#his route was such a pleasant surprise

[punkrock-bottom]

Not enough Darius Maynor fanart on this webbed site for my tastes

[curitura]

❥ Pink Yang x Liliana (Episodio 1926) Icons

Requested by Anon! Please like / reblog if saving ♡

[stringsbasement]

ngl i 100% thought peri would be an antagonist

he's the first fairy in thousands of years, born directly under the lineage of what has to be the most powerful fairy family line in current existence

(cosmo is a von strangle, and also the very reason fairies stopped having babies in the first place. he's incredibly powerful and nobody talks about it for some reason. it's clear peri inherited that destructive potential)

the second he was born, entire fairy species (including his own kin) were out to get him to use his volatile magic for their own selfish goals. he's nearly kidnapped thrice, and almost ends the universe on the same day

the threats keep coming, and he's being dragged to countless adventures that put him at risk. he literally ceases to exist more than once

anyway, i wouldn't be surprised if some form of expectations were placed upon him growing up. maybe not by his family, but he's famous (a teacher described him as such once); in fairy world, he's automatically adored and celebrated by adults and peers alike, which foop antagonizes (and tries to kill) him for

cosmo and wanda would, realistically, of course try to shield him from all this, but no matter what they do, he's inevitably isolated

people either want to use him, put him on a pedestal, or is a universally infamous human godchild who will forget all about him in a matter of years

(cosmo and wanda becoming godparents and learning (choosing) to eventually let go of their kids is one thing, but it can be assumed poof was still a young, underdeveloped child by the time timmy (+chloe, for what it's worth) got his memories wiped

and he sees that timmy's able to live his own happy life without him in it. he lost his brother just like that, and there's nothing he can do despite all his godly powers)

there's so, so many ways he could've gone wrong

thus, my initial thought was that peri was going to be a somewhat petty, "spoiled brat," and him becoming a godparent would be the result of spite or rebellion, which cosmo and wanda would feel entirely responsible for. I HATE MY PARENTS!! yada yada yada

it was a pleasant surprise to see all those clips of them loving each other. and it's not even because i doubted for a second that cosmo and wanda are bad parents, it's just what you usually expect when seeing shows from the 2000s, even if it doesn't make sense

all things considered, i'm very glad they went for the lighthearted silly family trope. not every show needs such conflicts, and showing healthy dynamics are better for kids overall

still, i find it interesting to think about if they'd gone down another route instead. i love me a pathetic cringy villain who tries (fails) to hate the people they love the most

[satoruhour]

On honeymoon with geto..and while you’ve had sex before, it’s the first time you two do it unprotected. His face lights up when you tell him to do it without a condom and breeding kink goes BRRRRRRRR

a/n: “Newlyweds gojo and reader having sweet romantic nasty dirty disgusting shameless honeymoon sex PLEEK” combining requests since theyre the same premise! anons u two r the biggest brained mfers and bc u all voted so nicely and promptly this is my lil present :3

wc: about 1k+ for each drabble

warnings: SEPARATE drabbles, fem!reader, soft dom!geto that turns filthy at the mention of no condoms lol, unprotected sex, fingering, clit stimulation, creampie / breeding kink, sorta soft dom!gojo but not really established, almost public sex and multiple rounds for gojo, n*sfw under the cut

✶ GETO

the first breath of fresh air is already so pleasant and different from japan, but you’re distracted again by the shiny band upon your finger, staring at it with a small smile. you had your eyes glued on the sterling silver for the whole flight here, only breaking out of your daze when suguru approaches with your collected luggages, pressing a kiss to your temple. “shall we go?” you can’t help but mumble a soft ‘i love you’ before you peck his lips, the coldness of his matching ring on your skin reminding you of your newly forged bond.

geto makes sure you feel its coldness later on your thigh, hand holding down your legs firmly when he first inserts both fingers, cunt easily sucking him in right until you feel the chill of the wedding ring. he’s rewarded with your sweet moans, s’thick and s’good leaving your lips softly while he leaves your clit untouched. it’s throbbing, and yet he tortures you more when he removes his fingers.

“suguru!”

“what?” he grins, a sick grin as he starts to remove his pants and admires the way your pussy just asks for his dick. “want ya to cum on my cock.”

“yeah, but—” you huff, although you weren’t opposed, before you hear the familiar crinkle of the condom packet and you’re sitting up to hold his hands back. now, his what was truly confused, and you bit your lip, wondering if this was really the route you wanted to go down.

you’ve always loved sex with suguru; it was phenomenal always, except the feeling of the rubber in you. it was necessary, you knew, but now that you’re bound by vows and your endless love, you’d think that . .

“can we not use it today, sugu?”

geto didn’t think he heard you correctly, and he’s asked you to repeat it even when you’ve seized the packet and threw it to the side, a hand on his hardened cock that only responds to you — you swear you feel more pre-cum on your thumb when you say it for the third time.

“are you sure, baby?” geto asks softly, hovering over you with his large stature and it’s just like the first time you were intimate with each other. caring and gentle as he always is, “we don’t have to do away with it just cause we’re married now, (y/n).”

you give him a small reassuring smile. “i’m sure, suguru.”

and he proceeds to ask you for two more times before your legs are carried up. surprised, you watch as he drags his tip along your folds, eyes darkening when he watches his pre-cum mix with your juices. and now when he’s given permission to fuck you raw? he can hardly keep his heart rate down.

“hear that, baby?” geto moans, keeping his eyes locked in yours, making you hear just how wet you were and you nod, wanting to have his hand in yours. there’s a mixture of your moans when he first pushes in, with your pussy clenching around him. a loud whine leaves your throat as your hands interlock.

“s-su! feels so—!” you gasp when he bottoms out, a feeling entirely different from the usual — you swear you can feel his cockhead and the veins along his length, and geto knows the same. your gummy walls that hug him, your warmth.

“shiitt . . god, you feel so fuckin’ good—” he grunts out, leaning forward to capture your lips, sighing when he does a light thrust and the drag of your cunt is just too good and he already feels his high approaching. “just so perfect in this pussy— t-thank you, darling.”

geto swears he goes in and out of consciousness when his hips start to move, focused solely on your hand on his cheek and the squeeze of your hand in his, alongside those hooded, drunken eyes of yours and the whimpers leaving your mouth.

“suguru— s’big!” you pant against his lips and the squelch of your pussy is only amplified by how swiftly he rails into you, driven by the raw feeling of your cunt.

“y’can take it, can’t ya?” geto hums, pressing one last kiss against your lips and comes off of you, grabbing your legs and pushing. they’re right up to your chest and suguru reaches so deep, you squeal in surprise. “good girl, takin’ me so damn well.”

you let him use your body, now hanging onto the headboard of the hotel room as his hips move relentlessly into your dripping cunt. you can see your juices splay everywhere from how wet you were and the rough movement of his hips don’t help, “g’na cum, su—”

“that so?” he mumbles, and angles his hips to hit that spot and your head digs into the pillow. although, geto doesn’t like that, “c’mon baby, watch me as i breed you.”

you whine at his choice of words, opening your eyes to see your newly wedded husband look divine. his hair falls all over his face and his lips are parted in little pants, sweat lining his torso and face but his honeyed eyes only look at you.

the way geto’s hips drive into you is carnal, feeling your ass ripple with his thrust to the hilt and the sounds that leave his lips sound like heaven, a mix between whines and moans — “look at how much cum i have f’r you—”

and for the both of you it comes so quickly you don’t have time to prepare for the visions of white; you can feel as geto cums deep in you, feeling each spurt of cum fill you up and you think you’d never want to go back to condoms ever again. geto’s head is thrown back when he shoots his load, hips bucking so much as you cum at the same time, spasming on his cock that the room is full of your lewd sounds.

geto doesn’t look at you when he removes his cock silently, watching as his tip continues to push out globs of semen while your cunt is painted white. it’s clear he’s drunk on it, looking toward you finally with a small smile. the final clench your pussy does is the last straw for him, pushing out his cum that drips down to the sheets and he’s hard again.

“you don’t know what you just unlocked in me, baby,” geto laughs breathlessly, slapping his length along your folds with obscene noises, “but it’ll definitely end in me filling you up with s’much cum, yeah?”

you giggle, wiggling your hips until he’s in you again. hot breath against your ankle and a scrunch in his expression — your pussy’s just too good.

“yeah, i’d love that, sugu. give me all your cum.”

✶ GOJO

your happiness was unmatched running down the aisle, interrupted by the smooth sweep of gojo’s arms under your neck and knees in a princess carry, moving your body up and down like you just scored the final goal of a game — except you did. you’ve captured satoru’s heart and his fourth finger, smiling with glossy eyes as he leans in to kiss you. “you cryin’, baby?” the audacity to ask that when his nose is red too — you only shake your head, hearing the camera click and your relatives cheer.

that sweet sentiment is changed later after your wedding dinner when he hasn’t even got you past the front door until he has you against the wardrobe, dinner gown and panties swiped to the side and you desperately trying not to overturn the hotel kettle.

“can’t keep me from this pussy for long, baby.” gojo’s stamina is exceptional, you were made aware of this from the first time you got into bed with him, and you still weren’t exactly used to it. from here, you only wish to memorise the sight of gojo on his knees and the chill of his wedding ring on your thigh. “looked so delicious in this dress—”

“s-satoru, we haven’t even closed the door yet—!” he hums, skillfully using his free hand to do it and he continues his assault on your pussy. you have one leg propped up on the vanity table, leaking so much juices just from having his hand on your thigh.

it’s no different later that gojo presses kisses on your neck, making you watch yourself in the vanity mirror. your cunt’s already so used to his heavy, thick cock, and yet it still reaches so deep in you, kissing your cervix. there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock from how much he’s cummed in you, pussy gushing so much around his length that he has no problem moving in and out of you.

“look at how beautiful you are, sweets,” he whispers along your skin while you tighten around him, body lined up with yours while his hips continue to ram into you. you can’t even fathom what round exactly this is as his hands knead at your lower back, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes from just how good his cock was hitting your spots. a hand to your clit is enough to get you cumming for the nth time that night, tongue lolling out in the mirror. “you cryin’?”

you whine and nod softly, head dropping from the sudden soreness and exhaustion on a particular thrust, and your husband coos, “went too hard on you, did i?”

gojo places one more peck to your neck and slips out of you, making you choke on a moan as your entrance clenches around air and you’re off the ground like you were at the front of the church. he simply laughs at your fucked out form, knowing nevertheless you loved it when you’re asking him to hurry up. and so he brings you atop him, letting you move your hips until he’s in you and you’re whining into his neck.

“’toru . .”

“what is it, mrs. gojo?”

you stifle a laugh at that, lifting your body tiredly. even after being fucked for four rounds (he counted), you still look as lovely as you did as you first appeared at the start of the aisle, when you were crying your eyes out saying your vows, when you grinned during your first dance.

“jus’ tired baby, help me, pleasee?” the little pout you do is too cute not to resist that it gets his heart tightening up and his dick jumping. 

“hang on, sweet girl, i got ya.” the first thrust up into you is euphoric, skin so sticky from the cum before that you’re sure there’s strings of white connecting your pelvis to his. the feeling of your clit brushing up against his pubes has you moaning into thin air and your hips move back on him to get more friction, “that alright?”

“mhm . .” you mumble, “s’good—”

gojo only lets out a little chuckle, letting you tangle your hands in his hair as he plants his feet down into the mattress and slams into your dripping cunt. he groans softly at the feel of your walls, still so warm and tight, muttering soft praises while your limp body moves along with his rough ministrations.

“oh— my g-god . .” you mewl out when he latches his lips onto your tits, sucking and swirling his tongue and your back arches in his arms; you simply can’t hold yourself up from the overstimulation, falling forward into his waiting arms. “s-sorry, ’toru.”

“what’re you apologisin’ for?” gojo swear when he feels you clamp down, cock twitching and you both know he’s about to cum, “my pretty girl doesn’t need to be saying sorry . . fuck—”

satoru’s his lips meet yours messily and his thrusts turn weak and sloppy while he ruts mindlessly into you with the lewd pap! pap! pap! sounds of his balls against your ass. he’s primal with his hips, with muffled moans onto your lips. there’s drool dripping from the corners of your mouths as he spills into you shamelessly, so much cum spilling from your connected bodies that you reach your climax too, body trembling from the intense feeling.

“’toru—! s-so much cum, haah . .” it’s so hot, entirely sure your womb is full of his previous loads, your mixed juices coating his still hard dick and you might just tap out, but when you feel his cum dribble out of you and down his cock, you’re already wishing for more. you merely reach for the cup of water and gulp down a large amount and your lover only watches you, amused.

“n-need more, satoru . .” you whisper, sitting up and trailing a hand down his body, making sure he can see the shimmer of the expensive ring he bought for you — it wouldn’t rust, either, he told you. eyes fluttering close, you remove yourself from him completely and lie back on the king-sized he insisted on booking, and spread your folds to show him just how needy your cunt still was.

there’s a small moan that escapes gojo’s mouth when you do that, already hovering over you with his heavy cock resting along your pussy, “give me more, baby.”

“oh, when my good girl asks so nicely,” satoru slyly grins, swallowing your whines with a sloppy kiss, “’course i have to give it to her.”

tagging my loves @hyomagiri @jabamin @shotorus @utahimeow @satohruu @na-t0 @lvlybee @slttygeto @crysugu @suguruplsr ❀

[zhenne]

watching from afar | route one : a confrontation

[ intro ]

syn. perhaps it’s time Sylus gives you irrefutable proof of his intentions, and to show you he’s more dependable than that doctor friend of yours thinks.

wc. 3.5k

warnings. smut!! (mdni), i’m gonna just say dubcon bc yea, probably ooc, rough start (i don’t like it tbh), jealousy!, mentions of alcohol, car sex, pet names (sweetie, sweetheart, kitten, baby), cowgirl, clothed sex, bit of dry humping, fingering, making out, sylus comes on your stomach/thighs, he’s a lil nasty (as a treat), teensy bit of begging, face & throat holding (no choking), marking

a/n. ngl i feel like this is pretty rushed, but idk man

now playing : all mine

“I’ll be back soon, have fun.” 

With one final measuring glance at the doctor, Sylus left you in Zayne’s care.

Zayne was a pleasant companion for the remainder of the evening. His dry humor and effortless wit kept your voice breathless with hushed fits of laughter. You were nursing your fourth drink of the evening when you notice Zayne’s relaxed posture shift as an undeniable presence calmly stepped behind you.

Cheerful, and a little tipsy, you turn on your barstool to face Sylus. With warm, rosy cheeks, you beam up at him, ready to explain the comical story Zayne had just finished, “Oh! Sylus, Sylus- you won’t believe-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your fun, but we’re leaving, Sweetheart.” His firm tone cuts you off. 

You sit up a little bit straighter, brows pinched together, “Did the meeting not go well?”

Sylus’ eyes narrow, looking right past you as they land on the man sat a little too close to you for his liking. Crimson irises flick back to you, studying your slightly flushed appearance. “We can talk in the car.”

Immediately, you knew what that decisive, low utterance dispatched. He was pissed. Seething.

Sliding off your chair, you turn to give Zayne a small bow, smiling as you thank him, “Your company was refreshing, thank you for treating me with your presence.”

—-

The walk to the car was painfully silent. Any tipsy glee you had earlier was gone, replaced by a sobering disquiet. You kept your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you followed just behind Sylus’ striding gait, your own heeled feet barely able to keep up. Your lips were pressed into a thin line. Sylus’ aura radiated quiet fury and your mind careened with thoughts of what must’ve happened during his meeting. 

Did the other man not show up? Maybe he sent a representative Sylus had a previous resentment with? Or did the deal fall through, perhaps? Is it likely that the terms didn’t go in Sylus’ favor-

You’re pulled from your thoughts by your face colliding with a solid wall of muscle. You swallow. The black suit jacket on Sylus’ back obscures your vision, the musk of his cologne invading your senses. He turns to face you, angling his head so that it tilted in a manner that could only be described as penetrative. You wait for him to say something, anything that could hint at the cause of his calloused mood. You get nothing of the sort as he opens the passenger door for you.

To your surprise, he doesn’t slam it after you climb into the seat. If anything, he’s unnervingly silent. There’s something controlled, measured about this anger. And that finding only serves to confound you even more.

You wait until the car is speeding down the freeway to try your luck again. “Wha-”

“Did you have fun?” For an innocent question to be asked in such a forbidding tone, a chill tickles your nape. 

Your fingers nervously pinch the material of your dress, rolling the silk between the pads of your fingertips. Was he upset you didn’t go to the meeting with him? “You know I’m more of a hindrance than a help in those sort of mee-”

“That’s not what I’m asking. Did you have fun with your friend?”

Oh. A piece of this intricate puzzle clicks into your brain. Oh. “You’re jealous.” You don’t even realize you whispered your discovery aloud. 

Sylus chuckles, though it’s void of his usual mirth. “And what was it you introduced me as?...” His eyes narrowed in thought as the car merged onto the road that would take you back to the lawless city of perpetual darkness. “Your colleague, wasn’t it?” You don’t miss the way his jaw clenches. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then, in a moment of brazen stupidity, you mutter, “Is there a problem with my terminology?” Your own challenge, albeit your voice came out far too hesitant to be properly deemed a threat.

The way he looks at you, every ounce of his stare cold and measured, reminded you of your first meeting – reminded you that there was more than one side to the enigma that is the leader of Onychinus. Instantly, you feel regret weighing heavy on your tongue. You want to backpedal, try again at defending yourself.

You don’t get the chance to scramble together some poor excuse before he’s steering the car into the underground garage of a vacant lot. The transmission shifts into parked and the keys are pulled from the ignition as you and Sylus sit in the silent cab of the car, your eyes searching his side profile. The silence is stifling.

“Are you going to talk to me, or just sulk?” You finally murmur with a growing irritation. 

Sylus’ head falls back against the headrest. Finally, his gaze slides to you, the corners of his lips twitch with a frown, and you feel the edges of your frustration slowly ebb away. 

“What did you two discuss during my absence?”

“Hm? Nothing, really..” You hesitate. Sure, Zayne may have asked how you met the enigma that is Sylus, and you may have given a few glossed-over fabrications. And yeah, maybe your childhood friend revealed in passing that perhaps Sylus may not be the best influence, but that would constitute ‘nothing’, right? 

Sylus is nothing if not perceptive. He picks up on your hesitation clear as day. “What did he say?” His voice finds its usual timbre, a gravelly rumble that stirred something within you.

You were backed into a corner, tongue tied as Sylus’ situated his elbow atop the console, his face leaning into your space with acute attention. “Tell me, kitten,” … “Is this ‘Doctor Zayne’ of yours really just your doctor? Because I saw a hint of something that wanted to tell me otherwise.”

Your face warms at the insinuation in Sylus’ perceptive eyes, caught off guard by the sudden accusation. “I.. I mean, we grew up together, but- but it’s not- he wouldn’t-” you take a steadying breath, a futile attempt to quell your rapid heart rate. “Me and Zayne? I-It just doesn’t make any sense-”

“Oh no, I see it – the appeal,” he reaffirms, “he is handsome, well-established, smart.. And seems to care an awful lot..” he trails off, his smirk only growing as your brows pinch together at the open-ended insinuation. 

“But he never has time for you, does he? Dedication to one’s work means less attention to those that really matter.” You’re silent, face hot as you hold your breath, Sylus’ smirk only growing when he sees you ensnared in his provoking web. “You should call me when your ‘friend’ is too occupied to make time for you. I can at least promise not to leave such a pretty girl disappointed.” 

The air in the car feels stifling as you gape up at Sylus, his eyes now shining with a dark gleam. His hand slips into your space, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek before his palm cradles your jaw, forcing you to hold his gaze as he angles his face a breath away from yours. 

Finally, you manage to choke out a whispered retort. “Zayne.. Zayne doesn’t see me like that. He’s just a friend-”

“Just a friend?” He rolls his eyes at your empty logic. “Oh, please.” He practically hums. “He’s so obvious. You’re telling me you didn’t see the way he admired you tonight? Didn’t notice how his eyes practically undressed you, how his hands twitched with the desire to lay claim?” His voice drops an octave, the low rumble of his chest purely seductive as he murmurs, “How he wishes it was his bedroom floor your dress falls to?” You watch with a pulsing heart as Sylus’ eyes flit to your slightly parted lips, the corners of his mouth twitching into a proud smirk at your undoubtedly flustered expression. “I also saw the way those same eyes glared at me, resenting me for taking the one thing he wanted most.”

There’s a self-imposed reticence. You’re frozen in your seat.

“Nothing to say?” He blinks down at you when you fail to form a coherent thought, the cockiness in his tone only making you dizzier. “Perhaps you wanted that too?”

At that, you’re able to manage a weak shake of your head, and it only makes Sylus’ wicked grin grow. “Tell me this at least, are we really just ‘colleagues’ in your eyes?”

You lick your lips, head spinning when you finally let out a shaky breath. “I-.. We…” You feel as though surges of energy are rippling beneath your skin, setting your nerves alight and subsequently frying any semblance of intelligible logic. 

A calloused thumb trails down your jaw before gently grasping your chin, forcing your face up so your lips just barely brushed against his as he whispers, “Just know, regardless of what you say, I’ll still fuck you.” 

Swelling heat thrummed through your veins, catching in your breath and erupting in your stomach. Your thighs squeeze together with a rush of embarrassment as you feel a slick pool of heat stain the thin material of your panties, no doubt soaking through to the seat below. 

Zayne’s words from earlier ring in your deluded mind as Sylus slips a warm hand atop your thigh. ‘Please, be careful with who you trust’, the doctor had muttered in his stoic voice, ‘I wouldn’t want someone corrupting Linkon’s favorite Hunter’. 

You can already picture Zayne’s disappointment, but Sylus tastes like expensive whiskey and tobacco.

It’s possessive, the way Sylus kisses you, like he was afraid you’d slip away should his hands leave you. You shift in your seat as his tongue prods at the seam of your lips. A breathy groan has your cunt fluttering around nothing as he licks his tongue into your mouth, the hand on your jaw cupping your cheek to hold you still. Neither of you shy away as it grows messier, needier. And it’s unbearably hot, the way he grips your thigh, pushing the skirt of your dress up to bunch around your hips. He doesn’t pause the assault on your lips as his fingers tentatively brush over your soaked panties, the thin material made sheer as it clings to your folds. 

Sylus breaks the kiss, chest softly heaving as he looks down at you, his eyes glazed with raw desire. He lets out a low growl, accompanied by the slick click of his fingertip teasing your arousal. "God, Sweetheart..." He murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

Without warning, he’s pulling you over the console, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your breast and the dip of your waist before settling on your thighs, spreading them apart to grant himself full access to your cunt.

"Let's see how responsive you are to a real man's touch." He teases, grinding his cock into your slick folds through his slacks. 

Your hand grips his shoulder, desperate for something to stabilize you as the rough material of his pants brush agonizingly perfect against your throbbing clit. “F-Fuck..” you whimper as your other hand gathers your dress, giving both you and Sylus unobstructed view of the lewd performance. It felt sinfully good, as pathetic as it might sound, to be dry humping your (so-called) friend in his car like a couple of horny teenagers. 

This position offered you a front row seat to the debauched expression coloring Sylus’ usually smug face, a sight that only served to fuel your growing desire. He must've felt your peering eyes on him, because not even a moment later, a hand holds your throat, pulling you down for another hungry kiss. This one had no preamble, only a primal mesh of heat and tongue. You whine when he pulls away in favor of trailing searing kisses down the side of your neck, teeth occasionally nipping at the skin before he sucks a mark in the junction of your shoulder. 

You grind your hips downard, circling the hardening bulge in his pants with a breathy gasp, your hand tracing down the muscled panes of his stomach. Eyes roll back into your head when Sylus bucks up into your heat with a chuckle. He parts from your neck, his lips shining with spit as he takes in your disheveled appearance. 

“Would you rather it be your doctor friend making you feel like this?” 

A challenge? A jealous provocation? You aren’t quite sure what fuels it, but you’re unabashed as you whimper, “No.. No.”

Sylus wets his lips, the palm on your throat now holding your face millimeters from his, “Who do you want to fuck you? Whose cock do you want to stretch out your little cunt right now?”

You can barely look at him straight with the way those filthy words slipped so effortlessly from his mouth. “Y-You..” you choke out. “Want your cock, Sy..”

Your eyes blink shut, missing the smug grin that graced Sylus’ reddening features. You're about to drag your hips along the seam of his slacks again when a firm hold on your hips halts you halfway. You’re panting, watching with a lidded gaze as he pulls his cock, red and leaking from his pants. Your mouth nearly waters at the sight of the vein running down the twitching length. 

Your hand begins to reach out, but a larger one gently smacks it away. You find his crimson eyes, your pulse echoing loudly in your ears as the hands on your hips angle you slightly. Your shoulder blades rest against the top of the steering wheel, your back arched, and hands gripping whatever purchase they could find as you finally felt the heat of his dick brush against you.

He barely lifts a finger before a thin wisp of red and inky mist swirl at his touch, shredding through your panties without so much as a sound. You glance down just in time to witness as the ruined garment falls from your body, a mess of your arousal clinging to the maroon material as a string of iridescent slick stretched and snapped. 

It was pornographic, the way Sylus groaned at the sight. “I haven’t even touched you yet..” Your eyes glaze over as two fingers tease your dripping slit, the wet clicking sounds only fueling his exploration. “Fuck..” a husky moaned followed as he slipped the two fingers into your warm, welcoming heat. “F-uck… darling,” he experimentally strokes his fingertips, quickly brushing against the spot that has you panting his name with choked breaths. “Ah..” he breathes out, “There it is..”

His fingertips continue to stroke with a rhythmic press of his palm against your clit. You felt so hot, so unbearably turned on it was starting to hurt. “Please- oh please, Sy- Sylus, please, oh fuck-” you felt like your chest was on fire, burning you from the inside out. 

“Come on my fingers,” he growls against your lips, nose brushing against yours, “show me you pretty you look, let me see how badly you want my cock.” Finally, he brings his thumb to stroke tight circles against your clit.

Your body tenses, muscles taut as your nails threaten to leave crescent scars along his arm. Your head falls back with a wanton moan, thighs trembling as you coat his hand and lap with a pool of your release. You feel dazed, your body still humming with the aftershocks of euphoria he so easily led you to. 

Sylus was far from done with you yet. His leaking red cock stood hard and ready, hot against the wet skin of your thigh. He pulls you in by the column of your throat, planting a languid kiss to your lips, his pace slow and intent on enjoying the feeling of you pliant to his touch. “I’m going to ruin you.”

You barely hear it, let alone hardly make out his muttered promise. It doesn’t click until he breathes out against your swollen lips, his eyes piercing straight through you, “I’m going to show them you already have a lover.” 

Your lashes flutter as his grip tightens, sliding the leaking head of his cock through your dripping folds, just barely teasing your entrance as you whine his name, your own hips stuttering in his hold. Only when he finally – finally – has his fill of teasing you, of seeing you whimpering and clawing at his shoulder with quiet pleas of ‘more, please Sy, fuck me’, does he actually start fucking you like you’ve been craving.

“Fuck.. so fuckin’ tight, baby..” he groans as his thick dick slowly breaches you, the blunt head just barely making it through your tight ring of muscle before you’re keening with a loud, obscene whine. “Relax, kitten,” he drawls out, though he isn’t faring much better. 

You’re little cunt is sucking him in like a vice, and it takes every sliver of self control not to fuck up into your tight heat. His jaw ticks as he peers up at you perched on his lap, quivering and moaning from just the tip of his cock. 

Sylus leans up slightly, catching the breathy gasp that slips from you at the minor shift in angle. Warm lips spur more harmonies to spill from you as he kisses any section of skin he could see. The corner of your mouth, your cheek, jaw, neck and shoulder would all be littered with balmy breaths as he leaves marks sure to linger for days. You feel yourself relax into his hold, eyes threatening to fall shut as he haltingly bottoms out.

Fully sheathed inside your pulsing cunt, you both groan as you search for his lips, mutually swallowing the sounds of unadulterated pleasure when a strong pair of hands gently lift your hips a fraction, testing the waters before they drop you back down, your hips flush with his naval. You’re giddy with bliss, whimpering as your puffy clit drags along his happy trail in a way that has stars bursting in your vision.

“Shit-” you whine, feeling the curve of his cock press deeper into you with each thrust. Your head falls back, nearly resting atop the steering wheel, but Sylus is intent on watching you fall apart. His hand holds your jaw, thumb and finger squishing your cheeks slightly as your glazed eyes meet his, something primal and hungry swirling deep within the crimson depths. 

“Eyes on me, baby.”

You’re close. And you can tell he is too with the way his breathing is growing erratic, his neck flushing a pretty pink to match the tips of his ears. Your eyes flutter, a heavy fever settling in your stomach. The squelching noises become louder, more erotic the hotter this fever becomes, surely soaking into the seat below his lap. Your kiss bitten lips gape in an attempt to warn of your approaching climax, but you can scarcely hold back the choked moans as Sylus shushes you, his grip pulling you closer to his face as he grinds his hips into yours.

You come with a hoarse whine, your hands and thighs trembling as he continues to drag your orgasmic haze out for a few more seconds before you feel him pull out, making quick work with his hand as his cock paints your cunt and thighs a pretty sheen of white. 

You stare down at the mess, a filthy mixture of your own release and his lazily dripping down your skin. He lifts his hips slightly, tucking himself back into his slacks before his hands smooth down the bunched skirt of your dress. Panting softly, you try to steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder. You’re about to climb off his lap to crawl out of the car, but he tsks, holding you still with a hand on your waist. 

Your questioning protest stops short once you see Sylus examining your dress with a scrutinizing frown. His free hand holds up a stretch of the garment, and you can make out the faint blotches of stains darkening the material. He studies the blemished spot with an appraising hum.

“Perhaps I should have you wear this at the next event… That should satiate your friend’s interest, no?”

You swat a hand at his chest, blushing and indignant at the teasing lilt in his voice. If you knew anything about Sylus, his mirth always held some fraction of truth, and the mere thought of wearing a dress sullied with come made your skin crawl.

“You’re disgusting!-”

Sylus catches your wrist before your balled fist could make contact with his chest again, a gleam in his eyes that exudes pure satisfaction. “And you’re mine for the rest of the evening… any objections?”

[thedreamlessnights]

Fervency

Non-Ascended Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Synopsis: After falling into mysterious spores in the Underdark, you start to experience some... strange side effects. Astarion is more than happy to assist.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac/glorified sex pollen, established relationship, discussions of consent, fingering, oral sex (both giving and receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 5.7k

There’s not much that surprises you anymore.

It’s true - being kidnapped by illithids, having a tadpole implanted behind your eyes, facing the gods themselves - all of that does make it difficult for mundane life to come anywhere close enough to truly shock you. Your days aren’t necessarily peaceful, but they never seem quite as exciting as that blind haze of companionship in the aftermath of the nautiloid, trekking through the wilderness and shadow-cursed lands and the city, finding yourself in the company of strangers but soon-to-be family.

Still, these days, there’s something every now and then that catches you off guard. The trouble is, you’re never quite left in a space to know how to handle it. Unlike your earlier adventures, things are rarely solved with a dagger in your hand or a dash of flattery in your words. No, the burdens of day-to-day life are much more complicated than that.

Falling into a patch of mysterious spores, for one.

The Underdark is full of various mushrooms. Poisonous. Explosive. Befuddling. You could go on and on. You’ve had your number of close calls with them, but the sensation coursing over your skin feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced - and it doesn’t help that you’ve never seen spores like this.

Hells. Of course this is where your day would end up. 

Just a little stroll, you’d told yourself. It’ll be harmless. And it had been, for the most part. There’s an unearthly beauty to the Underdark that you’ve never encountered anywhere else, one you’ve come to appreciate just as much as the upper surface. But halfway through your usual route, your feet had snagged on a branch and you’d gone tumbling, and now - now you’re in a patch of glowing, red spores, feeling like…

Gods, what do you feel? 

Hot. You feel very, very hot. Sweat trickles down your back. Warmth blooms like poppies in a number of strange places - your cheeks, your lips, your neck. The feeling is spreading fast, bleeding through your ribs as you get to your feet.

Alright, you think to yourself, ignoring the sharp, bleeding panic in your throat that’s threatening to take over. Situations like this call for a sense of rationality. You’re going to get out. 

It takes much longer than it should for you to slowly stumble back to familiar ground. Your movements are jerky, as if you’re being puppeted around, and it’s getting harder to think straight when you’re feeling as if - whatever this is - is slowly consuming you. The heat is in your lungs, coursing fire near your pounding heart, raging with every inhale. 

You need to get this off of you, and as quickly as possible. After that, maybe it will fade and maybe it won’t. You’ll… you’ll figure it out. 

By the time you make it to the river, your knees are trembling so much that you nearly fall in. The water barely scratches the surface of the fire when you splash it over your skin, but the coolness of it is euphoric. You go as quickly as you can, covering area by area - your clothing, your arms, your face and neck - until most of the spores are off, but the feeling pulses and throbs in you all the same. Whatever it is, it isn’t killing you, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. 

You could tell Astarion. He’d tease you a little, but he’d also be certain to search endlessly to find something to stop your discomfort. And you ache for him. His touch, his voice, the fondness in his eyes when he looks at you. 

Had it really been just this morning when you’d last seen him? It seems like lifetimes away - lost to a very, very different type of ache in your veins that won’t seem to fade. You’ve just made up your mind to go find him, rising to your feet again, when the heat rushes to a very specific place between your legs and all thoughts of looking for Astarion are instantly cast out.

Oh, you think, somewhere between dizzy, needy, and utterly humiliated. So that’s what this is.

You’ve read about things like this - plants, pollen, potions -  but most of them had been in bad romance novels, and none of them had ever come with any mention of an antidote. And, needless to say, you won’t be making your way to the Myconid Sovereign to learn more. It’ll have to be handled on your own. 

You could risk going home and pretending to be ill, but Astarion is far too perceptive for that. He’d see through your ruse immediately. Which leaves the only option: hiding in a cave and waiting this out, praying he won’t notice you’re gone and come searching for you before you’re back.

And really, how bad can it be?

Bad. It can be very, very bad. 

You’ve been sitting in this cave for who knows how long, and your sanity is fading more and more by the minute.

It had been manageable at first. The heat spread through you like warm cider on a cold night - a slow, steady increase, the way a candle gradually burns down to the wick. You’d thought it would stop at a certain point (it had to, didn’t it?), but no. It just… kept going. 

Now, every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire, and it’s not slow, or steady, or even remotely bearable. It’s a strange, pleasurable flame, but a flame nonetheless. You can’t even decide whether touching yourself would even help at this point. Even just grazing your hand along the length of your thigh sends the fire rising, and you’re not keen on experimenting at the moment.

Your hands have gone stiff from balling your fists. Your mouth keeps switching between being as dry as sand and overly salivating. Each breath ignites more warmth, and you’ve been trembling for so long that you don’t remember how it feels to be still.

Gods. If you trusted yourself to get to your feet, you’d go see the Sovereign - a lifetime’s worth of humiliation or not. You don’t have any clue what time it is. There’s no sun or moon down here to guide you, no mechanism to spell out the hour. Has Astarion noticed your absence? How long until he’s concerned?

You know enough to know that you should have been back by now - that it’ll be unusual for you to have been gone so long. At least this spot you’ve found for yourself is relatively private. A dark, dry little place with a stone floor; fluorescent ivy in shades of lavender and coral; remote enough that, if your willpower fails and you end up making some noise, no one will be around to hear. 

You attempt to swallow, but the action dies on your tongue. You attempt to breathe, but you can’t seem to suck in any air. You’re just thinking you really might die in this painful, mortified state when the pad of footsteps on stone hits your ears, and your whole body pulls as taut as a rope. 

Oh, gods. Please not him. Anyone else. The Sovereign. The Society of Brilliance. Anyone.

But it’s him, because of course it is. He slowly makes his way inside, pressing through the narrow entrance and around the corner, and when he sees you curled against the cave wall, his brows rise - alarm.

“Wait,” you blurt out, determined to speak before he can. “Don’t come any closer. Please.”

Astarion stays where he is, but his eyes start instinctively scanning you over, searching for ailment or injury. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, even though you’re anything but. You want to say more, but your thoughts trail off as another wave of heat flares inside of you. You’ve started trembling again. Your fingers accidentally graze against your thigh, and you let out a small, involuntary noise.

Astarion hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Darling,” he starts, raising a brow, “you make a terrible liar.”

Of course you can’t fool him. Not even a little. You let out a laugh, but the sound hitches into a strange, choked sob. You pull your knees to your chest and let out a long, shaking breath, trying to get a grip. “I know,” you say softly. “Gods. I’m sorry.”

He takes another step closer, and concern writes itself into his expression. “Gods below,” he exclaims. “Er - my sweet, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look...”

“Horrible?” you finish for him. “I know.” 

“I… was going to say ill, actually,” Astarion replies, laughing a little. “This dark cave lighting looks beautiful on you, my dear.”

You can’t resist another laugh. It’s less burdened this time, but it fades away as you hesitate, very pointedly gazing down at your fingernails instead of meeting his eyes. “I may or may not have fallen into a patch of mysterious spores.”

“And?” Astarion says, lifting a hand into the air and giving a small, contemplative gesture. “Go on, darling. Seeing as you aren’t dead - I’m assuming they weren’t poisonous?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. How the hells are you going to phrase this? “No,” you answer. “I just feel… hot. Not like the explosive ones, just… hot.”

“Well,” Astarion says, “That’s… interesting. Alright - let me take a look at you.”

Half of you wants to protest, but what’s the point? He’ll find out the truth sooner or later. So, instead, you nod.

He steps closer, kneeling down at your side, and you have to ball your fists to keep from doing something stupid. You’re expecting more flame at his touch - a painful flare, like when you’d grazed your thigh - but when the back of his hand meets your forehead, his touch is like a salve. Soothing, cool, sweet. It mellows out the fire, makes you feel sane again.

You shut your eyes in relief, staying as still as you can, and when you open them, you find him giving you a look you know all too well. Smug. Affectionate. A glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.

“My, my,” he purrs. “Darling, I’m no healer, but… a racing pulse, dilated pupils, feverish to the touch? That, I know.” He leans in, his voice low in your ear. “And I can smell how much you want me.”

A shudder runs down your back, betraying you. Astarion leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours - soft and gentle and perfect - and it takes everything in you to pull away.

“Wait,” you protest. 

He instantly halts, pulling away from you and scanning over your expression. “What is it?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” you say quickly. “But you don’t… I mean - I can manage this on my own, you know.”

His brows rise. “My dear, you do realize I am very capable of helping you in this situation?”

“Gods, Astarion,” you say, biting back a delirious sort of laughter. “Believe me, I’m well aware. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. I can manage this.”

A fondness enters his expression - the rare kind, reserved for the most meaningful of moments. He leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. “I know,” he says softly, the words tender and delicate. “Trust me. I want to do this.” He trails a finger along your thigh, and you shiver again. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “And, unless I’m wrong, you’ve missed me, too.”

After searching his gaze and finding him entirely present, you let yourself relax into his touch. “I’ve missed you more than anything.”

“Good,” he says. “I was almost worried.”

He skims his knuckles over your jaw, leaning in to kiss you once more, and the flame in you seems to bend to his touch. It rages in you like a furnace, bellowing and cruel, but with every frigid brush of his fingers, the feeling subsides. Even the feel of his lips on yours seeps away the discomfort.

He’s slow with his actions, but he doesn’t tease, even though you can see the amusement in his eyes when he pulls away to look at you. He’s enjoying this, and if you’re honest with yourself, you are, too. If only it didn’t come at the price of your dignity - but if it’s going to fall away in front of anyone, it might as well be him. 

His hands slide down to your thighs, and your whole body pulls tight, torn between wanting him to touch you now and not wanting him to stop what he’s doing.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your ear. “I’ve got you, darling.”

You let out a shaky breath and try to coax your body into cooperating, shutting your eyes and letting the feel of him drown out the path of your thoughts. The sensation of his mouth, trailing down your neck, ranging between feather-light kisses and the barely-there sting of his teeth against the skin, making every inch of you melt into his touch like clay. His hands, sliding to the front of your top, deftly unlacing it and pulling it away from your skin.

Thank the gods no one is anywhere around this area - if anyone were to interrupt you, you’re sure you’d die right here and now. The simmering need that lies under your skin is bordering on painful, a white-hot delirium of impatience that will not be ignored any longer.

Astarion’s fingers skim across your sternum, further soothing the burning inside your chest, and his lips soon follow downward. You let out a soft noise from the back of your throat, something choked and desperate, and he hums against your skin in response.

When your eyes flutter open again, you find that he’s staring up at you as he kisses down your abdomen, eyes dark and hands curled lightly around your ribs, ardor and affection both palpable in the heat of his gaze.

Your instinct is to shut your eyes again - to shut out the intimacy and vulnerability that comes from holding his stare - but you don’t. Instead, you move the stiff muscle of your arm and coax your hand into working again, gently tangling your fingers into the silky-smooth, silvery curls in your lap.

He gives you a roguish grin, tugging on your bottoms until they finally, mercifully, pull away from your skin, leaving you in nothing but your smallclothes.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, the words dark and heavy on his tongue, but they feel more for him than for you. His brows crease together and his actions turn sure and firm and quickened - as if he can’t wait to have his mouth on you.

Beautiful. It’s the second time he’s called you that word tonight, but it doesn’t stop the heat from rising back into your cheeks, and that feeling of the warmth seems to spark a chain reaction. 

It’s as if his voice is stoking the fire - more heat, all rushing to the very place his lips are heading to now, only to be soothed by his touch. He gently pulls at your thighs, coaxing you to lay on your back, and you’re so desperate that you nearly knock your head against the hard floor laid out beneath you in your effort to obey.

Your mind isn’t processing things the way it usually does: in an even, progressing line of events, every moment spread out from one to the next. Rather, everything comes in bursts of feeling, flashing between being a thousand miles away and all too close, all too present. You barely feel the graze of fabric when he removes your smallclothes and leaves you entirely bare, but the gentle, wet press of his tongue against you feels amplified a thousand times over.

“Astarion,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair. 

He hums again, and the feeling of it has you shivering, muscles going slack in pleasure. Short, soft flicks of his tongue over your clit and you’re left a shuddering mess, not thinking to try to be quiet - not really thinking at all, anymore. He grips at one of your thighs, looping it over his shoulder as he pulls away for a moment, nipping at the tender flesh there. Soothing it with a gentle kiss, then returning to his work.

You’re a walking - or perhaps laying - contradiction. Your arousal is lava hot, but your pleasure is cold as ice. You can’t decide if you’re cold or hot or both or neither. You’re not in a place to think, not as blinding bursts of pleasure course up your spine, rendering you a lump of skin and bones and not much more. His mouth is nothing if not fervent.

You aren’t sure how long it lasts - your hand in his hair, his mouth against you, writhing in dizzying pleasure against the hard, stone floor and barely feeling the discomfort. It might not be very long at all - but it feels like hours before his fingers enter you.

You’re soaking wet. If you weren’t so focused on, well, everything else, it’d be humiliating. Still, when two fingers slip into you and meet no resistance whatsoever, Astarion groans. The pace he’s setting with both hand and tongue is torturous, slow and even, and it takes everything in you not to beg him for more. 

But when he goes a little faster, a moan pulls from your throat, and you look down to find him grinning as he pulls away, fingers still at work. “Look at you,” he says, praise lilting the words as he curls his fingers - sending your hips rolling. “You’ll come for me, won’t you, darling?”

And as if he’s flicked a switch in your mind, you’re coming around his fingers, gasping and shuddering and clenching. Electricity seems to coarse through your veins, hot and sharp, flaming and radiant, and when it’s gone, there’s only the slickness between your thighs, a slight breathless laughter that escapes from you without a thought, and the fading warmth of the spores.

For a moment, it seems as though there might be relief. Your thoughts clear and the heat wanes, but after a sparse second or two of relief, it comes back as strong as ever. 

You’d be disappointed at its reappearance, but then Astarion is crawling over you, using his knee to coax your legs apart for him, so how could you ever be disappointed? Everything else slips away except for him. His eyes, dark with want, his lips, molding against yours, his tongue, gently pressing into your mouth as he buries a hand in your hair.

He’s hard for you. You can feel it, and that realization has you grinding against him. He groans, cursing under his breath, then reaches down to undo his trousers. “Are you ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice half-broken with want.

You laugh, still trembling from your climax. “You know I am.”

“Mm,” he hums, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “But maybe I wanted to hear you say it for me, darling.”

Gods. He’s beautiful - always so beautiful - even here, in this dark, cold cave you’ve found. A work of art down to the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, his smile lines. 

You could spend a thousand years studying the art of him and never, ever get bored; not of his voice, and the way his confidence sometimes, ever so rarely, breaks into something real and raw. Not of his hands: nimble fingers and the calluses from his blade and soft skin - and not of his eyes, which seem both dark and light depending on his mood, and which can seem so sharp and severe at times, but sometimes soften into something soft and round. Sometimes. When they’re looking at you.

You could spend a thousand years admiring him and never, ever get tired of him, and never, ever deserve him. And he’d never believe it.

He’s noticed you staring, because of course he has, and he tilts his head. “What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?”

You can only smile, deliriously happy and wanting and both hot and cold - hot where the warmth burns uncontained, and cold everywhere his skin meets yours. “I love you.”

Your words must catch him by surprise, because it’s shock that meets his expression first. It fades away into affection, placing itself on his lips in a soft smile. “I - I love you too,” he answers, brushing a stray strand of your hair out of your face. “More than anything.” 

He clears his throat and shifts, and as you feel his erection brush against you, only then do you remember the conversation you two had been having. Him between your legs. You, still needing him inside of you.

“I’m ready for you,” you breathe. “Please. I want you.”

“How could I say no?” he asks, leaning in and biting at the lobe of your ear.

He presses into you slowly, even though you don’t need it - not after the effects of the spores and your first climax still evident on your thighs. Only when he once again begins a slow, torturous pace do you realize that he’s doing it to tease you, and when you look up and find a certain amount of devious intent in his eyes, a shudder runs down your back.

He’s always seemed to enjoy watching you fall apart. How many times have you looked up in the middle of one of your late-night trysts to find his eyes on you, the darkened ruby gaze that seems as starved for you as his hunger for blood? 

How many times has he eased your arm away from your face when you felt the need to hide yourself, and how many times has he gently pulled your hand away from your mouth so he could hear the noises you made for him? 

There’s never really been a question about it; Astarion gets off on your pleasure, and the feeling is very, very mutual. Vulnerability aside, it does something beyond words to you to know how much he enjoys giving you pleasure. And, sure as the hells, you like to give it right back to him. So, keeping your gaze locked on his, you grind your hips down to meet him and let out a moan.

His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his thrusts deepening as he props himself over you. You watch the lovely path of the action over the bob of his Adam’s apple, then flit your eyes back to his, letting out another noise.

“Gods,” he says, and his pace quickens. His hands wrap around your shoulders and he groans, panting as he rocks into you, his grip turning into something almost bruising. 

Part of you desperately wants him to keep going - but the other part of you wants to give him something, and now seems the proper time for it. So you tilt your head to give him access to your neck and murmur a few, soft words, and he slowly comes to a halt: breathing heavily, nails digging into your skin as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

He kisses down your jaw, slowly drags his teeth along the skin, then sinks his fangs into your neck. You’re used to the sharp pain of his bite, but it’s different today. Intensified. It’s as if his mouth on your skin, the barely-there pain, is salving through that fire and every single limb of yours goes slack with…

What is it? Pleasure? Affection? Relief? It’s something in between, something warm but not scorching, something sweet but not overly-saccharine. He starts moving his hips again and you’re instantly on the edge, planting your hands on his lower back underneath his scars and resisting the urge to dig your nails into the skin.

He’s drunk from you enough times since you met to know where the limit lies, even on the cusp of his climax. He drains you until you’re sufficiently lightheaded, but not enough to harm you, then pulls away, planting a messy kiss on your mouth. 

Messy. It’s how you know he’s close. His actions are usually so graceful, his movements lithe and calculated. Only on the edge of orgasm do the pretenses fall away - his shaking thighs, soft moans into your lips, panting, blood smeared across his lips and almost certainly yours. 

There’s a blinding moment of pleasure as he thrusts harder, deeper, neither of you caring about the level of noise you’re making, and your nails dig into his back. He lets out a groan of approval, then - gods, you’re climaxing again, your whole body trembling with the waves of pleasure that crash over you. Overwhelming at first, then receding into the brief moment of clarity that lasts a minute or two this time. 

Then the spores start their work again.

The heat isn’t nearly as intense this time, but it’s still there. Part of you wonders if it’ll ever really fade. You lay still, gasping, as Astarion slowly pulls out of you. Then he brushes the damp hair out of your face and kisses you again. 

“Darling,” he starts breathlessly, flashing a mischievous grin at you, “if this is where we’ll end up, you should fall into mysterious spores more often.”

You laugh, sending a playful, light hit toward his shoulder. He catches your hand mid-action, pressing a kiss to your palm, holding your gaze the entire time. “You’re not the one who feels like they’re on fire, Astarion.”

He hums, kissing back down your neck, cleaning up the remnants of blood from his bite. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, his voice gravelly with want. 

That gives you pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says with some effort, propping himself above you, “whatever those spores were - they seem to have entered your bloodstream, my dear. It’s - an interesting sensation, I’ll admit.”

You’re searching his face for a tell that he’s not being serious, but instead you find wide, blown out pupils, flushed cheeks, and nothing beside his usual mischievousness. Any blood left in your face quickly exits. “Gods, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, and you see a small smear of your blood on his lips. When you lick your lips, you can taste the iron of it on your tongue.

Astarion is watching you. His gaze darkens, and he lets out another thin, broken groan. “Darling. At this rate, we’ll be going the whole night.”

And, honestly? With the rate the heat is returning - you don’t doubt it. 

Still, you gently ease him off of you to sit up, then make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck. 

There’s something addictive about Astarion - there always has been. From the moment he’d had you against the dirt, a dagger to your neck, he’s been your fix.  

In those first days when you’d had to hide your want for him - not even lust or sheer desire, but want; the ache to run your finger through silver curls, the warmth in your cheeks when he held your gaze just a moment too long, and the rare moments of vulnerability that came more and more as you’d gotten to know him - it had been torture. 

And then he’d propositioned you. And all at once, you’d found yourself in a clearing under silver moonlight, alone with him, long before you ever knew the extent of what had been done to him - and after all this time, the craving for him, the need to lay beside him in the long nights and find him there come morning, has only ever gotten so much stronger.

The heat is somewhat bearable now. Enough to take a moment to admire him, head tilted as he gazes up at you, pure need simmering in his eyes. Dark, glinting rubies. His fangs, barely visible under parted lips. Flushed cheeks. That will fade before long; the rosiness of drinking never lasts more than a few minutes, but you admire it all the same. 

“You’re beautiful.” The words are hushed. You hadn’t even meant to speak them, but your mind isn’t really yours at the moment, not wholly, not as firm as it should be. You feel half-drunk, half-needy. 

The corners of his lips flick into a smile, and he raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, clearly stealing for more flattery. “Do you think so?”

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You know I do.” 

You gather a single, loose curl in your fingertips and gently roll it between your thumb and index finger, admiring the softness of it. You could use the same soaps, wash your hair with the same things he uses a thousand times over, and it’d never matter. It’d never be as soft as his.

“Anything in particular?” he asks. His voice is particularly airy; he’s battling between begging you for what he needs, and the compliments he likes so much.

You think back to when you’d first described him - that night beneath the stars, when he’d tossed the mirror aside and asked how you viewed him. Words hadn’t been enough then, and they still aren’t, but you’ll try.

“Your eyes,” you start, running your finger over his crow’s feet. “They change color in the light. Right now, they’re dark. Hungry. I can tell you want me, and I like that.”

His hands, which have strayed to the back of your thighs, tighten against your skin. “And? What else?”

The heat’s strength is back, clawing its way up your abdomen. “The way your hair curls around your ears,” you murmur.

He frowns, and you know you’ve gone too poetic. To distract him, you lean in and nip at the lobe of one, and any of his upset disintegrates. 

“Gods,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up to your waist. “Darling, I can’t wait much longer-”

You’ve trailed down to his jaw, alternating between kisses and sharp little nips just like the ones he likes to give you, and the words die in his mouth in favor of a sharp inhale. 

You won’t keep him waiting much longer. In fact, you have a plan. A plan that’d hatched from the moment you’d realized that the spores were in his system, too. Since you’d seen the hungry look in his eyes - every inch a predator circling around its prey.

Only, you’re not content to be the prey. You want to disarm him, and if any of the time you’ve spent together means anything, you’ve gotten very, very good at that.

His shirt is still on, so your hands are quick to remove it, tugging it away from cooling porcelain skin, silky under your fingers as you drag them down his sternum. He shudders, and you remember how it’d felt when he’d first touched you. If it’s anything like that, he’s probably dying to beg you for more.

Your lips soon follow the path your hands are sitting, taking your time with the softness of his abdomen before you pull his trousers away. He’s panting now, and a frenzied sort of desperation lies in his gaze when you look up at him.

And he’s hard again. Leaking.

You lightly trace your nails down his thighs, silently relishing in the way his breath hitches - the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you. 

“Gods,” he says again, and though it isn’t a direct request, with the broken way it falls off his tongue, this time it is every bit a plea. 

And you’re in a mood to please.

You take his cock in hand, swiping your thumb over the head, where precum is slowly leaking, and he lets out a long, breathy noise. You hum in response, taking his length between your lips, and the sound becomes strained, more needy. His hand gently makes its way into your hair, very lightly guiding you where he wants, but not forcefully.

You alternate between things: long, even movements of your mouth as you drag your tongue down the shaft, swirling your tongue around the head, then sucking him hard and slow. Eventually, simply following the guidance of his hand. His grip tightens in your hair - not painful, just encouraging - and his noises become more drawn out, less coherent.

When you pull away for a moment, using your hand to continue what your mouth had just been doing, you find him dangerously close. You press a kiss to the head and take him in again, increasing pace, accommodating him as you take him in as far as you possibly can, and he starts whimpering. 

“Please,” he says, and if that isn’t a rare word to hear from him. 

On another day, you might tease him, but you don’t want to. Not now, while he’s begging to have you. Instead, you take him as deep as you can again and suck harder. Astarion tugs at your hair and his thighs shudder and you know he’s close.

“Please,” he says again. “Gods, don’t stop.”

And you wouldn’t dream of it. What you can’t take into your mouth, you use your hand to stroke, and that’s it. He’s coming.

There’s something artful about it - the tremor that runs through him, the salty taste of him in your mouth, and those seeking, breathless sounds that come out of him as he spills onto your tongue. A long, shaky inhale as he pumps his hips, still chasing out his pleasure, then the trembling exhale as his mind starts to come back to him.

He doesn’t soften, and you don’t take your mouth off him. Not yet.

Usually, Astarion can be counted on for two orgasms, but if those spores are doing anything remotely like what they were doing to you, there’s certain to be much, much more than that.

“By the hells,” he murmurs airily, running a hand down your back. “You’re going to kill me, darling.”

You pull away for a moment, kissing at his abdomen, keeping his eyes locked on his as you do. “Does that mean you want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, trailing your nails along the skin of his thigh.

He swallows hard. “Gods, don’t,” he pleads.

And you don’t.

[act-nat-ural]

Gifts (And Feelings) Exchanged

When the Karasuno boys’ volleyball team decided to organize a Secret Santa, you were initially excited. You love the players and your fellow managers, and you were looking forward to picking something out for them. That was, until you picked Tsukishima’s name out of the hat.

You gulp and give a nervous smile before walking back and sitting down next to Yachi. She gives you a sheepish smile.

“Do you already have an idea of what you’re going to get him?” she asks.

You groan internally. “Zero clue.”

She raises her brows in surprise. “Really? I would’ve thought otherwise, considering you’ve been on the team longer than me. N-Not that I meant that in a bad way!” She starts to apologize, but you cut her off.

“It’s okay—it’s just…” You groan. “I don’t even know what he likes.” She hums thoughtfully. “Wanna see who I got?”

“You don’t have to show me—” she starts, but you hand over the slip of paper.

She lets out a quiet “Ohhh.”

“Yeah, I see the dilemma.”

You and Kei had a… certain relationship, to say the least. You provide him with minor feedback; he calls you rude names. It’s all very pleasant. The worst part of it all is, you love the banter. At first, you dreaded practice, but over time, you started looking forward to seeing his stupid, gorgeous face. You think Tadashi might be onto you, too, because last week, when he and Kei started to walk off, he turned and gave you a thumbs-up for some reason. Weird.

You sigh again and stare at Kei’s name on the paper. “What to get you?” you mutter.

Kei hated buying gifts for people. It felt much too personal—especially when it was for people he hardly knew. He could stomach buying a birthday present for his family or maybe Tadashi, but his teammates? No thanks. When he drew your name out of the cheaply made Santa hat, he frowned. He crumpled the paper and immediately walked back to sit next to Tadashi.

“Who’d you get, Tsukki?” Tadashi asked.

“That would defeat the whole purpose of the ‘secret’ in Secret Santa, Tadashi,” Kei replied snarkily.

As Tadashi starts rambling on about what he’s thinking of getting Hinata, Kei’s mind begins to drift—specifically, to his favorite manager. While he would rather die than admit it, he truly enjoyed the banter between the two of you. At first, you were a bit shy and didn’t want to talk back to him, but over time, you started giving him hell. And he loved every second of it.

“Tsukki? Are you thinking about—”

A quick smack shuts Tadashi up.

“Shush,” Kei mutters.

As the days go by, both you and Kei find yourselves with a bit of a problem. Trying to find the perfect gift for each other is harder than either of you expected, especially since you’re both determined not to go the predictable route. You’d die before giving him something as generic as a water bottle or some volleyball gear—Kei deserves something personal, even if he’d never admit to liking it.

Finally, after a lot of thought (and some input from Yachi and Tadashi), you settle on a gift: a small, framed photo of the team celebrating their last win, with Kei in the background, a hint of a smile on his face. You remember catching that rare moment and thinking how nice it would be to remind him of it. You also throw in a mini potted cactus, with a tiny note that says, “Even prickly plants can grow if you give them some light.” You can’t help but laugh at the idea, knowing he’ll probably roll his eyes at the cheesy note, but maybe… just maybe, he’ll like it.

Meanwhile, Kei is just as stuck. He considers a sarcastic, borderline rude gift but somehow can’t bring himself to go through with it. Instead, he finds himself at a music store, almost embarrassed as he searches for something you’d like. Finally, he picks out a simple pair of high-quality earbuds, with a note that says, “For when you need to block out annoying people.” He cringes at his own softness but tells himself it’s fine. It’s practical, he reasons. Nothing more.

The day of the Secret Santa gift exchange arrives, and you’re doing your best to act casual as you hand Kei his present. He takes it with an unreadable look on his face, his usual cool and indifferent expression firmly in place.

As he opens it, you see his lips twitch upward for just a second at the sight of the cactus and the note. But he quickly clears his throat, trying to play it off as uninteresting. “Very… thoughtful,” he says, not meeting your gaze. His eyes linger on the photo frame for a moment, and you’re almost sure he’s touched, even if he won’t say it.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms and looking away to hide your own embarrassment. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, Tsukishima.”

“Please. I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, though you both know he’s trying not to smile.

Then, it’s your turn. Kei hands you a small box, and you open it to find the earbuds. At first, you blink in surprise, then read his note and can’t help laughing. It’s such a Tsukishima thing to say, and somehow, that makes it all the more endearing.

“Thanks, Kei,” you say, softening a bit as you look up at him. “I’ll make sure to use them when you’re being especially irritating.”

He smirks. “That’s probably wise.”

There’s a beat of silence, and both of you look away, unsure of what to say next. Practice is wrapping up, and everyone else is getting ready to leave. You clear your throat and try to act nonchalant.

“So, uh… do you want to grab something to eat after this?” you ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I mean, since we’re… already here and all.”

Kei’s eyebrows raise, and for a split second, he looks genuinely surprised. But he quickly regains his composure, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Sure,” he says with a shrug. “I guess I could tolerate your company a little longer.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “How generous of you.”

As you both head out together, walking a little closer than usual, you feel a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the winter cold. You both can’t help but be happy with what your secret santa got you- somebody to be with.

note: i know it’s early november but i want it to be christmas already 😭

[luvacookie]

talk 2 me baby.

inumaki loves to talk to you... sometimes.

❥ warnings : cursed speech usage, smut, blk fem coded reader, intended use of lowercase.

❥ cookie for ur thoughts ? : inumaki has been floating around in my head for so long i needed to write smthin :’(

“f-fuck ! toge—”

his cock drills into your plush folds, definitely knocking the air out of your burning lungs. he doesn’t let up on you, the sound of skin contacting over powering whatever was droning on the tv.

“feels so fucking good- please don’t stop !” you babble at him, a groan in response to your pleads.

inumaki’s cursed technique left him for very limited words, a routed fear of hurting you always in the back of his mind. the thoughts were eased mildly when you told him it was okay for him to use his cursed speech on you and that you knew he wouldn’t hurt you in anyway.

“louder,” he grunts, the cursed energy seeping into your body.

he rarely did use his cursed speech on you during sex so whenever he did it took you by a pleasant surprise.

your body was compelled for him, your once moderate moans raising by at least ten fold, nonsense spilling from your glossy lips.

“t-toge— g’nna cum, pleasepleaseplease—” you whimper loudly, his hand pushing your face further into the pillows.

his movements increased at this, desperate to let you reach your high and his own. his pelvis consistently slapped against your ass, the ripples giving him something to focus on so he didn’t cum before you.

“cum for me princess,” he mumbles lowly, his movements stuttering.

a white hot wave of pleasure sinks you, the orgasm making your thighs shake uncontrollably, inumaki’s moans increasing in pitch as he paints your insides a pearly cream.

he slowly drags his cock out of you, making sure that you can feel everything as he goes. you shudder at the feeling and slump on his bed, your chest rising heavily as he slips next to you.

he nudges your arm gently, garnering your sleepy, undivided attention.

‘you okay ?’ he communicates with you, tracing small circles on your smooth back.

you nod, “i love you toge.”

he holds up the sign for i love you, giving you a small kiss on your lips and pulling you in closer so he can cuddle you to sleep as his cum drips out your cunt.

[organicxslime]

☆how they bagged you (gojo, geto, nanami, toji)☆

「GOJO」 wriggled his way into your heart with the power of sweets. He figured out pretty early on that you had a sweet tooth as rotten as he did, so he used it to his advantage, inviting you to try out new cafes and bakeries that cropped up in cities where he was going on missions. Each time you'd accompany him to one of these establishments, he'd promptly show off, flashing a platinum bank card that sounded an expensive, metallic clang as he tossed it on the counter, buying quite literally every single dessert you had your eye on with no regard for the cost. He's fairly certain he accidentally spent $400 in a single bakery once. He finally bagged you by taking you to an upscale cafe and having the waitress bring out the fluffiest, most intricately decorated cake they could possibly produce, looping cursive on the top spelling out “will you be my girlfriend?"

(In all honesty, you don't have enough room in your stomach for the sheer amount of sweets that he buys you, but his students certainly enjoy it when you slip them whatever mountain of dessert you have left over.)

「GETO」 gently coaxes you into loving him with his sweet, quiet voice and honeyed words. He noticed within a few weeks of meeting you that you seemed to stand at rapt attention whenever he spoke, and it didn’t take a genius to know that you liked his voice. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced something like this - there had been others before who complimented his voice, saying he had a soft, kind tone that was pleasant to listen to - and he knew he could use it to his advantage. He intentionally makes himself sound quieter and more agreeable when he speaks to you, lovingly praising you and complimenting you for the smallest of things. you can’t help but swoon each time he greets you in that lyrical tone, and when he finally asks you on a date , you melt at how hopeful and sweet his voice sounds.

(later, when that same voice is murmuring filthy things into your ear, you’ll be silently reaffirming to yourself that he was absolutely the right choice.)

「NANAMI」 won you over by being the perfect gentleman. He's not one for dirty tricks or flashy displays of affection - he finds these things repulsive. No, he's going to take a much more classic route with it. It starts with little things - a shared smile here and there, complimenting you often, and making sure to stop by and greet vou everv morning at work. From there, he'll graduate to more direct methods, like inviting you to dinner and remembering your exact coffee order to surprise vou with the next morning. As your bond grows, so do his advances, and he finds himself arriving to work an hour early to slip sweet hand-written notes into our desk. Eventually he surprises you with a bouquet of red roses, chastely asking you out on a date, and you're so smitten you can't imagine a world where you would say no.

(You like his methods, but in all fairness he could have taken you on a date to a 7/11 and you still would've been drooling over him afterwards. For the sake of your standards, though, the romantic gestures were entirely necessary.)

「TOJI」 snaked his way into your heart by shamelessly using his body. You were gym buddies, and he had noticed before how your eyes lingered on his body, watching beads of sweat roll off of his glistening pecs and paying particularly close attention to the way his back flexed when he would lift. He began teasing you, making you sit on his toned back as he did pushups, giving you a front row seat to every contraction of his rolling muscles. He'd have you help him tape up for support, too - smoothing the athletic tape over his thick legs and reaching around his basketball-sized biceps to bind up his elbows drove you absolutely wild. At one point, you're pressing his feet to the floor while he does sit-ups, and all of a sudden he leans up further than ever before, leaning into your face and catching you by the lips. Amused, you ask him what that was for, and he says he'll explain himself - but only if you'll let him take you out to dinner.

(You knew damn well what he was up to - but you're just as depraved as he is, and knew a solid opportunity to feel up on a buff man when you saw it. You're so down bad you didn't even care that he asked you to pay for dinner.)

[novaursa]

A Lion's Leap (credit's due)

- Summary: The king announces the betrothal of his youngest daughter, you, to Tyland Lannister. But even the Lannister Lord is taken off guard, as there has been some miscommunication regarding the proposal.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: namesake

- Next part: child's play

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Tyland Lannister stood at the large, polished table in the small council chamber, doing his best to maintain his usual air of composure. The meeting had been as tedious as ever—discussing matters of trade routes, grain shortages, and the general logistics of running a kingdom. Tyland had made his usual contributions, but his mind had wandered more than once, likely thanks to the constant weight of dragon-related mischief that followed him around these days. He could already hear the council winding down, the lords and advisors beginning to stand and make their exits.

"Lord Lannister," King Viserys’s voice broke through Tyland’s thoughts. "Could you stay behind for a moment?"

Tyland’s stomach did a small flip, though he quickly composed himself and gave the king a polite nod. "Of course, Your Grace."

As the other lords filed out, exchanging pleasantries and quick bows, Tyland remained at his place, clasping his hands behind his back. Viserys sat at the head of the table, looking more relaxed than usual, a faint smile playing on his lips. Once the door closed and they were alone, the king leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

"Tyland," Viserys began, his tone light, "I’ve been meaning to speak with you."

Tyland raised an eyebrow but kept his expression neutral. "About what, Your Grace?"

Viserys chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh, nothing about the state of the realm, for once. It’s about my daughter. Your wife."

Tyland’s heart skipped a beat, though he nodded carefully, unsure where this conversation was headed. "Y/N? Is something wrong?"

Viserys shook his head, his smile widening. "Not at all, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact." He paused, his eyes gleaming with a warmth Tyland rarely saw at these council meetings. "I wanted to tell you how happy I am to see her so... content."

Tyland blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. "I... I’m glad to hear that, Your Grace."

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his smile growing as if he were sharing some secret joke. "You know, when I first heard that Otto was pushing for a marriage between you two, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. A Lannister and a Targaryen—it’s not exactly a match that people would call... typical."

Tyland managed a small, wry smile. "Yes, it has been... unorthodox."

Viserys laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room. "Unorthodox indeed. But I must admit, it’s been a pleasant surprise. My daughter seems happier than I’ve seen her in years. And you, well—" He gave Tyland a knowing look. "You’ve managed to handle the dragon situation rather well."

Tyland nearly choked on air at that, but he recovered quickly, offering a strained smile. "Yes, well, Viseron has been an... interesting addition to the family."

"Interesting!" Viserys boomed with laughter, slapping the table. "That’s one way to put it!" He shook his head, still chuckling. "I’ve heard about the incident with your brother’s wine. Jason must have been furious."

Tyland groaned inwardly, though he couldn’t help but chuckle as well. "He’s still finding wine stains on his tunics, Your Grace."

Viserys grinned, clearly delighted by the story. "Well, you’ve certainly brought some... excitement to the Lannister name. A dragon in Casterly Rock? Who would have ever thought?"

Tyland raised an eyebrow. "Not me, that’s for certain."

Viserys’s laughter softened, and he gave Tyland a thoughtful look. "But in all seriousness, Tyland, I wanted to thank you. Y/N is a Targaryen through and through, but she’s found her happiness with you. I see it in the way she looks at you, the way she speaks of you." He paused, his voice growing more tender. "As a father, that’s all I could ever hope for."

Tyland felt a warmth spread through his chest at the king’s words. He hadn’t expected this conversation, but hearing Viserys speak with such affection for his daughter—and approval of their marriage—was more meaningful than he would have guessed. "Your Grace, it’s an honor to hear that. I care for Y/N deeply, and I’m glad to know she’s happy."

Viserys nodded, clearly pleased. "You’ve done well, Tyland. I know she can be... spirited, especially given the family she comes from." He gave Tyland a conspiratorial smile. "And I imagine Viseron hasn’t made things any easier for you."

Tyland let out a small, exasperated laugh. "Spirited is one word for it, yes. And Viseron... well, let’s just say I’ve had to adjust to certain challenges."

Viserys’s eyes twinkled with amusement. "I’m sure you have. But if you can handle a Targaryen and a dragon, Tyland, there’s nothing in this world you can’t manage."

Tyland grinned, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "I’ll remember that, Your Grace."

Viserys stood then, placing a hand on Tyland’s shoulder as he walked past. "Good. Now go, before Otto finds another reason to keep you in here discussing grain shipments." He gave Tyland a playful wink. "And give my grandson a hug from his grandsire."

Tyland bowed his head, feeling more at ease than he had in days. "Of course, Your Grace."

As he left the council chamber, Tyland couldn’t help but smile to himself. A Lannister, a Targaryen, a dragon... Who would have ever thought this would be his life?

And somehow, it was working out better than he ever expected.

Tyland Lannister was still riding the high of King Viserys’s unexpected words of approval as he made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep. It wasn’t every day that you got the king’s personal stamp of approval for your marriage—and, frankly, it was a rare enough thing for Tyland to feel genuinely relaxed about family matters. But as he rounded a corner, he realized the universe wasn’t going to let him have too much peace.

Because standing there, leaning casually against the stone wall as though he had all the time in the world, was Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Tyland’s good mood faltered for just a moment. Of course, he thought grimly. It would be Daemon.

The rogue prince turned his head as Tyland approached, a slow grin spreading across his face like a cat who had just spotted a particularly interesting mouse. "Ah, if it isn’t the Lannister dragonlord," Daemon said, his voice dripping with amusement. "What a pleasant surprise."

Tyland immediately felt his usual wariness settle over him like a cloak. He’d had plenty of run-ins with Daemon over the past few months, and each one was an exercise in balancing respect and self-preservation. Daemon had a way of making even the most mundane conversation feel like a battlefield, and Tyland had no intention of getting caught in any of his traps today.

"Prince Daemon," Tyland said, nodding politely as he tried to maintain his air of calm. "Always a pleasure."

Daemon’s grin widened, clearly sensing Tyland’s reluctance. "Oh, come now, no need for the formalities between family, hmm?" He pushed himself off the wall, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and something Tyland couldn’t quite place. "How’s our little Daemon doing, by the way? Growing strong, I hope?"

Tyland stiffened, his jaw tightening. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that his son was named after Daemon Targaryen, and Daemon’s obvious delight in it didn’t help matters. "He’s well," Tyland said carefully. "And getting into just as much mischief as you might expect."

Daemon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. "Good. A boy named after me should be full of spirit. No Lannister brooding or, gods forbid, politicking, hmm?"

Tyland’s brow twitched, though he kept his tone polite. "I’ll have you know he’s already showing signs of being quite... astute."

"Astute?" Daemon repeated, raising an eyebrow as if the word were a foreign concept. "That’s one way to put it. And how’s the dragon? Viseron, wasn’t it?"

Tyland groaned inwardly. Of course Daemon would ask about Viseron. "He’s... adjusting," Tyland said, choosing his words carefully. "Though he’s quite fond of chewing on things he shouldn’t."

Daemon smirked, clearly enjoying Tyland’s discomfort. "Ah, dragons do love to gnaw. You should’ve seen Syrax when she was young—tore through half the furniture in the Dragonpit. Nothing was safe."

Tyland’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes, well, I’d prefer not to lose any more goblets or tapestries to Viseron’s... appetites."

Daemon gave him a mockingly thoughtful look. "I suppose you’re not used to that sort of... chaos, are you, Lannister? All those golden halls and prim-and-proper traditions. Must be quite the adjustment."

Tyland resisted the urge to sigh. "Let’s just say it’s been... eventful."

Daemon’s grin widened again. "Eventful is good. Keeps life interesting. And speaking of interesting..." His tone shifted, his voice dropping slightly, as if he were about to share a secret. "I hear you had a little chat with Viserys just now. How did that go?"

Tyland tensed, immediately suspicious. "It went well," he said, his voice cautious. "The king was... pleased with how things have been going."

Daemon’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "Oh, I’m sure he was. He’s always had a soft spot for his girls, hasn’t he?" He tilted his head slightly, watching Tyland’s reaction. "But tell me—did he mention anything about the future? The... possibilities?"

Tyland’s pulse quickened. Was Daemon fishing for something? He wasn’t sure, but he had no intention of giving away anything sensitive. "The future is always on the king’s mind," Tyland said carefully. "As it should be."

Daemon studied him for a moment, as though weighing something. Then, with a grin that suggested he knew far more than he was letting on, he clapped Tyland on the shoulder—harder than necessary. "Good answer, Lannister. Very diplomatic."

Tyland tried not to wince. "I do my best."

Daemon stepped back, clearly enjoying himself. "Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Don’t let those council meetings bore you to death before your dragon does."

Tyland couldn’t help but roll his eyes, though he kept his tone light. "I’ll try to survive."

As Daemon strolled away, still grinning like a man who had just won a very amusing game, Tyland let out a long breath. He had survived yet another encounter with the rogue prince relatively unscathed, but he couldn’t help but feel like Daemon was always two steps ahead, playing some game that only he knew the rules to.

Still, Tyland had other things to focus on—like getting back to you and Daemon before his composure frayed any further. As he walked away from the scene, he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, "That man enjoys being a thorn in my side far too much."

And somehow, he suspected Daemon had heard every word.

Tyland Lannister finally managed to navigate the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep after his encounter with Daemon—his nerves only just starting to settle. All he wanted now was to escape into the relative calm of the sunroom where you and little Daemon spent most of your afternoons. A bit of peace, he thought, and perhaps a break from all the chaos.

As he approached the sunroom, he could hear the sound of your voice, soft and soothing, as you played with your son. Tyland smiled, feeling a sense of calm wash over him—finally, some peace. But as he opened the door, that sense of calm evaporated almost instantly.

There, sitting in the sunroom with you and your son, was an unexpected visitor: none other than Otto Hightower. The Hand of the King himself, sitting in the corner like a hawk watching over its prey.

Tyland’s hand instinctively went to his temple, where a headache had already started to form.

You looked up from where you were seated on the floor, playing with Daemon, and gave Tyland a warm smile. “Tyland! You’re just in time. Lord Otto was just... visiting.”

Tyland raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to sigh. “Was he now?” His voice was carefully neutral, though inside, he was already bracing himself for whatever surprise Otto might have brought with him.

Otto, who had been observing the scene with his usual measured calm, offered Tyland a polite nod. “Lord Tyland,” he said smoothly. “It’s good to see you.”

Tyland forced a smile. “Likewise, Lord Otto. Though I must admit, I wasn’t expecting a visit from the Hand of the King in my private sunroom.”

Otto chuckled softly, though there was no real humor in it. “I was passing by and thought I might stop in to see how the little one is doing.” His gaze shifted to Daemon, who was currently tugging on a stuffed dragon, his tiny hands trying to pull it apart.

“Daemon is doing quite well,” you said brightly, clearly trying to lighten the atmosphere. “He’s been practicing his words, haven’t you, my love?”

Daemon, oblivious to the tension in the room, gurgled happily and held up the stuffed dragon as if it were a trophy. “Duh-gon!” he babbled, looking very pleased with himself.

Tyland smiled despite himself, the sight of his son’s enthusiasm warming his heart. “Yes, that’s right. Dragon.”

Otto, however, seemed more focused on the broader implications of that word. “He’s growing quickly,” Otto remarked, his tone slightly too thoughtful for Tyland’s liking. “And already speaking of dragons. How... fitting.”

Tyland’s smile tightened. Of course he’s speaking of dragons. He lives in a family full of dragons.

“I suppose it’s in his blood,” Tyland said with forced cheerfulness. “What with his Targaryen heritage and all.”

Otto gave a slight nod, his eyes still fixed on Daemon. “Indeed. The boy has a great future ahead of him, no doubt. And with your guidance, Lord Tyland, I’m sure he’ll grow to be a valuable asset to the realm.”

Tyland’s jaw tightened. There it was—Otto’s way of reminding him that his son was not just his son but also a potential pawn in the never-ending game of politics. He glanced at you, hoping for some sort of cue, but you were busy trying to keep Daemon from biting the dragon’s tail.

Otto stood up slowly, brushing off his robes with the kind of careful precision that always made Tyland feel uneasy. “I won’t keep you any longer,” Otto said with a polite smile, though there was an unmistakable edge to his tone. “I just wanted to check in on the family. It’s always important to stay... connected.”

Tyland’s mouth twitched, and he forced another smile. “Of course, Lord Otto. We appreciate your... visit.”

With a nod, Otto made his way to the door, pausing only briefly to cast one last glance at Daemon. “He’ll make quite the dragon rider one day,” Otto remarked, his voice calm but laced with something Tyland couldn’t quite place. “Perhaps sooner than we think.”

And with that, Otto slipped out of the room, leaving Tyland standing there, feeling as though a storm had just passed, but one that promised to return at any moment.

You sighed softly, finally looking up from Daemon and giving Tyland a knowing look. “Well, that was... unexpected.”

Tyland let out a long breath, sinking into the nearest chair. “Yes. Otto Hightower, just stopping by for a friendly chat. That’s about as likely as Viseron offering to make me breakfast.”

You laughed, standing up and moving toward him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “He’s just trying to keep his finger on everything. You know how he is.”

Tyland rubbed his temple, his headache finally settling in for a long stay. “Oh, I know. He doesn’t do anything without a reason. I’m just trying to figure out what the reason is this time.”

You smiled softly, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “We’ll figure it out, love. For now, let’s focus on our little dragon rider.”

Tyland glanced over at Daemon, who had now succeeded in pulling the stuffed dragon apart at the seams. He sighed, shaking his head. “At least someone’s having a good day.”

Daemon looked up at him with a grin, proudly holding up the now-mangled stuffed dragon. “Duh-gon!”

Tyland chuckled despite himself. “Yes, Daemon. Dragon.”

And for just a moment, he let himself relax, enjoying the sight of his son’s happy face—even if it was at the expense of a stuffed dragon that didn’t stand a chance.

[you-call-it-a-dude]

Call It What You Want

Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

Summary: You went to high school with Regina George and she is now your neighbor in your college dorm. She, of course, pretended like she didn't know you at first. Until she got some alcohol in her system.

Pairings: Regina George x gender neutral/fem reader

Warnings: internalized homophobia, feelings, school lol, swearing

Notes: Hi, yes. So this is my first time writing for not only Regina George but also for like reader POV. If it's any good and something people enjoy, I will do more of it. Hopefully you like it, but if you don't that's totally cool too. Thanks for reading either way.

------

You had managed to, for the most part, avoid Regina George your three years at North Shore High School. You transferred there your sophomore year, your mom taking full advantage of your dad's Evanston address when you got in trouble once at your public high school in the city. You didn't even actually do anything, but both your parents prioritized your future college education too much to let even a thought of bad behavior ruin it.

You made it through high school pretty unscathed. You laid low, had your small group of friends and kept to yourself.

You witnessed the rise and fall of Regina George in real time. You felt bad for her almost. Yes, she was a major bully, but the one time you overheard her dad yelling at her at a parent teacher conference kinda made some things make sense. She also didn't really target you with her bullshit.

Well, okay, someone wrote in the burn book that you were a carpet muncher and would call you a gay slur here and there, but you've been called worse things. People in that book were certainly called worse things.

Senior year was relatively quiet after Cady dismantled The Plastics.

Regina had taken up soccer, which was actually a really terrifying thought given the neck injury she sustained. She was good though. Good enough to get into University of Illinois, Chicago with a partial soccer scholarship.

But of course, her parents writing a big fat check may help with that.

She didn't even need the scholarship. You don't even know how she got away with getting it.

You also were accepted to UIC. You worked harder than Regina did academically, had some of the best grades in your class, did all the volunteering and extracurriculars, and you still didn't get close to the same amount of money offered in scholarships that Regina got (and didn't need).

You were angry when you found out about her almost full ride, but it was a big school and you were almost certain once you were graduated you wouldn't even be giving Regina George ,or anyone from that high school aside from your best friend, a second thought.

Seeing her at orientation seemed like just a coincidence. Watching her get her keys to the same dorm you were staying in had to be a fluke. Passing by her room, the room that happened to be next to yours, just seemed like you were being punked.

You got yourself settled while waiting on your roommate. You had been speaking with them throughout the summer and know they're coming from Colorado and also know they wouldn't be coming until tomorrow because they texted you. So you were taking advantage of this time to get yourself sorted without having to rush or anything.

You left your door open while you got yourself unpacked, a bunch of people coming by to introduce themselves to you or stop in and talk.

There was a soft knock and you turned your head, expecting to greet another person. Instead stood Regina, leaning against your wall with her arms crossed.

"Hello." You greeted, sounded a little surprised.

"Hi, I just thought since we were going to be neighbors I would introduce myself."

She almost sounded nice? Pleasant?

She also clearly did not recognize you. Yeah you trimmed your hair a bit and dyed it slightly darker, but nothing extremely different.

But this also really helps solidify just how invisible you were to her in high school.

You had two routes. You could bring up the fact that you actually know each other and make it weird, or just introduce yourself.

"Yeah, that makes sense. I'm Y/N."

"Regina. No roommate?" She pointed to the empty side of your room with her head.

"Coming from Colorado. So long drive." You scrunched up your nose at the thought of how long that drive was and she hummed in acknowledgment.

"Are you from around here?"

"Uh, yeah. The city, northside. You?"

"Evanston, so basically from the city."

"Ahh, you're one of those people." You chuckled.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She scrunched her eyebrows up, clearly getting defensive.

"You say you're from the city but you're from the suburbs. That's all I meant." You said softly, watching her face soften when she realized you weren't actually insulting her.

"Most people don't know where Evanston is, so." She defended with a small smile.

"Unfortunately for you, I do." You smiled back at her.

"Are you going to the freshman mixer tonight?"

"I didn't even know there was one." You answered truthfully.

"Mkay, you're gonna come with me then. I'll be back at like nine?"

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and saw it was only like 11am and you quickly realized the long night you've gotten yourself into.

Or that Regina had gotten you into.

"Yeah, that sounds cool."

"Awes. See you later then." She slapped your doorframe once before leaving.

But you didn't miss the way she turned and let her eyes linger on you for just a few seconds longer than what's considered socially acceptable.

---

You spent the rest of the day unpacking and getting settled. You went off campus for lunch then took a walk to get some refreshing frozen lemonade from a popular place near by and drank it while you made your way back to your room.

Regina was still setting her dorm up to her standards. Her door was open and when you peaked in, she was standing on a wobbly chair trying to tape posters to her wall.

Of course she got a single room.

"Need help?" You took a sip of your partially melted peach lemonade and knocked on her doorframe to get her attention.

"Yes, please. That would be great." She said, sound exasperated.

You held out a hand to help her off the chair, but she ignored it. Opting to just brace herself on your shoulder instead. You scratched your head and assessed the situation. You weren't really much taller than her, but your arms were longer so that could work in your favor.

You looked around for somewhere to set your drink before she took it from you to hold. You stepped on to the death trap of a chair and did your best to hang the poster. It was of an artist you had never heard of, but you wouldn't be opposed to new music if she was any good.

You pressed the corners of the poster against the wall and moved out the way. Regina thought for a few seconds before asking you if it was possible to 'pretty please' move the right side up like a quarter of an inch.

You did your best to gauge a quarter of an inch, and your best was thankfully good enough because Regina was satisfied with your efforts pretty fast.

She reached her empty hand up to help you off the chair and you hesitated at first, but took it. She stiffened her arm and gave you a firm platform to put your weight so you had support when hopping down.

Did part of you kind of expect her to let you fall? A little yeah.

"So, what are my chances of getting you to build something for me, too?" She asked sweetly while she handed you back your drink and you took a sip, your dry throat feeling relieved already.

"It depends what it is."

"It's a stupid metal shelf thing." She stepped aside and over the metal parts scattered across her floor.

There was an attempt made, so you at least know she tried before asking.

"Yeah, that looks easy to me. Do you have the instructions?" You handed your drink back to her and kneeled on the floor, rifling through all the pieces.

She set your drink down on the desk and handed you the instructions, sitting down on the floor next to you with her legs crossed.

This shelf wasn't too difficult to build, but it was definitely frustrating. The pieces were in the right spot but they just weren't fitting. Regina complained about how her parents bought her such cheap stuff and didn't even stick around to help her build it. It wasn't like they had a long drive home ahead of them.

She kept apologizing for asking you to help her with stuff or for the shelf being too difficult. She said many times that if you couldn't get it she would just throw the shelf away and not to worry about it if it didn't work out.

You reassured her that it was really okay and you were happy to help. That there was no need to throw out a perfectly good shelf. After a few pinches to your skin, a few scrapes from jagged edges, and a lot of swearing later, you managed to get it built for her.

You didn't expect her to be as involved as she was. She was handing you pieces, going over the directions with you.

You stood up and picked up the shelf, turning it up right so it was standing correctly. She stood up after you, eyeing the shelf with her hands on her hips and nodding.

"That looks perfect. Thank you so much, really."

"You're so good, happy I can help." You picked up your now melted lemonade and took a sip, trying not to be visibly upset over the fact it was no longer frozen.

"Did you get that on campus?"

"No, it's a few minutes away. Really close by. You didn't know that, city girl?" You teased and bit back a smile when you noticed the small blush to her cheeks.

"I was going to offer to buy you a new one, but since you want to be mean I'm taking that offer of the table." She crossed her arms with a small pout and the overwhelming urge to kiss it away scared you.

"No, no. I wouldn't accept anyway. It was like halfway gone. No biggie, honestly." There was an awkward pause between the two of you. "Um, was there anything else you needed help with? Or should I go?"

"You can go now." She said in a tone that felt like a war flashback or something. "I'll swing by your room to pick you up at like 8:45."

"Do you still want me to go?" You asked, because honestly her tone was suggesting otherwise.

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't." She defended, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Okay. I'll see you later then."

---

9:15pm and you were sitting at your desk dressed and feeling stupid. Because of course Regina was still going to very much so still be Regina.

There was a knock at your door and you waited a second before answering it.

When you opened the door, you keep your face neutral and unimpressed. Which was actually extremely difficult to do because Regina looked breathtaking.

"Yeah, I know. I'm late. Also, you look hot." She commented and it immediately made you feel self conscious because you couldn't gauge if it was genuine or not.

You thought you looked good, but Regina had been notorious for giving out fake compliments.

"Thanks."

"So you agree? You think you're hot?"

Jeez, talk about a war flashback.

"I do." You answered without missing a beat, but your insecurities were threatening to crawl their way out of your mouth at any second.

Regina pursed her lips and nodded in approval at your response and you slowly let out the breath you had been holding.

"Let's go then."

---

Regina abandoned you the second you guys got to the mixer. Which you half expected. You quickly realized that this was not an official university organized event, though the 9pm start time should've made that clear ages ago.

Another indicator being that they were at a frat house.

Alcohol was flowing, students from all different grade levels were mingling.

You grabbed a cup of whatever alcoholic beverage was concocted and got to mingling.

You talked with a few people that you found out you would be sharing classes with, which was cool.

After about an hour of mingling and drinking, you found your way to the front porch and parked yourself on their porch swing and just did a bunch of people watching.

A cat with a collar came and sat next to you, purring and nuzzling against you. You had no idea if it belonged to the frat house or if it was a stray that just frequented the area. The collar said her name was Roach which really made you thing she belonged to the frat boys, but an off campus address on the back put those fears to rest.

"You found a cat!" Regina slurred, stepping out of the house loudly. Her heeled boots clicked against the floor of the porch and she slammed the door behind her, completely shutting out the thumping noise of the party.

"Yeah! Well, more so she found me. Her name is Roach."

"Ew." She hiccuped and made her way over to you, sitting next to Roach. She angled her body and rested her head on your shoulder. "I have to tell you something." She slurred again, reaching down to let the cat sniff her hand before petting her between the ears.

"Sure, what's up?"

"I remembered you and I pretended like I didn't." She lifted her head up to look at you. "But you're a sneaky bitch too because you did the same thing." She poked your cheek with her index finger until you turned your head away from it.

"You talked to me first. I wasn't going to bother you." You admitted, getting a little frustrated.

"Why? You didn't want to talk to me?" She asked, sounding almost disappointed?

"I didn't think you'd want me to. Then I thought it would be really embarrassing if I said I remembered you and you introduced yourself to me. So I just didn't say anything."

"I didn't want you to tell anyone about who I was in high school." She rested her head against your shoulder again. "I just wanted to start over."

"I'm not going to say anything." You said quietly, a little disappointed that the only reason she tried befriending you was to do damage control.

"I feel bad about it."

"About what?"

"How I treated people." She sniffled, clearing her nose. "I'm sorry about what I wrote about you."

"It is what it is." You shrugged. "It's not like I hid my sexuality or anything."

"You didn't. It made me jealous."

Your ears perked up at this admission. You didn't know whether or not to press on or drop the subject. Whatever amount of alcohol she drank was giving her loose lips and you aren't actually sure how much of this information she actually wants anyone to know.

"You don't want to talk about this sober?" She shook her head against your shoulder.

"Talking about it sober is hard."

"Your parents not accepting or...?"

"My mom? Maybe. Probably. My dad? Absolutely fucking not." She took your drink from your hand and downed the rest of it.

"We don't have to talk about this anymore." You offered while she was downing your drink.

"I'm gonna get another drink." She began to get up, but you pulled her back down"

"Hey, no. Come on. Just stay here with me and Roach." You motioned to the purring cat between you both. "I don't want to lose track of you or the cat. So just stay."

Regina sighed and leaned back against the back of the porch swing. She bit her bottom lip and looked up at you.

"What if we brought the cat inside with us while I got a drink." She offered, giving you a silly little smirk that made your heart somersault.

"I think it's too loud for her in there." Roach let out small meow. "See, she agrees." You scratched under her chin, trying to ignore the way Regina was staring at you right now.

"You were always so nice to us."

"What are you talking about?"

"When I let Gretchen drive my car one time to get us lunch and she got a flat tire in the school lot and you helped her change it so I wouldn't get mad at her. You talked her out of a panic attack because she was so afraid of me."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that." You lied.

"Or when Karen was upset after the Christmas show junior year because I was just so cruel to her about her body count. Which wasn't even high. I saw you bringing her that stupid red and green caramel popcorn that the cafeteria was selling for the show."

"I saw her crying, I thought it would cheer her up."

"You also gave me ice when they dropped me on my face and you tried taking care of me."

"I was working backstage and nobody else wanted to help you. Though, I do recall being called a shitty name or two when I did that." You teased.

"I know. I'm sorry. Like really fucking sorry. I was just...projecting."

"I know." You reassured.

You sat in silence for a few minutes, watching people come in and out of the house. Regina adjusted next to you and you put a protective had on Roach and scooted her closer so Regina had more space to move.

You could feel her staring at you. It made you anxious because who knows what she was thinking about.

Regina shifted again and before you can even register her movements, her lips were pressed softly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

"I always thought you were so hot." She mumbled against your skin, her tongue poking out slightly to taste you and her right hand coming up to cup your neck.

You froze for a few seconds, getting lost in the sensation of her lips on your skin, before your rational thoughts kicked in.

"Regina." You said calmly, pulling her hand on your neck. "You're drunk." You laced your fingers with hers and rested your joined hands on your lap.

You watched her stare at your hands, fully expecting her to go off on you or to say something cruel in her drunken state.

Instead, she swiped her thumb over your knuckles and hummed a small approval to herself.

Then a cluster of rowdy frat boys came fumbling out of the house and she let go of your hand faster than anything you had ever witnessed before.

She wiped her hands on her pants and stood up with such ease that it made you question if she was ever even that drunk to begin with.

"I'm gonna get another drink. I'll find you when I'm ready to go."

[m1d-45]

will you promise that i'll see you again?

summary: your people refuse reason, and their damage refuses to heal. when it seems as if the whole world has left you, your dutiful knight still remains by your side.

word count: 2.3k

-> warnings: implied suicidal ideation (reader + unnamed side character), reader's previous deaths are mentioned in somewhat graphic detail

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @yuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

“you’re one of the only things keeping me going, you know.”

dainslef turned to you in surprise, the even neutrality to your tone a sharp contrast to the rapid pace of his heart. he wasn’t a fool, he knew that the hunt had to be taking a heavy toll on you, but this…

this was more than he expected.

he knew he was one of a pitiful few who saw through celestia’s false puppet, who knew you for you and not their mirage. he knew that the entire world was hellbent on erasing you from existence, that you’d been forced through your own death countless times as teyvat pulled you apart and pushed you back together far from the scene of your would-be murder. he saw the golden scars across your skin, the dried remains of blood lining the wounds you hadn’t been able to patch yet. he’d been the one to wash them away, not minding the refuse soaking into his gloves if it meant your hands could be clean.

he recognized the dull exhaustion in your eyes, the same as the ones he saw in the reflections of lakes. tired, worn, barely there, hanging on by one solitary string that was wound so tightly around a desperate hand.

you had always been his reason for continuing. when the traveller broke down and the ruler of the abyss hid from the sun, you were there. when the chasm’s mud clung to his boots and the memories in his head burned as nails forced between his eyes, you were there. his rosary was kept tight to his chest at all times, familiar prayers pulling him up in the morning and forcing him to sleep at night. he was alive for far, far too long, but you made it bearable. you were his duty, his promise.

he never once thought that he’d be yours. then again, he never thought that he’d have to defend you from the ones you once called friends. time never did pass how he expected it to.

“…leading light?”

you looked down, twirling blades of grass around your fingers. he had led you up to a mostly desolate area of sumeru, west of bayda harbor. it close enough to the sea, forest, and desert that you could reasonably make an escape through any of those routes if need be, while also providing a rather pleasant view. the sky was bleeding red and gold as the sun sank below the horizon, a remarkable sight that fell on blind eyes. there was no use trying to enjoy nature’s beauty when he still kept one hand on his sword and both ears pricked for the slightest sign of danger.

you shouldn’t have to worry about your safety. you shouldn’t have to prioritize based on how likely you are to get hurt, or how easily it would be to make an escape. you still flinched when the wind blew a little too quick, used to it heralding armored footsteps and battle cries. in another life, you were welcomed with open arms, able to enjoy yourself without constantly being on high alert. teyvat did what it could to adapt; the air was still, frozen in time, barely a bird chirping for miles. it was meant to be comforting, he thinks, but dead silence was more unnerving than any breeze.

“i mean it.” he could hear every shift in his cloak around your shoulders, the heavy fabric doing little to soothe your stress. it was yours more than it was his now, to the point he felt claustrophobic wearing it. how long had he been traveling with you? the days blurred.

“i don’t doubt you.” he never would. never could. he’s not sure, even if he somehow wanted to, that his body would allow him to treat your words as anything less than fact. “but i don’t understand what you mean.”

you were a god. the creator, the first, the one that shaped the sovereigns scales and laid the foundations of earth. you predated the archons, celestia, the very skies themselves…

and he, somehow, was a driving motivation for you?

his words must have been funny, a sharp laugh tumbling out of your mouth. it was bitter, humorless, and somewhat raspy. he made note to find some water for you later. “what else could i mean?” you turn to him, some of his confusion lost as your eyes found his. even this burnt out, deep bags set beneath them, you still managed to steal the very air in his lungs. “you’re the only reason i’m still here.”

he didn’t know what to say. what was there to be said, when you were you and he was him? when the world had abandoned you, it made sense you’d cling to what remained faithful. it was merely coincidence he happened to find you first, that’s all. coincidence that you trusted enough not to run from, coincidence that you allowed to care for your injuries. there was nothing to say, because you held nothing for him in particular, only leaning on him out of need. he had to believe that. what was he left with if that wasn’t true? an awkward truth hid beneath his well-known lies, too large for him to see the edges, let alone to contain.

“please… do not say such things again.” to ask of his god what he could not ask of himself was surely some form of heresy, as was willingly laying aside his guard when he was the only one who was tasked with protecting you. he pulled his attention from the tide below, from the rustling trees, holding faith that the world would not be needlessly cruel. he stepped forward, kneeling beside you. even up close, you still seemed painfully small. “it is your own resilience that has allowed you to persevere.”

it’s the earth that leads you from danger.

it’s the water that follows you wherever you go.

it’s the leylines that whisk you to safety.

it’s the wind that warns you of what’s to come.

it’s the you from the past that protects the you in the present.

it’s the you in the present that provides for the you in the future.

it’s you, from everywhere and everywhen, continuing to fight.

and yet you sigh. you look away, across the sea, tracing fontaines skyline. “it really isn’t. i was lucky to run into you when i did.”

you had just crossed the wall back into the forest, burning hot and shaking. he was the lucky one, in truth, to be able to pick your figure out from the sand below. perched on a high cliffside, even mitachurls were reduced to small brown flecks.

you had worn a cryo mage’s cloak, which was what initially drew his attention. abyss activity wasn’t uncommon in the area, but a cryo mage in the desert… that was cause for intrigue. he stepped forward and slid down the steep face in front of him, a slight puff of dust marking his landing in the desolate sand of old vanarana.

he didn’t know what to expect. you stumbled around the jagged remains of a tree, heading for the statue of the seven. he followed, only growing more confused. cryo and dendro did not react with each other, and there was no way to “slow” a statue. a scouting mission, maybe? but why a cryo mage, when pyro would have been far more advantageous in the case of an attack?

he leaned around the corner carefully, prepared for the sight of a staff or the chanting of abyssal magic filling the air. the entire world seemed to be holding its breath, frozen in place and waiting for some trigger to continue.

he saw none of that. you were collapsed at the foot of the statue, faint wheezing only making it to his ears by virtue of the standstill around him. you held no staff, commanded no magic, your chest barely moving with air.

he’d never seen a mage seek out the archons when dying. one hand squeezed the handle of his sword as he crept forward, ready to strike should the situation turn against him. the sand barely shifted beneath his feet, his own heart sounding too loud to his ears. you did not move, showing no signs that you had noticed his approach. he still didn’t trust it.

your cloak was tattered and torn, with thick gloves atypical of a mage. they reminded him more of hilichurl wraps, which was strange considering you wore no mask. your face was instead covered by what looked like eremite cloth, just as stained and dirtied as the rest of your clothes. what he could see looked almost human; in another life, he could believe you were a weary traveller, lost amidst the sand.

he was acting foolish. if the abyss had a human tool, he needed to figure out why. he reached down, undoing the sloppy knot of your veil and letting the brocade fall limply to the grass.

…grass. he blinked, eyes flickering between the ground and your face, not sure which was harder to believe. flowers had bloomed around you, protecting your body from the blazing sands, and he’d be a fool not to recognize the face plastered all over every bounty board.

he didn’t understand. if nothing else, he thought the archons would have enough respect for their creator to know when they were being lied to, yet before him was barely living proof of the inverse. sweat beaded along every inch of exposed skin, deep-set heat exhaustion burning you from the inside out. how could you be a threat? how could they be so blind?

he looked again, the shine of elemental sight straining his eyes, catching flickers of the dendro energy pouring from the statue. you were the only one the archons would feed. you were the only one to make the very earth break its own rules, allowing lotuses to bloom from barren soil. something painfully similar to rage threatened what remained of his rationality, and it took all he had to push it aside.

that didn’t matter. if he went off on some banal revenge quest, he’d be no better than them. your safety mattered more. he picked you up and set aside how calm his curse felt, beginning the trek back to his camp. behind him, the flowers already began to wither, losing their persistence without you to foster it.

perhaps that initial meeting was luck. but these was no luck involved in your trust in him. when you woke up and saw him at your side, you chose to trust him. you chose to believe that he was not like the others, that he would protect you, and he was forever grateful for that trust. nobody could fault you for being angry, for being spiteful about what you were put through and choosing to lash out. nobody would have the right to be upset if you chose to vent your wrath against those that had hurt you.

but you didn’t. you chose, again and again, to believe in the world. you chose to let them live their lives, even if it meant getting hurt again in the process. you chose a quiet life traveling with him over the comfortable life on your throne. to willingly choose to travel with a disgraced knight to spare your people guilt… he couldn’t decide if it was noble or reckless. either way, he was selfishly happy that he was the one to stay by your side.

“i won’t try to convince you. but, please.. do not give up on yourself so easily.” i know far too many who have died by the same hand. “the world and its opinion does not define you. only you get to decide where fate leads.”

you lean towards him, and he thinks you might have passed out- but no, your head lands on his shoulder with far too much precision. he stiffens, not used to existence without a constant pain beneath his skin. “how motivational. you tell all your soldiers that?”

his heart is beating too quickly, thoughts unusually hard to grasp. you’re the only one who could have this effect on him. he only wished it wasn’t now, when your belief in yourself was on the edge. “i mean it. none of this is your fault, and neither are celestial actions the people’s fault. i know that you are hurt, but i don’t want you to accept that main needlessly. you shouldn’t have to view your creation with such pain.” slowly, carefully, he raises the hand closer to you, doing his best not to disturb you as he settles it on your arm. he’s can only hope that the contact brings you as much comfort as it does him. “if nothing else, believe me. promise you’ll at least try.”

he doesn’t think you’ll agree. why would you make a promise to one who represents the heaven’s betrayal? why would you let him hold you close at all, when you can surely sense the bindings of those who tried to kill you wrapped tightly around his soul? he doesn’t know. all he can do is hope.

“…alright, dainslef. i promise.”

twilight has long since fallen, and yet he smiles for the first time in centuries.

[foreverisntenough]

‘Act II’

Summary: Attraction is like a gravitational pull that is undefinable and unavoidable. Unbeknownst to you, Jude had been keeping an eye on you since he caught a glimpse on his best friend’s girlfriend’s Instagram but he’s been loving his single life. You always were independent and know how to swim on your own but maybe you have been just treading water. Could the tides change on a holiday in Greece when you finally meet? It might get a little rocky but maybe you could be his paradise.

Index

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series! ‘Act II’ is interconnected to the 'You’re Mine' and 'Ours' Series but can read it independently.

Chapter 22 - 'Galería D’ange ' | ‘Act II’

word count - 10.8 k

Lunch out in Madrid with Jude, Jobe, and Toby was a lively, carefree afternoon. The café was full of laughter and teasing, a pleasant contrast to the more serious moments you’d been through recently. You’d almost forgotten about the world outside until you noticed some fans began to gather at the window, phones out, eager to catch a glimpse of Jude.

“You came back for this?” Toby leaned over with a grin, nudging you lightly teasing. You laughed, feeling the attention, and instinctively buried your face in the crook of Jude’s neck, giggling as he chuckled too, his arm slipping around you protectively. 

“Obviously,” you joked, peeking up from behind Jude as Toby continued to tease. Lunch carried on with more laughs and playful jabs as you all enjoyed each other’s company. When the meal ended, the four of you wandered down a picturesque cobblestone street, the sun warming your skin but the breeze sending a shiver down your spine. The atmosphere was light, peaceful, and Madrid felt a little more like home with them by your side. 

“Yo…Have you heard about the new gallery in Carabanchel?”  Jobe casually mentioned as you walked.  You looked at him, surprised he had.

“You? A gallery? I hadn’t” you giggled. “But why do you even know that, Jobe?” you teased, a grin spreading across your face. 

“What, I can’t have interests?” He smirked.

“You can! You just didn’t tell me we had the same one. It hadn’t come up yet that’s all,” you said, laughing, hands raised in innocence. “You wanna go?”

“Yeah, why not?” Jobe shrugged, acting nonchalant. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. 

“Since when are you so down for stuff like this? I tried to get you to go with me one time and you said no.” You raised your brow joking but recalling a recent event you got invited to. Jobe was in town and a friend of friend invited you to an opening knowing you were now in Madrid, 

“Because it was a pity invite!” Jobe yelped! Jude couldn’t go so you invited Jobe to go with you genuinely. He still was invited with or without Jule so whilst he was pretending to be offended right now… he hadn’t wanted to go that night.

“Alright alright, regardless, I think we should go today.” Jude, walking beside you, squeezed your hand and chimed in.  You blinked up at him, a bit confused. Normally, you’d have to persuade him to join you on something like this, but today, both brothers seemed unusually eager. 

“No…Wait… What’s going on?” You smiled.  Jude grinned but didn’t give anything away.

“Nothing, just thought it’d be fun.” He quipped. You weren’t going to press. If they wanted to go look at art you were more than okay with it. With a shrug, you let it go and continued walking, Jude’s hand warm in yours.  It was a sunny day but the weather was turning. It was brisk and so you had to nick Jude’s jacket off him adding a men's Saint Laurent jacket to your mini skirt, t shirt, and boots look. “You ruined my fit but I guess I’ll still go to the gallery with you, angel.” Jude teased. You giggled pushing your face into his bicep. The exchange almost distracted you from the direction change in your route. The cobblestone streets soon led you to a part of the city you loved but one you weren’t intending to go to today. You were struck by a striking green windowed wall, an old garage-style door with vibrant green window panes catching your eye. It made you smile. It reminded you of a door at your chateau.  You smiled at the look of the place, appreciating the aesthetic and the familiar feeling it brought to you, but as you got closer, something seemed off. The space was completely empty, just concrete floors and nothing inside.

“Jude…” you said, your voice holding a note of suspicion. “What is this?” He stopped walking and looked at you with a mischievous smile.

“Come on then, just trust me please,” he said softly, pulling you toward the empty building. You glanced back at Jobe and Toby, who were both smiling like they knew something you didn’t.

“No… I don’t like this. What is going on?” you asked again, more curious now than anything else but not appreciating Toby and Jobe’s smugness. Jude led you closer to the empty space, his hand still firmly in yours. 

“Voilà! Mon ange.” Jude cooed, leaning to whisper into your ear. You roughly could see inside, your eyes wide as you took in the space, its high ceilings and expansive windows filling the room with natural light. The charm of the old, worn exterior contrasted perfectly with the brightness and newness inside of it, and it felt like the perfect balance between something familiar and something entirely new. Before you could process it all Jude gently dropped a pair of keys into your hands before he moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.  You stared down at them, heart pounding. “It’s for you… for us,” he said, his voice soft and calm, but the weight of his words settled over you. He leant around you, his eyes flashing to meet yours, and there was something vulnerable in them. “I wanted you to have something here. A place that feels like you.” He said. Your breath hitched. The gesture, the thought behind it—it was overwhelming. He was offering you more than just this physical space. He was offering you a home, a way to make Madrid yours too, to build something that belonged to you both. Jude’s hand cupped your cheek as he smiled softly. “You can do whatever you want with it. Sell it, keep it, leave it empty… or,” he paused with a smirk, “my personal suggestion is you make it the secondary location of my favorite gallery in the world. What do you think?” He cooed. Your lip trembled, and before you could stop it, tears spilled down your cheeks. 

“And she’s off.” Jobe, who was standing behind you, made a quip with a laugh. You barely heard him as Toby elbowed him to shut up. You were locked in your own little world, where all that mattered was Jude and the weight of what he was giving you. The thoughtfulness, the future he was offering—it all hit at once. 

“Do you want to go inside?” Jude’s voice broke through your daze. You nodded, but your hands shook as you tried to steady your breath. Jude noticed and took the keys from your hand, unlocking the door himself and holding it open for you. You stepped inside, feeling the cool air from the wide, open space wash over you. Jobe and Toby followed, their usual banter quieting as they sensed the enormity of the moment. You walked a few steps into the gallery but couldn’t move any further. The reality of what this space meant, the future it held, made your knees weak. 

“You good?” Toby, sensing your shock, gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he asked with a soft smile. You couldn’t respond, couldn’t do anything but stand there in disbelief. Jude had mentioned the idea of a gallery before, but you hadn’t taken it seriously. Now, standing in the middle of this space that was yours, you felt the full weight of his commitment. Jobe and Toby, sensing the need to give you two space, quickly made an excuse and headed out, leaving you and Jude alone. The second they left, your legs gave out, and you sank to the floor, your hands shaking as you tried to process it all. Jude was instantly at your side, kneeling in front of you. 

“Angel…” he murmured, his hand brushing the hair from your face. “It’s just the space, there’s no pressure. I want Madrid to be our home. And your work… it’s important. It’s important to you, it’s important to me.” His voice was so sincere, so full of love. “If having a little annex here in Madrid helps us build something that feels like home, then I think it’ll be good for us.” You looked up at him through teary eyes, your bottom lip quivering as you tried to form words. His face softened as he waited patiently for you to speak. He was giving you everything, and it was almost too much to bear. “So… thoughts?” he asked gently with a smirk, trying to pull you back from the brink of your emotions.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice cracking as more tears spilled over. “I love you so much.” Jude pulled you into his arms, his embrace warm and steady.

“C’mere, I love you too, Angel,” he whispered into your hair. “We’re going to make this our home. Together.” Jude helped you up, pulling you gently into his embrace as the two of you stood in the empty gallery space.

“Me and you.” You murmured into his chest almost silent, confirming your togetherness. 

“Us against them all, yeah?”  He cooed. You nodded. Normally, a space like this, with its bare walls and concrete floors, would feel cold and impersonal. But in Jude’s arms, it felt warm, alive. His presence, his heartbeat against you, made this gallery the most beautiful it would ever be, even in its emptiness. He looked down at you, his cheeky smile making your heart flutter. “I thought of a name… if you’d want to hear it,” he said, eyes twinkling. 

“Okay, go on” you said, your curiosity piqued. The moment broken by your soft giggles, leaning into his warmth. 

“Galería D’ange,” he said with a playful grin, stumbling over the Spanish and French words. His attempt was endearing, and you couldn’t help but laugh. It was so Jude, and it melted you inside. Your eyes lit up with amusement and affection as the sweetness of the name settled in your mind. But then, Jude’s face softened into something more serious, his gaze intent as he continued. “And then we’ll add the ‘of Y/L/N New York,’ you know? Make it yours, connect to your gallery back there.” He told you. You blinked, processing his words as the reality of what he was saying sunk in. 

“Galería D’ange of Y/L/N New York,” you repeated slowly, the name rolling off your tongue with meaning. It was perfect. It was you. It was him. It was everything the two of you had built together, now grounded in something tangible and lasting. This was your life—intertwined with his, filled with love and adventure, and now, with a space to call your own. “Babyyyy,” you whined, overwhelmed with emotion, but your smile was radiant. “Perfect. Parfait. Perfecto,” you giggled, switching between all three languages with playful enthusiasm. Jude chuckled softly at your reaction, the warmth of his laugh spreading through you. “Thank you,” you whispered, your heart swelling with gratitude. You leaned in, kissing him deeply, your hands sliding up to his face as you pulled him closer, pouring all the love you felt for him into that kiss. When you pulled back, you gazed up at him with glistening eyes, unable to fully express how much this moment, this gesture, meant to you. But you didn’t need to. Jude knew, and the way he looked back at you, as if you were his whole world, said everything. So you stood there in the middle of the empty gallery, the air around you buzzing with quiet emotion as you held onto Jude tightly. The tears on your cheeks felt never-ending, your nose pressed into his shirt as you sniffled. His arms wrapped around you, steady and grounding, as if he were trying to physically hold together the emotions between you. 

 “Don’t take this the wrong way, but this really shouldn’t…” You trailed off, your voice cracking with the weight of how deeply overwhelmed you felt. “It shouldn’t work.” You finished your sentiment. Jude understood what you meant. You weren’t questioning the relationship, you were complimenting how unreal it was that you were finding success  Looking up at him, your eyes wide and filled with adoration, you pouted. “Why are you like this?” you asked with a pout, barely above a whisper. “You’re the sweetest boy in the whole world.” Your hands found their way to his face, cupping his cheek as your thumb brushed gently against his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch, as if he were savoring every second of the connection. And when he opened them again, your heart flipped. His gaze was soft, yet intense, filled with so much love that it made you feel like the luckiest person alive. He was so gorgeous, inside and out, and right then you were certain of everything. 

“It works because I love you,” he said, his words carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “And no newspaper, no tweet, or even ocean can keep me from loving you.” Jude’s voice was low but steady, filled with unwavering certainty. His eyes held yours, and for a moment, the world felt like it had stilled completely. “I want you with me,” he continued, his voice soft yet firm. “Whatever you need, whatever you want—I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you, Angel. For the rest of my life.” You stood there, holding him in the stillness of the empty gallery, the city sounds faint and distant outside. It was just the two of you, wrapped in each other’s presence, as the moment stretched into something timeless. Tears continued to slip down your cheeks only slower, but there was a warmth in your heart that overtook the fear and uncertainty. You pressed closer to him, your body melting into his, and in that quiet space—empty, yet so full of promise—you stayed, holding onto the one person who made you feel safe in the storm. 

Time had passed since Jude gave you Galería D’ange. It was like the gallery built a damn blocking anything from the past from getting to you and Jude and today was just another day behind it. You held Jude tightly in the middle of the shop, your arms naturally wrapping around his waist as he reached up onto a shelf to grab something. 

“Angel, let go for a minute, yeah? I need to reach the shelf.” His warm laughter filled the small space as he gently teased. You blinked, realizing you hadn’t even noticed how close you were, how your body instinctively pressed into him, as if you couldn’t bear to be apart for even a moment. With a soft laugh, you apologized, reluctantly letting him go, though the warmth lingered between you. Things were so good—almost terrifyingly good, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But you tried not to think about that. You let yourself stay in the warmth of these moments, the mundane sweetness of just being together. You were out running errands, something so ordinary but so full of meaning when you did it with him. A few people had stopped Jude for photos as you wandered through the streets, smiling and nodding politely as he interacted with the fans. It wasn’t overwhelming, not today. Just a few brief interactions, faces lighting up when they saw him, quick requests for a picture or a signature. It was part of the rhythm of your life now. After the shop, you stopped for coffee, the two of you slipping into a quiet corner of the café. But even in the hushed space, life had a way of reminding you of its presence. As you sat across from Jude, the faint sound of a camera shutter echoed, a flash going off accidentally as a girl tried to take a picture of her coffee. Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. It definitely wasn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter. She glanced your way apologetically, realizing she’d been caught. You gave her a small smile in return, understanding that this was life now—moments of hazy bliss with Jude, sliced through by interactions with strangers, with cameras, with glimpses of the outside world that never quite went away. But Madrid had become your home. You’d moved there primarily, letting New York slip into the background. You’d go back maybe quarterly, only when necessary, but that house nestled just outside the city with Jude—that was home. The kind of home you could breathe in. Where you could wrap yourself around him as much as you liked, no cameras, no interruptions. Just you and Jude, and the life you were building, piece by piece, moment by moment… And on occasion Denise would pop back in too. But today it was just the two of you. As you walked back to the car, the last whispers of summer clung to the air, the warmth still lingering just enough to remind you of the heat, though the crisp bite of autumn was making its steady, inevitable arrival. Madrid had that way of feeling alive during these in-between moments, where the seasons shifted, and the city’s energy matched the change. You tucked the jumper of Jude’s you were in tighter around you, enjoying the cool breeze that swirled around the street. Jude walked beside you, his hand brushing yours as you made your way toward the car. Ever the gentleman, he reached for the door handle, but not before planting a soft kiss on your temple, his lips lingering just long enough to make you smile. The moment was sweet, simple, until you felt the playful slap on your ass. He laughed, full and bright, watching your reaction.

“Jude!” you whined, rolling your eyes dramatically as you shot him a mock glare. “We’re in public!” You dropped your head to the side pouting. 

“Sorry, couldn’t resist angel,” he teased, his grin unapologetic. “Look leng today.” He smirked. With an exaggerated sigh, you slid into the driver’s seat, sending him a sarcastic shake of the head. 

“Thanks so much for that,” You cooed as he shut the door behind you. Of course, you were the one driving—again. This had become part of your dynamic, one that the public, and his fans especially, had picked up on. Jude, for all his skills on the pitch, was still absolutely useless behind the wheel, and you had teased him about it endlessly. He rounded the car, sliding into the passenger seat, completely unbothered by the fact that he was always chauffeured around by you. As you pulled out of the parking lot, heading home, the atmosphere between you was light, carefree. It was one of those days where everything felt just easy—running errands together, grabbing coffee, and soaking in the simplicity of it all. It was as normal as it could get. These were the moments you loved most, the ones that felt like a pause button on the chaos of your lives. But as the city blurred by outside the window, the buzz of Jude’s phone filled the car, and you saw him scrolling through something on social media. He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he scrolled faster, clearly amused by whatever he was seeing.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, glancing over as he leaned back in his seat, a sly grin creeping onto his face. He turned the phone toward you, and there it was—the video. Someone had filmed your entire little exchange back in the parking lot. The kiss, the ass slap, your mock protest, all of it. And it was already making the rounds online. The comments were blowing up. Boys were praising Jude, hyping him up for being so cheeky. Girls were half-swooning, half-scolding him in a mix of affection and exasperation. But then there was the real fan conversation that seemed to be dominating the thread—the one about his driving, or more accurately, his lack of driving.

‘Why can Jude still not drive? That’s a full adult ’ 

One tweet read, with endless replies echoing the same sentiment. It was a long-running joke at this point, one that had taken on a life of its own. Jude clicked his tongue, visibly annoyed but amused all the same.

“Nah, see… when are you actually going to teach me to drive? I’m just getting rinsed online at this point. They’re ruthless,” he said, glancing at you with a mix of frustration and playfulness. You couldn’t help but giggle, the sound bubbling up despite yourself.

“Wait, that’s what you’re concerned about? Not the fact that people are talking about you smacking my ass in public?” He shot you a serious look, his brows furrowed as if this was an actual pressing issue. 

“Yes. Everyone knows I can’t drive. It’s like a national crisis at this point.” He scrolled through more of the comments, his eyes scanning them casually as if he wasn’t slightly stung by the teasing. “But our relationship? That’s private. They don’t know anything about that.” Your eyes widened as you raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the seat. 

“Private, huh? Jude, you kissed me, then slapped my ass. So private,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. He shrugged, completely unbothered. 

“I can be way sweeter than opening the car door for you,” he said nonchalantly, scrolling through more tweets. “And I can definitely be rougher than tapping your ass.” You blinked, not expecting that. Your eyebrow raised higher as you studied him, waiting for the smirk you knew was coming. But Jude just kept scrolling, not looking up, completely casual about the whole thing, as if he’d just said something totally normal.

“Oh, really?” you asked, your voice low, teasing. Finally, he looked up, locking eyes with you, his expression softening into that playful grin you knew too well. 

“Really, angel,” he said, the edge of his voice teasing, but there was something earnest behind it. He reached over and brushed his hand against your thigh, his touch light, but the warmth of it lingered. His smile grew, and it was one of those rare moments where the public and the private blurred, and you realized how much of your relationship was still yours, still hidden away from the world, even with all the prying eyes. 

“You’re unbelievable.” You shook your head, trying to hold back a laugh. He leaned back, satisfied with himself, and scrolled through the last few tweets with a sigh. 

“All I’m saying is, one driving lesson would solve this whole thing. They’d have nothing left to clown me about.” He explained seriously. You shot him a look.

“Jude, I love you, but the way you panic at a roundabout… I’m not sure I’m the right person to teach you.” His face lit up with mock offense, a hand flying to his chest. 

“Roundabouts are stressful! It’s like driving in circles for no reason, angel.” You couldn’t hold back the laughter anymore. The absurdity of it all—the fact that Jude, this world-famous footballer, was more concerned about his lack of driving skills being roasted online than the viral video of your intimate little moment—made you laugh so hard, you had to concentrate a bit harder on keeping your focus on the road.

“Okay, okay,” you said between laughs, “we’ll do some lessons. But no promises you’ll end up with a license.” You cooed. He grinned, leaning over to plant a kiss on your cheek. 

“Deal. But for now, you can keep driving. I like having my chauffeur.” He smirked. You shot him a playful glare, but the truth was, you didn’t mind. These moments—the teasing, the banter, the simplicity of just being with him—made all the noise from the outside world fade away. This was home. And that was enough. 

"So, rough, huh?" you teased Jude later that evening recalling his joke earlier after the shops. You were  leaning against the bathroom counter as you got ready for bed. The playful smirk tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. Jude, mid-motion of pulling his shirt over his head, paused just enough to catch your eye in the mirror, his grin widening as he tossed the shirt to the side. He turned to face you, that mischievous look in his eye lighting a fire that you'd become all too familiar with. Things had been-well, let's just say spicy between you lately. With no hectic long distance travel schedules and the nights together stacking up, except for the odd away game, you and Jude had spent a lot of time wrapped up in each other. Not just in the bedroom, either-pretty much anywhere had become fair game at this point. The frequency had ramped up in a way that left you both breathless and constantly looking for the next moment to be alone. The scrutiny online about your relationship, the constant public attention, it only seemed to fuel the fire between you. It was as if the more people speculated and watched, the more determined you both were to shut out the world and claim each other, over and over again. Your relationship had found new life through this physical closeness, this undeniable pull toward each other. You weren’t sure you could possibly be more in love with him-this intensely connected, both emotionally and physically. And the sex? Well, it had taken on a life of its own. You were both impossibly horny all the time, a constant heat simmering between you, and it felt like no matter how much time you spent together, it was never enough. You found yourself stealing glances, teasing touches, small moments that quickly spiraled into more. It wasn't just a phase either. It had become your new normal, and you weren't complaining -except maybe for the fact that you couldn't seem to get enough. Your mind was often preoccupied with when you'd get your next fix, your next stolen moment with Jude. The real concern, though, the one in retrospect probably should’ve been entertaining more, was whether you were keeping up with your birth control. But honestly, having to drag yourself upstairs to grab a pill from the nightstand at 9:00 p.m. when you were cuddled downstairs with Jude felt like such an inconvenience. Especially when his arm was draped over your waist, and his lips were finding that perfect spot on your neck that made you melt. It was hard to care about practicalities when life felt this good, when he felt this good. Every kiss, every touch-it was like a drug, and you were both addicted. You couldn't help but wonder if this was what it felt like to be in the perfect moment, where everything aligned just right, and nothing outside the two of you mattered. Jude stepped closer to you now, his hand sliding up your arm as he leaned down, his lips brushing just beneath your ear. 

"Oh, you have no idea," he whispered, his voice low, teasing, sending shivers down your spine.

You turned to face him fully, biting your lip, your heart racing in anticipation. His eyes sparkled with that playful, knowing look as he reached for you, pulling you against him. The warmth of his skin, the way his body molded to yours, it was almost too much-and yet, it was never enough.

"Care to remind me?" you teased, your voice breathless, the words barely slipping past your lips before he kissed you, deep and slow, pulling you into the kind of moment that you'd found yourself living for lately. Life was good. Jude was even better. Suddenly the bathroom mirrors fogged up with steam, blurring your reflection after you and Jude had fallen into each other once again. He fucked you in the shower till he was dripping out of you. You both knew you were being reckless lately, but the thrill of it all kept you repeating it again and again. It was as if you'd created your own little world within these four walls, a world where pleasure and desire reigned supreme. You locked eyes with Jude through the haze, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. He looks so fucking sexy, his frame glistening with water droplets from the hot shower. Your heart raced as you began to anticipate what was about to happen again, knowing very well that Jude could make you feel things no one else ever could, and you knew that because he just showed you moments ago. As he stepped out of the shower, his tanned skin contrasted with the white bath towel wrapped around his waist. You bit your lip as you watched him approach you, his eyes never leaving yours. The towel accentuating his muscular physique, you couldn’t help but admire the way his abs flexed as he moved.

"Not done with you, angel. Can't keep my hands off you," he whispered, his voice low and husky. You giggled, a playful glint in your eyes. 

"Okay. Come here, baby. Give me some more of you.” You smirked. Arousal flooding your veins all over again. He grinned, revealing his perfect pearly white teeth. 

“Starting to push the limits here, innit? Endless rounds and rounds, and you keep begging for more.” Jude cooed. He was teasing a bit but you both knew there was a slight undercurrent of irresponsibility in what you were doing.  

“Are you complaining?” You teased moving past any possible practical concern with a raised brow, dropping your own towel off your body. 

“Nah, never. You’re just too fucking good f’me. I could never stop wanting more of you.” His hands moved towards you magnetically, his hands then brushing up and down your sides, making goosebumps rise on your skin. You nodded, already feeling a little breathless. 

"I can't help it. You make me feel so good." You whined with a frown as you reached for Jude’s towel, and with a swift motion, you let it drop to the floor, revealing his hard cock. Your eyes widened at the sight, your mouth watering. He was thick and long, a masterpiece of male anatomy.

"Let me make you feel good again, angel. I want more of you," he growled, his voice filled with desire. You didn't need any more encouragement for things to kick off again. But in opposition to Jude’s ideas you hummed a ‘mmnhmm’ with a cheeky shake of the head. In a quick but smooth succession, you dropped to your knees, your hands reaching out to stroke his length. The skin was hot and silky under your touch, and you could feel a rush of power as you took control. "Oh yeah, baby?" he moaned questioning your decision to take more of him as your fingers wrapped around him. "That's it, take what’s yours." Your fingers moved up and down, teasing the sensitive tip, making Jude's breath catch. You leaned in, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, tasting the salty pre-cum that glistens there. "Fuck, YN," he groans. "Your mouth... I need it." Jude was a mess. Neither of you could be satiated lately, and he, right now, was proving just that and thankfully, you didn't need to be told twice. With a sultry smile, you took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head, savoring the taste of him. Jude's hands dove into your hair, gripping gently as he encouraged you to take more of him. "That's it, suck me off, angel," he pants. "Deeper, baby, let me feel you." You obliged, taking him deeper, your throat opening to accommodate his girth. Your eyes watered slightly, but the pleasure on Jude's face kept you going. His moans filling the room. You knew exactly how Jude liked head by this point in your relationship. It was almost down to a silence. As you sucked and stroked, Jude's hips began to thrust gently, meeting your mouth with each forward motion. The wet sounds of pleasure filled the bathroom, mixing with the steam and the scent of sex. "Fuck. I'm gonna cum, Y/N," he warned, his voice tight with restraint. "Fuck.”

"I wan’ it... all of it." You pulled back briefly looking up at him with lust-filled eyes, a string of salvia still connecting you to him. And so moments later, with a final, powerful thrust, Jude came, his hot cum flowed down your throat. You swallowed eagerly, savoring the taste of him, not wanting to waste a drop. He groaned, his body trembling as the orgasm washed over him.

"Fuck, that was so good," he breathed heavily, pulling you up for a deep kiss. You kissed him back, tasting yourself on his lips, and feeling his passion ignite yours.

"Come on, baby. I want more of you still. Bed now," you whispered commandingly against his mouth. Jude's eyes lit up with excitement. He was thrilled you wanted to keep going.  As you entered the bedroom, the soft sheets beckoning, you both knew this was just the beginning of another session. You pushed Jude onto the bed, his back against the headboard, you straddled his waist, your wet pussy already aching for him.

"You wanna ride me," he urged, his hands cupping your tits, thumbs flicking over your sensitive nipples. You leaned forward, your hands on his chest for support as you began to grind your hips, feeling his hard cock slide along your slick folds. Your tits bouncing with each movement, Jude's eyes darkening with desire. "That's it, angel, show me how much you want it," he encouraged, his hands moving down to grip your hips, guiding your movements. You moaned, the sensation of his cock rubbing against your clit drove you wild.  “Tell me how bad you need my cock.” You could feel your pussy throb as he teased you. You begged him to fuck you whimpering. 

“Jude please. Please fuck me. I want you,” you whined causing Jude to smile smugly. He lined his cock up with your entrance but kept you hovering above him, not allowing you to sit down. 

“I know.” He cooed as you sank down. He stretched you perfectly. You breathed slowly as he filled you. He held his same smug grin watching the pleasure on your face. “Such a good girl f’me. Just like that, baby.” He was enjoying watching you but his own feelings had him struggling to keep his eyes from rolling back. As you grinded on him, Jude knew this was a feeling he could never replace. His hands slid up your waist to grip your tits as they bounced with every movement. You leant back, your hands behind you for support, and begin to ride him with purpose, your pussy engulfing his length with each downward thrust.

"Fuck, you feel so good," You whimpered as his hands squeezed your ass, urging you on. The pace quickened, and your moans filled the room as you rode him harder, your pussy clenching around his shaft. Jude's hands move to your thighs, spreading them wider, giving him deeper access.

"That's it, let me feel that tight pussy," he grunted, his own control slipping as he met your downward thrusts with powerful upward strokes. The sensation was incredible, and you could feel your orgasm building, your body trembling with anticipation. Jude's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and loving. "Cum for me, angel," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "Let go, I wanna feel you." He told you. You whimpered, your body tightening as the pleasure peaked. 

"Oh, fuck Jude... I'm..." Your words were lost as your orgasm hit, your pussy convulsing around his cock, milking him as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jude's hips bucked off the bed, driving his cock somehow deeper inside you as he came with a roar, filling you with his hot release this time in a different way. In the aftermath, you collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his lips trailing kisses along your neck.

"I love you so much angel," he whispered, his voice filled with adoration. "You're my everything." You smiled, snuggling closer, feeling the warmth of his body and the wetness between your thighs. 

"I love you Jude. This...  was…we... are so good at that." You giggled, hiding your face. He hummed in agreement kissing your hair

And so as it goes, life was good all until it wasn’t. All it took was one tweet. 

‘All I’m saying is since that girl showed up Jude Bellingham has been shite. Save some energy for the games, mate.’

It felt like you’d read this exact tweet hundreds of times but apparently this one carried firepower and it brewed a whole debate online, for weeks. And so it was declared Jude’s form had been off—at least, that’s what everyone was saying. The press, the fans, the analysts. And somehow, as ridiculous as it sounded, you were the one they blamed. You’d become a convenient story for them, something to latch onto when the statistics didn’t add up the way they wanted. Even the most reputable pundits asking if his personal life or is the spotlight affecting him. Sure, Jude had been playing well, but his goals and assists were down compared to last season, and people needed someone to point fingers at. The narrative spun out of control in the way only a media frenzy could. It wasn’t new to you. But somehow, this time it stung a little more. You didn’t like that people were being rude to your Jude. It made you sad. You didn’t want to inflict that type of hurt on him and so… you hide. Tonight, you were at the Bernabéu. You’d come early, as usual, trying to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible. The stadium was slowly filling with fans, the energy building in that electric way it always did before kickoff. The roar of the crowd was still a murmur at this stage, the steady hum of anticipation floating through the air. You found your spot far in the back of the box, standing as you always did, eyes squinting to make out the figures of the players warming up on the pitch below. From here, Jude was just another one of the players, moving through his drills, stretching, shaking off the tension that always seemed to cling to the start of a game. This had become your routine, this quiet, removed place where you could watch without the weight of all those eyes on you. In a way, it was your safe zone—a place where you could feel present for Jude but shielded from the noise. From the stories. From the judgment. You shifted on your feet, feeling the cool metal railing beneath your hands as you leaned forward just slightly, trying to focus on Jude and not the knot in your stomach. It was hard to ignore the things people said sometimes, even when you knew they weren’t true. But before you could sink too deep into your thoughts, you felt a hand on your arm. Firm but gentle, the touch snapped you back to reality. You turned to see Denise standing there, her expression sharp but filled with concern. She didn’t say anything at first, just pulled you slightly toward her, her grip softening as she looked you in the eye.

“Hun…enough,” she finally said, her voice low but carrying the weight of everything unsaid. “You are not here for them. You’re here to support Jude. And you can’t do that from back here.” You blinked, trying to find a response, but nothing came. Denise didn’t wait for you to argue. She grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the front of the box, toward the seats you’d been avoiding. There was no point resisting; when Denise had made up her mind about something, it was best to just go along with it. And truthfully, you knew she was right. She sat you down next to her, her hand never leaving yours as if she knew you needed the grounding. Her tone softened, the edge replaced by something warmer, more maternal. She was incredibly sweet with you but you knew she’d always been tough, protective in her own way, and over time she had come to treat you like one of her own, the toughness included. You could feel that in moments like this. “Do you know the surname on your back?” she asked, her gaze steady. You looked at her, caught off guard by the question, but you nodded. Of course, you did. You wore that name every time you stepped into this stadium, whether or not you realized it. “You’re either part of this family or not. You decide.” She said it bluntly but you knew it wasn’t meant as a threat but as a reminder. Still, her words struck a chord deep inside you. You were part of this family—Jude’s family, but also this team, this life. You hadn’t chosen the spotlight, but it came with the territory, and Denise was reminding you of that in the most direct way possible. This wasn’t about the press, or the stories people told, or the numbers on a scoreboard. It was about standing beside Jude, even when things felt overwhelming. You couldn’t help but smile at her. It was a small, grateful smile, one that said more than words could. Denise nodded, satisfied, before she wrapped her arm around you, pulling you close in that protective, motherly way she had. She kissed your temple softly, a quiet show of affection that made you feel both cared for and understood.  As you settled into the seat, you felt the weight of a few eyes turning toward you. People noticed, of course they did. In this world, you were never truly invisible. The whispers and glances might come, but sitting here now, next to Denise, you realized something: it was okay. Let them look, let them whisper. You weren’t here for them. You were here for Jude. You straightened up a little, your back pressing firmly against the seat as the crowd roared louder, signaling the match was about to begin. The tension in your chest eased ever so slightly as the players lined up on the field. You could see Jude now, clear as day, and for the first time tonight, you didn’t feel the need to hide. This was where you belonged, and it would have to be enough.

Since the series came out, Jude had become, if possible, more clingy with you, though the internet had it all wrong. People assumed that with his fame, his talent, and the endless attention he received, he didn’t need you to ground him, that he was the star and you were just along for the ride. But in truth, Jude believed he needed you to perform, to thrive on and off the pitch. Jude was struggle despite the fact that he wasn’t playing badly, you both knew that and so did the more seasoned football fans too. But you also both knew the scrutiny was part of the job, but it didn’t make it any easier. Jude was always a target. If he wasn’t scoring or assisting every game, the critics were quick to pounce. It was exhausting, but you had your own ways of supporting him through it all, grounding him when the outside noise became too loud. Jude’s clinginess had always been endearing, even if the public rarely saw it. They had this image of him—self-sufficient, confident, the superstar who didn’t need anyone. But in reality, behind all the headlines and highlight reels, Jude leaned on you more than anyone could guess. He wasn’t shy about it, either. To him, you weren’t just his partner; you were part of his success, his comfort, his why. Every day was a reminder of that, in small ways that meant everything. Your presence had become a part of his routine, the glue that held everything together for him. 

Take this morning. He was mid-set in the gym, his arms straining as he pushed through the reps, sweat dripping down his face. Often, you’d sit on the floor of your home gym while he worked out, chatting away as he powered through reps, his eyes occasionally glancing your way for a quick grin, your words acting like background music to his workout. He swore it helped him focus. He needed you there. Today was no different, you sat on a yoga mat, leaning against the wall, scrolling idly through your phone while chatting with him, explaining some drama Winnie was in. He’d glance over between sets, grinning like a boy who couldn’t get enough of the sound of your voice, as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded during the workout. But sometimes you wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just watch. Your presence enough for him. 

“You’re staring again,” he muttered teasingly, mid-lift, his breath labored but full of amusement.

“Who says I’m staring?” you shot back with a smirk, not even bothering to deny it.

“I can feel it,” he replied, his lips twitching into a smile as he set the weight down and shook his arms out. “Keeps me going, though.”

And that was just the start. Then, there were the breakfasts you made for him before training.  He’d follow you into the kitchen, waiting as you made him breakfast—his usual, the one you’d perfected over the months. It was always the same, exactly how he liked it. And no matter how many people offered to do it for him—a chef, his mum—he insisted that only your cooking was right. It was part of the ritual, part of his connection to you, and through that, his connection to the game. You once tried to tell him someone else should* handle but Jude had immediately vetoed the idea.

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t make it like you do.” It wasn’t just the food. It was you. He was playing well—anyone with a proper eye for the game knew that. He wasn’t putting up these astronomical numbers in goals or assists, but he was solid, consistent, and crucial to the team’s strategy. Still, that didn’t stop the critics from coming for him whenever they could. That kind of pressure could break anyone. But not Jude—not as long as he had you by his side. And you knew he felt that. You could see it in the way he sought you out after games, his eyes scanning the stands, always finding yours, as if that was the moment he could finally exhale. With the international break around the corner, you felt a twinge of relief. It was always an intense period, with Jude off representing England. He was proud to pull on that jersey, but the added strain on his body was undeniable. You’d spent nights massaging the knots out of his back, watching him ice his knees after long stretches of games. He was fit, sure, but the game took its toll, and you could see the wear in moments of quiet, when he finally let down the walls. Still, the two of you were eagerly looking forward to this particular break for one reason: the draw. England versus France. The very idea of it lit a spark in both of you, not just for the magnitude of the match, but for everything it represented. Paris wasn’t just another city for you—it was a place loaded with history, with meaning. This international break there was something extra to look forward to. The two of you had been eagerly anticipating the draw, and now it was official. The game would be at that little old place on Rue du Commandant Guilbaud, Parc des Princes in Paris. December would bring cold air and frosty breaths, the perfect atmosphere for a match that was sure to be icy with tension between the two countries. The history, the rivalry, it all made the stakes feel even higher. You could already imagine it—friends and family in the stands, the energy electric, your heart racing as you pulled on Jude’s England jersey, feeling the weight of it, the pride, the love, but slight fear because you knew Louis was going to kill you when he saw you in the kit.  You grew up going to Parc des Princes but you hadn’t been in ages. The nostalgia was already pulling at your heartstrings, memories of the city swirling in your mind. But more than anything, you were excited to be there for him. To stand in the cold Parisian air, bundled up, but warm with pride as Jude stepped onto that familiar pitch, surrounded by tension and anticipation. This wasn’t just another match. It felt bigger, more meaningful. For Jude, for you. And you couldn’t wait to be there, standing by him as always, ready to watch him shine, knowing that no matter what, you were part of his every win, every challenge, every moment.

“oh mon Dieu. I’m so so so excited, baby,” you said one night seeing the fixture announced on Instagram as you curled up beside Jude on the couch, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder. “Feels like ages since we’ve been in Paris together.” You smiled jumping over your last Parisian memories with Whitney and instead skipping to recall better times with Jude.  He smiled, pulling you closer. 

“Feels like ages since we’ve done anything that wasn’t football-related.” He cheekily smiled a little annoyed at the fact that you were going for his work but also eagerly anticipating what was going to happen on this trip.  

“You’re not wrong,” you agreed, letting your fingers trace small circles on his chest. “But this match… Jude, it’s sweet. It’s like us..” You smile. His expression softened, a mix of pride and excitement. The darkness of the room wrapped around you both like a cocoon. “England versus France. December in Paris. The crowd, the atmosphere…” Jude’s hand slid across your waist, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. You smiled against his skin, your heart full.

“Big weekend, innit?” He smiled but his heart was pounding.  His voice was a soft rumble in the quiet of the room. You nodded none the wiser. He had plans for that weekend and he was stressed about much more than the game. “And my angel will be there f’me. Wearing my shirt, hmm?” He cooed, kissing your hair a few times.  You laughed, nudging him playfully. 

“Of course, likely freezing my ass off but I wouldn’t miss a chance to see my favorite player in the world. I’ll even brave the Parisian winter for it.” You giggled. 

“Such a martyr,” he teased, kissing the top of your head.

“I cant’t wait to see Kylian play, Aurel and Cama too, you know?” You giggled and Jude kissed his teeth. 

“Honestly. Just so rude. Can’t wear my kit anymore. Get one of your little French boys to give you a jersey.” He feigned offense. You kissed his neck with a giggled, squeezing him in a bone crushing cuddle. It was all in good humor because the truth was, you’d do anything for him, and he knew it even beat your own heritage. The match itself was already steeped in tension—the rivalry between England and France, the history, the weight of national pride.  The Parc des Princes had always held a special place for you but this time, it wasn’t just about the past. It was about now. It was about Jude, about watching him in the jersey that meant the world to him, feeling the weight of his name on your back as you stood in the crowd. There was something magical about it, something that felt different from all the other matches. Maybe it was the nostalgia of Paris, or maybe it was the fact that after all the scrutiny and pressure, this match felt like an opportunity for Jude to remind everyone who he was. And you’d be there, as you always were, bundled up in the cold, feeling every ounce of pride and love for the man who had your heart. Jude might have been the star, the one everyone watched, but the truth was, the game—his game—wasn’t the same without you.

With the break fast approaching you were worried about Jude’s body, more now than ever before. The season was relentless—game after game, with no real break in sight, and every added match meant another 90-plus minutes of strain on his already taxed muscles and joints. His shoulder, his ankle, his knee… they all weighed heavily on your mind. The problem was, Jude would never admit if something wasn’t right. He always brushed off your concerns, telling you he was fine, that it was just part of the game. But you could see it—the subtle winces when he stood too quickly, the extra time he took to stretch in the mornings, the way he sometimes favored one leg over the other when he thought you weren’t looking. And yet, lately, it wasn’t just Jude’s physical state that had you worried. There was something going on with you too. You felt so achy, this unfamiliar heaviness lingering in your limbs. By the afternoons, your energy was completely drained, leaving you groggy and fighting to keep your eyes open. And then there was your body. You’d been brushing it off for weeks, but you couldn’t ignore it anymore—your jeans didn’t fit quite right, not like they used to. They were tighter around your waist, your hips, and no matter how many times you told yourself it was just bloating or stress, the little voice in the back of your mind whispered something different. It was the reason why that trip upstairs at 9 p.m. to get your birth control had suddenly become so important again. For weeks, you’d been a little careless, caught up in the whirlwind of life with Jude, in the physical intensity of your relationship. It had been too easy to forget, to prioritize the comfort of cuddling on the couch over getting up and grabbing the pill. But now, you couldn’t brush it off. You couldn’t let it slip for one more night.  The problem was, the thought that had been creeping into the edges of your mind—the one that you were now terrified to even entertain—scared you. It was a fear you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge, let alone say out loud. Because if you did… what then? You sat on the couch beside Jude that night, your head resting against his shoulder as he scrolled through his phone, oblivious to the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind. His body was warm and steady against you, his presence always a source of comfort. But tonight, comfort felt elusive. Your thoughts kept drifting back to how off you’d felt lately, how your body seemed to be betraying you, sending you signals you weren’t ready to interpret. You knew you needed to make that walk upstairs to your nightstand, to pop that tiny pill and push the thought out of your mind. But for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure if it was already too late.

“Everything okay in there, angel? You’ve been quiet tonight.” Jude’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, pulling you back to the present. His finger coming to tap on your temple gently but teasingly.  You forced a smile, looking up at him. 

“Yeah, just tired, that’s all.” You admitted a half truth. He kissed your temple where his fingers were, his lips lingering there for a moment, his breath warm against your skin. 

“You sure? You’ve seemed off lately.” Your heart skipped a beat at how easily he could read you, even when you weren’t ready to admit anything. You nodded, not trusting yourself to say much more. Jude was already dealing with so much—his body, the pressure of the season, the upcoming international matches. The last thing you wanted to do was add to his stress. But as you sat there, wrapped up in his warmth, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you. Something was happening. You just weren’t sure what it was yet. And that terrified you more than anything. The night was quiet, the soft hum of the television the only sound filling the room as you cuddled into Jude’s side. After the international break games had been announced, Paris—Parc des Princes—was where Jude’s thoughts had been circling for days. He was focused on upcoming fixtures but also what was meant to happen outside of those match days.  You could feel his excitement simmering just beneath the surface, even if tonight, he was calm, content just being there with you. As you shifted, settling deeper into the couch, Jude’s voice cut through the stillness again. 

“I was thinking,” he began, his tone thoughtful but easy. “Do you think your dad would want to come to the match? I’d really like to invite him.” Jude cooed.  You blinked, surprised. 

“Yeah, I’m sure he’d love that. I can tell him—” You cooed almost instinctively, it was sweet but you were not really thinking about it much. Jude gently placed a hand on your arm, stopping you mid-sentence. 

“Nah, angel.” he said softly but firmly. “I mean I want to invite him myself.” His words hung in the air, and you pulled back slightly, sitting up, studying his face. There was something deeper in his request, something more personal than just an invitation to watch him play. For a second, you felt touched by how important it was to him. But then, like a wave crashing over you, the thought hit hard: What if something’s wrong? Your mind started to spiral. All the little signs—the achiness, the strange grogginess, the tightness of your jeans—they all seemed to be pointing in one direction, a direction you weren’t ready to consider. What if… you were… no surely not. The thought made your stomach churn. You suddenly felt a bit sick, not from any physical symptom, but from the sheer weight of the possibility. Seeing your family, especially in Paris, suddenly felt like a mountain you weren’t ready to climb. You pictured sitting across from them, the warmth of wine glasses being passed around, the ease with which they would pour you a glass without question. In your family, wine wasn’t just a drink—it was tradition, hospitality, connection. Refusing a glass would raise eyebrows. They’d notice, they’d ask questions, and how would you explain that? You couldn’t decide which option was worse: taking a test and confirming your fears, or sitting through a meal with your family, knowing you might be hiding something so monumental. “Angel?” You must’ve gone quiet for too long because Jude’s brow furrowed in concern.  You nodded quickly, trying to shake off the dizziness of your thoughts. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I’m fine. Just thinking.” You forced a smile, still trying to process his request. “It’s sweet, Jude, but… You don’t have to do all that, why do you want to ask him yourself?” Jude didn’t hesitate. He looked at you with the kind of sincerity that always made your heart skip a beat. 

“It’s a big deal for me to have people at my games and not just there as spectators but I want them there as family, as friends. Your dad… he’s important to you, so he’s important to me. I’d love for him to be there as someone I invited, someone who’s part of my or our world.” His words softened the edges of your anxiety for a moment, his thoughtfulness tugging at something deep inside you. You knew your dad would appreciate that gesture. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked to use his name or status to get into fancy places. He didn’t care for the fuss of hospitality suites or special treatment. What he cared about was connection—being present, being part of something real. And here Jude was, offering exactly that. Although your dad was a man of comfort and luxury so you knew he wouldn’t complain in Jude’s box either. 

“He’d love that, Jude. Really, baby.” You smiled, this time genuinely. Jude’s eyes lit up, clearly pleased. He reached out, gently pulling you back down into his arms, your head finding its familiar spot against his chest. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your temple, a steadying presence as always. The warmth of his body, the rhythm of his breathing—it was enough to slow the racing of your thoughts, if only for a moment. As you lay there, your mind couldn’t help but return to the nagging possibility of what might be happening with your body. You tried to push it down, tried to focus on the feeling of Jude’s arm around you, the comfort of his presence. But it was hard to ignore. Every day, it seemed more likely that you were dealing with something much bigger than just fatigue or stress. You had brushed it off for so long, but now, sitting here with Jude, your thoughts swirling, you realized how scared you really were. And yet, in this moment, with Jude holding you close, something shifted. His kiss against your temple, the way his hand rested protectively on your side—it all steadied your heart. Maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be so terrifying. Maybe if Jude was by your side, and if your family was there too, it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. The idea of facing whatever was coming with both of them by your side suddenly didn’t feel so impossible. As Jude’s breathing slowed, and you realized he was drifting off to sleep, you stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling. The thought of Paris loomed ahead, the cold December air, the intensity of the match, the weight of what might be happening with your body. But maybe, just maybe, if you had Jude and your dad there with you, it would all be okay. Eventually, you let yourself relax into Jude’s arms, closing your eyes, telling yourself that whatever was coming, you wouldn’t face it alone. Maybe, just maybe, it would all be okay.

You leaned against the counter, watching Jude pace around the kitchen, phone in hand, looking every bit as anxious as someone about to make the biggest business deal of their life. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Jude, are you seriously this nervous to call my dad? You’ve known him for how long now?” You giggled. 

“It’s different this time. You don’t get it, alright?” Jude stopped, glancing at you with a look of half-embarrassment, half-whining. 

“Oh, I get it,” you teased, folding your arms. “You’re about to ask him to a football match, not pitch for a place on the team.” He groaned, running a hand over his hair, the nerves clearly getting to him. 

“Angel, seriously,” he whined, “don’t make fun. This is… important.” He glanced at you. You weren’t sure why this was such a big deal to him. Like just ask him to the game? Simple as. So you raised an eyebrow. 

“Important? Jude, you’ve invited people to games before.” You explained dropping a bit of the humor and inquiring a bit more genuinely. 

“Yeah, but this is different.” He shot you a look and mumbled. You could see that he was genuinely stressed, and that only made your curiosity grow. 

“Different how?” you asked, stepping closer, playful but also wondering what had him so rattled. “Are you planning something secret?” You teased and Jude’s breath caught momentarily in fear you knew why this was a bigger deal until he let out a frustrated sigh, cheeks turning a little red as he waved you off. 

“I’m calling him,” he muttered, “but I need to do it in private. You’re making me nervous.” He told you sheepishly with a childish pout. But that word made you pause. 

“Private? Why?” You asked. He shot you an almost panicked glance and headed for the door. 

“Because you can’t hear this,” he called over his shoulder, already making a break for the living room. “Don’t listen in!” You blinked, watching him retreat. What on earth was going on. Jude closed the door behind him, breathing out heavily as he looked down at his phone again, preparing himself. This wasn’t just about inviting your dad to the game—that part was easy. It was about the real reason he wanted to meet him before the match. He needed to ask your dad something far more important, something that had been weighing on his mind for ages now. He knew how much your family meant to you, and he wanted to do this right. He wanted your dad’s blessing before asking you the biggest question of his life, your life. Jude’s hand hovered over your dad’s contact before he hit the call button, exhaling deeply as he heard the line ring.

🪩🫶❤️‍🔥🍹🌞🍒 Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter 🍒🌞🍹❤️‍🔥🫶🪩

Next part - Chapter 23 - The Right Time xx

[lou-struck]

The Pickle Theory

Diavolo x reader

~While on a trip with you in the human world, Diavolo finds himself at the mercy of his worst enemy.

W.C- 2.6k

a/n: This was one of those prompts that I think of in the middle of the night and write it down in the notes app thinking that It would make sense in the morning... But I don't think I did Late Night Liza justice.

"Thank you for accompanying me on this little trip to the human world Mc, I would never have been able to figure out the intricacies of Human World Public transportation without your expertise." The Prince says warmly, his eyes alight with curiously as he takes in every inch of the sparsely populated city bus the two of you elected to ride.

Sure, there is enough room on this bus for each of you to have your personal space, but the demon is sitting shoulder to shoulder with you in the tiny two-seat row, and you certainly would not have it any other way.

"It was no problem at all," you beam, finding humor in how strange it is to see such a large and gorgeous man trying to politely cram himself into his seat. "I hope that you were able to find something here that you want to incorporate into the devildom. Besides, you know me. I love a reason to get out into the sun with you."

His smile is just as blinding as the sun as he takes in every inch of your elated features, and he lets out a chuckle. "This trip of ours definitely has been useful, but more than that, I am delighted to have had an excuse to whisk you away to the human world without any of our usual distractions."

"It's nice to be able to spend some time alone with you," you say in agreement as the bus comes to a stop. Despite years of etiquette training, you see the pout on his face as he realizes that the errand that brought the two of you together is coming to an end, and the two of you will have to go back to the Devildom so he can get back to fulfilling his royal duties. 

"It seems we have reached the final stop on our route," he murmurs as the remaining passengers trickle out the doors. Through his shades, you can tell the driver is staring you down in the mirror. He clearly wants the two of you to get off his bus, but he's not gonna try and get snarky to someone of Diavolo's size.

Which is more than fair

You stand, and he follows suit, walking off the bus and onto the cobbled streets of an unfamiliar city. Your mind is fixated on what you can do to prolong this errand date. You want to spend more time with him, but as the Prince of the Devildom, his time is priceless. Much to your surprise, your thoughts are interrupted by the ferocious growling of your stomach growls ferociously. Your eyes widen as you look over to Diavolo in embarrassed shock. 

Amazedly, the Prince only tosses his head back in laughter. "What a wonderful idea, Mc. We simply could not return to the Devildom when we are in such a state of hunger. 

"Right. That was my plan," you chuckle, deciding to roll with his easy compliment. The sun is high in the sky, warming every inch of your exposed skin. Closing your eyes, you stop in your tracks to enjoy the sensation. You can feel his golden gaze even before you open your eyes. 

His expression is radiant as he takes in your look of contentment. But there is something else behind it that you can't quite place. 

"Is something wrong?" 

"Nothing at all," he replies, a faint smile on his lips. "I simply wish to see that pleasant look on your face as much as possible."

There is a deep feeling in your gut that there is more he is not saying, but you choose to not push him further. "Aren't you charming? But don't forget that you are the one who makes me smile so much," you say coyly as the two of you resume walking the narrow path, drawing your bodies closer and closer to each other until you are walking side by side. The light accidental brushing of your hands sends flustered shivers up your spine. 

As the butterflies in your stomach threaten to carry you away, you take a peek at Diavolo's face to see if he is anywhere near as flustered as you, but the Prince's face is a mask of nonchalant charm. Looking at him was definitely the wrong thing to do in this situation because he looks even more stunning in the light of the day. Sunlight radiates off his hair, giving it a rich, coppery glow, and his dark skin seems to shine with an otherworldly beauty. 

Men and women alike misstep as they catch a glimpse of his inhuman good looks, but his eyes remain focused on the path ahead. You can't tell if he is oblivious to the way his regal features draw attention or if he is so used to it it doesn't bother him in the slightest.

You become painfully aware of just how clammy your hands have become in this sweltering heat and try to not bump him again. 

Clearly, he isn't trying as hard (at all) as his hand brushes yours once again. Out of the corner of your eye, you just see a flash of a smirk grace his lips. "Perhaps we should hold hands, Mc."

"You wouldn't mind?" you ask, subtly wiping your hand on the fabric of your shorts.

"Certainly, it's only natural for human couples to want to hold hands when they are on a date."

You smile as his logic wins over your insecurities; when he takes your hand, you aren't sure if it's your time in the Devildom rubbing off on you or if it's your inner pettiness, but the dejected looks that appear on strangers' faces when they see that he is taken brings you joy. 

With his hand in your, it's easy to lose track of time. You aren't sure how long you have been walking until he stops abruptly. "Oh my, what is that smell?" 

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath in. Even with your inferior sense of smell, you are able to pick up the warm, comforting smell of freshly baked bread. "That smells amazing," you say, covering your mouth with your hand to hide how much you're drooling.

"It does smell wonderful; how about we stop here for a quick meal?" He offers you don't have to be a mind reader to know that he would be over the moon if you said yes. 

"I would love to," you smile, walking under the painted archway and into an adorable-looking cafe. Large, thriving potted plants outnumber the number of patrons in this thriving business as you scan the dining area for a place to sit. In the very corner, you see a perfect little booth for the two of you to grab. 

"let's head over to that table real quick; once we're seated, we can order our lunch at the counter and enjoy ourselves." You walk confidently, knowing that Diavolo will follow. 

"Everything here looks wonderful," Diavolo says as he scans the menu, "Do you know what you would like to get?"

You furrow your brow and read it yourself but find yourself unable to narrow your options down. "Not yet, I can't decide." You whine, "COuld you choose for me?"

"Of course I can," he laughs, standing to his feet. "I'll go up to the counter and make it a surprise."

There is a spring in his step as he steps up to the counter. He learned how to order food at restaurants on your last visit, and he is extremely eager to show off what he has learned. When he comes back and slides into the booth, he looks very proud of himself.

"Did you do it?" you ask.

He nods and places a white-numbered flag on the tabletop. "I did; this little date of ours has made me want to host a human world café event at RAD so everyone gets to experience this. "That would be such a great idea," you agree, already wondering what kind of trouble awaits the lot of you when the event goes underway. 

The Prince's excitement is contagious, and the two of you chatter excitedly about the semantics until nature calls for you to go to the restroom. You excuse yourself politely as you try to figure out where in this swanky place the bathroom is.

~ 

As Diavolo stares across the booth at your empty seat, all he can think of is how much he cares about you. 

Getting to spend time with you away from everyone else is more valuable than any of the crown jewels in his palace. You are fascinating to him, even more so than the world in which you hail from.

But seeing how comfortable you are out in the sun sends pangs of guilt into his heart. He can't help but feel guilty for pulling you to the Devildom, away from everything, but he knows deep down that neither of you would change it for the world. 

He is so lost in thought he barely notices a shy server sliding two plates of mouth-wateringly delicious-looking sandwiches onto the table before scurrying away from the gorgeous yet intimidating demon.

He eyes his sandwich hungrily. The bread smells even better now that it's fresh and inches away from him. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, breathing in the aroma. All of his manners scream at him to wait just a moment longer for you to come back, but he can't help himself. 

He reaches for the first half of the sandwich but stops just shy of the crust when he spots something that makes his blood run cold. 

It's Slimy…

It's Disgusting…

It's the very bane of his existence…

"Pickles," he breathes, staring down at the lumpy green vegetable sitting inconspicuously on the edge of his plate. Now that he has seen it, its slimy, pungent aroma that so many others adore invades his senses. 

He can't look away from it, even as he feels his stomach twist with hausa. It's almost as if he had just eaten one of Solomon's Mystery soups the sorcerer sometimes brings to the castle to share.

What should he do?

Years of etiquette classes have taught him that, as a prince, it is rude to refuse to eat something on his plate. 

Even if he hates it. 

Even if looking at that particular something makes him feel as if his skin is turning green.

He gulps nervously as he is faced with the severity of the predicament he finds himself in. He is representative of the Devildom; it would be rude to show up to the human world and refuse the food that he has been given.

"Wow, it's here already?" your sweet voice pulls the future king of Hell from his brine-filled thoughts. His golden gaze shoots up at you quickly, watching intently as you slide into the red leather booth. You look down at your plate with a smile before glancing up at him. "It's not much, but for some humans, going to the bathroom at a restaurant and coming back to see that their food has been delivered is the closest thing they will ever get to magic."

"What a wonderful outlook," he exclaims. "Human creativity has no bounds. I find the more I learn of them, the more I am inclined to admire them."

"You give us far too much credit," you laugh, but he can tell that your attention has been taken by the beautiful sandwich in front of you. You look up quickly, and he sees the cute way your features twist in embarrassment. "Sorry, I got a little distracted. This sandwich you got for me looks so delicious it would be a shame to not eat it."

"Then please, dig in." he chuckles, gesturing to the plate. But to his surprise, you don't eat yet. Instead, you look at him with wide eyes as if you are waiting for him to eat his own meal.

But he can't…

Not when that thing is on his plate.

"Diavolo, is everything alright?" you ask, surely noticing how tightly he is clenching his fist. 

He feels his cheeks heating up in embarrassment, and he tears his gaze away from the dreaded pickle. "It's nothing."

Suddenly, your body shifts in your seat, and he feels a slight tap on his shin. It take him a moment to realize what exactly just happened. "Mc, did you just…Kick me?"

"I did," you admit bashfully as if you just remembered that you have assaulted the ruler of the Devildom with your Skechers.  "But only because you weren't telling me what's bothering you."

This unfamiliar sensation of being playfully battered fills his only-child heart with warmth, and he bursts out laughing. "you truly are gifted when it comes to getting someone to open up, Mc." he caves and spins his plate towards you so you can see the accursed pickle. 

"oh, your sandwich came with a pickle. I understand now." And just like that, you reach across the table, grab the pickle, and eat it like it was the easiest thing to do in the world.

"what did I do to deserve you? "He asks when you finish disposing of the problem. 

"It's just the pickle theory." You say with a laugh; he feels very confused and looks at you to continue. "Some people say that a relationship is perfect when one person hates pickles and the other loves them. That way, you'll always have someone who will eat your pickles, so you don't have to. It's not just pickles, though; it's olives, onions, and anything else that you can think of. But it's fate that we are here today, and you happen to hate pickles."

Although your explanation is ridiculous, Diavolo lets out an unrefined snort of laughter. Quickly, he covers his mouth with his hand, a practiced gesture he's done frequently under the watchful eye of his trusted Butler. Instead of wanting to scold him, you let out a hearty laugh of your own. The sound is not beautiful in any way, but it makes his heart thump wildly in his chest as he stares at you.

"So this is Fate?"

"I think so," you murmur, looking at him with an expression he cannot quite place.

"What's with that look?" He asks, raising a brow.

" It's nothing; I just like getting to see the side of you. I hope to see it more," you say earnestly.

He reaches across the table to grab your hand, and he stares deeply into your eyes with the look of a man in love as he makes a promise to you. "Whatever world we are in, I will do my absolute best to give you whatever it is you desire, Mc. 

Your eyes are full of tender emotion as he looks at you. "Would you really do anything for me?" you ask in a sweet voice and he finds himself nodding naïvely, he is completely under the spell of your charm. It's almost as if you are the demon who is corrupting the mortal.

But he knows you and rightfully trusts you with all his heart. One of the reasons he finds himself so drawn to you is that you would never in a million years take advantage of his love.

"Even though I just had a pickle, would you kiss me?" you ask, an endearing little smirk on your lips that has the Prince subconsciously leaning over the table towards you.

"If that is what you want, then nothing would deter me from granting such a request." he smiles, capturing your lips with his, not caring about anything other than the taste of you.

Tagging; @sleepyyshroom, @i-need-to-go-like-mangogo , @starbbyy, @sarah22447, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf ,  @ourfinalisation, @anjodedesgostoeerros, @isaacdaknight @qardasngan

[fantasyescapes17]

Spinsters do not Need Chaperones (Part 2, Seungcheol Route)

Chaperones are for beautiful young girls. A plain older woman like you, with neither fortune nor youth to recommend her, is hardly in danger of losing her virtue. You've long resigned yourself to always being the supporting role in someone else’s romance. 

But could it be that love and marriage have not disappeared entirely beyond your reach? This spinster may capture the heart of an eligible bachelor yet, if only she makes the right choices…

Genre: Seungcheol x female! reader, regency!AU (Sort of Bridgerton-esque but we keep it PG)

Word Count: 4.5k+

Series Masterlist here

You discovered, much to your dismay, that none of your wants or desires could withstand Lady Beaumont’s wild  force of personality and will.

It is unnecessary to repeat the exact conversations that took place in the Beaumont manor that afternoon. It is only relevant to note that by the next morning, your belongings had been packed and you found yourself in a carriage with Lady Beaumont and Julia, headed directly for Portsmouth. 

“We must see if we cannot find you a husband in Portsmouth as well,” your aunt commented as the carriage rattled farther and farther away from London. “Surely the place has some naval officers milling about. Once Julia’s engagement is secured, there may be someone the Chois can introduce you to- perhaps some widower that will have you.”

You bit your lip to prevent yourself from responding rudely. It was never worth the effort of an argument with your aunt. You simply nodded. 

“You're not sulking because I would not permit you to stay in London, are you?” Lady Beaumont snapped irritably. 

You sighed and shook your head. “I am not sulking, aunt.”

“You would do well to put the Kims behind you. It was kind of them to allow you to debut and attend the social season with their daughter, but you are a Beaumont, not a Kim. You don't have a dowry worth mentioning, and the advantages of age and beauty are long past you. You need to be practical and think about who will support you for the rest of your life.”

“Believe me, aunt, I think of little else.”

Your aunt turned away with a huff. Julia had been quiet for most of the ride and seemed to be deep in thoughts of her own. You gave your young cousin a reassuring smile and she smiled back at you, but said nothing. 

The journey was long enough that dusk had begun to fall by the time the carriage arrived at the streets of Portsmouth. The Choi estate loomed ahead in the distance, and you peeked curiously out of the carriage window at the large manor. It wasn’t quite as magnificent as the Beaumont estate, but it was certainly a fitting home for a noble family. The sea was very close by. Surely the view of the vast blue waters from the upper stories of the manor would be marvelous. 

“It’s not as grand as London but this town really is quite beautiful,” you said to Julia as you both descended the carriage. “Perhaps we shall have a nice time in Portsmouth.”

Julia bit her lip. “I hope so, cousin.”

The servants arrived to carry your luggage inside and a few moments later you were greeted by the arrival of Mr. Choi Seungcheol and his mother, Mrs. Choi. 

“How delightful to see you again, Lady Beaumont, girls,” Mrs. Choi greeted you all warmly. You were surprised when the older woman embraced you and Julia. “I do hope you had a safe journey. Please come in, out of the cold! Summer is past and the evenings are quite chilly these days.”

“Yes-yes, our journey was quite pleasant, thank you,” Lady Beaumont replied quickly as she wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Portsmouth seems very lovely.”

“We hope that you will like it.”

Seungcheol stood a few steps behind his mother. He nodded at you politely when you made eye contact with him, but there was not much of a smile on his face. You returned a polite nod. For Julia’s sake, you sincerely hoped that Mr. Choi was a good man. It was hard to tell what he was thinking behind those dark, charismatic eyes and that unsmiling face. 

“This is my housekeeper, Mrs. Williams- she has prepared rooms for you all upstairs and I hope you will find them comfortable,” Mrs. Choi explained. “Mrs. Williams, will you please show our guests to their rooms?”

You followed the housekeeper upstairs, admiring the large and tastefully decorated manor. Lady Beaumont had been provided with her own  room, while you and Julia had been given a slightly larger room to share. As soon as Mrs. Williams deposited your belongings and left, you went to the large french window in your room and threw it open. 

“We have a lovely view of the garden,” you observed. “But it appears this side of the manor does not face the sea.”

“A very good thing too,” Lady Beaumont muttered. She still had her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders and looked quite pale. “I cannot imagine how cold the sea winds would be at night. Close that window immediately, there is a terrible draught.”

You sighed and shut the window. “Shall we dress for dinner?”

You all dressed and went downstairs for dinner with the Choi family. Seungcheol sat at the head of the large table, and his dark eyes were watchful as Lady Beaumont and Mrs. Choi had an animated conversation about the china, and the difficulties of finding a good cook. You noticed that Seungcheol kept looking between you and Julia repeatedly. Once the first course was completed, he finally addressed your cousin directly. 

“How do you like to spend your free time, Miss Julia?” Seungcheol asked your young cousin. His tone was gentle enough but his dark eyes were unsmiling and Julia still looked somewhat afraid of him.

“I-I like music,” Julia whispered. 

“I must apologise, Miss Julia, I could not quite hear your response,” Seungcheol admitted. 

“I like music,” your cousin repeated a little more loudly. “T-the pianoforte.” 

Seungcheol nodded. “Of course. Yes, of course, I had the pleasure of listening to you play back in London. Allow me to compliment you once again on your skills. You played wonderfully.”

Julia blushed and stared at her plate. “Thank you.”

Their conversation was painfully awkward and almost difficult for you to watch. You did not want to interfere but Julia was being incredibly shy and you could see that even Seungcheol was not quite sure how to engage her in conversation. It was your duty as a chaperone to fill in this awkwardness. You cleared your throat and turned to him with a smile.

“Mr. Choi- perhaps you can recommend things for us to do, or places to see while we are in Portsmouth?” you asked lightly. 

Mr. Choi seemed almost relieved at your interruption and he turned in his seat to face you. “Of course, Miss Beaumont. I would be delighted to take you all down to the beach tomorrow morning. Portsmouth has many wonderful beaches. I am pleased to say it is one of the few advantages we have over London and the rest of the general countryside.”

You turned to Julia. “Julia! Doesn't the beach sound lovely?”

Julia nodded quickly. “Yes-yes, it does.”

You turned back to Seungcheol. “And the harbour; shall we be able to visit the harbour as well?”

Seungcheol blinked at you in surprise. “Well, certainly, if you like… although the harbour is full of ships and goods and commercial offices. I did not think it would be of particular interest to young ladies.”

Your eyes widened eagerly. “We should love to visit the harbour. Julia and I have just finished reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas. We have oceans and submarines and sea monsters on our mind, don’t we, Julia? We would love to see the naval ports and even your ships, Mr. Choi, if it is not too much trouble to you.”

Seungcheol nodded. “No trouble at all. I shall be delighted to show them to you.”

Mr. Vernon, who had been almost entirely silent until then (you had a strange suspicion that he was hiding a book underneath the table and was reading instead of paying attention to the conversation) looked up and smiled at you. “My brother spends too much time at the harbour already, Miss Beaumont. I am afraid the trouble lies more in bringing him back home.”

Seungcheol looked at his brother with a raised eyebrow- he did not smile but there was a surprising light-heartedness to his tone. “Then perhaps you had better join us, Vernon, so that you may undertake this incredibly difficult task of bringing me back home and not leave it to the ladies.”

“I wish I could, brother, but my exams are coming soon and I must devote myself to studying,” Vernon replied apologetically. 

“Is that why you have hidden a book under the table?” you asked him with a playful smile. 

Vernon’s ears turned red. “There is no book-”

Seungcheol sighed, although he did not look too angry. “Vernon, surely you can put your studies  away for some time while we have guests?”

“Sorry,” Vernon mumbled as he turned his attention back to his dinner. You smiled- and were surprised when Seungcheol caught your eye and gave you a small, almost imperceptible smile of his own. The smile brought a sudden light to Seungcheol’s already handsome face and you were surprised by how  charming he looked. But before you could react, Seungcheol had turned to Julia and asked her a question about whether she enjoyed French literature. 

The dinner ended pleasantly and Mrs. Choi entreated Julia to play a little music for them in the drawing room before the family retired to bed. You sat down on the comfortable sofa to listen to her performance and were surprised when Seungcheol sat beside you. 

“Miss Beaumont,” Seungcheol said to you in a quiet tone that could not be picked up by his mother or your aunt seated near the fireplace. “I must thank you for your thoughtfulness during the conversation at dinner. I hope that Miss Julia’s quietness is simply her nature, and not caused by any behaviour on my part…”

Your eyes widened. “Oh! No, you must forgive Julia’s quietness. She is only a little shy since she has not spent much time in society or among gentlemen. I assure you, she will open up soon and has a very lovely personality.”

Seungcheol nodded and cleared his throat. “I am… glad to hear it. I suffer from a similar handicap. I have lived in Portsmouth too long and failed to cultivate the art of polite conversation that I would have developed if I had spent more time among young ladies in London society.”

You smiled at him warmly. “There is nothing lacking in your conversation, Mr. Choi. You must only forgive Julia for being too young and inexperienced.”

“Youth is hardly a fault,” he replied thoughtfully. “And inexperience- well, that can surely be remedied with time and effort.”

“I agree.”

“Then I shall only thank you,” he replied gently, “and wish you a good night, Miss Beaumont.”

“Good night, Mr. Choi.”

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

Lady Beaumont declared that she had developed the chills and that nothing should distress her more than being exposed to the harsh autumn weather on a cold morning. She had therefore resolved to stay indoors all day. You were at liberty to depart for the Portsmouth harbour after breakfast, entirely unburdened by your aunt’s company. 

“I hope Lady Beaumont is not unwell,” Seungcheol enquired politely as he helped you and Julia board the carriage. “She does seem rather troubled by the cold.”

You chuckled. “You may rest assured that my aunt is in perfect health, Mr. Choi. Her chills have everything to do with her hatred of long walks, and nothing to do with the weather or her health.”

Seungcheol smiled. “I am relieved to hear it.”

The harbour was a short distance away. You were pleasantly surprised by how dazzlingly beautiful the blue sea was, even among the hustle and bustle of the busy harbour. Mr. Choi had been telling the truth. The harbour was a place of business, not exactly a tourist destination, but you still found yourself excited by the sight of the enormous ships anchored in the distance. 

“It smells of fish,” Julia mumbled to you. 

Seungcheol had overheard her. He merely nodded as he helped Julia down from the carriage. “Yes, I’m afraid it is rather early and the fishermen will be loading the boats with their catches to transport to nearby towns. Here; please use my handkerchief to cover your nose if it is too unpleasant.”

Julia blushed but accepted his handkerchief gratefully. 

“Are any of these ships yours, Mr. Choi?” you asked, interested. 

Mr. Choi nodded. “Some of the ships undergoing repairs are at the docks, and I will be glad to show them to you. I am afraid that my best ones are all away at sea, bringing goods back from the colonies.”

“What sort of goods?” you wondered. 

Mr. Choi smiled. His eyes lit up and you could tell that he enjoyed talking about his ships and business. There was a tinge of pride in his voice as he explained it to you. “Everything the merchants in the colonies hire us to transport. Cotton, tea, silks, even precious metals and antiques. Well, almost everything.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Almost everything? May I ask why you qualify it so”

Seungcheol coughed and lowered his gaze slightly. “I’m afraid the merchants sometimes wish to transport people instead of goods, and naturally I do not offer my ships for that sort of trade.”

Your eyes widened in understanding. The slave trade. Julia noticed the expression on your face and looked between you and Seungcheol, confused. 

“I do not understand. Why should you refuse to transport people?” Julia asked innocently.

“Because people are not goods, Julia,” you replied quietly. “Let us leave it at that for now.”

“On a more pleasant note,” Seungcheol said brightly, “the Royal Navy also uses this harbour for their ships and there are many senior naval officers here. I see Commodore James approaching us now, if you will allow me to introduce you to him.”

“Of course, we shall be delighted.”

A small group of naval officers in uniform approached you from the harbour. Julia’s grip on your arm tightened, and you saw that she had her eyes on the officers and was deeply blushing. You smiled to yourself- you remembered the days when you had fawned over gentlemen in uniform. 

“Mr. Choi!” the senior naval officer at the front of the group greeted. He was an older man with slightly greying hair and a bright smile. “How wonderful to see you here- and in the company of two beautiful young women, no less!”

Seungcheol nodded politely. “Commodore James, allow me to introduce you to Miss Beaumont and her cousin, Miss Julia Beaumont. They are my mother’s guests and are staying with us at Portsmouth for the fall.”

You were surprised when Commodore James reached out to kiss first your hand, and then Julia’s. He then introduced you to the rest of the men standing behind him. You tried to concentrate and remember their names and ranks, as Commodore James rattled them off, but you were sure you would forget them soon. 

“I hope you have an excellent stay in Portsmouth,” Commodore James said, addressing you and Julia. “May I ask if you ladies are fond of dancing?”

You nodded. “Indeed, we are.”

“Then we shall hope to see you at the assembly rooms one of these evenings, and you must each  reserve some of your dances for me and my officers,” Commodore James insisted. 

“We would be glad to,” you replied politely. 

“Excellent. I am afraid you must excuse us for today- we have an appointment to make. Good day, Miss Beaumont and Miss Julia.”

You and Julia curtsied politely to the officers as they walked away. You could tell that Julia’s attention was almost entirely diverted and she kept glancing back at the retreating officers. You couldn't blame her, really. Some of them were rather handsome. But it wouldn't do for Mr. Choi to notice her distractions, so you hurried to engage him in another conversation. 

“Perhaps we might see your offices, Mr. Choi?” you asked quickly. 

Seungcheol blinked. “Oh-yes, of course. This way.”

You kept a grip on Julia’s hand and followed Mr. Choi as he led you towards his offices. Mr. Choi ran his shipping business from a large building  further down from the harbour and you were unsurprised to find the office full of clerks and accountants, writing letters and poring over ledgers. Some of the clerks bowed their heads towards you politely, clearly surprised to see ladies at the office. 

“Well, here we are,” Seungcheol said. “I am afraid the office is a rather uninteresting place.”

“It is fascinating,” you replied honestly. “I am quite curious to know what exactly happens here in this office, Mr. Choi.”

“Correspondence, mostly,” Seungcheol replied with a smile. Despite declaring himself that the office was uninteresting, he clearly did not really think so. “Taking orders, recording consignments, planning routes and schedules, hiring seamen, drafting bills of lading, insurance policies and invoices…”

Julia frowned. “It sounds dreadfully complex just to bring some cargo over on a ship,” she remarked. 

Seungcheol nodded. “I'm afraid it can be.”

“It must be a lot for you to manage,” you said. 

“Not at all. I enjoy it very much,” Seungcheol replied honestly. “I built this business myself. I do occasionally wish I had help- I asked Vernon to join me in running the business, but he has his own passions to follow and wants to become a barrister. I cannot blame him. The shipping business is not for everyone.”

“It is very admirable,” you told him honestly. 

“Thank you, Miss Beaumont.”

Julia glanced around the office, clearly bored. “Might we go to the beach now?”

“Of course… allow me to call for the carriage.”

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

The Portsmouth beach was incredibly beautiful. You felt a sort of resounding peace among the crashing waves and the vast blueness of the ocean and sky. You closed your eyes as a gentle spray of water from the crashing waves fell across your face. 

“I see that the beach is to your liking,” Seungcheol commented. 

You opened your eyes and reallzed that his dark gaze was fixed on you. You flushed involuntarily- there was something very charismatic about the soft smiles that Seungcheol bestowed rarely and briefly. He was indeed a handsome man and you were, after all, just a woman. 

“Yes, I like it very much,” you replied. “The ocean is beautiful. I saw it from the carriage as soon as we arrived yesterday. I had been hoping that we would have a view of it from your manor.”

Seungcheol's eyebrows furrowed. “Do you not have a view of it from your room?”

“Oh- no, our rooms face your lovely garden instead,” you replied lightly. You turned back to look for Julia, who had fallen behind and stopped to fiddle with her shoes. “Julia! Are you all right?” you called out. The crashing waves almost drowned out your voice. 

“I am all right, there is just some sand in my shoes!” Julia yelled back. 

“Do you need help?”

“No- only wait for me a few moments while I turn them inside out!” Julia called. 

You nodded and turned back towards Seungcheol, who was still looking at you. His hands were clasped behind his back and his broad shoulders seemed a little tense. His dark eyes faltered for a moment and then he spoke. 

“Miss Beaumont,” he said softly. 

You looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I know that our acquaintance is too short for me to speak to you so openly. But my experience of you has been that you are a very thoughtful and mature woman who is capable of understanding the complex nature of life and relationships.”

You stared up at him in surprise, trying not to feel too embarrassed. “Oh- well- I cannot say that this is a compliment I have ever received before, Mr. Choi, but I thank you for it all the same.”

“If I speak to you with a level of honesty that is unusual for our short acquaintance, I hope you will not resent me for it.”

“I should never resent someone for being honest,” you assured him. 

“Then I will take this opportunity to speak plainly about the elephant in the room, and most certainly the reason that you and your family find yourselves in Portsmouth. The entailment of the Beaumont estate due to the lack of male heirs in your family.”

You stared at him. You were embarrassed, but gratified that Seungcheol had taken the first step to actually broach the subject that was on everyone’s mind. It was painful to think about the possibility of months of  continued tip-toeing around the subject out of a sense of propriety. 

“Yes,” you said quietly. “I beg you not to let the entailment trouble you, Mr. Choi. We understand, the law being what it is-”

“But it does trouble me, exceedingly so,” Seungcheol replied firmly. There was a sudden fire in his eyes. “Miss Beaumont, I am a very proud man. Perhaps you have heard of this through rumours but my late father was a gambler. He gambled away my family’s estate until there was almost nothing left by the time he died and I turned of age. I have spent the better part of a decade building my shipping business and restoring my family’s finances and reputation in society.” 

You looked up at Seungcheol with wide eyes and nodded. “Indeed, I have heard as much about you, Mr. Choi. You are known for being a self-made man and I have seen here today what you have built. You are well within your rights to be proud of your success.” 

Seungcheol took a deep breath. “Thank you. But I want your family to understand that it gave me no pleasure to learn of the entailment. It is not in my nature to rejoice at a handout, especially not when it is being stolen from the family it rightfully belongs to.”

You sighed. “There isn't really any question of rightfulness, here, the law is what it is-”

“Yes,” Seungcheol replied. “If it was within my power to refuse the estate, or to transfer it back to you and your cousin, then I would do so in a heartbeat. But it is not in my power to do so. The terms of the entailment will not permit me to transfer the Beaumont estate to anyone other than my own male heirs.”

“We understand, Mr. Choi,” you assured him quietly. 

Seungcheol inhaled sharply. “I have discussed this with my mother, and we have agreed that the only conscionable manner to deal with the Beaumont estate is to offer a union of our families, to ensure that any son I pass the estate to will be of Beaumont lineage.”

You took a deep breath and looked up at him. Seungcheol’s dark eyes were worried; you could see the honesty behind them. This was not a performance or empty words. Seungcheol was genuinely conflicted and distressed by the knowledge that he would be inheriting your family’s fortune and estate. He clearly considered it his duty to do whatever was in his power to ensure it stayed in your family. 

“Then I must return the favour and be equally open with you as well, Mr. Choi,” you said honestly. “A union of the families is exactly what my aunt is hoping for. We have come to Portsmouth in the expectation that you will be persuaded to marry Julia, and that the Beaumont estate can remain within our family.”

Seungcheol was silent for a long moment. He looked at you, and then back at Julia. Your young cousin was still balancing carefully on one foot as she struggled to empty beach sand out of her shoes. 

“Of course,” Seungcheol said finally. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and left it slightly ruffled. “But Julia is… young.”

“She is of marriageable age,” you replied. 

“No doubt,” Seungcheol replied quickly. “Since Lord Beaumont is still in good health, I assume there is no need to act with any haste. I would like to spend more time with Julia and your family. But I hope it will bring Lady Beaumont some relief to learn that I have every intention of uniting our families when the time is right. I trust you will convey this to her in the appropriate manner?”

You bowed your head. “Of course, Mr. Choi.”

“Thank you.”

You opened your mouth to respond but Julia had already come running over to you; her hair was a little dishevelled and she looked annoyed. 

“There is no end of sand in my shoes,” she mumbled. “May we return to the manor?”

“Yes, indeed, let us return.”

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

You went to your aunt’s bedroom after dinner, to tell her about the events of the day. It would bring her some relief to know for certain that Seungcheol intended to marry Julia, and you did not want to deny her that peace of mind. 

“I am not sure what I think of him saying all this to you,” your aunt admitted with a frown, “but I suppose he was sensible enough to know not to say it to Julia.”

“She is too young, and still dreams of love,” you muttered to your aunt. “She would not have enjoyed speaking of her own marriage in such… economical terms.”

Lady Beaumont sighed. “All the same, it is indeed a relief to know that Mr. Choi intends to do the right thing. Our time here is not wasted after all. We shall rest easy after your uncle passes.”

You nodded. “We are lucky, aunt. Mr. Choi is… well, he seems to be a very good man. I find his behaviour quite admirable.”

“Well it's not much use to you,” your aunt snapped. “You must still try to find yourself a husband, although we cannot hope for anyone too rich. Mrs. Choi talks highly of a certain widower called Commodore James. Perhaps you should visit the assembly rooms and try to dance with this man.”

You winced. “Aunt, he must be twenty years my senior.’

“If you wanted a young man then you should have found one while you were young,” Lady Beaumont said dismissively. “Don't come to me now in your late twenties and complain to me about the age of your suitors. It will be a relief if we can find one at all. Now good night.”

“Good night, aunt,” you muttered. 

You walked back to the room you shared with Julia, only to find that there were a few maids carrying your luggage out of the room. You stopped in your tracks and called out to one of them.

“Are those my dresses? Where are you taking those?” you asked. 

The maid placed your trunk down and bowed. “Apologies, Miss Beaumont, Mr. Choi asked us to have you moved to a different room on the other end of the corridor. He said to put you in one with a better view of the ocean.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Oh-yes, thank you. That would be lovely,” you muttered. 

“I will show you your new room, please follow me.”

---------------------------------------------------

[5xlwriter]

Feedist Kinktober: Ex-Model

Part of a series of one-shots in response to @fatguarddog’s Feedist Kinktober 2024 prompts. I see this as a double response to the prompts Runway Ready and Wardrobe Woe.

“Thanks for your time, Brett,” I said, feigning a smile as I looked up from my clipboard. “We’ll call you!”

The muscle-bound hunk nodded cockily and pulled back on his stringy gymrat vest, giving us one last glimpse at his abs in the process before turning and leaving the audition room. His firm glutes shifted in his shorts as he vanished through the doors. I sighed.

Of course, there was no denying that Brett was absolutely gorgeous. He knew it, I knew it, anyone who saw him knew it. And while I might be tempted to call him up for a hookup, there was no way he was getting a callback for this show. He just didn’t have the right look.

The designer, Cherish Misère, was dark, edgy and honestly, kinda goth. There’s a lot that can be achieved with makeup and styling, of course, but nobody’s going to buy that with a jock like Brett. We were looking for skinny guys, with longer slender limbs and angled faces that we could make gaunt with contouring. Brett just didn’t fit the bill - and neither did many of the other hopefuls I’d seen that day. Ugh, Cherish was gonna kill me.

I huffed another deep sigh as I flipped the page on my clipboard, and then was stopped in my tracks at the photo attached to the next profile. That curly brown hair, those sharp, boyish features, those dark, arresting eyes… Tristan!

What a godsend! Tristan was absolutely perfect for the show. Cherish would eat him up, and all the clothes would fit like they were made for him. He and I had been students together. We’d studied Media & Communications and had gotten along well, but drifted in the couple of years since we graduated. He’d always modelled to raise funds when we were at uni, seeming to never need to hold down a real job as a result - but the last I heard, he was now skyrocketing up the corporate ladder, while I was sat here auditioning himbos for D-rate shows at the Fashion Week Fringe. It’s the sort of thing that would usually fill me with so much embarrassment that I’d find an escape route - we gays always compare ourselves to our peers - but in this instance, I didn’t care. I was just glad to finally have found some actual talent! The day was not a complete waste after all.

“Bring in the next one,” I called to my assistant and tried to make myself look as relaxed as possible. I was going to feign surprise, like I’d been caught off-guard. I needed to look busy and important. I sat up straight, eyes fixed on my clipboard until I heard someone shuffle in front of me.

“Hey, Rick!” He announced. His voice was just as I remembered it, but… maybe a touch deeper?

I looked up, ready to burst into a big smile and announce what a pleasant surprise it was to see him again. But then, I really was caught off-guard. My thoughts ground to a halt, leaving an uncomfortable pause as my brain scrambled to register what was going on.

My assistant intervened. “Um, Rick, this is…”

“—Tristan!” I interjected, finally managing the smile I’d been preparing, though I’m not sure how convincing it came off. “What a surprise!”

The surprise was that Tristan was fat. OK, that was maybe a little dramatic - he wasn’t fat fat. But I guessed him to be at least 50 or 60lbs heavier than the 135lbs he listed on his modelling profile - which made him gay fat. I couldn’t believe it!

I was so conflicted. On the one hand, I was a little ashamed to admit that part of me loved seeing perfect Tristan let himself go like this. He had always been nothing but kind to me, so it was completely mean-spirited of me, but I couldn’t help being jealous of all his achievements. It was nice to finally have one up on him, having maintained my own figure - heck, maybe even improved it? - since graduating.

On the other hand, there was no way I could cast Tristan with him looking like this. I could tell just by looking at him that it would take a small miracle to squeeze him into anything Cherish made, which meant I’d just lost my star model just as quickly as I thought I’d found him.

That, I had to worry about later. For now I had to finish this encounter with my old friend, let him down without hurting his feelings, and maybe find out what had caused him to blow up. Maybe he was depressed?

He didn’t look depressed. He was smiling that famously enchanting smile of his, which now showed off the beginnings of a double chin. I made my way over to give him a hug.

“Heh, I thought you didn’t recognise me!” He said as he wrapped his softer arms around me. He was squishy all over.

“Of course I recognise you,” I said, trying to brush it off. “It’s so good to see all of you— I mean, to see you, it’s so good to see you…” Fuck.

Tristan didn’t seem to notice - or if he did, then he didn’t seem to mind. I was happy with either. We pressed on with the pleasantries, Tristan telling me about his latest promotion whilst I did my best to make my own job sound interesting. In truth, it was great catching up with him… Tristan was just so charming, and even with his fuller figure he just exuded a confidence and charisma that was unlike anyone I’d ever met… perhaps even more so then I remembered? He was definitely flirty, and somehow I found myself flirting back despite him no longer being my type.

I wasn’t quite sure how it had happened… Maybe it was witchcraft. Maybe I felt sorry for him. Or maybe it was just that trademark smile that he kept flashing me, undampened by his rounder face…

“I think you’d be a great fit!” I said, the words leaving my mouth without my permission. My brain protested but my lips kept moving. “We’ll see you Monday for the fittings, so we can get things taken in if we need to.” What the fuck was I saying? What was I doing?

As Tristan left with his paperwork, I caught the confused look on my assistant’s face and buried my head in my hands. Cherish was going to fucking kill me.

***

Monday came around fast. In that time, I’d managed to assemble a motley crew of gangly young men to model Cherish’s collection. None of them had walked a runway in their lives, nor did they really have the face card needed for a career in modelling, but they were the best I could rustle up with Fashion Week on the horizon.

We’d started the morning with runway rehearsals and trying to get some charisma out of these boys was like getting blood from a stone. I was relieved that Tristan hadn’t shown up. I figured he had come to the realisation that he quite literally wasn’t a good fit for this, and had decided to silently slink away, saving me a difficult conversation. Now all we had to do was avoid each other for the rest of our lives!

But no, it was never going to be that easy. Tristan arrived late, commanding attention as soon as he entered the studio, smiling and greeting his fellow models as he finished off the remainder of a large smoked salmon bagel loaded with cream cheese. Now there was someone with charisma. He didn’t even try. Nor did he try to excuse his tardiness. “We both know I don’t need practice at this!” he laughed warmly when we had a quiet moment together.

And he was right. He stomped the runway like a pro, showing each of the confused wannabes how it was done. He was the elephant in the room; he didn’t belong; and yet, he was putting them all to shame. I watched bitterly as he walked back up the length of the runway, noticing the slight jiggle and bounce in his body with each deliberate step he made. Ugh, I was not looking forward to this conversation…

Later, as we prepared for the session with wardrobe, I pulled Tristan to one side.

“Listen, Tristan, I need to talk with you,” I said, trying to sound both relaxed and in control. “You know I think you’re amazing, but I don’t think this is the right gig for you…”

Tristan raised an eyebrow for a moment, not sure what to make of what I’d said, before he burst out laughing. “Ha, yeah, good one Rick. Don’t worry, I’ll help the other guys get the hang of it. It’s not rocket science.”

I frowned. “No, Tristan, you don’t understand…” Ugh! I hated this! “I’m serious. I don’t think you’re the right… fit…” I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at his round midsection when I said it - only for a fraction of a second, but Tristan was quick enough to catch it.

“Oh…” he said, looking down at his body for a moment. “You think I’m too fat?” He looked hurt. I’d never seen him not radiating charm and confidence, but in the moment all of that dissipated. He looked like a little lost puppy. “I know I’ve gained a few… I’ve been working flat out at the office… But I didn’t think it was that bad…”

“It’s not!” I blurted out in a panic, desperate to backtrack. “You look great! Better than ever, actually. You look really healthy. That’s super in right now!” It was all lies, and I hated myself for it, but seeing that famous smile return to his face made it worth it.

And so Tristan was whisked off to wardrobe, where we tried to squeeze him into some of the pieces. I thought maybe, if we went with something layered, we could disguise his bulked up body and it might be OK. I was wrong.

Tristan was wearing a black ripped vest, designed to be tight even on a slender model, but practically painted onto him now and emphasising the ball of flesh at his waist. The fact it was ripped made him look like he’d burst out of it. When he moved his arms too high, a little slither of soft flesh would peek out the bottom. He wore a big leather trench coat, down to the floor, which I figured would do a lot of the heavy lifting in making Tristan look presentable - except, we couldn’t fasten it shut over his middle. And on his bottom half, he just wore his underwear and socks, as absolutely nothing that Cherish had designed would slide over his newly thickened thighs and ass.

Fortunately, Tristan may have been oblivious to how much he’d grown, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew this wasn’t going to work. Quietly, he wrestled himself out of the tight garments we’d given him and began to change into his own clothes. I kept my distance and tried to focus on the other boys. Later, as Tristan was leaving, I followed him out.

“Hey Tristan,” I called. “Wait up!” He turned to face me, and was still smiling, but he looked tired and pensive.

“Thanks for the opportunity, Rick! Sorry it didn’t work out.” He said, before surprising me by tapping his softer middle. “Guess I’ve been neglecting the gym!”

“Don’t worry about it, T,” I said. “You still look great and you can definitely work it off — if you want to,” I paused for a moment, hesitating as I decided whether to say what I was about to say. “Or… In the meantime, my friend runs this other company…” I handed him the card.

“Max Macdonald - Plus Size Agency”, Tristan read off the card. He sounded unsure and I thought I might have offended him again, but eventually he pocketed the card. “Thanks, Rick,” he said, giving me a quick hug. “See you around!”

***

As it happened, I never did see Tristan again. It had been four years since our awkward encounter when I found myself in a bar, catching up with my old friend Max, who I also hadn’t seen in years. Being an adult sucked!

Max had been vocally admiring a large man at the bar, telling me in great detail why this stranger’s corpulent body was so superior to the kind of talent I represented. (I’d learned my lesson and played to my strengths, now I had my own agency and was exclusively representing muscle-bound Greek Gods for high-profile names.)

None of it surprised me. Max had always been unashamedly into big guys, despite being in good shape himself. I’d seen him go through many boyfriends - usually they were varying degrees of fat, but sometimes there was a twink or two. They’d soon start to bulk up around him and usually this was when they wised up to his feeder ways and dumped him. He didn’t seem to care, and I always loved that about him. I definitely didn’t share his tastes, but I respected his unabashed commitment to them all the same.

And it seemed to be working out for him! After all, it was his love of big men that had led him to start the plus size agency that was now getting him contracts all over the world.

“Oh my god!” Max said, nearly spitting out his beer as a memory seemed to hit him like a truck. “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you!” He was laughing hysterically and I pressed him urgently for more details. Max was a great storyteller and I found myself eager to hear his tale.

“A few years ago, I was approached by this dude,” he started. I nodded. “He was young, super handsome and charismatic like no one else! He told me you’d sent him.” I paused, knowing instantly that he was talking about Tristan, though I didn’t let on. I wanted to see where this was going.

“He said he was interested in some modelling with me. I told him, ‘look man, you’re gorgeous and you’ve got it, but you’re not exactly plus size’…” He took another swig of his beer. “He was like 200lbs at most. At most!”

I laughed along. “Haha, yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t really know where else to send him. He was too fat for us, but clearly not fat enough for you!” I took a sip of my drink, feeling a little bad for leading Tristan towards more rejection.

“Not then he wasn’t!” laughed Max. I didn’t like the tone in his voice… it was… mischievous. He was relishing in this story. “But I bumped into him a couple of years later at a chub event downtown. I didn’t recognise him at first but he came right over and introduced himself… all 350lbs of him!”

“No fucking way!” My mouth dropped to the floor as my mind raced at a hundred miles an hour, trying to imagine how big a 350lb person would look… How big a 350lb Tristan would look! That more way more than twice the size he’d been at uni.

“Yes way, he was just in a jock strap and a leather harness, shaking and jiggling all over the dance floor. There was no hiding it. He wasn’t the fattest person there by a long shot - a couple of guys were almost twice as big as him - but everyone in the joint wanted to fuck him.” He sat back and smiled smugly, looking very pleased with himself.

I gasped. “You didn’t!”

“I did!” he said, a big grin on his face. “And it was great. Like really great. Man, I had to fucking work for it though. He asked if we could stop for something to eat on the way back to my place - and we did, three times!” He clearly found the story hilarious. “I paid for the lot… Worth it though!”

I was in shock, no longer finding it funny but trying my best to play along. I couldn’t believe that had happened. Maybe Max was just exaggerating. 350lbs? Surely not…

“So, did you end up signing him?” I asked.

“Nah,” said Max, looking a little solemn before finishing his drink. “When I woke up the next day, he’d vanished without a trace and I never saw him again…”

I was about to interject, to empathise for Max, and to tell him how shitty that was, but Max held up a hand to stop me. He wasn’t finished. That big grin had returned to his face and he fished his phone from his pocket.

“I never saw him again until last week…” he said, quickly navigating his home screen to pull up one of his fetish community apps. It didn’t phase me - like I said, Max had always been very open about this stuff.

“I was swiping through the other day when I saw this prize-winning pig…” he was practically giggling as he showed me the phone screen. It was a video, captioned with just two words: “Almost 500lbs”, with a pig nose emoji for emphasis. In the video, an absolutely enormous man was wearing a far too tight black half-zip sweater over a black t-shirt. He was standing close to the camera, with his head cut off by the frame. The strained clothes clung tightly to every curve, roll and fold on his fat frame: his giant tits threatened to burst out of the sweater (the zip of which would never fasten around his fat neck), while about 20cm of pure fat belly hung out the bottom, his gluttony on full view.

Why was Max showing me this? There was nothing to suggest this was Tristan. I became increasingly convinced that this was a practical joke. There was no way that someone who used to look like Tristan now looked like… this.

But then, the whale in the video took a few steps backwards as he jiggled his huge gut for the camera, and his fat face came into view. My world stopped for a moment: it was Tristan, no doubt about it.

Had I seen this veritable blob in the street, I would never have recognised him as my old friend. But I had been primed to see him, and see him I did: even though his sharp and boyish features were now buried under blubbery cheeks, there was no mistaking the charismatic allure of those eyes, which now seemed small and beady in his fat face. All the movement in his gut caused a loud burp to erupt from his mouth, and the smile that followed it as he looked upon his body with appreciation was unmistakably his. Even when being absolutely disgusting, something about Tristan was still so confident, so irresistible… he was magnetic.

“These are the clothes I was wearing when we first met back up,” he said to someone off screen, who chucked back. I recognised that laugh… “Can you believe that was only a year ago?”

“No,” came the familiar voice, as two arms entered the frame and began to pull off Tristan’s clothes, revealing his flabby body in all its perverted glory. The arms and voice belonged to someone older than Tristan by about 15 years. They were reasonably toned and thick with hair, and the strong-looking hands took big handfuls of Tristan’s tits and flesh, shaking it and making his whole body wobble. Then the anonymous figure moved into the screen, kissing Tristan on his big, fat cheek.

I almost dropped Max’s phone and had to do a double take. Was that our fucking professor?! He looked a little older than I remembered him, which was natural, but I was sure it was him.

“…but you’re nearly 100lbs bigger since then, so that’s not surprising,” he said seductively, bringing a cream filled bun up to Tristan’s lips. His mouth opened dutifully and made short work of the pastry, which got swallowed down into his giant gut.

“And why do you think that is?” huffed Tristan, rubbing his belly and stifling another burp. He looked so cocky and sure of himself… more than that, he looked like he was worshipping himself.

“Because,” said our old professor. “You’re a spoiled piggy who gets whatever he wants.”