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thekinslayed · 8 months ago

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The Way to a Man's Heart

summary | In which Aemond's new wife earns his affections through her care for his niece.

pairing | king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | fluff, KING AEMOND HEHE, slight angst, arrange marriage, allusions to trauma, aemond is the dad that stepped UP! contains some spoilers for f&b

wordcount | 3.6k

note | back with some king aemond, but something sweeter this time :) idk music terms so apologies for anything that i might get wrong!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Aren’t you hungry, Jaehaera?”

It’s become ubiquitous for Aemond to be met with silence. It was rather frowned upon to act in such a way in the face of the new king, but His Grace has found that his niece was inadvertently exempt from standard.

She had refused her meals again. Since the war’s end, Helaena’s girl had reclused into the lonely solace of her mind. It reminded him too much of his fallen sister, with their faraway gazes and cryptic whispers. Jaehaera, once bubbly and exuberant with the blissful hum of youth, grew weary, burdened by matters no young girl should ever be subject to. The shift in her behavior raised much concern from her Septa that there were no other means but to call upon her uncle in hopes of a way to get through to her. Aemond would never say it out loud, but such efforts would be futile.

Despite being the only connection left tethered by blood, the one-eyed king couldn’t be at a greater length to his niece’s reach. He used to be a prominent figure in her life, back when war hadn’t taken what they didn’t wish to give. Aemond loved being around his sister’s babes. He relished in helping them take their first steps and watch their lives take shape.

Perhaps it’s guilt that stopped him from reaching out to her. His hands were all bloodied and bruised, porcelain flesh all torn up from fighting his way to get to the throne. His ambition cost him much, and now he has seen that it cost her too. No mother to keep her close to her bosom, no father to carry her on his shoulders, no brothers to tumble around with. He had done this to her.

“Jaehaera?” he tried again.

It would take a lifetime and more to atone for how he has wronged her. He would have to weep on his knees if it meant she would grant him the undeserved forgiveness. If she ever turned her face to look at him, that is. She would stare out the window, always so deep in thought, unacknowledging of the man sat across the dinner table. Much like Helaena, in a sense.

Her plate, bountiful with colorful bites of meat and greens, grew colder with the air in the room. She hadn’t eaten in two days, the last time being only a few reluctant nibbles of cheese during her customs. It left Aemond wary with an apprehension he hadn’t so much felt even in battle. It had him frightened.

Watching his mother wither away had done something to his once stone-dry heart. They hadn’t seen eye to eye long before then, with their contest for power when Aegon lay burnt severing any warmth their bond once had. Alicent’s last years were spent in darkness, with nothing but ghosts to keep her company. The fever that took her was a mercy, Aemond would like to think. He couldn’t let the same happen to the young girl, now nine, before him. Yet, he was clueless. The king, in all his razor-sharp wit and dexterous intelligence, was at a loss. He’d never felt more helpless sitting there at the opposite end of the dinner table, separated by a distance ever-growing by the day.

Being queen was rather lonesome. You were left on your own most days, free to wander around the halls and indulge in whatever pursuit filled up time in your day. You didn’t see your husband much, and if you did it was only at court or by the occasional call of duty to his chambers. This didn’t surprise you really, it was not as if your marriage was borne out of romance after all. Rather, done so to appease the growing questions about the fragility of his position with his rise to power.

It could be worse. He could be cruel, either with his hand or his tongue, but he was none of those things. You wondered whether it was only because he hadn’t had the chance to be.

Perhaps, you could say he was kind; gracious enough to grant the wants and the needs you voiced through his staff if it meant he had one less person to worry about. The king was an enigma, a passing shadow in the halls you were only granted a glimpse of now and then.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying on your end. You had attempted in those spare moments you had with him, had dared to get through the impregnable wall of his character, all to no avail. His priorities simply lay in the crown, not in small talk and hopeful glances.

With another day left to dwell on matters out of your reach, you’d taken to establish a routine of your activities. In the mornings, an hour or two of prayer after your meals, then entertaining your ladies-in-waiting in your solar until you tire of wanting for company. The latter part of your days were spent alone, a welcome solitude after constantly being attended to. You would paint, or read, or embroider, though sitting down with your harp would be the most enjoyable of all.

You had brought your lovely carved instrument to the capital when you wed, a piece of home brought with you into a foreign court. A room at the end of the hall was bestowed upon you dedicated to your music playing, conveniently placed at the end of the hall and away from your husband’s apartments.

Your fingers never tire of strumming tune after tune. It was the greatest pleasure in your young life to be able to procure sweet melodies ever since you were a girl. Music filled you with something bright, something alive. You could close your eyes, lean on your harp and nothing else would matter. The scriptures would describe devout faith as the means to unlocking a divine state of being, an otherworldly form where one was light as air. You would argue that music served the same purpose.

It was easy to get lost in it all. The hours would effortlessly pass you by and nightfall would greet you when you floated back to the ground. You would have to be reminded of supper sometimes, or if the king required your presence in his bedchamber. However, there was less of that these days.

Thus, it came as a surprise when one day, while finishing up the tail end of the song of Alysanne, you found a pair of amethyst eyes watching you from the open door of your music room. Jaehaera stood there with a hand on the doorknob, curiosity evident in her face.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, turning to the young princess at your door with a soft smile. “Hello, princess.”

Not a word was uttered from Jaehaera’s lips, merely staring at you with those bright violet hues that shone in the late afternoon sun. You hadn’t spent much time with her, much to your regret. The king, a scholar partial to the importance of academics, had her busied with lessons from both the septa and the maester. The growing concerns about the princess’ well-being reached your ears in hushed whispers, as did the efforts of your husband to care for her fragility.

“I wasn’t too loud, was I?” you quipped lightheartedly, tilting your head in hopes of spurring a reaction from the quiet girl. Her response came in the form of a shake of the head; you figured that was a start. She seemed to be without her septa, nor her handmaiden, only the armor-clad Kingsguard standing tall behind her smaller form. Your eyes flickered to the knight, stating the princess would be under your care, and nodding to him as the door closed shut. “Come,” you beckoned.

She approached you with small, unsure steps until she stood an arm’s length away. You watched as she eyed the instrument with an inquisitive gaze, and you wondered if the Targaryens ever expressed interest in diverting affairs like music. With the look on Jaehaera’s face at the foreign object, you figured not. “Have you ever played the harp before?” you asked, earning another shake of the head, wispy silver tresses swaying with movement. “No?” She fidgeted on her feet, small hands absentmindedly playing with the gold embroidery on her skirts. Her eyes displayed the intrigue her lips would not voice, and it spurned a twinge in your chest. “Would you like to try?” you offered, which made her eyes flicker to look at you for the first.

“I do not know how,” she said unsurely, voice small and meek. You were delighted to hear her speak, ever more encouraged to become familiar with the young princess.

“Tis rather simple! Here, try this,” you suggested, tugging on one of the strings for her to follow. She approached the carved wood, pulling the thin hair with less sureness than you did. It visibly vibrated as Jaehaera let go, a low chord flittering through the room. You held onto the harp as the young princess, interest now fully piqued, tugged on another string, now a higher tone. “It sounds different, doesn’t it?”

You let her pull on the strings as she liked, merely holding the instrument steady while you watched her with a smile. You had half a mind to pull her into your lap and hold her close as if she were your own, but that would be too forward. She had gone through much, been made subject to brutalities at the hands of barbaric adults that made your heart quiver at the thought of such an innocent soul going through all of it. Though your womb remained childless, you’ve always wished for children of your own. Granted, you assumed you would not be blessed with a babe any time soon if the lessening instances you and your husband tried to procreate were anything to go by, but the maternal urges in your budding heart grew in the presence of the girl. You wished to care for her if she would let you.

“Would you like to learn how to play a song, sweetling? Your favorite one perhaps,” you suggested. Her eyes brightened at your offer, eagerly taking a place on your bench when you scooted over for her to sit. Flowers of Spring, she told you. A rather elaborate song to perform for someone having never played, though you figured you could teach her the simple way of creating the melody.

You shifted to let the harp lean between the both of you, taking the weight on your leg lest it became too heavy for her. Jaehaera looked so small beneath the large instrument, her arms not lengthy enough to reach the last few strings. You watched with vivid amusement at her instantaneous shift in focusing on following which stings you tugged on. Her silver, almost white, brows furrowed when she would make the wrong note, a huff of frustration escaping her nose.

“It’s alright, just try again,” you comforted her softly. There was no real melody yet, merely a few notes played carefully in the right order, but her dedication was quite stellar. It reminded you of yourself in your girlhood, when you would escape from your own lessons with the septa in your home just to play your harp. Suffering your father’s ire was a welcome consequence if it meant you could escape the present world for a moment.

A knock on your door interrupted your impromptu tutoring, gathering both your attention. The grand oak opened to reveal your handmaiden carrying a steaming pot of tea, followed by another young servant with a tray full of teacakes and pastries. “Your afternoon tea, my queen,” she said, greeting you with a curtsy. You caught the way Jaehaera’s bright purple hues followed the sight of fresh treats, quietly observing as the table was prepared for your enjoyment. If what you heard from the maester was anything to go by, you knew the young girl was starved.

“Shall we take a break for a moment, Jaehaera? I often find myself rather famished after a bit of playing. Don’t you feel the same?” you asked, earning another meek nod from the girl. You soon found yourselves sitting by the open balcony, preparing the young princess a plate. With every bite she took, the more she spoke. Words flowed out of her crumb-lined lips, telling of anything that came to mind— her lessons, her dragon, even the dreams she would have of her mother. It was evident how much she had longed to have a listening ear, jumping from topic to topic without finishing the last, and so, you listened.

“What do you mean no one has seen her? How could you imbeciles lose a young girl?!”

Aemond’s head was already throbbing hard enough from the tedious council meeting that took up the better part of his afternoon. What made it worse was the news that greeted him the moment he exited the small council chamber. Jaehaera was nowhere to be found, having slipped away from her afternoon customs at the library to gods know where. An instant panic settled into a chill in his spine, the memory of hearing of his sister’s peril taunting him in the back of his mind. He took slow, deep breaths, willing himself to calm.

He couldn’t think this way. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. Aemond had promised Helaena that her girl would be protected under his care. He can’t fail her again.

Both Jaehaera’s septa and handmaiden quivered under the king’s deathly glare, heads bowed in fear of meeting his eye. “The princess was to take her lessons, Your Grace, though a matter requiring my attention with the maester had my arrival delayed, and when I arrived… s-she was not in the library.” Exasperated, Aemond pinched the bridge of his nose. The thumping in his temples only worsened at such incompetence.

“Her guard, where is he?”

The silence that greeted him made his hand itch to draw his sword to cut their heads off right then and there, but the arrival of a squire stopped him before he gave in to his violent urges. “My king,” he bowed. “The queen has offered her invitation for supper in her apartments.”

Gods, you sure had your timing. He waved his hand off in an angry dismissal, resolve now cluttered at what to do first. Your sudden invitation was rather odd. Aemond wouldn't deny he hadn’t cared for his wife much. His mother was sure to be reeling in her grave on his shameful treatment of such a refined woman, but you merely came with his duty.

However, he was still a man. The indifferent king would admit you were as comely as they came and of good upbringing. He was rather appreciative of the fact you were never too forward, only ever eager to drink up any ounce of attention he gave you. Until now, it seemed.

“The queen has expressed your presence would be greatly appreciated, my king. She hopes it would be the most pleasing for all of you to dine together for your meals.”

All?

Aemond could scarcely recall a time in the short moons you had been married when he had purposefully sought you out in your wing of the royal halls. The path to your apartments was unfamiliar, the sight that greeted him in its interior even more so. “Husband,” you greeted him from the dining table upon his entrance. Your smile welcomed him with a warmth he had refused himself to be familiar with, your eyes sparkling against the amber glow of the hearth. His apparent confusion seemed to amuse you, mirth decorating your lips as you watched him approach.

Aemond’s good eye flickered at the sight of his niece, his anxiety from her disappearance bubbling down into an aggravation that tickled his sharp tongue. “You have left the castle in shambles, Jaehaera. Escaping your lessons like that! What have I told you about wandering off unchaperoned?” he scolded, though his ire was quick to falter at the pitiful look that flashed across her cherubic face at his tone. Jaehaera dropped her eyes to her lap, fidgeting with the napkin in her hold.

A soft hold on his wrist prevented him from speaking any further, your beseeching gaze unknowingly loosening the tension he held in his shoulders as you rose from your seat. “She was with me. I dismissed her guard while she spent the afternoon with me in the music room. I thought Ser Derek could guard us just fine. I should have informed you of it, ‘tis my fault, husband,” you explained with an apologetic look on your face. Aemond could only stare as you spoke, and he thought of a time when he was able to get a look at you this close. His mind drew blank. “Come sit, let us eat,” you beckoned him. He let you guide him to his seat, right beside yours. The small, round table served to make supper a rather intimate affair.

This all felt foreign to him. A wife who poured his wine for him, a little girl to care for, and made sure was well-fed.

No book had taught him this. The one-eyed king was proficient in talks of politics, battle, and history, but not of domestic affairs. His upbringing surely wasn’t the standard to hold, he knew that much. Though it seemed you were more adept at this than he, gracefully bridging the gap around the table with a smile. “Would you like to tell your uncle what we did today, sweetling?” you asked with an urging nod.

His niece chewed on the small nibble of bread, pondering on her words. Aemond waited with bated breath to her speak. It had been far too long since he had heard her, past the small, one-worded response he would have to coax out of her, and even those were rare. “The queen showed me how to play the harp. I learned how to play some of Flowers of Spring, though it was quite hard, but I liked it,’ she said softly, punctuating her sentence with a bite of chicken. Aemond could tear up at the sound of her voice with such a simple answer. His chest started to feel lighter than it did in a long time. The smile that spread his cheeks wide couldn’t be helped, his relief palpable at the sight of her finally taking her meals.

“Wonderful, my darling. I am very pleased to hear you enjoyed yourself,” he remarked, his tone now rid of the harshness it held when he first walked into the room. His gaze met yours, already staring back at him. You shared a nod of understanding, and it was then the bridge between the king and his wife started to be crossed.

The young princess, who’d now taken her second plate of roasted potatoes, looked at his wife with an urging look. A flicker of remembrance had you turning back to him, voicing out her wishes. “Jaehaera has informed me of her wishes to learn music. She’s taken quite an interest in the harp, it seems.” Aemond turned to look at his niece’s eyes, small beads of amethyst that held glimmers of hope, and he couldn’t find it within himself to disapprove.

“Of course, we shall find you a mentor of your liking,” Aemond said, satisfied with the delighted look that overcame Jaehaera’s features. He’d scout the best tutor in all of Westeros himself it meant seeing the way her eyes lit up at his approval. It was the first time since the war that Aemond finally felt himself getting to her, a success sweeter than anything he’d felt on the battlefield.

Supper was a delight Aemond never expected to relish in as much as he did. The battle-hardened king had once resigned to the fact that he was alone in his glory, despite the many faces that swarm him daily. He was starting to realize his new life might not be as lonesome as he thought, with a niece who took his hand as they walked and a wife leading them to the room at the end of the hall. Your husband watched you with a newfound fascination as you strummed the strings on the harp, and you had never been so close to his reach. His good eye would study every furrow in your brow as you played, or the shift in your spine as you readjusted in your seat. Your eyes would close, carried away by the melodic tunes your fingers were able to create, and he thought you were utterly beautiful like this. He pondered on what other facets you had that made you whole, and how he could explore them. Perhaps he had been a fool; blind to what was before him. His lifelong strive for greatness had him believing he was cursed, destined to be struck down at his time of judgment. It was by some miracle that the gods deemed it fit to grant him a chance of a life of warmth and affection, a prize even more valuable than gold. “I must thank you, wife,” he said to you at the end of the night, bestowing a kiss on your knuckles that left you blushing.

You broke your fast together come morning. Afterwards, he found his way into the gardens to join you for tea. The first of many.

He would become acquainted with the path to your apartments for supper every night after that, as well as the sight of his niece and his wife awaiting him at the dinner table. The evenings would always be capped with an hour or two of you playing, and eventually, Jaehaera had mastered a few songs to play for you as you both looked on proudly.

It would come as no surprise when he began to seek you out, a natural urge to get closer that had him yearning for his presence despite the call of his duties. His fondness only grew with the care you had shown his niece, an instinct that left him thinking how great you would be with a babe of your own. The gods would bless you when the time was right but until then, Aemond was pleased with the little family he had, with his niece and his lovely wife.

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader

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julietsf1 · 1 month ago

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The Line We Never Crossed - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: Lando Norris has been treating you like an afterthought all season, which would be fine if you hadn’t nearly kissed him last year. your new job in the paddock means you can’t avoid him, and his petty cold shoulder act is starting to feel personal. (7.5k words)

content: mutual pining, second-chance romance, slow-burn, Oscar being an instigator, French

AN: coucou mes anges <3 another one for you! big thanks for the overwhelming enthusiasm on my last lando fic :) it means a lot!!

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The night hummed with life; laughter spilling from Charles’s yacht, the distant pop of champagne corks, music vibrating through the decks. Monte Carlo never slept after a race, and tonight was no exception. The lights, the sound, the weight of celebration pressed in from all sides.

You’d only meant to escape for a minute. Just a moment to breathe.

But Lando had followed.

Now, the two of you sat at the edge of the dock, heels discarded beside you, the water lapping gently beneath your feet. The night air was thick with salt and summer, warm against your skin.

You’re alone.

The realization settled uncomfortably in your stomach.

Not because you didn’t want to be—you did—but because you weren’t sure why he was here, or what this was.

It wasn’t unusual, not exactly. You’d been friends for a while, hovering in the same circles, both Monaco-based when you weren’t traveling, and yet—this felt different.

Like a moment suspended between something and nothing.

Lando stretched beside you, legs outstretched, arms braced behind him. Then, with a casual sort of amusement, he murmured, “So, I heard you liked my curly hair.”

You turned to him immediately, narrowing your eyes.

"What?"

His grin was insufferable. "That’s what they’re saying.”

"Who’s ‘they’?"

"The people. The masses."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Your sources are questionable."

"So you’re not denying it?"

You bit back a smile, nudging him with your knee. “Lando, I swear—”

His laugh was soft, curling at the edges.

You turned away, looking out toward the water instead.

The sea stretched endlessly, a dark expanse under the moon, dotted with distant lights from other yachts, other parties. The breeze carried the faintest hint of salt and champagne, warm and sticky against your skin.

You felt his gaze before you saw it.

When you glanced back, he was already looking at you.

The shift was barely noticeable, except suddenly the air felt heavier.

His hand inched closer—just enough for his fingers to ghost the wooden dock beside yours.

Your pulse spiked.

He leaned in.

Not dramatically. Not like some grand, sweeping moment in a film. It was slower, more uncertain—like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to.

Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

And you didn’t.

Your breath hitched.

Your body tilted, drawn into him like some unseen force, a thread tugging in the space between.

His fingertips brushed yours.

And then—

You both froze.

The spell broke.

The weight of reality crashed in, sharp and immediate.

What the hell are we doing?

You pulled back first. Forced out a small, awkward laugh.

Lando blinked, startled, his own body shifting back a second later. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls, looking away like if he didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t be real.

Silence.

Thick and suffocating.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance—or lack thereof.

Before either of you could say something, a voice cut through the night.

"Lando!"

Someone from the boat.

You turned toward the sound, blinking back into reality, the moment collapsing between you like a house of cards.

Lando hesitated—just for a second—then pushed himself up, brushing his hands against his jeans.

"Guess I should go."

"Yeah." Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

He didn’t move right away.

For a brief, fleeting second, you thought he might say something.

Then he just nodded, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turned and walked back toward the yacht.

You watched him go.

Your hands curled into fists against the wood.

The moment was gone.

…

The first time you see Lando Norris again, it’s almost anti-climactic.

No dramatic moment. No sharp intake of breath. No heart-stopping, soul-shattering collision of past and present. Just a stupidly hot Thursday afternoon in the Melbourne paddock, your brand-new team lanyard digging into the back of your neck, and the sudden realization that he’s here.

Which—obviously, he is. It’s the first race of the season, and this is his job. Just like it’s yours now.

Still, the knowledge sits awkwardly in your chest, the same way your new role at LVMH has been sitting awkwardly on your shoulders all week.

The partnership between Formula 1 and LVMH had been a big deal—a high-profile luxury collaboration that had the marketing team scrambling. When you’d been handed the opportunity to coordinate the on-site activations, it had seemed perfect. A step up, a challenge, an exciting, high-speed world that you’d already known intimately through years of association.

It had taken all of two minutes to realize the one major flaw in that plan.

You were going to see him.

Not just in passing, but constantly. Every weekend. Every city. Every press day and paddock club event and race debrief.

You’d thought you’d be fine.

And then, of course, you actually got here.

The Australian heat clings to you, sweat beading at the base of your neck as you weave through the paddock, passing familiar faces and nodding to a few you don’t quite know yet. It’s barely midday, but the place is alive—reporters setting up, engineers darting between garages, photographers angling for early shots of the drivers.

And then you spot Charles and Oscar.

Charles is leaning against a barrier near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, dressed in his usual paddock-day attire—team-issued shirt, sunglasses, that effortlessly casual Monaco ease that somehow never looks sweaty, even in 30-degree weather.

He grins when he spots you.

Oscar, beside him, looks as serious as ever, though his eyes flick over to you with mild interest.

"Ah, look who it is," Charles says, a grin curling at the edge of his mouth.

"Miss me already?" you reply smoothly.

"Obviously," he says, pulling you in for a brief hug.

Charles adjusts his sunglasses, smirking. “So, have you seen your favorite papaya yet?”

Your stomach plummets.

"Papaya?" Oscar echoes, head tilting slightly. "Wait—she’s friends with Lando?"

"Friends is a strong word," you say immediately.

"Oh, they go way back," Charles adds, clearly enjoying himself.

Oscar perks up like a cat spotting something mildly entertaining. "This is brand-new, highly relevant information. Why was I not briefed?"

"Because there’s nothing to brief you on," you say flatly.

"See, the fact that you’re saying that makes me think there’s everything to brief me on," Oscar counters.

"Agreed," Charles nods, pleased.

"Alright," Oscar clasps his hands together, "give me the timeline. We talking childhood friends? F1-era friends? Lovers turned enemies? Enemies turned lovers?"

"Oh my god," you mutter.

"I’m just collecting data," Oscar says innocently.

"Don’t worry, mate, I have the data," Charles cuts in.

Your stomach drops.

"Charles," you warn.

But he’s already too deep.

"So," Charles leans in like he’s about to deliver groundbreaking gossip, "Monaco, last year. My yacht afterparty. Except these two were not at the party because they were too busy having a moment on the dock."

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, now we’re talking."

"Alone," Charles continues, "feet in the water, looking all dramatic under the moonlight—"

"That’s not what happened," you cut in.

"I choose to believe it is," Oscar says.

"Anyway," Charles waves a hand, "it was tense. And then—get this—Lando leans in."

Oscar immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. "No. Way."

"Way," Charles nods.

"And then?"

"And then... nothing."

Oscar looks personally offended. "So, they didn’t kiss?"

"Nope."

"Did they talk about it after?"

"Not even once."

Oscar blinks.

Then he turns to you, dead serious.

"So what you’re telling me is that I’ve had to listen to Lando talk about absolute nonsense for an entire year, and this—which is actually interesting—never once came up?"

"Apparently," Charles smirks.

Oscar shakes his head, sighing. "Honestly, I feel betrayed."

"Well, he’s been avoiding me since I got here, so the story ends ," you added, shooting daggers at Charles.

"Oh, that’s just classic repressed feelings," Oscar says without hesitation.

"Thank you," Charles grins.

"It’s textbook," Oscar agrees.

"I hate you both."

"Deflection," Oscar says immediately.

"Textbook," Charles repeats.

Before you can actually walk away, the air shifts.

And then—Lando walks in.

Lando moves through the paddock the same way he always does—brimming with energy, unapologetically loud, just a little bit chaotic, like a human embodiment of a high-voltage current. It’s almost impressive, really, how someone can be so unrelentingly themselves at all times.

And yet, at this moment, it’s also deeply annoying.

Oscar and Charles, mid-conversation, immediately stop talking. Not in a natural, casual way, but in the very deliberate, slightly too-obvious way of people who are absolutely clocking the tension.

You resist the urge to fidget, to adjust your stance or smooth down your shirt or do literally anything other than exist in his vicinity. Instead, you steel yourself, ignoring the way your pulse ticks just a little too fast, and force yourself to look entirely unbothered.

Lando doesn’t see you at first.

His attention lands on Oscar, and with his usual grin, he strides forward.

"What’s up, mate?"

Before Oscar can respond, Lando reaches out and promptly ruffles his hair like an annoying older brother, sending it into a complete mess.

"Jesus—" Oscar immediately flails, swatting his hands away.

Lando just laughs, completely undeterred, before turning his attention to Charles.

"Mate," he greets, clapping a firm hand on Charles’s shoulder, nodding like they’re about to discuss something profoundly important.

And then, finally—his eyes land on you.

It happens fast, but you still catch the moment of hesitation. The flicker of recognition, the slight pause, the way his expression doesn’t quite shift but still seems to hold something uncertain.

Like he wasn’t expecting you.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that you’re standing right there.

It lasts for less than a second, barely a blink.

And then—just as quickly—it’s gone.

His face smooths back into its usual easy confidence, and without so much as a hello, a nod, anything, he simply turns back to Oscar.

"Let’s go. Time for interviews."

And just like that, he’s gone.

Just like that, you don’t exist.

Oscar’s jaw actually drops. Charles lets out a low whistle, slowly pushing his sunglasses up his nose like he just witnessed something highly entertaining.

Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral, steady.

"Well," Charles murmurs after a beat, exhaling dramatically, "that was dramatic."

Oscar leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to deliver classified information.

"He just sneakily glanced at her before leaving,"

You shoot him a sharp glare.

"Drop it."

Oscar grins, miming a zip across his lips, but the way his eyes glint with curiosity tells you this is far from over.

…

The Miami Grand Prix shouldn’t feel like a fever dream. And yet, as you step into the nightclub where McLaren’s victory party is already in full swing, that’s exactly what it is.

The music pulses through the air, the bass thrumming beneath your feet. Neon lights flicker, casting glows of electric blue and deep orange across the space, the colors mirroring the McLaren celebration. Champagne bottles pop in the distance, drinks spill, bodies move to the beat. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s exactly the kind of place where reality warps, where things feel less real and more like a scene you’ll have to piece together tomorrow.

Lando won today. Not just a podium, but a full-fledged victory.

McLaren’s third 1-2 of the season. A statement race. A moment that will be replayed for years.

It’s everything he’s worked for. Everything he deserves.

So it should be easy—normal—to just be happy for him. To raise a glass, toast to his success, and not feel the sting of something unnamed creeping in around the edges.

"Tu es avec nous ou bien tu es partie dans tes pensées, là?" (Are you with us, or have you disappeared into your thoughts?)

A hand waves in front of your face, snapping you back to reality.

You blink, refocusing on Alexandra, who looks highly amused, her long dark hair shining under the blue-tinged club lights. Beside her, Charles is watching with thinly veiled smugness.

"Hein?" (Huh?)

"Elle plane complètement," (She’s totally zoning out) Charles quips, nudging Alexandra.

"Grave," (Seriously,) Alexandra agrees, smirking. She leans in slightly, voice dropping into a low, teasing lilt. "À quoi tu penses, ma belle? Ou… à qui?" (What are you thinking about, beautiful? Or… who?)

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Vous êtes insupportables," (You two are unbearable) you grumble, taking a sip of your drink.

"On t’adore aussi," (We love you too) Charles grins, entirely unbothered.

"D’ailleurs," (By the way) Alexandra says, tilting her head knowingly. "C’est quoi cette histoire avec Oscar?" (What’s this thing with Oscar?)

"Quoi? Rien," (What? Nothing) you say automatically.

"Ohhh, rien du tout?" (Ohhh, nothing at all?) she presses, eyebrows raised. "Parce que franchement, vous êtes inséparables ces derniers temps." (Because honestly, you two have been inseparable lately.)

"Bah ouais," (Well yeah) Charles hums thoughtfully, nursing his drink. Then, as if on cue, he grins knowingly. "Mais non, elle aime bien les Brits." (But no, she likes Brits.)

You whip around, giving him a look. "Excuse-moi?" (Excuse me?)

"C’est vrai," (It’s true) Charles insists, laughing as he leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself.

You cut him off immediately with a playful punch to his shoulder.

"Ferme-la," (Shut up) you mutter, though your lips twitch slightly.

"Aïe," (Ow) Charles grips his arm dramatically. "T’as vu comment elle me traite, Alexandra?" (Did you see how she treats me, Alexandra?)

"Je pense qu’elle se défend bien," (I think she’s just defending herself) Alexandra muses, smiling behind her drink.

Charles exhales, shaking his head. "Bref, parlons des choses sérieuses." (Anyway, let’s talk about serious matters)

You shoot him a warning look. "Si c’est encore un commentaire sur les Brits—" (If it’s another comment about the Brits—)

"J’allais dire qu’on devrait aller s’asseoir, mais bon," (I was going to say we should find a table, but okay) Charles smirks, standing up.

You glare, but follow.

Finding a spot isn’t easy—the entire club is a chaotic mess of celebrating McLaren personnel, F1 drivers, and the usual crowd that comes with a high-profile post-race party.

Eventually, the three of you manage to claim a booth toward the side, partially tucked away from the main dance floor.It’s the perfect vantage point—close enough to feel the energy, far enough to actually hold a conversation.

You barely have time to settle in before a familiar voice chimes in.

"Ah, you actually came."

You look up just in time to see Oscar sliding into the seat across from you, grinning.

"Did you think I wouldn’t?" you quip.

"Honestly? Wasn’t sure," Oscar admits, raising an eyebrow. "But I’m glad you’re here. McLaren’s big night. Wouldn’t be the same without you."

You snort. "Oh yeah, because I’m so crucial to the McLaren garage."

"Exactly," he nods, completely serious.

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth behind it.

"Anyway, get up," Oscar says, standing again. "We’re getting drinks."

"I have a drink," you point out, lifting your glass.

"Yeah, but I don’t, and I’m using you as an excuse to escape whatever conversation Charles is about to start."

You glance back at Charles, who is currently mid-sentence with Alexandra, looking vaguely philosophical.

You stand. "Good call."

Oscar drags you through the crowd with practiced ease, weaving past clusters of people already deep into celebratory rounds. The bass thrums through the floor, conversations blend into the music, and somewhere across the room, someone pops open another bottle of champagne. The whole night feels like it exists in a strange, weightless bubble, detached from reality.

By the time you reach the bar, the air feels heavier, the neon glow casting everything in shades of electric blue and orange. Oscar leans against the counter, exhaling like he’s just completed a mission.

"Alright," he sighs, nodding toward the bartender. "Now we can finally talk without being interrogated."

You snort, crossing your arms. "Big words from someone who’s been doing plenty of interrogating himself tonight."

"I prefer the term ‘investigative journalism,’" Oscar corrects smoothly, his tone just dry enough to make you huff out a laugh.

You shake your head, amused despite yourself, despite the way something unsettled lingers in your chest.

"By the way," Oscar adds casually, glancing over at you with a knowing look. "You look stunning tonight."

You narrow your eyes. "Flattery? What do you want?"

"You to stop pretending," he replies, flagging down the bartender.

Your stomach tugs slightly, a quiet warning.

"Pretending about what?"

Oscar doesn’t even bother looking at you as he gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. "That you’re over it."

You hesitate, fingers tapping against the bar.

"It doesn’t matter anymore," you say after a beat.

"Right," Oscar says, completely unconvinced. "Which is exactly why you’re about to spend the next five minutes trying not to look at him."

"I’m not—"

And then, before you can finish the thought, your gaze flickers toward the dance floor.

Lando is there.

The neon glow casts sharp edges over his features, blue light catching in the waves of his hair. He’s grinning, saying something to the woman pressed close to his side. Tall, gorgeous, the kind of effortless beauty that doesn’t require second-guessing. She tilts her head, lips barely brushing his ear, laughing at whatever he’s whispered.

His hand rests on her waist, fingers light but familiar.

A dull pressure settles in your chest, creeping in before you can push it away.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s normal, expected. That after all this time, you shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

And yet—

Just as the thought forms, Lando’s gaze lifts.

The second his eyes meet yours, it’s like something tightens, sharpens, pulling everything into focus.

Even across the room, you feel the weight of it.

Neither of you move.

The music swells, bodies shift, champagne glasses clink, but the moment stretches longer than it should.

Then—without hesitation, he spins her.

It’s smooth, calculated in a way that feels deliberate, too easy to be accidental. His back turns, breaking the connection between you like a slammed door.

Oscar watches the entire thing unfold.

After a beat, he exhales, turning back toward the bar, plastering on the most exaggeratedly casual expression you’ve ever seen.

"Another Mojito sounds good, doesn’t it?"

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head.

"Yeah," you murmur. "It really does."

When you turn to order, you miss the way Lando glances back over his shoulder.

But Oscar doesn’t.

...

The first morning of Monaco race week feels different.

The air is crisp, charged with the kind of anticipation that only exists in cities built for spectacle. There’s an undeniable energy, a hum that seems to vibrate through the winding streets, through the terrace cafés and superyachts lining the harbor. It’s a city that’s vibrant even on a normal day, but during Grand Prix week? It practically crackles.

And it’s home.

Which is why, despite the fact that your schedule is packed, your inbox is overflowing, and you technically have a job to do, you’ve spent your morning making pancakes.

Because priorities.

Balancing two containers stacked with still-warm pancakes, you navigate through the paddock with ease, stopping first at Charles’s motorhome.

You barely get a chance to knock before Charles pulls open his door, eyebrows lifting when he sees what you’re holding.

"T’es un ange, vraiment," (You’re an angel, truly) he says, grinning as he takes the container from your hands without hesitation.

"C’est juste des pancakes, Charles," (It’s just pancakes, Charles) you reply, amused.

"Non, non, c’est un acte d’amour," (No, no, this is an act of love) he insists, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest before lifting the lid.

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. This is exactly why you like Charles—because every interaction is either chaotic or slightly ridiculous. Usually both.

" T’as décidé de lancer une boulangerie ambulante ou quoi?" (Did you decide to start a traveling bakery or what?) he asks, already picking up a pancake with his bare hands like a menace.

"Pas pour tout le monde," (Not for everyone) you smirk.

"Ah, je suis privilégié, alors." (Ah, so I’m privileged, then)

"T’as toujours aimé être traité comme un prince, non?" (You’ve always liked being treated like a prince, haven’t you?)

"Exactement," he says, nodding solemnly. "Tu me comprends trop bien." (You understand me too well)

Before you can fire back, a new voice enters the conversation.

"What’s all this?"

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Carlos Sainz strolling past, still in a Williams hoodie, his hair an absolute glorious mess.

"Morning, Carlitos," you greet, smiling as you pull him into a hug.

"Morning," he replies, hugging you back before spotting the pancakes. His expression immediately shifts to pure interest. "And what exactly do we have here?"

"Homemade, fresh, and delivered with love," you say, handing him a plate.

"I’m so glad I walked by at the right time," Carlos grins, already taking a bite.

Charles shakes his head. "I knew you’d steal my breakfast."

"I didn’t steal anything," Carlos says, pointing at you. "She offered. Huge difference."

"She only offers because she’s too nice," Charles retorts.

"Yeah, that’s definitely the reason," you deadpan.

Carlos gives a thumbs-up, still chewing. "Ten out of ten. Would accept again."

You laugh, stepping back. "Well, I have another stop to make before you two start fighting over the last one."

"Tell Oscar he’s not worthy," Charles calls after you.

"Noted."

…

The McLaren garage is already buzzing by the time you step inside, a steady hum of engineers, team personnel, and the occasional blur of papaya moving past. You barely take it in, though—your focus is on one person.

You find Oscar exactly where you expect him—perched on the edge of a counter, legs swinging idly, his attention completely fixed on the screen of his iPad.

You step closer, peering over his shoulder.

"Are you—wait, are you watching The Office?"

Oscar pauses mid-chew, glances at you, then tilts the screen just enough for you to see.

Season 2, Episode 4.

You stare.

"Oscar."

"What?" he says, around another bite of pancake.

"You’re watching it at a glacial pace," you accuse, setting the pancake container beside him. "For someone so fast on track, you’re painfully slow with TV shows."

Oscar smirks, finally glancing up.

"I told you, I don’t binge-watch things in one sitting like you do."

"That’s not a flex, Osc. That’s just a character flaw."

"I like to savor things," he argues, grabbing another pancake like it’s part of his defense.

"No, you like to take six months to finish a single season," you counter, crossing your arms.

"Tell that to my racecraft."

"Oh, I will," you say, grinning. "Right after I tell everyone you still haven’t finished White Lotus."

Oscar lets out a long, genuinely pained groan, dropping his head back against the cabinet.

"You’re the worst."

"I’m just speaking facts."

"You’re speaking like someone who finished all of Breaking Bad in four days."

"Five, actually," you correct.

"See? That’s unhinged behavior."

"It’s called commitment," you say, shrugging.

Oscar shakes his head, taking another bite, clearly accepting his fate. The conversation flows easily, like all your conversations do—comfortable, familiar, like second nature.

Which is probably why you don’t notice Lando walking in until the energy shifts.

It’s subtle—not a full stop, not an obvious shift in tone, but a flicker of something tense in the air.

Lando walks in like he always does—quick, purposeful, in the middle of something. But as soon as his gaze lands on you sitting beside Oscar, there’s a beat of hesitation.

It’s a fraction of a second—barely long enough to register—but you catch it anyway. The way his shoulders go rigid for half a breath, the way his gaze flickers over you before smoothing into something unreadable.

Then, just as quickly, he masks it.

"Oscar," Lando says, tone clipped, neutral. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not even a glance.

The sting of it is instantaneous, even though you pretend not to care.

Oscar, still chewing, looks up. "Yeah?"

"The whole team’s been looking for you," Lando says, gesturing vaguely toward the engineers. "We need to go over a new strategy."

"Right," Oscar nods, setting his plate down and dusting his hands off. "I’ll be there in a sec."

Lando doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he lingers—half-turned away, but still close enough that you can see the tension in his posture.

Then, with an exhale just sharp enough to sound frustrated, he turns and walks off.

Oscar watches him go.

Then he slowly turns back to you, chewing with far too much thought behind his expression.

And then he gives you the look.

One that very clearly says: What the fuck was that?

You lift an eyebrow, also a bit confused by what just happened.

"Don’t look at me like that," you mutter.

Oscar snorts. "Right. Because I’m the weird one here."

"Glad we agree," you deadpan.

But as Oscar grabs his plate and follows after Lando, you can’t shake the feeling that this weekend just got a lot more complicated.

…

Singapore is breathtaking at night.

The humid air clings to your skin, thick and warm, but the city more than makes up for it. The skyline is a glowing masterpiece, skyscrapers illuminated against the inky sky, the Marina Bay waters reflecting every vibrant light.There’s something surreal about being here during the race weekend—the most beautiful night race on the calendar, the entire city pulsing with energy, every street feeling like it belongs to Formula 1.

You walk leisurely through Gardens by the Bay, your steps slow against the backdrop of towering Supertrees, their neon lights casting a futuristic glow over the path. The air is still buzzing with life—distant laughter, the hum of nearby conversations, the occasional whoosh of a breeze pushing through the palm leaves.

Beside you, Lily Zneimer, Oscar’s girlfriend, matches your pace effortlessly, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her lightweight sweater.

You met her earlier in the evening, introduced through Oscar with the casual ease of someone who genuinely thought you’d get along. And, to be fair—he was right.

Lily is incredibly easy to talk to—soft-spoken but sharp, with a warmth that makes conversation flow naturally. You clicked instantly, which is why, when she asked if you wanted to step out for a walk, you didn’t hesitate.

"I still can’t get over how beautiful it is here at night," Lily muses, tilting her head to admire the towering Supertree structures above.

"It’s insane," you agree, glancing up at the web of glowing branches stretching toward the sky. "It almost doesn’t feel real."

"Right?" she laughs lightly. "It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Oscar loves this place."

You hum, smiling. "You’ve been to Singapore before?"

"Just once," Lily nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I came last season, but it was a short trip. It’s nice actually having time to enjoy it this year."

"Yeah, the races kind of turn everything into a blur," you admit.

"Exactly," she agrees, before pausing just long enough for you to notice the slight shift in her tone. "Speaking of racing…"

You glance over.

She’s smiling, but there’s something pointed behind it.

"I heard you’ve been having some… trouble with his teammate."

Your steps falter slightly.

"Trouble?" you repeat.

"Maybe that’s the wrong word," Lily says, tilting her head in thought. "Let’s say… tension."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "I wouldn’t call it trouble, but… yeah. It’s a bit weird."

Lily nods knowingly.

Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, she drops: "Oscar said Lando was annoyed with him after the whole pancake thing in Monaco."

Your stomach pulls tight.

"Wait—annoyed?" you blink. "Why?"

Lily raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "He never mentioned it?"

"Not even once," you say slowly, trying to piece together what you’re hearing.

"They usually get on well," Lily continues, studying your reaction carefully. "But after that, apparently, he barely spoke to him. It was noticeable enough for Oscar to bring it up, which says a lot."

You had assumed that whatever had happened in Monaco—whatever weird, quiet grudge Lando had been holding—had been aimed solely at you. That he had ignored you and moved on.

But now…

Now you’re hearing that he had barely spoken to Oscar that whole weekend?

You stare ahead, processing.

"I thought it was just me," you admit, mostly to yourself.

Lily watches you for a moment before giving you a gentle nudge. "Maybe you should talk to him. Just clear the air."

You open your mouth, hesitate, then exhale through your nose.

"I don’t know if that would help," you say honestly.

Lily hums, thoughtful. "Maybe. But ignoring it doesn’t seem to be working either."

You don’t have a counter for that.

…

Mexico city is loud and bright, and the warmth in the air feels almost celebratory. Alexandra had been talking about this dinner she was hosting for weeks, making sure everyone knew it was the event before the race weekend officially kicked off. If the turnout is anything to go by, no one wanted to miss it. The restaurant is stunning—high ceilings, flickering candlelight, the scent of fresh tortillas and smoky mezcal curling through the air. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like the whole night is stretched out in front of you, waiting to unfold into something memorable.

You arrive in high spirits, weaving through the tables, greeting familiar faces. The atmosphere is relaxed, conversations overlapping in different languages, the soft clink of glasses mingling with bursts of laughter. It doesn’t take long before you find yourself sliding into a seat beside Oscar, who acknowledges your presence with an easy grin.

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” he teases, nudging your arm as you set your bag down.

“Had to mentally prepare for whatever nonsense was waiting for me at this table,” you reply, scanning the group.

Carlos, sitting across from you, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’d say welcome, but I think you already know you’ve walked into enemy territory.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That bad already?”

“Carlos is just upset that I’m his biggest threat now,” Oscar chimes in, reaching for a glass of water. “He’s still not over the last race.”

Carlos scoffs. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“You should be honored,” Oscar counters smoothly. “Most people would love to be my rival.”

“Por Dios,” Carlos mutters under his breath, laughingly shaking his head.

Max, who had been swirling his gin and tonic lazily, finally looks up, unimpressed. “You two are still on this?”

Carlos points at him accusingly. “You’re just saying that because you don’t care.”

Max shrugs. “I care about my cats.”

Charles smirks. “And somehow, you still win races.”

Max lifts his glass as if to toast himself. “It’s all about balance.”

Oscar turns to you, shaking his head. “This is what I deal with on a daily basis.”

“Sounds tough,” you say, completely unsympathetic.

Max leans back, eyeing you playfully. “So, what do you think? Who wins if they go head-to-head next race?”

You hum, pretending to give it serious thought. “I think I’ll stay neutral and just enjoy the show.”

Carlos nods approvingly. “Smart answer.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “Coward.”

The night moves on, drinks are refilled, plates are passed around, and the warmth of the evening settles into your bones. The food is incredible, Alexandra beaming every time someone compliments her choice of venue. The conversation is easy, filled with teasing and inside jokes, but even through the laughter, you can feel a certain presence in the room. A presence that, despite your best efforts, you’re hyper-aware of.

Lando arrives late, but when he does, it’s impossible to miss him.

His voice carries across the restaurant before you even see him, his laughter breaking through the steady hum of conversation. When he finally makes his way over, he’s in full form—grinning, animated, throwing an arm around Max like they’ve just won something. He slides into a seat between Carlos and Max, immediately falling into conversation, his energy big enough to pull focus. But every time you’re around?

He says nothing.

You don’t think anyone else notices at first. He’s still himself, still cracking jokes, still pulling people into conversations, still loud and impossible to ignore. But whenever you’re in the same circle, whenever your paths inevitably cross, he keeps his focus carefully elsewhere. You catch him sneaking glances when he thinks you’re not paying attention, his gaze flickering your way for barely a second before shifting back. And when he joins a conversation you’re already in, he acts as if you don’t exist at all.

You think you might be imagining it, but then you catch Oscar watching. Charles, too. And when the opportunity presents itself, when the moment naturally shifts and they see their chance, they both take it.

Charles stretches with an exaggerated sigh. “I think I need another drink.”

Oscar pushes his chair back immediately. “Yeah, same.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Oscar nods, already standing.

“Absolutely,” Charles adds, following suit.

They’re gone before you can argue.

And just like that, it’s just you and Lando.

The air changes immediately.

Lando drums his fingers against the table, gaze flicking briefly toward the bar, then back to the space in front of him. He doesn’t look at you, but it still feels like he’s aware of you, like the silence between you is taking up more space than it should.

You let the quiet stretch for a moment before finally breaking it.

“So,” you say casually, leaning back. “How are you?”

He glances at you, just for a second, and something shifts in his expression. Like he wasn’t expecting the question. Like he was caught off guard. You think, for a moment, that he might actually answer, that he might let whatever this is crack just a little.

But then, just as fast, his face smooths over.

“Could be better,” he says simply.

And then, without another word, he stands and walks off to talk to Carlos, leaving you there.

…

The paddock is still buzzing as the sun starts to set over Abu Dhabi, casting long shadows against the garages. It’s the usual pre-race chaos—engineers moving in and out, last-minute interviews happening outside team motorhomes—but your world has narrowed down to a single conversation.

You lean against the doorframe of Oscar’s driver room, arms crossed, watching as he sips from a water bottle like he hasn’t just blindsided you with his latest observation.

“You know he’s jealous, right?”

You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

Oscar sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Lando. He’s jealous. And you, my friend, are being absolutely insufferable about it.”

You scoff. “I’m insufferable?”

“Yes.” He nods, completely serious. “The ignoring-you thing? The weird, brooding glances? The fact that he’s acting like a Victorian husband who just found out his wife is writing letters to another man?”

Your lips part in disbelief. “That is a ridiculous comparison.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Is it? Because if he had a top hat, I’m pretty sure he’d be angrily adjusting it every time you walked past.”

Despite yourself, you let out a short laugh. “That is not what’s happening.”

“It is what’s happening.” Oscar tilts his head, unimpressed. “And you’ve just been letting it happen all season.”

Your arms tighten over your chest. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not a problem, it’s just… a situation you could easily resolve if you both stopped being so painfully repressed.”

You glare. “We are not repressed.”

Oscar snorts. “Oh, right. My mistake. Just two people who definitely don’t have unresolved tension standing in opposite corners of the paddock, staring dramatically across the room like they’re in a period drama.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I hate that you’ve started narrating my life.”

“Then fix your storyline.”

There’s something about the way he says it—calm, like he already knows he’s right, like he’s just waiting for you to figure it out yourself—that makes your stomach turn. You hate that there’s truth in his words, that deep down, you already know what’s happening here. You hate that ignoring it has been easier.

And you really hate that Oscar sees through you so easily.

“Just talk to him already,” he says, exasperated.

You huff, pretending to check your nonexistent watch. “Wow, would you look at the time? That’s enough of Oscar’s therapy hour.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

You push off the doorframe. “I have very important things to do.”

Oscar smirks. “Like knocking on Lando’s door?”

“Like avoiding you,” you correct, already walking away.

He grins, but doesn’t push it further. “Let me know how it goes.”

…

Your heart is pounding by the time you knock.

It’s stupid. You’ve seen him a thousand times before. You’ve spent years around him. But something about this—about actively choosing to be here, about acknowledging something unspoken after months of pretending—makes your nerves coil tight in your stomach.

There’s a brief pause, the muffled sound of movement inside, and then the door swings open.

Lando stands before you, still in his race suit, half unzipped, sleeves tied loosely around his waist, the fabric clinging to the remaining sweat on his skin. His hair is a mess, damp, sticking up in different directions. Hot.

He looks at you, and for the first time, he doesn’t try to mask it.

There’s no indifference. No forced distance.

Just recognition.

“Hey,” he says, voice lower than usual, rough around the edges.

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of the heat radiating off his skin, of the way his fingers twitch slightly against the doorframe.

“I just…” You hesitate, feeling a little stupid, a little out of place. “I wanted to say good luck. And that I’m happy to see you doing so well.”

Lando’s expression flickers. Not surprise, not exactly, but something close.

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it.

Before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He freezes.

It’s a split second—his whole body tensing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His arms remain stiff at his sides, and for a moment, you think this was a mistake.

Then, slowly, he exhales.

His fingers brush against your back, hesitant at first—then firmer, pressing lightly against your spine. He doesn’t hold you tightly, but he holds you.

Your face is against his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Then, just as quickly as you stepped into him, you pull away.

You meet his eyes for a brief second, your pulse a little uneven, and then, just to break the tension, you flash a small grin.

"Right. So. Uh… don’t crash, I guess?"

Lando lets out a short, breathy laugh—like he wasn’t expecting that.

And then you turn on your heel and walk off, leaving him standing in the doorway, watching you go, hands still hovering slightly at his sides like he’s not sure what just happened.

…

The paddock is quiet now, the chaos of the race replaced by a slow, methodical dismantling of the weekend. Mechanics move with practiced ease, packing up equipment, coiling cables, loading crates. The bright lights above cast long shadows across the pit lane, stretching out into the empty grandstands.

You lean against the railing of the paddock terrace, high above it all, watching the world wind down. There’s something almost peaceful about it—the way everything slows after the high-energy storm of the season’s final race.

Oscar was supposed to meet you here, but you don’t mind the solitude. After months of back-to-back weekends, the rare quiet feels like a luxury.

Then, you sense someone stepping beside you.

You don’t even have to turn. You already know it’s him.

Still, when you do, Lando is watching you.

His race suit is still tied around his waist, curls damp from the post-race exhaustion. His face is unreadable, but his presence is steady, intentional.

“Hey, you,” he murmurs.

You smile softly. “Hey.”

For the first time in months, standing next to him doesn’t feel like balancing on a tightrope. There’s no hesitation in the silence, no unsaid words pressing against the edges. Just a quiet that feels comfortable. Familiar.

Lando exhales, staring down at the pit lane below. His fingers tap lightly against the railing, like he’s debating something.

Then—he sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

A small, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. “For how I’ve been acting all season. For ignoring you. For being… whatever the hell that was.”

You nod, gaze flickering back to the track. “Yeah. You were kind of a dick.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I know.”

There’s a weight in the air, but it isn’t suffocating. Just something that has been waiting too long to be acknowledged.

Lando shifts closer, resting his elbows on the railing. His hands grip the metal a little tighter than usual.

“I didn’t handle things well,” he admits.

You glance at him. “What things?”

His jaw tightens. He hesitates. Then—

“Seeing you every weekend. Looking all happy with Oscar. It was—” He stops himself, inhaling deeply. “It was fucking unbearable.”

You cut him off before he can spiral. “Oscar was just being nice. Made me feel welcome.”

It’s a subtle dig. You know it. He knows it.

Lando scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I hated it.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Lando… do you know what was actually nice about spending time with Oscar?”

His lips press together, shoulders tense. “Enlighten me.”

You keep your voice casual, but there’s an edge to your words.

“Being treated like I exist.”

His jaw flexes. He hears the meaning beneath it.

Lando shifts, his weight rocking slightly onto his heels. He stares down at the pit lane for a long moment, then exhales slowly.

“It’s hard, you know?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “Trying to move on from something when it still feels unfinished.”

He swallows, glancing at you, then, carefully—

“I didn’t think I moved on.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable.

“I thought ignoring you would make it easier. That if I acted like you weren’t there, maybe I could get over it.” He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “It didn’t fucking work.”

You exhale, finally understanding.

“Truthfully?” You pause, then admit, “I never moved on either.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable. Relief. Frustration. Longing. Maybe all of it at once.

“Then why did we do this to ourselves?” he mutters.

You shake your head. “Because we’re idiots.”

He laughs, breathless, like he can’t believe it. “Yeah.”

The weight of the moment settles between you both. It stretches, thickens, morphs into something tangible. Something inevitable.

Then, suddenly, the air shifts.

Lando’s gaze drops—to your lips.

It lingers.

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move away this time.

Hesitantly—like he’s giving you the chance to stop this, to pull back—he leans in.

And you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first. Tentative, hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. His lips brush against yours, light as air, but the way his fingers graze your jaw, the way his breath catches, gives him away.

Then, slowly, something shifts.

His hands slip to your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of your shirt, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulls you flush against him, your bodies aligning in a way that feels too natural, too easy, like you were always meant to be here.

And then he deepens it.

Not rushed, not desperate but slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring it, like he’s trying to make up for every wasted second. Like he knows this moment is fragile and he doesn’t want to risk breaking it.

Your fingers slide into his curls, damp from the night, messy from the hours he’s spent in his helmet, but softer than you imagined. The second you do, he exhales—a sound somewhere between a sigh and relief, like this is what he’s been waiting for, like something inside him is finally settling into place.

The world shrinks.

The paddock is forgotten.

It’s just him.

Just you.

Just this.

And when you finally pull away, your breath is uneven, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to.

Your forehead rests against his, both of you lingering in the space between, breath mingling, hearts still racing—like neither of you are quite ready to let go just yet

Lando grins—dazed, breathless, like he’s still processing it.

“So… does this mean you’ll bring me pancakes in Monaco next year?”

You groan, shoving his chest.

“You just kissed me, and that’s the first thing you say?”

“It’s an important question.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Consider it?”

“Yes. If you keep this up.”

He grins. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

…

bonus scene

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. About time.”

You both jolt apart, startled, turning to see Oscar standing there, arms crossed, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.

Lando lets out an actual whimper before burying his face in your shoulder. “No. Nope. This is a dream. This isn’t real.”

Oscar tilts his head. “Nah, it’s real. And I wish it wasn’t.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “How long have you been standing there?”

Oscar throws his hands up. “Long enough to regret every decision that’s brought me to this moment.”

Lando, still hiding his face, mumbles into your shoulder. “If I don’t move, maybe he’ll go away.”

“Yeah, that’s what you tried with her all season, and look how that turned out,” Oscar deadpans.

Lando groans loudly before finally lifting his head to glare at him. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Oscar nods, completely serious. “I was genuinely starting to think I’d have to suffer through another season of whatever that was.”

Lando throws his hands up. “I did not—”

Oscar holds up a finger. “Oh, you did. And I had to watch. Every week.”

Lando groans. “I hate everything about this.”

Oscar nods solemnly. “Yeah, well, so did I. I’d estimate I’ve aged about six years in the span of this season.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It was that bad?”

Oscar gestures vaguely. “I mean… watching you two pretend you didn’t carewas exhausting. Do you know how hard it is to be the only sane person in this situation?”

Lando chuckles under his breath. “Fair.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at him. “Oh, now you admit it?”

Lando shrugs. “Had to keep things interesting.”

Oscar scoffs. “For who? Your personal character development?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Lando sighs beside you.

Oscar, still looking far too pleased with himself, claps Lando on the back. “Alright, lovebirds. Carry on. Don’t let me stop you.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he simply turns and walks off, whistling like he’s just closed a major business deal.

Lando watches him disappear, blinking in mild disbelief. “We’re never hearing the end of this, are we?”

You grin, looping your arms around his neck.

“Nope.”

#f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando x you #lando norris #lando norris one shot #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #f1 fanfic #lando norizz

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a-cloud-for-dreams · 3 months ago

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hmmmm film noir!gabrielamala save me

#mira reaching into the never-ending infinite gabrielamala trope hat part ??? but u don't understand detective gabriel AND femme fatale #amala is a MUST!! gonna make it about diamonds or something as a reference to the Sharma family i won't be stopped #romance club #kali call of darkness #amala basu #fic ideas #amala x gabriel #mir's musings 💬#gabriel grant

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sinkuna · 12 days ago

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୨୧ — "The roses that came at lunch were beautiful," you said, fingers tracing the back of his hand under the warm water.

Nanami’s lips curved into a rare smile against the back of your head, "I wanted you to know I was thinking of you between meetings. That even when I'm buried in paperwork, missions, and everything else- part of me is still with you."

It had become something of a legend among your friends- the way Nanami Kento never stopped courting you. Never taking your presence for granted. The flowers that appeared mysteriously on your pillow some mornings- the ones he’d cut from the garden before work or purchased the night before. The handwritten notes tucked into places he knew you’d rummage through throughout the day.

"Some people say romance dies after the honeymoon phase…" you said while leaning back into his chest, watching as the candlelight danced across his knuckles, "That once you've 'caught' someone, you stop trying."

Nanami’s arms tightened around you, "Those people misunderstand the nature of love..." His voice was matter of fact, as if stating an obvious truth, his free hand coming up to gently move your damp hair away from your neck, "Love isn't a trophy to be won and displayed. It's a garden that requires daily tending."

A shiver ran through you as his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. His lips trailed down the column of your neck, pressing light, almost ticklish, kisses along the sensitive flesh. Your hand found the side of his neck and you tilted your head further to the side in an unconscious invitation.

He nipped playfully at the skin where your shoulder and neck met and then soothed the spot with his tongue, "And you just so happen to be my favorite flower... You don't need a trophy case, just a loving gardener..."

His hand drifted to the edge of the tub, reaching across you, retrieving something from the edge- a small velvet box that hadn't been there when you'd entered the bathroom.

"Which is why," he continued, opening it to reveal a delicate silver bracelet adorned with black opal, its dark surface shimmering with a kaleidoscope of firey blues, greens, reds, and even purples, "I never intend to stop reminding you why you chose me. Every day. For as long as you'll have me."

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #Nanami #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami #nanami fluff #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #x reader #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #nanami x reader #nanami kento

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darkbluekies · 2 months ago

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Til death do us part

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: A summer romance turns dark as Silas can't accept that you've married someone else

Warnings: kidnapping, murder, blackmail, threats, Silas belittling darling, violence, isolation, jealousy, possessiveness

Word count: 5k

He’s everything you could have ever wanted. He’s sweet, caring and works at a bank. He can provide for you. He’s from a good family. Everything about him is perfect, everything you could ever have dreamt of. You could never have imagined that you would find a man like him after what happened last summer.

You had met a man on the way home from dinner with a friend, someone that had helped you after the grocery bag you had bought food in on the way home. He had introduced himself as ‘Silas’ and had walked you home, carrying the groceries for you. You had thanked him. Silas had asked if you wanted to meet for coffee sometime, and you had agreed, innocently thinking nothing of it. You had gone out with him multiple times. Never actually becoming a couple, but acting like it. It was harmless, you thought. You kissed, went on dates and you knew that if things continued like this, you’d fall for him.

But you noticed that something was weird about him, and it made you feel cautious in his presence. He never told you anything about his life and when you asked, you noticed that something shifted in his dark eyes. As if he tried to come up with a lie. It creeped you out somehow, because why couldn’t he tell you? Maybe you shouldn’t have trusted a man who tried to cover up his tattoos.

You finally got to know the truth at the end of the summer. A friend who had seen the two of you together had recognised him from a newspaper. He was a criminal, a leader of a mob, who was more dangerous than you could have anticipated. You had cut contact with him and moved away so that he wouldn’t be able to find you again.

But he did. Somehow, he did.

Letters have been piling up in your mailbox during these last few weeks, addressed to you and written in red ink. Your heart had stopped when you read the first one.

“Y/N, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so terribly much. My heart bleeds and aches for you. You left me because you were scared. I get that. I get that very well, this is a world you should be afraid of, but I will protect you. I will take care of you better than that man ever could. Yeah, I know that you’ve found someone new. I know that you’re planning to get married. Quite quick, don’t you think? You haven’t known him that long, and now you’re getting married? Silly Y/N, you’re so cute. Do you really think you love him? Are you trying to reassure yourself that I’m a part of your past that will never return? Or are you trying to make everyone around you believe that you’ve gotten over me and moved on? I know you still think of me. I know you want me. And I want you too. I have never wanted someone other than you. You and me are meant for each other. Don’t marry him. Come back to me. It’s you and me til the end.”

You hadn’t shown your fiance, but he had noticed that something had been wrong with you. You had become silent and distant. Letter after letter came to your mailbox and he realized that something serious had happened. You had no choice but to tell him about Silas and your past with him, the present he doesn’t want to let go of, and the future he demands. Your fiance had promised that he wouldn’t get to you, and that he was only trying to scare you.

You had been expecting to see Silas at your wedding, but he wasn’t there—or at least you didn’t catch a glimpse of him. Maybe your husband was right? Maybe he was just trying to scare you?

The start of the honeymoon is set to be on the SS Anastasia, a proud liner with three yellow funnels, a solid superstructure and a great reputation. It is set to take the two of you to Spain, where you have decided to have the rest of your honeymoon, away from all eyes and to be with no one but each other.

A steward welcomes you on board. You thank him and give him a smile. He lets you know that your luggage, which you left down at the terminal, will be delivered straight to your cabin, a suite in first class. Only the best for the newlywed couple.

“I’m so excited to see the room”, you admit as the two of you navigate the ship to find the mani staircase.

“The agent said that it would be nice”, your husband replies and chuckles. “Now, if we only could find it …”

You laugh. It takes you nearly ten minutes to find the right door among mazes of identical white doors. The suite is divided into three rooms: a bedroom, a sitting room and a bathroom, all decorated with expensive materials and fashionable colors. Polished dark wood and electric lights.

“This is so nice”, your husband smiles, letting his eyes wander around. “I think we’ll have a good time here.”

You hug him and he chuckles, hugging you back.

“I can’t believe I married you”, he says.

Me neither, you think.

Your mind drifts back to Silas and you feel your heart sink down to your stomach. You won’t be able to relax until you know that the ship has left harbour. There’s a constant, heavy feeling in your chest that you can’t explain. But you tell yourself that it’s just that; a feeling. Nothing more than old worries that haven’t been able to come up to the surface before now. You squeeze the man tighter, sighing out. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be safe.

You have been promised a fantastic dinner, and the food delivers to your expectations. Everything is tasting like gold, served on a silverplatter. Sitting in the first class dining hall has given you an excuse to dress up. Everyone around is wearing their best clothes, and it is a silent competition in who looks the best. You look around, discreetly admiring everyone else’s attention to detail. You wonder how many of them have spent the entire day in their cabin, doing everything to look their absolutely best. The first night is usually relaxed, but a first time impression will always be remembered.

“What would you like to do after?” your husband asks and sips on his wine.

“I think I need to take a walk”, you joke.

“Oh, yes, the night sky must be so beautiful out on deck. I reckon that you’ll be able to see the stars much easier out here. No city pollution.”

You walk hand in hand down the promenade, looking up at the starry night sky, pointing at familiar shapes.

The next morning, after breakfast, the two of you walk to the lounge, deciding to take a calm day. Well deserved after planning a wedding and executing it. The lounge is cozy, reminding you of a simple living room rather than a first class room on an oceanliner. Maybe to make the passengers feel more at home.

Your husband takes the opportunity to indulge in a newspaper, finally having the time to sit down and actually read it.

You let your eyes wander around the large lounge, enjoying to admire the small details that give the room it’s cozy feel. But the feeling is quickly switched once your eyes land on someone. A man sitting in an armchair on the other side of the lounge, dark eyes feasted onto you, a small smirk playing at his lips when he notices you noticing him. You can feel your body go numb, feel yourself sink through your armchair, through the floor and through the ship’s metal. Feel yourself sink down to the bottom of the pitch black ocean. You forget how to breathe, head going blank.

He found you.

You glance towards your husband who’s still invested in today’s news. Silas raises his eyebrows testingly as you look back at him, as if to say “yes, I’ve noticed him, you think he compares to me?”.

Suddenly the air in the lounge seem to lose all oxygen. You need air, or else you will faint.

“I-I have to get some fresh air”, you hear yourself mumble.

“Are you okay?” your husband asks and looks up from his newspaper, eyes full of worry.

“Yes—”

��Do you want me to come with you?”

“N-No, I’ll be fine, I’ll be back soon.”

You need to get away.

You hurry out of the lounge and out onto the enclosed promenade. The fresh air hits your face harshly. You grab onto the wall to support yourself while trying to find a way to breathe that doesn’t feel like needles poking through your throat.

“You thought I wouldn’t find you?”

You feel your heart stop. Quickly, you spin around, seeing his face way too close to yours. He tilts it, almost mockingly. You back away, stumbling over your feet and hitting your shoulder against the wall. Silas corners you, stopping you from escaping.

“What do you want?” you breathe out shakingly.

“Didn’t you get my letters?” he asks. “Or did you simply not read them?”

“Leave me alone. I-I’m married now.”

He smirks, tilting his head back and putting his hands into the back pockets of his suit pants.

“Indeed, you are”, he says and sighs out. “But do you really think that’s real?”

“What do you mean?” you almost stutter.

Silas meets your eyes. He’s smiling.

“Don’t you think I could have taken you whenever I wanted?” he asks. “The only reason you were able to marry that boring son of a bitch is because I let you. But, in the end, you belong to me. Isn’t that right?”

You don’t answer. You turn your head away, look out over the endless sea, and feel your eyes fill with tears. He wipes your tears with his thumb and you push his hand away.

“I don’t”, you say, wondering where you have gotten the sudden bravery from. “I don’t belong to you. I belong to him.”

You show him the ring on your finger. Silas clenches his jaw and grabs a hold of that hand, forcing it closer. He pulls of the golden ring, scoffs at it and throws it overboard. You gasp and try to run forward, hoping to catch it before it falls too far, but he pushes you back against the wall.

“Don’t ever say that again”, he warns you. “You don’t belong to him, how could you? I met you first. I claimed you first. He will have my seconds. Everything you do to him, you’ve done to me first. And he will never do anything as good as I did.”

“I left you because of this!” you hiss, reminding him.

“No, you left me because you were scared. You don’t understand that you are in more danger if you aren’t with me. I’m the only one that can protect you. I didn’t want you to know about it because I know you’d be scared, but—”, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him, “—but I won’t hurt you. You’re so special to me. I love you so much. You did read my letters, I can see it in your eyes. You know how much I love you.”

“Let me go”, you plead.

“No. It’s you and I til the end, don’t you remember? I’m not letting you go again. I’ve been letting you have your fun for too long now. It’s about time I take you back. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Don’t hurt him either.”

You can see his eyes darken, his jaw clench. “You decide if it’s going to be violent or not.”

You freeze in his hold.

“You can choose to come back to me, quietly and easy”, Silas starts and caresses your cheek. “We will be happy and your boy will be left alone.” He traces your jaw with his finger. “Or … you reject me and I take out my competition and take you with me once we reach Spain. No one will see you again.”

He seems to tell that you’ve stopped breathing, because he sits you down on one of the sun chairs and massage your throat. Your eyes are stuck onto nothing, empty.

“I will give you until nine”, he whispers in your ear. “If you’re not outside my cabin at nine, A-30, knocking on my door, I will kill him.”

“You’re a liar”, you breathe out, voice barely audible. “You’ll kill him either way …”

Silas shrugs simply. “Maybe, but don’t you want to take your chances? You might save him.”

Silas stands up. You sit frozen.

“Oh, and Y/N?” he says as if remembering something and looks down at you. “If I were you I wouldn’t tell anyone. You know, for obvious reasons.”

He gives you a small, teasing smile before walking back inside. You sit still, not daring to move. Worried that if you move you’ll break down and realise what’s going on. You can feel your heart pound in your ears. No. No, this can’t be happening.

“What are you doing out here?” you hear a familiar voice ask. “You’re going to get sick!”

You feel your husband hang his blazer over your shoulders. The warmth, the familiar scent from him makes your heart hang heavy in your chest. You can’t help but feel like you’ve betrayed him, as if you’ve cheated your relationship, thanks to Silas’s threat. But if you cheat on it, you might save the love of your life. Can you cancel out a bad thing with a bad thing? Is it really a bad thing then? Can you be excused?

You can’t tell him about it, but if you did, would he understand you?

“You don’t look well, actually”, he says and helps you stand. “You’ve probably already gotten sick. You should go lay down and rest.”

He helps you, slow and steady, to your suite. You lay down in bed and he tucks you in.

“Should we ring for a steward?” he asks worriedly. “Ask for some tea and some medicine?”

“No, I’m fine”, you reassure him dimly. “I just need to be alone.”

“I’m worried about you. Something happened to you. I can help you.”

No, you can’t.

“Do you want to be left alone?” he asks.

What if he gets killed?

“No, stay in here”, you wish.

He nods. You hold his hand as you lay with your eyes closed, trying to think of what to do. He was clear; whatever you do, you’ll end up with Silas. The only thing you can choose—maybe—is to save the man holding your hand and whispering reassurance to you. The nicest you can do, in this situation, is to give in and beg Silas to leave him alone. You can’t be prideful and let him kill him.

You find yourself outside cabin A-30 with your head spinning. You don’t want to do this, but what choice do you have? Your first is heavy when you lift it to knock, the sound of your knuckles hitting the polished wood seeming to echo throughout the entire ship. You can hear his footsteps on the other side and see him tower over you when he opens the door. His smirk sends a wave of nausea over you.

“So, you came in the end”, he says cockily. “Good girl/boy.”

You lower your eyes to the floor. Silas steps aside and gestures for you to walk in. You do, on heavy, unresponsive legs. He closes the door behind you, locking it. You gulp. He lingers around you like a snake and you wait for him to put his fangs into your neck and shoot his venom into you.

“You should rest”, Silas says softly and wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Let’s go to sleep.”

He leads you to the bed and lays you down, lying down behind you. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything that could scare you. You try to keep it in, but your body fails you. Sobs, quiet at first, leave your body. Tears run down your face. You hold your hand over your mouth, but Silas is close enough to hear you. He hugs you carefully and you can feel him rest his face into your shoulder.

“There’s no need to worry”, he whispers. “You're back where you belong.”

It only makes you worry more.

“Your crying makes me so sad”, Silas whispers. “Everything will be okay, little thing. You're back now.”

You don't fall asleep that night, and you're sure Silas doesn't either. His grip on you remains tight and controlling, showing no sign of drowsiness.

The sun rises outside the porthole, and you're as wide awake as ever. Silas gets out of bed and starts to dress for the day. You remain in bed, feeling too empty to move. Your eyes fall onto the tattoos on his back and arms, wondering where he got them and what they represented. But something in you tells you that you don’t want to know.

“My darling”, Silas sighs and crouches down in front of the bed, caressing your face. “You don’t need to look so sad. You and me will have fun. We can do more than you ever could with that boy of yours could. My credit card never declines.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, frowning.

“Oh? You didn't know?” His cocky face is getting on your nerves. “My men did some digging into him, and it seems like he spent a fortune on this honeymoon of yours. Barely anything left in his bank account. Poor thing was really trying to impress you, but the illusion would be all gone once you came back home. I, on the other hand, have all the money in the world.”

“Your money’s dirty.”

“Money’s money. I could launder it, and it’d be clean, but you wouldn’t accept it anyway. Which is why you’ll never get money from me. You’ll get jewelry, food, clothes—anything you want—and all you need to do in return is submit yourself to me.”

You sigh and look away.

“We don’t have to talk about this now”, Silas says and stands up. “But you will submit to me, I know you will. Get dressed now, my love, we’re going to eat breakfast.”

Food is the last thing you want right now.

“I’m not hungry”, you say.

“Do you want to stay in?” he asks. “I can go get you breakfast that you can eat later.”

You nod, whatever will make him leave you alone for a while. Silas gives you a comforting smile and pets your head before leaving the cabin. You take the time to cry, when you know that he can’t see you, planning to stop before he returns, but failing.

“Crying when you think I won’t notice?” he asks and scoffs, just a little bit amused. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice?”

He sets down a tray on the table in the room and walks over to the bed, crouching down and wiping your tears.

“You’re mine”, he says. “Crying about that boy won’t change that fact.”

You don’t answer.

“Will I have to stay in here the entire time?” you ask coldly.

“No”, he says. “Not all the time, but if you want to leave the cabin, you will be by my side. If I were you, I wouldn't try to run away from me or try to tell anyone, because the ship is filled with my men. You don’t know who they are, and they won’t bother you if you behave, but the second I tell them to keep an eye out for you, they will.”

You glare at him.

“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Silas asks.

“And then what?” you counter. “When we're in Spain?”

“Oh, we're not staying there. I'm not allowed there. My second in command is waiting for us there and will take us back to America as soon as we arrive.”

Oh …

“I don’t want to go back. Not with you.”

“Well, life's not fair, little thing. You should eat now. I got you all the things you told me that you liked.”

He takes you to the table in the cabin and starts to feed you the bread, the coffee and fruit. You eat, just you comply, too tired to fight with him. Fighting with a wall would be easier. A wall wouldn't talk back. A wall wouldn't threaten you.

“See how much easier it is when you obey?” Silas says.

You give him a quick gaze. He traces your cheek with his fingers.

“I look so much forward to having you all to myself”, he mumbled.

His words send icy shivers down your back.

You stay in the cabin the coming day. You wonder what your real husband is thinking of your disappearance. Sure that Silas has already done something to make him stay away … or worse.

“You're so down, baby”, Silas says. “How about we do something, hm? We have a whole ship to our amusement. There is a game room, a pool, a library, and a squash court. How about that? Why don't we play some squash?”

You nod, just to get out of the cabin. Maybe you can figure something out. Maybe you can hide.

“That's my boy/girl”, Silas says and takes your hand. “Let's go.”

Walking out with him, hand in hand, made you feel horrible. He looked so proud, so cocky.

He took you down to the squash court. He picked up a racquet and bounced a few balls.

“I hope you know the rules”, Silas said with a chuckle. “Or else I will win.”

A man came into the squash court. Silas gave the man a quick, stern look before glancing towards you, and then back at him. This is one of his men, you figure.

“Give me a second, darling”, he says and takes the man aside.

They turn their backs to you, whispering. You glance towards the door. As they mumble about something incoherent, you sneak towards the door, opening it silently and sneaking out. You run, but only get a few meters before a hand rips you back.

“Where do you think you're going?” Silas hisses in your ear.

He slams a hand over your mouth to prevent you from making any sounds and almost you back to the squash court.

“I apologize”, he mutters to his man. “Seems like my baby here can't behave.”

He holds your back firmly against his chest, hand resting securely over your mouth. “They'll learn soon enough, once they learn the consequences.”

You fight against him, but he doesn't budge.

“Stop fighting”, Silas hisses and turns to his man. “I'm sure it won't happen again, ill make sure it won't, but can you tell the others to keep an eye out for this disobedient little shit? If you ever see them wander around alone, you get me immediately. Leave us now, I need to lecture them.”

The man nods, bows slightly and leaves the squash court. Silas lets you go and you back away from him, but he's quick to corner you.

“You don't get it, do you?” he asks, and sounds a tad bit amused. “You can't escape me. And, come on, trying to do that on a ship? I really thought you were smarter than that. Where would you go? The only place you could flee would be to jump overboard. But you're stupid, not suicidal. And now, all my men keep an eye out. Just accept that your place is here, with me.”

“I want my fucking husband!” you scream. “You aren't my husband, you're a low life criminal!”

Silas’s eyes darken.

“Okay then”, he says, slowly. “If you want him so badly, go look for him. Go find him. If you do, I'll let you go with him. If not, you're mine.”

“Your men will take me back to you.”

“I'll tell them to leave you as long as you don't talk to anyone. Search everywhere. Go to the lower classes, for all I care.”

“What have you done to him?”

He smiles slightly, but it's not one out of genuine happiness, but of mockery. “Do you really want to know?”

You turn around and leave. He follows you. You barely have time to walk down the corridor before a man takes a hold of your arm. A different man from before.

“You're not supposed to walk around”, he says.

“It's okay”, Silas says a few steps behind you.

He wears his chin high, a smirk on his face and his hands in his front pockets. You rip your arm from the strange man's hold.

“My baby is using their brain”, Silas says and reaches the two of you. “We'll see where that gets them. Keep an eye so that they don't talk to anyone. We don't want to encourage talking to strangers, now do we, little thing?”

You glare at him.

“Go, then”, Silas says. “What are you waiting for?”

You don't like how he's changed. Just five minutes earlier he was set on making sure you wouldn't wander … and now he encourages it. Something has happened to your husband and you want to find him as quickly as possible.

You walk away, leaving Silas and his man in the corridor outside the squash court. You're not sure where to start. As soon as you get out of their sight, you stop and sink down alongside the wall. Needing to just catch your breath.

But you don't linger too long. Before you change your mind, you stand up and start to walk. You end up walking back and forth for hours, sure that every eye that lands on you is a member of Silas’s organization, someone being paid to make sure you obey.

You search every little corner on the ship, but your husband is nowhere to be seen. Your suite is empty, but there are signs of struggle. A glass lying on the floor, more than one person's shoe marks on the carpet. You walk over to his suitcase and take out one of his shirts. Crying as you hold it.

“Any luck?” you suddenly hear him say.

Your blurry eyes dart to the open door, seeing him lean against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks so nonchalant, so careless. How can he?

“There are words for people like you”, you sniffle with a voice draped in hate. “Did you know that?”

“What word?”

“Inhuman.”

Silas scoffs out a small smile. “If only you were as smart with thinking as you were with words, you’d have figured it out by now.”

“What?”

“You haven’t found him anywhere on the ship, and you’ve been looking for hours.”

He doesn’t have to remind you. Your aching feet is enough to make you feel your loss.

“What did you do to him?” you ask weakly.

“I have already told you, if you listened to me, you’d figured it out earlier. I said that there is only one way to escape me.”

Your eyes widen as you dart your eyes to the round porthole.

“Atta girl/boy”, Silas says, voice smooth as honey as he walks over to you.

“Y-You … y-you …”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t do it.”

“You ordered it.”

“Are we back to the ‘dirty money’ thing again? Does it matter if I gave the instructions or not? It happened, and even if I said I gave the instructions, you wouldn’t take it.”

You hang your head heavy in your hands, crying. Silas hugs you and you try to fight back, but he doesn’t let you go. He holds you tightly, his rough hands keeping you against his body.

“Now that he’s gone, you have no other choice than to accept me whole heartedly”, he whispers in your ear. “You have no one else. Only me. Until the end of time, til death do us part.”

You sob in his hold, wanting nothing more than to escape. You manage to glance towards the porthole.

Silas holds your hand in a tight, painful grip as you walk off the ship, surrounded by a few of his men. People on the dock cheer and welcome their loved ones, but you’re pulled right through the crowd. You can’t hear any of them, your own sorrow drowning out all sounds of happiness. Silas takes you over to a car. A black haired man leans against it, but stands straight when he sees Silas. His second in command.

“Boss, there you are”, he says with a small smile. “Did you have a good voyage?”

Silas lifts your tightly intertwined hands with a smirk on his face. “What do you think?”

The second in command looks at you up and down and smirks. “Congratulations.”

“I wish we could stay here but if the cops get me I’ll be in trouble”, Silas says and pulls you close. “Let’s go to the yacht before we’re noticed.”

He helps you into the automobile and you’re off, on the way to the ship that will take you back to America. Tears run down your face silently. You shut them, trying to imagine yourself in another place, somewhere far away from Silas and his evil entourage. Somewhere where you had never crossed paths with him. Somewhere where things had turned out different. A bump in the road forces your eyes open again and you’re pulled back into the car that will take you straight to your own personalized hell, with a man who is ready to kill for you. You wish you had never allowed him to carry your groceries.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oc x you #yandere mafia #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc

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enviedear · 2 months ago

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stay, little valentine, stay ｡𖦹° jason todd

🎧ྀི your roommate makes the fateful mistake of passing you, his roommate, off as his girlfriend to his boundary ignorant family. now the both of you are tasked with maintaining a faux romance for the entirety of a dinner at wayne manor—simple enough, right?

wc 4.2k | roommate!jason, lowercase intended, fem!reader, brief mention of booze, cursing, mutual pining, two idiots fake dating…truly what more can i say (a lot, so). please, enjoy my 'funny little valentines' day special ᯓᡣ𐭩

“there’s not enough room in the freezer for the ice trays. either move your booze or enjoy an ice free apartment,” your voice is tinged with annoyance as you stare down your long-term roommate.

he’s laid back on the shared couch, right cushion side, staring back at you with a impish grin on his face, “or, you could finally throw out that cake you bought for your ‘promotion’ party. since, the fuckin’ promotion never happened and it takes up half of my freezer.”

“our freezer.” you add. “and fuck you, i could still get that promotion any day now. i can always unfreeze it—good as new.”

jason seems to be beginning to tune you out as your eyes drift to a new letter on the fridge, stuck on with an ‘i hate gotham’ magnet. the print is fancy, cursive, bold black ink—YOU’RE INVITED—it reads.

“what are we invited to?” you ask, ice tray debacle not at all at the forefront of your mind now. not when you can tell your roommate’s got an invite from his estranged past guardian, none other than bruce wayne.

he hums a reply at first, still zeroed in to the rerun of some prison show. when he finally picks up on your question he sours, visibly, “some idiotic anniversary dinner for dick and kori. we’re not going, you weren’t even invited.”

you pout, “i want to go! why can’t we go?”

jason’s got a stern look on his face now, and you’ve always found it so unnerving how quickly he musters it up—usually so relaxed in your shared domain.

“we’re not going because i told a lie, and if we show up…everyone will know.” he groans, “just drop it, i need a little more time to ride this out.”

suddenly more intrigued, you prance over to him on the couch, flopping down beside him, “a lie?”

“don’t. just drop it.” he huffs at the obvious annoyance on your face, “it’s just stupid.”

“c’mon, we know all of each others ‘stupid’ shit. what was the lie, todd?” you’re being genuine, riddling your appeasement with a sweetly sardonic tone.

finally, after a good minute of staring at a very completive jason, he cracks, “i might have alluded to being in a relationship with you.”

your smile cracks before he even finishes his admission, oscillating between confusion and sheer giddiness—trying to halt the part of your brain that wants to imagine a life where a relationship isn’t such a laughable idea.

you curl your lips to stifle your last giggles before looking back up at him, “why?”

jason shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the question. his eyes dart away from yours, finding sudden interest in the television screen, "bruce kept...asking about my life here. if i was settling in, if i was happy." he runs a hand through his dark hair, "and then, all the others got involved, asking to set me up with people. i needed them to stop asking. and you-" he pauses, scratching the back of his neck, "you were the most believable option.”

you stare at him, unblinking, trying to process his words. "most believable option…” you repeat slowly, testing how the phrase feels on your tongue. a warmth spreads across your chest-whether from flattery or something else entirely, you're not quite sure. "so, what? think i can’t pretend to be your girlfriend for a dinner?" the idea sends an unwelcome flutter through your chest. you curse yourself.

jason's expression shifts, a mix of surprise and something else you can't quite read. "you'd do that?" he asks, his voice carrying an unusual note of vulnerability.

"of course," you reply, trying to keep your tone light and casual. "what are roommates for? plus, free fancy dinner at wayne manor? count me in." you're aiming for nonchalance, but your heart is racing at the prospect.

jason's jaw clenches, a tell-tale sign of him thinking too hard, "it's not that simple. they'll know it's fake. bruce especially—dick and tim too—they’re too observant for their own good.”

"oh please," you wave off his concern, settling deeper into the couch cushions, "we've lived together for what, two years now? we already act like an old married couple anyway. i know your coffee order, you know my work schedule. we share groceries, we fight about ice trays—“ you gesture broadly to the kitchen, "it's practically method acting at this point."

he looks at you then, really looks at you, with an expression you can't quite read. "you'd really do that? pretend to be with me in front of my entire family?"

"of course i would," you say softly, nudging his shoulder with yours. "what are friends for if not to fake date each other to avoid awkward family dinners?" you try to keep your tone light, ignoring the way your stomach flips when he smiles at you that rare, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"fine." he finally concedes, shrugging his shoulders, "but we need to get our story straight. no holes, no gaps—i figured we'd keep it close to the truth. roommates who gradually realized there was something more." he pauses, then adds, "the best lies are built on truth or some shit, right?”

you nod, and start crafting the imagined romance with jason. over the next hour, you both piece together your relationship timeline—how you first bonded over late night takeout after his patrols, the way you'd patch him up after particularly rough nights, and how somewhere between shared grocery runs and movie marathons, faux you fell for him. or him for you—the both of you can't agree on that just yet.

you try not to focus on how easy it is to imagine, how some of these made-up memories feel more like documentation rather than fabrication.

"okay, and when did we actually get together?" you ask, pulling your knees up to your chest, trying to ignore how invested you're becoming in this alternate reality.

"three months ago." jason answers quickly, too quickly, like he's already thought about this. "after that night I came home really beaten up, remember? you were so pissed at me for being reckless."

you remember that night vividly—how he ever thinks you could forget, you’re unsure.

him stumbling through the window at three in the morning, blood seeping through his stupid jacket. how your hands shook as you stitched him up, how quiet he was, how close his blanched face was to yours. you’d attributed the racing of your heart to fear, but now…not so much.

"yeah," you say softly. "that works."

the rest of the week flies by in a blur of preparation and anxiety, until suddenly it's the night of the dinner, and you're standing in front of your mirror, wondering if you've made a terrible mistake.

you're wearing a deep red-toned dress that hits just above your knee—something you'd bought on a whim (a fifty percent off sale) months ago and never found the right occasion for. jason had given it an approving nod when you'd shown him, which somehow makes you feel more nervous than reassured as you stare yourself down.

"ready?" jason's voice comes from behind you, and you turn to find him adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. he looks…different. good different. the suit fits him perfectly, and you wonder briefly if alfred had something to do with that. the older man has a penchant for doting over your overgrown battling ram of a roommate.

"as i'll ever be." you manage, trying to keep your voice steady. "but, um, how convincing do you think we need to be?"

jason's eyes meet yours in the mirror, "enough to fool the world's greatest detective," he sighs, "and his army of protégés." he turns to face you properly, and something in his expression softens, but he looks away too quickly for you to discern, "you look really pretty."

"thanks." you mumble, fiddling with your clutch. "so do you. very…boyfriend."

he laughs, but it sounds slightly strained. "that's the idea, isn't it?" he offers his arm to you, "shall we?"

the drive to wayne manor is muted. jason's knuckles are white on the shifter, and you find yourself reaching over to place your hand over his without thinking. he startles slightly, but he doesn't pull away—even keeps contact as he switches gears.

"hey." you start softly, "we've got this. we know each other better than anyone, we live together. besides, what's the worst that could happen?"

jason sighs, his hand tightening slightly under yours. "you clearly don’t know how bruce and tim get at these things. anniversary or not, they'll smell blood in the water if we slip up."

"relax," you assure him, glancing out at the looming trees lining the driveway. "i doubt they’ll care about your relationship timeline when they’re busy fawning over how happy dick and kori are."

jason shoots you a look that clearly says 'don't tempt fate', but his grip on the wheel loosens slightly. "just…follow my lead. and if it gets too weird, we can always fake a medical emergency."

"that...is always an option." you grin, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips when he smiles back.

the manor looms up ahead, and as jason pulls up to the gate, you feel his hand squeeze yours briefly, almost indecipherable.

"last chance to back out." he murmurs.

you intertwine your fingers with his, ignoring the voice in your head that whispers how right it feels. "not a chance, todd. you're stuck with me."

the gates open, and as you drive up the winding driveway, you're unable to shake the feeling that you're about to cross a line you can't come back from. but with jason's hand so warm and relaxed in yours, you're not sure you want to.

jason parks the car in front of the house at the partition, "in case we need a quick exit." he shrugs.

"i think you're too worried, jason. i doubt they'll even question it. you said they wanted you dating anyway, i bet they'll just be happy." your voice is quiet, hand hovering in front of the doorbell.

he sighs, "you don't know these people, they question everything."

before you can reply or try to alleviate his doubts, the double doors fly open. you grab jason's hand in your own and pull him closer, just as alfred sets eyes on the pair of you.

alfred's eyes visibly brighten at the sight of both of you, his normally reserved expression softening into something fonder, "master jason," he greets, a ghost of a smile on his lips, "and miss, how lovely for you to be joining tonight. everyone is very excited to meet you, i fear my few stories were not enough to quell them."

you smile, a real genuine one too, "it's nice to see you again alfred! i hope we're not too late—jason decided to change his tie last minute."

alfred hums and beckons you both inside, "fashionable tardiness, miss. i assure you."

jason, hand now sweaty in yours, chuckles, "he's being nice since you're with me. he's usually irate by my lateness."

you shoot jason a pointed look as alfred continues. "master richard and miss kori have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. their anniversary dinner is a rare occasion they’ve pulled out all the stops for, you see."

jason grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, overachievers.

the sound of multiple voices echos through from a room, and you feel jason's grip tighten slightly. you've heard stories about his family for years now—mostly complaints, occasionally fond remembrances, and everything in between during late night conversations over takeout.

"master bruce insisted on formal dining tonight." alfred mentions, though his tone suggests mild disapproval. you've learned over your visits that alfred much prefers when the family dines in the kitchen.

jason scoffs quietly, "because god forbid we eat somewhere comfortable." you squeeze his hand again, a silent reminder of your emergency exit strategy. two years of living together has given you an extensive library of non-verbal communications.

the dining room, when you enter, is exactly as alfred has described it countless times—grandiose in a way that speaks to old money and older traditions. the table stretches long and elegant, set with what you recognize as the ‘good china’ alfred often mentions.

your muscles tense slightly as you finally notice all of the eyes on you—staring and studying—you have to think before you step.

bruce wayne rises first, and despite all of jason's stories, despite seeing him on tv and in newspapers, you're struck by his presence. "jason." he greets, then turns his attention to you. "we've all heard quite a bit about you from alfred, though significantly less from my son."

you feel jason's posture stiffen, but you're prepared for this. "oh, you know how jason is with sharing things." you say easily, the words flowing naturally after years of defending his privacy to nosy neighbors and concerned coworkers. "though, alfred's probably told you all my embarrassing stories by now."

dick grayson—exactly as handsome as the magazines suggest—breaks into a wide grin. "actually, alfred's been surprisingly tight lipped. just kept saying we should ask jason ourselves." his eyes sparkle with mischief. "which, of course, got us nowhere."

"some things don't need to be broadcast to the whole family." jason grumbles, but his thumb is mindlessly drawing small circles on your hand, a gesture you've learned means he's more comfortable than he's letting on.

"oh, but this is so wonderful!" a melodic, cheerful voice chimes in, and you glance up to see koriand’r—kori to most—seated beside dick, her vibrant curly red hair catching the light as she smiles radiantly. "you must forgive us for prying, but jason does not often share such…delightful surprises."

"by 'us,' she means her." dick cuts in with a smirk, earning a playful nudge from kori.

"yes, and what of it?" she replies lightly, turning her attention fully to you. "you see, jason is like a tamaranian grisnek—so fierce and protective on the outside, but underneath, he is all kindness and loyalty. how could we not be curious about the person who has captured his heart?"

"great. glad we're all analyzing my personal life at the dinner table." jason mutters, though his hand stays on yours, his grip steady.

"do not be fooled," kori says in a whisper that is anything but subtle, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "jason pretends to be irritated, but inside, i know he is glowing with happiness."

your lips twitch into a smile despite yourself, and jason sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging with mock defeat. "i think i'm gonna need another drink."

kori leans back, laughing softly, the sound warm and lilting, as she looks between you and jason once more. "you are lovely." she adds sincerely, her tone softening. "and jason could not have chosen better."

tim drake, who you've only seen in passing when he's stopped by your apartment to drop off miscellaneous ‘private’ documents, raises an eyebrow. "yes, it's all very sweet." he hums it almost, tone carefully neutral but eyes sharp, studying you.

"sweet indeed." you agree, letting some of your genuine fondness for jason color your voice. it's not hard to fake being in love with someone when you've spent two years memorizing their coffee order, patching up their wounds, and falling asleep on their shoulder during movie marathons. the hard part, you're starting to realize, might be pretending it's all pretend.

bruce barely looks up from his plate as he speaks again, cutting through your blissful thoughts of jason, “a shame i wasn’t aware you two were involved.”

jason tenses beside you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “yeah, well. guess you don’t know everything, old man.”

bruce sets his fork down with deliberate slowness. his gaze flicks between the two of you, assessing, “i never said i did.” his voice is even, unreadable. “but you don’t bring people around often. that’s worth noting.”

jason scoffs, like he couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, unease, probably both.

jason’s hand finds yours under the table. it’s definitely not a calculated move, not a necessary nor obvious display for the act you’re putting on. it’s just—there. warm and solid, his fingers curling around yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you don’t let go.

dinner progresses with a strange mix of tension and ease. You find yourself falling into natural conversation with dick about your work, while jason maintains a careful distance from bruce's attempts at engagement. still, his hand hasn't left yours, and you're starting to wonder if he's forgotten it's all for show.

"so—how did you two finally get together?" dick asks, leaning forward with genuine interest.

you exchange a quick glance with jason, settling into the story you've rehearsed. "it wasn't really some big dramatic moment," you say, the lie feeling uncomfortably close to the truth. "we just...realized we work."

jason picks up the thread smoothly, his thumb still tracing patterns on your hand. "she was patching me up after a rough night, mad at me for being so bruised," he says, and you can hear the genuine emotion in his voice. "and i just...i dont know—knew, i guess."

tim's watching you both with analytical eyes, and you wonder if he can see through the charade. "that tracks." he says finally. "you two have always been...close."

"speaking of close," dick interjects with a grin, "i think it's hilarious jason used to insist you were 'just roommates', and yet never went on any of the dates i set him up on. i should have known, really." there's a pout on his face, humourous.

you laugh, perhaps a bit too nervously, "well, we were. for a while." the irony of the statement isn't lost on you. you can see jason watching you from your peripheral, face stoic—but his eyes are soft. the way they watch over you, simply affectionate.

bruce, who's been quietly observing, finally speaks. "i'm glad jason has someone looking out for him," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes your heart ache. "he's always been...independent."

jason's grip on your hand tightens almost imperceptibly. "yeah, well, some things change." he mutters, but there's less bite in his words than usual.

the conversation shifts to safer topics—work, current events, alfred's latest culinary experiments. you find yourself relaxing despite the pretense, falling into familiar patterns of banter with jason, finishing his sentences, and sharing knowing looks.

it's during dessert that damian, who's been suspiciously quiet, finally speaks up. "you're good for him," he declares with all the authority of a youngest sibling. "he's less annoying when you're around."

jason chokes on his tiramisu, and you pat his back automatically, the gesture so natural you don't even think about it. "thanks, damian!" you say, fighting back a smile. "i think."

as the evening winds down and dinner ends, you find yourself in the manor's vast library, having wandered away from the group for a moment of quiet. besides, you feel somewhat redundant against their coded phrases and stories. jason finds you, as he always does.

"hey." he speaks softly, coming to stand beside you. "you doing okay?"

you turn to face him, suddenly very aware of how close he is. "yeah, i'm good. your family's...intense, but nice. just like you said."

he laughs quietly, but there's something different in his eyes. "you're amazing, you know that? playing along with all this. you didn't have to."

"i wanted to." you admit, and it feels dangerous how true those words are. "besides, what are fake girlfriends for?"

jason's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, and for a moment, you think he might say something more. but then dick's voice calls from somewhere far off in the house and the moment gaps.

"we should head back." jason says, but he doesn't move. "before they send a search party."

you nod, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "yeah, we should."

but neither of you moves, caught in this strange liminal space where pretend and reality blur, and you're no longer sure which is which. even less sure if you hunger for dreams or waking existence—which is which? for a split second, you want to reach out. you desperately want to feel him—to possibly transfer the devotion you’re still too afraid to admit you harbor.

jason’s breath is staggered, coming out forced and shallow. his eyes, darker in the dim light, are flitting between you and the door—until he focuses in on you, fully. you’re too confused as to why he’s getting closer to you to react accordingly when his lips brush yours.

your first instinct is to furrow your brows, still confused. then, you kiss back. hungrily. confusion still fogs your mind, but nowhere near the way jason does. his lips are chapped, plump, and still tasting faintly of expensive dark liquor. his body cages you close him, hands respectfully at your shoulders. of course the only thing you can recognize is jason.

you err on the side respectfulness—opting to tug him closer by the tie. there’s a flash of the memory of him putting it on, and you can’t fight a small smirk from slipping onto your lips. jason must notice, because he finally breaks away to peer down at you.

“what?” he whispers, panting and staring down at your lips.

“what do you mean, what? we kissed.” you still feel giddy from his kiss, but reality begins to settle into you like a winter chill.

jason watches you closely, his expression a mix of smugness and unease, “hmmm—playing it dangerous.” he finally murmurs, shaking his head.

you arch a brow, feigning derision. “you say that to all the girls, todd?”

he exhales a laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “yeah,” he huffs. “that grand number of...you.”

before you can say anything, footsteps echo just outside the library's door. jason instinctively steps back, widening the space between you just as dick pokes his head in. “there you two are! we were about to send out a search party.”

you smile, pushing down the lingering tension. “sorry. just taking a little tour.”

dick’s gaze flickers between you and jason, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “right. well, come on. we're playing charades—and bruce is actually smiling. you don’t want to miss that.”

jason groans, but he follows you and dick back back toward the others. his hand brushes against yours in the hallway, and for a second, you think he’s going to take it again. but he doesn’t.

charades is winding down by the time you return, alfred putting away various dry erase boards and markers with the kind of efficiency only a butler can possesses.

kori beams when she sees you, reaching out to squeeze your hand. “lovebrids! you have returned!" she gestures to herself and grayson, "thank you for coming—we would like to extend our support to your relationship.”

jason lets out a little breath, like he wasn’t expecting that—like he isn’t sure what to do with the sincerity. “thanks, kori.”

bruce, too, seems slightly less intimidating now. “thank you for coming—you’re welcome here anytime, both of you.” he tells you, and it sounds like a rare offering.

something about it all settles in your chest, warm and unexpected. you’ve spent so much time being jason’s person in private—patching him up, watching his back, making sure he gets home in one piece—that it’s almost startling to have it acknowledged in front of everyone else.

goodnights and goodbyes come soon after, and tim catches jason by the elbow before the pair of you can walk out the door, pulling him aside for a hushed conversation. you linger near the doorway, talking with kori and dick, but you can’t help the way your attention keeps flickering back to jason.

when he finally returns to your side, his expression is unreadable. “ready to go?”

you nod, murmuring your goodbyes as you both step back into the night air. jason doesn’t say anything as he leads you back to the car, but his hands flex at his sides.

the drive back is quieter than before, the easy banter from earlier replaced with something heavier, something neither of you seems willing to touch just yet. jason’s grip is tight on the wheel, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road.

it isn’t until you’re pulling into the familiar streets near your apartment that he finally speaks. “they bought it.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “yeah? i told you so.”

jason’s eyes flick to you for a fraction of a second before he exhales. “thank you, seriously. you were great.”

you glance at him, something warm curling in your chest. “we just make a good team.”

something glints in his expression, something hesitant, something aching. “yeah,” he agrees, voice quieter. “we do.”

the silence stretches between you as he parks the car. you unbuckle your seatbelt, but neither of you make a move to get out. stuck stagnant.

“so, this is was fake...” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

jason’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, knuckles red. “yeah.”

you should leave it at that. you should forget the kiss. you should revert back to just his roommate. you should laugh it off, make some joke about how convincing you both were—but you don't—instead you say, “does it still feel fake to you? us...tonight?”

jason’s breath catches. for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. you almost let doubt seep in.

then, he turns, his eyes dark and searching. “god, no.”

your heart stutters in your chest, and you swallow hard, pulse roaring in your ears. “good. me neither.”

for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to laugh it off. but you don’t, you won't. and when he leans in—slow, hesitant, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—you don’t.

you decide to meet him halfway, instead.

writer’s note .☘︎ ݁˖ all of my thanks to the helpful, @sunnie-angel for being my beta reader for this fic! thank you again for your services—and your sweet comments on this little story, very very happy to have a moot like you !!!

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

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etfrin · 1 year ago

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⤷❝Mine To Love | Coriolanus Snow❞ˎˊ-

⇢☾Warning: NSFW | Snow is his own warning, mentions of killing, mentions of caging/locking you up (doesn't do it though), hair pulling, breath play if you squint, creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it dumbfucks), pinv sex, blowjob, male masterbation, cunnilingus, mating press, mentions of Lucy Gray, no spoilers | lmk if I forgot anything!

⇢☾Pairing: young president Snow x fem! Reader

⇢☾Summary: Snow realizing his feelings for you, being fucked up about it and fucks you!

⇢☾A/N: don't romanticize, it's dark romance so y'all are warned! This is set in the same au as The Study (you don't have to read it beforehand but it's recommended)

< masterlist > < bc: @cafekitsune > <tag list>

It started slowly, so slow that Snow didn't even realize it. It started with that night in the study after he had you. He didn't touch you again, denying himself of you. You, his wife, a little bird stuck in a cage. The First Lady of Panem was nothing but a doll, a showcase piece for the country.

You played the role well enough, but you weren't a doll at all. You brought life in what was otherwise a stone-cold mannor. The workers cook your favorite, making sure you're the most well-accommodated. Like a Queen. How their shoulders relax and the smile that springs up when they do the tasks that you assigned them. You earned their respect and their loyalty.

You were dangerous yet harmless. It baffled Coriolanus to no end. It started slow. He coincidentally met you in the hallways more and more. After that night, you couldn't make eye contact with him, no longer did you greet him with an awkward hello or a shy smile.

You look down at the floor whenever he passes you by, your body flushing from the mere second of proximity. So obvious and adorable. He loved how easy you were to read, how open you were. Whatever your lips hide, your eyes show. Whatever your soul hides, your body shows.

It started slow. The monthly dinners with the First Lady turned weekly. Every Sunday now he had you sit across him for dinner and he would ask you about your day. Just to be polite, mind you, don't look into it. He would be annoyed by those one-word answers but would never show it. His fingers subtly grasped the glass of wine tighter than he should, his heart pricking his brain into paranoia. ‘What else?’ he wanted to ask, ‘Stop saying it was good. Tell me what made it good.’

Instead of uttering those words, cameras were placed on every inch of the manner with the audio functions so everything is recorded for his and only his view. He watched you walking through the library, your fingertips touching the spines of the books you already read (which was most of them), you didn't even realize new books were added to the collection, all similar to the ones you liked. He watched you stroll the gardens, your face in a frown at the neverending white roses. A red rose and several other flowers were added the next day.

It started slow. He began to talk about his day more and more trying to fill a silence. He started asking for your opinion and oh, how that lighted your eyes up that you were finally doing what you were meant to do. Supporting him not as a doll but as a wife. You begin to talk about your days more, trusting him with your day-to-day activities. You tell him about friends and family, something he wasn't interested in (he has files on every single person you mentioned).

The nights that were dedicated to his needed sleep turned into the witching hours in which he would stroke his cock over the memory of you. His mouth biting into the pillow to stop his groans, hearing them would mean admitting his need for you and he rejected that notion. His cock was oversensitive because he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop fucking into his fist, again and again thinking about you. Not just your pussy but you. Your desperate moans, your lips marking his neck, your slick walls, and everything of you. Your tears, your head on his chest when he had fucked you. Everything.

He wanted to pin you against a wall. He wanted to bend over during dinner. He wanted you on his lap in his study. He wanted to push you to the bed and fuck you until the bed breaks. He wanted you!

The realization made him spill onto his bed sheets for the nth time. A gasp escaped his lips as he realized how deeply you are rooted in him now. He needed to kill you. He can't afford this again. Whatever this is. Obsession? Love? Was there ever a difference? He needed this to end.

‘You don't deserve to be loved,’ he thinks, you were no Lucy Gray after all, you were different. You could never compare to his first and only (not anymore) love. But he had caged you, he had you and knew your every move. The rumors that spread of cheating were seized along with the man who flirted with you. True to your words, you hadn't fallen to the temptations of the Capitol, rejecting their offers politely rather than basking in their attention like before.

‘Good,’ he thought, he had killed everyone who had touched you and it was hard to hide the evidence. “I am so much better than her,” he muttered, “I could do so much better.” He asked himself, ‘Why? After all the promises I made to myself of never repeating the mistake.’

He didn't get a reply but he dreamt of you.

Breakfast had passed, lunch too, he hadn't seen you once today. A quick peek at his monitors showed that you were sleeping in your room. He clenched his jaw, a part of him hating you for sleeping in because it deprived him of seeing you. A part of his heart warmed because your hair was a mess, the shirt you were wearing while sleeping was his, and you looked so darn pretty.

Coriolanus convinced himself that he was going to your room to wake you up. Nobody should sleep this late into the day. It wasn't healthy, and he needed the First Lady to remain healthy. That was all.

He stepped into the room, his footsteps quiet so he didn't alert you. He sits down on the bed, your sleeping figure beside him. Your mouth had dried drool on the corners which made him disgusted but amusement all the same. His hand went to your cheek, he couldn't control the action of his thumb stroking your cheek.

“I should lock you up forever,” he whispered as softly as possible, almost inaudible. “In this room, so no one can see you but me.”

He knew by now his thoughts weren't normal and it would never be. That's him and he had accepted himself. He leaned in closer, his lips inches away from yours. He stopped right before he closed the gap. He takes a deep breath, taking in your scent before pulling back.

His hand goes to your shoulder, he shakes you. “Wake up, bird,” he said, his eyes softening when he saw you wake up and peer at him with confused eyes. You yawn, and sit up, your eyes wide when you look at him. You rub them with your hand and blink.

“Is there anything wrong, Coryo?” You asked softly, “Anything I can do to help.” “You should shower and eat first,” he said instead, “and next time don't sleep in. I don't like indiscipline.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I was finishing a book.” Your eyes flicker to him, “It's nice by the way! I will tell you about it during dinner.” He wanted to hear about it now, he wanted to pull you closer and kiss your lips, he wanted to push you into the mattress and breed you. He wanted to clean you up after and feed you every kind of feed.

He clenched his jaw, trying to get rid of such thoughts. “We'll see,” he said before walking out of the room, accidentally slamming the door. The first sign of Snow losing control.

The second sign of Coriolanus losing control was how his breath hitched when he saw you during dinner. You are wearing yet another one of his shirts (how do you even get your hands on them) and that's it. A white shirt that reached your knees, you had forgone pants and opted for shorts that couldn't even be seen. Your legs were in complete view, the same legs he wanted wrapped around his waist.

He didn't say a single comment even when it was clear you were waiting for one. ‘Were you trying to seduce him?’ he thinks, ‘Or something else.’ He felt paranoid about you wearing his shirt. Did you want him? Want him to bend you over, press your face onto the table and fuck you like you were an animal?

He felt his pants getting tighter from his thoughts, flashes of what he could do to you, what he had done to you. He couldn't focus as you talked during dinner, he made a mental note to watch the cameras later to know the words you had blessed him with.

It hits him like a wave when dinner ends and you come to him with a book. Tabs were spilling out and it was a hardcover of an old classic that he had to read during the academy.

“You once told me that you liked this book, I spent last night annotating it! I did a few finishing touches before dinner…”

That explains your attire, you were busy formatting this gift for him. He took the book from your hand, he wanted to throw it across the room, he wanted to set it on fire. It was now his most precious treasure, more important than Panem itself.

The truth he denied washes over him. Making him take a sharp breath and your eyebrows etch together in concern. He had once a girl dedicate songs for him, now he had a wife dedicating booms for him. ‘It would be a mistake,’ he told himself, ‘It won't be a mistake if I don't repeat the past.’

The desires he shoved at the back of his mind sprang forward and he made a decision. The third sign of Coriolanus surrendering to himself was that he had everyone including the guards leave the dining room. Making your eyes widen from the sudden instruction.

“Is there anything wrong-” you begin to ask before Snow interrupts you. “Here is what's going to happen now. You're gonna be on your knees, you'll take my cock in your mouth and you'll make me cum. Then I will take you to our room and I'll fuck you until you can't remember your name.”

You blink once, twice just staring into his eyes that revealed nothing before you went closer to him and got down on your knees for him. “Like this?” You asked, breathless, your cheeks flushed. He smirked, “Exactly like this, pet.”

“Now part those pretty lips for me,” he said as he unzipped his pants and set his hard cock free. He lets out a chuckle as he sees you eyeing his cock like a long-lost lover. Guess he wasn't the only one thinking about that time.

You part your mouth wide enough for him as he pushes his cock in slowly. No matter how desperate he was a gentleman for his wife. He knew better than to gag you. He stopped when his cock had completely disappeared, his length engulfed into your wet, hot mouth.

He throws back his head as his dick hits the back of your throat. He relishes the sound of your choking around his length. He lets out his groan, trying his hardest not to cum down your throat so soon. His hand is in your hair, keeping you in place like an obedient pet.

You try your best to take in a deep breath as your tongue swirls around his length as much as possible. You weren't the best at blowjobs, but you knew the sloppier the better. Saliva ran down your cheek as you tried your best to focus on his cock underside, your tongue dragging itself across a pulsing vein that reached his cockhead.

You moan around his length as the taste of pre-cum bursts in your mouth. You close your eyes and try your best, bopping your head up and down. You clenched your fist, trying your best not to gag when his cock gets deeper into your throat.

Meanwhile, Snow was a wreck of a man, the heat of your mouth ruining his capability of having coherent thoughts. You were sucking his soul through his dick it seemed to him. His fingers tangled in your locks, gripping your hair tighter as a way to anchor himself to reality.

His blue eyes dilated to almost black as he looks at you taking his cock so well. Like you were made for it. Made for his cock. Made for him. Meant to be his wife, his bird, his pet, and his love. It's destiny, he decided as he pulls you off his cock and uses his suit sleeves to wipe your mouth and chin.

‘Everything leads to this,’ he thought, as he pulled you onto his lap and pressed a kiss to your lips. The saltiness of his taste in your mouth does not deter his tongue from tasting you.

“Go to my- our room,” he whispered to you as he broke the kiss. “I'll be there soon,” he promises as he nuzzles into your neck, his lips kissing your skin. You nod and get off his lap. Your feet drag you into his room.

Meanwhile, Coriolanus takes a deep breath, trying to maintain whatever pathetic excuse of sanity he had held. It didn't work. His cock was hard enough to hurt and his brain made him think. He thinks of removing you, he thinks of keeping you. He thinks of plans to protect you, backup plans to make sure you remain untouched while still maintaining the image of the First Lady. His true possessiveness and obsession flares up in his mind.

‘It won't be a mistake if I don't repeat the past,’ he told himself, repeating that line to his head.

He takes a deep breath, a glance at the cameras shows workers and guards kept the halls clear and you were in his room and on his bed waiting for him. Waiting for him to ravish you as you kept playing with the buttons of the shirt, and your underwear on the floor. Your face was crimson but your lower lip was in a darker shade of red with how much you bitten it because of nervousness.

He lets out a huff of air before adjusting himself accordingly. Coriolanus Snow was many things, gentlemen included and gentlemen don't keep their ladies waiting.

You freeze as he enters the room. You swallow nervously, your fingers pausing on the shirt button you were playing with. He glances at the panties that were on the floor and he gives you a little smirk. “Take it all off, my wife,” he said as his hands worked to undress him. His suit was on the floor, his shirt joining it soon enough.

You have to press your thighs together as you see his skin again, a whimper escaping your lips at the sight. He was so beautiful, craved by the angels, breathed to life by the devil. Soon, his pants and boxers were getting ridden off.

You check him out, your gaze hungry. Your fingers shake with desire as you take off your (his) shirt. You let it fall, exposing yourself completely to him, like he did for you. His eyes rack you up, causing a flush to every visible inch of your skin.

“Open your legs,” he said, as he walked closer and got down on his knees for you. “I am hungry,” he said, while his lips pressed to your knee and his lustful eyes bewitched you. You had to bite your tongue to not let a moan from his mere words. You spread your legs wide, letting your cunt come into his view.

Your folds that were glistening with your arousal and your slit which was the cause of your juices fluttered around nothing from his gaze. “Exquisite,” he had whispered, the praise warming you up and making your pussy clench harder. “Eager too,” he chuckles, looking up at you but you refuse to meet his gaze.

“Have your meal,” you mumbled, embarrassed. He pressed a wet kiss to your inner thigh, making your breath hitch from the contact. A sharp moan escapes when he bites, his teeth digging into the flesh and your hand falls onto his hair. Your fingers grip the blonde locks but you don't try to push him away. Your legs tried to close around him, but his hands made sure to keep them spread as he liked it.

He pulled away, admiring the mark before he pressed another wet kiss to it. His fingers grip your thighs, they hold tight enough to leave marks too.

He takes in a deep breath, nuzzling into your thigh. Your primal scent makes him go wild, his nail digging into your skin as he brings his lips closer to your pussy. One swipe of his tongue onto your folds and he groans louder than you have ever heard him to do so.

“You taste like fucking candy,” he lets out, as his nose bumps into your clit, his tongue messily swirling around your folds, gathering as much of your juices as possible. Your legs were all on his shoulders now as he all but pressed his face, burying himself in your cunt. He takes in a deep breath through his mouth before he begins to ravish you properly.

His mouth taking in your entire pussy and sucking it with such devotion it made you see stars. He laps at your pussy, his tongue never stopping to devour you. You pulled him even closer, your thighs closing around his head. The action only made him. You couldn't see it, but his eyes rolled back from the lack of air and your taste that quickly became his favorite.

His teeth pulled at the outer lips of your pussy, making you cry out and gush more juices. He licks it all up. Before his attention goes to your little bud, his mouth kisses it at first. Then he takes your clit into his mouth to suck without any mercy.

It makes you cry out, the soles of your feet digging into his back as your hips begin to rut against his face. You have no control over your actions. You were gripping his hair so tight you were afraid that you tore away a few strands. Overwhelming pleasure attacked all of your senses as he didn't stop his merciless actions.

You arch your back, your lips moaning his name as heat begins to gather in your body. You cry out, “Close! Coryo! Fuck!” Pleads begin to leave your mouth as your hips grind faster, your clit nudged his nose as his tongue is now inside your walls, fucking you with his tongue.

Your eyes widen, and you let out a silent scream when his teeth nip your swollen clit. You lay on the bed, panting as your pussy cums on his face. Your arousal makes a mess on his face which makes you even more slick when he pulls back and gets on top of you.

You looked into his eyes, his cold blue eyes that were nearly black now. He was panting, both of your breaths mixing into the air. With whatever senses you have left, you use your palm to clean up some of the mess on his face.

As soon as you finish up, he holds your hand. His mouth on your palm with broad strokes of his tongue he licks the remaining of your juices clean. “Can't let it go to waste, my bird,” he whispered to you as he leaned down. His body caging yours or were you caging him down with your legs around his waist? He pressed a kiss to your cheek. Sweet and gentle, and so unlike him but you don't dare question his affections. May it be sweet or savory, you accept it with your arms wide open.

“Want you,” you whispered to him. “You'll have me when I see fit,” he replied, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck before they reached the flesh of your breasts. One of his hands squeezed your breast and his thumb rubbed circles on your nipple. His lips paid attention to the underside of it, licking the skin around the round flesh before his teeth sank in making you gasp. He sucks harshly, his hold on your breast getting rougher as he forms the mark on your skin. When he's assured that a hickey will be formed, his lips pull back and he presses a kiss to the mark.

“You're mine,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin before he takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks just as harshly as before. You moan, “Yours, Snow!” Your hands on his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh. His fingers play and squeeze your other breast while he continues to suck your bud. Your cunt despite having a previous earthsharing orgasm begins to pulse with need. You whimper, “Corio, please!”

Coryo pulls away, his eyebrows etched in annoyance, as much as he likes to hear you beg, he would rather focus on his task of marking you up. He leans up and presses his lips to you. You moan into his mouth as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers tangling themselves into his curls bringing him even closer to you. He breaks the kiss, “I'll teach you to be obedient later, my pet.”

You let out a whimper when he pressed a hard kiss against your lips. His hands travel down to your hips. “Get ready,” he whispered to you, “I meant my words.” I'll fuck you until you can't remember your name. Remembering his earlier words, you whine loudly, “Please!”

His hand grips your hip tightly as his other hand holds his hard cock and guides it to your entrance. Just to be a little tease, he swipes his mushroom tip all over your cunt, his cockhead bumping your swollen clit making you arch your back and your nails dig into his flesh harder, making him moan as well.

He finally pressed his tip into your slit, his cock gliding in smoothly because of how wet you were. He groans as his dick gets sucked into warmth. His head is between the space of your shoulder. He was panting, his hot breath hitting your skin as he pushed in inch by inch. Your hands are on his back, your legs around his waist as you encourage him to go deeper into you with your soft moans.

His teeth sink into your neck to stop a groan, as his cock reaches your deepest spot. While your nails drag themselves across his back to create red lines. Both of you finding ways to anchor yourself to reality, to not go insane with the pleasure you find in each other.

“Move,” you plead, “Please, Coryo, need you to fuck me. Need you!” Snow decided to have mercy on you both, his hips began to move shallowly, and he refused to completely pull back. He refused the concept of depriving his dick of your sweet, wet pussy. “Faster,” you beg, his deep thrust hits at your every spot, some you didn't even know existed. It fried at your senses, your mind going haywire, your body getting desperate for another release.

“No,” he barks near your ear, his mouth biting your earlobe before he begins to kiss your jaw and then to your collarbone. His lips suck purple and blue bruises on your skin while his hips grind into you. Making you go dizzy and insane with how his cockhead kept grazing your g-spot.

“Please, please,” you babble, “You're fucking me so good, Coryo! I can't take it, please! Fuck me harder, love!” His hips had stopped moving as he heard your words. His head leaned up to you, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “What did you say?”

You looked straight into his eyes, not hiding the love you had for him, letting it flow through your words and your body. “Love,” you whispered, your lips pressing a delicate kiss that could shatter everything you had built with Snow. “I love you,” you whispered. One of your hands moves to his cheek, caressing him. “You don't have to do anything in return, just know that I love you.” You smile at him, knowing it's more likely that he won't ever return your feelings.

You prepared yourself for a harsh rejection but instead, his hips begin to move again. Harder, faster than before, his cockhead kissing your cervix with his thrusts, his fingers digging into your hips marking it. You won't be able to walk later but that didn't matter.

What mattered was how perfect Coriolanus had begun to fuck you. No, it wasn't a fuck. This was something more. Something changed with your confession, something changed and will remain changed for the rest of both of your lives.

One of his hands reached upward, his fingers snaking around your throat. He pressed it in, not enough to block your breathing but enough to make you lightheaded. Your pussy which was already tight, clenched around him further making him groan right against your ear.

“Lover indeed,” he whispered, his words that you nearly missed, your heart understood what he meant. You gasp, “Kiss me.” You knew that even without him saying those words, he could love you all the same.

Snow complies, his lips clashing with yours. His hips rutting into you as his hands guide your legs into the mating press position, making you cry out into the kiss as his cock reaches even deeper than before causing a small bump into your stomach that neither of you notices.

The kiss got open-mouthed, desperate with how his tongue tangled with yours. It was filth filled with the pathetic, insanity of love you both felt for each other. His thrusts got faster, and sloppier as he was close to his end. Your cunt pulsating around his length as you too were close to shattering again.

What it took for both of you to reach the end was him breaking the kiss to whisper, “I should kill you. I should kill you for making me a lovesick fool again.”

The words even when you know can mean your doom makes you cum like nothing else. Your lips cry out as your walls begin to milk his cock for what it's worth. He groans into your mouth, letting himself feel your fluttering cunt before he thrusts into you once, twice, and finds his release. His cock spilling into you, his cum painting your insides white, marking you.

He pulls out, his back covered with scratches, his curls clinging to his forehead and his lips swollen from the kisses. You looked just as much of a mess as he did, with marks all over your body.

He thinks to himself as he lies beside you. He wasn't going to kill you now. Not in ten years or fifty but your end would only be when he decides.

He loves you after all, in his twisted way.

tags : @stelleduarte @nowitsmissing @lifeonawhim @le-lena @justacaliforniandreamer

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