#crème de la crème

[violet-stormbringer]

read my fanfic

14 Chapters, 156 pages, 60k words. And so "The Princess and The Thorne" is finished.

Read it on Ao3! Feedback and the like is appreciated.

[classycookiexo]

[zencaia]

Journey to Gallatin (2/5)

Fan art of @hpowellsmith's Crème de la Crème

[strange-wafflez]

Obv you know I love Will but Kyle is also just so 🥰😍☺️😻

Oh he’s something else 🥰🥰

[sabineelectricheart]

Drunken Hike to the Dorm Room

Summary: Hartmann overindulges at a party and Aurora must take him back to his room in safety. Through their journey, tongues grow loose.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 1000

Notes: Anyone still hungover from the Holidays?

"No. No, don't laugh at me, Aurora. The one time I get piss drunk and you're already making fun of me?!” Eugene complains, slurring his vowels, so very unlike his usual composed and posh speech.

Aurora wants to shake her head and laugh even more, but she supposes that she can have some sympathy for the nerd’s plight that evening. One can only hold their alcohol with grace when they are eased into it, through many experiences throughout their lives. She has her doubts on whether her flatmate has even smelled booze before, not to say actually drunk it. It was inevitable for something like that to happen.

To also be fair, she did not expect for Eugene to have any interest in joining them that evening when they started their little party. Zui had had a success or another with his lacrosse team, so it meant that it was a perfect excuse to get piss past drunk on a weeknight. Max smuggled the bottles and Delacroix managed the aperitifs, and it was on.

On those occasions, their prefect would sneer at them, call them irresponsible for flaunting so shamelessly the school regulations and, if he was on a good mood, he would shut the blinds on his four-poster and sleep it off until next morning at the earliest. If he was on a bad mood, though, he would venomously threaten calling the head teacher unless they shut down the party, on which occasions they would usually take their celebration somewhere else.

He never said that he wanted to join them before. He never gave a single indication that he ever wished to be a part of their regular night-time entertainment, if anything, considering his usual scathing remarks about it, he has signalled plenty of times how he wanted nothing to do with them and their behaviour.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, when Max jokingly asked whether he wanted to join in their little soirée, Eugene smiled placidly and said, “Sure. How much do I owe you for the beverages?”

It was then and there that Aurora knew that nothing good would be coming out of it, and she certainly had a point.

At first, everything was going on well. Conversation was flowing, there was no accusations and no frustrations to be raised. The prefect had his first cup of beer, one which he cradled forever until Zui had to point it out to everyone. He promptly chugged it and asked for another.

Then another, then he started to mix alcohol, and then it all came ridiculously undone when, as he tried to walk over to the table to refill his cup with whatever, he tripped over his own feet and took the entire bar down with him, effectively putting an end to the party.

After angry remarks and lots of mocking laughter, Aurora helped him to his feet and led him back to his dorm room, slowly and steady, and with regular intervals for puking breaks along the way.

“I’m absolutely humiliated! It’s not like I haven't had enough of a mockery of myself tonight! What I’m even going to do?" Eugene grumbled, causing his guide to laugh at him again.

"Alright, alright. I am sorry." She pauses, pushing the slick cowlick resting unusually messy on his head behind his sweaty and blanched forehead momentarily to press a light kiss there. "I just don't get what happened with you tonight, it’s all. You're usually the one who's always talking care of us, never wanting a drop and not sleeping until we're all tucked safely in bed."

“You noticed that?” He asked, truly surprised.

Aurora laughs richly. “Of course! You always take such good care of us and I really appreciate it. It’s not as if the bottles would throw themselves on the trash so we don’t trip them in the morning, now do they?”

Eugene sighs softly, the alcohol still swirling his thoughts around. "Egads, I love you so much."

He dropped his head, his eyes blinking rapidly to stay awake.

The girl smiles sweetly at her friend. "I love you too, Eugie, you doof. I just don't see how that correlates with anything we’re talking."

Eugene huffs, in both frustration and self-importance, a pride that roars especially when it is so wounded.

"I mean I'm in love with you." His cheeks immediately burn up, his mind is not nearly sober enough to shut up though. "I have been for a while, too, and seeing you with, with… Going out with those dudes and going out and staying out all night doing whatever, it just… It just got me all fucked up here because..."

The brunet prefect trailed off, getting lost on the sentence that he wanted to convey, getting lost on the raging feelings on his heart. He runs his hands through his head while strands of his increasingly messy hair spilled beautifully in a more natural position than his usual slicked back coif.

Right now, on the chiaroscuro of the moonlight against the cavernous hallway, of the dishevelled appearance and the honest tone of his voice, Aurora understands that she has never found him this attractive.

"You're in love with me?" She asks him dryly.

When Eugene does not answer because he is stuck mid headache and drunken thoughts, she takes his chin in your hands and direct his face to hers. She repeats the question and let it sit for a while as she processes this newfound titbit of relevant information.

"Oh, Eugie! Did you really have to be drunk to tell me this?" She asked, a loving frustration painted all over her expression.

"Yeah, because I always mess everything…" He tried to respond to her question properly, his words slurring out more than ever.

Aurora cuts him off, though, pulling his chin closer until their lips were firmly connected.

Eugene sucked a deep breath and excitement fills his heart. He may be stupidly drunk, but he is sure that he shall never forget it.

Not ever.

*_*_*_*_*

Crème de la Crème Masterlist

[pileofmush]

just fell to my knees in a walmart parking lot

can i request some slutty luffy? just fuck me up fam ☠️

AHH i think this is so beautiful and one of my fav smuts i’ve written!!! :’)

hunger - luffy x f!reader

smut

summary: luffy gets incredibly horny, and he’s confusing lust with hunger

contains: mating press, praise, marking (reader receiving)

words: 2.4k

_______________________________

Luffy’s alone. He thinks, right now, of touch. And his body is sweaty from the day and from his yearning mind, he’s shirtless because an hour ago he lit on fire beneath his skin, he’s been simmering ever since, and it’s healed, somehow, by touch. So his fingers dig into the grooves of his abs, he likes to feel them flex and shift as he traces every corner, mouth open, drooling onto the glass of the porthole. He left his bed an hour ago when he lit on fire beneath his skin. His blanket became too hot, his mind too full to fall asleep. He’s thinking about food now, juicy fruits that drip down his throat, melted cheese, the greasy, fatty pieces of steak that slide so slowly along his tongue.

He rubs his stomach because he’s hungry, that’s it. There’s a burning within him, starvation but if it was beautiful. He needs food right now but he knows, somehow, that food won’t do anything for him, not really. And if he rubs his stomach because he’s hungry then why does his hand go lower, down beneath his waistline, tugging at the hair down there because, why? Why does this feel good? Why is he moaning, little whimpers that fog the glass, what does he need? He thinks of touch. Skin on skin. That’s it, skin on skin.

You’re probably alone. Moonbeams sail one by one from the east with the wind and blackening sky as the sunset turns lilac, fading, gold waves turning silver, copper. Translucent silk the color of the sunset hangs from your shoulders, a slip so loose it barely covers your chest. It isn’t cold tonight and you’re not tired. You saw dolphins this evening and you wonder if you can see them again before the water disappears in the night. Everyone else is already asleep. You hope that when you’re tired you can find Luffy, who’s probably asleep, and curl up with him as everything drifts away.

But as the ocean laps at the ship and you’re calmed by the gentle rocking you feel, suddenly, arms from behind. Arms that run over yours, hands massaging your wrists up to your shoulders. A distinct smell, the feeling of hot rubber, this is Luffy and he’s so, so warm. And his breathing is so heavy in your ear. He places his chin on your shoulder and it’s covered in drool, he begins to slowly lick your neck as he pulls you closer. You haven’t even said hi before he has you in his lap, squeezing your waist from behind. His licks turn to kisses, and then to bites, all over your upper back and then a wet, raw trail up to your jaw. He’s groaning with want, no words yet, he has too many things he wants to say.

“Hi Luffy,” you murmur with a little smile, reaching back to pet his face which is burning up and flushed. His tongue laps your cheek, he’s an excited puppy, you feel his teeth now so you ask gently, “what’s up?”

“Gonna eat you,” he says in a quiet, gravely voice, right into your ear. He whines after this in desire, in hunger, he’s lustful and desperate.

“Yeah?” You lean back against him. His arms are so tight, he’s trying to wrap you up and crush you like a python. And you can feel his heartbeat race in every muscle.

“Mh, ‘cause you’re real pretty. And I’m hungry so I’m gonna eat you.” He’s almost trying to take a bite out of your neck now, his teeth are sharp but his tongue is soothing, he moans because he likes the flavor. “Real pretty…” he hisses again beneath his breath.

You turn so you’re facing him. He needs a kiss right now and he doesn’t hesitate to grab your face and dive in, writhing tongue slipping greedily between your lips. And there’s a gentleness here too, his hand moves to the back of your head, stroking your hair adoringly. He isn’t going to hurt you he just needs you so, so bad and he doesn’t really know how or why or what he should say.

“God, Luffy.” You’re quiet, muffled by his mouth. And just hearing your voice again clouds his mind.

“Love ya, love ya so much,” he says in between moans and kisses. His nails scrape at your chest, delighted by softness, something to grab onto, more to squeeze. “I wanna play, please can we play?”

Trying to get on top of you he’s leaning over you and pulled by instinct, he wants you straddling him but he wants to be on top at the same time. He’s just a tangle of limbs right now, saliva dripping messily onto your neck.

“Of course I’ll play with you.” You’re blushing, eyes closing but he’s squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him, huge sparkling eyes as deep as the Mariana look down on you.

Luffy begins to laugh. Just a breathy giggle at first, blowing air between his teeth in a little joyful hiss. And then his mouth opens, he laughs more, louder, that’s what he does when he’s excited and when he knows he’s about to get something that he wants so, so bad. And then it fades to giggles again, and he stills for a moment, no movement except his chest. Rise and fall, rise and fall. He’s just looking at you.

And then he licks his lips. He dives in.

You make a small sound, surprised and unable to react in time, as Luffy plants his feet firmly on the deck, your thighs slamming his stomach as your legs are thrown over his shoulders. And you’re bent, folding tighter and tighter as Luffy crouches over you. His arms encircle your legs and your back and your waist and constrict again, his legs are spread and ready, twitching, hips pressing yours. He’s forgetting, probably, that you aren’t as flexible as he is.

“This is good, Lu, this right here,” you manage to choke out because you often have to remind him what your body can and can’t take.

He mumbles a little apology and does a once over with his eyes, he wants to make sure that you aren’t hurt but, at the same time, he’s letting his gaze linger on your body, on the silk slip that’s fallen as your waist curls upwards and your breasts are bare now, so delicious, he’s drooling again. You’re tasty, you’re his.

This must take so much strength, the way he’s perched on his toes over your body, his thigh muscles clench and ripple against yours. Shared sweat, shared warmth. His balance is perfect even as he reaches for your chest, rubbing, holding, kissing, now he’s kissing your lips, now your neck. He doesn’t want this ever to be over.

And he says, “I love ya so much.” That’s the third time he’s said it.

“I love you too,” you say with such joy even as you’re breathless still, but before you can finish he’s pressing his mouth to yours hungrily. You said you loved him and he wants to taste it — the flavor of those words — it’s all-consuming.

“Tastes so good, mmh,” Luffy gasps as he takes you into this hot, wet kiss, “can’t wait, wanna play now.”

You’re not sure how he did it from this position, but his pants are off, kicked to the side. His cock is aching and leaking already and smoldering against your stomach, you can see it from here, throbbing and waiting, skin so smooth and thin and perfect like auburn moth wings over red-hot iron.

His chest crashes against yours in a tidal wave now because this new vulnerability makes him want to be closer. Now you can’t see it anymore but god, it’s so hard it feels like he’s denting you, so long and thick like a python, he’s still holding you, and squeezing more and more. Like a python.

With so much pressure he wraps his hands around lower, lower, snapping your panties, thrusting against your stomach in a way that shakes your body but he’s got you. You’re in his arms.

Begging eyes so close to yours, mouth on your lips and cheek, breathing so fast and so warm and he whispers, “can I?” And it’s so scratchy and kind and needy so deep in his throat.

So you pull his hair, you kiss him, yes.

Rolling back on his heels he finds his way, sloppy thrusts that don’t quite make it but god when they do, he isn’t going all the way even though his every nerve craves you but you’re his baby and he can’t hurt you.

Thick tip so soft and gentle, butterfly wings and flowers, impossibly hard and aching in heartbeat rhythms against your clit, moving you with every pulse, searching and desperate like a moth to a flame he finds you.

Shivers that make you clench your legs against his shoulders as he rubs and rubs back and forth and hugs your body and bites your cheek and murmurs, “that feel good? Ya like that?” with such curiosity like he really wants to know, he wants an answer.

“Perfect, so perfect. Please, I need you.” Words in his ear like shooting stars lighting up his body like the darkening sky. He’s made of ochre sunbeams.

He smiles and laughs and with another quick kiss he’s finding you more. Muscles flex and as he leans forward onto you he’s there, right there. He starts to moan loudly and whisper about how happy he is but it’s Luffy so it’s not a whisper, really. He’s not even inside you yet. He’s just so, so excited.

“Feels so good, so good. C’mere,” he giggles against you happily and makes sure he holds you as he’s pushing into your body, you’re filled in an instant and more and more every second.

Amid the panting and moaning you can almost hear that heartbeat and those pulsing veins buried in you. You’re dented again but from the inside now. With a little mh, Luffy finds his home so, so deep. You’re in a cocoon of warmth, wrapped in the sun, filled by the sun, melting.

“My girl’s so pretty, gotta bite, gonna bite.” Those teeth again and their practiced, hungry chewing. He swallows on instinct, abs vibrating and tightening against your skin as his stomach purs. And he’s rocking into you, back and forth on his toes, enjoying that deep, tight massage. He’s inside you, he’s trying to eat you, trying to get you inside him, too.

You’re going to be covered in marks but that’s ok. You like hearing him groan and laugh against you, and something about that swallowing, his throat flexing against your shoulder, that’s so beautiful to feel.

“Mine, ‘kay? Mine.” Luffy’s talking the whole time through his laughter and you’re swept away by him as he continues to crush your body from the inside over and over, tidal waves on a cliff’s edge, he makes whirlpools in you.

“This is so fun, you’re so fun, so pretty,” he keeps huffing and you hear this over and over as he squirms and wriggles on your body, thrusts shallower because he can’t bear to pull out of you any more than he needs to. Luffy wants to be close and never leave.

He tries to have conversations with you that just spill into unending praise. You’re too dizzy and lost in this world of feeling to respond most of the time but you kiss him whenever he wants, you tell him he’s beautiful and that he feels so good whenever your voice is there.

He’s swelling in you, veins bulging and rubbing so far up inside you that you feel him throbbing in your stomach, his twitching cock encouraged by your clenching, leaking, every muscle wracked with craving and overstimulation.

“Gonna fill you up ‘cause you’re real pretty,” he laughs against your lips, twisting into you deeper still, “gotta make ya all mine.” He still sounds so sweet and so soft, just a playful little puppy.

Even as he groans and begins to pump you full.

Love feels like this, love is raw and endless like this, love makes you float away. You close your eyes and now he lets you, you just hold him, you let the rhythm carry you and it feels like so long until he’s done. He doesn’t want to pull away but his legs give out. His knees finally hit the deck, he squeals in delight as he’s pulled from you with a wet little sound. But he’s still hugging you, of course.

“Heh, felt so good.” Luffy’s smiling with all his teeth, his chin sparkles with saliva, and your neck is dripping too, “thanks, darlin’. Love ya so much”

“Love you too. I love you, Luffy.” You don’t want to ever leave from his arms and you feel so empty now. But you’re soaked in him, neck and thighs both shining.

His hand rests gently on your back, helping you sit up, your slip falls back down over your body and it’s all wrinkled now. Luffy smooths your hair, he pets you, now is when he just wants to stare at you and not say a word. But when he sees the blooming red and purple trailing from your ear to your collarbone he starts to shake a little bit.

“Aw, this ain’t hurtin’ right?” he murmurs, tracing the bruises and teeth marks with his fingers so softly, carefully. There’s no blood, it’s just glossy with layers of drool, he’s proud but he needs to check on you first.

“No, it’s not bad. Don’t worry, I like it.” You kiss him right next to his mouth but he turns, quickly, because he wants your lips. “Whole crew’s gonna know I’m yours, that’s all.”

This makes him smile. He sees no reason for embarrassment or shame, you’re his so he can bite you when he wants. You feel his muscles twitch against you again as he laughs. And he’s flushed all red, hibiscus on his warm honey skin. Those eyes, dark brown eyes melting with that lavender of the sunset which is almost gone now, fading silently. So orchid blue then, on loving, deep Bulgarian rose.

“Good! I want ‘em to.” he rubs his head against your cheek, still biting just a little. And now he’s moving like he wants to pick you up and carry you, even though you’re both tired. But it’s because he’s hungry, and in that throaty little voice he asks, “wanna go get snacks?”

[hedgehog-moss]

My recipe is for blackberry-frangipane tart, though I'm sure it could work with other fruit! (note: I tried with plums and found that the texture wasn't right, so maybe not with very juicy fruit)

For the frangipane filling, whisk in a bowl: white sugar (100g), melted butter (40g), almond powder (125g), and 2 eggs. If it looks a bit grainy rather than smooth that's normal. Spread it over whichever kind of crust you usually use for fruit tart (not sure what the English equivalent of pâte sablée is but that's the one I use)

Add your blackberries over it, enough to more or less cover the tart but only in one layer (you don't want to smother your frangipane). If you use frozen blackberries, do not unfreeze them before! It'll make the tart too watery.

Put in the oven for 20 to 40min at 180°C (depends on how powerful your oven is, but until the frangipane looks golden all over)

Bon appétit :) It's my favourite fruit tart!

[eyes0p3n]

🥵🍫🥰

IG: @mya_jesus

[violet-stormbringer]

The Princess and The Thorne, Chapter Four: The Winter Ball

Ras loved Autumn, especially near the end. That just meant it was closer to Winter, and that was her favorite season. 

Outside, the Autumn season brought crisp, frost-edge leaves and a bright, fiery treeline to the mountains. Students donned cashmere scarves and woolen coats, and were allowed to wear heavier boots in order to step gracefully through puddles and fallen leaves. Whenever they finished their meeting, the Birchmeier Society was met with the night sky, thick with stars. Each time, Freddie exclaimed over the constellations dotting the sky above.

But the idyll didn’t last long. A storm kept Ras and her fellows awake one night, and everybody was groggy and sluggish on their way to the assembly. One of the ornamental cherry trees had lost a branch, and the Groundskeeper, Karson, was seen hauling the fallen branch away with a gardener. The leaves were mushy and slippery; more than one student slipping on them with a shriek.

Hartmann kept crackling sheets of notes in her blazer. “I’m announcing the Winter Ball this morning,” she whispered to Ras while they walked. “It’s the first time I’ve ever done it. It’s such an honor.”

Despite the honor, Hartmann looked pale. Gonzalez asked her if she was fine, and Hartmann claimed to be perfect well.

After the hymns and the usual announcements, Hartmann stepped up to the stage. “I’m pleased to announce the Winter Ball next month,” she said. “We shall entertain the Archambault Academy students and ensure they have a wonderful evening. Voting forms for the theme will be placed in common rooms, to be collected by the Prefect Commitee. Thank you, Lady Renaldt, for this marvelous opportunity to show just how welcoming Gallatin College can be.”

There was applause and excited cheering. Beside Ras, Gonzalez whooped. Hartmann sedately exited the stage.

Max leaned up against Ras, grinning. “Excited to see your one true love again, hmm?” Her tone was teasing.

Ras rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m excited to see Princess Rosario again. But not for any reasons you might think. She’s a nice lady to talk to, I’d like to be her friend.”

“I dunno…” Max teased. “After that confession of yours, I think you wanna be more than friends with her.”

Ras groaned. “Please don’t bring that up, there’s no way I’m in love with her after just one meeting…”

Max jostled Ras’ shoulder and the pair of them headed to class after the announcement. Later in the day, at a meeting with the Birchmeier Society, Lucien gathered the members around a table in the library.

"We're voting for turn-of-the-century glamour for the Winter Ball," he said. "It'll be appropriate for the Archambault people, and we’ll get to wear something nice and interesting. Plus, the Prefects should enjoy it since it’ll be traditional and appropriate."

Meanwhile, gossip was sparking about which of the other groups were voting for. The Gallatin Swans, the lacrosse team, were wanting traditional Hearthlight revelry with ballgowns and suits; The Prefects were officially impartial, but rumor was going about that Hartmann wanted a fire and ice theme; Max suggested a ghostly theme with the claim that her Starlings were behind her; and some students were gossiping about the Children of Hecate aiming for a fairy tale theme.

The common room ballots were carefully guarded when Ras arrived, and she was told that the voting would be completed with a great ceremony, and that someone was to count them in the middle of the night.

Lucien’s idea for turn of the century glamour was definitely interesting to Ras, though she wished she could’ve suggested a mythological theme. She would’ve loved to theme an outfit around one of Westerlind’s Heroes. She could imagine it now, a suit emblazoned with Erdrick’s Seal, accompanied by a crown accessory like he wore when he fought.

She shook her head, snapping herself out of her imagination, and she cast her vote. Lucien’s idea was interesting enough, no need to go against it.

When Ras returned to her dorm and lights-out was called, she listened to her fellow dormmates discuss the options, all until Mr. Griffith rapped on the door and sharply called for quiet.

“Unless you want a five o’clock start tomorrow.” He threatened, and that got everybody suddenly in the mood to go to sleep.

When the morning came, and it was time for the assembly, the college held its collective breath while Lady Renaldt opened an envelope to read out the theme for this years Winter Ball.

"I'm pleased to announce," she said, leaving an emphatic pause for suspense, "that we shall enjoy a historical theme for our Winter Ball at the end of the month. Preparations shall begin shortly."

As soon as the announcement was made, the obsession with themes translated into who would be escorting who to the ball. Notes were passed, friends were consulted, and whispers followed the more popular students down the corridors. Naturally, everybody was also interested in knowing who Ras would escort to the ball, whispering when they thought she couldn’t hear about who she’d invite; or who she wouldn’t invite.

“So.” Max said, leaning up against Ras after Philosophy one day. “You takin’ anybody to the ball? Oooor,” A pause, and a sharkish grin, “are you planning to go alone so you have the best chance of woo’ing your beloved Princess Rosario?”

Ras groaned, rolling her eyes as she did so. “Max, don’t you have things to do? People to invite?”

Max looked offended, putting a hand to her chest in a mocking gesture. “Ras! I’m hurt! I’m just looking out for my best friend!”

“By being a nuisance?”

“Would you have me any other way?”

Ras deflated, sighing in defeat. “...No.”

“Exactly!”

Eventually, Max relented in her teasing, and went on her way to invite her chosen partner to the ball, and she left Ras alone. Ras, of course, was going to go alone. 

‘ Not because I want to spend time with Rosario, ’ she tried to justify it to herself. ‘ But because it’d give me a chance to stand out. I’d be able to talk to some of the others from Archambault, too, it wouldn’t just be Rosario. ’

With that, Ras made her choice, and excitement rose through the college. It was rumored that even Mr. Griffith said he didn’t find the idea as distasteful as usual; and everyone was talking about who was going to wear what to the ball.

The trip to Archambault was uniformed, but this was a more flamboyant affair. Bustles and corsets, along with frock coats and smoking jackets were the dress code for the occasion; guests were to wear masks, though how elaborate was usually left up to them.

Ras had decent evening wear in her wardrobe, but most of her more expensive clothing was sold after the incident involving her Mother, and she’d have to reach out to her Mother for extra money if she wanted something magnificent.

And unfortunately, she did. So she wrote a letter to home.

‘Dear Mother, As you are no doubt aware through our repeated correspondence over the year, the Winter Ball is approaching soon. In my various attempts to restore some semblance of cleanliness to our Family Name, I have made a significant amount of progress by socializing with the right people and keeping my grades as high as can be. In addition, I’m sure you will agree with me when I suggest that a proper outfit for this wonderful occasion would do much to improve our standing in the eye of the public. As such, I would request a tidy sum of money so that I may commission myself a suitable outfit for the Winter Ball. Your beloved daughter, Ras Thorne.’

Ras sent the letter out with the morning post, and spent the rest of her day in her classes, hoping against hope that her Mother would be able to spare a pittance for something Ras could wear.

When she awoke the next morning, Ras was approached by Mr. Griffith in the hall on her way to Philosophy. He passed a letter to her and bid her a good morning. The letter was marked with the Thorne Family seal, as well as a priority stamp. Her mother spared no expense in replying, at least.

‘Beloved Daughter, It was a pleasure and a relief to hear you were doing well. I could not be prouder of the work you’ve put in to restore our Family Name. In regards to your request, all you need do is send the tailoring bill to the address listed, and I shall see it paid in full. Regards, Matilda Thorne.’

Ras huffed as she folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket. At least her mother’s writing was as awkward as her own, and she’d been given leave to get herself an outfit for the ball.

It’d be hard to arrange a tailoring visit, but Ras managed to write to a tailor in Fenburg and put in an order. Many of her peers had the same idea, it seemed, for in the days leading up to the ball, more and more parcels arrived by courier, and the excitement was building.

Ras’ own parcel arrived with three days to spare, and she couldn’t have been happier with how it looked. 

Ras had ordered a crimson-colored brocade smoking jacket with white culottes and a dark red mask with a feather attached to it. The left sleeve was missing, and instead attached to the left side of the jacket was a capelet matching in color to the jacket, upon which the Thorne Family sigil was emblazoned.

Max whistled when she saw the outfit. “Well, that’s going to look very smart indeed. Princess Rosario won’t know what hit her.”

By the time it was the week of the ball, most of the teachers had given up on their attempts to teach anything of substance, and instead allowed their students to read and review textbooks and previous tests. Until finally, the night of the ball was upon them.

During the day, the first snow of the year arrived, sending the younger students into paroxysms of excitement. At night, however, an odd, hushed feeling had descended upon the dormitory whilst everyone prepared; the noise and bustle had faded, replaced instead with a tense focus. Eventually, everybody was ready.

Dressed in a severe black suit and tails, Mr. Griffith led Clemency Dorm out. Delacroix and Max walked arm in arm, both wearing black; Max wore a close-fitting suit that was just on the edge of too scandalous, and Delacroix’s bustled gown was beated with jet in bewildering geometric patterns, making her glimmer as she moved. Hartmann fell into step beside Ras as they were led from the dorms in a procession towards the banquet hall.

A vast Hearthlight fir tree nearly reached the ceiling, covered with simple white candles. Wreaths bursting with berries were draped along the windows, and the scent of spiced fruit filled the air. The light from the chandeliers’ was warm and inviting.

Miss Dalca was wearing a long lilac gown with a daring asymmetrical neckline that made it look as if she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine; Mr. Blanchard wore a respectable suit and tails that looked similar to Mr. Griffith’s. Lady Renaldt presided over the hall from the teachers’ dais, wearing a sapphire blue gown. 

Just as Ras was about to settle in with her fellows, the doors were thrown open and the Archambault students arrived, led by Lord Haberlin, who strode to the dais and bowed as though to a monarch.

“We are delighted to be here at Gallatin for this lovely little party,” he said, voice ringing across the hall.

“And we are delighted to return your hospitality for the wonderful dinner earlier in the term, Lord Haberlin,” Lady Renaldt replied, a cool smile on her lips.

With that, the duty of greetings was done, and it was time to mingle.

Princess Rosario wore a burnt umber gown and her hands were dripping with rings; a golden sheen sparkled in her dark, tightly-curled hair. Auguste Renaldt smiled graciously as she spoke to Mr. Griffith. She wore a perfectly tailored gown in a pale grayish blue that contrasted dramatically with her own dark skin.

The musicians struck up a stately waltz, and students moved to take their places on the dance floor. Ras caught Lady Renaldt’s eye, and with a formidable look from the Headmistress, Ras knew right away that the dance was not optional. Disappointing, but she figured as much.

Which only left the question, of course, who was she to dance with?

Not that it was a question, really. She took a deep breath, adjusted her tie and ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it and allowing many a few strands to fall out of place. 

With a confident stride, she approached Princess Rosario, who was surrounded by an entourage of Archambault hangers-on. She was chatting away happily with said entourage, even as Ras approached. At her side, a heavyset, stony-faced woman stood, glowering at a hopeful Archambault student who’d been attempting to ask Rosario to dance.

“Princess Rosario will not be partaking in the dance,” she said in a low, flat tone that suggested the dance was a moral failing. “It’s not appropriate.” 

Rosario sighed, taking a sip from her glass. “Ibarra, why do you never let me have any fun?”

“Because, your Highness,” she said in a tone that made it obvious this was an argument they’ve had before. “It is my duty to keep you safe.”

As they spoke, Ras began to rack her brains, trying to place something. Her frown must have caught their attention, because Ibarra cleared her throat.

“You there.” She spoke, her tone level. “Say your piece.”

That’s when Ras had it. She snapped her fingers, and gave a sly grin to Ibarra. “Correct me if I’m wrong, m’lady, but your accent. That places you from the north coast, does it not?”

A flash of surprise in Ibarra’s eyes, but she quickly collected herself and offered a nod, a small smile gracing her lips. “Indeed.”

“I’ve only ever had delicacies from that area, though I’d very much like to visit. Tell me, is the wine still as excellent as I recall?” Her tone was nostalgic and wistful.

“It is,” Ibarra nodded again. “In fact, my brother owns a vineyard in that region. He sends the Princess and I bottles of his latest to sample, and it is a treat every time.”

“Wonderful!” Ras smiled. “If I may have the name of your brothers vineyard, that I may procure some wine in the future?”

Despite herself, Ibarra’s smile returned, a bit wider, though still small. “Certainly.” With that, she pulled out a card, passing it to Ras who tucked it into her pocket with grace.

“Alas, while I would love to remain and discuss the pleasantries of wine, I fear I can feel Lady Renaldt’s gaze turning my back to stone. May I borrow the Princess Rosario for a dance?”

Ibarra’s expression cooled, and she looked Ras over before inclining her head, another smile gracing her lips. “You may. Enjoy yourselves.”

Rosario passed Ibarra her glass as Ras offered a hand to her, and while the two moved away, Rosario whispered to her.

“I’ve never seen anybody get by Ibarra so smoothly. Well done.”

“Nothing to it,” Ras admitted. “I was genuinely excited to meet someone from the North, and Ibarra seems a sweetheart. Just gotta remind myself she ain’t as scary as she looks.”

Rosario giggled at that. “Well, still, it’s lovely to see you again.”

Everyone's eyes were upon Ras and Rosario as the pair passed on their way to the dance floor. Rosario was a prestigious dance partner, of course; Lady Renaldt looked faintly dismayed, a thought that gave Ras a smug sense of satisfaction. Likely, Lady Renaldt had designs on Rosario for her daughter, Auguste. Unlike her, however, Ras’ motives were far less complex.

She was in love with Rosario. No she wasn’t. She wanted to be friends.

‘Face it,’ she thought to herself, the inner monologue dangerously close to becoming outer monologue. ‘You’re into her. Just roll with it.’

She hated arguing with herself, she was always both in the right and in the wrong. This time, she was in the right, and there was a part of her that was smug about it.

Rosario's dark eyes sparkled when she met Ras’ gaze, watching her with frank curiosity. 

The pair made their way through the crowd of students, dodging elbows and occasionally pushing people out of their way.

They took their places, with Ras facing Rosario, head held high. The music struck up, and the pair began their dance. 

As they danced, Ras moved closer to Rosario, tilting her head to show off her neckline and allow the Princess glimpses of her skin; shifting so that the other got a rather good look at Ras’ pale visage. Rosario’s eyes widened in surprise, and there was a faint blush on her face; she was surprised, but altogether flattered at Ras’ movements.

As the pair circled past the musicians, Rosario spoke. “Auguste told me about your family situation. I have to wonder, has it been difficult for you?”

Ras felt a tinge of irritation, and had to resist the urge to scowl. She really wished Auguste would mind her own damned business. She cleared her throat, and offered a smile.

“It has certainly been…interesting, being under so much scrutiny as a result of my Mother’s actions.” Ras admitted, and she kept her eyes focused on Rosario. “Alas, there isn’t much I can do about it, and I do rather wish people would keep to themselves on this subject.”

Rosario nodded. “I meant no offense, of course. My apologies.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Ras assured her, still smiling. “Let us just enjoy ourselves, yes?”

Rosario smiled in return, and more pleasant conversation was brought up as the pair danced the night away. Rosario’s beringed hand was warm on Ras’ shoulder, and when the pair parted, she looked back to Ras with a wistful expression.

“The dance was wonderful, Master Thorne. Thank you.”

Ras bowed her head gracefully, still smiling. “Worry not, the night is not over yet. We may yet share another dance before we must away.”

Before Rosario had chance to respond, Lady Renaldt called for silence before speaking.

"A marvelous Winter Ball dance," Lady Renaldt said, "and a wonderful entry in our winter tradition. Lord Haberlin and our illustrious teaching staff have been observing the progress of our Crème de la Crème competition, and I am pleased to note that Gallatin College is in the lead. May the finest college win!"

After a small round of applause, she went on to announce the next stage of the evening: a formal tour of the grounds, showing off the beauty of the Gallatin surroundings. 

“The snow,” she said, “is perfect for tonight.”

Alongside Rosario, Ras was led in a procession to retrieve coats and scarves, ready to face the outdoor cold.

The groundskeeper, Karson, was in the cloakroom, briskly handing out warm clothes. She wore a simple black suit, her dark hair tied back. 

Once Rosario had retrieved her coat and she joined the procession ahead, a teacher from Archambault pushed ahead of Ras. She was a middle-aged woman in a charcoal-colored suit, and she fixed Karson a disdainful glare.

“Karson, yes? The cashmere scarf. No, the green one.”

Karson ducked her head. “This one, Lady Serafin?” she asked, holding it out.

Lady Serafin let out a huff. “No. That’s obviously turquoise. What sort of staff is Lady Renaldt employing these days? Hurry it up, else I’ll tell her about your poor service.”

Karson’s face turned wan, and she murmured an apology as she passed the correct scarf.

Ras, however, was seething, and she couldn’t let this slide. She cleared her throat and spoke.

“Personally, I think Lady Renaldt would be more sorry to have invited a poor guest. What sort of woman takes her anger out on someone as kindly as Karson? You should be kissing the boots she polishes, not disparaging her for a mistake involving the color of your ridiculously gaudy scarf.”

Lady Serafin whirled around, eyes widened and mouth agape at Ras’ scathing commentary. She touched her hair and gathered the scarf to her chest. “Y-yes, well…” She spluttered, as if searching for a defense. Under Ras' scathing glare, she folded, and with a huff, she strode out, leaving Karson and Ras in peace.

Karson took a long and shaky breath. “I hate these special events, you know…” She spoke, her voice barely a murmur, yet filled with rage all the same. “A-At least normally it’s just the Gallatin lot, and they’re fairly kind. The Archambault ones are so much worse, though…Students and staff alike.”

“Honestly, I agree. Why do they have to be so…obnoxious?”

Karson snorted. “That’s…It’s nice to hear someone else say it. Thank you, Ras.”

A pause, then Karson’s lip began to tremble, then her face crumpled. She covered her face with her hands and burst into silent sobbing.

Ras took a deep breath, and from her pocket she pulled a handkerchief. Karson looked startled, but she took the handkerchief gratefully and wiped at her eyes.

“I’m sorry…” she muttered.

Ras only shook her head and wrapped her arm around Karson in a hug. “‘Swhat friends are for, y’know?”

Karson looked surprised, but she returned the hug. Her shoulders were trembling, as if she were about to burst into tears again. Then, she withdrew, a soft smile on her face.

“I don’t wanna mess up your outfit,” she said, voice quiet. With a glance at the students gathering in the quad, she spoke again, “You ought to go, Master Thorne. Thank you.”

Ras inclined her head at Karson, before gathering her coat and heading into the snow. Rosario caught her eye, and waved Ras over to her. Her breath steamed in the air as, in a brightly-colored procession, the students from both schools walked to the barouche carriages for a tour around the lake. The driver tipped their hat to Ras and Rosario, and the pair stepped aboard.

Rosario was shivering despite her heavy fur coat, and fumbled with the fastening as she stepped aboard. Just after Ras joined her, Ibarra entered as well, sitting down opposite of Rosario, a looking presence in the carriage with the pair. As the carriage began to move, Rosario groaned.

“You don’t have to come everywhere with me, Ibarra. It’s just a formal tour. What would happen here?”

“It’s my job, your Highness,” Ibarra said in a flat-tone that left no room for argument.

Rosario sighed, bundling up in her layers of clothing. “Sorry about this,” she whispered. “She’s being ridiculous, and she knows it.”

Ras chuckled. “Ah, it’s not so bad. I’m sure that once Ibarra warms up ‘ta me, she’ll allow us all sortsa freedoms.”

Rosario Rosario sighed, her breath a cloud in the cold moonlight. “It’s better than at home, at least,” she said, “but you’re right–I should be allowed to see more of the world while I can…”

“Under appropriate circumstances,” Ibarra muttered ominously.

“Ibarra! Stop eavesdropping!” Rosario snapped, then more quietly, she leaned against Ras and spoke. “Maybe we can arrange something at the next joint event…I’d love to make up for her nonsense.”

As the barouche wound around the lake, Rosario talked about her plans at the palace for Hearthlight; Zaledoan royal tradition involved the Crown Princess singing in front of hundreds of spectators. Rosario, surprisingly enough, was not pleased with this, and was not looking forward to it.

Meanwhile, the frozen lake sparkled in the moonlight; the snow giving everything an unreal, bluish cast. Beyond the college loomed the mountains, pale and huge in the distance, and Ras once again fantasized about scaling those mountains and declaring herself to the world below.

She was interrupted as the barouche paused, and a firework shot into the sky at the far edge of the lake, exploding into sparks. Rosario’s face shines in the golden light, gasps and applause ring out from the other carriages as more and more fireworks erupted.

“You know, I was wondering…” Ras whispered, leaning against Rosario. “...if you had any ideas on how you’d make it up to me, as you promised. We don’t have to wait…”

Rosario looked over to Ibarra, then back to Ras, and she nodded before she drew Ras closer to her, bringing her lips to Ras’ and smashing against them in a heated, passionate kiss. Rosario’s chattering teeth made it a little difficult to be too swept up in the moment, but Rosario was warm and enthusiastic; her hand resting lightly against Ras’ cheek before running her gloved fingertip round to the nape of her neck and sending tingles down Ras’ back.

When they parted, Ras looked over to see Ibarra looking pointedly at the treeline, a faint flush on her cheeks, entirely embarrassed at having watched the duo kiss. Rosario stifled a giggle behind her glove and rest her head on Ras’ shoulder as they watched the rest of the fireworks.

As the night came to a close, and the pair said their farewells, Ras was suddenly overcome with fatigue, and she was relieved when it was time to retire back to the dorms. The moment her head hit the pillow, she was unconscious.

The aftermath of the ball felt anticlimactic: everyone was exhausted the next day and none of them could muster any enthusiasm for the fact that Gallatin was in favor for the Crème de la Crème contest after the students' conduct for the evening. Ras’ dormmates’ demeanors ranged from grouchy restlessness from Max to constant yawning from Gonzalez. Some people buoyed up by the end of the term, while others were moody at the prospect of going home for the holidays. Suitcases were packed and hauled downstairs by porters; people constantly chattering about their holiday plans.

One morning when Ras was fetching her bag from the dormitory, she caught Hartmann meticulously folding her spare uniform into her suitcase. Her suitcase was only partially full, without many personal belongings inside: just clothes and her Athletics kit.

“Home soon,” she said, her tone neutral and guarded. “Are you looking forward to it?”

Ras groaned. “No. I really don’t want to go home and see my Mother. You know my situation, yeah? It’s bloody awful.”

"Mmm," Hartmann said, her tone bright and brittle. “That can be difficult indeed…”

Soon enough, the final day of the term arrived. Ras and the rest of the Gallatin students were herded by carriage, and then by train, to Fenburg. Just as when Ras had made this journey the other way, the platform was chaos: full of noise and bustle from hugs, tears, excited whoops, and reassurances about staying in touch.

Crowds upon crowds of Gallatin students poured from the train onto the platform, met by guardians and relatives. While Ras waited to disembark, she spotted a tired-looking Karson hauling a shabby suitcase from the guards’ carriage; she was on her way home too it seemed. Ras’ mother was, of course, nowhere to be found because the woman couldn’t bear to be on time for once. Fortunately, this meant that Ras had a moment to say goodbye to a friend or two before she eventually showed up.

Ras’ first choice, of course, was Max, who pushed off the rail she was leaning against to give Ras a hug, despite the large backpack she was hauling.

“See you again, Thorne,” she grinned as she reached up and ruffled Ras’ hair, “when we’re back in prison.”

Ras snickered. “Don’t forget the snacks this time, Meyer, sitting in my cell listening to you and Hartmann bicker like a married couple is worth at least a couple fistfuls of popcorn.”

Max’s only response was to stick her tongue out at Ras as she was called over by her own parents, waving a farewell to Ras as she walked.

Next, Ras picked out Freddie, who threw her arms around Ras in a big hug. “Have a good holiday, yeah?” She grinned.

“I’m more excited for what sorta things we’ll get up to when we get back.” Ras returned the grin. “I’m sure the Society has all kindsa secrets an’ stuff they’ll be willing to show us when we’ve proven keen.”

Freddie’s eyes widened, as if she hadn’t thought of that. “Goodness, I hope so. It all sounds so exciting!” A pause, as Freddie’s parents called for her. “Sorry, I have to go! See you back at Gallatin!”

Ras waved Freddie off, and then turned just in time to see her mother standing on the platform, watching her intently.

“Hello, Ras.” Matilda Thorne, Ras’ mother, stood before her. Her tone was as cold and detached as ever.

“Hello, Mama.” Ras struggled to meet the same level of coldness that was given to her, and her voice cracked almost imperceptively.

Unfortunately for her, that was still enough to displease Matilda, who let out a ‘tsk’. “Come.” She commanded, whirling around. “Our taxi awaits.”

Ras followed after, and kept her head low, doing her best to ignore the stares of those who recognized her mother.

This Hearthlight was going to be something, for sure.

[husbandohoarder]

Your fics are amazing! Would you ever write about König?

✰ 𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐃 — 𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆

↳ summary: Rumours of an elite soldier have the base reeling. Murmurings of 'monster' and 'freak'. What happens when you come face to face with the beast, only to find he's nothing like the whispers cautioned?

↳ pairing: König x f!Reader

↳ [4k] content: 18+ MDNI. War, violence, graphic gory imagery, self-conscious Konig baby, little bit of hand kink, basic bitch smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, size kink, tight fit, sugar-sweet teeth rotting smut. This feels so basic… But I was struggling. Please note, Kilgore is a name previously linked to Konig. I have used it as a codename 🙂

könig masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

Warfare training preps for the inevitable—those moments you need to fire a weapon and how to camouflage and navigate enemy territory without detection. These inescapable horrors are 'another day in the office' by the time you enter the field, the prickling chill of fear driven out of your system. Whistling RPGs are not dissimilar to the scream of your Drill Sergeant's commands, the cold, hard ground of a dilapidated building no more uncomfortable than the standard-issue barracks mattress you would ease your wearing bones into after training. 

Fear, beaten out of each man and woman that slipped on the uniform, held no commonplace in the military. Weapons, the call to war, brutality and sirens did little to raise the blood pressure. 

Whispers held far more weight and struck unease into the hearts of even the most desensitised of fighters. 

It was inarguable that each military in every country, at any time, had its own 'boogeyman'. Notorious fighters with absurdly large kill counts consisting of three digits that inevitably earned a bounty for their head, funded by the enemy—elite warriors who acquired a legendary reputation that ultimately became horror stories. The Ghost of Kyiv, The American Sniper Chris Kyle. These military cryptids kept their enemies awake at night, baying for blood and begging for the piles of bodies they left behind to stop growing. 

After years in the SAS, you were beginning to think that there was no such thing. Each soldier was prolific, brutally efficient and inarguably the best of the elite forces. It was only upon entering Task Force 141, a genuinely mean feat, that you began to hear the unshunnable, hushed whispers of Kilgore. 

“Did you hear about Berlin?” 

“Kilgore? Yeah, heard he blew away a whole Al-Qatala cell.”

“Twelve of ‘em. The hostages were traumatised.”

These mumblings had persisted for months, consistently updated with crazy tales of whole garrisons blown to smitheries by this massacre-happy hulking mass of pure military precision. You, like the rest of 141, elected to ignore the gossip. This was a battlefield, filled with elite soldiers, not a school playground. 

                            ✰

Austrian mud splatters your camo-clad shins as you sprint through the forest terrain, your heart lurching in your chest as your rain-soaked fingers almost fumble your gun to the sodden ground. It’s freezing cold, the gush of rain edging on a flurry of sleet as lightning cracks above your head. Clothes soaked through, the moisture and icy wind form something of a ‘Pact of Steel’, working together to deep freeze the marrow of your bones. 

As you slip in the mud again, heel skidding across the slick soil, you realise how dire the situation truly is. Separated from 141 during the firefight, you’d navigated north. You continued running for the safe house once discovering your coms had been dispatched by a stray bullet— that certainly would have ripped through your heart and dispatched you instantly if not for the layers of plastic settled over it. 

Thunder rumbles in the clouds above, the boom reminiscent of a distant air strike. Slurried earth gives way beneath your feet as you push on. Exhaustion gnaws at your joints as you scramble for safety, bested only by the adrenaline that buzzed in your ear like a vicious drill sergeant. “Move it! Do you wanna die?! Well fucking move!” 

You can hear their boots in the mud, the advancing Al-Qatala mercenaries chasing after you and shooting blindly at your heels, competing with the distance and dense foliage. You’re like an injured fox, feverish bloodhounds nipping at the end of your tail— what could they do with an SAS hostage? How much leverage would it buy? 

Bullets whistle by your feet, the proximity of some enough to set your hair on end. They’re closing in, jowls dripping with slobber as they attempt to close their teeth around you. Just a little mor—

Crack. 

Chaos erupts behind you, the thump of a body and a flurry of shouts. Panicked voices overlay each other in different languages, Urzik and Persian. You scramble for cover behind a treetrunk, the bark cutting at your palms as you brace for incoming fire. 

"Kilgore!" Someone shouts, and your blood runs cold, eyes wide as they dart around the foliage for the legendary soldier. The whizzing of high-powered bullets persists, dropping Al-Qatala mercenaries into the mud beneath them. You hear the yelled orders, Urzik fighters urged to retreat.

You're unsure if one fails to hear the directive over the din of warfare, but you hear the advancing feet of the mercenary advancing on your position—the squelch of the mud beneath the rubber sole of his combat boots. You scramble with your weapon, checking the gun's safety and readying for a one-shot shoot-out. 

When a bullet shreds through a victim's head, the sound is reminiscent of a watermelon being cracked open. It's a sickening crunch. A wet spray of warm blood cuts through the downpour of rain, splattering across your face. Some of it is solid, brain matter and shards of cranium. 

It's not silent by any means. The rain continues to beat against the floor, pattering in the puddles that had formed in sole-shaped prints in the soaked earth. Cracks of thunder sound in the distance, and the droplets drum against the leaves in the forest's canopy. However, the sounds of the firefight cease. 

"You can come out," a voice calls to you. Accented; Germanic. You hesitate for a moment, once again strengthening your grip on the gun you'd clung to. Your lungs strain with the sudden intake of breath, ribs crushed beneath your tac-vest. "Ghost sent me." 

Easing your head out from behind the tree trunk, you marvel, somewhat horrified, at the gigantic, hulking build of the man who stood in the clearing. Fallen enemy combatants surround him, a blanket of corpses draped across the turbid forest floor. A black veil covers his face, and his equipment litters his tac-vest. 

You'd be lying if you said you were unperturbed by the sight. Instead, fear lurches in the pit of your stomach, and you freeze in place. It's only when your eyes catch the crystal white slicing through crimson on the patch sewn into his shoulder that the airy voice, which certainly doesn't match his enormous frame, brings you a sense of safety. 

"The safe house is ahead. We could get you warm–– clean you up?"

                            ✰

Staring into the bubbling pan of water settled over the small fire, you relish in the warmth that creeps across your chilled body. Still, you're soaked, the damp clinging to the threads of your clothes. The scent of iron still assaults your nose, the water that you pick off the fire cautiously heated enough to scrub the blood from your face. 

Kilgore, who informed you upon entering the safehouse preferred to be called by his name König, had seated himself in the corner of the large, relatively empty room. He looked ridiculous like this, attempting to compact his body into the crevice. You don't doubt it's an attempt to ease the nervous energy bleeding through your pores, your hands trembling as you attempt to dip the rag he had gifted you into the hot water. 

"Did..." You swallow thickly, glancing up at the Austrian, "Did you tell the Lieutenant where we are?" 

"Mhm-hm," he nods slowly, his jade eyes watching you from beneath the face veil. They're sharp and bright, contrasting so strongly against his uniform's muted and inky shades. "He's planning evac." 

You scrub the gore from your face, wincing as you feel the shards of bone scrape across your face. König's eyes bore into you from the other side of the room, watching you struggle to remove what was left of the grime the rain had failed to wash away. 

"I've-... Heard a lot about you," you speak to him, attempting to cross the vast space he had consciously put between you. His green eyes gaze at you, unblinking as he watches your expression. König is trying to read you, trying to comprehend how you feel. He's cautious, trying not to push you outside of your comfort zone. 

"About Berlin?" He asks, and his voice is so soft that it reminds you of a child attempting to speak after being reprimanded by their parents–– wary of a second bout of raised voices. 

"Yes," you mumble, dipping the crimson rag into the water before laying it across your skin again, "About Berlin." 

König hums softly, casting his eyes to the aged, wooden floorboards. The woodlice have chewed through them, moss growing in some parts. You can see he appears uncomfortable, his knuckles white from the fists that form in his lap. 

"I didn't mean to scare anyone," König admits in a whisper, catching you off guard. His shoulders sag slightly, and you see him pick at loose threads in the knees of his camo trousers. 

"N-No... I meant to say how courageous it was," you point out, watching his fidgeting hands still suddenly, "You risked your life for those hostages... saved them singlehandedly. No one else would have done that." 

Hesitant silence settles between you both, König considering your words carefully as he stares at his lap. You can't see his face, the veil concealing all but his eyes, though you're almost sure he's stunned by your comment. It takes him a moment to discern his next step, but he finally lifts his body from the wooden chair he'd pulled into the corner. It creaks with the shift in weight distribution, floorboards straining as he walks across the space towards you. 

"You also saved me," you point out, watching him kneel before you, "Faced a whole cell..."

König steals your words from your mouth when his huge hand settles around the bloodied rag in your palm. He doesn't speak at; first, silence hanging between you once again as he dips the cloth into the water. Then, he soaks it until it drips, droplets pinging off the surface, and wrings it out. His dorsal muscles ripple beneath the backs of his palm, veins a ballpoint colour and standing out against his pale skin. 

"Ghost asked me to," he mumbles, carefully holding the damp fabric and slowly reaching for your face. He gives you time to pull away–– you don't. 

"You could have ignored him," you whisper, suddenly breathless with this proximity. He still towers over you, even balanced on his knees, head and shoulders slumped over you. You can see the ocean green of his eyes clearly, the halo of brown flecks that cover the circumference of his pupil. His eyelashes flutter when he blinks, so pretty and oddly feminine. 

The pressure of the cloth against your skull is so delicate. König appears to be afraid of hurting you, gently brushing away the flecks of blood in your hairline. He shakes his head gently, considering your kind words. "What kind of man would I be, Leibchen?" his voice is airy, tone flimsy.

Those stunning eyes take a moment to gaze into yours, searching for your answer. Instead, all you manage is a weak shrug. 

"Were... Are they afraid of you?" You whisper to him, struggling to find the words to broach a topic that appears to affect König so profoundly. It's his turn to answer wordlessly, offering an equally frail nod. 

König takes your chin ever so gently in his hand, his palm almost eclipsing the lower half of your face, and turns your head in search of further blood-spatter. He sweeps the makeshift face-cloth over your skin, focusing on removing the grime altogether. 

You'd heard the cruel rumours, the whispers of 'monster' and 'freak'. This König you'd met couldn't possibly be the same they uttered about maliciously. He held a child-like kindness, the brutality of the job seemingly doing little to chip away at his humanity. The same couldn't be said about the others. 

"König," you whisper his name softly, watching as he continues to focus on clearing up your skin. His soothing touch smoothes across your temple now, removing some mud speckles. "Don't listen to them."

You can see his eyes soften, once again turning to yours as you reach to fiddle with the edge of his veil. Upon tracing the border between the pads of your thumb and forefinger, you find that it's t-shirt material, the zigzag seam stitching rough against your touch like barbed wire. "They haven't seen you like I have." 

Those eyes gleam with amusement, little crows-feet creases forming in the corners. He's smiling, and your heart stutters against your chest. 

"That right, Leibchen? I've had a mask on this whole time."

The gentle teasing lilt to his tone makes you lightheaded, urging you forward with your frankly ridiculous plan. You begin to lift the edge of his veil upwards. You take it slowly, his pupils dancing across the bare skin of your face as you reveal the point of his chin. His skin is equally as pale there, barely exposed to sunlight.

König doesn't stop you as you continue to lift the fabric from his face, exposing the curve of his lower lip. The skin there is soft and plush, little creases in the flesh making your heart thud awkwardly against your ribs. Finally, you stop at his cupid's bow, so soft and subtle it's barely there at all. 

You can feel his gaze warming your skin as you trace his lips with your eyes. Hesitation holds you still, uncertain about the final step of this stupid plan. König, as ever, doesn't push you. Doesn't even breathe. When you lean forward, the tip of your nose brushing his own that still lay beneath the cloth, you hear a sharp yet gentle inhalation. It triggers goosebumps across your forearms, butterflies battering the pit of your stomach. 

Soft. His lips are so soft when you mould your own to their shape. König's veil tickles the skin of your face when you kiss him, and you feel his gigantic hands settle on either side of your neck as he begins to return your affections. They swallow you, and your pulse leaps against his palm. 

König smiles, and the kiss turns toothy and a little lopsided. You can't help but giggle nervously, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as he presses gentle pecks to the edge of your mouth. Despite his massive, intimidating frame, each action is deliberate and soft. 

"... Are your clothes still wet, Schatz?" He's breathless despite his seemingly put-together appearance, his nose bumping yours as he interrupts your answer for another fragile kiss. "We could get you out of them." 

                            ✰

Your standard-issue military t-shirt slips and falls from the cot's mattress as König gently pulls your hips towards the edge. His fingerprints have already bruised into your thighs despite his attempts to be gentle. When he'd begun to panic, you told him not to worry–– he'd already bruised up your neck with his teeth and lips; what was a couple more?

Butterflying your legs out for him, König groans softly as you expose your glistening cunt for him. You're shy, covering your face with your hands as his fingers massage the soft, malleable flesh of the inside of your thighs. 

"Schatz," he whispers, and you peer through the gaps of your fingers. König gazes down between your legs, green eyes gleaming as he positions his cock between your folds. "So beautiful." 

It's ridiculous, you think, staring down between your legs. König is huge in every sense, the shaft of his cock thick and veiny and drowning out the seam of your sex as König shifts his hips forward to swipe the length of him across your weeping cunt. You can't help your mind running away with itself–– surely he needed a weapons license to carry that thing-?

A weak chuckle sounds above you, and you crane your neck to catch his eye. "I will take it slow, Schatz, I promise you."

You believe him. He had been so delicate with you this whole time, laying you down gently on the bed, careful when removing your gear and your clothes not to let the material snag on your nose or chin. 

König's hand disappears beneath the face veil, spitting into his palm before he smoothes it over the head of his cock. He groans, eyelids fluttering beneath the mask as he drags his hand over the length. It's a pretty sight, you think, such a colossal man shuddering in bliss. When he sweeps his cock through your folds again, he carefully taps the tip of his dick against your clit to illicit a whimper. 

"Mhmm, gentle. I promise you," he repeats, inching the tip of his cock down until it settles at your entrance. The soles of your feet find purchase on König's hips, and he massages your calves gently as he begins to inch into you at your nod of approval. 

Oh, Christ. 

König stretches you the moment he sinks inside. There's a delicious burn, one that has you lifting your hips with a whimper as you equally try to escape and dive into it. He's wheezing, eyes glued to where your bodies meet as he watches you flutter around his size. 

"Ha-So tight, Schatz," he groans loudly, stopping when you firmly grip the bedsheets. He notes your expression of slight pain, the tears welling in your eyes as your body attempts to accommodate the intrusion. König seemingly can't help the flurry of apologies that fall from his mouth as he leans over you, settling his thumb against your clit in an attempt to ease you open. "Here. I want you to feel good, Engel." 

The tremors in your thighs rattle against his hips as he circles your clit slowly. It's blissful, the sticky, warm arousal that blooms through your abdomen as he teases at the sensitive nerves. You arch your back against the mattress, moaning out his name breathlessly as he continues to inch his cock further into you. You barely notice when he finally settles the rest of him inside, wailing softly when it twitches and knocks something earthshattering inside you. 

"O-Oh fuck––" you choke on your curse when König shifts his hips forward, jutting into your cervix and winding you suddenly. You probably look ridiculous, eyes rolling back into your skull as you claw at the vast expanse of his chest. You drag pink lines down the pale skin, drawing blood to the surface, but it does little to phase König this far along.  

"Good, Liebling?" He murmurs, continuing to assault your clit. You can barely form a coherent sentence in response, drooling around a string of 'yes, yes, yes'. It's all he needs to find comfort in advancing, easing the length of him out of your weeping cunt before driving it back in at an achingly slow pace. 

You want to slam your fist against his pectorals and insist he go faster, but you're not sure you're ready for it when he slides into you balls deep. It's as though he's settling among your lungs, filling you so good that you're seeing static in your line of vision. 

The sound of a desperate groan from above barely brings you back down to earth, noting how he's staring at your face. His pupils are blown wide, almost devouring the green of his irises. It takes you a moment to realise you're drooling, his slow and steady pace already pushing you to a mindless edge. 

"Oh-" you moan, digging your nails into his abs. They ripple beneath your touch with each deliberate thrust, and König hisses at the sharp sting and the crescent moon indents they leave behind. "F-Fuck, König- Too much-!"

"It's too much?" He wheezes, eyes searching your face. You desperately shake your head, terrified he'll pull away from you despite the inching arousal building at the base of your spine. Wrapping your legs around his hips, your heels press into the small of his back and hook him in place despite your protests. 

It sparks something feral in the hulking man, his hips surging forwards and jolting you up the mattress. Your breath escapes you in a squeak, arousal soaring and buzzing thickly in your abdomen as König mumbles in German, his soft voice coming out all gritty under the strain of his exertions and bliss. 

"Mhmmm- fuck-" you babble, eyes rolling again as you lift your hips to meet his. He sinks impossibly deeper, and your breath stutters as you feel the telltale tug of your orgasm. "Oh God- König, I'm-"

"Tell me," König whispers, rutting up inside you. He doesn't bother to inch out of you now, repeatedly battering so deep inside you that you struggle to inhale as your orgasm approaches fast. 

"Hngngg- hah-ah- I'mgonna- c-cum-" you choke with each sudden thrust, his thumb quickening its pace against your arcing clit. Perhaps he shifts his hips slightly or reaches even deeper than before, but he brushes against something utterly debilitating, and you cum with a loud shriek of his name. 

It bursts through you with blistering heat, your fingernails sinking deep into the curves of his bicep as you brace against the waves of bliss that crash over you. König keeps fucking into you, your walls squeezing tight around him as his thumb persists in its assault on your throbbing clit. Tears stream down your face, and König can't hold on much longer as you strangle his cock. 

"Hah-Shit-" he slurs, his voice barely reaching your ears as he buries himself as deep as you can take him. He cums with a haggard moan, body trembling as his cock spurts inside of you. There's so much of it, too, leaking out of you before he even manages to move. 

Both of you take a moment, both stunned by the overwhelming ecstasy. König doesn't bother withdrawing from your heat as he slumps beside you, turning you on your side to face him. He offers no words, burying his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tightly. 

Your chest heaves as you suck in oxygen, skin prickling with heat as König encases you in his massive arms. You don't need the sheets, his body-heat burning hot beside you as you press your skin to his.

No words need to be said, you think. König had offered his feelings in the form of his reverent touches and delivered his thanks for your kindness in the delicate kisses he'd pressed to your lips as he carried you into the bedroom. 

As you lay in the dark, settled into König's side, you trace your fingers over the curved scars, the bulletholes that have healed over against his ribs. They rise and fall beneath your touch, lungs expanding and deflating with each breath. It's a sobering moment, the thrumming of his pulse against your palm reminding you of his humanity despite the whispers at the base that had insisted upon his bestiality. 

You realise those who speak cruelly of him and ruin his self-worth don't understand their impact. To them, he's a cryptid–– his very existence called into question. They hadn't seen him with their own eyes, only heard the mind-boggling tales of his startlingly impressive missions and monstrous size. 

They hadn't felt his heart, the way it fluttered against your touch when you'd offered compliments. Hadn't experienced the soft plush of his lips pressing into your own in heartbreakingly sweet kisses. He was no monster. 

And when Lieutenant Riley came for you the following day, choosing to ignore the marks left on your skin and the way you hesitated before climbing into the helicopter to offer the Austrian a gentle wave and a promise that you would return, you began the mission to rewrite his story. To change hearts and minds.  

It didn't take long at all.

"Did you hear about Kilgore?"

"I did! He saved a member of 141. Incredibly brave–– I heard the situation was dire."

"She spoke very highly of him. Said we could count on him."

"I certainly wouldn't mind fighting alongside someone so dependable and courageous." 

join the taglist here

Call Of Duty: Modern Warefare Taglist;

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[brewed-pangolin]

Soap De La Crème

Soap MacTavish is a maniac.

He eats the crème filling between the Oreos. Then puts the plain biscuits back in the box like a psychopath, leaving the entire container empty of its deliciously creamy decadence.

And then, he waits.

Waits like an overly confident predator for you to find his skillfully placed lure until you finally take the bait and confront him on his delectable atrocity.

NSFW below the cut...

--

"What the fuck, John?" You challenge, scolding tone boiling through your voice as you toss the distinctive blue package haphazardly into his lap.

"Oi. What's th' deal, lass?"

"You ate the crème, dipshit. And like some kind of savage put the empty cookies back in."

"Bicuits."

"You- what? Biscuits?"

"Aye. They're called biscuits."

"No, they're not. They're called-" you stutter, "that's not the point. Why did you-"

"Why'a gettin' so flustered, hen?" Soap intetjects, the subtle hint of a smirk curling into his lips.

"I'm not getting flustered, I-"

"Yer never like this when I lick th'crème between yer biscuits."

You halt, dead in your tracks. Synapses misfiring as you take a moment to recount your mental plunder.

"Oh, you sneaky little bastard."

"Aye. But I'm yer, sneaky little bastard."

-

No more than five minutes later, you were splayed out before him. Mindlessly moaning his name with his crested head perfectly buried between your exposed thighs.

"Oh God, Johnny."

"Mhm. No' complainin' now, are ya, bonnie?" Soap hums quietly against your flesh. Your eyes rolling back as his tongue laps oh so diligently between your silken folds.

"Johnny, please," you whimper between hushed, gasping breaths.

"Please, what?"

"Let me come, Johnny. Please." Your pleading voice cracks suddenly to the sensual arrogance of his tone. Arching your back up, pressing your mound into his mouth as you feel the building pulse of an orgasm deep within your core.

"Ya gonna cream for me, lass? Do it. Make a mess on me face, bonnie. Come for me."

And with his unhinged permission, you let go. Releasing yourself into his mouth. Letting him devour the delicious crème of your climax on his tongue as he expertly licks between your pleasured and swollen biscuits.

Drabbles Masterlist

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[zencaia]

Journey to Gallatin (5/5)

I would just like to say THANK YOU for everyone who liked and reblogged. Like I'm giggling and blushing reading all your sweet tags especially the author! (sorry for tagging you so much haha) It's just been SO MOTIVATING to see you all like it as much as I do especially since I've been drawing all these over two months <3 Here's to drawing more in the future!

Fan art of @hpowellsmith's Crème de la Crème

[braceforchaos]

nitro BOOM! ⚡️💥

[husbandohoarder]

Arven nsfw anything !!! Go wild omg

OKAY YOU ASKED FOR IT.

The Earth and The Glorious Sun

nsfw arven x reader (no gendered pronouns used, but female genitals are mentioned using colloquialisms), face sitting and squirting

Arven sits there with his cheek pressed against your inner thigh, giving you the softest most glowing look in the world. It's almost too much to bear, being seen and known and loved so incredibly intimately. You want to squeeze your thighs together, but Arven's face, his chin still glistening with your wetness, is, of course, in the way.

"Please?" He asks, his voice husky and low. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips deliciously.

You roll against him just the tiniest bit at the action, still very much stimulated and ready for more of his glorious head.

"Yes." It comes out smaller than you mean it to, but the earnestness, the neediness in your tone is still there, and Arven laps it up, just as he's been lapping at you for the past who-knows-how-long. He smiles wide and eager, sitting himself up fully. He extends both hands to you and pulls you up with a shocking bit of strength. You wouldn't call your partner ripped or jacked by any means, but it's easy to forget how strong he is from years of backpacking around the region, hauling around an ungodly amount of equipment all the while.

Once you're level with one another, he kisses you deep and slow. You shudder at the taste of yourself on his tongue, and he seems to delight in your reaction, squeezing you just a bit tighter in his arms.

"I'm gonna make this so good for you, I promise." He says it with such genuine enthusiasm and boyish excitement that you can't help but believe him as you nod in numb agreement.

Arven steadies you upright and scoots himself lower between your legs until he's laying perfectly beneath you. His hands are still holding yours.

"Y-You're sure you want to do this?" You ask.

"More than anything, sweetness," He replies, squeezing your fingers between his own.

"Okay... J...Just, I dunno. Shove me off if...If you start to suffocate, okay? I don't want to hurt you." The reality of the situation is starting to hit you, and no matter how wet and dripping you are, you really want to be assured of his safety first and foremost.

Arven laughs. "It'd be one helluva way to die, but you won't."

You sigh. "Okay... Ready?"

You see Arven nod beneath you before you slowly lower yourself to hover above his face. His hands go from gripping yours reassuringly to reaching around your thighs to hold you steadily and lovingly. He cranes his neck just the slightest bit to lap at you, and you cry out at the heated sensation. He can feel your thighs tensing in his grasp.

"See, I don't think you're quite getting this, sweetness," He tells you, and you feel your face burst in blushing shame. "When I ask you to sit on my face, I don't want you to try and hold yourself here just out of reach." His fingers dig into the softness of your legs, where thigh meets hip. "I want you..." He laps at you again, making you jolt just a bit. He takes the opportunity to drag you lower. "To fucking..." He repeats, again drawing you closer. "smother me."

With a final, gentle pull, he gets you fully seated on top of his face. Your fear of crushing him is thrown from your mind, as his tongue works eager circles around and against your clit, definitely not the motion of a man in agony.

You cry out, clutching at the headboard while resisting the innate urge to grind against his face. "A-Arven..." You choke, drawing out the 'n' of his name. "So good!"

He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration of it throws in a new layer of toe curling pleasure. Without thinking, your thighs squeeze around his head, and you hear him groan against you. If not for the fact that he didn't stop his ministrations, you'd have lifted yourself up off him to be sure he was alright, but as it was, that, along with the fact that you could hear the slick sound of him tugging on his cock behind you, assured you that he is still very much enjoying himself.

His free hand untangles itself from your hips and goes to slip between your thighs. Two fingers part your lips, and Arven has to stop fucking his own fist for a moment when he feels your slick wetness slide down his fingers just at that simple touch.

You, meanwhile, are quivering above him, making soft lewd noises as Arven continues his work on your clit. He takes the sensitive bud between his lips in the lightest of kisses before he gently suckles on it. You nearly cry at the sensation, so close to the precipice of another orgasm.

"P-P-Please...Arven...Almost there, please..." Your voice is ragged and glorious in his ears.

Arven releases his hold on your clit for just a moment. "Give me just a bit longer, okay? I wanna try something..."

You have complete faith in your partner, so his hint toward experimentation doesn't stir any sort of worry in the slightest. Frustration, on the other hand, is another story. You're about to voice as much to him when he presses two of his fingers against your entrance, briefly stretching you before fucking you fully up to the base where his fingers meet his palm. Any complaint dies on your tongue in that instant, replaced instead with a drawn out moan.

Satisfied at having seemingly shut you up, Arven goes back to slowly toying with your clit using his tongue while his fingers get to work fucking you at an agonizingly slow pace.

Your cunt squeezes wantonly around his fingers with such force that he can feel the spasms against his chin. Once again, he has to stop jacking himself off for fear of blowing his load too soon. Instead, he takes that hand away from his cock and uses it to still your quaking hips as best he can. You again reaffirm in yourself the need to refrain from just grinding against Arven's face, especially when he's doing such phenomenal and precise work on you.

You just focus on the slow build of your next orgasm, panting out shaky moans of praise and Arven's name as it mounts. For his part, Arven revels in the smell, the taste, feel, and sound of you. He picks up the pace of his fingers, pressing them faster and harder into you with slowly mounting urgency. He can feel how quickly your orgasm is coming from just how needily you squeeze around him. He hums, low and satisfied as you seem to finally reach a peak. At the same time, he curls his fingers cruelly within you, pressing up hard against a spot inside you that he's grown to know very well.

The sensation on top of the crest of your orgasm has you seeing stars as you gush and burst wetly, too wetly, on Arven's tongue. If not for the headboard you were leaning against, you would have fallen forward entirely.

Arven for his part, takes you in stride, drinking you in as much as he can. His grip tightens on your hips to prevent you from leaving him or moving up, even as your pleasure subsides to oversensitivity. Every thrust of his fingers brings new wetness bursting from your tightness, splashing across his face and mouth.

Your hips stutter, and you eventually have to cry out a plea of "E-enough, pl-please..." for Arven to relinquish his hold. He maneuvers out from under you expertly, guiding you to a horizontal position on the bed where you won't be directly on top of him or the dark, wet patch he drew from you.

You're still panting when you eventually return to enough of a place to open your eyes.

"How ya feel, sweetness?" He asks, cheek propped up on his palm. In the dim light you can tell nearly his entire face is covered in a thin glisten, some of his hair is even tamped down with wetness. You feel your face heat up as your stomach ties itself in knots.

"D-Di...Did I really...?"

Arven allows himself to fall backward to lay on his back, languoring gloriously in being so covered by your cum. "You did! You were so good! It was so, so good..." He sighs happily, licking his lips. "Thank you..."

"It was okay?" You ask nervously.

Without moving, he replies. "So much more than just okay." Your gaze travels southward to see his softening cock as well as a few streaks of what looks to be his drying cum.

"Did you...?"

He follows your gaze and looks a bit embarrassed. "I, uh... I couldn't help myself, I'm sorry... You were just so...immaculate... You have to let me do that again sometime. You...you did like it, right?" He looks back to your eyes, searching for your approval.

"Oh...oh god, Arven..." You sigh. "It was amazing..." Your thighs squeeze together and you shiver a bit, still sensitive, a motion not lost on your partner. He grins cheekily at you.

"Round 2?"

"Just...just give me a few more minutes to catch my breath?"

[rabbitsrants]

SHINRAN AND THE FIVE LOVE LANGUAGES

acts of service II

"actions that make your partner feel like they can trust you to have their back, for the small and the big things - making life easier or more enjoyable for them"

chapter 6

chapter 33

chapter 86

MY HEART

chapter 141

chapter 150

chapter 182

chapter 188

chapter 194

ran helping shin get dressed because he's sick:

chapter 253

chapter 254

THE DETAILS YALL:

chapter 314

chapter 335

chapter 347-349

shinichi taking care of a sick ran:

BONUS: shinichi feeling inadequate when she ends up helping him despite being sick

chapter 351

chapter 354

akai: warns ran, tells her to get to safety

ran: doesn't care about the potential serial killer, decides to look for shinichi (DESPITE HAVING A HIGH FEVER BTW)

shinichi: carries ran back to safety when she inevitably faints

chapter 393

chapter 570

ran: is terrified of supernatural things

also ran: refuses to leave shinichi's side no matter what

chapter 611

RAN IS SO ATTENTIVE I CAN'T

chapter 650

shinichi 🤝 ran

doing first aid on each other

chapter 814

chapter 922

chapter 931

ran worries about kogoro:

shinichi:

visit the shinran library for more

[sabineelectricheart]

Cuddles on the Cold Dry Wind

Summary: Cuddling his mistress is Rosario’s best moment of the day. When the colder winds begin to blow, he never shuts the windows.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 1000

Notes: If that happened to me, his princeliness would wake up to a quite ugly sight...

Rosario will never admit it, but cuddling Aurora before bed is always the highlight of his day.

He is not too proudful of a man and, security concerns aside, he does not mind being known as the sort of man wrapped around a woman’s finger, especially someone as wonderful and incredible as his lover. However, he is also rather timid, and would not want to break the illusion of himself as a prince on a white knight, even if they have been together now for many years and she has seen many facets of his he would not care to share with anyone else. He is kind of a silly man, one that would much prefer to have his lover look at him with admiration and wonder, rather than that catty amusement she shots at overambitious courtiers who cross her path.

Besides, her company is just something he much appreciates, but very rarely indulges, aside from those small windows of opportunity. As the Crown Prince of Zaledo and having his responsibilities increasingly surmount, on the interest of a looming succession, the mountains of paperwork and fundamental responsibilities he has to attend to frequently prevent him from making time for relaxation. His daily routine comprises little to no time for quiet de-stressing at his chambers, much less his enjoyment with his mistress.

This has become customary for him, even when she expresses her concern for his wellbeing, or the fact that she misses him. Those are particularly hard to resist, and he knows that she knows it.

Of course, Rosario blocks sections of his day to check up on Aurora, in between endless meetings and audits. He tells her that he is concerned for her safety and would like to make her stay in his home comfortable, even if, by this point, she is more at home here than in Westerlin. However, the truth is that this is partly, if not mostly, for his sanity, since he does not know what he would do if he does not get to see her amid the paperwork and people, and he makes sure her needs are fulfilled as a good husband should, even if this is not a title he currently espouses.

Those small minutes, sessions that normally take him more time going to and from where she is currently lounging in the large palace than he gets to actually enjoy in her company, are deftly sewed three to five times during the day, and his secretary is instructed to make sure this proportion is correct and that their times are followed to precision. More than one skilled bureaucrat found themselves in hot water for that exact reason.

He would find her and smile, ask if she needed something, if all is well, if she is in good health, and that flurry of questions.

In response, she utters simple affirmatives, check the clock and says, with a laugh, “Hurry along, Your Highness. Your next appointment waits.”

As a good-bye, she stands on the tips of her toes and kisses his cheek. The spot grows warm until the next visit, which serves as his own personal way to keep the time during the day.

When the dust finally settles, the sun goes down and the air turns cold, Rosario makes his way to her chambers, a place he frequents more often than his own, the weariness and gratification of another prosperous, yet busy day settling in his bones. Dim candlelight and the faint gleam of the moon from the open window adorning her bedside, he finds Aurora on the bed already fast asleep, and he cannot help but let the smile on his lips take shape.

He climbs on the bed, careful for the noise and the movement not to wake her, and gently nudges her shoulder. “Sweetheart.”

She mumbles sleepily in her sleep, and his chest swells with tenderness. Her vulnerability towards him still catches him off-guard, especially contrasted with her self-reliance in all other spheres of life. The trust she has for him is something he does not take for granted, and he is suddenly reminded that his political activity is what keeps him, and especially her, as far away as possible from a gory fate. That is why he works so hard, to make sure she is safe, for his people and his loved ones.

A gust of wind fills the room, and Aurora shivers in bed, rummaging around the thin covers for warmth. Her hands find their way to his sleepwear, and she uses the folds around his neck to pull him towards her, burying her face in his neck.

“It’s cold.” She mumbles, goosebumps erupting on her skin.

A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. He brushes the stray locks of hair from her face, watching as her eyebrows relax back into the flat line as she resumes her soft, shallow slumber. He is about to reach for another blanket when a gust of icy and dry wind fills the room once more.

He stops when she huddles closer to him for warmth, the blow and the movement lifting up the skirt of her nightshirt just a little bit further, revealing more of the delectable skin on her thigh.

Oh, his lips spread in a sly smile. If that is how it is going to work, then… The thought that Aurora would want to cuddle him all night to be warm makes him quickly reconsider.

Rosario planned on closing the window, but seeing his lover nestle her body much closer to him made him decide that he wanted it open, after all. He kisses her forehead in a quiet apology, she would have to make do with him as a source of heat tonight. Feeling giddy, he tangles both of their long their legs together and wraps his arms around her, their bodies emanating warmth, exchanging it with each other.

Aurora sighs contentedly, and Rosario smirks in triumph. Cuddling her to sleep truly is the highlight of his day.

*_*_*_*_*

Crème de la Crème Masterlist