#except for one pose a day or two ago i think
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having to leave the house on this day of the year to go to work.... my enemy. i never hate to live here but on altweiber i lowkey do ngl
#like i don't want to be a complete bitter bitch. i do think it's cool how it's this huge party everywhere and ppl come together and such#except the ppl who go completely off the rails which simply poses an actual problem for the ppl who live in those specific party zones#and also ppl who own cafes bars etc bc it just gets too much to handle#but the concept itself yeah i see it it's cool it's nice#but the people getting in my way when i'm biking to work. oh my fucking god i'm going insane just let me THROUGH i will KILL YOU-#toni.txt#i went out last year (two years ago? i don't remember lmao) on one of the calmer days and that was fun#it's just when it gets absolutely too much like today 💀 and i have to leave the house 💀#the inconveniences of living in one of THE carnival cities here...#would still like to be at carnival in rio and venice once that'd be a new experience and also in connection to a holiday overall so
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Better Than Fiction
where y/n picks Harry up from the airport and reveals what she does when she’s alone.
word count: 5.1 k
content warning: cursing. SMUT. Probably the smuttiest thing I’ve ever done.
You tap the steering wheel with your thumb, eyes flicking between the road and the dashboard clock. The sky is a soft blue-gray, the kind that only happens right before sunset, and the air feels thick with the kind of quiet that only comes when something good is about to happen.
You haven’t seen him in two months. Eight weeks. Sixty-something days—not that you’ve been counting, except you absolutely have. Every time you dropped your phone on your face watching his interviews in bed. Every time he sent a blurry backstage photo with a caption like “thinking of you.” Every time you climbed into your empty sheets and curled your body around the pillow he left behind like that would make any kind of difference.
Your stomach flutters as you take the exit for the airport, the big green signs snapping you back to reality. His flight landed about fifteen minutes ago. You know it’ll take time to get through customs and baggage claim, but still. You’re suddenly nervous. You check your reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothing your hand over your hair even though the curls won’t settle, then press your lips together to check for smudges. Natural. Low effort. Like you’re not buzzing in your seat just thinking about him.
You keep wondering what version of him you’ll get today. The soft one with sleepy eyes and heavy limbs who tucks his head into your neck and hums when he breathes you in. The quiet one who just wants to be close. Or maybe the cheeky one who teases you in the car the whole way home and can’t keep his hands to himself once the door clicks shut.
Either way, he’s here. Finally.
You pull into the short-term parking garage and kill the engine, heart thudding now. This is it. He’s just a few hundred feet away. Probably dragging his duffel bag behind him, scrolling his phone or yawning through his last wave of exhaustion. You sling your purse over your shoulder and head toward the terminal.
Your boots echo across the pavement. The air inside is warmer than you expected, and loud. Rolling suitcases, babies crying, someone’s name being paged overhead. You scan the arrivals board as if you don’t already know—Flight 202. London to New York. Landed.
He steps through the sliding doors like he’s walking into a scene that’s been waiting for him.
Loose brown trousers, soft white tee, sunglasses hanging from the collar. His hair’s shorter than when you last saw him, brushed back with that casually undone look that somehow makes it worse—makes your heart thud harder in your chest. There’s a little color to his skin, a post-tour flush like he’s been somewhere warm, somewhere you weren’t. His duffel hangs from one shoulder, hand gripping the strap, and he scans the crowd like he’s looking for something he lost.
Until his eyes land on you.
He doesn’t smile at first. Not really. His whole body just seems to pause, his gaze locked on yours like he forgot how loud the world is. You feel it like a pull—an ache that settles low in your belly, sharp and immediate. Because it’s not just recognition in his eyes. It’s hunger.
You don’t move. Neither does he. The space between you hums.
Then someone breaks it.
“Harry?” A man, maybe in his twenties, stepping hesitantly forward with a phone in hand. “Sorry, I know you just got in, but—could I get a quick photo?”
Harry blinks. Just once. Then turns to him with a practiced, polite smile.
“Yeah, of course.”
He poses without effort, one hand still gripping his bag. The smile doesn’t touch his eyes.
You watch him thank the guy, watch the fan beam as he walks away. And then Harry’s looking at you again, already moving toward you. Slower this time. Like he’s trying to stay calm. Like he knows he won’t be, not for long.
He doesn’t say anything.
Not at first.
He just lets the strap of his duffel fall to the floor with a quiet thud and steps into you, arms winding tight around your waist like it’s instinct. You barely have time to breathe before he’s pressing you close, his body all solid warmth and tension, chest rising fast against yours.
Then he leans in.
Not for a kiss—not yet. He presses his face into the side of your neck and just breathes. Long, slow, deliberate. Like he’s been holding off for this exact moment, saving it, needing it more than he let on.
You feel it before you hear it—the way his exhale trembles just slightly, the way his fingers grip a little harder at the small of your back. Like maybe this hit him harder than he was ready for.
“God, I missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words thick and barely there.
Your eyes flutter shut. Your hands slide up his back, curling in the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders. He’s here. He’s really here.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing the hem of your shirt where it meets your jeans. His eyes roam your face like he’s memorizing it again, slower this time, softer. His voice is a whisper, the accent heavy and real in a way you’ve only heard on the phone lately.
“Y’look so fuckin’ good, baby.”
Your heart trips. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
He tilts his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, and smiles like he’s already thinking ten steps ahead.
“Been thinkin’ about you non-stop. Every night. Every bloody city. Drove me mad.”
You laugh, soft and breathless, and pull back just enough to see him clearly.
“I missed you too,” you say, grinning now, the weight in your chest finally loosening. “Even the dramatic part of you.”
He smiles like he’s proud of that, dimples deep and eyes flicking to your mouth like he’s thinking about kissing you again. But instead, he slips a hand into yours and starts walking, his duffel back over his shoulder, your fingers laced like they’ve never been apart.
Outside, the sky’s shifting to gold. The kind of light that softens everything, that makes moments feel like memories while they’re still happening.
As you make your way to the garage, you glance over at him. “D’you wanna stop for food before we head home?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Nah,” he says, voice low, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Only thing I wanna eat is you.”
You choke on a laugh, your whole face heating. “Harry.”
“What?” he says, eyes wide like he’s innocent, but his hand tightens around yours. “I’m starvin’, love.”
You shake your head, biting back a smile as your stomach flips. Two months apart, and of course this is how he comes back. Cocky. Gorgeous. Starving.
And apparently, not for takeout.
The elevator ride to the garage is quiet, but only because his hand won’t stop wandering—thumb tracing slow circles into your palm, pinky brushing your wrist like he’s trying to remember every inch of you without making a scene.
Once you reach the car, he tosses his bag in the back like it weighs nothing and slides into the passenger seat, reclined and smug. His legs spread a little wider than necessary. You try not to look, but he catches you anyway.
“Eyes on the road, sweetheart,” he murmurs as you pull out of the garage.
You roll your eyes. “You’re the one sitting like you’re in a Calvin Klein ad.”
He grins, slow and wicked. “Don’t act like you weren’t lookin’. Missed that face of yours when you get all flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You are,” he says, tipping his head against the headrest. “Little pink right there.” He lifts his finger and brushes it under his own cheekbone to show you. “Cute.”
You let out a sharp breath through your nose and flick on your turn signal. “Do you want something quick? Like drive-thru? Or—”
“I meant what I said,” he interrupts, voice a little lower now. “Didn’t spend nine hours on a plane just to ruin my appetite with fries.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
He hums like it’s a compliment. “Reckon I’ve had that dream at least five times. You. Couch. No clothes. Me starvin’.”
You grip the steering wheel tighter and do your best to keep your eyes on the road. It’s not going well.
“Harry,” you warn.
“Don’t worry,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll wait till we get home.”
A pause.
“Probably.”
You glance at him, lips twitching. “Bold of you to assume you’re the one doing the eating.”
He turns his head slowly, that smug little smirk faltering as his eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”
You shrug, eyes back on the road. “You’ve had dreams? Babe, I’ve had entire scenarios planned. You don’t even know.”
He’s quiet for a beat, and when you look over, he’s staring at you like you just flipped the game on its head.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath, shifting in his seat. “I’ve been gone too long.”
You bite back your grin, suddenly enjoying how the air in the car feels thick now, humming with that delicious tension. Payback feels good.
He leans closer, voice like gravel against the warm press of sunset through the window. “Tell me one of ‘em. Just one.”
“Nope.”
“Please?”
“You can earn it.”
His head falls back with a groan, one hand dragging down his face. “You’re evil.”
“And you’re desperate.”
He lets out a soft laugh, low and turned on. “That I am.”
The car ride softens after that.
He reaches over and rests a hand on your thigh, fingers splayed warm against your jeans. Not moving, not teasing—just there. Grounding. You drive one-handed the rest of the way, stealing glances at him whenever the road lets you.
He looks more like himself now. Less performer, more person. His eyes are a little heavy, his curls ruffled from the headrest, his body sunk deeper into the seat like it’s finally catching up with him—how long he’s been gone, how much he missed this. Missed you.
You slow as you turn down your street. Familiar trees, familiar windows. The kind of quiet that tells you you’re nearly home.
He shifts beside you, eyes opening again as he recognizes the corner. “Flat’s still standing, yeah?”
You nod, lips tugging into a smile. “I only set it on fire twice.”
He grins, squeezing your leg gently. “Knew I could trust you.”
The car rolls to a stop outside your building. The sun’s dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the pavement. You don’t move yet. Neither does he.
There’s a beat of silence, heavy in a different way this time.
Then, softer—
“You sure you’re ready for me?” he asks, like he’s only half-joking. “Been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”
Your heart stutters, but your voice stays steady.
“Been ready since the day you left.”
The lobby is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the echo of your footsteps on the tile. You feel him behind you—close, so close—his presence brushing up your spine like static. Neither of you says much. There’s nothing left to say, not right now. It’s all waiting just under the surface.
You press the elevator button. The light flickers on, then nothing. You glance at him.
His eyes are dark.
The elevator arrives with a slow chime, and you both step inside. The doors slide shut and it’s just the two of you now, standing side by side in the warm silence.
You can feel the way his fingers flex at his sides. Can hear the slow rhythm of his breathing. There’s a twitch in your own hands—an urge to touch, to reach, to give in already—but you keep still. Barely.
The numbers tick up. Seven. Eight. Nine. It’s excruciating.
He leans in, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. “This thing’s takin’ the piss.”
You bite your lip. “Almost there.”
When the doors finally open, you step out first. You don’t wait. Not this time.
You lead the way down the hall, heart pounding harder with every step. You reach the door, slide your key in with a hand that isn’t quite steady. The lock clicks.
Before you can even reach for the light switch, you hear the thud of his bag hitting the floor.
Then he’s on you.
His hands are on your hips, your back, your waist, pulling you into him as the door shuts hard behind you. His mouth finds your neck, warm and hungry, and your gasp fills the dark hallway. You don’t need the lights. You just need him—right here, right now.
He lifts your shirt slightly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw.
“Couldn’t wait another bloody second,” he mumbles against your skin.
And then he kisses you like he means to make up for every second he’s been gone.
Your back hits the door with a soft thud, the wood cool through your shirt, but everything else is heat. His hands are everywhere—one at your waist, the other sliding up your side beneath the hem of your top, rough fingertips skimming bare skin like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.
His mouth crashes into yours before you can speak, and all the air leaves your lungs at once.
It’s not frantic. It’s not rushed.
It’s worse than that.
It’s slow. Intentional. Full of that maddening kind of restraint that only comes from someone who’s been imagining this in vivid detail for weeks. His lips move over yours like he’s tasting a memory—soft, then deep, then soft again. He kisses you like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
You melt into him without meaning to, hands sliding up under the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing the curve of his waist, the slope of his back. He shivers under your touch.
When you pull away just enough to breathe, his mouth doesn’t stop. He trails kisses across your cheek, down the curve of your jaw, to that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. He knows it does. He lingers there, mouth warm and open, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make you gasp.
“Fuckin’ missed this,” he breathes, voice thick and rough, his accent slurring the edges of every word. “Missed you.”
You don’t even try to answer. You just kiss him again, harder this time, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.
He presses closer, slotting a leg between yours, the weight of him pressing into every line of your body. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way he holds back, jaw tight like he’s clinging to control by a thread.
And God, it makes you want him more.
His thumb strokes the underside of your breast through your bra, slow and teasing, while his other hand cradles the back of your head like he can’t bear to be any further from your mouth.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper. Wetter. His tongue slides against yours and it’s all heat now, all need. You arch into him, breath catching in your throat.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispers against your lips. “Yeah?”
You nod, eyes locked on his, and he presses one last kiss to your mouth—soft, like a promise—before guiding you away from the door.
His hand stays at the small of your back as he walks you through the flat, steering you gently down the hallway. The air feels warmer here, more still, like even the rooms missed him. When you reach the bedroom, he nudges the door open with his foot and leads you in like it’s something sacred.
He stops at the edge of the bed and looks at you, eyes dark and steady.
“Sit down for me, love.”
You do, heart hammering as you settle on the edge of the mattress, legs just barely parted, your eyes tilted up to him. He steps between your knees, fingers reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Then both hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt.
“Arms up.”
You raise them without hesitation, and he peels your shirt off slow, knuckles grazing your skin as he lifts the fabric over your head. It drops to the floor behind him, forgotten.
He leans in again, mouth catching yours before you can speak. His kiss is deeper now, slower, hands resting just beneath your ribs as he presses into you. Every inch of him is warm. Grounded. Certain.
Between kisses, his fingers move to the button of your jeans.
You feel the faint pop of denim giving way, the soft drag of his knuckles as he works them open. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t break the kiss. Just keeps kissing you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing he’s craved since he left.
You lift your hips for him and his hands slide around to your thighs, easing your jeans down, dragging the fabric slow over your skin. The kiss never falters. His lips move with yours like he’s drinking you in, like nothing—not time or distance or fabric—should’ve ever been between you to begin with.
When he finally pulls back, your jeans are on the floor, your chest is rising fast, and his mouth is pink from how long he’s kept it on yours.
His eyes rake over you, voice low and ragged.
“Fuckin’ hell, look at you.”
You laugh softly, a nervous little sound that slips out without warning. He catches it right away, eyes narrowing like he’s just found a crack in the wall.
“What’s that for?” he asks, voice low but amused. His hands rest on your bare thighs, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your skin. “Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?”
You shrug, lips twitching like you’re trying to play it off, but he doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.
He leans in, mouth brushing just beneath your ear. “Tell me somethin’,” he murmurs, breath warm on your skin. “What do you do when I’m not here? When you’re feelin’ like this. D’you take care of yourself?”
You go still. Not because you don’t know the answer. But because you do.
His lips curl against your cheek. “You get shy on me now?”
“I don’t—” you start, then falter. Your voice is soft when you finally speak. “I don’t really do that.”
He pulls back just enough to see your face, one brow raised. “Liar.”
You flush.
“C’mon,” he coaxes, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been gone two months. Don’t tell me you haven’t done a single thing. That’s cruel.”
You hesitate.
Then, barely audible—
“I read.”
His brow furrows, amused. “You read?”
You nod, eyes flicking down to his collarbone. “Stuff online.”
There’s a pause.
And then, his voice drops, accent thick with curiosity and something darker.
“Fan fiction?”
You nod again, smaller this time.
He stares at you like he’s just been handed a gift he wasn’t expecting.
“No fuckin’ way,” he murmurs, smiling now, a little breathless. “You read fan fiction about me?”
Your face burns.
He leans in closer, one hand cradling your jaw.
“Gonna need you to walk me through that, baby.”
Your eyes dart away from his, and your fingers fidget with the hem of your underwear, suddenly very aware of how little you’re wearing—and how close he is.
He watches you carefully, waiting. Patient, but barely.
“It’s just…” you start, then trail off, chewing your bottom lip. “Stuff people write. About you. About… you and someone like me.”
His brow arches. “Someone like you?”
You nod, embarrassed. “Normal. Not famous. Not anyone special. Just… someone.”
You feel his hand tighten slightly on your thigh, and when you glance up, there’s a glint in his eye. He’s not laughing at you. He’s fascinated.
“And what happens in these stories?” he asks, voice soft, coaxing. “You get shy? Or do they make you do filthy little things?”
You press your lips together, face flaming, but he can see it. The answer written all over you.
He chuckles, low and warm in his chest, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve been sittin’ in our bed at night, readin’ about me fuckin’ you senseless?”
Your breath hitches.
He pulls back just enough to look at you again, eyes sweeping your face like he wants to see every flicker of reaction. His voice is husky now, rough with interest.
“That’s so dirty, love.”
You try to speak, but he’s already leaning in, pressing a kiss just below your jaw.
“And you just sit there with your little phone,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Readin’ things I haven’t even done to you yet.”
You swallow hard, eyes flicking down before you can stop yourself—and there it is. The outline of him, straining against his trousers, the fabric doing nothing to hide just how much he wants you.
Your breath catches. The sight makes your thighs press together involuntarily, a quiet ache growing where his hands haven’t touched yet.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His smirk deepens, dark and lazy. “Gettin’ worked up just from that, are you?” he teases, thumb brushing the inside of your knee. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”
You exhale shakily, your voice soft. “I want you to.”
He stills for a beat—just one. Then his expression shifts. The playfulness doesn’t vanish, but something darker, more focused, settles into his eyes.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You lettin’ me take over now, baby?”
You nod, already breathless. “Please.”
That’s all it takes.
He leans in and kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, like permission unlocked something in him. His hands are on your hips, your waist, your ribs, sliding up until they’re cupping your breasts through your bra. He palms you there, slow and firm, like he’s been missing the weight of you in his hands.
“You’ve got no idea what that does to me,” he mutters into your mouth. “You, sittin’ all pretty, readin’ about me fuckin’ you just like this…”
His fingers reach around to undo the clasp of your bra, taking his time, letting the tension pull tight as elastic. When it finally falls away, he breathes you in like he’s starving again.
Then, without a word, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you, lips brushing your stomach, hands gripping your thighs.
“Gonna take my fuckin’ time with you,” he says, voice a promise against your skin.
He drags his hands up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where they meet your hips as he settles between them. You’re already trembling under his touch, legs slightly parted on instinct, eyes locked on him as he looks up at you from the floor like you’re something sacred.
“Lie back for me, love,” he says, voice rough and low.
You shift back onto the bed, elbows catching you for a second before you sink into the pillows, legs still dangling over the edge. His hands follow you the whole way—never losing contact—until he’s got your thighs open just the way he wants them.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and looks up again.
“This what you pictured when you were readin’?” he asks, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Me down here, beggin’ for a taste?”
You nod, breath shallow. “Yes.”
That’s all he needs.
He pulls your underwear down slow, eyes following every inch of skin he reveals like he’s memorizing it, storing it away. Once they’re off, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then higher—trailing heat until your whole body’s drawn tight with anticipation.
Then his mouth is on you.
His tongue flicks over you gently at first, teasing, testing. Then he flattens it, licking a slow stripe up your center that makes your hips jerk and a soft cry spill from your lips. His hands slide under your thighs, keeping you open, anchored, at his mercy.
He groans when he tastes you fully, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“Fuckin’ missed this,” he mutters, voice muffled against you. “Missed how sweet you are.”
He settles in deeper, his mouth working you in slow, steady movements—tongue swirling, lips sucking just enough to make your toes curl. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t let up. Just builds it slowly, deliberately, like he’s got nowhere else to be but here, worshiping you.
Your hand slides into his hair, gripping when his tongue flicks just right, hips lifting into him as the tension coils hard in your belly.
“You’re gonna come for me, yeah?” he murmurs against you, breath hot. “Right on my fuckin’ tongue. Let me have it.”
You’re close—so close it almost hurts. The pressure’s built tight in your belly, your thighs shaking around his shoulders, his name falling from your lips in broken pieces. He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets hungrier, tongue working you with that slow, steady rhythm that undoes you completely.
Your back arches off the bed. Fingers tangle in his hair.
“Harry—fuck—Harry, I’m gonna—”
He groans against you like that’s exactly what he wants, like the sound of your voice wrecked and desperate is the only thing keeping him alive. And then you’re falling apart. The orgasm hits hard, flooding through you in waves, and he holds you right there, mouth never leaving you, like he wants every last bit of it.
You whimper as you come down, your body twitching from the aftershocks, chest heaving. He finally lifts his head, lips slick, eyes dark and blown.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Knew you’d be sweet for me.”
You’re still catching your breath when you reach for him, fingers curling into his shirt.
“Take your clothes off,” you whisper. “I need you to fuck me.”
That gets his attention.
He laughs softly, rising to his feet. “That desperate, hm?”
“Yes,” you say, no shame in your voice. “I need you.”
He leans over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head, his mouth ghosting just over yours. You can feel him, hard against your thigh, still fully clothed, and it’s maddening.
“Could keep you like this a while,” he says, teasing. “All needy and wrecked and beggin’ for it. Could make you wait.”
You whimper, hips shifting beneath him. “Don’t be cruel.”
He grins, dipping down to kiss you slow, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it. Then he pulls back just enough to whisper, voice low and hot—
“Then tell me how you want it.”
You open your mouth to answer, but he’s already moving.
“Don’t need you to tell me,” he murmurs, straightening up with that look in his eyes—confident, dark, completely in control. “I know exactly what you need.”
You watch from the bed, breath shallow, as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and peels it off in one fluid motion. His chest is golden from the sun, stomach tight, the familiar trail of hair disappearing into his waistband making your mouth go dry.
Your thighs press together without thinking.
Then he unbuttons his trousers. Slow. Deliberate. He holds your gaze the entire time, like he knows what he’s doing to you—like he wants you to see exactly what you’ve been missing. He pushes them down along with his briefs, and the second they fall, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach.
Your breath catches.
Precum glistens at the tip, already leaking, and he wraps a hand around the base with a low sigh of relief, stroking once.
“Been hard since the bloody airport,” he mutters. “Soon as I saw you. Didn’t even make it through baggage claim without thinkin’ about bendin’ you over the nearest flat surface.”
You moan, hips shifting against the sheets.
He steps between your legs again, stroking himself lazily now, eyes raking over your body like he’s trying to decide exactly where to start.
“You ready for me, love?” he asks, voice thick, teasing. “You want this cock inside you?”
You nod, desperate. “Yes. Please, Harry.”
He leans over you, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Gonna fuck you slow,” he says, kissing your jaw, your neck, the space just beneath your ear. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ inch of you.”
Then he pushes in.
He pushes just the tip inside, then stops.
Your hands clutch at the sheets. “Harry—”
“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin, brushing his nose along your neck. “Not yet.”
He pulls out slowly, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance, your clit, everything but what you need.
“Wanna know somethin’ first,” he says, voice thick with amusement, but his hips stay steady, cruelly patient. “You never told me what your favorite part was.”
You blink, dazed. “What?”
“In those stories,” he murmurs, sucking gently at your throat. “The ones you read at night. About me. What’s your favorite part?”
You shake your head, breath catching as he presses in again—just barely—then pulls back.
“C’mon, love,” he says, his voice laced with a dark kind of sweetness. “I wanna hear you say it.”
You whimper. “I like when you talk.”
He stills, grinning against your jaw. “Yeah? When I’m filthy with you?”
You nod quickly, lips parting, breath uneven. “And when you—” You falter, heat blooming across your chest. “When you go down on her and don’t stop. When you say it’s yours.”
That breaks him.
“Jesus,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”
He shifts his hips again, just enough for the head of his cock to push inside once more.
“Say it now,” he breathes. “Say you’re mine.”
Your fingers curl around his biceps, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m yours, Harry. I’m yours.”
His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and hungry, and he sinks into you all at once—slow but deep—his cock stretching you open inch by inch until you’re full of him, breath caught in your throat. The moan you let out is pure instinct, helpless and raw, and it makes him groan right back, low in his chest like it physically knocks the air out of him.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, jaw tight, buried all the way to the hilt. “You feel—Jesus, baby—you feel so fuckin’ good.”
Your fingers grip his shoulders, your legs hooking around his waist, trying to draw him in deeper even though he’s already as close as he can get. He stays there for a second, not moving, just letting you feel it—letting himself feel it.
Then he pulls back slow, almost to the tip, before thrusting in again, harder this time. Your head tips back, mouth falling open with a gasp.
“There she is,” he growls, one hand sliding up your body to wrap around your throat—not tight, just enough to hold you there, eyes on him. “That the part you like, yeah? When I fuck you like I ownyou?”
You nod, whimpering. “Yes—Harry—”
“God, I missed this pussy,” he says, hips snapping into you again. “Dreamt about it. Woke up hard on the fuckin’ tour bus thinkin’ about you spread out like this.”
He’s moving now, really moving, fucking you slow and deep but with purpose, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your body meets him with every roll of his hips, greedy, desperate, like it’s been waiting for him just as long as your heart has.
You moan again and his lips find your ear.
“That what you wanted, baby?” he pants. “Wanted my cock stretchin’ you out just like this? Bet none of those fanfics made you feel like this.”
“N-no,” you choke out, nails digging into his back. “Nothing like this.”
“Yeah?” His pace quickens slightly, his voice going rougher. “Tell me whose it is.”
“Yours,” you breathe, eyes wide and glassy. “Yours, Harry.”
“Say it again.”
“Yours—fuck—yours.”
He leans down and kisses you hard, messy, full of tongue and teeth and heat, his hips relentless now. He’s grunting with every thrust, sweat beading at his temples, his whole body working to bring you right to the edge again.
“I can feel you squeezin’ me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you? Gonna come for me, sweetheart?”
“Yes—don’t stop—don’t—”
He slips a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, wet strokes while he keeps fucking into you deep and fast.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice cracked and wild. “Come on. Let me feel it.”
And that’s all it takes.
You shatter around him with a cry, your whole body pulsing, shaking, coming hard on his cock. He fucks you through it, eyes locked on your face like he wants to remember everything.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”
He pulls out at the last second, hand stroking himself twice before he spills all over your stomach with a groan so guttural it makes your toes curl. Thick, hot, and messy. He leans over you, breathing hard, eyes dark and wrecked, thumb brushing your cheek.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again, slower now, sweeter.
You’re still trying to catch your breath when he leans back on his heels, eyes dragging over your body—sweat-slicked, legs still trembling, his release glistening on your stomach. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not just cocky. It’s hungry. Like he’s already thinking about what comes next.
“Can’t believe I spent weeks in hotel beds with my hand wrapped ‘round my cock,” he mutters, one hand sliding up your thigh again. “When this was waitin’ for me.”
You open your mouth to respond, but then he’s dipping down again, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your stomach. You jolt, a whimper escaping your lips as his tongue drags through his own mess.
“Harry—”
He hums, like it’s nothing. Like the taste of you—of both of you—doesn’t drive him mad.
His tongue swirls over your skin, not in a rush this time, just savoring. Teasing. His hands slide back up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before he lowers his mouth again and sucks one nipple between his lips.
You gasp, arching into him.
“You still sensitive?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin. “That why you’re shakin’ like that?”
You nod, legs twitching around him. “Y-Yeah.”
He grins against your breast, mouth moving to the other. “Good.”
He slides a hand between your legs again, fingers pressing right where you’re still dripping, still open from him.
“‘Cause I’m not finished with you yet.”
He looks up at you, eyes dark and wild, fingers circling your clit again in slow, deliberate strokes.
“You’re gonna come again, baby. Just like in those stories you read. Over and over ‘til you can’t even say my name.”
#harry styles#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles masterlist#harry styles smut#harry styles x reader#harry styles one shot#harry edward styles#one direction#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fic#harry styles one direction#harrystyles#harry styles fan fic#harrystylesfanfic#harry#harry styles fiction#harry styles angst#harry styles imagine#harry styles au#harry styles fanfic rec#harry styles fic rec#harry styles reader insert#harry styles fluff#harry styles x y/n#harry styles writing#harry styles mature#harry styles series#harry styles story#long hair harry#harry’s house
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A/N; working on alll of ur requests rn sweeties!!! It's gonna take me a good while tho, so here is a lil sum sum I wrote abt the guys sum time ago ^^ Hope u enjoy my late night yapping and plzzzz be patient with meeee, I didn't forget ur requests my lovelys!!!
Random/unpopular headcanons of Weird stuff they do! (MDNI! SFW ans NSFW)
ZAYNE
SFW
Drink his coffee HORENDOUSLY. It looks like a brew straight out of hell. Honestly, it’s closer to motor oil than anything drinkable.
Eats like a pregnant woman with the wildest cravings. I’m convinced he mixes sweets with damn near everything, pickles with ice cream, shit like that.
Uhhh, I also think he’s messy??? Like, his house looks tidy at first glance— floors clean, dishes done, nothing crazy. But if you actually live with him, you realize he doesn’t have time to handle allat!!! There’s always clothes flying around, jackets tossed over chairs, hoodies crumpled on the couch, random socks disappearing into the void. Not necessarily dirty clothes, just... clothes littered across the house. It's like he tries to stay organized, but life moves too fast and the laundry pile moves faster.
NSFW
Tries to optimize things. It's kinda weird but also hot??? "What if we adjust the angle by 12 degrees—oh. Oh, that's better."
One time, he came with one hand on the wall like a man in mourning and didn't say a word, just stood there. (Post-nut trauma pose lmaooo)
Looses track of time when he's with u. You've been at it for 3 hours with barely any break before he realized that he has 2 hours of sleep left before he has to get up for work. But he'll worry about that in the morning.
He's giving you a clinical review when you ride him. "Your pelvic tilt just now was exceptional. Ten out of ten."
SYLUS
Bro im ngl… i feel like he's a hoarder. Antique stuff probs like old pennies from 1500s or sum shi.
Props a history nerd on the low. Knows every event ever happening around the word from the stone age to modern times. (Rants to you about them sometimes)
Caffeine Dependency, But in odddd forms.He refuses to drink normal coffee so, instead, he's obsessed with fancy stuff like matcha lattes, cold brew espresso, or even herbal teas that are supposed to enhance mental focus. If you catch him on a "bad caffeine day," you'll see him get irritated if he had to settle for a drink that doesn't meet his exacting standards (He's gonna pull out the glock ain't he).
NSFW
Discovered his wax kink one time when candle wax happend to drip on him turing sexy time, and he moaned so loud it scared you. That's when you both began to involve wax as a main actor during the act more often.
Oh he's soooo horny when you patch him up after a deal gone wrong. Grows soooo hard when you're shocked self runs up to his all bloodied form:(( Just such big baby and a suckerrr for your nursing skills!!!
Guns are everywhere. Like, casually. Sometimes there's one just sitting on the nightstand, loaded, of course— the barrel practically staring at you while he's fucking you. It's kinda terrifying if you think about it too hard.
Okay, hear me out!!!! When he's really exhausted, like dead-on-his-feet exhausted, he comes home, takes a quick, half-awake shower, then just slumps onto the bed, still wet, still half-dressed, a lit cigar hanging from his lips as you ride him. He's barely doing anything, just lying there with this lazy, heavy-lidded look, letting you use him however you want. Smoke curling up toward the ceiling, his body all warm and loose under your hands. It’s messy, raw, and honestly addicting if you admit.
CALEB
SFW
Constantly challenges himself to do backflips in inappropriate places. "Bet I can flip off this railing" No, Caleb. You can't. But he does it anyway(urghhh). It's even grown to a point that he makes a quick backflip when you two meet up as agreeting mane. It's sooo embarrassing when the bystanders eye him but he thinks it's soooo cold LMAOOO
Caleb still doesn't know how to use a lot of things properly. He'll try to fix things around the house and end up breaking them worse than they were. You'll catch him watching YouTube tutorials, struggling with the basics of cooking, or just trying to figure out how something works.
NSFW
Tries to make you laugh mid-stroke. Literally says stuff like "What would you do if I'd start moonwalking right now?" You're crying laughing while he's still inside you.
He high fives you after sex. Every damn time. Yep. Its canon bc i said so!
Treats you on top as if he's ur personal trainer. "Yeahhh, get those megan-kness working. One, two, three— heyheyhey you gotta put your legs into it!“
XAVIER
SFW
Despite him sleeping so damn much, I feel like hes a light sleeper. If you move away slightly his eyes shoot open bruh. (They also glow in the dark and scare the shit out of you when ypu come back to the room after taking a piss)
Incredible memory for faces, but not names. He can remember every single detail about a person's face—the way they looked when they smiled, the exact way they tilted their head during conversation—but when it comes to their names? Not a clue. He js couldn't give less of a fuck.
Always late for your dates. At least half an hour. Not bc he's been sleeping but because he's so slowww man! You're so mad bc you can't teleport like a certain someone cough cough, but still manage to show up on time!!! And when he shows up he acts so innocent and clueless as if you didn't wait for him for half an hour.
NSFW
Thinks it's soooo sexy when you scold him. Say his full name with force and he's rock solidddd 'm tellin youuuu!!!
Always insists on so much foreplay it's frustrating. Don't get me wrong it's sexy! ....until it's been 45 minutes and you’re still begging for him to finally put it in.
Has a thing for u playing with his hair, especially if you pull it when he's eatin you out. But even if you just genuinely move it out of his face after a heated make-out shesh, he whines as if you got his dick in a headlock (you do).
RAFAYEL
Props has a journal and draws little doodles of you next to his entry of the day!! When he's feeling espacially romantic, he'll begin with a small doodle but get lost in it end end up drawing the most breathtaking portrait of you. He hides the journal too, a bit too embarrassed to show you his rambles of how much in love he is with you. Yeahhh for his eyes only!
Rafayel is full of bizarre superstitions. He's the type to refuse to walk under a ladder, always carries a lucky charm, and insists that everything happens for a reason. If you spill salt, you're definitely going to have to throw it over your left shoulder. Was a literal sea god but bad luck are the most of his worries ig...
His desk is a mess, but somehow everything is in its right place. Papers are scattered everywhere, but you can not touch them. He has his own chaotic filing system, and God help you if you try to reorganize anything.
NSFW
Sucker for you when ur in heels. I dare you to step on his foot by accident in heels!!(he almost came in his pants). Loves to fuck you in heels from that point onwards.
Ok so this is ridiculous but I have this headcanon that you both made out in the ocean once and got so into it that you didn't notice rafayel turned into a merman until his fishtail grazed your legs and you fucking screamed for your life. He had to make it up with some sloppy toppy head underwater ofc!!!
Will literally stop mid stroke to get his sketchbook and sketch you when he has the urge to capture your beautiful form splawed out for him. Like, this is for him, like.... oh my godddd yu're so perfect???
#lec talk ✧˖°#love and deepspace#love and deepspace smut#lads smut#l&ds smut#caleb smut#sylus smut#rafayel smut#xavier smut#zayne smut#♡˳ᴸ&ᴰˢ#◛⑅·˚ ᵂᴼᴿᴷ
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The Breakup Pact - OB⁸⁷
Oliver Bearman x bestfriend!reader
Summary: Ollie and his best friend made a pact to not date anyone for at least 6 months after some terrible relationship fails but Ollie's PR desperately needs fixing. The solution? Fake dating.
Contains: fluff, some social media



Oliver Bearman was the king of the overtake and the king of bad decisions—off-track, at least.
His best friend stared at her phone, snorting at the headline: “Ollie Bearman: Fast Cars, Faster Breakups?”
"Honestly, do they think I’m collecting heartbreaks like podium trophies?" Ollie said, sliding into the seat across from her at their favorite London café. His baseball cap was low over his eyes, trying and failing to hide the fact that he was one of the most recognizable faces in Formula 1.
“I mean,” she said, handing over her phone with a wicked grin, “statistically, you’ve had more breakups than wins this season.”
“That hurts.”
She sipped her latte. “Truth often does.”
They’d made The Breakup Pact three months ago. Over tequila and takeout, sitting in sweatpants on her couch after she came home from what may have been the worst date she had ever been on and he had been dumped 2 days prior.
So they swore off dating. Six months, no exceptions.
No rebounds. No late-night texting flings. No feelings. Just friendship. Glorious, uncomplicated, platonic friendship.
And it worked.
Mostly.
Until Ollie started getting dragged by the press, and his PR team begged for a reputation fix.
Until she walked into the café that day in a sundress that made him forget what breathing was.
Until he slid his phone across the table and said, “Want to break the internet?”
Phase One: The Soft Launch
It started with a single Instagram post.
A blurry photo, posted on his Story. She was next to him on his boat on the lake, enjoying strawberries and chocolates. Her face wasn't visible, it was a perfect way to begin a soft launch.
Olliebearman posted a story

Caption: Not pictured: her 4-hour playlist of sad girl anthems.
Immediately, the F1 fandom lit up.
“WHO is she???”
“Y’all this feels personal.”
They said nothing.
Two days later, she posted a mirror selfie of the hotel room they were sharing for a Grand Prix weekend.
yourusername posted a story:

Caption: Slightly clingy xx
The comments came fast:
“Soft launch confirmed.” “Is this actually her?"
Phase Two: The Public Appearance
“You sure about this?” she whispered, looping her arm through his as they enter the paddock at Jeddah
"Yeah absolutely." He gives her a reassuring smile, his eyes shining when he looked at her.
The cameras went insane. Ollie Bearman with her on his arm.
People noticed. Social media really noticed.
And so, like all rational, emotionally mature adults... they leaned into it.
He was staring at her. Really staring.
And then he blinked, cleared his throat, and turned to face the cameras.
They smiled. They posed. They laughed like people madly in love. And somewhere, somehow, a line started to blur.
yourusername posted:

Caption: He made me match, 0/10 boyfriend
Olliebearman posted:

Caption: She called me bossy, 10/10 real girlfriend.
Over the next few weeks, “fake dating” became more real than either of them admitted.
It was subtle at first.
He started texting her “good morning” and “get home safe” like it was muscle memory. She began sitting through entire F1 practice sessions just to watch his onboards, making inside jokes about his cornering style.
During a race weekend in Austria, she found a note tucked into her hotel pillow. It was scribbled on the back of a tire compound chart, in his handwriting:
“If I crash, tell the world it’s because I was thinking about your smile. —OB”
She rolled her eyes. And yet she kept the note. Folded it neatly and slipped it into her wallet.
Phase Three: The Blur
It started as fake.
She knew that. He knew that.
But he still made her coffee every morning exactly the way she liked it.
She still memorized his qualifying times and texted him “your car deserves you” every race day.
He let her fall asleep on him during flights. She stole his hoodies. He never asked for them back.
And then there was the night in Barcelona.
He’d crashed out in Q2. A dumb mistake. His fist had slammed into the garage wall, and the media had been brutal. The words washed up and distracted were trending.
She found him hours later on the rooftop of his hotel.
"You okay?" she asked, sitting beside him on a pool chair under the stars.
“Fine,” he muttered, and then, softer, “I was supposed to be better by now.”
She took his hand. "You're still you. That’s always been enough."
He looked at her like she’d said something sacred. And then he kissed her knuckles, like she was breakable. Like he wanted to be careful.
And just for a moment, she forgot it was fake.
Phase Four: The Realization
It happened in Tokyo.
It wasn’t a big race weekend. No podiums. No press frenzy. Just a mid-season break and a getaway they booked “for the aesthetic,” according to Ollie—sushi, neon lights, cozy bookstores, and zero pressure.
It was supposed to be downtime. A break from pretending.
And that was the problem.
Because without the cameras, without the posts and the performance, there was still something between them. Quiet. Constant. And impossible to ignore.
They were walking through Shinjuku at night when it hit her. He was wearing a hoodie she'd "borrowed" months ago, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the breeze. She had just finished telling him a ridiculous story from her uni days, and he was laughing so hard he actually tripped on the curb.
And then—just like that—he looked at her.
And it wasn’t teasing. Or calculated. Or staged.
It was soft. So unbearably soft she nearly forgot to breathe.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, heart thudding stupidly.
Ollie slowed, eyes crinkling. “Like what?”
“Like…” She gestured vaguely. “Like you’re not faking it anymore.”
He didn’t answer.
And maybe that was the answer.
Back at the hotel, everything felt heavier.
He’d booked them a suite—two bedrooms, of course. They always kept up the illusion of separation, even when the walls between them felt thinner than ever.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through photos on her phone. Most of them were blurry. Candid. One showed him mid-laugh with his head thrown back, sunlight catching in his hair.
She stared at it longer than she meant to.
He came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, towel slung over his shoulder, damp curls sticking to his forehead.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said, drying his hands on his shirt.
She didn’t look up. “I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Shut up.”
A pause.
“Want to tell me what about?”
She hesitated. Then: “This is starting to feel real.”
Ollie didn’t respond right away. He dropped down beside her, close but not touching, their knees barely brushing.
“I know,” he said quietly. “It does.”
Another beat.
She tilted her head. “So… what do we do?”
He exhaled a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”
They sat in the quiet for a moment. Long enough for the buzz of city traffic outside to hum between them. Long enough for her to feel the gravity of his presence, the warmth of him beside her, the way his pinky finger kept twitching like it wanted to find hers.
“I don’t know when it happened,” she said finally. “I just looked up one day and realized you weren’t a bit anymore. You were the best part of my day.”
His eyes closed. “God.”
“And the stupid part?” She laughed, but it cracked halfway. “I wasn’t supposed to catch feelings for someone pretending to love me.”
Ollie turned to her, really turned this time. His voice was raw when he said, “I wasn’t pretending.”
Her breath hitched.
“I thought I was,” he said, softer now. “But then you started noticing the small things. Like how I tap the wheel when I’m anxious. How I can’t sleep before qualifying unless someone’s talking to me. How I eat gummy bears by color even though I swear I don’t.”
“I noticed,” she whispered.
“I know.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “That’s when I knew it was real. Because you weren’t looking at the driver. You were just… looking at me.”
She swallowed hard, her hands curling into the hem of her oversized shirt. “So what now?”
He reached for her hand, finally, intertwining their fingers with a kind of certainty that made her chest ache.
“I don’t want to fake anything anymore,” he said. “Not the hand-holding. Not the late-night calls. Not the way I look at you and forget there’s a world outside of you.”
Tears threatened, but she blinked them away.
“Me neither.”
They sat like that for a while—just holding hands, forehead against forehead, wrapped in something they didn’t need to perform.
It didn’t matter how it had started.
It only mattered that somehow, in the middle of all the pretending, they’d fallen into something real.
And neither of them wanted to get back up.
Olliebearman & yourusername posted:



Caption: The Breakup Pact failed. Gloriously
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Word Count: 1.5k
#f1 x reader#f1#formula 1#f1 fanfic#formula one#ollie bearman#ollie bearman x reader#ollie bearman fluff#ob87#ob87 x reader
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The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 5: Who Has Spoken Through The Prophets]

A/N: We're over halfway done, besties! Bless you for reading 🙏
Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.
Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!
Word count: 6.2k
🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘
💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜
Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰
🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️
“What name will you choose?” you tease Aemond as reporters stand on the other side of the glass doors, strobing flashes of camera clicks and the deadened drone of their voices as they recount his second miracle into their microphones, one take, two takes, wanting to get it just right. Aemond is clasping your right hand as he sits beside your hospital bed. Neither of you speak to the reporters, or talk to the doctors and nurses about anything except medical care; you don’t want anyone to be able to say the vow of secrecy was broken. But you are posing for the audience, you the nearly-lost sheep, Aemond the benevolent shepherd. You’re just happy you get to touch him. The nurses cleaned his blood from your hair and your face, and you wish they hadn’t. “You should bring back something really wonky and old school. A name that hasn’t been used in centuries. Maybe…Pope Zosimus?”
“Pope Dionysius,” Aemond says, grinning. “No unfortunate connotations there.”
“Pope Hilarius. You do have a great sense of humor.”
“Pope Simplicius.”
“Pope Valentine, so romantic.”
“Pope Telesphorus!”
“Pope Caius, wasn’t that a character in the Twilight movies?”
“Pope Peter,” Aemond says. “After the apostle and the founder of the Church.”
“You’re proud enough for it.”
“Even prouder than you think. I already have a name picked out.” This is a grievous fault, one that no good cardinal would admit to. But Aemond reveals things to you that are unfit for even the confessional booth. You have a concussion, Aemond has fifty stitches, and you are both wearing pale blue hospital gowns; you could almost be mistaken for a normal couple.
Beyond the glass, nurses are telling the reporters that their time is up and shooing them off, down the hall, down the staircase, out into the world where they will tell billions of people what they’ve seen: Aemond’s saintlike selflessness, his chaste devotion to his flock. You will be a footnote: A nun was nearly killed, a nun’s life was saved, now let’s talk about the man who performed a miracle in Saint Peter’s Square.
You can’t ask anybody what is going on within the brick walls of Vatican City, but you have caught the nurses exchanging whispers. A representative for the dean Cardinal Seaborn released a public statement that voting would be paused for three days, allowing time for the cardinals to reflect and pray on recent events. Priests hailing from parishes across the globe are giving sermons declaring that serious consideration should be given to the signs God has made so visible. The Third Miracle Challenge has gone viral on TikTok, documenting people achieving things they once thought were impossible (for example, waking up at 5 a.m. to go jogging, or calling to schedule their own doctor’s appointment). #SexyPope is trending worldwide on Twitter.
If he wins, I’ll never be able to touch him again.
Two nurses enter your room—you’re being held for observation for twenty-four hours, and will be released this evening provided no worrying symptoms develop—and yank the mint green curtains shut, the tiny metal hooks clanging on the rods. They give you a cursory once-over and then spend several minutes chatting to Aemond in their thick Italian accents: “Cardinal Targaryen, will you say a prayer for my sick grandmother?” “Cardinal Targaryen, what is your favorite psalm?” “Cardinal Targaryen, how do you learn to forgive people who have wronged you?” Then they skuttle out of the room and close the door behind them. No impropriety is suspected; Aemond is now above reproach.
I already have a name picked out, Aemond had said. Your eyes drop to the thin gold chain that holds his medallion, concealed beneath the scratchy blue cotton of his hospital gown. “Who are you wearing?”
Instead of answering, he leans in so you can see for yourself; his uninjured left hand sinks into the mattress, the remnants of the cologne he put on yesterday morning steal into your lungs, warm honeyed light like the flame of a candle, vanilla, cinnamon, amber. Your fingertips slip under the chain and follow it down to the gold disk, freeing it from beneath his gown. It’s Saint Thomas Aquinas, his name inscribed in an arc above his portrait. You hold the medallion in your palm as Aemond waits patiently; you like him this close, you don’t want him to leave.
“Pope Thomas,” you muse. “A papal name that’s never been used before.”
“He was a great thinker. He established the doctrine of natural law, which informed the rise of just legal systems, human rights, democracy.”
“And he is very, very famous. He’s worshiped by intellectuals.” You turn over the medallion. On the back is etched one of the saint’s quotes: The things that we love tell us what we are. You ask, only half-serious, perhaps afraid to be more: “What do you love, Aemo?” Power, fame, triumph, me?
He shrugs and smiles, small and crooked. “A few things.”
The disk glints in the midday sun that streams in through the windows. “Why gold?”
“Why not? It’s the best.”
“Greedy,” you say, releasing the medallion. Aemond hesitates before returning to his chair. “Thomas suits you. It was also the name of the apostle who was so skeptical of Christ’s resurrection. He had to feel the Lord’s wounds with his own hands before he was convinced.”
“And I have doubts,” Aemond says, amused, still smiling.
“Most people do, it seems.”
“You don’t?” A pause, a tad self-conscious. “About anyone?”
“I believe in the Faith, and I believe in you. But those are two very different things.”
Aemond looks down at his bandaged palm, meditative, perhaps even regretful. There’s no going back now. The whole world saw what he did.
“You weren’t like this before,” you say softly. “On the beach, you weren’t…” You stop to think of how to word it. “You weren’t as sharp, or as ambitious, or as…wrathful.”
“That was a long time ago. Twenty-nine years.”
You watch him, seeking. What is there beneath the surface? What runs through him like arteries of magma under the earth? “Do you ever go home to Nisyros?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Not even with all your diplomatic missions and your interviews and your YouTube videos?”
Aemond looks at you, direct, hard, like it’s a warning. “No.”
“Did something happen there?”
“I told you. I never felt like there was really a place for me. Why would I want to go back?”
“But your family is still in Nisyros, aren’t they? You don’t see them?”
“They take the ferry to Santorini when they want to visit me.”
You consider this, tugging restlessly on your own medallion: cheap plain iron, a humble saint.
Aemond asks before you can say anything else: “How’s your head?”
“The codeine is helping.”
“You’ll have to be very careful when we get back to Vatican City.”
You are startled, unsure of what he means. Careful not to touch him? Careful not to want him?
Then Aemond clarifies: “You need plenty of rest each night. No physical exertion, no stress.”
You chuckle nervously. “Oh, right. Sure thing.”
“You still want to assist with the conclave, don’t you?”
“Defo. If they’ll let me stay.”
“I’ll insist upon it,” Aemond says. And Cardinal Seaborn will listen; who could question a living saint, an intermediary between mortals and God? “I overheard a nurse on the phone earlier. She was talking to Mother Maureen Ashwell from your convent in Sydney. It sounded like she was asking a million questions about you, trying to make sure you were alright.”
You smile wistfully. “I wish I could call her. Or text her, or send an email or an Instagram DM or something.” But you can’t without breaking seclusion. You’ll have so much to tell her when you return; you can be honest with her in ways you can’t with Rhaena.
“She seems like a very kind person.”
“Mother Maureen is a blessing to us,” you say, distracted now as you think of her, long dove grey hair always running down her back in a braid, oversized sweaters with cats or ducks or koala bears on them. You gaze out the window at the gleaming silver serpent of the Tiber, where Saint Beatrix fished out the bodies of her martyred brothers in the 300s. “The time she grew up in was very different from ours. She got pregnant when she was in secondary school, and her parents sent her into the bush to stay with her grandparents, and when the baby was born the nurses took him away. He was adopted out to a family someplace, but Mother Maureen doesn’t know where. She’s never been able to find him. She doesn’t even know if he’s in Australia. But she’s still looking, and she’s created all these resources for parents with similar experiences, databases and support groups and brochures made by pro bono lawyers so people know their legal rights. It didn’t make her bitter. She’s the most compassionate person I’ve ever met. And I think that’s so beautiful, when a soul endures something horrible and can still find comfort in the Faith. Can still use it to make the world better.”
But Aemond—scarred, faithless, his sins as loud to you as the roar of an ocean—just studies his bandaged right hand again, not saying a word.
~~~~~~~~~~
It is nightfall when a driver arrives at the hospital to take you and Aemond to Vatican City. You have been given clothes from the donation bin to wear until you can change at the Domus Sanctae Marthae. You look like you’re back at your relaxed convent in Sydney: maroon jumper, Levi jeans, pink Converses. Aemond dons a black button-up shirt and matching trousers and loafers, like he’s going to a funeral.
Cardinal Seaborn is there to meet you at the gate, or rather, he is there to meet Aemond; he gives you a wary glance and then, when Aemond shoots him a daggerlike stare with his head held high, Seaborn smiles accommodatingly.
“Brother, we are so glad to have you back among us,” Seaborn tells Aemond warmly, and reaches to pat his shoulder but then stops short, like he’s not sure if it’s proper to touch him, if perhaps Aemond might be too far above that now. You and Aemond follow Seaborn to the entranceway of the Domus Sanctae Martha. From the other side of the brick wall, you can hear that the crowds gathered in Saint Peter’s Square are singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.
Cardinal Seaborn escorts Aemond upstairs to his room, while to walk alone to yours. You change into a rose pink jumper and lavender skirt, then cover them with a white wool habit. In front of your bathroom mirror, you adjust your veil and snare pins into your hair to hold it in place.
I don’t want to wear this, you think, more clearly than you ever have since you’ve arrived in Vatican City. This isn’t me. This isn’t necessary to serve God. But ancient places have intractable rituals, and here you must oblige them.
In the dining hall, the cardinals are enjoying wine and water and bread and spaghetti with basil pesto. Nuns are scurrying around with pitchers and plates. When you and Aemond walk in with Cardinal Seaborn—you several steps behind the men—the over one hundred cardinals draped in red stand to applaud Aemond: his survival, his bravery, his miracle. The loudest cheers come from Aemond’s usual table, Kazi cupping his hands around his mouth like a bullhorn. Across the room, Jahoda and his companions are clapping listlessly with stony expressions.
Lucky sees you, frowns for only a fraction of a second, marches to the center of the floor. “Brothers!” he proclaims, and they will listen to him more than they would to any of the others, Cam because he is so young, Lando because he is so quiet and unassuming, Kazi because he is Kazi. “There has been much suspicion and slander levied against Cardinal Targaryen. Yet God’s design is always shown in time if we have the patience and the good sense to see it. Those of us who know his character and his spiritual gifts never doubted him. But for you who did, let now your consciences be soothed. God brought the cardinal and the sister close together in friendship, grounded in their mutual Faith, so that when she was in mortal peril Cardinal Targaryen would be there to save her from an agonizing death and reveal God’s enduring capacity to perform miracles to the world, to renew our Church, to bring countless lost souls back to the light...”
Rhaena sprints through the thunderous shouts and thumps of fists on tables, then halts with a jolt before she can crash into you, her runners squeaking against the tile floor. “Sorry, didn’t want to jostle you, mate,” she says, laughing, and she gingerly touches your head, your hair covered by your veil. “You good? You’re not in pain or anything?”
“I’m a little banged up, but she’ll be right.”
“You aren’t burned?” Rhaena inspects your face, your hands. “Cardinal Seaborn told us about the fire.”
“Aemo,” you begin, then quickly correct yourself. “Cardinal Targaryen got me out just in time.”
Rhaena’s mouth quivers, then she throws her arms around you and sniffles into your shoulder. And a memory comes back to you from across the globe: taking the guests staying in the shelter to Murramarang National Park to hike and see the roos, and as you were distributing tuna sangers for lunch Rhaena had asked you: Mum, do we have any Tim Tams? And she was mortified when she realized what she’d done, but you only smiled and replied: I can be your mum if you want.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Rhaena whispers.
“Me too.”
“And they’re letting you stay until the conclave is over?”
“Well I can’t leave you here alone with these dinosaurs, can I?”
Rhaena giggles, swiping tears from her cheeks. Now Sister Penny, Sister Helvi, and Sister Nuru have arrived to welcome you back too. Then Sister Penny, flustered and apologetic, asks if you wouldn’t mind helping and hands you a pitcher of red wine.
Aemond sits down with his friends. “Now you are mutilated just like Jake!” Kazi says too loudly, raising Aemond’s bandaged right hand into the air. From several tables away, Cardinal Jacob Green of Iran glares at him.
“They’re saying you will restore the Church’s numbers and more,” Cam tells Aemond, his eyes alight like torches behind his round glasses. “Cardinal Seaborn only told us the bare facts, but he cannot insulate us from something as massive as this. The people out in the square have been chanting your name all day. Good Lord, I can’t wait to get out of here and be able to watch the news and see the posts for myself.”
“It will be over soon,” Lucky says, beaming. “Two more days of deliberation, and then you’ll win the very first ballot. I guarantee it.”
“Unless you go belly-up like that fossilized nun, of course,” Kazi jokes with a wink.
Aemond smiles and takes his rosary out of a pocket of his scarlet cassock. It is red, just like the one you once gave him on the beach; but now the beads are ruby, not glass, and the chain and cross are flashing, polished gold. “I’ll say a few extra Hail Marys to be safe.”
“I’m relieved God has put his thumb so definitively on the scale,” Lando says, twirling pesto-green spaghetti onto his fork. “Now whoever is voting for me can stop.”
You tease as you refill his wine glass: “You know, Cardinal Almazan, there was a Pope Lando once. Way back in the 900s, I think.”
Lando chuckles and waves his hand. “Please Sister, do not speak it into existence, the notion is horrifying.”
“No one can stop Aemond now,” Lucky says in his low gravelly voice, satisfied, victorious, at peace. “You are a living saint. And you have no skeletons in your closet.”
Aemond nods, but is peering somberly down into his wine glass. “If I win, I’m giving you a position here at the Vatican.”
“And I won’t take it.”
“You will. I’ll make you. You can’t argue with Saint Peter’s successor.”
Lucky grins widely. “Sure I can. I’d argue with you anywhere.”
“Lucky, I need you to do this for me.”
“Why?”
Aemond is exasperated. “Because they are kidnapping and ransoming priests in Haiti. They murdered a nun last year. You can advocate for your country from here. You can organize aid missions and continue your calls for an international intervention to build stability there. You can make France fund it. I’ll support you. I’ll champion Haiti more forceful than any pope ever has.”
Lucky gnaws on a piece of bread, unmovable. “We are doctors of the soul. We must go where the disease is.”
There is the screech of a chair against the floor—deliberate, meaningful—and Cardinal Green stands. He walks slowly to Aemond’s table, as if gathering his strength. His hands are clutched together, five fingers on one, only a thumb left on the other. When he stops, his eyes sweeping around the table to acknowledge Cam, Lando, Lucky, and even Kazi, Aemond stares up at Jake uncertainly, touching his fingertips to the gold cross that replaced the one he snapped in half to free you from the burning car like Saint Catherine shattered the breaking wheel.
“Cardinal Targaryen,” Jake says, and the whole room is watching him. The nuns peek between refilling glasses and clearing plates. Cardinal Seaborn fidgets fretfully with his zucchetto.
“Cardinal Green,” Aemond replies tentatively, not knowing what sort of trap is being laid for him. Lucky is rapping his knuckles against the table. Kazi and Cam exchange a skeptical glance. Lando eats his spaghetti.
“I ask that you remember the Catholics of the Middle East,” Jake tells Aemond. “They are small in number, but their love for God is great, and they are so often in danger of persecution, torture, execution. Please do not overlook them.” Now his voice is tremulous, pleading. “Please do not allow the Church to forget them. Please do what you can to foster a just peace between all people there, Christians, Muslims, Jews. There is enough land for everyone. It is an ancient and beautiful part of our world, not a lost cause. Please listen when the people there speak.”
Aemond is so stunned that it takes him a moment to respond. “I will,” he swears.
Jake places his maimed hand on Aemond’s shoulder, and gasps ripple through the dining hall. Jake says: “I think you’re too young. I think you’re too at home in high places. But God has made His favor towards you so apparent, and His judgment is infinitely wiser than my own. Therefore, I submit to it.”
He’s surrendering. He’s withdrawing from the race.
“Thank you, Cardinal Green,” Aemond says, and to you he seems genuinely rattled.
Jake bows his head, then leaves the dining hall. Across the room, Jahoda wears a mask of stoicism, cracks splitting through porcelain. Auclair is glaring venomously at Aemond. Ferarri, his hair still ink-black but his face creased with deep wrinkles, turns to mutter something to Koppel and Nemerenco. If Aemond wins, they have lost the Chair of Saint Peter for two generations. Aemond is only forty-one. He could live another half a century.
When dinner is over, the cardinals flow in a sea of red out of the dining hall and towards the elevators. You and Rhaena are near the back of the crowd, specks of white in red currents.
“I hate this building,” Kazi is complaining to Cam as he puffs on his vape. “If I wanted to see sad rectangular architecture, I could have stayed in Poland...”
“Rhaena, I want you to know something,” you tell her as you walk together.
She is still buoyant, still so relieved that you are back. “Yeah?”
“Look...even if I ever wasn’t a nun for some reason, we would still be close. I would still see you all the time, we would still talk every day.”
Rhaena spins to you, alarmed, panicked; and now you see this wasn’t the right thing to say. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be a nun?”
“I just...you know...life can change, and I never want you to worry that—”
“You’re thinking about leaving?”
And the terror and grief on her face is so frantic that you instantly shake your head and laugh, like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard. “No, of course not!”
“You have a concussion,” Rhaena says resolutely.
“Righto.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yeah, I might still be a bit gone.”
“Let me make you a cuppa for once,” Rhaena says, smiling, and zips off towards the kitchenette on the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae.
Dear God, what am I going to do?
Before you can follow Rhaena, Lucky splits off from the red river of cardinals and approaches you. Your thoughts still whirling, you knit your hands together and bow your head demurely.
“Cardinal Louissaint, thank you so much for what you’ve done for Aemond—”
“Sister,” he says, cutting you off like a blade. Then he leans in close so no one else can hear. You can smell cigar smoke and the vivid green of basil. His large dark eyes are not cruel but urgent, grave, imploring you to understand. “If you care anything for this conclave, and this Church, and this Faith, you will go back to Australia. And you will never speak to Aemond again.”
You’re so stunned that when your mouth falls open, at first nothing comes out—I’m sorry, I never planned for this to happen, I’m burning up with thoughts I never knew were possible, I can’t lose him again, I can’t stop—and he’s gone before you can find your words.
~~~~~~~~~~
Rhaena is snoring softly in her single-sized bed across the room, but you can’t sleep. You stare up at the unembellished wooden cross on the stark white wall, ghost-grey in the moonlight and crawling with shadows, wondering if you are a visionary or a traitor.
I’ll always want to help people, but I don’t have to be a nun to do that, you cannot stop thinking, voices in your skull like the intercessions of angels or saints. I could work for a women’s shelter, I could go back to school to be a social worker, I could be a foster parent, I could work at the Asylum Seekers Centre in Sydney.
And you could have a lover, a boyfriend, a husband, words you once thought would never again hold significance for you. You were a bride of Christ, the man of no vices, no deceptions and no pain and no threats. But now...
I don’t just want a chance to find someone. I want Aemond.
As quietly as you can, you climb out of bed, slide on your white wool slippers, and sneak out of the bedroom without disturbing Rhaena. In the hallway, the yellow incandescent lights are bright and the air is still and silent, the dry heat of the furnace, the cold sand-colored marble tile of the floor. You meander towards the kitchenette to fix yourself a cuppa, something herbal and caffeine-free, maybe chamomile or peppermint. Yes, peppermint would be Christmasy.
As the clock ticks on the wall, you sit alone sipping your tea at the same table where Sister Augustina died, and if she had lived then it would have been her accompanying Cardinal Bogdi Marcu to the airport, and you would never have been trapped in the car, and Aemond wouldn’t have been waiting by the gate to hear the crash and the panic of the crowd, and there would be no second miracle, and news of it would not have spread to cover the world like the flood Noah withstood in his ark, and Aemond’s victory in less than three days would not be all but assured.
What happens to me if he wins?
You’ll fly home to Australia with Rhaena, and you’ll spend the rest of the holiday season at the convent with Mother Maureen and all the other sisters, lighting candles, wrapping presents, baking bikkies, cooking ham and prawns and mince pies and Christmas pudding, playing games, singing the songs you miss so much here on the hushed island of seclusion...and then you’ll decide what to do next.
What happens to the world if he wins? Is it better, or is it worse?
Your peppermint tea is gone, but you are no closer to sleep. You wander out of the kitchenette, down the hall, and into an elevator. You are wearing only your pajamas—white with red and green stripes, and the crimson silhouette of flying reindeer—but no one else is awake to see you out of your habit, hair uncovered and body unclaimed by Christ. Or at least, you assume no one else is awake until you unlock Aemond’s door to find his room empty. You stare at his bed, perplexed; the sheets are tangled, and when you glide your hand beneath them there is still warmth clinging to the soft white cotton. You lift them to your face and inhale: cologne, smoke, sweat, something so familiar it feels like it has been with you your whole life.
Where is he?
You leave Aemond’s room, relock the door, and give it one last puzzled frown. His room is at the end of a hallway all by itself. He doesn’t even have a neighbor anymore since Cardinal Marcu returned to Romania.
You walk back to the elevator, then pass it when you notice the sealed room at the far end of the corridor, the door barred by a blood red ribbon and wax stamped with the Vatican seal. According to custom, it will remain untouched until a new pope is chosen. The late Holy Father eschewed the papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace—roomy, regal, a gem of the Renaissance—and chose instead to reside here in the same spartan guest house where he stayed as a cardinal, before his name was scrawled onto the ballots of over two-thirds of his peers and white smoke billowed from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.
Fat pope, thin pope; will the next Holy Father be modest too, a man who strips away the gold trimmings and the dignified distance and the erudite speeches in Latin, and fades into the simplicity of a servant? Or will he be someone who reminds people of the ancient power of the pope: an emperor with over a billion subjects, a messenger chosen by God, the trustee of the Keys of Heaven?
By the sealed door is an altar of candles, white and red, still flickering, dimming, burning down to pools of wax in small clear cylinders of glass. Sister Penny, in one of her scatterbrained moments, must have forgotten to extinguish them. You blow the candles out one by one, then pick up a glass vessel full of melted red wax, hot and fluid like molten rock. You pull back your sleeve and then, tilting the glass carefully, spill drips of wax onto the underside of your forearm, where they dry into irregular splotches like blood drops. You close your eyes as the searing pinpoints of heat bite through you, remembering: his palm on your face, his tongue parting your lips, fire on your skin but an inferno below, blood turned to magma ready to erupt. Then you peel off the dots of wax, imagining that Aemond is the one doing it.
You take the elevator back down to the ground floor and then realize, when you are perfectly still, that you can just barely hear a mechanical humming coming from down the hall. Quizzically, you follow it. There is a small gym here in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, mostly used by geriatric cardinals who plod effortfully along on treadmills or lift 10-kilo weights in the bright morning hours. But now it is after midnight, and the rest of the building is slumbering, and someone else is afflicted with your restlessness.
When you open the door to the gym, you find only one person inside. Aemond is jogging on a treadmill, looking not at all like a cardinal: grey crewneck, grey trackies, white runners pounding on the belt. His clothes are damp with dark spreading pools of perspiration; rivers of it pour down his face. His sand-colored hair is wet. The thin gold chain of his medallion gleams against his throat. You let the door close behind you with a soft click.
Salt, you think dazedly, staring at him. Like the sweat on his sheets, like his blood on my lips.
Aemond looks up at you and raises his eyebrows, not breaking his stride.
You ask when you shake off your trance: “What are you doing?”
“Jogging, obviously.”
You glance down at his right hand, still bandaged. “Should you be doing that?”
“Well I don’t need my hands to run, Sydney.”
“Can’t sleep?” Just like me?
“Can’t sleep,” he agrees, breathing heavily. He hits a button on the treadmill and the belt slows to a stop. When it is motionless, he sits down on the side rail, slicking back his dripping hair, panting.
You go to Aemond, kneeling in front of him on the floor. As he mops the sweat from his face with his crewneck—momentarily revealing that he is wearing nothing underneath, vulnerable belly, sparse hair on his chest—you see that his eye catches on the front of your reindeer pajamas, no shapeless habit, no bra. You smile guiltily. “Sorry.”
Aemond chuckles. “No, don’t apologize. I have to practice resisting temptation.”
Because soon he’ll be the pope. “It feels real now.”
He nods, biting the corner of his lip, dragging his fingers through his hair again.
“Aemo, are you...are you alright?” Are you sure you want to do this?
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Aemond says, his breathing still rapid, sweat still glistening on his scarred face. “This is all I’ve thought about for years. For decades. And nothing else could ever compare to it. I was so sure it was what I wanted. And when I was made a cardinal and I met Lucky and Kazi and Lando and Cam...I felt like I’d found the family I should have been born into. People who saw value in me. People who protected me. And their faith in me is so powerful. They’re so convinced I’ll be able to help the people they’ve spent their lives fighting for. But...”
His blue eye flicks to your face, and you know what you see there because it is the same thing that fills your arteries, your lungs, your skull: doubt. “Now you don’t know what you want.”
“You’re such an aberration,” Aemond says quietly, almost a whisper.
You reach for him, your right hand clasping his left, and beneath your palm his knuckles are warm and slick with sweat. “I feel drawn to you in a way that I can only understand as divine. If God brought us together again, there must be a reason.”
Aemond is tormented; there’s no way to know for sure. “For me to be chosen as the next pope by this conclave, or for me to leave?”
We could leave together, you almost say, a thought that stuns you in its clarity. Is that God’s design, or the Enemy’s? Is it a sin or a revelation, like Paul’s vision on the road to Damascus?
Aemond continues: “And there is one skeleton I’m worried about.”
“It can’t be bad enough to overshadow all of the good that you’ve done.”
But when he looks at you, the fear is radiant Aemond’s scarred face.
His miracle on Nea Kameni wasn’t real, you think without any evidence. If it was, he’d believe in the Faith. But how could anyone ever prove that? All the eyewitnesses told the same story. “Aemo, what is it?”
He still doesn’t answer.
Something else? Embezzlement, violence, coverups, a woman? And now there is a stab of envy, the point of a blade scraping around in your bone marrow, the notion of him loving someone who isn’t you and never will be.
“I have a son,” Aemond says.
You’re so shocked you fall over, catching yourself with your palms as you collapse to the cold white marble floor. “What?”
Aemond speaks slowly, like it takes herculean strength, like he’s lifting the world on his shoulders. “I have a son I’ve never met.”
That’s impossible. But of course it isn’t; cardinals have had bastards for thousands of years. Even some popes did, before modernity made such a thing almost impossible to conceal. “Who knows?” Lucky, Kazi, Lando, Cam?
“No one,” Aemond says. “Me and the mother. And you, now. Nobody else.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.”
Involuntarily, you’re shaking your head. That can’t be right. “You were…sixteen?”
“She was one of my Mum’s friends,” Aemond says. “I was home from boarding school for the summer, and…” He swallows noisily, he can’t look at you; he gazes at the wall, ashamed, haunted. “I felt terrible about it the whole time. Not because it was a sin…” No, he doesn’t believe in the seven deadly sins, first enumerated by Pope Gregory I, later defended and expounded upon by Saint Thomas Aquinas. “It was just wrong. I knew it was, I could feel that on a corporeal level, in my stomach, in my ribs. But I did it anyway.”
“You couldn’t consent to that.”
Aemond shrugs, as if it is a weak excuse. “I never said no.”
“It wasn’t your responsibility to.”
“Alys, she knew I wasn’t...” He gestures vaguely, decades-past horror he doesn’t want to revisit. “She knew I couldn’t handle it. So when she broke the news to me, she made it clear that she didn’t expect me to be involved. She told everyone the father was some American tourist she had a fling with. But I knew the truth. And I just wanted to get away from everything, that island, those people, who I was back then. And the Church was my ladder to climb as high as I could...and it’s also the one place on the planet where I could never be claimed as a father or a husband. I was never with another woman after Alys. I didn’t want to be. And then you showed up out of nowhere and it’s like...all the sudden, I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m that kid on the beach again. My whole life was erased and I’m back at the start, and I want to do everything differently.”
I know how that feels. “Do you know where your son is now?”
“Yeah,” Aemond says, and smirks at how absurd it is. “I found him on Facebook. He’s living in Athens, and he and his wife own a shop where they sell soaps and lotions made out of goat’s milk. They’re doing well, I think. They have a lot of five-star reviews. And they have two little kids, Andreas and Athena.”
“You have a family,” you realize.
Aemond winces. “Not really.”
“Do you want to meet them?”
“I never did before. It was my worst nightmare, the possibility that any of them might show up on my doorstep one day. Now...I don’t know. I have all these thoughts I don’t recognize.”
Voices. Visions. Revelations. “I do too.”
He gazes at you, the blue of his eye shimmering as you lay your palm against his cheek, ghost your thumbprint over the ridge of his scar, wish that souls could be stitched back together as cleanly as flesh. “I feel like we both left that beach and nothing was ever alright again.”
“We were just kids, Aemo,” you say gently.
“But I knew that I loved you.”
He stands, hands sliding into the pockets of his trackies so he won’t touch anything he shouldn’t. You watch him walk to the door and open it, thinking: Don’t go. Don’t leave me again.
Then he looks back at you from the doorway, and he sighs, and the weight seems to shed off of him and all at once he isn’t so sad. “You should return to your room now, Sydney.”
“My room?” you say numbly, and you are that nine-year-old girl sitting in the corner booth of a pizza place on the boardwalk, a song you won’t be able to remember drifting from the radio.
Aemond smiles, a slight taunting curl of his lips, the bend of a crescent moon. “Where else would you go?”
He passes through the threshold and vanishes, and all night you dream of oceans and fire and sand sieving through the gaps in your fingers.
#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen#aemond x you#aemond x y/n#aemond x reader#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x y/n#hotd fic#hotd fanfic
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MULETIA
GIVE ME OBSESSED! KNOCK OUT AND MY LIFE IS YOURS
[ btw it's perfectly fine if you don't 👍 I just think it'd be neat and I thought this would be funny ]
𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦
[tfp] obsessed!knockout x human!reader very mild 18+ content
summary: a relationship between individuals of two species in which one species obtains food or other benefits from the other without either harming or benefiting the latter
cw: obsession, yandere themes, possessiveness, suggestive, dub-con (not nsfw), clinginess, very messy relationship, knockout sends you spike pics lmao, reader's pov to knockout's pov
word count: 1400
You’re awakened from an unusually pleasant and long nap by the buzzing of your phone. You groan in displeasure, honestly preferring just a few more minutes of sleep, which, in your groggy, half-asleep state, feels like the best idea ever. You roll onto your other side and cocoon yourself tightly in your warm blanket, ready to welcome sleep back.
Your phone interrupts you again, but you’re determined not to give in. Pulling the blanket up to your ears, taking advantage of your partial awakening, and trying to fall asleep once more. That is until another vibration triggers a small earthquake on the coffee table. Whoever it is must have an extremely urgent matter to be this insistent. Finally, you give up. Reaching for the phone, you unlock the screen. What you see in the notification panel instantly banishes the last remnants of sleep from your body.
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper.
A hundred and thirty-four messages. From none other than the Decepticon lunatic who, some time ago, forced his way into your life. Before you can even move, another message pops up.
You rub your forehead, unwilling to even think about the implications of such a message count. You have a general idea of what he’s after—this kind of behavior is standard in your… relationship—but you still want to know what exactly prompted him to send so many texts.
Most of them are just spam repeating your name, differing only in the number of exclamation marks at the end. Others threaten that if you don’t respond within thirty seconds, he’ll personally show up at your doorstep and demonstrate the consequences of ignoring his majesty. Occasionally, he mentions that he misses you, even though you just saw him yesterday. However, such sweet sentiments are rare. Much more often, he bombards you with seductive longing, praising your (exceptional for a human) skills in the art of interfacing and expressing how badly he wants you by his side to “refresh his memory” on the matter. As proof of his misery, he’s sent you pictures of himself in very suggestive poses, one high-resolution 4k photo of his swollen and leaking spike, and a video you don’t even dare to open.
The last shreds of your sanity, combined with a reluctance to spend money, stop you from tossing your phone into the microwave.
You don’t need more proof of him being a freak. In fact, don’t need anything from him at all, having been accidentally dragged into matters far larger—literally—than yourself. You never secretly dreamed of an alien who’d make it his goal to torment you simply because he’d taken a liking to you. And certainly didn’t ask your creator to have alien dick-pics pics sent to you.
You want to reply and tell him to kiss your ass and leave you in peace, but the last time you tried that tactic, Knockout didn’t contact you for the most blissful two days of your life. After that, though, his sulk ended. When his majesty decided to visit you, he didn’t leave your side for a week, demanding attention and constant physical contact. For someone who cared about maintaining his image, he looked particularly miserable back then—especially while begging for your “pathetic, fleshy, and frail” body.
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Massaging your face, wondering how much time you have to pull yourself together before Knockout shows up at your house, demanding attention. As it turns out, you have practically none, because even from inside, you hear something—or rather, someone—pulling into a driveway, revving an engine as if impatiently calling out to you. You don’t feel like testing the limits of his patience to see how long it takes before he punches a hole through a wall. And you’re absolutely certain that’s what would happen.
Before stepping out of your cozy home for who knows how long, a stream of colorful curses escapes your lips. However, even that doesn’t clear your mind enough to prepare you for the show your unwelcome companion is sure to deliver.
His desire to drag you out of your sanctuary grows with every click, because you should’ve joined him by now. Oh, what an ungrateful, pitiful little human you were. Hadn’t he drilled it into your head by now that such games weren’t part of his repertoire? That he hated being made to wait? Not to mention the audacity of ignoring him for a torturous two Earth hours without responding to his romantic messages. And on his day off, no less. The nerve.
Hidden servos itch to transform and barge through your door. To pull you close and extinguish his longing, to fulfill needs so intense they scared even him. Because during those two hours of separation, he genuinely felt like he was dying—though he’d rather deny it than fully accept the power of his affection. Signals, hints—those were fine. But never an open display of softer, warmer emotions. You didn’t need to know about them. No one did. As long as he had consistent access to you, as long as he knew you were nearby, existing in the same world as him, his true feelings remained locked away.
When you open the door, he immediately notices your displeasure. Had prepared for this sight; knew you wouldn’t be happy, but the lack of any enthusiasm stings his ego. He wanted to see a smile, hear praise. A sign that you weren’t doing this out of obligation, even though he knew the truth.
Plans to show how deeply offended he is, even as your presence excites him more than he’d anticipated. Without regard for being seen, he transforms instantly, mass-shifting as he pins you to the front door. Your sweet scent envelops him, teasing his senses. Stimulating places hidden from the eye.
He needs you. Your attention and touch. The taste of human skin he once found repulsive but now can’t get enough of.
“Someone will see you, idiot,” you hiss. A warning, but it’s already too late for reason to reach him.
He kisses your neck hungrily, greedily, drinking in your closeness. Reclaims familiar territory, leaving his mark again to remind you, just in case it slipped your mind, that you belong to him. Despite his greed, trying to be romantic. He doesn’t torture your skin, keeping a rhythm. It’s the least you deserve - he hasn’t taken that away from you yet.
“I don’t care,” he growls between kisses. Draws closer to your lips, pausing briefly. “Why did you ignore me?”
Resumes his ministrations, wanting to see how you’ll handle him this time. How you’ll manage to rein him in, always appreciating your fighting spirit. You matched his ferocity and determination, completing him. A spark and an extinguisher. Fire and ocean.
“Because I was sleeping,” you reply as if your absence hadn’t driven his processor to ruin. To the point of risking exposure just because he couldn’t control his desire. Your indifference sometimes infuriates him.
He huffs; that’s no explanation.
He’s not ready to pull away just yet. Truthfully, if it were up to him, he could shower you with affection endlessly, and even that wouldn’t satisfy his appetite. Leaves kisses at the corners of your mouth until finally claiming the cherry on top.
“Knockout,” you interrupt sharply, “someone’s going to see you.”
Reluctantly, he pulls back, fighting the flickers bursting in his spark and the wave of heat enveloping his body when his name escapes your lips. He shifts back to his original size and transforms, already opening the car door for you.
“Careful, doll,” he purrs as you settle inside. “Say my name again, and this will end with more than just kisses.”
Ignores your groan of frustration as he speeds off, leaving a cloud of dust behind.
“Do you even care about me?” you ask, scanning the scenery outside the window, breaking a silence that had lasted a while.
He’s silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Or maybe too proud to admit it aloud? To let you into his spark and show you the chaos you’ve caused there? To shed thousands of layers and reveal his most intimate self?
No. He won’t give you that satisfaction just yet.
The seatbelt tightens around you slightly.
You smile, but he can’t quite discern what emotion you’re trying to convey.
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whatever you need | coryo snow x fem!reader
a/n: don't mind me, just eating pomelo and writing smut. i daydream about this piece every and all work day i have rn, it's pretty unhinged bcs i'm working as a gift wrapper for the holiday season and just staring ahead thinking of.... things. i'm technically an atheist, but i would need forgiveness for those thoughts. ANYWAY JEEZ. this took me like four days, help. i'm so insecure abt my smut writing, tho so ooohhh god am i actually dreading posting this. i'll just publish and run away from tumblr for a week. happy reading
talk to me about coryo here
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word count: 7.2k (sawrry)
themes: smut
warnings / disclaimers: smut, unprotected p in v, brief mutual masturbation, cum eating (SCREAMING), fingering, crying, ENJOY jsdfjhsadsd
gif credit goes to owner <3
something strange was happening in the arena. something was being done to the camera feeds that were supposed to livestream every second of what was happening in it. only because something seemed to have gone wrong in the games y/n was stuck to the television screen in her living room slash lounge. her parents were called into urgent work in district three a few hours ago, so it was only her and some of the maids in the house. they kept to themselves, though, and were probably asleep in their quarters at the mansion’s far-end wing. except for the main housekeeper, who was adamantly guarding the entrance of the house, in case anyone came by.
her parents were counting on someone coming by - with the way she was recently behaving at school and with the rebel bombs, they were real worried about her well-being. she was always alone at home, because there was no one to bring home. except the dean, but he came by himself and only to serve his usual scolding and threats about y/n’s rebellious nature and behaviour at school. her parents hadn’t felt such worry for their daughter as they felt now since the war days.
what soothed her mother’s worried heart and mind was the presence of the maids and the housekeeper. y/n appreciated their staying around and liked hearing noises made by someone else in the mansion, even if it was only a far-away creak of floorboards or a door closing. but she didn’t need anything from them, ever, she’d been very independent since her early childhood, and maids seemed like such an excess right now, an even backwards concept for y/n. her family employing them, unable to live without them, made her feel like the rich princess everyone deemed her being.
y/n had felt fine being home alone until the feed from the arena turned strange. darker, blacker, and the audio seemed warped or otherwise manipulated. she’d caught sight of a familiar figure entering the arena – who was that? how did he get inside? who can tell... – and then the feed changed. there was nothing much she could see, but her eyes had been glued to the screen of her television for the past half hour, anyway. all the while she was straining her eyes to try to see who it was, and at some point that figure was joined by another by Sejanus’ tribute Marcus’ bruised and wounded body, and then the feed darkened nearly completely.
she sat in her sofa in an embryo pose, blanket over her stressed form, covering her back and the bare feet and legs that the knitted bedtime jumper couldn’t. she realized the gamemakers or the Capitol were trying to hide something, nothing else could explain the feed changing and audio going wobbly and earning static in the process.
the bell ringing at the front door startled her so bad that y/n gasped and jerked in her position on the sofa. her head whipped in its direction and she watched two figures entering her family’s mansion from the far end of the hallway. she could already tell who the two were, but she remained sat on the sofa, her legs unmoving out of anxiety. she shut off the television and just watched them walk towards her through the unlit hallway, arms wrapping around her knees underneath her beloved blanket.
“ms y/l/n, a mister Snow is here, for you,” the housekeeper announced as she and Coriolanus entered the living room, Coriolanus stumbling into the room more than walking into it. he looked like he was falling to pieces. his breath was heavy, hair and academy uniform in disarray, face just... bewildered. y/n nodded at her housekeeper, extended her arms towards Coryo like a child reaching for its favourite toy and sniffled quietly.
“thank you, Nora,” she told the housekeeper, “please leave us. you can go to bed, i won’t need anything else for the night.” she said in a hushed voice and the housekeeper nodded, knowing to listen to the child of her employers. y/n hated giving anyone orders, much less this spectacular lady, but she did want to be alone with Coryo. and by the look of him, she could tell he couldn’t be around anyone else but her. he was a man of privacy, after all.
as soon as Nora shut the door behind her and left for the maids’ quarters, Coryo accepted the plea in y/n’s extended arms and stumbled over to her on the sofa. “i—i’m sorry,” he said the first words out of breath, in a voice so broken and frail that y/n’s lips twitched downwards and she felt the need to cry, “i didn’t know where else to go, i couldn’t... i couldn’t f-face anyone else...” as he sat down before y/n’s bare feet peeking out from the blanket, she noticed in the poor lighting of the room that his clothes were dirty. there were cuts in his shirt, dirt, gravel, sand... blood.
“what happened?” her voice wouldn’t go any louder than a whisper, and her lips were turning into a pout as she looked Coryo over, her meek hands reaching out for him but unsure whether she should touch him or not. he could fall apart like the frailest glass, it seemed, if anything touched him right now. his face was bruised. there were small cuts on his cheek, blood on his chin. she noticed how they had already been taken care of.
Coryo still took heavy breaths, but finally he felt like his vision was real and not fooling him, and he took in his surroundings. the dim lighting in the posh room, y/n’s bare feet touching his red academy pant leg, her legs pulled up to her chest under a cute throw-blanket in the pastel colour of chocolate milk, her small hands reaching out to him, unsure, unsteady. he lifted his head to look at her, and the expression on her face made his heart lurch in his chest. her glassy eyes – no doubt matching his –, the pout on her lips, her rosy cheeks, eyebrows scrunched in worry and confusion. he could never decline that face. “dr Gaul sent me inside the arena to get Sejanus out,” he finally said, and he spoke in a whisper tone that could only be meant for secrets, “but the tributes heard us... i’m not sure i should even be telling you about this at all,” he admitted.
y/n shook her head. “your secret’s safe with me,” she assured with a gentle nod.
“yes, but dr Gaul—” Coryo began, but she interrupted him in the voice of a faint whisper.
“i know how terrifying she is,” y/n persisted, “she won’t know that i know.” she said even quieter and looked, really looked, into Coryo’s eyes, and nodded gently again at him. he searched her eyes for a few seconds, weighing the risk of her knowing this, trying to decide if he should tell her more or just cut short here. but really. she’s a loose end and she knows it. it’s not like dr Gaul was in high thoughts of y/n or deemed her more valuable than any other student, and her nature played a big part in that opinion of the young girl. how would she know that y/n found out about this night in the arena? she wouldn’t. it would never come up in conversation. y/n wasn’t part of this.
“the tributes heard us,” Coryo started to say as he sat closer to y/n, his body turned to face her, and almost loomed over her. he’s always been much taller than her, and sometimes that played a part in their dynamic. he took her hands in his above her bent knees and the blanket. he licked his lips and y/n searched his eyes, his... stoic blue eyes. there was a change in them, “they came after us and i...” he shook his head, “i didn’t want to hurt him,” Coryo’s voice broke and his head dropped onto y/n’s covered knees.
she heard a sob from him, and it shook her entire form, making her gasp quietly. she’d never seen him cry before. the night on the rooftop, in the garden, she knew he was close to it, but she knew he’d never let his pride down so much that he’d let anyone see him cry. and Coryo didn’t feel so good about crying now, about opening himself up to her like this, he felt disgusted with himself. but he also couldn’t stop. and he couldn’t hide everything from her, after all.
y/n shuffled around until her legs were tucked under herself and she moved closer to Coryo, taking his scarred cheeks between her small hands and lifting his face up so he would see her. she knew she made him nervous usually, but she calculated that that effect flipped around on itself when he was in this state, or one similar to this. breaking apart. feeling vulnerable. beaten down. she looked into his eyes and he back into hers, not really having any other choice. she had this compelling power over him, even if he didn’t want to admit it, and he didn’t want to hide from her. not really.
his breathing slowed down as he just looked into her wondering beautiful orbs, full of so much determination, courage and kindness. she was almost smiling at him, even though she wanted to cry, too, and her eyes were glassy with produced tears, but she wanted to appear strong for him. because right now he really needed a strong anchor to hold onto, he was the one in need of support. y/n took that role mainly in their friendship-relationship, especially at school, when she got herself in trouble, or at home, when her parents were giving her an earful about her irresponsibility and all the jazz they usually gave her an earful about.
last time Coryo and y/n saw each other, she realized he had the ability to ground her. and now she realized she had the ability to ground him, because by looking into his eyes she could see his emotions and mood changing by the second. and all because she’s holding him, and he’s looking into her eyes. he didn’t need much more than that.
and yet maybe he did. he didn’t know which part of him had the urge, but all of him acted on it by ducking forward and kissing her on the lips. he could taste the sweat she had made on her lips out of stress, and the blueberry tartlet she must have had as a late snack not too long ago. and his hands couldn’t keep away anymore, either, they were taking hold of her face like hers was holding his cheeks between them. y/n would have gasped at his sudden action if she had any air to breathe, and she sighed heavily when he did give her a split second of air after fiery kisses to her delicious lips.
he kept his eyes on her as he pulled his academy blazer off and threw it to the ground beside the couch, then came back closer to her, one hand on her cheek and the other pulling the adorable blanket off her legs. y/n placed a palm on that hand of his, which made Coryo furrow his eyebrows and look at her with puzzled eyes. didn’t she want this, too? she gulped, eyes averted from his shyly. “i’d rather we talked about it, Coryo,” she admitted and looked back at him carefully, eyes so un-knowing and yet more clever than most people’s. Coryo tilted his head slightly at her words.
his hands took the bull by its horns, pulling the blanket fully away and welcoming the night air of the mansion upon y/n’s bare legs, making her gasp again. Coryo used the moment of surprise to his advantage and pushed her down on the sofa, sneaking in between her legs like the slippery mastermind he was, and he slid a hand under her knitted jumper, raising goose-bumps in his wake across her stomach and waist. y/n hated that she felt aroused, meaning she felt exactly how he wanted her to, was right where he wanted her, but she couldn’t exactly pull away. she hated being at someone’s mercy, but.... it was Coryo.
she surprised him when he found she wasn’t wearing a bra under her jumper, nothing was standing between his greedy hands and her naked breasts now, though her not wearing a bra at home wasn’t exactly a surprise. it’s just that his inexperienced self was shocked to find a part of her naked, and right there, at his disposal. watching her face, he placed his palm over one of her breasts and ran his thumb over her nipple, which hardened immediately under his touch. and her face, oh, the expression on it was to die for. eyes softly shut, eyebrows gently spasming as she was feeling something very new to her, her teeth biting her lower lip, cheeks turning more red and no doubt burning up. Coryo placed a kiss on her bare stomach, just above the elastic of her underwear, and watched her still as she whimpered for the first time. her thighs fidgeted around him, feet unsurely digging into the soft cushions of her couch—she really didn’t know what to do with herself and these sensations she was experiencing.
“i’d rather we didn’t,” he said to her finally, though his actions were more than enough of a response to what she said, but she hardly heard him now. there was a gentle static in her ears, and heat all over her writhing form. her pure, supple, untouched form. all for him to touch, to explore. Coryo took his shirt off in a hurry, as if y/n might disappear if he had his hands off her for a second longer, and returned to her half-naked body a hungrier man. hands raking the insides of her thighs, he kissed her again, hot lips making their conversation just moments ago seem like the far past, making her almost forget it happened. y/n could hardly feel her legs, though she knew this was just the beginning, and she wrapped her arms around Coryo’s frame and held onto him as he moved his slender torso against her chest. she could feel the bones of his hips jutting against her own, his growing crotch pressing against her panty-covered soaking cunt, teasing her, making her pant heavily and whimper like a kitten.
having her like this satiated the hunger that rose from the deep hole he’d created inside himself, gnawing at him like a big black hole with eager, starving claws. every stroke of his hips against hers beat the monster down but dangled the bait in front of it at the same time, leaving him in quite the paradox. this was more than enough, yet Coryo knew he could go further with y/n, further than enough, and that she’d let him. everything in him wanted to, and he couldn’t stop himself. adrenaline was pumping blood from his heart into his veins, she was available and the only one who could help with the hole growing inside him.
but y/n couldn’t go further without another word spoken. he was avoiding her question, he was avoiding the whole last hour of this night. “Coryo,” she whispered softly as his lips kissed at her neck, tongue sweeping over a particularly bruised-with-kisses spot on her sculpture-like skin, he was an animal let loose. and his affections almost made her forget what she wanted to ask, and she thought maybe she doesn’t really want to know. but y/n sighed, trying to clear her mind, “tell me what happened,” she plead in a quiet voice and it made Coryo raise his head and look into her eyes again.
he framed the side of her face with only a hand, his thumb on her chin and the rest of his palm splayed across her burning cheek. he loved seeing the look of lust and confusion on her face, in her eyes most of all. the pads of his fingertips softly pushed into her skin. “no,” he remained stubborn, and y/n would have been surprised to have him do otherwise. she gulped softly, hoping he wouldn’t feel it, but no, he felt every motion any part of her made now. his mind came up with a new idea as he slid a hand of his across her stomach, making a wave across her supple body, and then he reached her underwear. he knew, like everyone else did sort of matter-of-factly, that women were to be touched there. he knew it was the spot in her with which he could get her full attention. and he also knew he’d have to fabricate having experience in this field for y/n. he didn’t want her to think him inexperienced, which he was exactly, or least of all that he’s experimenting with her—which was also what he was doing. so he improvised by cupping her warmest place in the body, and he felt an immediate reaction. her thighs fidgeted around his waist again and her stomach lurched. her eyes shut, but he wanted to see them, “open your eyes,” Coryo urged her, and y/n had to force herself to comply, her beautiful eyes looking into his again. they held eye contact as he ran his middle finger in a straight line between her clothed folds, and he watched as her face contorted, caused by the new strange and pleasant feelings. she felt like warm honey on his fingers, “right now all i need is to feel you,” he told her and did the same motion with his finger again, only this time slower, making it pleasurably agonizing for her, coaxing quiet whimpers from her lips, “and this tells me you need it, too.”
god, she hated that he was right. at first it was want, she wanted him to stay over, to touch her, to feel her, to do things to her that no one else had ever before. now, she felt so desperate for it that she felt she could explode if she didn’t get what seemed to be promised to her. the want grew to need. she wanted to shake her head, wanted to push him off—that would really be characteristic to her. but instead she brought herself to really look into his eyes and nod in response. Coryo’s lips almost made a smile or a grin, almost, she caught the ghost of it in the corner of his lips before he kissed her again. “alright, Coryo,” she whispered against his lips, “but if you don’t touch me properly right now, i willkick you out of my home.” she said surely, admitting to her desperation without shame and in turn – with pride, and now Coryo grinned. her feistiness was one of the things he liked about her, and it coming out in this setting was more than he could have asked for. in a weird way it got him going.
y/n placed both of her hands on the sides of his face and kept him close to her as he reached his hand into her underwear, breaching into unexplored territory. she was all the warmer for him, and soaking wet. he hummed, their lips nearly touching, but not completely. it was torture for him. he wanted to devour her lips, her whole face, her whole existence. her lips were like the food of life for him, the sounds she made music to his ears and air in his lungs. “you’re just perfect for me,” he confessed to her in a shudder and y/n smiled lightly. his fingers ran through her naked warm folds, just testing the waters, until they found the opening between them, where the wetness and warmth were seeping from. Coryo would have dropped his head onto her shoulder if her hands weren’t holding it up right, but he just felt like he lost his damn mind at how incredible her walls felt around his fingers, and he could collapse right there on top of her.
“Coryo,” she sang his nickname in a beautiful moan when two fingers prodded inside her, beating any expectations she had about this beforehand. they were long and thick, touching every inch of her, it felt like, and reaching just far enough. she was barely holding onto him, and her body was reacting to his touches immediately. hips moving, back arching, thighs squeezing his body between them, breaths shuddering.
“no one’s done this to you before, have they?” Coryo asked, but he hardly needed an answer. by the way she was reacting, he could tell that she’d never felt like this before. y/n shaking her head at his question was merely the last dot on the confirmation, yet it still made him more aroused. knowing he was the first one to do this to her, with her. he grazed her upper wall with his finger pads, being careful not to let his nails scrape her, and it brought a moan from her that he’d never heard anyone make. guttural, coming from the very depths of her lungs, her vocal cords, from her very core. it made him shudder. he repeated the motion, slower one time, then faster the next, all the while watching her reaction. he loved seeing her eyes shut, her cheeks become redder, her lips parting, stretching, pushing breaths and whimpers out from between them. Coryo felt one of her hands sliding up into his hair, and he groaned. her hips bucked and she grabbed onto his perfect curls between her fingers when he reached farther inside her with his two fingers, and it made them both moan into each other’s mouths, y/n letting his lips rest over hers. he’d reached that great point inside her, feeling her hot and spongy against his digits. it’s almost like she was sucking him in. “you’re so good for me,” Coryo told her and y/n whimpered at the praise.
“more, please,” she begged with no shame and Coryo obliged, picking up the pace of his fingers and massaging over her folds with his thumb all the while. when he accidentally grazed over her clit, y/n made a high-pitched moan of the utmost sensitivity, and he knew he’d done the right thing. and by accident, no less. he was on the winning team, “Coryo,” she cried with her eyes shut and he noticed a tear on her cheek, kissing over it immediately. next his lips were on hers again, lapping at her tongue with his own like the starving man he was, knowing nothing of tomorrow or the next hour, just so engulfed in her that he knew nothing else. she was the perfect getaway.
he could feel her body behaving in a different way, thighs trembling around him, walls squeezing his hand in, hands nearly powerless, chest shuddering. she wasn’t far off her release, he guessed. with another press to the sensitive bundle of nerves that made her cry, Coryo once again watched her reaction in amazement. but he didn’t want to feel her release like this, he needed them both different. Coryo pulled his fingers away, once again making y/n cry out, this time in the most desperation she could manage, and she looked up at him with pleading, tearful eyes. he offered her a gentle smile and moved down her body, dragging her underwear with him. down her legs and away, the light pink garment went, and y/n bit her plump lip in anticipation as she watched him.
Coryo tucked her underwear into the trousers of his academy uniform that he was still wearing and returned to her body, laying kisses across her thighs on his way up to her. y/n squirmed under and around him, mewled, muttering his name in a mewl here and there, relishing in the feeling of his lips on her untouched skin and his hands roaming all over her body, under her jumper, over it, trying to cover every inch of her. she hated that he had stopped touching her right when she was closest to that one sacred edge she wanted so badly to reach, he was teasing her, taunting her, testing her waters. it was clear to her that he had never done this to another girl before. Coryo was just like her, and yet he’d put up a different façade.
he dug his fingers into the flesh of her naked hips, which made y/n throw her head back into the sofa cushions, baring her delicious-looking neck to Coryo. he used that to his advantage, licking and kissing at the skin of her neck which he had already bruised marked with his lips just moments ago, he was devouring her with a hunger only she could really satiate, and yet he couldn’t get enough of her. his growing crotch pressed against her bare cunt, and y/n gasped at the feeling. eyebrows scrunched, cheeks and lips red and puffy, she looked up at Coryo again, and he returned the gesture. he took one of her hands in his and guided it down to between them, where he was growing harder and in size, it seemed, watching her face all the while and taking notice of her biting down on her lower lip in anticipation. Coryo made her feel him through his trousers, and he couldn’t hide the effect her touch had on him - shuddering throughout his whole body, eyelids fluttering, he was barely able to utter the next words, but he did so in a quiet voice. “feel what you do to me?”
y/n nodded with lustful eyes, hungry like the wolf for the boy above her. her boldness came back and with it y/n unzipped Coryo’s custom-made trousers and reached into his boxers to really feel him. he had girth and he was solid, she could feel that all with her hand on him. she was making him a panting mess, giving his length a sure stroke, Coryo’s head falling into the crook of her neck and him moaning, though she knew the piece of his pride that died for him to do that. he hardly let anyone see his inner world, his true feelings, so for him to be this vulnerable with her took a great deal of courage. “do i make you... feel like this often?” y/n asked quietly, and Coryo nodded with a whimper as her finger flicked over his tip, pink and sensitive. y/n wrapped her fingers around his shaft and stroked up and down, slowly, looking at his face all the while, wishing she could see his beautiful eyes now, see the emotions swimming around in the blue of them.
Coryo fisted the pillow right beside her, heavy breaths leaving his parted lips, “yes, yes, yes, god, yes,” he chanted in her ear as the pace of her strokes grew faster, and y/n could feel each breaths in his lungs against her own, his chest rising and hitting against her so intensely. she’d made him crumble beneath her so quickly, it surprised her, “i need you, y/n, i need to feel you,” Coryo confessed and managed the strength to raise his head and look at her again. he was too afraid to utter the phrase i need to be inside you, feeling just too shy all of a sudden to say that. the look on his face was pure desperation, he looked like he could start crying the next moment, and y/n’s heart lurched in her chest at seeing that. seeing and recognising that she could make him as desperate as he’d made her. that she could make him small, “no one’s ever made me feel like this before,” he confessed more, breaking his own façade down, and y/n smiled at him sheepishly. she knew, of course, that what he said was true. she knew everything about him.
“you have me,” she assured him and brought him out of the confine of his boxers, making Coryo breathe in relief. he had felt so restricted in his own clothes, “but god, Coryo, will you fit? you feel too big in my hand,” y/n said shyly and bit down on her lip again, a habit that Coryo had noticed her having for quite a while now, and he looked down between them two. y/n knew her comment went straight to his growing ego, but she just couldn’t resist teasing him a little. and when he caught onto it, he looked at her again, with a smile on his lips this time. she grinned wide and giggled before she took his face in her hands and kissed his lips, as if it was her first time doing so. simple, loving, affectionate.
suddenly she fully took in the look of his naked torso, his amazingly sculpted shoulders and arms, his pearly chest... the sight of him was so breath-taking and delicious that she nearly forgot all her other surroundings. Coryo, though the look her eyes were giving him flattered him so, took the bull by its horns again and pushed the very tip of his hard length through her folds, where her warm opening welcomed him. y/n felt a strain while Coryo felt the beginning of a true release, but he noticed her awkward expression, felt her hold on his face falter, and he paused his movements to just check in.
“alright?” he asked quietly, as he couldn’t tell what to do next by her face, “too big for you?” he teased and it made them both smile, then erupt into mad giggles in unison. y/n would never have expected Coryo to have humour in a moment like this, but she was relieved that he did, and god did it make the whole thing easier. she wasn’t worried, wasn’t anxious anymore, wasn’t feeling insecure about any aspect of herself anymore. except the thing she’d heard that happened to most women on their first time – the bleeding, the pain, his reaction to it. those were the few things she wanted to avoid happening. but if Coryo was his sweetheart-self, then she had no bad reaction to worry about. she was glad he was the person she was doing it for the first time with, she’d really lucked out.
“just a little,” she finally answered after their giggle fit while holding each other in their arms, “try going deeper,” she urged in a hushed voice, and Coryo complied, adjusting his hips forward, slowly, not to accidentally hurt her more. he couldn’t deny how incredible this felt, how incredible she felt around him, her walls sucking him right in so tightly, “ohmygodohmygod,” y/n pushed the words out in a quick breath, feeling a burn and stretch inside of her at the size of him. she didn’t have anyone to compare Coryo to, and no one else had been inside her before, but he felt big enough.
Coryo appreciated her arm on his back, her nails digging half-moons into his pearly skin, and her other hand splayed across his cheek, thumb almost digging a hole in his cheek. “you feel so perfect around me,” Coryo praised against her parted lips, and y/n could only look at him with strain and tears in her eyes as he inched himself further and further inside, her face changing by every inch, it seemed, until he had bottomed out with a groan and she’d only felt a momentary sting of pain. and the worst part was over—what a miracle it was that it had been so quick for her, she’d expected otherwise. Coryo could see the immediate relaxation on her features, and he smiled.
he kissed away her fallen tears, but more kept falling from her eyes and y/n could only explain them as being happy tears, though she scolded herself for being so emotional in a meaningful moment like this. but maybe it was just right. Coryo smiled at her and she could see his orbs being glossy, too, and she was glad. it was no wonder, really, taking how shaken he was when he came into her home and sat down on her couch beside her. he was still in turmoil, but that didn’t matter now. he had her.
“can i try... moving? you feel alright?” he asked her in a whisper. this slow thrust inside her had already felt like heaven, he couldn’t wait to repeat it over and over and over.
y/n nodded, “yeah, go ahead,” she said and Coryo complied. she took in the feeling of him pulling out gently, slowly... teasingly. he was grinning, she saw, and she shook her head in disbelief as a beautiful smile adorned her features. and then he thrust inside her again, stuffing her walls with his great length, making her back arch and moans that she’s never made before escape her lips. he could hardly concentrate, but he didn’t want to miss all the different facial expressions she would make, the look in her eyes, while he made love to her now. he made himself keep his eyes open as he began to move rhythmically now.
y/n’s legs wrapped around his waist, engulfing him in her more and more, and each of his thrusts earned him a squeak from her from the movements. god, he just adored her beyond measure. she was everything he needed now, and later, and forever. Coryo kissed her neck, licked at it, as he had before, and it only made her moan more, each moan in its own unique high or low pitch, and dig her fingers into whichever part of his skin she was holding. Coryo adored her touches, they turned him on, and he wanted her hands on him always, they were a lifeline. his hands gripped her waist, her sweater bunched just above them, only covering her arms and her breasts, though barely even those from how much Coryo was moving her.
“you're doing so good for me,” he breathed into her ear, and the praise only spurred her on. she clenched around him, and it made Coryo break his focus completely, his head dropping onto y/n’s chest, where he breathed hot air onto her skin, “i’m sorry, i think i’m close,” he confessed, and y/n raised his face with her hands, looking at him with puzzlement across her face.
“me too, it’s okay,” she assured him and then took one of his hands in hers and lead it down to where their bodies met. she laid his palm over the bulge that had formed in her lower stomach from him. the sight and feel of it made Coryo groan, getting him all the more closer to his release.
“fuck, that’s amazing,” he said into her neck, and y/n nodded.
“you’re so big, Coryo,” she complimented him again and felt his dick twitch inside her at the words, “made a bump in me,” she put it into words and it made the boy nearly lose his mind. then she guided his hand just a little lower and pressed his hand onto her clit, where he recalled was her most vulnerable point, “come on, touch me. we’ll do it together,” she urged him on in the sweetest of angel voices and Coryo didn’t need to think twice before complying. he loved her ordering him around a little, it was much needed tonight especially.
he pressed his thumb against her clit as his hips had nearly reached their fastest pace, and watched as her face twisted in pleasure. eyes shutting, lips spasming, closing, opening, teeth biting, voice singing out to him. “oh, Coryo,” she called his name and he felt it go straight to his heart. there wasn’t much more that he needed in order to come now, and he prided in himself for lasting so long at all, all the while feeling a little ashamed about it. he wanted this to last longer. but since he could tell she was coming, too, his thumb drawing harsh circles on her clit to bring it on, he revelled in them both finishing at once.
“fuuuck, y/n, i love you,” he whimpered into her ear as he spilled himself inside her tightly-squeezing walls while y/n all but chanted his nickname like a mantra. her hands almost drew blood on his back from how tightly she held onto him, and she shuddered around him at the feeling of her own release coating his entire length. her thighs trembled and she panted heavy breaths against his neck. she’d almost missed his quiet confession, she’d actually heard it amidst their joined euphoria, but she had thought it a hallucination.
but that assumption dissipated as she came to and looked up at Coryo, whose eyes were worriedly, with tears streaming from them, looking down at her. she quickly moved her hands to his cheeks and tried to sit up in their awkward position. best she could do was position herself higher on her pillow against the sofa’s armrest, and she gulped. “you love me?” she echoed in the smallest of voices, searching his eyes. they were worried, fearful. what if he’d said the wrong thing? what if she felt different about him, different than what he felt about her? what if he’d said it too soon? what if he’d just ruined all this with her?
but he did love her. he was sure of it. so he nodded, his curls bouncing with the confirming movement. y/n ran her hand over them and smiled wide at him.
“you love me,” she said again, surely this time, in a happy tone of voice. as if she’d discovered the best, most well-wishing secret in the whole world. and perhaps that’s what it was. her favourite secret about Coryo was that she knew he loved her, “i love you, too,” y/n told him before he could assume otherwise, and kissed his trembling lips. Coryo felt on top of the world. he had said the right thing, he’d played his cards right, he’d told her how he felt. of course, his actions spoke volumes, but hearing him say it in words meant the world to y/n.
“thank god, you had me worried there for a bit,” Coryo half-joked between their kisses, and it made her laugh. she pulled back from his lips and admired the boy above her. forehead glistening from sweat in the dim lighting, curls messily falling over his beautiful face, his pearly chest rising and falling with each heavy breath he took.
“who would i be without a little suspense, huh?” she asked and smiled at him again. she could see complete love and devotion in his eyes, two things she’d seen on his face only partly or half-meant before, and only towards herself. Coryo used the moment of silence to pull out of her and stuff himself back into his trousers. sitting against the sofa cushions to do it, he glanced at her cunt and saw it leaking with his white substance. y/n looked at him with sultry eyes and her teeth biting her lower lip, arms crossed over her chest, and she spread her legs just a little further to tease him with a wider look, “like what you see?” she asked quietly.
he just gave her eyes of total surrender, he was waving the white flag for giving up and he took a deep breath. y/n giggled as Coryo shook his head in disbelief and lowered his face down to her center, once again giving her anticipation. “you look so pretty,” he complimented and ran a finger through her folds, making her shudder as more of the snow-white liquid pooled out and coated her cunt, “pretty with me dripping out of you,” Coryo sneaked a glance up at her and saw the clear-as-day lust in her eyes. feeling that animalistic urge take over him again, he brought out his tongue and lapped up each drop coming out of her. y/n felt sensitive, sore, and Coryo was giving her a mix of both pleasure and pain as he drank at her. she had him right where she wanted him. the question was – would he stay there?
his tongue prodded at her entrance just a tad, heightening her sensitivity, and he moaned against her folds at her shudder under him, giving her folds a kiss over once he was done. he wanted to leave most of his spill inside her, only having lapped up and gulped down what was excess. sitting up before her, between her legs, Coryo licked his lips and leaned over her form. y/n pulled him in for a kiss, and could taste something salty and something sweet all at once on his lips and tongue. it was both of them.
“will you please stay?” y/n asked her in her small voice again, looking into Coryo’s eyes. she hoped to not find any resistance or decline, and her hopes were fulfilled. “please,” she plead more as he teased her with his silence. he nodded, and it made her smile wider than ever. he would stay over, like he promised her he would someday. it meant he didn't view her only as a secret anymore. maybe they could even go to Heavensbee hall tomorrow together, maybe hand in hand... “why did you say sorry? about being close?” she reminded him of the few moments before their euphorias. Coryo bent his head low for a moment.
“just felt embarrassed,” he answered, “about not lasting long. i just... i just wanted this to last longer for you,” he told her and managed to look at her again. y/n made a comforting face and stroked the side of his face. she understood.
“yeah, but it’s okay,” she assured him, “there will be other times,” she pointed out and laid a kiss to his cheek, “it was your first time, so please don’t worry your beautiful head over it.” Coryo managed a ghost of a smile just for y/n to kiss him and make his smile more life-like. “you did good, Coryo.” those words of praise went straight to his dick again, and he blushed. she had made him blush. y/n giggled.
“you did great, too,” Coryo told her and kissed her hair, “thank you. i never would have wanted to do this with anyone else but you,” he confessed as they held tight eye contact. y/n’s heart surged at his words.
“me too. i’m glad it was you,” she said and it made Coryo smile with shut lips, “now, can i get my underwear back?” she’d made a joke again, and Coryo felt like playing along further.
“no, i’m keeping it,” he said in a hushed voice, shaking his head and y/n made a playful pout. she’d want to make him think he could keep it and that she’d steal it back later, but she couldn’t. Coryo having her underwear in the pocket of his academy trousers made her feel somehow proud. a piece of her with him wherever he goes. and if he went home and stashed them somewhere in his wardrobe cabinet, that would be fine, too. she loved knowing her underwear was a token for him.
she only said, “alright,” and took his hand in hers, “let’s go shower and then to bed. you’ve exhausted me.” she admitted and Coryo took it as a compliment. he wanted this treacherous-turned-great day to end, too, and she was the cherry on top of it all. he wouldn’t have gone home tonight for anything.
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I love you writing and I was hoping you could write Ben Florian x VK!Reader the reader is Lefou's kid. A soulmate AU where the negative things you think about yourself are marked on your soulmate's skin. Reader only has one or two things because Ben is from Auradon and has a good life and family. While Ben has around half a dozen. Reader is the one who gives Ben the love potion. During the lake scene they notice Ben is their soulmate and tries (but fails) to hide it thinking he deserves better
masterlist
There really is no good place for a prince. They are political figureheads in every sense of the phrase— too young to actually rule, too old to be allowed to skip state functions. They sit in corners of expensive meetings and cut ribbons in front of newly opened buildings, but they can’t do a whole lot except smile and pose.
Shame your friend seems so fixated on capturing one, then. It feels like you’ve just barely left the Isle of the Lost, only bid farewell to the entirety of your prior life experience hours ago, and yet already Mal is scheming about how to best tear down everything around you. If Prince Ben is the best way to fulfill her nefarious plans, then so be it.
The only problem is that you’re now involved in all of this, too. Mal wants a wand and so she’ll take a prince to get there, but as one of her best friends, you’ve been drafted into the plot to catch a prince. Ben won’t have any idea what’s coming. Shame, he would probably run if he had any clue.
Mal’s good at covering her tracks, though, she always has been. You can remember elaborate plans from when you were much younger to steal cookies or cloaks, spellbooks and shoes. At this point, hearing Mal tell you that she’s going to bewitch the crown prince of Auradon into falling in love with her shouldn’t surprise you, just the fact that she’s taken this long to come up with the idea.
Usually, you have no problem going along with Mal’s little adventures. They’re entertaining, at the least, a good way to pass a few days when you’ve already gone over every alleyway and hiding place on the Isle at least a dozen times in the last month. The issue is that you’re not on the Isle anymore, and maybe– just maybe– disrupting everything here isn’t entirely what you want to do.
Mal doesn’t know this, of course. None of your fellow VKs do. Every time they monologue and moan about how they can’t wait to get out of this place, you find yourself holding your tongue, biting back your real thoughts about how the school isn’t actually as bad as you feared. Sure, the constant judgment from the other children of princes and princesses isn’t all that fun, but Auradon Prep has its positives, too. For one thing, you think your soulmate might be here.
What a terrible thing for the child of a villain to prioritize. You’ve heard Mal scoff at the idea of a soulmate, and although Evie is certainly more interested in the idea than some of your other friends, you’re still not sure that you’d find a welcome audience amongst their ranks when it comes to tracking down your soulmate. After all, the odds of that soulmate being from Auradon and not the Isle are pretty high. They’ve all but told you that themselves.
All things considered, for a society with such control over magic and spells, it’s pretty difficult to find your soulmate. You’d always wondered why those in charge couldn’t shorten the whole affair to something more simple– a name on the wrist, perhaps, or an invisible string that only the two of you could see– but instead, soulmate magic went the complicated route. How lovely.
The story about the origin of the soulmate magic is convoluted and ancient, going back generations and changing with each family. The general consensus is that soulmates were created to preserve the sanctity of true love, with the idea that soulmates should be able to love each other entirely, flaws and all. So, when you think something negative about yourself, those very same thoughts will show up on the skin of your soulmate, something like a warning label for what they’re going to get themselves into.
This is all well and good for people with few negative thoughts, maybe they’ll have something here and there about a bad sports result or a poor test grade that their soulmate can chuckle over before meeting them. For you, though? You, the child of a villain, cursed to live forever on a too-small island with the other convicts and criminals, you have had more fears and hated things about yourself than most. Your soulmate must be covered in unhappy musings, which only makes you feel worse about yourself than before. A self-perpetuating cycle of the worst kind.
By contrast, the startling absence of your soulmate’s negative thoughts on your own skin makes you certain that they couldn’t be from the Isle of the Lost. There are only one or two fears on your skin, proof of loving parents and a stable home, and they’re minor things like a bad hair day or a fear of not doing their absolute best. These change, often leaving every few months to be replaced by something else insignificant.
What makes you most certain that your soulmate is the child of a royal is the one negative thought that has stayed on your skin since the very beginning. Your soulmate, whoever they are, is terrified that they will let down the king and queen. Only someone with close ties to the royalty could have such a fear, so it’s proof that your soulmate is somewhere here on Auradon.
So maybe you don’t want to leave this place, not yet. Not until you can learn who your soulmate is. It’ll be almost impossible to track them down on this information alone, but supposedly that’s how the whole thing is supposed to work. You learn about the worst parts of your soulmate, and then you get to love the best of them. The only problem is that you’re fairly sure that if your soulmate is a royal, they won’t want to love you at all.
It’s easier to ignore the whole affair. Easier to agree to Mal’s plan when she proposes enchanting Prince Ben. At least another one of your friend’s schemes will keep your mind off the soulmate affair.
That’s what you tell yourself, at least, but your conscience is starting to get steadily more vocal as the days go by. Ben is a nice guy, which hurts, surprisingly. Although the love spell may have been cast on Mal, as one of Mal’s closest friends, you’re around the two of them all the time. The boy you see is someone that you wish could be your soulmate. He may be a prince, and you may be a villain, but he makes you want to believe in love after all.
You certainly have the capacity for such musings. For some reason, the love spell didn’t take all that well, and although Ben is now compelled to stay with Mal more than he was before, it’s not like he’s totally obsessed with her as Mal had hoped. Mal claims it’s because love spells can never work fully due to the soulmate issue, like having a soulmate is a kind of shield to protect you against that sort of enchantment, but regardless, Ben has just enough independent thought that he can tell you jokes and try to make you smile like– well, like he tries to do with Mal.
The realization that Ben is a genuinely good person, and worse, someone you don’t want to trick, haunts you as you fall further into Mal’s scheme. You’ve been trying to push the whole thing from your mind, letting Ben join your soulmate in the depths of your mind you don’t want to touch, but your train of thought keeps circling back to him despite your best attempts otherwise.
Besides, it doesn’t help that Mal keeps trying to involve you in the plot. Right now, the two of them are at the Enchanted Lake, out on a cute little date. Mal had been making mock disgusted faces at you the whole time she was getting ready, but some part of yourself can’t stop whispering that this doesn’t seem so bad, actually, that the thought of being out here alone with Ben would make for a wonderful day instead of the tedious chore Mal is making it out to be.
Ben doesn’t know you’re here, though. Mal wanted backup in case something happened, so you’re lingering in the woods to keep anyone from stumbling upon the scene and also holding onto more magical baked goods in case Mal feels the need to renew the spell. It’s kind of like torture, strolling through this beautiful forest, knowing that Ben is so close and you are helping hold him under the thrall of this plot.
The storm in your mind must be thundering too loudly for you to think straight, because you lose track of yourself and accidentally walk too close to the lake. You weren’t supposed to be spotted, but before you can back away and melt back into the foliage, Ben looks up and sees you. You panic, immediately heading the way you’d come, but you hear footsteps after you moments later and Ben manages to track you down before you can go too far. Mal is so going to kill you for messing with her plan.
“Sorry,” you murmur, eyes wide when he finally catches up to you, “I didn’t realize the two of you were– I’ll go now.”
Ben shakes his head. “No, no, it’s alright. It’s not like we have a monopoly on the woods.”
He’s dripping water, most likely due to a recent dip in the lake, and you can’t seem to stop your gaze from following the path of the droplets as they cascade down his shoulders, across his hands, and, most importantly of all, over the swooping letters of the fears of his soulmates.
Usually, Ben wears long sleeves or something else to hide them. You can see why now– there are many of them, many more than you, perhaps half a dozen in all. You can’t read all of them from where you’re standing, just snippets about how a villain’s kid shouldn’t have a soulmate, how they’ll never amount to much, things like that. Things like what you’ve been thinking recently.
Ben must catch on to your train of thought, because he smiles weakly, absentmindedly scratching at a sentence proclaiming that his soulmate isn’t worth the good luck they get. “Yeah, my soulmate’s a little stressed, I guess. Hopefully, I can talk about that with them soon. I want them to know that they’re worth it, wherever they are.”
It had never occurred to you that hating yourself would make your soulmate this obsessed. You have no proof that Ben is your soulmate but–
But, as you watch, you can see a new fear appearing out of nowhere, wrapping itself around Ben’s left wrist. I’m not good enough for a soulmate this good. Just what you were thinking mere moments ago. It’s like proof.
Ben looks up slowly, and although you were never blessed with the ability to read minds, you swear you can tell exactly what he’s thinking right now. “Are you–” he starts, ends, tries again, “Do you know who your soulmate is?”
You can do several things at this moment. You can confirm what you’re mostly sure is true, you can lie, you can pretend you hadn’t heard him. You spot movement in the trees behind him, a flash of purple, and remember belatedly that Mal is still somewhere at the Enchanted Lake, waiting for Ben to come back and wondering why you’re holding him here for so long.
All of a sudden, the reality of the situation comes crashing down around your shoulders. This is not something that can happen. Ben is a prince. You are the child of a villain, and the friend of another VK who’s counting on you to continue fooling Ben so she can pursue her latest mad plan. There is no world in which this works out.
So, you force a smile, banishing all thoughts back into the deep recesses of your brain once more. “No,” you say, “I don’t know. I think they’re a VK, though.”
Ben’s face falls in a flash. “Really? Because I thought–”
You shake your head quickly. “I don’t– it’s not me. I think Mal is waiting for you, though. You shouldn’t keep her for long.”
Ben glances back over his shoulder in memory of the girl he’s left somewhere in the woods behind him, and when he looks back, you’re gone. You’re good at running. It’s a skill you’ve perfected over the years. You just never thought you’d have to use it now.
Prince Ben is your soulmate. Impossible. True. Mal comes back later that afternoon, tells you the date went splendidly despite your accidental intrusion. Ben must not have let the brief moment in the woods faze him for long. It hurts more than you care to admit.
There is only so much running a VK can do, try as they might to pretend otherwise. You avoid Ben at all costs, hoping that whatever foolish war is currently being fought inside your heart will come to a tolerable ceasefire if you just ignore it long enough. Mal tells you that the plan is going swimmingly, she’s never seen the prince more excited about the VKs and the upcoming coronation. You nod and smile and tell her that you’re glad everything is going to plan, but inside, you cannot seem to stop your mind from screaming.
And then, all of a sudden, despite your best attempts to remain out of sight, Prince Ben finds you. It’s completely out of the blue, so casual that you almost don’t realize it’s happening until he’s sitting down at your table in the library and it’s too late to run.
You feel like an animal caught in a trap. He’s just smiling like nothing is the matter. “I know it’s you,” he says by way of hello.
Your heart is stuck in your throat. “What?”
“I know it’s you,” Ben repeats, “I know you’re my soulmate. I had the Fairy Godmother do a little spell so I could check for you, but I think I knew since that day at the lake.”
You frown. “You can do that?”
He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “Not everyone can, I think. But I, uh, insisted.”
You grin. “Prince privileges?”
“Something like that.” He’s smiling, though, maybe pleased that you’re not trying to run off this time. “But you knew even without the spell, didn’t you?”
That does shake your uncertain sense of calm. “Yes,” you admit, “but I didn’t think you— I didn’t think it would work out.”
The look on Ben’s face is genuinely heartbreaking. “What, just because I’m a prince?”
He says it so casually, it’s almost funny. “Yes, Ben, because you’re a prince and I’m a VK. I mean, my dad was Lefou. He literally tried to ruin the happy ever after of your parents, why would you want someone like me to be your soulmate?”
“Same reason you shouldn’t be afraid to want me. You’re not your father, Y/N, and I’m not my parents. We’re just us, and I know that I want you to be my soulmate. I have since the start. I was hoping you would tell me you knew, but after a few days went by and you still said nothing, I figured I had to take matters into my own hands. Even if that meant using a spell or two.”
You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to laugh in your face and tell you it’s ridiculous to think that he would ever want a VK as a soulmate, but he doesn’t. In fact, you don’t think he ever will. As impossible as it seems, Ben wants someone who isn’t from a perfect fairy tale. He wants you. And that, lovely and wonderful and absolutely crazy, sounds like a fairly good happily ever after for you.
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i threw a party 4 u
based on “party 4 u” by Charli XCX
second person POV / angst / no happy ending
pairing : paige bueckers x fem!reader
sorry it’s so short, i’m having an writer overload (i have way too many ideas that need to get out of my brain) but hopefully you enjoy this
You started setting up the party around noon.
Which was ridiculous—no one shows up until ten, maybe ten-thirty if they’re actually trying to pregame. But there you were, adjusting the angle of the string lights, placing drinks in perfect symmetry in the cooler, double-checking the playlist like it was a setlist for your own private concert.
No one knew how long you spent on that playlist.
Three hours. Fifty-seven songs. All curated with her in mind.
Songs she liked. Songs you two laughed to. And one song you weren’t sure she even knew—“party 4 u”—but you’d added it last. Quietly. Like a secret message at the bottom of a letter you weren’t brave enough to sign.
You cleaned the apartment top to bottom. Fluffed couch pillows no one would sit on. Made little snack plates you knew would be devoured within minutes and appreciated by exactly zero people.
You even picked out your hoodie carefully—something that made you feel like you might be seen. Not hot. Not flashy. Just… visible.
You didn’t want to admit it to yourself, but this wasn’t a party for everyone.
It wasn’t even really for the team.
It was for her.
Paige.
Every light you hung, every drink you poured, every breath you took today—all of it was stitched together with her name running through it like thread.
⸻
At around 3:07 p.m., you texted her.
you
you still thinking of coming tonight?
She didn’t respond until 7:41.
paige
might
One word.
Five letters.
And it made your heart do a flip it had no business doing. You told yourself not to care. She was busy. She was Paige. She had other things going on. You weren’t her girlfriend. You weren’t even really her friend, the two of you really only talked when you needed to. (which is basically just on the court or team bonding days)
But she had smiled at you two days ago after practice, told you your spin move was “kinda filthy.”
That meant something. Right?
Right?
By 9:30, people had started to trickle in. You offered drinks, hugged a few people, smiled in all the right places.
No one noticed you checking the door every two minutes.
Or how you flinched every time a blonde girl walked in.
Or how your shoulders dropped when it wasn’t her.
They laughed, posed for pictures, snapped videos with flash, asked who made the playlist. You played host like a pro, but you were fading at the edges. Smiling on autopilot. Holding your cup like it might give your hands something better to do than tremble.
You stood near the door once, for a little too long. Someone joked, “Waiting for your sneaky link?”
You laughed. “Something like that.”
Only it wasn’t sneaky.
It wasn’t even mutual.
It was a quiet crush, stretching itself across every nerve in your body. A slow-burning obsession you pretended was casual. An entire party you swore was spontaneous—except you’d planned it with her in mind from the moment you bought the first bag of ice.
She wasn’t coming.
You were almost sure of it now.
But a part of you held on anyway. That little piece of you that couldn’t let go, that rewound conversations for clues, that read into glances that probably meant nothing.
You had no proof she felt anything for you.
But you’d built this night around her like she was your gravity.
⸻
“I only threw this party for you…”
The song was coming up in the queue soon. You could feel it. Like something waiting just around the corner.
And that’s when the door creaked open.
There she was.
Looking beautiful as ever.
Her hair was down, falling in those soft waves that always made you weak. She was stunning. Magnetic. You were struck — so struck that you didn’t even notice someone else standing just behind her.
Until you did.
And your face dropped.
The girl was about her height. Brunette hair pulled back into a neat bun. They were standing close — too close. You froze in the middle of the room, confusion tightening across your features. People still surrounded you, dancing, laughing, talking but they blurred into nothing. Background noise to the wreckage happening in front of you.
You watched them.
The way the girl leaned in toward Paige.
The way Paige tilted her head back with a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Watch me party on you, yeah…”
The lyrics hit just as your stomach sank.
Your eyes stayed glued to them. They looked so comfortable together. Like this wasn’t new.
Then—
Confusion turned to hurt. Fast. Violent.
Because they were kissing.
Paige’s hands found the girl’s waist. The girl’s arms looped around Paige’s neck like she belonged there.
And your breath caught in your throat.
“Party on you, party on you, party on—”
Your heart plummeted. Lips quivering. Fingers trembling. You felt the sting before the tears even formed.
She was kissing someone else.
Someone who wasn’t you.
And they didn’t stop.
It wasn’t a polite kiss. It was full-on, like they forgot the room around them existed. Like you didn’t exist.
Your throat tightened, hot with shame. Your eyebrows pulled together in silent pain. You wanted to look away — but you didn’t. You couldn’t.
You just stood there.
Breaking.
The music pulsed on, cruel and ironic, haunting you:
“Party on you, party on you…”
Before she could notice the devastation written all over your face. Because God forbid she saw what she’d done to you and felt nothing.
You pushed past people, out of the room, through the hallway, into the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you.
And then?
Silence.
Except for the faint pulse of music bleeding through the walls, and the sound of your own shaky breathing.
You gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, blinking at your reflection.
Eyes glassy. Lips trembling.
She didn’t love you. Maybe she never even noticed you.
But you had noticed her.
And now you’d remember this — the moment your fantasy crumbled — every time that song played.
Because that party?
It was for her.
But the heartbreak?
That was yours to keep.
#Spotify#paige bueckers#uconn huskies#paige bueckers fic#paige bueckers x reader#uconn women’s basketball
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𓆩𖥟𓆪 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐑 — Geto is a thoughtful leader who uses visual resources to help his followers learn, and tonight you get to play a part. #Cult-tober.
< Part 1 - Contradiction
— cw: religious imagery but no specific religion, exhibitionism, emotional manipulation, god complex, public nudity, fingering, unprotected, oral (f -> m), sex cult behaviour. 3k words.
— note: did my research on cults for this one, also based on this request.
“Come here” you hear his voice after calling your name, the tone gives you chills.
You know better than to fear him, this is not the first time he calls you to the main room of the temple — a place that has become the closest thing you can call a home now. This room in particular is already very known to you, so why the fear? Can’t you remember the familiar feeling of the tatami under your knees? What about against your cheek? Wasn’t worth the pain of having your face rubbing on it while your master roughly thrusted into your behind? You do recall his pitiful smile when he realized what the mat had done to the soft skin of your face, right? He kissed it so tenderly while holding you like you were made of glass, a glass he didn’t mind breaking a few minutes prior to that, but now, glass.
So what’s wrong now?
Except for the dozens of followers sitting on their knees in that same room right now. How come you never saw that many people before? And more importantly, why are you seeing them now?
A few hours ago, he left you two things along with a note with the time and place you had to be. Those things are: a sheer black lace mask, very delicate fabric meant for your eyes, the type of thing you could picture a woman using in a ball in the 1800s, and a yukata, a simple one. You thought it was weird he didn’t leave an obi — the belt to tie up the yukata, so you took one from your own drawer to complete the traditional piece.
The mask is clearly not part of it, but you know better than to question him. Besides, the note is clear, you must wear nothing but those things. Nothing.
The room you thought you knew now seems strange and gloomy, it’s nighttime so there’s only a few candles lightening it up, there’s an essence burning somewhere the smell is weak but it’s there.
Geto in all his glory sits in his altar, his feet are up in the mat, unlike everyone else sitting on their legs. He has the pose of a deity and clearly that is what everyone thinks too.
Your bare feet touch the tatami, slowly approaching the altar and feeling the dozen pairs of eyes upon you, the offsetting lighting doesn't allow you to see their faces, which is probably for the best, yet Geto’s was lit up as if the sun itself rose for him and him only.
“Look at her, when I met her she was sick, this beautiful lady had a disease. I tried to look away, she was too far gone, but what did I do instead, sweet child?”
“You saved my life” you respond without batting an eye, your mind feels cloudy.
“Kneel” you obey taking place beside him.
Maybe he is a deity after all.
Just that day you were having a conversation with the twins. They had so many questions, especially after seeing you hurt by some curse, so many why’s leaving their little mouths.
“It doesn’t matter!” your voice rose for the first time since taking them in your embrace “If Geto-sama says it’s day and the sky is dark, it’s day. If he says it’s night when you can see the sun, you go to bed because you sleep when it’s night, understood?”
Sometimes you barely recognize the voice that leaves your lips. Scolding is something you never saw yourself doing, not to the girls you loved more than anything.
In your situation one would assume this behavior is driven by fear, what would Geto do if he found out your girls were questioning his actions? They cannot possibly care more about this non-sorcerer in front of them. Never.
But those people would be wrong. Fear does make you do what you do. Love does.
Only love makes you stay put in front of him when he unties your yukata, love has you looking him in the eye even while the disapproval for the presence of the obi is evident.
Geto makes you sit facing him, his stunning image much more welcoming than the unlighted audience, he’s big enough for you to understand can still see the quiet crowd behind you. His calloused hands touch your shoulders under the yukata, the soft touch is enough to warm up your entire body as he slowly revells a skin decorated by some few bruises, some caused by curses, some caused by gods, well… one god.
“She’s still not cured, I don’t know if she’ll ever be” he doesn’t have to project his voice too much in the quiet room, the hot breathing fans over your face, “But I’ll keep trying nevertheless” he says more quietly.
Geto’s hand goes between your legs and you have trouble keeping your sounds to yourself. His hand is big, and the space between your closed legs — while you’re still sitting on them — and your core is narrow, Geto has to be a little rough to get where he wants to.
And he always gets what he wants.
Your face is warm, breathing erratically but still… you’re not panicking even given the disturbing setting. It’s all due to him, if it was anyone else you would be screaming right now, fighting your way out of this.
Geto starts to stroke your folds with his fingers while talking about sins, the best thing you can do is shut your little brain from overthinking everything he says and taking it as personal.
However, what is left to do when he keeps going on and on about undeserving ones while teasing your fluttering hole? You can’t even look him in the eye, just keep staring his throat as he speaks. Your gasp interrupts him when he inserts a finger, both your hands to your mouth, you were distracted enough to forget this was obviously the next step.
Geto snaps his eyes back to you, not glad about the interruption, yet he resumes his speech so he can go on with his plans.
Your hands remain on your closed mouth, not wanting to make the same mistake again. Geto adds another finger and starts scissoring you, which worries you slightly, you thought this was merely a play for the followers, an exhibition of power, but the stretching he’s doing indicates he plans to go all the way. That and the erection under his haori, which you should’ve led you to suspect his intentions from the beginning since he’s never presented himself to his followers without all the layers of his traditional clothing.
Geto removes his fingers, straightening his posture as he finishes his sentence, he pats his lap and you find his eyes, they are predatory, from then on you’re dealing with Geto-sama, not Suguru.
You’re already undoing the ropes that tie his haori just like he did to you a few minutes ago. He’s bare under the fabric, dick is tall and hard, the leaking tip shines under the orange glow of the candlelight as you align it with your entrance.
“If you can’t control your urges, they’ll control you” he claims, hands behind your knees, his voice is steady but the grip he has on you tells it’s hard to control himself too.
“No person or thing should control you… except for me” the last part is whispered for your ears only. You bottom out on him, needing a moment to recover, not just from the stretch on your lower half but from his words and by how willing you are to let him control you.
Especially when he puts his hand on your head, pressuring slightly guiding you to his neck. He keeps his hand there, caressing your hair as you relax on his hold, like he’s comforting someone who's just lost a dear relative, not a simple villager he spared and is now balls deep inside dozens of followers.
With a sharp pinch on your thigh Geto signs you to start moving, you arch your back and raise your hips to slide out of his cock till only the tip is left then sitting back. Since the yukata was not fully removed, it stays on you, sleeves pooling on the middle of your arms, the rest serves as a curtain, keeping the audience from viewing the junction of you and your savior.
You busy your mouth by kissing and sucking his neck, he gives your hair a discreet pull, a warning to not mark him, guess it would be bad for his reputation if his beloved sorcerers find out he’s whipped by a good-for-nothing human.
All they know — as far as Geto is concerned —, is that you’re his little pet, kind of a 3 for the price of 2 after he took in the twins, a package deal he simply had to accept.
Whatever, you don’t care about them anyways. As long as they’re treating your girls as one of their own, it doesn’t matter how they treat you. Geto, Mimiko and Nanako are all you need to be content with your life.
Geto should limit himself from touching you, his fingers shouldn’t be tracing the little marks and scratches on your back.
“You are not perfect, mistakes will happen, that’s why you need someone to guide you” he talks to the audience, his chin resting on your shoulders as the tip of his fingers run over each trauma and imperfections on your back. At this point — with his dick reaching such a sweet spot inside your walls —, you are not sure if he’s still indirectly talking to you, but something makes you think he’s talking to himself, about you.
Is it such a delusional thought? That you are the one guiding him and not the other way around? You thighs clench around him, the awkward feeling in your chest start to bring clarity to your pleasure blurred mind and you start to look around reflecting on your situation.
Geto relizes something switched in your dumb little head, you do that sometimes, look around with wide eyes and heavy breathing. Suguru remembers the days in jujutsu tech, when he was confused, consumed by the trauma and unsure about his future. Why did you make him remember that? Your chest is rising rapidly, he doesn’t want you to panic, that’s not supposed to happen under his watch.
You’re taken from his lap.
“You love me, don’t you?” Suguru holds your chin bringing your focus to him, only him. You nod slowly, admiring his sculpted face by the candlelight, “Then what are you afraid of?”
You search your mind for all the reasons to be afraid right now, shouldn’t be hard, all you need is to look around and remember why you’re here.
Yet his hazel eyes don’t allow you to find any of those reasons, somehow your heart doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
“Don’t you trust me?” he rubs your chin and you nod again, “Show me” you blink confusingly, “Show me how much you love me.”
You’re sitting on your knees as your eyes trail down where his member is still hard, it glistens with your juices and throbs slightly, the sight is too irresistible.
So you bow to your savior, taking him fully into your mouth, the position giving the closest thing to a privacy moment, where you could pretend it’s just you and Suguru like in the late nights in his chamber.
“There you go” he sighs happily patting your head, not putting any pressure, like what you’re doing is not sexual at all.
It’s merely a form of adoration. And Geto deserves being adored.
Naturally, you take him as deep as you possibly can, focusing your best in worshiping every inch of his skin, putting as much love into it as you can, not even minding the emptiness on your lower half or how you’re dripping on the mat.
There’s a buzz in your ear, you know Geto is talking, finishing his speech probably, but you can’t actually hear him, feels like hearing someone talking from a distance.
The last thing you remember is the hot shot on the back of your throat and the member twitching in your mouth. You think you heard Geto moan, which brings a weird feeling in your stomach since, as far as you know, you’re supposed to be the only one to hear that. His thumb goes to your chin, whipping the saliva and cum, pushing you to release him, you do, but you keep kissing his soft length until the smell of him mixed with the candles and something only this room had made you black out.
Phenomenal.
A word that resumes what Geto thinks about your performance tonight. If he gave you a script it wouldn’t have played out so perfectly.
Sometimes Geto underestimates how willing you are to be controlled by him.
When everything is done, he takes you into his arms, after wrapping the Yukata back around your body, he raises to his feet and steps down from his small stage carrying you.
There’s a door behind the stage, passing the curtains, which he usually uses as entrance and exit. Yet that night he feels like walking through the audience, with a pretty little thing unconscious on his mighty arms and a bunch of loyal followers bowing on his feet he experiences being, truly, a god.
#— cult-tober#geto x reader#geto x female reader#geto suguru#suguru x y/n#cult leader!geto#geto smut#jjk x reader#jjk smut#geto x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut
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3 times hiccup asked you to marry him + the time you realized he meant it
hello! this was an early draft for this request: Hello!!! Imagine hiccup telling reader "I'm in love with you" / "Marry me" out of blue after a stare down (can be established relationship or not muahahaha) I like how this turned out, except for the ending. it's sort of shitty in my opinion. also, this isn't proofread. and sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language. feel free to point them out. also, there’s a slight corpse bride reference with the vows!! as always, thank you for reading. let me know what you think and if you'd like more of this. requests are always open!
1.
Snoggletog was one of your favorite festivities. The beautiful coat of snow that hugged the soil, and the way the sunlight softly reflected on it was perfect to you. You loved to see how vikings busied themselves by hanging up ornaments and mistletoe on the doors. You loved hearing the out-of-tune carols that echoed across Berk. And you loved the late cold nights as you and the dragon riders sat around a warm fire and talked about the day’s happenings.
One thing you did not love though, was the Snoggletog play, specially because it had been assigned to you all this year. It was the dragon riders’ responsibility to plan, organize and act it out the day of Snoggletog.
“What about the start of dragon races?” Snoutlout suggested.
“They did that two years ago,” Astrid replied as she sharpened her axe.
“We could do Loki-”
“We’re not doing Loki day Tuffnut,” Hiccup interrupted him.
A moment of silence passed amongst all of you.
“What if, we make a reenactment of Odin and Freya’s marriage? How they stopped the Aesir and Vanir war,” you said while nibbling on your thumb.
“That could work,” Fishlegs said.
“I like it, we could even get the dragons in on this,” Astrid suggested.
“Of course, brilliant idea (Y/N),” Snotlout said as he stood up with a cocky attitude. “Specially because I would make the perfect Odin.” He flexed his muscles and stroke a victorious pose.
You chuckled and pushed him away, “Sit down Snotlout. I was actually thinking that Astrid and Fishlegs could be Freya and Odin.”
“Oh no,” Astrid said immediately. “I’m not good at performing. Plus, you gave the idea, you should be Freya.”
“Alright,” you said. “If no one else is up for it, I’ll be Freya. Fishlegs, are you ok with being Odin?”
“Ye-” his reply was interrupted by Astrid elbowing him. “I mean, I wish I could but…I-I don’t like performing.”
“What but you love perfor-?”
“Hiccup! Why aren’t you Odin?!” Astrid chimed in as she placed her arm around your shoulder while the other went around the brunette-boy’s shoulders.
“Uh…I-I guess,” Hiccup said.
Astrid grinned while looking at you, “Great! It’s settled then!”
“Why would you do that?!” you shrieked as you pressed the palm of your hands to your eyes.
Astrid, who sat next to you overlooking Berk from a nearby cliff, shrugged, “Oh I don’t know. Maybe because I’m tired of you two beating around the bush. Why don’t you kiss already? It’s obvious you want to.”
“Shut up Astrid,” you said while sitting up. You rubbed your hands together to provide some heat to your body. “I’m not even sure if he likes me.”
“You’re as blind as Gothi is mute,” she replied.
“How can you be so sure? Has he said anything about me?”
“You’re hopeless Y/N.”
The days went by, and Snoggletog drew closer and closer. Right after training, you went to rehearsals, and while most of it went by in fits of laughter and jokes, you all managed to build a production. You often tended to practice with Hiccup, since you had the most line together, and it gave you an excuse to spend more time with him. During this period, you had managed to gain some small victories in the love department, holding his hand, dancing with him, and hearing him laugh while you acted out some of your scenes being some. However, there was something you both had been avoiding: the marriage kiss. It made your heart flutter and your stomach swarm with butterflies every time you though about the possibility of kissing him; on the other hand, it also felt like Gronkle iron swishing around your intestines. What if he didn’t want to kiss you? What if he just did it out of pity?
Your mind was plagued with questions up until the big day.
“Good luck,” Astrid said while she gave you a knowing look. She was looking forward to the kiss, and if what she had told you was true, all of the dragon riders were too.
The play started out good, Snotlout and Tuffnut played the Aesir family, while Ruffnut and Fishlegs played the Vanir.
The scene changed and the Aesir were complaining with Hiccup about how Freya’s magic and her help towards the Vanir was the reason for their shortcomings.
I was then your time to appear. After several attempts from the Aesir to try to kill Freya, you and Odin came to an agreement: you were to marry each other.
“Marry me,” said Hiccup. And as you looked into his eyes your breath hitched. He had a smile plastered on his face, and his eyes gleamed.
“I will marry you,” you replied as you offered him your hand and he put the ring on your nuptial finger.
The scene was supposed to end there, you were about to take a step backwards so that the actual marriage scene could take place, however you felt a hand wrap around your wrist, and before you knew it you were being kissed. You were being kissed by Hiccup Haddock.
Your shock was palpable, however you dissolved into the kiss once the initial incredulity had passed. Once Hiccup felt the kiss was reciprocal, he wrapped his arms around your waist and drew you closer.
2 .
Dragon racing was a hefty sport. Ever since it was created, it became a fan favorite amongst Berkians. Once every full moon, a match was held that was sure to be the talk of the town for at least a week. On summer and winter solstice, you held the dragon riding tournament, that usually lasted for about a week; except for that one time when the black sheep had wondered deep into the woods, and you weren’t able to find it for two days.
Point of the matter is, dragon racing was a serious issue for vikings. And that’s why victories where celebrated so grandly. You never particularly cared for the celebrations, however wining was important to you; your usually carefree nature was irrecognizable when it came to the sport as you became a furiously competitive rider. This change, spared no one. Not even your boyfriend.
“Incoming!” you called out before snatching the black sheep from Hiccup’s arms, as you held on with your legs to (Y/D)’s saddle while she flew in an upside down position.
“Hey!” he shouted in response with a light chuckle.
“I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I’m not!” you replied with a shit-eating grin directed his way. With the black sheep secure in your arms, you flew away, not a hint of remorse visible on your face.
You returned to your upright position and quickly flew up to your basket and threw in the black sheep. As soon as you do so, you hear the crowds cheers and applause mixed with the blow of the horn, signaling that the match has ended.
Astrid joined you on the platform, followed by Ruff, as they cheered you on and celebrated your team victory.
Hiccup watched you, still mounted on Toothless with a lovesick smile present in his features, “I’m going to marry her,” he said as he took in your beautiful smile.
“I don’t think you’re her type,” said a voice next to him. Tuffnutt flew next to him with a pissed expression -probably because of their defeat- “but go for it. I’m sure my sister would be flattered.”
3 .
“Do you think there are other people out there?” you asked as you stared blankly at the stars. “I mean, besides us dragon riders and dragon hunters. Do you think that maybe there’s another civilization that has been familiar with dragons long before us?”
You heard Hiccup chuckle, “Possibly, maybe they even know of species we have yet to discover.”
“I wonder if they maybe think the same of us. Maybe we’re some strange advanced civilization to them”, you said with a light giggle as your thoughts went wild with the idea of the unknown. “Or maybe, we’re cavemen in comparison to their civilization. Maybe…they know about our existence, and they have just decided to leave us alone because we’re not worth their time.”
“That’s a bit depressing isn’t it?” Hiccup asked, humored by your rambling.
“I don’t think so. I think it’s exciting…” you said slightly breathless as you stared at the vast abyss of twinkling lights that spread above you and beyond. “Just imagine everything we’ve yet to discover.”
You faintly heard the huffs and growls of your dragons, who were entertained by Hiccup’s prosthetic leg as they fought each other for it.
Hiccup allowed himself to steal a glance at you for a fraction of a second. He thought that the view in front of you was beautiful, but to him, the real wonder was sitting right next to him. You looked breathtaking with the starry abyss reflected in your eyes. Yet, you were so unaware of it.
“Marry me.”
He didn’t mean to actually say it. But he just couldn’t control himself when he was with you.
Your trance was broken and you stared at him wide eyed, in disbelief at what he had just said. However as soon as you saw his expression mirroring yours, you burst out laughing. You couldn’t say truthfully that you had never though about marriage, especially with Hiccup.
Hiccup’s startled expression morphed into confusion.”W-What? Why are you laughing?”
“Are you sure you want to marry me?” you asked in between giggles. “You don’t seem very sure.”
“What? Y-Yes! Of course I’m sure! Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?” his eyebrows furrowed in the way you loved. The way that told you you had successfully managed to get in his head. He had turned his body so that it was now mirroring yours, and his shoulders were raising up and down as they usually did when he was trying to explain something or defend a point.
“Fine then. I’ll marry you.”
His rambling stopped immediately. “What? Y-You will?”
You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly. “Sure. Why not?”
You stood up then as you walked around the small island you had stumbled upon earlier that day. Leaving a very flustered and confused Hiccup behind.
“Wait! Where are you going?” he called after you as he struggled to get up. He rambled on as he chased you, asking about arrangements and other things.
“Aha!” you said victoriously as you crouched down over a patch of grass with some wildflowers sprouting out.
Hiccup peered over your shoulder, trying to see what you were doing.
Eventually you stood up and extended your hand towards him. He stared at you blankly for a moment, and muttered to himself, tryin to understand your actions. Still, an amused smile was present on his face.
“Well?” you said after a bit. “Give me your hand.”
He did as you instructed, and then you took out your other hand from behind, which gently held a blade of grass along with some small wildflowers intertwined with each other, forming a ring.
“I know it’s not the best craftsmanship, but I figured we couldn’t get married without rings,” you explained with a soft giggle.
Hiccup grinned down at you, and laughed incredulously. He wondered how he ever got you to agree to be his. “I’m afraid to tell you dearest, but I don’t have a ring for you.”
You sighed mockingly and rolled your eyes. “I know that. I assumed you would be too in your head about your future duty as chief and the dragons to think about me.”
“Hey!” he protested immediately. “I’m always thinking about you-”
“But worry not!” you said as you giggled playfully. “Since I know you well enough to be married, I know you well enough to be prepared for our wedding.” You reached into one of your pockets and puled out and identical ring, which he gently grabbed.
He stared down at you, with a skeptical expression.
“Well, go on with it. Do you want to marry me or not?” you asked as you tilted your head slightly to the side.
Hiccup sighed and then locked his eyes with yours. “I, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock, the Third, make this oath. With this hand I will lift your sorrows. Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine. With this candle, I will light your way in darkness. With this ring, I ask you to be mine."
Once the traditional vows were finished he gently took your hand and slid the delicate ring onto your nuptial finger.
You watched with a smile as he carefully placed it, and once he was done, you repeated the vows and slid his ring onto his own finger.
With your ceremony done, your lips met in a gentle and warm dance. You felt as his hands slid down your back and rested on your hips, holding your body closer to his.
“This is the second time we’ve been married now,” he whispered as he broke apart form the kiss,
“How scandalous,” you whispered back with a soft laugh, as you remembered the Snoggletog performance and how it ended up with your first kiss.
“Maybe the next time we get to do it, you’ll actually be wearing white.”
You stared up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Is that so? Does that mean you’d like to bed me next time?” you teased.
“I’d love to bed you now,” he said with a slight chuckle. “But I’m aware you’d rather follow the traditional path.”
You laughed and patted his chest. “Well, you’ll better get me that white dress quickly then.”
4.
Hiccup had been acting weird all day. Evading you and whenever you managed to track him down he responded any question you had in a dismissive manner. You had figured you should let him alone for a while, at least until he was ready to talk about whatever was bothering him.
He did tend to get too into his own head whenever he was worried, and it took you telling him about it for him to realize he could share his burden with you. But this time it was different.
When you had asked what was bothering him he dismissed you as soon as he could and continued what he was doing.
It had hurt you. It made you think if you had done anything wrong, but you couldn’t think of anything. It was scary thinking about what this could mean for the both of you.
“And you’re sure he hasn’t ever acted like this before?” Astrid asked as she tried to make sense of the situation with you.
You where both sat in the Great Hall, as the rest of the vikings ate their dinner. You however, couldn’t seem to make anything go down past your throat, as worry consumed you.
“Yes Astrid, I am sure,” you replied rather harshly. “I don’t even know where the hell he is right now. For all I know he’s probably off in another girl’s house. Maybe he got tired of waiting for me. Maybe he realized he doesn’t want this sort of commitment…”
You knew that this was irrational thinking. Hiccup had never given you signs that he didn’t want to be with you anymore, on the contrary, he was always very reassuring on how much he liked being with you. Up until now you had never had any reason to doubt your relationship; but up until now, Hiccup had never behaved like this either.
“Don’t say that! That boy is crazy for you. He has been since we where thirteen.”
You sighed and buried your hands in your hair. “Then why is he acting like this?!”
“I think you should ask him yourself,” Astrid said as she placed a comforting hand on her friend’s back.
“I’ve already tried that…” you groaned out. Your voice muffled by your arms, on which you were resting your head.
“Give it one more try. Maybe he’ll snap out of it.”
Reluctantly, you agreed and made your way up to the watch tower. It was Hiccup’s turn to keep watch tonight, so you knew he wouldn’t be able to escape this time.
You felt the heat of the fire before you saw it, and you knew he was there.
“You need to cut the crap Haddock,” you started as you saw the faint outline of his shadow as you were nearing the end of the stairs. “If I did something wrong, just tell me right now because I can’t keep doing this. We’re not teenagers anymo-”
Your throat closed up as soon as you saw him. A gasp escaped your mouth and your hands flew to your face.
In front of you, Hiccup was down on one knee and a small wooden box sat comfortably on the palm of his hand.
“You bastard,” you whispered just to yourself.
He chuckled at that and smiled as he saw your reaction. He then opened the box to reveal a small silver ring in the shape of some intricate patterns.
“My dearest Y/N…” he started, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him go any further.
“Oh Hiccup…” you breathed out as you approached him slowly.
“Please marry me,” he said finally.
You crouched in front of him with tears in your eyes and held his face in your hands.
“Of course I will marry you,” you replied as a teary laugh escaped your throat.
To him, it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
He laughed then, as he slid the ring in, and looked up at you. He cupped your cheeks with the palm of his hand and pulled you closer until your lips met. He tasted tears and relief in that kiss.
You eventually separated and you hit his chest lightly.
“Don’t ever do that to me again you bastard!” you said as the tears flowed, and you whipped them off as nervous laughter escaped your lips.
“I swear this is the last time love,” he chuckled as he crouched his head slightly to help you whipe your tears.
“Not that! Don’t ever avoid me like that again Hiccup! I was starting to think that maybe you didn’t want me anymore…”
Hiccup grabbed your chin gently and made you look up at him. “Theres no one else I’d rather want.”
You laughed nervously once again and offered him a teary smile.
“I’m sorry I scarred you love. I just…I was so nervous.”
“It’s ok…” you reassured him. “I understand.”
He smiled down at you and whipped another tear. You didn’t mean to keep doing it, but you had been so worried all day long that it was finally coming out. You didn’t want to ruin your moment like this. It was supposed to be a moment for celebration and happiness. You tried to make it stop.
“You can cry. I will lift your sorrows,” Hiccup said with a soft laugh as he whipped another tear.
You smiled then, tears still flowing out. But you knew it would be alright. He would make you feel alright. He always did.
#how to train your dragon 3#httyd#httyd2#httyd3#hiccup x reder#hiccup x y/n#hiccup haddock x reader#hiccup horrendous haddock the 3rd#hiccup httyd#toothless#how to train a dragon 2#how to train your dragon
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hihi 🤗
ive been thinking abt jealous winter who fucks you when your asleep because she was upset you hung out with your friend without telling her, and waking up to her straddling your stomand, riding you with an anger face (but she looks so cute)
hi anon! so sorry this took so long, but your mind is... 😩
-x-
brief: After what you assumed to be a harmless night out it seems your girlfriend doesn't have the nerve to tell you otherwise... Not to your face at least. pairing: fem!reader x winter genre: smut with some plot i guess...
this was definitely not proofread.......... i kept writing chunks of this late at night before i slept so ill probably check back and proof it later :)
-x-
One could say that Minjeong was a woman of actions rather than words. Except that doesn't really apply to you since you have been completely oblivious to said actions.
The excessive pouting
The impatient tapping of fingers on the couch armrests
The constantly furrowed brows
Is she stupid?
Minjeong huffed as her eyes scanned you above the edge of her phone, lazily perched on the couch as you hurriedly adjusted your earrings as they tangled into your hair amidst the rush. The corporate wear that was on you roughly forty-five minutes ago was replaced with a black, sinfully - as Minjeong puts it briefly - tight dress that had your girlfriend sinking her teeth just slightly deeper into her bottom lip. As soon as you crossed into your shared apartment, phone held to your ear with an awkwardly shrugged shoulder as you excitedly conversed with whoever was on the line, Minjeong was not content with the barely there peck you gave before you rushed into the bedroom.
And she was definitely not happy with the way you looked when you exited.
Heavier, evening-ready makeup now adorning your features in the best way possible has your girlfriend pouting, still lost in what you were doing and who you were going out with to warrant your absolute best. Phone now nestled in the simple leather clutch in your hand you flash a smile to Minjeong, heels thudding against the floor as you approach her.
'Going out, home late. Talk to you about it later!'
Rosy lips press against Minjeong's as she simply hums in response.
Oblivious as always you step out of the door Minjeong finally decides to speak.
'Who are you going out wi-'
The door closes before she can finish her sentence eyes rolling as she sighs. Shoulders shrugging as she continues to idly scroll on her phone.
She'll figure it out, she guesses.
-x-
Eyes that were eagerly eating up the sight of you sitting cross-legged suddenly narrow at the sight of a familiar face that has their body posing dangerously close to yours.
Of course, in your eyes, it really was just a harmless photo, taken in the interior of a modern restaurant several blocks away from your apartment. Glass of wine in hand you're pressed into the side of none other than your high school best friend.
Ning Yizhou.
Having met during your international schooling days in China you two were practically inseparable, especially seeing as you two both ended up working in Seoul. However, seeing as Yizhou frequently worked abroad you two barely saw each other after you graduated from university seeing as you joined graduate programs within competitor companies no less.
Minjeong has heard countless stories even being indulged in your drunkenly recalled university stories where you and Yizhou may have hooked up before, but she never thought anything of it and has always enjoyed being in her company when you three - sometimes four, with the occasional visit of Yizhou's partner Aeri - were together if she was back in the city. A flicker of jealousy teased Minjeongs chest as she tapped through your Instagram story as you grinned happily beside Yizhou, looking so frustratingly good. As much as she would like to fight the envy she knew that beneath the surface the emotions that were swirling were unable to be suppressed as they brewed into something much, much more.
It wasn't until you came back slightly tipsy and undeniably too tired to do anything else, that when you blindly fumbled your way into the bedroom pressing against your girlfriend's body with a heaved sigh that Minjeong really did think you were completely oblivious to the storm that was was her.
-x-
You couldn't tell if it was the alcohol that was still buzzing in your system or the sleepy haze that clouded your eyes but as you wearily blinked up to what appeared to be your girlfriend straddling you your head can only cock to the side.
'Jeong..?'
The weight that was on your lap was undoubtedly real and you begin to push yourself up, only to be firmly pressed back down onto the sheets below.
'Stay.'
Brows furrowed you open your mouth to speak once more.
'What-'
A warm mouth encloses yours as you rouse from your weary state suddenly aware of the way the material of your dress has been hiked up to your waist, just above your belly button with an all too familiar heat pressed against your stomach.
Pulling away from the kiss you can't help but huff.
'Baby-' Feeling her subtly grind onto your skin your teeth grit 'Fuck, you're so wet'
Your eyes return to her face, barely illuminated by the ambient glow of the street lights several floors below. Minjeong's face was flushed a rosy hue that definitely contrasted the pissed look on her face.
'D-Did I do something wrong?'
Scoffing Minjeong stills herself, as her hands perch on your shoulders you feel the sting of nails pressing into your flesh.
'How come you didn't tell me you were going out with Yizhou?' Minjeong replies with a venomous husk. 'Dressed up all nice, wearing this of all things.'
Her words are accentuated by the trailing of her palms down your exposed shoulders to the sides of your waist as Minjeong's eyes shamelessly stare down your body, gripping at the offending material of your dress as she stretches it away from your skin with the playful intention to rip it.
'Don't even think about it.'
The black fabric snaps back to your body as her eyes flicker up to yours. You'd almost feel threatened save for the innocent - if you could even say that - pout that plastered her face.
'Didn't even pay attention to me when you came back from work...' Is mumbled under her breath and you quirked a brow. You resist the urge to chuckle and instead become hyper-aware of the heat that radiated between the thighs that were hovering above your stomach and those urges are quickly replaced with a different kind.
Planting your hands on her waist you press her down firmly, providing the friction she seemed to so desperately crave as her hips rut instinctively against you with a gasp.
'You're soaked through your panties, baby...' You can't help the salacious grin as you watch Minjeong's head jerk back.
'Y/N...'
'Sad that unnie had to rush off? Couldn't give Minjeongie any attention right?'
Reaching underneath the oversized t-shirt you hum at the feeling of warm skin, gripping at the soft flesh of Minjeong's chest as nimble fingers pinched and flicked at her nipples.
This won't do is what you think as you finally find yourself snapped out of the sleepy haze quickly retracting your hands - much to Minjeong's dismay - as you flip your positions, watching bleached blonde hair sprawling on the sheets and a flushed Minjeong gazing up in surprise.
You idly reach down to caress the pale skin of her outer thigh watching with restraint as she squirmed at your touch with a helpless whine.
'So whiny tonight baby,' You rasp 'C'mon tell unnie what you want.'
'I-I don't know.' She responds, averting her gaze from yours.
Your free hand grips at her chin as you force her head to face yours.
'Look at me when I speak baby,' This time you can't help but chuckle as your girlfriend pouts once more 'What? You were so confident before, where did it all go?'
As you playfully snap the waistband of her panties Minjeong stays silent. Unamused to say the least, your body hinges forward as your breath fans across her ear.
'Don't start something you can't finish baby girl.'
Wordlessly you tug at the hem of her t-shirt urging her to remove it. Sitting upright you watch as a blur of white is strewn across the dark pit of your bedroom floor you smile in appreciation at newly exposed skin, head lowering back down once again.
Lips latching to the flawless expanse of her neck your tongue laps at the skin before teeth sink down enough to have Minjeong yelping. Soothing the reddening skin with a kiss, you continue to tease between her thighs away from where she needs you most.
'Now, are you going to tell me what you want?'
'Between my legs, please unnie...' Minjeong finally hushes out, the tiny breaths she was taking driving you closer to your intentions of ruining her.
'Between your legs? But I'm already here?' You respond, with a playful slap on the skin of her thighs. 'You need to be more specific than that.'
Fingers dip below the material of her panties before retreating up, only to rub at the clothed area of Minjeong's pussy teasing close to her aching clit.
'F-fuck... Need you there!' She gasps as your thumb swipes across the swollen nub 'Need your fingers in my pussy, or your mouth, just something unnie please!'
'Only because you said please'
One arm wrapped around her waist you pepper feathery light kisses across her chest, the other hand pulling the damp cotton to the side with two slender fingers plunging into tight, wet heat.
'Ah! Y/N please... more'
Setting a gradual pace, your lips inch towards a perky nipple enveloping it with the warmth of your mouth. You feel Minjeong's skin press further into yours with a whimper as her hips rocked gratefully into your fingers. Releasing her nipple with a pop you contently watch the blissed expression on Minjeong's face as her lips part with breathy moans, eyes fluttering shut. Feeling her clench around you has you groaning at the wetness that was forming between your own thighs but you ignore it for the sake of your girlfriend.
'Finally happy? Unnie is giving you the attention you wanted so bad.'
As she opens her eyes to your wicked grin you don't miss the glassy stare that is returned to you and the fucked out look drives your fingers to curl against a spot that has her biting her lip.
'Feels so good unnie'
Thumb rubbing at her precious clit, Minjeong's walls clench pathetically around your fingers as she moans your name at the relentless pace you filled her.
'God you're clenching. You know this pussy belongs to me don't you baby? Or were you trying to get me to fuck you so bad because you were getting jealous at the thought of Yizhou and I doing this instead?'
Minjeong knew you were only teasing but those words further fueled the fire that was raging in the pit of her stomach but she wouldn't dare to admit that. Though her body openly betrayed her as her hips jerked up in response, tongue cheekily poking out between gritted teeth.
'Only yours y/n. Yours only!'
'If you were mine baby you'd cum wouldn't you?' You continue to plant open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, admiring the smattering of red and purple that contrasted against her pale skin. 'You'd cum all over unnies fingers like a good girl right?'
You can't even register what she responds with as it comes out as a choked, broken sob as her thighs tremble violently as her cunt clenches around your fingers. The jerking of her hips becomes stuttered as she rides the waves of her high, matching the rhythm you set. Fixated on the sight of her coming undone you slip out of her heat, lazily rubbing at her clit.
'Mmm... no more please...'
Heeding to her words you bring drenched digits up, tapping at her lips.
'Open.'
Minjeong's lips engulf your fingers with a warm tongue lapping languidly at the taste of herself with a content sigh. Releasing your hand with a lewd pop, she's quick to chase with your mouth. Indulging in the taste of her your tongues gently press against one another as you reluctantly pull away.
Feeling the curl of her lips just as your lips part Minjeong reverses your positions once more for the night with a giggle, it feels like deja vu though the only difference was the fact Minjeong's head was hovering above your core with a disgustingly smug grin.
'I'd say back to where I started... But I figured we can skip a few steps.'
-x-
#aespa x reader#aespa x fem reader#aespa winter#aespa smut#anon ask#kpop smut#aespa minjeong#aespa imagines#winter x reader#kim minjeong x reader#aespa
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I swear it's not the Jakolas or the solos or Nic/Luke who make this all so much more frustrating and agonizing than it needs to be, it's the anons claiming to be Lukola's who dip every single time there's something new to the narrative. And then make their departure known by coming here to post a long paragraph of why they're leaving. It heightens every bit of discomfort and makes you question your sanity if you stay.
And for so many to jump with this post.... really? I just don't understand the logic whatsoever. This was expected! For one thing, we knew this would be coming after the photo of her crocwalk in Adelaide came out and people thought it could be Luke. There was absolutely no way that was going to go unchecked and having Jake's black Northface behind him in one of the photos on this dump was beyond intentional. There was also the whole MAFs slip from Luke during the BAFTAs weekend and now she has something MAFs related to Jake on her grid. The caption alone confirms her reason for going was a partnership with Australia tourism and she seemed to spend more time in Sydney than Adelaide on the trip. Then there was everything on the other side of things - Luke's sister and Antonia posting water at the same time a couple weeks ago, the facebook friend thing, the pic of him in Paphos with the dancers, Antonia's winery pics, the Olivia Rodrigo concert, and the tiktok. The water pics and facebook friend thing and the pic of him with the dancers in Paphos rattled some people but many weren't phased when they realized it was another restaurant related to Antonia's parents. And most Lukolas just braced themselves for a Cyprus dump. Then the winery pics with Nic's immediate like and the comment from Luke's sister. But Luke hadn't liked it for days, so there wasn't much reaction. Then the weird online gossip rags confirming he was at the Olivia Rodrigo concert that was followed hours later by Antonia posting videos from the concert. Except no photos or videos came out to confirm he was there and the angle of her videos suggested she was not in the VIP section he was allegedly in. So there were questions around that. Then the tiktok and there was a slight meltdown but in days since, people have called into question whether the singing girl was Antonia after all. So nothing really accomplished what it was likely meant to. Truly, how can anyone be surprised that there was a photodump from Australia? And are we really going to freak out over the polaroid pic? PEOPLE PLEASE! I have pics with my gay friends in way more suggestive poses. I think Nic even has some with Dylan and Jack and JVN in more suggestive poses than her hands up in the air with Jake behind her. I was bracing myself for way worse when I saw people panicking here and in other Lukola spaces before going to see it. Can everyone take several seats and doing some breathing exercises? The overreaction is truly insane. The only thing truly disappointing for me is how this is the first year in a long time that she didn't do anything for Pride month. I understand that it's likely due to the fact that people have called Jake's sexuality into question on socials and that goes against the narrative they are selling (and is just a pretty shitty thing to do publicly anyway), but it's still sad to see something that used to be so important to her be tossed to the side.
At any rate, I am still beyond sure N/J and L/A are going to continue through the summer. The one year mark isn't for another month and a half for N/JD and the two year mark for L/A won't come until November (or at least that's when the first soho pics were from). Not that I think L/A has to last a full two years, but I think more time has to pass since the hard launch at BAFTAs before any break happens. Is it too much to ask that people don't scream, cry, throw up, and announce their departure every time something new comes out over the next few months? Please? Idk how you do it, B, but my patience with the overreaction panic party is wearing so thin.
I mean I can’t talk to much because I say I’m over it every other post 🤣
Logically I follow you and so do most people. But some will always inevitably write in to say their goodbyes and I let them because I know they’re coming back.
That’s what’s so frustrating too. We keep coming back lol
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Thank you to the marvellous @humboltsquid for commissioning a fanfic with pregnant Reader attempting to hide said pregnancy from the Horsemen because she fears they'll buy into the social rhetoric surrounding single mothers who don't know who the father is.
TW: Vomiting, morning sickness, drinking, Pregnancy, briefest allusion to sa, no actual sa took place, everything was consensual, both parties were drunk, Reader remembers most of the night except the guy's face and name. Horsemen are predictably angry about someone touching their little sister.
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Porcelain, cold and consolidated, bites into the sensitive skin of your palms as you grip the edge of the bathroom sink, your arms locked like overheated pistons just to keep yourself standing upright in defiance of how your legs seem determined to collapse out from underneath your weight.
To your right, the loo gurgles noisily, flushing away any traces of the meal you’d spewed up into it only moments ago. At least the sound helps to drown out a voice thundering at you from the other side of the door.
“Let us in!”
Fumbling with the tap for a moment, you bend down, spooning a palmful of fresh, cooling water into your mouth. As you do so, you spare a baleful glance down at the loo again, and the food lost to its pipes… Perfectly good rations… all gone to waste.
Five years on from the Great Resurrection and Earth’s agricultural efforts are finally on a steady incline. While the food situation isn’t anywhere near as desperate as it was when Humanity woke up to a world without excess, that doesn’t mean you’re particularly pleased to see precious rations wasted because you couldn’t hold them down.
And now that you’re supposed to be eating for two…
Groaning, your expression twists into a look of remorse, and you place one hand gently on your stomach, roaming a palm over the bump that lays hidden beneath the baggiest jumper you could find. You’re only too aware that it won’t be so easy to hide the swell in another couple of months.
You barely manage to bite back another miserable groan as a colossal fist hammers against the door so viciously, you almost wonder if the wood will splinter and break, which starts to seem more likely when seconds later, a familiar voice booms out, “If you don’t open this door, I’m tearing it from its frame!”
Ah… That’ll be War; youngest of the Four Horsemen, an armoured, muscle-bound colossus who also just so happens to be one of your very dearest friends.
A friend who has been growing rightfully suspicious of you over these last couple of months…
There are only so many excuses you can fall back on to explain away your frequent and unexpected dashes for the nearest bathroom. You can only thank the Creator that neither of the Four seem all that well-versed on the more delicate biological functions of humans.
Swiping a wrist over the back of your mouth, you lean away from the sink and assess yourself in the mirror, doing your best to ignore the taste of vomit still sitting like a layer of fuzz on the roof of your mouth.
‘How long are you going to keep this up?’ you pose to your reflection, her sleep-stained eyes bearing back into yours as if she too has had the same question.
It’s been like this for a few weeks now, ever since the dreaded Morning Sickness wrapped its hands around your guts and wrung them with a relentlessness that leaves you scrambling for the closest bathroom at least twice a day.
It wasn’t this bad in the first trimester… Now entering your second, things are getting a Hell of a lot harder to manage. To hide.
Slowly letting your eyes slip shut, you exhale through your nostrils in exasperation as a different voice accompanies the first. “Kid? I uh… I think he means it. We just wanna make sure you haven’t drowned in there.”
Strife… The humour he tries to inject into his quip is overshadowed by his hand rattling at the doorknob. He’s worried. They all are. You wouldn’t have thought it possible, if you didn’t know them personally, though each Horseman will swear up and down they don’t ever feel such trivial, human emotions.
Actions, however, speak louder than words.
Their sister, Fury, has hardly left your side ever since Mrs Gaffe tutted at you from across the hallway and you immediately retreated into your apartment, leant back against the door and wept into your hands. She didn’t know… She didn’t know Mrs Gaffe who lives on your floor is also a chemist, and she’s also the very woman who sold you your pregnancy test… and the subsequent tests you went back for when the first came up positive. You’d spent over an hour convincing Fury that, no, she doesn’t need to defend your honour by besting old Mrs Gaffe in combat. Though you let her know you appreciated the gesture.
You try to think the best of your neighbours. And you certainly didn’t like to think of Mrs Gaffe being a gossip, but judging by the curious and frequently disdainful glances other people in the building sent your way, you soon came to realise your secret was not such a secret after all.
You’re pregnant. And the father is nowhere to be found.
You only hope word doesn’t get back to the Horsemen somehow. You don’t think you could bear it if their gazes turned sharp and pointed as well.
Outside the bathroom door, you hear War grunt at Strife to move aside, and at last, you decide you’ve stalled enough.
Shoving yourself off the sink, you spin around on a hell, regretting the action as a wave of dizziness threatens to knock you back down to Earth, but it’s soon dispelled with a deep breath and a second to gather yourself, calling, “Okay, okay, I’m coming out.”
Someone – Strife, you think – grumbles, “Finally.”
Grabbing the handle, you pull the door towards yourself and tilt your head back, blinking up at the two, immense shapes blocking the entire width of your hallway. If it weren’t for the space between your bedroom and bathroom being meagre at best, you imagine you’d have the remaining two behemoths cramped in there as well.
“When did you guys get to be so clingy.”
War’s ice-blue eyes glare down at you from beneath a crimson hood.
You start to edge past them, feeling like a fish trying to squeeze between a pair of grizzlies. Just as you make it past and put your back to them entirely, you hear Strife announce, “All right. That’s it.”
“What’s it?” you ask hesitantly as he advances on you, his heavy, metal boots thudding on the carpet. Before you can react, the Horseman suddenly slings a bulky arm around your waist and hoists you off your feet, tucking you into his side. You’re forced to fold almost in half, bent over Strife’s uncomfortable gauntlet with most of the pressure bearing down on your stomach.
“STRIFE!” you exclaim, horrified.
“I’m not lettin’ you go until you tell us what’s been goin’ on with you,” he huffs, clomping into the living room with War bringing up the rear. By the window, Death twists his bone-mask towards the commotion, his shoulders flattening, unimpressed. “Brother…” he warns.
Fury too, tosses Strife her own disparaging glare from the sofa and barks, “Is it truly necessary to manhandle the human?”
You, however, hardly pay attention to a word they exchange. Your mind is utterly and wholly on the point of your stomach that’s digging into the Horseman’s gauntlet. You can cope with the discomfort, but it isn’t just you anymore.
There’s no thought to the cry you let out, just a plea borne of a desire to protect the little life growing inside you, by any means necessary. “Strife!” you exclaim, smacking your palms against his armoured thigh in a bid to relieve some of the pressure around your gut. “Put me down! The baby-!”
No sooner has the word left your lips than you find the arm restraining you springing open, letting you tumble to the floor. A jolt shoots through you as your hands and knees strike the carpet, but all you can celebrate in that moment is that the strength of a Horseman is no longer curled around your vulnerable stomach.
You don’t look up at the Horsemen until you’ve pushed yourself back to your feet, patting down your jumper. When you do happen to glance up, your face immediately falls.
Death has shifted from his position by the window and now stands several, jarring feet closer, he and Fury both, in fact. The latter has somehow leapt from her seat on the sofa in the time it took you to gather yourself up off the floor.
But more disconcertingly, they’re still. Utterly motionless as if they’ve been caught in a pocket of frozen time.
Gulping, you tentatively twist your head over a shoulder, only to find War and Strife are in much the same state.
Strife has backed up to stand next to his brother, his liquid-gold eyes round beneath his visor, neither one of them twitching so much as a single muscle. It’s… eerie. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them so still before. Death, maybe, but not the other three.
It only occurs to you then that you might have let something slip.
Then, at last, just as you wet your lips to call out to one of them…
“What did you say?” Fury breathes, cutting neatly through the heavy blanket of silence draped over the room.
Blinking owlishly, you turn back to face her, your mind scrambling for an adequate response.
“What… what do you mean, ‘what did I say?’”
Feigning ignorance it is.
You actually leap several inches off the ground when the Horseman suddenly explodes back into motion, storming forwards in your direction and exclaiming, “What baby?!”
“B-baby?” you double down, backing away from her until your spine collides with a solid torso – War. “Who said anything about a baby?”
“You just did!”
“Did I?”
“Y/n…” Death utters in a slow and cautious tone as though he’s afraid you’ll bolt at the slightest provocation - Hell, given the furtive glances you keep swinging around his side at the door to your apartment, he might be in the ballpark. His voice alone carries enough authority to silence his sister, and more than enough to make you clamp your jaws shut painfully tight. “You’re with child?”
It’s strange, but despite the inflection on his last word, you get the impression he isn’t asking you if you’re pregnant, but merely whether you’re ready to admit to the fact.
The hopelessness of it all dawns on you when you meet his enduring, gilded stare.
He knows.
And if Death knows, there’s little point in continuing your efforts of duping the other three. In spite of outward appearances and their frequent, often frightening disagreements, the Four Horsemen have a bond stronger than tungsten. So, with a head that suddenly feels weighed down by months of secrecy and deflection, you lower your gaze to the floor near his boots and give a slow, sombre nod.
It’s as though your little confirmation is all that they needed to lift the veil on any and all doubts.
The shadows they cast on your carpet suddenly start to tremble as an overhead light flickers, strobing on and off until it sputters weakly back to life and holds steady, albeit dimmer than it had been before.
The Horsemen seem to grow in size, muscled shoulders bulge like raised hackles and four sets of eyes flare with an ethereal light as they shift their weight, bearing down on you like toppling monoliths.
“I’m gonna kill ‘em,” Strife mutters venomously under his breath, “I’m gonna kill whatever bastard laid a finger on-”
“-W h o t o u c h e d y o u?” the eldest Horseman’s growl cuts him off. It’s guttural and animalistic, so much so that you can’t withhold a flinch. You could count on one hand the number of times Death has outwardly lost his temper, which makes it all the more alarming to witness.
Stumbling over your words for a beat, you keep your eyes fixed to the floor as the Old One stalks across the meagre living space towards you, his ominous shadow growing along the carpet to swallow you whole. When it seems he’s right on top of you, you finally blurt out, “N-Nobody!”
In hindsight, that wasn’t the most logical answer.
Fury – her vibrant hair whipping behind her like angry, coiling snakes - scoffs, tucking her arms firmly across her chest. “Nobody?” she parrots, “I’m no expert, but don’t these things usually involve two parties?”
“Great! Now she’s lying to us,” Strife barks, pacing back and forth behind you and throwing a hand up to rake the fingers of his metal gauntlet through his stiff, black hair, “I don’t believe this, we go off world for two weeks-!”
“Were you hurt?” War’s voice, though less jagged than Death’s, is pitched low enough to rumble through you until it resounds inside your chest. You can feel his presence behind you, too close for comfort, the living embodiment of rage and violence.
You suddenly fear for the man whose face and name you can’t recall.
“I… no,” you protest, hugging your elbows close, “It wasn’t anything like… like that. It was an accident! We were out drinking, and I-“
“DRINKING!?”
Your mouth snaps shut as Death lurches towards you, and you’re finally forced to tear your eyes off the carpet when his sinewy fingers slide around your biceps and he hauls you a foot off the ground, holding you up to his mask and subjecting you a shout that’s rife with unparalleled urgency. “You know what that does to a human’s inhibitions!” he demands.
His hands are gentle, neither hurting nor bruising the delicate skin on your bare arms, but the power behind even his gentlest grasp is frustratingly insurmountable.
You’ve never liked how easily he can manhandle you. “Yes, Death! I know what alcohol does!” you snap back, kicking your legs and trying to twist out of his grip, “I’m not a kid anymore, stop treating me like one! And put me down!”
You’re aware that your point is all a matter of perspective. For the Horsemen, there’ll always be some small part of them that continues to see you as a youngling. You’re human, after all. A hundred years wouldn’t even see a Nephilim out of adolescence. Not to mention that the Horsemen have all but declared you as one of them… One of theirs - an unconventional, human sibling they’ve taken into their fold.
It's not so easy for them to simply stop seeing you as their little sister, no matter how much you might wish they would sometimes.
As your retort fades into silence, Death blinks, recoiling his head slightly with wider eyes, and it will only occur to you later just how rare it is to make Death falter.
The other three, although their bodies still quiver with barely contained adrenaline, have fallen quiet whilst you stare down their eldest until at last, he lowers you gingerly to the floor, setting you safely on the carpet once again and retrieving his hands.
You’d never dare to say it aloud, but in that moment, something like shame flashes over the dark sockets of his mask.
“Why didn’t you tell us, kid?” Strife asks, the crux of his question tinged by badly concealed hurt.
“This, Strife,” you sigh, throwing your arms out towards he and his siblings, exasperated. Fury with her face set into a thunderous scowl. War’s metal gauntlets curled into bludgeoning fists. Even Strife is idly tracing a finger on the stock of Redemption in its holster, and Death – especially Death – whose ancient magics are still causing the lamps in your room to fade in and out…
Heaving another, immense sigh, you continue, “This is why I didn’t tell you.” Well. It’s one of the reasons, but at this point, it’s a fairly vital one. “I mean, look at you!”
Each Horseman shares a glance with one another.
“You’re all raring to go on a manhunt to find a guy who didn’t even do anything wrong!”
“Didn’t do anything wrong?” War grunts, teeth still bared despite following the lead of Death and reeling in his temper, if only slightly, “He mated with you-“
“Oh, hell, War, don’t say it like that,” Strife complains, grimacing under his visor.
“-and now you carry his child, and he has abandoned you both?”
Biting at the soft flesh inside your cheek, you withhold a frustrated groan and remind yourself that War’s sense of Honour is vastly inflated. The ‘father’ of your child’s ignorance won’t excuse his absence, not in War’s eyes.
Even so, you try to dissuade any ideas of retribution before they can gain traction.
“He didn’t abandon us, War. He probably doesn’t even remember I exist! Goodness knows I can hardly remember that night…” You trail off, lowering your gaze to the floor.
Death’s eyes are suddenly the hardest to meet. You recall your first introduction to Lilith; the self-proclaimed mother of all Nephilim, and subsequently the Horsemen themselves. You know of the demoness’s… reputation. You also know firsthand how much the Eldest Horseman despises her. You’re terrified Death will see something of Lilith in you, that you’d be so liberal with your own body as to end up with a child.
The inside of your eyelids start to burn. “And now everyone is gonna think I’m just some skank who went and got knocked-up by a stranger and… and-… They’re always gonna look at my kid and wonder who the father is. I don’t even know who the father is.”
There are tears prickling at your eyelashes, but you force your hands into fists at your sides, refusing to wipe them away lest your draw attention to them. The Horsemen see anyway.
Light blooms back to its full power across your apartment, your lamps stop trembling, and a pale finger crooks beneath your chin, tilting your head back until you’re peering up at a stoic mask of bone.
Death’s ebony hair falls in curtains around his face as he bends a little to speak to you in a hushed yet urgent tone. “He didn’t…” Hesitating, he draws in an unnecessary breath to fill dead lungs and alters his trajectory. “You were not forced…?”
You wish you didn’t know why that question is so important to Death, why the concept of consent means more to him than it might the others.
“No,” you reiterate miserably, “That’s one thing I do remember. I wanted, uh… it, at the time, a-and so did he. He didn’t know this would happen any more than I did.” You pause to lay a hand over your stomach, furrowing your brow as you give it a pensive stare and missing the way Death’s shoulders slump with relief. After a second or two, you hesitantly raise your chin to look him in the eye again, hoping that what little determination you can inject into your voice will hold strong. “… Look, I’m not proud of it, but it happened. I can’t change things… and… I’m keeping them. I’m sorry, but I’m keeping this baby.”
You hold your breath, expecting arguments, expecting a rebuttal or perhaps even a scoff or two.
“Why would you be sorry for that?” Strife pipes up instead.
It throws you off kilter. Pulling away from Death, you swivel around to frown uncertainly at War and his brother, fiddling with the hem of your jumper’s sleeve. “Well… I mean… I-I’m having the baby…“
When you don’t say anything further, War raises a hand and pulls down his hood, exposing the full extent of his wispy, white hair. “Yes?” he prompts, the unspoken ‘and?’ ringing clear as a bell.
“I’m having the… baby of a… of a man I don’t… know?” you finish slowly, glancing at each of them in turn.
“Big deal!” Strife announces so abruptly, you have to do a double-take, “You don’t need him to help you raise a little human! You’ve got us!”
Nodding her head, Fury adds, “Far be it from me to agree with Strife, but… in this case, he may be right.”
War grunts his own agreement, and when you throw an incredulous look at Death, you’re floored to see him dipping his head in concurrence as well.
“You’re…” Darting your tongue out to wet your dry lips, you squint at the eldest Horseman, asking, “You’re not angry?”
He’s quiet for some time, contemplative even as his gaze roves lower until it comes to a stop on your torso. Then, gently, he replies, “The only qualm I have is that you’ve been trying to bear this weight on your own two shoulders. And while I wish you had told us sooner, at least now we know how to help you.”
“Help me?” you utter, voice cracking.
Death’s eyes dance with a sudden fondness. “Well,” he replies, “As I’m sure Strife has told you repeatedly-“
“- you’re one of us,” said brother butts in, expertly finishing Death’s sentence and stepping up beside you to lay a heavy palm on your shoulder, “We take care of our own. Same goes for your kid.”
You’re too late to stop a choked noise from escaping the base of your throat, but before you can say anything, War steps forwards, towering over you as he pounds a solid, metal fist against his chest, directly over his heart in a show of allegiance.
“You and yours will always have the protection of the Four,” he proclaims.
“You… you don’t have to, you know,” you sniff, swiping a few fingers beneath your eyes, “I signed up for this baby, you guys didn’t. It’s okay if you don’t want to get involved because -“
“-Oh, don’t talk such nonsense,” Fury gruffly interjects, “You’re sorely mistaken if you think either one of us will be leaving your side for the foreseeable future.”
“Fury,” you laugh wetly, aiming a wobbly smile at her, “You mean that?”
The surly Horseman’s lip curls but she merely shrugs and retorts, “I may not care much for children, but someone will have to stick around to teach our youngling how to fight.”
Our youngling…
Your heart squeezes appreciatively, even if she might not have noticed the slip.
“That’s just her way of sayin’ she cares about children if it’s yours,” Strife’s voice murmurs in your ear, and with a gentle nudge at the small of your back, he pushes you towards the sofa his sister has vacated. If Fury hears him, she doesn’t dispute his words.
As you’re herded to sit down, War, ever the more practical of his siblings, is busy casting a rather dissatisfied look around your apartment, making a quick mental note to ramp up fortifications. He’ll have to schedule watches between himself and his siblings too…
“I can’t believe it,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to the Horsemen, sinking down among the cushions of your sofa and shaking your head, “I’ve been so worried about telling you guys I’m pregnant, and you’re just… okay with it.”
“As if we’d be anything else,” Death sighs, roving a quick look over you from head to toe. Squinting slightly, he adds, “Hmm… I’m not, however, okay that you can’t seem to keep food down lately. I take it that’s why you’ve been disappearing so suddenly of late?”
Giving him a sheepish nod, you shuffle to one side, allowing Strife to flop heavily onto the sofa next to you, his enormous thigh squashing you up against the arm rest. “I’ll go for more rations in a bit,” he announces, eager to provide.
“I can go,” you say, “They are for me, after all.”
Burly shoulders bristle in a display of faux authority as Strife instantly argues, “Nuh uh. You’re stayin’ right here where it’s safe.” He grumbles a nonsensical sound, then begrudgingly admits, “Hate you leavin’ at the best of times…”
Despite the niggle of exasperation that begs you to remind them you’re not helpless, just pregnant, you offer him a warm grin and bump your shoulder against his side, saying, “You’re going to make a great uncle, Strife.”
To say the Horseman’s mask almost flies off as he whips his torso around to face you would be an understatement.
You have to lean back, as though pushed away by the sheer intensity of his blazing stare. “What’d you say?” he breathes.
“I… oh, I, er…” Realising you may have overstepped, you swiftly attempt to backtrack. “I mean, that’s not what you have to be called, I was just-“
“-Uncle... That’s the brother of a human’s parent…” His eyes shine like the sun as they bore into you across the sofa. “Right?”
Uncertain, you quirk a brow at him. “Uh, yeah?”
He contemplates that for a second before he asks in a far smaller voice that almost doesn’t sound as if it belongs to the boisterous Horseman you know, “I’m your brother?”
“Of… course?” you blink, surprised that he’d need to even ask that question, “Of course you are. You said it yourself, I’m one of you. Sorry to say it, but that goes both ways. You’re my brother Strife. A-and if you’re okay with it… I’d like you to be this baby’s uncle.” Tearing your eyes off the sharpshooter whilst he none-too subtly coming apart at your side, you send a tentative look up at War, peering at him from under your lashes. “You too, big guy. But! Only if that’s okay with you? I just… want them to grow up knowing who their family is…”
War coughs into a mighty fist, hoping to hide the tiny smile that’s trying to bloom at the sides of his mouth, “In that case, it would be an honour to be acknowledged as the child’s ‘Uncle,’ until my dying breath.”
Always so serious. Giving your head a fond shake, you flash their sister a knowing look and call, “What about Aunt Fury? You on board?”
“Hmph, well,” she shrugs one shoulder, turning to glare at the wall, “It… has a nice ring to it, I suppose.”
You’re not fooled. The way she’s keeps having to wrestle the corners of her lips back into a terse line speaks volumes.
“Of course, I haven’t forgotten about you, Death,” you say, at last addressing the Reaper who is watching the proceeding with a calm, reserved expression. At least until he catches the little smirk lifting your cheeks. “Or should I say, Grandpa Death.”
At once, the Nephilim’s expression flattens, unimpressed. “If you introduce me to that child as ‘Grandpa Death,’ perhaps I won’t be sticking around.”
“Ah, you love it, Gramps, don’t try to deny it,” Strife teases, leaning in to stage-whisper in your ear, “Look at him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the miserable bastard this happy.”
You have to stifle a snicker for Death’s sake. True to form though, while his eldest brother’s fearsome scowl persists when it lingers on Strife, it soon grows soft again upon turning back to you.
And in that one look, shared between a human and the eldest surviving Nephilim, you realise categorically that Death is with you. All of them are. They aren’t worried about your reputation. They won’t concern themselves with the idle gossip of your neighbours.
They’re family, as is the small spark of life steadily growing inside your stomach.
And father or no, your child is still going to grow up under the watchful eye of the Universe's most diligent and protective guardians.
#Darksiders#darksiders 2#darksiders 3#commission#found family#pregnant reader#hiding pregnancy#fluff#hurt/comfort#protective horsemen#allusions to SA
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No Ambassador today, just getting a talking to from Guillidad.
Part 16/ ???
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Ao3 || Taglist request ||
Cato Sicarius x F!Reader
CW: Anxiety, Mentions of sex, not much going on today
Summary: Cato has a heart to heart with his dad
word count: 2,882
thanks for the dividers @squishyowl! Taglist: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye
Cato sits across from Titus, shoved into the back of a too small cargo hold.
Titus shifts in his seat, his knee grazing Catos as he tries to find a comfortable spot while hunched in the tiny seat.
Cato scoffs, knocking his knee aside with his own. “Don't touch me.” he grumbles.
Titus shoots him an annoyed look. “Oh please, don't start. You're the one who suggested we hop an earlier ship.” He snaps back.
Cato scootches himself back against the wall of the ship a little harder, crossing his arms. A small shake in the craft makes him bump his head on the short ceiling, and he groans as he curls himself forward.
“I didn't know it was made for apparently a single, very small baseline.” He huffs. The Ambassador would be plenty at home on the tiny transport, he thinks to himself. He imagines them stuck in it together, her little body tucked into his lap, him holding her protectively, his face nestled in her hair and smelling the sweet smell of her perfume-
Titus bumps his knee against his again, snapping him from his thoughts. Cato scowls and knocks his leg away again. “Stop that.”
Titus returns a scowl of his own. “You stop. You think I want to be stuck a foot apart from you while you go off in daydream land about the Ambassador?”
Cato flushes. “I was not-” he starts to protest.
“Oh like hell you weren't.” Titus snaps. “I've never seen your face get so… so soft except when you look at her.” He grumbles, trying to stretch himself to the other side. He was a bit bigger than Cato, and obviously was having a harder time with their cramped seats. “You think I want to be stuck face to face with you while you're staring off, daydreaming and thinking lecherous things about a high ranking official?”
“Oh shut up-” Cato mumbles, feeling his face warm further. A week ago he'd kill someone for even suggesting he would be distracted by such base things as a baseline woman. But now here he was, doing exactly that, and he can't even deny it.
Even still, he wishes she was here with him. It'd been two days since she was retrieved by their primarch. If he'd known that dance would likely be the last time he was allowed to see her, he'd have focused more on her instead of getting distracted with wanting to piss Titus off.
He pointedly stares at the wall, leaning back and crossing his arms, trying to look annoyed. He didn't like that Titus could read his thoughts through his expression. He wasn't sure what he meant by his face looking “soft”, his face was made of muscle and skin, of course it was “soft” in some parts. And hard in others. Stupid Titus, he thinks to himself.
He glances over at his battle brother, who was staring at the other wall in a similar pose. Cato's eyes narrow as he studies his brother’s face. His eyes were…. Eyes? Somewhat closed? His mouth was… frowning a little? Cato huffs a little. This tells him nothing. Stupid Titus must have been lying to get under his skin and just guessed what he was feeling.
“Hey-” Cato gruffs. “What are you thinking?” He asks.
Titus looks at him and furrows his brow. “What?”
“Your thoughts.” Cato says tiredly. “Tell me them. I'm trying to see something.”
Titus’ face scrunches. “Uh… I'm thinking I'm pissed off and annoyed having to be stuck with you like this for hours?” He says, eyeing his brother incredulously.
Cato frowns. “Hmph.” He huffs, turning back to staring at the wall. He couldn't tell that at all from Titus’ face, it just looked like face. Not harder or softer or any other texturally different than any other time. Stupid lying Titus, pretending he could read thoughts through faces. Maybe he's a secret psyker. Maybe he could report him as a secret psyker and get the satisfaction of watching him be dragged off by inquisitors.
The thought makes him smile to himself, and Titus sighs. “What on Terra is so funny, you cryptic ass?” he asks tiredly.
Cato bristles, snapping his eyes back to Titus. “What- stop that.” He snaps, “How are you doing that?”
Titus frowns and knits his brow. “Doing… what…?”
Cato scowls. “Reading my thoughts. I know you're not just doing it from my face.” He sits up and side eyes Titus. “Are you a covert psyker…?” He asks in a low, paranoid tone.
Titus’ jaw drops a little. “You… you can't be serious.” He says, studying Cato's face, his own baffled.
Cato frowns harder, and Titus lets out a deep sigh. “By the emperor, this explains so much, yet raises so many more questions…” he mumbles, shaking his head and turning back to stare at the wall.
Cato scoffs and turns back to his own wall. “Stupid lying psyker. I'm onto you.” he growls, curling in on himself defensively.
Titus rubs the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. “How in the god emperor's name did you manage to seduce a woman…” he mumbles under his breath.
Cato pouts to himself, ignoring his cryptic maybe-psyker gene brother. He tries to keep his mind blank, but his overworked thoughts eventually fall back to the Ambassador. A pit forms in his stomach at the thought that he'll probably not only never be allowed to guard her again, but Guilliman likely would ban him from so much as sharing a planet with her.
Maybe he'd be consigned to a death oath if Guilliman was angry enough. He wasn't sure there was anything specifically in the codex about sleeping with the primarch's top Ambassador, but Guilliman wrote the codex, so he could likely be found guilty just in spirit. Even then, if he survived whatever mission he'd be sworn to go do or die trying, even if he was forgiven, then what? He'd still be forced apart from his Ambassador.
“Hey.” Titus’ voice breaks him from his spiral, catching him off guard. He glances at Titus, who actually looked somewhat… well, not angry. Was he worried? What face had Cato been making now? Or was it more of his brother's psyker powers reading his anxious mind?
“What?” Cato asks, pulling himself together and sitting upright more, forcing his face into a glare.
Titus just frowns more. “You, uh, look a little stressed.” He says awkwardly, shifting so he can stretch a leg out. “You really that worried about going home…?”
Cato looks away, trying to keep his face neutral. “No.” He lied, “Just wondering what my death oath will be. There's not much in the Galaxy that would pose a suitable threat to me, maybe I'll end up a one man army against an ork invasion or something.” He says with a forced smirk. “So I guess you'll be in charge while I'm gone.”
Titus chuckles a little. “Cocky bastard as always. I doubt you'll be sent on a death oath. It's not like Calgar is doling the punishment, it's Lord Guilliman.”
“Well-” Cato shifts in the cramped seat, “I suppose it depends on what the Ambassador told him. And if he's calming down or getting angrier while I'm gone.” He shudders internally, praying it was the former.
Titus looks at his face a moment in silence, making Cato squirm and frown. “What?” He asks gruffly.
He shakes his head a little. “Nothing. I wouldn't worry. Whatever you've done to the Ambassador, she likes you. And I don't think Guilliman would condemn you to a death oath if it would upset her.” He says, shifting back to looking at the wall. “But you should stay on her good side. If you upset her, Guilliman would have more fuel to exile you.”
Cato huffs out his nose. “As if I'll ever see her again.”
“True.” Titus says, then smirks and glances back at Cato. “I'll tell her you were all soft and pathetic over her when I guard her again though, don't worry.”
Cato scowls, crossing his arms and looking away again. “You're such an asshole, Demetrian.” He mumbles.
Titus smacks his leg with the side of his own. “Stop calling me by my first name or I'll tell her you ran off with a resort girl the second she was gone. That will get you sent to a death world.” He threatens, but his tone is teasing.
Cato rolls his eyes. “And I'd conquer and come back just to tell her what a lying asshole you are before you sink your claws into her in my stead.” He retorts, smacking his leg back.
Titus chuckles. “You keep assuming I'm as vile as you. Whatever helps you sleep, pervert.”
Cato opens his mouth to retort when he's stopped by a jolt of the ship as it starts to port. He feel a cold wash down his spine and the pit return to his stomach.
Titus’ teasing smile falls as he watches the color drain from his brother’s face. He sighs and gives him a nod. “Welcome home, Captain. Emperor have mercy on you.” He says in a more solemn tone.
Cato nods back without meeting his eyes. He hopes the Emperor would do just that.
_________________________________
Cato stands before Guilliman's desk, a mirror of how he stood nervously before him worried, he'd be punished for failing to protect the Ambassador, what feels like ages ago now.
Except that day he was worried for no reason, and his gene father quickly assuaged his worries. Now Guilliman's usually tired but kind eyes are seething and cold as he silently stares Cato down. He'd been glaring at him silently for 4 minutes and 37 seconds now, and Cato could hardly manage to keep his expression neutral.
Finally, his primarch sighs and leans forward to support his elbows on his large desk, folding his hands together. “Captain Sicarius.” He says, breaking the silence.
Cato nods, swallowing a dry gulp. “My Lord.”
Guilliman pulls an old, worn copy of the codex astartes from a nearby shelf and drops it on the desk. The crack of the impact echoes off the walls, the only sound for a few moments.
“I have scoured and reread the words I know by heart, and I cannot find a concrete rule you have transgressed upon.” He finally says.
Cato starts to let out a held breath from his nose, but stops when Guilliman stands, placing his hands on his desk.
“However-” the primarch says, returning his steely gaze to his wayward son. “I can always write more when new situations arise that require clarification.”
Cato tries to suppress the clawing fear in his stomach. “And… what would those rules be, exactly, sir…?” He rasps out.
Guilliman's mouth twitches down at the corners, trying to maintain some professionalism. “I suggest you do not contribute to the conversation until asked, Sicarius.” He says in a flat, cold tone. Cato swallows and gives a terse nod.
“As I was saying-” he says, flipping open the codex. “I can interpret the spirit of the law and record new needed rules if I must.”
He rounds the corner of his desk, coming to a stop right in front of Cato with his hands behind his back, forcing him to crane his neck to look up at him.
“Unfortunately-” he says with a frown. “I made an, ehem, pinky promise to the ambassador not to kill you, and to give this whole… situation a chance.” He gruffs, frown deepening.
Cato blinks a few times as he processes the demi-gods words. “A… A pinky promise, Father…?” He croaks out.
Guilliman sighs. “Yes. Of which the ambassador assures me the repercussions of breaking are dire.”
He turns his back to Cato, walking to stare out a window with a disgruntled frown. “So, I will not condemn you to a death oath, as much as I would like to. But I will be setting rules.”
Cato, still somewhat in shock, takes a second to respond. “Rules for what, sir…?”
Guilliman glances back at him. “For… for dating the Ambassador. Or whatever it is you two are doing.” He says with a huff.
Cato's mind reels. He wasn't going to be exiled? Or banned from seeing her? She'd actually convinced the primarch to give them a chance? An unconscious smile starts to spread across his face before he quickly schools it when Guilliman shoots him a warning look.
“Firstly, I will be keeping a close eye on her. If I find out you have coerced her at all, in anyway, or even suspect she may be being forced into saying or doing something, I will skip the oath of death and end you myself.” Guilliman says, leveling a look at Cato so cold it makes him shiver.
“I- I'd never, my Lord-” he starts, but Guilliman holds a hand up to stop him.
“Please, I'm trying to be thorough.” He says. “Apparently I have been too vague in the past, so I want to be especially, specifically clear.”
Cato nods once and Guilliman turns back to the window. “secondly, if she ever wills it, she can cut you off at any time. I'll make sure you never share an orbit with her if she so wills it. You have far too much power over her for me to leave her to your mercy.” He continues.
“Lastly… just…” Guilliman sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Just keep it under wraps, please. I don't want this to become a thing marines think they can do. I'm making an exception as a favor to the Ambassador. Don't let others know about… any of this.” He says in a tired, defeated voice.
Cato nods slowly. What did the ambassador do to his gene father? To not only get off punishment free but, with pretty reasonable restrictions? He almost chuckles, his little ambassador had the Lord Reagent wrapped around her finger and probably didn't even realize it.
Guilliman groans and flops back in his seat, looking a few years older than at the start of their conversation. “And for the love of terra, if I ever have to even think about what you are getting up to together, let alone see or hear it-”
Cato's face warms again, “oh- of course, sir, never-” he says, coughing awkwardly.
Guilliman stops him with a grimace, “Don't even say it. Please, keep anything like that so far out of my range I can keep assuming you're a functioning, desireless astartes.” He groans.
Cato blushes more, but nods. “Y-yes, my lord.” He confirms, shifting foot to foot.
Guilliman sighs and looks away a moment, then grimaces and looks back. “I don't have to give you, you know… the talk?” He mumbles.
Cato flinches, “oh, emperor, sir please don't-”
Guilliman nods, rubbing his face with both hands, “Good, good, okay-” he mumbles, “Don't- I mean, she's got a career, it would make her job so difficult if she-”
Cato puts his hands up, pleading for his gene father to stop speaking, “Sir- I know- please stop” he begs.
To be fair he hadn't actually stopped to worry about that. He kind of assumed he was infertile. A cold shiver runs down his spine as he remembers he very much was not concerning himself with those things in the cave, or by the pools.
Guilliman sighs, head falling to his propped up hands and rubbing his eyes. “Okay, good. Now please just- go. Send Titus in on your way out.” He grumbles.
Cato raises a brow. “Titus?”
“Yes, your vigilante battle brother who god in a mud covered fist fight- don't think you're getting out of that either, by the way. Or the ship thing.” He says, shaking an admonishing finger. “I just need to cool off before I can properly think of punishments, but you're still suspended until I do.”
Cato sighs, but nods. “Yes, sir. Understood. I'll send Titus in.”
He gives an aquillian salute, then takes his leave, leaving a very distressed primarch at his desk. Outside the office, he allows himself to smile. Sure, he was in trouble, but that felt like nothing when he'd be able to see the ambassador without punishment.
Titus is smirking and leaning against a wall, but his expression falters when he sees Cato come out smiling.
“No fucking way you got away with it-” he starts, scowling and walking toward him.
Cato grins. “Lord Guilliman would like to see you.” He says teasingly.
Titus’ face drains of color. “You can't be serious-” he starts, but Cato walks away chuckling.
“Have fun, Demetrian.” He calls back.
Titus lets out a frustrated groan before Cato hears the office door close behind him.
Now, Cato thought, Where's my little Ambassador hiding?
#warhammer 40k#my work#cato sicaruis x f!reader#cato x diplomat fic#wh40k fanfic#wh40k fic#Xreader#X reader
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CHAPTER FIVE : I don’t want to know more about you. (But I want to…)
-> Ao3 link is here.
-> Chapter Four link is here.
Pairing : Sub-Zero / Bi-Han x Reader
Summary : Nearly a month has passed since you first joined the Lin Kuei, and as you spend time with Bi-Han, you started to realize some things about him and also about yourself.
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.
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15 years ago…
“May I join you too?”
It had been a few months since you turned eight, and there were a few other kids close to your age in the clan. When you weren’t undergoing martial arts training, you still attended noble womanly pursuits, as deemed by your father. The time you could spend by yourself was so limited that, at times fatigue seemed to permeate every moment.
Fortunately, there was an exception today. Your teacher, responsible for teaching etiquette, fell ill. Upon discovering that your afternoon would be unoccupied, you pondered how to fill the empty space. The last time you had such wide-open time, the wound in your throat had yet to heal. You spent those days in your room, drawing pictures, reading books your mother brought you, and indulging in the very activity your father despised the most: daydreaming.
Your father was a man who was firmly attached to a sense of reality. He was an idealist, he believed in reality, not dreams. He always talked about how daydreaming distorts the perception of reality, disconnects from goals and leads to the wrong path, so he never wanted any of his children to dream.
However, since your powers were discovered, you were left alone and as you relied more on your umbrakinesis, this isolation also fueled your imagination. Reality often brought pain, while in your own dream world, you felt safer and happier. No one could harm you there, everything followed your control and will.
But since your father changed his mind and decided that you should take martial art training with the others, you haven’t even had time to think properly, let alone dream. The moment your head touched the pillow, you were falling into a deep sleep. You couldn’t even have your nightmares as usual because of the fatigue. The rigorous training left you so physically exhausted that not even your subconscious could conjure the haunting visions that usually plagued your sleep.
It had been two and a half years since the wound on your throat had healed. Given the intense pace of the past two and a half years, it was quite normal for you to feel stunned now, unsure of what to do.
As three children argued about who should be the next “it,” all turned their heads, looking at you with distant eyes when you posed the question.
Unsettled by the prolonged silence, you attempted to ease the tension with a friendly smile. Being the grandmaster’s daughter had always created a distance between you and others in the clan. Here was no exception.
“I suppose you’re playing hide and seek. I really like this game!” you exclaimed cheerfully. The tallest boy among them—Wang, you recalled—squinted his eyes suspiciously and crossed his arms.
“Wherever the shadows touch, you will find us immediately. How do we know if you’re going to cheat or not?” he questioned.
“Yes!” added another. “We can’t trust you!’’
Panic immediately entered your voice.
‘’No, no! I wouldn’t do that. I promise you! My mother has always advised me to be on the side of honesty.”
As the silence lingered once again, a familiar sense of discomfort and exclusion enveloped you. When would you truly become a part of the clan? The first time you vocalized this thought to your mother, she grew angry, instructing you to banish such ideas. In her eyes, you already held a respectable place as the grandmaster’s daughter. Yet, both of you acknowledged the truth—the assassination attempt being the clearest example.
“Let’s let her play the first round. If we see you cheating, you can’t play with us, okay?” the last boy spoke, taking charge in a way that indicated he was the leader of this small group.
The chance given to you filled your heart with excitement and happiness, a broad smile adorning your face. It felt unexpectedly easy. In the past, with your brothers you’d beg to be part of the game, enduring insults, hair-pulling, and tripping that left you bleeding. However, you had outgrown such pleas, tired of the mistreatment.
“All right! Shall I start counting?” you said, eager to begin.
“Put your face against that oak tree,” the leader directed, pointing to the sizable trunk nearby. “We can’t afford for you to peek.”
Nodding eagerly, you placed your hands against the rough bark of the tree, burying your head between them. Your cheeks turned a rosy hue with anticipation as you felt the rough texture beneath your fingers.
“Count to thirty!”
As you counted aloud, the distant echoes of footsteps retreated on the dew-kissed grass. When you reached thirty, you excitedly turned around, carefully observing the surroundings. Despite the bright weather and the sun overhead, the residual chill in the air left it a bit muddy, marking the arrival of spring.
Moving forward with small, cautious steps, you searched every bush, tree, and nook and cranny in your field of vision, being careful not to make too much noise and disturb the serene atmosphere.
“(y/n), what are you doing?”
At the unexpected sound of your father’s deep, resonant voice you froze in place. Fear misfired through your heart, giving you the strength to turn around and face him. He stood a little away, observing you with his usual cold gaze. Although accustomed to that look, his power over you was evident. Your father’s imposing presence always scared you, making you nervous and timid.
It seemed the only way to please him was to stand next to him, as if you were a trinket without breathing.
“I-I was playing hide and seek.” you said in a voice that was barely audible. When your father’s eyebrows furrowed against your answer, it felt like your heart might stop beating right there.
“What happened to today’s lesson?” As your father approached, his presence seemed to crush the world around you. Unable to answer, your lower jaw trembled with fear, and your tongue felt heavy inside your mouth. His dominant presence often did more than physical force.
He never raised a hand to you, but his words were as sharp as a knife, and his heavy, dominating aura weighed on you. When he stood right on top of you, you tilted your head back, trying not to tremble under his imposing size. Showing fear was another thing he detested, a sign of weakness.
“I asked you a question, girl.”
“I found out that Mrs. Cheng has contracted pneumonia. When there was no lesson, I thought-”
“What did you think?” your father interjected. Although his voice sounded calm, the underlying rage made you tremble. “How many times do I have to repeat this to get it into that thick little head of yours; you don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. You’re not anyone’s daughter. Don’t embarrass me and our clan any more and go back to your studies.”
While your father practically pinned you with his eyes, the rustling bushes behind you revealed the children who were hiding. As your father humiliated you in front of them, your cheeks flushed with shame, and your eyes shone with tears that you resisted not to shed. Clenching your small fists, you bowed your head to hide your tears.
“Very well, sir.” you muttered in a bitter voice.
With a sigh, your father said, “Fall in front of me.” Obliged to obey, you started walking along the path to the temple. Though you felt the children’s eyes watching you and heard their whispers, you avoided looking at them due to your shame.
As the temple came into view, you saw your older and middle brothers, one year apart, laughing and pointing fingers at you. The pain in your heart surged, and you made a great effort not to cry. The distance with your brothers and the clan seemed insurmountable. Even if you managed to get closer, somehow they were still moving away from you. Swallowing hard, you swore at that very moment.
You were going to prove yourself to everyone in the clan, especially your father.
No matter what happens.
Today…
You were nervous.
It was the first letter you were going to send to your brother since you came to Lin Kuei. In the letter, you didn’t mention being poisoned and almost coming back from death. The first reason for this was to prevent your brother from starting a war when you had not yet gathered useful information. The second reason was that you didn’t want him to humiliate you for not noticing the poison.
So, without touching on the subject at the moment, you talked about your new life here and the closeness you had begun to establish with the clan members. Especially with Bi-Han, you started to communicate even if it was a little. Your conversations usually revolved around the books he brought you from his mother’s library, which you were forbidden to enter. Surprisingly, Bi-Han had read most of them, maintaining a secretive attitude but not holding back from making a few comments.
He was busy, spending almost all of his day taking care of the affairs of his clan. Even if you only saw him at meals, it made it difficult to further the small communication you had established with him.
Aside from that, it was much easier for you to get along with the others compared to Bi-Han. The only exception was Frost. The woman was as inaccessible as an ice castle, vowing not to talk to you. She was ranked in the top five among the most talented and successful warriors in the clan, and having her assigned as your bodyguard frustrated both her and you. You tried to initiate a dialogue with her more than once to make it feel less like a duty, but the constant surveillance was starting to infuriate you. As long as this situation continued, gathering information about Lin Kuei would be challenging.
Everything you’d learned so far was superficial. Forbidden from entering the archive, the only way to go unnoticed was to use your powers. To do this, you had to create the appropriate moment, but doubts lingered. Ninjas patrolling and Bi-Han lingered into the late hours of the night. A few nights ago, you observed Cyrax walking around with other ninjas.
After adding the last lines to your letter, you created a crow out of the shadows. The only shining place on the crow, standing in a black state, was its beady eyes, having the same eye color as yours. Stroking the crow’s head and under its chin, you inhaled deeply.
You could already anticipate the response your brother would send, filled with humiliation and pressure to accelerate your progress. But Bi-Han was a unique individual, different from anyone you knew, carrying a bit of each of them but forming a distinct persona.
He was bound by traditions, his clan was more important to him than anything else, maybe even more than himself. Perhaps the woman who poisoned you was genuinely innocent, but even that couldn’t be fully proven. Bi-Han considered eliminating her a reasonable option. Whether he liked it or not, you were his wife now, and you represented Lin Kuei. Everything done to you was directly related to him.
This fact bothered you more than the invasion of your privacy in recent days. You accepted this mission knowing the consequences, but facing the truth turned out differently than you hoped. On the other hand, your mother had always instilled in you from childhood that there is hope in every despair. Maybe it was a sign for you to look at ways to turn this situation in your favor. If you could find a way to take the reins into your own hands, who knows, maybe you could even change the course.
Folding the letter you had written, you stamped your seal on it and handed it to the crow’s beak to carry. Then, with a graceful movement of the wrist, you created a portal in the middle of the room, again from the shadows, commanding the crow with a nod to pass into it.
The crow quietly passed right through the portal after a few flaps of its wings and disappeared out of sight, and the portal disappeared on its own right behind him with its departure.
You stood up with another deep breath. It was about to come to dinner, and when you left your room to go to the table before the others, two ninjas waiting outside the door moved with you.
Since you learned about the temple’s layout, it took you only a few minutes to find the dining room now. When you got to the room, one of the ninjas opened the sliding door for you, and after you entered, they waited outside the room, closing the door behind you.
When you noticed Sektor inside, except for you, you said, ‘‘Good evening.’’ Sektor responded in the same way by making a small greeting with his head.
‘’You’re early today.’’
‘’I’m going on a mission to America tomorrow. That’s why I finished my work early,’’ said Sektor, collapsing into his usual chair. And when you took your place at the head of the table next to Bi-Han, you took a small sip of the water placed in the glass in front of you.
After what happened, you hesitated once or twice about touching something to your mouth, but after seeing the protection provided to you and the precautions taken, this hesitation disappeared in a very short time.
While the water refreshed you and slowly calmed the tension you were feeling because of the letter, you quietly studied Sektor. He had a strong physique like every other warrior in the clan. His long black hair was always massed in a tight ponytail, and his beard was neatly shaved.
You had limited information about him. He wasn’t much of a talker compared to the others; he had a tough stance and judgmental looks, much like Bi-Han. You had heard how fast and ruthless he was when fighting while the members around him were talking among themselves. One of the people Bi-Han trusted the most was Sektor, without a doubt.
‘’How do you feel? You seem to have recovered quite a bit since the last time I saw you.’’
“I am being well taken care of, thank you,” you said with a smile that you hoped seemed convincing. Although most of the clan still viewed you as an outsider, an extension of the enemy clan, you couldn’t ignore the care shown for your health and safety.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
‘’Do you think that woman was innocent?’’ you asked at once.
“What made you think of that question?” Sektor raised one of his black eyebrows, looking at you with a questioning expression. You took another sip of your water before answering, keeping your gaze expressionless.
“Tomas was with me that day, and the woman told him that if he wanted to drink tea, she could bring a cup. I honestly don’t think she would have made such an offer if she had known that there really was poison in it. I may be a stranger to you, but Tomas is one of you, and on top of that, Bi-Han’s brother.’’
‘’You are also his wife,’’ Sektor said, voicing the simple truth.
‘’Yes, but many of you have not yet been able to accept this fact.’’
“Ginger has a pungent smell, a logical material that can be used to make it difficult for you to choose the poison.’’
‘’Still, I really don’t think she’s the one who planned this. Is it right that it was decided to kill her before this was clarified?’’
Sektor, leaning back in his chair, drew a breath so loud that you could hear it. He put his own glass between his fingers, looking into the it with thoughtful eyes.
‘’Our clan is strictly bound by traditions, so the punishments used to be heavier. As a penalty for certain crimes, not only the person but also their entire family was sentenced to death along with them. In the event of an assassination attempt against you, it does not matter whether this person is innocent or not; the fact that they took part in this act is considered quite sufficient reason for their murder.’’ He went on, taking a sip of his water just like you.
‘‘My respect and loyalty to Bi-Han are absolute. After the death of his father, he made great innovations to move the clan forward. But sometimes he can succumb to his anger, and at those moments, even if we try to give him common sense as council members, he won’t hear anyone. It is impossible to change his mind when he makes a decision.’’
‘’Then what does it matter to the council if he is doing what he knows in the end?’’
From the way you asked the question, it was clear that you were really curious about the answer and trying to decipher the dynamic between them. A small smile appeared on Sektor’s face.
“Bi-Han can get angry easily, but he knows his responsibilities better than anyone. He is very strong-willed to fulfill them. Exceptions do not break the pedestal.’’
‘’So you’re saying that under all his scary appearance, he’s reasonable as long as we don’t touch a sore point?’’
‘’Isn’t it just like everybody?’’ Sektor said, the smile on his face widening a little more. ‘’I’m going to tell you a secret, like you, I think the woman is innocent. She doesn’t know who’s behind this.’’ When he said these things, he had made his voice too quiet for those outside to hear. You asked curiously.
‘‘How can you speak so confidently?’’
‘’I was present during the interrogation, and it became evident from the woman’s body language and speech that she had no knowledge of the situation.’’
‘‘And what is the secret part of it?’’
‘’The woman is alive.” Sektor left the glass in his hand on the table, leaned his chin on his clasped hands, and while he continued to talk to you without breaking eye contact, he maintained a dominant presence that held your attention.
‘’How so? Did you disobey Bi-Han’s orders?’’
‘’Partly. To be more precise, I can say I saved the life of an innocent person by taking her away from here.’’
’‘Oh.’’ You sat back, not knowing what to say. ‘’And why did you share this with me? You don’t even trust me.’’
‘’True, but I want to try. After all, you are part of this clan. Trust won’t build on its own, and I believe we need to start somewhere for this.’’
‘’So you’re extending an olive branch, are you?’’
As footsteps, signaling the arrival of others, began echoing in the corridor, Sektor muttered his final words before the doors swung open.
“There is no war between you and me, (y/n). It is true that you are a foreigner, but it is entirely up to you to change this fact.’’
As soon as Sektor concluded his words, the grand doors on both sides of the room swung open wide, revealing the entrance of the clan members. In particular, Bi-Han and the others streamed in with an air of authority. Simultaneously, a dozen helpers, deftly carrying trays of steaming, delectable dishes, entered through the opposite door.
The delicious smell of the feast filled the room, making you more aware of the tempting dishes arranged on the table. As the culinary delights were displayed, your hunger in contrast to the stress you’ve felt since composing a letter in your room, became more noticeable.
While quietly calculating which dish to choose first, you caught Bi-Han’s questioning gaze. He sat down on the chair next to you and asked in his usual cold, deep voice.
‘’What are you doing?’’
Although your cheeks turned pink due to the slight embarrassment of being caught, you didn’t let yourself down. You gently cleared your throat and threw your hair over your shoulder.
‘’They all look perfect. I was trying to decide which one to start first, but I’m having a hard time.’’
Tomas chuckled at your response from the other end of the table.
“I advise you to start with sweet-sour pork. The taste is absolutely legendary.’’
‘’You should taste the spring rolls too. I'm sure you'll like it.’’ Suggested Kuai Liang. He offered you a spring roll with chopsticks, surprising you with his gentlemanliness. Such approaches were rare in your own house, leaving you occasionally disoriented.
‘’She has arms, she can reach her own,’’ grumbled Bi-Han as he filled his plate with food, but no one paid much attention.
‘’Guys, you are all misguiding her. What you really need to try is Peking duck,’’ insisted Cyrax, pointing with his chopsticks to the dish he mentioned. Your cheeks warmed under the attention, marking the first time you didn’t feel truly uncomfortable with it. The interest and relevance they showed unexpectedly warmed your heart.
As everyone chatted and filled their plates, Bi-Han subtly added some tofu to yours without anyone noticing. When you stared at him in surprise, he looked ahead, almost pretending he hadn’t done it, assuming a guarded stance as if suggesting you do the same.
With the surprise lingering on your face, you decided to try the tofu first, popping one into your mouth. The taste was spicier and more bitter than expected, making you express your surprise. Bi-Han, despite taking care of his own food, watched your reaction out of the corner of his eye. You carefully wiped your mouth with a napkin, in case anything was smeared.
‘‘It’s quite hot,’’ you admitted. ‘’Very spicy.’’
‘’The dish you’re eating is called Mapo Tofu. Is it never made in your clan?’’ inquired Bi-Han, now fully attentive and curious about your answer.
‘’This kind of food isn’t cooked in our clan because my father doesn’t like spicy dishes. So, I can’t say it’s a taste I’m familiar with. I’m surprised that you like it too, frankly.’’
“Why?” Bi-Han focused on you, curiosity evident on his face. ‘’If you’re going to attribute it to the fact I’m a cryomancer-‘’
‘’But isn’t it surprising?’’ you interrupted with a small chuckle.
“No.’’
‘’The tofu I just ate was as hot as if it had come out of the dragon’s mouth. You can even spray fire with a few of them.’’
‘’That’s because your taste buds aren’t used to it. Also, according to your illogical understanding, then I should be enjoying tasteless and cold dishes that contain no spices.’’
In an attempt to stifle the laughter welling up inside you, you reached for your refilled water glass and took a substantial sip. The ongoing banter, much like the one Bi-Han had criticized a few days ago when he deemed your stargazing childish, mirrored the very judgment he had passed. However, this time, you opted to continue the conversation rather than shutting it down. It marked the lengthiest exchange Bi-Han had engaged in without sarcasm since your arrival.
‘’Yes, all these things you’re counting also align with your character,’’ you affirmed. Despite Bi-Han’s automatic frown, you maintained a calm, friendly tone without yielding. “Although, on second thought, you’re right; there must be something that feeds your mood. Am I wrong?’’
Before Bi-Han could respond, laughter erupted from Kuai Liang across the table. Tomas, Cyrax, and even Sektor, less overtly, stifled their amusement. Observing their reactions, Bi-Han emitted an irritated growl.
‘‘What the hell are you all looking at? Eat your damn food.’’
A muffled laugh rippled through them, and as Bi-Han exhaled a deep breath of icy smoke, the others refocused on their meals, avoiding further provocation.
The room, adorned with hanging lights casting a warm, soft glow, emanated a tranquil ambiance. A calm conversation filled the space, punctuated by occasional questions that allowed you to participate. Listening to their daily routines and being part of the camaraderie reignited an ache in your heart.
In your own house, women, including yourself and your mother, were barred from active participation in conversations between your father, clan elders and even your siblings. Speaking was deemed great rudeness, and until today, you had adhered to quietly eating your meals and waiting until they concluded. Now, the opposite experience left you offering brief answers, apprehensive of overstepping unfamiliar boundaries.
Fortunately, no one probed into the evasive responses, likely attributing it to lingering shyness. It wasn’t precisely a falsehood, but the unfamiliarity of this environment left you unsure of where the boundaries started and ended, instilling a fear of making mistakes.
‘‘(y/n),’’ Bi-Han’s hoarse voice interrupted your musings. Meeting his gaze, you wondered about the reason for his summons. ‘’Walk with me a little after you’ve finished your dinner.’’
Choosing not to question the motive, you simply responded, ‘’Of course.’’
Half an hour passed, and when the fruit service concluded, Sektor rose first from the table. Cyrax followed about ten minutes later, prompting Bi-Han to stand and signal for you to do the same with a nod. As you left the room after exchanging a ‘goodnight’ with a smile, the two remaining brothers glanced at you with curiosity and questioning expressions.
One of the two ninjas tasked with protecting you handed you a coat as you walked out the door. Surprised by this, Bi-Han caught the expression on your face while you quietly put on the coat that was handed to you and explained.
‘’I asked for the coat to be brought. It’s colder outside than last night.’’
‘’I thought you couldn’t feel the cold.’’
‘’It is so.’’ Bi-Han said simply. The fact that he did not take his intense gaze off you for a moment while saying this did something strange to your heart. You felt the cold like everyone else, but you were trained to be resilient to all kinds of bad conditions and negativity. Although you could tolerate the bitter cold up to a point, there was no need for Bi-Han not to know this fact. And you also liked the unexpected gesture, no matter how much you wanted to deny it.
Fortunately, Bi-Han quickly returned to his usual arrogant mood, making it easier for you to get rid of unwanted feelings.
“After all, birds can’t survive in winter.’’
‘’I’m sure there are a few survival tricks in them that they know.’’ You said, lifting your chin slightly to get a better view of him. Bi-Han’s eyes narrowed in a way that showed he was having fun.
‘‘We’ll see about that.’’
Bi-Han, walking in front, led you from the back terrace into the garden. The cold evening air took away all the warmth from your face, which was warmed inside. The air was fresh and the sky was clear. Since there were not many people walking around, it was calm and quiet. When you arrived almost running to catch up with Bi-Han’s wide steps, you curiously expressed the question you wanted to ask all along.
‘‘Why did you call me over?’’
‘’To talk.’’
‘’To talk?’’
‘’Do you want me to spell it out for you to understand, too?’’
You frowned at his sarcastic reply.
‘‘You could have talked to me at the table, too.’’
During your argument, when Bi-Han slowed down his steps so that you could catch up with him, you started walking next to him. A few seconds passed, and when you realized that Bi-Han would not answer you with a prolonged silence, you sighed, ‘’What do you want to talk about?’’ You asked.
With the question, Bi-Han’s hard, illegible gaze found yours.
‘‘About your family.’’ His brown eyes, very dark in the moonlight, went down to the scar hidden by your turtleneck sweater. Even though he couldn’t see it, you moved restlessly where you were, because it bothered you that he knew where the scar was. ‘‘And your past.’’ Bi-Han said after a while.
“And why should I do that? There is no reason for me to open my private life to you.”
“You are my wife, so it is important that I know everything about you.”
“Oh, really? Then how about it being mutual, grandmaster?” You used a sarcastic tone against him, echoing the attitude he displayed towards you a little while ago. “If you want to exchange information, you should also reveal something about yourself. It can’t be one-sided.”
“You know I wouldn’t do that.” Bi-Han stopped walking. While you couldn’t discern exact anger, his tone hinted at displeasure with the conversation’s direction. It made you smile at least he was beginning to understand that you wouldn’t comply with everything he said.
“Then you may suppose that this conversation is over.” You stated it in a polite but clear tone. Without waiting for Bi-Han to resume walking, you heard him talking behind you as you started walking ahead.
“What do you want to know?”
“There, if you keep on answering like that—wait a minute, what?”
Turning on your heels, you stared with big eyes at Bi-Han, who was standing a little further away, with a confused expression that showed you weren’t sure you had heard correctly.
“What do you want to know?” said Bi-Han calmly, repeating his question. He covered the distance in two big steps, and when he stood in front of you, you tilted your head back slightly and looked at him.
Normally, his hair would have come out of its bun, tufts disheveled and scattered due to the workouts and studies he did during the day. However, at the moment, it caught your attention that it was standing properly, as if he had just collected it. When you caught the smell of soap rising slightly from him, you realized that he had just been washed. He probably should have gone to the hot springs before he came to dinner.
The places where the moonlight touched his face softened his expression with a silvery light, while his shadowed lines were hard and angular. It must have been a cruel trick of fate for such a cold and arrogant man to be blessed with a handsome face.
“Have you always wanted to have this title?” You said, averting your gaze from his eyes, which were surrounded by long black lashes.
“Yes, I’ve been trained for this all my life.”
“It doesn’t seem like an easy life.”
“Success, as I see it, involves the sacrifices we’re willing to make. I grew up knowing that one day, I’d have this title, and I accepted that reality.”
You responded thoughtfully.
“I can imagine it’s a difficult path. Do you believe you make a good leader?”
The unexpected question caught Bi-Han off guard, prompting him to pause and study your face with furrowed brows. As you two continued walking, the snow crunched beneath your steps, your breath visible in the cold air, forming a mist. The temperature dropped further, the chilly air biting at your cheeks and nose.
“Are you making an insinuation?”
“No, I really wonder what you’re thinking.”
Bi-Han’s gaze was aimed at a distant point rather than at you. His face was again darkened with an expression that you could not read.
“I can’t answer that question, but I know what kind of leader I don’t want to be,” he said. His voice was unexpectedly honest. When you were standing in front of a snow-covered bench together, Bi-Han melted the snow with just a hand gesture, leaving it dry enough to sit on.
“My father has always remained closed to innovations throughout his rule of the clan. While technology was advancing every day, he was determined to cling to the traditional ways without adapting to the changes. However, history has shown us that those who do not adapt to innovation are always doomed to extinction. I want to do the right thing for my clan; we have the potential to achieve much more than it seems. Just being content with what is happening will lead to inevitable decline after a while.’’
“I don’t think you will experience such a thing,” you said in a polite voice, picking up where he left off. You were both seated at either end of the bench, with a space between you so decently marked that one person could comfortably enter. “Maybe I’ve been here for about a month, but I can see how much you put your clan at the forefront.”
“What kind of leader do you think I am?”
“Do you want an honest answer or-”
“Honest,” Bi-Han interrupted, not letting you continue your words. “Compared to most people here, you’re not afraid when you talk to me. That’s why I’m curious about your thoughts.”
It was true that you were not afraid because you did not exactly anger him. Unlike a segment that everyone is afraid of seeing and therefore makes sure not to even breathe in the same place as him, you haven’t seen the other side of him yet.
“I would say that you are an ambitious person. You are stubborn and determined, you can stand behind what you believe is right to the end. But at the same time, you are rude and arrogant, you do not allow people to express their own opinions. You intimidate them with fear.”
“I don’t need to hear their thought. I know what’s right better than they do.”
“It’s true that experience makes you different from them, but one of the important features of being a good leader is being able to listen to what others are saying. It’s not just listening, it’s communicating that’s the main thing. Fear is a compulsion, whereas respect is earned.” As your gaze turned to the ornamental pool in the distance, your next words poured from your lips as a whisper. “My father too could never decipher the difference between these two.”
Bi-Han looked at you silently with his chin resting on his clasped hands, leaning his elbows on his legs, which he had spread out from side to side. With this posture, his large, muscular body had shrunk a little, as if he was giving you space to talk more comfortably, trying to make himself look less threatening to you.
‘’What do you mean?’’
“Through fear, you can easily compel someone to obey you, but that person does not willingly open their heart, thoughts, or soul to you. Respect, on the other hand, is the admiration one feels for a person’s qualities, values, and achievements. Being with them gives you strength, they won’t hurt you, and you want to follow them wherever they go. My father was a tough man, and achieving the position of his right-hand man was considered a courageous task. That’s why they were constantly changing like the seasons, as no one wanted to be near him due to fear.’’
While discussing your past without delving into too many details, Bi-Han’s gaze was attentive, as if he was absorbing the most crucial fact of his life. To be more comfortable on the bench, you slightly turned your body to the side, leaning your back against the armrest, bringing your knees close enough to touch each other.
‘’It must have been hard for you.’’ Surprisingly, there was no usual condescending tone in Bi-Han’s voice, instead, it carried sincere understanding—an unexpected development for you.
‘’My mother was my greatest blessing. She was understanding, kind, and caring. In short, she possessed all the characteristics that my father did not have.’’ As your gaze shifted from the ornamental pool to the stars in the sky, your voice trembled with a longing you couldn’t suppress. ‘’I miss her.’’
At that moment, Bi-Han’s knee touched yours. His movement was so slight and imperceptible that, at first, you thought you were imagining it. However, the coolness emanating from him was too realistic to pretend otherwise.
“It seems mothers have always held a different place compared to fathers. My mother was a good person too. She was always a buffer between me and my old man.’’
Against his small consolation, the lump in your throat grew. Why did he start treating you like this? Everything would be easier if he kept acting as he did on the first night you got married. Instead of getting to know him, he should have remained a stranger, all these conversations and tiny gestures should not have happened. You’ve already opened up to even the slightest emotional warmth, and you couldn’t undermine the responsibility you felt towards your mission with your own hands. How would you face your brothers and your clan?
He’s your enemy.
When your brother’s voice hissed inside your mind like a poisonous snake, you quickly composed yourself and straightened your seat.
‘‘Sorry, but I’d better get inside. it’s getting pretty cold. Goodnight, grandmaster. Thank you for this little conversation.’’
Without giving Bi-Han a chance to say anything, you quickly got up from where you were sitting and started walking back towards the temple with brisk steps. All the while, you could feel Bi-Han’s burning gaze on you.
It’s a mission. You said to yourself. Keep your feelings out of your task.
*******
P.S : Their knees touched aaaaaaaaa :3
Tagging @mmeerraa ❤️
#bi han x reader#bi han x you#bi han#bi han sub zero#mk1 bi han#mk1 2023#mk1#mortal kombat#mk x reader#bi han x y/n#bi han imagine#bi han mk#bi han mortal kombat#sub zero x reader#reader input#x reader#reader insert#ao3#ao3 writer#ao3 author#ao3fic#ao3 link#mortal kombat kuai liang#sub zero mortal kombat#smoke mortal kombat#sektor#cyrax#ao3 fanfic#writing fanfic#fanfic
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