#i said what i meant and i meant what i said

[nereidprinc3ss]

promiscuous

in which spencer reid doesn't like that flirty!reader is going on a date. he makes that known. (bandages universe)

flangst, 18+ for discussions of sex warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, mentions of going to a bar/going for drinks, very suppressed mutual pining, jealousy from Spencer, reader implied to engage in casual sex, reader calls themself a slut somewhat disparagingly but like as a joke, it all gets resolved, he is very sweet, he rambles when he's nervous a/n: oh God I love them so much they are like so in love and they literally have no idea at all because they're so dumb... but WE can tell.. turning point for them

“Penelope wanted me to confirm that you guys are coming to drinks with us tonight?”

It’s something of a standing tradition for the BAU on the last Friday of every month, and usually you’d agree, but tonight, you have other plans. 

“Raincheck for me,” you say, sliding some files into your bag which you do not plan on reviewing. “I have a thing.”

“What thing do you have on a Friday night?” Morgan asks skeptically. You don’t bother looking at him as you hide a smile. 

“A date, Morgan. You jealous?”

“You’re going on a date?”

You’d nearly forgotten Spencer was in the room until he spoke—he’s been in one of those quiet moods of his where he sort of floats around everyone else and makes himself insubstantial. As you cast him a sidelong glance, trying to figure out his tone of voice, you see he’s frowning. Nearly grimacing. His brows are drawn so tight you’re worried he’ll give himself a headache. 

“Uh, yeah. I am.” Suddenly, your parade feels a little rained on. 

“With who?”

You pause, looking back down at your desk with a new frown of your own and shaking your head as if you could clear it that way. “Just… some guy from OT.”

“Dalton?”

Ding ding ding. Somehow he got it right on the first guess, and for some reason, you wish he hadn’t. You don’t want Spencer knowing who you’re going on a date with. It feels wrong. 

“Does it matter?” You evade, shoving your things with a little more force into your bag. 

“Well Dalton is an idiot, so I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you’d go out with him.”

“And if it’s not Dalton?”

“Then I’d tell you all the guys in OT are idiots and you shouldn’t waste your time on any of them.”

“Alright—” Morgan passes between your desks, placing a friendly hand on your back as he does. “I’m gonna let you two hash this out by yourselves.” He gives you a look, eyebrows raised, unsmiling, that means, go easy on the kid. It makes you feel terribly guilty. And more than a little defensive. 

“Night,” you call halfheartedly. He only waves as the glass doors swing shut behind him, leaving you and boy genius alone in the bull pen.

Silence falls, cloistering you as you finish packing up together. It seems to magnify the buzz of the overheads. You notice him intentionally lingering, and you sling your bag over your shoulder with a sigh. 

“Okay,” you say, turning to face him with your whole body. He seems uncomfortable with that, but you’re not letting this go. “What is this? Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, refusing to meet your eyes. “I just think—”

“Yeah. You’ve made your thoughts abundantly clear. I don’t know why you’re judging me for going on a date.”

“I’m not judging you! I just think you deserve better than a guy who looks like he… snorts protein powder for every meal and has less capacity for intelligent conversation than a mealworm.”

“Okay. Do you have someone in mind?”

The words come out a little sharper than you’d meant for them to. A little louder. Spencer looks like a scolded puppy as he swallows. 

“Not specifically. Just—someone more like you.”

He just doesn’t get it. You fold your jacket over your arm. 

“Yeah, well, until someone more like me comes along and asks me out, Dalton is the best I’ve got. I know he’s not my soulmate, Reid. But he asked me to drinks, and I said yes.”

The room is mostly dark. Only a few fluorescents remain on to cast Spencer in an almost clinical glow against a dark grey background. You’ve been here before. It feels like an interrogation. An environment where you’re practically begging for the truth without saying please, but there’s only room for measured dishonesty. 

Spencer speaks under his breath, fiddling with the strap of his own bag. “He’s not good enough for you.”

“What do you want me to do?” It’s an exasperated, confrontational sigh. Your arms raise and fall heavily back to your sides. Another long grey hallway of silence that leads nowhere. When it becomes clear he doesn’t have the answer, or he’s not comfortable sharing, you straighten. “I’ll see you Monday, Reid.”

Your spirits are completely dampened as you trudge to the elevators. What once seemed like an exciting opportunity now only serves as a depressing reminder that you’re wasting your time with a man who isn’t what you want. Maybe you should just call the whole thing off. 

“Wait,” Spencer calls, half-jogging to catch the open elevator. His bag bobs with every step, pens and things jingling around inside. It’s endearing, even though you’re upset with him. Your arms remain stubbornly crossed, but he makes it anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your mood.”

You laugh dryly. “Yeah, well…”

“It’s just that…” he sniffs and looks down, hair falling in front of his face. He really is sweet, even when he’s kind of a dick. He’s full of so much sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with it all. “I know how you are—you’re special, and funny, and intelligent, and, and Dalton—all those qualities are wasted on him. He looks at you and he just sees a pretty face. It may sound trite, but… he doesn’t deserve you.”

You sigh again, heart squeezing. The glowing light on the panel of floor numbers flickers. “I know your heart is in the right place, alright? But it’s not about who deserves me or who doesn’t. I’m not a prize. I’m a person, and people like to feel wanted. Sometimes, it’s just—it’s about who’s there, and who likes me enough to say it to my face. Sometimes that’s all I need, and I know you didn’t mean it like this, but when you say he doesn’t deserve me, it really seems like you’re not considering what I might want at all. Maybe Dalton is what I want.”

God—this elevator ride is like, comedically long. 

“Is he what you want?”

At least he has the bravery to ask. 

You glance over at Spencer, washed out bloodless and looking like he’s prepared to flinch, like he doesn’t know if he’s ready for the answer. The doors ding and slide open, and stale air whooshes from the chrome compartment into the lobby like a held breath finally exhaled. You swallow. 

“I don’t know why it matters to you.”

“Because you’re my friend and I want to see you happy,” he insists, trailing after you as you speed walk through the lobby. Every click of your heeled boots echos. 

“Then shouldn’t you be supporting me?”

“I’m not going to support you in making the wrong choice.”

The conversation spills out into the bitter-cold parking lot. You turn around to face him. 

“Respectfully, you have no idea what’s right or wrong for me. I don’t like whatever this is,” you say, gesturing with a finger between the two of you, as if the conflict were a tangible thing—a phone line hanging between your hearts. “I don’t know if it’s, like, jealousy, or some misplaced feeling of possessiveness, or protectiveness, or—”

“It’s not like that!” He splutters. 

“Okay—so what is it like? If you want to see me happy, why don’t you support me in pursuing the things that make me happy? And if that’s meaningless sex with some guy from operational tech, so be it! You are not in a position to give your two cents on who I sleep with!”

“I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t even thinking about—about sex! I don’t care who you sleep with!”

He’s turning increasingly pink. 

“Fine. But if you weren’t thinking about sex, if you thought I was under any illusion that Dalton was going to be my fucking Prince Charming then clearly you’re not equipped to have this conversation. I know he’s an idiot. I’m not looking for my soulmate—thank you, though, for reminding me that it’s completely fucking pointless to even pretend. I love you, Spencer, but grow up. And stay out of my business.”

And with that, you’re turning on your heel and marching toward your car. Spencer calls your name—once. Twice. The wind lashes against your bare arms and stings your eyes as you fumble with your keys. 

It’s just the wind. 

Nothing else. 

-

Maybe you’re simply not meant for love. 

It’s a narcissistic thought in the sense that everyone has it at some point in their lives—everyone falls victim to the delusion that they are so uniquely wretched, so singularly incapable of being understood by another person. It’s the universal illusion of solitude. And you’d thought yourself above it for a long time. In college, there was fling after fling. Your bed was never empty if you didn’t want it to be. In your young adult life, you have other priorities—but you rarely have to be alone. 

Now, though, as you sit on a rickety metal stool deep in the bowels of the Bureau’s records room, banished to sort through files in search of one that had been mishandled during a cold case and is now supposedly relevant again, (although you’re not sure it actually exists) you’re pondering the nature of those connections you’d been so sure your life was full of. Were they all artificial? Designed by you subconsciously to manufacture a sense of complacent satisfaction? To stave off the aching, gnawing loneliness in your gut that you’re only now becoming aware of and has been eating you away in bigger and bigger bites since Friday night?

Morgan was supposed to be just as arm-deep into a box of dusty manila folders as you are now, but he talked his way out of it, and you’re sitting in an awkward twenty-minute-long-so-far silence with Spencer. Which isn’t helping anything. 

The tension comes and goes like the moon pulling the tides. It’s like you can sense it wafting off of each other—you feel it in the prickle on the back of your neck and the buzz in your stomach when he’s about to say something, and you glance over, and he’s already looking at you with his lips parted, and then he doesn’t say anything after all, and the silence reinforces itself. 

It gets frustrating. 

Not to mention this task is equal parts mind numbing and infuriating. Maybe Hotch just hates you. 

Eventually Spencer clears his throat, and you welcome the distraction. 

“What year are you on?”

You give him a long look which he doesn’t reciprocate, because you want to say, really? But eventually you pick up the edge of the box you’re sifting through and double check. 

“Uh… June 1979 through August 1979.”

He nods matter-of-facts. “They should be making us wear gloves.”

Your incoming tangent spidey senses are tingling. It’s not exactly an opportune time, but it’s better than silence. 

Plus—you’re pretty sure this is his idea of a peace offering. 

“Why’s that?” You mutter, flicking through yellowed papers. 

“Wood pulp paper contains an alum-rosin mixture to minimize ink bleeding, but in the presence of moisture such as that introduced in trace amounts by our fingertips it generates a diluted sulfuric acid solution. They didn’t start adding alkaline buffers into paper until 1986, and the cellulose chains that comprise the structure of the paper inevitably shorten and break down over time, so we’re actively degrading these documents by touching them without gloves.”

“Did you say sulfuric acid?”

“I said a diluted sulfuric acid solution,” he clarifies, utterly missing the point of your question as he so often does in that disarmingly endearing way of his. “Sorry, by the way.”

You look up from a photo of bloodied bell-bottom jeans. He’s caught you by surprise. 

“For what?”

“For—”

He struggles with the words—you watch his lips form a few silent ones before he gives up on the nonchalant act and sets his file on his lap. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from it, but you don’t mind. 

“For everything on Friday. I… I know it was none of my business. I sometimes struggle with… keeping my thoughts to myself. Especially when it concerns someone I care about. But I wasn’t judging you, I swear. What you said about—about sex, I—” he sighs, obviously frustrated with himself, and pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. “That’s not where my mind was at, at all. Whatever you… do, or don’t do, is none of my business. Obviously. You don’t need me to tell you that. You don’t need me to tell you anything. I just really wanted to clarify that I wasn’t shaming you or judging you for—”

“Spencer,” you say gently, cutting him off and reeling him in before he can dig any deeper. 

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He glows under the canned lighting, a soft aura of white blurring the edges of him. The stale room buzzes. It’s otherwise quiet down here. Peaceful, almost. 

From anyone else, you might consider it overstepping. 

You wouldn’t have been willing to forgive them in the first place. 

But it’s not anyone else. 

“Thank you, for apologizing. I really appreciate it.”

He glances up at you, sort of hunched—always trying to make himself smaller than whatever force created him had intended. The deep brown of his eyes is melted and swirling and sweet and nervous. He’s not naturally good at these interpersonal things, but he’s always trying. He’s always pushing himself for you.

Do you ask too much? 

Do you offer enough in return?

Struck by sudden insecurity, you look away. Go back to your files. 

Perhaps you made a mountain out of a molehill and told him to climb it. 

“I mean, I am kind of a slut. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so,” you laugh airily. “Maybe it was a good reality check.”

A trailing silence. An air conditioner kicks on. 

“What? That’s not—that’s not at all what I was trying to say.”

“Spencer, it’s fine.”

His stool squeaks as he sits up straighter. 

“No, I really want you to understand. Even if I cared or thought about how many people you might sleep with—which I don’t—and even if I determined that you were… sexually promiscuous, I wouldn’t assign a moral value to that judgement. Sexual promiscuity is observed all the time in the animal kingdom, it’s biologically sound and justified and in less misogynistic cultures where bonds forged between humans weren’t socioeconomic arrangements dependent on women being viewed as commodities first and foremost, it’s completely unremarkable. But I haven’t made that determination. All I know is that… you’re you. And that’s all that’s ever going to matter to me.”

Silence falls. Your voice gets stuck in your throat. 

How does he so casually show you more kindness than anyone else has ever managed to show you in your life?

Spencer takes pity on you. 

“And… we’ve talked entirely too much about something that’s none of my business today.”

It’s wry and earns a chuckle from you. Even Spencer manages a chagrined smile. That same strand of hair falls loose as he looks down. Light bounces from his self-effacing smirk. 

You fiddle absentmindedly with the fraying corner of a folder, and you’re about to open your mouth, about to speak into the sparkling cloud that the easy laughter and the melted tension has left in its wake, and tell him how much you appreciate him and how kind he truly is and undoubtedly whatever you say will be made more beautiful because of it—because of the affection you have for each other—and then you stop, eyes catching on the case file between your fingers. You frown. 

“Wait—what’s the case number we’re looking for?”

“91 18 00063 7.”

You hold the file up, eyes alight. 

“I found it.”

Spencer frowns and takes it without asking. You watch as he reviews the number in tiny black typeface along the top of the document. His brow scrunches in disbelief. 

“I genuinely didn’t think we were ever going to find it,” he murmurs after leading through the photos and glances back up at you. “We had thirty years of boxes to look through and you found it in under an hour. You’re like magic.”

It’s impossible not to smile. You feel all warm and sparkly as you snatch it back from him and stand, straightening your jacket. 

“Will you tell that to Hotch?”

“I… will tell anyone who will listen,” he assures you, and you’re confident he’s following as you make your way through the maze of stacks. “Are we not gonna clean up our mess?”

“There are people who will take care of that later.”

“Yeah. Like me. During my lunch break.”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be well rewarded for your efforts today.”

“What does that mean?” He mumbles, and you can practically hear his blush. 

You smile to yourself. 

Still got it. 

for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!

[astonmartinii]

i will always love you | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x fem bodyguard reader

what he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with his bodyguard? this IS a rom com

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

f1insider

liked by user1, user2 and 45.925 others

f1insider: red bull have confirmed that max verstappen will have a bodyguard for the rest of this season after increasingly aggressive fan activity towards drivers at races. what do you think about it?

view all comments

user3: i completely understand that it’s insane that it’s gotten to the point where he needs a bodyguard …. but like JEALOUS

user4: i pray there’s never any need for her to do her actual job

user5: f1 need to sort it out i agree

user4: i meant because i would be no better than a man im sorry god but i want to watch her fight someone 😫

user6: this should’ve been done so long ago but i’m glad they’ve finally made the step

user7: what i find crazy is that people can afford a paddock pass and wanna fight the drivers ??? what a waste of money GIVE THEM TO ME

user8: i’m being completely serious when i say … any punk ass influencer tries to film max in the bathroom i want this bodyguard to shoot them with a gun

user9: no i agree

user10: and when i do it on purpose so she can beat the shit out of me ??

user11: choke

user12: she look familiar to any of you?

user13: i thought i had seen her before but like i just can’t quite recall

user14: swiftie here! she was taylor’s bodyguard for a couple years so you probably have seen her in paparazzi photos or something

user15: taylor swift and now max verstappen i need her agent

user16: the thought of that massive hunk of a man cowering behind her is killing me

user17: it’s killing you? it’s getting me excited this is so romance book coded

user18: you people’s obsession with putting people in “relationship” is the worst thing to happen to the sport

user19: i agree! (they would be unbelievably cute)

user20: i’m glad to see we’re all being very serious about the state of the sport where a driver needs a bodyguard and not the fact that said bodyguard is visually appealing

user21: sky i will deal with your bias if you give us the visual on her

user20: jesus wept

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 120,399 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername: new job, same friendship bracelets

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user22: WE FOUND YOU

user23: hi mother !!!!

user24: we miss you serving face with taylor :(

maxverstappen1: you were a bodyguard for TAYLOR SWIFT ???

yourusername: you didn't read my CV? you had the last say on me being hired?

maxverstappen1: i let GP read them and he's never steered me wrong before

yourusername: that seems irresponsible

maxverstappen1: ANYWAY my point was going to be ... can we still get eras tour tickets?

yourusername: i can see what i can do

maxverstappen1: what if you just called taylor up?

yourusername: do NOT reference the kardashians if you want tickets

maxverstappen1: noted :3

user25: i can't have anything in this life ??? what do you mean you've worked with taylor and max?

user26: she looks so hot with a gun i'm starting to think the NRA are on to something

yourusername: absolutely not get out of here with that shit

user27: oh she educated as well? will you accept my hand in marriage?

maxverstappen1: 🤨

landonorris: and if i said you could guard me all night

yourusername: it's kinda my job to guard max all night

landonorris: but you'd rather guard me 😉

yourusername: i doubt you'd pay me as well as max

landonorris: i can pay you other ways 😉

maxverstappen1: lando i will break your fingers one by one

user28: max is out here like SHE IS MY BODYGUARD

user29: him being possessive... idk where to look but both of them - mark me scared AND horny

user30: TOO REAL

maxverstappen1

liked by schecoperez, fernandoalo_oficial and 1,452,099 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: simply lovely to be back on the top step in brazil, @yourusername you're clearly my lucky charm

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user31: max does a generational drive and immediately gets on instagram to flirt with his bodyguard

user32: he's so real for that because look at y/n

user33: i once thought swifties were crazy for being so obsessed with her but now i am just as bad lol

yourusername: nuh uh that drive was all you big boy

maxverstappen1: heheheehehe

maxverstappen1: did i make a good first impression?

yourusername: a very good first impression ;)

maxverstappen1: are you proud of me?

yourusername: very proud maxy

maxverstappen1: :3 thank you <3

user34: what in praise kink did i just read?

user35: i know he's done it in a very public forum but just leave them to do whatever they gotta do

user36: i know this man saw her in a suit and with a gun and fell to his knees

yourusername: well... close enough!

landonorris: idc about all of that ^^ i'm still going to shoot my shot

yourusername: is me rejecting you luck or talent?

landonorris: HUH ?????

yourusername: i may just be a bodyguard but i still have working ears 👍

user37: okay so she does serve more than just looks ...

user38: she's got a fan in me now

charles_leclerc: let me just sit back and observe

yourusername: you good?

charles_leclerc: i am sitting back and observing

yourusername: you are observing very loudly

charles_leclerc: i am just watching max embarrass himself, this is very healing for my younger self

maxverstappen1: RUDE

yourusername: he's not embarrassing himself if it's working?

redbullracing

liked by maxverstappen1, schecoperez and 2,451,045 others

redbullracing: statement regarding today's incident.

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user42: sorry red bull but i want that video tattooed on my eye balls

user43: i am so unbelievably hot and bothered after seeing that video

user44: red bull i'm afraid you'll have to take that video out of my cold dead hands

landonorris: i didn't realise the paddock came with dinner and a show today

oscarpiastri: lando they tried to kill max...

landonorris: well he was never in any actual danger with y/n around

oscarpiastri: do you ever read the PR briefs?

landonorris: PR whats?

oscarpiastri: this is starting to make a whole lot of sense

user45: they'll try to cancel lando for this but like he's being real

user46: no because why was george russell and kimi antonelli literally in the back of the footage eating LITERAL POPCORN

user47: i've never wanted to be two people so bad

maxverstappen1: i lived bitch

yourusername: MAX????

maxverstappen1: because of you, i'm forever in debt to you <3

yourusername: just doing my job :)

maxverstappen1: so you didn't just do it because of your undying love for me :(

yourusername: i think that would be inappropriate

maxverstappen1: THAT'S NOT FAIR, THEY CAN'T TRY AND KILL ME AND YOU CAN'T SAY YOU HATE ME IN ONE DAY

yourusername: oh maxy, do you need a cup of tea

maxverstappen1: and a hug ????

yourusername: yes, even a hug

user48: oh to have max that pathetically down bad for you

maxverstappen1

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 2,309,773 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: can you people stop thirsting over my girlfriend please - i may not be able to fight but she can

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user49: HE HAD ENOUGH

user50: i mean i too think thirst comments from my literal friends would throw me over the edge

user51: he was like winning in brazil is not enough i gotta watch my gf beat the fuck out of someone and then publicly claim her

yourusername: you're puffing out your chest in the paddock when all the girls on the internet are thirsting over you - if anyone should be jealous it's me

maxverstappen1: but you're so much better than anyone else i am horrendously in love with you

yourusername: HORRENDOUSLY

maxverstappen1: i have never felt anything like this? im scared???

yourusername: no need to be scared baby i'm in for the long ride

yourusername: and i can and WILL protect you

maxverstappen1: i need to report a hostage situation? it's me in my bedroom - i need to be saved

yourusername: you're so cheesy, you're lucky i love you

user52: i have another hostage situation - it's me in this comment section

user53: watching them be in love is like torture to me i'm so lonely

user54: they need a trigger warning i fear

maxverstappen1: @landonorris @pierregasly @olliebearman suck on that

landonorris: LEAVE ME ALONE

pierregasly: don't hate the player hate the game

olliebearman: why did you say fuck me for ????

maxverstappen1: i've seen those looks ollie don't lie to me

yourusername: babe i think he might just be scared of me

olliebearman: WOMEN IN POSITIONS OF POWER SCARE ME I'M SO SORRY Y/N

yourusername: no worries ollie! max is just possessive

maxverstappen1: ugh duh! you're the best thing that has ever happened to me, obviously i want to keep you to myself

yourusername

liked by olliebearman, maxverstappen and 342,067 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername: and iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii will always love you! sorry it had to be done - whitney houston is a LEGEND

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user56: of course she knows that song, she's basically living that story

user57: OF COURSE SHE KNOWS THAT SONG IT'S ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS SONGS EVER ???

yourusername: and you can bet your ass the red bull garage have been singing it non stop since i arrived

redbullracing: singing is our passion

maxverstappen1: they'd have to kill me to keep me from you DEADASS (pun intended)

yourusername: and that won't be happening because i'll be there to protect you

maxverstappen1: i'm not opposed to watching you deal with a problem in the paddock

landonorris:WHY WAS I MADE THE BAD PERSON WHEN I SAID I WANTED TO WATCH ???

maxverstappen1: because it was my life that an attempt was made on ?

landonorris: and?

maxverstappen1: AND?

landonorris: it would've made winning the championship much easier ?

yourusername: nuh uh i would jump into that red bull and win out of spite

maxverstappen1: it's true, i've been training her up

landonorris: you gonna let me have anything

maxverstappen1: nope :P

yourusername: nope :P

user58: oh they're so annoying 😭

user59: true ride or die couples are so irritating

user60: i still wish i was them

danielricciardo: i get fired and you get a girlfriend ??? how is this fair

maxverstappen1: idk what you want me to say, i'd never give y/n up for anything

danielricciardo: not even a red bull maxiel reunion

maxverstappen1: sorry buddy, maxiel is dead

danielricciardo: EXCUSE ME?

yourusername: sorry daniel, there's a new sheriff in town - should've charmed max when you had a chance

maxverstappen1: try as he might, he'd never be you

yourusername: awwwww considering your massive teenage crush on him... i love you!

danielricciardo: so fuck me then?

fin.

note: TWO IN ONE WEEKEND WHAT?

[lizardho]

I was like 11-12 years old when I figured out at a boring-ass church activity that you could put rocks into little plastic spoons and then pelt people who annoyed me with them. I did this for the rest of the activity, and at Sunday dinner the next night was bragging about my victory (cornering the mean kid who picked on my youngest brother and pelting him with rocks). One of my cousins was like “no way, that sounds SO fun! Let’s do that RIGHT NOW!” So we grabbed spoons and went and got pebbles from the back yard and launched them at each other.

The problem was my grandma sold her soul for the world’s most resilient plastic spoons so we could launch those fuckers HARD. I gave out welts like candy on Halloween, and I got them back in kind.

So we resorted to taking cover and giggling until we got whacked, then yelping, then returning fire.

My cousin hid in my grandpa’s little fishing boat. It was a good boat, but simple and honestly underused. We didn’t know the little windows on it, meant to keep the wind out of my grandpa’s face while he drove, were cracking. However, they were definitely cracking. Eventually it became obvious and we realized we had been being dumb.

This was NOT the first time in my life I’d been dumb roughhousing and broken something, and I had developed a reputation in my family as being “suicidally honest” so I was the one to deliver the bad news. My grandpa let out a pretty good chuckle and said it was OK, tousled my hair, and asked my grandma to bring me cake. I am not kidding. I learned later he hated his boat and only bought it for his kids’ sakes, since he thought everyone needed to know how to fish. At the time though I was just bewildered and pleased at my good fortune. FINALLY, at long last, being honest and telling the truth about breaking something expensive was getting me cake. I knew if I kept trying it would eventually serve me, and now so had CAKE. I was pleased as could be.

My dad, on the other hand, was livid. He LOVED that boat. He spent several weeks each summer recovering from breaking ribs in that boat every year for about 7 years prior to this incident. He had great memories and memories that boat. So he told my Grandma NO cake for me AND that I’d be coming by this weekend to fix stuff around the house and pay for the broken window with my babysitting/lawn mowing money.

Obviously I was devastated, but that felt more in-line with the way things normally went when I broke something expensive so I just figured it was OK. My grandpa gave my grandma a look and sadly said “Ok, have her here on Saturday to help me with some yard work.”

That Saturday my dad woke me up at 6:00 sharp and drove me, sleepy and bewildered, to my grandpa’s house. He was mumbling under his breath the whole time but he thought he was teaching me consequences for my actions so he was ultimately OK with it.

We get to my grandpa’s house at 6:15. My grandpa is outside with a ladder hanging Christmas lights. The lawn is freshly mowed, the trees and garden are weeded and well-tended to, the carnations in the front yard look immaculate, and my grandpa has this giddy mischievous look on his face. He tells me he was so excited that I was coming over that he couldn’t sleep, so he did all the yard work himself. He asked me to help him put up Christmas lights and decorate the Christmas tree, which I did, then said that because I was such a good helper I could have some pancakes for breakfast. I was sent home with the slice of cake I had been denied the week before, wrapped to keep it as fresh as possible.

The whole way home my dad looked a little miffed, but told me that he was glad I had been honest and was proud of me for helping grandpa. I know he wanted me to Learn a Lesson™️the cowboy way, like he had as a kid, but didn’t have much room to complain since I’d still been Put To Work.

I think that was a lesson for both of us, although I’m not totally sure what it was supposed to show me. I think it was my grandpa’s way of showing my dad that discipline without tenderness doesn’t count as much. He died last year and I miss him terribly, as does my dad. I hope that my story of victory, drama, punishment, and ultimately a secret second victory is meaningful to someone else out there, but if not it still means a lot to me ❤️

[foldingfittedsheets]

I was talking to a coworker recently and offhandedly said I wasn’t exactly competent at a lot of things. He reared back in obvious visceral disagreement that made me stop midsentence.

“What do you mean you’re not competent?”

“I guess I mean compared to the people I’m surrounded by? I’m not very handy, I guess.”

He looked baffled.

I tried to illuminate with a story. So at the sex shop we needed to vacuum every night, right? But one time after my days off I could tell the carpets hadn’t been vacuumed since I last saw them. I asked the other girls why not. It turned out that the screw that held the handle on the vacuum had been stripped and it wouldn’t stay in. Why was that down to a single screw? Bad design.

So any attempt to vacuum meant the handle just popped off when the screw jumped ship. I looked over the vacuum. I found a junk drawer. I found the biggest screw I could that still fit in the hole wrapped it in tape to bulk it out. Then I shoved/screwed it in place. Then I duct taped the opening so that fucker couldn’t pop out. Voila, a working handle.

The other girls were utterly delighted that I’d fixed the vacuum but I was painfully aware that my solution was neither elegant nor long term.

My coworker listened. Finally he said, “I think being competent just means you have the ability to learn a skill you lack, and you can do that. Your solution worked, and you were the one that tried to fix the problem.”

I digested that and agreed, but admitted any new skill learned would prompt me to be a huge baby about it.

[avelera]

I am literally so baffled by how so many people think the Viktor/Jayce separation in Arcane S2 was:

1. Rushed

2. Deserved, because Jayce ignored Viktor’s wishes and that’s what Viktor was reacting to

3. A choice Viktor was making, literally at all

Let’s go through these one at a time but they’re all related.

1. Yes it’s rushed. That’s because of time constraints per episode, sure, but forget that for a second. Viktor getting out of his goo cocoon and immediately leaving while still STARK NAKED is weird. It’s very weird. It’s meant to be a five alarm fire, red klaxons blaring, levels of really fucking WEIRD. The guy is LITERALLY NAKED he just walks out, barefoot, into the Undercity.

It’s weird and it’s meant to seem weird and indeed, inhuman, because that is not Viktor. Those are not Viktor’s choices. That is not who Viktor is. And the fact it is so rushed is part of the warnings, and meant to show us just how much something is very very wrong.

2. Tying into Point 1, if this was a real disagreement between Jayce and Viktor as we knew them through S1, Viktor would have stopped to get some damn trousers and shoes. I know it sounds like I’m joking but legitimately, there is no (or very little) conscious human thought going through Viktor’s head in that scene because a human being choosing to leave their partner of years over legitimate disagreements would have stopped to get fucking dressed before they left. That is not Viktor.

And to briefly launch into a defense of Jayce, he has spent literal years with Viktor doing science to address Viktor’s failing health. He knew about Viktor’s fear of dying. They’d both dedicated themselves to hextech in the hopes it would better people’s lives but the more selfish goal at the heart of that research for both of them was that it would save Viktor’s life.

Viktor only told Jayce one (1) time to destroy the hexcore and he didn’t explain why at all. Jayce didn’t know about the self experimentation. He didn’t know about Skye’s death because Viktor never told him.

Jayce spent years working on a cure for Viktor and in a moment of blind panic used their research to save his loved one’s life based on what 99% of his interactions with Viktor with one (1) outlier would have told him that this is what Viktor would have wanted, which was to live, and using their research to make sure he lives has always not only been on the table, it’s literally been the main focus of their overarching research goals minus one weird and unexplained thing Viktor said once while a zillion other things were going on in Jayce’s life.

Jayce using their research to save Viktor wasn’t a conscious defiance of Viktor’s wishes, it’s literally what 99.99% of Viktor’s wishes that Jayce knew about would have pointed towards. He was as far as he knew enacting Viktor’s wishes, the wishes Viktor had for years upon years. Without knowing about Sky, Viktor’s one request to destroy the hexcore was a weird and out of character request that had no explanation. It didn’t hold up when compared to everything else Jayce has ever known and experienced with Viktor.

3. Whew, anyway, the bigger point is that Viktor is a Hexcore puppet at this point so it doesn’t even matter if he had legitimate grievance against Jayce. He’s not leaving because of grievances, legitimate or otherwise. Viktor would never leave Jayce like that (or while STARK NAKED).

Literally in one of the last scenes we got that gave us a glimpse of Viktor’s inner life and motivations, he told Singed that Jayce would understand and stay by his side no matter his choices or transformations.

Singed is skeptical. But Viktor WAS RIGHT. Jayce didn’t even blink, didn’t hesitate at all to hug him after he was transformed so drastically. But my point is: real Viktor was actively worried about losing Jayce. Real Viktor would not take off like that.

And in one last defense of Jayce, I think the reason he just lets Viktor go there is that he has always respected Viktor’s autonomy.

Jayce notes in S1 that Viktor would often disappear without warning. He never tried to control Viktor’s movements. That’s what makes Jayce yelling at him for going to the Undercity so shocking to both of them in S1.

Jayce is also traumatized and shell shocked himself when Viktor leaves. He’s not prepared and he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t do what he probably should which is prevent Viktor from leaving (literally naked and barefoot!) because it doesn’t occur to him to control Viktor’s movements but also because he’s in shock.

But he really should because again, that’s not Viktor. That’s not Viktor making a conscious choice, that is another power and impulse puppeting what is left of Viktor, using his tenuous connections to his identity like his guilt over Sky and his/his + Sky’s overarching desire to help people in the Undercity.

It has nothing to do with Jayce. Jayce’s choices are not why Viktor is leaving. And the real Viktor would never leave Jayce under such abrupt and INHUMAN circumstances.

We are meant to be as alarmed and confused as Jayce was. It is a part of a pile of evidence that something is very wrong with Viktor and indeed, the Viktor we knew is not the one in charge of his actions right now. How much of him is even left in there is what remains to be seen, and if who he was can ever come back.

[menagerofmischief]

Nugget Update (MV1)

sumary: y/n's always giddy after getting a nugget update, sure she loves her best boy, but it also has something to do with the cat sitter sending the updates

driver!reader x cat sitter!max verstappen -> habs incoming... series masterlist

cw: not fia approved words, a bit of lance hate (I don't actually hate him), mutual pinning, the grid teasing the reader, lot of appearances from the reader's cat, kissing, kinda mean!reader (to the grid)

wc: 4.1k

a/n: this is my first time writing in 2nd person so bear with me. also, I low key hate this and it may be shit. not proof read!

“Well aren’t you a ball of sunshine?” A voice called out, disturbing the peace - or the closest thing to peace you could have near a Formula 1 track.

Your gaze snapped up, eyes narrowing as you took in the man standing on the entry of the RedBull garage. “Hello, Charles,” you replied, a teasing bite obviously heard in your voice as you crossed your arms over your chest. “I know you wanted to experience what a successful garage looks like but I thought Ferrari had a better hold on you.”

Charles laughs, his eyes crinkling as his lips stretch into a smile. Teasing Charles was always a fun time but that’s all it was, just a bit of fun. It never stretched into something meaner, just two people showing affection by teasing each other.

Charles had been your very first real friend on the grid. The first to offer his hand with a smile and genuinely mean it. The first to congratulate you on a win after getting out of the car or the first to say that the next race would be better. Really, he was your best friend, but you would never tell him that or it would go to his head.

“Funny, very funny.” He said, his accent thick. His eyes slid around the motor home until finally meeting your own. “Lot of drivers are going out for drinks, came by to invite you.”

“I don’t Charles,” you started to say, going through your mental list of excuses, searching for the best one to use to avoid this social interaction.

“Oh come on!” He whined, rolling his eyes. He gave you a look that let you know you could stop thinking about an excuse because he wasn’t going to be buying it. “We won’t stay that long and it’s night race tomorrow so you don’t need to wake up at the crack of dawn.”

You pressed your lips together, the lip gloss previously applied making them slide against each other easily. 

Charles kissed his teeth, nodding his head along. Fine, he’ll play the game. “Some of the WAG’s are coming as well.”

“Are you really trying to lure me out by promising female company?”

“Is it working?”

“Eh,” you shrugged your shoulders. “Will you pay my tab?”

Charles scoffed. “Pay your tab?” He asked, sounding as if you had asked him for his firstborn. “You’re filthy rich! You have a bigger salary than me!”

“Yeah, they do pay world champions a bit extra, comes with the title.” You replied, grinning at him, a wide teasing grin, your eyes twinkling. 

“Fine whatever, I’ll pay your tab.” He said, raising his hands in surrender. “Now go take that suit off and shower, you look disgusting.”

“You look like a trash can threw you up!”

“It threw me up because it saw you!” Charles shouted back in response, his back already turned to you as he walked away, back to the Ferrari garage. 

And that’s how you ended up in the bar, an hour later. Squished in the not too comfortable and definitely not meant to sit so many people, booth. With George’s girlfriend Carmen on your left, and Pierre’s girlfriend Kika on your right, and deep in conversation with both of them. 

You feel your phone vibrate under your hand on the table, and the screen lights up, showing off your wallpaper, a picture of your beloved cat Nugget.

You tune off from the conversation the moment the message arrives, grabbing your phone and pulling it in towards you. Your face lights up, lips stretching into a smile as your eyes focus on the sender ID. Maxie.

Or rather Max. The very cute guy who was your cat sitter whenever you were out and about in the world, chasing the racing track. 

With a quick move of your fingers, you swipe up, opening your phone and going into the message app. Fingers quickly tapping along the screen of your phone as you type out your reply.

With a smile you closed the messages app, pressing your fingers against the button on the side of your phone, watching the screen go black before setting it face down onto the table. As you looked back up, Lando’s amused yet teasing expression caught your eye.

You leaned forward against the table, pressing your hands to the wooden surface as you attempted to get a bit closer to the driver on the other side of the table. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Oh nothing,” he said with a laugh. “Just wondering who you’re texting, that’s all.” He intertwined his fingers, elbows pressed against the table and leaned forward as well. “You were all grumpy cat but then you get a message and suddenly you’re all smiles.”

“Grumpy cat?” You scoff, rolling your eyes at the McLaren driver. “I’m not a grumpy cat. And for the record, that was Nugget’s babysitter and he was sending me a picture of Nugget.”

Lando laughs, there’s a twinkle in his eyes that tells you he wants to say more but he holds himself back. “Can I see? I haven’t seen the orange gremlin in so long.”

“That’s very mean,” you say, opening your phone to show him the picture, that Max had sent you. “Nugget would never say that about you.”

“That’s because Nugget can’t speak.” He looks at the screen and his lips twist upward in a smirk. “Who’s Maxie?”

You breathe out through your nose, teeth digging into your bottom lip. When you speak your voice is sharp, it leaves no room for questioning things or an invite to ask more questions. “The cat sitter.”

“I’m sure that’s all he is.” Lando laughs when you show him your middle finger before settling back into your seat and returning to the previously abandoned conversation with the two WAG’s.

The race went pretty smoothly, as always. Starting from pole, keeping the lead the whole race and with a 20s gap to car in P2. Everything after that was pretty much a blur, the interviews, partying through the night with the grid and boarding the jet early in the morning.

The sun already started setting by the time you made it to Monaco. With a sigh you rummaged through your bag, blindly feeling around the stuff inside before your fingers finally wrapped around the keys.

Opening the apartment door you walked inside, gently laying down your suitcase as your eyes settled on the scene in your living room. Right there, laying on your couch, in deep sleep, and cuddling your cat is Max Verstappen. 

His hair had fallen over his eyes and the position he’s in looks rather uncomfortable, you’re sure his body will be aching when he wakes up. His chest was raising and falling with each breath he took, little sighs slipping past his lips. Nugget was cuddled up to him, curled in a ball.

You looked at him for a few moments before starting to move around as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake him up. 

Max had been cat sitting for you for a while now. Half of last season and now half of this one so almost a year. He was a sweet, kinda shy, mostly nerdy guy you ran into in a coffee shop and spilled his coffee. You offered to buy him a new one and he joined you for the coffee and you got to talking when he said he was looking for a job so you offered him to become your pet sitter.

At that point you really did need someone to look after your cat while you were gone, since you had broken up with your ex who usually took care of Nugget while you were away. And you couldn’t leave Nugget with your parents since your father was allergic to cats.

Now, your best friend who had been working in a different country had returned to Monaco and said she’d be more than happy to look after Nugget - but you wanted to keep Max around. 

Already having grown used to coming home after a race weekend to find him there, just existing in your space.

Nugget’s whiskers twitch, his eyes opening and he pulls himself away from Max, stretches out and then trots over to you, rubbing his head against your leg affectionately while purring. He let out a happy, albeit a bit too loud, meow when you picked him up and on the other side of the room Max began stirring from his sleep.

He opened his eyes, a bit confused, and rubbed his knuckles against his eyes to wake up, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light filling up the room. 

“You’re back,” he says, his voice is gentle, still sleepy and a bit quiet. His eyes meet yours and he offers you a sweet smile that has you immediately smiling back at him. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep, sorry about that.”

“Oh no, it’s no problem,” you reply, running your hand over Nugget’s fur as the cat lay happily in your arms. “You can use the guest bedroom if you’re tired, you know. The couch may be expensive but that doesn’t mean it’s comfortable for sleep.”

“I didn’t want to overstep,” Max said, pulling himself up into a sitting position. You approached the couch and sat down, the cat nestling in your lap and purring in content. Max smiled, reaching out his hand and petting Nugget.

“Nonsense Max, you’re not overstepping.” You cut him off, leaving no room for argument. You always told him to feel at ease in your apartment, that he was welcome to any food in the fridge and free to use the guest room as he pleased but even after all this time there was still a slight air of awkwardness backed up by the fear of going a bit too far.

Max’s eyes settled on you, your own focused on your cat so you didn’t notice him looking. He watched the way you cooed at Nugget, asking if he was a good boy while you were away and petting him gently, and his lips stretched into a small, careful smile.

He spoke before thinking. The words left his mouth before he even finished the thought inside of his head. “I watched the race,” he said, and your eyes instantly snapped up to meet his. He swallowed, already too deep to back down. “It - “ he licked his lips, trying to decide his next words, feeling like his tongue had tied itself up in a knot. “You were spectacular. It was lovely … simply lovely.”

You let out a breath, the corners of your mouth twisting upwards and you gave him a thankful look. Max swore he could feel his heart beating in his throat, and felt his cheeks heat up. “Thank you,” you said, your voice gentle, holding a comforting tone. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. And it’s nice - knowing you watched.”

“It is?”

You bit your lip, teeth scraping against you bottom lip as you looked at him, your brain running faster than the Sauber (like it’s hard) as you tried to come up with a response. “It’s kind of comforting,” you finally said, after what felt like a small forever.

You hummed, looking down at your nails. “I was thinking about bringing Nugget with me to the next race. It’s been a while since he was in the paddock.”

“Oh,” Max said, an edge of confusion noticeable in the tone of his voice. “Does that mean that you don’t need me coming over next week?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would come with.” You say, before you can talk yourself out of making the proposition.

Max tilts his head to the side, kind of like a confused cat and you try your best not to giggle at the mental image. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“If you wanted to attend the Grand Prix,” you tell him, running the edge of one of your nails along your skin. “Cuz’ I’m still gonna need someone to look after Nugget, and you do that in general so this would just be an added bonus of traveling.”

Max is silent for a few moments and you think he’ll decline. You wouldn't fully blame him if he did, you know what the pressure of the paddock can be like. You’re about to open your mouth, tell him that ‘never mind, it was a stupid idea anyway’ and put him out of the trouble of finding a polite way to decline when he finally speaks. 

“I suppose, if you want me to then yeah, I’ll come along to watch Nugget.” He says, trying to ignore the nervous feeling building up in his chest when you smile at him, a wide happy smile that makes him instantly smile back.

“Great!” You said, the excitement evident in your voice. “Someone from the team will contact you in a while to arrange the tickets and leave the rest to me.” Max nods, he doesn’t trust himself to speak, not with the way his throat is closing up and it makes him feel like he can’t breathe.

“Look at you all giggly,” Charles teased, gently pushing your shoulder with his hand. He wiggled his eyebrows, a laugh slipping past his lips as you glared at him.

“Charles, why don’t you turn around and flash your pretty face to the crowd.” You said, rolling your eyes. You looked at the stadium full of people who were shouting out for their favorite drivers, waving banners and cheering happily. You smiled towards the stadium and lifted your hand up, waving your fingers to the public. “Give them a wave.”

“See, I always knew you thought I was pretty,” Charles replied, waving at the public. The two of you and the rest of the grid were in a wagon, going around the track for the drivers parade, so essentially you were stuck with him for at least five more minutes. “Now, do tell who’s got you smiling like that.”

“Is it Maxie?” Lando asked, the teasing tone evident in his voice. He pushed himself closer to you and Charles, inserting himself into the conversation. 

“Didn’t your mom teach you not to eavesdrop?” 

“No, no!” Charles said, shaking his head as he waved his hand dismissively as you, his full attention now focused on Lando. “Who’s Maxie?”

Lando smiled at him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “The cat sitter,” he said in a sing-song kind of voice. 

“The one you brought to your garage?” The Ferrari driver asked, his attention back on you. “The pretty one.”

“Hold up!” Lando almost shouted, raising his hands. “You brought him with you to the Grand Prix?!”

“I didn’t … well I did bring him.” You said with a sigh, there was no escaping this now. “But it’s not like that. He’s here to watch Nugget.”

“And for you to watch him - because boy that is one good arm candy.”

“Charles, your homosexual is showing,” you warned.

“But you’re not denying it,” Charles noted, giving you a smirk.

You rolled your eyes at him but finally gave in. “Yes, I’m not denying it.”

You stepped back into the motor home, your eyes immediately searching for Max and finally you found him talking to your lead engineer. As you approached the two you could start to hear their conversation and quickly realized they were talking about how the car worked and what went on behind the scenes at a Grand Prix. You found it cute that Max was interested in that.

His eyes met yours and his face lit up, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards into a smile. “You’re back!” He said, “After terrorizing everyone around and getting pets, Nugget decided to settle down for a nap. He’s in your driver's room.”

Max gave you a wink after saying that and you had to hold in a giggle. You excused yourself to go to your driver’s room, with Max following behind you. The first thing you noticed when you went inside was Nugget, curled up on the massage bed and sleeping without a care.

The next thing that grabbed your attention was a dozen pastries lined up on a small table next to the couch. They were all individually wrapped in tissues.

“Max,” you said, picking up one of the pastries and unwrapping it. “I really did mean only one pastry, you know?” You bit into the chocolate filled pastry, moaning at the taste of a treat you weren’t usually allowed to have when it was race week. “My trainer will strangle me if he sees.”

“I swear, no one saw anything.” Max said, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down. “I was sneakier than Nugget when he’s stealing my food.”

“Oh, now that’s a very serious claim.” You told him with a laugh, his own laugh echoing back. You picked up one of the wrapped pastries and offered it to him. “Take one, or five. There’s no way I’m eating it all.”

He takes the pastry you’re offering him, his fingers brushing against your own as he takes it from your hand, sending sparks of electricity down your spine. After a second of hesitation you sit down next to him, the two of you eating the treats in comfortable silence.

His thigh nudges against yours and you turn to face him, finding that he’s already looking at you. He smiles and you don’t hesitate to smile back.

The practices go great, P2 in FP1, P1 in FP2 and P1 in FP3. 

The qualifying is where a slight setback shows up, with quali being ended early due to a crash and a red flag, putting you in P10 for the start of the race tomorrow.  

Once the car had rolled back into the pits you wasted no time getting out, putting the steering wheel back into place before storming into your driver’s room. 

You pulled your helmet off, fingers curling into the bottom of your balaclava as you pulled it off, throwing it next to your helmet before bringing your hands up to smooth down your hair. 

“I’m not in the fucking mood, Pepe.” You said without turning around, assuming it was your race engineer coming to talk about the outcome of qualifying. “Fucking Lance and his fucking money made seat - if that little frog screws up another quali, I’ll be the one crashing him out.”

“I’m not Pepe,” the other person in the room says and you instantly turn around, your eyes wide as they meet Max’s blue ones. “And I’m certainly glad I’m not Lance.”

You looked him up and down, eyes trailing over his figure. You took notice of Nugged, cuddled up in his arms and looked at you curiously, and reached your hand out to pet the cat, a long breath slipping past your lips. 

“Sorry,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “I didn’t really mean for you to hear that.”

Max barely heard what you were saying. Too distracted by the sight of you for his brain to properly register your words. Your skin was slightly glistening with sweat, an imprint from where your helmet and balaclava had dug into your skin still visible on your flushed cheeks. Your messy hair, and your chest raising and falling with each breath you took as you were still working on catching up your breath.

Max blinked, finally snapping out of his thoughts and focusing his attention back to what you were saying. “They should have let you finish the lap.” 

“I agree but sadly that’s not how it works.”

Max nodded along, not really knowing what to say to that so he switched to the next topic. “I ran into your friend. He invited you, and me, out for drinks. I think it would be nice to go, you seem like you need a drink.”

“Yeah, I definitely do.” You replied, taking Nugget from his arms and into your own, stroking down the cat’s body. “Which friend?”

“Uh,” Max started, thinking of a way to describe the guy since he couldn’t remember his name. “Wears red, pretty, sounds French.”

You laughed, smiling at him. “That’s Charles. I hope you didn’t tell him he sounds French, he gets offended by that.”

“Then it’s great I kept it to myself.”

You laughed in reply, putting Nugget down to the floor, the cat immediately moving to a cozy corner and curling up into a ball on the floor, shutting his eyes. “The hotel is right next to the track, you can take Nugget back while I shower and then we can go - if you want to.”

“Sounds like a deal,” Max replied with a smile.

You showered and put on a clean set of clothes just in time to meet Max after he finished dropping Nugget back to the hotel, leaving him with toys, food and water. The two of you made your way to the bar to join the rest of the grid for a night out. 

Some of the drivers were playing pool while their girlfriends were engrossed in a conversation so that left you and Max sitting together, sharing drinks and talking.

“I just …” you started, cracking your fingers. “I don’t know, this quali really messed up my mood and I was riding on such a high after the practices going well. It all feels shit now.”

“Maybe you just need more motivation for the race.” Max offered, drinking the rest of the liquor from his glass in one go. 

“You have something in mind, Maxie?” You asked, the nickname slipping past your lips without a thought now that you’ve had a few drinks. 

“How about a kiss if you get on the podium?” He said, his voice suggestive. Normally he never would have dared to say something like that but the alcohol courage really worked wonders. 

Your eyes widened, clearly not expecting him to be so bold or to suggest that. He took your reaction as a bad sign, immediately straightening up as a wave of dread quickly sobered him up.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out, the expression on his face shifting into a panicked one. “That was stupid. It was thoughtless. It was -”

“A great motivation,” you cut him off, putting a finger up against his lips to silence him. “It was a great motivation.”

His cheeks burned as his eyes met yours. He looked so vulnerable, his bright eyes impossibly wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“One more corner to go but you’re in the clear,” Pepe’s voice echoed over the radio. You blinked, your eyes focused on the track before you, the checkered flag already visible along with your team gathering in the front. “That’s P1, Y/n. Phenomenal drive today, you deserved it!”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice breathless as you moved your hands, going through the last corner and speeding towards the finish line. “Thank you, Pepe.” You repeated, swallowing your spit. “It was lovely, simply lovely.”

You put the car into P1, getting out and posing for a picture on top of your car. You could hear the shouts, the cheers, the celebration. You took off your helmet, ripping off your balaclava and putting them both into the car before turning around to face the team, eyes searching for a particular face. 

Finally, you spotted Max. Standing besides your engineer, a proud expression on his face as he looked at you with a wide smile. You didn’t hesitate, feet moving before you could think and then you were in front of him, grabbing his shirt and pulling him down, smashing your lips into his.

The kiss was desperate, both of having waited long enough for it. He wrapped his arms around you, the best he could with the fence between you, kissing you back with need. 

You finally pulled away when you felt your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, learning your forehead against his. Nothing else mattered, not the public, not the team, not the celebration. Only him, finally yours.

“Simply lovely, right?” You asked, your voice breathless.

“Simply lovely!” Max repeated back to you, before kissing you once again. And he really did mean it - everything was simply lovely.

tag list: @formula1-motogpfan @misty-inferno @thelemonque3n @marvel-hotchner @strangemaximoff @folkloresreputation @pippyth3hippy @adharacambridge @theseerbetweenus @sebastianstansblog @tellybearryyyy @six-call @grussellsprout @oikarma @justcharlotte @annimausi

i hope i tagged everyone who said they wanted to be on the tag list. hope you enjoyed this one and keep an eye out for the poll about the next part of the series <3

[moonstruckme]

Hey angel!! hope ur doing well!!

i was wondering if I could request roommate!marauders where they have crushes on reader buttt she already has a bf but he's just a total jerk.... and u sorta get the idea?? (if u haven't done one like this already)

much love!!! <3333

Thank you for requesting lovely <3

cw: douchebag boyfriend, marauders fancy reader but don't genuinely want her to cheat or end her relationship for them

(poly)roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

It’s heartbreaking how lovely you look first thing in the morning. Sweet, rumpled pajamas, plodding gait, sunlight stretching over features still soft with sleep. You raise your hand to cover a yawn as you enter the kitchen, eyelashes still drooping like they’ve weights sewn into them. 

“Morning,” you say on the tail end. 

“Morning.” James opens one arm to you. You step into the hug automatically, and he drops a kiss to your head, his own private indulgence. You’re eyeing the omelet he’s frying up with his other hand. “Want one?” 

“Mm, wish I could,” your voice is a somnolent mumble, “but Dale’s taking me to breakfast in a bit.” 

James tries not to react, but his hold on you stiffens some. From the living room, he hears Sirius scoff. “Oh.” 

“I’m sure your omelet would be better.” You pat his side, moving out from under his arm to go to the coffee pot. “We’re going to this cafe he likes, and they never have anything I want. Still, I can hardly show up full.” 

James feels himself frown. Typical of your boyfriend to take you somewhere you don’t even like. Perhaps he’s a tad biased, but James thinks you should eat one of his omelets and show up full just to teach him a lesson. 

He plates up the one he’s just finished. You tail him into the living room as he delivers it to Sirius, curling your feet up underneath you on the couch. Remus is sitting in the armchair reading the paper. He and James have already had their breakfasts, but you and Sirius are always the last up on weekends.

“Are you finished with the funnies?” you ask Remus. 

He looks up at you with a tenderness James doesn’t know how you can’t see. “Yeah,” he says, shaking out a page. “Here.” 

Sirius snickers at your choice of reading material as you reach across him for it. You nudge his thigh with your knee. “Bite me.” 

“Anywhere you’d like me to, babe.” He winks. 

You roll your eyes and fold the page to read, well used to Sirius’ flirting. Similarly to how he’d done with Remus, Sirius’ ill-advised tactic for winning you over involves alternating between taunting you relentlessly and acting like his affection for you is all one big joke. It only barely worked on Remus—James’ interference had been required there, and that was before he’d admitted to himself his own feelings for either of the two boys—so James doesn’t understand why Sirius would give it another go with you. 

“Oh.” Remus closes his paper, seeming to remember something. “I was wondering if you might have time to go with me to the farmer’s market this morning. We’re out of eggs, but I can’t haggle with the woman like you do.” 

You give him a sorry sort of smile. “I would, but Dale’s meant to pick me up at ten.”

“Oh, well.” Sirius rolls his eyes, chewing malignantly on a bite of omelet. “If Dale said he’ll be here at ten, then surely that’s what’s happening.” 

You bump his thigh again good naturedly. “Be nice.” 

James bites his tongue, and even Remus reopens his newspaper with a tad more vigor than necessary. Sirius is by far the most vocal with you about your boyfriend’s flaws, but your roommates all hate him. The guy’s a prick. James would never in a million years try to convince you to leave your partner for them—and despite Sirius’ joking, he knows neither of the other boys would want that either—but if you broke up with Dale, he would be very tempted to throw a party. 

James really doesn’t understand how someone like you could end up with someone so holistically unpleasant as your boyfriend. He’s rude, inconsiderate, he doesn’t express any gratitude for the sweet things you do for him, and he is never where he says he’s going to be when he says he’s going to be there. He shows so little regard for anyone but himself. If he told you he was going to pick you up at ten in the morning, he’s just as likely to arrive at three in the afternoon. Even for your half-hearted defense of him, it’s nearly ten and you’ve made no move to change out of your pajamas or get ready, because you know he won’t be here on time. It irks your roommates to no end to see you tolerate such poor treatment. 

“Maybe you can go with Remus to the farmer’s market,” you tell Sirius. “You seem like you could negotiate.” 

“Sirius doesn’t know how much eggs are supposed to cost,” Remus says idly. 

“Oi!” Sirius objects through a mouthful of omelet. “I do so.” 

James smiles at him. “Really. How much do you think eggs cost, love?” 

Sirius manages to take another bite while James is asking, so his mouth is conveniently too full to answer. 

“I can manage it on my own,” Remus says with indulgent fondness. “Dove, do me one favor, though?” 

You lift your coffee. “Sure.” 

“Don’t let him summon you outside with his horn again.” 

There’s a brief but thick silence while you finish swallowing your coffee and all three boys try not to look too obviously judgmental (Sirius trying the least, naturally). The purse of your lips reveals some embarrassment. 

Still, your voice comes out unconcerned. “It’s not a big deal to me. It’s not like we’re in school and I need him to come to the door and meet my parents. It’s a time saver.” 

“It’s rude,” says Remus gently. “You deserve someone who will come to the door for you.” 

James’ thoughts exactly. 

“Sure you don’t want some toast or something while you wait?” James asks, partly to dispel the tension and partly because he really does think you should eat something if Dale isn’t likely to be here until the afternoon. “You could call it an appetizer.” 

You stand with your emptied coffee mug, passing an affectionate hand over James’ hair as you move between his legs and the coffee table. “Thanks,” you say genuinely, “but I’m alright. I’m going to go get ready.” 

However eager James is to avoid the tension that comes from insulting (or, really, just speaking frankly about) your boyfriend, Sirius has no such concerns. “While we’re telling Dale things,” he says after you, “be sure to remind him that our flat has a three-strike roommate tears policy. Next time you come home crying, Jamie and I get to make a house call.” 

Your laughter echoes down the hallway. “Sure, I’ll let him know.” 

Sirius looks at James, perplexed. “Did I sound like I was joking? I was not using my joking voice.” 

James pats his leg consolingly.

[theonottsbxtch]

LOVE - LOCKED | FC43

an: this is based off of this request and i hope you like it bc i had sm fun writing a romantic slightly angsty thing i cant wait to hear what y'all thin, i also think it may be slightly rushed tho so lol ALSO LOL WE'RE GONNA PRETEND CARLOS IS YOUNGER IN THIS BC I NEEDED HER TO BE HIS OLDER SISTER

summary: carlos' sister has lived her life completely separated from him and their family name, instead she went and made a name for herself in the tennis world - she likes her life like that. that is until she meets franco colapinto

wc: 8.7k

The roar of engines, even from a distance, unsettled her.

They reminded her of the long days her father and brother spent in garages, the low rumble of motors and sharp tang of fuel in the air. Those were the hours she’d spend alone, working on her serve in the empty court across town, each hit ricocheting off the walls with a hollow, lonely echo. Her own choice, of course. She’d had no interest in the world of carbon fibre and grease, no desire to be the girl who simply tagged along, her name always in her brother’s shadow.

Now, years later, she’d become someone entirely on her own terms. A name people knew on its own — Vázquez de Castro — a name that meant something outside of her family, outside of her brother’s fame.

She slipped her phone into her bag and looked around the chaotic pit lane. Journalists, engineers, teams in matching shirts, faces alight with anticipation for the weekend's race. She knew she’d stand out here; her face might be familiar, but she was a stranger in this world.

The hum of voices around her faded as she felt his gaze. She’d been hoping to move through unnoticed, just a face in a sea of faces, but there he was: tall, familiar, unmistakably Carlos. His brow furrowed in surprise as he caught sight of her, his quick steps carrying him closer before she had a chance to dodge. She braced herself, turning to him with a calm that she didn’t quite feel.

“No aquí,” she murmured, her voice low, hoping that would be enough to keep curious ears at bay.

He paused, just a moment, his expression softening in understanding, and he tilted his head, his face somewhere between a grin and a frown. “You came.”

It wasn’t an accusation exactly — more surprise than anything. But she couldn’t miss the faint hope in his eyes, as if he thought she might be here to see him, to share a piece of his world after all this time. She let his words linger for a beat before she replied, her tone steady.

“I was invited,” she said, giving a slight shrug, “by Fernando.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the green and silver canopy, keeping her tone casual, but she saw his shoulders fall ever so slightly.

He nodded, glancing away for a moment, his jaw set. “Right. Fernando.”

There was something she wanted to say, something to soften the look in his eyes, but the pit lane was crowded, the eyes and cameras trained on every inch of the paddock sharper than she’d ever expected. They’d notice anything. And the last thing she wanted was for the papers to start spinning stories, putting her under a headline right next to him.

She touched his arm briefly. “Te hablo en el hotel. I’ll speak to you at the hotel.”

As she made her way toward the exit, ready to slip back into the background and disappear, she heard a voice calling out just over the rumble of engines and chatter.

“¡La princesa española!”

The words were unmistakable, lilting and clear, even with the crowd and machinery all around. The Spanish Princess. The nickname made her falter. It was something she sometimes heard on the tennis courts in Madrid or whispered by fans in distant cities when she played in international tournaments. But here? She scanned the area, puzzled at who would recognise her in this world of racing.

When she turned, her eyes met those of someone unfamiliar yet striking. He was tall, with an easy, disarming smile, his race suit gleaming with the bright, bold colours of his team’s livery. He looked young, not much older than she was, but he carried himself with that unmistakable energy she’d seen in rising stars before. The rookie, she realised, though she hadn’t kept up enough to know his name.

He held her gaze a moment too long, that same smile lingering as he approached, his eyes sparking with something between amusement and curiosity. She felt herself tense, almost involuntarily, her instinct telling her to slip away, to avoid whatever came next.

“Es realmente la princesa española,” he said, his tone playful yet certain.

Then it hit her.

Franco.

That was his name.

Franco’s grin widened as he closed the distance between them, his eyes bright with an almost boyish enthusiasm. “Soy un gran admirador de tu trabajo,” he said, his Argentine accent softening his words. “I’ve watched almost all your matches — I love the way you play.”

She blinked, taken aback. This wasn’t the usual kind of recognition she got, especially not here. She could count on one hand how many times she’d been recognised in public. She looked at him, trying to reconcile this confident young driver with the earnest fan in front of her.

“¿Me conoces?” The question slipped out before she could think, her voice tinged with disbelief.

He raised an eyebrow, his smile never faltering. “¿Quién no te conoce?” he replied, with a touch of humour. “La princesa española, queen of the clay court, unstoppable backhand — yeah, I know you.”

There was something genuine in his tone, something that set him apart from the usual strangers who said they knew her. 

And before she could stop herself, she found herself almost smiling. She cleared her throat, searching for a response, but her mind was blank. What could she say? That she knew nothing of him, or any of these people — that she had only set foot here today by chance?

She settled for a simple, “Gracias.”

Franco’s curiosity didn’t waver. He leaned in slightly, folding his arms with an amused glint in his eyes. “So, what brings la princesa española to the F1 paddock?”

She shrugged lightly, careful not to reveal too much. “I’m here as one of Fernando Alonso’s guests. Aston Martin.” She left it at that, hoping he wouldn’t dig further. Noticing that she looked a bit like another driver on the paddock. Thankfully, he didn’t.

His grin only grew wider, and she had the feeling that her mystery intrigued him. “Well then, if you’re one of Fernando’s guests, that means you’re not tied to my team,” he said with a glint of mischief. “Come with me — I’ll give you a tour of my garage. It’ll be like… a private tour.”

She hesitated, her gaze shifting back toward the exit, where she’d planned to slip out and leave all of this behind. If she went with him, there was a chance people would recognise her, start to connect her with her brother’s world. She’d spent her whole career carefully avoiding this — the headlines, the whispers, the inevitable questions about why she’d chosen such a different path. But the look on his face, that open, boyish enthusiasm, was hard to resist.

She let out a sigh, then looked up at him with a sudden, defiant glimmer in her eye. “Screw it. ¿Por qué no?”

His whole face lit up. She could practically see the excitement radiating off him as he extended his hand, his confidence a little too easy, a little too certain. She eyed his hand for a moment before raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

“Modales,” she chided, her tone playful. “I’ve known you for five minutes. We’re not dating.”

“Yet,” he replied without missing a beat, a spark in his eyes.

Despite herself, she smiled, a real one, something she hadn’t felt since stepping into the paddock that day.

He led her through the bustling paddock with an easy confidence, weaving between crew members, equipment, and cameras as if none of it could touch him. She was impressed, though she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying so. The chaos of the pit lane, the narrow spaces and the clang of metal, all seemed to bend around him.

When they reached his team’s garage, he stopped by a young assistant stationed just outside, who looked at them with curious eyes.

“Do me a favour,” he said, barely containing his grin, “and grab a VIP lanyard for Williams’ guests, will you?”

The assistant glanced at her, his eyes widening slightly in recognition before he nodded and ducked away, returning a moment later with a crisp, team-branded lanyard. Franco took it with a pleased smile, then held out his hand for hers. She unclipped the Aston Martin lanyard from her neck and handed it over, watching with a mix of surprise and amusement as he replaced it with the one from his own team.

“There,” he said, adjusting the lanyard’s position with exaggerated care. “Now you’re officially part of the team.”

She couldn’t hold back her smirk. “You know, I don’t think lanyards change allegiances so easily.”

“Maybe not. But I do think it’s an improvement.” He winked, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Besides, the only lanyard you should be wearing here is mine.”

She laughed, caught off guard by his unfiltered charm, as he held out his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “And now, mi princesa, a grand tour.”

He led her into the garage, his tone switching between informative and teasing as he explained the various stations. “Over here, we have the engineering bay — where the magic of data happens.” He gestured toward a row of monitors displaying endless streams of numbers. “And these guys in the corner? They’re the wizards of aerodynamics. Make a mess, they won’t let you forget it.”

As they moved through each section, he offered her a glimpse into the world of F1, his energy and excitement almost contagious. She watched him with quiet intrigue; he seemed to belong here completely, as if he thrived in the chaos and intensity of it all.

“Now, over here,” he continued, leaning a bit closer to her as they approached a sleek wall of tires and tools, “this is where I go for my pre-race pep talks. I think it helps the tires, too.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You talk to the tires?”

“Only on occasion,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “And they listen. Or at least, I hope they do.” He grinned again, that glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Besides, they never talk back.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, but there was a smile in it, one she couldn’t quite suppress. He was disarming, funny in a way that felt refreshingly different from the sharp, serious world she’d known. He noticed the hint of a smile and held her gaze, leaning in just slightly.

Before she could say anything else, Franco led her deeper into the garage, weaving through the maze of tools, car parts, and engineers, who looked up now and then with curious glances. She followed, intrigued despite herself, and finally, unable to keep silent, asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, shooting her a look over his shoulder that was both charming and infuriatingly vague.

He stopped in front of a nondescript door tucked away from the bustle of the main garage. She glanced around, realising they were in the private part of the team’s area. He opened the door to his driver room, gesturing for her to step inside. The room was small but comfortable, filled with team memorabilia, spare racing gloves, and a neat rack of team-branded clothes. Before she could take it all in, he went over to a stack of neatly folded shirts and pulled one from the pile.

He turned back to her, holding up the shirt with a proud smile. “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Wear this tomorrow.”

She raised an eyebrow, glancing between him and the shirt with mock scepticism. “Bold of you to assume I’d wear your merch.”

His grin only widened. “I think you’d look great in it,” he said, undeterred. “Besides, it’d be an honour to have la princesa española in my colours.”

She took the shirt, running her fingers over the soft fabric, and met his gaze with a slight smirk. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough for me,” he replied, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. He looked like he wanted to say more, but just then, his phone buzzed on the nearby table, and he glanced at it with a slight frown before pocketing it again.

“So,” he continued, his tone shifting to something a little more casual, “what are you doing for dinner?”

The question surprised her. She hadn’t planned on lingering much longer after her brother’s race prep finished. She hadn’t planned on any of this, really. But he was watching her expectantly, and for a moment, she let herself consider it.

“Dinner?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion. “You’re not very subtle, are you?”

“Not at all,” he admitted with a grin. “What do you say? Let me take you out. I promise I’m as good at picking places to eat as I am at tours.”

She couldn’t resist a small laugh. “Alright,” she said, glancing up at him with an easy smile. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

He opened his mouth to say something more, but just then, a voice called out from down the hallway. “Franco man, we’ve been looking all around for you!” A team manager appeared in the doorway, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.

Franco sighed, flashing her an apologetic look as he straightened. “Duty calls,” he muttered with a smirk. He lingered a moment, as if reluctant to leave, then glanced back at her with a warm smile.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, feeling a thrill she hadn’t expected. “See you tonight.”

He nodded, his grin returning full force, then turned to follow the manager out, giving her a final, backward glance that lingered just a second too long.

Back in her hotel room, she brushed a final touch of mascara over her lashes and glanced at her phone, where a text from Franco glowed on the screen.

Franco: “Ready whenever you are. No rush. See you soon :)”

She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Tonight felt surprisingly… normal. Like she was just someone getting ready for a date, no stakes attached. She straightened her dress, checked her reflection, and took a steadying breath.

A soft knock at her door snapped her from her thoughts, and she felt a small flutter of excitement, assuming it was him. But when she opened the door, her breath caught.

Her brother stood there, his expression a mixture of confusion and something she couldn’t quite read. She masked her surprise quickly, stepping aside to let him in, though her voice was firm. “I can talk for a bit, but I have plans tonight.”

“With Franco?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, caught off guard. “How did you know?”

He gave a soft, humourless laugh, crossing his arms. “I saw you two in the paddock,” he said. “And I overheard him talking about it in the garage. Apparently, he couldn’t stop telling anyone who’d listen about his ‘date with la princesa de España.’” He looked at her, and his voice softened. “So why is it you have no problem being seen with him, but not with your own brother?”

His question hung heavily in the air, the familiar tension between them settling back into place. She took a breath, struggling for the right words. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be seen with him — it was the weight of everything that came with it. The press, the fans, the inevitable comparisons. She could already see the headlines if they were spotted together, her name placed directly beside his, stripping away the hard-won independence she’d fought for.

She sighed, glancing at him. “It’s not… about you,” she said carefully. “It’s just… everything that comes with it. You know how it is.”

He shook his head, looking slightly hurt. “I don’t know, actually. I’ve always thought we were supposed to be in this together. But I feel like… I don’t know, like you’re just trying to run from anything that connects us.”

She sighed, leaning against the doorframe, her voice dropping to something softer, more serious. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I just don’t want to be known as Carlos’ sister everywhere I go. I’ve worked hard to build my own name, my own career, and sometimes… being around you, it overshadows that.”

Her brother studied her, his face a mix of understanding and something else, a flash of protective instinct. “You know, if you date Franco, you’ll just end up being known as his girlfriend,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “It’s just a date, Carlos. Nothing more.”

He shrugged, his mouth quirking in a small smile. “Yeah, well, with him, nothing ever stays ‘just’ anything. Just saying.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth behind it. “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be fine.”

They shared a quiet moment of understanding before she gently nudged him toward the door. “Go get some rest. And good luck tomorrow. I’ll be cheering from the sidelines.”

The evening was soft and cool, the sky painted in shades of violet and indigo as the city stretched out below them. The balcony they’d stepped onto was tucked away from the bustling noise of the hotel, private and intimate, offering only the sounds of the night breeze and the occasional far-off hum of the city.

Franco had arranged it all—quiet, serene, away from prying eyes. The dinner was simple but elegant: a few delicate dishes of fresh seafood, wine that wasn’t too heavy, just enough to let the conversation flow freely. It was just the two of them, and she realised as she stood there, her hand brushing the railing, how rare that felt.

She’d worn a dress that was understated, yet elegant—a deep midnight blue that mirrored the evening sky, the fabric light enough to catch the breeze. She hadn’t given it much thought; it wasn’t for anyone but herself. But when Franco first saw her, the look in his eyes told her that, maybe, it had been the right choice after all.

His gaze lifted from the table where he had been adjusting the wine glasses, and the moment he saw her, the words spilled out before he could even stop them.

“Dios mío, qué hermosa estás.” His voice was low, his gaze sweeping over her with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

She felt her cheeks flush, the compliment unexpected but not unwelcome. She had been nervous about the evening, unsure of what this was or what it would become. But his words, simple and sincere, relaxed something inside her.

“Gracias,” she replied with a small smile, feeling the warmth in her chest spread, her eyes meeting his.

He stood up, taking a small step toward her as if to take in the full picture, his gaze never leaving her face. “I swear,” he continued, his voice filled with genuine awe, “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more stunning than earlier. It's like... you're glowing.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I think you’re just being kind.”

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head as he closed the distance between them. “I’m not the kind of guy to throw compliments around just to be polite. Te ves increíble, you look incredible.”

After a decent amount of eating, a stretched out silence, Franco spoke up. “So,” he began, his voice casual but warm, “what’s it like to be the la princesa española outside of tennis?”

She raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of her wine. “I don’t really think of myself as that,” she said lightly. “It’s just a nickname.”

“I don’t know,” he teased. “I think it suits you. You have a... regal air about you.” His eyes glinted with mischief as he added, “I’m sure you’d never get away with being late for anything. Everyone would just wait for the princess to show up.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “You really are persistent with those compliments, aren’t you?”

“Solo con la verdad,” he said with a grin, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself.

The evening unfolded easily after that. They spoke about everything and nothing: about their childhoods, what had brought them to this point in their careers, how it felt to always be in the spotlight. She told him stories from her tennis matches, and he shared wild tales of racing, of the constant pressure and adrenaline.

But it was the quieter moments, the small pauses between their words, that felt the most significant. When he leaned in to pass her the bottle of wine, their hands brushed, and the air seemed to thicken for a moment. His gaze lingered a bit longer than it needed to, and she noticed the subtle way his smile softened when their eyes met. She wasn’t used to this — this ease, this comfort that felt so unforced — but it was exactly what she hadn’t realised she’d been searching for.

“You know,” Franco said, his tone thoughtful, “I can’t remember the last time I had a night like this. Just—” He waved his hand toward the view, the quiet that surrounded them. “It’s nice. To not be rushing off to something. No cameras, no expectations.”

She looked out over the balcony at the skyline, the city lights twinkling in the distance. “I know what you mean. There’s always so much noise, so many people trying to pull you in different directions. It’s rare to just… be.” She turned to look at him, her voice lowering slightly. “It’s a little surreal, actually.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, there was a silence between them that felt like a shared understanding. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he looked at her, his expression genuine. “I’m glad you’re here with me tonight. I’m glad I got to spend this time with you.”

Her heart did a little flip at the sincerity in his voice. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from the evening, but this — this felt right.

“So,” he continued, his voice lightening again, “any chance I can convince you to wear my team’s shirt tomorrow?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he said with a wink, “but only because I know you’d look amazing in it.”

She rolled her eyes but could feel the warmth in her chest spread. “I’ll think about it,” she teased, mirroring his playful tone.

The conversation drifted back to lighter topics, the evening unfolding with ease as the world seemed to blur around them. As the night deepened, they shared stories, laughter, and quiet glances that spoke volumes. It wasn’t the fireworks, the grand gestures of a first date. But it was something else — something that felt like a beginning.

When the last of the wine was finished, and the candles flickered low, Franco stood, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. He didn’t say anything at first, but his eyes told her everything. His fingers brushed against hers, and she didn’t pull away.

As the night grew later, the air around them cooled, and they moved to the edge of the balcony, gazing out over the city. The quiet was comforting, the soft hum of distant traffic the only sound breaking the stillness between them.

She let out a small sigh, her mind wandering, and with it, the weight of everything that had brought her to this moment. She looked up at him, caught in the calm but uncertain about what this night might mean.

"Well, this has been lovely," she said, her voice light but tinged with something else. "But, just so you know… this is probably going to be our only date."

His eyebrows furrowed, his smile faltering for just a fraction of a second. “Why?” he asked, his tone suddenly laced with concern. “Have I done something wrong?”

She met his gaze, her chest tight for reasons she couldn’t quite place. There was no logical reason for her to feel that way — he had been nothing but kind, charming, and genuine all night. But there was still that lingering sense of hesitation, a wall she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to tear down.

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head as if to reassure him. “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just… I don’t know if I can do this.”

He looked at her for a long moment, studying her face. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer, something quieter, as if he were trying to understand her better.

“I’m not really a person who runs from things," she said, her voice lowering slightly, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. “But there are parts of my life I’m... careful about. I can’t help but keep them to myself.”

She hesitated, feeling a strange tug in her chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, she found herself wanting to share something personal, something she had hidden away. She took a breath and let it slip out before she could second-guess herself.

“I have a brother,” she began, looking out at the city below them, trying to steady her voice. “He’s a Formula 1 driver.”

Franco froze, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Wait... what?”

She glanced at him, a slight laugh escaping her lips at the look of genuine surprise on his face. “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Carlos.”

He blinked, his surprise turning into a quiet sense of disbelief. “Carlos Sainz?” He repeated her brother’s name, almost as if he were trying to process it. “I had no idea…”

She looked at him, a slight sadness settling in her chest. “Most people don’t,” she said, her voice quiet now. “I never tell anyone. I’ve worked my entire life to be known for me—for what I do, not because of who I’m related to. I don’t want to live in someone’s shadow.”

Franco didn’t say anything at first, letting the silence stretch out between them. He was thinking, she could tell. It was as though he were weighing her words, weighing the tension in her tone. Then, slowly, he spoke, his voice steady but sincere.

“With me, you wouldn't,” he said, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that took her by surprise. “You wouldn’t be in anyone’s shadow. Not if you didn’t want to be.”

She was quiet for a long moment, his words sinking in. Part of her wanted to dismiss it, wanted to keep pushing away the idea of anyone in her life stepping into that shadow. But there was something in his eyes—something honest and unwavering—that made her hesitate. He wasn’t offering her fame or status. He was offering her something far simpler. The space to be herself.

Then, he said something that made her heart skip a beat.

“I’ll be your WAG,” he said, his voice surprisingly matter-of-fact, his smile just a little crooked.

She laughed, a quick, startled sound. “What?” she teased, shaking her head. “Are you serious? ‘WAG’—really?”

He leaned in slightly, the smile still on his face but his eyes unflinching. “En serio. I’m serious.” he added with a little more emphasis, the words flowing naturally from him.

Her laughter died down, replaced by a brief, curious silence. She was still processing his words, still trying to understand how it had escalated from a simple dinner to this.

“You’re joking,” she said softly, unsure whether to laugh or take him seriously.

“No,” he7 replied, his voice now calm, almost earnest. “I’m not. Look, I get it. The whole ‘WAG’ thing... it sounds ridiculous, I know. But the way I see it, we’d be a team. You’d have my back, and I’d have yours. No shadows, no expectations, just us. What we make of it.”

She took a step back, crossing her arms as she considered what he was saying. The idea of it felt foreign, a little intimidating, but something about it also felt right in a way she hadn’t expected. No grand gestures, no drama. Just… us, as he’d said.

“Don’t you think I’d look good in a sponsored Channel crop top?” he joked, and the thought of it made her laugh.

Before she could stop it, however, her mind flashed to her brother, to the years of keeping her life private, to the way she had fought so hard to remain in the background of her family’s legacy. And yet here was Franco, offering something different. He wasn’t asking her to be a part of his world—he was offering her a partnership, an equal footing.

For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to truly think about what that might mean. To be seen, not as someone’s sister or someone’s girlfriend, but just as herself.

“Maybe... maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” she said quietly, her voice uncertain but filled with a growing sense of possibility.

Franco looked at her, a quiet confidence in his eyes. “Entonces, we’ll figure it out together. No shadows. Just us.”

“Just us.”

“You better wear my shirt tomorrow,” he said, his voice teasing but hopeful.

She smirked, folding her arms across her chest as she looked at him. “I’ll think about it.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “You better. I’ll be watching.”

She laughed, shaking her head at his persistence. “We’ll see.”

The next morning arrived with the usual rush, the anticipation of race day filling the air. She woke up to a sunlit room and a few messages on her phone, the familiar bustle of the paddock already beginning to take shape outside her window. As she moved around the room, preparing for the day ahead, her mind wandered back to the previous evening.

She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair back into a sleek ponytail, glancing over her outfit choices. She’d packed a nice pair of fitted trousers and a smart blouse for the day. But then, as she opened her suitcase to grab something, she saw it—the shirt.

It was sitting on top of her suitcase, folded neatly, the soft fabric of his team’s shirt catching the light. The sight of it made her pause. She could feel a flutter of uncertainty in her chest as she stared at the shirt. It wasn’t like her to let herself be swayed by someone else’s request. But something about Franco, about the way he’d looked at her, made her reconsider.

She bit her lip, considering her options. The shirt was casual, simple, but it also felt like a statement. She could wear it for him, just this once, maybe just to see how it felt. There was no harm in that, right?

She grabbed the shirt, examining it for a moment. It was an understated design—his team’s logo in the corner, a soft fabric, nothing too flashy. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would normally wear, but for some reason, she felt drawn to it. And then it hit her—maybe it wasn’t about the shirt at all. It was about the confidence to wear it, to stand beside him and let the world see her as she was, without hesitation.

She had a moment of inspiration.

Instead of simply slipping it on with jeans like she’d imagined, she decided to give it a bit of a twist. She styled it with an oversized blazer, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the shirt underneath, and a pair of high-waisted pants. The look was effortlessly cool, edgy, but still very much her. She paired it with a pair of sleek, minimalist sneakers, and, just before she finished, added a bold red lip to complete the ensemble.

When she looked in the mirror, she felt a sense of pride. It was a simple shirt, yes, but it was her way of wearing it. And somehow, it made her feel like she was making her own mark, not hiding behind anyone else’s expectations.

She grabbed her phone, checking the time, then sent Franco a quick message.

“I thought about it. I’ll wear the shirt. But only because it goes with my outfit.”

She added a playful winking emoji before hitting send, knowing that he’d appreciate the humour in it.

The morning was just beginning to pick up its pace as she finished getting ready. The weight of the day’s events, the race, the energy of the paddock, all began to settle in. But for the first time in a while, she felt a small sense of excitement, an eagerness she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t about the race itself, but about the people she was meeting, the connections she was making, and—perhaps most unexpectedly—what might lie ahead with Franco.

She was just about to head out of her hotel room when there was a knock on the door. She knew that knock—steady and familiar. Taking a deep breath, she opened it to find her brother standing there, his usual calm exterior softened by a quiet intensity in his gaze.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded, stepping back to let him in. She could tell he was a bit surprised when he saw the shirt she was wearing—the shirt of a rival team. He glanced at it, one brow raised slightly, but he didn’t comment, just closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall.

He took a deep breath, as if he’d been building up to this. “Are you… thinking of seeing him again?”

There was something tentative in the way he asked, a kind of brotherly concern that she hadn’t seen in a long time. She shrugged, trying to keep her tone casual. “Maybe. I’m considering it.”

He nodded slowly, looking away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, almost hesitantly, he said, “Why are you okay with being seen with him, and not with me?”

The question landed heavily between them, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to answer. She looked at him, seeing the vulnerability in his expression, the unspoken hurt in his eyes. It was rare for him to open up like this, to say exactly what was on his mind. She let out a long breath, searching for the right words.

“It’s different,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Different how?” he pressed, his tone gentle but persistent.

She met his gaze, feeling a lump rise in her throat. She hadn’t realised just how much this division had affected them both, how much it lingered in moments like these. “I never felt like I was a part of your world,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “It wasn’t just about you. It was Dad, too. He… he made it clear that I wasn’t cut out to be a part of it. I wasn’t… enough. Not like you.”

He looked at her, the quiet hurt in his eyes turning into something deeper, something sadder. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

She gave him a small, sad smile. “How could you? You were busy making him proud. And you were great at it. I always saw how he looked at you, how proud he was of everything you were doing. He saw you as this… continuation of him, of his legacy. But me… I was never part of that.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he processed her words. “I never wanted it to be that way. I thought you just didn’t care about what we were doing. I thought you were happy doing your own thing.”

“I am,” she said, and she meant it. “Tennis is my world; it’s where I feel strong, where I feel like I belong. But… it didn’t come without sacrifices. I grew up watching you and Dad bond over racing, and it was like there was this door between us that was shut for good. I could watch, but I couldn’t be a part of it.”

There was a long pause, her brother absorbing her words, the weight of years of misunderstanding settling between them.

“I wish I’d known,” he said finally, his voice soft, tinged with regret. “I thought… I thought you didn’t want to be a part of it. I thought it didn’t matter to you if Dad and I had that bond. But I get it now. I see what it must’ve felt like, standing on the outside.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken years filling the space between them. And then he added, “You know, you don’t have to keep yourself hidden to be in my life, right? I get it now. But it doesn’t have to be like that.”

Her throat tightened, a wave of unexpected emotion rising within her. She’d spent so long feeling like an outsider in her own family, so sure that her brother had never noticed. But now, here he was, standing in front of her, wanting to bridge that gap.

“It’s hard to just undo it all,” she admitted. “Sometimes, it feels easier to just… stay on my own path. To keep these things separate.”

He nodded, understanding. “But if you’re thinking of seeing Franco… letting yourself be part of his world… doesn’t it mean you’re ready to be seen? To be yourself, even in places that are unfamiliar?”

She considered this, his words striking a chord deep within her. He wasn’t wrong. She’d spent so long hiding parts of herself, keeping herself separate to avoid comparison or judgement. But with Franco, she hadn’t felt the same need. For once, she had felt like she could be herself—no shadows, no expectations.

“I think… I just want to find something that’s mine,” she said finally. “A space where I’m not just ‘your sister,’ where I don’t have to carry someone else’s legacy.”

Her brother gave her a soft, understanding look. “You’ve already done that. You are more than just my sister. You’ve made a name for yourself that has nothing to do with anyone else. You’re not living in anyone’s shadow… but if you ever want to step into our world—my world—I’d like to be part of yours too. Just… let me be there for you, even if it’s only sometimes.”

She nodded, feeling a sense of warmth, a sense of connection that hadn’t been there before. Maybe there was room for both worlds, after all. For the first time, she felt like she didn’t have to choose.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly, echoing her words from last night.

He smiled, a hint of relief in his eyes. “I hope you do.”

With that, he gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze on her shoulder, a wordless acknowledgment of the unspoken bond they shared. And as he left, she felt a sense of closure, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to keep running from her family’s legacy to be seen as her own person. She could walk her own path, even if it sometimes crossed into theirs.

She arrived at the paddock a little while later, weaving her way through the bustle of race day, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Wearing Franco’s shirt under her blazer felt like a small, bold choice—one that had her both excited and slightly nervous. She walked through the crowd until she reached his team’s garage, where the energy was already crackling with anticipation.

As soon as she stepped in, Franco spotted her from across the garage. His face lit up the second he saw her, and he immediately started making his way toward her. When he was close enough, he lowered his voice and said in Spanish, a playful gleam in his eyes, “Wait here for just a second. Don’t move.”

Before she could respond, he turned and jogged back toward his driver’s room, leaving her standing in the middle of the garage, a little bewildered but smiling to herself. She watched as he disappeared into the room, curious about whatever he was planning. Within a moment, he was back, holding a bouquet of flowers—a mix of deep red roses and bright sunflowers, their colours vivid against the greys and metallics of the garage.

“For you,” he said, handing them over with a grin, his accent warm and lilting. His eyes softened as he added, “To celebrate your first race day as my guest.”

She took the bouquet, feeling a rush of warmth as she held the flowers. “You know, you didn’t have to do this,” she said, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips. “I’m just here as… well, just as me.”

“And I think that’s worth celebrating,” he replied smoothly, his gaze locked on hers with unmistakable admiration. “Besides, you didn’t say no to the shirt, so I think I’m allowed a little celebration, no?”

She laughed, her cheeks warming as she looked down at the bouquet. “Alright, fine. You win. Thank you—they’re beautiful.”

Franco glanced around the garage, then leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a playful murmur. “You know, you’re even more beautiful than I remember from last night. I thought maybe I was exaggerating, but… no. I wasn’t.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. “Careful, or I’ll start to think you’re trying to distract me from the race.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, chuckling. Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, he looked around the garage again and spotted one of his engineers nearby. Franco gestured to the man, who quickly nodded, understanding exactly what Franco was after.

The engineer handed him a headset, and Franco turned back to her, holding it up. “Here—so you can listen in and watch from inside the garage. You’ll get the best seat here.”

She blinked, surprised by the gesture. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You’ll get to hear all the comms, see how it all works up close. Plus”—he leaned in, his voice low—“you’ll have an excuse to stay around here.”

She shook her head with a smirk, taking the headset from him. “Alright. But only because you’ve convinced me with flowers and shameless flattery.”

“Good,” he replied, his grin widening as he watched her settle the headset over her ears. “I’ll keep it coming if it means you stay.”

As the team began their pre-race preparations, Franco showed her the best spot to watch from, and he took a few moments to explain some of the technical details. She found herself captivated, not just by the race, but by the way he was so eager to share his world with her. His enthusiasm was infectious, and despite herself, she felt the thrill of race day in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Before he had to step away to start his own warm-up routine, he gave her one last look, his gaze holding a touch of that familiar mischievous glint. “Enjoy the show, princesa. And don’t go falling in love with the cars now—they’re not as charming as I am.”

She laughed, giving him a playful shove. “No promises.”

Franco winked, backing away with a grin as he joined the other drivers and team members preparing for the race. She stayed in the garage, feeling the weight of the headset and bouquet in her hands, both of them symbols of the way her world had shifted in just a few days.

As she watched him walk away, his words echoing in her ears, she realised just how different today felt. For the first time, she wasn’t just watching as an outsider; she was here, part of the energy, sharing a moment in his world, just as he’d promised. And maybe—just maybe—she was finally ready to be a part of something new.

The race was intense, the roar of engines filling the air as she watched Franco’s car weave through the track, making his way up from P16 to P12, gaining positions one by one with determined precision. Her heart raced with every turn, every overtake. She’d never felt the thrill of Formula One from this close before, and she found herself completely absorbed, balancing her attention between the live race and the screens in the garage that tracked every driver’s progress.

And then, in the final laps, her eyes moved to another part of the screen—a familiar car that was in the lead. A red car. Her brother was out front, defending his position with expert skill, pushing with everything he had toward the finish line. She held her breath, fingers tightening around the edges of the headset as she watched the seconds count down. When he crossed the finish line in first place, a feeling she hadn’t expected washed over her—pride, pure and radiant, filled her chest. She found herself clapping, cheering, a bright smile spreading across her face.

Franco, having just finished his own race and done the mandatory weigh-in and debrief with his engineers, finally found her in the garage. He looked exhausted but happy, his face still flushed from the adrenaline of the race. When he walked over, he paused, noticing the way her eyes were glued to the screen as her brother celebrated his victory, lifting his fists in the air in triumph.

“You’re glowing,” Franco murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched her reaction.

She blinked, glancing back at him and realising how giddy she must look. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think it would feel like this. I’m just… so happy for him.” Her voice was breathless, filled with a genuine joy she couldn’t hide.

He chuckled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Then you should go to him. He’s probably waiting for you.”

She shook her head, hesitating, her gaze flickering back to the screen. “No, I couldn’t. I don’t… I don’t belong over there, with everyone. That’s his world.”

Franco tilted his head, giving her a knowing look. “Maybe that’s true most days. But today, you belong there just as much as anyone else. He’s your brother. Go celebrate with him. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

She bit her lip, uncertainty still holding her back. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“Start with congratulations,” Franco said, flashing her a gentle, reassuring grin. “Trust me, it’ll be enough.”

He gestured toward the edge of the garage, where the barriers separated the track from the paddock. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded, taking a shaky breath as he guided her forward. The crowd around them was roaring with excitement as her brother’s car was pulled into parc fermé, fans and teammates celebrating around him. She could feel her heart pounding, each step filling her with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness.

At the barrier, Franco gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Go on. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

With that, he released her hand, and she took a step forward, catching sight of her brother through the haze of people and cameras. He was laughing, practically glowing as he embraced his team, still basking in the thrill of his victory. And then, as if sensing her, he turned and saw her standing there, just beyond the barrier.

His expression softened, and a smile broke across his face, one that was filled with surprise and unmistakable happiness. Without a moment’s hesitation, he made his way over, reaching out to pull her into a tight, heartfelt hug. She hugged him back, feeling the last remnants of the old distance between them dissolve as she held her brother close, finally sharing in his moment.

When they pulled apart, he looked at her, pride shining in his eyes. “You came,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet gratitude. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

She laughed softly, tears threatening to sting her eyes. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I’m so proud of you.”

He grinned, leaning in to press a quick, brotherly kiss to her forehead. “Thank you. It means a lot that you’re here. Really.”

As the team around them cheered and the cameras continued to flash, she felt the enormity of the moment—a sense of belonging, not just as a tennis player, or his sister, but as herself.

She grinned at her brother, reaching up to ruffle his hair in a rare show of sibling affection. “Te quiero mucho, hermanito,” she said, her voice filled with warmth and pride. “I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

His smile softened, and he looked at her with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. “Te quiero también,” he replied, wrapping her in one last quick hug. “Thank you for being here. Really.”

The moment was brief but profound, a quiet reassurance that, despite the different worlds they had each chosen, they were still connected. He glanced back toward his team, who were waving him over for post-race celebrations and interviews.

“I have to go,” he said, releasing her. “But I’ll see you later?”

“Of course,” she replied, giving him a nod and a small wave as he returned to his crew. She watched him for a moment longer, feeling a sense of pride she hadn’t felt in years—one that was entirely unclouded by the complexities of the past. Then she turned and made her way back toward Franco’s garage, her heart still racing from the intense energy of the day.

When she found him, Franco was waiting near the garage entrance, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a proud smile lighting up his face as he saw her approach.

“You did it,” he said softly, admiration in his eyes. “You finally let yourself be a part of all this.”

As she reached Franco, he turned to face her, his expression softening with a mixture of pride and relief as he took her hands in his. Her heart pounded, the intensity of the day lingering between them like a magnetic pull. She gazed up at him, her breath catching as she saw the warmth in his eyes—the genuine care and admiration there, as if he saw every part of her that she had worked so hard to keep separate.

Without a word, she stepped closer, her hand moving up to rest gently against his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze searching hers, as if waiting for her to close the last small gap between them. Finally, she leaned up, closing her eyes as her lips met his in a slow, lingering kiss.

The world around them seemed to dissolve, the roar of the crowd and bustle of the paddock fading as the kiss deepened. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, his touch both steady and tender. She felt the warmth of him seep into her, grounding her in the moment, and she responded instinctively, fingers threading through his hair as he held her tighter. There was a gentleness in his touch, but an undeniable passion too, a desire that built slowly between them.

Time slipped away as they shared this unguarded moment, the boundaries she had set for herself crumbling with every heartbeat. She could feel the strength in his arms, the quiet reassurance he offered, and a warmth that sparked through her, as if he was silently promising that he would be there, no matter what.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing a little harder, their foreheads touching as they lingered close, unwilling to step away. Franco’s thumb traced a gentle line along her jaw as he looked into her eyes, his gaze filled with an affection so deep that it nearly overwhelmed her. “I needed that push,” she murmured against his lips.

His arms came around her, but he laughed as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Come on,” he said with a teasing glint, “the cameras have probably caught enough kissing for one day.”

She chuckled, letting him lead her back toward the quiet of his garage, away from the noise and eyes of the crowd. For the first time, she felt an undeniable sense of belonging—not just to the world she had worked so hard to create for herself, but to this moment, with him, with her family. She’d finally allowed herself to be part of it all, and it felt right in a way she hadn’t expected.

the end.

[retiredteabag]

Wishful Thinking

arranged marriage with nanami… a continuation

pt. 1 - pt. 2

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

The silence that permeates the car you were shuffled into with your husband is suffocating.

Your life partner had let go of your hand the moment he had reached to buckle you into your seat. You strain your fingers now, hoping the sweat on your palms hadn't been noticeable.

A driver from your clan's estate had been tasked with dropping you and your husband off at your newly arranged space. You knew this man, the man who was seated directly to your left, was not affiliated with any clan, this meant you had no idea where you were headed.

Several shipments of your belongings had been retrieved over the weeks since the higher-up's declaration of marriage for you had been in place. A steady and simple move-in awaited you. Something you weren't particularly happy about.

You thought through a list of things to occupy yourself with instead of awkwardly standing in this stranger mans presence.

As curious as you were about your future arrangements, you truly could not ignore the silence in this vehicle much longer. Had you married any of the expected bachelors, you were sure your ear would be talked off at this point, yet, you did not even know this mans name.

You took in a deep breath, preparing to speak, the blonde fellow, (your literal husband) turned to meet your eyes, likely having expected you to say something. His eyes shock you, and you turn away once more to stare out the window.

You strain your hand into a fist and work up the courage. Turning with an inhale once more, you force out words before you can change your mind, "Terribly sorry..." You start, looking him in the eyes, "Could you remind me of your name?"

You had never been given it to begin with. Perhaps the officiant at your wedding had recited it in his speech, but you had been a little distracted at the time.

"I'm sorry?" He strains his neck in your direction, eyebrows raised.

"Your name? Sorry... I think I ought to know it, right?"

"You don't know my name?" His head shakes a little as he speaks, incredulous.

You hesitate, "...No? I wasn't paying the most attention for it during the ceremony..." You mumble the last bit, waiting for him to cut you off, but he just stares at you.

"I'm sorry-" His hand hovers mid-air, "You weren't given my name?"

Oh no, you've offended him.

"Oh! It's not like that! My family is....very fond of you! And the higher-ups speak very well of you as well! I...well...I erm..." How do you fix this? Stroke his ego?

His hand is firmly on his forehead now. "That is not what I meant. I'm asking you - you were not informed of my name? Who I am? Were you even aware you were to be wed?"

You fumble a bit with the skirt of your dress, "Of course! Yes, I just... well, I didn't know who, but the marriage bit was no surprise."

"But the rest, that is all true? You had no idea you would be marrying me?" He looks frustrated, to say the least. You had no idea this would come as shocking news, someone should have informed you.

He is peeking at you through his hand, "Well...no, but-" He cuts you off now, but he seems to not be speaking to you.

"No wonder you looked so ill up there..."

Okay ouch.

"When did you agree to this marriage? Was this simply... decided for you?

You weren't sure what to say. Had this not been decided for him as well? Speaking frankly, you were not entirely sure of why he had been chosen as your partner, he had no duty to his name. Even so, he looked repulsed at the realization, eyes shot wide.

"Well... it was-" Were you supposed to be talking about this? Should you say this to your husband? "Umm... Well, I'm sure you know the higher-ups are involved with the clans..."

He shifted in his seat to face you fully now, "You...were forced?" He almost looks frighted at the concept. You want to laugh.

Of course, you were. How else did he think marriage worked?

Despite your thoughts, all you said was, "No, it was a mutual understanding that I would be married."

"Yet you know nothing about me." He looks forward at the road.

Was that what this was about? "I'm a quick learner, if you're concerned about that."

He sighs and smacks a hand to his face again. "No...No that is not what concerns me."

You have a litany of responses ranging from, 'I see...' to 'what does concern you then?' but you say none of them. You just sit forward and stare at your palms.

Oddly enough, it does not take long for the silence to be broken once more.

"Nanami." He says.

"I'm sorry?" You hadn't expected him to speak, eyes wide, you turn to him again.

"Nanami Kento. That's-" He sighs, as if it's a real chore to introduce himself, "my name is Nanami Kento."

You look to one another for a moment before you quickly break the connection, gazing out your window, deigning to not look again until you arrived.

"Mmm...thank you." You finally say.

--

Although you knew the house was not terribly far from your family estate, it felt like hours had passed before you allowed yourself to move once more.

Mr. Nanami had climbed from his seat once the car had halted.

Eager to be away from me it seems.

Only, he had seemed surprised as you climbed from your door as well, having walked around to greet you.

"Allow me," He had said, reaching for the small train case in the back of the car, it had been filled with small wedding gifts and your husband insisted on carrying it for you.

I wonder how long he will keep up this act. You found yourself thinking. Your new residence was sizable. Nice, in an uncomfortably clean way. Perhaps that is how your husband liked it.

As you stepped over the threshold, moving out of "the man of the house's" way. You took it in.

This place must have been chosen by the higher-ups. Your father would not have bought you a home, nor did you expect a man without clan connections to have been able to purchase such a plot of land.

It was only mid-afternoon. Yet your life was impossibly different than it had been only a few hours prior. You had expected the driver to stay and discuss the honeymoon with the two of you but it seemed he had not been instructed with that information.

As many frightening realizations occurred to you, you were able to resign yourself to acceptance, putting aside the...bedding...situation... the concern that stuck with you was dinner plans.

Were you expected to have that prepared? You didn't know what he preferred though....

Thoughts of your...marital duties swam in your head while Nanami was making his way towards the living room.

"Of course," He was saying, "You're free to use whatever you like, these things are as much yours as they are mine..." He had rounded through the sitting area and around the kitchen into the master bedroom, never once turning to look at you.

It was clear that people had come to prepare the area for you two. On his bedside table, you see a comfortable pair of plaid pajama pants and a loose grey shirt. You had not been presented with such. No, on the bed, strewn out for the both of you to see was a... sordid... set of black lacy lingerie.

You stood in silence. A resigned look on your face. Your husband on the other hand, had coughed, spun around, and fully walked from the room in moments.

What was he doing? Was he sickened by you? Did he expect you to appreciate his apprehension? If you were being honest, you would like for him to get this act over with as quickly as possible.

Looking at your marital bed, you were once again reminded of your mother's sobs only this morning. You looked down at the gown that clung to your waist. You had felt pretty today, despite the occasion. You knew you would not feel beautiful in that raunchy piece of string.

How long do I have? You wondered.

Finally moving yourself, you come before the undergarments, sit next to them, and run your hand along the bed's silky duvet.

You sat in silence for longer than you expected to be given. You finally reached your hand up your spine. Unzipping the dress, unbuttoning the clasp at your neck.

You slid it off your body. Walking around the room near-nude to lay the dress along the ladder of a bookcase. It was nice, actually. Maybe you wouldn't mind it here.

You did not rush to dress in the sexy, frilly, underthings. You might not have been perfectly comfortable in your body, but that didn't matter. Not when you had knowledge of the intentions behind your wedding for years.

It was a bit of a challenge to get it on. You weren't sure how to get your arms through at first, and then you swapped them around when you couldn't figure out the neck bit.

What did it matter, it would be coming off anyway.

After dressing, you sat in the same spot on the bed for a while, staring at your hands. You wondered if he was expecting to eat first. Seeing as he had left you alone, however, you figured he would return eventually.

It was cold like this, you hopped he would hurry.

Just as you were beginning to consider moving to look at the bookcase, (panty clad and all) your spine snapped into place when you heard him calling for you. When had you given him your name? You weren't sure.

He was speaking loudly so you might hear through the wall, but not in a frustrated manner, "The kitchen staff is arranging something for us to eat-" He had slowly began to open the door, when his eyes landed on you. Not a moment passed before he dropped whatever he had in his hands. It loudly clattered to the floor and he slammed the door shut. The noise echoed in the room.

"What-??!" He stuttered, "What are you doing?!!"

Your mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish. What were you doing? What did he mean? And how exactly do you respond?

"I... uhh-" You looked down at yourself in the ridiculous lace.

You had not been trained in much regarding sex, having been told that the man you would marry would be well aware of how to educate you when it came to your actions. Suddenly self-conscious, you wondered if you had done something wrong.

Nanami calls your name from outside your new bedroom, then repeats it. Firm and unmoving. "What-are-you-doing?"

Your hands flounce around. Stuttering for a response, "I- I don't know!?" You finally force out, the tone coming off a little too questioning for an answer.

After a moment there is a dull *bonk* against the door. You hear no response for a long while. The room is so silent, you can hear your heart pounding. It was so painfully uncomfortable, you reached a hand to your chest to try and calm it. Finally, he clears his throat and calls out to you from behind the door again.

He speaks your name gently, as if calling to a child, "I'm going to come in now, okay?"

You sit upon the bed once more, back straight. "Alright." You nod to yourself.

Unsure of what to expect, you watch the door handle tilt to allow for your husbands entry, but your eyes narrow as he shifts into the room, avoiding your gaze - in fact - avoiding your presence completely.

His arm is shaking off his nicely tailored suit jacket. Still turned to look at the closet, he comes before you, jacket in hand, and reaches out for your shoulders. You almost want to shrink back from this odd behavior but remain still as he wraps you up in his clothing.

After a few awkward seconds, he turns to look at you. "What are you doing?" He repeats, low and calm.

You raise your brows, "What... are you doing?" You reach up to feel the jacket covering your collar and torso, instantly, he drops his hands from your shoulders.

He shakes his head, a hand tugging at his loose blond hair. "I don't... understand." He is no longer looking in your vicinity. His voice shakes and all the air leaves his lungs.

"I'm sorry." You wrap yourself tighter in his jacket, shifting to stare at him, "Was this not... expected?" His apprehension certainly came as a surprise to you.

Suddenly he's back, fully facing you, "Expected?" He raises his brows, "What is this? You're... what? Doing what is expected of you?". Despite the severity of the moment, it is now that you recognize how expressive his features are. His neck, up to his cheeks, up to even his ears are a warm pink. It wouldn't be improbable to assume his chest is a rosy shade right about now as well.

You decide to push the boundary, share your frustration. Why is he upset? If he does not want you, he should just say. It's not as if you desire him in that way. This has been an incredibly stressful and tense day, at least he knew who you were before all of this, you did not have that liberty. If anything, you should be upset with him!

"Is it not?" You speak up, "Forgive me, but I was under the impression that...this" You pull your arm out from under his jacket to motion between you two, "was how this worked."

He makes a face. Revolted.

"You are- we-" He cuts himself off, waving his hands before himself, then covers his face, "no." He gets out, "This is not how this works."

"Well." Now you're flushing, embarrassed. You straighten yourself, balling his suit jacket in your firsts. "What... would you like for me to do? I told you in the car that I learn quickly, if thats-"

"Stop." He spits out, voice suddenly higher than before, "Just...stop."

You swallow. What does he want from you? "Okay." You whisper.

He calls for you gently, and motions for you to stand. He turns away from the bathroom now and shifts in the other direction, looking at your wedding gown strewn across the bookcase ladder. He purses his lips. "Please.... dress yourself." He swallows, motions towards the wardrobes along the wall. "Something comfortable in there. I was... going to ask your preferences, for a meal-for dinner. Let me-"

He clears his throat, moving away now toward the bedroom door, he drops to the floor and picks up what must be his phone, having been dropped earlier, he rubs the screen on his pant leg. "What would you like?"

You stare at him, straight-faced. "Anything you like." You're not a picky eater.

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling, "No. What do you like to eat?

You shrug, "Anything. I don't mind." You shake your head at him and he just looks you up and down. The stupidly large jacket comes mid-thigh.

He takes a deep breath. Then exhales dramatically. Nods. And he's gone. This time, when closing the door, he makes an effort to do so gently.

--

You had found a soft cotton pajama set in one of the dresser drawers. Having long since removed your previous attire, you wonder what your husband is thinking of as he silently serves two plates of Chinese food.

You wonder what your father would say if he saw Mr. Nanami serving up dinner for his wife as you sat on the living room couch.

You're taken from your thoughts as Nanami places a large wooden tray on the couch, he places the food on it.

It seems you will very much be eating together.

"I hope you enjoy it. Let me know if you don't." He murmurs, seating himself near you in the dimly lit room.

In no world would you complain about the food your husband served you. Even if you disposed it, luckily, you liked Chinese cuisine. Before you can even get out a word of appreciation he is speaking again, "I think we should talk."

You sit up straight. "Alright."

He motions for you to eat, "Feel free. I think we ought to have an open discussion."

You grab your utensils but don't reach for anything until after he takes a bite. Awaiting his words.

"Well... I believe we ought to be on the same page about this. I had been under the impression that we were... but as I can see, that is not the case." He stares at you intently.

He is not speaking down to you, but rather, making space for an open conversation. You set down your chopsticks, and await further explanation.

"I suppose I should know what exactly the higher-ups asked of you."

You raise your brows, "Sorry?"

An apology has become a common synonym for many of your reactions.

"Earlier, you asked me for my name. And just then-" He flushes a little, motioning to the bedroom, "well- you mentioned expectations and I feel I ought to ask you what is is that has been requested of you."

Is this man daft? Is he playing with you?

Before you respond, you test the waters, "What did the higher-ups demand of you?"

The man sighs.

"I am terribly sorry," he calls your name again like its easy, a habit that makes your stomach flip, "It seems that people have not been honest with you, you deserve an explanation. I just expected you to be aware of this before our union."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes watch you and the chopsticks laying on the wooden tray.

Ah.

You reach to take a bite. It's good, and oddly puts the man before you at ease.

"Before this, I was intending to leave sorcery."

He states it as if it is nothing. Your eyes bug out and he pauses, allowing for you to ensure you heard correctly.

"The higher-ups have a large amount of sway in Tokyo, I'm not sure about Kyoto, but they were not fond of this plan."

I can't imagine why that would be. You thought as you recalled the moment you had first seen this Nanami Kento.

It had been an annual meeting between the Kyoto and Tokyo branches. You had heard him refer to sorcery as "a pain". Had he been considering retirement even then?

You simply nod, listening quietly. "It was their intention to find me...a wife." He huffs, "Maintaining a life in sorcery was highly important to them."

Oh, you see. Perhaps he wasn't so different from you after all.

The higher-ups have only had one expectation for you, even since showing promise in the world of sorcery, even after moving up the ranks at Kyoto Metropolitan Curse Technical College. Your job was plain and simple.

To have babies.

Sorcerer babies.

Had they been so afraid of losing one sorcerer to the regular world that he was cornered into loveless marriage? All to keep him from departure? Was that why Gakuganji had been so immediate with his instatement of your husband?

"I see..." You nod once more.

"I would like to know your experience as well. What was it that they asked of you?" He had both hands laid flat on the makeshift table between the pair of you.

You consider what to say. "I...have known-" you try again, "My duty has been laid out for some time now." You tilt your head, he's squinting at you.

"Please. Just tell me. They... forced you - to - to do that?" He points his head in the direction of your room once more.

Now you're confused. You want to speak in a way that doesn't insult his intelligence but he's making is difficult for you. "Did you not... marry me for children?"

He chokes.

Coughing to clear his throat, he wipes his mouth. "That is not- eugh-" he tries again, "They cannot ask that of you. I will not do anything that you are not explicitly requesting of me." He pauses effecting a moment of silence before, "Do you understand?"

But you don't. "Mr. Nanami, are you... not expected to produce children? Is that not why you were chosen to be in this situation?"

He responds quickly and with precision, "I did not marry you for what you could give me. No."

You can't hold in your confused laugh, "Then...why?"

"Was it not the easiest for the both of us?" He smirks at you, his shoulders have eased only slightly after hearing your laugh, "I was informed that your other options were not the most savory."

"You knew you would be marrying me?" You ask, ignoring his reference to your suitors and flummoxed by how easy it is to speak comfortably with a man you had been so recently adverse to.

"Yes. I... cannot believe you were not provided the same..." He pauses, "I was under the impression that this was a mutual decision..."

"Oh." It's all you can say.

Nanami takes in a deep breath from across the couch cushions. "I'm sorry." And you really believe that he means it. "I would not have agreed if I knew." He forms a flat line with his lips.

"I think you're right, though..." He looks at you, addled, so you continue, “This was the easiest choice. I think so too." You're unsure of how else to conclude.

Your wedding dinner had not been what you would have expected and the night, unlike anything you could have predicted.

Nanami Kento, no matter how you denied and tried to shuffle from the bedroom, had sworn himself to a guestroom after collecting the night clothes laid out for him on the bedside table.

He had gently grabbed your shoulders, maneuvering you towards the bed and away from the exit. Pleading with you to remain in the master bedroom. Claiming that he had intended to sleep in a separate bedroom since the beginning.

Though you pulled at his arms to try and swap your standing, telling him adamantly to take the bigger of the bed options, he simply drew close to you, shifted farther from the door and blocked your sights. He lead you softly to the bed, and when you attempted to side step him and make your way to the guestroom, he took one arm, catching you by the waist, and swiftly lifted you from the floor.

"Please. Do not ask me again. Sleep here, alright? All of your things are here. I will be very comfortable in the guestroom."

And before you could get out any complaint, he had you placed upon the duvet. His hands were off you in an instant, but he remained looking in your direction as he backed to the door you had been fighting over.

"Do sleep well." His long strides had brought him to the rooms entrance with no delay, you were still caught up with the fact that he had lifted you like a sack of potatoes, with one arm no less. "We will likely have to arrange the...trip tomorrow."

The honeymoon, that's right.

He said it in a way that sounded like, 'just to warn you' or 'you should know'. But all you could reply with was, "Right."

"Right." He echo's, turning to walk through the door, and looks to you once more. "Sleep well." And there's your name again, leaving his lips as though you are long time friends.

"You too."

But the door has been silently shut.

His touch lingers on your waist from where he had lifted you. Not in the way your fathers hand would linger after he drug you to and from meetings, not the way his fingers would remain painfully on your neck after he would steer you into conference rooms. But rather, in an almost ticklish way.

You shiver.

And run your hands over your new duvet.

When you had made up your childhood bed and left this morning, you had listened to your mothers cries, sure that last night would be the last time you would have the peace of your own bed. Your heart swelled with the knowledge that you had been wrong.

Your fingers traced the stitching on the comforter. Swung your legs from the mattress, and almost-almost grinned.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

tag list @longlivegojo @kitkatlover015 @l0v3rgirl-owo @smailaway (if your name is here but you didn’t get tagged. I think it’s either bc your blog is new/blank/empty or you need to check your privacy settings)

[avatar-anna]

Never Really Over

a little bit of divorced!harry for your consideration

"I just wanna see him."

Y/n gave her ex a long look, not betraying the warring emotions swirling in her belly. Harry rarely showed up this late. He rarely showed up unannounced, for that matter. It made things easier—seeing him when she could prepare herself for the encounter. Now he was here on her doorstep, hair messy and eyes all pleading and sad.

"I just put him to bed, H," Y/n sighed. It wasn't that she didn't want to keep Harry from their son, but it was way too late, and it wasn't his week.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Y/n had been feeling particularly lonely lately and seeing her ex husband be all sweet with their son would make her think traitorous thoughts.

"I know, I know, I've just... I've had a long day, and I just want to see him. I won't even wake him up, I swear. I just want to sit with him."

Despite the divorce, Y/n still knew Harry struggled with the demise of their relationship, and she did too, even if she was the one who ultimately filed. They were five months in, but she felt like no time had passed at all. She floated between half expecting Harry to walk through the door like he used to and frustrated by the way their relationship turned so tumultuous by the end. It was all too complicated, which was why she preferred Harry's visits to be planned. It helped her to compartmentalize.

But she saw the look in his eyes and couldn't help but empathize with her ex-husband.

He looked tired and lost and maybe even at his wits end a little. She knew that look well, she recognized it every time she looked in the mirror on the days Harry had their son. She knew what it was like to have a bad day and want nothing more than to hold their little bub and let him wash away every bit of stress and frustration. Y/n did everything she could to not go completely out of her mind when it was Harry's week with their son, and she imagined that her ex felt similarly.

"Twenty minutes," she said, opening the door further and stepping to the side.

Harry's shoulders sagged with relief. He stepped toward Y/n as if he was going to hug her, then seemed to think better of it and went straight inside.

Y/n stayed downstairs while Harry went up, letting him have a private moment with their son. She cleaned up in the meantime, putting away stray toys and books and fluffing couch cushions and refolding blankets. Anything to not think of Harry with her son, or the soft look he always got when he gazed down at their little boy. It had always been her kryptonite, and she wasn't sure she'd gotten over it yet.

A little while later, Harry came back downstairs. Having organized and straightened up everything she possibly could, Y/n settled on the couch with the glass of wine she'd promised herself earlier that day. She'd wanted to have it in her bed with her book, but she settled for scrolling on her phone until her ex eventually left.

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice soft, careful not to wake the five year old upstairs. "You didn't have to do that, but I appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it," Y/n said, trying to appear like seeing him didn't have an effect on her the way it used to.

"Really, Y/n, I owe you."

"Let's not go and make promises you can't keep again," she muttered.

Y/n felt guilty as soon as she said it. They were having a civil moment, a rarity since the whirlwind of their divorce. She hadn't meant to pick at old wounds and make them bleed again. Her response was a reflex more than anything, one that she couldn't keep in check when she was tired.

"I'm not the one who filed for divorce, Y/n," Harry said, a dark cloud of emotion overtaking his face. "If anyone broke promises, it was you."

"Those vows were broken long before we got divorced, and you know it," Y/n said, that old fire that was more of a dull ember these days rising to the surface.

Harry and Y/n fell in love hard and fast, both loving each other fiercely and with everything cell in their body. Their relationship had been full of passion and intensity and so much love it was almost suffocating. But it also meant that they fought just as hard. Their arguments often blazed and burned bright, then fizzled out until they were in each other's arms again as if nothing had happened.

Until the arguments got bigger.

And longer.

And Y/n just couldn't take it anymore.

Y/n could tell that the anger simmering in Harry's eyes was more for show. She could see the sadness, perhaps even loneliness, in those lovely green eyes of his. And maybe her anger was a little more bravado than genuine hurt too. Maybe it was easier to slip into familiar habits and poke at old wounds than admit the truth.

She missed him.

"Don't make me the villain here. You—"

"I don't want to fight with you," she said before Harry could volley anything back. "I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry. It's been a long day for me, and I'm assuming yours wasn't a walk in the park either."

Harry didn't say anything, or do anything, for a moment. Then, he let his head drop, his shoulders slumping a little. Feeling more than a little bad for kicking him while he was down, Y/n stood up from the couch and fetched another glass before pouring some wine in it for her ex. "Here," she said. "A peace offering. You look like you could use it."

With a laugh that held no humor in it, he took it and raised the glass to his mouth, and Y/n tried hard not to stare at his lips. Or the column of his throat as it bobbed when he took a sip. Or—

"Is this one of mine?"

Y/n willed her cheeks not to flush. "I might've snagged a few bottles from your collection before we sold the house. Most of them went untouched anyways."

"They were aging," Harry said, a little of that humor and charm she fell in love with sparking in his eyes, the lines of his face. "You're supposed to let the bottles rest for a few years until they're at their peak, and then you drink them."

Y/n shrugged. "If you wait too long it goes bad and you miss out on a perfectly good bottle altogether, and then you do all that waiting for nothing."

She didn't mean anything by it, but both of them recognized the subtle truth in regards to their own relationship. Y/n wondered if they would ever be over this part. The stumbling through conversations and trying to avoid dangerous subjects that were littered between them like a minefield.

"Are you saying that's what happened with us?" Harry asked after taking another sip. "That I waited too long to appreciate what was right in front of me? What was perfect in every way the whole time?"

"I was talking about wine, not us."

"You've always been perfect in my eyes, Y/n," Harry said. "You and that perfect angel upstairs. Both of you are my entire world."

"Don't," Y/n said, taking a step back when she realized how close together they were.

"I miss you," Harry said, his voice hitching in his throat. "I miss waking up to our baby snuggled between us. I miss holding your hand while we watch him play at the park. I miss building pillow forts and playing pretend. I miss you, Y/n. I miss being loved by you. I hate that we're divorced. I hate that I signed those stupid papers and let you walk away."

Her throat suddenly felt dry, her heart pumping in her chest so hard she worried he might hear it. Blinking, Y/n tried to maintain the thread of composure holding her together. "You've had a long day. I can tell you need rest—"

"Don't patronize me," he said, stepping closer and closing the small distance between them once more. When Y/n didn't try to widen it again, Harry continued. "If you don't miss me, if you don't still feel what I feel, then say that. But if you do..."

Harry took Y/n's glass and set it down on the coffee table along with his own. He straightened up, one free hand lightly caressing your face, his thumb grazing across her cheek with a touch so delicate she barely felt it. It was agonizing. To have him right there, just the way she used to, and only get a phantom touch. It was maddening.

So maddening, that when he leaned in, Y/n didn't stop him.

She might have whimpered, and her knees might have slightly buckled, and she might have clutched her shirt between her fingers in a desperate, iron grip as Harry slid his mouth against hers, but she would deny it if he said anything about it later.

His kiss was all-consuming, he'd been a ghost in her new life for months, and suddenly he was everywhere—on her tongue, in her hands, against her chest. And she nearly forgot how explosive kissing him was. How it was almost like a dance that they'd mastered but were always learning new and exciting steps to. The softness of her ex's lips were as familiar as ever, but the stubble on his cheeks was new. She didn't recognize the shirt he wore, but she knew the body beneath it almost as well as her own. And his hands—

"We can't—We're not—Harry—"

Over the years, Y/n had grown used to the feeling of Harry's wedding band against her skin. When he held her hand, when he cupped her cheek, when he was spreading her open or landing a firm slap to her ass. It was familiar, a part of him that just seemed intrinsic after they got married.

But now, as she placed her hand over the one that held the side of her face as he kissed along her throat, it wasn't there. The band was gone, they weren't married anymore, and they certainly shouldn't be kissing like they still were.

"Just this once," Harry murmured, pressing the words along the curve of her jaw. "It's been so long, baby. I just want to feel you again. We can still be divorced after. Like last time."

Flames licked Y/n's core as she remembered the night in question. It had been the night the divorce had been finalized. Harry and Y/n signed and initialed every dotted line, the lawyers shook hands and left, then Harry and Y/n went their separate ways

Harry still insisted that her late-night message about a few of his possessions that got mixed in with her things was meant to have some kind of subtext, and Y/n would swear until she was blue in the face that her text was innocent, even if the activities that followed Harry coming over to "pick up" said items were anything but. It was a final goodbye. It was closing a chapter on a book neither of them ever really believed would end.

"Last time was supposed to be the last time," Y/n said, her voice shallow and not at all convincing.

"Tell me you don't want me right now," Harry said, his hand creeping beneath the waistband of her pajama pants. Y/n's mouth opened in a strangled gasp, too aroused and too in love with him still to push him away. "Tell me not to set you down on the kitchen counter and let me love on that pussy the way I used to. Tell me not to haul you upstairs and fuck you hard for breaking us up when we could've had this every. Single. Day."

Harry's last words were punctuated by the thrust of his fingers inside Y/n, each one making her curl around him tight. He lifted her into his arms and set her on the couch, the closest surface in the vicinity that wasn't hardwood flooring. His fingers still moving inside her, pumping slowly, he pressed a bruising kiss to her lips.

"Tell me not to love you anymore," he said, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. "Tell me how to fall out of love with you. Tell me how to not dream of you. Tell me how to not want you anymore."

Y/n, who had succumbed to this moment, this lapse in...whatever it was, could only grip her ex's hair as he worked her over with his fingers, each word he spoke a balm to the loneliness these last months brought. She wasn't ready to start seeing someone else after the divorce, but now she worried no one would ever measure up to Harry. He ruined her for any other man who might try to sweep her off her feet in the future.

"Tell me, Y/n, and I'll let you come."

Y/n was a mess. She could hear it as Harry's fingers slid in and out of her quickly and harshly, then slowing down before she could finish. He used to do it all the time, knowing how worked up it made her, and now he knew nothing had changed.

"I—" she gasped. She was so close she could barely think straight. Harry's desperate words and the way his fingers curled inside her had her seeing stars. But if she knew her ex, he would stay there and edge her until she gave him what he wanted. "I don't know. I don't know how to make it stop. Please let me come."

Having thought she'd given him what he wanted, Y/n prepared herself for an earth-shattering orgasm. She surrendered herself to tonight, to him, even if she regretted it in the morning. Even if secretly she didn't, which would make her feel even worse.

But instead of pushing her over the edge, Harry removed his fingers from her altogether. The whine Y/n let out at the loss was perhaps a little undignified, but she couldn't think straight with the thick cloud of lust looming over her.

"Wh—"

"We're going to do this properly," he said, scooping her up into his arms and heading back upstairs, taking a left toward her bedroom. Their little angel boy was down the hall on the right side, but Y/n knew they still had to be quiet.

Once behind the closed door of her bedroom, they were both quick to shed each other of their clothes. Stitching ripped, a button or two flew, socks tossed carelessly to corners of the room they'd probably forget about later until there wasn't an ounce of fabric between them.

There wasn't time to stand and appreciate. This wasn't a romantic moment. It was desperate, a little angry, and intense in the way it always has been between them. Y/n kissed her ex-husband hard, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip and soothing the ache with her tongue until he eventually flipped her over onto her stomach.

"You can't be here by the time he wakes up tomorrow," Y/n managed to say. "I don't want to confuse him."

"I know," Harry said, lining himself up with her entrance. "But wouldn't it be so nice if I did?"

"Harry—"

"Relax, baby, I'll abide by your rules," he said, his voice a soft caress. "Just let me have you tonight, and then I'll be gone."

Harry slid in with one smooth thrust, Y/n's mouth dropping open in response. She hadn't been stretched this way in months, and the feel of him inside her again as if nothing had changed...

"Fuck, Harry. I'm—I'm so close," she moaned, unable to say much more than that.

His movements were torturously slow, prolonging the climax he'd been teasing out of her on the couch. Then he leaned over her, his body pressing deliciously against hers.

"We may be separated, but you're still mine," he said, his words accented by his own pleasure. "These hips? Mine. Your tits? Mine. This little cunt? Well, she already knows. Absolutely drenching me. And tonight, I'm going to make sure you remember that."

Y/n could only whimper and wait to take whatever her ex-husband was willing to give her.

*.*

Y/n was having the best dream.

Sun streamed through the small crack in her bedroom curtains as she snuggled under the weight of the warmest, coziest blanket. She held onto it, wrapping it tighter around her, hoping to get a couple more minutes of sleep before her son eventually barged in and demanded they start their day.

She had a million things to do, but none of it seemed to matter while she slept. She felt relaxed in a way she hadn't in a long time.

Then the dream seemed to change. The cozy blanket became an arm draped over her, a leg tangled between her own, and a firm body pressed against her back. The unknown form wrapped around her began to kiss along her bare back, the arm tightening its grip around her waist. Her stomach flipped as a hand began to play with her breast.

She hadn't had one of those dreams in a long time, either.

Before the dream could go any further, Y/n regrettably began to feel the pinpricks of consciousness. But as she blinked her eyes open, she still felt that weight of another body next to hers, of someone other than herself occupying her bed.

It was then that last night made an appearance in her mind, recalling every dirty detail of how she'd given into her ex-husband.

"Good morning."

Harry's voice was low and gruff as if he'd only just woken up himself. The puffs of his breaths dusted over Y/n's skin and sent goosebumps all over. She didn't understand how her body, even while it was still waking up, was so responsive to him.

As casually as possible, she said, "You weren't supposed to stay over."

"Honestly, I don't even remember falling asleep," Harry admitted, though he made no move to leave her Y/n's bed.

"You have to go before he wakes up," she insisted, even if her body was completely against that idea. "He can't find you here. If he does, he'll have questions, and—"

Before Y/n could even finish, she heard the soft patter of feet against soft carpet. Then her door creaked open, and the light of her life appeared.

"Daddy!"

Y/n rested her hands over her face, but not before seeing Harry's broad grin out of the corner of her eye, one that was nearly identical to the little boy at the foot of the bed.

"Hey, buddy," Harry said, his voice less husky than it was just moments ago. "What are you doing up so early, huh?"

"Why are you in bed with Mommy?" the boy asked, climbing into bed with his parents and wriggling around until he was snuggled between them.

Wasn't that the question, Y/n thought, though she was in no rush to help Harry.

"Mummy and Daddy decided to have a sleepover," Harry explained.

"Oh. Well, why didn't you invite me?"

"Because..." Y/n felt Harry's gaze on her, but she was not inclined to dig him out of this hole. Their night was over. It was a new day, which meant everything was back to the way it was before Harry came over last night. "Because I wanted to surprise you this morning. We're all going to spend the day together. Just the three of us."

"Yay!"

"What?"

Y/n glared over the top of her son's head as he half-hugged half-tackled Harry from sheer excitement. This was definitely not reverting back to their normal routine of co-parenting and seeing each other only when it was necessary. Harry, who looked thoroughly pleased with himself, slid out of bed with their boy still latched into him.

Thankfully, he was wearing underwear, but that didn't help Y/n much. She couldn't help but stare at his muscles flexing as he stood and stretched while he held their son. At all the tattoos that littered his body and the mess of curls on his head. He had no right to look this good in the morning, especially when Y/n knew for a fact that she always looked haggard no matter what when she first woke up.

Not that her appearance in front of her ex mattered to her.

"Come on, let's start with making your mum some breakfast. I'm thinking...waffles?"

"Do not make a mess of my kitchen, Harry," Y/n warned, not even bothering to protest the idea in its entirety. She wouldn't have been able to tell her son no even if he tried. Not with how excited he looked at the prospect of spending the day with his dad.

"We'll clean up after ourselves, I promise," Harry said with a wink in your direction. "You stay there and rest. I know you had a...long night."

Y/n threw a pillow at Harry's retreating form before flopping back into her bed. She had half a mind to strut right over to him and prove him wrong, but, well, the dull ache between her legs was starting to make itself known, and the damage of her son seeing Harry in her bed was already done. She might as well stay in bed and take the morning off if Harry was offering.

Sighing, Y/n ran a tired hand over her face as one realization after another made themselves known.

Everything about last night and this morning was messy and would no doubt bring about consequences and difficult conversations she wasn't inclined to have. There were questions she didn't want to ask or know the answer to, but one thing was abundantly clear:

She was well and truly fucked.

[luvyeni]

( drabble ) smoke and fuck ! ୨୧ 一 이희승 ՞

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ heeseung being your plugヾ

plug!heeseung・ reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw ・weed usage, oral sex ( M ), unprotected sex, dirty talk‎ wc ・ ‎0.8k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 plug heeseung will hit every. single. time 😮‍💨

heeseung 🍃. i'm here… 10:30 pm read

not even bothering to change out of your sleep shorts and zip up hoodie; slipping on your slippers, taking your money you had waiting on your dresser along with your keys and out the door you were.

heeseung parked right in front of your apartment; sending you a text sitting his phone in the cup holder as he waited for you to come out. normally heeseung didn’t make late night house calls, but for you; he’d do anything for, even if they meant bringing you weed at 11:00 at night. “heeseung.”

you exited the building to were his car was parked, knocking on the slightly rolled down window. he rolled down the window, you leaned over. “you could’ve just come up.” he smiled seeing your pouty face. “it’s cold.” he looked at your attire; you looked good. “it’s late, i should be in bed.” he teased. “i came because you called me.” you scoffed. “you’re getting paid aren’t you?” he flagged you off. “why do you keep on trying to pay me? your money is no good here.” he reached in his glove compartment, grabbing the leafy substance. “here princess.”

you went to reach for it but he pulled it back. “heeseung it’s cold.” you whined, he chuckled. you forced back a smile trying not to egg him on, he always did it — and you always fell for it. “get in then,” he said. “it’s late.” you said, he rolled his eyes. “that hasn’t stopped you before, come on, let's roll one up together.” biting down on his plump bottom lip as his eyes traveled down your body. “i’ll make it worth your wild, you know i will…”

“oh fuck baby.” he groaned, his head thrown back against the head of the back seat of his car — you on your knees; your mouth working down on his cock, everytime he came to see you it always ended like this. “shit love this fucking mouth of yours.” he held the back of your head; guiding you up and down his length, his hips occasionally bucking up causing you to gag. “sh-shit , feels so fucking good.��� the lit blunt in his hand. “damn.” he moaned, bringing the blunt to his lip, taking a puff and exhaling. “fuck speed up.”

you wrapped your hands around his thick length , twisting your hands as you bobbed your head up and down; spit coating his cock messily. “sucking my dick like a good little whore fuck im gonna cum.” he groaned. “gonna cum down your tight little throat.” he groaned, pushing your head down — cock twitching as cum shot from his tip coating the back of your throat. “fuck get up.”

you climbed into the man’s lap; unzipping your sweater. “came out here without a shirt or a bra.” he chuckled. “you came out here ready to be fucked, so desperate.” he passed you the blunt, you took it between your fingers, taking a long drag, he grabbed your face pulling your lips close to his, letting you blow smoke into his mouth. “and you came here at 11 at night to fuck me, what does that make you?”

he slapped your ass; you yelped. “ow, that shit hurts.” he rubbed the sore cheek. “you’re right baby we’re both desperate.” he took the fully smoked blunt from your hand, throwing it out the car; his vehicle now filled with smoke. “so why aren’t you full of my cock right now?”

you pulled your shorts to the side; he was stroking his wet cock, sighing as you sunk down on his cock. “mhm fuck heeseung.” he smirked as you held his shoulders, his cock fulling you out deliciously. “that’s it princess.” the high you both were in amplifying your pleasure. “shit this pussy is the best.” he groaned. “love it so much.”

he held your waist, keeping you steady as you found your speed, bouncing up and down on his cock. “ye-yeah shit.” he groaned. “fuck me.” this was the reason he came out so late; he’d come out at 2 in the morning if you wanted him to — because he knew he’d have you fucking yourself on him in his car high every single time, no matter how many times you tried barley to play hard to get. “fuck baby keep bouncing gonna cum.”

he slapped your ass rubbing the soreness. “fuck hee!” you screamed, his hips bucking up. “yeah fuck princess i feel your pussy twitching on me, you gonna cum?” you nodded. “fu-fuck hee, im gonna cum, im gonna fucking cum!” you shrieked. “shit cum for me!” he head thrown back again once again as you came. “oh fuck!”

you pulled off of him, both your hands wrapping around his length stroking his cock until his thick sticky cum shit from his cock, covering your hand. “oh fuck.” he sighed, you chuckled out of breath. “how many times are you gonna trick me into coming out here?”

“trick you?” he questioned. “sweets the baby the way you were bouncing on my dick, you knew what you wanted when you came out here.” he said. “lay back now.” he pulled your shorts down. “look at this pretty pussy.” he groaned biting his lip. “so ready to be eaten.”

“gonna make you cum on my tongue a few times, roll you another blunt and then fuck this pretty pussy again.”

©️LUVYENI

[bigfatbreak]

About Birds of a feather:

I just realized you're highlighting characters' speech bubbles with plant vines when they lie!

Have u been doing this ever since the start of the comic?

barbs, chains, thorns, etc etc, yes! they're symbolic tone indicators

for instance, in this last update I posted, Alya's speech bubble has thorns, but flower buds as well as knots of rope: she's lying because she's tied to a promise, and its for a purpose, not for selfish reasons

with Lila, her lies tend to have only thorns and chains, they're meant to hook into people, manipulate them, or bind them to her. what goes on behind the speech bubbles is just as important as what's being said in them~ <3

[ailelie]

The Wolf now is Concerned. He isn't invested. He refuses to be invested in humans. Humans are food, not friends.

And yet. This utter sad sack needs help and Hairy McLumberjack is too busy fussing around with trees to do more than look in and tut occasionally.

And, it isn't like the Wolf can roam much. He had a serious surgery to get Steven out of his stomach. He needs recovery time.

It only makes sense that he recovers at Steve's. It's all Steve's fault anyway, if you think about it.

Steve is still mourning his relationship with Denise and dealing with his recent near-death experience. The latter would be easier if the cause of said-near-death experience hadn't decided to take over Steve's bed.

The Wolf is a demanding and infuriating roommate, but the more time they spend on bickering, the less time Steve has to feel sorry for himself. He ends up developing a new passion for cooking out of pure spite--he will prove to the Wolf that there are many better options for eating than 'raw human.'

"So raw my heart was literally still beating, Wolf."

"The better to warm my stomach, Steve."

It is when Little Red is visiting again, more than a week after the Wolf last felt a twinge of pain in his torso, that everything changes again.

"Mama said to invite you to dinner, Uncle Steve," Little Red says. "You can come, too, Uncle Wolf."

Steve and the Wolf meet each other's horrified gaze as they both realize the domestic comfort they've found and created in each other.

That night, long after Little Red has returned home, the Wolf says he's leaving and he goes.

For the first time in weeks, Steve doesn't have to share his bed.

(After the first few nights when the Wolf had claimed his bed, Steve decided he was not going to be forced to the couch again. They each dared the other to leave the bed if they were 'too uncomfortable' to share. Neither left. Neither ever admitted, in the weeks that followed, how nice it was to have someone else there.)

He can't sleep.

In the morning, he eats some berries for breakfast. Lunch is a leftover soup. Dinner is more of the same.

Cooking is less fun on his own, less fun when he doesn't have the Wolf stealing his ingredients and making sly comments from the side.

Meanwhile, the Wolf is in the forest and utterly refusing to admit that his rabbit is a bit gamey, that its flesh would be better shredded with a spicy sauce and served over whipped potatoes. He is a Wolf. He doesn't need cooked food. He doesn't want it.

The flesh and blood are warm in his mouth, but they do not heat his belly like one of Steve's stews. The forest is so unreasonably cold.

And lonely.

"He tried to eat me, Laura," Steve complains to his sister, Little Red's mother.

"From what I understand, he successfully ate you. That lumberjack cut you free, no?"

"The lumberjack! Now, he would make sense. He's handsome, right? Saved my life even. If I had to-- why couldn't I have--" the words won't come out. Steve's never been attracted to anyone male before.

Until the Wolf.

His face flushes bright red and his sister sighs. "You could do worse than that Wolf, Steve."

He buries his face in his hands.

The Wolf goes by the cabin when he knows Steve will be in town, attending the dinner Little Red had invited them to, the dinner that ruined everything.

The ice box has no ice and the plants inside are limp and shriveled. A stew pot, crusted with the dried remnants of broth, sits on the stove. Another pot is half-full with congealed oatmeal.

The Wolf refuses to feel guilty. He is a wild creature. He is not meant to live within four walls like some domesticated dog.

He washes the pots and tosses the ruined vegetables and herbs. It is during this last task that he runs into the lumberjack.

"Glad to see you're back" the Lumberjack says. "He's been missing you."

I'm not back, the Wolf wants to snarl, and, What business is it of yours? Instead, he says, "I don't belong here."

The lumberjack shrugs. "Well, I don't know about that. I think we belong wherever we love and are loved."

"So, what, you're having a love affair with a hundred trees? Do you chop them down after you break-up?" It isn't his best line, but the lumberjack laughs anyway.

"My love was turned into a tree and hidden in this wood. Someday I will find and free him from his curse. Until then, my job gives me more than enough time to search."

"So you're saying it could be worse," the Wolf says. "I could be in love with a tree."

The lumberjack's smile broadens and he nods. "Instead you're only in love with a man."

It is only then that the Wolf realizes what he'd said. The truth of it warms him inside out. "I'm going to go back inside."

He doesn't say he's going to stay. That's what he means anyways.

The next morning, carrying a basket of leftovers, Steve returns to his cabin. He is dreading being alone again, but he cannot live in his sister's house.

He wants the Wolf. He doesn't understand how or why the Wolf has become so important to him, but maybe that doesn't matter. He just wants that strange and frustrating beast back in his kitchen, his bedroom, his life.

He has decided to track down the Wolf just as he's opening his cabin door.

And the Wolf is there.

Glass shatters as the basket falls from his hand. The Wolf's coat is warm and musky under his hands and cheek. His snout presses cool against Steve's neck. His claws prick lightly along his back. Steve can barely think for the utter relief flooding through him.

"I'm back," the Wolf says, unnecessarily. He is holding Steve as tightly as Steve is holding him.

Neither can quite feel embarrassed by their reactions to one another given the other is reacting quite the same.

"Good," Steve says. "Stay."

"Wild creatures don't belong indoors," the Wolf warns. He wants to stay, but some fear lingers. He can only promise now, not forever.

Steve, though, is unconcerned. He steps back, looking his Wolf in the eye. He lifts a hand to his Wolf's maw and traces a thumb along the seam of his mouth, the same mouth and sharp teeth that had once devoured him. "Since when," he asks, "have you cared about arbitrary rules?"

The Wolf flicks his tongue against Steve's thumb. "Since when, indeed."

inspiration struck in a really, really weird way

[fallbhind]

‘CASUAL’ RAFE CAMERON

genre smut, angst wordcount 1.4k

❝ i've heard so many rumors. ❜

content warnings ,, mentions oral (f!receiving), p in v, masterbation in the bathroom, 'no attachment sex', rumors (blegh, drama llama.), rafe and reader break up. s1 era.

it was so tiring being rafe's quick fix because you just wanted a real thing, y'know, not some quickie on his couch. the worst thing? your friends (not so friendly friends) call you a loser because you still hanging out with him, when any girl would have done dumped him and found someone better. but he is, or was your better.

sure, you did everything with rafe (when he called you up, not when you asked. sure one day you were fed up, left him a voicemail because of course he wouldn't pick up for you. "i've heard so many rumors." you said through the crackly phone. "that i'm just some girl you bang on your couch, i can't believe i thought you thought of me better."

an hour later (per usual), he answered you an hour later, telling you to 'hurry your ass out to tanneyhill'

you thought for a long hard while before ultimately deciding to head out to tanneyhill. where death literally layer waiting for you in your grave. you knew quite well what he was mad about and what he wanted, because you've sent multiple voicemails about the rumors going around outerbanks, you've heard about them and you‘be literally heard tourons living in the drama with you and rafe.

and you could never leave your back turned to long before people behind started murmuring up a storm.

you walked closer to your death in your busted up converses, running over impossible scenarios in your head. you stopped at the gate, texting rafe 'im here come to the gate.' you said with all intentions to be sassy. when you saw him, his pushed back curtain bangs, every part of him looked so hot.

he opened the gate, telling you to come on. rafe roughly grabbed your arm, taking you to his fathers study room were he did most of his work. whilst you were extremely liked throughout the cameron household, only you, rafe and maybe even sarah knew the real intent to your relationship. rafe said annoyingly, "we're not together, let me make myself clear.

it was like his mood immediately changed as he continued, "just a quick fix whenever we need it." when what he really meant to say was when he needed it. maybe you really should dump him. if that's how it really works. he kissed your forehead, "'n baby, no attachment." though three weeks ago he excused the both of you so he could be knee deep in the passenger seat while he was eating you out, remembering all those sweet nothings he whispered into you pussy that made you give him what he wanted. not to mention, he always acted so lovey dovey with you. and it was about time you got fed up.

you didn't expect for his step-mom, rose, two weeks later after the major argument with rafe to invite you for dinner at tanneyhill. rafe, put on a mock smile, ready to peel the skims dress off your body. you were greeted by ward, and did he piss you off, with the fake smiling and his eyes trailing across your body whenever he could. perv.

"welcome, you look nice and sophisticated." ward said with the nicest tone he could bear, "no wonder rafe doesn't bring you up, your so lovely i'd hog you to." he laughed, and it sounded so fake. rafe had his hand on the small of your back as he led you into the dining room.

you took a seat in between wheezie and sarah, rafe sat across from you, with a pissed off expression. like, how could your's and his situation be casual now? you've literally done every thing, fingering, eating you out, a little bit of intercourse action, you've jerked and sucked him off, and you've let him jerk off onto your tits, and it was somehow casual.

after dinner, rafe again, excused you and him to go to the bathroom. he led you to the bathroom, shutting the door as he told you demanding to get on his counter, you back pressing against the mirror. "fuck, y'look s'good tonight." he pushed up the skims dress up to your hips, "'n no underwear?"

"all'that arguin' f'nothin', still my sweet, sweet sluty girl, ain't you?" he slowly rubbed your thighs , "you gotta be quiet though, don't want to embarrass yourself, do you?" he smugly grinned when you nodded, he dipped his fingers into your cunt, and your let out a surprised gasp, squeezing around his fingers.

he kissed you, whispering sweet nothings like you and him didn't just have an argument two weeks ago.

he unbuttoned his pants, using his index to hook the loops were a belt would be to shove them down, following his boxers. he wiped the pre-cum off his tips, using his thumb to slide it into your mouth. "my girl takes everything." he whispered as you attentively sucked on his finger.

you sucked off all the pre-cum off his cock, rafe patting your cheek gently. he spread your legs more, giving him a great view of your pretty, coated pearl, pressing his finger against it, you rolled your head back into the mirror.

"rr-rafe!" you stuttered out as you cried out. he pulled away from your pretty pearl, aligning his cock with your tight hole. he thrusted into your hole, making you cry out for him again.

he squeezed your cheek, holding you in between his thumb and index finger. "c'mon baby give me more than that. not to loud though." he whispered harshly against your neck, gripping your thighs as he kept repeatedly bullying his way into you. and without break, he kept thrusting his cock into you, with a sneaky smirk. "your my girl aintchu?" he kissed your neck, taking a rest inside you.

rafe nipped at your neck as he moved his cock against your gummy hole. feeling you squeeze around him when he bite and sucked on your neck, he kept doing it. even if it felt like you wanted to squeeze his cock off inside of you. "s'tight. jus' how i like it." he whispered against your shoulder, bullying his way back in you as your gummy walls tried to push him out. he aggressively grunted in your ear, feeling the warmness off your breath as you let out a whimper and even softer moans. you gasped when he touched your g-spot, immediately convulsing around him but not yet coming on his cock.

he'd pulled out just before you could finish. he pulled his boxers, following his pants. he buttoned them up, leaving you desperate for release. you found yourself rubbing your clit trying any method of running your clit to come, though you weren't quite being able to finish off yourself. maybe the problem was that you never had to do anything yourself. you came on rafe's cock than he would come on your stomach.

you tugged your black skims dress back down, putting your heels back on as well before making your way out of the bathroom. you sat across from rafe as he had the satisfaction of making you better than before and not helping you like usual. it was great to see you a little grumpy, whilst a little nervous because you decided to be a little slut and go no underwear. but doesn't mean you weren't his little slut.

you were obviously out of it, because sarah had to tap you back into reality as everyone started eating. you cut the steak up before taking a bite of it. "this is really good ms. cameron, you'll have to teach me how to make it." you said cheerfully. rose smiled at you and nodded.

she was really proud of the fact you thought it was that good, but than of course, her cooking for the cameron's was something any mother should do, while some might think that she'd hire someone, she did it herself.

a week later, your friends had told you rafe had said it was casual still and that 'you get off when he hit it' when he never hit your clit not once. sure he left you drying for release but that wasn't the point. and that was near the last straw for you. you were tired.

you wanted a real relationship which was obvious that rafe wasn't ready for, so you found yourself calling him. and again, it wasn't something were he'd answer you, you said to him through the voicemail "i hate that i let this drag on so long, now i hate myself." you took a breath, "we're done." you said before slipping your phone in your pocket and walking away from the wreck after just having breakfast with your friend.

TAGS .ᐟ @archiveofvirtue @sematarygirls @beausling @mattsdolll @pr3ttyf4wn

@wi4hfulth1nking @gibson-g1rl

[zaldritzosrose]

Disease (Aemond x Witch!Reader)

Summary: Harrenhal was a prize and with Daemon leaving it abandoned, Aemond wasn't prepared to let it be lost to them again. Rage simmered within, the inaction of those around him had put his nerves onto a knife's edge. Nothing would stop him from achieving his goal. Except you, of course. A witch like your sister, Alys, but far more formidable if you tried.

Song - Disease by Lady Gaga

CW: MINORS DNI, she/her pronouns, mentions of witchcraft, mentions of drugged wine and hallucinations, mentions of violence, mentions of past deaths (Lucerys and Alys), mentions of manipulation, mentions of pregnancy, innuendo, profanity, masturbation (fem), voyeurism (Aemond watches), oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, tiddy sucking, mildly submissive Aemond.

Words: 7152

It's a long one..but it was a brain worm that just wouldn't quit!

There are no more tears to cry. I heard you beggin' for life…

Harrenhal was a prize. Aemond was furious to find out that Daemon had taken it from their grasp despite the plans he had tried to lay into place.

Yes, he likely shouldn’t have schemed behind his brother’s back. But he was doing it in the interests of the Crown and their family. Even if it meant undermining the King in the process.

Rook’s Rest had been a key move. But where there was triumph, there was failure.

A win in Rook’s Rest, followed by three more dragons to Rhaenyra’s cause. Meleys and Rhaenys downed, but Aegon and Sunfyre were injured. It felt as though the war was becoming a lost cause. Aemond was floundering, though he would be damned if he let anyone see it.

The mask of cold, sharp indifference was set in place. But inside he felt rotted. Rage was a disease, and it ate him alive.

Long gone was the boy who cried over no dragon, who ran to his mother when he hurt.

In his place was a man filled with little more than hate and violence.

Runnin' out of medicine. You're worse than you've ever been…

His head pounded. Aemond barely heard the words of the council, his mind swirling. He wanted nothing more than to be done with the tiresome meetings.

“There will be no argument,” he snapped suddenly, cutting through the arguing voices of the council members.

“Harrenhal shall not be lost to us again. I will fly out as soon as possible, Cole and our men shall follow.”

There was silence in the room, yet the pain in his head felt like the entire room rang like a bell. He wanted to act, not sit and prattle about plans and alliances.

“Your Grace…” Lord Wylde had barely opened his mouth to speak before he stopped silent.

If looks could have killed, Lord Wylde would have perished immediately. Aemond’s singular gaze burned into him, and the Prince was sure he saw the Lord visibly shrink beneath it.

Aemond said nothing more, but it was clear the matter was done. The air was tense as Aemond left, not a single look back as he silently dismissed the council.

The castle was eerily silent was Daemon and his dragon departed, but eerie was what you enjoyed. Harrenhal was your haven. Your sanctuary to live unbothered and without fear.

Even when Prince Daemon had arrived, he left you well alone.

The Witch of Harrenhal.

That’s what they called you, though no one knew the extent of the things you were capable of.

You were not the first. Your sister, elder by two years but as much bastard blood as you were. She had tried to play with Daemon’s mind, and it had cost her life. And while you loved her dearly, you couldn’t feel much sympathy.

Alys had been warned. Targaryens were unpredictable, untameable. And yet she tried to.

The magic that ran in yours and Alys’ veins was far different from what ran in the fiery veins of the Targaryens. All Old Gods, but nothing alike.

Now your home was empty. The army Daemon had roused gone. Ser Simon Strong hiding away in his rooms. The constant screeches of the blood red dragon no longer grated on your ears.

You had almost returned to a life of darkened peace.

And then word of another silver haired visitor came. Younger, fiercer it was rumoured than his uncle.

The Prince Regent himself was set for Harrenhal.

(Ah-ah) Screamin' for me, baby. (Ah-ah) Like you're gonna die…

Vhagar was an unwelcome sight in the Riverlands for most. For others who openly supported Aegon as King, she was the opposite.

For you, she was a warning to prepare.

Alys had taken it upon herself to try and unpick the mind of Prince Daemon, hoping insanity would distract him from whatever he aimed to do. You were unsure of what exactly your sister had intended with such a plan, but it failed when Daemon’s knife found her heart.

You, on the other hand, knew a Targaryen in Harrenhal was a bid for power. Power you could leech upon yourself.

A bastard. A witch. All things levied as insults against you that you chose to revel in. Alys had taught you everything and you had taken to it like a duck to water. The morbid history of Harrenhal only fuelled you.

So, you kept your eyes to the sky for the sight of the great she-dragon. Waiting patiently for the Prince Regent to land at your doorstep.

But a vengeful and rage filled prince, with the largest living dragon, was a dangerous omen on the Riverlands.

It was as though seeing what Daemon had almost taken from them, Rhaenyra’s banners on different castles as he neared Harrenhal, had sent him into a maelstrom of violence.

Word of the destruction quickly reached Ser Simon, though Harrenhal’s lord was not prepared to attempt a stand against yet another Targaryen. Daemon’s presence had taken it’s toll on him, the biting wit you were used to hearing long extinguished when Aemond finally arrived.

Harrenhal grew larger on the horizon. Vhagar leaving nothing but ash and blood in her wake, feeding off the fury that simmered in her rider.

Aemond had heard the whispers about Harrenhal. The cursed stones, the ghosts that wandered the hallway, the sisters that haunted the old ruin.

But he had also never really believed in magic.

So, he let the stories linger only in the back of his mind. Harrenhal was a prize to win, haunted or not.

The dinner hall was prepared for Prince Aemond’s arrival, the large silhouette of Vhagar was visible from a fair enough distance to give the servants time to prepare.

Ser Simon had forced himself from his rooms, unwillingly knowing that his lack of presence would only anger the young Prince more.

You sat watching from your chambers, sat on the sill of the window. The flash of silver hair in the courtyard had a smile tugging at your lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be quite as much a chore as you thought it would be.

The Prince Regent was a treat for the eyes.

You watched as he disappeared into the castle. It would simply be a waiting game. You were going to take your time, reveal yourself little by little. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t toy with him just a little.

Harrenhal was known to be haunted. What were a few extra ghosts in the grand scheme of things?

(Ah-ah) Poison on the inside. I could be your antidote tonight…

The meal with Ser Simon had been nothing short of uncomfortable for Aemond and everyone involved. He wasn’t one for small talk and it seemed the previous visit from Prince Daemon had soured any thoughts the Strong lord had about Targaryens.

The only balm, the only light in such gloomy halls, had been you. Aemond hadn’t been able to take his eye off you the moment you entered. Posing simply as a servant, a tray with a jug of wine placed in the centre.

Hair falling in waves down your back, the dress you wore nothing like he’d ever seen a servant wear. Something about you just draw him in.

So, when you appeared at his elbow, soft voice offering him wine, he could barely stop himself before he had agreed. The wine slipping down his throat easier than it ever did, and the cups that followed all blurred into one.

The walk back to his chambers, however, was an impossible memory.

You sat in your chamber, on the same floor as the guest rooms the prince currently resided in. But you knew he wouldn’t be within for long…

Not with the hallucinogenic herbs slipped into his wine. His gaze on you had been just enough of a distraction.

All you had to do now, was wait.

(Ah-ah) Screamin' for me, baby. (Ah-ah) Like you're gonna die…

(Ah-ah) Poison on the inside. I could be your antidote tonight…

Sleep evaded him. No, not evaded. It tortured Aemond to try. Slumber hadn’t been an easy task for him in a long time. First the pain of losing his eye and then the death of Lucerys had afforded him hours and hours of interrupted and painful sleep.

But this was different. He felt nauseous, head spinning and his body felt like it was constantly falling.

And yet, his feet took him from his bed. He wasn’t sure where he was going, he simply needed to walk.

All the halls looked the same. Dark save for a few sporadic candles. The same grey stone walls seemed to never end. But his body seemed to know where it wished to go.

Aemond didn’t realise he was outside until he felt the night’s air on his face. The soft sounds of the water ahead drawing him closer and closer.

And then he saw you. Moonlight bathing your skin with a glow, the water lapping at your feet. Your gown flowing in rhythm with the waves.

The prince could have sworn he could hear you calling his name. Like a siren.

He was at the edge of the water before he knew it. Eye trained solely on you. How your gown had slipped from your shoulders, dangerously close to exposing more and more of your naked flesh.

Were you not cold? He thought, the water splashing up the toes of his boots. Yet he couldn’t move any further. All he could do was watch you.

I could play the doctor, I can cure your disease. If you were a sinner, I could make you believe…

Aemond’s thoughts were muddled, consciousness swimming in and out of lucidity.

Then he saw it, your hand sliding down from your neck and disappearing beneath the water. The ripples that formed around it told him what you were doing.

Sweet moans floated towards him and Aemond could feel his own heart beating to the same rhythm as your hand.

He knew it couldn’t be real. Aemond had heard the stories of Harrenhal, how it had driven so many to madness. How ghosts roamed the halls and witches hid in the shadows.

But logic was not with him anymore.

His chest heaved at the sight of you, the blood in his veins rushing down to fuel his arousal. Who were you? What were you?

Just as your moans reached a crescendo, his name falling like sin from your lips, Aemond’s hand moving to palm himself…

Lay you down like one, two, three. Eyes roll back in ecstasy…

He was back in his room. Sweat coating his skin and rolling down his spine. He was in his bed, cotton shirt stuck to his skin. His head still a little fuzzy, but he felt different.

Aemond could remember pieces of what he’d seen. Was it a dream? No, he couldn’t dream about someone he barely knew, surely?

Yet he could still see you so clearly. Soft skin, long hair. Eyes closes in pleasure as the water overtook your arched body.

His body still thrummed with the remnants of the desire he’d felt.

He lay back down, trying to let sleep take him again. But when he did, he only saw your face.

And it was a face he found himself longing to see again.

I can smell your sickness, I can cure ya (Cure). Cure your disease…

You could feel Aemond’s presence behind you as you worked. There was something about him that was immediately recognisable.

He had woken less rested than he hoped, his headache returned. The socket of his eye felt like it burned. He had asked a passing servant if there was a healer in the castle, and they had sent him to you.

“My prince, is there something you need?”

The moment you met his gaze, Aemond felt a ringing in his head. Flashes of the night before in his mind. But then you spoke again, smiling a little as he shook his head before looking at you again.

“This place is a not built for a restful sleep, I’m afraid. Especially for those not used to it.”

Your voice was so soft, like a balm to his whirring mind.

Before he knew it, you were stood in front of him. A good head and shoulder shorter than he was, head tilted in curiosity.

“That is an understatement, my lady.” Aemond answered, his voice coming out hoarser than he cared for.

He didn’t expect the laugh you responded with.

“I am no lady, my prince. Just a bastard healer.”

Aemond hummed in response, wincing as the pain in his eye burned again. It was intense enough that he didn’t notice your hand on his jaw, turning his head to look at his damaged eye.

He should have pushed you away. But your touch sent sparks through his skin, and he found himself unable to move.

“Can…do you have something to help?”

You smiled, stroking his cheek once before letting him go. Aemond hated asking for help. The Maester in the Keep would simply bring him medicine for his pain without being asked, knowing the prince well enough to know when he’d need it.

The absence of your touch made him feel empty. His skin now cold where your hand had been.

“What does your Maester usually give you?”

You had returned to stand behind the table and for the first time Aemond took the time to look around the room he now stood in. It was everything he would imagine a healer’s quarters would look like. Though it didn’t look like you resided here.

Herbs littered the table in front of you. Books laid wide open, dog-eared as if they had been read hundreds of times. Bowls, bottles, boxes filled to the brim with concoctions and ingredients. Plants hung from every possible surface. A fire smouldered in the background.

“Milk of the poppy, but I do not like how it fogs my mind.” Aemond huffed back, regretting how annoyed he sounded.

You smiled, glancing through the hair that hung before your face to look at him.

“Take a seat, my prince, I can have breakfast brought in here while you wait?”

Aemond nodded, taking a seat by the window. You disappeared for a moment, coming back with a tray of tea and a promise that a servant would bring him some food.

He didn’t know why he felt comfortable, or as comfortable as he allowed himself to ever feel, around you. You had both an air of mystery and familiarity that he truly didn’t understand.

The servant brought the food in silently, setting the tray down in front of Aemond with barely a glance towards the stern prince.

But Aemond only watched you. Much like his dream last night, he couldn’t tear his eye away.

The way you flitted around, gathering everything you needed for whatever it was you were creating for him. The smell was unusual, both sweet and bitter at the same time. But for whatever maddening reason, he trusted you meant him no harm.

“It is ready, but feel free to finish eating. It works better on a full stomach.”

You walked over, setting a steaming cup in front of him. The liquid had a cloudiness to it, much like poppy milk, but it smelled almost floral. He nodded his thanks, drinking it as fast as the heat of it would allow.

Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but it was like the pain began to dissipate immediately. Aemond sighed as the last drops slipped down his throat. The warmth disappearing along with the throbbing in his head.

You leaned against the table, arms tucked into the pockets of your gown and simply smiling.

“It works quickly, does it not?” you asked, head tilted again like he was an experiment to observe.

Aemond set the cup down, wiping at his lips and touching the skin next to his eyepatch. Not a single ounce of pain was left.

“It does indeed, far quicker than any poppy milk I have drank.”

The prince glanced out of the window, watching as the castle began to stir to life below.

“Some might say…it is magic, my prince.”

You're so tortured when you sleep. Plagued with all your memories…

Aemond had already been in Harrenhal for a week. He had become used to the old castle, the eerie sounds that seemed to leak into his room as he tried to sleep.

Some mornings, he would visit you. Sometimes for a remedy for his pain. Sometimes simply to be in your presence. As far as he was aware, it was entirely of his own volition.

The servants seemed to look at you with both fear and reverence. Ser Simon would flit between ignoring your existence and staring at you as though you were another of Harrenhal’s spectres.

The Strong lord was as impassive towards Aemond as well. As though he tolerated the prince’s presence after his experience with Prince Daemon. Learning from his mistakes and keeping his guard up whenever he was in the young Prince’s presence.

But progress was made. Whether it was through loyalty to the King or through resignation to his fate, Simon Strong bent the knee to King Aegon. Even offering Harrenhal to Aemond as a token of House Strong’s loyalty.

And Aemond had no interest in leaving anytime soon.

Sleep, however, would still evade him. Not quite dreams, but not quite nightmares. Aemond would feel like he was sleepwalking, waking up and barely remembering what had happened. The only clue would be the dirt on his bare feet or the tangles in his hair in the morning.

And you were always there.

Sometimes just in the distance. Sometimes simply calling out his name.

But still always there.

He could deal with those dreams. There was something calming about them.

But Harrenhal would never let him rest easy. Whether he believed it or not, the castle was cursed.

One night, was the worst of all.

It had been weeks since Lucerys died. Weeks since that night had plagued his dreams. But the incident had been brought up during a tense conversation with a lesser Lord to Ser Simon. Spat as an insult towards the prince in temper.

But it invaded his dreams. Replaying them over and over until one night.

Aemond didn’t know how he’d ended up on the battlements. The wind whipping at his hair, the drizzling rain soaking through his bed shirt.

Yet he couldn’t see any of it. He could only see the fleeing silhouette of Lucerys on the back of his dragon. He could only remember the vengeance that filled his very soul.

It was like he was there. Reliving it all over again.

You reach out, and no one's there. Like a god without a prayer…

Aemond could feel the wind in his hair as though he was on Vhagar’s back. Chasing down his nephew, screaming insults and threats into the storm.

But he wanted to try and change it. To stop Vhagar clamping her jaws around Arrax’s neck. To stop Lucerys falling into the water.

His hand reached out as he saw Lucerys fall, but when his fist closed it was like he was grasping at smoke. Nothing was there, only the empty courtyard below.

Aemond leaned against the crumbling wall, gasping for air.

Then he heard you. Calling his name in that sweet voice of yours. Luring him back inside. So, he followed. His mind only on the relief you could bring him.

You waited in your chambers. You knew forcing those memories back into his mind was harsh. But it was necessary. You needed him to seek you out. To see you as his sole source of calm.

And if it meant he felt other things for you, you weren’t going to deny him.

You weren’t a fool. You had seen how Aemond looked at you when he thought you couldn’t see. Lingering just a little too long on the swells of your body. He was a young man, you could hardly blame him.

You were only a couple of years his senior, but you knew all too well the way sheltered princes acted around women.

The smell of him found you immediately. The coolness scent of the fresh air mixed with the constant scent of dragon that seemed to linger on his skin. So when your chamber door pushed open, you were barely surprised.

“My prince? Is everything alright?”

You slid from your seat by the window. White nightdress barely concealing the curves beneath. You immediately brought him inside, tugging him towards the fire.

Your hands lingered on his arms, longer than you ever had before. Rubbing up and down the cotton covered muscle to warm him.

“Sleep…I cannot sleep.”

His voice sounded so resigned, you almost felt sorry for putting him in that place to begin with.

“Nightmares? Or these cursed halls stealing your slumber?”

You let your hands trail further down, cheek pressed to the valley between his shoulder blades. His whole body was tense and cold. His eye trained solely on the flames before him. But he didn’t speak.

“Nightmare, I know that look.”

Your hands moved to his front, wrapping around his chest and pressing your body to his. Aemond tried to ignore how warm you were. How sweet you smelled, like flowers and smoke. A fragrance that had always invaded his dreams.

He felt himself relax. His head turning to try and look at you. Spinning in your hold just a little.

“It hasn’t plagued me for a long time. I cannot tell if it is these halls or the stress of war that has…”

Aemond trailed off, why was he revealing himself so easily to you?

You turned him to entirely face you. And it was only then that you realised he was missing his eyepatch. The sapphire glinting in the firelight.

(Ah-ah) Screamin' for me, baby. (Ah-ah) Like you're gonna die…

You could see the pain in his eye. The crease between his brows and the tight set of his lips. Your hand instinctively going to his jaw, thumb stroking soft circles on his skin.

“Harrenhal will do awful things to those not accustomed, my prince.”

Aemond nuzzled into your hand, eye closing in satisfaction.

“Aemond. Call me Aemond.”

His lips ghosted over your hand. Aemond had only sought comfort in one woman before you, but you were so very different from Sylvie.

He hadn’t paid you to be at his side. You weren’t chasing his presence for status or power. He could see it in your eyes.

You desired him as he did you.

Aemond didn’t know it, but you’d tried to deny it. To stop the feelings for him blossoming. You only intended to manipulate, to bring him to any form of submission you could. But you had fallen just the same.

(Ah-ah) Poison on the inside. I could be your antidote tonight…

“Aemond.”

His name had never sounded so sweet. Aemond wanted to hear it again and again. To hear you whisper it, scream it even.

“Do you need relief? I can make you so-“

Your words were cut off by his lips on yours. His hand tangled in your hair and holding you tight to your body. The other arm wrapping around your waist. No space left between your bodies.

He grunted into the kiss, your hands tangled into his shirt to steady yourself. His kiss was hungry and demanding, and you welcomed it gladly.

You could feel yourself walking back towards the bed. You had expected him to try to take control. To hold on to some semblance of power.

And you let him. You could feel it, pulling you in and begging you to succumb.

But a powerful prince at your heel was the goal.

Your knees hit foot of your bed, letting yourself fall as Aemond stood over you. You rested yourself on your elbows, trailing the tips of your toes up the length of his leg.

“Or do you need something else?”

Your hands tugged up your nightgown, revealing inch after inch of your bare legs.

Aemond swallowed thickly, the fabric of his breeches growing tighter with every ounce of flesh revealed. You were wearing nothing beneath.

“Take what you need, I am all yours.”

(Ah-ah) Screamin' for me, baby. (Ah-ah) Like you're gonna die…

His instincts were screaming at him to leave. He didn’t know you, not really. He knew your name, that you were a bastard, but he knew very little else. For all he knew, it was you playing with his mind. Making him see things, making sleep evade him night after night until he depended on you.

But in reality, he didn’t care. The fire in his loins was burning, his mind reeling. And the only solution was to have you.

If desire was his disease, you were his cure. If rage and pain were his disease, he was sure you could cure that too.

Aemond dropped smoothly to his knees, hands finding your thighs and squeezing. Pushing them apart until he could glimpse the sweet nectar that lay between.

(Ah-ah) Poison on the inside. I could be your antidote tonight…

“Anything I need?” he whispered, the tip of his nose grazing the skin of your inner thigh.

You were in control, you had to remind yourself of that. But it was hard to ignore the heat that pooled in your belly at the low tone of his voice. Your hand found his hair, tugging the tie from it and letting the silver locks fall loose around his face.

Nails grazed his scalp, gently pulling him closer and closer to your core.

“Absolutely anything,” your words fell to a moan as his tongue darted out, taking one long stripe between your folds.

It was like that one taste of you woke something within him. Gripping your thighs harder and devouring you like you were the only sustenance he needed. The curve of his nose rubbing against your pearl in tandem with his tongue, which was mapping out every fleshy inch of your inner walls.

Aemond grunted into you, his grip on your thighs brutal but the pain only heightened your desire. His own hips rutting against nothing. All he could focus on was your body, the dreams entirely forgotten.

I could play the doctor, I can cure your disease. If you were a sinner, I could make you believe…

Your back was arched off the bed. Aemond switching between lapping at your core and suckling on your swollen bud. Focused on nothing more than coaxing your release forward.

“Delicious…” he whispered, pulling away for a breath while replacing his tongue with his fingers.

The pace of the slender digits was almost as fast as his tongue. There was little doubt you weren’t his first. He could feel your muscles clenching and unclenching, signalling that your release was close.

And he wanted you to spill only on his tongue. The taste, the feel, the sound, it was all he could think of. Like it was the only thing that would bring him any kind of satisfaction. You had taken hold of his mind completely.

“Aemond…” you sighed out his name as he latched onto your pearl again.

Your hips canted up to meet his face, your hold on his hair tight enough to make him hiss in pain. But he relished in it.

A hand planted on your stomach as you peaked around his tongue held your thrashing body down. The other held your body tight against his face until you relaxed beneath him. A few final laps at your quivering walls was all he got before you pulled him up to hover over you.

“Feeling better, my prince?”

The title made him chuckle. The same question you asked after he drank down whatever remedy you created for him. His hair hanging loose around you like a curtain. His slick glossed lips hovering mere inches from yours.

His hips nestled between your thighs with his feet still planted firmly on the floor. Hardness grinding ever so slightly against your bare cunt.

“I could use a little more healing, I wager…” Aemond smiled, leaning down to brush his lips against yours.

You chased his lips, nipping at his jaw when he pulled away.

“Then let me take care of you.”

Lay you down like one, two, three. Eyes roll back in ecstasy…

Aemond didn’t hesitate when you tugged him up as you shuffled further onto the bed. Both of you quickly shedding whatever clothing remained on your body.

You could see his eye flicker immediately down to your breasts as you lay beside each other, his hand reaching out to tug you closer. It was the first time you had seen any real vulnerability in him. The broken parts that made him seek you out.

Your hand found his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss as you gently pushed him onto his back. Aemond sought control in every other aspect of his life, that was easy to see. But tonight, you were going to let him relinquish that control.

He gave in willingly. Eye closed, silver hair fanned out on the dark sheets below. The lean, yet formidable form of his body seemed so small now beneath you. Your hands rested on his chest, nails circling the lines of muscle down to his stomach.

Your thighs caged his hips, swollen cock nestled between your still damp folds.

“Surrender to me, and I’ll take away the pain.”

Your voice was like a balm to whatever uncertainty raged in him. A promise he wouldn’t be able to refuse.

Gone was the demanding prince that had devoured your cunt only moments ago. In his place was the broken boy, wrecked with guilt and rage.

And that was exactly how you needed him. Open and raw, so you could rebuild him.

Aemond nodded, hands squeezing at your waist as he tried to move you over his almost painfully hard length.

“Please…”

That was all he got out before you sank down onto him. Taking him to the hilt with a breathy moan. Your fleshy walls stretching to accommodate him as though you were built for only him.

Aemond’s eye rolled closed, your name falling from his lips as you began to ride him. You started slow at first, rolling your hips back and forth at a painfully slow pace. His hands tightening on your waist in his impatience.

One of his hands trailed up, cupping your breast in his palm and massaging the flesh with a reverence. Your hips sped up at he sat up, wrapping an arm around your waist as he latched his lips onto your pebbled bud. His tongue swirling as a groan of satisfaction left his body.

You laced a hand through his hair, holding him to your chest like a mother would a babe.

“Take what you need, my sweet boy.”

I can smell your sickness, I can cure ya (Cure). Cure your disease…

You were not a mother, not swollen with milk, but the action brought him a comfort he never understood. Just to be cared for and nurtured was enough.

Between the feel of your hot cunt swallowing his cock again and again, to the soft flesh of your breast between his lips, Aemond was as close to the heavens as he believed he may ever get.

His hips began to rut up into you, feet planted on the bed as he put all of his effort into pleasing you. The wet slap of skin against skin mingled with his grunts and your moans.

The first tendrils of his release began to lick at the base of his spine, releasing your breast and simply burying his face in the valley between.

You let him control the pace, slamming his hips into yours with wild abandon. Your release struck you like lightning, your muscles shaking as Aemond chased his own end. And it wasn’t long before he thrust into you one last time. Painting your insides with his seed.

Aemond grunted out his release against your skin. Breath huffing against you as he stilled.

You could hear him mumbling against you, words not meant for your ears. The one word that you could just about make out.

“Mine.”

You ignored it, it wasn’t for you to hear. Not yet anyway. He was in a haze of pleasure and satisfaction. Drunk from his release.

The word lingered in your mind. You had wanted him under your thrall…

But you hadn’t quite expected him to come so willingly.

(Ah) (Ah) Cure your disease. (Ah) I can smell your sickness, I can cure ya…

Every night from then on Aemond was at your door, or you were summoned to his. Seeking solace in your body in whatever way he could.

The dreams stopped. The rage smouldered, like a fire that simply needed fuel.

And you both knew the fuel would come. But for now, he was happy at your side.

You had succeeded where your sister had failed. You had brought a Targaryen prince to heel. But you didn’t know he had taken your heart as well.

Where Aemond went, you went too. Taken from the service of House Strong to the personal service of the Prince Regent.

Bring me your desire, I can cure your disease. If you were a sinner, I could make you believe…

Aemond had settled in Harrenhal now. Sending word back to King’s Landing to inform the Council that the cursed castle belonged to the King now and that Simon Strong had bent the knee.

He came immediately to your chambers after a night’s ride on Vhagar. The smell of dragon and smoke entering your chambers before he did. And when he entered, you hurried to the door to greet him.

“Do you want a bath drawing, my love?”

The endearment was new, but Aemond had never stopped you from using it. The warmth it sent through his heart was more comfort than he had felt in a long time.

Your hands were already removing his coat and folding it over a chair by the fire.

“You do not have to tend to me, you know? You are not my servant.”

It was not the first time he’d spoken such things. But you always brushed it off. You didn’t tend to him because you felt you had to, it was because you wanted to. Because he needed it.

“Servant or no, I like taking care of you.” You answered, pressing a kiss to his cheek with a smile.

Aemond hummed in response. Maybe it was because he simply wasn’t used to it. Having someone tend to his every need because they truly cared for him. Or at least, he believed you cared for him.

You’d given him no reason to think otherwise.

Lay you down like one, two, three. Eyes roll back in ecstasy…

The bath was drawn, though Aemond had demanded a servant do the work whilst you lounged in his lap. His coat and leather tunic discarded, boots kicked off to the side. His hair loose just as you liked it.

The water was cooling as he finally stripped and stepped in. You kneeled at the side, letting yourself be warmed by the fire. Aemond’s hand reached out for your chin, turning you to plant a kiss on your lips.

“Get in with me.”

It wasn’t a question or a command. Aemond commonly stated what he wanted and left you a choice of whether to follow or not.

You stood, letting his dripping hand slide down your dress. You let the fabric pool around your ankles, stepping in and letting your back rest against his chest. His arms wrapping around your waist, hands flattening against your stomach.

Aemond’s lips found the juncture of your throat and shoulder, planting lingering kisses to your skin.

“You have bewitched me, that’s the rumour that is circling this ruin.” Aemond whispered suddenly, his voice muffled with the skin of your shoulder.

You laughed softly. You’d heard the same. That you had poisoned the prince’s mind, that you had used your unholy powers to seduce and entrance him.

“Is that what you believe? That I have toyed with your mind? Used my body to control you?”

It didn’t hurt you. Not anymore. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d been accused of such.

Aemond’s hands trailed lower, fingers finding the heat between your thighs and circling your bud softly.

“You have done many things, my little witch,” Aemond hummed, parting your folds with his other hand and sinking two fingers within.

“Whether it is enchantment or love I care little. All I know, is that I am better when I am with you.”

That was all you needed to hear. Leaning your head back and pressing hot kisses to his jaw as his hand moved faster. Water splashing around you as he pressed his hips against your backside.

“You have cured me, little witch. Fixed my broken parts and made me whole.”

You could only moan his name, eyes rolled shut as he bit down on your shoulder. Shifting your body until he could slide his length to rest between your folds. The cant of your hips enough to bring him to release just as you spilled over his hand.

I know all your secrets, I can cure ya, oh. Cure your disease…

You knew his heart, Aemond knew that deep down. You knew what ailed him before he could even speak the words himself. Whether it was love or something else, he’d realised quickly that it didn’t matter.

He never openly said it, Aemond wasn’t sure he ever would. But he knew you knew it. In the way he held you. In the way he would take you over and over every night.

It was as though you were a piece to a puzzle he hadn’t realised he’d been struggling with.

His little witch.

(Ah) Cure your disease. (Ah) Cure ya. (Ah) I can smell your sickness, I can cure ya…

Aemond was in a shroud of bliss. The past failures of the war meant nothing now. He had secured Harrenhal, he was a step closer to finding more success as more of Rhaenyra’s followers fell or abandoned her.

So, when a letter arrived, carried by a servant to what had become your shared chambers, he had believed nothing could ruin what he had.

But the Targaryen symbol, painted red and black on the wax lit a fire within him that hadn’t existed in a long time. He dismissed everyone, even you, from his presence as he read. The letter was from his uncle. Congratulating him on securing Harrenhal.

But that wasn’t all.

It was an invitation. A taunt even. Goading him to end the war once and for all. Prince against Prince. Uncle against nephew. Dragon against dragon.

You could tell something was wrong the second you saw him again. The tense set of his brow and jaw. The letter discarded on the floor.

“Daemon?”

Aemond nodded, continuing to stare out of the window.

“He wishes to settle this once and for all. Him against me.” He snapped, his hands clasped behind his back.

You were already forming a plan. You knew Daemon, you knew what his mindset was now, having seen him only months past before he murdered your sister – a fact you had sometimes considered revenge for.

“Invite him to Harrenhal. The God’s Eye has enough space for dragons to battle.”

Aemond turned to you in shock. You planned to send him to his potential death?

But he knew you. You were more intelligent than some would allow themselves to believe. You read people like Aemond read books.

Your hands wrapped around his waist.

“Bring him here and I will handle the rest. You will have your battle, and I will repay him for my sister’s demise.”

Aemond hummed, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kissing it.

The date was set. Daemon was set to arrive that night. Vhagar was as restless as her rider. Waiting outside the blackened walls for her rider’s call.

The screech of Caraxes was heard before he was seen. The entire castle was on edge. A dragon battle was both a spectacle and a devastation.

Aemond was sure Daemon would arrive alone, and he was right. There was no army, just his uncle and his blood red dragon.

The elder prince landed outside the gate, settling beside Caraxes to wait for Aemond.

But you remembered how easily Daemon had succumbed to the horrors of Harrenhal, and you could only hope it would happen again.

Though you weren’t going to leave things to chance.

Herbs were you weapon. Knowing what could warp or sharpen a mind. It was an unfair advantage, of course, but you had good reason to ensure Aemond’s victory.

The child that grew in your womb.

The herbs hung from the tree Caraxes rested under were subtle, but the mix of scents would be just enough to meddle with Daemon’s concentration. You had no plans to allow any risk that Aemond would perish.

Aemond was outside beside Vhagar. Weapons strapped to his belt and a stern set to his expression. He could feel your presence the second you stepped onto the shore.

“I had to see you…” you called out, taking cautious steps closer.

He turned, his face softening as he saw you.

“A welcome sight, my little witch.” His voice was as tense as his face.

He closed the distance between you, wrapping his arms around you and kissing the top of your head.

You both stood in silence. The weight of what was coming heavy in the air.

Despite everything, despite your beginnings, he loved you. Even if he never said it, he loved you.

And you loved him.

When you pulled away, your expression was entirely serious.

“Come back, my love. Whatever it takes, come back…to us.”

Aemond held you at arm’s length, silently begging for an explanation. All you gave was moving his hand to rest on your womb. The heavy fabric of your gown having hid the swell of your stomach for the last few weeks.

“I’ll never leave you…either of you.”

The vow he made sunk into your veins. Those words meaning more than any declaration of love.

He turned, mounting Vhagar as Caraxes screeched in the distance.

The battle begun.

I can cure your disease. (Ah) Cure your disease. (Ah) Cure your disease. (Ah) Ooh…

You watched from the safety of the castle. Hand on your stomach as you silently prayed.

You had fixed his pain, gave him something to fight for.

You could only hope it would be enough.

Aemond Taglist:

@legitalicat @thenameswinter99 @sylasthegrim

@aemondsbabe @kaelatargaryen @thought--bubble

@towriteloveontheirarms @anjelicawrites @multyfangirl

@blissfulphilospher @elaratyrell

@tumblin-theworldaway @aemondsbabygirl

@hoosbandewan @mysticalendings @arcielee

[oakthcrn]

Tolkien fandom, take a chill pill, please. People can ship whatever they want as long as it isn't inherently problematic, meaning it is a ship between two consenting adults, who the heck cares? Being nasty over a ship in RoP is unnecessary and sometimes in this world, there are things you're gonna be exposed to that you're not gonna like! Blacklist the ship, and don't follow blogs that ship it? See how easy that is?

I don't like plenty of ships in several fandoms, but guess what? I don't shame people that do! It's fucking weird and mean girl mentality. Let people like what they like. You aren't morally superior for not liking a ship, and vaguing people, and bitching about it isn't making you self righteous. Some ships are TOXIC, some ships are just not your taste, and that's okay, just don't be dickheads.

This PSA is brought to you by Jackie. Don't be acting like fools in RPC spaces now. There is too much tragic shit going on in this world to worry about what strangers ship on the internet.