#linens swapping

[oldfarmhouse]

seasonal🍂details

#i love flannel

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul (Here) | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: Putting all my brain rot from my notes into something cohesive. Contrary to my love for ripping your hearts out, I've come with some fluff this time around. BTW you may or may not already do things mentioned - I write my works with a specific Yuu in mind for each character so this is based on them. Just a reminder.

Habits you steal:

Plan-Books (Inherited) : Riddle habitually carries a planner with all his tasks. A physical one, not an app in his cell phone like most students choose. You find it easier to manage and swap to paper-and-pen alternatives at his recommendation.

Tidiness (Inherited): Riddle is a nit-pickier when it comes to physical presentation. His habits of pressing his uniform, laying his clothes out every night, and dressing conservatively rub off. He has a point - ironed trousers do make a difference. Every morning he will redo your uniform tie. It's never knotted to his 'standard', and is his preferred excuse to greet you before class.

"Now, isn't that better? Surely you are more comfortable in ironed linens than those rags you'd been wearing as pajamas. You seriously found them lying in Ramshackle? Were you not given an allowance to buy basic needs? Ridiculous! The Headmaster's irresponsibility holds no bounds!" <- Utterly appalled that you've been sleeping in century-old robes. He supplies you with seven sets of pajamas, a spare uniform, and an iron + board for Ramshackle. All after reaming the Headmaster for neglect in the last dorm-head meeting - either Crowley coughed up the marks or Riddle will supply from his own bank. Seven have mercy if he chooses to become a lawyer instead of a doctor.

No Heels (Developed): Riddle has a height complex. He won't make a show of it, but you wearing heels does emasculate him. Especially if you're already taller naturally. For his sake, you choose to slay your outfits in flats.

"Are those new loafers? Oh - no, they're lovely. The embroidery is exquisite and I can see why Pomefiore's Housewarden models for their brand. I merely thought you preferred the heeled saddle-shoes we saw during the past weekend trip. I must have been mistaken. Never mind me. You look wonderful."

Playing Brain Teasers (Inherited): Riddle has this thing with memory - you don't know if he's really into preventing old-age Alzheimer's or what. He carries a book of teaser games like Sudoku, etc. for when he has downtime and you eventually get into them too.

"Oh! My Rose, would you care to join me for lunch? Trey's siblings recently mailed in a large collection of cross-words. You'll find they are both educational and entertaining - hm? I do not seem the 'type' for word-games? I assure you, even I can relax on occasion. There is no need to look so surprised." <- Riddle's been making a grand effort to do things he enjoys and become more personable. Trey's siblings did not send the collection. Riddle went into town and picked it out on his own. He also found a book on organizing excursions since he's big on quality time. He is dead-set on not being a neglectful or 'boring' partner.

Swear Jar (Developed): Tired of Riddle collaring Ace for his vulgar tongue, you suggest a Heartslabyul swear jar. When the jar gets filled, the money can be used to fund things like study materials and renovations for the dorm. Riddle liked this idea, but now implements it on anyone who sets foot in the Heartslabyul. Considering you spend most of your time there, you've had to develop a vast vocabulary beyond swearing. Oh - you also unironically use the word 'fiddlesticks' now.

Habits he steals:

Useless Expenses (Inherited): You are an enabler without a doubt. Riddle has always functioned with the bare bones - with function and efficiency being the number one priority. Ever so slowly - you've spoiled him with aesthetically pleasing stationary. At first all the needless purchases felt redundant - why buy the pillowcases with flowers when plain white is cheaper? You can invest in a higher quality this way. Yet you've ruined him with gifts that he had no choice but to use. Now he needs to buy the pens with little hedgehogs on them because studying doesn't feel the same with a plain ballpoint.

Slang Dictionary (Developed): With each passing day, all the students in Heartslabyul get more creative at bending the rules. That includes you. Riddle takes it upon himself to carry a 'little-black-book' full of all the sang words he is unfamiliar with. He does want to be a bit more 'hip' to understand you more, but at the same time he wants to bust any student being a smart-mouth. It's an ongoing battle *sigh*.

"Apologies, could you repeat that term for me? Surely it must be relevant to my lecture if you and Ace are whispering. 'Let him cook'? Do you think we are in a culinary lecture?! Have you not been listening to - ah. So it's in reference to letting me finish before interrupting...One moment. I need to make a note."

Chewing Gum (Developed): This is an ode to psychology. In short, eating is tied to a person's fight-or-flight. Instincts dictate that our bodies need to be in a calm state to eat comfortably. One day when Riddle was at his wits end, you tossed him a pack of sugarless gum and told him to chew. Disregarding Trey's unholy dental screeching, Riddle develops a gum dependence for when he's stressed out. On the bright side, his jaw has never been so sharp.

“Mimicry? You must be mistaken. Even if my influence has affected their person, surely there are only positive developments” == Riddle denies any changes if confronted. In truth, he’s well aware of how much you’ve helped him grow. It’s the opposite accusation that spikes concern. Riddle does not want others thinking you’re a mini-version of him. Rumors are not kind and neither is his current reputation. Making those amends is his burden to bare. He is flattered to see you paying attention to his mannerisms, and secretly proud that your bond is strong enough to affect the psyche.

Habits you steal:

Whistling (Inherited): Trey whistles while working in the kitchen or doing general chores around the dorm. He's not very loud with it, so not may students are bothered. Since you laze about in his shadow the tunes he goes through do become repetitive. Now you do the same when cleaning up Ramshackle. Grim wants to knock you both out because he can't take it anymore.

"Ah -- How'd you know it was me in here? Just because I bake for the un-birthday parties doesn't mean I live in the kitchen, you know. My whistling? Huh. Never thought that would be my calling card but there are worse things, haha"

Head-Scratching (Inherited): Trey's got a habit of scratching the back of his head when he's uncomfortable or nervous. That, or rubbing at the nape of his neck while adverting eye contact. You start doing this too whenever you're being scolded or put in a tough situation.

Dental Hygiene (Inherited): By far the most obvious shared trait. Trey enforces his dental habits onto everyone- you are no exception. You now own four different kinds of floss, two toothbrushes (one being electric), and have a strict hygiene routine. Your pearly whites have never been so clean. Eventually you become somewhat of a secondary enforcer, policing anyone who sleeps over your dorm to take care of themselves before bed. All of Heartslabyul learns that there is no going back when you scold Riddle for not brushing after his teatime tart, and live to tell the tale.

"Hey - uh, weird question? Were you handing out floss to the Spelldrive Team yesterday? Seriously? I though Grim was pulling my leg - oh, no! It's not weird at all! Those guys should have a better routine for all the meat they eat when bulking. I'm just shocked you got through to them." <- Very proud. Mildly cocky. He's been itching to get those negligent jocks to floss after their banquets his entire tenure, but steered away from that conflict like the plague. Thank you for making his dreams come true. Now if you could maybe get them to stop picking their gums with toothpicks?

Habits he steals:

Overbuying Food (Developed): Being a baker's son, Trey's good with finances and money. He's also meticulous with the ingredients he purchases for his bakes. You are not. You go to Sam's shop, buy whatever is on sale, and then bring it back home to improvise. This ends poorly more often than not, and behold! Trey has two Ramshackle sluggers snooping around his kitchen for eats. This is unpredictable and therefore he now never knows what amount to buy. You've ruined him.

Phone Calls (Developed): Texting is easier. Especially since phone calls can be a commitment that Trey dislikes being wrapped up in. Whenever Cater's name pops up as the caller, Trey knows he's getting an ear full. The thing is that you never. answer. your. phone. Either the text gets lumped in with the hundreds of missed messages you have, or Grim stole your cell to play mobile games. So Trey gives up and only ever calls. Either Grim will answer or you'll pick up thinking it's the snooze of your alarm.

"Hello? Prefect, where are you? It's me, Trey. Just calling to see if you're still coming to the Un-Birthday party? Riddle's getting a bit nervous since the schedule's set for the next hour. Grim's already here with Ace and Deuce - uh, want Cater to send a double to pick you up? I have a sinking feeling that you're asleep...Call me? Please?" <- He was correct. You called back not a moment after, half-asleep and hauling ass not to be late.

Speaking in Propositions (Inherited): Trey's normally good at keeping neutrality in a conversation, but getting a clear answer out of Yuu you is like solving a rubix cube. Either it's easy and instant, or a long game. Eventually your habit of indecisiveness rubs off on him and he asks questions more than answers them. Evidently this gets his younger classmen to stop asking for favors unless they really need to.

“Aha - really? I didn’t notice at all. Okay. Okay, I picked up on a few hints. What’s so wrong with them taking after me? It’s cute, right?” == Trey is the observant sort that picks up on his influence quickly. Not just anyone carries floss in their pocket at all times - and the looks from his dorm-mates when you offer some up is enough for the realization to click. Trey’s used to playing the respectable sort, and finds it endearing that you’re taking his good notes to heart. In truth, most of Trey’s mimicry is intentional. He’s a flexible guy who doesn’t mind altering his habits to fit your needs. Easier this way, y’know?

Habits you steal:

Speaking in Acronyms(Inherited): Now this is scary. The first time it happened, you had to take a pause and just re-evaluate your entire life. You don't use them nearly as often as Cater does, but somewhere along the line your brain must have rewired to speak in internet lingo. O-M-G you're TOTALLY twinning with him right now, period :)

Nicknames (Inherited): Again, frightening. You once swore against ever calling him Cay-Cay. It isn't very slay-slay. Yet you can only hear him use nicknames for so long until you're unconsciously calling people by them too. Especially since he's always dishing gossip. It starts in your head, which is fine. It's not like they know. Then you call Lilia 'Lils' and that old fart is just grinning behind his sleeve because ohoho~ young love <3

"Did you just- AHA! OMG DO IT AGAIN?! Wait, gotta get my camera out for this - wha? Oh, that's totes not fair! C'mon. Call me Cay-Cay. Just once! I won't even post it to Magicam, please? Lils won't believe me without proof! Pleasssssseeeee - " <- He actually doesn't want you to call him Cay-Cay all the time. Cater likes you using his given name, since it's more personal. Although the way it obviously slipped out on accident is just too cute to ignore.

Reality TV (Inherited): At first you don't like the gossip. It's cheesy, a bit annoying, and the shaky camera-work for nearly every show is headache inducing. Cater likes his dose of drama in his free-time, and Ramshackle has a tv that no one is using. It starts with him watching while you do other things around the dorm. Yet each time you pass the living area, you take longer to leave. Lingering around like one of the ghosts. Then he pulls you in with snacks and starts giving the low-down of what's going on, pulling out a bottle of tangerine shimmer polish to paint your nails. It's just one episode, watch it for him? Please? Oh no. No. No. Suddenly you're invested in who's the baby-daddy of little Ricky and what Chantel is going to do because her sister just lost the house to foreclosure.

"#KingdomOfDeadbeats - am I right? Ugh. I'm so glad we met if that's the dating scene back home...What?! I know it isn't real! Don't be a dummy, I was just joking! Ah! Stop! Don't hit me!" <- Half-hearted jokes about going on one of those talk-shows one day. You're an alien, after all - imagine the juicy drama and views his account would get from doing an interview? It's all jokes though. Cater likes spilling the tea, but hates being it. Don't ever abandon him and go out for milk though, kay? He doesn't want to pay Grim's child support. Otherwise he might have no choice smh

Habits he steals:

Phone/Web Games (Inherited): Cater's phone is mainly full of social media. He's not too into the gaming scene, it's not his peeps y'know? Alas, you download a few dress-up games and one MMO on his phone. First off - props on getting his phone. That's Cay-Cay's lifeline and not just anyone gets to play with it. Pray tell - what is this Wonderstar Planet (props if you know what is being ref.) and how can he become the most influential digital streamer on it? Congrats. He's addicted.

"Who's this Muscle Red and why's he bombing our raid - AH! He just tea-bagged me! So not cool...Prefect? STOP LAUGHING WE HAVE BETS ON THIS MATCH! There goes my collab opportunity, big fail" <- Muscle Red continues to make an appearance. Eventually he becomes Cater's official rival on stream, and Lils is all to invested in the tea cater drops during club meets. Side note. You're the one who gave 'muscle red' Cater's domain code. The lore thickens.

Internet Caution (Developed): This goes without saying, but Cater's well-known in the Magicam scene. He's very forward and knows his way around using charisma. Since you're not in the scene as much, he becomes more cautious of where and when he does streams. The change is so subtle that only the most observant people will pick up on it - but Cay-Cay doesn't want any creepos popping in if y'know what I'm saying. His sisters were the ones to instigate this change.

“Awe~ SRSLY?! That’s fresh news to my ears but good, right? Ne, are there any clips or pics? I need my evidence, y’see. Especially if my cutie is off taking notes from their one and only. C’mon, spill the tea!” == Cheeky Cater is well aware of what’s happening. He’d humor anyone out for some light teasing - after all, he isn’t by your side at all hours. His walls are probably the second most difficult in all of campus to bypass, so he’s both sweetened and nerved to see you picking up on his mannerisms. That’s proof of a strong attachment, after all.

Habits you steal:

Knuckle Cracking (Inherited): Deuce still does this from his biker days. It could be because joint pain from past fights, or possibly air retention in his knuckles from studying. Regardless, Deuce cracks his knuckles at least once every few hours and you began to mimic him. Some people groan at the popping sounds but it really does feel good to release the tension. Let's just hope neither of you dislocate any fingers on accident.

"Stop that! G-geez, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Thought you broke a finger...your hands are stiff? That just means you're studying a lot! I think...uh, let's break? I think there's some leftovers in the kitchen." <- Deuce 100% gets needing to pop those air bubbles. His hands get stiff from studying all the time, but don't crack them too much or you might dislocate something. Side note - he shows you how to wrap your fingers with a soothing salve. He used to do it after fights, but now it's a great help after class.

Double Notes (Developed): Deuce tries. He really does. Yet the lad just isn't great when it comes to book smarts. Seeing that he is dedicated to turning over a new leaf, you make a habit of copying all your notes. He isn't allowed to share them with Ace or Grim - else all bets are off. Sometimes you leave little 'good job' stickers on the last page for him. Is he a toddler? No. Does he peel the stickers off and save them? Totally. He is a good noodle. Suck it Ace.

Sewing (Developed): He breaks things. Most of the time it's an accident. You've learned to carry a mini-sewing kit for all the rips in Deuce's uniform. Same for mini remedies for stains and other problems. It's not like he's trying to get grass stains all over his under-shirt or to split the seam in his gloves (nearly every week). It just happens, and every time he comes to you with a kicked-puppy look with a promise of it being the last time. It is never the last time.

"Uhm...hun'? It happened again. I'm so sorry for bothering you but Housewarden is going to kill me if he sees the tear in my blazer! Can you fix it?! I can't handle another collar with my exam tomorrow! I need to breathe to focus! - really!? I owe you one! Snacks are on me tonight."

Habits he steals:

Bottomless Stomach (Developed): Have leftovers from dinner? Bring them over. He'll get the tubba-ware back in 1-2 days. Coupon for buy-one-get-one at Sam's? He'll take the extra and polish it off in less than a minute. Deuce becomes a human garbage disposal and is taking the unwanted condiments off your sandwich to eat. Just pick them off and leave 'em on the corner of his lunch plate. Even if he dislikes it, he'll down it so you don't have to.

"Mm. Oh, thanks hun' - its that all you're eatin'? You don't like the steam bun? It is a bit dry, but wasting food is disrespectful to the cooks! I'll finish it for you so have my fruit instead. You still need to eat" <- 10/10 very thoughtful and not picky at all. He is grateful to eat your cooking and will gobble up all leftovers at Ramshackle, but doesn't think twice to sharing meals in the cafeteria. He will notice though if you do not eat enough. Restocks the snack cabinet if he sees it's empty. Is touched if you routinely share things you know he enjoys, like saving half your frittata on purpose.

Early Riser (Inherited): See - even if you hate the mornings, there is no choice at Night Raven College. As Ramshackle Prefect you need to be up to take care of business before class. Deuce becomes your personal alarm clock because he wants some time with you before everyone else joins in. Mind you that he lives with three other dudes who threaten to end him every morning because his alarm wakes them up too. Eventually he can wake up without it, but the time leading is unpleasant.

"W-what? Seriously? I've been trying to be more like them! They're a good person and responsible so I've been trying to follow their example. To think we've been doing the same thing this entire time...." == Why would you ever imitate him? He's been trying his damn best to become an honor student worth respecting, and has a long way to go. To think you're comfortable enough with him to mimic his mannerisms? It's a pipe dream, one he doesn't grasp until it's put right in front of his face. You don't let anyone else pick off your plate other than Grim. The next time his clothes tear, he's already handing off his tie before realizing just what's happening. When you wrap his knuckles after a six-hour lock in at the library? He can't help but feel proud at how neat the bandages are. Suddenly the dark memories of hiding bruised knuckles from his mom are pacified with healing balm. Deuce views this development as a gift, and is grateful. Very, very grateful.

Habits you steal:

‘I owe you’ cards (Inherited): Ace's favorite social invention - the 'solid'. Nothing spells new-low like getting your friends to do stuff in exchange for a favor in the future. Most of the time Ace counts on people forgetting he owes them one, but you're not so gullible. The only difference between you both is that while Ace never fulfills his solid, you have a conscience. Give it a few more years. He'll get ya.

"I know this is the third ticket this week but - Oh! C'mon, cut a guy some slack, would you? I'm sorry for bein' late to our date. Yeah, it was shitty. I'm not trying to fight it, aright? I'm here now so let's have some fun and you can chalk three strikes on my tab. I'll even buy ya some candy - Ah! Okay! Two candies but that's where my charity ends!" <- Evidently, the 'I-owe-you' tabs cancel each other out from how often you both call in favors. It's just an excuse to do acts of service or express apologies without being too mushy. Ace is definitely keeping a track record of them though. Expect an ongoing log that dates back to the week you met, when he showed up homeless, collared, and looking to couch surf.

Profanity (Inherited): Ace swears like a sailor. Maybe not so much in his dorm because *cough* he's being policed. He holds no such reservations when you're both alone at Ramshackle. Unfortunately his potty mouth has a mind of it's own - it taints you, and you are a sham of a prefect. Ace earned a week-long collar for teaching you some Twisted-Wonderland exclusive curses. Riddle is not pleased.

Leaving the Windows Unlocked (Developed): There are only so many times he can sneak in through your window before the adrenaline-induced charm wears off. You have class in the morning, and can't be bothered to deal with him on nights he can't pass out in his dorm. Thank seven you have all of Ramshackle to yourself - because Heartslabyul sounds like a nightmare with the roommate situation. You can't leave the front door open for obvious reasons, but most nights the guest-bedroom window will be left slightly ajar in case he needs a place to crash.

"Pssst! Oi! Prefect! ...ugh, Grim! Wake them up, man! The latch is stuck. Don't go back to bed you furball! HEY! IT'S FREAKIN COLD OUT HERE SO LET ME IN ALREADY" <- Please let him in. If Ace has to spend one more night in that stinky dorm with three dudes, he'll string one of their dirty gym socks over your bed. No mercy.

Sleeping with Earplugs (Developed): Bitch Ace snores.

Habits he steals:

Notes Memo (Developed): Ace is bad with remembering things. Anniversaries? Dates? Allergies? He admits to not putting in a great amount of effort, but you can't say he doesn't try at all. He has a notes block on his phone dedicated to things like your go-to takeout orders and preferences. He even has a few alarms set days before any important events because even if you say no-gifts or plans...yeah, he's not that stupid.

Excessive Yawning (Inherited): You're always tired - it wasn't Ace's problem before but now he does feel a bit guilty. Dragging you into his messes felt different when you were just the prefect, y'know? Regardless, it's human instinct to mimic each other's demeanor so he'll openly yawn all the time - normally in succession of you.

"Hey...you're dozing off again. Am I seriously that boring to hang around? - Nah. Just messin' with you. I'd suggest taking a nap during next period but I doubt a goody-goody like you is gonna take that advice. Let's just ditch juice at lunch and go back to the dorm. Don't get mad if I forget to wake you up though"

Medications (Developed): Ace is the last person to become a human apothecary, but he's always got a pack of pain-reliever meds in his pocket with a few bandages, etc. He also attached one of those tiny capsule bottles to his keyring with some stomach meds inside. You took a spill running laps? Dang man. That sucks. Here's a band-aid for your knee. Curse you for making him the slightly-more responsible one.

"Eh..what, like it's a shock? You saying I'm a bad influence? Cause yeah, that checks. Nothin' I can do if they want to take a card outta my deck though," == Ace is entirely neutral on the topic. He is definitely smug that you're coming over to the dark side, but he doesn't need anyone to point it out. He was your first after all. Maybe the start could have been a bit better - but hey, you came around. It's not like he's hurting anyone by helping build your backbone. Although Ace will instantly deny going soft for you in any way, shape, or form.

[leclsrc]

wanna be nearer ✴︎ mv1

genre: 18+, fuck buddies ahhhaha, smut, porn w/o plot basically...

word count: 3.6k  

It seems every time you tell yourself to stop, Max comes back into your life and all sense of resolve crumbles. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by SO MANY PEOPLE i can't even start compiling all the asks hahah but if u asked for this here it is! writing's been tuff for me lately but this was the one thing i could continue daily (weird) also there is a case to be made re: max's hottest pictures being like 1 pixel in resolution... hope u all like it!!!

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, some vague sexting/a sex tape being watched, praise/dirty talk central, size kink, unprotected sex, handjob (f receiving), max being a meanie

It’s busy today. You haven’t seen him all day. 

To be fair, you weren’t necessarily looking—not at first, anyways. How many days had it been since the last time, now? The one in your hotel room? Almost two weeks, you think. The real answer’s blurry in your head, especially when you count the close calls, but this should be a record for you two at this point. Neither of you acknowledge that the only reason you’ve been so good at staying away from each other is because when you’re not roped into the same media junket, you avoid each other at all costs.

The media pen is full; everybody’s shoulder-to-shoulder because a few other networks bought their way into the space for the Singapore race. Right when your mind settles back into the focus of work, though—

“Here,” he says, his voice rough and tickling your ear. You nearly stumble forward, shocked at how his voice almost vibrates through you, a low trill that ripples top to bottom.

His hand settles at the small of your back, like his verbal confirmation wasn’t enough on its own; it’s big and his thumb rubs softly at the smooth strip of skin in-between your low skirt and your top. “Passing through.”

“Sure,” you say, dry. “Sorry.” You clear your throat and cant backwards into his touch—briefly, before you step forward and allow him to pass fully. Across you, Lissie looks up from her phone and you sense her trying to gauge why you’re so close to Max.

You blink and wait for him to disappear, wondering what you’ll tell her—how, more like. How the conversation even opens. How you’d phrase the truth, which in itself is a horribly grey area. Well, Lis, if you must know, Max and I have casual sex. A lot. It’s actually not very casual. We stopped now, but—yes, Max. That Max, yes. 

“What about Max?”

Your eyes snap upward and then to your left, where you can see Max’s figure disappearing into a crowd of engineers. They return to Lissie and you feign confusion to mask panic. “What?”

“You were spacing out and then suddenly said his name.” She presses the tip of her pen onto her chin, humming. She doesn’t look at you and you thank God for it—eye contact would’ve rattled the truth out of you in seconds.

“I…” You shake your head. “I was irritated with—I’ve been irritated with him all morning. It’s. Yeah.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding, looking away for a second but not pausing. “Oh, okay. D’you wanna go over this edit again?”

—

The stale air of his hotel room, alleviated only by the vaguely fragrant linen spray they use when he’s out, is what greets Max when he arrives in the afternoon.The first thing he does—the only task he’d even thought of en route here—after the door clicks shut is pull up his Messages app and type.

Just got to hotel. He tosses his phone onto the bed while he waits, tugs his cap off and rakes reckless fingers through his hair. His new stylist’s got him onto jeans that don’t “look painted on” (you once said, verbatim), but he’d rather die than lounge in denim, so he swaps them out for just his Calvins.

His mind’s lethargic, but even his version of lethargic is high-drive for others—his brain has the silly tendency to work in absolute overdrive. He itches for a drink and orders a Scotch on the telephone. He checks his phone, which is lying facedown still, and as soon as he picks it up it chimes with your reply.

OK, nice. Did u need something?

No, just wanted to let you know. He hits send, then adds another. You’re off @ 8?

Ended early, I’m in the car. He’s in the middle of drafting a response when you send a follow-up.

I thought we agreed no contact unless business

He scoffs out a dry laugh. Despite himself, he reads the text in your voice, his brain completing the image of the bossy tone with crossed arms and a wickedly arched brow. In response he types: Can’t even update a friend nowadays? I am very tired you know.

Rules are rules, he reads. Then, Get some rest.

Yeah. Got a drink.

I said rest, not drink. Even then he can hear the exasperation in your voice.

How was work? I hurt a muscle doing training. That’s why I’m at the hotel early.

Feel better soon, you send. Had some press stuff today. Boring shit

Yeah? I missed you today.

Really?

A lot. He hums and leans backward, lets his head settle into the pillow, the smell of the linen spray consuming his nostrils. He waits for his phone to buzz, vibrate softly on the hard surface of his chest. It does, after a few minutes, after he’s let his eyes shut and let himself rest them for a bit, after the room service comes knocking and gives him the Scotch he’d requested while ago.

He’s back sitting on his bed when it vibrates. He picks it up and reads: How much?

You’re awfully easy to rile up. He smiles around the rim of his glass—he knows exactly where this is heading. 

So much I think I’ll watch some videos of us.

The only caveat of casual sex as two people who essentially dislike each other is the fact that it’s all under wraps—which means if you two try to sneak off together, or are even caught in the same vicinity, people raise suspicions. And that means there are weeks where you barely get to fuck.

And that means you both grow antsy for it. He makes fun of you for being needy, when you’re tipsy and palming at the denim of his jeans or when you bend over when you know he’s looking. But the truth is he grows needy for it, too, craves you like you’re all that matters—he gets extra handsy, drops another innuendo when he knows you’re listening. There is a case to be made that he’s worse, in fact, because fans sometimes skirt around his words and wonder why he sounds so flirty when you’re the reporter in the room.

It was difficult but eventually he found a minor workaround: sometimes he films the two of you. There’s none of those propping his phone up kind of stuff, he just fishes for it in the middle of fucking you so he can store it for himself. It’s locked on his phone and he only has a few (the few has grown in number lately), but God it gives him release when he needs it and you’re not there.

I’ll call you when I’m at the lobby, comes the response. It’s always futile, the attempts to stay away from each other.

He pulls up the folder and lets his eyes skate over the thumbnails, squeezes himself through his boxers. Fuck. He can’t seem to decide what he wants to watch—the ones of you sucking him off, the ones of his fingers stretching you out. He recalls the whine in your voice in each of them, the pleads that escaped you for him to fuck you harder.

So Max, for the life of him, can’t even count how many times these videos have made him cum. But there’s one he hasn’t seen yet—the one he took the night before you two parted. You’d become extra needy on this night, preceding the season, he supposes, the separation. You already were anticipating the deprivation, starved for him more than usual. He’d have kissed you pretty, given you one orgasm after another and still you’d want more. And on this night it was you who asked him to film, you who wanted all of them on tape, so you’d both have something to tide you over until he got to fuck you again.

He pulls his cock out and strokes over it. And with his other hand, he presses his thumb on that video.

In it he’s fucking you in the dark, keeping the phone’s flashlight on your pussy as he sinks his cock into you. When he pulls back out the light reflects on the slick coating his dick, makes it glisten. It looks so wet, sounds so wet, with each thrust into you. He remembers just how it feels; he imagines that he’s back in your bed, fucking you again; that his fist is your pussy, and the spit lubricating it is the wetness that’s drooling out of you on camera.

He can see how tight you are—the way your pussy grips the shaft each time he pulls his cock out, greedy for him. Just like you.

The two of you were supposed to be quiet, too. You were at a hotel, your room beside another driver’s; you were supposed to be careful not to stir anyone. But your moans are louder than he remembers; so is the way you say, breathily, between gasps, Right there, Maxie, m’so close. Max inhales through his teeth, his cock throbbing at that—that Maxie, the cute little whimper out your mouth.

He strokes himself faster, watches the way your fingers slip into frame to rub at your clit, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. He can see, hear—feel how wet you are, the sound of your cunt growing wetter with every thrust. He hears his own voice again, mutter out So good for me, yeah? And your babbled affirmation in response.

You cum hard, your slick getting everything wet and shiny and Max watches himself cum next. His dick’s already spurting when he pulls out and lets himself release on your lower stomach, some of it shooting onto your tits. He blinks, anchors himself back, quickens his wrist and digs his heels into the bed to keep himself from coming. Just a second longer. He knows what comes next and he needs to see it.

Like clockwork, he watches two of your fingers swipe through his cum, bringing them up to your lips. You blink up at the camera and smile. Quit it, your lips mouth, pink and cum-slick. Put it down, Maxie… fill me up again. He releases in weak spurts over his fist, a damp, flushed grunt escaping him as he does. He feels like the air’s been knocked out of him.

His phone rings and he presses it to his ear. “Hey, angel. Come on up.”

One week later

“Vodka,” you say to the bellboy when you get to the elevator. “To my hotel room. Very cold. Please. And thank you.”

The guy scurries off to fetch it for you, and five minutes and one elevator ride later, you're wrestling himself into your room, flexing your sore foot. Japan does hotel rooms well. The leather of your Manolo digs into your foot the way it does after you’ve walked the entire day and you can feel a blister forming on the back of your right heel but it doesn’t really matter, you guess, if you’re already home. Hotel-home, anyway.

You expect to find solace lounging on your bed, waiting out the hours to your morning briefing for the race and throw back a glass or two of vodka. 

Instead, you find Max on your couch. He’s sipping ice-cold vodka—your ice-cold vodka.

“Hey, pretty,” he says. “Good vodka. I got staff to wire my FIFA on the TV.”

You just stare. “My TV. What,” you say, your eyes spotting the bottle of frosty vodka by his glass, “are you doing here?”

“I hadn’t seen you all day and I wanted to,” he explains simply. “Do you want food or something?”

“Food? I—nevermind,” you shrug. You’re frozen by the door, only just warmed now from the cold air that bit at your bare legs. “Max, how long have you been here?”

“Since Will Buxton started the post-FP debrief,” he huffs. He fiddles with the remote in his grip and extends it to the TV, where FIFA comes to life. “Aw, come on, angel. I know, I know. No sex and all that. I just like your company, you know?”

“Please. Go fuck yourself,” you scoff, toeing off your shoes and wiping your hands on the fabric of your skirt. He says one thing but you expect another—it’s only natural, given all the other times one of you had failed to keep a similar promise. But still you walk yourself beside him, fix the strap of your short dress, and allow him to pour you a drink.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asks absently. “About how you’re always having these talks with me about… about not having sex anymore, but you never even last two days.” He raises you the glass. “What is it, relapsing?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter. “It’s only because you keep trying to get me all hot and bothered.” You recall each time: in Monaco, in Madrid, in France. “Maybe if you got off my back once in a while, we’d be back to normal.”

He shrugs. “You just don’t have strong resolve.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, irritation scratching at your throat.

“Wanna test that out? Come play.”

Your eyes flit over to the bright screen, all exhaustion cleared from your system. An animated Kylian Mbappe kicks a football in a loop. “Fine. One round and you’re out of my room.” He throws his hands up in surrender and you make a move to sit next to him. Max puts his hands out towards you then, nodding. You mistake it for some handshake, accept them, and then he’s wrangle you onto his lap facing outward. You feel your pulse at your throat as he pulls you tight against him.

“This is cheating,” you say, your voice dry.

“You got it wrong. Teaching.”

He moves his fingers atop yours, explaining what to press, what goes where, what to do for this or that. He can smell your perfume, hear your stilted breaths, and when he peeks over your shoulder he can see where your dress falls loose, showing the lace of your bra and your tits underneath them.

If he had it his way, he’d hike your dress up and have you ride him. But he’s given you a challenge.

You play a practice round and end up scoring a few goals, fingers making quick work of the buttons. Behind you, Max watches, content, answering your questions when you ask them hurriedly—how do I do this? That? Did I just score?

You score once, then twice, then three times, and before you know it you’re scoring in quick succession. The game is fun—it’s easy. If Max was trying to give you a hard time, he failed. You grow determined, competitive within seconds (something he really should’ve anticipated), and you’re scoring goals with skill that you’d confidently say rivals Max’s.

Max. You almost—almost forget he’s there, and then you sit up straighter and you’re hit with the sensation of his dick pressing into your ass. You inhale sharply and the controller clatters to the floor.

“You okay, pretty?” His hand comes up to rest on your knee, inching closer and closer with every hitch of your breath. Your hand, now free of the controller, seizes his, stopping it right at the middle of your thigh. 

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You look stressed.” He doesn’t move. “You were so close, too, weren’t you?” The score stares you right in the face: 4-5. “Maybe you just need to get your mind off it.” It’s so bullshit, so extremely obvious, but he’s right in your ear and his hand is so near where you’ve missed its presence.

You’re usually competitive. You can usually hold your ground. But with this and him—

“Maybe,” you breathe, loosening your grip. He spreads his legs, spreading yours in the process, and brings his hand closer, running slender fingers over the lace material of your underwear until you’re squirming. It grows damper the more he touches, your mouth hanging open with stunted whimpers.

“You always come back to me, schatz, don’t you,” he says, whispers against your ear. You wrench a moan out. “Remember the first time? You interviewed me in Abu Dhabi… you teased me the whole day and begged to come thrice in my room. The time in Monaco you touched yourself to me when I was in the next room. The time we almost hooked up in Miami…” He groans, to himself more than you. “You’re a dirty girl.” He’s curling two fingers inside of you now, grazing against the sweet spot pulls the most delicious moans out of your innocent mouth.

“Every time… you go, that was the last time.” While your mind recaps the memories he’s busy spelling into your ear, Max’s fingers are curling inside of you against that sweet spot just right, and your moans are getting louder and louder.

“Fuck,” he huffs, watching your flushed face get more and more euphoric.

“Aw, pretty, look at that,” Max laughs. He’s looking at your thighs, watching the way they tense and shake as his fingers stroke your g spot. Each pump and curl into your twitching pussy feels better and better, and your dripping walls are starting to clench around his fingers.

“Wait, I—I can’t,” you pant, lolling your head onto his shoulder and involuntarily bucking your hips upward. 

“Yeah you can,” he orders. “It’s so easy to get you to cum, isn’t it? Or is that just for me? The driver you hate the most?” He laughs. “Get all wet for the guy you couldn’t care less about. Say you hate me and get my dick nice and wet the next day.” You’re grinding onto his three fingers now, shameless with it.

“Are you gonna cum?” He asks.

“Oh,” you whine. “Yeah, fuck—yes.”

“Tell me what you’re gonna do,” he says wickedly. You can hear him smile.

“I’m gonna—please—I’m gonna cum,” you pant, tension coming to a halt and then bursting all at once out of you. His other arm holds your hips down against him, and you spend a minute and another twitching, your skin sticky with sweat and slick.

It’s not long before you’re whirled back to face him, your hands making quick work of his jeans. It’s a skill you’ve both mastered, the art of the quickie—in closets, hotel rooms, with sweaty, open-mouthed kisses pressed along the column of your throat, moans swallowed. 

He hikes your dress up and your panties to the side, immediately bullies his cock into you—the glide is slow, but easy. You’re so fucking wet.

“Fucking big,” you gasp out. “Jesus, Jesus—fuck.” Your head drops and presses against his; he uses the opportunity to kiss you. You moan into it, feeling the stretch, your slick wetness dragging down the length of him as he thrusts up, up, further. “Been a while.”

“Feel good, though, yeah?” Your toes curl and you nod; you’re flushed all over and you need him to hurry up. You grind downward, onto him. He does, then, fucks you hard and fast, like he’s thirsted for this for way longer than he did. You’re squirming, all wet, and it tempts him to go harder. Your face is shiny with sweat, lips drawn in between your teeth.

“Slo—slow down,” you manage, babbling; he doesn’t, speeding up his thrusts until you’re moaning his name. “Max—wait—fuck, you’re so mean,” you whine, wrapping your arms around him and letting him take control. 

“You’re fine,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way. “You take my dick so well, schatz, every fucking time. Don’t you?”

“I do,” you gasp out, and he’s slamming into you gain. You cry out loudly, sniffling from the overstimulation—you’d barely recovered from your initial orgasm and already you’re hurtling into what feels like three at the same time. 

“For someone who doesn’t like me,” he sneers, “you sure do moan like a slut, huh?”

His words get you more turned on than you’re willing to admit, but you shake your head.

“No?” He laughs, breathy from the effort. “Maybe I should film you now. Send it to your boss, let him see his stellar reporter’s getting Verstappen’s dick wet.” 

Finally, the tension building inside of you reaches a head, and your pussy starts to twitch around his dick. He notices, grunts sharply and leans forward, shuddering as he releases into you. Your moans are choked and tapering into whimpers as you release slick all over him, and you attempt to catch your breath, collapsing onto his still-clothed, now-sticky chest. You scratch at the dri-fit material and inhale him, the smell of his cologne, his sweat. You bite at his earlobe, laugh when he flinches.

“That,” you say into his skin, “was the last time.” It’s both seriously and as a joke, playing off of what he’d remarked earlier.

“Jesus, princess. I’m still inside you.” 

You giggle and drum lightly along the plane of his chest. In a few minutes he’ll pick you up to shower, but now you’re content to inhale him in. Quietly you wonder why you just can’t get enough of him—if you were in better senses, you’d have realized he was thinking the same thing about you.

[lalunanymph]

MARRY THE TRAITOR ; gojo satoru

⟡ the day you met your demise is the same day you met gojo satoru, your betrothed from a world so different from yours—a cruel prince who is undoubtedly in love with someone else. as the stakes rise and you race against the clock to beat your brutal fate, can you make the ultimate choice between your heart or your happily ever after?

includes: mentions of food, mentions of murder, talks of death, predator/prey dynamic, sword to neck trope, reader gets restrained, mentions of injuries, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, yandere!gojo, prince!gojo, princess!reader, reader is referred to as 'cerena', princess cerena has pink hair and feminine features, reader is in cerena's body, isekai-ed reader

⟡ masterlist

ACT 1, SCENE 3: THE VILLAGE

Life at this little village offered you a gentle respite from the fears eating at your soul, putting the memory of Satoru's bloodthirsty desires momentarily out of your mind.

Whilst under Aeva’s care, you learned how to use an old fire stove, sweep the floors with a broom made of brambles, and prepare some of Northern Haleway’s most famous fare—pigeon mince pies. 

In return, she offered you the room in her attic, a quaint, cozy space that did not perturb you with its lack of size but instead, reminded you fondly of your own bedroom back in your real world. 

When you weren’t busy with chores and cooking, Aeva gave you free rein to roam about the village with the condition that you were to never reveal your true identity to the poor villagers. You took her worries in stride, always leaving her home with your hood and cloak on; Cerena’s signature pink hair plaited neatly and wrapped under the scratchy hood. 

The reason for your excursions to town were simple: you wanted to find out the truth about why you were here in the first place. 

You struck up conversations with various healers, visited the village shaman, and even spent an hour talking to the friendly barman on the merits of body swapping and waking up in a different life. 

But, your research barely yielded anything fruitful.

It only served to increase your worries, driving you to the brink of a mental breakdown at the fact that you may never go back to your real world again. 

That you may never see your mother or listen to her laugh as you both drank rice wine on a veranda; happy memories illuminated by the sun setting over the paddy fields. You may never roll your eyes at your best friend’s piss poor attempts at setting you up on blind dates, or enjoy your morning commute with a cup of turmeric latte.

Every single thought drew you deeper into a pit of despair.

But, you knew you had to be strong. 

This was a temporary setback and you have to believe that you will return home. You have to believe that life would not be so cruel as to leave you stranded here, in a place where you were despised and ridiculed. You had to keep the faith; had to hold onto the hope that you would make it home in one piece. 

There was no other option. 

-

Satoru slowed his horse to a trot once he arrived in the market square, the guards flanking his sides dispersing to find you at his terse nod. 

Those unyielding blue eyes swept across the square, noting the various sellers and stalls surrounding him. The smell of horse dung and rotten food scraps burned through his nose with the force of a thousand fires, and he made a face, wanting nothing more than to get this search party over, find you and take you back to the King. 

For a man used to the trenches of war, peasant life will always astound him with its stink and squalor. Children with dirt-packed faces and blackened hands chase after each other. A skinny, malnourished dog feebly lifts its head when his horse trots by and a heavily pregnant woman with scars running down her arms gives him a scrutinizing look while she hangs up her linens to dry. 

Satoru intended to keep this visit brief, and he is no more looking forward to the reality of finding you than he is at the thought of how you would react.

It was obvious that this was one of your usual tantrums in retaliation for not getting what you want; an act of rebellion made to paint him in a bad light.

His jaw ticks and his mood darkens at the thought of what he would do if he ever saw you again.

First things first, Satoru wouldn’t hesitate to threaten you by sword point to return back to the castle. Then, he will interrogate you on where you had been, who you spoke to, how you escaped in the first place so he can put anyone and everyone who aided you in this resistance to the sword.

Those flinty cerulean eyes shift across the market square, hoping to find a glimpse of the hooded and cloaked figure Miri had informed him about. But, all his gaze does is meet more exhausted faces; the villager’s blackened, fatigued air drawing his lips downward into a grimace. 

He was close to redirecting the search party into the forest where he believed you would be hiding, when he sees the figure of his hunt.

A waifish, hooded and cloaked woman made her way past the fruit stalls, stopping to purchase an apple.

Satoru doesn’t spare another second. He threw his horse into a gallop, reaching for his sword and drawing it out of the scabbard.

The hooded woman seemed to sense his murderous intent for her all the way across the square and lifted her head.

Satoru’s eyes widened when he noticed the familiar slope of your nose; the parting of your cherubic lips frozen in a silent scream. 

“Cerena!” 

The blasted woman takes off, running as fast as she could straight to the forest’s edge. Satoru doesn’t know what compelled him to disembark off his horse, hastily tying the reins around an apple tree and tearing after you with his longer, stronger legs.

Your terrified expression seared through his brain when you turn around to flash him a pleading look. Satoru gritted his teeth, his larger lung capacity and fitter body making it easier for him to sweep past the trees, darting under the brushes and jumping over fallen logs to chase after you.

There is nothing but the thought of escape in your mind. 

As you weaved through the trees, bounding across brooks and fell logs, your breath came out in icy pants, crystalizing right in front of your face. 

You wanted to turn around and plead and beg with him to spare you, the sight of the broadsword in his hand pumping your veins full of adrenaline and the need to escape. Like a hounded prey, the predator behind you was closing in, near enough that you could hear his jagged breaths.

“Cerena—stop running!” 

You pushed yourself harder, ignoring his words, forcing your legs to bring you towards a gnarly apple tree. Using muscles you haven’t utilized since you were four when you were wildly swinging from jungle bars, you expertly swung your body up the tree, clambering the thick trunk and using the spruces as your support—trying to get off the ground and hide in the foliage so he would give up and leave you alone.

But, luck was never on your side, especially when it came head-to-head with Satoru’s determination.

He circled the tree you were hiding in, those frantic blue eyes darting through the thick leaves, trying to get a glimpse of you.

“Cerena, stop this madness at once and come back home!” Satoru bellowed, cheeks splotched red with anger and frustration. “You mad woman! Get down and face your repercussions, dammit!” 

A slight movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you rush to unleash your dagger, cutting through the stem of the hornet’s nest just a few inches from you.

Sensing danger, they hummed, digging their stingers into your vulnerable hand, but you paid the bites of pain no mind—focused completely on evading Satoru.

The prince’s keen ears catch a rustle, like the sound of something being sawed and he looks up into the trees, jaw clenched and icy blue eyes wild.

“Cerena! What are you doing up there? Come down, dammit!” 

Without warning, a lump of something brown and scraggly falls right at his feet.

Satoru barely had time to react before he’s surrounded by a swarm of nasty wasps, stinger-triggered and ready to attack him. The sight of him swinging his broadsword to ward off the wasps would’ve been hilarious, if you didn’t use this as an opportunity to scamper down the apple tree and take off like your life depended on it. 

“—Cerena!” 

Your stomach sank to your feet as you quickly whipped your head back to catch him speeding up to you, the mottled flesh of his face from the wasp stings and those raging blue eyes shocking you through the core with pure, unadulterated fear. 

“Please!” 

You screamed, needing to run back to Aeva’s hut. She will protect you; she has to. 

Sliding into the clearing, you’re almost to the home run when you feel a hard tug around your neck. Your head jerks back and you go crashing to the ground, Satoru’s bigger body enveloping yours. 

“No—no!”

The shine of his sword nicks your neck, and you’re both breathing hard. 

Satoru’s fiery icy azure eyes bore right into you with such potent hatred, you throw your hands to your face, bracing for the blade to slice through your neck hotly. 

One second turned into two. His heavy breathing becomes a grunt, and he yanks you unceremoniously to your feet. 

His arm tightened around your trembling body, face a few inches from yours as he sneered. 

“You will pay for what you did to me.” Those reddened lesions from the wasps littering his neck and cheeks strike terror into your numbed heart. 

“If only you hadn’t ran away from me,” he clicked his tongue as if in disappointment, and to your mortification, brought out a coil of rope from his jacket. “Then, your punishment would not be so severe.” 

A hushed sob slips from between your gritted teeth as he lashed your hands together with the rope, tying it tightly enough so you wouldn’t think of running away from him again.

“Please,” you started to cry. “Please, do not hurt me. Do not harm me.”

He grunted, looping the tie into a double knot. “What in the devil are you blubbering about, woman? I have no intention of hurting you.”

Your tears trickled your cheeks like fragments of icy shards, slipping down your neck as you attempted to resist, pressing your bound palms to his broad chest and trying to push him away.

Satoru growled: “Cerena! Behave.” 

The flash of disgust and anger in his eyes instantly brought to mind how he had held the sword to your bare neck—how he had wanted to kill you. 

Terror seized your lungs, your scream shattering the calm quiet of the forest.

“Help me! Somebody help me! Please!” 

You sobbed loudly and with full abandonment, balking whenever he tried to reach out for you, batting your useless hands against his chest and neck to try and buy yourself some time for someone to help.

In the midst of the struggle with Satoru, you missed a wizened figure stepping out of the hut, her bow and arrow pointed right at the crowned prince.

Gojo, noticing the intruder in this scene, raised his eyes, sneering at the lowly woman who dared believe she can take him on with a flimsy weapon.

“You dare point that at me? The crowned prince of the region?” 

Aeva steadied her aim, the tip of the arrow quivering. The expression on her face was of fierce protectiveness, surging from seeing you being manhandled like a sack of potatoes by a man who was supposed to honor you as his fiancé.

For a brief moment, you felt a shining sense of hope—that you were going to be safe. 

But, he does not yield. Despite not saying a word, his frigid glare is all the loathing he needs to dissuade Aeva from releasing the arrow. Her rheumy eyes shifted from your tear-streaked face to his furious glare and to your dismay, she slowly lowered the weapon, letting it dangle by her side.

Your gasp rang with betrayal and alarm. “Aeva… please…”

Smug that he was let off without much of a fight, Gojo used his raw strength to lift you over his shoulder, your bound hands dangling across his back, your slippered feet kicking in mid-air.

“Please! Don’t let him harm me! Aeva! Aeva—” you choke off a broken sob, unable to bear her devastated expression through your tears. 

With every jarring step he took, you get further and further away from the safe house; from finding your answers and plotting your return back to your world.

Satoru didn't just tear your hopes of returning home from your hands, he also stomped them to the ground with the impending dread of his promise to Miri.

The promise to kill you should he see you again.

Crippling agony washed over you, enough to make you bitterly wail, your cries weaving through the trees as fearful images of your mangled body flashed through your mind, the end of your life brought about by this cruel prince's hand. 

“Enough with the dramatics,” Satoru muttered frostily as he trudged through the thick snow, reaching his behemoth of a stallion. With barely an iota of effort, he heaped you onto the saddle, giving your thigh a hard squeeze in warning not to do anything funny. 

Mounting behind you, he used his sturdier build to keep you caged in between his arms. Gripping the reins and snapping it once, his great white horse whinnies, moving to a trot as the forest and the safe house you spent these three blissful days in disappeared from your view. 

You never thought your fate would end up like this: bound atop a horse like fresh game being brought back after a hunt, while a sadistic man who wants nothing more than your demise sat behind you, stoic and silent despite your hushed cries.

Anguish welled deep in your soul, manifesting as endless tears streaming down your face which you tried desperately to hide from him. 

His voice broke through your frantic thoughts as a low, baritone warning. 

“I told you I will force you take accountability for your actions,” Satoru muttered darkly, slowing his horse to a cant.

Without any warning, he grasped your chin and tugged hard, eliciting a gasp of fear from you, forcing your teary eyes to meet his enraged ones. 

“And your punishment has only just begun, Princess.”

mtt fun fact: minced pigeon pies were brought to northern haleway by merchants from the south who introduced this alternative meat source during one of the country's harshest famines

dawn says: what kind of 'punishment' do you think satoru meant? 👀

!! reblogs and feedback and asks about this series are so beloved and appreciated and will motivate me to update and write faster <3

©️ all rights reserve to lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my story, repost or claim as your own.

[mistiell]

If you’re doing requests and it’s not too much trouble what about Astarion and getting patched up and taken care of by mc

Here you go babes <33 (Also, if he's a little out of character, I apoligize, I really did try my best lol) WC: 1k

---

“Ow! Gods, could you at least try to be gentle?” Astarion hisses at the sting of the salve you’ve concocted, startling you into jerking the cloth you’re using away.

You huff and drop your hands into your lap, brows furrowed in very clear annoyance, “I am trying. If you’d stop squirming, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“Well, if it didn’t hurt so much, I wouldn’t be squirming, would I?” He quips. You roll your eyes.

Taking his wrist ever so gently, you turn it so you can see the gash on his forearm, fingers deft and kind even despite his whining. He’s being difficult; unreasonable. You’d be justified in being cruel with him.

You’re careful not to press so hard as you swipe the cloth over the jagged edge of his wound, blood seeping into the fabric and staining the off-white linen a dark crimson. Mouth quirked down, your face is drawn tight with a frustration he’s never seen on you before.

He hates it.

The fabric catches with a jolt of pain and he flinches more than he would normally, startling you away again.

You tut at him, stern, “Astarion.”

Sighing, he returns his arm to you wordlessly and glances away with a small, “Sorry.”

“You should have been more careful.” You chastise as you press the cloth against his wound; firm, but not harsh. Never harsh.

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, “So you're saying this is my fault.”

He wasn’t being serious, but it seems you take it as such. Your nose scrunches, and for a split second, you look properly upset with him. He’s expecting you to snap at him, maybe shout and finally leave him to tend to his wounds alone as he usually would.

You don’t. Instead, you take a breath and sigh, looking rather disappointed.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Contrary to what you may believe, I do actually care about you and your wellbeing.” Your voice is void of any sort of humour as you look back at his arm. Swapping the soiled cloth for a smaller, cleaner one, you fold it in half and press it to his arm, not sparing him a glance as you instruct him, “Hold this.”

He does as you’ve asked, and a stifling silence engulfs his tent. As you rifle through some healing supplies, he tries to come up with a way to get you talking again.

“Why-,” His voice doesn’t come out right and he clears his throat to fix it. It comes out wrong anyway, “Why are you helping me? This wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve dressed a wound on my own, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to.” You reply as you begin securing the cloth to his arm with bandages, “No one deserves to suffer alone.”

The sentiment makes his stomach twist. “No one?” He huffs a wry puff of laughter, “Not even someone like Cazador?”

Your face contorts in abhorrence, “I meant good people don’t deserve to suffer alone. That bastard deserves every bit of suffering he has coming to him.”

He barely even registers the second part of what you’ve said, too busy reeling from the first.

Good people don’t deserve to suffer alone.

Good people.

“You... think I’m good?” He asks far too softly.

Finally looking back up at him, you look utterly confused as you nod, “Of course I do.”

He opens his mouth only to find he’s seemingly lost his voice. His gaze flits over just about every inch of your face, searching for any sign that you’re lying; a glance away, a twitch of your mouth. Anything.

He doesn’t find one. His heart sinks and sings simultaneously and suddenly, he can barely breathe.

“Why?” He murmurs. Part of him thinks he’s not equipped to cope with your answer.

There’s a moment where you just... look at him. He’d say staring, but he doesn’t think that’s quite what this is. What you’re doing would be better described as seeing him; all of him. His heart, his soul. Everything.

“Good people can do bad things and still be good, Astarion. And being good doesn’t always mean being a saint.” Your voice is kind; tender. Maybe a little joking towards the end. He guesses you’ve seen the apprehension on his face when your hands slide down his arm to cradle his own. Dipping to catch his gaze, your own is suddenly serious; unwavering, “What happened to you, the things you did. None of that was your fault. You told me what Cazador did to you when you disobeyed him. I’d be just as terrible to deem you a monster for going along with it knowing what would have happened to you if you didn’t.”

Your words strike him like a hard blow to the chest. Perhaps he’s not all that concerned with being a good person, but he’s never truly wanted to be evil, either.

Eyes stinging, he lets out a shaky breath through his nose as he cups the nape of your neck to guide your forehead to his lips. He lingers there for a moment before he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in tight, mumbling against your hairline, “Thank you.”

Snaking your arms around his waist, you squeeze him just as fiercely, “Of course, my love.”

The laugh that escapes him comes out too watery for his liking, but he finds he doesn’t mind quite as much when its only you around to hear, “���My love’? Isn’t that my line?”

You snort, and he feels you smile against his collar, “Perhaps.” “You do know that reusing material that isn’t yours is in poor taste, don’t you, darling?”

“Hush.” You pull back smiling, shaking your head as you ask in faux exasperation, “Now, will you please let me finish bandaging this?”

He follows your gaze to his arm and huffs dramatically, “I suppose.” “Oh, you suppose, do you?” You sass as you take hold of his wrist again, careful not to wrap the bandages too tight, “Do you also suppose you’ll sit still for me this time?”

“I do.” He grins.

And he does.

[versairic]

Thunderstorm | MV1

In which a thunderstorm passes over the city and Max helps an employee who is afraid of thunderstorms to survive the storm

pairing - max verstappen x reader

words - 3077

warning - fear of thunderstorms

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The sky became increasingly cloudy. The clouds came closer and closer together, so that within a few minutes the blue sky disappeared and it became darker and darker.

The sun had been shining with all its might for the last few minutes, so it didn't even look like the weather would change in a few minutes.

The Dutchman squinted his eyes slightly to acclimatise his pupils to the now dark hotel room.

The dark heavy curtains were wide open and revealed the dark - almost black - sky.

"That's it for the jog, Rupert," he muttered quietly to himself, leaving his running shoes lying carelessly in the corner.

Max was actually grateful to the weather that he didn't have to go for another long jog after the exhausting Media Day and was more or less chased through the city by Rupert.

The Media Day was sometimes even more strenuous than the Saturdays or Sundays when the drivers spent most of their time in the car.

They had to face countless questions and answers from various reporters and also shoot one or two pieces of content for social media.

By the end of the day, some of the drivers' heads were already pounding and they enjoyed the peace and quiet in their hotel room, where they were alone and didn't have to talk to anyone.

So the Dutchman peeled himself out of his sportswear and swapped it for a pair of cosy jogging bottoms and a hoodie before taking the few steps to the huge hotel room window and standing in front of the glass.

By now, one or two drops had already broken free from the cloud, leaving small, shiny trails on the balcony that sparkled like diamonds in the weak light of the outdoor lighting.

It wasn't long before the rain became heavier and the odd puddle formed within a short space of time.

Without paying any further attention to the weather outside, which would continue to wreak havoc throughout the evening, Max drew the heavy dark curtains and then dropped onto the hotel bed.

The white bed linen, which already looked as sterile as hospital bed linen, was cold and scratchy.

A soft sigh escaped Max's lips as he reached out for the small bedside lamp, which soon became the only source of light in the room.

Even if he hadn't really wanted to go jogging with Rupert, his personal trainer, he now had even more free time that he didn't really know what to do with.

He had been scrolling through social media for the last fifteen minutes, which had turned out to be pretty boring after a while, so his mobile phone was left lying carelessly on the small bedside table - with the display facing downwards.

The large flat screen TV hanging on the wall opposite his hotel bed attracted the attention of the 4x world champion and shortly afterwards it was no longer too quiet in the hotel room.

Some kind of trash TV episode was playing, but the Dutchman didn't pay too much attention to it.

It was crazy how much you could get bored in a hotel room. You might think you needed the peace and quiet after the hectic days on the track and used the peace and quiet to recharge your social battery, but that wasn't always the case.

Often times, the loneliness and quiet was even worse and made you literally die of boredom and in those moments you actually wished for the hustle and bustle back so that you had something to do.

So Max switched back and forth between the different channels - none of them offered any entertainment programme that could even begin to entertain and distract Max, so that the world champion's hotel room was plunged back into silence shortly afterwards.

Until suddenly a loud clap of thunder sounded. The thunder rumbled low and menacingly over the horizon, as if to challenge the silence, before a flash of lightning bathed the sky in bright light and illuminated Max's hotel room, despite the drawn curtains.

The Dutchman was startled by the force of the thunder, causing the remote control to slip out of his hand and sail under the hotel bed.

"Verdomde," he mumbled quietly and freed himself from the scratchy bed linen to fish the remote control out from under the hotel bed as he suddenly paused.

There was something. A noise. A soft noise that sounded like a whimper. However, it had sounded so briefly and then disappeared again that Max had the feeling that he had imagined the whimpering.

In the dark, he groped around under the bed, hoping to find the remote control somehow, while the bed linen scratched under his touch.

The rumble of thunder sounded in the background and the lightning lit up the hotel room for a few seconds at a time.

And then it was suddenly there again. The whimpering and a short, soft scream, which made Max stop moving.

Was the noise coming from the corridor or from the room next to him?

The Dutchman got up and stood so that he was in the centre of the small corridor so that he could listen more closely to see whether the noise was coming from the hotel corridor or the room next door.

He listened intently. His ears pricked up almost like a cat, he literally waited for the sound to come again.

And sure enough. There it was again. With the next thunder, which was now carried directly over the city and the hotel by the storm, a louder, almost panicked whimper sounded.

Without thinking twice, Max opened his room door and peered out into the dark corridor. There was no one to be seen or heard.

So was it possible that the noise was coming from the room next to him?

Almost frantically, he began to think about whose room was next to his.

The whole team had been spread out on this floor so that all the employees were close enough to each other and even the drivers and the team boss had their rooms in the immediate vicinity.

But even through the spasmodic deliberation, the Dutchman just couldn't think of who owned the room next to him - but it didn't matter, because when the continued rumble of thunder was accompanied by a yell, Max scurried over to the room next to him on his socks and, without hesitation, raised his hand and started knocking.

And just at that moment, his own room door slammed shut and locked the Dutchman out - without having taken his key card with him.

Verdomde! he cursed quietly in his mind.

He heard soft footsteps at the other end of the door until it opened with a squeak and Max saw nothing but darkness.

" Uhm, hello..." Max greeted the unknown person, who he still couldn't see. What was he doing here anyway?

"H-hi," a squeaky, almost tearful voice came back to the Dutchman. In his memories, he tried to match the voice, which he clearly recognised, to a face. But he couldn't think of a face to go with the voice.

" I...um...I heard noises and it sounded a bit worrying, so I wanted to check if everything was all right? But apparently it is. I'm really sorry for the disturbance," stammered the Dutchman as he slapped himself in the forehead.

Maybe it was nothing or maybe he had just caught her and her partner having sex and had put his foot in his mouth. It would be best if he turned round and left.

And just as he turned round to leave, the thunder started again - this time even more intense, making it feel like the hotel was starting to shake.

There it was again, the whimpering sound he had heard and it came directly from the woman he had not yet identified.

The Dutchman looked over his shoulder at the young woman who had now switched on the light and Max knew immediately who it was.

The new PR manager, who had been on her first assignment this weekend and had done such a good job that she had immediately made a good impression on Checo, Christian and him.

In the flickering light of the lamp, Max could clearly see the wet cheeks of the young woman, who couldn't have been much younger than himself.

His heart automatically tightened slightly and he reflexively bit his lips for a few seconds so as not to bombard her with countless questions.

Max had always been an empathetic and helpful person - he had inherited that from his mum.

"I'm fine," her voice sounded brittle and quiet as she scrunched up her nose.

Max knew, however, that she was anything but fine. New tears were already shimmering in her eyes, threatening to roll down her reddened cheeks as she stood there, quite intimidated and afraid.

" I'm sorry, but I'm not buying it. You know, I'm a pretty good listener and I don't judge. "

Max didn't know if this was the right way to help the young woman confide in a stranger, but he didn't want to leave her behind. Not so sad and fragile.

The young woman hesitated briefly until she opened the door wider and let Max inside her dark hotel room.

The hotel room had the same layout as Max's except that it was mirror-inverted.

The only light in the room came from a small night light from the Disney film Lilo & Stitch.

Max recognised the blue monster Stitch immediately, as his sister had been quite fond of the film and the character when she was younger.

The curtains were drawn so neatly that not a single ray of light could shine through.

The young woman dropped onto the bed and pulled a blanket over her cute pyjamas, which she must have been embarrassed for the Dutchman to see.

"Why don't you sit down?" she said quietly but in a gentle voice and gently tapped the end of the bed.

Unlike in Max's hotel room, the bed linen was turquoise and embroidered with small flowers, although Max was immediately sure that she had brought the bed linen from home and swapped it for the disgusting hotel bed linen - it was perhaps worth considering doing the same.

After the Dutchman had settled down on the turquoise bed linen and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he looked around a little and recognised nothing but order and cleanliness.

Hotel rooms always told you what a person was like. And the new PR manager seemed to be quite tidy and structured - as the lined-up suitcases and books revealed.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you..." the young woman's voice caught Max's attention again, causing the Dutchman to take his eyes off the hotel room and look over at her.

She was wiping her nose and then wiped her eyes with a handkerchief to make the few tears disappear.

"You didn't. I really didn't. I was worried and thought I'd just check that everything was OK," Max revealed to her, eliciting a gentle smile.

"Thank you..." she began as she started to search for the right words. " That's really sweet of you. "

Max returned her gentle smile and was about to ask her another question when the thunder rolled deep and ominously through the hotel room, as if it were trying to make its way through the walls. A first, hesitant rumble arose before it grew into a powerful, vibrating roar that made the windows shake.

The air seemed to vibrate and the walls, which were otherwise so safe and calm, seemed to shake for a moment, as if the hotel itself was feeling the force of the storm.

Lightning flashed brightly through the room, illuminating the corners for a moment and making the shadows of the furniture dance like fleeting ghosts.

The thunder rolled on, at irregular intervals, sometimes near, sometimes far, but never really disappearing - a continuous rumble that enveloped the room in an oppressive, harsh atmosphere.

And this thunder caused the person opposite him to flinch violently and disappear under the embroidered bed linen.

And then Max finally understood what was going on.

She was terrified of thunderstorms.

"Hey," Max's voice rang softly through the room.

He knew exactly what the fear of thunderstorms could feel like.

The rapidly beating heart, the shiver that ran through your whole body, the squinting of your eyes to somehow block out the lightning and your body paralysed with fear.

Max knew all too well how the young Red Bull employee must feel. After all, he had experienced the same fear for years as a child.

"I-I'm so scared," whispered the younger girl muffled under the duvet as she trembled all over and the tightness in her chest just wouldn't go away.

Her fear of thunderstorms was particularly heightened when she wasn't in familiar surroundings - her home.

Although she couldn't easily cope with the fear of thunderstorms at home either, she was able to relax better at home than here in the hotel room, which was foreign to her.

"It's okay," Max assured her cautiously, glad that she had opened up to him. "I know the fear of thunderstorms. I was afraid of thunderstorms for years as a child too. Can I help you?"

She slowly lifted her head from under the duvet and nodded as her fingers dug into the fabric of the bed linen.

"What else helps you with your anxiety? Have you got any tea to calm you down? Or are you listening to music, doing breathing exercises, talking or doing something that's good for you, like painting? " Max asked her as he clearly noticed how she slowly began to relax.

" I...I'm drinking tea. There... there's camomile and lavender in front," she carefully reached out from under the blanket and pointed over to the small sideboard, on which there was a travel kettle, a cup and two packets of tea.

Max nodded sympathetically and ran over to the sideboard to prepare everything for the tea.

They could still hear the thunderstorm raging over the hotel. The thunder had become a little quieter by now, but Max kept noticing the rustling of the bedspread and spotted the young woman flinching out of the corner of his eye.

" Ninja Turtles and Stitch, huh? " Max asked with a grin and pointed to the mug with the four Turtles printed on it.

" Uhm, yeah. I know, I'm a total freak," the young woman on the bed laughed softly - that was good. A good sign that Max was slowly managing to distract her from the storm.

"You said that now, not me. But the Turtles are really cool. Shall I tell you a secret? " he grinned as he came back to the bed with the cup and handed it to her.

Her long, thin fingers wrapped themselves around the hot cup as she took a light sniff of the tea, which would fill the whole room with the scent of lavender within a few minutes.

"I won't say no to a secret," she grinned as she leaned against the end of the bed and indicated to Max that he should sit down so that he didn't continue to sit uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.

Without thinking twice, Max did the same and leant his back against the upholstered headboard of the bed.

"I recently adopted a third cat and it's actually named after one of the turtels," he grinned, causing the young woman to start giggling softly.

And the giggle was indeed a lovely sound that filled the room and Max wished he could hear it a little longer.

"Really? Which one is it? "

Now he had the young woman's full attention, who scrutinised the Dutchman with curiosity while a warm smile spread across her lips.

"Well, I'm not going to make it that easy for you," he grinned cheekily and crossed his legs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the PR manager tilt her head and think for a few seconds before sipping her tea.

"His name is Donatello," she then said, hitting the bull's eye. Max's new cat was indeed named after the purple Ninja Turtle.

The Dutchman's eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly.

The Dutchman's eyes grew wide as his mouth opened slightly.

"How...?" he stammered, actually wondering how she had come up with it. Everyone else he had told about his cat so far had bet that the cat's name was Leonardo.

"It's quite simple. And I'll be happy to explain it to you," she took another big sip from her cup before placing it on the dessert table next to her and continuing:

"He's intelligent, like you. You help with the development of the car and you also know exactly where the problem is if there is one with your car. You've also become incredibly relaxed with every World Championship title, no longer as hot-headed as you were back then. You are loyal to your team, although in difficult times it would have been understandable if you had looked for a better team - as one or two other drivers have already done. But not you, you are loyal to Red Bull and always emphasise how happy you are with the team and that you will finish your career at Red Bull. Donatello also has all these qualities - in other categories, but he is the most similar to you of the Turtels."

Wow, that was really impressive, thought Max. No one else had ever seen and analysed it in the same way as the young woman opposite him.

"That... that's impressive," he said part of his thoughts out loud.

"Thank you," she grinned and bowed playfully to him.

And so the two of them had a little guide that took them from one conversation to the next and the young woman began to forget more and more about what she had been afraid of just a moment ago. And thanks to the Dutchman, who sat next to her on the bed and laughed with her, this fear simply disappeared.

And the young woman couldn't be more grateful to the Dutchman. So the thunderstorm moved on towards the next village.

But even when the thunderstorm had passed completely and peace returned to the town, the two continued to talk until they fell into a peaceful sleep next to each other, knowing full well that this was just the beginning of something big.

[eff4freddie]

For the Glory of Rome

General Acacius x F!Reader x M!OFC Words: 6k

Explicit. Minors DNI

Inspired by that slutty little knee in that tunic, and also general Acacius brainrot Leaving your farming village behind, you have managed to secure a position as the lady's maid for a Senator's wife, and while it's better than where you started, you can't help but feel you haven't quite found your home. Good thing you have your friend Antonius, the Senator's guard, and his ability to sniff out a rumour or two about the famed and revered General of Rome.

Warnings: Here be smut, MMF, oral (M receiving), fingering, dirty talk, praise, losing virginity, age gap (reader is 23, Acacius is...however old Acacius is), Roman orgies woop woooop, group sex, Lucilla being her Queenly self, the inner thigh omg, lifting tunics in a generally slutty manor, historical inaccuracy

Tagging @baronessvonglitter hope it was worth the wait!

You’d heard things. Not entirely on purpose. But as a lady in waiting for the wife of a Senator it was almost impossible not to overhear the occasional gossip over tea, whispers behind open palms. You knew of the proclivities of the emperors, learning words you’d never heard before back in your village. Having left at the age of 18, you realised quickly how much you still had to learn about the world the moment you stepped one gentle foot into it. Now several years later, you still felt in awe of the grandeur, of the marble and gold, of the magnitude of a city even if you were yet to feel you had fully earned your place in it.  

You didn’t mind the work. It was better than the fields, and on days when the sun beat down on the marble beneath your feet you remembered the unbearable heat of the swaying wheat, the burn of the dirt between your toes.

Still. Sometimes your robes itched, and you felt the ache in your shoulders carrying the urns of water up from the well to the lady’s bath. You often slumped into your quarters at sundown, bone tired and too weary to venture out of the statehouse. You had made it all the way to the Capital, you mused, only to teeter on the edges of it.

Only once a month were you able to take an afternoon to yourself, and on these occasions you wondered down to the markets, to the souks snaking along the inside of the walls, listening for your own accent, for your own words. You drank peppermint tea on woven rugs laid clean over dust, swapped tales with the other ladies’ maids, and as much as you could steered clear of the barracks, of the curious eyes of the soldiers as they trained, caked in grime and sweat, even in the heat of high noon.

It was through these expeditions that you heard news of the war, of the glory of Rome spreading its wings across the Empire. You heard rumours, snatches of victories brought about by the great General Acacius, a man you assumed to be as feral as he was cunning. No one you met talked ill of him, a whisper of awe passing over their faces as they swapped tales of having passed him in the street, of standing on the sidelines upon his return, upon his departure. You were aware of his famed good looks. You hoped, one day, to steal a glance at him, from him.  

--

Antonius, the Senator’s guard and one of your only friends at the statehouse, seemed to enjoy shocking you with stories of the palace, grinning at the way your cheeks grew hot.

He stood, slumped against the perimeter wall as he sought the shade, tugging at the collar of his leather cuirass, unadorned.

‘That can’t possibly be correct,’ you whispered, a load of linens bundled in your arms for washing.

‘I do not play,’ he defended, holding his hands aloft. You scoffed.

‘But how would they…fit?’ you asked, intensely aware of your innocence as the smile spread across Antonius’ face.

‘Well, one must be slow, one must be careful. But the hole in the centre…well, that is surprisingly pliant. The one at the rear, that can take some negotiation.’

You considered this, turning it over in your mind to try and make sense of it.  

‘But where do the…limbs go?’ you asked, watching as Antonius tried not to laugh. You swatted at him. ‘You know what I mean…’ you said.

‘All I know is that it’s Emperor Gata’s favourite method,’ he said, shrugging. You shook your head.

‘Such things…the Gods would never endorse,’ you stated, with considerable conviction.

‘My sweet dove, they do it with their sanction. They are the emperors, after all.’

You shrugged this thought away.

‘I have to attend to the linens,’ you said, ready to dismiss both the images in your mind and Antonius along with them.

‘I’ve heard of other, less…salacious affairs,’ he said. ‘The emperors tend to act with impunity. Not everyone has the same privilege. Not even the higher ranks.’

‘The higher ranks?’ you asked, your ears perking up.  

‘The military ranks, the Senators.’

You swivelled your head to the statehouse, your mind uncomprehending.

‘Not my…’

‘Oh Gods, no, not them,’ Antonius laughed. ‘They’d be more likely to break a hip than make a man come.’ You felt the heat furiously cross your cheeks at this crassness. ‘No, but the General…’

He trailed away, watching you closely as you felt your spine straighten.

‘But he has Lucilla, and everyone knows he is devoted…’

‘Just what I’ve heard,’ Antonius shrugged. My cousin is in the military, and he has heard…’

‘He’s heard stories, tall tales,’ you interrupted, a puff of indignation escaping you along with it. You weren’t sure why, but the idea of the General doing…those things…made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t entirely sure about.

‘I can ask him for more details,’ Antonius offered, and you rolled your eyes at him, heaving the linens over your shoulder and making for the riverbed.

--

You knew Antonius well enough to know that he spent more time with you than the other servants and lady’s maids, that he waited for you at the end of a long day to walk you back the 50 yards to your quarters. You were flattered, and you were aware that he was handsome, but he was also young, and impressionable, and thoughtless in his approach to the world. Just once he had attempted a kiss as he stood, a respectable distance from your room, his hat clasped tight to his chest. You had let him, because you were curious if nothing else, and had felt little when his dry lips brushed yours. You had wondered what all the fuss was about. He hadn’t attempted it again.

You also knew Antonius well enough to know he was unsatisfied as a simple guard of a Senator, that he too had ambitions of military life, of travels to foreign lands, of conquer. You knew that in these moments of quiet at the statehouse he drew his sword only to dance with his own shadow, the glint of the metal sometimes blinding in the afternoon sun. You knew he was often at the barracks, that his cousin often fed him news of the war, tales that he breathlessly retold to you and that you were sure he had embellished on the journey back.

So it was that the night he appeared at the door of your quarters, cheeks rosy from the gentle warmth of the night and of his own excitement, that you took several moments to believe him.

‘He’s returned, the army has returned.’

‘Who has?’ you asked, gathering your robe around you, not having ever had a man appear in your door.

‘The General…the troops return in a week. He has returned early. There will be a procession in the morning.’

‘Are you going?’ you asked, and you watched Antonius’s smile broaden on his ruddy cheeks.

‘The Senator will be on hand to welcome him, as will the emperors.’

You felt your pulse quicken at your breast.

‘Can I…’ you started to ask, and then faltered. You had already seen the way his face was falling.

‘The senator’s wives aren’t usually…in attendance,’ he finished, quietly, and you felt your stomach fall.

‘Of course,’ you said.

‘Are you not scheduled for an afternoon away?’ he asked, and you shook your head. ‘Could you not ask for…’

‘Good night, Antonius,’ you said, pushing him back so that you could close your door. You couldn’t stand the pity on his face as he gazed at you. Couldn’t stomach the idea of missing out, again, so near to the city and yet far enough to be as though still just a silly girl amongst the wheat.

--

You could hear the cheers of the crowds drifting up on the breeze as you stood, jug poised, in the courtyard of the statehouse. Beside you, the senator’s wife gazed idly at the sky.

‘Do you thirst for blood in the same way as the emperors?’ she asked you, coming out of her reverie.

‘No, my lady,’ you said, quietly. You watched as the breeze tickled the purple flowers of the vine crawling over your heads.

‘Do you thirst for anything?’ she asked.

You thought, a longing in your chest that surprised you, of the General. Of the crowds braying for him, of victory and of petals falling from the sky. You thought of being just that close to greatness, to what felt so much like real, actual life.

‘No, my lady,’ you repeated, setting the jug down beside your elbow.

‘I thirst for the lives of our soldiers, returned safe. And I long for peace, I think,’ she said, idly. You found yourself nodding.

‘I long for a thoughtful Rome,’ you said, quietly, and she regarded you, then. You watched as her painted brow arched.

‘Indeed,’ she said, after more than a handful of breaths. You found yourself exhaling as she stood.

‘I also long for a nap,’ she said, her little laugh tinkering along the stones as you walked with her to her room.

Later, when the evening sun was dipping low over the coast, and the Senator had returned cheerily wine-drunk and returned to his quarters to presumably inconvenience his wife, you stood with your shawl wrapped tight over your shoulders letting Antonius regale you of his exploits.

‘He is just as handsome as they said,’ he reported, breathless. ‘Broad, and…I don’t know how to explain it, just…an authority. He is poised. He is calm. He…observes.’

You felt a little shiver of something tight in your belly, and you swallowed it down.

‘What of the emperors?’ you asked, unsure why you felt the need to change the subject.

‘Mad, both of them,’ he dismissed, and you hissed for him to be quiet, glancing around to make sure no-one heard. He grinned at you, your concern for him evidently delighting you.

‘Gather your things,’ he whispered, trailing a hand over your forearm and watching the goosebumps appear. You looked up at him, questioning. ‘The Senator snores, your lady has eaten, there is no call for you now. Soon it will be dark, and I have solved a mystery.’

Even in the dying light you could see something dark, mischievous, glinting out from behind his eyes. You shivered, an involuntary little thing, as his fingertip dropped to trace along your side.

‘I don’t…’ you started but he shushed you.

‘You will need to trust me,’ he said. ‘But we’re not likely to ever have the chance for this again. Please, take it. With me.’

You found yourself nodding, a war of elephants in your chest. His grin only widened, his entire face now subsumed by it, it seemed.

‘Bring a cloak, and…your best tunic’, he finished, politely. ‘Perfume your skin and your hair. Don’t ask questions, and meet me in the courtyard as soon as you can.’

--

You were relieved that he led you away from the barracks, out to the east wall trailing down towards the docks. Here, there were fewer guards, but you were still careful, walking a step behind Antonius as he guided you, his hand trailing behind him to hold yours.

I have solved a mystery, you thought, turning his words over and over in your head. Beneath you your tunic shifted, light, over your softened skin and you felt the coil of something hot and tight in your belly. You were very sure this was a bad idea, and also that you were finally feeling something other than that of the observer.

At last, he pulled up beside a gate, bracketed by two short shrubs and a portly looking guard. Antonius pressed a coper token to the guard’s palm and he shuffled aside, nodding to you both, his eyes travelling over your body in a way that made you quite uneasy.

Antonius led you through the gate to reveal a simple courtyard, the smell of salt in the air lingering from the nearby shore.

‘These are the General’s quarters,’ he explained in a hushed tone as you felt your body go rigid. ‘The General and his lady Lucilla have a residence, of course, as befitting a man of his stature, everyone knows that. But he keeps this place also, close to the water in the event of naval attack.’

Over the rush of blood in your ears you heard laughter,  the gentle melody of a lyre, drifting from a room to your side.

‘Come…’ Antonius whispered, tucking you to his side and ushering you into the main doors in front of you. ‘It’s all true,’ he said, his voice dripping in awe.

For a moment, you struggled to understand what you were seeing. As you stepped into the low light you saw only a writhing mass beneath you, a constant movement accompanied by guttural gasps, by groans. As your eyes adjusted to the flickering torches you started to make out shapes, cloth laid over skin, fingers adorned with rings and wine stretching into the open air in the centre of the room. You took a step away, your hand flying to your mouth, Antonius holding you steady with a warm hand on the small of your back.

‘Antonius, those are…’

‘Lovers,’ he finished for you, ‘tens of them, coupling and recoupling.’ You looked back at him, the flickering light casting unfamiliar shadows over his features as he watched. A woman let out a high-pitched squeal, another laughing as she convulsed beneath the back of an unknown man.

‘But where is the…’ and you trailed away, then, your eyes further adjusting as you scanned the room. There, to your right and tucked away in the corner, two ornate chairs holding the General and his lady, their gazes trained on the writhing mass. You realised they were raised on a kind of dais, the General holding his lady’s hand as she sipped, simply, on wine. Their stillness, their stern observation, somehow more thrilling than the pleasure unfolding at their feet.

‘They just watch,’ Antonius whispered in your ear, pushing you from the doorway and over to the side wall where you could re-orient. ‘It’s said that Acacius only ever watches, but sometimes Lucilla…’

‘Sometimes Lucilla what?’ you asked, unable to take your eyes from the couple. Acacius, stripped of his ceremonial armour from the afternoon, sat wrapped in a simple tunic, gold stitching of laurels adorning his shoulders and his red cape. Lucilla, easily the most beautiful woman you had ever seen, sat beside him, cowl of fine silk over her head, legs crossed at the ankle as her husband occasionally let go her hand to stroke idly at her knee.

‘Sometimes she beckons for a pretty young thing to rub her feet, to sit across her lap and let her draw her fingers along their spine. She is apparently quite unbothered as to their sex.’

Your eyes drifted back to the General, the skin of his strong thighs, his scarred knees, peeking out from beneath his tunic.

‘Does he ever…?’ you asked, and Antonius shook his head.

‘Apparently, he could, if he chose to. Lucilla wouldn’t mind it, it’s said. But he refrains, on the basis that he has never found another to tempt him away from his wife.’

You nodded, tearing your eyes from him to stare hard at the stone beneath your feet. You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, the blush of your cheeks, your shawl suddenly heavy across your shoulders, across your chest. In front of you a woman sucked gloriously at the nipple of another as she poured wine down her chest, the red liquid pulling in the mouth of her lover as they both gasped in delight.

‘This is how they celebrate his return from war,’ Antonius informed you, glee lacing his words.

‘The heat…’ you said, sweat gathering. ‘Antonius, will you help me…’ you said, reaching for the fastening at your neck. He nodded, fingers light and reverent on your skin as he pulled it from you, your simple tunic falling free from underneath it and letting the air, finally, to you. You almost moaned, the relief of it so acute.

‘Oh…’ Antonius gasped, lowly, and for a moment you thought he had spotted some fault in your dress before you looked at his eyes and saw he was looking over your head. You turned your gaze to where his was looking, to the chairs in the corner of the room.

The General’s gaze had turned to you, the flip of your shawl enough to draw his attention even in the half-light, and you watched, transfixed, as he stared, unwavering. You felt the roaring fire of want sear up through your belly, unmatched only by the flames licking at your face.

You weren’t an experienced girl, although you had some dealings with one of the farm boys in the village before you’d turned 16, your father’s disapproval only driving you closer towards him, such that you had let him fumble under your tunic for a few minutes until he squirmed and gasped in release without you ever having touched him, his resulting shame keeping you from him far more effectively than your father’s words ever did.

But you knew what it looked like when a man was desirous. When he had landed his gaze upon an object and set upon wanting it, and you saw it now, in the hungering look of the General as his eyes travelled over your frame.

‘He’s seen us,’ Antonius whispered, and you nodded, letting him lead you by the elbow towards the throng in the centre of the room. You kept your eyes on the General’s, his own stare almost unblinking, as he watched your gentle progression.

‘Gods…’ Antonius muttered beside you, finding an empty seat on the end of a long couch and pulling you down onto him, your back to his so that you remained, front on, in the General’s eyeline. ‘The intensity of his study.’

You shuddered, turning to ash as the General’s eyes roamed over you, leaving a scorching path across your skin. You saw his eyes linger at your chest, your pulse thick and fast and your breathing near panting as Antonius shifted beneath you, allowing your knees to part either side.

‘If I can show him what I can do,’ Antonius whispered into your ear, your skin aflame where the General’s eyes touched it, ‘maybe he will have me for his army, his private army.’

‘What you can do?’ you asked, not comprehending, until Antonius grasped your breast in his paw and tugged, earning him a gasp from your pretty mouth.

‘How vigorously I can fuck,’ Antonius said, pausing to chew on the lobe of your ear, watching as your eyes listed close, a shiver running along your spine. ‘I think he would like to watch me fuck you, don’t you?’ he asked.

You weren’t sure you were hearing Antonius. The General’s eyes had not strayed from you, even in the half-light, even with the masses of bodies surrounding you both. From across the room, he watched you, his jaw set hard and his hand gripping tight at the arm of his chair.

‘Reveal me,’ you whispered, lifting your hands to tug at your tunic.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Antonius grunted, sliding his hands under the fabric and shifting you in his lap so that it slid smooth over your body. You felt your hair fall as it came away, your tresses tumbling over your shoulders as you bore yourself to the General of Rome.

You watched as his eyes slid over your skin, his deep gulp as they settled between your only slightly parted thighs. Hooking your knees over Antonius’, you settled back against him, leaning your head to his chin to nibble at his jaw while you kept your eyes locked to the General’s. Antonius’ hands came first to cup your breasts, tweaking and twisting your nipples hard enough to make you writhe on his lap, then travelled lower, tracing over your belly and towards your sex, your core open and exposed to the night air, to the darkness, to the heat of the General’s gaze.

‘Gods, you are soaking,’ Antonius groaned in your ear, his fingers sliding over your folds to stroke, slow and languid, at your bud. You let out a high little whimper, a ghost of a groan carried to the rafters, as your hips jerked all of their own. You felt him shift again, spreading his thighs wider, your sex unfolding like a water lily in the first light of dawn.

Behind you, beside you, the chorus of libidinous excess churned, a sea of cunts and breasts and aching, heavy cocks. You felt entirely outside your own body, for a moment watching from the rafters as you squirmed in Antonius’ lap, your sex open and drooling for the General as he watched from the other side of the room. You could feel the weight of his glare on you, your eyes drawn again to him as he leant ever so slowly forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he took you in.

‘Such a pretty little cunt, look at him staring at it,’ Antonius grinned. ‘He’ll think I’m the emperor when I spread it with my cock.’

You groaned, Antonius switching his hands so that his right continued to strum at your clit while his left parted you, pulled your folds apart to slip a finger to your core. You stuttered, your hips rolling as you took him in, hissing at the stretch of even his single finger.

‘Gods, have you ever had another here before?’ he asked, and you shook your head.

‘Not properly,’ you said. ‘Not with his…thing.’

‘Such a sweet girl,’ he said, biting a little at your earlobe. ‘Can’t even say “cock” without pink atop your cheeks.’

You could feel that he was hard, his thing, his cock, grinding into your bottom as you squirmed in his lap.

‘Put your heels up on my knees,’ he said, leaning you back further into his chest to allow it. ‘Show him all of you, let him see me open up this pretty little cunt.’

You flopped, boneless, against him, gasping to the ceiling as he slid another finger to join the first. The sting of it soon abating, leaving only a pulsing need in its wake. Is this what everyone had been going on about all this time? Suddenly, you understood it.

‘Oh, Gods,’ you gasped, as he rubbed tight circles into your pulsing bud. ‘Oh!’ you shuddered again, something shimmering and hot in your belly starting to wind its way around your core.

Then, suddenly, stillness. You groaned in frustration, your eyes snapping open to turn to Antonius. You only paused when you saw shock, jaw hanging open and eyebrows arched high on his forehead.

‘Antonius!’ you gasped, his hands still inside you but unmoving.

‘He has beckoned for us,’ he whispered, and you turned, rising your head off Antonius’ shoulder to stare down the valley between your thighs. You watched as Acacius, his eyes now fixed on your spread sex, lifted his hand to the air, waving for you.

--

You had only been a girl when you mother took you aside and explained the unfolding paths your life could take. If you were to stay on the farm you were to marry, to bear children, to raise them up in the same fields she had raised you. To maybe have boys and watch them carry the glory of the Empire on their shoulders into battle, to maybe have girls and watch them birth the next generation of Rome. If you were to leave you would work, and it would be toil and largely thankless, servitude at the steps of a bigger life not likely to ever be within your grasp. The proximity of it maybe enough to carry you, maybe not.

You were to make your decision quickly. Soon, you would bleed.

And you knew that you were lucky, in a sense, to have a mother that afforded you a choice, to have a father that allowed you to pack your meagre belongings into a satchel of his design. But in the nights when you waited in your quarters for sleep to come, in the nights when your back ached from beating linens against rocks by the river, from pressing powder to the folds on your lady’s skin just to watch her leave to revel without you, you wondered whether you had made the right one.

The General only became more striking as you closed the distance between you, crawling on your hands and knees to get to him over the writhing bodies of your compatriots. You felt Antonius behind you, his shuffle to keep up as you waded, your eyes still locked to Acacius’ even now. As you neared him, as you felt the ambient heat of his body start to press into your own, as you met his hungered gaze with one full of longing, of desire, in your own, you felt for the first time at the core of your own life, at the pulsing centre of it. At the place you had been destined to arrive all this time, ambling towards it without knowing your heading.

You glanced to the General’s side, to Lucilla who watched you with a gentle smile adorning her lips. You saw she held her husband’s hand in hers as his other gripped the edge of the chair, his body leaning towards yours as you crawled to him.

‘Pretty little thing,’ you heard her murmur to him, and you again felt pink again adorn your cheeks. Acacius only nodded, his jaw set tight as he reached his hand to you. You reared up on your knees, stumbling towards him, letting him pull you forward until your arms rested atop his thighs. You could see, now, the tremble of the tunic as it covered his pulsing cock, could smell the sweet smell of orange and cedar that he had bathed himself in. Drunk on his gaze you let your hands slide, feeling the heat of his thighs as his muscles twitched beneath your touch, the man almost jumping out of his chair when you took the hem of his skirt in your fingers and folded it, lifting it gently to lie atop his lap.

Your eyes fell to it, his aching, leaking cock standing proud from the thicket of hair between his thighs. You watched, marvelled, at the way it pulsed in time with his heart.

‘I don’t know that she has ever seen one before,’ Lucilla commented, and you glanced at her, suddenly shy. ‘So precious,’ she continued. ‘So lucky that her first is that of the General of Rome.’

Acacius grunted, his fingers starting to tremble as your stare returned to his member. Behind you, Antonius approached, unnoticed, sinking down to his knees to lean over you, his hands steadying himself on your hips.

‘It’s beautiful, General,’ he said, as he trailed his fingers up your spine, idly. ‘Mouthwatering.’

You nodded, agreeing, flexing your fingers to try and push the shake out.

‘Reach out and take it in your hand,’ Antonius instructed, and you heard the General gasp, looking up at him to watch his eyes darken.

‘Gods, has she never…?’

‘She’s fresh as a new bud,’ Antonius reported, proudly, easing his fingers over your bottom and letting them slip again, to your dripping sex. ‘She tastes as a dew formed by the first dawn,’ he went on, collecting your slick at his fingers and then raising them, an offering, to the man seated above you. ‘Taste?’ he said.

Acacius leant forward, sucking Antonius’ fingertips into his mouth, his eyes closing in awe as he muffled out a groan. ‘Gods, like early Spring,’ he said.

You watched as his cock twitched again, your nose full of the smell of his hot skin, of something hard and masculine, something dangerous and deadly. You licked your lips, your mouth descending to his tip almost without thought, your tongue reaching to lick at the little ridge of skin on the underside of his glorious, throbbing shaft.

‘Oh, she’s fresh like a bud but filthy like a whore,’ Lucilla observed, smiling indulgently at her husband. Acacius turned to her, his brows saddled.

‘My lady, I…’

‘Hush,’ she said, raising a hand to her husband’s cheek as he shuddered, your tongue sliding to tease at the slit where he leaked. ‘Enjoy, my love. For all you’ve done, for the glory of Rome.’

You closed your eyes, hollowing your cheeks to prepare yourself to take him into your mouth, your jaw already aching at his girth. You heard him groan, his hands falling to your hair, tangling himself in your tresses as you worked.

Behind you, Antonius crouched, freeing himself from his tunic so that he could notch himself at your entrance, his cock prodding at your gentle, silken folds.

‘General,’ he gasped, as Acacius whimpered under your tongue. ‘She’s gripping me, pulling me into her untouched cunt.’

‘Go gentle,’ he grunted. ‘A precious one as this…’ he trailed off as you reached up to grasp him by the base, saliva and the General’s leaking come starting to collect and run over your chin. He found himself unable to speak as you opened your eyes to gaze up at him, the desire in his eyes bathing you in heat.

‘Gods…’ Antonius groaned as you felt him push into you, a gasp catching in your chest as you swallowed around the General’s cock. You felt the grip in your hair tighten, saw the way Acacius started to rock his hips, squirming on the seat beneath him as you took him further down, into your throat.

You felt the sting, the stretch as Antonius slid into you, his first thrust knocking you further into Acacius’ chest, his cock slipping from your mouth as you steadied yourself. You gasped, lungs burning for air. Your brows saddled, a whimper escaping you.

‘Does it hurt, my sweet little dolly?’ Acacius asked and you nodded, permitting a wince as Antonius again bucked his hips. Acacius breathed, his eyes roaming your face as a tear gathered at your waterline.

‘Want it to be you,’ you whispered, Antonius’ cock fucking the truth right out of you as you rocked backwards and forwards on your knees, leaning on the naked lap of the most desired man in Rome. He came forward, then, lifting his hand to cup the side of your head, fingers stretching over the back of your skull as he cradled your jaw. He allowed the fingertips of his other hand to travel the plains of your body, pausing only momentarily to paw at the swell of your breast before gliding them further, his muscled and sun-kissed arm extending to allow him to travel to your folds, to your straining, quivering clit.

You jolted, the pad of his finger rubbing gentle circles, the squeeze of Antonius immediately lessening, the pinch giving way, finally, to a sense of fullness, of completeness, of finally being entire.

You whimpered, the General holding your head in his hand to lock his eyes to yours, your body rolling and jerking beneath you as he held you fast to him. Behind you Antonius worked, his cock soaring into you, his fingertips digging hard into your hips.

The General watched you, studied the way your face twisted, contorted in pleasure. With his fingers at your sex, he spread your slick and you felt it collecting at the apex of your thighs, spreading over your skin. Your groans went unheeded, lost to the debauched sounds of the room, as you felt pressure build low in your belly, a coiling of something essential, tight in your core.

Still, he watched you, kept you trapped beneath him, his gaze warm, almost loving, as he held you through it. You realised, as the ache in your core set to burning, as the wildfire caught on dry grass and sparked an inferno racing from your cunt to your chest to your throat, that he was giving this to you, this first time, that he held you entirely in his orbit and in his grip, that you were his to play with, his to stroke and pleasure and consume, that you would let him for as long as he would have you, that more than anything in this moment you were cherished, that you were desired, that you were prized.

‘I want it to be me, too,’ he murmured low, a secret between two lovers, as you started to lose control of your breath.

‘General..!’ you gasped, the feeling so strong you were terrified it would wash you away with it, his gaze unwavering in the face of such peril.

‘Let it take you, little dolly,’ he said, his fingers continuing to push you further, your pulsing little clit aching for him, from him.

Behind you, Antonius grunted, his thrusts becoming fast and unruly as he started to lose his form.

‘I can’t hold it,’ he said over your head, almost apologetic.

‘Give her everything,’ Acacius ordered, his eyes still on you as your brows saddled.

‘Good girl,’ he murmured, your eyes slamming shut as you gave yourself in to it, as you let it breach your walls, flood the arena, made you breathe in not air but the whispers of the Gods above you, your shuddering form bowed in pleasure for their reverence.

--

Dawn threatened, and as the muddy light streamed in over the piles of bodies you counted fifteen separate sets of arms and legs. Perched on the end of the couch, wrapped in your shawl and your tunic again with no memory of having put them back over your skin, you roused Antonius and assembled yourselves before sneaking back to the Senator’s statehouse. His wife will be seeking breakfast and for you to wash her hair this morning. You will see if you can sneak some hot water for yourself as you pour hers.

On shaky legs, you stood with Antonius in the courtyard, seeking your bearings. You shuddered, the morning cold biting harder than you expected, an ache between your thighs a not-unwelcome reminder of the night before.

Above your heads, the General and his lady’s open window revealed the sound of gentle slumber.

You escaped through the back alleys, a giggle forming in your chest both at your memories of the night before and at your now complete inability to look Antonius in the eye. You found yourself mooning over him suddenly, as though your time with the General and his lady had forged something new between you, a bond you’re curious to explore. As you made your way back to the statehouse, contemplating this development, the dawn finally properly broke, the pink and purple light staining the marble around you. In front of you, the palace glowed, ethereal, the city only beginning to wake.

You looked down at your feet, stationed steady on the stones. You considered, for the first time, that you were home.

[thatsdemko]

love affair- a.leclerc & c.leclerc

masterlist

requested: n

pairings: Arthur leclerc x gasly!fem!reader & Charles leclerc x gasly!fem!reader

warnings: nsfw + not intended for minors + mentions of nudity + mentions of oral (f receiving)

a/n: mwahahaha I love creating chaos 😌 also the lyrics are from 5sos! I am well aware none of these men(and the beautiful y/n) are not English! it’s just part of the lyrics! this has zero to do with my previous Arthur x gasly!reader fic! feedback is always appreciated xx

《 the following content is not intended for minors. 》

It started on a weekend in May

I was looking for attention, needed intervention

his beautiful green eyes are glued to your body as you move across the hot sand of the beach. you begged your brother to pull over so you could take a dip, cool off, you said.

maybe it was your plan to get him to look, you were never going to say. but you felt those eyes in the passenger seat, he watched your breasts bounce up and down as you jog up to the car, the water that’s left on your tan legs glisten in the sun.

“don’t get your wet bottoms on my seats!” Pierre calls out as you dance around the hot pavement, Charles throws his jacket over the leather before you slip in.

“thank you, Charles.” you reach behind the seats pressing a friendly kiss to your brothers best friends cheek, Pierre groans trying to wipe the ends of your wet hair off the leather.

he watches you collapse against the burning black leather seats. little does he know that in exactly six hours he’d be crammed up in the back eating you out. he’d be shoving his hard cock into your swollen pussy, his hand gripping your throat while you choke his name.

Before I knew it, it was serious

Dragged me out the bar to the back seat of her car

TWELVE HOURS EARLIER

you think you’re the only one awake. you still tip toe around the creaking old floors, you’re in nothing but your brothers old alpha tauri shirt and a pair of an ex boyfriends boxers. when you make your way into the living room you half expect to see someone else awake.

“my my, is this a sight to see.” Charles smirks, chuckle escaping his lips. he’s never seen in anything other than a tight shirt and a pair of bottoms that are way too short. even when you were kids your style was far similar to what it is now.

“oh fuck off,” you mumble slipping next to him on the love seat, and he extends the blanket over into your lap. two of you now watching whatever old black and white movie was on.

“can’t sleep?” he asks, voice in a hushed tone watching your body settle into the seats, thigh quickly brushing his before you pulled away. he can’t help but feel the nervousness scatter his stomach.

“not with my brother snoring in the other room.” you roll your eyes, as much as you love Pierre, his nostrils were the death of you every time you take this summer trip.

“why don’t you sleep in my room? Arthur doesn’t snore. we can swap beds.” he suggests, and you almost laugh knowing he doesn’t want to spend his nights in your pink and white wallpapered bedroom. as much as you know he’s in touch with his feminine side, you’re sure he won’t last the night with the pink colors mocking him.

“that or we could just piss Arthur off, have Pierre sleep in your room.” you suggest and he nods. the silence and crackling of the old film are what occupies the air, it’s almost unfamiliar to you both. this room was always full of laughter and joy, you hate hearing it so dead.

“why don’t you just sleep in my bed with me?” he’s half serious, the sleep deprivation was doing most of his talking right now. when he looks you in the eyes he doesn’t expect you to say yes, but you do. now you’re wrapped in his white linen sheets and the cool breeze from his window blows into your face.

you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t wish this was something more. part of you woke up because you knew he was down there shirtless lounging around in nothing but his tiny shorts. you’re not sure if it’s your own sleep deprivation convincing you that you needed him, but will you be thankful in twenty four hours for what god brings you.

NOW

“sleep well?” Arthur watches you nearly stumble down the stairs into the living room. you’re practically limping, it’s obvious you either hurt yourself at the club or whoever left all those hickeys on your neck left you disoriented.

“something like that.” you wave him off heading into the kitchen where the smell of bacon, eggs, and toast are coming from. your mouth is watering you’re so hungry, you almost don’t even catch your brothers glare while you scarf down two plates of food.

“do I even want to know?” he asks, fork gesturing to the purple and yellow bruises that scatter your neck. he can’t even look at you, he’s disgusted by whoever the man was that left his marking. little does he know the man is his best friend who just entered the kitchen mumbling his late good mornings.

“where were you for our run? I knocked on your door five times.” Lorenzo shoves a plate of food into his brothers chest half caring that some of the egg fell on to the floor. he’s disappointed in his younger brothers lack of motivation and discipline.

“I overslept.” Charles lies. that’s partially true, but while Lorenzo was knocking on his door at five in the morning, you were giving him a good morning treat before his run. he claims it to have been the best way to wake up, it’s why he skipped the run.

Pierre nearly chokes on his dry toast when he sees the nail marks against his friends back. they are still fresh and bright red, he’s surprised Arthur didn’t say a single thing when he walked by.

“and somebody was worried about not getting something this trip.”

“oh wow,” Arthur barely touches one of the marks on his back, it earns a hiss from Charles as he tries to swat the younger man to move along, “these are going to leave quite the mark for awhile.”

you try to hide the red hue that’s floating across your face. you’re lucky all of them are too focused on the nail marks and the details of his wild night. you didn’t expect them to be so obvious, but the acrylics were still fresh from the other day and sharper than you expected them to be.

“would you see her again?” Lorenzo asks sliding into the chair next to Pierre. the question brought you a wave of nausea, you get up instantly once he sits down. there’s no way you’ll be able to hear the truth or the lie. either way you know you crossed a line, and seeing Charles in that setting once more wasn’t an option for you.

“yeah, I would.”

—

“you don’t own a single thing that doesn’t compliment you, huh?” he takes your hand in his allowing you to twirl and show off the tight body con dress.

you shrug, sheepish smile spreading across your lips, “you like it?” you’re not sure what’s provoked you to ask, but he just nods tongue licking his bottom lip watching you saunter on over to find a pair of high heels to match.

his eyes trail after your body, it’s like he’s never seen an ass and a pair of tits as good as yours. everything about you demanded his, hell anybody’s, attention. every inch of you screamed perfection, it’s impossible for a man to look away, and right now it’s impossible for him.

“what’s on your mind, leclerc?” you bend down to pick up your black high heels and move to a chair to slide them on. he’s right at the edge of the coffee table doing it for you instead. his fingers pull the little string through the hoops, finger tips grazing your legs.

“you.” he says, watching you slide your leg off his thigh and stand up adjusting the dress down your thighs. his eyes follow your body with lust, you swear you’ve never seen a man wrapped around your finger so quickly.

you’re smiling, he’s so pure, you think to yourself, as you use your index finger to tilt his chin upwards, “I’m thinking of you too, Arthur.” you bend down, head dipping to press your lips against his. they’re sweet and soft just like he imagined them to be, he practically moans at the delicacy.

he runs his hands up and down your body, you don’t mind that they linger a little too long on your ass, you think it’s adorable how excited he is. little does he know he’d have you sucking on his swollen cock in the public restroom of the bar. you’d be on your knees listening to him moan your name and later that evening he’d be asking if he was just as good as the guy from last night.

he’d then take you to that same car, and just like his brother, his hard cock would be entering your throbbing pussy each stroke full of passion and intimacy. you could melt at how careful the leclerc’s take their sexual activities.

you can’t tell him who’s better, there’s no clear winner. but god forbid you would never tell him the man before him was his own brother.

When the lights go out, she's all I ever think about

The picture burning in my brain, kissing in the rain

I can't forget, my English love affair

[norrisleclercf1]

Day 23 of 25 Days of Christmas: Christmas Party

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Rating: PG

Words: 831

As you and Lewis prepare for the Christmas dinner party, there's a palpable excitement in the air. The kitchen is filled with the fragrant aroma of spices and the rich scent of roasting meats. At the same time, soft holiday music plays in the background, setting a cheerful tone for the evening. You take a moment to step back and admire the efforts that have gone into creating a warm, inviting atmosphere. The table was dressed in elegant linens, with glimmers of shining silverware and crystal glassware, and each piece was meticulously placed.

You glance at Lewis, who is bustling about, adjusting the napkins and ensuring the perfect floral centerpiece. His enthusiasm is contagious, and you can’t help but smile as he lovingly arranges the table settings. With the gentle flicker of candlelight dancing around the room, it feels like you’ve created a little haven away from the winter chill outside.

As guests begin to trickle in, you warmly greet each one, wrapping them in hugs or a friendly handshake. They admire the decorations—a blend of classic and modern elements that reflect your shared taste. The twinkling lights and tasteful ornaments hanging from the tree add a magical touch, and you can’t help but feel proud of the effort that’s gone into crafting this warm and inviting holiday experience.

The house is alive with conversation and laughter as friends and family gather. You find yourself moving from group to group, engaging in lighthearted banter, sharing stories, and catching up on life as you serve drinks—a delightful mulled wine that Lewis spent hours perfecting. Its rich flavors warm the body and spirit, lifting everyone’s mood.

In the kitchen, the final touches on the meal are coming together beautifully. You can hear the bubbling of the cranberry sauce and the sound of Lewis carving the perfectly roasted turkey. He calls you, “Hey, can you fetch the thyme from the pantry? I think it could use a little extra!” You shouldn’t have to ask twice; you're eager to assist, reveling in the teamwork that defines this special evening.

Once everyone is seated, you take a moment to admire the scene before you. The table is filled with various dishes—golden roasted vegetables, creamy potatoes, and a vibrant salad that adds a pop of color. You raise your glass, and as everyone quiets down, you offer a heartfelt toast. “To family and friends, the memories we make, and the love we share.” Cheers resonate, and the clinking of glasses fills the room.

As the meal progresses, stories are shared over plates piled high with food. Each laugh and smile deepens the sense of connection. You notice a soft glow on Lewis’s face, mirroring your delight. You have created more than just a dinner; you've crafted an experience that brings everyone together, sharing in the joy of these moments.

After the last bites of dessert are consumed—a rich chocolate yule log—you and Lewis clear the table. The kitchen buzzes with the sounds of clattering dishes and playful banter. It’s a joyous chaos, and you both thrive in it. You wash dishes while Lewis dries, swapping tales from the past year and recalling fond memories.

As the evening winds down, guests are reluctant to leave, lingering for a little longer. You offer them coffee and homemade peppermint bark, and soon, the room fills with the scent of brewing coffee mingled with sweet chocolate. Conversations pick up again, and the warmth of friendship envelops you like a cozy blanket.

Lewis grabs his guitar, a tradition you both cherish after a festive meal. As he strums a few chords, others chime in with familiar holiday tunes. You close your eyes for a moment, soaking in the atmosphere of music, laughter, and the comforting scent of pine from the tree, appreciating the love and tradition that make these moments so special.

Finally, you realize how lucky you are—to share these moments, to have friends and family around you, and to have teamed up with Lewis, who, through every detail of the evening, showcased your shared love for bringing joy into the lives of those you hold dear.

As the last guests bid farewells, you and Lewis share a satisfied glance. It wasn’t just the food or the decorations; it was the love and effort you both poured into making this night special for the people who matter most. "Next year," you say with a wink, "we really outdid ourselves!"

He laughs, echoing your sentiment. “Let’s make this a tradition—growing better every year.” With a content heart, you begin to tidy up, knowing that the evening will be remembered long after the last plate has been washed.

As the last flicker of candlelight fades, you reflect on the beautiful gathering you crafted—a holiday celebration filled with warmth, love, and laughter. You realize that amidst the elegance and effort, the bonds formed and memories made truly shine. With happy hearts, you both retire for the night, feeling grateful for the love surrounding you.

[inkdrinkerworld]

omgomgomg can i request sunshine!reader x grumpy!remus. 💗

it was common knowledge that remus wore shades of green, brown and white and black.

he wore yellow on rare occasions and they were muted tones, and that’s why you had to get him this specific thing.

you’d been shopping for a new pair of boots for yourself when you saw the pyjama set and had to pick it up for him.

even if he wouldn’t wear it, it would be enough just to make him smile when you explain.

you got yourself a pair as well, and made your way home overly excited to show remus his gift.

“rem, i’m back and i got you something!” remus knows there’s trouble with how excited you sound.

“something illegal?” he asks as you meet him on the sofa. he’s reading a well worn copy of pride and prejudice with his ankles crossed along the length of the sofa; but pats his lap for you.

“no! but maybe next time.”

you thrust the bag towards him and his lips quirk up just so.

you’re practically shaking with excitement and when remus’ hands touch the linen you almost burst in impatience.

still, you temper your own emotions and watch as remus pulls out the bright red pyjamas covered in white hearts.

“these are for me?” he asks, his book closed as he unfolds the set.

“mhm! i got a set for me in pink, though we can swap if you want.”

remus can’t believe you thought of him when you saw this, he also can’t believe that you got him a pair.

though, at this stage he should because you’re you and you’ve often told him that you see him everywhere just in glance.

“do you hate it? because i really just got it to see if you’d hate it and never wear it at all.” you admit almost shyly and remus let’s a full smile break out on his lips.

“i don’t hate it,” he kisses your nose. “thank you for thinking of me.”

you didn’t expect remus to wear it the next night after you washed both pairs and grin so wide remus suspects you’re the sun.

[oldfarmhouse]

𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐬

𝗁𝗍𝗍𝗉s://instagram.com/bynilsgarden

[adore-laur]

MOTHER’S DAY

— a self-explanatory blurb from the dadrry universe 🌷

——

Toss. Turn. Sigh. Repeat.

Postpartum anxiety kept hitting you in explosive bursts like crash cymbals. Intrusive worries about whether your newborn was breathing or not ruthlessly stormed your brain. Surging heart palpitations that ebbed and flowed like the ocean tide weren't helping your internally erratic state. 

She hadn't wailed those gut-wrenching cries in over an hour. It was a brief slot of time to catch up on your precious slumber, yet your melatonin was overrun by an influx of cortisol. Due to your ruptured sleep schedule, there was also a stinging sensation behind your eyelids. It felt like chlorine or lemon juice had seeped into your sockets ever since day and night swapped places. 

The speckled sky of stars trickled through the linen drapes, painting moonbeams on the bedroom carpet and walls. By the looks of it, you'd undoubtedly be awake to behold the moment they metamorphosed into golden rays of dawn. 

Heart thumping, stomach churning, and chest constricting, you surrendered your chance of a reposeful night of rest and silently slid out of bed. Harry was gently snoring on his side, facing away from you and dead to the world. Lucky him.

You padded over to the bassinet across the room. The moon made it visible enough to see the tiny bundle that was half you and half your husband sleeping there. Your trembling hand reached down and lightly rested on your daughter's belly. It has been a habit lately. Your eyes couldn't help but snap open in the middle of the night, the insomnia-induced anxiety getting you on your feet to check if the human you were responsible for was still alive. 

When you felt her fast breaths, relief immediately flooded your bloodstream. You stayed by her until you were at ease with the steady rise and fall of her chest, then eventually tucked yourself back under the covers and leaned against the headboard. You were wide awake now, and it seemed like it would be another all-nighter. Jealousy festered inside you because of Harry and how he could effortlessly sleep through the night without panic. He'd been so gracious with heaving himself out of bed and calming the baby whenever it was his turn—a true natural when you needed it most. And during those instances, you pretended to be asleep so you didn't worry him. It was hard enough to soothe one agitated person, let alone two. 

The digital clock on the nightstand flicked from 2:36 to 2:37. You bit your fingernails to pass the time. The weight and warmth of Harry beside you pulled you back down to earth, reminding you that you weren't doing this on your own. He was cheering you on, on the same page, and loving you unconditionally. 

Almost as if he could hear your reeling thoughts about him, you heard his snores get cut short by a deep inhale before his hand subconsciously flopped against your thigh. Fatigued fingers felt around until his warm, heavy palm spread on your skin, giving it a tender squeeze. He then rolled onto his stomach with a raspy grunt and turned his head to face you. 

In the faint moonlight, puffy eyes and a drowsy smile said hello. They greeted you with a gentleness that washed away the burdensome stones on your chest. He made you feel calm. Just one glance at him was the only solace you needed. 

He was a tired, tired boy. Technically, he was a grown man, but moments like these revealed that he was just a boy adjusting to the harsh reality of parenthood.

"Sorry for waking you," you whispered, raking your fingers through his disheveled hair. It was still a little damp from his nightly shower. 

"Did I sleep through her cries?" Harry murmured hoarsely, his eyelids drooping until they shut again. 

"No. I just got up to check on her."

He hugged your leg like it was a pillow. "Why? What happened?" 

You could've lied. Or you could've given him what he always asked of you: the whole and honest truth. The latter was the wisest choice, considering he could read you like a family recipe. 

"I had to make sure she was breathing," you admitted. 

Harry was eerily quiet. You thought he might have fallen back asleep, but suddenly, the room was illuminated in a yellow glow from the bedside lamp being switched on. It strained your vision for a few seconds, and after blearily blinking through it, you looked at Harry to find him sitting up with the silk sheets bunched around his waist. He yawned loudly, then scooted over to draw you into his body. A trace of citrus aftershave still lingered on his skin. 

"Can't sleep?" he asked, his lips moving against your temple. 

Your cheek melted on his warm, bare shoulder. "Ever since we brought her home, my anxiety has been eating me alive at night. I'm constantly worried about her, even when she's not crying." 

Harry planted chaste kisses on your face. Through slow, sleepy affection, he said, "She's okay. Nothing bad is going to happen." 

"You don't know that." 

"I know she's safe and sound, all snug in the bassinet six feet away from us." When you didn't respond, he added, "If you want, we can move it next to your side of the bed." 

You clutched his hand, loving the smoothness of his palm and how large it was compared to yours. "Can we? Please? I want her close just in case." 

Nodding, Harry brought your joined hands up to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. "Let's do it tomorrow so we don't wake her, yeah? We all need sleep right now." 

"Okay. Can you scratch my back? And talk to me." 

"Of course, sweetheart. Turn around." 

You did, and it didn't take long for him to lift your shirt so his delicate fingers could stroke along the expanse of your back. Goosebumps spread everywhere as you sank deeper into the mattress. The way his touch could envelop you in a blanket of comfort was miraculous. 

"Your postpartum checkup is in a couple of weeks," Harry mentioned, his mellow voice quickly putting a sleep spell on you. "We'll talk to the doctor about everything that's been going on, okay?" He shifted on the bed. "Listen, I get scared too. All I want is to protect her. When she cries, I feel helpless. But we're learning, aren't we? We'll be professionals by the time we're four kids in." 

You couldn't squash the craziness of his last statement because distant dream waves finally carried you away and let you drift in calm waters for the first time in a long time. 

—— 

A serenade of songbirds awoke you the following morning. Then, there was a slight breeze coming from somewhere. You soon realized there was no familiar dip in the mattress next to you, no blazing hot skin glued to you, and no soft puffs of air against your neck. You firmly decided that you loathed the feeling of a cold and empty bed in the morning. 

Stretching until your joints cracked, you squinted from the blinding sunlight gloriously casting over the side of the bed you lay on. The clock displayed 9:04, which was the latest time you had slept in since your third trimester of pregnancy. On top of the clock was a piece of paper you didn't recall seeing yesterday—the type of paper you and Harry wrote grocery items on. The familiar handwriting of your husband, which was a tad illegible but endearing nonetheless, had you reaching out and plucking the note from its place. 

Happy Mother's Day. 

Meet me on the beach when you wake up. Baby has already been changed, fed, and everything in between. Sunday breakfast on the shore, made by yours truly, awaits you. 

I love you so much. Thank you for completing me. 

~ Harry 

It entirely slipped your mind that it was Mother's Day—your first one. You'd been too caught up in a whirlwind of emotions, trying to capture a peaceful moment. Needless to say, you didn't even know what day of the week it was sometimes. Apparently, today was worth celebrating. 

After freshening up and tying a robe around yourself, you trod down the staircase. The late spring weather engulfed your senses as the kitchen came into view. The shutters were swung open, letting in gleaming sunshine and a gentle wind that felt like a welcoming embrace. It lifted your spirits instantly and caused you to temporarily forget about last night's troubles. 

You ventured to the beach area, the sand under your uncovered feet enlivening your drained state. Once the ocean became visible, you quickly stumbled upon an unexpected surprise. Harry, the human epitome of sunshine, stood there holding a tray with a vase of blooming flowers, a cup of steaming tea, and breakfast foods such as peeled clementine, poached eggs, and a golden-brown waffle drizzled with maple syrup. He was in his pinstriped pajamas, with sunglasses covering his eyes. Behind him, your daughter lay in a portable baby dome that shielded her from the sunny sky. She was sleeping on her back, her limbs bent adorably. You didn't recall hearing her cry after you finally managed to doze off last night. 

Barefoot, with a radiant smile dimpling his sun-kissed face, Harry met you halfway, setting the tray down on a nearby blanket spread out. His arms opened in invitation. You would have jumped in them if you had the energy, merely because his spontaneous thoughtfulness made you want to tackle him and never let him go—lovingly, of course. 

"Make way for the goddess," he said, taking his sunglasses off and eyeing you up and down. 

Makeup-less, half asleep, and moving at the sluggish speed of a sloth, you felt—and probably looked—far from a goddess. But when your husband looked at you like he wanted to eat you for breakfast instead, the tiniest flicker of confidence sparked inside of you. 

"Good morning," you greeted, smiling softly. 

Harry's hands instinctively splayed on your waist, his fingers digging into the cotton fabric of your robe. He was sporting a dopey expression, and you wondered if he got as little sleep as you did. 

Enduring delirious mornings with him had slowly become your favorite domestic kryptonite. When he'd crack ridiculous jokes amidst a quick, lazy round of sex before the baby interrupted, or when he would shuffle around the kitchen making an insufficient meal while accidentally putting the milk jug in the pantry out of pure exhaustion. 

"Let me guess," he said with an exhale, "you forgot it was Mother's Day?" 

You squeezed him tight and breathed in the faint smell of lavender fabric softener on his pajamas. "Can you blame me? I'm practically a zombie most days." You kissed him slowly, tasting the sweet and sticky syrup residue on his lips. "Mm, but thank you for everything. You take such good care of me." 

"Someone's got to do it," he told you, earnestness lacing his words. 

"I'm trying; I really am. Motherhood is... very grueling." 

"I know, darling. Whatever you need, let me know, and I'll help as best I can." 

You touched his cheeks, absorbing the sun's heat that graced them. "I want to take care of you too. I notice how tired you are." 

He fell into deep thought, and after staring at you for a moment with his eyes dancing over your entire face, he said, "Let's bring back date nights. When was the last time we went out, just the two of us? We can get someone to babysit, then go out on the town like we used to." 

"Can part of our date night involve taking a nap?" you asked, propping your chin on his chest. 

Harry glanced down at you, his green irises clear and happy. "Absolutely." 

"Sounds like a plan." You laughed at its absurdity. How did we go from 'I can't wait to marry you' to 'I can't wait to nap with you'? What has parenting done to us?" 

He tilted his head with a lopsided grin. "It's made me fall in love with you all over again." 

"Even when there's spit-up on my clothes?" 

"Uh-huh," he said, locking you in his hold. "And when you're burping a cranky baby while eating your first meal of the day well past noon. And when you're breastfeeding while sending work emails, your hair unbrushed, and my shirt hanging off your body. There's nothing sexier." 

Truthfully, he wasn't joking around. And you knew that one day, you'd find simplistic beauty in those things as well. 

"I'm a real sight for sore eyes." 

Harry kissed your forehead, swaying you to the sound of the waves meeting the shore and then receding. "You have no idea." 

——

[harry-on-broadway]

On Holiday

Word Count: 1.5K || Series Masterlist || Rating: M

***

Christmas looked a little different this year. The smell of cinnamon and pine had been swapped for coconut and salt, and the chill of London was replaced by a warm sea breeze. Any other year, the season would have been crammed with visits to family and friends, tasty food, and Christmas carols, making for long, albeit fulfilling days.  

But after a year at home, Harry had suggested something different. 

“How’d you feel about a tropical Christmas, love,” he’d whispered against Quinn’s hair one night, so softly, she almost didn’t hear him.

The holidays had always been the only time he’d been allowed to slow down and see the people he loved most, soaking in as much as he could in the couple weeks he had. But with his self-imposed break, he’d had plenty of family time this year, he’d argued, which made him feel comfortable skipping out on some of the festivities.  

And that’s how Quinn found herself in the Caribbean on Christmas, making use of the swimsuits she’d purchased during an end of season sale. Harry had taken care of planning every detail, even the smallest most mundane ones. Quinn had obviously fought him on it, never wanting to cede too much control, but she had to admit it was nice to just sit back and enjoy while someone else did the work. 

She’d headed out the beach after breakfast and had quickly dozed off, the crash of the waves and the rustle of the trees lulling her into a peaceful sleep. As she slept, she dreamed that something was tickling her. She twisted trying to move away, but she couldn’t get comfortable and the sensation quickly returned. She sleepily swatted at her skin, only for the sensation to return with a vengeance. Finally, she opened her eyes and saw Harry standing over her, palm leaf in hand, hanging just above the exposed skin of her stomach. 

“Hi,” he said with a mischievous grin. 

“Seriously?”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “I missed you.”

“You’ve spent every minute of this trip with me, H,” she laughed. “How can you miss me?” Harry just shrugged. “You’re interrupting my beauty sleep,” Quinn added. 

“You’re always beautiful. Don’t need sleep or anything,” Harry said, motioning for Quinn to scoot over on the plush lounger. She moved to the side, giving Harry enough room to sit down beside her before cuddling in beside him, linking their legs together. 

“You’re just saying that because you want attention. Or sex,” Quinn muttered against his bare chest. He smelled like sunscreen and salt and it was quickly becoming her favorite scent. 

“I mean, I won’t say no to either of those things,” Harry said with a chuckle. “But who’s to say I want anything? Maybe I just want to pay my wife a compliment.” 

His wife. It had been almost two weeks and Quinn didn’t think she’d ever get tired of hearing those words from her husband. “Well, I’m lucky to have such a wonderful husband,” she replied, craning her neck to place a gentle kiss along Harry’s jaw. She never thought she’d be one of those newlyweds, but she had clearly misjudged herself.

They’d started wedding planning soon after Harry proposed, and while they’d initially assumed they’d have a large wedding (perhaps in Italy?), the more they looked into the actual mechanics of pulling it off, the less enthusiastic they became. 

“I didn’t realize this would be so…involved,” Harry said over dinner one night after they’d spent the day researching venues. “It’s like planning the biggest party of our lives. But less fun. Am I allowed to say it’s not fun?” 

“I know,” Quinn said, slightly relieved she wasn’t the only one who felt overwhelmed. “It’s like we need to have an idea about the guest list to see what venue would work, but then we kind of need to know where we’re going to have it so that we know who would be able to come. And there are so many decisions. Why are linens such a big deal? And then there’s trying to keep everything private. It’s just…” she trailed off. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she said in agreement. 

The next morning, Harry had presented his new plan over coffee. “How would you feel about eloping?”

So that’s what they did. 

They enjoyed the spring and summer and fall soaking up time with family, exploring the city, and enjoying mundane everyday details that aren’t so mundane when you’re on the road for most of the year. They enjoyed being with each other and their families, all while keeping the biggest secret of their lives. And when work started to wind down for Quinn in early December, she cashed in all of her leave, ready for what came next. 

On a rainy Saturday, they texted a couple of their friends and had them meet them at a venue that would not be making The Knot’s list of ideal wedding locations: a nondescript government building. Quinn wore a white jumpsuit she’d purchased earlier in the week, and Harry wore the simplest suit in his closet. An hour later, the papers were signed, and they were officially a married couple. They celebrated their nuptials with pizza and early bedtime, before catching a flight the next morning.  

“So,” Harry said, moving to take Quinn’s hand in his own, bringing her back to the present. “When are we going to tell them?” He stroked the diamond band that now rested on her finger alongside the engagement ring he’d given her just a little over a year ago. She reached for his own wedding band in return, twirling it around his finger, smiling when she caught a glimpse of the small tan line that already formed. 

“Would make for a great New Year’s surprise.”

“It would,” Harry said, smiling softly. “Mum’s going to lose it.” 

“I just hope she’s not mad,” Quinn said. It was the fear that had been nagging at her since they’d made their decision. That by keeping this moment for themselves, they were somehow depriving their family and friends from sharing the memory with them, even though they’d agreed to have a celebration when they’d returned. 

“None of that now,” Harry scolded. “She’s going to be thrilled that we finally made it official. Got my act together and made an honest woman of you.” Quinn shot him a look and he laughed. “You know what I mean. I think everyone’s just going to be so happy. That we did what worked for us. And if they aren’t, well they’re off the guest list for the celebratory dinner.”  

“I’m really glad we did this, Harry,” Quinn said after a moment. “I think it’s everything I wanted.” 

“Signing papers in a water-stained room while a government employee watched?”

“It would have been nice if there was some mold to complete the vision but I’ll take what I can get.” Harry laughed and Quinn waited until he calmed down before continuing. “No, I always wanted it to be you and me. I didn’t need a crowd of people or a dress or a fancy destination, I just needed you there with me. And you were. It was perfect.” 

Harry was silent but Quinn could feel him take a shuddering breath. She knew what those words meant to him. That she wanted him. Not the glitz and the glamour and the money and the attention and all of the other things that came along with being Harry Styles. She just wanted him. Harry. The guy who always ended up on her side of the bed because his side was too far away. The guy that had coffee waiting for her every morning. The guy who would never admit it publicly but loved nothing more than reading the bios of the cats up for adoption at the local cat cafe, always saying he was just looking for one his mother would like. And now he was hers, forever and ever. Even when she had to share him with millions of others. 

“You want another one of those rum things?” Harry asked, sniffling.

“Sure. Are you getting one?”

“Might as well. It’s our honeymoon after all. We only get one of those.” He waggled his eyebrows. ‘It’s our honeymoon’ had become his favorite way to justify anything and everything on the trip. He stood up and Quinn moved to follow him. “No, no,” he chided. “Stay here. I didn’t mean for you to get up.”

“I want to go,” Quinn said, reaching for his hand and leaning into his touch as he pulled her up. “I always want to be with you.” 

“And now you’re stuck with me.” 

“Forever.” 

Harry smiled widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come on.” He gently tugged Quinn along. “I need to get my wife a drink.” 

***

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[a-kind-of-merry-war]

I Hate You

Five times Ed told Xenk he hates him, and one time... he tells him he hates him again, actually.

2.3k, Rated T for swears.

~~~

1

Xenk strides ahead through the winding tunnels of the Underdark, his pretentious cape billowing behind him.

It’s like he has his own personal wind, Ed thinks. Probably generates it himself, the smug bastard, no magic required.

The eery little creatures on the walls around them pulsate gently as they pass, their shimmering tentacles casting a dim blue light across Xenk’s armour. It glimmers. There’s something oddly hypnotic about it. Ed wonders when he last polished it. He was probably polishing it that very morning, desperate not to get a speck on it.

Fucking paladins. Fucking Harpers.

Ed watches him forge on ahead with increased annoyance.

“I hate you,” he whispers. Xenk says nothing, but the tilt of his head is enough for Ed to know he heard.

*

2

After the incident in Neverwinter, Ed does not become rich beyond his wildest dreams. He does not bring home cartloads of gold. He does not swap out cotton for silk and linen.

What Ed does is quietly curse Xenk under his breath every time he thinks about what he could have had. He isn’t poor - heroes of the realm aren’t left to freeze and starve, after all - but he always wonders what life would be like with a little more lining in his pockets.

That is what makes him to take the job offer when it lands at his feet. Although it’s a difficult job to say no to - a request from the old Lord himself, who has sought out Ed and Holga’s skills personally, to deal with what he describes as a spot of bother in a town a few miles from the city. This time, Kira is undeniably nervous but seems keen for them to go: they’re heroes, now, she reminds them. For the first time, Ed realises that she’s proud of him, and that would convince him to do nearly anything.

He muses, as he dodges out of the way of the snarling creature that’s been eating the local’s sheep and goes barreling into a towering pile of hay bales, that he is very glad Kira cannot see him right now. For a baffling moment, straw poking him in all the wrong places, he has no idea which way is up, flailing wildly for something to grab.

And then he does. He wraps his hand around something firm and strong and cold and—

He's heaved to his feet. Standing in front of him, radiant in his armour and the dazzling light, is Xenk.

Ed quickly lets go of his arm.

“Greetings, Edgin.”

Behind him, surrounded by villagers making ohh noises, is the decapitated body of the beast that Ed had been fighting, not seconds before.

“I had it under control,” Ed says.

“Of course.” Xenk smiles.

Ed thinks of the reward money. Of the accolades. Kira’s pride.

“...I hate you,” Ed says.

The smile does not fade. “Of course.”

*

3

First things first: Ed stinks. The stink is everywhere, it’s like it's in his bones, under his skin, in his head.

At least the damn dragon is dead.

“Please, oh heroes, please help us slay the beast!”

Ed had such high hopes. On the ride from their home to the mountainside town, he and Holga had been excitedly discussing how they would split the dragon’s hoard. Gems, jewels, piles of gold: they’d be rich, even after splitting it five ways.

Five. It had taken five of them to slay a dragon last time, after all.

And then, of course, there had been no gems, no jewels, no piles of gold taller than Ed stood.

What sort of shitty dragon hoards garbage?

No wonder the townspeople wanted rid of it.

He slides from the huge pile of muck. He can hear Holga cursing behind him, something about "and it’s in my fucking hair, too", while Doric, transformed momentarily into an enormous bear, attempts to lift a particularly sticky slab of debris from Simon.

Ed tries to stand, slips, and falls down again. This time at least he’s got his mouth shut.

“Need a hand?”

Ed looks up from where he’s on his knees in what he really, really hopes isn’t raw sewage. For a moment, he’s blinded by the sun, then the shadow ahead of him shifts, moves, and suddenly the light is blocked.

Xenk peers down at him, illuminated from behind, one hand extended.

Ed does not take it but instead struggles to his feet, determined not to fall again. He spits as he finally manages to stand.

“How the fuck—”

Xenk is spotless. From his dazzling armour to his perfect cape and his flawless skin. There is not a speck of dirt or shit or mud or even blood on him.

For a moment, Ed can only gape at him with his mouth open. He feels something cold and slimy slide down his back.

“I hate you.”

He goes to push Xenk aside (he dodges, of course he dodges) and strides away.

*

4

How Xenk became a regular member of Ed and Holga’s party, Ed just isn’t sure. It’s not just him: Simon, of course, joins them often, as does Doric when she’s able or the need arises. Ed enjoys having them both around - even if their whole on-again-off-again thing is beginning to piss him off - but Xenk is another matter entirely.

What really annoys him, really, actually gets on his nerves, is the fact that everyone else seems to love him. Sure, Xenk is noble and clever and a brilliant fighter. Yes, he’s a keen tactician and diplomat and is popular wherever he goes, and of course he’s the best swordsman Ed has ever seen and is furiously, distractingly handsome, but—

Where was that thought going?

Right, yes. 

Everyone else loves him. But, of course, everyone loves Ed, too. Ed is just as popular, even if he is a bit more abrasive. Everyone loves a bard. That’s the way of things. 

This is, Ed knows, a dangerous path to let his thoughts wander down when he’s several pints in as they celebrate a decisive victory and is swiftly seeing those pints down with several more, just to keep the first ones safe.

Simon is describing a stunt that Xenk pulled off to an adoring crowd of onlookers. Ed isn’t even sure what part of the daring deed he’s talking about, but the way the crowd is enraptured by his story is grating on him regardless. 

Ed sees back his pint, nearly drops the tankard on the table, and the words spill from his mouth before he can stop them - not that he would try anyway.

“I hate you,” he mumbles.

Simon doesn’t stop in his story. None of his audience notices. 

But Xenk looks up. He catches Ed’s eye across the table. This, Ed thinks. Let this be it. Let him drop that stupid facade and throw himself across the table and hit me. Go on. He eggs him on in his mind. He wonders what his face is doing. Do it, he thinks. Do it. 

Xenk… does nothing. He smiles, the bastard.

The next thing Ed remembers is being poured into a bed in the roof of the inn. Someone is holding him up, making sure he doesn’t trip. There’s a metallic sounding clang that puts his teeth on edge, and when he rolls over he realises that someone’s placed a mental bucket beside the mattress.

“Sorry.”

He looks up. Xenk leans over him. No: he doesn’t lean over him. He’s standing a measured distance away, holding himself carefully.

Ed mumbles something. Xenk smiles again.

When Ed wakes up, horrible dawn light slicing across his face, he’s alone.

*

5

It’s all gone a bit wrong. Ed would be the first to admit when it goes wrong, but this time—

This time they’re truly fucked.

They shouldn’t have gone in with three people. But everyone else was busy, and they were running out of time, and so they entered the tower as a trio: He, Holga - and Xenk.

He’s been getting sort of used to having him around.

Which is what makes this—

It’s what makes this so bad.

He hoists him up over the edge of the demolished floor, pulling him up onto the stone beside him. Holga calls from somewhere up above - she’s coming to get them. Just stay there. Just hold on.

That’s what he mutters to Xenk, too, as he pulls his armour away. 

Ed has never seen Xenk’s cloak stained red, before. The colour looks wrong.

Xenk’s eyes are closed. Ed’s hands shake as he strips off the armour. Xenk would hate to see him treat the expensive plate so carelessly - not that he would see fit to tell him that himself, not in the sort of language that Ed would use, anyway.

Ed presses his hand’s to the paladin’s chest. He’d feared this. Not this exactly, but the fear of being without a magic user is what forced him to finally tap into his buried bard’s magic late sometime last year. The going has been rough, even with Simon’s - and, to Ed’s surprise, Xenk’s tutelage. He’s learnt little, but enough.

It has to be enough.

Ed’s hands stain Xenk’s shirt in scarlet smears. Xenk's blood is hot. Like this, he suddenly seems human. Fragile.

Ed mutters the healing words. It’s the only healing spell he knows, and he’s shitty at it and exhausted to boot, but at this stage he’s willing to try anything.

He feels the magic course through him, down his arms, into Xenk’s chest. There’s a strange, floating moment where he feels the steady thud of Xenk’s heart in his hands, all the way up into his core. Ed can feel his eyes drooping. He’s so tired.

But Xenk opens his eyes.

“Ed?” 

Ed’s never seen him look so scared.

No: that’s wrong. He’s seen him look this scared once before - the moment the hand had wrapped around his torso and pulled him over the edge into the darkness.

Everything hurts. Ed pulls his hands away, and feels himself falling.

“I hate you.”

And then it all goes black.

*

+1

A gentle wind carries with it the smell of fresh leaves and summer wildflowers. Behind Xenk, hooked neatly on the protruding branch of a tree, his cloak moves in the breeze like ocean waves.

Edgin is unusually quiet. He’s leaning against the tree, his lute on his lap, although he isn’t playing. He stares out at something that Xenk cannot see.

“Edgin?”

There’s no response. Xenk goes to sit next to him, crossing his legs and settling straight-backed at his side.

After a few more moments of silence, Edgin finally speaks.

“It’s been a year, you know.”

Xenk turns to look at him. He does not pay too much attention to the passing of time: the celebration of dates and numbers.

“Since?”

Edgin does not respond, but sits up properly, leans forwards, and tugs at the open neck of Xenk’s undershirt, exposing the edge of the twisting scar that splits his dark skin.

Oh. He supposes it has been a year: although it feels like far less time has passed. A lot has changed in a single year - a lot that once terrified him. It feels less frightening now.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

There’s a sudden heat in Edgin’s voice. Like he’s held these words back for too long, and now they’re scorching him.

“Do you see, Xen? Do you really?”

Xen. Xenk cannot remember the last time someone gave him a diminutive name. This is another thing that’s changed in the last year. Before, he would have demanded his full name. But now… Now it makes him feel like he belongs. He belonged to the Harpers, in a way. He had taken dozens of oaths, oaths designed to make many feel like one.

But this— this is different. It was different when Edgin and Holga accepted him as one of the gang, and it’s even more different now, sitting here alone in the sunshine with Edgin.

Ed.

“I—” he struggles with his words, now. He never did before. “Tell me how you see it.”

Ed takes a deep breath. 

“It’s been a fucking year, Xen,” he says. His words have cooled but not extinguished, like fresh-forged red steel. “A year since I thought you were dead. Since we—”

Xenk knows what he’s thinking of. He’s remembering that night - the night after Ed had pulled him back from the brink, nearly throwing himself over in the process. The long, still evening broken by the quiet, quickly smothered confession.

“I told you I hated you,” Ed says, finally. His words are just steam, now. Light and ephemeral.

“You did,” Xenk agrees. 

“I never— I never said sorry.”

“I know you did not mean it.”

Ed’s expression cracks. “Part of me did,” he admits, at last. “I hated you for— for leaving us.” And then, even more quietly: “...leaving me.”

The air feels heavy around them. Xenk twists around to better look at him. He takes Ed’s jaw between gentle fingers, feeling the scratch of his stubble, the gentle puff of his breath when Xenk rubs his thumb against his lip.

Ed does not resist as Xenk pulls him forwards and presses their lips together. Even now, it still thrills him - fills him in a way that all the magic and oaths in the world could not. Xenk thought he knew goodness, until now. He thought he knew devotion. He was wrong.

When they finally part, Ed stares at him with wide, dark eyes. He looks like a man lost.

He blinks once. Twice. And then his expression splits into one that Xenk has grown both familiar and fond of: a cocky grin to shrug off the fact that Ed has just experienced an emotion.

“You mushy bastard,” he says. “I hate you.”

Xenk grins, and kisses him again.

“No,” he says. “You do not.”

[carolmunson]

come get me, come love me (older!modern!eddie)

part four of who knows how many. orange colored sky set list surprise chapter, bitches. after we got rained out at the park, we finish our date at eddie's apartment in prospect heights, things heat up despite the storm. inspired by @loveshotzz older steve series: all i really want is you (see if you can spot the easter egg in this lil chapter.) tw: age gappy (reader is late 20s/early 30s, eddie is late 30s/early 40s), kissin', reader wears eddie's clothes but there's no body description songspiration: lovesick | banks

The door to the building is wedged between a restaurant and a pet store on a long street of bars and places to eat. You’ve been down here plenty of times, the ramen spot closer to the end of the street is to die for, and one of the ice cream shops is the best in this part of the city. He unhooks the carabiner from his belt loop and hurries the key into the heavy iron grate door before bumbling into the wooden one behind it.

“Whew!” he says when you both get inside, wiping some of the rain from his face. He leads you up the stairs to the second floor and down the small hallways. “Both doors are mine, but this is the front door,” he smiles, kicking his shoes off at the mat off to the side. You do the same. “Sorry if it’s a little messy,” he says, keys jingling in his hands while he opens the door, “Maid took the week off.”

You snort when you follow him inside but he looks at you over his shoulder, “No, seriously. It was her son’s birthday on Sunday so I told her not to come in. I try to keep it together for the most part, but – I don’t know, Sasha gives it a special somethin’ I’ve never been able to do on my own.” 

It’s a little stunning, his apartment. And when you think a little you mean a lot, a floor and a half with a metal spiral staircase that separates the open concept kitchen from the living room, dining room hybrid on the wall closest to the door. Oak floors that look newly shined, a big and deep sectional closing off the space so a dining room table and chairs could be placed on the other half of the room. Even the exposed brick on the back wall looks like it was just put in. His hand rests on your back while he guides you up to the next floor, the metal cold on your bare feet, shivering against the coolness of the central air whooshing through the place.

“If you want I can give you something comfy to wear and throw your stuff in the laundry,” he says when you make it to the top, opening the door, “Bathroom is just around the corner.”

“You have in-unit laundry?” you ask with a breathy sigh.

“I know, I’m so dreamy,” he winks, “You gonna take me up on my offer? There’s towels in there already.”

“Sure,” you take off the linen shirt and pass it to him, “I’ll be right out.” 

The bathroom is small-ish but well put together, it looks like he had it gutted and redone to be more modern, navy blue marbled tiles in the shower with gunmetal hardware – he has an eye, you figure. You open one of the cabinets to see dark blue towels folded and fluffy, waiting for you. The image that meets you in the mirror makes you frown when you wipe your face off – a wet rat with mascara running down her cheeks, blush and lipgloss long faded. You sigh and do your best to wash off your face with what you can, peeling off your wet layers and keeping them on the counter.

“Wanna swap?” he asks while knocking on the door. You ball up your wet clothes, holding the towel up against your chest while you open the door a sliver, easing them out into his waiting hand. You can’t see him but you hear his little snicker while he pushes the dry clothes into your open palm. “You got it?” he asks. “I got it,” you say, balancing them into the room and shutting the door quietly. “Let me know if you want something different,” he offers. You shake out the folded clothes, big black sweatpants and an old, soft band tee. Corroded Coffin spelled out in jagged letters on the front with a marionette dangling from a demonic clawed hand on the back. “This is fine,” you say, slipping them on, “What band is this?”  “It’s mine,” he says. You can hear his footsteps walking away from the bathroom while he talks, “Told you I was a rockstar!” 

When you’re fully changed into his sweats and shirt you emerge from the bathroom, padding out of the tiles in socked feet. You can hear him downstairs putting the leftover snacks into the fridge and freezer from the cooler. Like the sleuth you are, you take in what you can to learn more about him, inching down the short hallway and peeking into one of the rooms. His bedroom looks like a bachelor’s – not in the way a guy in their twenties would have it, but it’s clear he wants to semi impress whoever he’s taking home. You admire the coziness of the space: wrought iron bed frame – likely a vintage thrift find or thousands of dollars. Dark bedding with knit blankets at the foot of the mattress, a dark green rug under the bed atop the oak floors. His walls are littered with framed photos of him with people you don’t know. Show posters under glass from the 90s, some vintage posters from the 70s. It smells like cedar and a nice hotel lobby candle, manly and unassuming. His dressers are a deep walnut wood that compliment the floors with ease – he did say he had an eye for color. Your eyes wander, looking towards the doors of a walk in closet, more art on the walls. A beautiful baroque style mirror that looks straight out of a gothic mansion leaning heavy in the corner. However, you feel heat rush to your cheeks when, slightly hidden, you see two sets of handcuffs dangling off a small hook by one of his bedside tables. 

“Find anything interesting, Nancy Drew?” 

His low rumble makes you jump, turning to see him leaning against the wall of the hallway with his arms crossed. You breathe out a nervous giggle, “Sorry, was just seeing the place. Your room is nice.” 

“Thank you,” he nods, “I just got it redecorated — got a friend who's a killer interior designer.” 

“I bet you got a friend for everything,” you say, meeting him in the hallway where he opens the door to the next room. It's dark, covered in squares of soundproofing foam. A few different guitars hang from the wall above a big desk with three monitors, computer below whirring in a low hum. 

“I do,” he says, “We exchange a lot of favors. This is where I work from for the most part. Laundry is just a closet next to the bathroom. And uh…you saw downstairs, so I guess that’s the tour.” “It’s a really, really nice spot,” you confess, heading back down the spiral staircase, “Super good location, too.” “It wasn’t when I landed here in ‘04,” he leans on the railing at the top step looking down at you, “But you were prob’ly learnin’ fractions back then.” “You’re annoying,” you cross your arms at the bottom stairs staring up at his boyish grin, he winks again – your legs are jello. “I’m gonna change real quick, I made you a cup of coffee – there’s creamer in the fridge if you need it,” he calls out before disappearing from the staircase to change. You go to the fridge where there’s a litter of polaroids stuck to the stainless steel – most of them of a German Shepherd puppy posed with him and another guy, clean cut, nothing like Eddie.

“Whose the cute dog?” you ask when you hear his footsteps against the metal.   

“Oh that’s my nephew, his name’s Bandit,” he says, pulling a shirt over his head while he makes it back down the spiral staircase. Your eyes linger on the tattoos on his chest, trailing down his obliques, “The dog, not the guy in the pictures.” “I figured.” “That’s my buddy Steve, he’s like my brother. I was out in Chicago for a couple months helping him get his shit back on track – we got him a puppy to keep his mind off things,” Eddie snorts, watching you pour some cream into your mug. You offer to do so for him but he shakes his head, taking it from you to put back in the fridge. “Is he okay?” 

“His wife just passed away,” he says quietly. You offer him a sad face and he shrugs in that ‘What can you do?’ kind of way that guys do when they don’t know what to say, “You clothes should be all set in an hour or so.” “Oh, and then you’re kickin’ me out?” you tease, drinking your coffee up against the counter. He smirks, running his palm over the scratchy scruff of his chin and jaw. “Nah, not at all. You can stay as long as you want,” he shakes his head, his curls already starting to dry around his face – big and defined now with the summer rain, “Just didn’t think you’d wanna hang out at some old man’s house all afternoon.” “See, I was thinking how fun it would be to clear you out of your Raisin Bran,” you smirk against the lip of your mug while he makes his way towards you. He crosses his arms, taking slow steps before he’s got you caged in against the counter. If your nose knows, he definitely spritzed a spray of his cologne before he made it back down stairs – dark, spicy sandalwood enveloping you with a whisper of laundry detergent. 

“I’m almost out, actually,” he grins, lids half closing while he looks down into your eyes, “But it’s okay, I have an unopened box of Kashi multigrain in one of these cabinets somewhere.” He waits for your next dig, knowing it’s coming by the quirk in your lips – you’re full of them today. “Gotta keep that blood pressure in check,” you tease again, trying to keep yourself from smiling as he leans in, a deep short chuckle coming from his throat. You little brat, it sounds like.  “It’s really good for your heart health, actually,” he corrects, brows raising a little. A smirk flits across his full lips when he watches you falter a little, your pretty eyes glazing and glassy while he looms over you. His voice gets low and smoky, just like his cologne, “Maybe you could learn a thing or two from me, hm?”

You shut your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek – you can’t show him how good he’s getting you right now, not so soon, “Oh totally, like what the best pill cases are for my future arthritis medicine.” He laughs, the soft crows feet around his eyes crinkling with it. It’s a barking laugh, quick and sharp – you’re sharp, he likes that, “I can definitely do that.” His nose brushes yours and you brace yourself for what’s coming next, ready to feel him kiss you. To feel the buzz of his hands on you like how they were when he led you inside, when he put his hand on your hands in the park. His lips ghost above yours, breath fanning over your face while you take a final one before the inevitable. “You’ve got a quick mouth there, kleine,” he says smoothly. He reaches around you to grab his own mug of coffee, taking a long sip. Eddie catches the miniscule drop of your shoulders, a silent win goes off in his head. You want him to kiss you so bad and that makes him feel like a million bucks – fuck that – a trillion bucks. 

He steps back, taking a sip of his coffee while the apartment gets a little darker, the storm rolling further in. “What’s ‘kleine’?” you ask, trying to regain your breath. He smiles, walking over to the dimmer on the wall and easing the lights up to a warm glow. “It’s German,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “Loosely translates to baby girl.” “You know German?” you ask, trying to not let the translation send you directly into outer space. You watch him with his coffee cup make his way over to the sectional in his open living space. It’s big and inviting, covered in a sea of throws that it looks like he collected over the years. He plops down, tilting his head toward the seat next to him to encourage you over. “I did an extended run of Cabaret in Jersey like – pffft, I don’t know, a million years ago,” he shrugs, putting his coffee on the table in front of him while you plop yourself down on the deep, squishy cushions. You swallow hard when a waft of his cologne hits you again, trying your hardest not to crawl onto his lap to take him in. 

“Saw the show in ‘98 with Alan Cumming, lost my mind – I mean, really transformative for an 18 year old I guess. Years later when I moved out here I saw there was auditions for it and just got knee deep in that shit, taught myself German and everything to make it sound more authentic,” he looks forward wistfully while he recounts the story, smiling at you when he comes back to himself, “Was very helpful when I went to Berlin a few years later.” 

“Oh, how was that?” you ask, “Did you have fun? I’ve never been to Europe.” 

“I’d tell you about all the fun I had if I could remember it,” he grins,flopping his arm up over the back of the couch, beckoning you closer. “C’mere, honey,” he says, the quiet of his voice putting you at ease. You scooch closer to him while he pulls one of the blankets from the end of the chaise cushion and wraps it around your shoulders. With the blanket comes his arm with no hesitation, his hand resting on your shoulder and then down to your waist. “I like to marathon the Twilight Zone when it gets shitty out like this,” he explains, “You down?” 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’m down. I’ve seen a couple handfuls of episodes.” 

“Yeah? What’s your favorite?” “Hm,” you think, “I think The Monsters are Due on Maple Street. It’s the first one I ever watched.”  “We’ll start with that one, then.” He operates everything from an app on his phone, it surprises you that you’re not as techy as he seems to be. It’s not long before the episode starts and his hold on you becomes more intentional, more cuddly. Thunder booms overhead when the episode gets more intense, making you embarrassed when you jolt. He giggles at you, pulling you in closer – a soft whisper of I got you leaves his lips, you barely hear it.  You snuggle up together while the episode ends and another starts, you tilt your head up toward him, “What’s your favorite?”

“Ooh, good question,” he smirks, “I think The Hitchhiker – it was the first one my uncle ever showed me when I started living with him. Scared the shit out of me.”

“You? Scared?” you quirk a brow, looking down at the way he holds you – assured, confident, “You don’t seem like someone who gets scared very often.” 

“That’s the old age, peach,” he chuckles out, low and rumbly, “All that Raisin Bran, really switches up that fight or flight.” When you laugh he looks down at you, eyes sparkling, noses close together, “Is that funny?” “Yeah, it’s funny,” you say back just as quietly, adjusting yourself a little closer to him, “You’re funny.” His eyes flick down to your lips and then back up, you feel his hand spread out on your waist while he leans in closer, pressing up against you. 

“Just funny?” he asks, watching your eyes flutter closed and then open. His lips ghosting over yours, edge of his bottom lip skating over the curve of your cupid’s bow. 

“No, not just…” you breathe, too intoxicated by how close he is, how his lips and breath tease you. His hand glides up from your waist, trailing a fingertip up the side of your neck, stopping under your chin. You shiver at the touch, goosebumps flooding your arms and legs, belly flipping in somersaults. He tilts your head up, his cocking slowly to the side while his watches for your reaction.

“The show’s about to come back on.” The words are soft and quiet when they leave your mouth, your last ditch effort while fear and excitement roar in your ears. His eyes feel like magnets that you’re constantly pulled too, locking with them while he leans in.

“It’s a boring episode,” he grumbles out quietly from behind a smirk, eyes closing while the tip of your nose is brushed with his. He teases one last time before his lips press warmly against yours, parting slightly to capture them.  You breathe in sharp through your nose, butterflies fluttering and slamming against your chest for release. His hands come up to lay themselves against your cheeks, now hot with excitement while they find home behind your head and neck. He’s fiending for you in the insatiable way he’s felt before, the way a man fiends for a woman.

His leads, taking control of the way the kiss moves with each tilt of his head, changing the intensity each time he breaks away to breathe and come back to you. His lips are full and plush, a soft pink that works for him, it’s almost innocent, when you know he’s anything but. He comes in again, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently to encourage you to let his tongue slide into your mouth. 

His hands greedily pull you in by the waist now that your tongues are brushing, wrapping up together with no space between. You whimper into it, unable to keep the butterflies in your stomach at bay with his other hand roams down your back. You feel his lips stretch into a smile against yours, a growl of a chuckle coming out of his chest when he pulls away again. More kisses, soft and sweet with eyes closed, noses nuzzling before lips meet again. You climb onto his lap, he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you – tight and protective. You lead this time, a hand coming up to cup his jaw while you kiss, taking his bottom lip between your teeth this time. He relents, grip softening on you, fingertips grazing the tops of your thighs over the material of his sweatpants. Your hips roll forward over his and he pulls away.

“Steady now, sugar,” he warns, looking up at you with heavy lidded brown eyes, “I don’t fuck on the first date.” You pout a little, he likes that face, “You got some kind of moral code, old man?” “M’just not that kind of girl, baby,” he shrugs lightly, taking your hand and pressing soft kisses to your fingertips. His eyes don’t leave yours, big and innocent – like he’s challenging you, “Gotta keep you wantin’ more of me.” You can’t imagine not wanting more of him, no matter how much he gave you. “Then how come you kiss me like that?” you ask, his lips still leaving pillowy kisses against your fingers, “Like you’re hungry for me?” 

“Oh, I am hungry, peach,” he smirks, tongue sliding out and gliding up the space between your first and middle finger. The tip of his tongue flicks the pads of them at the top, before taking just your fingertips into his mouth for a moment – hot and wet. Your mouth hangs open, drool collecting under your tongue at the feeling – imagining it happening exactly where you both want it to. “I think we should cut into that icebox cake,” he offers with a smile, like he didn’t just tease you into complete stupidity, “That’ll solve my problem.” He kisses your cheek as he guides you off his lap to get up, feeling lucky that he put on boxer briefs to keep his now painful erection contained – though his sweatpants left little to the imagination. Eddie comes back with two plates with heaping slices of dessert, passing you a spoon while you try your best to calm down. 

“You okay?” he asks sweetly, brushing a stray hair out of your face. You nod, shoving a bite into your mouth so you don’t scream over his gentle touch and soft eyes. So you don’t yell and stomp through his living room about how bad you want him to bring you upstairs and eat you out. So you don’t tell him about the butterflies. You eat, watch, and talk – getting stories on his tattoos, you tell him about how you just started living alone, he tells you all the best spots to get furniture. You share soft little kisses while cuddled under blankets, laughing at the bad special effects and talking about the good special effects for the 60s as the episodes continue on. You fall asleep on his shoulder and he lets out a big deep breath – he likes that you already feel comfortable enough to do so. He swallows hard, doing his best to settle down his own butterflies. 

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[marzipanandminutiae]

how does antiquing work in Star Trek?

like, okay, there's no scarcity Because Replicators. great! except you can't replicate an antique, not the real thing. probably some AMAZING reproductions- 24th-century historical costumers must be having the time of their lives, because as great as modern synthetic baleen is, imagine what you could do with a machine that literally replicates the exact molecular structure of the same! or that extinct flax that made medieval linen so great! -but I know antique collectors. there's nothing like the feeling of something you know so many other people have loved for centuries

is it like a barter system? do you go to the antique "shop" with things passed down in your family or found in the equivalent of a Facebook buy-nothing group, and trade what you have for what the history nerd running the place has based on your respective interests?

is Brimfield like a giant swap meet? could I go with, say...a big bag full of my grandmother's chunky 1950s costume jewelry and trade it for 1880s blouse waists because the stall owner wants the former and I want the latter? equivalent value wouldn't matter- what's value, beyond how much you treasure something? nobody's got rent to make or bills to pay, after all

do people become antiques "dealers" just for the thrill of the hunt and the pleasure of matching an object to someone who will love it? you don't have to work, after all; you can spend your whole life searching the world for rare treasures if that brings you joy

this is a nice thought