#i fUCKED UP THE EYES ON THE HALO/WHEEL THING

[angeibody]

Biblically Accurate Aziraphale

[vivwritesfics]

Drive Me Crazy

Chapter Three

None of you are used to pack dynamics. Unlike then, it made you near feral. There's nothing more they want than to build you back up.

Lestappen X Reader

Series Masterlist

It all happened so fast. Max grabbed a hold of Charles and pulled him away from you, as your handler grabbed the back of your shirt and pulled you away. A good thing, too. Your teeth were bared at him, ready to bite down on any inch of skin you could reach.

The muzzle was fastened over your mouth, keeping every body else safe from you. "Huh," Charles said as he struggled out of Max's grip. He looked at you, at the way your expression changed the minute the muzzle was back over your face. Eyes wide, expression guilty as you stared at him.

I'm sorry, you wanted to choke out. But you couldn't. Instead a whimper left your lips as you tried to beg for some sort of forgiveness. But Max (Max fucking Verstappen! But you could freak out about that later) stepped between you. The look he gave you was enough to shut you up.

"Come on," said your handler as she pushed you through the garage. You couldn't stop yourself from looking guilty as engineers and mechanics stared at you. They'd seen what had just happened, there was no doubt in your mind. Your gaze fell to the floor, unable to look any of them in the mind.

There was your car, your F1 car. Your status as reserve driver had been kept quiet, your seat fitted and the car set up to your liking. Your number sat on the car, number fifty-three. It was real. It was really, really real.

They were still watching you. They watched as you touched the numbers on your car, as you climbed your way inside of it and sat in your seat.

"How does it feel?" Your handler asked, leaning over the halo.

You nodded as you looked up at her. Good. It felt good. It felt right. As soon as this part of your life was over, you could finally be done.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as Max pushed Charles through the garage. Through the garage and out the other side. Your focus fell back onto the steering wheel in front of you and you mimicked a lap around the circuit.

You didn't know that Max was pushing Charles into his drivers room. You didn't know just how angry he was with Charles. But you did hear as Max slammed the door shut.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Max roared, his expression furious.

Charles didn't cower at his anger. They were long past the days where Max's wrath would have his retreating to safety. "You saw her, right?" He asked and glanced at the door. "You saw how much she needs me."

"Needs you? Charlie, she went to attack you! She doesn't need you."

But Charles shook his head. "She needs me in the way you needed me, Max. She's what you would have become if you didn't let me in."

"She's dangerous."

Charles's hands were on his cheeks, holding his face. "So were you." He didn't let Max drop his chin to his chest and kissed him slowly. "What if I can help her in the way I helped you? Shouldn't I try?"

Max placed his hands over Charles's. His cold hands, cold from the can of Red Bull he had finished before he marched over, against Charles's warmer ones. "Not if it puts you in danger," he whispered, his eyes pleading. "Charles, I..."

But he couldn't say it.

"Come on," Charles said and let his hands slip away from Charles's face. "I can't top your speed in practice if you're sulking in here," he whispered and kissed Max once more.

As they walked back through the garage (Max continuing on to the Red Bull garage), there you were. Your helmet, Ferrari red and covered in sponsors, nothing personal about it, sat on your head. Acting as a muzzle, Charles realised when he looked at you.

His leg jolted, but he stopped himself from walking over to you. No, not yet. Not after what had just happened. He gave you a smile and you flipped up the visor, letting him see your eyes.

Charles got himself ready to climb into the car. All the time he wasn't wearing his helmet, he was looking at you, watching you. You, in your fireproofs, with your overalls around your hips. It suited you, everything but the helmet. The helmet looked too corporate.

You needed something personal, a design all your own.

"Tell me how she does," Charles said to Bryan before he pulled his helmet over his head.

Bryan passed him his gloves. "You worry about your own drive, okay?" He said and Charles focused his eyes forward.

Formula One was nothing like Formula Two. Everybody on the grid had forgotten it, even if they had all been in the series at some point. Most before it was called Formula Two, back when it was GP2.

There had been little preparation for your transition into Formula One. It wasn't supposed to happen yet, you were supposed to have more time. But then Carlos went and broke his damn leg and here you were.

If only he wasn't human, maybe you wouldn't be in this situation.

Your first lap was, well, terrifying. More than once you wanted to stop the car, jump out and dry heave onto the gravel. Nothing would come up, that you knew. But you kept going, keeping out of the way when the McLaren's came past.

First practice isn't about being the fastest, you told yourself.

"Next lap go," your engineer said, as if you were a dog he had taught a trick to. You gritted your teeth as you took the last corner. And then, you went for it.

It wasn't about topping the times, about being the fastest on track. It wouldn't be for you this weekend, anyway. This weekend was about getting a feel for the car you'd spend the next few weeks in. It was about bringing the car back to the garage in one piece. You didn't need to worry about scoring points or helping the team in the constructors, not this week.

But that was all you were thinking about.

Gotta go fast. Gotta score points. Gotta go fast. Gotta score points. Gotta go fast. Gotta score points. Gotta go fast. Gotta score points.

The lap felt good. Not fast, but good. But that wasn't enough, not for you. Your engineer said something, something that was met with a snarl as you went again.

"Come into the pits on this lap!" Your engineer was shouting. "Box fucking box!"

Box box. You knew that phrase, even when you weren't thinking right. But the lap was good. You couldn't abandon it, not now. "Box box, beastie."

Slamming on the brakes, you swerved into the pitlane. A dangerous move, one that would definitely see you penalised. You pitted and the car was pushed back into the garage.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Your engineer roared as he marched over to you. He gripped the halo are he stared down at you.

You were still, chest heaving as you waited to be told what to do. Waiting for your handler to come over and give you instructions. Eyes set forward, watching as Charles pulled into the pit. He wasn't there for very long, a minute at most, before he was making his way back onto the track.

"Beastie," your handler said, grabbing your attention. You looked up. Well, looked up as much as you could in the car. "Listen to your engineer. No more driving like that, okay?"

She said it so gently that you found yourself attempting to nod. Just wanting to make her happy, to make her proud of you. Her hand was suddenly on top of your helmet. "You know what happens if you disobey."

Your eyes were still focused forward and you nodded again. You weren't going to disobey again. You wouldn't dare.

When she patted your helmet, you shut your eyes. That was close to what would happen, close enough to have you moving away.

"Get back out there," she said and moved away from you. You drove out of the garage, down the pitlane and out onto the track.

You did what your engineer told you. Did a push lap when you were told and cooled down when you had to. Of course, you didn't see the wave Charles gave you when you went past, couldn't hear as he asked about you on the radio.

"How is she doing?" He asked Bryan.

"She's doing good, Charles, but concentrate on your own drive, please."

You were doing good, that was all Charles needed to know.

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[disneyprincemuke]

fly on the wall * fem!driver

she crashes in her third race of her f1 career, but she's more concerned about its repercussions than the concussion

pairings: sebastian vettel x fem!driver, lewis hamilton x fem!reader

warnings: crashing the car

notes: ooooh my god i had to rewrite this 5 times because it wasn't up to my liking initially, and then tumblr was having some issues saving my shit so i lost it?? it's very sad fr

(series masterlist) | (📂 the rookie season)

"are you alright?" sebastian's voice comes onto the radio.

his eyes are trained on the big screen, cameras focused on the car parked into the wall out of a turn. he couldn't get an answer out of his driver so he had to resort to the third party.

if his assumptions are correct, she would have hit her head on her seat hard at impact. but things like that can lead to so many bigger things that he might not even be prepared for. 

her vision slowly returns, blacking out for a mere second as the car went into the barriers of the baku track.

she had issues with her brakes for a few laps. sebastian had suggested retiring the car if she didn't feel safe, but she pressed on. the issue didn't seem so serious and it seemed manageable.

at first. 

it's a driver error - missing the early braking point to accommodate her already tweaking brakes. she missed it by a millisecond, clipped the wall and got sent straight into the wall.

she sighs, pressing the button on her steering wheel. "i'm okay," she answers shakily, tears now filling her eyes.

"okay, that's the important part. don't think about anything else. i'll see you in the medical centre." sebastian is quick to shut her thoughts down, clearly prioritising her wellbeing and not the car.

"i'm sorry," she sighs, voice shaking and lips quivering. “i’m so sorry, seb.”

this is only her third race in f1, how could she have already crashed out? on a race where she was so close to that podium. it would have been such a monumental moment — a woman on the podium. 

with 20 laps left in the race and her in 5th place, it wasn’t all that far out of reach at the time. yet, here she is causing a yellow flag as she starts to notice the smoke surrounding her. 

"like i said. don't think about anything else."

she sighs to herself as a marshal appears above her halo, greeting her with a soft smile. she nods, letting herself get helped out of her car.

but only one thought eats away at her: she crashed on her third race. what's everyone going to say about her now?

“let me talk,” sebastian sighs, hands up in the air as he tries to calm the girl sitting on the examination bed. he’s barely able to get a word in.

she’s slouched against the wall, purple balaclava in her hands as she traces the thread that holds it together at the hem. the minute he walked in, she looked up immediately with tears in her eyes and a string of apologies.

it hasn’t stopped since he poked his head through the door, cutting him off before he could even ask if she’s okay. 

“do you not see the problem?” she shrieks, eyebrows furrowing at sebastian. “i just crashed out! imagine what the media has to say about my performance today? they’re just going to use this as a reason to justify that i shouldn’t be on the track!”

sebastian drops his hands to his side, deciding that he’d just let her get it all off her chest. it might make her feel better. 

though, it doesn’t make him feel good that she’s continually talking down on herself. he vouched for her for weeks for a reason, and it’s because he believes in her. more than she does in herself, it seems. 

“i didn’t work my ass off my whole life just to be undermined because i’m a woman!” she tosses the balaclava aside, now picking at the loose skin by her fingernails. “i didn’t get this far for everyone to count me out because of one crash! can you fucking believe that shit? it’s a fucking rookie mistake, seb! i’ve been racing for years!”

she drops her hands by her side and groans again, rolling her eyes. “i’ve earned my rightful spot to be where i am! they are not going to care about that!”

sebastian shrugs slightly, overlooked by the infuriated woman across him. he can barely get a breath in before she continues, shutting his mouth immediately as she continues her rampage. 

“imagine the headlines tomorrow! a driver is as good as their last race — i know that! don’t try to sugarcoat it. you know i’m right!” she rambles on, eyes darting all over the room. she’s pushed herself off the wall slightly, clearly flustered over the course of events. 

she avoids sebastian’s eyes, the fear of fully breaking down in front of him prominent. crying over a crash seemed like such a silly thing to do, but there’s no denying how demanding the sport truly is. 

in her short three races in the season and people’s neverending criticism of her abilities, it makes her lie awake at night rethinking her position on the grid. 

following her crash, sebastian hadn’t expected for her to ramble on for this long. he initially thought that the crash would have sent her into a shocking silence, so while her anger is warranted, it was definitely not on his list of things to be ready for. 

“imagine what they have to say about me!” she throws her hands in the air, scratching her head gently. “imagine what they’ll say about you! it’s not going to be good, trust me! i’m a woman in a fucking racing car in a male-dominated sport!”

“hey!” sebastian’s voice bounces in the room, making her lift her head with her eyes narrowed into a glare. 

the sudden movement reminds her of her restrictions, hands coming up to nurse the back of her neck. she feels a sharp pain shoot through her head all the way down to her shoulders. “what?” she hisses, quickly looking down to hide the pain. 

“you literally just crashed head-first into a wall at 250 kilometres per hour! you’re lucky all you got was a concussion and whiplash! it could’ve been worse!”

“if i was lucky, i’d have been able to recover and get on the podium as we discussed! i was already 5th!”

“and you didn’t! that’s okay! you learn from things like these!”

“no, it’s not! i’m already hated as it is!”

“it’s part of the sport! fernando alonso has crashed, lewis has, and so have max and charles! every other big name in formula 1 has had their fair share! you’ll be okay!”

she finally meets sebastian’s eyes, slouching even more as she audibly sighs. he watches her body deflate, leaning back dejectedly. “it’s still different.”

she’s still in her fireproofs. her race suit had to be taken off during her short time with the doctor, hanging on the back of the plastic chair in the small medical room. her helmet sits next to her, underneath the balaclava she’d thrown on top of it. 

her hair is in a loose ponytail with stray hairs poking out and resting on her face. the adrenaline has yet to leave her body, chest heaving as if it’d just been over and beads of sweat still scattered all over her.

“i know it’s different. but everyone else who says whatever isn’t the person behind the wheel, you have to remember that,” he says in a soothing tone, finally coming up to stand next to her. he sighs, putting a hand on top of her head. “and i know it sucks.”

she shakes her head. “no, you don’t. we’re different; our problems are different.”

“the way they used to hate me, and things they say about you are different, yes,” sebastian nods in a low voice, his thumb now tracing circles on her head. “but you still can prove them wrong. you just started driving in formula 1 — you’ll have way more chances to shut them all up.”

“i could’ve already. if i just controlled the car a little better.”

“it’s okay.” he slides himself onto the examination bed, sitting next to her. he intertwines his fingers and rests his hands on his thigh. “everybody crashes at one point in their career.

“let the media say what they want, but not all that criticise you have been in a race before. nobody on that grid thinks you’re lesser than you are just because of what happened today.”

“you don’t know that.”

sebastian just shakes his head, refusing to elaborate any further. he leans back into the wall as well. “oscar is on the way with some snacks for you.”

crashing out during a race is never easy. years before he decided to retire, tapping and crashing out of a race has always been demoralising. it always feels like the first time when he does.

“i don’t need snacks. i need to go back to 4 hours ago when i was still on track for a podium finish in the first half of my rookie season.”

“with your talent, i can assure you that this will not be your only opportunity in formula 1. i will make sure of it, of course. wherever i go, you go.”

the door creaks open, cutting her off before she can throw an answer back as sebastian. “i’ve got your favourite snacks. i also stole a couple of twix bars from your backpack, i hope you don’t mind.”

“well, why’d you take them and still tell me about it knowing i wouldn’t even have given it to you in the first place?” she reaches for the nearest object next to her, yanking it towards oscar by the door. 

“because it was calling my name,” he shrugs, pushing the door fully open to reveal who he’s strung along to the medical centre. 

“i took a packet of haribo,” logan shrugs as he steps in. he flinches when she clenches her fist, scrambling to pull something out of his paper bag. “but i got you a can of sprite to make up for it! don’t be mad!”

her gaze softens when she notices lewis hamilton standing behind her friends, a paper bag hanging on his fingers as he grins at her. 

“how are you, sweetie?” his voice is empathetic and low, giving her a look that she’d seen from everyone she’s passed on her way here. 

she sees lewis and sebastian exchange glances, almost making her roll her eyes again. 

she doesn’t talk to lewis that often, but he has addressed her before when she would trail behind sebastian on the track. she would often greet him softly as she hid behind her mentor, or simply excuse herself when she sees either oscar or logan passing by. 

he’s a role model and the last thing she ever wanted to do was be too overbearing. to see him come to her aid is only a dream come true. 

“i hope you don’t beat yourself up because of that. you drove a brilliant race today,” he smiles. “everybody crashes out. don’t even care what others have to say about you. you did well.”

lewis understands being cast out as a minority. he will never understand the struggles and pressure put on her, but he can at least relate to a certain extent. “don’t even sweat it. you’re now one of the world’s greatest in a fast race car. you’d smoke anybody who would dare challenge you.”

oscar tilts his head. “why would someone random just challenge her out on the street?”

“oscar, shut up,” logan shoves the australian slightly, landing a warning smack on his shoulder after. “let her have her moment.”

lewis laughs but does wave oscar off as he returns his attention to her. “what they say will string, but trust me, this is not the end of the world. i know it feels like it.”

she nods to herself. “okay, hand me the snacks so i can eat away all my pain. i deserve it.”

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[endless-ineffabilities]

Maroon (part four)

modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

And I lost you The one I was dancin' with In New York, no shoes Looked up at the sky and it was maroon

themes/warnings: jealous!Aemond, language, a LOT of tension, very event-heavy

word count: 11.4k

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The Dragonstone ball is here. Will the reader and Aemond finally reconcile, or will things stand in the way? Again.

It had been eleven days of bliss. 

Eleven days since Aemond visited you in the bookstore, and you found him waiting for you at the corner table, perfectly illuminated like some mythical Valyrian god. 

Eleven days since he confessed his feelings for you, asked you to be his partner to the Dragonstone Ball. 

Afterward, he had started picking you up from lectures, taking you to places around the city, visiting you more frequently, shadowing you when you spend time with Helaena, to which she would simply roll her eyes and jest about being a “third wheel.”

You found yourselves in their secluded estate an hour away from the city, sitting in the clearing of a beautiful lush field overgrown with blue lupines and marigolds.

By then you still had not gotten accustomed to being with Aemond. Your heart still skipped each time your hands touched, and he gazed at you with longing. 

You had come to realize just how good and proper of a lover he can be. He was careful not to overstep any line, not to take things too fast. You know you’re not  experienced in this kind of thing, either. A connection so real. Something like that cursed four-letter L word that the both of you had managed to avoid when it comes to crushes, dating, romantic relationships in general. 

He sat on the green-and-black gingham blanket that he previously laid down on the grass in a flourish. You had giggled when the wind threatened to whip it over his head.

“Laugh it up, darling.” He playfully glared at you, which didn’t do much to quell your laughter. Aemond watched on, feeling warm at the sight.

You watched him, studying as the outline of the side of his face eclipses the sunlight in the horizon.

He has no idea, does he? 

He seemed oblivious to your staring, until he suddenly spoke, still keeping his gaze trained forward to the trees,  “I’m glad I have your full attention.”

You were certain all the blood rushed to your cheeks at his remark, but you scoffed, and playfully shoved him. He was caught off guard, and failed to prop himself upright in time. 

He shot you a glare as he brushed himself off. Without any warning, he wiggles his fingers against your side, making you audibly yelp in surprise. 

The bastard fucking tickled me.

“You did not just…”

“Oh, but I did, darling.” Aemond nodded slowly, taunting you.

You raised your hand to retaliate, but that didn’t work. Because in a flash of movement, Aemond grabbed your forearm and then your waist. 

And then, you found yourself underneath him, lying back on the mat. His halo of white-gold hair framing his face as he hovers above you, glowing brighter than the fading sunlight.

When his lips met yours, you realized that there truly were moments in life when time stands still. When everything is reduced to a humming of heartbeats in sync, and of someone else's warmth against you. 

When his blue eyes blazed into your own, you thought that maybe… just maybe… that was what it was like to be in love.

-----------------------

Love, love, love. What is it really good for? Aemond has seen people fall apart because of it, suffer in spite of it. 

He is quite sure that his mother has grown to love his father, despite theirs being a marriage of convenience. This is why she continues to care for him, and turns her cheek at any wrong done to her. 

Aemond has been on the receiving end of his mother's love, more so than his siblings. But sometimes he wonders if this is borne out of obligation and instinct. Would she still love him if he wasn't her only doting son - with Aegon never in the picture, and Daeron having grown indifferent to family affairs?

Does his mother truly see him, for all that he is, or does she see some idealized version of herself? One that she puts on a pedestal? Her golden child who has the chance to attain what she never could. 

There are times when Aemond fears that he does feel love himself, or not the truest form of it, at least. Sure, he loves his family. But is it also due to an uncontrollable pull of the heart, or simply out of duty? Does he feel like he needs to love them, being of the same blood? Has he just gotten used to being the binding force among his siblings, shepherding them like he actually is the eldest child? Do they even love him in turn? Certainly not with the same ferocity, Aemond knows, but in their own way? Most times, he finds it hard to tell.

It’s all like a game. They are all pieces on a chess board, playing a match that has no end. Moves and countermoves - isn’t this all that love is? Do something for them, protect them, as they will do for you. It is ultimately the right thing to do. 

But with you, Aemond knows it’s different. It has been, since you stumbled into his life. He never felt the need to maintain a sense of devotion. Never really gave it much thought, or any planning. It was just there. Out of the blue. Much to his surprise, and not without hesitation.

He did not understand what it was at first. You certainly did not need him. Did not ask anything of him. He saw how you approached him with no expectation. He was never Aemond Targaryen, Prince of the City, to you.

Only Aemond. Your best friend’s mildly sullen yet cordial brother. 

And you, well… you were just a passing fancy. Not bad to look at, pleasant enough to talk to. 

Until you weren’t just that.

There were times when Aemond feared that did not feel love himself.

Until you.

And you became everything.

-----------------------

3 hours before the Dragonstone ball

Alicent has been walking in a flurry all over the penthouse, her bluetooth earpiece buzzing constantly. Having final consultations with event coordinators, on-site production staff, caterers, florists, and security staff, among others. 

Talia trails her all around the vast living room, prepared to give a helping hand. 

“Yes, yes, that was the one that I asked for, I don’t know why I have to clarify this again,” Alicent seethes, pinching the bridge of her nose and looking up at the ceiling in her frustration. The caller’s rushed apologies echo from her earpiece. 

Her youngest son walks past her, an ascot tie loosely hanging around his neck.

“Daeron!” Alicent grabs him by the arm. “Are you all settled? Have you finally gone through options with the tailor?”

“Yes, mother,” Daeron cheekily sneers at Alicent’s worried expression. “I’ve just chosen which necktie I’ll be wearing, as you can see here. Just went down to get something to eat. Do try to relax, would you?”

“What about your brother? Please tell me he has had his suit vetted.”

Daeron replies, “I assume you mean Aemond, since Aegon will probably turn up in something ridiculous, like an inflatable dragon costume.”

Alicent scoffs before responding dryly, “If he actually does that, I just might consider sending him to the Silent Sisters institute.”

Daeron shrugs, “Best keep the family doctor close by, then. Oh, and Aemond’s all prepped since last week! You know him. Mr. Stickler-for-rules with a stick right up his a - ”

“Daeron!” Alicent exclaims. 

“Alright, alright, I’m kidding!” Daeron puts his hands up, laughing. He turns on his heel and strolls down the hallway. 

“My children,” Alicent sighs, sharing a look with Talia, who smiles knowingly in response. “Whatever will I do with them?”

“Oh, what will you do without them, ma’am?” Talia offers. 

Alicent hums in acknowledgement. She feels as if the lines on her face have deepened the past few months, though they’ve long made themselves evident, due to all her ceaseless worrying about Aemond's condition and all this commotion about the ball. But what else is there to do? 

She removes her earpiece and places it on Talia’s awaiting palm. 

“Are you alright, ma’am? Do you need some refreshments, perhaps?” Talia asks.

“I need…” Alicent sighs, preparing herself for the task to come. “I need to go see my son.”

“He isn’t here at the moment, ma’am.” Talia shuffles from one foot to the other, a force of habit when having to share something that may induce more stress to Alicent. “He left for his apartment at Blackwater Residences last night. He has requested that everything he needs for the ball be sent to him there.”

“And I was not informed of this because?” Alicent inquires, her mask of composure remaining. Aemond used to be the one she would run to first, should she need anything. Her confidante. Her dutiful son. And he’s always been comfortable enough to keep her in the loop about his affairs.

But not lately. Not since the accident. Her son has rebuilt the impenetrable wall around him, and she has not been allowed access inside. 

“Well, you’ve been very busy, ma’am. And Sir Aemond really didn’t tell anyone, he just informed me so that I may relay the message as I should.”

Alicent sighs in finality, “Fine. That’s fine. Have we made sure that his partner for the ball is in line? That model… uhhm, Alys, was it?”

“Yes, ma’am, she has made all the necessary preparations. And she is already aware of the regulations to follow, as she has attended the ball with Sir Aemond before.”

A question remains in Alicent’s mind. “You alluded once to something going on between Aemond and Helaena’s friend. The one who’s studying at the local university? I had thought that she would be his partner…” She trails off, remembering the one time she crossed paths with you. It was one evening in the penthouse, her kids and a number of their acquaintances sitting around a big round  table of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. She only came round for a moment to retrieve something from her office, lingering in the foyer with Talia to get some documents in order. 

She noticed you because you were sitting across the table from Aemond, who had been sneaking looks at you the entire night. Aemond clearly thought no one would notice, but if anyone would, it would be Alicent. 

Aemond has always been the most stoic of her sons, the least likely to wear his heart on his sleeve. But she saw, plain as day, that he was drawn to you.

Her son fancied you, but has something changed? As for Alys, Alicent has never been her biggest fan when it came to Aemond. Their age gap is not her favourite thing, but how can Alicent claim to be a judge on that matter when the man she married is 11 years older than her? She’s chosen to set that aside, but the Rivers model has struck her as highly self-regarding and standoffish.

Alicent would never admit it to herself, but perhaps the main reason why she dislikes Alys Rivers is that she sees part of herself in her. What she might have devolved into if she hadn’t married for power and privilege at a young age. Alicent, Alys. The latter being a recreational drug-addled, provocative social climber who Alicent doesn't think is good for her son.

Talia dithers on her response. Who can explain what is going on in Aemond’s mind after all? It is clear that the attraction remains, but his actions are all over the place. “As I gathered, ma’am, he did ask her. But… and I am not sure why, he ended up asking Miss Alys instead. Which is a downright shame, if I may add. She is really a sweet young girl. She and Miss Helaena dote on each other.”

“A shame, indeed,” Alicent hums. She begins walking down the hallway, Talia in tow, who then adds, “She will still be at the ball, though, ma’am. As Sir Jacaerys’ partner.”

Alicent’s brows furrow, and a grimace flashed across her face on instinct. “Got a Strong pup, has she?”

“They’re close friends - ”

“So I’m not certain what’s been going about, but my son likes her… or used to like her. But now he’s coming with Alys, and she’s coming with Jace?” Alicent spins on her heel, huffing out her confusion, her fiery auburn hair whipping around her. Regarding Talia whilst shaking her head, she exclaims, “Quite the handful this ball is turning out to be, and isn’t that just exactly what I need?”

-----------------------

Alys Rivers rarely does her own makeup, preferring the ease of having a glam team on call 24/7. 

But as she deftly applies medical-grade concealer on Aemond’s scar, her hands pat and press with a practiced ease of someone who had to do her own makeup on public buses at the age of 16, sneaking off to castings without telling her foster parents. 

She huffs with impatience from her stool. “Could you keep your expression neutral, dear? I dunno why you look like you’re in pain.”

Aemond responds in a cold voice, “Why, do you find that this is something I should enjoy, dearest? You’re smattering something on my face to make me look presentable. I’m allowed to react in a manner of my choosing. My sincere apologies if it’s not acceptable for you.”

“That’s not what I meant at all.” Alys drops her hand, frustration clear on her face. “Look, I can see that you don’t want to come to the ball.” She packs on more product on the brush in a rapid motion.

“Oh, is that your input?” Aemond mumbles, disinterested. He simply wishes he had placed his glass of firewine within reach.

“Yes, that is my input,” Alys snaps in return. When her brush meets Aemond’s face again, she does it with less care and more impatience. “If you’re not going to be civil to me, then you should have accepted the help of the makeup artist your mother assigned - ”

“I won’t have some fucking stranger’s hands all over my - ”

“I know!” Alys emphasizes, her exasperation growing evident. “Which is why I’m here. Which is why I agreed to help when you asked. I - ” She stops working, leaning back, her shoulders stooped in her frustration. “I only want to help you, Aemond. I care about you. You know this.”

Aemond finally looks at the woman sitting in front of him. Appraising her irate expression, which he had caused. “I did not want this. This… concealment of my scar was my mother’s idea, to keep up appearances - ”

“Oh, I know - ”

“I don’t know how you expect me to be, Alys, considering - ”

Alys stands abruptly, walking away to look out the window. “Aemond, this has been going on even before that godforsaken accident.”

Aemond sighs deeply, wanting to be anywhere else but in the room. Only that isn’t true, he wouldn’t want to just anywhere else. 

He wants to be with you.

Alys continues, “It all started that night when I visited you and you sent me away. Next thing I know there’s been whispers of you going around with some random girl.” She does not mention you by name. It’s better not to give you that power. She doesn’t need Aemond’s attention to drift any further from her than it already has. 

She has not been blind to the switch in his demeanour, having been on the brunt end of his anger one too many times. He still maintains his impeccable sense of decorum and tact most of the time, but she can easily tell that it's only for show. 

She once felt Aemond’s eyes on her, with some form of desire. Whatever he is capable of mustering, at least, even if it was never enough for Alys. At least she had hope that it could turn into something more. She can change him. Make him fall in love with her. But now, it’s like he sees straight through her. Only calling on her when absolutely necessary. Like this very moment. 

“Hmm.” Aemond looks to the side. He feels the weight of the product Alys just applied on his scar and it starts to irritate him. More so than the situation at hand, to his surprise. “What do you want from me?” He lifts his arms up offhandedly.

“I heard… about you and her. I’m not an idiot,” Alys says, trying not to sound desperate.

“No one ever said that you are,” Aemond responds impatiently.

“Did you ask her to come with you to the ball before you asked me? Am I just some last resort…”

“The fuck does it matter? You’re here because I asked you, did I not?” Aemond snaps, whirring around, away from Alys. The reminder of you is throwing him off, threatening to chip away at the mask of composure that he has prepared for this night. 

He hasn’t been able to shake off the scent of your skin, how warm you felt against him, that night he last saw you. 

And tonight, he will see you again. Aemond never fancied himself a romantic, but he knows that your presence would be the one thing that will make this night worthwhile. This dreaded ball, which he has never looked forward to. Save for a few short weeks when he thought it would be you on his arm. 

But he fucked it all up, didn’t he? All because he’s too weak to let you see him as he is. He thinks he’s not good enough for you. But a part of him has always known, because of your goodness, your undeniable warmth, that you would not mind the way he is right now. You would accept the person he has become - that’s just who you are. Good. 

And even then, Aemond always comes back around to the same conclusion. You’re too good for him; he’s not good enough for you. Might as well save both of you the pain, and try to stay away. 

And maybe, he can use Alys as a distraction. Choosing to bring her to the ball was an act of a coward, Aemond knows. Making you feel unwanted, pushed to the side. 

But this is what he deserves. The bruises on his knuckles from that incident in Pentos have only just healed, after all. He is still out of control. 

He’s never been a true believer, but the gods only know what he might do when he sees you on his nephew’s arm. Just the image of it causes him to clench his jaw in distaste. 

In pure jealousy. 

Aemond is blind to the possibility that you and his Jace are only friends, and will stay that way. All he sees in another man, holding you, laughing with you, looking at you like you’re the best thing in this world. 

Another man, and not him. Aemond is going to need a lot of ale to get through the night. 

And maybe more. 

Alys snaps him out of thoughts of you, walking across the room in a flash, until she stands right in front of Aemond. “Do you think you can just use me like this? I’m not second best, Aemond. You asked me to come with you, but you’re acting like you wouldn’t even touch me with a ten-foot pole.”

Aemond remains unmoving, gauging her livid expression. Calculating the next move to make. He’s found himself settling more and more into his old rhythm. Careful, methodical. Almost machiavellian. Never giving away too much. Far from how genuine he allowed himself to be around you. He did not have to pretend or mask anything. But that was then. That was with you.

“Say something, goddamnit,” Alys breathes, her slender fingers wrapping around his forearm.

Aemond’s eyes drift to Alys’ touch, feeling nothing at all. There used to be a time when he would want her company. Crave it even. Although that may have been for the most depraved purposes, one that he allows himself to indulge in now and again, it was still theirs. 

Now, Aemond cannot feel right having anything with anyone else. When all he wants is you. 

“I asked you to the ball because I wanted to, Alys.” Aemond relents, choosing to take the calmer road. He presses further, knowing that Alys would need more assurance than that. “You should know that I don’t trust many people, and yet here you are. That should count for something.” The sentiment is honest, at least, if not completely heartfelt. 

It isn’t as if Aemond grew to have Alys as a confidante by choice. It began as a series of run-ins, then deliberate nighttime invitations.. The trust he formed with her does not mean he values her above anyone else. It was more so that he knew, even early on, that he could never be tethered to her. They had an understanding of the nature of their relationship. 

He knew he would not fall in love with her. And he knows because has tried. It spares him from ever truly being vulnerable. It spares them both from any pain. 

He takes her hand in his, a final gesture to temper her storm of emotion. And it’s enough. For now.

When Alys leans in to plant her mouth on his, he sees it coming. But he stops himself from taking a step back, or turning his head. He knows that Alys would not dare back out of being his partner for the ball, the publicity and prestige of it all too good to her to pass on. But he does not want to risk having the same useless argument again.

The kiss is cold, fleeting. It leaves a faint hint of maroon by the corner of Aemond’s lips. Like a mark of betrayal.

“Okay, honey.” Alys reaches upward to smooth his hair. “Let’s do some final touches on you, then I’ll go to my suite and get ready.”

Some time later, she finally reaches some satisfaction on her work on Aemond’s scar and departs the room, eager to get started on her lengthier high-profile event glam routine. 

Aemond only has one consolation. 

He gets to freely indulge on firewine now. 

-----------------------

You sit in anticipation at the edge of the bed in your humble apartment.

Helaena had granted your request that you get ready in the confines of your own small but comfortable space, though she preferred that you take her up on her offer of getting ready in their penthouse. 

You knew it was best to concede to your friend when she said she would send someone to deliver your dress and to assist you. It couldn’t hurt, you thought, half-expecting that it would only be Talia.

You didn’t expect that sending someone in Helaena’s terms would mean two makeup artists, a hair stylist and his assistant, a nail technician, and Baela Targaryen, who had quickly risen through the ranks of the fashion industry with her clothing brand, Moondancer. 

Little did you know that Baela herself would be arriving at your door.

“Hello, sweetheart. I heard from a little birdie that you might need some assistance?” Baela says, stepping into your apartment without waiting for an invitation, confidently occupying any space. 

���Baela!” you exclaim. “How are you? Helaena did say she would send someone.” Before you could shut the door, a garment rack comes rolling through, about a dozen designer dresses whipping right past you. 

“Where to, ma’am?” A lanky man asks, his mop of ginger hair peering from behind the rack.

“Just there,” Baela gestures to a far wall, before glancing at you, as if remembering that it is in fact your apartment. “Is it fine?”

“Sure,” you smile. As if refusal was an option.

“Our dearest Helaena has informed me of your top choices,” Baela says, as her red-haired assistant began to gingerly pull each dress out from their garment covers. “And I commend your taste, by the way, most of these are my favourite pieces from the collection.”

Soon enough, all of the dresses are revealed to you, each one more beautiful than the next. 

“These are all amazing, Baela. Thank you. I owe you.” you say appreciatively, pulling her into a hug.

Baela keeps an arm over your shoulders when you pull apart, leading you to take a closer look. “You don’t owe me anything, sweet. So,” she says, “what are we thinking?”

“This one seems reasonable,” your hand drifts over a plum coloured dress, the material feeling nothing short of luxurious to the touch. It is a lovely A-line maxi dress, with intricate sequin detailing all over. 

“Reasonable,” Baela snorts. “It’s lovely and all, but awfully safe, don’t you think?”

“What’s wrong with being safe?” you raise an eyebrow at her statement. “This is my first and possibly only Dragonstone ball, Baela. I just want to get through it without making a fool out of myself.”

“But you won’t make a fool of yourself,” Baela squeezes your shoulder in encouragement. “You belong there just as much as anyone else. Maybe even more so, because we actually do like you. Jace especially.” 

Baela has a reputation for being quite the enterprising young woman, making a name for herself outside of the Targaryen business empire through her brand.  She takes no prisoners, they say. If she wants something, she will go and get it herself. Most find her intimidating, and you count yourself lucky to be at the receiving end of her sweeter side. 

“Hmm,” you feel a sense of ease wash over you, making you brush through the other dresses on the rack. 

“This dress you chose is nice, and if safe is what you want then…” Baela gives you a once-over, her eyes gaining a mischievous spark. “... that’s all well and good. But, sweetheart, don’t you want to leave Aemond a groveling mess by your high-heeled feet?”

Your stunned expression betrays you, hindering any attempt at denial. 

“Oh, I know.” Baela smirks. “Let’s just say that Hel may or not have clued me in on how absolutely childish he was to ditch you like that. I’ve always been of the opinion that my dear cousin needs to get his damn head screwed on straight, but hey, I might be biased.” She raises her hands, knowing she already got her point across. 

It won’t be long before she wins you over to a not-entirely-safe dress. 

The idea of Aemond possibly exhibiting any form of adoration upon seeing you at the ball is one that you have entertained too many times in the months leading up to tonight. To deny that would be foolish. 

Some part of you wants to save yourself from what can only be described as the rollercoaster of attempting to maneuver a relationship with Aemond. But an even greater part…  just can’t let him go. 

You sigh in finality. Baela grins at that. She clearly won this one, but there was never really any doubt.

“I’m glad you agree, because I have something for you.” She nods over to her assistant, who promptly leaves the room and returns with another dress. The dress. 

“Baela, what in seven hells.” You appraised the dress with evident stars in your eyes. “This… this was not in the catalogue Hel made me choose from.”

“Of course not, silly,” Baela responds proudly. “Because I designed this just for you.”

You shake your head in amazement, lightly asking, “What if I had stuck to my first choice, huh?” You wouldn’t have, not after seeing the dress, and you know Baela is aware of this. 

“Impossible,” Baela reaches for the dress and holds it against you, studying you like a subject. “I had planned to custom make dresses for the ladies in the family anyhow. Well, apart from my beloved aunt - your dearest’s mother - so making one for you too was a no-brainer.”

You thank her profusely, as she and her assistant, whom you discover is named Lancel, check how the dress fits you. Seeing if any last-minute alterations were needed, but there was really nothing else to do with it.

It was perfect. 

“Lancel will stay to assist you, and Helaena’s sending a whole team, and they should be here soon.” Baela says, growing busy with her buzzing phone. “I’ll be off to prepare myself.” 

“I don’t know what else to say, but thank you again, Baela. Helaena said you would be in charge of our dresses but I certainly did not expect this.” You say sincerely, as you see her to the door. 

“It was my pleasure,” Baela responds, and in true fashion, drops her head in a dramatic bow. As she walks down the hall, she does not miss her chance in calling back and adding, “and it will be an even bigger pleasure to witness the absolute anguish in Aemond’s face when he sees you.”

You welcome the shiver that runs up your spine at the thought of that. That’ll show him. 

As if on cue, the rest of your designated prep team arrive not long after, and you surrender yourself to the frenzy that followed.

-----------------------

The Dragonstone Ball

The Valyrian Hall is a place of marvel in the city.

Erected nearly a century to the day, it essentially marked the dominance of the Targaryen empire in the country. Designed like an amphitheatre, the looming structure has hosted many history-marking events. 

As befits it, it is also the venue for the annual Dragonstone Ball. Revamped for the purposes of each ball, it transforms into a hub of merrymaking and pageantry. Its attendees include no other than the rest of the nobility, dignitaries, notable artists and academics, as well as the nouveau riche. 

The country of Westeros is officially an oligarchy, with the heads of the most powerful Houses in power. But the unspoken truth of it is that the Targaryens rule over them all. 

And no expense is spared by the ruling family of the country. 

The media is flocked outside the hall, a thousand cameras flashing at each arriving guest. Hurling empty exclamations at the impeccably dressed attendees walking down the black carpet. The theme for this year was simple - Firelight - a play on the Targaryen and Hightower slogans, honouring the long-standing alliance between the two families. The dress code warranted only their traditional colours to be worn - red and black, green and silver. 

Viserys himself was the mastermind behind the theme, in an effort to make a show of strength in the family, after the horrid incident between Aemond and Lucerys. Alicent was slow to warm to the idea, if she ever did at all. 

Tensions are still high, especially between the mothers of two belligerents, with Alicent having shared unsavoury comments about Lucerys’ upbringing. 

And of course, it is an open secret in this year’s event that everyone is in anticipation of finally seeing what has become of Aemond Targaryen. 

-----------------------

Your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and beautiful, standing tall with a quiet confidence you didn’t think you could muster. 

Clad in the dazzling red gown Baela crafted specifically for you, and your tresses adorned with an embellished tiara crafted by the silversmiths of Volantis, you surprisingly do not feel like a whole other person. Not exactly. 

You feel more yourself than you ever had before. 

“I could be a Targaryen,” you jokingly share with Jace as you both study yourselves in the mirror. “If only I had that damned silver hair.”

“Trust me when I say that it’s not as fun as people might think,” he laughs in response, catching your eyes in the reflection. “But you look beautiful, sweetheart.”

You whirl around, not even bothering to hide the blush on your face. Jace would see right through you, anyway. “And you look handsome as ever.” You take a deep breath, trying to do away with the nerves that are threatening to emerge. Calm down. 

You lightly brush your hands across his shoulders. “Well, I cannot believe that I am going to the ball as the famous Jacaerys Velaryon’s date. What an honour, really. You’re practically a prince!”

“Oh, ha-ha,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes playfully. “I’m just Jace to you, thank you very much.”

“This is going to go great,” you sigh in encouragement, mostly to yourself. I’ll finally see him, won’t I? What could go wrong?

What could go wrong, indeed? How much will it string to see Alys Rivers draped on Aemond’s arm. To see them dancing with each other, barely an inch apart. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Jace smooths your perfectly-done hair in reassurance. “You and I are going to enjoy this godsforsaken ball with Hel, Luke, and the rest of our friends.” Don’t even think about him, he wanted to say, but you already knew that. 

He holds his arm out for you to take, indicating that it is finally time to head to the ball.

“Shall we?”

You loop your arm around his with a steady smile, bracing yourself for what would turn out to be one of the most memorable nights of your life. 

-----------------------

You feel the limousine idly come to a slow stop in the private road leading to the front of the grand Valyrian Hall. All at once, everyone flocks around to catch a glimpse of whom they presume to be members of the Targaryen clan, but the security detail is quick to ensure that none may come too close. Even if it would be impossible to peer through its heavily tinted windows. 

“Don’t worry, we won’t come out here.” Jace is quick to note, when he sees the apprehension on your face. “We’ll head inside to the inner courtyard.”

The yelling of photographers outside sounds like a cacophony, an endless buzzing, and you are grateful you don’t have to go right into their throes.

The limousine moves once more, presumably following the one before it, passing the towering gold palisade surrounding the hall. 

“Special entrance for special guests, eh?” Jace nudges you, smirking.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” You hum in response. You try to fight it, but your mind races. Is he already here? ‘I’ll see you at the ball,’ he said. Sure. What then?

“There are still photographers and members of the media here, but only ones vetted by the family,” Jace explains. “I’ll take the lead, so you don’t have to worry about answering any questions if you don’t want to. Just stick with me.”

Ever the gentleman.

The chauffeur opens the limousine door, and Jace gently tows you along with him. When the blinding camera flashes first hit your eyes, you enter into a sort of haze. Like on autopilot, you don a practiced smile and smoothly walk with Jace down the black carpet. 

Jace opts to have only one brief interview, with whom you recognize to be the prolific Mysaria, the head news anchor for the channel owned by the Targaryens. 

“And who is your lovely date for this evening?” she beams, and the camera pans over to you. 

“This beauty here is y/n, one of my best friends.” Jace drapes an arm around you, then smiles to the camera. You admire how flawless his media training is. 

“That’s right,” you hear yourself saying, “someone needs to keep this one in line.”

Mysaria laughs, “Oooh, we love your attitude. Well, you two do make the most gorgeous pairing.”

She asks a few more questions, then the interview quickly wraps, and Mysaria shakes both of your hands in her professional manner. 

Event coordinators usher the two of you inside the sprawling foyer, lush with intricate Targaryen red and black tapestry. But right as you start to appreciate the detailed engravings on the bronze panels propped up on the walls, you are directed up a flight of stairs and into a private parlour. 

Your shoulders visibly slump in instant relief when you spot some familiar faces. 

Helaena stands speaking to Lucerys, who incidentally is her date, as she refused to be paired with anyone unfamiliar. Luke had been gracious enough to volunteer to be her partner.

“Even if her brother and myself fucked each other over a while back, I still love Hel,” you heard him joke once, a pit of dread settling in your stomach. Leave it to Luke to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

“Look who it is,” Luke greets loudly, “my brother finally looks like an actual human being.” 

“Ah, you little shit,” Jace counters, shaking his head fondly. “How’s the limp?”

“Not bad,” Luke props his right leg forward, showing off some progress.”Lucky for me, we’ll be walking at a snail's pace all throughout this bloody thing. You look stunning, by the way.” He winks at you.

“Thanks, Luke.” you smile at him. “So, what a spectacle, huh? It was crazy out there.” 

Helaena wraps an arm around your waist, “If you think that was crazy, wait ‘til you enter the main hall.”

“We’ll be announced next. It’s just us left from the family, really. Everyone else has already walked down the proverbial aisle.” Luke comments, straightening his shawl lapels. 

The brothers’ choice of attire contrasts yet complements the other’s, with Luke sporting a burgundy three-piece suit and a black tie, whilst Jace dons a simpler black suit and a red tie. 

Helaena looks simply otherworldly in her emerald gown, representing the true Hightower heiress that she is. 

“Everyone?” you exhale, the words registering. He’s already here.

“You alright? You remember everything from rehearsal?” Jace confirms with you. Yes, I remember rehearsal quite well. The one that Aemond predictably chose not to attend.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You nod, shaking away any thought of him. We’ll see each other soon enough. “Let’s get this shit done, shall we, partner?”

“You’re up next, Sir Lucerys, Miss Helaena.” The event coordinator summons the pair, directing them to stand in front of the heavy-set ornate doors. 

A moment passes, then the doors open with a slow, echoing groan. Helaena shoots you one more smile as she walks through with Lucerys. 

You hear the herald’s booming voice announcing their names, just as the doors close once more. 

“Two more minutes of this,” Jace remarks. “Or you know, maybe ten, since my brother has to take his sweet time walking down the hall.”

“Hey,” you smack his chest, laughing, “it’s not his fault he still has a limp.”

Taking your hand, Jace leads you in front of the doors. You feel your heart pounding, as the sounds coming from the great hall are amplified. 

You turn to Jace, wanting to say something, anything, to calm yourself but your mouth feels dry. “Hey,” he gently croons, coming to your rescue, his hand covering yours as you squeeze his arm, “do you see this?” 

Your eyes follow as he points to the figure embossed on the large metal doors. 

“It looks like… a dragon?”

“That’s right. I think you know of the myths of Old Valyria, where my family hails from. This dragon is called Balerion, the greatest and largest that my ancestors were said to have claimed.”

“Even in this form, he looks imposing,” you say, gazing at the figure, “and beautiful.”

Jace hums in agreement, adding, “You know, legend has it that Targaryens are of the blood of the dragon. That we, for lack of a better word, are dragons ourselves.”

“Hmm,” you smile at the thought, “and do you believe that?”

Jace shrugs, facing ahead, getting ready. “Why shouldn’t I believe?”

His words inspire a sense of calm, and self-assuredness, quieting your restless mind. I can do this. You hold yourself up, lips curved in a soft smile. 

The doors open, revealing the revelry below. 

Here we go.

-----------------------

Aemond had been eager to get through with the initial presentation, practically marching through as fast as can be allowed, with Alys clinging on his arm. He did not much care for the dissonant whispering that flooded the hall once the crowd got sight of him. Their missing Prince of the city has returned.

You would think I grew a second fucking head. 

It was no use trying to drown them out, even with the orchestra resounding from the balcony. 

“What happened to his eye?”

“Is that really him?”

“He looks…”

“In a rush, are we, honey?” Alys asked through gritted teeth, annoyed, but kept her signature sultry expression intact. She pulled him closer to her, “Keep pace with me now.”

When they finally reached the front of the hall, where the rest of his family assembled, he nearly took a swig out of the flask Aegon was subtly trying to hand over to him. 

Until Alicent hissed at the both of them. “Not now, boys.”

The crowd continues to sneak glances at him. In awe or pity, Aemond does not care to know. With every new pairing being announced, he is grateful that their attention is momentarily diverted. 

He stands tall in his midnight black formal leather overcoat, with a fitted dark green shirt underneath. His hair has grown longer since his last public appearance, and he now wears it in a half-up manner, with his eyepatch neatly in place over it.

He has come to terms with his appearance, and soon enough, he might even grow to accept the moniker Aemond One-Eye as his brother keeps calling him. 

“It’s badass, Aem,” Aegon had drawled. “You look like a Valyrian dragonrider from the old stories with that scar.”

The pairings could have blurred in a haze altogether. Lannister, Arryn, Baratheon, Stark, Tully. On and on it went, but none of them left a mark on Aemond. 

There is only one person he is so desperate to see. 

When Lucerys Velaryon’s name is announced, Aemond can’t help the distaste he feels. He rolls his shoulders, trying to keep composure, Alys’ arm falling from him. She only regards him from the corner of her eye, likely praying that he doesn’t cause a scene and embarrass her.

He keeps his focus on his sister, as she gracefully floats through the crowd in Hightower green. Such a shame it’s that bastard she got paired with.

Helaena and her partner reach the front of the hall, and she throws him a look as if to say, behave. Aemond ducks his head in acknowledgment, lips curling. 

I promise I’ll try to be good. For her sake.

To his left, he hears Helaena whisper, “Any moment now.”

Aemond knows exactly what she means, and does not feel the need to muster a response. The anticipation has devolved into some kind of torture, as all he wants to see you again.

To feel you against him, how your skin would glide smoothly against his, how you would fit together. 

The effects of firewine are getting stronger, encroaching on his senses. It dawns on him that perhaps he shouldn’t have imbibed in considerable quantities before the ball, but no matter.

The herald begins his next announcement. 

“Finally, let us welcome Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Laenor Velaryon…”

“More like Strong,” Aegon mumbles under his breath, but Aemond no longer pays him any mind. 

“... and Rhaenyra Targaryen. With his partner…”

The herald says your name, and Aemond can practically feel his heart lodged in his throat. Keeping his arms behind his back, he adjusts his stance, trying to calm himself. He sees you emerge from the top of the steps and watches as your eyes sweep over the entire hall, and eventually, finally, meet his very own. 

Aemond can hardly breathe, the blood rushing to his head at the sight of you in that red dress, making him feel all woozy. The firewine surely does not help, either.

She looks like a goddess. You walk down the hall, keeping your eyes trained ahead, hand firmly on Jacaerys’ arm.  But Aemond does not spare his nephew any more than a cursory glance, almost entranced by the way your gown enhances your silhouette. By the exposed planes of your skin. 

He watches your chest heave against your bodice as you take deep breaths. He knows that you would be nervous, but to your credit, nobody will be able to tell. 

That’s my girl. You reach the front of the hall, joining the rest of the family and their respective partners. Your lips part slightly as you get a better look at Aemond, and he wants to know badly what you think. But then your eyes visibly narrow at something, and you turn away, walking with Jace to the other end of the group. 

Aemond registers that Alys had looped her arm around his again, and he curses her internally. He can’t help the glare that he throws in her direction, but she must not see the irritation in his eyes or simply ignores it. 

Alys mouths, “Have you been drinking?” with a seductive smile that does not fit her query. 

Keeping up appearances, as usual. 

“Some,” Aemond snaps. “Don’t let it concern you.”

The hall falls into silence as Viserys conducts his opening remarks, followed by a brief speech from his daughter and named successor, Rhaenyra Targaryen. 

Soon enough, it’s time for the first dance. All of the main pairings make their way to the open floor in the middle of the hall, standing across from each other as they line up in an orderly fashion. It is the only traditional Valyrian dance of the night, for which participants were required to attend a series of rehearsals prior to the event. Aemond opted out of them this year, not that it mattered. He has long since mastered the dance, having attended every Dragonstone ball since his childhood. 

He is tempted to look in your direction, but his instinct to follow tradition wins over. 

Always keep your eyes trained on your partner, his mother had ingrained in him and his siblings.

That wouldn’t be a problem, if she were mine.

The dancers raise their right arms to the front, and the music starts. For Aemond, every step almost feels robotic, and his body moves on its own volition. He does not even need to think, nor does he appreciate the closeness the routine requires of the pairings. 

Fuck it. At that, Aemond lets his eye wander over to you, as you twirl around with Jace a few feet away. You don’t even look at Aemond, and you shouldn’t, but it annoys him anyway. 

He spins Alys around, and her back is pressed to his as they saunter from side to side. 

Then you lock eyes. He notices the switch in your expression, which you quickly revert back to a fixed soft smile, but he sees it anyway. 

You’re irate at me, my love. The pairings spin around again. And for good reason. 

“You smell of firewine,” Alys mutters, when she draws closer. 

“Well, I needed something to make this night bearable,” Aemonds responds coolly,

“Aemond,” Alys warns. 

Aemond could have rolled his eyes at her reaction. Eye, he smirks at himself. “Don’t worry. It’s not you. I just dislike all this.” Surely that will get her to simmer down.

“Do you really ? Aren’t you a stickler for Valyrian tradition?”

“Hmm.” When in seven hells will this dance end?

-----------------------

When the first dance ends, you audibly breathe a sigh of relief. 

It is no longer the apprehension about tripping on your feet, or doing something unbecoming of the tradition of the ball, or even forgetting a part of the dance routine that plagues your mind - all of your worries are set aside, overpowered by the rush of emotion from seeing Aemond once again.

The sight of him had been enough to drown out all the noise. Like the focal point of a kaleidoscope, your eyes sought him out when you entered the hall. 

Like a moth to a flame. And he found you too. 

You don’t know what else to think, apart from - He looks beautiful. 

What was he even worried about? He still looks every bit like your Aemond, though you feel sorry at the now apparent loss of his eye. You know he would not desire your pity, that he would hate being on the receiving end of it from anyone. But you can’t help it.

I’m sorry this happened to you, you want to tell him. But would it even matter? Would it make a difference? Or does he already get enough consolation from the company of Alys Rivers?

Jace does not let go of your hand as you walk to the head table with the rest of the family, which is situated like a dais at the front of the hall, so that all the family members would have a full view of everything. Aemond is situated at the other end of the table with Alys, but since they are seated at the other end of the long table, as are you and Jace, they are directly in your line of sight. 

The staff had distributed glasses of a deep violet wine which Jace explained is firewine, originally from Valyria. “Are you doing alright so far?” He places his hand atop yours on the table, and you hum positively in response. He does not let go, his thumb drawing soothing circles on the back of your hand. 

You raise your head when Viserys addresses the hall, making the mistake of catching Aemond’s eye. You notice how tense he sits, both hands intertwined on the table, his eye trained on you. Or rather, on Jace’s hand adjoined with yours. 

You shake your head slightly. He looks up at you, as if noticing the attention you are giving him. So you look away quickly, listening as Viserys makes his first toast to the hall.

“Now we drink,” Jace signals. You pick up the ornate glass and bring it to your lips, and see Aemond doing the same. He does not drop your gaze as he takes a drawn out sip, and finally lowers the glass. You catch the way his tongue flickers to taste the remnants of firewine on his lips, and you feel your cheeks flare up with warmth. 

Does he know what he’s doing?

“We now invite all of you to partake in another bout of dancing, this one less stringent than the first, so there’s no need to worry. No dragon will come to smite you if you step on your partner’s toes, but my dear wife won’t hesitate to throw you out of the hall, I’m sure,” Viserys announces genially, earning some laughter from the attendees. “And shortly after, the feast will begin.”

The crowd sets into commingling. Some pairings remain together, some accept invitations from other guests. The orchestra begins to play a slower, gentler hymn. Something more intimate. Romantic. 

“May I have this dance, stranger?” Jace grins at you, offering his hand. 

“Well, who am I to refuse a dragon?” you quip in turn. You pass by Helaena and Luke already on the dancefloor, and Aemond and Alys… 

“Hey,” Jace keeps you from finding out. He keeps a gentle hand on the small of your back, and takes your hand in the other. “Is he bothering you?”

“What?”

“Aemond,” Jace says. “I could not help but notice that my dear uncle has been practically drooling at you like some starving dog.”

“He has not,” your eyes widen at his insinuation. But he has, hasn’t he?

“Are you blind?” Jace laughs. “He’s bloody doing it right now.”

It doesn’t take long for you to find him, guiding Alys Rivers in a slow dance. And Jace is right. He may be holding her, but his focus is on you. 

“You can tell that he must be so jealous right now,” Jace says. “It’s kind of funny.”

A giggle bubbles up your lips, and Jace joins you. You hold each other closer in an attempt to control your laughter. “Still,” you breathe out, finding the words. “He came here with Alys. Not me.”

Jace simply smirks at your concern. “Oh, doll. Judging by how he looks like he might commit nepoticide at any moment, I’d say you’re doing a fine job of making him pay for it.”

-----------------------

Aemond hears you laugh a few feet away, recognizing his favourite sound. It’s been too long since he last heard it. Too bad you’re sharing the moment with his Strong nephew, of all people. 

The song slows to a gradual halt, but the dance is still under way. Aemond takes this as his cue to turn away from Alys, mumbling something about getting a drink. 

“Wait until they’re served. You don’t just slink away searching for alcohol to drown in! This is so unlike you.” She seethes, his attitude finally getting to her. 

Aemond knows this. He’s well aware that the servers will soon emerge from the corners of the hall with delicate glass flutes balanced on gold trays. He’s seen this ball play out all throughout his life. 

But he is not looking for the same sweet, feeble firewine. He’d much prefer the seedier alcohol that Aegon brings around in his flask.

Alys was right. This is truly unlike him. But between the awareness of everyone scrutinizing his new appearance and seeing his nephew’s hand firmly on your waist, his only recourse is to take a book out of Aegon’s page. 

And drink like a Braavosi seahorse, as they say. 

You begin swaying once more, in the arms of Jace, as the music gradually rises back to a crescendo. New sets of pairings venture onto the dancefloor. 

Thankfully, one of them steps in to relieve him. 

“Well, if it isn’t Alys Rivers herself,” a man exclaims, then turns to Aemond. “Do you mind, sir?” He holds his hand out to Alys, standing tall like a reed, as if a stiff breeze would blow him away.

“Oh, hi.” Alys says, pleased at the attention. “Aemond, this is Harris, he’s an actor and we worked on…”

But Aemond has already stepped away, disinterested by her explanation. “By all means.”

It is clearly not the reaction Alys wanted from him, and she glares at his retreating figure. Aemond doesn’t notice, approaching his brother on the sidelines.

“Finished dancing with mommy?” Aegon sneers by way of greeting. 

“Fuck off, Aegon.”

“Aw, come on.” Aegon slaps his brother on the back. “You know I'm joking. Besides, you’re doing well for your first event in a long time.”

“Well,” Aemond’s lips curl in thought. Is that how things are going? Well? I wouldn’t say so. “Hand me your flask.”

Aegon sniggers, reaching for his pocket. “Hurry while our dear mother’s not looking.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Aemond takes a long drag of the liquid, the unforgiving taste biting in his mouth. It burns a little as it goes down his throat, winding up in his core as a pit of warmth. 

“Well, well. Did you lose your inhibitions along with your eye, brother?” Aegon snatches the flask back, surprised but not disappointed by this turn of events.

Perhaps.

“Look at them. Smiling at each other like that.” Aemond spits out, venom lacing his tone.

“Wha -” Aegon’s head whips around, searching. Landing on you. “Oh. I see.” His amusement flares even greater. “Someone’s bloody jealous.”

“Hmm.” Why bother denying it? 

“Didn’t think you had it in you to be cuckolded by a bastard.” Aegon says, dealing an effective blow.

“Give me that,” Aemond swipes the flask once more, taking a careless swig. Intrigued whispers reach him, somewhere from behind. Or to his side, it doesn’t matter. They can say whatever they want.

He hands the flask back to his snickering brother, then goes on to claim what’s his.

-----------------------

“Nephew.” 

You hear his voice, plain as day. One minute he was some distance away, then he materialised right beside you. 

“Mind if I step in?” Aemond asks Jace smoothly. Politely. But his eyes betray a hint of malice. You can’t help but stare at him blankly as he offers his hand to you. 

Jace doesn’t respond right away, looking to you for approval. Are you fine with this? He seems to ask with furrowed brows.

“It’s okay,” you find your voice, albeit timid and unsure.

“I won’t go too far,” Jace whispers. He lets you go, letting Aemond take over in his stead. You stand in front of each other, but you don’t dare move closer. You feel arrested in his gaze, and he doesn’t say anything for a while.

Until he takes a sure step. Then he is everywhere. His familiar scent envelops you once more. Dizzying, like a long swig of firewine. You even catch a hint of it from him. His lips curl in amusement as he sees you studying him. You take notice of his eyepatch, of the scar lingering beneath. 

Aemond. Enticing as ever. Ethereal and princely in his leather garb.

Why did he ever have to hide from me?

He whispers your name, and puts both hands on the small of your back, pulling you right against him. More intimate than the stance you had with Jace. 

Aemond always had a pair on him.

He does seem to be unfazed, though he surely regards how flustered you’re becoming. “Hands up on my shoulders, love.” He says, and you comply.

Then he gracefully guides you through the slow dance. How can he act like everything is normal between us? Does he expect me to just -

“You look beautiful.” Aemond says, breaking you out of your thoughts. Your eyes widen at his sentiment, and your cheeks warm. “Easily the most beautiful woman in this room.”

It’s all too much, and you have to look away. “Nice of you to say that, Aemond.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.”

You continue with the dance, too aware of your proximity. If you lean in, you’re almost certain he’ll feel your rushing heartbeat. Maybe he already does, judging by the pleased look on his face.

“Are you… are you better now?” You ask, tentatively.

Aemond’s expression hardens, and you struggle to decipher what he could possibly be thinking. 

“I wish this never happened to you,” you add, and your hand strays on its own, hovering over the side of his face. But you catch yourself, and let your hand fall just as quick.

“I know,” he says, sincerely. “I do wish I never had to be away from you.”

“But you never had to,” you respond immediately. “This wouldn’t have changed how I see you.”

“It might have,” Aemond looks away this time. “You didn’t see how I was. How I still am.”

“I don’t - ”

Aemond’s head whips back to you, leaning closer. “There’s a reason why my mother made sure I wore these bloody gloves. So we don’t give people a chance to talk about their fucking Prince of the City’s latest exploits.”

You swallow, growing concerned. “I heard about those… fights. I wasn’t sure if they were true. Nobody ever said anything.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, they are. I’m not going to lie, darling. Right now, I’m not averse to slamming Jacaerys right to the ground.”

“Aemond,” you freeze, no longer swaying to the music. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Maybe he has changed. But did I ever truly know him? Did he really let me in?

He notices your expression fall, agonizes at the sight of you moving away from him, dropping your arm to your sides. So he pulls you in once more, holding you right against him. His leather coat is smooth against the featherlike fabric of your gown, cool against your growing warmth. 

“Wait,” Aemond pleads. “Stay with me.” His hands slide upward, cradling your face. You have no choice but to look at him. Briefly, you wonder how he would appear without the eyepatch. Not that it matters. Not that he will reveal himself to you.

The song comes to a gradual halt in the background. The crowd begins to shuffle back to their tables. Some of them cast wary glances in your direction. Who is that girl with their beloved Aemond, they must wonder, and you begin to grow self-conscious.

“I want to kiss you right now, darling.” Aemond sighs, fanning your face with an exhale. Proving your assumption that he might be inebriated. Not just with wine, but something stronger.

I wish you would. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” His face scrunches in frustration, and it’s actually adorable.

“Not here. People are staring.” You clear your throat, trying to get a hold of yourself. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him.

“Let them stare.”

His gaze drifts down to your lips. His thumb flutters across, parting them just a little. Just as he had, that one night. Has it been that long?

Like a shock to your senses, you see a lithe figure in a silver slip gown walking in your direction. A vision with her cascading dark hair.

You jump back from Aemond, and he looks almost wounded.

“Enjoy your night, Aemond.” You turn away from him. “Alys.” You muster up a greeting, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile. 

You walk through the crowd, your mind still on Aemond, unaware that he continues to watch you with longing, tuning out the dark-haired vixen holding on to his arm. 

“You look flushed,” Aegon greets, standing with Helaena by the dais. 

“I suppose it’s your fault Aemond’s drunk,” you respond, raising your eyebrow.

“He’s drunk?” Aegon exclaims, shrugging dramatically. “I swear I had no part in this.”

Helaena shakes her head, watching the exchange. “It’s a relief you didn’t decide to become an actor.”

“Hey,” Aegon grumbles, but he is clearly unaffected. “Aemond wanted to get drunk. I never could make him do anything no matter how hard I try.” 

Smirking at you, he presses on. “If anything, sweet, I should be blaming you.”

-----------------------

You are seated back at the high table when Jace finally returns. But he is not alone, grinning conspiratorially with another raven-haired fellow, strapping and dignified in appearance.

You spot the wolf sigil pinned to his black tunic, and you automatically make an assumption.

This must be a Stark.

“I would like to introduce you to an old buddy of mine,” Jace smiles, confirming your thoughts. “This is Cregan Stark.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Cregan reaches you, drawing close. He smoothly takes your hand, and presses a kiss to the back as a gesture of courtesy. “A shame we didn’t meet sooner. I suppose I haven’t left Winterfell in far too long. Haven’t seen this one in a long time too.” He tilts his head in Jace’s direction, smiling. You can’t help but notice the sharpness of his canines, making him appear kind of wolflike, in line with his family symbol. “My sister Sara misses him way too much for my liking.”

At the mention of Sara, Jace’s cheeks visibly redden, and you make a mental note of teasing him about it later.

“What’s not to miss about Jace, really?” you say, taking a liking to the Stark boy’s demeanour. Sure, he holds himself with a steely confidence that befits someone of his status - much like Aemond - but he doesn’t come across as intimidating. 

And, more importantly, he’s good friends with Jace, so he must be trustworthy.

“Right, you two, the feast is starting,” Jace playfully pulls Cregan away from you, who winks in your direction before hunkering off to his own table.

Jace sits down next to you, a smile still resting on his lips. When he catches you looking, you take the opportunity and say, “So, Sara Stark, huh?”

He smirks, easily countering with, “So, my uncle, huh?”

Your eyebrows raise, and you pick up the flute of wine set before you.

“Touché.”

-----------------------

Another one. Aemond has half a mind to break something when he spots the fucking Stark boy making advancements on you. Who does he think he is anyway? Does he not know that you are already spoken for? 

True to form, his nephew Jacaerys only seems to be encouraging the whole thing. Bringing his two friends together. 

Bastard is as bastard does. 

Thankfully, there is a sudden trill sound, some chimes swinging, it doesn’t matter. The feast is being signalled to commence. 

Everyone makes their way back to their tables, including bloody Cregan Stark. 

Aemond is simply determined to go through the motions, and to make it to the remaining two hours of this ball. Two excruciating hours. Then he plans on taking you off somewhere, just you and him, having already considered the different outcomes in his head. 

To Blackwater Residences, perhaps? But that would be a bit far away. You would be inclined to go with him, only if there would be an option to return to the ball should the need arise.

So he settles on simply pulling you away from the crowd, somewhere within the Valyrian Hall. He knows the ins and outs of the establishment quite well. So there would be no trouble getting around. To the gardens, to the balcony on the upper floor, to the private parlour?

Anywhere, anything.

“... so of course, I said yes! It’s a really good opportunity for me to finally venture into the film industry, you know. It’s something I've always wanted.” Alys prattles on, and Aemond tunes in, now and then, nodding or shaking his head as warranted. Keep her happy, and the night should flow by easily. If he plays his cards right, he should be with you soon enough. 

Viserys commands the attention of the crowd, and hush falls over the feast. 

He begins by thanking everyone in attendance, then goes on to make a toast for the entire city, for prosperity. And at the end, he expresses a tribute for perpetual unity among his family, the accident glazed over like a bad headline.

Like it never happened. And that is how people will see it, if that is the will of Viserys.

As per tradition, the rest of the family may take the opportunity to share a toast, should they wish. 

Rhaenyra is next, and she expresses gratitude for the health of their sons. 

Otto Hightower announces the predicted success of the next business venture between the Targaryen and Hightower empires, shepherded by his tireless consulting and liaising, of course. 

Daeron makes a cheerful toast to his many friends, scattered across the hall in attendance. 

And then, Lucerys stands, leaning against his good leg, one hand on the table for balance. He raises his hand high, and his usual impish smirk is in place. He looks around the hall, making sure to have everyone’s eyes on him.

“It's been quite the year, as we all know. I, for one, am simply grateful to still be standing here among you.” 

Viserys looks to Rhaenrya, as if to question whether Luke will stray too far. The boy’s mother merely smiles stiffly, trusting her son to be prudent in his speech.

Luke does not miss a beat, continuing, “I would like us all to toast to my family, especially to my dear uncle, Aemond. Hopefully he has learned his lesson about challenging me to a race.” He adds the last thing lightly, and the crowd titters as a result.

“Alright, Luke, that’s enough.” Rhaenyra makes a hushed warning.

Luke mouths, wait, and finishes up the rest of his speech. “I would like to make a toast as well, to our dear friends and companions here at our table. To Daeron’s girlfriend, Viola. To Rhaena and her Corwyn. And to my good friend, y/n.”

Aemond’s hand clenches into a fist on the table at his nephew mentioning your name. He sees you regard Luke with surprise, not expecting this at all. 

Luke finishes his toast, and in a deliberate move, he says, “Seeing as how my brother is quite taken with you, I won’t be surprised if you will be joining our family soon.” 

Aemond suddenly rises from his seat, his weighty chair causing a grating noise to echo across the hall. 

Luke sits back down with a triumphant sneer, having accomplished his desired result.

Aemond takes a deep breath, not saying anything for a few seconds. His features are stony and his figure taut, like a serpent ready to strike. 

“Aemond,” Alicent says, worried.

Then Aemond raises his glass, a determined look on his face, his one beady eye scanning the hall. Not willing to be defeated.

“A tribute,” he begins, “to the health of my nephews. Jace, Luke and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”

He catches sight of you, sitting too far away, worriedly looking between himself and Jacaerys, who glares at him appalled. You shake your head at him.

This is all for you, my darling.

“...Strong.” Aemond calls to everyone. “Let us raise our cups, to these three Strong boys.”

The tension takes its toll, and despite Viserys’ best efforts, chaos ensues.

a/n

not Aemond getting wasted just to cope with the high of properly being with the reader after the longest time...

also - someone send Ewan back to Derby please. I'm serious.

Sound off in the comments! I would love to know what you guys think 🖤

Series taglist: @caught-in-the-afterglow @aemondtargaryensrider @punggo66 @dollfaceyourfear @candypurplebutterfly @moonmaiden1996 @mxrgodsstuff @lolitaisreal @blue-serendipity @melsunshine @thejanecampaign @fxngsfxgxrty @padfooteyes @msmarvel-19 @tempo-rary-fix @lauraneedstochill @julczimozart @sarcasticfangirl @witchyv @pyjama-shorts @bellaisasleep @zillahvathek @thincrusttheworks @krispold @yougotthatlove @raging-panda @fleetingly-artistic @throughgoeshamilton @polireader @katsav17 @minttea07 @kravitzwhore @meggiemay82 @hedonefox @daenysx @schniiipsel @namoreno @afro-hispwriter @aemondswifeisme @emcharra @malfoytargaryen @iiamthehybrid @fullmetalriotts @kellzlib @justsumtuffstuff @daydreamy-me @yentroucnagol @kezibear @queenofshinigamis @paprikaquinn

[chxrrysangel]

Conflict of Interest

Pairing | Plug!Choso x fem!reader

Words | schmedium

Summary | Choso never quite does his intended job when you meet. Special treatment is what they call it, not that he’d outright admit to it. One day, you request his services outside of your normal routine. And things get, well, complicated.

Tags | 🍃, hotboxing, car sex, dub con (both parties are under the influence), overstimulation, kinda dom! Choso, no protection, praise kink, no use of y/n, overstimulation, creampie

Notes | I’ve had this in my drafts for so fucking long that I was getting sick and tired of going back to it instead of just posting. Overthinking is an understatement. (I’ll probably end up editing it again later)

You called up Choso a week early, stressed out of your fucking mind. It seemed like any problem the universe could throw at you, it did. You watched with anxious fingers tapping against the steering wheel as his deep blue car rolled into the empty parking lot. An abandoned mall is easily the best place for your exchanges, you both liked it that way.

He had his hair down today, catching you off guard for a moment. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but the stark contrast to his usual hairstyle was always surprising.

“Miss me?”, he asked with a smile as he closed the distance. You scoff and chuckle.

“I miss what’s in your bag. You’re not that special Kamo.”

“Oh but I am. We both know it.” He didn’t mention the break in routine, knowing it was probably something personal. You didn’t share much with one another, choosing the “basically strangers” dynamic to be a smarter option. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t break the agreement every once in a while. Even as he stands before the hood of your Jeep Grand Cherokee, your eyes can’t help but glance down at his playful smile when he talks or the movement of his fingers while he rolls. Your breath caught in your throat as he brought the paper to his lips, tongue flattening against its edge. Brown eyes glinted with mischief as they made contact with yours, a hum of satisfaction leaving his lips at catching you in the act. God if the earth could just open up and swallow me, that’d be great.

“Wanna smoke with me today?” You snapped out of your daze of distractions at the question, disbelief washing over your features.

“Really?” The large man shrugged, in a why not kind of way. How could you say no?

~~

Choso could taste the berry in your gloss as his lips wrapped around the blunt, inhaling the strain and feeling his chest grow warmer. It hadn’t been long, but the windows of Choso’s car had already begun to fog, despite the cracked windows.

That’s how you two spent the next hour, sharing two blunts and chatting together as your high began to wash over.

“Fuck, that’s strong.”

“Isn’t it?,” you softly whisper, head lolling towards him.

The two of you talk about anything and everything, minds expanding to limits you hadn’t even realized existed. Somehow the conversation drifted to the more personal aspects of your lives, such as your romantic lives.

“You’ve got a boyfriend?,” Choso whispered across the dash. You shook your head, waiting for his next question.

“Girlfriend?”

“If I didn’t know any better Kamo, I’d think you wanna date me.”

“God you fucking wish. Just curious.” Sometimes, you did wish. Not that he could ever know that.

“What about you, smartass. Dating anyone?”

“Nah, don’t have time for that.”

The car developed into a comfortable silence, neither of you feeling eagering to speak. It was like this with Choso, always has been. He understood the need for shutting up sometimes, no unnecessary pressure to converse.

“I think I need a haircut.” His random outburst prompted a barking laugh, caught off guard by the irrelevancy.

“I’m serious. It’s getting too long.” You looked over at him,pouting. You liked his hair, in fact you loved it. When he hung his head, the layers encased his face like a halo. It was the perfect haircut, not that you could really say so. Any allusion to your thoughts could ruin everything. So you settle for something simple.

“I like your hair.”

“Yeah?, he questions with a head tilt. You murmured a hum of agreement, leaning over the console to put a hand towards his face.

“I think your bangs could use a little trim though,” you remarked with a ruffle of his hair. You began to pull away a few seconds too late, eyes settling on his features and feeling yourself get too caught up. Choso’s eyes caught yours, grabbing your wrist to keep you close.

“Willing to cut it for me?” His eyes flickered across your features, analyzing them with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. It was unnerving.

You nodded, swallowing a large gulp of nerves.

You sat outstretched over the console, not making any attempt to sit back properly on your side. He broke the silence before you could consider a regrettable choice, going on about munchies and making you laugh. That comment is what led to your current argument on the best type of cake as you unwrapped a cupcake in your hands.

“It’s very easily vanilla,” he argued, “it’s the most versatile option.” You scoff mid-bite.

“Didn’t know you were so boring, Kamo.” He looked offended at your comment, putting a hand on his chest like it hurt.

“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite then?”

“Red velvet. Hence why all of them are on my side of the tray.”

“You think you’re so special, picking red velvet over all the other options,” he teased.

“I know I’m special,” you mocked. Something shifted in the air when you said that, Choso growing quiet with no comeback prepared. The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

“You uh…you got something,” he whispered distractedly while leaning in. His thumb wiped at the corner of your mouth, dark eyes staring into yours. You watched as time slowed, his thumb reaching up to his lips and sucking.

“Frosting.” The two of you just stared at one another, high out of your minds and scared to breathe. Instinctively, you glance at his blush lips, not even remotely afraid that he would notice. His tongue darted out between the folds, covering the surface in spit and you nearly moaned.

“Fuck me,” you whispered to yourself, almost in pain.

He leans farther over the center console, putting a hand on your neck. Nothing was said as you stared into his eyes, bouncing back and forth between his irises as he wrestled with his thoughts. You leaned in , the gap between your lips just barely a sliver. You could kiss him easily, that much was obvious. But fear made you hesitate, breath fanning across his cheeks in anticipation of the next move.

“Choso,” you whispered in a barely audible tone.

“Don't talk,” he said before making the brave choice.

His lips capture yours, hesitant but curious. It takes a moment to find rhythm but soon you’re moaning softly into his mouth and gripping onto his arm for dear life. Choso was a good kisser, the soft muscle of his tongue bullying its way past your lips as he explored your mouth. He broke the kiss, staring at you with need. His lips were glossy with spit, pupils massive with lust.

“Back seat. Now.” You didn’t need to be told twice.

You watched as he impatiently pushed the seats forward, as far as the mechanism would allow.. He climbed into the backseat, a boyish smile adorning his features that you’ve adored from your first meeting.

“Choso, need you.”

He manhandles your body, grabbing your thighs to guide you into his lap.

Choso pushed your hips down on his crotch, your clit grinding against his rough zipper with earnestness. His plush lips peppered kisses down your neck and collarbone, smiling into your skin at the thought of seeing all this tomorrow. The two of you had crossed the line of friendship and he was quite intent on never going back now he’s gotten a taste. You whimpered, as though on the verge of tears, desperate for relief from the throbbing of your cunt.

“Oh, that’s cute.”

“Shut up. Not funny,” you retorted.

“Whatever you say sweetheart.” He thrust upwards, the outline of his erection rubbing so perfectly against your clit. A pathetically desperate whimper slips out, and he chuckles.

“I know baby, I know.” Choso continues to mark you, his featherlight touch on your skin sending tingles up your spine.

~~~

Had he not pushed his seat back, your ass would be pressing uncomfortably into the leather right now. Choso’s hands engulfed your hips, guiding you on his cock with every thrust. Your skin buzzed with the effects of indica, hot with desire as he fucked your brains out.

“Shit, Cho. So fuckin—ngh—good.” You whined into his neck, trying to muffle your sounds.

A chuckle reverberated through his body, dark with knowing.

“Don’t hide those pretty moans from me, baby. Wanna hear you.”

You leaned back, coming face to face with Choso. He was so pretty like this, a light sheen of sweat making his bangs stick to his skin in a pleasured bliss. Your pussy squeezed around his shaft, making him whine with need.

“Fuck that’s good,” he cried. Watching you bounce was like nothing he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing.

Just then, an idea formed in his mind. Choso angled his hips more upward, hitting your g-spot and pulling a pleasured sob from your lips. He watched with satisfaction as your eyes crossed for a moment, going dumb before his eyes. The glossed out look said everything, too lost in the pleasure to be remotely coherent.

“Feel good, pretty girl?” You could barely whimper out an affirmation, feeling your impending orgasm. You mewled incoherently, a jumble of curses and praise. With a shaking hand, you rubbed your clit as your stomach began to tighten in need for release.

“Right there baby. Fuck don’t stop don’t stop.”

Choso pushed off his own orgasm, wanting to watch you make a mess on his dick first. He grinned, taking in your fucked out state with great pleasure. The little you had shared with each other revealed that your sexual experience with men had been rather disappointing. Your last ex had no clue how to please you, too concerned with his own orgasm to ever worry about yours. He was selfish in that way, as well as many others.

He grabbed your hair, pulling you down in a sloppy kiss. If it wasn’t for how well he fucked, this kiss alone was enough to make your head spin. Your body felt miles away, the combination of the thc and the best fuck of your life making your skin tingle.

Your limbs began to tense, signals of how close you were. Your vision was blurry, teeth searing into your bottom lip with focus.

Choso felt your walls grow tighter, filling his chest with pride. He maintained his pace, pushing harder with each thrust. Your nails dug deep into the hard skin of his shoulders, imprinting moon-shaped marks.

“Close aren’t you?”

“So fucking close baby”. You stumbled over your response, struggling to say every syllable.

With a few more thrusts, your toes curled as you came. The squelching sounds in the car increased tenfold, a sound Choso was eager to revel in. He fucked you through your orgasm, thrusting getting sloppier by the second. His balls tightened, body buzzing as he fucked his cum into you. Before you could say anything, he didn’t stop. His mouth formed into an O, tip extremely sensitive.

“I think I can get one more out of you.”

A statement that felt more like a demand.

You began to shake your head, feeling the creeping discomfort of overstimulation begin to course through your shaking body.

He whispered sweet praises as you squirmed. Your body wasn’t sure of whether to lean into his touch or pull away, confused but pulsing with need. Your cunt choked his shaft, tense as you pushed through the masochistic pain. But soon enough that pain turned into pleasure, attempting to meet his thrusts to chase your orgasm.

He grinned with knowing, cheeky like a cat who got the cream.

“Shut up,” you uttered between gasps. He winked, satisfied with his clear victory. Even during the most intimate moments, he couldn’t help but be his usual annoying self

“Gonna cum Cho.” You whispered into his neck.

“Fuck. Can feel it. Doing so well for me, baby.”

His praise made you squeeze harder around him. Now that he’s had a taste, he’s unsure of how he’ll be able to let you go. Every touch, every look, every smile led up to this moment.

Every muscle in your body tenses as you cum, ears ringing as Choso praises you. His thumb rubs your clit in firm circles, the pleasure making your walls spasm around his sensitive cock.

“That’s it baby, doing so fucking good.” Choso slurred his words, head sensitive as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm. The base of his spine tingled, pushing him back towards the edge again. He blabbered incoherently as you came down, mumbling about how good your pussy is.

His hips stilled as he shot white ropes into you, filling your cunt with his warm seed. Your tired quick breaths as you gasped for air quickly faded into light laughter as you watched each other come down. Choso smiled lazily, dazed and completely out of it. With a delicate hand, he pushed some of your hair out of your face before pulling you in for another kiss. This one was much softer, gentle and unrushed. Romantic even.

“We just made things really complicated, didn’t we?,” you question against his lips. He didn’t answer really, murmuring in disagreement as he deepened the kiss.

“Choso! I’m serious”.

“So am I.”

[33max]

winter warmers ☃️ - day two, coming untouched

max/gp, 800ish words, nsfw

Sometimes, just before the crowds of people have to leave the grid, when Max is already sitting in the car, GP will tap him gently on the helmet and lean underneath the metal frame of the halo to whisper something just for the two of them.

Earlier in the season it was all strategy.

Looks like Norris is on used mediums. Your tyres are two laps fresher.

Russell has added downforce overnight.

Watch the clutch positioning in the second phase.

But now that they’ve clinched the championship, now that they’re not fighting tooth and nail for points, GP leans close and whispers far dirtier things to Max before he’s ushered off track with the rest of the engineers.

Can you still feel my cock? Are you still open from this morning? If you win this I’ll play with your pretty little hole all the way to Abu Dhabi.

It makes Max blush. He nods and tries not to look too pathetic while he admits that he’s still open and damp where GP fucked into him before breakfast.

Bear down in turns 7 to 9 where the car has the worst of the vibrations. I want to see if you come all over yourself by the end of the race.

Max’s eyes go wide. His cock throbs. He’s never tried to orgasm during a race before. It has happened. Accidentally. And only once. In his first year at Toro Rosso when he was seventeen and he barely had a moment to himself to jerk off – back then the car used to edge him to oblivion until one time, in Malaysia, he tipped over the edge and throbbed jets of come into his fireproofs.

It was embarrassing then. But it’s different now. GP has changed everything.

Once the track is clear, Max adjusts himself. A quick squeeze to take the edge off. The throb his cock gives in return is how he knows he can do it, he can rise to the challenge GP has set.

“Radio check, Max,” GP’s voice’s echoes through his helmet. They’ve already done this. Twice. GP knows the radio is working perfectly fine.

“Yeah, I heard you,” Max replies.

“Excellent. Remember what I said, yes?”

“Understood.” Max tries not to stutter. He knows that nobody else will have understood GP’s message, but he can’t help but feel like his erection is on display to the entire fucking world.

He gets past Russell into turn one and then once he has broken out of DRS range, he does exactly what GP told him to.

He squeezes his lower muscles under the vibrations of turn 7 and his cock jumps dramatically. He does it again in turn 8. And then turn 9.

“Vibration in 7,” He reports on the radio. It must sound like he’s panting. Out of breath.

“Noted,” GP replies like it’s just another day in the office. Max knows GP is a professional, but even he is impressed by how unfazed GP has managed to sound.

Lap after lap he works his muscles until there are only 5 laps left, his cock is leaking precum and Max is certain he will explode on the next lap. But he doesn’t. Not the one after that, or the one after that. He feels like he’s teetering right on the edge of oblivion.

“I have vibrations at turn 13,” Max reports. It’s a lie. “Shall I manage like turn 7?”

“Go ahead, Max.”

With 2 laps to go, Max takes his hand off the wheel and squeezes his cock on the straight. He bears down in 7. 8. 9. 13. A desperate moan escapes him, he’s so close.

He’s starting to doubt if he can do this, it’s hard when he’s so focused on driving to let his body fully take over. He doesn't want to have to get out of the car in parc ferme with a raging boner.

“Everything you’ve got, Max,” GP tells him as they start the final lap of the race.

And Max can’t let GP down. So he rolls his hips up, grinding against the belts as he clenches those now overworked muscles around his groin.

He’s so close.

Desperate now.

“GP,” He moans, radio on.

“You’ve got this, Max. Bring it home.”

“Fuck,” Max practically cries as finally, finally, he tips over the edge. He feels his come soak his fireproofs, the material sticking to his race suit, and he trembles. His cock feels wrung out and oversensitive, and it’s understandable really – he’s never worked this hard for an orgasm before.

As he crosses the line, GP tells him what a good job he’s done and how they’ll celebrate on the plane to Abu Dhabi - Max plans to hold him to that.

[cowgurrrl]

Dawns

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: Selena Quintanilla I miss you every day

Summary: The Morning After [2.9k]

Warnings: loving descriptions of Joel Miller, a whiff of angst, I think that’s it this is literally just fluff

Joel is a heavy sleeper. You kinda knew he would be, but he proved himself when you got up halfway through the night to get water, and he didn't so much as flinch. The only thing that roused him from his sleep was you sliding back into bed and kissing his jaw. He groaned and rolled onto his back, pressing you into his chest and bringing you with him. So, you're not surprised when you wake before him once mowers start working around your apartment building. He stays asleep, and light snores leave him every so often as he dreams. It's weirdly endearing.

In the morning light, he looks like a lost Adonis. His broad chest moves with his breaths, and his muscles contract whenever he moves, showing off the strength of his body, which has been forged over years on sites and by carrying kids around. He has a tattoo over his heart that you hadn't noticed before. It's small enough to hide easily, but you make out the letters easily: initials. One is Ellie's, and you assume the other is Sarah's. His girls forever close to his heart. His curls create a halo of amber salt-and-pepper around his head, and his beard is unruly in a way that people try to emulate to get the perfect "messy" look. On him, it doesn't look messy. It just looks like him. His heavy hand rests on your waist while the other lies above his head, almost in a pose. He's so fucking beautiful. 

There are lots of versions of Joel you'd like to draw: him on his knees at the foot of your bed, kneeling in a type of worship that the church would never condone; him smiling at you from across your apartment with orange fridge light shining on half his face; him tapping a beat into the steering wheel of his truck as the wind tousels his hair. But this version with the relaxed features and golden sunlight might be your favorite. It's private and unguarded, something only you have the privilege of experiencing. It's only fair of you to try to capture it.

You manage to wiggle out of his grasp enough to reach for your sketchbook on your bedside table, the water cups and snack wrappers from last night still lingering nearby. You lay on your stomach and uncap your pen as you glance between the empty page and his sleeping face. You start with his face shape, which is undeniably kind of easy to draw, before moving on to his features. His nose crooks a certain way, and you want to make sure you get it exactly right. Your eyebrows furrow as ink stains your pinky and the page fills up, and the morning slowly rises around you. 

It would be easier to take a picture and reference that instead of looking up and down, straining your neck in the process, but you like noticing the way his face moves so subtly in his sleep. This feels more intimate than sex. Art has a funny way of doing that. Guilt pools at the base of your neck, and you're about to shut your sketchbook and get some breakfast when he shifts, his hand blindly searching the sheets for your body. 

You freeze as he rolls over and opens his eyes, blinking through the light to find you lying there. When his vision adjusts, and he's rubbed enough sleep from his eyes to see you clearly, he smiles, and the guilt is quickly replaced with that dizziness that only he can induce. You smile back and throw your sketchbook on the floor, the pen still twirling in your fingers.

"Hey," you say softly as you get closer to him. He welcomes you into his arms and pushes the hair off your shoulders so he can see you. 

"Hi." His voice rumbles in his chest, deep and gravelly with sleep, and you want to wrap the notes around you like a warm blanket. You settle for leaning down and kissing him, his hands sliding around your body in the process. "How long've you been awake?"

"Not long." You say, a smile stuck to your lips. He glances over, taps his phone to check the time, and groans as he rests his head back on your pillow. You giggle at his reaction, and he looks at you like you're crazy. 

"How can you be this happy this early in the mornin'?" He asks and you shrug as you push a curl out of his face. 

"I woke up to a view." He hums at your compliment but doesn't say anything else. Every time you've complimented him in one way or another over the past few months, he's shrugged it off or barely acknowledged it. You wonder if he's just not used to being told regularly how pretty he is or what a great person he is. You wonder how long it will take him to believe your words. 

"What were you workin' on?" 

"Nothing, really. Just had to get something out of my system."

"Can I see it?"

"My sketchbook?" You ask, that same guilt clawing its way back up your spine, and he nods. 

"You don't have to show me if you don't wanna. I just... I dunno. I like seein' your work." Well, fuck, you think. How am I supposed to say no to that? You take a deep breath and chew on the inside of your cheek.

"I'll show you a few."

"Just a few?" 

"For now," you say, and he smiles. You kiss him before you move to retrieve the Moleskine from the floor. He curses under his breath like he's hurt, and you quickly look up to see if you somehow elbowed him or something. 

"Now, that," he says as he sits up to trace the edge of the tattoo that wraps around your shoulder. "Is a pretty sight." You laugh and relax into his touch as you watch him become entranced by the ink.

"Tattoos really do it for you, huh?"

"Everythin' bout you does it for me," he says, and you shake your head, heat rising to your cheeks at the quip. "You do this one in a dorm room?"

"No, I had a friend who was apprenticing at a studio near the school. They gave me half off because she was an apprentice, but I think it turned out pretty good," you explain. His fingers follow the delicate lines around until he gets close to another one, and then he skips over and traces that one, his calloused hands much softer than any tattoo needle you've encountered. You let him follow the curves and bends of your different tattoos, but not before you press onto your elbows and lift a hand to trace the initials on his chest. "You were hiding this one from me."

"I think you were hidin' a lot more than I was." He says, and you laugh. He's not wrong. The juxtaposition of your covered skin versus his blankness is a little comical. Where you have deliberately placed art pieces, he has scars, freckles, and chest hair save for the letters above his heart. "Got it before Sarah went off to school. Figured it might be one of the last times my girls would be together."

"That's not true." You tsk.

"I know that now, but... I don't know. It's different than when they were younger. Good different, but still different."

"How so?"

"When Sarah was still home, Ellie had another woman to talk to. We were even numbers in the house. They would get to have their own days where they hung out and did whatever, which was really good for the both of them. But when she left, Ellie got really shy, like she didn't know what to do without someone guidin' her. Tommy and I tried, but I knew we weren't as good as Sarah. Nobody said anythin' bout it to Sarah, though, cause it wouldn't be fair to ask that of her. She has enough on her plate as it is, and she doesn't need us makin' her feel guilty." He says. He's so in tune with both girls that it almost blows your mind. It makes sense because you've seen him in action, and you know how he parents, but hearing him talk about the nuances of their relationships and giving them each space is refreshing. It would've been so easy to place blame on Sarah and ask her to help parent Ellie, but he didn't. 

"What changed?" You ask. He traces the lines going up the back of your neck until his hands frame your face, and he's smiling.

"This really great teacher started lookin' out for her. Changed our whole lives around." He says. You shake your head and force yourself to look away from his big, brown eyes.

"I was just doing my job."

"Don't do that," he scolds quietly. "I'm not sayin' anythin' that's not true. You helped Ellie in a way nobody else has done so far. You should've heard her tellin' Sarah bout you at Christmas. She couldn't say enough nice things."  

"I wish I could've met her," you say. "Sarah." 

"She really wanted to meet you, too," he says. "Next time." You smile at the idea of having him and Ellie around for long enough to meet this missing fourth member of their family. You hope he's right. 

Finally, you hand him your sketchbook and watch as he flips through the first few pages in silent awe. His eyes move around the page like he's trying to decipher a message when it's really just your sloppy scribbles you managed to get down between grading papers and working at the bar. To you, they're nothing revolutionary. They're just rough drawings that have this thing wrong with them or are missing that essential piece. When you look at them, all you see is what they lack. When Joel looks at them, all he can see is the art already there. He asks about certain things and points out different techniques he recognizes from Ellie's portfolio, like the hatching you did on a portrait of a stranger sitting in your bar. 

Sharing your art, no matter what medium, with anyone can be daunting. Someone you love might think you're a talentless hack but smile and tell you otherwise to not hurt your feelings, or they just don't pay attention to it at all. It's sacred. A piece of your soul materialized in the real world and left out in the open for anyone to come by and kill. Those emotions are still in the back of your mind, but as you watch Joel scan your work, you see admiration and reverence instead of disdain. He stops himself from looking at the whole book, remembering your words about only showing him a few, and looks at you when he's done.

"Baby, these are amazing." He breathes. The gentle tone in his voice makes your throat feel like sandpaper, and you have to breathe deeply to keep tears from welling in your eyes. You hide your face in the sheets, and he tsks as he grabs you and pulls you to him. You land on his chest, and then it's impossible to hide from him. Sometimes, it's annoying how strong he is. 

"Thank you," you say instead of listing off all the things you want to say about how bad the sketches are, how they're unfinished, and whatever else. He smiles as he gently puts your sketchbook down on your bedside table and kisses you. You straddle his waist as he cups your jaw and holds you close. You're vaguely aware of the sun rising higher and higher in the sky and the fact that he has a kid at home who's probably wondering where he is. His hands skate down your lower back as the kiss turns a little feverish and desperate, but you pull back before anything can start.

"It's getting late," you say. He sighs and rests his head on your shoulder. "I can make you some breakfast before you go."

"You really want me out that bad?" 

"No, of course not, but Ellie-"

"Is fine. She's with Tommy, and she's bout fifteen goin' on twenty. I guarantee you she's out with her friends at the movies or somethin' right now." He says. He's right; Ellie has become hyper-independent in the past few months and is almost always with a group of the art kids, but Dina and Jesse seem to be the ones she's closest to. Granted, Jesse isn't technically in the art club, but the bumbling basketball player always seems to find a way into your classroom despite never taking a class with you. Still, you can't shake your anxiety.

"What about when she asks where you were all night?"

"That's for me to worry bout, not you," he says. "If you really want me to go, I'll go but don't think you have to kick me out 'cause of my kid. She's fine, and even if she wasn't, I'd have already heard bout it." 

"Are you sure?" You ask, and he nods. 

"Positive," he answers. It's going to take a lot more for you to stop worrying about Ellie, but you let it go for now. If he's sure, then you have to trust his parental instincts. "Now, I think you said somethin' bout breakfast?" He says, and you smile. 

"I think I've got eggs and bacon." You say, and he groans at the thought.

"A woman after my own heart."

"You're a mess." You laugh as you climb off of him. You grab his shirt from last night off the floor and tug it over your head before grabbing a clean pair of underwear from your top drawer. Meanwhile, Joel throws on his briefs and the sweatpants you stole from him on New Year's Day and follows you into the kitchen. You get out the carton of eggs and hand him the package of bacon for him to put on the stove, a job he volunteered to do, as the coffee brews a few feet away. 

It's strangely domestic. Sharing the same space for the same goal as the dull hum of the city starts up outside. In your small apartment, you're safe from the demands of school for a few more weeks, and you don't have anything better to do than walk around your kitchen half-naked with him. He pours the perfect amount of creamer into your coffee and even pours a glass of water to accompany the caffeine. You push and pull him around the kitchen so you can reach certain things or show him where you keep plates. Any lingering doubt about your physical closeness has been dispelled and replaced with the ease of this morning. You could get used to it. 

You're in the process of making scrambled eggs when he starts playing music on his phone, a familiar explosion of sound coming over the speakers. Joel looks pleased even though he's the one who chose the music, and you laugh as he starts dancing toward you. Selena starts singing, and he sings along. Before you know it, he's grabbing your hand and spinning you into him. You struggle to match his feet when he takes steps you're not prepared for, and he laughs.

"I don't know this dance!" You defend, and he gives you a look.

"C'mon, don't tell me you've lived in Texas for this long, and nobody's ever taught you how to dance cumbia."

"Sorry to break your heart, maverick." You tease. He sighs dramatically but steps back enough for you to track his steps and copy them. Once you get the hang of it, he takes the spatula out of your other hand and takes you into his arms.

"You just do the same thing I'm doing but in a circle. It's not that hard, I promise." He instructs, and you raise your eyebrows at him.

"You have too much faith in my dance ability." 

"It's just a different kinda art," he says as he spins you. You manage to keep up with him and smile alongside him. You're not sure where Joel got so good at dancing, but you're sure it has something to do with the number of quinceañeras he's been invited to, if he's not been a part of one. He's gentle in reminding you of the steps and doesn't complain when you accidentally step on his toes or miss a step. It's fun and sweet and tinged with perfectly timed drum beats and Selena's effervescent voice.

He only lets you slip away from him once you remind him of the eggs cooking on the stove, but he's never far away after that. He helps you set the table and even makes your plate once everything is ready, so you don't have to. He refills your coffee and water without being asked and even pushes you out of the kitchen when you're done eating so he can wash the dishes. You like learning more about his little habits and nuances, and you think he likes seeing you in your own environment, too. 

You're not ready for him to go home and burst this bubble you've created. You're not ready to go back to school and reckon with possible repercussions. You're not ready for the real world to seep back in. You just want this morning with him and whatever other mornings he might be generous enough to share with you. Is that too much to ask?

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia @maried01

[maxinemaxmayfield]

DOUBLE DRABBLE DAY!? For the @strangerthingswritersguild daily drabble prompts (plural!): chill / give in 700 words, teen & up (pre-relationship steddie, post-s4, recreational drug use)

CHILL

Neither of them likes being alone; Steve’s house is too empty, too big, too cold. Every corner is filled with nothing but the reminder that no one cares enough to be there for him, not even his own parents.

Eddie’s trailer, on the other hand, is too full. Ghosts haunt every corner, reminders of the people he couldn’t save, the ones he almost lost, and the hellmouth to another dimension that cracked through his fucking ceiling and changed his life. Sometimes it feels so crowded he can’t breathe. 

So they drive. They never know where they’ll end up. Sometimes it’s the movies, or the diner, or the quarry. Tonight, the weather’s mild and dry, sky clear enough to see all the stars, and Steve swings into a cornfield. 

Eddie tosses him a look.

“What?” Steve asks, driving far enough that they can’t see the road they left behind them. “I don’t wanna be around people.”

“I’m people,” Eddie points out, cocking an eyebrow.

Steve snorts. “You don’t count.” 

“Maimed!” Eddie crows, grabbing one of Steve’s hands from the wheel and dragging it to his chest, like he’s plunging a knife into Eddie’s very heart. The car swerves. “Wounded! Aggrieved!” 

“You know what I mean,” Steve says, pulling his arm from Eddie’s grasp to plant it back on the steering wheel. “I don’t have to think around you. I can just… chill.” 

Steve eases onto the brake to bring them to a stop, nothing but corn as far as the eye can see. He leaves the radio on, playing some shit he doesn’t actually care enough to listen to, and gets out to lean on the hood. It’s still warm. 

Eddie joins him a moment later, already pulling a joint from his pocket. He pats down his jacket, looking for a lighter. He’s always losing them.

Steve has one out and ready in second, used to it at this point. He extends the flame towards Eddie.

Easy. Routine. Muscle memory. 

GIVE IN

Eddie doesn’t waste any time draping himself across the hood of Steve’s car, hair spreading out like a halo. Stars reflect in his wide eyes as he stares at the sky like he wants to memorize it. 

“Ever wonder if there’s life out there?” Eddie asks around an exhale of smoke. 

“There’s enough weird alien shit here in Hawkins, dude. I don’t need to think about the whole universe.”

“Fair.”

It’s quiet for a while, just the faint sound of wind jostling the stalks around them as they pass the joint back and forth.

At some point, they slide down, sitting on the hard ground with their backs against the front of the Beemer. At some point, Steve realizes that he isn’t watching the night sky anymore. He’s watching Eddie’s tongue poke out from his lips, always moving even when he isn’t talking, like he’s having a silent conversation with himself. 

“Willpower,” Steve says aloud. Eddie turns.

“Huh?”

“Like, as a concept. Do you think people shouldn’t always do what they want cause it might be kinda bad for them?” 

Eddie laughs, a deep sound that quickly gets lost in the miles of corn around them. “You’re asking the town drug dealer if he thinks people shouldn’t partake in things that might be bad?”

“Okay, but what about… other stuff?” 

“Man, life’s too short. We’re goddamn walking evidence of that. If you really want something, crave something, fuck it. Give in.” 

So Steve does. He gives in. He closes the space between him and Eddie, reaches out to cradle his palm against Eddie’s cheek, draws him even closer and kisses him. 

It’s short, just the press of lips together, smokey and dry and chaste. When Steve pulls back, Eddie doesn’t move, eyes wide and jaw slack. 

Steve thinks he might have made a mistake. “You, uh… still stand by that advice?” 

“Advice?” Eddie asks, dumbfounded. 

“To give in…”

Something clicks into place behind Eddie’s shocked eyes. “Oh, shit, that’s what you were talking about?” 

Steve nods; can’t help but feel amused. 

“I’m really fucking glad I didn’t tell you to resist, then,” Eddie says, and captures Steve’s lips once more, with such enthusiasm that they both end up in the dirt.

[bellezaycafe]

Get Your Shit Together - Chapter 4

genre: 2024 Season AU

pairing: there will be romance but I haven't finalised who yet. platonic! oc x literally the whole grid.

warnings: lots swearing, major car accident, mentions of broken bones, blood and hospitals. A lot of shit happens. Limited knowledge of Silverstone or how the structure of their emergency response on track works.

context: Sadie, a 20 year old university student from Melbourne, decided to take a gap year and volunteer at 2 Formula One races in different countries.

Sadie's Faceclaim: Maia Mitchell (but you can visualise her howver you want :) )

comments: ...prepare for pain. I'm not sorry. I did speak to a doctor friend, and Sadie continuing with her injuries is plausible.

Part 1 | Masterlist

----$----

“Fuck me, it’s a bit cold,” Sadie complained to the middle-aged paramedic beside her.

“Is it too cold for the Australian kid?” Mark laughed.

Sadie turned to him, looked up and frowned. “Not a kid, fuck you.”

Mark laughed again and tried to pat her on the head, which Sadie swatted away.

“Let’s just hope today’s race is dry,” he said after a moment.

Sadie nodded, stray wisps of her dark brown hair loosely flying around her face in the breeze.

Silverstone, in June, was the same temperature as Sadie’s home town in September, just leaving winter into spring.

“This is not summer weather,” she whined.

“You volunteered, kid,” Joe reminded her.

“I know, I know.”

“Where have they placed you?”

“Medics at turn 13. That’s Stowe, right?”

“Yeah. It can be a dangerous one. But you’re with my older brother Keith, so you’ll be fine.”

"How is it in the wet?"

"Worse, but the drivers are in safe hands."

----$----

Sadie paced as she watched 18 -Pierre Gasly and Oscar Piastri had sent each other out early in the race- of the best drivers in the world speed past.

“Sadie,” Keith called, “you should sit down.”

“I’m more anxious when I sit,” she replied without taking her eyes off the track. The track that was getting wetter and wetter as the minutes past.

"Mark said to let you pace and I will, but nothing is going to happen," the grey-haired man reassured.

Sadie sent him a kind smile but didn't reply out loud.

It was a good thing she didn’t. They might have missed it.

Two Red Bulls, the McLaren and a Mercedes flew into view. The McLaren, Lando's McLaren, clipped the back wheel of Lewis Hamilton's Mercedes, sending a shower of debris into the misting rain.

Lando's car spun, twice and then slammed into the wall side on. Lewis spun once but managed to pull his car to a spot in the gravel before it could collide with anything.

Sadie was out the door, pulling on her mandatory helmut and grabbing a first aid kit before Keith was out of his chair.

"Go to the McLaren!" Keith shouted to her as he followed with another kit. "I'll take the Merc!"

She didn't acknowledge his order but followed it without hesitation. She jumped the barrier, her gaze locked on the fluro yellow helmet. The helmet that was barely moving.

"Lando," she shouted as she reached the car. "Are you okay?"

"No!" His voice came as a strangled croak, barely loud enough for her to hear him.

She dropped the first aid kit and grabbed the steering wheel he was holding out.

"You will be, we're here." She stated. "Can you get out?"

Sadie didn't breathe as Lando cried out. "My foot!" he wailed. "My ankle!"

"Okay, take a deep breath, Lando. Push yourself up with you arms. You're strong, mate. Push."

She didn't know what she was saying. She was running on instinct and adrenaline. Purely, instinct and adrenaline.

Get them off the track, Mark's voice rang in her head. Get them somewhere safe.

Lando hoisted himself onto the halo and Sadie saw his ankle bent at an unnatural angle. She couldn't let it show on her face.

"Alright, Lando swing to me. Swing around."

He did so, wobbling dangerously.

"Drop onto your right foot, I'm here."

Cars sped past, the flag only yellow.

Lando didn't drop onto his feet, he fell from the car and into Sadie. She was lucky she had braced herself as she caught him.

He screamed in pain as his ankle hit the ground.

"Lando, my name is Sadie. I've got you now, do not put your right foot on the ground. I'm gonna get you to the medical tent."

"Sadie? Melbourne Sadie?" He whimpered. He couldn't stop making small sounds of pain.

She opened his visor, met his watercolour eyes. She knew her helmet had no visor, knew he could see her eyes.

"Yes, Lando, it's Melbourne Sadie. I've got you now, we've got to get you off the track."

She hauled his left arm over her shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist. "Walk with me Lando. That's it, with your right foot. Good. You're gonna be okay, mate. It's just a scratch."

Sadie still hadn't registered what she was saying, or the fact that Lando was leaning almost all of his weight on her.

Her head snapped up at the sound of approaching cars. With hands firmly on his waist, Sadie slipped out from under his left arm and placed herself under his right.

She put herself between him and the oncoming cars. She didn't know what might happen, hadn't thought about it. She hadn't thought at all.

It was Perez's Red Bull that struck the McLaren or Mercedes debris. More debris flew through the rain, some thing off all three cars. Sadie pulled Lando tighter into her and shielded him as she continued to pull him towards the closest exit.

Pain tore though Sadie's adrenaline. Her right side, both arm and leg. She stumbled, barely, but right herself and Lando cried out in pain again.

She knew two things, do not stop and do not let the pain stop you.

"I've got you Lando, you're going great. Keep going!"

"Sadie," he whimpered. "Fuck. My ankle, Sadie, my car."

"I know, Lando, I know. You're going to be okay. Your car will be fine, you will be okay."

"Fuck," he whimpered again.

"Keep going, pretty boy. Don't put that left foot on the ground. You're gonna be okay, pretty boy."

More hands joined hers and pulled Lando over the barrier. She didn't register who it was, only that he was on the other side and being treated. She heard a lot of swearing, she heard someone call her name.

She looked up to see Lando staring at her leg. He was laying down, on an ambulance stretcher.

"Sadie," he croaked, his eyes rising to hers.

She didn't look down, a part of her knew she didn't want to know. Sadie kept his eye contact as she tried to stand upright. "I'm okay, Lando. I'm okay." She reassured.

Some one stepped into her line of sight and she lost view of his face. They hauled him into the waiting ambulance.

"Fuck, kid." She recognised that voice.

She turned, limped around to face Mark.

"Mark, Lando he's -" He recognised her voice, just as she had his. She was still wearing the medic's helmet.

"Sadie, your leg. You've-" He stepped forwards and pulled a chair with him.

"I don't know," she whispered. She couldn't be louder, she tried to say it louder but it was the same whispered, "I don't know. I haven't looked."

The paramedic rushed to her, placing the chair beneath her as her right leg gave out.

"Don't look," he muttered. "You're gonna be okay, but you can't look."

Someone handed him gauze and bandages. Another handed him saline and scissors.

Lewis stepped into Sadie's quickly narrowing line of sight.

"Oh my god," he exclaimed.

When Sadie saw him, she remembered what she'd done. She thought about what she'd done.

The crash. Catching Lando. Essentially dragging him off the track. Putting herself between him and the cars. Her leg. She didn't know the damage but her leg was on fire.

"Sir," she breathed. "Lewis, my helmet, please."

"Oh my god, kid. They're gonna look after you, okay?" He dropped to his knees next to her, leaving his own helmet in the dust.

"I know," she croaked as he undid the straps at her chin. "It's not that. The media- Lewis, hide me from the media. Please."

That's when Lewis recognised Sadie. Her brown hair was plastered to her pale face. Her brown eyes were wide with fear.

"Oh shit. Okay kid, yeah. They'll never know your name, they'll never see your face. I swear it, kid. I promise."

Someone handed her a green piece of plastic. The green whistle. Pain relief, and a very strong one.

He last words before the high kicked in were, "Lewis, please. No reports, no one can know it was me."

Needless to say, the rest of the day was a blur. She barely remembered the ambulance ride, getting the piece of Formula One car embedded in her thigh taken out or the stitches in her arm and leg.

It was all over the news.

Medic gets stabbed with shrapnel while helping driver Lando Norris.

Norris out of SIlverstone GP: The Medic Who Saved Him.

Two in hospital after dangerous crash at Silverstone.

But Sadie's name was never written. Every reporter was baffled at the disappearance of her identity.

----$----

Lewis had gone to Max that evening, before the winner had the chance to go out.

"It was the Melbourne volunteer," he'd told him in his hotel room. "The medic in hospital, it was Sadie."

Max's face snapped towards Lewis. He'd been making Lewis a coffee, but it was abandoned.

"What happened? Is she okay?"

Lewis shrugged, shadows passing over his face. "I don't know, man. I- Her leg was bad."

"Fuck," Max muttered. "How did it happen?"

Lewis rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't know that either. I didn't see it. It's what happens now that I want to talk about. I need your help."

Max froze. Lewis knew why, he'd never asked Max for help before. They were friendly, finally, but they weren't close.

"She begged me, Max, begged me, to keep her name out of the media. So far, so good but I need your influence in the paddock. You still have the unpredictable 'Mad Max' reputation to some people. I need you to use it."

He nodded and there was an understanding between the champions. Sadie had protected their friend, maybe saved his career if some of the initial reports were true, and it was their turn to protect her.

"I don't why she was so desperate. She was begging me. She had a piece of fucking metal sticking out of her goddamn leg and she was begging me to hide her from the media."

"it doesn't matter," Max stated. His eyes were dark as he search his contacts for a name. "It doesn't get out. Her name appears no where."

They would protect her.

----$----

I'm not sorry. I hope you enjoyed! Feedback in welcome :)

Taglist (never thought I'd write one of these, I'm very happy to):

@snubug

[lonesome-sometimes]

wheels on the bus

I promise I don’t have a thing for matty being a married man this was just a very real experience for me minus most of it

suddenly a man climbs on and interrupts, giving a series of apologies to both the driver and the people he kept waiting. you would be annoyed if he wasn’t so hot, tight black jumper and unruly curls sitting on his head like a halo. suddenly, the woman from before is waving him down towards the back of the bus and your heart sinks.

that’s her fucking husband?

matty healy x female reader

content warnings: face fucking, sub matty, teasing, semi-public sex, cheating, age gap

minors do not interact!

If you knew that you would be stuck on a bus for as long as you were, you wouldn’t have even bothered travelling but the world seemed to hate you that day and was throwing every possible obstacle towards you.

luckily for you, the seat next to you had managed to stay empty for most of the trip which was always a blessing. you were pulling into the second stop of the journey when you quickly realised that was about to come to an end, the queue far too long with too little seats left.

you force yourself to seem as unapproachable as possible when you feel someone tap your shoulder, turning to see a dark haired woman smiling at you almost condescendingly. you pull one side of your headphones to the side so it sits behind your ear, still looking at her dumbfounded. you weren’t in the mood, your day had been long enough.

“Is it okay if my husband sits here? he’s coming now, he just is putting our bags away but I’m going to sit in front of this seat and I want to be able to sit near him. my husband won’t be a bother-“ every word went in one ear and out of the other, the word husband suddenly becoming the worst word in the entire dictionary and the shiny diamond on her finger painfully obvious. how charming.

you nod, turning your body and sliding your headphones back on for the simple pleasure of drowning out most of the noise of the other passengers, your music staying paused. the driver stands up, a tall man who seemed far too young and cool looking to be stuck driving some bus on a saturday. “I know this situation isn’t really ideal for anybody, but I promise to speed and get you all where you need to be. please just shout at me if you need anything, my name is george and-“ suddenly a man climbs on and interrupts, giving a series of apologies to both the driver and the people he kept waiting. you would be annoyed, feeling deserving of an apology to if he wasn’t so hot, tight black jumper and unruly curls sitting on his head like a halo. you turn your attention to the woman from before, waving him down towards the back of the bus and your heart sinks.

that’s her fucking husband?

his face lights up at the sight of her, making his way down towards where the empty seat is and sliding down next to you. he shoots you a quick, kind smile before turning his full attention to his wife to your dismay, leaning over the top of her seat and stroking her hair. the whole situation was just sad really, he was far too good for her but you can see why she was so obsessed with using the word husband beforehand.

you were in for the hardest two hours of your life.

you couldn’t even focus on your music, abandoning it all together and hour into the drive in favour of hearing his hushed voice instead. he was currently resting his chin on the top of her seat, eyes crinkling as he smiled at something she said. he pushed a hand through his hair, the sleeves of his jumper pushing up slightly to reveal some tattoos on his wrists causing your eyes to widen, becoming curious as to how many tattoos he had and where.

another hour of torture goes by, the man next to you seeming to be so sickly in love that it started to make you somewhat mad. he was fully leaning around her seat now, his face close to hers as they talked quietly. you decided to just try and ignore them alltogether, reopening spotify when you hear him speak.

“radiohead? great choice! I didn’t know they were still popular with the kids these days.” you turn to see him smiling at you, not even realising he had moved and being absolutely dumbfounded that he’s suddenly speaking to you. he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck causing you to notice the crinkles by his eyes for the first time. “god, that makes me sound so old doesn’t it? sorry I wasn’t meaning to bother you-“

“no!” you suddenly exclaim, realising how crazy you sounded. you regain your composure, side eyeing his wife who was not in her seat. he must notice your curiosity because he speaks up again. “we’re stopping for a bathroom break, the kids on board must have been pissing the driver off, do you want me to move?” he attempts to stand but you grab his wrist, pulling him back down.

“I’m good, thank you for letting me know.” you try and sound as sweet as possible, smiling softly while rubbing the soft material of his jumper between your fingertips. “you’re not bothering me at all, you’re actually the first person I’ve spoke to all day.”

he looks down at your hand on his jumper and you swear you see a blush spread across his face, a stray curl falling forward as he does. you start feeling a little lightheaded, almost letting your thoughts get the better of you. you drop his jumper, moving to push the curl back away from his face but he moves too suddenly, shaking his head to organise his thoughts.

you turn to see his wife climbing back on the bus, that condescending smile from before returning as she sees you both. they start chatting again, forcing you to return back to your petty mood and making a show of it, crossing your arms and letting your music flow through your ears. you through two minutes of karma police before you physically cannot take it anymore, pulling your headphones off and turning to the couple next to you.

“I’m so sorry if I’m overstepping, but you guys are just so cute together. how long have you been married?” you smile too wide to be genuine, voice sickly sweet as your attention focuses solely on the man. his wife leans around her seat and looks at you like you had offended her, but takes the opportunity to obsess over the word husband once more.

“well my husband and I have actually been married for about three years, is that right matty? I think so.” she smiles at him, playing with his fingers awaiting his answer. you don’t really care what she has to say, the name matty bouncing around your brain and how it would sound coming off of your tongue. he continues to look at you, completely taken back by your boldness before clearing his throat.

“yeah we erm, we have been married a while now. we actually just got back from our two year anniversary vacation, you should know that darling.” he speaks to her, almost seeming sad that she had forgotten. she just laughs, announcing that milestones mean nothing so long as she has him. you could almost feel your eyes rolling back into your head and not in the way you were imagining.

he smiles awkwardly at you. they went back to talking between themselves, your brain racing with ideas and images. you think for a little while, coming up with a truly awful plan. you had found something you wanted and with the day you were having you deserved some excitement.

you wait a few minutes, waiting for the right moment before beginning. “I’m sorry, I just need to grab my charger in my bag. I’ll just-“ you stand up, causing matty and his wife to stop talking and look up at you as you begin to climb over his legs. you silently thank the driver for suddenly going over a bump in the road, causing you to trip and fall directly into his lap.

his hands fly up out of instinct, grabbing your waist and holding you there for a moment. you can feel the bulge in his pants pressing up against you, moving so your hips grind down on him as you stand up again. “god, matty! I am so sorry! I lost my balance, I’ll just grab my charger and I’ll stop being a bother, again I’m so sorry to interrupt.” you lie through your teeth, reaching up to grab your charger out of your bag in the overhead compartment while making sure your tshirt rides up directly in front of his face, exposing your lower stomach and a strip of your lace underwear that was hidden beneath your pants. you pretend to look for your charger for a good few minutes, giving him a show as you did.

you eventually find what you were looking for, making eye contact with him as you climb back over into your seat. you bite your lip as you look down at his crotch, the bulge more prominent than before. you feel powerful, causing a married man to fold at practically nothing.

you get comfortable again, scrolling through instagram when he suddenly speaks for the first time in the last twenty minutes. “god, when did it get so fucking hot in here?” he laughs sheepishly again, pulling his jumper over his head and shoving it in his lap to cover up his problem.

granting you your wish, you could finally see the wrist tattoos from before as well as the many others. his arms were toned, covered in artwork that looked so beautiful and hot at the same time. his curls had become messy through his hands constantly playing with it and the jumper being pulled over.

the bus keeps driving for another ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of both yours and his life, before pulling in at another service station. george stands up, announcing that the bus would be here for thirty minutes and that if you weren’t back in time he would drive off and leave you, causing the kids at the front who must be driving him mad to giggle and pull faces.

matty suddenly stands up, announcing to his wife that he was running to the bathroom and to grab them both a snack, urging her to stay there. perfect.

you let him get a five minute head start before standing up, not even acknowledging the woman as you make your way off the bus and towards the bathrooms where you see matty push the door open. you rush after him, causing the the door to fly open. you both stand in the middle of the service station bathroom, the tension thick and heavy in the air.

he swallows, rubbing his arm and avoiding your eyes as he speaks up first. “can��can I help you?” he asks, his voice coming out strained and broken which only causes you to giggle. you move further into the room, crowding him up against the tiled wall.

“I’m not sure matty, can I help you at all?” you smirk, lips so close to his own as you speak you could feel the shaky breaths on your face. he swallows again, eyes avoiding yours as he shakes his head.

“I’m married, I shouldn’t be…” he trails off as you push your body up against his, cocking your head to the side as you lick your lips and grab the shape of his cock through his pants. he lets out a breath, relaxing against the wall as you start stroking him through the fabric softly. interesting.

“I’m sorry, you were saying?” you ask innocently, knowing what you were doing by now, the effect you were having on him. he closes his eyes, letting his head hit the tile with a thud before he looks down at you through his lashes. up close, he’s so much prettier than you had realised. you wanted to ruin him and have him ruin you at the same time.

“please.” he breathes out, taking you by surprise as he pushes his hips up until your hand and parts his lips. “please just touch me.” he begs, and how could you say no to that?

you move your head and steal his lips in a soft kiss, his lips parting instantly and letting you control the situation. this isn’t what you were picturing when he first stepped onto the bus, but after the mood you had been in you can’t say you’re unsatisfied with the turn of events. you move to unzip his trousers, shoving them down his legs and pulling his cock out of his underwear.

fucking hell. you weren’t expecting that.

he breaths are heavy, eyes wide as he waits patiently for you to do something. you think for a moment, deciding what you want to do with the little time you had. you started mouthing at his jaw being careful not to leave any marks to save him some face, his neck and down his torso until you’re forced to get on your knees so that you’re face to face with his leaking cock.

he leans his head back against the wall again, his hands finding refuge in your hair as he lets out a choked moan at the sight of you on your knees for him. If only you had more time, you’d spend hours torturing him, his sweet breathy moans quickly becoming your favourite sound.

that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun right now.

“I thought you were married, hm? your poor little wife, sitting on that bus completely unaware that her husband of two years is letting a young, innocent girl get him off. don’t you feel bad?” you tease, lips ghosting the tip of his cock as you speak. he quickly shakes his head, hands moving from your hair to form fists at his sides.

“she…she doesn’t do this for me. we haven’t even…just please?” he begs, his revelation music to your ears. “you don’t know how long it’s been since I…she won’t have sex with me, something to do with-“ he moans as you wrap your lips around his cock, letting the weight of it sit on your tongue as you savour the taste.

you slap his thigh lightly, a silent order for him to keep speaking as you start to suck his cock slowly. “oh fuck, something to do with staying pure…an act of celibacy or some bullshit but I really do love her, I promise.” he continues, emphasising the really with a thrust of his hips, causing his cock to hit the back of your throat, fluttering around him as he whines.

you pull off his length with a pop, lipgloss smeared around the tip of it as you work him with your hand. “that’s such a shame, you’re far too pretty for that. you sound so sweet. If only you were mine, I’d do so much to you.” you lick away precum that had gathered at his tip again, kissing it softly and pulling back again. “hm, how about I let you fuck my throat, since you’ve been such a good boy for me? you deserve to use me, no need to be shy.” you wink, moving your arms behind your back and letting your lips fall open and ready.

he stares at you, completely taken back by what you just offered. he lets himself think for a moment, about the morality of the situation, before shaking his head and grabbing his cock again and shoving it past your lips. clearly deciding that there was no time for questioning his moral compass as he moans loudly, feeling more free as he begins to fuck your throat. he picks up his pace, holding your hair as he whispers sweet nothings like you’re so good for me and so much better than she could ever be, even going as far as to wipe away the tears that had formed around your eyes and saying please don’t cry, you’re too pretty baby, I’m sorry

his hips begin to stutter, a sign that he’s almost there. “please, please let me cum down your throat, I need to cum please let me-” he begs through broken sobs, waiting for a nod of your head before he’s spilling down your throat, his groans echoing around the empty bathroom.

you pull off his cock, his body slumped against the wall as you show him your white covered tongue, swallowing his cum only causing him to moan again. he was such a boy, and you couldn’t really blame him considering what he had just told you. you decide to be nice, tucking him back into his underwear and pulling his pants back up his legs, going as far as to button them back up for him and placing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I genuinely don’t think I can move away from this wall.” he admits, blush creeping up his cheeks again as he brings his thumb up to wipe the smeared lipgloss from your face. “thank you for that, and I erm…fuck, I’m sorry? I feel bad that I didn’t-” he says, gesturing towards you.

you shake your head and smile, giggling softly. “don’t worry about me, it seems like you have enough to deal with.”

“you could say that.” he laughs back, checking the time on his watch and letting out a sigh of relief to see that you still had five minutes before you really needed to be back, knowing his kind, thoughtful wife would hold the bus up if needs be. “we still have five minutes, if you really want me to do anything?”

you shake your head again, pulling his hand up into yours and playing with his fingers the same way his wife had done on the bus not long ago, sliding his wedding ring off and on. “I think I’d rather learn more about you? If that’s okay?”

he smiles down at you again and nods, eyes crinkling as he says “well I never actually got to talk to you about radiohead…”

[tadpolesonalgae]

Azriel x reader: Pull You Down[*]

A/N: I feel like there’s a prominent theme of me initially writing a pretty vanilla fic and then spinning the wheel of my kinks and just randomly throwing one in

Side note: just assume his shadows removed the pancake from the stove…

Warnings: food play (honey pouring), pussy-eating, smut, not proofread

“Something smells good.”

Your lips hitch up into a smile at the deep drawl, roughened by sleep. Husky, and delicious.

You turn to meet Azriel’s morning-softened eyes, how the dark centre within his green ring melts like honey in the sunlight.

“Pancakes?” You step aside to reveal the stack you’ve created, a few toppings sealed in dinky glass jars to the side. Some jam (strawberry, raspberry, apricot), some honey, and some cream (with strawberries and nuts scattered over top).

He pads across the kitchen silently, the deep blue cotton of his night clothes swishing quietly. Initially, he’d been against the idea of matching pyjama sets, colour flushing his cheeks when you had first suggested it, but you’d worn him down.

Azriel’s arms wrap around your waist, solid warmth pressing against your back as he settles his jaw over your head. “Looks good.” You hum in response, a spark of pleasure heating your chest at the approval. “When do you want to eat?” You ask, flipping the last pancake.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he answers easily, still a bit lethargic from what was apparently a good night’s rest.

You smile a bit. “Someone slept well.”

His arms squeeze you in response, and he dips to your ear. “I was very worn out.” You stiffen, the pleasant soreness between your legs a gentle reminder of the night before.

“You were rather…unhinged.” You venture, pressing into him slightly so he would understand that wasn’t a bad thing. Sure enough, he nipped at the shell of your ear, silent encouragement for your feedback. “The riding crop was a pleasant surprise.” A quiet growl rumbles in his chest, full of masculine satisfaction. Maybe you curved your back a little, just to press into his hips. Maybe you wound against him too.

A shiver runs down your spine as one of his hands snakes up your front, tracing between your breasts as he cups your jaw. “Any other fixations you’d like to tell me about, pet?” Your breathing hitches, feeling the shift in atmosphere as he tightens his grip on you—more dominating; firmer.

You swallow, and you’re sure he feels the roll of your throat beneath his palm. “No, sir.”

“No?” He drawls, the hand atop your stomach tracing soft, teasing patterns with his fingertips. “None?” Your thighs squeeze together, hand tightening on the spatula as you feel his lips brush the tip of your ear. Your very sensitive, pointed ear.

You shiver.

Azriel lands a firm smack to your cheek for taking too long and you have to grit your teeth to keep from whimpering. “Answer, pet.”

“I…like when you surprise me, sir.” You admit softly. “When you…show your own tastes.” His hand tightens but he’s listening. Intently. “Depraved as they sometimes are.”

His hand dips below your nightgown, hooking beneath the hem that comes to the middle of your thighs. You’re body tenses as the pads of his fingers dance over your bargain mark: the empty circle with the crossed lines haloing it. “Depraved?” He drawls, his touch feather-light. “I think you should be grateful I’m willing to share my fantasies with a filthy thing like you.”

A shiver spider-walks down your spine, and you fight to keep from whimpering at his smooth tongue. His mouth opens over the skin of your neck, tongue swiping up the column of your throat, teeth scraping over your skin.

Your hands grip the counter, one squeezing the spatula— fuck, the pancakes.

You hiss, noting how the edges are already curling, the sign you need to flip it over—pronto. You reach forward, sliding the instrument beneath—

His hands drop to your hips, pulling you back and spinning you around so you’re further from the stove. His body flattens against your own, soft skin meeting unyielding muscle as his hips press into your own and you have feel him pressing into your belly. Over the bargain mark.

You open your mouth to scold him, the words on the tip of your tongue, but you see the gleam in his eyes. The spark. He’s just waiting for you to stumble. So he can pounce.

One hand is now wrapped around your waist, the other settled on your throat, resting with proprietary entitlement. You shiver.

“Look at me.”

You swallow, but raise your gaze to his.

His pupils are dilated, expanding across his iris’, devouring you as you watch him. His hand raises to your cheek, brushing up over your throat to swipe his thumb across your lip.

Azriel lifts you from the ground, shifting you into the air before dropping you onto the counter. You bite your lip—he’s not gentle in his actions.

“That hurt, pet?”

Swallowing, you dip your head, leaning back on your arms. “A bit, sir.”

His fingertips dance up the tops of your thighs, hooking beneath your nightgown and lifting, allowing his eyes to settle over your slick heat. He groans, thumb brushing over your hip—dipping lower to just above the apex of your thighs. The muscles in your legs tense with the need to buck against him.

“Good.” He breathes, eyes not leaving your cunt.

You’re so wet. He’s barely touching you and you’re already dripping down onto the surface. His lips quirk at the edges, a dark light glinting in his eyes as they glaze. “Maybe one day, I should leave you wrapped in my shadows. See what they do with you.”

Your jaw tightens with the effort not to squeeze your thighs together, to keep from moaning. His thumb dips lower, tracing over your glistening sex, light enough to be a deft brush of his fingers. Hardly a breath of stimuli. “Keep you on your hands and knees, while I’m out working. Leaving you two to get to know each other…”

As if in response, they crest at his shoulders, peering down at you with eager curiosity. You bite the inside of your lip to keep from whimpering. “I’m sure they’d like that,” he drawls, raising a hand for them to wrap around, rubbing against him as a cat would. “Maybe they’d collect all the slick that drips from this pretty cunt into a jar.” He picks up the pot of honey. “Like this one.”

The heat is boiling, bubbling beneath your skin, breaths shallowing. “I can’t imagine a single dish you wouldn’t taste good with.”

You draw in a shaky breath, hearing the glass clink as he sets the jar back down on the side. His hands settle atop your thighs, spreading them as he easily lifts your night robe from under you, peeling it up so it pools at your waist. Allowing your arousal to slick the counter. “Would you like that, huh? Like the idea of them having their way with your pretty cunt?” He drawls lowly.

Your lips part in need, desperately keeping yourself silent but you’re panting. You need him to touch you. Need him to do something.

He smacks you lightly, palm connecting with your cheek as the stinging sensation settles into your skin. A soft whine drags from your lips, and his eyes gleam. He’s wearing you down, layer by layer, stripping you bare until you’re a shaking, quivering mess at his feet.

“Answer, pet.”

If his hand would just drop a little lower. If his fingers would just sink into you. Even if he just put his mouth to yours, you would be happy.

“Sir…” you manage, back curving, tilting your head downward to peer up at him. His wings flare slightly, making him seem larger. His eyes hunt your mouth, tracking their movement with predatory focus.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” The words are barely a brush of his lips over your own, but you can feel their quiet threat.

Your head dips, “yes, sir. I would.” Need thrums beneath your skin, and you know he can sense how desperate you are. And he’s still withholding your pleasure.

He arches a brow in silent command, thumb now brushing over your inner thigh, circling in light, taunting patterns. You look at him with pleading eyes, quietly begging him to touch you.

“I—…”

Your lips part with a startled moan, and you smack your hand over your mouth.

His shadows had wound their way up your calves, over your thighs, settling between them, poised to strike. And when you had begun to answer him, they dragged over the slick mess that was steadily dripping onto the counter.

They pull away as quickly as they had arrived, leaving you wet, hot, and needy, beneath the mercilessly gaze of the shadowsinger. You can practically feel his satisfaction as he tuts, slowly.

“I thought you knew our rules.” He drawls, mouth so, so close to your own. You push against his grip, leaning for his mouth, but he lands another smack to your cheek in warning, and you squirm on the countertop. “Are you being purposefully disobedient, pet?”

You shake your head, “no, sir. I swear—”

He’s pulling you away from the side, and before you know it, his hand is fisted in your hair, forcefully bending you over. You gasp, his hips pressing against the swell of your ass, eyes rolling a bit.

“I think you need a fresh reminder. Isn’t that right, pet?”

Shit. What’s the right answer. Yes, or no? Which one will please him the most? Which one’s correct? Shit, shit, shit.

He laughs, and you know you’re fucked.

You help when his hand connects with your ass, making you flinch, breasts pressing against the cool marble, making you bite your lip. “Make one more noise,” he whispers beside your ear, “and we’ll see how long you can go without coming.”

Your breath catches.

Especially as his hand snakes down your front, the one in your hair moving to cup your throat. Your eyes widen as he smacks your clit, knees wobbling as you lean more of your weight into the marble, but his hand comes down again. Again, again, and again. Until tears are rolling down your cheeks.

So overwhelmed.

The mouth-watering press of his cock against your ass, the solid heat of him at your back, the sinful brush of his mouth over the nape of your neck. Your toes curl.

“Open,” he growls softly, tapping your inner thigh.

Tears spilling, you part your legs a little wider, having tried to close them when he was abusing your sensitive clit. “How many do you think you deserve?” He muses, teeth scraping your ear, and you wish he would put them in your neck. He knows that too.

“Five?” He murmurs, and a quiet sob breaks from you, shuddering beneath his powerful grip. “Ten?” He asks, revelling in your reactions.

He pinches your clit, and you so nearly whimper. From the pain, from the pleasure he’s keeping just out of reach. So close your fingertips could brush it.

“Thirty?”

You nearly give out, praying to the Mother he doesn’t give you thirty. You won’t last that long. There’s no way. You’re already so nearly done. Already so used. Even five is a stretch.

Tears brim at the edges of your eyes, vision blurring so you don’t notice his shadows gripping the jar he’d earlier set down. Nor as they pop it open.

Azriel pressing mockingly soft kisses up the length of your neck, making you melt into him, desperate for that soft touch. His mouth is heavenly soft, just the barest whisper of pleasure against your sizzling nerves and you release a shaky breath.

You can feel him shifting behind you, but think nothing of it.

Until something cool, and viscous is pressed to your clit.

Your mouth drops open in pleasure, in relief at the cold sensation to your puffy heat. You could beg for him to continue. Subconsciously, you press your hips down onto his fingers, smearing the thick substance.

“Want more?” He whispers. So soft. You could whine from the gentle attention. After the repeated stinging, the coolness of welcome.

The pads of his fingers move in slow oscillations, spreading it over your clit. You flinch as it’s spread thinner, and you can feel the twist of his lips against your skin. “Guess, pet.”

You struggle, mind stumbling over itself but you come up short when you feel his tip pressing against your entrance.

“I—…" you stammer, scrambling for words. Anything. Anything will do. But what is it? He won’t be pleased if you throw out a random answer. “Honey—… honey, sir.”

His hips roll forward, and both your hands cover your mouth as he slides in. He’s coating himself in your slick, pulling out then pressing in, until he’s nestled inside of you, hips flushed tight against your ass, making your eyes roll.

He doesn’t praise you for getting the answer correct. Why would he? Out of the pots and jars that are scattered at your side, the right answer was obvious. He won’t reward you for something so minimal.

You gasp as his finger rolls over your clit, the tiny sugar granules abrading the soft, puffy skin. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as he begins pounding into you, still painfully working your clit. He’s not pressing hard enough for it to properly sting, but it’s like he’s repeatedly scraping the sharp point of his canines over the sensitive bud. Enough to keep you crying—he likes it when you cry.

His shadows wrap over your hips, eager to join the fun, to set their darkness skittering across the expanse of your skin. They brush over your nipples, silky and cold, and you squeeze your eyes shut. It’s his way of punishing you, giving you the pleasure of having him filling you up—so deliciously and it’s enough to make your eyes roll for you to beg and plead and scream for more and more and you’ll be so good so good and so pretty for him however he wants.

But he wears away at you, the honey making it a sticky mess between your thighs.

You wish it was just his hands, his hands and his cock between your thighs, then you could indulge in the deftness, the skill he carries. You could weep at the memory of it. The soft touches at the beginning of your relationship before you properly discovered one another.

Tears roll as his hand smacks down, a sharp buck of his hips accompanying the pain, easing you out. “Drift of again and we’ll see what happens.”

All you can manage are shallow pants of breath as he slams into you, touching you just perfectly. Now that you’re focusing on it—it’s kind of nice… The scrape of the granules, itching that spot, rubbing over it, with the heat and softness of his fingers.

“Stop enjoying it,” he growls lowly beside you, and your brows curve upward, beseechingly. You can tell he’s nearing that edge—then he’ll be spilling, spilling all of himself, everything he can give, all of it, spilling all of it inside of you.

You tighten around him at the low timbre of the order, making pleasure rasp beneath your skin. But then he presses slightly harder, and you flinch. So sensitive. It’s too sensitive.

“Something you want, pet?” He drawls, his hips rolling so deliciously, dragging against the spot over and over again that makes your knees weak.

You manage a weak nod, a slight dip of your head as you’re made delirious by the pain and pleasure that is twining together inside of you, reforming to something glorious. “Please—…” you gasp, his hips bucking, making it difficult for you to form any words.

“Please…?” He taunts, softening the tight rings he’s been making around your clit.

“I need—…inside me—… Please, sir!” You stammer the words between the thrusts, his shadows nipping at your chest in a way that has your head falling forward onto the counter, so well used already.

The request sets something off in the male.

Azriel pulls back, shifting to stand upright so he can put the full weight of him behind every buck, every slam of his hips as he drives his cock into you. If you’re good, if you can make it through him without releasing a sound, he can return your pleasure. But only if you obey.

And with the mess he’s creating between your legs, he hopes to the Mother you will.

Your hands press hard against your mouth, teeth biting your inner lip as you feel him spill inside of you, hot cum filling you up as he rides out the pleasure you’re giving to him. Tears spill down you cheeks with pride. You make him feel like that. You drive him mad. You make him want to fuck you over the counter first thing in the morning.

His hips draw back, and Azriel watches as his cum drips from your glossy hole, groaning at the scent. How the creamy liquid mixes with your arousal, sliding down to the honey.

He gives himself a few moments, licking his lips as he hold himself back a little longer.

Then, he’s gripping your hips, walking you over to the dinner table where he promptly picks you up, setting you down atop its surface. “You’ve been so good haven’t you?” He says, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

You can feel as the atmosphere shifts with his change in demeanour, and you could cry with relief. He reads you so perfectly.

“Azzie…” you whimper, pushing against the shadows that are guiding your legs wider. He just smirks, mouth opening over your unmarked skin, eyes latching onto yours as he trails closer and closer to your centre.

A whine drags from your throat when his tongue laps over you, collecting your arousal on his tongue, his own release mixing and sweetened by the honey. He groans, eyes rolling for a moment, before he’s settling in.

Tears brim at the edges of your eyes at the sensitivity, but his tongue is so soft, and wet, and warm. Slowly lapping away the abrasive granules, until it’s just saliva and come that’s causing the mess of arousal.

“Az…” you whimper, barely managing to push from the table. “Please…please let me come.”

How can he resist.

Your flavour drives him wild. He could spend countless hours with his head between your thighs—days, even. It would be his own heaven, being able to bring you pleasure over and over, submerging himself in your heat.

That coil tightens, and you whimper, fingers tangling in his inky hair. “Azriel…” you pant, back arching. You’re so close. The thought of him cleaning that mess he’d made—

You moan, and it’s the best sound he’s heard.

“Don’t stop— Please! Please don’t stop,” you whimper, and you can feel that pleasure cresting.

He hums, suckling on your clit as he dips down, lapping up your centre, gathering your taste on his tongue as you fall apart then and there.

Beautiful. The way your hands fist, back arching, toes curling as your hips wind against him. It brings him his own pleasure, to feel you fluttering on his tongue, waves of euphoria washing your body in ecstasy.

A broken moan slips from your lips, mind flying high to the heavens as his mouth soothes you out, calming the arousal that had been begging to be unleashed on your body. He barely has a chance to stand before you’re hauling him closer—maybe his shadows shoved him forward, into you arms—mouth landing over his. Your flavours mix and moans echo through kitchen as you taste everything from his mouth.

“You’re so perfect,” you breathe over his mouth. “How are you so perfect?”

His heart aches at the words—he knows you believe them.

It has him solidifying his decision on how he wan to to spend the morning, his shadows already whisking away the stack of pancakes to your shared bedroom, his hand looping beneath you as you’re pulled to his chest.

He chuckles as your mouth attaches to his neck, teeth nipping possessively at his skin, making sure your own marks will bloom over his skin. He’s yours. No one else’s.

Never.

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[kaleidoscopiccc]

little things i loved about trinity theatre's production of rtc (because i love this cast more than life and am totally not biased) (Ferris wheel cast btw)

 Feral Ocean (she kept trying to fight literally everyone)

Jane and Constance my darlings

Karnak laughing at his own jokes

Mischa kissing both Noel and Ricky out-of-song just for the hell of it

Noel and Constance friendship

"Talia" was a woman randomly picked from the audience and they all sung and danced around her

Noel doing basically the whole show in heels

The extra cats in SABM

The parts of the script from 2016 (Ricky kept his disability!!!)

Jane giving Noel a hug after Noels Lament (they are so best friend coded istg)

All. Of. Their. Voices

Mischa had a mullet

The extra bits they added

The actors looked exactly what I imagine their respective characters look like in my head (POC Noel, curly haired Ocean, literally everything about Constance)

SPEAKING OF CONSTANCE

OH MY GOD I LOVE HER

IM USUALLY NOT THE BIGGEST CONSTANCE FAN

BUT HOLY SHIT TIFFANY POLITE MADE HER EASILY MY FAVORITE CHARACTER

TRINITY CONSTANCE IS MY WIFE FUCK YOU

Jane making the doll clap after Ocean's speech

Just the doll in general

Ocean coming out with a little sombrero after Karnak mentions the song about affordable Mexican cuisine

Ricky playing the violin in Noel's Lament

Janes movements and eyes

Noel and Mischa cuddling after TNBS

Penny's dog is named Savannah

CONSTANCE SMILED AT ME DURING TBOJD I NEARLY DIED RIGHT THEN AND THERE

Ricky and Jane playing with the accordion and doll to make a rollercoaster after the Savannah scene

"FORNICATION UNDER CONSENT OF THE KINGGG" "no."

ESGAL kazoos

They changed the notes in Sugar Cloud to make it more fit for an altos range and I honestly liked it better than the og

Penny became a roller coaster engineer

Prop cameos in Penny's house

Jawbreaker and Sugar Cloud was surreal irl I will never shut up about how good Constance was

Virgil was just a projected video of a mouse eating cheese it was hilarious

Jane sung TBOJD while spinning on one of those the magicians boards

Constance had 2 party hats during TNBS, one on each space bun, she was adorable

Noel and Mischa started hyping Constance up after she punched Ocean

Noel and Ocean making up at the end

Ocean angrily sweeping the feathers from the boa after Noel's Lament

Noel was so sassy but supportive I love him

Jane disappearing behind the curtain after her entrance and Constance jump scaring her and everyone else when she opens it to see no one there… twice

Jane tying a ribbon around her neck then untying in the beginning and end Dream of Lifes

Ocean looked like that one character from over the garden wall with her party hat in TNBS

Constance crossing herself when Karnak brings up her virginity like Ocean

Ocean stealing the halo from Jane after the erection line

Ocean stretching and doing vocal warmups every time Constance tried to start the improv

THE ACTORS

HOLY HELL THEY WERE SO NICE

I LOVED ALL OF THEM

ESPECIALLY MIA

SHE WAS THE SINGLE COOLEST PERSON I HAVE EVER MET HOLY SHIT

[sugarsfics]

King For A Day

Summary: Eddie’s shirts scores him a date on the girl he has his eye on.  

Trope: acquaintances to lovers? Modernish  

A/N: While i was working on Eddie x private!school!reader, Virgin!Eddie and a request I was also doing this on and I ended up finishing it first soooooo yeaaa.....This fic has nothing to do with the song title I chose it just seemed fitting because Eddie 100% felt like a king in this......Also I am sad that I wasn’t able to buy tickets for their tour so I am manifesting that a knight in shining leather will save me with tickets so then this fic was born (Sorry for the long a/n)

Warnings: 18+,mention of a wet dream, Cussing, Eddie being a dork, more so of Eddie's pov and thoughts, use of y/n

Word count: 1.5k 

Eddie is currently nursing his beer at a party that he didn’t want to be at. His friend Steve Harrington was having a little house party and told Eddie that he had to come. Eddie and Steve friendship is fairly new, they have been in the same friend group for about a year almost two, but recently have been getting close to call each other a friend, Steve also invited the older members of the Hellfire club they were skeptical but trusted in their DM. They all stayed together on the couch “There’s your girl” Jeff said to Gareth. Gareth’s girlfriend, Liz, walked in “And yours” he nudged Eddie then saw you walked in with Liz. 

6 months ago, Gareth introduced Liz to Hellfire, but Eddie's focused was on you. You were behind them trying to not be seen, only there for moral support, but Eddie saw you it was like a halo and spotlights were on you. The boys found out about his crush on Gareth's birthday, Gareth was having a pool party, of course he invited Liz, but Eddie was shocked when you came, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, not like he couldn’t before, but now you were in a swim suit. That night the boys had a sleepover, or as Gareth told Liz a “hang out that may include sleeping,” with your body on his mind Eddie had a wet dream the boys were woken up by Eddie whimpering and moaning your name. Eddie woke up to them laughing, he was mortified when they told him what happened. Eddie left early the next morning for business, but he was embarrassed, he told them that if they ever spoke on that night again, they will be banished from Hellfire and their characters would die a gruesome death. Gareth has been slowly hyping up Eddie to you and Liz to tell you and it was working.  

You and Liz weren’t from Hawkins, you guys lived in the city close to Hawkins. She met Gareth through one of her online games. You being her best friend was fucking scared for her life meeting a guy online could go horrible in many ways, on their first date you stay in her car hidden, it was something you both did on the first dates, Gareth didn’t kidnap her so he was going pretty good then they became a thing and he wanted her to meet his friends, of course you went because you are paranoid and this whole time it could have been a whole scheme to kidnap her, but the only that was stolen was your heart by a curly haired dork. 

Gareth walked up to you girls greeting you and hugging Liz then bringing you both to the couch. Eddie made eye contact with you, you smiled and waved at him, he was so glad that Steve’s house was dark because he could feel his face heating up with blush.  

You were standing awkwardly next to Liz and Gareth while they were sucking faces. You were looking around when you meet with Eddie’s brown eyes again, he smiled and patted to the seat next to him you looked around the pointed to yourself mouthing “me?” he nodded. “Hi” he said when you sat “Hey thanks for saving me” “Yea I been a victim of third wheeling myself, so I didn’t want a fair maiden like you to be one” smooth he thought. He took a sip of his warm beer and grimace at the warmth “I’m going to grab a drink do you want anything” “Sure water please” “You know you are at an infamous Steve the hair Harrington’s party” “So I have heard but” you looked at Liz “She is on her third drink so that leaves me the driver” “Well then I will be back with you water” he bow Eddie what the fuck was that he mentally smacked his head. He hurried to the coolers outside, grabbed his beer then dug to the bottom of the cooler to grab you the coldest water.  

He felt his heart drop at the sight in front of him, Steve has taken his spot he was flirting with you. Steve did his hair move that Eddie knew too well from watching flirt trying to subtly get tips on how to woo you. He should have known that if you left a pretty girl alone Steve would find them. He walks up to you with his head down “Here is your water y/n” he missed the way your eyes lit up hearing his voice “Thank you Eddie” you scoot over “Here I kept your spot warm” “Oh” he gasped “Thank you” he melted in the seat because of how your scent lingered. Steve started talking to you again which made Eddie quietly groaned “So y/n other than water what do you like to drink” Steve said “Oh um Strawberry Lemonde is my favorite” I CAN’T HAVE ANYTH- “What about you Eddie” he was shocked that you were facing him and talking to him while Steve was in sitting next to you “I-um like Kool-Aid" really Eddie now she is going to think you’re a kid-  “What flavor?” “The red one” “Pretty basic” you joked “What could I say I like the classics”  

Steve left a while ago but you both didn’t notice; shit you didn’t notice how long you guys were talking Eddie forgot that he was at a party till he saw you squirming in your seat. “Are you ok” he asked “Yeah I am fine it is just really humid in here” he had been feeling the stickiness for a while but didn’t want to ruin his moment. “Oh, yea I didn’t even realize that” *lie* “Do you want go outside” “Yes please” he places a hand on your back and guides you outside the warmth of his hand that you definitely want to feel more of. Outside there were still people but not as many, it had a more chill vibe than the inside. “Ah much better” you sighed. The porch light was on so Eddie was able to see your outfit, a grey tee shirt, a skirt with ripped tight and some well-loved black converse, it may have been for the black sweater he was wearing or you, but his body felt like it was on fire. You watched a group of people playing beer pong and saw Eddie moving from the corner of your eye, he was taking off his sweater, you started to watch him struggle out of his sweater then his shirt started to rise and you saw a the patch of hair going to his forbidden area you turned back to watch the beer pong player before you stared for too long. 

Eddie finally got out of his sweater; he was super confused on why it was so hard to get out of it but that is a question for later. “So, tell me more about where you lived” he started you turned to him “Oh well it- *gasp* is that a Pierce The Veil shirt” he looked down at himself “Yes, it is” “The is my favorite band” “What!! Me too” Sorry Sabbath I will make it up later “I was so bummed that I wasn’t able to get tickets since they are playing close” “Well well today might be your lucky day” you looked at him confused “I may have an extra ticket” your eyes widen “What” “Yea my buddy won’t be able to make it I was going to sell it and go by myself but having you be next to me wouldn’t be so bad” smooth Eddie you are on a roll tonight “Are you joking” “No would you like to see Pierce The Veil with me” “YES” you pulled him into a hug “oh my I am sorry I was excited and-” “It was perfectly fine” “How much” “I’m sorry” “How much do I owe you” “For?” “The ticket silly” “Oh nothing” “No I am not going to not pay for the ticket” “I invited you, so you are not paying” “But I must pay you back somehow” “Simple go on a date with me” “A date?” “Yes u-unless you don’t want to go on a date with me then we could go as fri-” you brought your finger to his mouth “I would love to go on a date with you” “Great can I- um" he scratched the back of his neck “Get your number” “Yes” you pulled out a pen from your purse and wrote down your number on his hand. “I-” Eddie was about to speak when Liz came outside with Gareth “Y/n I am ready to go are you” you gave Eddie a sorry look “Yes I will meet you at the car” she nodded her head then went back inside with Gareth “unfortunately I have to go but I had a great time” “Me too I actually had fun for once” “I should probably be home around 1 so call me” you said kissing his cheek “YES *cough* I mean yea sure” you giggled and waved at him leaving him behind to go take care of your bestie.  

Eddie drove home with two things on his mind you and how he was going to find to tickets to a sold out concert.  

tag list: @thefreak0fhawkinshigh

[bambiraptorx]

Prompt 25 with Donnie and ... any one of his enemies ig

Sorry for the delay in answering this, my original attempt got eaten by tumblr (that's what i get for writing things directly in an ask and nowhere else lol) and then only after I wrote it did I remember that I was considering having Donnie be an amputee in this au. And I was like well I can't not have him be disabled now that I've remembered that, and I had to rewrite it lol. 

Anyway. This ended up a bit on the longer side.

Prompt 25: Showing up injured at their enemy’s house

ask game

Content warnings: injury/being poisoned, ableist comment

—

Donnie’s head pounds as he pushes his wheelchair through the dark streets, the fire burning behind his eyes all but consuming him.  It drips through his skull like lit oil, strangling his attempts to think with pure, incandescent pain.  

It would have been wiser, perhaps, to head for an apothecary’s instead of towards the palace, or maybe a bonesetter’s?  Hard to tell through the pain.  But no, it’s too late, and finding one that’s open at this time of night would be far more dangerous.  Right, right.  He’d forgotten.

It certainly hadn’t been smart to work so late in his smithy alone, especially after not sleeping well for the past few days, but spilled milk and all that.  He just has to get to the palace now, he’ll be okay if—when he gets there.  The Baroness will take care of him.  Hold it over his head for the rest of his life and then some, just like his smithy, but she’ll keep him alive to do that.

So here he is, out past midnight and hoping that he remembers the way to the palace well enough to get there in the dark.  His head aches horribly, but it can’t be that much farther, right?  Just… around this turn.

He can’t quite make out the guards at the gate, but the way the torchlight seems to pierce straight through his eyes (ow) isn’t exactly helping him see who it is.  It’s… someone with feathers?  And someone with a long reddish face, taller than the other guard.  That one fox guy, hopefully, what's his name, Reynard?  He’s good, he tolerates Donnie.

Just a few more feet.  A few more.  His arms ache from pushing his chair so far, over so many hills, his vision fills with black blotches, his heart seems to be inventing beats to follow (and there’s something else that he doesn’t dare think about, because if he thinks about it that makes it feel real—)

“H-hey, Reynard,” Donnie manages to squeak out, before his front wheel slips into that damn pothole in front of the gate that’s never been fixed.  Fuck, now he’s got to get himself out—

The world tilts on its edge, and the last thing he remembers is the guards running towards him.

He wakes up slowly, in a bed with purple hangings and beautifully soft sheets.  There’s light coming from somewhere, but thankfully gentle and mostly blocked by the hangings, save for the slight gaps between them.  It’s comfortable here, and for a long moment he considers just going back to sleep.

Wait.

Where is he?

He turns his head—or tries to.  It’s a painfully slow process that ends with his face half-buried in his pillow.  Alright, arm, then?  Hand?  Finger?  Nose?

It takes an unbelievable amount of exertion to get any of his body parts to so much as twitch.  A sluggish panic builds in his veins; he doesn’t know where he is or why or how he got here or what happened to him.

The panic spikes when a hand reaches through the bed’s trappings and pulls them apart, bright lights streaming through an open window.  Ow.  His fucking eyeballs.

“Why, hello, my turtley-boo.  I’m glad to see you awaksies!”  It’s Mother.  Of course it is.  His vision is blurred from the sharp light, but he can make out the fluffy halo of white hair around her face and the shade of purple she always wears.

Donnie hisses reflexively, both because ow sunlight ow and because Mother.  He doesn’t know what’s going on but spider lady waking him up at Oh Bright Thirty in the morning is never a good sign.

She chuckles condescendingly at the sound, and claps both sets of hands together.  “Malutaciously naughty of you to pass out on Reynard the other night, you know.  Such a fribbety-fright you gave him!  He was nearly more nervous about how to handle your chair than he was about you, he’s so aware of your silly-billy little rules on it being touched.”

Donnie growls.  It comes out as more of a weak extended grunt.

“And you just had to be noodling around with that armor piece at night, didn’t you?  Not very smart of you, dearie.  I could tell from the poisoning symptoms you had—what a fizzy-winkle!  You’re lucky you came here, really, I doubt many people would know how to treat it.  It would have been quite the gruesomey-wuesome way to die!”  The light glitters on her fangs as she leans over him, a hand reaching out and gently stroking his forehead.  Her touch burns his skin like the poison had last night.

…is that what happened, then?  But… he’d be careful, he really thought he had been.  He’d heard the rumors of the kind of corruption a piece of the Dark Armor could cause, that’s why he’d taken so many precautions when forging it!  What, was he supposed to just turn down a commission that promised to pay that highly and provided the metal to boot?  Actually, maybe that had just been a scam.  Or possibly an assassination attempt?  He never used to have those happen before they’d moved to the palace with Mother.  Ugh, so annoying.

But what had he even been doing with it?  He’d worn his thickest gloves, his goggles, even wrapped a scarf around his face so he wouldn’t risk inhaling any of the blackened flecks that had come off the armor.  He’d had a friend take Shelldon so he wouldn’t be exposed to the armor either, and while it was admittedly harder to work without his service animal, there wasn’t anything that could have caused Donnie to—

Oh, right.  His face heats as the memories come back.  He’d finished reshaping the piece, had finally quenched it, stored it in that enchanted chest the metal had come in… and cleaned up.  Without any protection.  There were flecks from the armor piece all over his workspace, and he’d cleaned them up like it was just a normal day of work.  He must have breathed them in, gotten them on his skin—

So, fuck, it was his fault.  He’d gotten himself poisoned through exposure.

He glances at Mother’s face above him, a sickeningly gentle smile on it that doesn’t reach a single one of her six eyes.  “Don’t worry, turtle-boo, you’ll be just ducky.  It’s only going to take a month or so for the effects of that armor to wear off, at least with my doctors helping you, but no breezing off for you, dearie!”

A month where she’ll refuse to let him leave the palace at all, no doubt.  If he could bite her hand he would.  …Which is probably why she’s keeping it well away from his mouth.

Distantly, a door creaks open.  “How is he?”

Wait, is that… ?

Donnie’s suspicions are confirmed as Mother sighs, her unsettling smile flipping into a frown.  “I believe I told you not to be a meddle-doo, darling.”

“I—I know, I just…”  A soft swallow, quiet enough Donnie can barely hear it.  “I heard what happened, and I need to know he’s alright.”

“Oh, fine.  I know how you are with the turtley-boos.”  The Baroness steps away, and someone else rushes into her place.

“Donnie?  Donnie, can you hear me?”  Another hand, this one thin and bony, gently cups his face.  “I was so worried.  I haven’t seen you in months, and then this—that cursed armor—”

A quick, shaky breath, like a muffled sob—Donnie would recognize the way his dad cries anywhere.  It’s as awful a sound as ever.  If Donnie could, he’d shake off the bone-deep exhaustion settling into his bones, he’d take every second he can to make sure his dad knows he’s okay, he’ll be fine, but even as he forces his mouth open to speak, his eyelids close of their own accord.

He’s tired.  And he doesn’t want to be, but he can’t help it.

The Baroness’s footsteps pitter across the floor.  “We need to leave him be, my dear.  He needs his riddley-rest if he’s to recover, and it will be easier on the healers if the little giggly-pin is asleep again when they come check on him.”

Dad sighs heavily, and for a second, Donnie hopes.  Will Dad stand up to her this time, for once?

His hand disappears for a moment, then takes Donnie’s and squeezes softly.  “Alright, my love.”

Of course he doesn’t do anything.  He never does, never even tries.  The hangings are pulled back into place to block the light, a gentle “rest well, my son” is whispered, and Donnie is alone.

It doesn’t take long before he drifts off.

[s1lly-billy]

Purgatory.

A land of violence and pain

And bad boy halo

Sides being chosen and tested

Three teams.

Bolas. Soulfire. Green "Gay" Ninjas.

AND THEY'RE CRAZY AND REALLY FUCKING FUNNY

Alright, let me type big lore like the big lore typer I am.

(Been a while since I fed you huh?)

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Purgatory is run by a tall, black, figure with a humanoid shape, it only has an eye as it's main feature. It's voice is deep and raspy, and it can talk, and it seems to have feelings! Sadistic and distasteful ones, but feelings none the less. "He" runs "egg" island, where the eggs "escaped" the black gunk I like to call it. Its spreading.

EVERYWHERE.

It's all over Quesadilla island, and the federation has been trying to rid of it since it arrived. Cucurucho, a representative of the census Bureau (big power) doesn't even know what it is. Many have conspired that it's interdimentional

(it's black like the void I think they're gonna do smth with the end but that's just me personally)

To make a connection, think Stranger Things (yes ik this may sound cringe but hear me out)

The upside down, a exact replica of the normal world is covered in creepys and crawlies (aka dangerous creatures)

And these creatures always attack. Or, try to take over.

So what does this interdementional disease seem to do on quesadilla island?

It tries to infect.

This seems to be a common theme, as code also takes over bodies and land.

I think this is a form of matter that's built like a infection.

My in my head less like a virus and more...

Like uncontrolled cell replication so to speak.

Interdementional cells.

(Oh there's more? YES THERE'S MORE)

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Now let's look at some connections of color, size, and behavior

The "eye" from purgatory aka egg island is a black figure, that really does what it wants, but is still in associations with the federation. But like a different branch yk? Like the law doesn't reach it.

Purgatory also has a common theme of red and black.

Who else is red and black?

"Evil"Cucurucho/Cucurevil

He also has a deep voice, and led the islanders to the first wheel.

Ok, thats normal haha

(Lies)

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Eggs/Huevos

Another thing, all of the eggs are alive(not including yk tilin Trump Bobby) , but like completely roughed up, like it's sad how roughed up they are.

The eggs are practically on a leash. They can't leave, or escape. They can't even wash themselves, and that damned "eye" clearly hasn't been treating them well.

But claims to care about them, saying the islanders are "sinners" for being bad to them and others.

The "eye" knows more than he's letting on for sure.

And I seriously doubt he "cares" for these eggs.

Also strangly, he has smaller versions of him that are white and cute and act like eggs. (Well egg children)

And their not roughed up, their even allowed to roam without danger? Strange.

He's "protecting" the eggs, but at the same time

He's actively depriving them of their parents.

Huh.

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The safety of Juanaflippa/Codeflippa

I just had to add this section because ive seen so many people concerned about flippa

"WHAT IF SHE'S DEAD"

no calm down silly

The "Juanaflippa" we know right now aka "Codeflippa" isn't in danger unless she was caught after the first QSMP livestream. Codeflippa is likely as safe as the other codes are, they're probably sticking together.

Ive seen people mention the code the federation captured.

I can guarantee thats not codeflippa, that code was brought up during etoiles lore, and flippa appeared with Charlie after that.

So yes, flippa is likely safe. :))

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holy SHIT I haven't typed that much lore in a WHILE feels good to lore again.

Anything else you want me to analyze or talk about?

Just ask.

(Ask box or comments/reblogs idc)

And remember!

Enjoy the islands :]

[ink-flavored]

OC Interation Game

Tagged by @noblebs thank you!

Rules: Take the previous player's description of their OC, and offer up one of your own. Describe how well (or not) they'd get along!

Nobleb's OC: Orion Murphy

Orion Murphy is a fae creature with a desperate desire for companionship, which manifests as a set of large fangs on his throat, a host of eyes he can't see through scattered across his body, and a frequent craving for human flesh. he wears fashionable (and often revealing) clothes, travels constantly for a job he hates, and smokes a lot. she is dishonest, self-absorbed, and capricious, but generally a people person. she fears the vulnerability of getting too close to others emotionally, but once she decides to hold onto someone, just about nothing will make her let go.

My OC: Justice

Justice is an angel of the Christian variety, who embodies the virtue of his namesake. He fled Heaven to Earth after being a little too into justice for all humans, even ones that do sinful things, and questioning the system of sending humans to Purgatory to prove themselves worthy of Heaven. He is still incredibly conflicted about his purpose now that other angels have turned on him, and is also very concerned with "being useful" in general to those around him. When he's not in crisis mode, he enjoys doing fun little human tasks like reading and cooking and volunteering. He can sense the pain or distress of any person in his vicinity, especially if it's injustice-related, and is always helping them however he can. He puts humans at ease automatically, so most people trust him implicitly, which is great, because he loves humans and would be friends with everyone if they let him. His halo is always active, shining brightly by absorbing light from other sources around him, and he can unfurl feathered angelic wings if he wants to. He also has a flaming wheel mode he uses exclusively for combat/emergencies.

So. Okay.

I have the feeling that once Orion knew Justice could sense her every waking moment of distress, she would not appreciate that very much and probably feel pretty capricious about it lmao. That automatic and unwilling expression of vulnerability would probably activate that fear of vulnerability you mentioned, and likely would not end well!!!

Luckily (unluckily?), Justice is very used to dealing with Pride, who is very similar to Orion actually, so he would be annoyingly patient and understanding. It's very hard for him to truly dislike anyone when he can feel all the pain that's making them act they way they do. His savior complex would also be running wild and would not let him stop trying to help.

So that would... probably make the situation even worse, because he's not backing off, and Orion doesn't want to open up even though he craves companionship so much because this is already way too much opening up right off the bat, but also maybe it's good? Unless she told Justice outright to fuck off, he would not fuck off, and even if told to fuck directly off, he would make sure he was always open to communication if she ever changed her mind.

I envision a very explosive beginning that slowly, agonizingly cools off once it's clear Justice isn't going anywhere. Angry cat sniffing the new dog vibes.

Summary is Justice saying "ah I've seen this before, you need a new best friend :)" and Orion goes "fuck you fuck you fuck you okay fine."

Tagging: @foxys-fantasy-tales @noblebs @ceph-the-ghost-writer @auntdarth @damageinkorporated @srjacksin @vacantgodling @sigridhawke @void-botanist and anyone else who feels like it!