Azriel must be having the same thoughts.

“Having fun without me, Shadowsinger?”

“Just remembering you in that dress,” came Azriel’s voice, low and sultry. “And all the ways I could take it off of you later.” You nearly choked on the breath you took. Rhys cast you a look out of the side of his eye, but you ignored it because Azriel was still speaking.

“Or maybe you can leave the dress on. It doesn’t offer much coverage, anyway.” His voice was growing darker, deeper, and more sensual with every word. “Or maybe the heels. Just the heels.”

You shook your head to clear it, attempting to focus on whatever Amarantha was saying in her toast. Wealth… happiness… friendship… blah blah blah. You ignored her sentences, picking up only on a few words. You did manage to make out her command to drink! before you caught eyes with Rhys. They portrayed something you couldn’t quite read. Sadness? Regret? You must have missed a part of her speech that was important.

Deciding to ask him about it later, you took a swig of your glass along with all the others in the chamber. The wine was sweet, thick like honey, and coated your throat on its way down. In fact, you felt it coating your entire body like a warm blanket. It worked its way into your bones and after a few moments of warmth, you felt the feeling turn to ice.

Icy tendrils shot through your limbs and you ruffled your wings to try and dispel the feeling. But it only became stronger and stronger until finally you felt a deep, soul crushing, emptiness. Quick as it began, the feeling was gone, and with it, the hum of the bond in your chest.

“Azriel?” you called to him. But no response came. Panic seized you and you clutched at your chest with your free hand, your other wrapping tighter around the arm of your High Lord. He was turning toward you now, saying something, but you ignored him. In fact, the entire chamber had erupted into chaos. Voices were all around you, angry and yelling. But the one voice you called for again and longed to hear was silent.

You didn’t know what it felt like to have a bond that was closed. You only knew that this was far, far worse.

“Y/N.” The sound of your name jolted you from your panicked soul searching. You looked up, catching eyes with the High Lord.

“Azriel,” you whispered out loud to him.

“What?” He asked, hands on either one of your shoulders, steadying you.

“Azriel,” you repeated to him. “He’s my mate.” The truth came tumbling out of you. The secret the two of you had kept for 400 years suddenly seemed foolish.

Rhys shook his head, not understanding your words. “Your mate?” He asked, confused. “For how long? Does he know?”

You nodded, tears suddenly filling your eyes. You pushed against the golden thread that tethered the two of you together, but it only ended in darkness. “We’ve been mates for nearly 400 years. We’ve kept it a secret for… oh Gods, Rhys, what has she done?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly snapped it closed. He looked over your shoulder and you whirled, finding Amarantha standing there.

“Oh, my dears,” she began, her voice scraping across your ears like nails against stone. “The two of you are just lovely, aren’t you?”

#azriel #azriel angst #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #azriel smut #azriel x reader #acotar #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #pro azriel

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hardlyinteresting · 17 days ago

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Nobody's son. Nobody's daughter.

Jake Seresin x Reader

Returning home to Texas for any time has always meant visiting his aunt and uncle. As a kid, their large estate outside of Houston had been an exciting opportunity to sample the finer side of life. Rubbing elbows with businessmen and their rich wives. Still, he feels he's little more than a toy soldier at these events. Perhaps he's found someone who knows exactly how it feels to masquerade.

Chemtrails Over the Country Club by Lana Del Rey Wondering Why by The Red Clay Strays Cowboy Like Me by Taylor Swift Moodboard for this fic

Warnings: If you know me in real life do not read this, The reader is referred to as she/her, with no physical description, fake dating-ish, rich people, smut (oral m+f receiving), (please let me know if you'd like me to tag anything please) Word Count: 6.5K Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

Champagne bubbles sparkle as another perfunctory conversation fizzles into more ostensible laughter. Jake stands idle, nodding and responding with an easygoing politeness when required, while scanning the room for his uncle. He's always had little patience for people feigning interest in the lives of others, or masquerading in curated caricatures of intriguing lives. His eyes have never cared to be distracted by the glitter of diamonds, or the flash of gold wristwatches. Taking another sip of his drink he finds himself rather bored in this room of pretenders.

Returning home to Texas for any time has always meant visiting his aunt and uncle. As a kid, their large estate outside of Houston had been an exciting opportunity to sample the finer side of life. Horses were kept for hobby riding rather than ranching; lush green land without a cow in sight; and a backyard swimming pool. As he got older his presence was requested at their swanky cocktail parties. He was rubbing elbows with businessmen and their rich wives. His military career has become a talking point for his relatives and he feels the eyes of the room on him wherever he floats through the grand house. “Your uncle is proud of you,” his mother always insists her brother means the best, “your grandfather was a pilot too, you know. It's in your blood”. Still, he feels he's little more than a toy soldier at these events.

Setting his empty glass down on a tray Jake is determined to find his uncle and make an excuse to leave early. As somewhat expected his uncle Robert is chatting with his business partner, Mr Bell. From what Jake can remember from previous encounters, he's a nice enough man, but he can only hope he's not dragged into more small talk before he manages to escape. It’s the Bells who are hosting tonight’s cocktail party, and Jake accepts that an early excusal might not be possible.

Beside the two older gentlemen stands a young woman. She's gorgeous standing by the glow of the fireplace. He finds his feet moving him in their direction before he has a moment to consider what he might say when he gets there. Immediately, she reminds him of some kind of goddess. It's silly, childish even. But still, he can't help it. Curves highlighted and hidden in the same artful drapes of deep cherry silk of her dress. Her eyes shimmer like focused jewels as she follows the conversation happening next to her. Her shoulders relaxed in an easy elegant posture. He entertains the idea of a world where a man like him might paint her likeness on his aircraft. Comforted by her calm demeanour, and perpetual in awe of her stunning features.

“Jake,” his uncle waves him over, “you remember my friend George Bell”.

“Mister Bell,” Jake greets with a handshake, “it's nice to see you again. Thank you for inviting me tonight, sir”.His posture is perfect as the older man nods and claps him on the shoulder. “I believe you were just about twelve the last time you were here. You’ll have to join me in the library later for a drink”. He has no interest in staying any longer than he has to, but a glass of whiskey from a bottle worth a month of his salary, and a round of pool may serve to soften the obligation of his presence. “Yes, sir,” he accepts, and then his attention shifts entirely to her.

He’s seen this young woman in photographs and painted portraits throughout the house, though he’s certain now the images do her no justice. He’s bold to assume her identity, and it will surely bite him in the ass if he’s wrong, but he feels certain she must be Mr. Bell’s daughter, and he greets her accordingly, “Miss Bell”.

“Lieutenant Seresin,” she smiles, “it's a pleasure to meet you”. He shouldn't be so pleased that she knows who he is, but he finds himself pushing out his chest with pride. “The pleasure is all mine,” he assures her. Her smile grows, a fantastically playful glint in her eyes that tells him she's excited to be speaking to someone she considers to be a peer. “Then it's an honour,” she insists, “if half the stories I've been told are true, you're very accomplished, Lieutenant”.

In most scenarios like this, Jake has gotten good at walking the line between exaggeration and faux modesty, any attempt to shift the conversation away from himself, yet today she allows her to tease him. “Call me Jake, please”.

“Only if you insist”.

“I do,” he says, urging some level of familiarity to grow between them as they're both dragged into another round of bromidic small talk.

He endures the conversation about the weather, and fields questions about what the temperatures are in California at this time of year. He gracefully sidesteps conversations about his job, and his politics, artfully avoiding escalating discussions as easily as he had mastered lag pursuit maneuvers in his first year of flight school. With each opportunity to make her laugh he manages to succeed, only fueling his desire to do it again.

It's too soon that she's called away to speak with a group of women across the room. He kicks himself for not engaging her in more direct conversation, and wonders if the stolen glances, and the subtle wink he'd shot her way were enough to convey his interest. It's stupid, like a middle school crush, and he knows he couldn't have just asked her out in front of her father and his uncle. He’d hate to look untoward in their company. But, the missed opportunity burns nonetheless.

An entirely unexpected fortuity is all but handed to him on a silver platter when he's asked to join Mr. Bell for a game of pool in the library. The older man pours him a generous glass of scotch before speaking.

“I have a favour to ask you, Jake”.

“I'm happy to help if can, sir,” Jake responds easily, though he can't help but find himself growing nervous by the prospect and any potential implications. He briefly envisions himself, ending up as muscle for hire, taking out an unsavoury business associate, his dreams of becoming an admiral slashed as he ends up on the wrong side of the wrong people.

His anxieties are quickly replaced by absolute surprise at the words Mr. Bell speaks next,

“I'd like for you to escort my daughter to the theatre this weekend,” there's an unexpected vulnerability as he continues, “My wife and I will be out of town, and since her engagement was called off she worries that people will talk-- you know how it is”.

In all honesty, Jake cannot say he does know how it is, but he can imagine. His aunt had been talking about some young woman of some kind of societal importance who had been jilted weeks before her wedding. He hadn't been paying attention at the time, far more interested in the apple pie he was eating and the football game on TV. From what he can recall rumours were running wild, but no one had the full story. He understands now that Bell's daughter must be the woman his aunt was talking about. Without knowing her, he had felt sorry for her. But pity is now replaced by deference. He finds himself more in awe of how she managed to walk the rooms this evening with her head held high, knowing what people must be whispering about her behind her back. He understands that a pastime and patronage she clearly enjoys has been jeopardized by the possibility of having to attend alone, but he worries that his presence, and lack of regard for certain expectations and niceties may hinder more than it helps.

“I've never been to the theatre before, sir. I'm not sure I would be the best escort”.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Bell stops him, “you're a good man. Dress well. Pick her up. Watch the play. Drive her home”. There's no room for argument or debate, and the truth is that despite the odd, and somewhat unfortunate circumstances Jake finds a selfish little part of himself chuffed by the opportunity to take the dreamy girl out for a night.

“Come around six o’clock you can park your truck here, and ask Steven in the Garage for the keys to the Benz. I'm going to assume you can drive manual”. Jake easily accepts the new instructions, raising his glass in the sign of a toast before the two of them begin their billiards game as if no conversation had passed between them.

Saturday comes around in what feels like the blink of an eye. Jake makes sure his slacks, blazer, and button-up are pressed and his shoes are polished ready for the night out. After some debate on what to wear, his choice is ultimately decided by the lack of options hanging in the closet of the guest bedroom at his aunt and uncle's house. He'd learned years ago not to visit without at least two sets of slacks and jackets, but had never considered that he might have an occasion to truly worry over the outfit he's putting on. He's eager to make a good impression, but worries he'll look like he's trying too hard; keenly aware that this evening he's not just representing himself. He will also be purporting to assume responsibility for the social reputation of a woman who has already been unfairly judged and derided.

He showers and combs his hair before slipping into charcoal grey pants and jacket. He fastens the cuffs of his white shirt with onyx cufflinks borrowed from his uncle. He's conservative with the application of his aftershave, conscious of the fact he's attending a society function, not a nightclub happy hour. He's certain either way that her opinion of him could not be swayed by a whiff of Tom Ford cologne.

At the Bell residence, Jake retrieves the keys to the Mercedes. A stunning mid-century model painted in oxblood red, so perfectly polished he can see his reflection staring back at him. Keys in hand he rings the doorbell and waits patiently. Through the door, the faintest tip tap of high heels echoes in the grand foyer. The sound is followed shortly after by a small clatter and a hardly muffled “shit!” Jake grins ear to ear, barely containing a laugh when the door swings open.

“Lieutenant,” she greets.

“Jake,” he insists.

“Jake,” she corrects herself.

“Shall we?”

She nods, shutting the door behind her, a small clutch purse in one hand. He offers his arm to her. If she notices him flexing she doesn't say anything, but his cheeks flush as he reminds himself he's not flirting with some tag chaser at The Hard Deck. Cheap come-ons are worth anything here. She won't end the night in his bed. This isn't even a date, it's a favour to her father.

She ignores the gentlemanly offer of his arm, and all but skips down the stone steps towards the driveway leaving him to stare dumbfounded.

“Let's go!” She calls to him, walking backwards to the waiting car.

She's dressed in a dress made of black velvet today. It flares out at her waist and ends at a conservative length. But her back is exposed and he tries to stop his eyes from tracing the plunging neckline. With stockings and her towering heels, she manages to make bourgeois sexy.

“You look lovely. That's a nice dress” he tells her when he catches up.

“Thank you,” she smiles, “it has pockets!” Her free hand immediately finds the hidden pouch to demonstrate. His smile graces his face, and his earlier anxieties about expectations and decorum quiet themselves as he watches her open the car door for herself quickly making herself comfortable.

There's a casual air to her demeanour he hadn't expected. Their communication at the cocktail party earlier in the week had led him to believe that she was not as prim as the circumstances expected her to be. Her teasing tone and her eyes searching the room for more stimulating conversation told him she had been holding back, and putting up appearances. He had no reason to believe that tonight would be any different.

A few minutes down the road she leans forward to turn on the radio, the local country station playing at a low volume.

“Your dad must like me,” he attempts to joke.

“I like you,” she says, her eyes looking out the passenger side window.

“Well sure, what's not to like,” he smirks, “but your dad leant me a nineteen fifties Benz”

“I leant you a nineteen sixties Benz,” her correction leaves him with his brows furrowed.

“This is your car?”

She doesn't turn her attention to him but responds, “Birthday gift”.

He feels it, the achy routine gratitude. The compunction that comes from being forced to save face and feign grace; saying thank you for something you never asked for. There's a hollowness that accompanies the realization that this chunk of your life is not your own, and worse, wondering if you could do any better even if it were. Incidentally, he's familiar with a similar gut-churning shame. The weight of undeserved praise and misplaced guilt have often pulled at his ribs. He loses sleep each time they pin a medal on his chest; when the ends don't seem to justify the means, and he can't tip the scales enough in his favour to win a restful sleep at night. It's never enough.

“It's a fantastic car,” he tells her honestly, “you have excellent taste”.

“Thank you”.

He hears his fears and scruples in her quiet sigh before the words escape her. He knows the echo of apology in a simple thank you as well as he knows his name. Silence settles between them again.

At the theatre, she stays seated in the car until he comes around and opens the door to offer his hand. With fluid, graceful movements she steps out of the vehicle and he passes the keys to a waiting valet. Jake matches her walking pace noting the way she slows as she makes her way closer to the entrance of the theatre. Her back straightens and she makes a concentrated effort to paint a smile. Gone is the easygoing woman he picked up; replaced by an edited version. He has no choice but to respect the way she's managed the transition with such poise. Her hand rests in the crook of his arm their footsteps falling in time. “What are we seeing this evening?” He asks her with genuine interest.

“Much Ado About Nothing,” she tells him in a measured tone though he notices the sparkle in her eye, “it's a comedy”.

“One of my favourite Shakespeare plays”.

She smiles broadly, “And here I was thinking you were just an accomplished pilot”.

He shrugs, “I accidentally joined the drama club in high school”. He's blessed with a surprisingly unrestrained burst of laughter. He laughs too.

Massive wooden doors with ornate stained glass panels open into a grand foyer of floor-to-ceiling marble. Columns carved with care and precision line the walk to the grand staircase. Overhead a mural is painted on the smooth plaster. Pastel depictions of cherubs and florals surround the massive crystal chandeliers that light the hall. He feels out of place, the shoulders of his jacket suddenly feel too tight, and he wonders if anyone can tell he should have had it tailored. He breathes deeply determined to stop any ounce of his discomfort from showing as her hold on his bicep grows tighter the further into the crowd they move.

As a pilot, he has to be good at evaluating scenarios and making decisions. He doesn't overthink it, he just does what feels right. He straightens his arm dropping her hand from the crook of his elbow and intertwines their fingers. If she's shocked by the adjustment she doesn't let it show. “Trust me?” He whispers. She nods her breath leaving her in laboured puffs, each one easier than the last as they glide through the room and towards the private box the Bells have reserved for generations.

“Are you alright?” He dares to ask when they're on their own in the quiet of the balcony.

She nods, releasing his hand in favour of taking her seat. “Yes, I apologize,” she tells him, “I saw my fiancés family-- it startled me more than I anticipated”.

He shrugs, “Nothing to apologize for. The only thing worse than running into your ex is running into your Ex’s mom”.

A sliver of joy peaks through, the slightest spark of good humour returning to her eyes. No tears gather, but he can see the genuine sorrow fighting to make its way to the surface. He's happy to help her combat it. “What did he do anyway?”

She scoffs, “As if you haven't heard to rumours”.

“I've heard the rumours but I'd rather know the truth”.

He watches as she studies him, seemingly determined to root out any dishonesty. He lets her weigh his worthiness and steels himself to the reality that while he may be far more well-intentioned than most people she knows, he's not a very good man. He's sure she knows that. He knows her eyes see straight through him.

Her eyes avoid his as she speaks misplaced shame wraps around her like a shroud, “I found out from members of my mother's church group that he had called off the engagement. I was apparently one of the last people to know”. The statement lands heavy but she continues anyway, “I never truly got any explanation besides a list of my faults”.

“He's an idiot,” Jake is quick to interject. He's certain she has her flaws, who doesn't? But the idea that a clever, witty, honest, thoughtful, and beautiful woman such as herself could fail to measure up to some arbitrary, antiquated or otherwise acceptable standards baffles him.

“Worst of all, I don't think I'm lacking in any capacity. I think, maybe, I was just too much for him. Too excitable. Too interested in the politics of business to keep my mouth shut--too outspoken to be his wife in any case”.

What hurts more he wonders; going through hell to pull yourself up to snuff, or cutting away pieces of yourself to fit a mold. “Then maybe he wasn't meant to be your husband,” the advice comes easy and he prays he sounds like he's offering comfort.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, her hand reaching for his with a shaken reach. He's more than happy to provide the support.

The room shifts when the lights dim. The crowd goes silent, and for a moment before the stage curtain raises Jake can swear he hears his heartbeat. There's an intimacy that demands to be felt, and it grows between them. Her hand resting just above his knee, his arm stretched across the back of her chair. It's casual and as comfortable as possible despite the layers of clothing he's afraid he's sweating through. He watches her more than he watches the play, turning away with a flinch each time she looks his way. Her laughter is infectious, and he leans in closer to hear it over the guffawing of the audience below.

As the show continues, any cohesive thought running through his mind is halted as she begins to draw soft circles on his thigh with her thumb. The pattern is uneven and irregular enough that he manages to write the action off as mindless fidgeting. He doesn't dare to allow himself to believe that it could be an unceremoniously daring attempt at flirtation. In the short time he's known her, he has learned to consider her to be a person of deliberate and careful action. He doesn’t think she would trifle or toy with any kind of advance; insouciant or serious.

The lights come up again, soft music filling the theatre as intermission begins. She's no longer touching him. Their private bubble seems to burst as the chatter of other patrons fills the space. The affinity they had built in the dark hangs suspended, waiting just beyond their reaches. Neither of them mentions it.

“Should we go get a drink?” He extends the invitation half hoping it doesn't sound like he's making a pass at her, half praying that it does. He hedges his bets on her answer; prepared to sit in silence for the 30-minute break if that's what she wants. He's shocked when she says, “I thought you'd never ask”.

Jewelry sparkles beneath the light of equally bejeweled chandeliers, and gilded sconces. The toes of polished shoes make Jake think he's never shined a show in his life. Years of keeping his uniforms in pristine condition don't compare to the easygoing luxury of brand-new Italian patent leather. An order of two scotches on ice (the lady’s choice) runs him the same as a round of drinks at The Hard Deck would. The scotch doesn't taste any better here than it does when Penny pours it back in San Diego, but he holds his tongue for the sake of appearances. It's odd, he'll admit, standing in a crowd not identified by his rank or achievements, and yet being judged for nothing more than a projected image of inherited class. Like an ant beneath a microscope; so small, and insignificant, but under such scrutiny from the giants around him. His confidence waivers and for the second time this evening he believes he was correct when he told Mr. Bell that he may not be up to the task of escort.

She smells like vanilla, honey, and now whiskey as she leans into his side. Her hand slipping into his own again calls him to attention as her countenance shifts; cool and calculated. He lifts his chin, and scans the room, his empty glass abandoned at the bar.

“Miss Bell!” An older woman calls as she approaches, her hands outstretched in an overly saccharine greeting.

“Hello, Mrs Calhoun,” she manages through partially gritted teeth accepting the uncomfortable hug the woman forces upon her.

“I wasn't expecting you tonight,” Mrs Calhoun says, no attention spared for Jake, her focus clearly set on weeding out some kind of scandalous revelations, or calaminious scuttle to pass along to her waiting group of equally interested gossips. Growing up in Texas, Jake was well aware of how quickly news moved traveled down the clothesline-- dirty laundry aired for the whole community to chatter about. But the idle talk his mama and the neighbours shared feels so innocent compared to the chronicles passed amongst the Houston elites at cocktail parties, and theatre intermissions it seems.

“you've been so antisocial since the wedding was called off, i do hope you've been taking care of yourself”.

“I've been busy,” she responds quickly to Mrs Calhoun’s jab, hesitating before adding, “your son seemed quite embarrassed by the whole affair, I thought it best to allow him some time to process”.

Jake is clever enough to see the battle fought beneath the niceties, and silently cheers her unwillingness to allow Mrs Calhoun to embarrass or belittle her. “What a sweet girl, such a shame the two of you couldn't make things work. You probably still could, you're both young enough. If he saw you in a dress like this I'm sure he'd change his mind,” Mrs Calhoun coos, “such a flattering silhouette; very slimmin--”.

“Mrs Calhoun, have you met Lieutenant Seresin, my escort for this evening?” Jake steps easily into his role of soldier and defender, a curt yet polite nod conveys his ‘hello’. “Pleasure,” he lies.

“A lieutenant? How interesting!” The woman says, her expression souring as she suddenly makes excuses to leave.

She's across the room in a flash joining a flock of tittering ladies who are not subtle at all as they cast their gaze towards him and a lovely girl who is now hiding her face against his chest. Her giggles are muffled but he's glad to hear she hasn't been too shaken by the encounter.

“They're all looking at us,” Jake thinks it's best to tell her. There's nothing worse than being blindsided. He expects her to take at least a half step away from him; to straighten herself back into the straight backed paper doll their audience came to see. Instead she moves closer looking up at him with wide eyes and long lashes, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

“Maybe we should give them something to look at…” she suggests, and his stomach drops, certain he's not hearing her correctly.

“What do you have in mind, honey?”

She answers with a kiss, and he’s happy to be the one to kiss her, but he’ll be damned if he doesn't a proper job of it. How ungentlemanly would he be to not be thorough in his work? What a disservice it would be to her if he did not take the opportunity to deepen the embrace, his find purchase on her hip, and in the back of her hair. By the starry-eyed look on her face when he pulls away he’s convinced he’s met the mark of the task; the shocked expressions from the Calhouns confirm his suspicions of her ex lacking any kind of rectitude or skill.

The kiss wasn't long enough or anywhere near steamy enough to be considered anything close to vulgar. He knows the two of them will be the subject of several buzz lines in the community tomorrow, but he hopes it won't be anything implying promiscuity or untoward behaviour. Her cheek is warm beneath the pad of his tomb, and he's sure his cheeks are flushed. He tries not to become too giddy at the prospect of being promoted from escort to boyfriend for the evening. He's not naive enough to think this is anything more than one of those fake dating scenarios from the made-for-TV Christmas films his Mama has always enjoyed. It's a calculated and clever choice, and he's happy to oblige; to be a pawn in something bigger than any of his own wants or desires. He's used to it. He's made a career out of it. Lieutenant Seresin reporting for duty.

A three-bell tone notifies everyone that it’s time to return to their seats. As the lights slowly dim once more her hand returns to the place it had taken on his thigh earlier in the night, any remaining tension in her shoulders released as she busies herself with tracing invisible shapes once again. In the darkness of the room, Jake’s face blushes as he tries not to shift too suddenly in his seat, her hand moving an inch or two higher up his leg. Long-manicured fingers move at a teasing pace until they find his belt buckle. He has no choice but to stop her, even though he’d prefer not to. His lips brush the shell of her ear as he captures her wrist in his hand, “Behave,” he whispers, managing to keep his warning somewhere between stern and playful. A soft gasp escapes her, her eyes glinting in the low light with a mischievous glee. Good God, he’d be hard-pressed to deny her anything looking at him like that. He releases her wrist, and she resumes her mission.

He feels guilty; as if he’s corrupted her somehow, and he knows that feeling alone is a disservice to her. In the extraordinarily short time he’s known her he’s learned that she is headstrong and determined in the most brilliant ways. While she’s spent her life slipping in and out of different roles to ease the minds of those she’s been forced to associate with, she has done it all by choice. As exhausted as she must be, it’s a game she’s learned to play, and she’ll never allow herself to lose. He urges himself to consider that his role in her life may just be that of a buffer, a simple stand-in to offset the weight of the outside world. His penchant for cocksure, self-assured, over conference aside, he’s not dumb enough to truly think that he could be her freedom, but he’ll allow himself to sleep tonight with the belief that he could be happy being a conduit for it.

She’s indescribably pretty looking up at him. Her skirt billows around her where she kneels between his thighs, her hair slightly tousled, and her lips glossy. He’s met his fair share of beautiful women. He’s lost count of the partners he brought home for a night. Most of their names he’s now forgotten, and he feels dreadfully sorry to them all because he knows this image before him now will be burned into his mind for a lifetime. He won’t forget Miss Bell, nor her elegance. He won’t ever fail to recall her smile, or he erudite quips. His breath stutters, and he thanks the Lord for the players on the stage making the audience laugh as he struggles to hold back a softened moan.

The rest of the evening’s performance passes in a blur and they’re outside waiting for the valet to bring the car around before he knows it. She reapplies her lipstick with the help of a small compact mirror, and he swears his knees go weak at the sight. He tips the valet well for the speed with which he returns, and she gives a kind “thank you. Have a good night,” to the man as she ducks to slip into the passenger seat.

“You should come inside,” she says as they pull through the gate outside her home. “I should?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “And why is that?” he asks hoping he’s not pressing his luck. “Because I like you, Jake,” she says simply. He doesn’t need more convincing.

Her bedroom is as warm, plush, and luxurious as he could have anticipated. Their clothes strewn across the floor leave a conspicuous trail from the door to her bed. The dress he'd been admiring her in all night must've cost a pretty penny but it's tossed aside with his pants and shirt that she'd made quick work of.

He lets her have her fun perched, straddling his lap as hands and lips explore exposed bodies. He's careful about leaving his mark knowing his presence in this house tonight must be that of a ghost. Neither of them say it, but they both know this is a secret they'll keep forever. Jake pinches her hip when she nips particularly hard at his collarbone.

“Careful. That's property of the United States Navy, honey”.

His warning doesn't dissuade her and she's convinced to leave another bite in the same place. He rolls them over, settling his weight between thighs. He leaves kiss stain bruises along her torso, taking his time to lap, suck, and soothe with the goal of hearing her sighs.

He lowers himself to his belly kissing from her ankle to her knee as he pushes one of her legs then the other over his shoulders. “You don't have to--”.

“I want to,” he insists with a playful nip at her hip, but she still looks hesitant. “I won't if you don't want me to,” he assures her, beginning to pull away.

“ I do!” She says quickly, “it's just my ex never--”

“He's an idiot,” he replies easily before diving in for a taste. He means it too. He has abandoned reason and found heaven. He's collapsed like a man starved before her. Only an absolute fool would balk at the opportunity to please a woman, especially one who looks so pretty with her head tilted back, her fingers tangled in his hair; a plea for more. How could he deny her?

It's a year later when he's invited back to the theatre. His girlfriend’s had held proudly in his own as they both sidestep the conversations they do not wish to be a part of. “Miss Bell,” people still call out to her, and she obliges them with polite small talk, correcting them as they ask about her Lieutenant, she's proud of him and his recent promotion, ensuring that they are all aware of the correct honorific, but insisting they just call him Jake. It's who he'd prefer to be in her company; a truer version of himself. The Calhouns make themselves scarce, avoiding himself and Miss Bell like the plague, and neither of them has any complaints about that.

Mindless catching up, and society-bound exchanges are far less painful with a companion. They take turns filling people in on their lives out in California, slipping inside jokes between the lines unbeknownst to the people around them. Little secrets just to keep the other entertained, the reward of a smile enough to pull them through the crowds. Neither of them relaxes completely until they've made it to the Bell’s private box. His hand moves to rest on her thigh by instinct at this point, he palm warm on her exposed skin. He loves her in this dress, emerald green, with an elegant slit up the skirt. She leans over to kiss him and he’s more than happy to indulge her.

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman x reader #top gun fanfiction #top gun hangman

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keeheauxtales · 4 months ago

Text

We can just keep talkin' 'bout the last time

You were here, what we did

No sleep till morning

Only bubble baths and back rubs 🔞

— “So Anxious” - Ginuwine

pairing: soft!dom!Keeho x fem!bodied!reader (with switch vibes)

genre: tub sex :) established relationship smut with minimal plot, y’all know the vibes?

word count: ~1.8k

content warnings: dirty talk, cunnilingus, nipple play + underwater handjob!, dick riding, edging, multiple orgasms (fem receiving), a bit of breeding 🫢 (& thus ‘daddy’ is used, among other nicknames)

author’s notes: I’m kinda making this a prologue of a new project of sorts titled my “S.I.S (Self-Indulgent Series).” A bit of excuse for me to start writing more of what I wanna write – for me, but y’all get the pleasure of reading it! 😅 also: guess who just finally figured out how to make the text smaller like I’ve seen so many other awesome writers do?! 🙌🏾😂

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9:38pm

Attachments: 3 Images

“wanna join me? 😉🛀”

Your phone lights up with these lovely invitations masquerading as text messages as you sit in the hotel room across the hall from your boyfriend. A smirk creeps along your face as you rise up from your bed to discard of whatever clothes you have on. Throwing on a robe that typically rests in the room’s closet, you grab your phone and room key, and briskly make your way to your lover.

When you open the bathroom door, you’re greeted with the same thing those pictures were alluding to, along with a more delighted expression on the face of its sender. Keeho spots your bare shoulders as you had positioned your robe lower the moment you entered his room. “Well,” Keeho starts, “glad you decided to come over.” He hovers his phone over the bathroom floor before you take it into your own hands to bring it over to the counter with your items. “There’s only a couple things keeping you from where I want you to be,” he states, dragging a finger along your height in the air.

You gradually peel the robe (thing #1) off of your body before beginning to close the distance (thing #2) between you and the warm water that has already been enveloping your boyfriend, eventually stepping in to join him.

Soap-covered hands immediately emerge from the aforementioned water the moment that second leg is inside of the tub, caressing and pushing your thighs as far apart as can be allowed. You’re briefly stunned before catching Keeho’s wanton gaze trailing up every inch of you before his eyes finally meet yours.

“Don’t sit yet, babe, wanna taste you…” And just like that, Keeho spits on your pussy like it hadn’t already been wet since before he sent those pictures. He drags his tongue leisurely along your entrance, and as you set a foot up along the edge of the tub, you let out a long, loud moan you didn’t even realize you were holding in.

“Oh fuck, baby,” you blurt out, feeling Keeho’s tongue enter your dripping folds with incredible efficiency. You feel intense vibrations from beneath you as Keeho journeys up and down your inner cavern, moaning at how good you taste. You admire his consistency, how he enjoys you every single time like it’s your first time all over again. “Don’t stop…” you moan out, “until I cum in that f-filthy mouth of yours…”

Keeho only has it in himself to hum against you in compliance before beginning to make out with your cunt. You start to feel your legs shake as his big hands inadvertently lather your thighs with soap, caressing them while he sucks sweet juices – and even sweeter sounds – out of you. He raises his hands behind you to your lower back, giving you full reign to grind against his face, roping your fingers into his wet hair for some sort of leverage before throwing a leg over his shoulder.

The reality of him being the source of your evident pleasure riles him up further as his own moans match the magnitude of yours. Drowning out the wetness of the water itself is Keeho’s mouth unabashedly pervading your wetness, and by the time you regain consciousness you didn’t know you had lost, that knot in your stomach begins to tighten.

“Yes, Kee… Oh shit… Yeah… Fuck!” Before you could even warn him like you tend to do, you cry out as your legs quiver, exploding into his mouth just like you had wanted. You whimper at Keeho as he slurps as much of your essence as he possibly can, moaning lustily into your heat. Big hands grip your ass before he pulls away from you completely, licking his lips as he resumes his position in the tub.

Then I fill the tub up halfway, then ride it with my surfboard…

— “Drunk In Love” – Beyoncé

As you do your best to slowly enter more of your body into the water, you notice it rise by default. With your partner’s permission, you raise the nozzle to empty a small portion of the water before fully submerging yourself into some much needed relaxation.

All the while, Keeho’s hands have been caressing his own thighs underwater in an effort to calm himself down a bit. However, he achieves quite the opposite as your legs land on top of his. Your thighs act like magnets as far as Keeho’s concerned, the way his hands are back on top of them, caressing them just like when you were upright minutes ago.

The both of you cautiously work to close the distance before officially colliding toward the middle of the tub. With Keeho’s hands now going up and down your legs, one of your arms snake their way around his neck. As the other arm trails up and down his back, Keeho leans forward until his lips meld with yours.

Melting into the kiss, you feel yourself settle into the warmth of Keeho’s embrace, his hands now rubbing against your back with the soap lingering atop the water. After a few moments, you guide your hands to his chest, resting along his pecs. Your fingers maneuver around his nipples, thumbs treating them like gears on game controllers before your index fingers join in to pinch them. You hear your boyfriend begin to moan rather loudly, breaking the kiss to callously grunt into your gaping mouth.

“My dick is already so fucking hard for you, and you wanna play with my tits…” Keeho spits out provocatively. “Okay then,” he concludes before mirroring your exact fingering motions on your breasts, eliciting whimpers loud enough to overtake the sound of any wetness beneath you.

Keeho latches his thick lips onto your neck, and subconsciously, your hands leap into the water in search of this ‘hard dick’ he spoke of. You find it in no time, mere seconds after Keeho lowered his mouth onto one of your nipples. You lean back for comfort, and his brain short circuits feeling hands that aren’t his grip his cock underwater. He flicks his tongue rapidly before nipping at your areola as a response.

You release a deep groan from the back of your throat, your hands overworking to win the fight with buoyancy as they aggressively stroke Keeho’s bricked shaft in between the two of you. You feel a bit disgusted, knowing that your leftover arousal is dripping out of your pussy into soapy waters, especially with your thirsty partner shooting doe-eyed glances into your glazed-over stares at any given moment. Miraculously, you feel precum each time your thumb rolls along his tip.

Eventually, Keeho leans back like you did earlier, resting his flexed arms along the tub. You’d be lying your ass off to say that the sight of his toned chest heaving wasn’t turning your legs into mush. His entire stance was inviting you to just pounce on that dick your hands were wrapped around, and you knew it.

You carefully follow that thought, begrudgingly releasing Keeho’s cock from one of your hands for leverage. As a result, his deep moans halt momentarily while you position yourself on his soaking and loaded dick. One of Keeho’s veiny arms assist on your hip before you lower yourself back down, this time boarding the solid member that’s been heavily anticipating your warm cavern of a cunt this entire time.

In a fit of instantaneous weakness, you feel yourself shake once Keeho has entered you, your hands back caressing his neck. His hands slide down your back before they dive beneath your ass, kneading your cheeks. The both of you exhale a slew of obscenities at one another before you start to grind on his lap.

Once you both adjust to one another in this different environment, Keeho wills himself to fuck up into you as slowly as he can allow himself to. All the while, you can’t seem to stop your pelvis from moving, causing the water to splash a bit wildly. Neither of you could care to exercise caution, instead you both grow more and more careless the more you get lost in the lust of it all.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” Keeho grunts, sweating around the wet bangs covering his forehead.

“Shit… Fuck, make me cum, baby!” You cry out as Keeho’s throbbing cock reaches your spot in those gummy walls he keeps pulsing deeper into.

“Call me ‘baby’ like that again…” Keeho spits out, already reduced to just sitting back and letting you ride, but not before one particularly deep thrust aimed directly at your clit unlocks another nickname in its stead.

“D-daddy!”

“Oh shit,” Keeho breathed out, feeling like he was drowning in that tub (and would’ve been okay with it after hearing something so rare leave your mouth like that). “You’re gonna fuck around and make me wanna become one for real, keep playing.”

And just like that, you feel a knot tighten deep in your stomach for a second time tonight, almost like it came into contact with your boyfriend’s cock drilled into your hole. “Then cum inside me, Steph,” you breathe in his ear seductively, “no sense causing such a sticky mess in this tub for housekeeping to have to clean up.”

“It may not matter once you’re cumming with me, sweetheart,” Keeho challenges in almost a whisper before he resumes rolling his hips up in time with your body damn near bucking against him.

You accept the challenge with so much composure as you grip the tub with your hand, your pussy gripping every bit of Keeho’s girth. Sensing a climax approaching from the both of you, he lowers himself back into the water with one of his hands clamping your waist, the other starting to squeeze your neck in that freaky progression that teeters between slight discomfort and alarming danger, and you could usually give a fuck… Keeho quite literally couldn’t stand to give a few fucks now.

“Is my baby gonna cum all on daddy’s dick like the good slut she is?”

You hum and nod in response, whimpering over his words.

“And are you gonna let daddy cum inside that tight… little pussy like you said?”

“Fuck, please!” you yell out, briefly realizing that he paused while awaiting your answer.

“‘Please,’ what?” he inquires as his voice drops a notch for an added edge.

“Please cum for me, baby! I want to feel your hot cum inside me, for fucks sake!”

Maybe it was the fact that the water was getting colder around you, or the way Keeho’s cock kept twitching inside of your swollen cunny, while denying himself of his own orgasm in the process, but damn, y’all were desperately determined to find release before leaving this bathtub.

After moaning your name, and lustily reiterating how good your pussy feels around him with his eyes rolling back, he gaspingly asks one more question. “Are you ready for this load, babygirl?”

“Oh god, yes, Kee– I’m cumming,” you exhale, vibrating around your lover as warm semen oozes out of the both of you. Keeho claws at your back as he fucks his own orgasm out, causing a chill to run down your spine as you fall forward onto his chest.

“Aww,” Keeho coos in your ear, smiling as you both unwind like you were planning to in the beginning of this impromptu date, “you did so good, mama.”

#p1harmony #keeho #p1harmony keeho smut #piwon smut #p1h smut #p1harmony smut #keeho smut #kpop smut #keeho x reader #kpop x reader #p1harmony hard thoughts #p1harmony hard hours #kpop hard hours #kpop hard thoughts #p1harmony x reader #p1harmony x you #piwon x reader #p1h x reader

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no-144444 · 2 months ago

Text

chancer- o.piastri

Day 31 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: Can he figure out who you are at the masquerade ball before you leave forever?

a/n: thank you everyone for reading these stories over the last month! this has been so fun and i've loved getting to write everyday!

ps, these were the costumes i had in mind (plus random masquerade masks):

you: oscar:

(both from pinterest!)

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Oscar knew he wasn’t the first person anyone would choose to go to a party with. He was awkward, quiet, unknown, and uninterested in getting to know new people. He had his friend group; Logan, Lando, Alex, Charles, George, Daniel, Pierre, Arthur, Liam, and himself. He was happy just talking with his friends. He wasn’t looking for more, and he didn’t want to entertain small talk more than he already had to with his job.

“What if you meet someone there?” Alex had wondered out loud, trying to persuade him to go. He was the only girlfriend-less guy in the group. Alex knew he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. He knew, because every single week one of their girlfriends would text him about ‘a friend that was really interested’ and every time he’d say no. He wasn’t looking for a hook-up (mostly because he didn’t believe in hook-up culture, not being into having sex with someone without knowing them), and he didn’t want to lead someone on. Objectively, yes, he knew he was an attractive man. He was a fucking racecar driver who was paid to take care of his body. He was paid to model clothes and go to nice events. He was paid to drive a fast car, on track and off it. Could he probably put more effort into his look? Absolutely. He didn’t even own a hairbrush, and he wasn’t going to start anytime soon.

Yet there he stood, pirate costume on (complete with a masquerade mask, as to keep with the theme of the party), walking into the biggest house he’d seen in a while, with a bubbly sense of anxiety in his stomach. Logan was walking beside him, talking to Liam about something or other.

“You’re nervous,” Arthur teased. Oscar rolled his eyes.

“I don’t want to be here,” he sighed as he got handed a drink.

“Why not? Have a bit of fun!”

“Fun to you, is drinking and making out with your girlfriend in the corner of a party. Fun for me, is going home and sleeping,” Oscar took a swig o f his drink, it burned as it went down his throat.

“We should’ve invited Hattie instead,” he scoffed. Hattie and Arthur had become friends during Oscar’s overlapping time in F2 with Arthur. Hattie was always the more outgoing sibling, and Oscar wouldn’t have blamed them for inviting her instead of him. He could’ve at least gone home and slept.

“Oscar!” Fernando cheered, resting an arm over his shoulders. “You came!”

Ah, this was Fernando’s party. Of course.

“Of course I did,” he smiled. Fernando had always been kind to him, especially in his time in Alpine.

“I have someone I want you to meet,” he whispered. “It’s a girl…” Oscar rolled his eyes. “Is everyone trying to set me up with someone tonight?”

“Maybe, I know I am,” he laughed. “Follow me.”

Oscar dutifully followed behind Fernando, being brought further into the party. It was going to be impossible to find any of his friends again, so he sent the group chat a quick text to meet him at the front door in 1 hour, as that would be when he would be leaving. He was met with sad and angry emojis, but he didn’t care. The host had seen him, and he had a weekend's worth of sleep to get.

“This is-” Fernando was too quiet to be heard over all the shouting and singing. But in front of both of them stood you. You were dressed as a mermaid. What a pair you two made.

Oscar’s mouth literally fell open. You were gorgeous, the costume showing a great deal of skin and he was not complaining. What really drew him in was the bright smile on your lips as Fernando spoke (he had tuned everything else out) and the way you nodded along.

“So, I’m sure you’ll get acquainted!” Fernando announced just in time for Oscar to close his jaw and stop drooling. Then your attention turned on him.

“I think him telling me who you are defeats the purpose of the masks, right?” you chuckled. He chuckled.

He was a goner.

“You’re right,” he smiled. “I’m Oscar.”

“I know,” you bit your lip, smiling brightly. “He told me, remember?”

He internally kicked himself. “Of course, yeah. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” you shouted over the music. “It’s a little loud in here, want to go somewhere quieter?”

He nodded. “Yeah!”

You took his hand and led him out to the garden, which was still full of drunk people. You brought him further, him following diligently. You brought him to the edge of the forest at the back of the house. “You trust me?”

He nodded, trusting you implicitly. You led him further, into the forest, until you made it to a treehouse.

You helped him up (despite being in a skirt), and there you two sat for a moment, just enjoying the quiet.

“What do you like to do?” you asked, out of the blue.

“I like to drive-”

“Other than of driving,” you giggled.

He smiled. “Well, I like to sleep, I like to play video games, I like watching movies, I like baking-”

“Baking?” you questioned.

“Yeah, baking,” he nodded.

You looked at him sceptically. “Explain.”

He chuckled. “Well, my mum and my grandma used to make me sit with them in the kitchen to learn how to bake, and when I was a kid, I fucking hated it. Now that I’m older, I love it. It’s so relaxing.”

“You learn something new everyday,” you smiled.

“What about you?”

“Well, I like to read, I like to cook, I like hanging out with my friends and family, I like writing-”

“What do you write about?” he asked.

You smiled cheekily, he could see the way your eyes crinkled, just slightly. It made him smile.

“You chancer, I don’t know if I can tell a random stranger that…” you shook your head. “I’ll need to get to know you better.”

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So, there you two sat, talking about your lives, enjoying each other's company, and just having fun. The hour he was supposed to spend had long since passed, and he had silenced his phone the second you had started talking about your life. He didn’t see the messages from his friends about leaving, he didn’t see the missed calls from them, wondering if he was alright. He didn’t want to either.

You ended up with your head on his shoulder as the topic of love somehow came up.

“Have you ever been in love?” you asked, curious about his experience.

“I don’t think so,” he answered, mildly confused.

“So, no then.”

He chuckled. “No, then. You?”

You shook your head. “Nope. But I do love racing.”

“You race?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “MotoGP.”

“That’s awesome,” he praised.

You looked into his eyes, the majority of his face covered by the mask. “I want to kiss you right now,” you admitted, your voice low.

He gulped. “I want to kiss you right now.”

You smiled cheekily again. “What’s stopping you?”

And that was that. He kissed you.

His hands found space on your hips and held you against him, feeling the sparks between you two like a fuckign fire. He wanted so much more than just one kiss. Your lips against his was like the perfect symphony, your hands on his body the greatest touch, his hands on your skin like the softest connection.

“Oscar,” you moaned against his lips as he bit down on your bottom lip, his tongue fighting yours.

The loud bang of fireworks pulled you both apart. You both gasped, pulled away abruptly, then laughed as your adrenaline calmed down.

“That was…” he started.

“Wow,” you finished.

He chuckled. “Wow,” he agreed.

You checked your phone, wondering the time. “Shit!” you cursed. “I have to go, it was awesome meeting you, my friends-”

“Can I get your number?” he asked, rushing after you.

“I think that defeats the purpose of the night Oscar,” you chuckled.

“I-I don’t even know your name!” he stressed. He needed to see you again. “I want to see you again.”

You ran ahead of him, rushing through the trees. He followed behind, thankful that his trainer makes him go on endurance runs.

As you two got back into the house, you tried to shake him off, just for fun. He wasn’t budging. When you finally made it to the front door, he grabbed your arm and kissed you. Again, those same butterflies were sent free in your stomach, and this time it didn’t make you nervous. It made you happy.

As he kissed you, he pulled your mask off, revealing your identity to him as he pulled away.

“Shit you’re beautiful,” he chuckled. “Sorry if that was too-”

You cut him off with a kiss of your own, pulling off his mask. “Pretty handsome yourself.”

He smiled. “Please. I want to see you again.”

“You already have my number, idiot,” you chuckled.

“I know,” he chuckled. “I’m just asking you out now anyways.”

You smiled. “Yes, I’ll obviously go out with you.”

He pressed his lips to yours once again, and both of your friend groups cheered, happy that you’d finally gotten together.

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

taglist: @anotherapollokid @theseerbetweenus @simbaaas-stuff @5sospenguinqueen @yootvi @linnygirl09 @lanadelray1989 @teamnovalak @gleeblegnarp

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