#fic: reckless pursuits

[versedicis]

reckless pursuits.

charles/max | ~150k, hunger games au | rated t tags: hurt/comfort, heavy angst, canon-typical violence, major character injury, getting together (sort of), found family (maybe), other additional tags to be added

It began with a crispness in the old autumn air, the browning of the trees nearly finished. The wind whistled through the Seam, the leaves blowing up cobblestone streets as if they were the tumbleweeds Charles had only ever seen described in illustrations of a faraway District Ten. The pads of his thumbs rubbed at the soft petals in his hands, ruby-red as they bloomed against his skin. They were the only luxury he could afford to give his father’s grave, their stomachs too empty and their clothes too threadbare to consider anything else to adorn the rickety carved wood.  Then, boom. The silence was deafening, as were the screams that came after, wretched voices echoing out around the districts as wives were told that their husbands were dead. Accidents in the mines weren’t uncommon; for one to happen so close to the winter, however, was a death sentence. If there was one thing that he knew from the year prior, it was that. When the widows poured into the streets, all there was to hear was the wails of women waiting for the freeze, their infants carefully swaddled to their chests unlikely to survive the cold, and the crunch, crunch, crunch of their feet as they swarmed the mining company’s headquarters for their husbands’ final cheques. The sounds of a mining accident in the district weren't unusual. Usually, his father would come home early, before his father’s life was claimed by the ashen earth too. When it was time for his brother to join the ranks of the District’s miners, too, he would come home weary and rough, coal-dust pressed deeply into the lines of his already-aged face despite the short year he’d been working. The sight of a man outside his family’s home, face stony and emotionless as he spoke to their mother, however, was. All Charles could see was the little drops of blood spattered on the wooden steps leading to pooled fabric, his mother’s skirt folding in on itself as she collapsed to the floor in grief; behind her, the terrified face of his little brother peeked out from where it was hidden behind the door frame. In the distance, the browning of the leaves around the faded balcony of his house seemed to quicken.  Blood, again, and again. The man’s hands were covered in it. Charles knew, then, that somebody’s life had been swallowed by the earth again. As he brought his hands up to his face in order to choke back his own scream, all he could smell was the clove-like scent of carnations; and with it, the blurry sight of his own fingers stained with the residue of their red, red petals.

like in the coliseum of the old days, pt. 1 | read on ao3 for the lovely @vi0letchemistry <3

[norristrii]

Hii!! HBD!! Would love to see a lil Lando fic based on revolving door!! Maybe fluff/hurt/comfort or whatever you would like💖💖💖

REVOLVING DOOR.

“Life feels worse, but good with you in it.” — Despite the ups and downs, Lando finds comfort in you after a tough race in Hungary. And in those moments, you remind him—you’ll always be there. No matter what.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.

warnings. angst (happy ending), ex dynamics, hungary 2024 aftermath (sorry, but i’ll never let u forget), talking about mclaren prioritizing oscar etc.. thank u for joining the event!! hope u like it, it’s mostly based on the bridge<3

music. Revolving Door by Tate Mcrae.

800 event. // event masterlist.

YOU KNEW LANDO BETTER THAN THE MOST. You had seen him at his best—confident, determined, pushing limits with a kind of reckless brilliance. But you had also seen the other side. The one the cameras didn’t always catch. The quiet moments when doubt crept in, when no matter how well he performed, it was never enough.

He worked harder than ever, relentless in his pursuit of something just out of reach. No matter how many laps he perfected, how many podiums he climbed, he was always searching for the flaw, the mistake, the fraction of a second that could have been better. Even when he stood on the top step, drenched in champagne and applause, there was a voice inside him whispering that it wasn’t enough.

Your relationship had never been simple. It was tangled in uncertainty, constantly shifting between moments of closeness and distance. You were on and off so many times that even you struggled to define what you truly were. It was confusing—not just for you, but for everyone watching.

People speculated, creating stories out of the fragments they saw, convincing themselves they knew the truth. But the truth was, even you didn’t know. There were moments when it felt like everything made sense, like there was something solid beneath the chaos. And then, just as quickly, it would slip through your fingers.

Despite all of it, one thing remained certain—you were there for him. No matter how complicated things got, no matter how many times you questioned where you stood, you never walked away. You stood by him in his victories, in his losses, in the quiet moments when doubt took hold of him.

��I mean it does… to me, maybe.”

Those words stuck with you, replaying in your mind long after the race was over. A quiet, resigned heartbreak hidden in a few simple syllables, slipping through the cracks of the moment, only truly heard by those who understood.

McLaren had made their call, and just like that, the win was gone. You had seen the frustration in Lando’s voice before, but this was different. This was deeper. He had known exactly what needed to be done, had fought for it, had asked for it. And yet, the decision had already been made.

Oscar’s first win—a historic moment, a milestone that should have been celebrated without question—was clouded in unfairness. Not just for Lando, but for Oscar too. Because it wasn’t supposed to be handed to him like that. He was good enough, fast enough, deserving enough. But instead, the world saw it as something gifted, something taken rather than earned. And that wasn’t fair either.

The weight of it lingered. Lando, standing on that podium, the cheers ringing out around him, knowing it should have been his. Oscar, caught between joy and discomfort, forced into the impossible position of celebrating a victory that carried the shadow of controversy. And you—watching it all unfold, knowing that no matter what anyone said, the truth wouldn’t change.

Some wins didn’t feel like wins at all.

Some losses hurt more than they ever should.

You stood beneath the podium, the cheers still ringing in the air, but to you, they felt distant—muffled under the weight of disappointment. You watched as Lando walked away, his movements tense, hurried, frustration simmering beneath every step. His fingers gripped the trophy, but there was no pride in the way he held it—just frustration, just anger, just the undeniable sting of knowing it should have been more.

Disappointed. That was what he was. Angry. Exhausted. Worn down by a race that had been his until it wasn’t. He had fought, harder than ever, put everything on the line, only for the strategy to fall apart beneath him. And honestly, you weren’t surprised. McLaren had miscalculated, fumbled the moment, turned a clear victory into something messy and unfair. It wasn’t right. Not for him, and not for Oscar either. A win should feel like a win. And this one didn’t.

His steps quickened, his movements sharp, almost careless. The trophy nearly slipped from his grasp, teetering for a fraction of a second before he caught it again, fingers tightening around it as if holding on to it could somehow make up for what had just happened. You saw it—how he pulled it closer, how he refused to let it go, not because it meant anything to him, but because it was all he had left of the race that should have been his.

The noise from the McLaren garage was deafening. Laughter, congratulations, the sound of champagne bottles popping—all of it felt wrong. They were celebrating. But celebrating what? A win that had been handed out like a favor? A strategy that had ruined everything? It made no sense. And yet, they carried on, oblivious to what they had done.

You moved through the chaos, past mechanics still buzzing with post-race energy, past engineers pretending like this was just another race. You knew better. You knew that behind that podium, behind the interviews, behind the forced smiles, there was only one truth—Lando had lost something tonight. Not just the race, but a piece of himself.

Finally, you reached his driver room. The door was shut, a barrier between him and the world that had failed him. You hesitated for only a second, your fingers hovering over the surface before knocking. The sound was soft, almost uncertain.

There was a pause. Then, from the other side—

“Come in.”

His voice was low, barely carrying through the door. Tired. Worn. Broken in a way that no post-race analysis could capture.

You pushed the door open, stepping inside.

He stood by the closet, the fireproof suit slipping from his shoulders, discarded with an exhausted pull. His movements were slow, deliberate, each motion carrying the weight of the race he had just lost. His muscles tensed as he pulled on a shirt, his body still warm from the effort, from the frustration. And for a fleeting second, your attention lingered—not just on the way he moved, but on the quiet strength buried beneath the disappointment.

You stepped closer, hesitant but steady, voice soft as you broke the silence. “Are you okay?”

A sharp exhale. A bitter scoff. “Guess.”

He didn’t look at you, but it didn’t matter—you could feel it. The frustration in the air, thick and unrelenting. The unspoken exhaustion in the way he held himself. The eye roll embedded in his tone, even though his gaze remained fixed somewhere else. His voice was harsher than usual, edged with something sharp, something raw.

“I’m not.”

And there it was. The truth, stripped down to the barest form. No hesitation, no forced optimism, no hiding behind polite words or media training. Just honesty. Just defeat. Just the weight of a moment that should have been his, slipping through his fingers, leaving him with nothing but questions and anger.

He sank down onto the chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands. His breath was uneven, shallow, like he was holding back something too heavy to carry. And you hated it—hated seeing him like this, stripped of the confidence that usually carried him through even the worst races.

“I’m not okay,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for you to hear. His voice was raw, edged with frustration, exhaustion—something deeper. “This is an absolute circus. I hate it.”

Then, the sound—quiet, almost hidden. A soft sob, but not from sorrow alone. It was a mix of anger and sadness, disappointment tangled up with something he couldn’t quite name. He stayed still, shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths, refusing to meet your eyes.

“I hate it here, Y/n.” The words hung in the air, heavy with everything unsaid. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

You took a careful step forward, your chest tightening at the sight of him—this version of Lando that felt so unfamiliar, so raw. He was always intense, always passionate, but this was different. This was broken in a way you hadn’t seen before.

He kept his face buried in his hands, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. You could still hear it—the frustration wrapped in sorrow, the quiet weight of everything that had been taken from him today. The words he had just spoken sat heavy between you.

I hate it here, Y/n.

It wasn’t just about the race. It was about the pressure, the expectations, the constant cycle of being good enough but never quite enough. It was about the team making decisions that didn’t feel like his. About standing on podiums that should have felt like victories but somehow didn’t.

You swallowed, unsure of what to say. What could you say? That it would get better? That he would win next time? Empty reassurances wouldn’t help. He already knew all of that, and it didn’t make today any less painful.

He sat there, unmoving, his fingers still tangled in his hair as he let out a slow, unsteady breath. The weight of the race, of everything that had gone wrong, pressed heavy on his shoulders. The defeat clung to him, settling deep into the parts of him that wouldn’t let go, twisting its way into his thoughts, his emotions, his belief in himself.

“I’m just not good enough,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words hit harder than if he had shouted them. He still refused to look at you, his gaze locked on the floor, as if avoiding your eyes would somehow make the pain less real.

But it didn’t.

It broke you to hear him say it. Him? Not good enough? It was ridiculous. Impossible. He was everything—strong, brilliant, relentless. He wasn’t just talented; he was the kind of racer people admired, the kind of person people believed in. At least, you did.

You felt your chest tighten, frustration mixing with sadness as you knelt down in front of him. Your hands found his knees, a grounding touch, something solid in the storm of doubt he was drowning in.

“Hey!” Your voice was firm, sharper than you had expected, but necessary. Your eyebrows pulled together, frustration flickering across your face. “Look at me, Norris.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment. Then, slowly, he lifted his head, his tired eyes finally meeting yours. And that was when you saw it—the raw defeat, the exhaustion carved into the lines of his face, the quiet desperation clinging to him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

You didn’t think—just acted. Your hands moved to his face, gently cupping his cheeks, holding him there, forcing him to stay in this moment with you.

“Don’t ever say that,” you whispered, your voice softer now, steadier, filled with something more than just reassurance. It was truth. Your truth. “Not to me. Not to yourself.”

Lando shook his head, his jaw tightening as frustration laced every breath he took. His hands were still curled into fists at his sides, his body stiff with lingering anger. The weight of the race, of everything that had gone wrong, pressed heavily onto his shoulders, dragging him down into a space you weren’t sure how to pull him out of.

“No, Y/n,” he muttered, voice rough, strained. “Just look. I did everything I could, and they still chose to prioritize Oscar.”

His words were laced with bitterness, with the kind of hurt that went beyond losing a race. It was the sting of being overlooked, of knowing that no matter how hard he pushed, no matter how much effort he poured into each lap, they hadn’t put him first. They hadn’t chosen him.

You felt something snap inside you, frustration bubbling over, unable to keep it bottled in any longer. Your fingers tightened around his face, palms pressing against his cheeks, holding him there—forcing him to see the truth beyond the doubt clouding his mind.

“Oh my god, Lan. Fuck McLaren,” you burst out, voice sharp, passionate, unrelenting. “You did your best, and if it wasn’t good enough for them, then they can go fuck themselves.”

Lando’s voice was softer now, no longer edged with frustration, no longer laced with the weight of disappointment. Just raw honesty, spoken into the quiet space between you.

“I love you, Y/n. Seriously.”

His eyes didn’t waver, didn’t flicker with doubt or hesitation. He meant it. Completely, fully, without restraint.

He was glad—so damn glad—that he had you. Because no matter how much he messed up, no matter how many times he had let his emotions get the worst of him, you had never walked away. You never gave up on him, even though everyone else had, even though he had given you every reason to.

You were still here. Even though your relationship had been messy, complicated. Even though he had hurt you more times than he could count. You hadn’t abandoned him—not when he fell short, not when he doubted himself, not even now, when the world felt like it had turned against him.

His throat felt tight, the emotion settling somewhere deep inside his chest, heavier than he expected.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

And for the first time all night, something shifted. Not just between you—but inside him.

Maybe he had lost today. Maybe he had been overlooked. Maybe McLaren had failed him.

But you hadn’t.

© norristrii 2025

[prythiansprincess]

little dove.

pairing: tom riddle x reader.

song inspiration: if u think i'm pretty by artemas.

author's note: can't believe this is my first tom fic, but please know that this man awakens the feral, unhinged side of me. let me slytherin to your chamber of secrets and ride that basilisk tommy 😏

This was a stupid, idiotic, and terrible idea. 

Unfortunately for you, those were the conditions in which Harry and Ron worked best under. In your defense, you tried to talk them out of the prank, but the boys were determined to leave their mark. You suppose you could’ve told Hermione, but you didn’t want to interrupt her date with Draco. When it came to talking sense into their thick skulls, you were completely and utterly alone. 

After much argument, you finally accepted that you weren’t going to get anywhere with Harry and Ron. The only thing you could do was supervise their reckless pursuits and minimize the damage as much as possible. So here you were, sneaking into the dungeons under the cover of darkness. 

“This will be the best seventh year prank yet,” Ron whispered as he trailed close behind. “Fred and George are going to be so jealous.” 

“If we don’t die from the cold first,” Harry quipped sarcastically, slightly shivering underneath the invisibility cloak draped over the three of you. “The Slytherins really take the whole cold-blooded thing quite literally, don’t they?” 

You huffed in response, trying your best to muffle your steps. “Can we please focus on not getting caught? We need to be in and out of the dungeons before the prefects start their patrols.” 

The boys nodded as you inched further into the serpent’s nest. Luckily, the corridor that housed Professor Snape’s office was empty. You held your breath as you began to unravel the wards protecting the entrance. You had to give it to him, Snape was incredibly thorough when it came to his security measures. Good thing you were an expert on unlocking charms. 

With a final flick of your wand, the door gave way and creaked open. Ron and Harry wore matching grins as the three of you spilled into the office. Closing the door behind you, Harry’s green eyes crinkled with mischief. 

“Let’s get started.” 

Surprisingly, Harry and Ron’s half-arsed plan was actually coming together. The three of you worked in silence, the boys handing you paints and supplies at the snap of your fingers. After a few more strokes, you flicked your paintbrush over the wall and cocked your head to examine your work. Nearly every single surface of Professor Snape’s office was covered in your illustrations—technically vandalism according to wizarding law. 

The drawings, imbued with the same magic that powered the moving portraits, depicted caricatures of Professor Snape, all of which scurried like rats along the walls, hurtling globs of paint at one another. The head of Slytherin house was going to have a fit when he saw what you’d done to his office. You almost wished you could be there in the morning to witness the look on Snape’s face when he uncovered your masterpiece.

“Bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear as he packed up the paints and brushes. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Y/N.” 

Harry chuckled and nudged your shoulder. “See? You do have a taste for trouble, after all.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Yeah, yeah. Now help me clean up so we can go.” 

As you carefully wiped the office of any trace of the three of you, Harry suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. You looked up, ready to scold him for idling, but fell silent when you saw the panicked expression on his face. 

“What is it?” you asked quietly. 

Harry held up his hand and slowly opened the door, peeking out into the darkness. A muffled clicking that sounded an awful lot like footsteps echoed from the corridor. “Do you hear that?” 

Ron cursed lowly. “The prefects must’ve started their rounds early.” 

You peered over Harry’s shoulder and felt the color drain from your face. “It’s not the prefects,” you said, swallowing thickly. “It’s the Head Boy.” 

Both the boys swore under their breaths. You steeled yourself, knowing that panic was not going to get you anywhere. As quietly as possible, you retrieved Harry’s cloak and beckoned the boys underneath it. 

“We’re so fucked,” Ron mumbled. 

“No, we’re not,” you chided sternly. “Get under the cloak and don’t make a sound.” 

Harry scooted in beside you, clutching the invisible fabric over his shoulders. “Do you have a plan?” 

You nodded. “Run like hell and don’t get caught.” 

“That’s a bloody terrible plan!” said Ron. 

With a glare, you tugged the redhead underneath the cloak. “Then please, let us hear your brilliant idea, Ronald.” Ron stayed quiet, his freckled face etched with fear. “That’s what I thought. Now stay close and for Merlin’s sake, try not to stomp around like a damned erumpent.”

Stupid. 

Idiotic. 

Terrible. 

Every ounce of apprehension you felt earlier that night came rushing back as the three of you cowered in the darkness. It was pitch-black in the corridor, but you didn’t dare cast lumos for fear of getting caught. Thankfully, a small light up ahead provided you with a vague sense of direction. You remembered passing the lit emerald sconce on the way down. All you had to do was get back to the entrance without running into the head boy. 

The glimmer of hope became clearer and clearer as you neared the stairs that would lead you out of the dungeons. You were so close. Barely a few metres away from freedom. 

Just as you thought you were safe, Ron knocked into a table, sending one of the snake sculptures guarding the alcove to the common room tumbling. The marble cracked against the concrete, breaking into a million pieces just like your hope of escaping. 

“Run!” you huffed, urging the boys to go on. 

A solid plan if you hadn’t been nearly blind in the dark. You could hear the shuffling of footsteps beside you. Three sets belonging to you, Harry, and Ron, while an unknown fourth inched closer and closer. Whoever it was wasn’t running, but they were definitely in pursuit. 

You stumbled through the dark, nearly tripping over your own feet. From up ahead, you could hear Harry and Ron urging you on. As you broke into a sprint, paints and brushes came spilling out of your satchel. Under any other circumstance, you would’ve abandoned your art supplies, but leaving them behind would fully incriminate the three of you. In the time it took to pick up the damning evidence, you stopped hearing your friend’s voices. 

It would’ve worried you, but in all honesty, you were relieved. If you could no longer hear the boys, then that meant they made it safely out of the serpent’s nest. A feat in itself given their track record. Those two couldn’t be inconspicuous if they tried. Without the need to worry for them, you were confident that you’d be able to slip out undetected. 

In hindsight, you were perhaps a tad bit overconfident. You were great at sneaking around, but apparently not good enough to slip the head boy’s notice. As soon as you started to creep past the dormitories, you ran into a wall that hadn’t been there before. 

Except it wasn’t a wall. 

It was a strong, firm chest. A chest that belonged to none other than Tom Riddle. 

Leave it to your terrible luck to run straight into the arms of the scariest boy in the castle. 

Determined not to cower, you lifted your chin defiantly and faced Tom head on. “Head Boy,” you greeted in acknowledgment. 

Emerald eyes unflinchingly surveyed you, that intense green stare sweeping from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet. Beneath the faint glow of the Black Lake pouring in through the stained glass windows, you could’ve easily mistaken Tom Riddle for an angel. He looked like an illustration straight out of the Sistine Chapel. Beautiful, intricate, perfect. 

Yet utterly terrifying. 

Danger prickled at your skin as Tom’s lips curved into a sinister smirk. “My, my, what do we have here? A little dove out of her cage.” 

You bristled as he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his voice a seductive caress. It was low, husky, and a little rough around the edges. Just like its speaker. Tom plucked a paintbrush out of your satchel and examined it between his fingers. “I saw what you did to Snape’s office. Quite artistic, aren’t you?” 

A part of you considered denying it, but it would’ve been a futile attempt. There was paint splattered all over your skirt and flecks of it were already drying on your skin. Tom had quite literally caught you red handed. The only thing you could do was to own up to it and face whatever consequences came as a result of your foolish actions. 

“Are you going to turn me in to the headmaster?” 

Tom shook his head, his brown wavy hair falling over one eye. “Not until I catch your two helpers.” 

Panic seized your body. It may be too late for you, but Tom hadn’t seen either Harry or Ron. There was a chance they could come out of this unscathed. 

“I was alone,” you declared with your chin held high. “There was no one else with me.” 

Anger contorted Tom’s handsome features. Those emerald eyes lit up in flames as he backed you into a wall, bracketing each side of your head with his arms as he leaned down. You tried not to cower under the intensity of his stare, but gods was it hard. Tom towered a good foot over you and as if that weren’t intimidating enough, he also blocked every possibility of escape with his body. 

“Don’t lie to me, little dove,” Tom growled, tilting your chin up with one hand. “I heard three sets of footsteps running through the corridor.” 

You swallowed thickly, praying to Merlin to grant you the ability to flawlessly lie your arse off. “I swear, it was just me. No one else. I did it all by myself.” 

Tom hummed as if unconvinced. “Well, you’re certainly on your own now. Your idiotic friends left you down in the dungeons all alone. Don’t you know that dangerous things lurk in the dark around here, Y/N?” 

“Like I said, I was alone.” 

“So it appears,” Tom said, flashing you a smile that told you he was the most dangerous thing lurking in the dungeons. “Poor little dove wandering the serpent’s nest all on her own. Hasn’t anyone told you that us Slytherins have teeth?” 

“Why?” In an idiotic surge of courage, the words slipped out of your mouth before you could pull them back in. “Do you plan on biting me, Tom?” 

Tom grabbed your jaw roughly, making you whimper in surprise. “Insolent girl. You’ll learn your lesson soon enough.” 

Without warning, he grabbed you by the elbow and started dragging you down the corridor. At first, you were certain that Tom was taking you to Dumbledore’s office, but as the minutes ticked by, you realized that you were going in the opposite direction. If anything, he was leading you right into the heart of the dungeons. 

Tom’s grip tightened to the point of pain as he guided you up a set of twin staircases, practically flying up the steps on the right side, which you assumed led to the dormitories. It had a similar layout to the Gryffindor common room, except instead of leading into the towers, the narrow hallway opened into an intricate maze in the lower levels of the castle. 

Nestled into the underbelly of Hogwarts was a large, dark room that was surrounded by more stained glass walls that looked out into the Black Lake. A school of fish swam by as Tom ushered you through the door, which he promptly locked behind him with a series of complicated spells you had no hope of deciphering. 

You were trapped. Alone in a room. With Tom Riddle.

Upon closer inspection, you surmised that this had to be his private suite. It was twice as large as your dorm back in the towers and extremely private. A luxury that only the Head Boy and Head Girl enjoyed. 

“You’ve been very bad, little dove,” Tom reprimanded. "You deserve to be punished, but I’ll tell you what. Give up the names of your accomplices and I might find it in my heart to go easy on you.” 

His drawling voice echoed in the bedroom as he leaned back against his desk, twirling his wand between his fingers. The look he leveled at you is enough to awaken your fear. Plus another emotion that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. 

Merlin, Tom was sizing you up like he was the lion and you were the helpless deer frolicking through the meadow. You steeled yourself and doubled down on your lies. 

“There was no one else, Tom.” 

He smirked as though you’d given him the answer he’d hoped to hear. Tom stopped twirling his wand, tucking it away in his back pocket as he stalked over to you. “Very well, then. I suppose you’ll just have to endure their punishments too.” 

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. It occurred to you that while you had your wand, you were completely and utterly defenseless against Tom. It should’ve scared you shitless, but instead you felt a strange sort of thrill as he came closer. “What…what sort of punishment?” 

A smirk curved at his lips as he fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back to meet his gaze. “I think you know, babydoll.” 

Heat ignited in your veins as your tongue darted out to sweep across your bottom lip. “This is crazy,” you whispered. “Shouldn’t you be telling Dumbledore? Snape? Someone in charge?” 

“I’m the one in charge,” Tom growled as he shoved you against his bookshelf. Your back hit solid wood, disturbing the neatly organized tomes behind you. “You snuck into my dungeons, under my watch, and defaced my home. I will dole out your punishment as I see fit.” 

“And if I refuse?” You asked, hoping that you emulated the bravery that your house was infamous for.

Tom pressed his body against yours, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between you as he flashed you a feral smile. “It’s laughable that you still think you have a choice.” 

“I could scream bloody murder. Wake the entire castle up and alert everyone that you're holding a fellow student against her will."

“You could,” Tom mused as amusement flickered in his eyes. “But we both know you won’t.” 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“You’d never risk such a scandalous act to go on your record. First vandalizing Professor Snape’s office, then sneaking into the Head Boy’s dorm after curfew? You’re on a downward spiral, aren’t you, little dove?” 

“I didn’t sneak into your dorm. You dragged me in here.” 

“Please,” Tom said with a scoff. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t want to be here. I’ve been watching you, you know. The perfect little Gryffindor good girl. You think you have everyone fooled, but not me.” You groaned as he pinned your hips in place, sliding his thigh between your legs. 

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me in class? Bending over in that tiny little skirt of yours hoping I’ll glance your way? Leaving the buttons to your blouse undone so you can give me a view of that lacy red bra? Biting your lip when you’re thinking dirty thoughts about me in class?” 

You flushed at his spot on assessment. Tom might be right on the mark, but you weren’t about to admit that to him. Not when your pride was on the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Dirty little liar.” Tom whispered against the shell of your ear. “You know, your mental shields are impressive, but it’s like you can’t help yourself when I’m around. You’re practically broadcasting your filthy fantasies every time we’re in the same room.” 

Fuck. 

This was bad. 

This was really fucking bad.

How many times had you sat in class staring at Tom while thinking the filthiest, dirtiest thoughts about him? Tom bending you over a desk. Tom slipping his fingers under your skirt. Tom making you scream with his head between your thighs.

All this time, he had complete access to those dirty daydreams.

“That’s right, doll. You may be a powerful occlumens, but you’re no match for my legilimency.” He chuckled darkly, caressing your jaw. 

A heavy pressure weighed down the constraints of your defenses as Tom poked around in your mind, teasing and taunting as a lover would. The act of him prodding around in your subconscious was oddly sensual, mixing pain and pleasure together as he waited for you to yield. 

There’s no use hiding now, Tom whispered into your subconscious. I’ve already seen inside your mind, doll. And your thoughts are just as fucking filthy as mine. 

Glimpses of your deepest, darkest fantasies flashed through your mind. The images were a never ending rolodex of filth and smut. Tom fucking you like his perfect little slut. Tom panting above you as he spread your legs. Tom working you with his fingers until you were a sobbing, whimpering mess. 

He was right. You were shameless. 

But so was he. A new image of you on your knees while Tom unbuckled his belt, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you stared up expectantly took center stage. Since it was from his point of view, you could only assume that he was showing you one of his fantasies. It was oddly satisfying. Tom was basking in the depravity with you, sharing his equally fucked up thoughts. 

“Tom…” you breathed, leaning into his touch as he continued to pin you against the wooden bookshelf. 

“Not Tom,” he grunted gruffly. “You’ll address me properly from now on, little dove.” 

This was so fucked up and yet so hot at the same time. You were so turned on you could hardly speak. “Yes, sir.” 

“That’s better, doll.” Tom declared with a smirk. “Now that I’ve been inside of your head, I plan on being inside you in every other way as well. Starting with that pretty little mouth of yours. On your knees, little dove.” 

A strange sense of deja vu washed over you as you knelt onto the floor. The concrete nipped at your knees, but you welcomed the pain. It kept you centered as your body buzzed with anticipation. You watched as Tom unbuckled his belt, deft fingers slowly sliding his boxers down as he gripped himself with one hand. 

With a smirk, Tom brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, looking down at you with lust blown eyes. “Open wide, babydoll.” 

Tom pumped himself slowly. The sight of his cock made your mouth water, your head spinning and dizzy with desire as you tried to calculate how you were going to take all of him. The tip of his cock glistened with precum as he rubbed over it. Tom was thick, long, and absolutely delicious. You groaned as he rubbed his head over your lips, the salty taste of his arousal resting on your tongue. 

“I won’t ask again,” Tom warned. “Be a good girl and open your mouth. I’ll make you regret it if you don’t.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A satisfied smile graced his handsome face before he shoved his way in. Your lips parted for him, opening your mouth wider as you accommodated his size. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

You nodded obediently, eyes filling with tears as you took Tom all the way back. He fisted your hair in one hand and rocked against your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. A garbled sound crawled out of your chest, but it was soon silenced with Tom’s impatient thrusts. 

“Fuck,” Tom cursed. “So wet and warm. Such a perfect little throat. What a pity that I’m about to ruin it.” 

Ruin was an understatement. Tom fucked your throat with precise thrusts, angling deeper and deeper and groaning as you gagged on his cock. He was so deep that you could feel him bruising your tonsils. The more he abused your throat, the wetter your pussy got. You were practically soaked as you moaned on his cock, sucking your cheeks in and bobbing your head up and down to take more of him. 

“Such pretty noises,” Tom said, his fingers curling through your hair to the point of pain. He tugged at your scalp, forcing you to meet his eyes as you sucked him off. “If your mouth feels this good around my cock, then I can’t even imagine what your cunt will feel like.” 

You groaned in pleasure, making Tom’s eye roll back from the vibrations. Controlled, compulsive, and perfectly composed Tom Riddle was fading before you, replaced by a man driven only by his base desires. He was an animal lost to lust and so were you. 

Tom squeezed your throat, groaning when he felt himself moving beneath his grip. “Your throat was made to be fucked, doll. You like that, don’t you? You love it when I’m rough.” 

You struggled to nod in acknowledgement, saliva sloppily collecting in the corner of your mouth as you continued to let him use you for his own pleasure. Tom chuckled at your pathetic attempt to respond. “Don’t bother answering, little dove. You won’t be able to speak when I’m done with you anyways.” 

The filth flowing effortlessly from his mouth made you clench your thighs together. Tom threw his head back, those pretty curls tousled and plastered against his sweat soaked skin. A moan tore through his chest as he got closer and closer, fucking into your mouth with reckless abandon. He chased after his orgasm, shuddering as he spurted hot ribbons down your throat. 

“Fuck. You see what you do to me? Swallow, doll. Every single fucking drop.” 

The fantasies that you’ve been harboring for the past few years finally came to fruition, but none of it came close to reality. Tom was a fucking god. A masterpiece coming undone above you. You’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. All the artwork in the world would’ve paled in comparison to witnessing Tom Riddle at his most vulnerable. 

In awe and wonder, you looked up at him with mascara streaked eyes, tears and saliva staining your face. Tom hauled you to your feet and claimed you with his mouth. The taste of him was still on your lips, but Tom didn’t seem to mind as he parted your lips with his tongue. The kiss was neither sweet nor innocent. It was dark and dangerous and there was an edge of possessiveness in the way he demanded your submission. Almost like he was marking his territory. 

Tongues, teeth, and lips met with a clash as Tom carried you over to his desk. His books and journals clattered to the ground as his teeth grazed the column of your throat. The taste of him was intoxicating and you licked, sucked, and nipped at every inch of skin he allowed access to. You gasped into his mouth as Tom parted your legs, not bothering to warn you as he palmed your soaked panties. 

Your core clenched as he slipped a finger inside of your pussy. A squelching sound filled the room as Tom added another digit, pumping you full and fucking you with his middle and pointer fingers as you begged for more. He knew exactly what he was doing. Tom studied you like one of his books, with meticulous precision and alarming intensity, pouring all of his efforts and attention into making your body sing. 

It wasn’t long before that familiar warmth singed your veins, your moans growing louder and more desperate as you clawed at Tom’s back. You were so, so close. You were practically riding his hand as he brought you closer to the precipice. Just when you were about to come, Tom pulled away and denied you the orgasm. 

“Don’t be mistaken, doll. This is still a punishment.” Tom said as you whined from the loss. He silenced your complaints by bending you over his desk. 

“Tom, please—“ You clawed at the wood as he lined up and filled you with one sharp thrust. “Oh my fucking gods.” 

Tom gripped your hips, the slap of his skin against yours echoing in the room as he fucked you from behind. He was relentless, thrusting in and out and arching your back while he railed the absolute life out of you. It wasn’t long before you were getting close again. The sharp angles of his thrusts had him hitting all the right spots, making your knees weak and your pussy sensitive from the roughness of his actions. Sensing that you were close, he rutted into you, letting that tension uncoil before ripping the orgasm away from you once more. You whined, fresh tears soaking your cheeks as you chased after that high. 

“Like I said, this is still a punishment,” Tom taunted, slowing his thrusts to a snail’s pace. “That’s two orgasms I’ve taken from you, which leaves you with two more. Four for every wall you defaced. It should be twelve, given that you had help, but I’m in a forgiving mood. I think I’ll just spank the other eight out of you instead.” 

With your head bowed, you wiped the tears off of your cheeks and braced yourself. You knew that he was telling the truth. To Tom, this was mercy. You should’ve found it sadistic, but you fucking loved it. Maybe you were a masochist. Whatever the case may be, it seemed like the two of you were a match made in heaven. 

“I’ll be good,” you whispered hoarsely. Your throat was still raw and sore from earlier. “I’ll happily take the punishment. I promise I’ll be good, sir.” 

Tom chuckled darkly, relishing in your submission. His hand came down with a hard smack against your right ass cheek, making you jolt from the contact. Before you could recover, he repeated the action on the left. 

“That’s two,” Tom said proudly. “Can you count out the rest, babydoll?” 

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip every time his large hand came down on your ass. His rings bit into the soft flesh of your skin, but it was a delicious sort of pain. One that you could easily become addicted to. 

Three. Tom tugged at your hair. 

Four. Teeth nipped at your shoulder. 

Five. Fingers curled around your throat. 

Six. Hips slammed against you. 

Seven. Lips trailed down your spine.

Eight. Moans echoed in your ears. 

When Tom slipped his fingers down to your clit, your eyes rolled back so hard that you saw fucking heaven. “It’s not a punishment if you’re enjoying yourself so much, little dove. I can feel you creaming my cock. You look so innocent, but you’re just a filthy fucking slut for me, aren’t you?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“So. Fucking. Perfect.” 

Tom emphasized each word with a thrust and worked your clit faster and faster, bringing you to the edge. This time, he didn’t pull back. Tom let the orgasm build until it threatened to wipe you out entirely. White hot heat coursed through your veins as stars exploded behind your eyes. You whimpered through the intensity of the orgasm. After being denied four times, the pleasure ripped through your body so fiercely that you nearly blacked out. 

“Fuck, let me fill you up,” Tom growled. “Take it, doll. I want you dripping with my cum.” 

“Yes, yes, oh gods. Please cum inside of me, sir.” 

Tom released a guttural grunt, gripping your hips in place as he filled you to the brim. Nothing in the world compared to the sensation of Tom filling you with his warm, wet cum. You glanced behind you and found him staring intently as he slipped out of you, stuffing his cum back into your pussy as it dripped down your folds. You bit your lip, utterly aroused by how fucking sexy this man was. 

His gaze met yours, a proud smile curving against his lips as he swept you off your feet and into his arms. “I think I’ll keep you, little dove.” 

[obsessedwhyyes]

The Learned Observer

Fic Request: Voyeurism

Summary: On a sleepless night, Gale notices the distinct sound of hushed voices outside his tent. It couldn't be you and Astarion… could it? When he decides to take a peek - to satisfy his scholarly curiosity, of course - he gets more than he bargained for.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2623 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader, implied Astarion x Gale x Fem!Reader Content: Gale's POV (first person), voyeurism, dry humping, handjob, public sex, male masturbation, a little bit of jealousy.

A/N: Gale, in my humble opinion, would not use the word, “cock.” I cannot express how hard it was to not use the word, "cock" in a smut fic. I frigging love that word. Anyways, writing entirely in Gale’s voice was honestly the most fun mini challenge I’ve set myself so far, and I would gladly do first person BG3 companion POVs again. Thank you, dear anon, for the request!

Another sleepless night.

The orb pulses beneath my skin, each throb a reminder of my predicament.

I implore my mind to wander to the events of our journey, to the challenges that lie ahead, in pursuit of a worthwhile distraction. But the orb’s hunger grows stronger, like a raging maelstrom, each tribute to its insistent pull a mere ripple against the tide of its endless consumption. Perhaps I should consult the others about–

… Voices drift from outside my tent before I can finish my thoughts. Curious.

Hushed laughter and whispered words. Astarion's distinctive timbre and… you.

The sound is soft, subtle - a quiet exchange. Yet, here I am, catching fragments of something private, something perhaps not intended for outside ears.

I shift, the faintest spark of curiosity pulling me from my solitude. It's innocent, surely - a late-night conversation, perhaps a shared joke. And yet, as the moments pass, I can't ignore the intimacy in your laughter, the way Astarion's voice drops to that silken murmur he reserves for his attempts at enticement.

Just a glance, I tell myself. Merely to understand what could be so amusing at this hour.

Slowly, carefully, I draw back a sliver of canvas, just enough to peek through.

My breath catches as my eyes adjust to the firelight outside. There, on the other side of the campfire, resting against a fallen log, you sit beside him, close - very close - your faces inches apart.

Your legs are entwined, and there’s an intensity in the way you look at each other. I’m taken aback by the hunger in the kiss that follows - one neither timid nor restrained. Your hands begin to explore each other with what I can only call fervour - the kind of urgency I hadn't known either of you possessed, let alone with each other. 

The way you move together speaks of raw desire rather than tender affection - this is clearly a new physical relationship.

When did this start? How did I miss the signs? Though perhaps I was too caught up in my own concerns to notice the lingering glances, the way you always seemed to find reasons to be near each other…

I tell myself it’s simple curiosity that keeps me here, observing. A certain academic interest, if you will. After all, Astarion has always been something of a hedonist - a man who indulges in his desires with a recklessness I sometimes envy, though rarely approve. But to see him like this - in action, as it were - offers a unique perspective on his character.

You murmur something I cannot make out, a teasing lilt in your voice, and Astarion laughs in that rakish, honeyed tone of his, as though thrilled to have you so wholly entranced. His hands grip your waist, and with a practised grace, he pulls you into his lap, the hem of your skirt spilling around you both. As his hands settle on your hips, you grind against what I can only assume to be a prominent hardness in his trousers, judging by the satisfied smirk on his face. 

You seem eager, pliant under his touch, responding in ways I confess I hadn’t thought you capable of - no, not like this. Not with him.

My heart hammers in my chest, a tension spreading through me that’s… increasingly difficult to ignore. And yet, I remind myself, this is mere observation, nothing more. A clinical exercise in understanding the intricacies of interpersonal attractions between a vampire and a mortal; the undercurrent of danger that befalls such an arrangement.

He holds you with a blend of confidence and entitlement that borders on decadent, his mouth at your neck, lips brushing against your skin with a maddening leisure that’s somehow indulgent and teasing all at once. His fangs linger there and, for a moment, my heart stops - surely he wouldn’t… Ah, no. No, he’s not feeding. He merely kisses your neck, fangs scraping lightly against your throat - close enough to tempt and tantalise. I see the goosebumps flare on your skin.

He whispers something low and unintelligible, and you let out a soft giggle, yielding in a way that speaks of trust - trust that’s he’s earned, somehow, despite his nature.

And then your hand drifts between you both, touching him through his trousers.

Gosh. I hadn’t thought you so bold.

Astarion’s body arches into your touch, his gaze darkening as he watches you with a hunger that’s both terrifying and… strangely beautiful. I find myself entranced, my breath shallow as I observe the way your fingers trace over him, the way he leans into you. The noise he makes when your fingers flex, squeezing him gently over the fabric… Gracious. 

There’s a strange, reluctant curiosity building within me. I should look away. I should grant you both the privacy you likely assume you have. And yet, my gaze remains fixed, drawn to the details of your encounter: the way his hands tighten on your waist, the way your breaths synchronise, the way he murmurs softly into your ear…

I am aware - painfully so - of the ache low in my body that has built with each passing moment, each glance, each touch. I am no stranger to restraint - I have spent years tempering my desires, sacrificing comforts in the pursuit of knowledge, of power. Yet, here, now, I feel that restraint begin to falter; to dissolve like ink in water, dispersing until it is all but unrecognisable. It has been so long, after all. So, so long.

When your hands move to the waistband of his trousers, my breath catches. Gods above, surely you won't, not out in the open... but yes. Yes, it seems you will.

When you pull him free, well - I’ve always wondered about vampire physiology, purely academically, of course. But the sight of him prompts rather less scholarly thoughts. He’s impressively endowed - perhaps it is wishful thinking to believe that this is but another gift of his condition. It’s fascinating how vampiric transformation affects every part of the body - he’s almost luminescent in the firelight, every inch of him perfect and unmarred. I notice the veins that trace along his length, faintly visible beneath his skin. He is, even now, a study in confidence, exuding a subtle power that one can only achieve when utterly comfortable in one’s own skin.

Your hand wraps around him, sliding up and down his length at a teasing pace, drawing forth a sound I have never heard our pale companion make - a soft, broken gasp, caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh. It sounds almost reluctant, as though he hadn’t meant for such a sound to slip past his lips. He twitches under your ministrations, and his grip on your hips tightens enough that there will surely be bruises tomorrow.

My fingers rest at my thigh, trembling ever so slightly. A small part of me - a remnant of reason, perhaps - tells me to pull back, to look away, to let this moment pass without surrendering to the need that has taken root within me. But my body, the traitorous thing it is, does not heed such commands. Instead, I find my hand drifting lower.

My fingers trace over the fabric of my trousers, over the aching hardness beneath. A gentle palming, barely enough to ease the tension that coils tighter with each passing moment as I watch the scene unfold.

Your hands elicit quiet murmurs from Astarion that grow deeper and more insistent with each passing moment. For a moment, the two of you share a look - one of conspiratorial mischief, perhaps - and then a soft, shared giggle, the sound mingling with the crackling of the fire. 

You're so utterly engrossed in him; so utterly unselfconscious.

You shift, a question in your eyes, and as he nods, giving his assent, you rise just enough to shift, positioning yourself over him. Your skirts drape around you both, providing a veneer of modesty, though there's no mistaking what follows when you sink yourself down on to him. The way your lips part in a gasp as he enters you, the way his head falls back with a victorious grin - it makes the tightness, the great ache between my legs, almost unbearable.

I find my hand slipping beneath my waistband.

Just a little relief, I tell myself. Just enough to ease this maddening tension.

There is a certain poetry to it, I suppose - this surrender to the pleasures of the flesh. I allow myself to imagine, as my hand finds the throbbing heat of my arousal, what it might feel to be in your place, to have someone look at me with that same confidence, to experience touch imbued with the certainty of one who knows precisely how to elicit pleasure - a knowledge gleaned from centuries, no doubt, of indulgence and conquest.

It’s enough to leave me aching for more than mere observation.

The fervour with which you move against him… it’s hypnotic, each roll of your hips drawing forth increasingly wanton sounds from you both. Astarion's carefully crafted demeanour gives way to something more roguish, a playful daring that glints in his eyes as you rise and fall and rise and fall on his length.

I find my hand instinctively matching your rhythm, every shift and motion, as though I, too, am bound to the undulating tempo that you and Astarion have created.

Gods… what must it be like to be him? To have someone so openly, eagerly drawn to you, meeting every touch with matching fervour? To hold someone close and feel their raw desire, the thrill of each laugh, each gasp, offered without hesitation? I wonder what it must be like to inspire such a response, to be desired so freely, without need for pretence or restraint?

With Mystra, I was ever the pursuer, striving tirelessly to earn even the barest hint of her approval, each moment together feeling like an examination I desperately hoped to pass. But Astarion… well. He needn't chase or convince. Despite his vampiric nature - or perhaps, in part, because of it - he is simply desired, freely given all that I once had to beg for. The inequity of it all would be rather poetic, if it weren't so personally vexing.

“A-ah!”

Your gasp cuts through my ruminations, pulling me back into the scene.

Astarion’s hand has slipped between you, guiding you to that final crescendo with a practised touch. The sight of it is utterly spellbinding: his fingers moving with a precision that speaks to centuries of experience, knowing just where to press, where to linger. The control he exercises over you is enviable, each movement of his hand coaxing you closer to that peak, his attention wholly focused on your reaction, even as your hips rock back and forth on his length with an increasingly frantic, unrestrained urgency.

The way your eyes roll back... Gosh.

The expression on your face, one of pure, unfiltered abandon, is a sight to behold.

Your body trembles as you reach your peak, and a sound - a cry, too loud in the stillness of the night - escapes your lips. Astarion’s palm clamps over your mouth, a futile attempt to muffle you in the throes of your climax. Though he hushes you, his expression suggests that he is not in the least bit concerned. In fact, he seems rather pleased - more than pleased, really. 

There’s a thrill in such a public display for him too, no doubt.

I swallow, the sound almost too loud, my heart pounding against my ribs as though it seeks to betray me. Astarion's head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to the shadows, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he has sensed me, that his attention has shifted from you to this invisible interloper, the scholar caught red-handed in his quiet act of voyeurism.

Could he... sense me here, lingering on the fringe of his private moment? Could he smell the stir of my own arousal, feel the faint tremor of my breath as I fight for composure? For several heartbeats, my hand freezes. I dare not even breathe.

But then his attentions return to you, and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

He brings his hands to your hips, holding them firmly in place as he drives himself upwards into you, deeper, with mounting desperation. It seems he seeks to chase his own release, content with the pleasure he has wrought you.

You respond eagerly, pressing closer, your own sounds growing louder, heedless of who might hear, and I can see that thrill in his face - the satisfaction of knowing he’s eliciting every reaction from you, drawing out each gasp, each shudder.

My hand glides hastily across my arousal, my own breathing growing ragged as I watch his control begin to slip. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips back in pure abandon.

In the final throes, he presses himself against you, buried firmly to the hilt. It’s almost animalistic, all thoughts, all calculated movements, making way for one singular goal: to empty himself into you, filling you with all he has to offer with breaths rugged and low. All composure is stripped, replaced with instinct and pure need.

I find my own movements quickening to match his pace, as though some invisible thread binds us all to this moment. My hand tightens as I lose myself in the same tempo, every sound from you both spurring me closer. The sight of his final shudder, the look of utter satisfaction crossing his face as he reaches that height, is enough to tip me over the edge.

For a heartbeat, the night seems to hold us all in perfect suspension - your quiet gasps, his satisfied murmurs, my own silent echo of shared pleasure - all woven together in this clandestine tableau.

Only then, as the euphoria begins to fade, does a most uncomfortable awareness creep in.

Gods above, what have I... A scholar of worldly acclaim, reduced to voyeur, caught up in base desires like some common... No. Best not to dwell on such things. Though I suspect sleep will prove rather elusive tonight, haunted by questions of propriety and... other matters.

With a groan, I roll onto my back, the orb’s steady throb now a minor annoyance compared to the tangled thoughts that flood my mind. Perhaps I can chalk this entire… incident up to fatigue, a wandering mind, even a fevered dream. Yes, that must be it. The product of a restless night and, possibly, a touch of indigestion. After all, who could believe that I, Gale of Waterdeep, would be brought so low as to... well, that.

As morning light spills across camp, I attempt a façade of normalcy, willing my cheeks to cool and my mind to settle. Just as I convince myself the night’s events were nothing more than a peculiar dream, Astarion sidles up, his expression one of leisurely amusement.

"Restless night, Gale?” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. His gaze is as sharp as his tone, a knowing glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist in the most uncomfortable way. "I thought I heard a... stirring from your tent."

The corner of his mouth quirks up in that infuriatingly smug way of his, and I nearly choke on my response. 

He knew. 

Astarion knew. 

I force a cough, pretending to inspect the morning sky.

"A dream," I reply a bit too quickly. "Perhaps the cheese at dinner was... overly ripe."

But Astarion merely chuckles, a wicked sound, before strolling away with a satisfied air. And as I watch him saunter off, I’m left to question just how much of the night was a dream - and how much, mortifyingly, was very, very real.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy @asterordinary

[therogueflame]

The Small Council

Hi my sweet baby angels,

Here is the long overdue Aemond fic I promised all those moons ago. I hope you enjoy it, this one was definitely interesting to write. Writing someone as calculated as Aemond was a different kind of difficult, but using the dialogue from the show with Alicent did help quite a bit. Please let me know what you think! (Also if anyone can point me in the direction of making those cool like three gif/pic banner things cool authors put on their fics that would be so great love you bye.)

✨ My Masterlist ✨

🖊️My AO3 🖊️

📝 My WIP List 📝

❄️ My ASOIAF/GOT/HOTD Discord Server 🔥

Summary: A brief conversation between the Queen Dowager and the Prince Regent brings you unexpectedly to the precipice of action.

WC: 5.0k

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving), multiple orgasm, cheating, no use of y/n, public sex, implied fem!reader

Aemond Targaryen x Mistress!Reader

MDNI!!!

Aemond remained seated at the head of the council table, exuding an air of effortless authority. The chamber had begun to empty, the scrape of chairs and measured footsteps fading into the corridor beyond. Only the crackle of the hearth and the rustle of parchment lingered in the stillness. His fingers drummed idly against the carved wood, his expression unreadable as he watched the last figures depart.

Alicent was nearly at the door, walking beside Ser Criston, her hands clasped tightly, her posture poised yet rigid. Afternoon light streamed through the high windows, casting sharp angles across the chamber floor.

“Mother? A word.”

His voice cut through the space, measured—a command rather than a request.

Alicent halted, her lips pressing together as if steeling herself. Then, slowly, she turned, her gaze unreadable as she stepped back toward him. “I caution you, Aemond—boldness is one thing, but—”

“I am relieving you of your place on the small council.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Alicent did not waver. “You know very well I represented your father in his final years and have counseled Aegon.”

“Capably so.” Aemond’s tone was even, unruffled. “Father is dead. Aegon is… mmm.” He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as though considering his phrasing. “You served the realm well in its time of need. That need has ended. You are no longer obliged.”

Alicent’s chin lifted, her gaze sharpening. “It is not a matter of obligation. This council is in need of a tempering voice.”

Aemond’s mouth twitched, something too faint to be a smirk but just as dismissive. “We have more than enough of those, if you ask me.”

Her shoulders squared. “You have the recklessness of ease. And its arrogance. Neither of which befits a king.”

His fingers stilled against the table. He did not flinch, did not betray so much as a flicker of reaction, but something shifted in the air between them. “I release you from your seat, such as it was. I trust you’ll find contentment in more... domestic pursuits.”

Alicent stepped forward then, close enough that the afternoon light slanting through the chamber windows cast a gentle glow over her face. She reached out, fingertips light as they pressed to his cheek—a touch meant to soothe, perhaps, or to remind.

“Have the indignities of your childhood not yet been sufficiently avenged?”

Aemond’s hand caught her wrist, his grip firm, but not unkind. The moment stretched, heavy with words unspoken. Then, slowly, Alicent pulled away. She did not look back as she turned, nor did she speak. Aemond stood, movements smooth, deliberate, and watched as she disappeared beyond the threshold.

“You have the gratitude of the Crown,” he said at last, though the words were spoken to the empty air.

The door closed behind her, leaving him alone in the hush of the chamber, the afternoon light stretching long across the stone. Aemond exhaled, long and slow, before turning back toward the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture rigid as he gazed out over King’s Landing. The city stretched before him, its streets winding and endless, its people moving below like ants, oblivious to the shifting of power within the Red Keep. The faint sound of the door opening again caught his ear, but he did not turn. He already knew who it was.

You hesitated in the doorway, the soft click of the latch settling into place behind you. He did not turn. You had not expected him to. Still, a quiet unease curled in your stomach as you took a measured step forward, the train of your gown whispering against the stone floor.

“My prince.”

His only response was a slow inhale through his nose. “My lady.”

He still did not look at you, his gaze fixed on the sprawl of the city below. That suited you just fine. You had no desire to meet his eye just yet, not after overhearing what had passed between him and the Dowager Queen. You had not lingered to eavesdrop—not intentionally, at least—but whispers carried through these halls like a restless wind. And you had learned long ago that it was wiser to listen than to be caught unprepared.

“You’re troubled,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

That earned you something—a quiet exhale, almost a laugh, though it held no true mirth. “What keen insight,” he murmured, finally turning to face you.

Aemond’s gaze swept over you, cool and assessing, and though you stood still beneath it, you felt the weight of it settle on your skin. You were no one of great consequence, no rival, no threat—merely a courtier, the wife of another lord. But you had remained in the Red Keep long past what was necessary, and he had noticed.

He noticed everything.

“Shall I presume you were listening at the door?”

The corner of your mouth lifted, though you did not dare call it a smile. “No, my prince. The halls carry sound.”

His expression did not shift, though something in his gaze sharpened. “And what have you come to tell me?”

You hesitated only a moment before lowering your head, a gesture of deference, though not entirely without purpose. “Only that I thought you might appreciate the presence of one who has no quarrel with you.”

Aemond studied you for a long moment, the afternoon light cutting across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. His silence was weighty, deliberate, yet you did not move.

“You believe I am in need of comfort,” he murmured, stepping forward.

You did not step back. “I believe you are in need of company.”

A breath passed between you, heavy with something unspoken. The chamber was empty now. The smallfolk below were nothing more than distant echoes. The day stretched before you, uncertain yet light.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Then stay.”

You stepped closer, the soft rustle of your pale yellow skirts barely breaking the silence between you. Aemond remained as he was—tall, composed, hands still clasped behind his back—but you saw the shift in his gaze, the way his eye flickered over you in quiet recognition.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, edged with something more thoughtful than before.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Should I not?”

His lips twitched, the barest ghost of amusement, though it never fully formed. “It does not suit your purpose.”

A small smile found its way to your lips. “And what do you think my purpose is?”

Aemond did not answer immediately. He let the silence linger, his eye sweeping over you—your gown, your posture, the way you stood before him without hesitation. It was a game, this dance between you. Yours was a connection made in the quiet corners of the castle, in the moments stolen between duty and discretion. He had taken you first out of spite, his own cold, calculated revenge against a man who had slighted him. But what had begun as punishment had not ended so cleanly.

It was not hatred that brought you here tonight.

Aemond finally turned fully to face you, the sunlight catching on the sharp planes of his face, throwing half of it into shadow. “You came to me of your own will,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

You hummed lightly, a sound that was neither confirmation nor denial. “Would you like to believe that?”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not with anger. With something else, something heavier, something that had long since settled between you both.

“I believe,” Aemond said, voice low, “that you should be more careful of whose company you keep.”

You lifted a brow. “And yet, here I stand.”

A pause. A slow breath. Aemond reached out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve—light, testing. Not claiming, not yet.

“You should go,” he said, but the words carried no weight.

“I should,” you agreed, though neither of you moved.

Another long silence stretched between you, the kind that always came before you surrendered to what had long since become inevitable.

His fingers curled around your wrist, firm but deliberate, drawing you just a fraction closer. Your breath shallowed, your pulse quickening as his thumb brushed idly along the inside of your wrist. He was warm, even through his gloves. You knew that touch well.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured again, this time with something close to satisfaction. “Like a wife meant to be untouched.”

You let your lips part slightly, watching him, waiting.

Aemond tilted his head, considering. Then, his grip tightened ever so slightly, guiding your hand to rest against his chest, just over the slow, steady beat of his heart.

“And yet,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, almost soft, “we both know better.”

You watched him, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat betraying none of the control he so carefully maintained. There was something intoxicating about the way Aemond looked at you—like he already owned you, like you had always been meant to stand before him like this, close enough for him to touch, close enough for him to take.

His eye flickered downward, tracing the shape of your fingers splayed against the black leather of his tunic before he released your wrist, the warmth of his touch lingering even after he pulled away. Without a word, he turned and moved back toward the head of the council table, settling into the chair with a quiet ease, as if he belonged nowhere else.

You lingered a moment longer before following, stepping forward until you reached the table. The cold stone bit into your palms as you leaned back against it, shifting just enough to let your skirts sweep over the edge. You hovered between standing and sitting, the table supporting just enough of your weight to suggest ease without fully surrendering to it. Instead, you turned your head to face him, meeting his gaze from where he sat at the head of the table. Not quite relaxed, but not so formal either. A silent challenge.

Aemond studied you from his seat, his fingers tapping idly against the wood. “You make yourself comfortable.”

You shifted slightly, the fabric of your gown whispering against the stone. “Should I not?”

The ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. “You enjoy testing me.”

You exhaled lightly, not quite a laugh, tilting your head. “Do I?”

Aemond said nothing, only watched you, the sunlight filtering through the high windows casting shifting shadows across his face. You had known him long enough to understand what that silence meant. He was considering you, weighing your presence, deciding what he wanted from you today

And you would give it to him.

His eye flickered down, a slow sweep of your gown, the delicate fabric stretched over your form in soft, yielding folds. The color was warm, too gentle against the harsh stone of the council chamber, against the cold weight of the crownless throne he had claimed.

“You do not wear this color for me,”he murmured, almost idly.

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table, the cool bite of stone grounding you. “No,” you admitted. “But that does not mean I did not come for you.”

Aemond hummed low in his throat, a sound of acknowledgment, of something almost pleased. He leaned forward slightly, resting an arm against the table, his gaze steady. “Say it, then.”

You arched a brow. “Say what, my prince?”

His lips curved, though the amusement did not quite reach his eye. “That you came for me.”

You inhaled slowly, letting the tension stretch between you, letting it coil and settle before you finally spoke.

“I came for you.”

Aemond’s fingers stilled against the wood, his gaze dark and knowing. He did not move at first, only let the weight of your words settle before he pushed his chair back slightly, rising to his feet once more.

His presence was suffocating in the best way, the sheer weight of him as he stood before you, close enough to touch, close enough to remind you of exactly why you were here.

His gloved hand lifted, fingers grazing along the curve of your jaw, featherlight but deliberate.

“And what shall I do with you, now that you have?”

Your breath hitched, the heat of his touch seeping through the delicate barrier of your composure. The chamber, vast and cold, felt smaller with him towering over you, the air between you charged and heavy. Aemond’s fingers trailed from your jaw to the delicate line of your neck, his thumb pressing gently against the pulse fluttering just beneath your skin—a subtle reminder of the power he held over you.

Your eyes did not leave his, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your surrender, even as your body betrayed you, leaning just a fraction closer to the warmth radiating from him.

“What shall you do with me, my prince?” you murmured, your voice a low hum that barely bridged the distance between you.

Aemond’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I could send you back to your lord husband,” he said, the words a dark promise, “make you walk these halls with the knowledge of where your loyalties truly lie.”

The suggestion sent a thrill down your spine, the dangerous game you played with him only stoking the fire that had long since consumed your common sense. “And if I said my loyalty was to you?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, a flicker of satisfaction mingled with possessiveness tightening his grip ever so slightly. “Then I would say you have chosen wisely.”

You felt his other hand settle at your waist, pulling you off the table’s edge until you were flush against him, the hard planes of his body pressing into your softer curves. The cold stone was forgotten, replaced by the searing heat of him, of the knowledge that, for now, you were his alone.

“I have chosen you,” you confessed, voice breathless against the sharp lines of his jaw. “Again and again.”

His lips found yours, the kiss consuming, leaving no room for second thoughts or regrets. Aemond’s fingers tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as his mouth moved over yours—demanding, claiming. Each press and pull was a reminder of what you had surrendered to him, of what he had taken from your husband, of the way you had given yourself willingly.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as measured as ever, but his eye was dark, his gaze heavy-lidded and intent.

“You come to me in secret,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip, swollen from his kiss. “And yet, I think you wish to be caught.”

You held his gaze, defiance and desire mingling in the depths of your eyes. “Perhaps I do,” you whispered. “Or perhaps I trust you to protect what is yours.”

The words struck a chord in him, a gleam of something dangerous and possessive lighting his gaze. Aemond’s hands slid down, gripping your hips firmly as he lifted you onto the edge of the council table, the hard stone pressing into the backs of your thighs through the thin fabric of your gown.

He stepped between your legs, his presence overwhelming, your skirts tangling around his knees as he closed the space between you. Aemond’s fingers splayed against your back, pulling you forward, leaving no room for hesitation or modesty.

“I will protect what is mine,” he vowed, his voice a rasp against your ear, the words sending a shiver of anticipation racing down your spine. “And you, my lady, are very much mine.”

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the silvery strands as you pulled him into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, the taste of possession mingling with the thrill of secrecy.

He pulled away for a moment, his expression that of a determined man. Yours was tinged with confusion, but the confusion ceased when his face soon disappeared beneath the fabric, and other sensations began to take over.

Your fingers tightened in Aemond's hair as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. A soft gasp escaped your lips, the sound echoing in the empty chamber. His touch was deliberate, calculated, each press of his lips and scrape of his teeth designed to unravel you piece by piece.

The yellow fabric of your gown pooled around your waist, a stark contrast to the dark leather of his gloves as he gripped your hips, holding you steady against the unforgiving edge of the table. You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, the anticipation building with each passing moment.

"Aemond," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused, lifting his gaze to meet yours. In the afternoon light, you could see the intensity burning in his eye, the raw desire etched into every line of his face.

"Patience," Aemond murmured against your skin, his voice low and commanding. "You came to me. Now you'll take what I give you."

His words sent a shiver through you, a mix of anticipation and surrender. You relaxed back onto your elbows, the cold stone of the table a stark contrast to the heat building within you. Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he settled between them.

The first touch of his tongue against you drew a soft gasp from your lips. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering closed as he worked you with deliberate, measured strokes. Each movement was calculated, designed to build your pleasure slowly, inexorably.

Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you in place as your body began to tremble.

Your fingers curled against the smooth surface of the table, seeking purchase as Aemond's ministrations intensified. The cool stone beneath you was a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth, the warmth of his hands as they held you steady. Your breath came in short, shaky gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

Aemond worked with the same focused determination he applied to all his pursuits. His tongue moved in deliberate patterns, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. You could feel the tension building, coiling tighter with each passing moment.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as he pulled away briefly, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire.

Your eyes met Aemond's, his gaze burning with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting shadows across his face, deepening the hollows of his features and lending an almost predatory gleam to his eye.

"Good," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I want you to watch as I undo you."

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head once more. The first touch of his tongue against you was electric, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your fingers curled against the table's edge, knuckles white with the effort of maintaining your composure.

Aemond's technique was relentless, each stroke of his tongue precise and measured. He knew your body well, knew exactly how to build your pleasure to dizzying heights.

Your breath hitched as Aemond's tongue swirled against your most sensitive spot. The tension within you coiled tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. Your hips strained against his grip, seeking more, always more.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice a breathless plea. "Please..."

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a shudder through your entire body. His eye remained fixed on yours, dark with desire and something deeper, something possessive.

You could feel yourself teetering on the edge, every nerve alight with sensation. Aemond's movements became more focused, more insistent. His fingers dug into your thighs, sure to leave marks—a reminder of this moment, of your surrender to him.

The pressure built to an almost unbearable level.

Your body trembled on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Aemond's gaze remained locked on yours, intense and unyielding, as he drove you closer and closer to the precipice.

With a final, deliberate stroke of his tongue, the tension within you shattered. A cry tore from your throat as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your back arching off the cold stone table. Aemond's grip on your thighs tightened, holding you steady as he worked you through your climax, drawing out every last shudder and gasp.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you lay sprawled across the council table, the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through your body. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of metal drew your attention back to Aemond. He stood between your parted thighs, his fingers working deftly at the fastenings of his breeches. His eye never left yours, dark with desire and something deeper, more possessive.

"Did you think we were finished?" he murmured, his voice low and rough with want.

A shiver ran through you at his words, anticipation coiling in your belly despite your recent release. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, watching as he freed himself from the confines of his clothing. The golden light spilling through the windows carved over the planes of his body, accentuating the lean muscle beneath pale skin.

Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he stepped closer. The heat of his body radiated against you, a stark contrast to the cool stone beneath. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips as he pulled you to the edge of the table, leaving you exposed and vulnerable before him.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice low and husky.

You met his gaze, defiance mingling with desire in your eyes. "You know I do."

A ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "Say it."

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt him press against you, the promise of what was to come sending a shiver down your spine. "I want you, Aemond," you breathed. "Only you."

With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you.

A gasp tore from your throat as Aemond filled you completely, the sudden stretch and fullness overwhelming your senses. Your fingers scrabbled for support against the smooth stone of the table, seeking something to ground you as pleasure and pain mingled in equal measure.

Aemond remained still for a moment, his eye fixed on your face, drinking in every flicker of emotion that passed across your features. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as your body adjusted to his intrusion.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. In that moment, with his silver hair gleaming and his eye burning with desire, he looked every inch the dragon prince he was.

Slowly, deliberately, Aemond began to move. Each thrust was measured, controlled, driving deep before withdrawing almost completely. The pace he set was torturous, building the tension within you with agonizing precision. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

"Is this what you came for?" Aemond murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. "To be taken on the council table, like the whore you are?"

A whimper escaped your lips, equal parts humiliation and arousal flooding through you at his words. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as he increased his pace. The sound of skin against skin echoed in the empty chamber, a rhythmic counterpoint to your gasps and moans.

Aemond's thrusts grew more forceful, driving deeper with each movement. The table beneath you creaked in protest, the sound mingling with your breathless cries. Your fingers curled against the smooth stone, seeking purchase as pleasure built within you once more.

"Look at you," Aemond growled, his eye raking over your flushed skin and parted lips. "Spread out before me like an offering. Tell me, does your husband know how eagerly you come to me?"

His words sent a tremor through you, mortification and desire coiling tight in your belly. "No," you gasped, the word slipping out in a breathless plea.

Aemond's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. "Good. Let him wonder why you return to him with bruises on your hips and my name on your lips."

Aemond’s words sent a heated rush through you, the thrill of his dominance laced with something illicit and intoxicating. His possessiveness only fueled your arousal, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The cold stone of the table bit into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat building within you.

Aemond's pace increased, his movements becoming more forceful, more desperate. His eye remained fixed on your face, drinking in every gasp and moan that fell from your lips. One hand left your hip, sliding up your body to grasp at your breast through the thin fabric of your gown.

"Mine," he growled, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. "Say it."

"Yours," you gasped, arching into his touch. "I'm yours, Aemond."

A low groan rumbled in his chest at your words.

Aemond's thrusts grew more erratic, his composure finally slipping as he chased his release. Your own pleasure built rapidly, coiling tighter with each powerful movement. The table creaked beneath you, the sound barely registering over the pounding of your heart and your breathless cries.

"Look at me," Aemond commanded, his voice rough with exertion.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The single eye that remained to him burned with an almost feverish light, desire and possessiveness warring in its depths. His silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his lips were parted as he panted with each thrust.

The tension within you reached its breaking point. With a cry that echoed through the empty chamber, you shattered.

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body arching off the cold stone as your release overtook you. Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you steady as he continued to drive into you, prolonging your ecstasy with each powerful thrust.

His own climax followed soon after, a low groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep inside you. You felt the heat of his release, your inner walls clenching around him as the aftershocks of your own pleasure rippled through you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chamber was your shared labored breathing. Aemond remained buried within you, his body a warm weight pressing you into the unforgiving surface of the table. His eye never left yours, the intensity of his gaze unwavering even in the aftermath of your shared passion.

Finally, he withdrew, the loss of his warmth leaving you aching for more.

Aemond stepped back, his movements precise as he adjusted his clothing. You remained sprawled across the council table, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. The yellow fabric of your gown was crumpled and askew, a stark reminder of what had just transpired.

"Stand up," Aemond commanded, his voice low and even once more.

You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, sliding off the edge of the table. Your legs trembled beneath you as you smoothed down your skirts, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Aemond watched you with a critical eye, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled appearance.

"You'll need to fix your hair before you leave," he remarked, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone. "We wouldn't want anyone to suspect."

A wry smile tugged at your lips."Of course not," you murmured, your fingers working to tame your tousled hair. "Though I suspect the marks on my hips may be harder to explain away."

Aemond's lips curved into a smirk, satisfaction gleaming in his eye. "Good. Let them serve as a reminder of where your true loyalties lie."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch was gentler now, almost tender, though the possessiveness remained. "You wear yellow like an innocent," he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip. "But we both know the truth of what lies beneath."

You leaned into his touch, your eyes meeting his. "And what truth is that, my prince?"

Aemond's gaze darkened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "That you belong to me. In all ways that matter.”

A shiver ran through you at his words, desire and something deeper coiling in your belly. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I am yours."

Aemond's thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his touch feather-light yet possessive. "Good," he murmured, satisfaction coloring his tone. "Remember that when you return to your husband's bed."

The reminder of your marital obligations sent a pang of guilt through you, quickly overshadowed by the thrill of your illicit liaison. Aemond's hand dropped from your face, and you immediately felt the loss of his warmth.

"Go," he commanded, stepping back. "Before someone comes looking for you.”

You nodded, taking a moment to smooth your skirts and adjust your hair one final time. As you turned to leave, Aemond's voice stopped you.

"One more thing," Aemond said, his voice low and commanding.

You paused at the door, turning back to face him. Aemond stood tall and imposing, his eye gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

"Next time," he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, "wear green."

A small smile played at the corners of your mouth as understanding dawned. Green, the color of House Hightower - his mother's house. A subtle rebellion against your husband's loyalties, and a clear sign of where your allegiances truly lay.

"As you wish, my prince," you murmured, dipping into a curtsy.

As you slipped out of the chamber and into the afternoon halls of the Red Keep, Aemond’s gaze seared into your back. The weight of your shared secret clung to you like a cloak, a whispered promise and a lingering threat, impossible to shake. 

[littlefireball]

can you do a fic with Ateez Seonghwa x virgin reader? Where she never even touched herself, never orgasmed or squirted so Seognwha does all that and they go the full way but she bleeds when he goes in but mother seognwha knows what to say to push her through and get her to the pleasure. From their she squirts on him while he goes rough?

🐈‍⬛

I add some settings on it (⁠ʘ⁠ᴗ⁠ʘ⁠✿⁠) hope you like it

ꜱʜ|ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ (ᴀ/ᴍ)

ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ x ꜱᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄɪᴀʟ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ|ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ, ʙʟᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ|ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.2ᴋ

In a secluded and desolate village, an inexplicable prosperity has taken root, defying all logic and expectations. The villagers attribute this miraculous transformation to the blessing of a mysterious deity, whose influence has brought life back to the barren land.

However, this prosperity comes at a grim cost - the sacrifice of an 18-year-old virgin every hundred years. The purity and sincerity of the sacrifice are believed to prolong the village's prosperity, as decreed by the deity worshipped by the villagers.

For unmarried women like you, reaching the age of eighteen brings a looming nightmare rather than the promise of adulthood. From a young age, you've witnessed your younger brother bask in the favor and attention of your family, while you remained in the shadows, neglected and unappreciated.

To your parents, you are merely a pawn in their pursuit of wealth. If you marry into a prosperous family before turning eighteen, it's deemed a success; but if you remain unmarried, you are destined to be the sacrificial offering.

Growing up devoid of love, surrounded by loneliness and ignorance, you've struggled against the unfair expectations placed upon you. Despite your efforts to resist, you were met with scolding and mistreatment, leaving you isolated and unheard.

One day, as your entitled brother demanded your servitude, you felt a surge of resentment at his audacity. Reluctantly complying with his demands, you couldn't shake the bitterness that had taken root within you.

Confronting him about his reckless behavior with the family's money, you were met with denial and deflection. Your parents, quick to defend your brother, silenced your attempts to speak up, leaving you feeling betrayed and abandoned.

As you were confined to the cabin, awaiting the inevitable sacrifice on your eighteenth birthday, the weight of injustice and abandonment pressed heavily upon you. The darkness surrounding you mirrored the bitterness that had seeped into your soul, a stark contrast to the prosperity that had come at such a high price.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, laughter still echoed through the halls of your home. They looked forward to the moment you die as it meant they could live a new, prosperous life.

Their words only served to fuel the fire of resentment burning within you but you could do nothing.

You often wondered what your fate would be, knowing that the day of sacrifice loomed closer with each passing sunrise. The thought of being offered up to appease the deity, to maintain the facade of prosperity, filled you with a mix of fear and defiance.

—--

Night fell, casting a cloak of shadows over the altar as the ritual neared its zenith.

"Let us offer our gratitude to the Y/L/N family for their generous contribution!" The priest's voice boomed, the family members standing by, basking in the adulation of others, oblivious to their true nature.

Their affections lay with money and their son, not with you.

"Their daughter shall shape our destiny!" The air was heavy with incense and the eerie chants of the priests, their ominous words sending shivers down your spine.

You knelt at the heart of the altar, adorned in lavish garments but devoid of any semblance of joy. Seeing them pretending vaguely, a surge of resentment welled up in your heart. The unvented anger transformed into tears, cascading down your cheeks and saturating the eye mask, yet no one took notice. Memories of the past raced through your mind as the priest drew near; jealousy, anger, sadness, all negative emotions flooding your thoughts.

You felt yourself unraveling, the echoing laughter pushing you towards the brink of collapse. Desperate to block out the sound, you reached for your ears, only to find yourself restrained; yearning to break free, yet bound by invisible chains.

The priest's approach felt ominous, a foreboding presence signaling impending doom. You shook your head in denial, attempting to resist his advance, but the relentless footsteps shattered your resolve. You didn't want to die, there were still so many unfinished tasks; you didn't want them to prosper, to lead a life of luxury… What you craved was vengeance.

“Offer yourself to our God!”

“No! I refuse to meet my end like this!”

“There is no escape, child! Your destiny is to be a sacrifice! It is your duty!”

“NO! Even in death, I will not let you win! I will not make it easy for you!”

“What nonsense is this?!” “Just end her life!!”

With a swift motion, he thrust a sword towards your heart, invoking the deity's power.

But instead of searing pain and spilled blood, darkness enveloped you, wrapping you in an eerie silence.

Panting heavily, you realized you were not hurt. Unable to see anything as you were blindfolded, you could only follow the sound.

"Let me see this year's sacrifice," a voice echoed through the church, accompanied by the slow approach of footsteps, causing your heartbeat to speed up because of nervousness.

As the figure drew closer, Seonghwa knelt before you, lifting your chin to gaze upon your graceful form draped in black sheer fabric.

"It seems good, huh? But your resentment is the strongest among all the sacrifices I've seen," he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip and cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. Nervously, you swallowed saliva and made a barely audible sound.

“Don’t want to be mine? That’s nice, you know?” His gaze shifted from your trembling throat to your chest, where the metal bra accentuated your ample bosom. The sheer fabric did little to quell his burning desire. He leaned in and planted a kiss on your chest. This sudden act made you recoil slightly, unable to find a word.

“You hate me, huh?” Again, you swallowed nervously but did not dare to answer. Hate him? Maybe? Were it not for his presence, you would not have been chosen as a sacrifice. But, it was your so-called family members who did evil things. This was a simple question but you didn’t know how to answer it.

"Speak, girl. I hate it when others don’t answer my questions," he demanded in displeasure. Although you couldn’t see his face, you could still feel his anger.

"I… I apologize," you stuttered, fear gripping you and preventing you from relaxing. Seonghwa smirked, relishing in the feeling of others obeying his commands.

“So, what’s your answer?”

“I…hate…I hate them all.” He raised his eyebrows and said provocatively, “So, it's because of me that you hate them. Am I right, girl?”

“I…” You found yourself momentarily struck silent by fear. But upon reflection, you realized there was nothing left to fear - you were already deceased, after all.

“Yes.” After a deep breath, you found the courage to speak. “If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been chosen as a sacrifice, and I wouldn't be… disliked.” Your unexpected response caught him off guard, as he had never encountered someone who didn't desire his attention.

Determined to sway your opinion, he sought to engage you further.

“What is your name, my dear?” His tone softened, coaxing you to reveal yourself. Surprisingly, he did not react with anger.

“Y…Y/N…”

"Y/N, a beautiful name," His voice, deep and alluring, stirred something within you.

"Relax, Y/N. Why the tension? Tonight, we shall indulge in my desires. But fret not, for it promises to be an enjoyable experience.”

His touch traced a path from your face, down your neck, shoulders, and arms. The cool sensation sent shivers down your spine, igniting a tingling warmth that spread through your body, eliciting a soft, hesitant sigh from you.

“And I’ll change your mind."

His gaze fell upon the handcuffs on your wrists, your delicate wrists trembling slightly, arousing his perverse desire for dominance. He whispered in your ear, his voice extremely seductive, licking and gently biting your earlobe, teasingly grazing your ear.

"Umm…" A shiver ran down your spine as an electric current coursed through your ear, and your body temperature raised, causing your cheeks to redden.

"You're really sensitive, aren't you?" He licked the back of your ear, the sound of his tongue against your skin stimulating your nerves, making you tremble; his lips gradually moved downwards, pecking at your collarbone, sucking on your fine skin, leaving faint red marks.

“Did you touch yourself before?”

“What is touch…?” Smiling, he held your hand while trailing down to your lower core, and slowly got closer to your clit.

“It feels good.” He guided your hand, his slender fingers stroking your clit with a gentle touch, slowly sunk down to your lower core. As both of your fingers entered your cunt, a tingling sensation spread through your body, eliciting soft moans of pleasure. Seonghwa's satisfied smile encouraged you to explore further.

"Come, fuck with me," he whispered. You felt a mix of excitement and curiosity as you pleasured yourself under his guidance. The sensation of his touch, combined with your own exploration, sent waves of pleasure through you.

His hands enveloped your back, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric, soothing your nerves. Your breath quickened, heart racing as he increased the intensity of his movements, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, drawing out soft whimpers of delight.

His velvety lips teased and tantalized your skin, his breath hot against your ear, igniting a fire within you. Your body instinctively responded, allowing him closer as his hands held you close, pulling you into his embrace.

A soft moan escaped your lips, spurring him on, his desire growing with each sound you made. Your body responded eagerly, the climax building within you, your walls tightening around your fingers, urging them deeper. It was so weird but exciting. You could tell there was something inside your body, as you touched it, a numb feeling surged throughout your body.

"You're doing so well, my dear," he praised, a blush rising to your cheeks at his words. “I’m gonna…oh gosh!” You shut your eyes tightly as the climax was about to take over you. “Cum, girl.”With a final, shy moan, you reached your peak, the pleasure overwhelming you.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before withdrawing. A pang of emptiness lingered, but his question brought a spark of anticipation to your eyes.

"More?" he asked, lifting your chin and drawing you closer. With a nod and a shy smile, you whispered, "Yes, I want more."

"Good. All I can think about is how good you're going to taste." Before the words even finished, he pounced on you, the cold touch of the ground sending shivers down your spine. He reached for the buttons on the back of your neck, undressing you from the waist up, leaving your chest fully exposed.

He buried his head between your breasts, continuously sucking and licking. You keenly felt his tongue swirling around your nipple, causing a tingling sensation. The wet and warm feeling enveloped your left breast, while his hand gently squeezed and massaged your right breast, occasionally flicking the nipple with his thumb.

"Ah…" The stimulation on your body made you shyly moan, igniting his desire even more. He lifted his head and kissed your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks on the skin that were no longer pale red but slightly darkened purple.

He admired his love bites while appreciating your beauty. "You're so fucking gorgeous." He growled like a wild animal against your chest, now it's time to unleash the beast inside him.

"Put your hands on your head. You can't put them down without my permission, understand?" You obeyed his command and raised your hands.

He removed all his clothing, kneeling completely naked in front of you, and pressed against your outer lips, occasionally grazing your hole. His erect member has been uncomfortably constrained by his tight pants for far too long.

“It may hurt a little bit. But it's gonna be fun, don’t worry.” He entered your cunt in one go, making you throw your head against the ground. His huge cock was much different from his fingers and tongue─that’s harder, longer, and thicker.

The intense pain was almost unbearable, as if your lower core was being torn apart. Blood flowed, wetting his thick cock and even dripping onto the floor. Your body burned like a flame, sweating all over your body.

"You're bleeding, babe. Does it hurt?" His voice was soft as silk, gently tugging at your heartstrings in a way no one ever had before.

"Yes… it hurts," you managed to reply through the discomfort. "Don't cry, just try to relax." He leaned in to place a tender kiss on your forehead, his simple gesture of concern bringing tears to your eyes. Despite the pain in your lower body, it felt like nothing compared to the past beatings you had endured.

He kissed you gently, offering comfort without any aggression. There were no bites, no invasion of tongues, just sweet and tender kisses. Your lips met softly, filled with warmth and affection. The pain slowly faded, replaced by a growing desire. You wanted him to move, to pleasure you with his gentleness.

"Please, my god," you whispered between kisses, causing him to pause. "I think I'm okay now."

"Tell me what you want, darling. Just say it," he encouraged.

"I want you to move, please," you requested, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

"Don't hate me now?" He chuckled at your reaction, finding you utterly adorable.

"Kidding," Before his lips met yours again and he began to thrust rhythmically. The pace was perfect, neither too rough nor too gentle.

"Ah, my god!" Every thrust hit the right spot inside you, eliciting a cascade of sensations. Your body responded by producing more moisture, adjusting to the feeling of his cock sliding in and out.

The warmth and wetness enveloped his cock, driving him to the edge of sanity. Combined with the sucking sensation, it was impossible for him to hold back.

"You're so tight, I can't handle fucking it." He wanted to fuck you as hard as possible, but not now. He needed you adjust first. He could see your past─what you have endured, how your so-called family treated you. Horrible memories invaded his mind, and although he wasn't frightened by them, he felt pity for you.

“oh my pretty.” He moved faster but not rough at all. His wet chest pressed against yours, letting you feel his strong muscles and physique. Oh shit, you loved this feeling so much, you felt so tiny under his frame. The pain you felt before has already disappeared far away and replaced by endless pleasure and lust.

Settling your legs around his waist, he entered deeper and you bent even more. He first pulled out a bit, and then pushed in fully, repeated over and over again. Every time he thrust deep, he couldn’t help but whimper as he saw how your chest shook from his movement.

“Moan for me, my doll.” You obeyed his words and moaned loudly, accompanied by the sound of skin slapping, forming a beautiful melody in Seonghwa 's ears. He pulled you up, making you sit on his thighs. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he thrust upward that made you throw your head.

Following his movement, you bounced in a slow pace. He trailed down to cup your ass cheeks to pull you closer. Your lips met again as he leaned down to kiss you. This kiss was like the breeze blowing through the petals, full of tenderness, giving you a numbness.

Seonghwa placed you back to the ground gently before turning you over. "Want me to be rough?" "Be rough with me, my god." In the momentary withdrawal, he turned you over directly, and once again entered from behind. His hands pressed against your waist, controlling the movement of your body back and forth, causing your breasts to violently shake.

“Ahh, please, keep going.” “Of course, my little whore.” He cupped your breast while squeezing your nipples and showered your nape with kisses. The scent of you fills his nostrils, very tempting.

He gradually lost control and snapped into your ass with only raw emotion. Sat up straight again to push himself even closer to your limit. He could feel his cock twitch every time he went deep and you moaned loudly. He was going to cum but he wanted you cum first. He needed it, needed to feel your warmth once again wrapped up his cock.

“Baby, I want you cum, cum for my cock. I need you.” His words and thrusting made you dizzy. Everything was overwhelming. You totally lost in the pleasure as he kept sinking down to hit your g spot.

“Hmmmm…Ahhh…please.” There was one more step to reach your climax. Seonghwa knew it as he slid down his hand to your clit. He continued to thrust while stroking, pushing you to climax.

The stimulation all over your body was like an electric current, which not only sent shivers down your spine, but also made the flame of desire in your body bursted out.

You found that the more you press down on your waist, the deeper his cock could go. Desire had already replaced your thinking. You lowered your body as much as possible and spread your legs so that you could reach climax as his arching member deep inside you.

“Your pussy feels amazing, you do that so well. Cum for me, babe.” ”Ah~my god~” You squirted with a high-pitched groan and Seonghwa came after a few thrusts. Your legs were shaking like a leaf and knees went weak. You fell to the ground, out of breath, your body having been drained of all your strength by lust.

“Are you okay, babe?” Seonghwa gently turned you over and took off your blindfold. The sudden light hitting your eyes made you very uncomfortable, but you quickly adapted. A handsome face came into view, and you could finally see Seonghwa 's appearance.

“I’m fine, my god.” He brushed your hair, gave you a loving smile and slowly picked you up before withdrawing from you. His hand trailed down to caress your lower core, full of his seeds. “Not hurt at all, hm?” You shook your head and replied to him with a smile. He chuckled at your smile, pulling you closer to rest on his shoulder.

“You’re mine now. No one will hurt you.” Seonghwa patted your head and pecked on it, making your tears welled up your eyes. Oh, maybe he was truly a god that loved his people…no, or I should say, his sacrifice. Who tells him love having sex so much?

But there was one thing he couldn't lie about. He was a little heartbroken when he found out about your past. At the very beginning, he thought that was only an illusion but his feelings toward you gradually changed. You seemed to be different from those girls he met.

-----

“Darling?" He called you darling every time because he found you liked this name.

“Yes, hwa?" You turned around to give him a peck.

“I killed all the people you hated. Did I do well?” He wrapped his arms around your waist while inhaling your scent. Your eyes widened a bit as you never expected that he would slaughter the whole village.

"You killed them...?"

"Yes, darling. I can do anything you want because I am your God."

[acapelladitty]

The Ghoul x Knife Kink

Hotter Than A Match Head

Pairing: The Ghoul (Cooper Howard) x Female Reader

Summary: A late night fuck turns into something more when Cooper decides to bring his knife into the fray. (1.1k words)

(tw for: knife play, rough sex, nipple play, dirty talk, threats of violence, mild blood, dom/sub dynamics)

Link to AO3

Fic Masterlist

Fucking Cooper was like being trapped in a hurricane; a constant flurry of movement, of your body being manipulated, shaped, and generally thrown around with minimal care. The ferality which he so closely monitored and kept at bay only ever appeared to slip through as he ravaged your body without mercy - by hand, by teeth and by cock.

He was relentless in what he wanted and reckless in his pursuits.

But not tonight.

Tonight he was much more careful in his considerations as he pinned you to the dirty floorboards of the abandoned house you had agreed to spend the night hiding out in. The floor was cold and gritty against your back but you hardly notice it, so engrossed by both the cock which was spearing your cunt and the wicked ghoul attached to it. A man who had pinned you to the floor many minutes before and was currently rolling the edge of his hunting knife across your chest like he were mapping out an assault.

You had watched that same knife sink into countless bodies, living and dead, and the graze of the serrated edge against your collarbone was electric. It was a blade which had seen more violence than most, but the dexterity with which he wielded it was stunning to see. A skill which had led to more than one heated fantasy that Cooper had finally seen fit to make a reality.

"Don't move." Cooper threatened, his eyes ablaze with unfettered arousal as they loomed free of his sunken face. "Don't wanna accidentally slice off something that I might miss."

At the warning, he rolls the flat of the knife across your right nipple - the nub peaked and already reddened by his teeth as he had 'perked' them up earlier in your little game. Shuddering at the sensation of the cool metal, your hand grips even tighter at his forearm and the leathery skin there has very little give beneath your clawing fingers.

His knife glints in the meagre lighting, a single, shitty lamp providing illumination against the dark room, and you tighten around him; your cunt as wet and willing as ever as the thrill of his knife adds an extra layer of danger that makes you dumb as all fuck and desperate to see it used.

Writhing and groaning as he trails the edge of the blade across your skin, not deep enough to cut but with enough harshness to threaten, a cruel smile splits his ragged lips as his bright eyes refuse to leave your expression.

"It really makes you this willing, eh? Haven't seen a bitch in this kinda heat for a long time, sweetie. Maybe I'll even throw ya a bone."

Swiping the knife free of your chest, he continues to lazily thrust within your cunt - his thick cock making every rut of his hips feel like your walls were being hollowed out and punished - as he taps the knife against your stomach in a slowly descending pattern.

Your knees spreading even further, heels determined to gouge out a section of his lower back as they push into him roughly, a keening moan slips free of you as he teasingly grinds the butt of the knife against your engorged and somewhat neglected clit.

It's a fresh hell; sparking pleasure mixing with overstimulating discomfort as your most sensitive nerves are subjected to the cool leather and cruel pressure of the knife. It's a rough texture, every ridge making you flinch and whine, as the sudden onslaught has you stuttering out a slew of utterly incomprehensible pleas which simultaneously beg him for more while demanding he stop.

"It would be so easy." Cooper muses, pulling the knife away and letting it hang between his fingers as he presses his hand to the ground. "You're far too soft for this kinda life. Cut me and it don't make a difference. Hell, I'm not sure I'll even bleed. But you-" He trails off, his groin never ceasing in its movements as he continues to deliver shallow, punishing thrusts to your cunt.

"You should do it." You pant, meeting his aggression by rolling your hips against his groin to stimulate every pulsing nerve in your sex. "Cut me. Mark me as yours."

"Can't be doing that, darling." His breathing very quickly grows ragged, his cock noticeably jerking within your cunt at the lustful demand. "Cause I might never stop. By the time I was finished, you'd be painted even redder than I am."

"Cooper." A keening whimper as his hand abandoned the knife to wrap around your throat, squeezing and testing the skin there as he enjoyed the sensation of you swallowing around his fingers. "Please. Just one. Just a-an intital. You can choose where."

Punctuating each sentence with a thrust of your hips as you remained pinned beneath him, the ridges which sat along the hollow of his nose appeared to flare for a moment as he considered his options - interest alighting behind his darkened eyes.

"You're a tricky one, sweetheart. I've known seasoned whores that're less convincing than you."

It's almost a purr, his accented syllables glossing over the backhanded compliment like an old blanket, but he complies anyway as he releases your neck and snatches his knife back up, the point coming to rest on your hip.

Stilling your movements for just a moment, the feeling of his cock as it stretches you out with its unrelenting heat growing more and more intoxicating. Every passing second is a constant discomfort which makes the pleasure all the sweeter as you warm his cock for him as he works.

"Be ready." Is all the warning you get before he digs the tip of his knife forward into your unprotected hip, the sharpness of the blade splitting the skin like it were little more than butter.

As aroused as you were, it still hurt like fuck, and a stuttered cry is buried into his shoulder as you push your head up - the pain flaring with a wicked intensity before dissolving just as quickly into a dull ache. In the same instance, a tickle of dripping liquid rolls down your skin and you lie back on the floor as he discards the knife to the side with a noisy clatter.

Instantly his hand is pressing over the wound and the pain of the pressure adds to the adrenaline which is making your fingers tremble and your cunt clench, the latter making him grunt as he presses his groin as tightly against your sex as he can to fill you with every inch.

"S'only a superficial cut." Cooper groans, enjoying the determined way in your cunt was milking him with every inviting spasm. "For a scar we'll need to keep poking at you 'til the tissue is so damaged, you'll need to skin it off to get rid of me."

Pulling his blood-tinged fingers to your face, you nip at the pads of his fingers - the leathery skin rough against your lips - as you wrap your free arm around his back. Using him as leverage, you begin to roll your hips once more as you chase the release your body is now desperate for, every inch of your skin feeling sensitive and raw.

"That's the best- ah, the best fucking news I've heard all day."

Unleashing a low chuckle at the enthusiam, Cooper meets your determination with some of his own as he resumes his merciless fucking - all the while, his hand refusing to let up its pressure on the crimson 'C' which lay, freshly carved into your willing skin.

[justwinginglife]

Double The Trouble

25 Days of Simpmas: Day Thirteen December 13th: Manjiro Sano(Mikey), Rank 13 Anime: Tokyo Revengers Event Masterlist

Ironically, this is a Mikey fic and Draken stole lots of screentime lmaooo, whoops, my bad.

Warning: very slight mature scene??

“Let’s trade.”

Two simple words, and yet, they were anything but.

In truth, Mikey had been eying you for a while now, but out of respect for his closest friend, he hadn’t been very active in his pursuit of you. Then, when Draken suddenly expressed his interest in Mikey’s sister, well, Mikey just smirked and said it was only fair that they trade off; Draken was allowed to date Mikey’s sister if Mikey was allowed to date his sister.

Draken almost beat him to a pulp. 

He felt he’d been pretty respectful in asking for Mikey’s permission to date his sister, but he did not like the way Mikey was turning this whole situation into a damn transaction. If that’s what it took, he would just give up on Emma. 

But then you walked in. His baby sister. His whole world. The only thing more precious to him than the entirety of Toman, than the entirety of his life.

And your eyes lit up like the goddamn stars when you saw Mikey. “Hey, silly, watcha doin here? Isn’t it a little early to be up for you?” You walked over to him and ruffled his hair before giving him a hug that was much too long for Draken’s taste. “It’s good to see you.”

Draken sighed. This was terrible. You liked Mikey back, didn’t you? How could he have missed it before? Had the signs always been there, sitting right in front of him? He thought he’d done a good job at keeping you away from the gang life, but Mikey must’ve visited just a little too much, gotten just a little too close, because now you were just a little too fond of him to ever let him go. Now you looked at Mikey like he was the one who put the sun and the stars in the sky, and you looked at him like he’d done it just for you. 

And Draken wasn’t sure how to feel about it. 

On the one hand, Mikey was his best friend and he knew Mikey. On the other hand, Mikey was his best friend… and he knew Mikey. He couldn’t be sure that Mikey’s recklessness wouldn’t get you killed one day. He couldn’t be sure that Mikey’s childish behavior wouldn’t break your heart one day. Sure, Mikey was loyal to his friends, to his gang, but he’d never been in a romantic relationship before. Would he know the difference between love and a passing fancy? Would he even know love if it hit him over the head with a spiked baseball bat?

Now that he thought about it, Mikey hadn’t even expressed any notions as grand as love and romance. He’d only expressed interest in you. Interest as in what? As in you were as interesting as a kid's meal? As in you were as interesting as a buy one get one free coupon he’d found on the street? As in you were as interesting as the newest episode of a TV show that just aired? Was he merely intrigued or was he intoxicated? Was he merely amused or was he affectionate? What were the depths of his feelings for you? Was there no depth at all? Was it simply as shallow as physical attraction? 

He grit his teeth at the thought. 

Draken always knew the time would come when he’d have to fight off waves of suitors, of men who thought they were good enough for you, but he never imagined that Mikey would be first in line. He never imagined that maybe the reason Mikey came over so much in the first place was you. 

He wondered if he denied Mikey your hand, would Mikey respect his decision? Or would he go berserk, and steal you away with him? Would he simply sigh, pout a little, and then forget about you the next day? Draken wasn’t sure what pissed him off more, the thought of you being so valuable to Mikey that he’d kidnap you, or the thought of you being so invaluable to him that he’d forget you. But he had to remind himself that he held all the cards here. Mikey was still waiting for his decision. Maybe Draken would just pretend to think on it, buy himself some time. Maybe by then you’d get tired of waiting and just fall out of love with Mikey. Yeah, that’s what he would do. He’d just wait it out. This was just one big waiting game and Draken held all the cards.

But if he held all the cards, you held all the chips. And you were going all in. You knew your brother better than anyone else in the world, so you already knew that he’d never let you date Mikey. You also knew that his eternal pining over Emma would drive you crazy if left alone any longer, so you thought you might do some of the heavy lifting and kill two birds with one stone.

“Kenny! I want to go to the fireworks festival tonight. I bought a kimono and there’s NO WAY I’m letting the summer end without using it once.” You declared suddenly. 

Draken rolled his eyes. “So just wear it here. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, I wanna wear it to the fireworks festival and I wanna wear it tonight. And you’re coming with.”

He raised a brow. Him? You’d just been hanging onto Mikey’s every word like he’d been hand feeding you oxygen breathed by the gods, and you were asking him to go to the festival with you? Not Mikey? He didn’t know what you were playing at, but he knew it wasn’t good. “Okay… what’s the catch?”

“Why’s there always gotta be a catch with you?” You whined. “Can’t I just want to hang out with my big brother?” 

He crossed his arms, waiting.

“Fiiiiiine. Catch is, I wanna see Emma too. You’ll bring her along, won’t you, Mikey?” You turned your big brown eyes on poor Mikey. Now, he hadn’t been intending to resist in the first place -in fact, he’d been too busy imagining how good you would look in a kimono to properly contribute to this conversation at all- but when you gazed at him like that, like he held the world in his hands, there was no way in hell he would ever deny you anything. 

“Of course. I’ll drop her off by-”

“Drop her off? But what if Emma wants you there with us? What if she gets lonely?”

He chuckled. Somehow he didn’t think you were talking about Emma. “I see. Well, I wouldn’t want my dear Emma to be lonely. So I suppose I’ll have to come with. Make sure she’s alright.”

If Draken had caught on - and he most definitely had- you were not going to give him the chance to counterattack. “Great! So it’s settled. You, me, Ken, and Emma will all go out tonight! We’ll have so much fun, can’t wait!”

—---------------------------------------------------------

Emma got here quicker than you thought she would, and thank god for that.

You’d made the excuse that you needed her to help you get ready so you had Mikey fetch her immediately, but you’d really just wanted to get Draken away from Mikey long enough for him to stop his glaring. He was going to scare your future boyfriend away if he kept this up. Stupid brothers. 

When Emma finally arrived, it was even better than you could’ve expected. She was already dressed up, wearing a floral patterned kimono, with flowers weaved into her curled hair, a slight blush applied to her cheeks, and a light gloss applied to her lips, looking like an absolute goddess. It was almost like she’d read your mind and was doing her part to charm the pants off of your brother like you’d intended her to. And boy did it WORK. 

Draken had been stunned into simple sentences.  

“You… you look, uh, good. You look good. So…so good.”

You snickered and Draken shot you a warning glance. Then, mockingly, you gave him a thumbs up to which he responded by flipping you off. “So smooth,” You mouthed to him. 

“Don’t you have to go get ready or something?” He glared. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going, I’m going.”

Emma called after you, “Hey, didn’t you need my help?”

“Nah, not anymore. Seems my brother’s enjoying the show. You may as well give him a twirl.” 

Draken chucked a decorative pillow at your head. “You’re lucky a pillow was the closest thing I could find!”

You laughed as you made your way up the stairs. “Love you, Kenny!”

“Brat.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Wow. You look-”

“Gorgeous? Stunning? Dazzling?” 

Draken rolled his eyes. “You can’t feed him the compliments you want, dipshit, it won’t count anymore.”

Mikey laughed. “Incredible. I was going to say you look incredible.”

You nudged your brother with an elbow (more like jabbed him). “Seeeee- Mikey knows how to treat a woman. He can think of better compliments than just ‘you uh you look good, so good.’” You teased, mimicking Draken’s earlier speech. 

He nearly strangled you with your own hair. 

“Not in front of Emma, cmon, are you trying to scare all your love prospects away?”

Draken sighed, exasperated, before turning to apologize to Emma about your meddlesome behavior. She only smiled and offered her arm. “Shall we go on ahead of them? No reason we can’t have our fun too.”

You almost snorted as you watched them take off down the street. Seems Emma is as impatient as I am to get the ball rolling. Fine by me.

“My turn.” You wrapped your arm around Mikey, just like Emma had done to Draken. 

He laughed but obliged you. “Not trying to be sneaky anymore?”

“I never sneak.”

“Mmm, sure you don’t.” He grinned, pulling you closer to him. “I meant it, by the way. You do look incredible. I can’t believe I get to see you all dressed up like this.”

“Dressed up aaaaand wearing your favorite color.” You chimed in with a wink.

His eyes gleamed at your words. “Don’t tell me you picked this one specifically for me?”

“What gave me away?” You gasped in mock shock.

He shook his head, laughing. “You’re really something, know that?”

The two of you continued to talk and joke as you walked through the festival booths together. A couple boisterous laughs later, and you earned yourselves some wary glances from Draken looking over his shoulder. You’d emphatically point to Emma, reminding him who his attention was supposed to be fixed on, and he’d narrow his eyes at you and Mikey before finally turning back to smile at her like you’d never set him off in the first place. It was lucky for you that her presence seemed to be enough to dilute his protective big brother act -at least for the time being- because even the few, minor minutes she spent distracting him was enough for you to take advantage of. 

You pointed out a soba booth to Mikey and after you’d found a secluded corner of the festival to share your spoils, you went in for the kill. “I have an idea,” You said slyly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Go on, tell me.”

“I’m gonna eat from this end, you from that end, and we’ll see who can eat the fastest and take all the noodles.”

Mikey smirked. “You’re on.”

Everything was going according to plan. Your mouths were slowly working their way towards each other, as you both devoured your share of the food. Soon enough, there was one noodle left and you were both inching your way towards a cinematic kiss. 

And then he bit down on the noodle and severed it before your lips touched.

You let out a slight audible whine.

Even with kids running around squealing and food sizzling on grills, he still made out the sound of your displeasure. And he grinned.

“Now, don’t tell me you were planning to kiss me right then? What, did you see that move in a movie or something?” He teased, pinching your cheek. 

You swatted him away, grumbling, “So maybe I did. What of it?”

“Such a mastermind, and yet, she really is just a simple girl sometimes.” He tucked a hair behind your ear, brushing his finger along its curve, and you held your breath.

“Well? All my plans are foiled. How do you intend to make it up to me?” You crossed your arms in a slight pout. 

He laughed. “Ah, my apologies. I’ll get right on that.”

His fingers tangled in your hair as his hand began to cup the back of your head and pull you towards him. His eyes darted down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. You were impatient and the evidence was made clear in your smoldering irises. He laughed to himself softly before running a thumb over your lower lip.

“My little mischief maker.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

At first, he was gentle. At first, it was your childhood friend who had kissed you. It was the boy who bought you popsicles on sunny days and blew on your hands on wintery days. It was sincere and sweet and soft. And then, all at once, you were kissing the ferocious leader of Toman, and he was commanding your mouth to open in an instant, invading and laying claim to you with his tongue. His hand hooked around your waist, yanking you closer. He groaned into the kiss, biting down on your lower lip. A whimper escaped your throat and he swallowed it down with a fierce hunger. Any longer and you might-

“And what do you kids think you’re doing??”

You froze.

Mikey sighed and released his grip on you. “Found us, huh?”

You sheepishly turned to face the wrath of your now-seething sibling. “Hiya…Ken.” 

He yanked Mikey off of you and Mikey held his hands up in surrender as he allowed himself to be removed. “And here I thought you said we were here to enjoy this thing together.” He turned to glare at you.

“But you and Emma were having so much fun, I thought-”

“You thought what? That you could distract me and run off with Mikey?”

You bit your lip. “Um. Yeah. Pretty much that.”

“Idiot.” He flicked your forehead. Then he turned on Mikey. “And you, dumbass. I didn’t give you permission to go around kissing my kid sister. In fact, I seem to remember telling you that I didn’t give you permission to ask her out at all!”

Mikey shrugged. “But I didn’t ask her out though. And you didn’t say anything about kissing her.”

You looked from Draken to Mikey then back to Draken. The realization finally dawned on you that after all this time you’d spent with Mikey, dancing on the line between friends and something more, Draken was the reason you never knew where you’d stood with him. “Hold up- you told him he couldn’t do what now??!”

Now it was Draken’s turn to flinch.

You stood up to stare him down, placing a hand on your hip in annoyance. 

Draken sighed. “No, cmon, don’t be like that. You look like mom, god. It was for your own good.”

“Let me get this straight. You told the guy I’m in love with not to ask me out. Did I get that right??”

Mikey coughed. “Love? I’m sorry, love?”

Draken shifted awkwardly, but he still stood his ground. “Yeah, and so what if I did? It was only to protect you.”

You jabbed his shoulder with your finger. “Yeah, well, I can handle myself.”

Draken scoffed. “Handle yourself? You suck at cooking, you don’t know how to change a tire, you never wake up on time, you barely know how to fight, and you say you can handle yourself?? You can’t walk down the street without some bozo trying to scam you or skin you alive!”

Mikey raised his hand slightly. “Sorry, bad timing, but could we go back just a bit- did you say love?”

“Well I can handle this, dummy! And the rest of that stuff is what you’re here for!”

“Oh, so now you get to pick which things you need me for? That’s not how family works, dumbass.”

“UGH, why are you being so stubborn? For crying out loud, he’s your best friend. If he’s not enough for me, than no one else is.”

Draken crossed his arms. “Now you’re starting to get it- no one is good enough for you.”

“And what if I said no one is good enough for you, huh? What if I said you couldn’t date Emma?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’d say mind your own damn business.”

You punched his arm. “Oh great, so I can say it too then- mind your own damn business.”

He scowled as he rubbed his aching arm. 

You stared each other down, stewing in heated silence.

Mikey waved on the sidelines. “Still on the love thing, guys.”

Finally, you sighed. “I know you’re always going to be there for me when I need you. I’ll always be there for you too. But this is something I have to do for myself, just like your relationship with Emma is something you need to do yourself. I appreciate you taking care of me all this time, and I’ll always love you, but you gotta let me live a little. And besides, you can always just kick Mikey’s butt if he hurts me, right?”

Mikey coughed. “I’m sorry, what? We went from loving me to kicking my ass?” 

A smile tugged at the edge of Draken’s lips. “Fine. Have it your way. But if he cheats on you, I’m breaking his limbs. If he makes you cry, I’m breaking his limbs. Hell, even if he just doesn’t make you smile enough times for my satisfaction, I’m breaking his limbs. That's the deal, you got it?”

Mikey stuck a finger into the air. “Can I ask, why does everything have to end with my broken limbs?”

“Shhh, it’s fine, baby.” You waved him off. 

Then you turned back to Draken. “Yeah, I got it, it's a deal. Now, we’re going to go finish our date. Don’t interrupt again or I’ll kick your ass. Kay, bye, have fun with Emma!” And with that, you looped your arm around Mikey and took off with him, humming happily the whole way. He was finally within reach, the fireworks were finally lighting up the night sky, and you were finally alone together. Everything was perfect. You peeked over at him, and saw his brows were still furrowed, deep in thought.

What could he be thinking about? Was he wondering how he should go about asking you out? Was he waiting for you to ask him out? Was he still worried about Draken? You knew you said that Draken could beat him up, but that was knowing full well that Mikey could handle himself so you hoped it wasn’t that. Or perhaps.. Maybe he was thinking… Your cheeks warmed as you thought about your earlier kiss. Maybe he was planning to try again. Maybe you should encourage it.

You inched towards him, closer and closer. 

Finally, as your breaths were on the verge of intermingling, he opened his mouth to speak. Here it comes, you thought to yourself excitedly.

“So… is this the part where we talk about the love thing now, or?”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @minasfwoopyponytail @ouiouimochi @inkytypewriter

[egcdeath]

out in the open

pairing: patrick zweig x f!reader

summary: your wedding night doesn’t go as smoothly as you expect it to. succession au - tomshiv adjacent (previous parts: part 1, part 2, part 3)

word count: 8.8k

warnings: failmarriage, fluff in the beginning, cheating, angst, jealousy, hurt/comfort, mentions of alcohol and smoking, suggestive content, insecurity, patrick is kinda the worst in this. he does get better though.

author’s note: full disclaimer things are pretty angsty and they only get angstier from here. cheating is a major plot point from this point forward. there will be a few happier moments but it’s mostly bad vibes and tension from this point on.

i say this with every fic i post in this universe but i truly could not have written this without the help of my succession anon!! weddingnightgate (WNG) is such a big moment in this au and they really helped me get my thoughts in order and helped me world build. i hope you all enjoy the upcoming pain!

When you were young, you always dreamed about your wedding. You fantasized about a huge venue somewhere halfway around the world that would easily fit all of your closest friends and family members and of celebrity guests who would give you well wishes for the marriage and smiled at you in spite of their envy at your beautiful event. You imagined a gorgeous, intricate dress with a train so long that you’d need assistance going down the aisle, a cake the size of your tallest guest, and a groom who was as handsome as he was loving, pressing the promise of True Love’s Kiss onto your lips after he read you his vows.

Maybe your enthusiasm for weddings was fueled by a few too many movies where the princess found her prince charming and lived happily ever after with him, but you still fell in love with the idea of love, and the thought that a wedding should be as beautiful as the love itself was.

You would never forget the first wedding you attended, despite being so young that you shouldn’t have really recalled it. You somehow managed to worm your way into being the flower girl at your aunt’s wedding, skipping excitedly down the aisle of the beachside venue, tossing flowers with reckless abandon. As you watched the rest of the ceremony from the safety of your mother’s hip, you couldn’t help but to imagine yourself being the one to walk down the aisle someday. 

Much like your first wedding memory, you also couldn’t forget the first time you learned about divorce. Though you were young, the memory of your best friend crying next to you during recess as she sobbed out the news that her parents were splitting forever stuck out in your mind. You’d been fed the idea that love was strong and everlasting for so long, that the very notion that there were some things that love couldn’t withstand rocked you to your core. 

From that point on, you became more grounded in your approach to love. Love was rarely a fairytale, and it was naive for you to assume that your future wedding would be one either. 

As the years went by, you grew more realistic about your expectations for the future. You found a boyfriend who you dated throughout the latter half of your undergraduate years and through your time in business school, and fully expected to settle down with him—though you knew you’d be settling in the most literal sense. While he was a stable figure in your life, he was boring, and his aspirations in life for both you and himself didn’t align at all with what you saw yourself doing. He wanted a wife, and you wanted to make a name for yourself doing the work that was meaningful to you.

When he got down on one knee in front of you, you realized that you had two options in front of you: follow your own dreams or follow his. 

Naivety be damned, you chose yourself and never looked back. 

In your pursuit of making your non-love related aspirations come true, you abandoned all hope that your pipe-dream of a fantasy wedding would ever come to fruition. It occasionally felt like your hopes were incompatible—to be a successful businesswoman meant giving up all prospects of a romantic life. It seemed like everyone you encountered was put off by your lack of work-life balance, or wanted to hunt you for sport and turn you into a trophy wife. 

You’d practically given up all hope by the time you met Patrick, fully expecting to be able to use him for a brief fling and a connection to get into his family’s company. What you weren’t expecting was to find someone whose company you genuinely enjoyed, who understood you on a level you hadn’t experienced with anyone else, and a love that occasionally left you wondering if you were a protagonist in the movies you loved watching as a girl. 

If someone told you that years after meeting Patrick, that one day you would be gazing into his eyes with tears in yours as you listened to his vows, or telling him that you do take him to be your husband, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, ‘till death did you two part.

Your wedding ceremony felt straight out of your girlish dreams, with Patrick’s beautiful family castle serving as the venue, paparazzi-worthy guests, a dress that felt like a direct product of your wildest imagination, and a groom that seemed to be as close to a prince charming as reality could get. 

You were on cloud nine throughout the ceremony, basking in every single moment. You felt like you were floating by the time you got to the reception, your brain in the clouds as you and your now-husband cut your massive cake and gave toasts. 

It was all a blur in the best way possible, your elation making what you thought might be an embarrassing moment of a first dance exciting, and the subsequent socializing with guests substantially more bearable. 

What was slightly less bearable was the speed at which you were separated from your husband, the two of you occasionally catching the others eye from across the room, but otherwise being separated from surprisingly demanding guests who wanted to wish you luck on your marriage or excitedly share how amazing they found the ceremony to be. 

Occasionally, you were able to squeeze in a brief moment with your spouse, bringing him a flute of champagne and momentarily pulling him away from an exceptionally chatty shareholder, but you seemed to be frequently whisked away from each other. 

After what felt like a lifetime apart from each other, you felt the familiar, comforting warmth of Patrick’s hand on your lower back as he approached you from behind. When he announced to the extended family members standing across from you that he needed a moment alone with you, you almost leapt with joy. Nothing seemed more appealing than a private conversation with him after a long night of socializing with friends and colleagues. 

It almost felt ironic that during an event that should’ve been focused on the two of you as a pair, you were separated and kept apart by people with business pitches and opposing interests, excited to hop onto whatever opportunity your union might bring them. 

Patrick took you by surprise as he led you up the stairs and to your bedroom. It seemed a little early to begin your wedding night festivities, but if he was really that enthusiastic about it, you were certain that you could share some of his excitement. 

“Thanks for getting us out of there,” you commented as you shut the door behind you. “So much for not talking about work at the wedding. I guess it’s too much to ask for one day to celebrate you being my husband before talking about the business again.”

You walked over to the vanity, preparing to touch up your makeup. You shot a glance over at your partner, who cautiously sat himself down on your bed, fidgeting with his hands as he did so. Not paying him any mind, you began to reapply your lipstick in the mirror and looked at his reflection, catching that he seemed to be in deep thought, but not thinking too much of it. It was probably something a shareholder told him. Maybe his sister was planning yet another attempt at a hostile takeover of the business. 

“Husband. Wow, you’re my husband now. That feels so crazy to say. Husband, husband, husband,” you mused, a ball of excited energy.  “Well, husband, what did you pull me in to talk about? Is it Sherry’s dress? It’s really hideous. I can’t believe she would wear something like that to our wedding,” you continued to ramble. “Or do you want a sneak peak of what I’ve got going on under this dress?”

You were shocked to find Patrick mostly unresponsive to your rapid words. He was never one to turn down the opportunity to gossip about his social circle or flirt with you. You pulled your attention away from yourself in the mirror and turned your head back to look at your husband, only to be met with a mostly unreadable expression, apart from the hint of a sad smile on his face. 

Suddenly, things didn’t feel so fun. For some unexplained reason, you felt a small pit appear in the depths of your stomach. While you didn’t know exactly what was wrong, something obviously didn’t feel right. There was no reason for your partner to be looking as unsettled as he did on his own wedding night. 

“You’re not having second thoughts already, are you?” you stood up and began to approach him from where he was sitting on the bed, making it more apparent to you that his brows were drawn together in what could only be the beginning of a frown. 

“Of course not,” he assured you, though guilt was written all over his face. You weren’t sure how you should interpret your husband looking like a child who just broke an expensive vase on your wedding night, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. “But I need to tell you something.”

“What?” you laughed nervously, the small pit that appeared in your stomach growing into a slightly larger pit. As much as you wanted to dismiss it as nothing, the heavy tension hanging in the air warned you that the odds of his confession being nothing were growing slimmer and slimmer with each passing moment.  

“Uh,” he paused as if he was considering his next words very carefully—almost as if he didn’t want to say them at all. You desperately wanted him to speak, rather than keep you hanging. With your nerves exponentially growing with every passing second, you began to feel like if he didn’t say anything soon, you might throw up all over your reception dress.  

“Patrick, please spit it out. You’re kinda scaring me,” you could already feel yourself growing upset, despite the fact that he hadn’t said a single word to indicate what was going on with him. Your heart quickened in your chest as you anticipated his next words, despite not having a clue about what might come out of his mouth.  

“We always said that if something happened, we could handle it like adults,” the statement was vague and simple, yet Patrick seemed to be choking it out. His cryptic message rattled around in your brain as you desperately searched for meaning in them. Before you could even begin to ask him what he meant, you registered the dismissive, callous language. 

Though he didn’t say it often, he had confused you with those very words before—the verbiage alarmingly reminiscent of what he told you before your bachelorette party, or when you brought up the lack of an infidelity clause in his prenup. 

If anything ever happened with anyone else, we could both handle it. We’re adults and we can handle things like adults.

Though his words were curious, you dismissed them at the time, never expecting that to be an issue. Of all of your problems with Patrick—his difficulty expressing his emotions, his complicated relationship with his family, his lack of experience in love—you never expected infidelity to be one of those problems. 

You swallowed, your saliva feeling thick and poisonous as it slowly crept down your throat. “Honey, what do you mean?”

Patrick didn’t speak, looking down at the pristinely folded sheets in front of him rather than at you. “I’m sorry,” was all that he managed to get out. 

You looked at Patrick blankly, waiting for him to tell you that whatever you were assuming wasn’t true or that he was pulling some sort of cruel prank on you. Instead, all you were met with was the sound of blood urgently rushing through your ears and the faint bassline of whatever song the DJ was playing at your reception. 

“You know that love is complicated for me,” he looked in your direction, but couldn’t sustain eye contact with you. “Can we be adults about this?”

Once it became clear to you what exactly Patrick was trying to tell you, your knees gave out on you, the rest of your body overwhelmed with the unfathomable information that your brain was trying to process. Patrick cheated on you—and he was telling you just hours after you got married. 

The truth of the situation sucked the air right out of your lungs and the strength right out of your body. Your knees buckled under you, and you desperately seeked out anything you could sit on. You settled on the foot of the bed, across from where your husband nervously sat. 

“Fuck,” you dug the palms of your hands into your eyes, surely smudging the makeup on your eyelids as you attempted to collect your thoughts. “Who was it?”

“It didn’t mean anything to me,” he pathetically attempted to explain away. It all sounded like gibberish to you. For all you knew, your husband was speaking a totally different language to you. 

Despite your question and Patrick’s non-answer, you somehow felt like you knew exactly who he’d been with. The answer was all over his discomfort when he saw you talking to the woman without him by your side, and the way she sized you up and attempted to psych you out of marrying Patrick not even 24 hours ago. 

“Was it Tashi?” you asked, not even listening to his empty words and keeping your face frighteningly neutral. You spoke the words like you were playing a round of Guess Who, calm and even despite the budding feeling of dread in your stomach. 

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. His deafening silence was answer enough

“Can I kick her out?” you asked with an alarmingly stable tone, still mostly unable to process this information, but knowing that it wasn’t good. 

“Yeah,” he replied quietly, head still hung and unable to make eye contact with you. 

As you took in the truly depressing sight in front of you—your husband’s hunched over posture, a shame so strong that he couldn’t even look at you, and his clipped, short answers—you couldn’t deny that you were tempted to comfort him. In any other situation, if Patrick was feeling a fraction of the negative emotion he seemed to be feeling in that moment, you would instantly be at his side, holding his hand reassuringly or holding him close in a way that told him that if no one else was there for him, you would be, but you weren’t sure you could legitimize his bad behavior with such a response. 

Instinctually, you reached out to touch him like you’d done a thousand times before, giving him a hug before a big event or spooning him after a family member said something that got under his skin, but you instantly reprimanded yourself. Despite how sad he looked, Patrick was the one who hurt you. You were the one who deserved comfort. 

You opted to pat Patrick’s back instead, a strange and impersonal action. For a moment, you felt less like his wife and more like a practically estranged family member, not sure how to greet you after meeting you for the first time three Thanksgivings ago. 

Your husband barely reacted to the stiff action, only looking at you wordlessly with glossed-over eyes. You got up from the foot of the bed and left wordlessly and neutrally, a robot whose only orders were to get out of the bedroom and shut the door behind you. 

The moment the door closed, the next goal settled into your mind—you couldn’t let Tashi spend another second in the venue, socializing with your family and drinking the wine that your parents so kindly provided to the wedding, as if she hadn’t been partaking in an affair with your husband. 

You felt half a bride and half a zombie as you left the confines of the bedroom and wandered the hallways. You were stone faced as you made your way back to the reception, trying to wrap your head and heart around devastating information that was shared with you at the most inopportune time possible. 

You made a slow march down the stairs, movement hindered by your dress, and imagined what you might say to Tashi once you saw her. You should’ve known something was off from the start. You should’ve trusted the bad feeling you had when she sized you up at the bar, smirking at you like the cat who got the cream before feeding you anecdotes about how sleazy your husband used to be for no apparent reason. You should’ve trusted that feeling when Patrick rushed over to pull you away.

You wished you paid attention when Patrick faintly smelled of feminine perfume when you surprised him by coming back from a business trip earlier than anticipated, or when you noticed a bracelet that didn’t belong to you sitting on your coffee table, one that disappeared the very next day. It was so easy to write the signs off at the time–the fragrance of your personal chef and the jewelry of one of his sisters–but it no longer felt that simple. Patrick was a lot of things, but you never expected that a cheater was one of those things.

The thought of Patrick with someone else made you nauseous, especially in your own home. You faintly wondered if they’d fucked in your bed or on the couch. If the answer was yes to either, you desperately wanted to burn the pieces of furniture. In fact, that would be the first thing you set out to do when you returned home after your honeymoon. Maybe you would even beg Patrick to move to a new place, one not haunted by the memories of him and another woman. 

That was, if your relationship even survived through the honeymoon. Let alone the night. You didn’t have a clue what your next steps would be. Would you be the fool who stays with a man who proved himself to be disloyal? Or would you be the fool who offered herself to the wrath of one of the most powerful families in the world? You would lose your husband, your job, and your livelihood in one fell swoop, surely being banished back to your family home in Minnesota, destined to be a receptionist at your father’s law firm for the rest of your life. 

The entire situation felt surreal in the worst possible way. You couldn’t believe that while you were dealing with the aftermath of this information, Tashi was waltzing around at your reception. More than that, you couldn’t believe the information itself: Patrick cheated. Your fiancé cheated. Your husband cheated on you. 

The same Patrick who became a groomzilla, laser-focused on giving you your dream wedding, cheated. The same man who confessed that he didn’t know what love felt like before he met you cheated on you. Your husband, who went out of his way to do anything to make you happy, even at the expense of his very powerful family, hadn’t been loyal to you. 

None of it made sense. Maybe you would walk back into the room and your guests would jump out from behind tables and reveal that this was all a cruel joke—a little hazing as you officially became a Zweig—their laughter filling up the room at the thought that you would ever believe something as ridiculous as Patrick cheating on you. 

You bit back bile as you walked into the room, the party continuing on the same way it had before you left and before you reentered—no prank to be found. The cacophony of loud music and the chatter of your guests filling your ears once more—what felt fun and exciting just moments before, now being far too overstimulating for someone trying to process information that could fundamentally alter the course of their relationship. You did your best to block out all of the extra noise and focus on your goal at hand. 

Find Tashi. Send her home.

You weren’t sure what you would actually do when you saw her. Would you yell at her? Slap her for being a homewrecker? Cry at the sight of her? Laugh at the absurdity of your husband telling you that he’d been having an affair with her on your wedding night?

Peripherally, you heard someone call your name excitedly, only slightly pulling you out of your trance. Still, you couldn’t find it in you to acknowledge whatever excited friend or family member as your eyes set on your target. Tashi Duncan, Patrick’s coworker and ex-girlfriend.

Where you admired her beauty and confidence just a day before, you found you now resented every positive aspect about her. As she stood by a table and talked to one of Patrick’s sisters, surely bored out of her mind by the delusional ramblings about his sister someday being the president, she nodded and smiled diplomatically. 

As you really began to think about it, you realized that she was the perfect candidate to be Patrick’s wife. She came from a background similar to his, his sisters liked her far more than they liked you—though that didn’t mean much—and physically, she seemed to be exactly your husband’s type. 

Part of you wondered if she was feeling as miserable as you were; if she’d spent the day imagining your wedding to be her own, if her own jealousy was blinding her the way that yours currently was blinding you, or if she’d begged Patrick not to marry you during their work meeting the previous night. The other part of you wondered if she thought of you as pathetic as you currently felt—a stupid woman so blinded by her own love that she overlooked every beaming, bright red flag.

Your pace quickened as you walked towards Tashi, heels clicking annoyingly as they marked your pace. As you made your way to the table, you found yourself growing more anxious, the first real feeling you’d felt since Patrick shared with you the truth about his infidelity.

“Hey,” you greeted Tashi and Patrick’s sister, voice surprisingly even for how agitated you were. “Mind if I chat with Tashi?” 

“Go ahead,” Cornelia shrugged. “Let’s stay in touch?” she asked Tashi, who politely agreed and watched the other woman walk off. 

Tashi opened her mouth to speak to you, presumably to comment on something asinine about the wedding, or to make an observation about your wedding that you’d already heard a thousand times that night. If you weren’t so upset, you would make a bet with yourself on whether she’d tell you how beautiful the wedding was, or how beautiful you and your husband looked at the altar.

“Your housing for the night fell through,” you explained in a very level tone. It wasn’t the best excuse, but it was what came out of your mouth.

“Oh?” she asked, sounding more than a little skeptical, before lifting her drink to her lips. “Do you know where else I might be able to find lodging at this hour?”

“No,” you replied quickly and with ease. “Actually, it’d probably be best if you just went home now.”

“Home like…?” she trailed off and eyed you curiously. 

“Like back to New York. I’m sure you can find a flight.”

She laughed in slight disbelief. “You realize this is a work function for me, right? I have work to do.”

“I’m sure you can do that work back home,” you dismissed, not backing down. By now, it was clear that Tashi was putting together the pieces of what you knew. In fact, you could pinpoint the exact moment when it occurred to her why the two of you were having this conversation in the first place.

Maybe it was the lack of your now-husband beside you, or the barely concealed emotion on your face. Regardless of what was your biggest tell on the situation, you continued to stare her down, resenting the way her lips shifted into a small smile, as if she still had the upper hand and knew something that you didn’t. It was almost as if she found the whole ordeal to be a little amusing, which only bothered you more. 

“No need to make a scene at your wedding. I’ll be on my way.” She lifted her glass up once again to finish the drink off, but you stopped her. 

You returned intense eye contact with her as you took the stemware right out of her hands and put it to your own lips, finishing the drink in a few large gulps. Though your action was impulsive, it felt like somewhat of a necessity. You desperately needed the liquid distraction from your less-than-ideal situation, and you didn’t want to give her an excuse to linger at your party a single moment longer than she needed to. 

She continued to stare at you, her expression somewhere in the middle of being impressed and weirded out. “Alright then. Well, congratulations on the wedding.”

“Fuck off,” you spat out, turning on your heel and walking away without bothering to see if she stayed or left. 

You made your rounds around the reception, smiling and talking to your guests with a fake smile plastered on your face. The shock of Patrick’s initial confession wore off shortly after you told Tashi off, but you still couldn’t help but feel completely numb to the situation. How else were you supposed to react when you found out the love of your life was sleeping with someone else? 

You continued to man the reception on your own, occasionally scanning the room but not catching a glimpse of your husband. You wondered if he was still in your bedroom, head in his hands as he wondered if he just opened a Pandora’s box on your relationship, or if Tashi went to go find him to discuss how poorly you reacted to the information. For all you knew, the two of them could be laughing at you or having sex in your wedding bed at the same time that you attempted to pretend that everything was perfectly fine. You grew faint at the mere thought. 

Eventually, you felt a familiar hand on the small of your back, something that typically was a welcome, comforting gesture. Instead, you wanted to flinch away from his hand like it was hot. You couldn’t believe that Patrick had the nerve to touch you like everything was fine after dropping such devastating information on you. Then again, at least he wasn’t hooking up with Tashi one last time. 

Still, even under the spell of a sadness that hadn’t quite settled in yet, you leaned into his touch instinctively. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t feel as comfortable as it did a few hours ago. 

“Such a beautiful ceremony,” a family friend of Patrick’s gushed to you. “You two have something really special.”

You felt Patrick’s eyes sear into you, desperately pleading for you to look back into them and show him that everything was going to be okay. That what you had was special enough that you’d be able to move past this. Like adults, as he said to you earlier.

You weren’t so sure that you could. 

The rest of the night moved painfully slowly. Where the two of you socialized separately before his private conversation with you, he seemed to be attached to your hip now, bringing you apology offers of champagne flutes and hor d'oeuvres.

Though he pleaded with you to handle your situation like adults, you wanted to act more like a petulant child. If you had it your way, you would reject his offerings of food by tossing them onto the floor, or throw a glass of sticky alcohol in his face as if you were a Real Housewife. 

If you had it your way, Patrick wouldn’t have cheated on you in the first place, and you’d be celebrating your wedding without the baggage of uncertainty for the future of your relationship. 

As you walked through the reception, you weren’t particularly angry or sad, you just felt numb. There was a strange concession in knowing that what happened in the past already happened, and that there was no way for you to change your husband’s behavior. For a moment, you wondered if the numbness was a symptom of the shock that was Patrick’s confession, or you would feel the dull thud of nothingness for the rest of your life. 

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding as you watched the last of your guests filtered out of the venue, relieved to finally drop the façade of being a happy newlywed and to embrace the true feeling of shock that had been biting at you all night.  

Somehow managing to break away from your suddenly very clingy spouse, you wasted no time gathering an unopened bottle of wine for yourself, along with a cigarette and a lighter, which you unceremoniously exchanged with a caterer for a Venmo payment. You then headed outside to a balcony that overlooked a beautiful sprawling garden. 

You looked out on the neatly trimmed hedges and the bench where you sat with Patrick not even twenty-four hours ago and distantly thought about how perfectly the night should’ve gone. You got married at a beautiful venue, had every detail down to the positioning of napkins meticulously planned, and most importantly, were marrying someone you genuinely loved and couldn’t see yourself living without. 

It was all rather devastating now, to see how just a few words managed to ruin what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. 

You took a swig from the bottle, lamenting the fact that his affair partner had been drinking this very wine earlier that night. At the thought of Tashi, you took yet another hefty swig. 

Just as you reached for the lighter to light the cigarette you so desperately needed, Patrick burst through the doors of the balcony, slightly out of breath and sweat beading on his forehead. In between his heavy breaths, you swore you caught a sigh of relief. 

You couldn’t say that you were pleased to see him—after all, you’d escaped to the balcony to get a little time alone and to think through the night—but as you took in his dramatic entrance and disheveled appearance, it became abundantly clear to you that he’d been urgently looking for you. 

“Want some?” you asked, gesturing to the bottle. Your question was more than just an offer for a drink, but a peace treaty, offering Patrick to stay outside with you despite your more complicated feelings towards him. 

“Sure,” he agreed, still slightly out of breath. He collected himself as you passed him the bottle, locking eyes with you as he took a swig from the expensive drink. It felt like time moved a little slower as you watched his lips wrap around the opening of the bottle and the way his Adam's apple bobbed while the drink went down. 

You suddenly realized that complicated didn’t even begin to cover how you felt towards Patrick. You loved him more than anything, and you were sure that you needed him in your life—but beneath the thick layers of numbness was a reservoir of hurt, far deeper than you ever imagined you could harbor for the man. 

He passed the bottle back to you, his hands gently brushing over yours. Momentarily, you felt scandalized by the action, unsure if you should feel your cheeks heating up from the small touch or if you should flinch away from it. By the time the brief moment was over, you hadn’t done either, electing to set your gaze back over the rail instead of at your partner. 

Patrick stood silently beside you, not requesting anything more to drink or even attempting to make small talk. It seemed that he was just as aware as you were that he’d changed your entire dynamic with just a few words. You wondered if he realized just how much he’d fucked both of you by fucking someone else. 

You shivered in the cold night, your dress not providing you much coverage in the elements. If your wedding night had gone any differently, Patrick would’ve offered you his suit jacket, draping the item over your shoulders and kissing you sweetly. Then again, if the night had gone differently, you likely wouldn’t be shivering on the balcony in the first place. 

You squatted to set down the bottle on the ground and rediscovered the cigarette and lighter. Though you weren’t usually one to smoke, you desperately needed it after the shitshow that was your wedding night.  

Though you put the stick to your lips, you struggled to light the cigarette, the frigid breeze making everything slightly more difficult. It didn’t help that you hadn’t smoked since you were a teenager, giggling with your friends as you clumsily attempted and failed to light up the stick, the match pinched between your fingertips quickly burning down. The contrast between the silly memory and your far less silly reality felt jarring, to say the least.  

“Here, let me,” Patrick said softly, taking the lighter from you and cupping his hand around the tip of the cigarette. You tried not to look at him too closely as you listened to the soft clicking sound of the lighter. Though he should’ve focused on the action so he didn’t burn his finger tips or the palm of his hand blocking the wind, he didn’t seem to be able to look at anything but you. The light of the flame briefly illuminated both of your faces, momentarily giving you a better look at his sad eyes. 

You inhaled as the flame touched the tip, and turned your head to exhale the smoke, not wanting to blow it in the face of your partner or have to spend another second under the scrutiny of his intense eye contact.

Even as you looked away and into the garden below, you could feel Patrick’s eyes burning into you. You were sure that if you looked back over at him, you would see him looking particularly downtrodden, lips parted for words that were on the tip of his tongue that he couldn’t quite say yet, and eyebrows drawn together in a way that only seemed to highlight the sadness in his eyes. 

Unspoken questions lingered in the air like the smoke from the cigarette dangling from your lips. Though you didn’t care for the smell, you were pretty sure you preferred the smoke to the questions. 

Finally, a quiet question was spoken into the air,  “Can I?” Patrick asked, his eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips. 

“Sure,” you replied noncommittally as you pulled the cigarette away from you and passed it to your husband. Electing to watch him instead of the unchanging garden, you observed as Patrick’s lips closed over the space where yours had just been, covering the hint of a lipstick stain that you’d left on it. After a long drag, he passed the cigarette back to you, his hand brushing softly over yours once more as you did so. 

This pattern continued, a heavy silence falling between the two of you as you shared the cigarette, your hands caressing the other’s softly.

“Here,” you murmured as you approached the filter. Instead of passing it back to Patrick, you brought it up to his lips, watching him intently as he breathed in the smoke. 

For a moment, all you could see was his face, illuminated by the burning end of the cigarette, pupils blown with something you couldn’t quite place. You weren’t sure if you wanted to ravish him right there on the balcony or push him off of it.

He blew the smoke right back into your face, electing to still share the last of the cigarette with you. You wondered if that meant anything. It probably didn’t. 

The two of you stood looking at each other, staring wordlessly as you waited for the other person to move a muscle or say something—anything. For a moment, you considered telling Patrick that you wanted an annulment. But then again, that wasn’t exactly the truth. 

“I’m going to bed,” you broke the silence with your announcement. “I need to change out of this dress.”

You wished it were that simple. You desperately wanted to scrub the day off of you and to pinch yourself until you woke up. Surely, this couldn’t be your actual wedding night. Maybe you could wake up in the morning and find that this was all a bad dream—the manifestation of anxiety before your big day.

But, as Patrick trailed behind you in the hallway as if you would disappear if you left his sight, you were pretty sure that this was the reality. You wouldn’t wake up and find that your husband had been loyal to you. 

Your return to the room was a silent one. The moment you stepped foot through the door, it felt like you were back in that horrible moment; like Patrick was moments from revealing to you that Tashi was the tip of the iceberg. 

Bile rose in your throat once more. You made a beeline to the bathroom, hoping that the change of scenery might halt your thoughts altogether. 

You stepped out of the bathroom with an entirely different mindset than what you had as you entered. Sure, your wedding night wasn’t at all what you expected it to be, but it didn’t mean that you couldn’t put it back on the right track. In the bathroom, you slipped on a silky nightie, what you hoped would be a reminder to both of you that this wasn’t any old regular night, but your wedding night. Though, with the day you just had, you weren’t so sure that either of you would be up for a particularly romantic night. You guessed it couldn’t hurt. 

You left the bathroom as a woman on a mission, your eyes set on Patrick as you crossed the bedroom floor to get to him. Though he’d been laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like it had the secrets to the universe written on it, the sound of your entrance drew his attention over to you. You gently bit your lower lip and hoped that your face said ‘sexy’ rather than ‘so nervous you might be sick.’

His eyes stayed locked on you as you crawled into bed, and you hoped once more that the action of you moving towards him on your hands and knees didn’t appear as desperate as you felt on the inside. 

It felt like your evening consisted of one desperate plea after another: Please don’t do this to me. Please just pretend that everything’s fine. Please don’t leave me. 

He followed your lead as you trailed your hand up his arm and looked at him as seductively as you could manage before pushing him down onto the bed and straddling his lap. Distantly, you wondered how Tashi imitated things with him—if she did anything that Patrick liked more about her than you. You did your best to push that thought away, but failed miserably. 

Mechanically, you ran your hands through his hair and kissed him passionately. You tried to ignore the lump in your throat and reminded yourself that it was just Patrick. Things weren’t all that different, except for the fact that he was your husband now—and that he cheated on you.

You tried once more to push that thought out of your mind as you moved your hips against his lap, but your attempts were in vain. It certainly didn’t help that as you kissed him, you tasted the cigarette you shared earlier in his breath—an unwelcome reminder of the awkward tension that lingered between the two of you after he shared the truth about his infidelity. And surely, it was just your mind, but his lips almost tasted like the chapstick of another woman. 

Suddenly, all you could think about was Tashi with your husband. Him and Tashi in your bedroom, or in a hotel room, or on your couch. Did she do anything special that drove him crazy? What did she have that you didn’t? 

Your body said one thing, but your brain said something completely different. You did your best to power through the thoughts of your husband being with another woman, but you were beginning to realize that when it came to cheating, you weren’t all that tough. You bit down on Patrick’s lip in what you hoped would be a light nibble, but the taste of iron quickly filled your mouth. 

You slowed down your movements as your thoughts sped up before you gave up entirely. You supposed it was a classic case of mind over matter, and your mind was not nearly as strong as any of your physical urges. 

You shifted off of Patrick far later than you should’ve, feeling like a complete and utter failure. You couldn’t even do the one thing you should’ve been able to do during your wedding night. No wonder he found solace in someone else’s body. 

“I’m sorry,” you said weakly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

It took you rolling off of Patrick to realize that his face was damp, eyes glossy with a thin layer of tears threatening to fall. The pit in your stomach that had been steadily growing since Patrick pulled you aside to tell you something finally came to a head when you realized that your husband was crying.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last syllable of his question. 

A fresh tear rolled down his cheek, which was then followed by a few other droplets. He turned his head away from you and wiped them away quickly so you wouldn’t notice them, but the damage was already done. 

You’d never seen Patrick cry before—not when you watched sad movies that left you bawling, not when the two of you watched advertisements for puppies in shelters, not even when he thought his dad might be dying. To see him shed tears over you felt particularly unsettling. 

“Patrick?” you said his name softly, like he was delicate and going to break. 

“I should be the one who’s sorry,” he looked towards you once more, eyes now rimmed with red. “I ruined everything already. I'm so sorry.”

This was a complete wild card on top of a stack of wild cards. If someone told you that your wedding night would end with your husband telling you he cheated on you, a pathetic failed attempt at sex, then watching your partner cry for the first time in front of you, you would’ve laughed in their face. 

His crying continued, becoming slightly more intense as sorrow racked through his body. You’d never been in a situation like this before, so you were completely unsure of what to do. 

With all prior restraint to show him physical affection gone, you awkwardly slotted your arms around your husband. He automatically leaned into you, burying his face in your shoulder as he continued to shed quiet tears. Your shoulder quickly grew damp as you threaded your fingers through his curls, the repetitive petting being just as soothing for you as it was for him. 

Despite it all, you still felt a general sense of nothing at all. You were beginning to grow concerned, knowing that deep down there were certainly emotions that weren��t ready to approach the surface. You worried about what it might look like once those feelings finally came out, but that was the least of your worries when it came to your weeping husband. 

Patrick continued to cry quietly, the only sound in the room being his soft, occasional sniffles. You couldn’t even place how you felt or how long you sat there stone faced as you cradled your husband. 

Eventually, the tears on your shoulder dried and the intervals between sniffles grew further and further. Soon, the soft sounds of weeping turned into the long and deep breaths of rest. Between you playing with his hair and holding him, he must’ve fallen asleep. You couldn’t really blame him—given your eventful day, your all-nighter the previous day, and the energy it took for him to cry. 

You gently laid Patrick back down on his side of the bed, pulling a blanket over his chest and pushing back the hair on his forehead to press a kiss to him. He stirred slightly against the forehead kiss, but didn’t seem to wake up all the way. Even when your feelings were complicated towards the man, you couldn’t help being affectionate towards him. In some ways, you felt like you needed that affection just as much as he did. 

You let out a long sigh as the reality of everything truly began to set in, and you no longer had to be strong for your weeping partner. You couldn’t wrap your head around the sight of Patrick crying for the first time, or the fact that he cheated on you. You flicked off the bedside lamp, the only source of light in your otherwise darkened bedroom. 

You rolled over in bed and laid on your back, setting your hands on your stomach and staring up at the ceiling. You traced your eyes over the pattern of the ceiling, though it was dark and not all that clear. You wondered if you looked at it long enough, if you’d be able to make some sense out of it. You glanced over at Patrick and wondered the same thing. 

You just couldn’t understand why he’d cheat on you. You’d always been under the impression that he was just as happy in your relationship as you were. Despite his promiscuous past, he never seemed like the type of person to not be loyal to you.

You noticed a teardrop trail down his cheek in his sleep, and you gently thumbed it away. The small movement turned into you tracing a line down his nose and over his lips, then over his eyebrows and back down through the few freckles that dotted his face. Maybe if you watched him long enough, if you learned every detail of his face, someone would reveal to you why he’d done something so illogical and cruel. 

You worried about how the two of you could move forward from something like this. Though Patrick always approached the topic of infidelity with a dismissive attitude, cheating had always been a deal breaker for you in your past relationships. It shattered your trust in a way that was so foundational, you couldn’t fathom a world where your relationship with Patrick stayed exactly the same after this. 

Part of you knew already that moving forward, you’d constantly wonder if he was genuinely working late or if he was having an affair, or if his eye was wandering at events despite you standing by his side. And that was just trust when it came to relationships—obviously his lie was far deeper than just that. Now, you knew that Patrick had the capacity to hold a secret that massive from you, then share it at the worst possible time. 

In fact, his timing felt so terrible that you momentarily wondered if it was some sort of power play. Was Patrick trying to remind you that you weren’t equals in this partnership? Was he trying to manipulate you by only sharing this information to you after you were married to him and couldn’t easily call everything off? 

Your stomach turned at the possibility that Patrick wasn’t really who he said he was, and that you’d been baited and switched. You recalled the first time you met Patrick’s family, how he switched on a dime and became far more calculated and cruel to them than you’d ever seen him be with you. Was that the realest version of your husband, and the person he was with you just a façade? Was this some sort of long game he was playing with his family to piss a few people off? Did Patrick even love you?  

For the first time in your relationship, you felt like you didn’t know who you were sleeping next to. Surely, this couldn’t be the same Patrick who you set out to have a quick hook up with, and ended up talking to him for hours. It couldn’t be the same Patrick who held you tight at night and gave you kisses every morning in your kitchen. The same Patrick from your vows a few hours ago, whose hands shook as he read from notecards and declared his love for you.

You frowned as you looked over Patrick once more. You resented how he was able to sleep so peacefully after inflicting such hurt on you. Did he even understand how destroyed you were? You couldn’t see yourself sleeping through the night in the foreseeable future, your head too filled with questions about your relationship and questions about his relationship with her. Would they continue the affair? Would they still work together after this, leaving you to wonder for the rest of your life if they were still going behind your back?

You desperately wished the thoughts would stop, but they kept coming, punctuated by the sounds of Patrick’s soft snores behind you. 

By the time the sun began to peek through the blinds, your hand was on Patrick’s face once again. You wondered how it was possible for him to hurt someone he loved as much as he loved you, if his definition of love was so skewed by a lifetime of abuse labeled as love from his parents, and siblings who used cruelty as a form of affection. 

Maybe you should’ve listened to the warnings everyone gave you, from your parents who warned that your husband and his family may be more than you bargained for, from his sisters who never seemed to be able to fully wrap their head around Patrick committing to someone, let alone you. Maybe you should’ve even listened to Tashi’s coded warning about his inability to commit and stay loyal. It seemed like everyone saw the fate of your relationship coming except you. 

With the early morning light illuminating the room, things felt a little clearer for you. Beneath the numbness that protected you the previous night was a more painful undercurrent of hurt that was already beginning to eat away at you. 

For the past several years of your life, you hadn’t had to deal with any painful feelings on your own. Patrick was always there beside you to hold you tight and reassure you that everything would be okay. As you laid next to him, you realized that despite all the pain he’d inflicted on you, all you really wanted was to be held by him. 

Knowing that he was sleeping peacefully beside you, you opted to hold him, draping your body over his and pulling yourself as close as you could manage to him. You leaned your ear against his back, taking in the warmth he gave you and listening to his heart beat. As the two of your breaths and heartbeats began to match the other’s pace, you lamented that even now, your hearts beat as one. 

For the first time that evening, your eye prickled with the threat of tears. 

You lost track of how long you held your husband, but it was long enough to notice the pattern of his breath changing. You’d woken up beside him enough times to recognize that he was clearly awake, yet he made no other indication to you that he was awake. He wanted you to hold him. You wondered if he thought this might be the last time you ever do that for him. You wondered if it was the last time you’d ever do that for him. 

The two of you pretended to be asleep despite the fact that you were both obviously awake, but no one commented on anything. After your arms began to grow numb, you turned your back to Patrick, hoping that he would return the favor and give you what you really wanted. You were pleased to find that he just as eagerly wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight and breathing quietly in your ear. 

The two of you sat in complete silence, pretending you didn’t know what the other person was doing. Somehow, it felt like that was about to become a recurring theme in your relationship.

[therealcocoshady]

Kinktober - Day 10 - Stockings

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

A/N : Hey ! Here is the fic for the "Stocking" prompt for Kinktober. I actually made it as a sequel to the Fuck Or Die one. My mind was all over the place and I got a little carried away. I hope you like it nonetheless.

CW : ANGST - Unresolved issues - Relationship trauma - Flirting - Stocking - Infidelity - Marshall Mathers being an asshole - Reader not being any better, really

You should have known better. You should have known that, when Marshall had something in mind, there was no point in trying to reason him. And, seeing as you’d been his girlfriend for two years, you knew just obsessive and relentless he could get. Most of the time, he put these personality traits to good use in his pursuit of musical excellence. Sometimes, though, it was an omen of chaos. You were at fault, though, and you knew it. It wasn’t quite clear what had gone through your head when you allowed him to touch himself in front of you. You usually prided yourself in being a sensible human being. Pretty smart, even. But this ? It had been reckless and stupid. And it didn’t help that you had let the feeling of seduction get to your head, going as far as teasing him. There was nothing you could say in your defense. You had enjoyed the attention and had leaned into it. You had let your ego take over. As if your two year relationship with Marshall had not been one of the most damaging things that had ever happened to it. As if feeling your ex’s lustful gaze was worth betraying the trust of your fiancé. The one who had made you believe in love again. That you were worthy of attention and commitment. 

You hated yourself. You hated how stupid you were. You hated the way you were still craving for Marshall’s attention. And most of all, you hated the fact that you had let it show. Because you knew that, once he decided to have his fun with it, it would make your life a living hell. As soon as you’d heard him tell Greg « I want what you have », you knew you were fucked. You knew his asshole voice all too well. Of course he just had to torture you with it. The way he had phrased it made it seem like he wanted a relationship just as beautiful as the one you shared with your fiancé. Only you knew that what he actually wanted was the fiancée in question. You. But, sadly, you couldn’t tell Greg that. You couldn’t tell him what had happened either. Not when you were a couple of months away from your wedding, the happily ever after that you had been longing for. If he knew, he’d leave. Rightfully so. But you didn’t want to compromise your happiness for what had been a lapse in judgement. 

Afterwards, you had tried to tell yourself that, maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was just Marshall messing with your brain. You had already been vain and stupid, so why not add a side of delusion as well ? It was short-lived, though. Because the way he looked at you in the days that followed made it quite clear. He had read into the situation and seen something there. A possibility that, maybe, you weren’t as definitely done with him as you’d said you were when you left him. A possibility for him to have fun. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, though. Once a player, always a player. It’s what you had liked about him at first. His seductive aura. But sadly, it had ended up being what you disliked the most about him : he liked the fun and the chase too much. Sure, he had never cheated. As far as you knew, at least. It was more that what most of his exes could say. But just because he was faithful didn’t mean he only had eyes for you and you had come to understand that, in spite of his many qualities, he would never be the partner you needed. You had tried to convince yourself that the way he’d sometimes glance as gorgeous woman when he thought you didn’t notice was not a big deal. You had really trued to let it go be the bigger person and convince yourself that you were better than these girls who got insecure over nothing. That all men do it and, as a grown woman, you shouldn’t be so uptight. But the insecurities had kept on gnawing at you, as well as the realization that he’d probably never commit to you. 

Breaking up with him had been freeing. Heartbreaking, of course, but it was in your best interest. His reaction proved it, too. Acceptance and understanding. As soon as you had said the words, that it was over, he had come to terms with it. No fighting or arguing. He has nodded, said it was fine. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he had asked something work-related. You’d been flabbergasted, at first. Maybe he hadn’t actually understood that you had just broken up with him ? But when you asked, he had casually replied that you breaking up with him didn’t have to mean giving up on what had been a good professional partnership for seven years. Something about you being an incredible assistant, the best he could have ever hoped for. He valued you as a friend and collaborator. As weird as it was, it had been rather soothing for your ego and a good enough reason for you not to resign. You liked the job, after all. The following months had been a little weird, sure, but, in time, you had gotten used to it. Going back to being friends and working together. And then, a year and a half later, as fate would have it, you had met Greg. The opposite of Marshall. As if the universe was actually apologizing and rewarding you for being so brave, keeping on working with your ex. 

Your fiancé had healed you in so many ways. Making you feel appreciated, loved, valued. Actively pursuing you and stating his serious intentions. Not only had he told you he was marriage-minded, but he had put his words into action. After three weeks of dating, he had introduced you to his family and, on your six months anniversary, he had asked for your hand. You were finally going to live happily ever after and everyone was happy for you. Even Marshall, who seemed pretty friendly with Greg. Or at least, as friendly as he could get with someone so different from him. You should have known better than to believe your ex had any respect for your relationship. Or that he cared about your happiness more than he enjoyed seduction. Also, you should have known that a man on the chase doesn’t let any details unnoticed. Especially not when said details materialize in the form of lacy details on your thigh. 

When it came to work attire, you were usually pretty low key. You stuck to simple pieces that you were comfortable in, like your  skirt and cashmere sweater combo. Cozy enough for your day at the studio, yet sufficiently cute for the times you went out after work.  That day, you had plans with Greg, so you had swapped your usual sneakers for some cute and comfy pair of pumps. Unfortunately, the heel had accidentally ripped your last pair of tights before you left, forcing you to wear stockings instead. Breezier, for sure, but at least you didn’t have to deal with an outfit change that would make you late. You usually didn’t care about a little tardiness, neither did Marshall, but it was meeting day with Dre, who was in town, and you knew you had to be on your A-game. Lots to do. So much, in fact, that you soon forgot about your wardrobe incident. So much that you didn’t notice Marshall staring at you as you shifted in your chair, skirt sliding up a little as you moved. You should’ve known he’d notice that teasing band of lace just visible against your thigh. That his brain would read it as a signal, an invitation. 

After Dre left the building and you went back to Marshall’s office, he shut the door behind you. Your mind still on the meeting, you didn’t seem to notice right away, but you finally picked up on it, the way the tension felt charged, electric. “Marshall?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you turned to face him. “What’s up?”.  He took a breath, seemingly considering his words carefully before he moved a little closer. “I couldn’t help but notice your, uh, new wardrobe choice today,” he said, gesturing slightly toward you skirt. “Not really a ‘you’ thing… wasn’t sure if it meant anything.” You looked down, confused for a moment, and then rolled your eyes with a short laugh. “Oh, my tights ripped this morning. These were my last-minute backup, not some message for you.” You raised an eyebrow as you tried to keep it light, yet clear. “Besides, you do remember I’m engaged, right?”. He leaned against his desk, his expression softening. “Greg’s a good guy. I know. But… he’s not me.” You shook your head, a mix of frustration and humor softening your gaze. “That’s actually why I chose him. Because he’s not you. Because you were unable to commit to me.” He looked at you and hummed.  “I was,” he agreed, his voice low. “I’m just saying… we had good times”. You sighed, nervously looking down at your hands, a hint of conflict flickering across your face. “We had our time,” you said, voice softening as your gaze met his. “And it was good. But you know I wanted stability, and you… are Marshall Mathers”.  He smirked at that, self-aware and, for once, not quick to argue. “Doesn’t mean I don’t get things wrong. Doesn’t mean I can’t try to make things right if they matter enough.”

You paused, watching him closely, searching his face for something. “You’re really doing this?” you asked, a small, nervous laugh escaping your lips. “Maybe,” he admitted, shrugging. “Greg’s nice. But… I don’t think he’s what you need. I know he’s not. And you know it too”. You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a beat before fixing him with a glare. “I’m with Greg now. And it’s not fair for you to… to play with me like this, knowing I’m getting married in two months”. He leaned in a little closer, his voice low. “Play with you? Come on, you know me better than that. I’m just saying… if you ever had second thoughts, if you wanted something real… I’d be there. Give it a real shot this time. Not just a couple of years”. 

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head as you tried to hide your nerves and frustration. “That’s so you, Marshall. You’re saying all this now, trying to tell me you’d be different, but it just sounds like another game. Like you’re trying to say what you think I want to hear.” You folded your arms, a flash of sadness in your eyes. “If you had wanted me back, you should’ve done something about it when I left you. Not now that I’m actually with someone who’s stable, who can commit”. He watched you, undeterred, the corner of his mouth lifting as he shrugged. “Maybe it just took me a while to realize what I was missing,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made your cheeks flush against your will. You hated yourself for reacting this way. But it seemed like the bastard knew you too well. “Besides, you’re here, looking like that, and I can’t help but remember… things”, he added with a smirk that showed you he knew exactly what he was doing. As always with him, it was deliberate. No accident. You shifted uncomfortably, a reluctant heat crawling up your neck as his words sank in. You felt his gaze like a touch, and it irritated you that he could still do this to you, make your pulse race despite every reason to resist. “Marshall, just stop,” you said, your voice tense. “I’m with Greg. And this—this flirting… it’s not fair to him or to me”. 

“Is it really just flirting, though?” he asked, his voice soft, eyes never leaving yours. “Feels like maybe, just maybe, you’re into this, too. And that’s okay. We had something good, after all. We could have it again if you’d let yourself see it.” You bit your lip, the irritation flaring up again, even as your own reaction to him betrayed you. You could feel your pulse quicken, the way his gaze made you feel like you were the only woman in the world, the only one who mattered. And that frustrated you even more. He had no right of making you feel this way. Not when it was all you had wanted from him for so long and he knew it. It was bad enough that he was trying to get to you, but this didn’t feel like seduction. It felt like torture. Some sort of emotional warfare. 

You crossed your arms tightly, glancing at him with a mixture of irritation and something dangerously close to vulnerability. “You’re being cruel, Marshall,” you accused, your voice low but firm. “You know exactly what you’re doing. And you know how much it hurts”. He looked at you ad shook his head. “Cruel?” he echoed, voice soft, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned back against the nearest wall, gaze roving over your face. “I’m just being honest.” You shook your head, feeling the flush creep up your neck despite yourself and your conscience scolding you. “You had your chance with me, Marshall. And now you’re—”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he cut in, his voice a shade more vulnerable than you’d expected. His gaze was intense, all traces of teasing wiped away, and it held you still, making you forget your next words. “The other day, seeing that look in your eyes again… It was like I got this tiny piece of you back, and then you’re gone again, right out of my reach.” You felt your heart skip, your fingers curling slightly as his words sank in, but you hardened yourself, forcing your expression to stay steady. “You make it sound so easy, like you’re just entitled to pull me back in because you suddenly decided you miss me,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “But I have a life now, Marshall. A real relationship. With someone who… who actually wants me.”

“I know I fucked up,” he said, his voice dropping lower, holding your gaze. “But believe me, it was hard, trying to get over you, then. And now? Now it’s impossible. You think I haven’t tried? Think I haven’t wondered how it’d be to just let you go and move on?”. His voice wavered slightly, but it was his eyes, that quiet intensity, that made your pulse race. And as much as you hated it, your body reacted, remembering exactly how that gaze used to unravel you. “Marshall…” you whispered, barely able to get his name out. “Please. Don’t do this. Don’t make me second-guess everything like this.” But he wasn’t backing down. Instead, he took a slow step closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, so close you could almost feel his breath. “You think I’m just playing, but you know me better than that. You know I don’t say things I don’t mean.”. 

Your heart pounded, breath hitching as he reached up, his hand brushing against your cheek with a familiar, devastating tenderness. You felt your walls begin to crumble, your body leaning slightly toward him before you could think better of it. He smirked, his gaze flicking down to your lips. “See? You still feel it too. I know you do,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Your resolve wavered, but you shook her head, even as your body betrayed you. “This isn’t fair,” you managed, your voice softer now, more breathless. “It’s a game to you. You’re just trying to play. You think you can just sweet-talk your way into winning.”

“If that’s all you think this is,” he whispered, leaning even closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours, “then tell me to stop.” But you couldn’t. The tension between the two of you snapped, and before you knew it, his mouth was on yours, all that frustration, all that longing you had tried to bury, spilling out between you. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him, and you felt all resolve melt, every protest fading under the heat of his kiss. He deepened it, one hand sliding up your back, his other grazing your cheek as if memorizing your touch. And against every logical thought, you found yourself returning the kiss, your own hands tangled in his shirt, clutching him like he was both the problem and the solution. Your breathing was ragged as Marshall’s hand slid up your thigh, fingers tracing just above the lace edge of your stocking. His touch was firm yet careful, stroking your bare skin in a way that made you lose every coherent thought, every ounce of resolve you had tried so hard to keep. You were pressed against him, your mouths hungry, his lips rough and familiar, setting off sparks you had nearly forgotten. 

He paused, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with a familiar, smug gleam. “The ‘nice guy’ you settled for,” he murmured, voice dripping with confidence, “could never make you feel like this. And deep down, you know it. Even if you don’t want to admit it… even if it’s subconscious… you wore these because you wanted my attention.” A surge of anger flared up, cutting through the haze of your desire. Your cheeks flushed, not only from the heat of his touch but from the bite of his words, that infuriating arrogance that he still had, like he already knew he’d won. “You think you know me so well,” you shot back, voice unsteady but fiery. “Think you’ve got me wrapped around your finger.”. Of course he had to do this. Place himself at the forefront of your thoughts. Make it all about him. But he didn’t seem to care about your ager. He simply chuckled, his hand still caressing your thigh, his thumb brushing over your skin with deliberate, maddening slowness. “I don’t think. I know. I can feel it. You’re here right now, aren’t you?”

Your jaw clenched, your body betraying your resolve with every hitch of her breath, every slight movement closer to him. His hand slid a little higher, stoking the heat between you, his touch gentle yet possessive. He was too close, his mouth at your ear now, his voice a low, teasing whisper. “You can marry Mr. Nice Guy,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “But I’ll be right there, front row, watching, and we’ll both know the truth. We both know he’ll never be me.” That struck a nerve, hard, snapping you out of the haze he’d wrapped you in. You pushed him back, just enough to look him square in the eyes, your own gaze blazing with anger. “Then be there. Front row. And watch me marry him. Watch me prove that I’m done with this,” you shot back, voice trembling with fury and something else you couldn’t quite deny. “You’ll get all the attention you want, Marshall, watching me build a life without you in it.” The challenge in your voice hung thick in the air, both of you locked in that moment, eyes clashing. You could see the flicker of something vulnerable in his expression, a brief crack in his cocky facade before he recovered, his hand moving up to cup your face, his thumb grazing your cheek, his expression softer but no less intense. “If that’s what you really want,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “But you can’t pretend you don’t feel it, too.”

You didn’t answer, and for a moment, you were lost again, his mouth crashing against yours, his hand stroking up your thigh as your own hands found his shoulders, pulling him closer with a force that felt more like surrender than defiance. You kissed, your anger mixing with desire, the fire between them relentless and uncontainable, even as your mind screamed for you to stop. You knew you should push him away. Hell, you should resign and leave. But you were under his spell. Addicted to his eyes on you, the way he touched you. But most of all, it was the way he was finally giving you something you’d been craving all these years ago, that made it impossible for you to pull back. You were the object of his desire. Not the girlfriend he had been faithful to out of mere obligation and kindness. Not the accommodating assistant promoted to GF because her blowjob skills rivaled her schedule management and coffee-making abilities. Maybe it was ok for you to enjoy it for a second. Maybe you could bask in it, heal the wounds he had inflicted each time he had looked at these other women. Each one of them a humiliation you had not allowed yourself to feel, back then. Screw the fake « cool girl » attitude you had forced upon yourself. Remaining silent each time you’d see him stare at these girls. Pretending you didn’t care, that it wasn’t a blow to your confidence when it shattered you inside. And slowly, at these thoughts, you found yourself coming out of his spell.

Your breathing was still uneven, your cheeks flushed as you took a deliberate step back, creating a space between you and him that felt almost painful to establish. You straightened yourself, forcing the resolve back into your voice even as his eyes lingered on you, dark with frustration and a longing he wasn’t bothering to hide. “It doesn’t matter what I feel, Marshall. Because none of this changes the fact that I want you to watch me get married.” You straightened your shoulders, the words spilling out with an edge that cut through the silence. “And when you do, I want you to take a good look at my husband. Because no matter what you think, Greg will be the one fucking me every night. Not you.” He clenched his jaw, a hint of wounded pride flashing in his gaze, but he didn’t interrupt, his eyes locked on you as if trying to read between every word you said. “You can obsess over whether I wore these stockings for you or not,” you continued, gesturing with a coldness that felt like armor, “but you’re not going to be the one taking them off. You can tell yourself all you want that you’re better than him, but at least the ‘nice guy’ is the one who gets to finish. With me. No need for pills, too. You think you're so good but while you're touching yourself to me because your sex life sucks, he actually gets to touch.”   You saw the way the words hit, a flash of hurt in his expression before he quickly masked it, the usual confidence in his eyes now edged with something vulnerable. He took a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching for you. His voice was low, raw. “All that ?” he asked, the words carrying a weight you hadn’t expected. “What is it that makes Mr. Nice Guy so great, then? That he’s the one who gets to finish ?”. 

“Commitment,” you replied immediately, voice unwavering. “His undivided attention. I know he’ll be there, and he won’t treat me like some challenge. He makes me feel safe, Marshall. He’s everything you couldn’t be.” He let out a bitter laugh, the pain evident in his face as he shook his head. “Then go ahead. Be happy. Play it safe.” He paused, searching your face, a flicker of resentment mixed with the hurt in his gaze. “But it’s funny, because not once did you mention being in love with him.” The words stung, tearing down your defenses with brutal precision, but before you could respond, his hand lifted to your face, his touch achingly gentle as his fingers traced your cheek. You stood still, heart pounding, resolve weakening under the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his hand on your skin. “Enjoy your perfect, safe life,” he whispered, his tone laced with irony, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I hope the white dress and everything else is worth the masquerade.” The tension in his voice was like a taut wire as he leaned in, just close enough that you felt his breath against your skin. “And who knows, maybe I’ll even be the judge of it all, from my front-row seat at the wedding.” He pulled back, giving you one last look, his face hard yet unreadable. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone, hands trembling, his words echoing in the quiet space he left behind. 

[gallowdancingmuck]

Analyzing W(e)yler Part Four:

(I was going to talk about Tyler’s arc but got super excited about this analysis and found it’s best to explain this in detail to make Tyler’s analysis more concise.)

Y'all its time to talk about the significance of Frankenstein. As soon as Laurel presented the book to Wednesday I knew she was behind it all. What I didn’t realize was how this whole show is an ode to Frankenstein, or I dare even say the creators own fix it fic?

Tyler:

The most obvious correlation is Tyler as Frankenstein’s Monster. The monster is “assembled from old body parts and strange chemicals, animated by a mysterious spark” (Sparknotes) much like Tyler’s hyde is genetic, activated by Laurel’s plant derivatives, and animated by his spark with Wednesday. I am giving credit to Wednesday for animation because I speculate the hyde did not develop his snarkiness and personality with Laurel (she would not nurture him to have any sense of self) but rather developed it after spending time with Wednesday and her quirks. The monster displays humanity and gentility, but due to his appearance, is shown disdain from his creator and is isolated from society. Tyler is a kind boy who displays compassion and friendliness, but due to his mother’s death, father’s neglect, and master’s abuse, he is faced with estrangement from every parental figure in his life. Add to this the knowledge of the hydes stigmatized nature even within the outcast community and he is predisposed to becoming monstrous. While I can’t say for sure, I think next season we will hear more about Tyler’s guilt and anger over what he is and what he has done which is exactly the way the Monster feels throughout the novel, regretful over his own monstrosity.

Wednesday:

Wednesday I believe is an amalgamation of Victor, Walton, and the Monster’s companion. I combine all three because I think in an effort to mend the original storyline, the creators need to “fix” these characters' fatal flaws. While Laurel is the obvious equivalent to Victor, Wednesday shares a lot of Victor’s characteristics (ambitious, obsessive, reckless) and is meant to resolve Victor’s flaws. Victor is so concerned with being successful and assuaging his curiosity he often fails to see the impact he has on other people. Wednesday struggles with this as well because she often equates her life to being all about her (“every day is about me”) that she neglects the fact her life is interconnected with her loved ones. Victor begins the story ignoring his family in pursuit of his goals much like Wednesday is disconnected from her family due to her actions, and continues to miscalculate the repercussions her actions have on her friends (Eugene going to the cave alone, Enid and Tyler getting hurt at the mansion, Thing being stabbed). Like Victor, Wednesday currently has no active empathy towards Tyler’s experience (She makes a few offhand comments but she is not acting with empathy yet) and makes judgements based on only her perspective.

The divergence of Victor and Wednesday comes when Wednesday begins to take accountability for her the risk she puts her loved ones in. Unlike Victor who continually blames the monster and never admits his part in the chaos, Wednesday takes the blame (sometimes too much) and begins to make compromises to protect her loved ones. These compromises come in the form of forming partnerships with Tyler, Enid, Weems etc. Another difference is that while Victor hates and fears the Monster, Wednesday is not horrified or disgusted by Tyler, merely disappointed. A contributing factor to why I think Wednesday is able to do all of this is she has courage and a sense of justice that Victor does not. Victor, despite all his grandiose beliefs still seeks societal validation (this is the main reason he does not tell the Judge about Justine’s innocence), and places himself over any morality.

Wednesday acts as Walton because this story is told through her narration. Walton also is meant to be a more grounded Victor, evidenced by his decision to turn back when his voyage became too dangerous. Theoretically, if Wednesday is only one character she is Walton, because Walton does exemplify Victor, but it is harder to parallel specific events since Frankenstein explores Walton’s perceptions more than actions and because Walton does not have the same personal connection to the Monster as Wednesday has to Tyler.

I say Wednesday is also the monster’s companion because once we remove the emotional conflict between her and Tyler concerning his betrayal, Wednesday and Tyler are the same (refer to part one of my analysis series). While Shelley never had the Companion come to fruition, the Companion was meant to act as a source of comfort and relatability for the Monster, and Wednesday is that for Tyler. She is all the things Tyler is afraid to accept about himself, and she does it in a way that is encouraging to Tyler. The Companion could have calmed the Monster's loneliness and remedied the narrative if she came to life and accepted him, and since the creators are using the show as a conduit to fix this narrative, I firmly believe Wednesday will come to accept Tyler.

Based on Frankenstein and what snippets we've seen of season 2 (I’m geeking over the teaser), this is what I expect moving forward.

If it is not a circumstance that requires Tyler’s help, Wednesday is going to go see him out of revenge (you know she will taunt Tyler). Much like Victor meeting the Monster in the mountains, Wednesday will meet Tyler at Willow Hill. In this meeting I think Tyler will blame the loneliness and manipulation and probably be just as abrasive as Wednesday is towards him. At some point however he will express remorse and even ask Wednesday to not help him escape but perhaps to kill him. Tyler is going to be in such a bad state he will fluctuate between rage and depression. When Laurel is brought up he will lament her the same way the Monster lamented Victor’s death, with relief but loss at a solid connection. Wednesday will strike a deal with Tyler. What this deal is I don’t know, but it will act as Victor’s deal of making a Companion for the Monster. The deal between Wednesday and Tyler will be a more concrete, logical deal, but in working together to make it happen she will become his companion (source of understanding, support) and their relationship will reconcile. This will diverge from Victor turning away from the Monster and rescinding the deal. While this already steers us in the direction of resolution it won’t be that simple.

At the end of the season, after Wednesday has fully forgiven Tyler and their relationship has grown attached again, something will happen that causes Tyler to leave or distance himself from Wednesday. It will either be in a soul searching pursuit or Tyler thinking he is better off alone. Either way it sets up for next season to focus on their reunion, Tyler’s self actualization, and hopefully Tyler’s admission to Nevermore.

A few other parallels I want to include but don’t have the energy to integrate eloquently:

Enid as Henry Clerval

Enid represents Henry Clerval, Victor’s best friend who dies at the hand of the monster. Clerval is the more socially acceptable version of Victor, they share ambition but Clerval is able to express himself in a more socially digestible way. Victor sees Clerval as his equal and closest friend. As we see the show progress we see Wednesday begin to connect with Enid and see her as an equal. Both relationships are meant to show the importance of companionship and allow Wednesday and Victor to find comfort and connection.

Enid did not (and will not) be killed by Tyler, but she did suffer an attack from him. Frankestein used Clerval’s death to traumatize Victor and cement his hatred for the Monster, so I think the fight with Enid will serve as a reason for Wednesday to prolong the bad blood between her and Tyler.

Xavier

Xavier doesn’t represent a specific character but more so his relationship with Wednesday seems reminiscent of Victor and Elizabeth’s. I personally don’t hate Xavier but I do not like his relationship with Wednesday. He seems to project an idea of her rather than seeing her, and when Wednesday fails to match this image, he blows up. It correlates because Victor does not truly see Elizabeth and only relegates her to his possession ( “I[…]looked upon Elizabeth as mine.”). If Xavier’s character remained in the show, I think it would only amount to him blaming the state of his and Wednesday’s relationship on Tyler, just as Victor blamed Elizabeth’s death on the Monster, when in reality it stemmed from his own neglect and lack of consideration.

Eugene as William Frankenstein

Since Puglsey was not at Nevermore, Wednesday adopted Eugene as a surrogate brother, and much like William, Eugene has a cheerful and childlike presence that acts to represent innocence. In the book William is the first victim of the Monster, and is what is symbolic of Victor’s loss of innocence, naivety, and control. Eugene being attacked was the event that turned the mystery of the hyde into a serious and personal pursuit, and just like Willaims death, Eugene’s attack is what “sealed fate” and made it so our protagonist would not stop until the monster was confronted.

Gomez & Morticia as Alphonse Frankenstein

Alphonse is Victor’s loving father, who acts as a contrast between Victor’s fragmented relationship with the Monster. Morticia and Gomez are extremely devoted and affectionate but despite this Wednesday has trouble in her personal relationships. In terms of her and Tyler, it shows how despite having a healthy relationship modeled, Wednesday and Tyler’s relationship will remain complicated until the two reconcile their family dynamics.

Francoise Galpin as Caroline Frankenstein

Caroline and Franocise are two characters that haunt the narrative of the story. Caroline’s death affected Victor and could be cited as the root of his obsession with death and the creation of life (mommy issues). He even so much has calls his mother’s death an “omen” of his “future misery”. Francoise’s mistreatment and death is what triggered the events of Tyler’s unlocking, if she had been accepted and lived, Laurel would not have been able to manipulate Tyler’s love for his mother and Tyler would probably be more empowered instead of confused and isolated. Caroline is also reduced to a maternal figure who died so her child could live (she dies from taking care of her sick child) and I think Francoise will be revealed to have admitted herself to Willowhill and died there or to have killed herself to protect Donovan and Tyler.

Why Fix Frankenstien?

I personally think that Tim Burton is rooting for Frankenstein (and implicitly Wyler) because he is a horror lover! I love consuming media that analyzes horror and interviews the people that make it happen and I’ve noticed that a lot of the people who make horror don’t blame the monster and actually wish for its happy ending. After all, the monster in movies is typically only meant to act as a focal point for the true monsters, people, society, etc. to act against. If we look at Tim Burton’s work, he tends to empathize with the monster (Corpse Bride, Frankenweenie, Beetlejuice). As for other horror moguls, you can look up interviews by Guillermo del Toro and Stephen King where they reference the Creature from the Black Lagoon and talk about how they wanted the monster to get the girl. This is what inspired the Shape of Water. A quote that I think exemplifies this mindset is “the creature only gets deadly when threatened by man, and is desperately in need of companionship” (David Konow, author of Reel Horror). Horror is a genre that focuses on the underdog overcoming terrifying circumstances. What could be scarier for an outcast than being taken advantage of and thrown away? What could be more vindicating than defeating the naysayers and winning the companionship of a pretty girl? I just feel like Wyler makes the most logical sense for the genre and would be a lot more satisfying because Frankenstein is universally seen as such a tragedy and the genre is all about glory and gore and love and horror and Wyler really exemplifies all of these qualities!

[versedicis]

homie i like… NEED more of the reckless pursuits fic.. i was eating it up all nom nom nom just to be stopped at the second chapter like i was put on a diet… more PLEASE🥺🤲 it’s so good n im so desperate for more chapters and lestappen scraps

aaaahh thank you so so much anon!!! this actually means so much to me, made my whole entire week fr 🥹 i had no idea people were still reading it lol

ask and you shall receive 😋

[zeebee3]

First Line Tag Game

Thank you @erin-orolin for the tag! Read Erin's here 😍

Rules are: post the first line(s) from the last 10 fics you've updated or posted (or however many fics you have, if less than 10).

Here are mine!

You Do It For Me (Draco/Hermione, 260k WIP)

It wasn’t working. She was doing everything right but it wasn’t working.

Curved-Mouthed Bastards (Ron/Draco, 9k)

Perhaps the most peculiar thing about being forced to return to Hogwarts past the normal age of matriculation was that the school Draco returned to felt entirely new.

Unqualified & Untested (Draco/Hermione, 66k)

Hermione was running late. Which, on a typical Monday, was perfectly acceptable as she was beholden to no timetable but her own. But on the day she was finally getting her research assistant, being ten minutes late was less than the professional impression she wanted to make.

Pretty Little Aunt (Teddy/Hermione, 4k)

The door to Harry’s house opens often and easily, constant streams of friends-as-good-as-family arriving on a whim at nearly all hours of the day, whether Harry is home or not. It’s what he’s always wanted: to be surrounded by people comfortable enough in their intimacy and affection to show it, with casual action and thoughtful intention.

Something Else Entirely (Draco/Hermione, 17k)

In the past year, Hermione has made exactly two reckless choices. The first had been discontinuing her contraception. The second is putting in for a week of leave and taking herself to Spain midway through the resulting pregnancy.

In Pursuit of a Marshmallow (Draco/Hermione, 5k)

There are few things that threaten Hermione’s self-assuredness nowadays. Few things, but not zero. It’s just her luck that after she shucks her coat in Ginny’s entry way and leans in to greet her friend, she catches sight of two things that test her steel resolve.

A Joyous Conspirator (Draco/Hermione, 14k)

Tradition, it seemed, would never fully leave Hogwarts. It didn’t matter how many years the castle bore, some things were more lasting than those who matriculated.

The Quiet Comfort (Draco/Hermione, 6k)

It was midnight, and Draco was wandering. It was the best time for it, when even the ghosts had vacated the halls, enough memory of life in them to hold to an instinctive circadian rhythm.

In Actuality, Only Treats (Draco/Hermione, 7k)

It had been Theo’s idea. Draco went along with it, because it seemed interesting and he was tired of his usual weekend entertainment.

Will It Away (Draco/Hermione, 8k)

Draco was mid-grind when sleep slipped fully away from him. The jolt into wakefulness made the second half of the motion confusing and doubly-arousing, the friction of his pajama bottoms against the firm mattress pulling a sleep-rough groan from his chest. Shit.

This was fun to see! TIL that I like to start my stories with a statement of fact (and apparently the word 'it').

Play along if you want/haven't already! @b-lovedhunter @molivierposts @malfoyesque @vespertineflower @aurorasleeps-27

[nellielsss]

⭑ ★ ⭑ 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐄 ⭑⭑

Summary: Everyone's heard of the yakuza boss and his sweet little girlfriend, but what about the female yakuza and her two beloved pets: the Rabid Panther and the Silent Wolf? Inspired by Scarface by LDR. HCs + blurbs on Toji and Grimmjow as your bodyguards. Note: I have suddenly been revived from my writer's block all thanks to Grimmjow! Reader is also ENTJ/ENFJ coded (I can't decide LMFAO just pick whichever one fits you the best). It's also kind of a love triangle except they don't have feelings for each other so IDK what to call this. I also just wanted to show my newest husband some love for his bday! Pairing: Yakuza!f!reader x Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez & Toji Fushiguro/Zen'in Warnings: Mentions of death, weapons, firearms, basically anything that comes with crime boss related fics 💀 also Kenjaku's death is mentioned cus I hate his ass and needed a victim.

╰┈➤ The Rabid Panther and the Silent Wolf, that was what Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez and Toji Fushiguro were known as, respectively. The two pets to the feared yet beloved beauty, the infamous yakuza boss (L/N), (Y/N). She was one of the Four Great Kings of the Tokyo underworld and the only female of the bunch. Out of all the aforementioned kings, she was perhaps the most benevolent one of the bunch, but that wasn't saying much considering the most vicious and hated king, Ryōmen Sukuna, was all but a tyrant with a kill count that went well into the tens of thousands (at his own hands as well). The only reason she was even considered benevolent was because she didn't kill with her own hands (not unless she was terribly angry with her foe), and because she also smiled the most.

Why would she need to soak her pretty nails in ugly blood when her two pets would do anything for their owner?

As for what gave them their monikers, though...

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez earned the title of the Rabid Panther because of his violent and garish methods of disposing his opponents.

Grimmjow had a tendency to stain his white clothing and sharp claws in a pretty shade of blood red. There was nothing the blue-haired man loved doing more than sinking his claws into the unlucky foes that happened to incur his wrath or his boss's wrath

He had a pair of special rings made for him (commissioned by you, of course) just so he could get a better grip on his opponents.

The whole reason you hired him as a henchman was just because of how devoted to the fight he was. Though he was reckless in his pursuit of destroying the strongest opponent in his vicinity, you couldn't help but feel drawn to the man.

It was on one snowy January day when you happened upon him. You stood there, clad in a snow-white and red kimono when you witnessed him tear apart 3 of your henchmen, right before your very eyes. Despite the fact that he just killed your own men in a very vicious manner, you didn't cower in fear or order them to kill him; you simply reached out and wiped the blood off of his face.

"B-Boss, don't get too close to him!" The pleads of the other men fell upon deaf ears as you gazed at the wild-eyed man. He was snarling, practically foaming at the mouth, and yet you didn't waver.

"You're a rabid one," was what you first said to him.

"I'll tear your fucking throat out, lady!" he snarled at you, trying to back away from your handsy hands.

You didn't say anything, simply smiling and touching the man's face. "Handsome, too... your shade of blue pairs quite well with red."

Despite his numerous growls and threats of killing you, your hand moved to cup his cheek, move underneath his chin, and tilt it up so he was looking right at you.

"How would you like to be my rabid animal?"

Maybe you could use a man like him--a man not willing to get his paws dirty and lick them clean when he finished the job.

He didn't use guns often; he stuck to weapons that could make a man's blood paint the walls. Hell, with the kill count and voracious appetite this man had, he could make the streets of Kabukicho flow red.

Speaking of Kabukicho--he was one of the only henchmen (you preferred to call him a lieutenant, since the title befit him) to have a small group of his own. He was in charge of handling the areas with the most amount of people in them, since he could be as loud as he wanted without anyone paying him any mind.

Half the time, though, the "army" under him (what he called his Fracción) would just sit back and watch as he pummeled some poor bastard who tried to rip off one of your many businesses.

"I told you, don't fuck with me, and don't fuck with my boss!" Was what he liked to shout before tearing the throat out of his most unlucky victim.

He was made one of your only lieutenants the fastest, since he could so easily dispose of people, and also since he was just the strongest one of the bunch.

To those he was against, he was a vicious panther who didn't know how to stop shedding blood; but to you, he was no more than a cute little cat who purred and meowed in excitement when you pet him.

"Good Grimmjow," was what you cooed whenever he did something right. He came to relish the feeling of your long, perfectly manicured nails carding through his spiky blue hair. He used to detest being babied and doted on in such a manner, but it felt amazing to hear his beloved owner boss praise him for having wiped out an opposing faction's squad that tried to destroy one of your own squads.

The other henchmen of yours tended to look at this display of affection in an odd manner. They had just witnessed him poke the eyes out of someone an hour ago, and now you were petting him like a housecat?

And he was enjoying it?

Don't let this display of affection fool you, though; he would stab the shit out of anyone who talked back to you.

It certainly didn't help anyone who hated you that he was practically obsessed with you, head-over-heels for the woman he affectionately referred to as his master.

You took him off the streets, clothed him, fed him, and brought him to a position higher than he thought was possible for a man like him.

Sure, he was self-assured in his strength, but he was alone, and what good would it do to him if someone were to ambush him?

The longer he stayed by your side, the more devoted he became to you.

He would roll over on his back and purr for you if that's what you so desired.

He owed you his very existence, so god help your foes if he ever heard someone bad-mouthing you.

For instance, do you know that scene in Kill Bill where O-Ren Ishī hopped atop a table and sliced someone's head off in a meeting?

Well, you wouldn't have to do any of that, because with a simple nod of the head, Grimmjow would go over there and viciously slice their throat and make the blood splatter all over everyone else's food.

But the other man, dressed in a dark, form-fitting outfit and standing beside you was just as, if not more, deadly than Grimmjow. Isn't it amazing to have two brutalizers at your beck and call?

Toji Fushiguro earned the title of the Silent Wolf because of his, well, silent methods of execution and warfare. With just a step of the foot and the trigger of a finger, he could put a bullet in anyone's head within a matter of seconds.

His favorite weapon was his M1911A1 modified with an effective silencer that could mask his position anytime, anywhere. He would also do it with a smirk on his face.

Toji Fushiguro joined the ranks of your yakuza faction after he tried to assassinate you on one rainy November night.

He was hired by the ex-leader of one of the 4 great factions, Kenjaku, to assassinate you after a deal gone wrong.

He would've been paid a cool 1.5 billion yen if he managed to kill you and your pet panther successfully--and have a hefty bonus if he could manage it in only 2 shots.

He had his trusty pistol at the ready, and his overinflated ego had him fooled that he was going to become a very rich man.

On his end, he actually was quite close to killing you and claiming that bounty, he'd just underestimated your fighting prowess.

"That's quite the gun you're holding there, Mister," you said when he was about to pull the trigger on your head. His eyes widened a little when he was found out, and in the moment he was caught off guard, Grimmjow quickly whipped around and pinned him up against the wall.

"Shall I tear his throat out for you, boss?" the blue-eyed man asked, his eyes never leaving Toji's pinned self.

Your heels clicked on the floor as you approached him, studying Toji's face for a few seconds, and you spoke to him directly. "I take it you came here to assassinate me?"

The man nodded without saying anything.

"I take it you were also paid to do so," you said, this time not asking him a question.

He, again, nodded.

"I figured as much." You took a second to scan his appearance, noting the worn-out grey pants he wore and the fitted black t-shirt that obviously needed a washing. "Someone like you would need the money... still, I'm surprised you had the balls to come here and try to kill me on your own with one measly gun."

"I have more weapons at my disposal, miss," he snarked, still being strangled by Grimmjow.

"You will speak when prompted to!" the man growled, still keeping his eyes on Toji.

"Please, Grimmy, cut him some slack," you said light-heartedly, putting your hand on his white jacket. "He obviously just needs a warm meal."

"But he tried to take your life-"

"Grimmjow." He took that as a sign to relax his grip around the man's throat a little. "Hand me his gun," you ordered suddenly, to which he happily obliged.

"Here, boss," he gruffed, handing you the pistol with the silencer on it.

You tossed it around in your hands, feeling the weight of the metal. "This is certainly a nice pistol you've got here, Mister, although it is in need of some repairs... maybe it's time you replace it and get a new one."

"I was hoping to do that with the money I'd earn from this mission," he chuckled softly. "I'm not one to save up for nice things."

You emptied the bullets from the magazine and dumped them to the ground, then tossed the gun into a nearby dumpster. "How much did Kenjaku pay you to assassinate me?"

Everyone in the alley looked at you suddenly, a little shocked by how weird your actions were. "How did you know?-"

You cut Grimmjow off and said: "he's the only one who would possibly want me dead, and he's also the only one who'd have others do it for him."

"1.5 billion yen, ma'am," Toji spoke up, unperturbed by the glares everyone was giving him and the vitriol he was facing for trying to assassinate you.

"I see," you hummed, tapping your foot in thought. "Given the fact that you and I have never crossed paths before, I'm willing to bet you were here simply for the money and not because you had some sort of vendetta against me."

"You'd be correct, ma'am-"

"Stop calling me ma'am, I don't wanna feel old."

"Apologies."

You smiled a bit and crossed your arms over your chest. "Anyway, what if I paid you 2 billion yen to kill Kenjaku? You can even bring Grimmy here to help you."

It was his turn, again, to be shocked. "But, Boss, he just tried to kill you!-"

"I'll do it, no questions asked. As long as I can get a new gun, of course."

"Good," you smiled wider, showing off your pearly canines. "Release him and take him with us." Grimmjow did as he was told, releasing his neck but still holding him by the shirt collar. "Now, we're going to treat him for a nice, warm bowl of ramen. Understood, boys and girls?"

Everyone was in agreement, albeit shakily, and they went with you to the nearest ramen shop with your new toy in tow.

"By the way, what was your name? I don't think I caught it back there."

"The name's Toji," he said gruffly. "Toji Fushiguro."

Grimmjow, ever the vigilant henchman, turned to you and asked: "are you really sure you want to go through with this?"

"Has my judgment ever betrayed me?" you retorted, making him go silent again. "He was stealthy enough to sneak behind me and almost kill me, which I should punish you for, by the way. Anyway, I know potential when I see it, and I saw a great deal in him. Almost as much as I saw in you."

As for what role Toji served, he was the wordless yet deadly assassin who could get a headshot just as fast as Grimmjow could tear someone's jugular out (he has a thing for throats, if you couldn't tell).

He and his trusty silencer pistol can do just about anything, and his custom-made sniper rifle made up for what his pistol lacked.

Toji was the silent enforcer, the voice of "reason" if you can consider his methods of killing before talking reasonable.

Truth be told, Toji would've been content in any role, so long as he didn't have to interact with idiots too much and got paid handsomely in return for his work.

Toji ran the stealthy missions, the ones that required the utmost quiet and precision, as well as the ones that had to be done ASAP.

He started calling his little army the "wolf-pack" after hearing the title he was given behind his back.

He actually never saw himself falling in love with his boss, either. He didn't obsess over you like Grimmjow did, nor did he idolize you like the other henchmen; he found himself drawn to your charismatic nature & the eloquence with which you spoke.

For a crime-boss who had such a high body count, you certainly didn't have the air of one. You almost seemed like a friendly woman, but that was because you didn't have to worry yourself with killing those who wronged you.

It was only when someone really pissed you off that he saw you take matters into your own hands.

Honestly? It was kinda hot seeing you execute someone yourself.

"The boss wants her money, so why hasn't your bald ass coughed it up already?" Grimmjow asked angrily, doing the talking for all of you.

"I-I swear, it was here a few days ago, but I was robbed!"

"Did you forget about the security cameras she had installed? What do you take her for--a dumbass who can't run a business correctly?!" the blue-haired man kicked the man in question with the toe of his leather boot, sending him flying & cracking a rib in the process.

"Just... just another week, and I'll have your money-"

"Toji, hand me your gun." The cold chill in your voice made everyone look your way, including Toji, himself.

"As you wish, boss." The silent man simply unbuckled his holster and gave you the pistol with that nonchalant smirk on his face. He'd never seen you hold a gun yourself; it was always him holding the cold metal weight in his hands.

The silence in the room was disturbed by the sound of your stiletto boots clicking on the floor, accompanied by the sound of you handing your fur coat to the closest girl. "Do you know why I'm such a successful boss, Mr. Tanaka?"

Mr. Tanaka merely whimpered where he laid, feeling the cold barrel of the handgun press against his forehead. "N-No, I-"

"It's because I'm such an incredible businesswoman," you replied coolly, pressing the barrel against his forehead harder. "All of my businesses have flourished under the watchful eyes of the people I've so deliberately put in charge. They oversee everything and make sure I turn a profit out of practically the air we breathe in. Do you want to know what happens when they fail to live up to my expectations? Do you want to know what happens to people who fuck with me?"

Before he could even answer, you easily ripped the silencer of the gun off, tossed it aside, and put a bullet in the poor man's cranium.

"This."

Once he was dead for sure, you stood up and tossed the gun back to Toji. "Don't fuck with my money ever again," was what you said, taking your coat back from the girl who stood there in fear & shock. "And that goes for all of you bastards. I could have all of you killed right now in the blink of an eye, and nobody would ever notice that you're gone. All of you are replaceable."

Nobody in this room had ever seen you lose your cool like that and fire the gun yourself, not when you had an expert marksman like Toji and a ferocious wildcat like Grimmjow.

Toji honestly couldn't lie; it was hot as fuck seeing you put a bullet in a man's skull yourself.

"That was an expensive silencer, boss," he said as you all left the room.

"I'll get you a new one."

Yeah, he was in love with a Yakuza... however it happened, he didn't know; but he embraced it. He wasn't one to shy away from his true nature, after all.

It helped that you bestowed the equal amount of care to both of your pets. Neither the wolf nor the panther got more than the other, and they were both treated to the same luxuries as the other.

New coats and wardrobes made of the finest and most durable fabrics, the best weapons money could buy, and the nicest rooms overlooking the garden in your little compound located just outside of the city.

Toji and Grimmjow both had their own apartments in case they needed to stay in the center of town for a mission, but they much preferred to stay by your side; Grimmjow wanted to be as close to you as possible, and Toji just liked the feel of the compound. It was serene, calm, relaxing for a Yakuza's mansion.

They even had their own embroidered kimonos that they wore when they were with you! (how cute).

Honestly, the only issues they had... were with each other.

Always competing for your affections, rivaling to see who could earn the most smiles and praises from their beloved boss.

It was like a love triangle straight out of some romance manga, only instead of a school it was a crime boss's compound that had blood on its walls, and instead of bento boxes there were sharp objects.

"Don't be stupid, she obviously likes the way I stab my opponents!"

"Your methods are too damn messy--you stained one of her fur coats with blood, for fuck's sake It took two weeks to clean the damn thing; she obviously likes my silent-but-deadly approach."

"Where the hell's the fun in that?!"

"Boys, boys, if you don't calm yourselves, I'm going to have to put you in your kennels," your calming voice interjected when you walked in on the two men squabbling. It was honestly so endearing to see a couple of grown criminals fighting over something as silly as whatever they were fighting over, but if they went too far they'd probably break a valuable, so you chose to quell their argument.

"We're so sorry, boss! Right, Fushiguro?!" Grimmjow asked, jabbing the man with his elbow.

"Of course we are. Would you stop elbowing me, Jaegerjaquez?!"

Instead of reprimanding them further, you put your hands on their heads and ruffled their hair. "Grimmjow, your methods provide me with entertainment; and Toji, your methods bring me peace of mind. Now, would you both please bring me some peace of mind and stop squabbling? You're going to break one of my vases."

"Anything you say, boss!" Grimmjow exclaimed, all but swishing his tail about.

They continued to fight after you left, but thankfully they didn't break any valuables.

As demonstrated above, you tried your very best to quell their rivalry, but you also found it entertaining at the same time. To think that people who crushed skulls and tore men open could rival each other for your affections made you laugh, and you welcomed the rivalry (so long as they didn't break anything).

The two men also tended to butt heads over their decision-making processes.

Honestly, you didn't even know why you ever trusted them with your duties when you were out, especially when every "proxy" meeting turned into squabbles every single time.

"What I'm saying is that we need to go in, guns blazing and all!" Grimmjow shouted at Toji. "We need to instill fear in their hearts, make them cower where they stand!"

Your faction was trying to deal with a rogue group of bandits that kept attacking your warehouses that were stationed throughout the Tokyo Metropolitan Area, but how to deal with them was a matter that nobody could solve except for you, not even Grimmjow & Toji with their greatest attempts.

"That'll get us busted, you knucklehead!" Toji retorted. "We need to go the stealthy approach and make sure they're caught off guard."

The two men were now literally butting their foreheads together. "You're always so boring, Fushiguro, will you ever learn to relax and have fun?!"

"I can have fun without blowing the damn mission!"

It was like one of those moments in anime where there was electricity crackling between them, and none of the other top henchmen were willing to butt in on this argument.

"If only the boss was here..." they all groaned in unison.

At the end of the day, though, these two men would do anything to make sure your life and your faction ran smoothly.

They'd do stuff as menial as your dry cleaning if you so asked them to.

Though you tried not to choose favorites among your rankings, it was quite clear that the two were tied for first place. They were the only ones allowed to enter your living quarters, that was how close they were to you.

They were also the only ones allowed to see you naked...

And be naked around you, and touch you, and make love to you until the sun rose over the walls of your estate.

Of course, they always turned it into a competition of who could make you cum the fastest and the most, but it was all in good fun!

God help anyone who dared to speak poorly of their boss around the two of them, for they'd be ripped to shreds twice as fast.

Enjoy your two loving bodyguards!

"But I obviously love her more-"

"Would you shut up, Jaegerjaquez?!"

FINALLY CURED THIS FUCKING WRITER'S BLOCK 😭 also how come every time I get a new fav they shoot up in the ranks?! I liked Yami for two weeks and now he's #1 & Grimmjow's #3 after only a week?!?! | © ʙʀᴜɴᴇᴛᴛᴇ-ʙɪᴛᴄʜ77 on tumblr - get your own shit bitches | ca. 8/1/2024

[jetii]

OC Sunday: Soma "Goldie" Anathorn

Thank you for doing this @freesia-writes! Banner and prompts came from this post.

Choose ONE of your OCs to share about for the next few weeks, so that we can get a multifaceted view of them with the different prompts. This week, we’ll keep it simple:

Name, species, basic description

A few-sentence backstory

Their major pairings, plot points, etc

I haven't actually sat down and wrote out stuff about my OCs in forever, so I'm excited about this!

Those who read Event Horizon (my Rex x Jedi!Reader slowburn longfic) are familiar with the fact that Reader turned into Goldie/Soma somewhere in the first few chapters, so it's as much her story as it is a reader fic. It's a little late now to turn it into OC X Canon, but I'd love to do a rewrite someday. Anyway, some backstory:

Name: Soma "Goldie" Anathorn

Species: Human

Description: Soma is a 30-year-old human female Jedi Master. Relatively tall for a human woman at 5'9," with a square face, dark eyes, and a full mouth set permanently into a scowl. She's very much a believer in the power of exercise as meditation and has the muscles to show for it. She wears white robes (impractical but you'll have to pry them out of her cold dead hands) and carries two lightsabers.

Mini Backstory: Soma is a Jedi Master, Jedi Investigator, General, and former Padawan of Master Yaddle. She grew up among the Jedi from infancy, forming a close bond with her fellow crêche-mate, Obi-Wan. She's spent her life in pursuit of balance, but with a temper and penchant for reckless behavior, that balance has always been out of reach.

Plot Points: Her master's sudden disappearance changed Soma's life forever, setting her on a track that compelled her to seek justice against Dooku by any means necessary. She's stopped from exacting her revenge (and getting herself killed in the process) by a chance encounter with Captain Rex, then a shiny trooper, during the First Battle of Geonosis. When they reunite months later, their partnership on missions slowly evolves into a friendship and something more.

Shameless plug for EH here. I just finished part one of the fic, and the slow burn is finally reaching its boiling point. Now would be a great time to start binging if you're interested in a lot of angst and hurt/comfort, interweaving plotlines, realistic relationship development, and Rex being a cutie patootie. 🫡

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 87: More

Explicit | Cullen x Trevelyan | Hawke x Treveyan | WC: 450K + (WIP) | DA:I | Epic | Multiship | Slow burn | Fast burn | Complications While Saving the World

Chapter Summary:

When Garrett rides off in pursuit of Carver, Rose is caught between duty to the Inquisition and duty to her beloved.

Fic Summary:

Lady Rose Trevelyan is in over her head. Her attendance at the Conclave was only meant to distract her from her failures as a daughter. And then it blew a hole in the world. Marked by an unknown magic, armed with only a few relevant skills, Rose fumbles and fights her way across Thedas with a band of shockingly deadly oddballs dedicated to stopping— well, all of it. As apocalyptic forces conspire to break and remake her, Rose is snared between the tentative devotion of the Inquisition’s stalwart commander and the fierce love of legendary warrior Garrett Hawke, two vastly different men both haunted by hindsight.

Excerpt below the cut 👇

I sweep down to the stables, stubborn determination fast becoming a sturdy flame inside me. I’m the only one who could talk him down— if I can reach him, if I can reach him— if I can just catch him— and Juniper is faster— surely he’d stop for me. He can’t be far. Certainly not past the sulfur pits— the bridge isn’t passable yet— and—

Maker.

And then I’m drawing my horse from her stall, tying her off in the aisle to saddle her before anyone can stop me.

“What are you doing?” Cullen, of course, hushed but insistent. I explain into Juniper’s saddle blanket. He looks over me over, tallying the number of reckless oversights.

“Following Garrett. Carver’s gone.”

“I know. I’ve been briefed. I cannot advise it.” Cullen’s argument punches, but the look I flick over my arm cuts like a rapier. He holds firm but I can, too.

“I’m not letting him go out there alone.”

“He’s already gone. You’ll be vulnerable to the quillbacks and Maker knows what or who else—” His words roll off me like rain on stone. “Listen to me, Inquisitor. Please.”

I make a grudging quarter turn.

“I’ll send our fastest riders after him.”

“I have to go after him,” I mutter. A tiny huff of irritation slips out. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Cullen takes me by the shoulders, his focus clear and unbending.

“But I do.”

The ghost of everything that once was, runs feather-like over me, a prickle of awareness stirring on my skin.

“You are too important to lose in this wasteland,” he says. The stone in my throat breaks into the makings of a sob.

“What if he doesn’t come back?”

“He will,” he says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I let my shoulders slump, playing up capitulation, toying with capitulation. I look over Cullen, searching for some way to mollify him. His hair is an uncharacteristic chaos of curls and a wash of blood darkens his cheeks. His clothes look hastily assembled. The news of a prison break had surely woken him.

“The fastest riders,” I insist. “He’s only a few minutes ahead of me.”

“I saw him ride out. If nothing else, our men will tail him to make sure he’s safe.”

If I weren’t so stubborn it might have satisfied me. But I’m too nauseated by the possibilities: Garrett perishing out there, picked over by birds, disappearing completely as if pulled through some uncharted rift.

Captured, tortured.

Sacrificed.

“Then I’ll wait for word,” I say.

“I’ll have them bring a bird.”

“Thank you.” I don’t wear deception well, but Cullen seems addled enough he doesn’t notice my tells, carding his curls back into submission, fastening his doublet properly. I clear my throat and straighten. “I’ll be in my chamber.”

I am not in my chamber.

Instead I watch the bailey from the southern colonnade between a stack of grain sacks, waiting for an opening.

Cullen loiters in the lower bailey, conferring with scouts and officers for an agonizingly long time. Hope bubbles up as he strides toward the steps to the command post, and then leaves me in a miserable huff when he doubles back to direct something more. He’s there so long there can only be one conclusion— he has no faith that I won’t hurl myself after Garrett. Imperious prat. I flick hungry weevils from the burlap sacks into the wide void of the bailey below until I accept my captive fate.

I post up on the battlements with a spyglass under a snapping Inquisition banner, scraping the northern horizon for Rosco’s pale mane glowing in the moonlight. Hours are marked by the scouts and soldiers cutting across the flats like dutiful ants, by the arc of Satina and the Great Moon across the dome above, by the slow crawl of nausea. As I dull the tip of my dagger chipping away at the grit of a merlon, the low simmer of my worry heats to a rolling boil.

What kind of a woman lets her beloved run off to die? I’d wanted to trust his prowess and experience, but he’s mine. And there’s only one of him.

Read the rest here! Start the fic here!

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