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courtingchaos · 1 year ago

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Bad Man

Steve Harrington x Fem Reader

Summary: Steve is always asking you the same question. Do you think you’ll ever give him a different answer?

A/N: hm. This one got away from me. Went in too many directions and I had a hard time settling with it. Hope you guys enjoy it all the same ❤️

Warnings: Cheating (reader has a bf), Sex, Mentions of driving drunk, Two drunk people having sex, Fingering, Unprotected Sex

NSFW 18+ No Minors

Oh and I won’t ask a single question

A question about who you’re supposed to be

I already know the answer

And the answer

Is you’re right here with me - Bad Man; Fightmaster

“When are you gonna let me take you out?” He asks, leaned over the partition of his register to smile at you. He props his chin on a folded up arm and lets the other one dangle free, his watch clacking against the wood.

“Take me out? Like on a date?”

“No.” He scoffs. “Like a hitman. Of course on a date.” He rolls his eyes, warm hazel full of mirth at his own joke. “C’mon. I know this cute little place over near Marion. Cozy, dim.” He tilts his head and watches you from under his lashes. “Perfect for a date.”

You sigh. You laugh too but the sigh is the precedent you need to set. “I’m sure it is.”

“I mean I know we’re playing this whole game of hard to get, but just admit it.” A customer comes up to his register with a baby on her hip and a handful of formula. “You’ve been got.” He winks at you before turning around to turn on his customer voice. An octave higher and a bigger grin, the lascivious one he’d been giving you gone while he coos at the infant. You bite your tongue though, holding your retort back for later. You know he’s going to corner you in the break room after you both clock out, his shoulder pressed into the row of lockers to ask you again.

“When are you gonna let me take you out?”

It’s his weekly question for you always asked with a grin and short laugh like he knows the answer is going to be different than last week. You tidy up your register and flip aimlessly through your stack of laminated grocery codes and pretend to not look up at the back of his head. He’s been out in the sun recently, lighter brown streaks shot through the darker. His fingers that run through the shaggy locks have a golden hue to them, the moles that pepper his skin dark in contrast to the glow. Broad shoulders flex under his polo and that laugh, as fake as it is, makes you smile to yourself.

So no you aren’t staring and no he isn’t taking you anywhere. A glance down at your watch tells you there’s approximately 47 minutes before you’re off. 47 minutes before you have to let him down again like he doesn’t already know.

The locker door swings shut and you laugh, something from the back of your throat. His smile is bright in the corner of your vision, teeth white and straight behind pink lips.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, I just think I’m getting my psychic visions under control finally.”

“Hm.” His brow furrows before he pushes himself off the lockers. “I’ve got a friend who’s good at that, I can give you her number.”

You can’t be mad at him but you are tired. “What do you want Steve?”

“You know what I’m gonna ask.”

“And you know what I’m gonna say.”

That smile drops off his face. Shoulders relaxed while he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and he scuffs a shoe against the linoleum floor. “Can you tell me something?” He scratches at his eyebrow and squints past you.

“What?” You wonder what else he needs to know about your uneventful life.

“What does he do for you?”

“What?” You ask again and aggressively blink at him while you clutch your bag to your hip.

“What does he do for you? Like, ever.” He asks it so plainly like it isn’t some direct invasion into your life. You want to snap at him and tell him to mind his own business but you stop. It isn’t his fault that he doesn’t think this is out of line, who else do you tell first thing every work day when your boyfriend has fucked up again?

“He…he’s my boyfriend, Steve. He does a lot for me.” You yank on your bag to finalize your lame reason. “I don’t have to tell you everything he does for me.”

“No, but I don’t think you’ve ever said one positive thing about him.”

“He has so many-” You cut yourself off because you can’t even lie about that. He doesn’t have so many positives. He might have two and it’s that he’s never raised his voice at you and he doesn’t get on to you when you forget to pay the water bill on time again. Steve looks at you expectantly but you just huff at him.

“I’m not going on a date with you.” You’ve never said it like that before, so plainly. To his credit Steve doesn’t flinch, just nods his head deeply and swings his keys around his finger while avoiding your gaze.

“Understood.”

The routine of every closing shift with Steve goes the same. He shows up five minutes before he has to clock in to find you reading your last chapter in your book. He’ll compare lunches with you and you’ll talk about your leftovers and he’ll ask.

“Oh, did you make dinner again?”

Steve won’t put any feeling into that question. A simple tilt of his head, a comment about how it sounds delicious. A joke about how you should invite him and Robin to dinner some night because neither of them can cook more than mac and cheese without fear of burning something.

You’ll both head up to the front office to find your night manager and Steve will bump elbows with you on every other step. He’ll talk about the game that was on the night before and you’ll nod along. Rich, your boyfriend, also watched the game but it wasn’t as interesting as when Steve tells you. You’ll tamp that thought down though before it grows legs and runs away with your better judgement. He’ll ask about your night and when you don’t have anything to say?

“What’d you and Rich get up to then?”

The usual. He watched TV and yelled at the Packers for loosing again and you made dinner after being on your feet all day, unlike him and his office job.

“You know,” you’ll say “he’s home a full four hours before me and still didn’t take the chicken out of the freezer.”

Steve will nod and frown while he counts his till before turning on his light for the customers.

“Every night?”

“Every night! And he didn’t wash my sweater again. I swear I’m speaking friggin’ Greek some nights.”

Steve will sigh and huff along with you. He’ll bitch about his date the previous weekend, how she wasn’t interested in hearing about his hiking trip with Robin. How it seemed that it was more a pity date than anything.

“You and Rich got any plans this weekend?”

Of course not. You can’t remember the last time he took you out on a date, much less even went with you to the grocery store. Another slip up in your tales to Steve when you derail and tell him this. Barely a date night in the past year and every time you’ve brought it up it’s met with a sigh. With a hand wave and a promise for next month, when things calm down at work. When he isn’t so tired.

“What’s he working so hard for?”

You wouldn’t know if you even cared to ask. It’s in these conversations where you realize a few things. Every day gives you a new insight and Steve more fodder for his never ending question.

You like working Saturday’s with Steve because Robin usually shows up at closing and he’ll invite you out for a drink. She’s funny and he plays off of her well and by the end of the night you’ve usually forgotten that you’re probably showing up to an empty apartment.

“I’m not leaving until I see you walk in.” Robin chirps, her seat pulled too far up into the steering wheel. She’s the soberest out of the three of you and you roll your eyes at her with a giggle. “I know Rich is there but-”

“No he’s not.” Steve cuts in from the backseat. You see him shake his head in the rear view and Robin gives you an open look.

“Oh don’t get all weird with me, he’s just out with his own friends.”

“He doesn’t invite you out too?” Steve mumbles from the dark.

“Steve.” Robin warns over her shoulder.

“No, it’s okay. They get together earlier than I get off work.” You play with the zipper of your jacket and don’t make eye contact. “I don’t really like his friends anyways.”

“He should get new friends then.”

“Steve.” Robin turns her head sharply to stare into the dark backseat where her roommate sits in the shadows. There’s a silent game of chicken happening between them, something tense and unsaid and you unlock your door to try and cut the rising emotions.

“Thanks for the ride, I appreciate it.”

“Let me walk you-”

“I’m okay, thank you though.” You smile through the headrests at Steve and his insistence, his eyes glassy in the light from the street lamps. You stumble only a little on your way out of the car and once you make it to your door, darkened window greeting you like normal, you can hear the muffled volume of Steve and Robin arguing before she drives them both home.

Steve hasn’t asked you for a date in over a month. He still keeps close to you during working hours but he doesn’t hang in the break room. On Saturday he doesn’t ask you out with him and Robin and he doesn’t ask if you have any plans that weekend.

“Is Robin picking you up?” You ask timidly from inside your locker where you have your head buried, pretending to look for your wallet.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. We’re going to a friends house for a game night.” He waits for you by the door, still intent on walking you to your car. You’re waiting for him to do the courteous thing and ask if you have plans but when he stays silent you bring them up anyways.

“I actually have plans this weekend.”

“No shit?” He sounds surprised but you think you weren’t supposed to see the eye roll.

“Yeah, Rich is taking me to that little place in Marion.” You give him a big grin. “He said he heard good things, wanted to take me somewhere nice.” Deep down you want him to be jealous. You want Steve to feel a little bad for shit talking your boyfriend, even if you agreed with him. You know you shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, none of his fuck ups or passive attitude, but maybe this could make up for it. Maybe you could show Steve you didn’t have that poor of taste.

Steve nods and bites his bottom lip. You wait for him to open his mouth to say something snippy but he lets the conversation die. He waits for you still, to walk you to your car, but when he gets you to your door he tells you to try the vodka sauce at this little restaurant and leaves you with a small wave while he hunches into the car.

Dinner is…fine.

It’s fine! Rich definitely took you to dinner and he did hold the door open for you and yeah the sauce was amazing and so what you had a brief ten minute interlude of quite between you and your boyfriend where you thought, briefly, about Steve sitting across from you and explaining the different types of pasta that his friend Eddie was learning in his culinary classes.

Then later during the quiet drive home when Rich had turned the radio over to some game he’d missed for your date you’d maybe had let your mind wander again, a wide palm that would rest on your knee and squeeze. Fingers that drift inwards with a promise for a continuation, conversation that makes you fawn and giggle and-

Steve pops up behind you while you shove your purse into your locker. “So, how was dinner?”

“It was fine!” Maybe a bit too snappy with the way he pulls his head back but you flash him a smile.

“Fine?”

“Yeah.”

He leans a shoulder on the lockers beside you, a curious look on his face. “Just fine?”

You swallow when the hand that scratches at his chin brushes your arm on the way down. “Yes Steve. It was…nice.”

“Oh now it’s nice.”

Your sigh is loud and full of exasperation. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to know how your dinner went.” He’s picking on you. That easy grin tells you everything.

“No, you want to know if he messed up somehow.”

“Maybe.”

“He was fine.”

“Oh then I could definitely do it better.”

That makes you pause. Your eyes flick between his trying to decipher his angle while you try to ignore how you can feel the heat coming off of him standing this close. “Excuse me?” It comes out quieter than you meant.

“If I take you out it isn’t gonna just be ‘fine’.” He scoffs.

“If?”

“It’s just a matter of time now.” He slides forward along the locker doors, face closer to yours, enough to feel the edge of his breath he huffs through his nose. “How many more ‘just fine’ dates do you want?” There’s a shift in his demeanor. A squaring of shoulders when he crosses his arms, his gaze softer as he looks down his nose at you.

“Steve, I-” You jump when the break room door opens and he just stands up straight to tug his shirt down before he raises an eyebrow and walks around you to head to work.

“You free tonight?” He asks you during lunch, half his sandwich shoved in his mouth.

“For what?”

“Drinks.”

“You don’t have another game night?” You try to ask it playfully but it comes off a little snooty. All throughout your date you’d caught yourself drifting and wishing you were at that stupid little hole in the wall with Robin and Steve. Once you’d realized how the night was gonna go all you could think about was Steve buying you another round, another cheep beer or the nickel shot of the night. How he’d circle his arm around to place the drink in front of you, careful to wrap himself around your back for a moment.

“Nope.” He pops the word for emphasis and gives you a dopey grin. “All free for you.”

It makes you bashful but what does he do that doesn’t? When you’re finished with your food he wordlessly grabs his trash and yours, even your empty tupperware to rinse it out.

“You don’t have to do that Steve, I have hands.”

“I’m being nice.” He hands you back the dried container. “It’s just a dish.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It isn’t just a dish. His arm brushes yours on your walk back to your registers and you barely keep up with his story about the art gallery with Robin from a few days ago. Lost in the little moments of things he does for you just at work, like walking you to your car. Rinsing your dish out for you and grabbing extra stacks of bags when he’s grabbing his own. Small, minute little things that he just does without you having to ask. It’s a strange concept to you, not having to ask for the small things.

“You aren’t listening are you?” He smiles at you again without irritation or an eye roll. Another thing you haven’t had the privilege of in a long time with Rich.

“I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold you hostage later and explain what Robin told me about the Haitian art.” He hooks an arm around your shoulders to pull you in. “All it’ll cost you is a single round.”

“Deal.”

Robin is nowhere to be found after work. The parking lot holds just a handful of cars, yours included, and no maroon beemer in sight.

“Are we meeting her there?”

“Uh, no.”

You pause with your key in the driver door. Turned away from him so you don’t have to look at him when you ask. “So just us then?”

“Mhm.”

What you should do is tell him no. Give him a ride home and then head back to your place where you can make a single serving of something and then fade away in front of the TV until your boyfriend calls you from his trip entirely too late and wakes you up.

Instead, “This isn’t a date, okay?” You get in your car and unlock the passenger side for him.

“Sure.”

“I mean it Steve.”

“That’s why you’re buying the first round.” He’s all wide grins and quiet giggles that turn infectious while you navigate to the bar. He finally has your attention so he finishes his art gallery spiel and you have to ask, it’s something that’s been burning in your back pocket forever.

“So when you go on all these dates, is Robin upset or…”

“We’re not together.” Steve sighs and shakes his head. “It really isn’t like that, we’re just friends.”

“Yeah but you two get along so well.”

“It’s…complicated.” He isn’t cutting you off but it’s the answer he’s giving you right now. “Not between us though, we really are just friends.” He points out the street you’re supposed to turn on and you have to make a quick right. “You got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried.” You shoot him a glare as you park, the sudden silence when you turn off the car deafening. “First round on me, right?”

You open a tab when you get there, hellbent on paying your own way to prove to yourself that you aren’t trying to turn this into a date. It’s two friends hanging out, that’s it, and Rich wouldn’t care anyways because you’re allowed to have friends.

You buy your friend Steve a beer and he tells you about his parents retiring to Florida and you talk about your mom’s new boyfriend. Your empty barely hits the table and Steve has a cold can waiting, sliding it across the table at you.

He talks about his friends Nancy and Johnathan getting married and you vaguely mention that Rich is out of town for his brother’s bachelor party. Two shots get set down in front of you and the conversation gets louder with the music and the crowd.

You forget the lines you drew for yourself and reach a hand over to tap Steve’s leg while you’re trying to remember the next part of your story. His nose is red from the cheap whiskey but his cheeks flush when you have to use him for support when you stand, hot palm pressed into the thick of his thigh.

Steve listens to you talk about the drawing class your taking and when you think your starting to bore him he waves you off with a laugh.

“What would give you that idea?”

“I don’t know, Rich kind of drifts if it isn’t about him.” You’ve got enough liquor in your system to start bypassing your filter and you tell it like it is. “He doesn’t give a shit about my ‘stupid little class’.”

“His words or yours?” Steve asks over the rim of his beer. You just shoot him a look and take your shot with a grimace. “Well, keep going. I want to hear more about it.”

The night goes by quicker than expected and suddenly you’re drunk. You realize this while standing in the single stall bathroom while you hold yourself up over the sink to stare at your reflection.

“Get it together.” You make yourself chuckle. “Seriously, what’s going on with your mascara?” You swipe your still wet hands under your lashes to wipe away the black fallout. A moment of embarrassment when you think about Steve seeing you like that but he’d been laughing too, and the bar was dark.

“It doesn’t matter.” You point at your reflection. “He laughed at your jokes.” Your smile is florescent in this dingy bathroom for only a moment when you remember those lines you laid so carefully and then so quickly crossed. The corners of your mouth fall and you sway when you stand up too fast. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be drunk. You shouldn’t be here and drunk with only Steve.

Almost as if he’s heard your thoughts he’s knocking at the door rapid fire while a muffled voice tells him that’s the ladies room. “I know, I’m looking for my lady.” He laughs and the girl laughs and you start laughing and god you can’t keep a thought in your head now after what, 6 shots? 3 beers? You open the door and Steve greets you with a surprised face and an arm around your middle.

“See, I found her!”

“Steve,” you giggle against his shoulder while he walks you to the bar so he can pay the tab you were supposed to be picking up, “I shouldn’t drive.”

“Then I’ll drive.” He looks down his shoulder at you with hazy eyes.

“I don’t think you should drive either.” You’re slurring makes him laugh and under his right arm he reaches his left hand through to grab your fingers pulling at his coat.

“A cab then.”

“You’re so smart, you know that?” You stare at him in awe before laughing again, your fingers flexing in his grip and staying put.

Steve blushes doubly so with the alcohol and your words going to one of his heads. He whips his head to the bartender waiting for her pen back and he smiles brightly at her. “One cab please.”

You both fall into the bar top giggling while this poor bartender rolls her eyes and drops the phone in front of Steve so he can call for his own chariot.

He follows you right into the back seat and falls directly onto your side when your shoe catches on the rubber mat that lines the floorboards. The driver looks back at the two of you caught in laughter and sighs, waiting for one of you to give him an address. When you try to give Steve’s first he tuts and gives the driver yours instead, “That way I know you got back safe.” His breath tinged with cheap beer brushes your cheek, his nose almost pressing in if only you’d turn your head a little more.

“Yeah okay.” Instead you just look at him from the corner of your eye while your heart beats a hundred miles an hour. Steve adjusts as best he can, his limbs heavy with liquor so he just huffs into his corner of the bench seat, halfassed clipping his seat belt on.

“I mean it. Rich isn’t there.” Air quotes around your boyfriend’s name and a deep mocking frown accompany it.

“Steve.”

“What? You said he was gone.” He rolls his eyes but closes his mouth when he sees you getting that little notch between your brows. He drops his hand off his lap and inches it over the seat till he’s reaching out to poke your leg once. Twice when you don’t react and then hesitantly he hooks his pinky out for yours draped over your thigh.

God his hand is warm. You can feel it through your jeans where the side of it rests against you. He hooks his pinky and you don’t move a single digit on your hand for fear of turning this into something it shouldn’t be. You feel sober suddenly when it hits you where you are and with who.

“Hey.” He tugs your hand till it falls onto the seat and he can grab it. You don’t fight it, not when his voice has that gravel to it from speaking all day. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Steve starts to let your hand go but he’s taking that warmth with him and you finally latch on to him, holding his hand down against your leg. You lean over to lay your head on his shoulder and stare out the windshield. It’s foggy out, the mist collecting on the glass to starburst the streetlights and you stay pressed against him.

The cab comes to a stop in front of your building and before anyone can say anything you finally look up at Steve. A tug on his hand and a quiet question only for him. “You wanna come up?”

The stairs try to trip you but Steve is there with a balancing hand at your hip. When you fumble with your keys he holds out his palm for them and you hope he can’t see the nerves rolling off of you. Your apartment is dark just like you expected but for the first time ever it seems to hold a promise in it, something in the shadows that doesn’t feel so sad. Behind you Steve closes the door and cuts off the light streaming in from the hallway and a switch is flicked inside you.

He’s right there when you turn around to grab the front of his coat and press your lips to his. No startled noise just his hands coming up to cradle your head. You cling to the front of him and he tries to sooth you with thumbs rubbing gently across your cheekbones.

None of this matters in the dark and you need him, need him to understand that. You turn into a flurry of movement trying to get him out of his layers. He laughs and breaks the kiss while you push at the lapels of his coat and tear at the buttons on his polo. You’ve spent months staring at the back of him, his broad shoulders and sun kissed skin. The moles that dot his neck and the chestnut hair that he’s always futzing with.

He’s running those big hands down your neck and over your shoulders.

“We don’t have to rush.” His voice cuts through the quiet hum of the appliances and runs down your spine with its deep timber. “No one else is here.”

He dips his head to kiss you again but the fervor is gone, replaced instead by a slow build of want. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth to gently bite and you melt into his chest. Hands lay limp against him while he begins your undoing with his kisses. They trail off to your cheek and to your ear and when he’s at your jaw his jacket falls from his shoulders.

He works at your clothes methodically the same way his mouth works at your neck and when you try to tug him towards your bedroom he pauses.

“We don’t have to go in there.” He gives you a soft look, almost pitying. “The couch is just as good.” A small smile against your small frown.

“I want to.” You pull and he steps with you. “It’s my bed anyways.”

Your back hits the bed and he follows you down with laughter and roaming hands. They pull at his own clothes and yours till you finally can touch all that warm skin of his, fingertips tracing between moles on his chest inbetween sloppy kisses.

You can’t remember the last time you felt want like this. Everywhere his fingers drag feels like live wires under your skin. They dance along your collar bones and behind your knees, sensitive skin graced with featherlight touch.

“Please.” You pant while he kisses along your jaw.

“Please what?” He drags his touch up the inside of your thigh and grazes your mound, dancing around where you want him most.

“Please touch me.” Your voice wobbles with emotion, unshed tears stuck behind your lashes. The nerves of the night settle deep into your bones, deep enough you think you might shake apart with them. Long fingers split you open, a slow drag upwards till he hits that ache that you’ve been ignoring all night. Uneven circles drawn while he pants against the side of your neck, open mouthed kiss pressed into your pulse.

Deft fingers pull your pleasure forward quick, a practiced hand between your legs that rivals your own. He hasn’t come up for air since he planted his face against you, tongue and teeth working in tandem against the sensitive spot under your ear while those long fingers dip lower. You can feel his smile like a tattoo on the front of your throat when he sinks one finger in, and then two, his moan singing along with your gasp. Quickly the pads of his fingers find that spot and your knees snap together around his wrist.

“Right there?” It’s all breath in his ask, your nod vigorous. “Come on.” He grits and keeps his pace up while you spiral when he presses the heel of his palm down. “Come on baby, let go.” Teeth scrape against your neck and help to send you over the edge while you grind down on his hand firmly to chase the tails of your pleasure.

Aimless kisses help bring you back to focus along with Steve’s hands gripping you to slide you down the bed. Hooked in the bend of your hips he jerks you to him, thighs hitting his and his cock is there against you suddenly. Hot and heavy between your thighs when he leans down over you to catch your lips in a deep kiss. Short rolls of his hips make him catch on your overly sensitive clit to make your legs shake just a little more.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about this?” He says against your mouth, sloppy and desperate as he ruts against your heat. “I think about you all the time.”

“Yeah?” You sound just as desperate, rolling hips meeting his own so he can keep nudging your clit. The tip of his cock edges lower but too slow, especially now with him staring wide eyed at you and panting.

“When you went to Marion I-fuck” He looses his composure when you sneak a hand between your bodies to help guide him, fingers wrapped around the thick length. “-I thought about crashing your date.”

You choke on your ‘what?’ when he finally sinks in and the size of him makes you gasp. He pauses for a moment when his eyes slip shut and you hold him between your thighs. When he doesn’t move you shift to get his attention and those blown out eyes find yours in the dark. Hands planted beside your head to cage you in and all you want to look at is his open expression. The grin he wears so well flashed at you while he rocks himself deeper.

“I know it’s crazy.” He half laughs as he starts a deliberate pace. “You make me feel crazy.” Every thrust is a punch of pleasure against that spot he’d found earlier. Precise and slow he drags this out so he can watch your face fall slack.

“I’m sorry.” You sob when he drives in deep and makes your eyes roll.

“No, no it’s me. You’re just-“ he hisses at your nails dragging behind his neck and up into his hair to grab fistfuls, pulling him down closer.

He takes the opportunity to kiss along your collar and mumble against your chest, slurred words only for your ears. Small bites along the swell of your breast and his long fingers rolling a nipple between his knuckles to make your breath hitch. He calls you beautiful and perfect and if you weren’t heading fast into your second orgasm you might cry from the attention.

Everything is big and hot in here. Louder and quieter at the same time. Steve holds onto you while he fucks you, hands gripping and lips searching. No marks but he lets his teeth nip at bared skin before he moves on, letting his fingers press into soft fat at the backs of your thighs and chest. You haven’t felt this kind of passion in a long time, the never ending want for more. You need him deeper, you need him to cover you completely. You want him to suck marks into your skin so you can see them in the morning and know this wasn’t you letting your fantasies get out of control again.

A faltering in his movement before he speeds up, hot breath fanning over your cheek where he kisses wetly up and down and to your ear, his quiet moans making your toes curl. It’s the deep, halting groan that pours out of him when he comes that has you clenching. He grips at you to hold you in place while you shake under him and he talks you down off your precipice. Mumbled praise and reminders of your beauty while sweat begins to cool. He doesn’t let his full weight fall on you but he does lay over your chest, skin sticking and sliding as his hand searches for yours to hook fingers together.

Beside your head you can hear him taking breath, readying to say something and you have a moment of doubt suddenly. He’s told you too much and not enough and maybe your brain is staring to catch up to your actions.

“I’m not drunk enough to say something stupid, but I need you to know something.” He uses his free hand to prop himself to hover over you, his grin skewed over his flushed cheeks. “I really like you.” A stray hair gets pushed out of your rapidly narrowing vision. His look is too soft and his wandering hand too light. It makes you shed a few tears that he seems to catch in the dim light.

“Steve…don’t…” You try to bury your face in the pillows but he’s quick to turn you back to face him.

“Don’t what? Tell you?” His grip on your chin is firm but his fingers don’t press in. He holds you still while his bloodshot eyes flick back and forth over your own. “I don’t…if you want me to leave I can do that.” It’s not a threat but it makes your heart seize regardless. “I’m just not gonna come in here and pretend like this is a one off or something.”

Knees still pressed to his hips holding him close, legs locked behind his knees where he kneels, you slide your hands up his sides for more points of contact. He’s real under your palms. Breathing and hot and sweating and telling you how he feels. The two orgasms barely hold a candle to the blossoming feeling in your stomach when he stares down at you with care.

“Steve-“

“Do you want me to stay?”

“I don’t think-“

“Yes or no.” He sits back with his arms spread wide. “I can go right now and we can pretend this didn’t happen.” He looks hurt when he says that but he holds your teary gaze. “I’ll get my shifts moved so you don’t even have to see me at work.”

You reach for him again, need him under your hands to ground you in the moment. “Don’t do that.” Face pushed into his shoulder sloppily when you rush up to meet him in the middle of your bed.

“If it makes it easier-“

“I don’t want it easier.” You hush. “I want you to stay.” A gentle tug at him to follow you back to the pillows. “Please.”

He falls easily with you, gets his arms around your shoulders to roll you into his embrace. “Okay.” Fingers over your scalp and down your neck to sooth your heavy breathing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smells like the bar and his soap and the remnants of cologne that cling to his jacket. Scruff from a full day rubs against your forehead while you get comfortable against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your bedroom is quieter than normal with his heartbeat under your ear and his breathing above you, a steady hum that calms you down. You begin drifting off when the liquor catches up to your satiated brain and your fingers loose some of their grip on his sides.

You think he’s still asleep with how quiet the room is but his voice is a deep rumble in the morning after. “Robin is going to kill me.”

You can hear the rub of his palms over his face and through his hair, that deep groan when he rolls either away or towards you, you’re not sure.

You find your own voice then, creaky and worn from yelling laughter at him all night through cheap whiskey shots. “I thought it wasn’t like that.”

“It isn’t.” His long fingers creep over your shoulder to pull gently. “She told me to leave you alone.” When you don’t unwind from yourself he uses you for leverage and rolls into your back, arm snaking around your waist. “And I told her I would.” A chaste kiss pressed to the back of your neck that makes you shiver, nothing chaste in the way it makes your chest flutter. “Obviously I lied, and she’s not fond of me lying to her.”

You turn your head slowly to look at him over your shoulder, mainly trying to prevent a wave of nausea but also to hold off the inevitable guilt hanging over you from dropping like a guillotine. In the late morning rainy light he’s even more handsome, bed-warm and rumpled. His hair sticks up on one side where it was pressed into your pillow, same pillow leaving lines on his cheek. He looks soft and out of focus and warm.

You expect that guilt to bubble up and spill out of your mouth in a wail but it doesn’t exist; there is no guillotine here.

You shuffle onto your back so you can look at him more intently, so you can stare at the green flecks in his brown eyes that roam over your face. “If anyone is gonna be in trouble, I think it’s me.” Barely a wobble to your words. He slides his hand up your stomach, fingers coming to rest in the valley between your breast. No rabbit heart under his palm. No gasping breaths to steady yourself under his gaze. You’ve made your bed and you would really like to lie in it, consequences be damned.

“It was fun.”

“It was.” You blink at him slowly. Rain patters against the glass and the clock in the kitchen ticks down the rest of your day. He tucks his other arm up under his head to look at you better before he sighs.

“I can go. If it’s easier.” Repeats himself from last night but your answer hasn’t changed. You frown lightly but don’t answer and he seems to take that as his sign to get up.

“No.” You reach out for his arm before he can set his feet on the floor. “I don’t want you to go.”

He laughs through his nose before settling in an upright position. “You don’t seem convinced.” A thumb to his nose twice while he stares at a spot at the foot of your bed.

“I’m thinking.” You sit up next to him and lean into his back facing you. Cheek resting on the back of his shoulder you stare at the moles that dot his skin and run a finger between them.

“About?”

“Breakfast.”

His laugh is louder than you expect but it’s nice to hear. “Hungover?”

A dry kiss where your cheek was resting before you scoot to your side of the bed in search of your underwear. “Something like that.”

Quiet shuffling while you two get dressed, Steve wincing at the smell of the bar stuck in his shirt that he shoves over his head. When he passes you to go look for his wallet he stops to lean down for a kiss. Unhurried and soft it leaves you with that same deep want from last night, especially when he hides a grin as he turns away. Bashful like you two weren’t just drunkenly fooling around until the early morning hours.

“There’s a place just do-“

Shrill ringing cuts you off on your way to the front door and you both stop to stare at the phone hanging in the kitchen. Steve looks suddenly adrift in your apartment, unsure while probably Rich tries to call you at too early a time. You let it go until it stops and the silence sits between you until Steve clears his throat.

“You still wanna get breakfast?” Quiet now that reality has stuck its nose back in. He shifts his weight from one hip to the other and you reach over for him, hands sliding under his jacket for a loose hug.

Your smile might be sad and the turn of his chin down at you shows the shadow of doubt on his mind but you wanted this. He did too and the aftermath of your shared night sits around you. The chair out of place from running into it, your shoes kicked in front of the tv and your bed just out of sight with its sheets melting onto the floor.

Guilt doesn’t exist here. Not when Steve told you all his secrets last night. Not now with the memory of gentle kisses and burning touch still searing your skin. You’ll face the consequences tomorrow when your normal comes back into town but for now, “Yeah, I do.”

#Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington Fic #Steve Harrington Fluff #Steve Harrington Smut #Steve Harrington x Reader #My Work #My Fic

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ddreamywitch · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter One - Dinner and Diatribes

knight!benjicot blackwood x princess!reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: benji is (hot and) bothered, probably inaccurate depiction of knighting ceremonies

song: Dinner & Diatribes - Hozier

a/n: I only fleetingly proofread this, please excuse any mistakes <3

prologue

It is a swelteringly hot day.

Humid, stale air presses down upon the kingdom, torturing anyone who dared to venture to so much as lift a finger.

Weather like this is not made for exciting endeavours.

In fact it is made for remaining in a shaded area, or within the castle walls or in the cool waters of the sea, but you are not granted any such indulgences today.

Your handmaiden, Marion, winces at your gasp for air. “I am sorry, princess. Would that I could spare you this, but a lady of your status simply cannot leave her chambers without a corset.”

You smile at her reflection in the mirror. “It is not your fault, dear. I shall suffer the confines of a corset, just as the common folk suffer their afflictions. ‘Tis but a small price to pay for a lavish dinner.”

Marion returns your smile but it does not look at all convinced, rather than dread-filled.

She does know her princess well, after spending many years in your service and loyally devoted. She knows when you are happy and she knows you as you are now, which is decidedly unhappy and yet determined to convince your surroundings of the opposite.

Marion does not understand why you always are so insistent upon these matters, she figured you might be a little less ashamed to be honest with your handmaiden, who had seen you bare after all.

But Marion also does not understand how hard it is to be outwardly emotional after being taught over and over, for years and years, that you may do nothing but smile tepidly and sit prettily.

You let her finish the lacing of your corset and briefly you clutch the back of your vanity chair. “God be good, that I might survive in this merciless warmth,” you mutter through a haphazard giggle.

Your handmaiden directs your gaze at your dresses. “I have picked out your simplest gowns, princess, should you think them fit for the occasion?”

A knighting ceremony has never happened in the time she had worked for you.

Or they have, but you were simply not the one to be doing the knighting, so the question of the wardrobe did feel rather overwhelming, with nothing to go off of.

Your head tilts slightly to the side as you take them all in and though you can feel your heart, in your now uncomfortably squashed ribcage, scream out for a thin and modest dress, you know deep down that it would be much better to wear something more precious.

To your knowledge, a fair share of the nobles were to attend this little festivity.

A sigh escapes you and you shake your head. “Might you fetch me the gown with the flowers embroidered? I do believe the king would like me to make a good impression upon our visitors tonight, it would be about due time that he attempted to convince me of marriage once again.”

This time Marion’s smile seems genuine, at the light ridicule of your father. “I shall see to it, princess. In the meantime, I think Ser Rodrick would like to bid you his goodbyes.”

You cannot help the pain this causes you. The notion of having to part ways with your former knight did not sit well with you at all.

Your robe drapes around you and the door creaks open.

Marion is always impossibly quick and quiet. She flits through the castle not much unlike a little mouse and you do not even know in which moment she leaves.

Whereas Ser Rodrick with his ever imposing silhouette was not ever subtle.

Your gaze meets his in your mirror and you think that you could weep right then. He seems to share this idea.

“I wish I were but a few years younger, princess, so that I could remain by your side a little longer.”

There is a thick clot in your throat, so thick that you may choke on it. “You’ve performed your duties beautifully,” you say, fighting tooth and nail against the tears threatening to spill.

Slowly you turn to face your sworn protector.

A man like Ser Rodrick, you found, is hard to come by. His kindness and honour seeks its match and after the many years together, he had long transcended his position and become more of a confidant, dare I say, friend instead.

He had known you from a sticky, wild childhood, through the years of your growth until now.

Long gone is the babe he was sworn to protect, with its clumsy movements and relentless howling, replaced by what you are now; the realm’s delight, a fair young woman, grown into the shape of a dedicated princess.

He bows his head down. “I shall miss you dearly, princess.”

Your laugh is a watery, wet thing. “Oh, you shall not. I will write you many letters. Your retirement shall not be as peaceful as you think, my good Ser.”

The setting sun reflects in the shine of his armour, a chest plate painted hues of gold and orange in this light. It bears the sigil of your father’s house and it heaves now with his heavy breathing.

“Your brother has asked me for guidance on who to pick and I put forward the youngest Lord Mormont. A northerner with a northerner’s honour.”

You nod, fingers fiddling with the belt of your robe, fiddling to find the right words now but they do not come to you and so you remain silent.

There could not be a good replacement for your knight, how could anyone ever understand you again, the way that Ser Rodrick had.

“Child, do not fret. I am away from court, not from the world,” he says. “And I shall reply to your letters with great pleasure.”

“How come you are not to be at the ceremony? Should my old protector not be there to see me off to my new one?”

Rodrick shrugs. “It is the way of tradition. I will be dismissed by your father and leave the court in mere moments.”

It is unfair really, it is almost embarrassing to you, to insult Rodrick and have him retire, like an old horse, as though he is no longer a capable fighter.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to you as well, not much of a warning of any kind had been given to you, before your father informed you not even a week ago of this rather drastic change.

The thought that you were to share every waking moment with a stranger bothered you relentlessly.

You cross the room quickly, manners and protocol thrown to the wind as you throw your arms around your knight’s neck.

It is awkward and tense, his iron and steel exterior boring into your soft flesh, but nonetheless he does not pull away, offering you comfort the best he can.

You are the third born child of the king, and though it was undeniable how popular you were at court and with the smallfolk, your father did not care much.

You were not an heir or a spare, you simply were there and as you bent and broke yourself to garner his attention, it was Ser Rodrick who would look down at the flushed cheeks you so often donned as a child and impose his gentleness on you.

As you grew you found yourself wondering how much the blood in your veins meant, what it mattered that the king had put you into your mother’s womb, when it was somebody else who you found yourself in the care of.

“Oh dearest, your mother would be so overcome with delight at the sight of you today,” he whispers when you finally pull back, one large rough hand on your shoulder. “What a marvellous person you’ve become.”

The hurt and love in your heart intermingle and threaten to burst through its seams. The gripping force in your neck does not fade and so, to the best of your abilities, you inhale a deep breath.

“You must visit soon, Ser Rodrick. Whenever you’ve grown sick of spending your days lazing about,” you attempt at a jest.

He shoves at you a little bit. “And you must remain out of trouble. At least for a few weeks.”

You huff. “I am nothing short of a saint.”

“You are,” he says. “You truly are.”

You dare not let the tears spill from your eyes and you dare not look into his, where you are sure you will find the same sheen as in yours.

“I must go, but rest assured a piece of me remains with you.“

In the most royal demeanour and grace you can muster, you curtsy to him. “I am indebted to you forever, Ser Rodrick.”

He kisses the back of your hand, unmarred and soft against his, not a speck of dirt beneath your well-kempt nails. “Farewell for now.”

You do not wish to say farewell and so you do not. You would see him again after all, at least on your birthday, you would certainly see to it.

Silently you watch him leave you behind and though you know that you are not truly without protection, you do wonder who else at court would ever be so honest and gracious with you again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You regret not having given into your desires, the moment you put on this wretched ball gown.

Though the sun is almost entirely gone now, its force still lingers in the air and you think you may be strangled by it.

With great urgency you cling to your wine chalice, about the third pour deep in hopes of ridding yourself of your sweaty discomfort.

It was a wonderful gown, a pale green shade, its bodice and hems embroidered with rosy flowers. The king always liked you in these distinctly girlish dresses, the perfect picture of an obedient and compliant daughter.

He sits to your right, drunk and distracted by his latest mistress next to him.

Lady Cathcart, a notorious sinner, as many liked to say.

Marion had once told you that Lady Cathcart was an expert at fellatio. You do not know what that means, but you assume it could only be of immoral nature.

Bile rises at the sight of them, unapologetic and public shame brought to your mother’s memory.

You avert your eyes and redirect them to your brother next to you.

His attire clashes with yours, a dark purple, not at all youthful and much more suitable for the heir to the throne. He looks just as annoyed as you feel, though you’ve gone to great lengths to hide it.

“Tristan?” You tap your chalice against his.

He breaks out of his reverie with wide eyes. “Sister.”

“When is the ceremony to begin?”

With nervous eyes he scans the room. It bustles with gowns and nobles and servants. “Not much longer,” he somehow ascertained through the sight of this. “Why do you ask?”

“I would like to be excused for a few moments,” you explain and your brother does not question why.

He was often a very crass and forward young man, but he did harbour a certain softness to his younger sister. With the wave of a hand he gives you permission and you do not wait any longer, your chair screeching across the floor immediately.

Fingers curled around your skirt layers, you make haste for the gardens, lest you fall unconscious before you get there.

It was too late to change your dress now, so the sweet solace of the royal gardens would have to serve you as an opportunity for a breath of air.

Air that wasn’t stained with the ladies’ expensive perfumes or the intense spices of dinner.

Air that wasn’t tainted with your father’s misbehaviour.

Your breathing had become quite laboured and you cursed the extravagance of your family, especially now, as your gown had become your body’s prison.

Guards open the doors and the moment you are out of prying eyes you drop into the grass beneath you.

It is no longer soft and ticklish, the way it had been a few short weeks ago, in the wakes of spring. The harshness of summer had turned it coarse and mean against your exposed arms.

It is not very suitable to lay around on the ground like this, but the stars above are spinning and you feel you could have died if you spent a moment longer upright.

Lord Mormont, you think to yourself. A very quiet man, your senior by a few years. You had only spoken with him fleetingly and never about anything of great interest, to either of you, you assumed.

It leaves you wondering whether he would become this constant distanced force in her life. Not only a protector but also somebody who would keep her in line.

In your many years with Ser Rodrick, you had worked out a rhythm with him. You had gotten used to one another and therefore, after so many hours spent together, a strong foundation of trust rests beneath your friendship. He had never chastised you for your shortcomings as princess, he had let you venture outside the castle walls with Marion and had not uttered a single word to your family.

You’re not sure that Lord Mormont would be so tolerant. Northerners were notoriously serious about their duties, he does not seem like the type to take lightly to things like this.

With your face turned upward to the moon and your mind racing, you do not hear the approaching footsteps until it is too late.

A face leans above you.

The young man has a crooked sort of look to him, not as princely as the faces you are accustomed to.

A scar graces his lip, accompanied by a bend in the slope of his nose.

Princes and noblemen rarely carried traits like this, he looks rather common.

Right now he also looks at you, rather confused.

“Looking for anything down there,” he teases as heat shoots into your cheeks, more than the high temperatures had already caused.

You sit up, fumbling to straighten your appearance at least a little bit, the rash movement sending you back into your previous state of low-level vertigo.

The man does not think to offer you a hand and you are once again taken aback by his…commonness.

“What is a lady like you doing, tumbling around in the gardens at night?”

His hands land on his hips.

Maybe he was the stable boy of one of the Lords that were visiting.

His clothing reveals no sigils to you, a simple black attire with a red cape.

No, he could not be highborn.

“What, cat got your tongue?”

Your eyes widen at the realisation that you are simply sitting there, not speaking.

“I felt a bit faint,” you explain. “Would you offer me a hand, young man?”

His brow raises a little but he extends one to you anyways.

Like Rodrick's, his hand is witness to hard labour, again a stark contrast to yours.

Unlike Rodrick though, he grips you with more force, all but yanking you upwards. Nausea brews in you.

“I thank you,” you mumble. What a queer young man.

He is more brave than a servant, to address you so haphazardly.

He grunts in lieu of a real answer.

“Tell me, what’s this place like? Seems like a fucking shitshow so far.”

It clicks then. He does not know that you are the princess. He thinks you to be of a lower house. It would make sense, with the position he found you in but your appearance surely does not speak to that of a lower house.

Men are always so indifferent to these details, they do not realise their worth.

You clear your throat. “Well, the royal family is rather kind. And there are many feasts and festivities held here. It can be quite interesting,” you say.

He shakes his head. “´Course you’d say that,” he mutters just beneath his breath.

You cross your arms. “What do you imply?”

“You capital people are all the fucking same. Insufferable flatterers.”

It is not often that people speak so frankly to you. You are not sure whether that might be why his words offend you or because he is simply wrong.

“I am no flatterer.”

His nose scrunches. “Yeah? You’ve never seen the princess and doused her in compliments? Never made eyes at her boring brother?”

“I would have you know that her brother is not boring and the princess is a very humble person. She does not care much for feigned niceties.”

“Sure. Whatever you say, birdy.” He lets the name roll over his tongue like it is a term of endearment, delicious and something to relish in.

Now you take a step back. “Watch who you are speaking to, you fool.”

He does not seem troubled by your reaction, lets one hand run through his wild dark hair. “And who is that?”

“A lady. You would do good in learning the pillars of chivalry.”

He laughs, bitterly and full of sarcasm. “Oh trust me I know chivalry and I know it well.”

The garden feels different now, charged with an energy you could not quite put your fingers on. He seems an iresome lad and you decide that you needn’t handle such treacherous behaviour displayed in front of you.

What a fool he is, to speak so lewdly of your family in the very heart of your father’s kingdom.

“Well then, you should learn to mind your tongue. This is no place for words as yours,” you spit and once more grip the skirts of your dress. “I shall bid you goodnight.”

He does not do the same, you think you even see him roll his eyes before you turn your back to him.

It is the curse of manhood to always think they have a right to something. It is what leads them into violence and wars and their own demise.

Women are not troubled with such foolery, women are taught to keep their mouths shut and they hold the wisdom of listening in high regard. It is why they always know the secrets of the castle before any of the Lords hear of it.

You cannot help but shake off your head at this rude intrusion of your peace, this imbecilic attitude.

He would learn his lesson soon enough, he would not make the same mistake unscathed with any other courtiers.

Before you enter again you reach into your hair, checking to see whether it had fallen apart in your short time on the ground, but Marion is too good at her job. Despite hours of dancing or riding or windy weather, it seems that no hair falls amiss no matter how intricate or complicated the style.

A blind man could have picked you out as the princess, you are sure of it.

Huffing and puffing with anger, you drop back into your seat next to your brother, willing this god-forsaken day to finally come to its end.

Your brother ushers a servant to refill your cup. “Are you quite alright?”

“I think my corset is laced too tight and my closest friend has left the city but other than that, I am splendid,” you reply, a misdirected hit of venom toward your innocent brother.

He nudges you with shoulder. “Are you not excited about meeting your new knight? I’ve heard great tales of him.”

You shake your head no and gulp down the sweet wine in a hurry. “I cannot imagine.”

“What? He’s more a myth than a man.”

Liquid goes down the wrong pipe and you nearly choke. “Mormont? In what world?” You ask, entirely incredulous.

Tristan’s eyes widen. “Father has not told you?”

Your eyes tell him to be honest with himself. When has their father ever given you the graciousness of staying informed? He hadn’t even told you of your mother’s death, leaving it to your oldest sister to do so. It does not come as a surprise that once again you are left in the dark about matters that directly concern you.

“It is not Lord Mormont. Father attempted to create peace in the Riverlands,” Tristan begins to explain.

An odd feeling of dread creeps into your bones. “And?”, you inquire, voice taunt but before your brother manages to get out an answer, your father rises.

He is drunk, he sways softly from side to side and you can see his Lady Cathcart’s fingers curl around his leg in an attempt to keep him steady. The room falls quiet, eager to hear their monarch speak.

Insufferable flatterers, the young man pierces your thoughts again.

Some bit of skin is pinched, right beneath your breast and it sends a sharp pain down your side when you straighten your back once more, harsh enough to leave you distracted.

It is odd, you cannot seem to find clarity today, your thoughts distant and flimsy, like water in your hands.

“A special honour shall be bestowed on one of you young lads. The honour of protecting the sanctity of our kingdom's delight, my beloved daughter,” King Alexander boomed, the slightest hint of slur to his words.

Polite claps follow suit and beneath the table you begin to twist the rings on your fingers.

“Now, our council has given great thought to our choice and we are certain that we have picked the most suitable man in the kingdom, for his reputation exceeds him.”

Whispers flood the room and it takes much of your self-constraint to not take your brother’s hand like a little child.

“Benjicot Blackwood, shall be sworn in, in our midst, tonight.”

Bloody Ben.

Tristan is right. There’s many tales to be told of the heir of Raventree, none of which have anything to do with knighthood and to you, all of them are terrifying. A man like that to watch over you with hawkeyes.

You would have much preferred the stoic Lord Mormont.

You swallow thickly.

“My dearest shall knight him herself.”

Your father has not looked at you yet, perhaps he does know that he will face nothing but contempt. He is a drunkard but he is a king and perhaps even a good one and it does take at least somewhat of a brain to be one.

You blinked, once, twice and then you smiled—a practised smile, not much alike to a real one—and got up.

The lightness in your head leaves your periphery blinded, but you have learned after many years of life under the watchful eyes of the nobility, to not stumble, no matter your state and with graceful steps you walk around the table reserved for the highest ranks.

Well, and Lady Cathcart.

Your knees bend very deeply before your father as his sword slices the air.

Nobody thinks to keep you up to date, but nobody needs to tell you about things like this. The manners and the conduct of behaviour at court are ingrained into your brain.

You do not have to be told when to bow or when to rise.

The sword is heavier than expected, it quivers a bit in your hold when your father passes it across the table to you.

It’s gorgeous, with engravings along its blade, flowery gardens, lush hills, stormy seas, it shines in the candlelit hall.

The grand doors creak upon and you cannot bear it any longer, you whirl around, all dizziness ignored, impatient to see the legendary bloody Ben.

At the end of the path he stands, simple black clothes, dark red cape and crooked nose.

Your jaw drops, only by a little.

From the distance parting you, you can’t be certain but Benjicot Blackwood looks about as surprised as you.

He shouldn’t be surprised, you think, he should be worried.

The sword is still awkward in the gip of both of your hands, but the face you make is practised.

Marion had once compared it to Rodrick’s steel armour.

It takes the man a torturously long time to finally reach you, each step dragged as though something was pulling him the other way.

He looks at you, like he wishes to challenge you, but he kneels, not with poise, moreso dropping before you like a sack of potatoes.

Through strands of hair he peaks up at you and it is a funny little turn, you wonder what you must have looked like looking up at him in the garden

Solemnly you clear your throat.

“ Wilt thou, upon this day, pledge thy fealty to the House Aprikate, and stand as a Knight of the Crown?” Your voice drips with an authority that feels strange on your tongue, an unfamiliar power vested in you.

“Yes, your grace.”

You almost feel bad for him, it does not seem so honourable to be kneeling like this, head firmly directed down, so clearly beneath you for everyone to see.

“Doth thou wish to abandon thy self, and be sword and shield for the sake of the greater good?”

This time he pauses a little longer. “Yes, your grace.”

You lift the sword from where you hold it against your mid, slowly and pray to god and all his saints that the tremble of your hand is not too noticeable.

With much tenderness you touch upon each of his shoulders.

“I do hereby dub thee, Benjicot Blackwood, knight of honour. May your courage and devotion become a shining example throughout all the land.”

And so it is done, your chest constricting and heart writhing within. You cannot say what it is that pushes you over the edge, but you see the way he looks at you, as though you have damned him to hell on earth.

Something jolts down your spine and finally your arduous work of remaining composed unravels, darkness cloaking your sight.

A gasp reverberates, mayhaps yours, but you are unconscious before your body tumbles to the ground.

#benjicot blackwood imagine #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot x reader #davos blackwood #asoiaf #hotd #benjicot blackwood #house of the dragon

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queenshelby · 4 months ago

Text

Daughter Dearest (Part Ten)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (47) x Step! Daughter (21)

Warning: Infidelity, Smut, Dysfunctional Family

Tag List will be updated soon! Please comment and engage!

"You need to get out of my room," you told him in a packed state and Cillian nodded before he quickly untangled himself from you and started to get dressed hastily. His face was flushed with a mix of shame and worry as he tried to pull his clothes on as quickly as possible.

"Quick, put something on!" Cillian whispered frantically as you, throwing your shirt at you that was lying around on the floor.

You moved quickly, pulling the shirt over your head as you slipped out of bed and hurriedly pulled on your underwear and pants up too.

Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest, and you swallowed hard, feeling a wave of anxiety wash over you as you heard your mother's voice.

"Cillian?" she called out , her voice was calm, but something in her tone sent a chill down your spine.

"Fuck," Cillian hissed, his face panicked, knowing that she might see him coming out of your room.

"Can you come down and help me with the bags?" she then called out, from the bottom of the staircase, which led directly to the bedrooms.

Cillian's entire body stiffened. He didn't know what to say or do, but the urgency in your eyes prompted him to make a move.

"I'll be right there, Marion!" Cillian shouted back, trying to keep his voice steady and calm before he nervously exited your room and, as soon as he stepped out of the door, he saw your mother, having walked half-way up the stairs already.

Her gaze was laser-focused on Cillian, a hint of suspicion in her eyes. "What were you doing in Y/N's room?" she asked, but not suspecting anything inappropriate, even despite Cillian's disheveled appearance/

Cillian swallowed hard, trying to think up a plausible excuse on the spot. "Oh, I was just... checking on Y/N," he said, forcing a smile. "She seemed a bit down earlier, so I wanted to make sure she was okay."

Marion raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced by his explanation.

"Well, I am about to have a word with her," your mother responded almost angrily but Cillian blocked her way up.

"Let's get your bags in first," he suggested as he tried to divert your mother's attention for as long as he could. "Despite, I think she needs a little alone time this morning as she had a fight with one of her friends," he added, searching for any excuse that could buy him a few minutes.

Your mother looked unconvinced but eventually relented. "Fine," she then said just before Cillian followed her to the car.

"Why are you even home already? And where is Sadie?" Cillian queried Marion as he was loading bags into the house, still rattled by the encounter with you.

"Sadie is with Cliona, who is taking her to the park so that I can sort out the bloody drama Y/N has caused again," your mother said with a frustrated sigh.

Cillian froze, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach at the mention of your name and the implied drama. "What do you mean by 'the bloody drama Y/N has caused again'?" Cillian asked cautiously.

"Oh god Cillian, did you not read the headlines?" she asked, her voice laced with disdain. "The fact that she broke her house arrest and had you pick her up from the police station is all over social media," she went on before pulling out her phone and showing it to him.

"Well, thank god I don't do Facebook," Cillian chuckled, brushing off the news to lighten the mood.

Marion sighed, shaking her head in disbelief. "Cillian, this is serious. Y/N is constantly causing trouble, and I can't believe that you didn't even call me when this happened. I mean, why didn't you?" she asked, looking at Cillian with confusion. "I would have expected you to tell me if my daughter got arrested."

Cillian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't want to worry you while you were enjoying some time away," he said, honestly. "Besides, Y/N asked me not to tell you. She was afraid of your reaction. Clearly rightfully so."

Marion scoffed. "Afraid of my reaction? She should be more afraid of the consequences of her actions," your mother spat, causing Cillian to become a little more protective.

"She didn't smuggle the drugs, Marion. She found out who framed her and went after her," Cillian began to explain. "And yes, it was a hotheaded decision that got her into trouble again, but her solicitor is sorting it now, so you can relax, alright? Just give her a break," Cillian insisted before taking the last bag from your mother's car.

Your mother, Marion, simply sighed in frustration. "Hot-headed is an understatement, Cillian. You know as well as I do that her reckless actions might not only ruin her own reputation but also affect yours and your career," she pointed out, but Cillian only shrugged it off.

"My reputation is fine Marion," he replied, unbothered. "Besides, Y/N's actions speak to her character, and I'd rather have a stepdaughter with courage and a backbone than one who's silent and obedient."

"You are too lenient," she said before calling out for you.

"Y/N, can you join us in the kitchen, please?" she called out.

You sighed, knowing that you were in for another lecture about your choices and how they affected your family's reputation. You walked into the large, open-concept kitchen, where your mother sat at the kitchen island, looking expectedly while Cillian was standing by the sink, trying to avoid your gaze.

"We really need to discuss your careless actions, Y/N. They are unacceptable and affect us all," your mother began with a pointed look in your direction as you stepped in front of her, wondering whether she could smell her husband's scent on you.

"And what makes you think you have the right to lecture me about the decisions I make?" you shot back, looking at her, wanting to tell her what you just did, but of course, you wouldn't have. Revenge was not what your interactions with Cillian were about.

"I have every right to lecture you," Marion countered coolly, still not missing a beat. "I am your mother and you are staying in my home, so you listen to me," she asserted, reflecting an air of authority.

Cillian stepped closer, moving to stand protectively by your side, his presence a small sense of comfort in this awkward situation.

"Marion, let's just take a step back and take a deep breath," Cillian advised, his tone gentle, but firm. "Being angry won't solve anything."

Your mother huffed in response, before she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. "Are you taking sides now?" she then asked him accusingly, turning her steely gaze towards Cillian.

"I am just trying to be reasonable," he replied, maintaining his neutral stance. "Because I think that you should actually hear Y/N out," he went on, looking at you, then on to your mother, expecting her to listen to you.

You looked surprised at Cillian's support, but it brought a small sense of relief which, unfortunately, for you, was short lived.

"What is this on your neck?" your mother asked abruptly in a stern, disciplinary tone, piercing the tense silence in the room.

Her sudden query was followed by her hand extending forward, hovering over the side of your neck where Cillian must have left a red mark during your heated sessions.

"It's nothing," you muttered quickly, flinching at her sudden touch.

"Alright, well, anyway...," she continued, lowering her hand back to her side, although her eyes remained fixed on the spot. "I am not going to tolerate another breach of your house arrest, and I expect you to behave yourself during your time here," she said with a sternness that was even rare for her.

"Yes, mother," you sighed deeply with a slight roll of your eyes, trying to downplay the situation.

"Don't be smart and go and have a shower. You look like a mess," your mother said, glancing over you one more time before turning to leave the room.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you once your mother had left the room, her judgemental gaze no longer lingering on you.

"I need to get out of here," you muttered under your breath, shifting nervously on your feet while Cillian came closer.

"And hopefully you can soon, even though I will miss your company," he said quietly , placing a hand on your shoulder. The warmth of his touch burned through the fabric of your shirt and sent a shiver down your spine.

"I will miss you, too," you confessed as you finally looked at him, meeting his eyes. There was a distance between them both, yet a connection electrified the air, like a magnetic force drawing them together. "Last night was nice and so was this morning," you whispered to him, almost inaudibly.

"It was," Cillian agreed, his voice low and soft. "More than nice, in fact. But what happened between us cannot happen again and, as we had agreed, let's not mention it again," Cillian murmured. Despite his composure, his eyes showed vulnerability and depth-filled with desire.

You felt a pang of regret, knowing that your-selfish desires had led you to an unexpected path. The connection between you two was an unstoppable, powerful force but you knew that acting on it could only end in tragedy, not just for you and Cillian, but also for your family.

"Agreed," you thus said before asking him for one more favor. "But I just have to ask you for one more thing," you hesitated before catching a lock of loose hair that had fallen across your shoulder and twirling it between your fingers nervously.

"What is it?" Cillian asked, his eyes on you, waiting patiently for your answer.

"I...I need you to go to the pharmacy for me," you requested Cillian, hesitation in your voice.

Cillian raised his eyebrows but quickly schooled his features. "Are you feeling okay? I mean, after, you know...," he asked, a hint of concern etched on his forehead.

You hesitated for a fraction of a moment, gathering your thoughts. "I'm fine, it's just... I need the morning after pill," you finally managed to squeak out.

Speaking the words aloud made you cringe but you knew this was the responsible thing to do and, of course, Cillian agreed.

"Of course, I'll go," he replied casually, as if you had asked him to get ice cream instead.

"Thank you," you murmured gratefully, releasing your breath in a soft exhale as Cillian stepped closer to you, brushing a gentle strand of loose hair off your shoulder.

"Do you need anything else while I am there?" Cillian asked, his voice gentle and caring but you shook your head.

"No, that is all," you replied quickly, forcing a smile.

Cillian placed a hand on your lower back, his fingers gently brushing against your skin, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. The gesture was so small yet so intimate that it made you feel both exhilarated and conflicted.

"Okay then, I'll be back in a few," Cillian said softly, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly stepped away from you.

The way he looked at you, filled you with such a deep longing, it was almost overwhelming.

"See you soon," you whispered, watching him walk towards the door where he paused and looked back at you, one last time before he left.

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#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian

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formulauno98 · 6 months ago

Text

Yacht Girl Summer - Chapter Eight / Wednesday/Thursday - George Russell x Reader, Toto Wolff x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Angst!!! This one is mildly spicy, 18+ only. This is going to be a slow burn and if you're uncomfortable with the idea of two-timing don't read this.

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer, purely fiction. No use of Y/N and minimal descriptions because I want everyone/anyone to be able to enjoy this.

WEDNESDAY EVENING CONTINUED

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said George, his tone angrier than you’d ever heard as he strode towards you, “I fucking knew something was going on. The way you kept looking at each other.”

Having taken several steps back from Toto you were speechless. This was your nightmare come to life. “George…” you started, slowly edging towards him despite feeling the anger pulsating off of him, his face growing redder by the second.

“Don’t even,” he said, breathing heavily, putting a hand out as if to say he didn’t want you coming any nearer.

“George…” started Toto, “George… please let us explain.”

“Toto. No offence but this is between my girlfriend and I. I know you are my boss but please can you leave us?” said George, his tone cool.

Toto hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting between you and George. Finally, he nodded and stepped back. "I'll give you two some space," he said, glancing at you with an expression that was hard to read, part regret, part concern. He left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

George turned to face you, his eyes blazing, "What the fuck?" he demanded, his voice breaking as he added, "I trusted you. I love you."

Tears welled up in your eyes. "George, I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was a mistake, a horrible mistake."

"A mistake?" he repeated, his voice rising. "How am I supposed to believe that you kissed him by mistake? That looked pretty cosy to me.” he gestured wildly, “And what do you mean any of this? How long has this been going on?"

Deciding to come semi-clean, you explained, “When we went to the club in Porto Cervo, we kissed. We were outside and it just sort of happened… I told you that night but you were so drunk you woke up and didn’t remember. " you said, your voice cracking. "I didn’t know how to tell you again and I swear, it was just a stupid drunk mistake."

"What the actual fuck? How come I don’t remember this? I think I would have remembered that." George shook his head in disbelief. "I can’t believe you. And Toto as well, I looked up to him. Fuck him."

You reached out to him, but he stepped back once more, his expression pained, "Please, it wasn’t Toto’s fault. Let's talk, we can work through it."

"Work through it?" He let out a bitter laugh. "There's nothing to work through. You've ruined everything we had. Why would I want to be with someone who goes around kissing other men, my boss, behind my back? Fuck, I don’t even want to work for Toto anymore. Do you have any idea how fucked this is?"

Just as he was launching into another tirade, the cabin door creaked open slightly and Marion poked her head in. “Everything okay in here?” she asked cautiously, clearly having heard the shouting.

“Just peachy,” George replied sarcastically. “No offence but can you please leave us alone?”

“Sure, we’ll be out on deck if you need us.” Marion glanced at you with concern before retreating again, closing the door behind her.

The room fell silent, the weight of your actions hanging heavy in the air. George looked at you one last time, his eyes welling up but his jaw tight. "I need some time to think," he said finally. "To be honest, I can't even look at you right now."

He turned sharply and walked out of the cabin, leaving you standing there aghast. You sank onto the bed, tears streaming down your face. How had everything gone so awry? It was all your fault and George didn’t even know the half of it. If he was this furious at just a few kisses, how angry would he be if you told him the entire truth, that you’d slept with Toto?

Throughout your relationship, you had loved George but deep down you knew he wasn’t the one. You had good times together but something never felt quite right and you knew that you’d always play second fiddle to his career. Too many times you’d felt sidelined, cast aside for his next career move. Toto had caught your eye at a vulnerable moment and you’d lost all sense of right and wrong, caught up in a frenzy for a man who you’d never even looked twice at before your trip.

As you sat there sobbing, replaying the events of the last few days in your mind, you wished you could turn back time. Your mind briefly wandered to Toto, wondering whether George had gone to talk to him. You’d never seen your boyfriend so angry and you hoped he would not say something rash in the heat of the moment. Toto was his boss after all, and his job was one he’d worked hard his entire life to secure.

You knew you couldn't stay in the cabin forever so taking a deep breath, you stood up, wiped away your tears with the back of your hand and prepared to face whatever came next. Whether or not George would forgive you, you at least had to own up to your mistakes and try to make amends.

– – –

You stepped out of the cabin, making your way along the quiet corridor and outside, the night air cool against your skin. The deck was quiet apart from the sounds of the sea filling the silence. No one else was in sight and you hoped that the rest of the group were not fully aware of the drama that had unfolded. Marion had clocked the shouting but you hoped she believed it just to be between you and George. As you made your way to the lounge area, you spotted George standing alone, leaning on the railing, staring out at the horizon.

You approached him cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest. "George," you said softly, "Can we talk?"

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he spoke. "I don't know if I can forgive you," he said quietly. "But yeah sure, I’ll listen."

You nodded, tears welling up again. "Thank you," you whispered, grateful for the chance to at least try and make things right. "I'm so sorry, George. It’s not you, it’s me.”

George rolled his eyes, “Oh yeah that old one?”

Shaking your head you moved closer to George, turning to face him, “Look, I know you’re pissed. And I get it. It’s totally my fault. But I’ve been struggling for a while. Our lives revolve entirely around your work, I feel like it never lets up. We were supposed to be in South Africa and instead, we’re here, with your work colleagues yet again. You ignore me and honestly, anyone would have turned my head. It just happened to be Toto. He spoke to me like I’m an actual person...”

George's gaze softened slightly, though the pain in his eyes was still evident. "I’ll take that. But you could have said something, I never would want you to feel like that. It doesn’t excuse things but I get it. I just don’t get Toto though? Of all people you had to go for my boss, do you know what a mind fuck that is? I’m supposed to respect him and quite honestly I have lost that. You know the worst part? I thought I was going crazy, seeing you making googly eyes at him, dancing, making bets with him. But glad to know I was right.”

"I know," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I honestly can’t explain. I swear i never thought of him like that. Fuck, I didn’t even want to come on this trip, remember?”

“That I believe.” muttered George, “Although you should know, I spoke to him after I walked out.”

Your eyes widened, wondering what the two men had discussed, “Did he apologise?”

“Kind of.” George said, his eyes welling up once more, “He also told me what happened last night.”

Aghast you didn’t know what to say. You hadn’t expected Toto to confess that you’d slept together. Knowing George as you did, you knew there was no coming back from this. “I’m so sorry George,” you said, trembling. “I got carried away.”

“I’m sure you did,” he said, refusing to look you in the eye. “I’m sorry but it’s too much. I might have forgiven a kiss but knowing his wrinkly old hands have been all over you, knowing that he’s fucked you, quite frankly it turns my stomach. I’ve seen him in action in the garage that time and now I can’t get the mental picture of him doing that to you out of my head.”

Dropping your head you didn’t know how to respond. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry does not cut it.” he said curtly, “Look we’re off the boat tomorrow morning. Until then I just want to sleep, but nowhere near you.”

Taken aback by his steely demeanour, you countered, “Maybe we can talk more tomorrow? Come back inside, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“No.” said George firmly, “I’m done. You can go and sleep with Toto again. I’ll sleep out here. Goodnight.”

With that, he turned back towards the stairs to the sun deck, angrily grabbing a throw pillow and blanket, taking two stairs at a time before turning back, “Enjoy his wrinkly old cock, hope he can’t get it up.”

Floored by George’s parting zinger, you burst into tears for what felt like the millionth time. Knowing it was useless to follow him, you made your way back inside.

– – –

Once inside, the yacht felt eerily quiet, the hum of conversations and laughter replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. Reaching the lounge area, you sank into one of the plush armchairs, staring blankly at the dark expanse of the sea visible through the large windows. You tried to clear your mind, but the events of the evening replayed relentlessly.

Suddenly, the door to the lounge creaked open, revealing a tired-looking Toto. He paused for a moment when he saw you, then closed the door behind him quietly. He walked over and sat down across from you, his expression unreadable.

"Did you speak with George?" he asked softly, breaking the silence.

You nodded your head, unable to meet his gaze. "Yep. He says we are done and honestly, I don't blame him."

Toto sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to alleviate a headache. "I'm sorry. I never meant for things to get this complicated. I got carried away. ”

"It's not your fault," you replied, your voice trembling. "I made my own choices."

Toto looked at you, his eyes filled with regret. "What happens now?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions. "I don't know. George is furious and I can't see him forgiving me anytime soon. As for us... I think it's best if we keep our distance. This was a mistake and we both know it."

He shook his head slowly, the weight of your words sinking in. "I don’t see it that way, I rarely feel this way about anybody."

Your eyes met his once more, he seemed sincere but Cara’s warning swam around in your head. Was he a playboy, just messing with your head?

“Can you give me some time?” you asked, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Of course,” he said, reaching across and taking your hand in his, squeezing lightly, “Good things are worth the wait. ”

Silence fell between you again, the tension in the room almost palpable. Finally, Toto dropped your hand and stood up, his expression weary. "Look it’s late, I’m going to head to bed. I don’t want to sound forward but if you don’t want to be alone you can come with me?”

Gulping you replied, “I’m not sure if now is the time. But thank you.”

“Understood,” he said, crossing the space between you, enveloping you in a warm embrace. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he murmured gently “Try and get some sleep, you know where I am if you need me.”

You nodded, watching as he left the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Alone once more, you sat there for a while longer, lost in thought. Eventually, exhaustion overcame you, and you made your way back to your cabin, your bed cold and lonely. You lay down, staring at the ceiling, sleep eluding you as you contemplated the mess you'd made of your relationship with George.

THURSDAY MORNING

The next morning, the yacht was still save for the distant sounds of the crew preparing for departure, checking the boat one more time. You lay in bed for a few moments longer, gathering the strength to face the day and most importantly face George. You dreaded breakfast but knew you had to make an effort one last time.

– – –

Having gotten dressed and finished packing your bags, you stepped out of your cabin. In horrid timing, George was making his way along the corridor, his eyes hollow. He huffed as he brushed past you, ignoring your morning greeting and abruptly slamming your cabin door behind him.

Sighing, you decided it was safest to leave him to his own devices. He was mostly a gentle-natured guy but you knew he had a temper and for the first time you found yourself on the other end of it. It was understandable given your actions but it still stung.

Making your way to the breakfast table you were relieved to find that your fellow guests were yet to arrive. Settling down alone, you helped yourself to a croissant and some fruit, contemplating the morning ahead as you tried your best to eat and quell your nerves.

“Morning my darling,” came a kind voice from behind you. It was Cara.

“Morning,” you replied, raising a half-hearted smile as you turned to greet her. “Sleep well?”

“So well thank you,” she said, taking the seat beside you, before dropping her voice, “How are you? Marion told us she interrupted you and George having a lover’s tiff last night.”

Unsure of how to respond, you stuttered, “Ugh… yeah, we had a bit of an argument. It’s okay though, just cabin fever. Literally.”

Cara raised her eyebrow, “And nothing to do with our tall dark and handsome Austrian friend?”

Taken aback by her ability to see through you, you kept your voice hushed as you replied, “No, just George, but it’s okay, honestly don’t worry.”

Looking unconvinced, fortunately, Cara was somewhat distracted as your fellow guests emerged one by one until the only ones missing were Toto and George. Conspicuous in their absence, she turned and asked, “Where has George gotten to?”

Fortunately, you didn’t have to answer as he suddenly appeared from inside, Toto not far behind him. Their expressions were steely and you knew they must have been talking again.

“Good morning everyone,” said Toto smoothly, taking his seat at the head of the table beside you, George settling at the other end, staunchly continuing to ignore your very existence.

"Morning," George muttered curtly, grabbing a slice of toast without looking at anyone. The atmosphere around the table shifted uncomfortably, everyone picking up on the tension. You forced a smile, trying to maintain a semblance of normality.

"So," began Cara brightly, clearly attempting to break the uncomfortable tension, "What are everyone's plans after we dock?"

John, ever the optimist, chimed in first. "I've got a flight to the UK. Back to the grind, you know."

Marion nodded in agreement. "And I'll be heading back to London. Lots to catch up on at the office."

"I’m heading back to the UK too," George replied tersely, his eyes fixed on his plate.

"Oh, that sounds nice," Cara said, her tone a bit too enthusiastic. "And you?" she directed her gaze towards you and Toto.

Toto cleared his throat, glancing at you briefly. "I’ll be staying in Monaco. Busy week ahead."

"I’m heading back to the UK too," you added, your voice sounding strained even to your own ears. "Work, you know."

The rest of breakfast passed in strained silence, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and forced attempts at small talk. George kept to himself, barely acknowledging anyone's presence, while Toto made an effort to engage in polite conversation and thank the group for joining him for the week. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the edge of a precipice, everything in your life poised to either fall apart or somehow come together.

After breakfast, the group gathered their belongings and prepared to disembark. Having already packed, you found yourself standing on the deck, staring out at the horizon, the yacht gently swaying. The trip was ending and you took a deep breath, bracing yourself for what came next.

Lost in your thoughts, Toto caught you off guard as he grabbed your arm gently. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low and concerned.

You nodded, though your eyes told a different story. “I’ll manage,” you replied quietly, pulling your arm free. “I need to talk to George one last time before we leave.”

Toto nodded understandingly. “If you need anything, I’m here,” he said, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before walking away.

With a deep breath, you headed back to your cabin. George was inside, sitting on the edge of the bed, his bags packed and ready to go. He didn’t look up as you entered, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“George, please,” you began, your voice trembling. “Can we talk?”

He sighed heavily, finally meeting your eyes. “What more is there to talk about? You made your choice.”

“I made a mistake,” you pleaded. “I know I hurt you and I’m so sorry. But can’t we at least try to work things out? We’ve been through so much together.”

George shook his head, his expression one of resigned sadness. “I can’t. Not after this. Every time I look at you, I’ll be reminded of what happened. And Toto... he’s my boss. How am I supposed to go back to work after this?”

Tears streamed down your face as you realized the depth of the damage you’d caused. “I never wanted to hurt you,” you whispered. “I love you, George.”

He stood up, grabbing his bags. “I loved you too. But it’s over. I can’t do this anymore.”

With that, he walked past you and out of the cabin, leaving you standing there, heartbroken and alone.

– – –

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. You managed to gather your things and make your way to the dock without breaking down completely. The group had said their goodbyes, the atmosphere noticeably more subdued than when the trip began. Friendly as ever, Cara and Marion had promised to keep in touch but you knew that ending things with George would mean you would likely never see them again.

Having pre-arranged your transfers you were stuck in the awkward situation of sharing a car to the airport and a flight with George. You hoped that you could perhaps change seats and not have to endure the ninety-minute flight in tense silence.

Bidding goodbye to Toto, all too aware of George’s eyes on the two of you, you tried your best to appear no more than friendly. Kissing him on the cheek as you thanked him one more time for his hospitality as he whispered for only you to hear, “I will drop you a message.”

Nodding fractionally, you turned away to board the small launch that would take you back to the mainland, catching sight of George saying goodbye to Toto, their conversation appearing civil but strained. He glanced your way for a brief moment, his expression unreadable, before turning back to his boss.

– – –

The drive back to the airport was quiet, the mood sombre. George sat across from you, as far away as possible, staring out the window. As the glittering blue seaside scenery whizzed past you tried your best to remain stoic. It was only a twenty-minute car journey, you could make it through this.

Having spent the journey ignoring you, George finally turned to you as you made your way into the departures lounge at Nice Airport. "I guess this is it," he said, his voice flat. "I’ll send someone to get my things from your apartment."

"George, please," you began, tears welling up again.

"No," he cut you off, his eyes cold. "It's over. Goodbye."

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mercurygray · 16 days ago

Text

Every Berry On The Branch

Decided we all needed a tiny bit of holiday fun. And I even got it done before the holiday! Merry Christmas, one and all.

She'd forgotten that boys would be boys.

Marion was standing well out of the way of the Christmas party currently getting underway in the Aero Club, hanging in the back of the room only for the off chance that someone (army or civilian) might need an adult. She thought the chances slim - Freda Torvaldsen and Mary Boyle were both extremely capable when it came to children, but still - there was always a chance.

Someone had asked to do something for the locals, and this was the result - an afternoon of wild luxury for the children, after four years of rationing and rather threadbare Christmases. There would be games to play and prizes to win, and after all of that an opportunity to sit on Santa's lap and tell him, in whisper or in shout, what it was they wanted for Christmas. Their mothers were arrayed around the edges of the room, sipping on soft punch and admiring the state of the Aero Club's drapes, and their older sisters ere murmuring amongst themselves about what they would wear to the dance later - and which of the airmen they'd try to dance with while they did it.

She was glad they had found a way to make it work. Having the children here was good for the boys - to be reminded that there was still goodness in the world- still laughter. It had been a hard two months, since Munster - harder than most. So here she was, at the back of the Aero Club, leaning in the doorway - and suddenly behind her someone was clearing his throat like he needed something.

"Yes, Blakely?"

The tall airman pointed up at the door frame, an expectant smile on his face. "A kiss for luck, Captain? It is Christmas."

Marion glanced up and saw where she was standing - underneath a sprig of mistletoe that some enterprising soul had tacked up to the doorframe. Boys. "Oh, very well. Just one - and mind you're careful with it, Captain," she added, wisely. "I wouldn't like to write to Mrs. Blakely that you're misbehaving."

"Never, ma'am." Blakely's lips barely brushed her cheek - a kiss for mothers and maiden aunts that nonetheless made her feel in some small way admired. "Merry Christmas." His eye caught sight of someone else behind Marion and he quickly drew back to a safe distance. "Major Bowman."

"If you're going to ask me the same question, Blakely, I'm going to remind you to think again," Bowman said strongly, glaring with little hidden impatience at the younger officer. Blakely, suitably chastened, made a quick exit back to Tatty and the rest, who were in the middle of a very loud game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

"Damn fools," Red growled, glancing up at the greenery in the door above him as though he fully expected it to catch on fire. "Someone hung some in the office earlier this week and I had to give a lecture to everyone on how they weren't off the clock until four today. You'd better move or there'll be more of that all night."

"They're young, Red. They're allowed some fun." After where they've been, and what they've lost, they're allowed to remember what they still have.

That was the thing about Christmas, wasn't it - the grief inside with the joy? There would be no empty chairs as such at the party table this evening, but there were empty spaces all the same. Marion had heard a wild whoop in the corner earlier and turned half-expecting to see Major Egan taking part in some game with a bunch of children half his size - but Bucky Egan was not here, and doubtless not playing any Christmas pranks where he was at present. (It was a small mercy - but a prisoner of war was better news than a pine box.) There were too many names and too many faces that Marion would have liked to see, and couldn't - and too many letters home to too many parents informing them that their Christmas parcels would be returned unopened, that their sons would not be home, this Christmas or any other.

Bowman scowled, but said nothing. "So what part did they give you to play in this nonsense?"

"None whatsoever," Marion reported with a smile. "Mary and Fred have the whole thing well in hand, and Anita and Mae have instructions to help pass out the presents from Santa. I think I'm only meant to be the referee in case anyone needs me."

"Yes, where is Santa?" Bowman asked, looking around for the man in question. "Half-expected him to be here already, the way he's been going on."

"I think he's been given instructions to hang back until the games are over," Marion said. "I also have it on good authority Ken's being given out as his chief elf and flight engineer, so if you see him, I'm sure the man himself isn't far behind."

"His flight engineer," Bowman repeated incredulously. "Someone spent too much time on this."

"I'm sure someone needs to keep that sleigh in working order," she said fairly. "And Ken volunteered." This piece of information did not seem to help Red's opinion on the matter, and Marion decided to put it to him another way. "They needed something to look forward to, Red." And if that means that Ken Lemmons puts on a little vest and hat and pretends for a crowd of children that he fixes Santa's sleigh, then we just have to give that to him.

And if that means your commanding officer wants to dress up and put on a fake beard to make children smile, you'll give him that too.

Bowman could see he was winning no battles with this, and turned to leave. "Will we see you later?" Marion asked, trying to see if she might make lemonade out of Bowman's lemons. "There could be a dance in it for you, if you like." You're entitled to a little rest, too, you know, Red.

She wasn't sure if that would be punishing or enticing, but he did at least pause and give the idea a moment. "We'll see," he said, and she let it be.

The game was winding down - all the tails had been pinned, and Marion could just see Ken's face at the doors to the Aero club, peeking in the windows to see if the coast was clear. Over the heads of the children Mary gave him a nod, and Ken eased the door open so the guest of honor could arrive, a huge burlap sack over one shoulder and his hat only just covering hair that wasn't even close to turning gray, let alone white.

"Ho ho ho! Who's been good this year?"

Harding's Santa costume was not going to win any prizes for the picturesque. Short on red fabric, Mary Boyle had been unable to make him the usual and customary red coat, so they'd settled instead for the traditional hat, a red sweater with a pillow stuffed in for effect, and Neil's A2 jacket, the name tape carefully removed and "S. Claus" artfully burnished into a new piece of leather. Mary and Fred had slaved over a fake beard, which looked almost realistic when it sat properly on his face, and the man inside all of this was having far too much fun sitting down on his throne, setting down his sack, and waiting for the electric throng of youngsters to settle a little so they might see what sort of gifts he had brought.

The presents weren't much - a whole crew of volunteers had spent their free hours wrapping a pile of oranges and chocolates into little bundles, fragrant with the memories of Christmases gone by. (Marion had watched Fred counting oranges against a guest list, making sure they had some spare for the parents as well as the children.)

"Doing all right there, Fred?" Marion asked, as the blonde woman dashed across the room to get something out of the kitchen.

"Just fine, Captain Brennan, thanks," the Red Cross girl announced with a breathless smile. "He's really hamming it up," she said, looking back at Harding with little-hidden amusement.

"He's been very excited this week," Marion confirmed. "This is good for them, I think - and for him." She paused and asked a question she was quite sure she already knew the answer to. "Do you get a little break, between this and the dance tonight? All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl."

"I don't mind it," Fred said with a shrug. "Gives everyone else a chance to have some fun."

Yes, but you're entitled to a little fun yourself. And I think I know why you're going without it, too, Marion thought to herself. "Have you heard at all from…Captain Brady?"

She knew it was, perhaps, a dangerous question. Red Cross girls weren't supposed to have favorites, but anyone with eyes could have seen that John Brady was sweet on the clubmobiler - and that Fred was sweet back. The camp band wasn't quite the same without one of their star clarinetists, and it would probably take a great deal to get his favorite duet partner back on stage to perform without him. Fred nodded, her smile a little bit more fixed on now. "Had a postcard. He's cold, and hungry, mainly. Doesn't look like they'll have much of a Christmas. But he's alive," she said, almost reminding herself of the fact. "And that's all the gift I want."

"It's good you're writing to him," Marion assured the younger woman. "They need that - especially at Christmas." Fred nodded in agreement in a way that seemed to consider the matter closed, and Marion let her have her silence. "I think Mary said you'll send him back this way, when he's done?" she asked, changing the subject. "Happy to watch the door for you when he does."

"Thanks, Captain, that'd be great," Fred said, clearly moving forward. "And…thanks," she added with a pause, looking the older woman square in the eye, only a little guilty. Marion gave her a smile and let her go back the way she had come, watching as Fred paused for a moment to take a breath and fix her face back on as she went to help wrap up the rest of the line to see Santa and get him on his way. "Now, come on you all, Santa's very busy, and I heard Ken say he's finished fixing the sleigh. If we don't let him leave now Lieutenant Callaway can't hold the flight pattern any longer!"

Santa gathered up his sack and gave a few more ho-ho-hos, and trampled off through the club in Marion's general direction, letting her hold the door open for him while the children made noises of disappointment and their mothers started looking for their coats.

"Well, that went well, I think," Neil announced, pulling his beard down once the door was closed and grinning as he pulled the pillow out from under his sweater. "Hotter than blazes under that beard, though. I thought I was going to sweat it off my ears."

"You did very well," Marion reported with a smile. "I don't know who was having more fun, them or you."

"I think I missed someone, though. What does Captain Brennan want for Christmas?" Neil asked, gathering her up into his arms in a way. "I hear she's been a very good girl this year."

Marion held back a disapproving smile. "Nothing at all," she said, though she made no attempt to move out of his arms.

"Nothing?" Neil was still grinning, his hands very possessive over her waist. "Box of chocolates? New nightgown? Not a single thing from Santa?" She shook her head, still smiling. "How about a kiss, then?" He asked, pulling a spray of mistletoe out of the pocket of his coat.

"Don't tell me it was you who put that up in the office," Marion said, finally putting two and two together. "Red already gave the staff the riot act."

"Well, someone's got to have a little fun around here," Neil announced, taking a few steps back towards the office desk and sitting down on its edge, spreading his legs a little so she might stand between them. "Now, how long do we have until that dance starts? It's a kiss for every berry on the branch," he purred in her ear, "And I wasn't going to let Ev Blakely be the only one telling you you're worth asking for a kiss."

#i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #tds cinematic universe #masters of the air OC #masters of the air x oc #marion brennan #chick harding x oc #mota oc #freda torvaldsen

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sweetestgirlintown111 · 2 months ago

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Henry Winter x reader

chapter i

A/N here's the first chapter i have many more in my drafts i also would say that the next chapters are better. Enjoy and of course give me your thoughts and criticism on it.

Hampden was magnificent this time of the semester, the dorm's window overlooking the vast greenery- now in shades of reds and oranges below, the weather cold and dry, the grounds yet to be muddied by the fall of rain, allowing me to take the path over the fallen leaves. The walk to class was full of anticipation and excitement, on the way there I came across Bunny who- being his outgoing self - approached and linked his arm with mine leading us slower than I would've marched had I not been interrupted

as he held me he glanced in the direction that I came from, "hey"

"Hi"

“your dorms there?” he looked back at my building

I nodded “Uh yeah”, he turned to me,

“My girl stays there, second floor- Marion, quite the lady, she is studying to become a teacher loves children ’n’ all, very demure if you ask me, suitable for a respectable woman.” the last comment made me frown, something that'll become synonymous with bunny discussing women and any other subjects really.

I hum in response not knowing what else to say but that didn't stop him, he went on “You seem very ladylike y’know, quiet” he took a look at my attire, a cream pleated skirt that fell just below my knees, and a dusty pink cashmere sweater “and quite well dressed as well-”

“we're here” I cut him off before he can continue, pointing my fingers towards the building thankful to see its old bricks, a couple of feet away the fiery red of Francis’ hair approaches us, he greets us, and all three of us head toward the office.

Going up the stairs - me in front and both of the men behind me- approaching the white office door I knock before going in, my eyes first land on Henry his dark suit and relaxed figure -back leaned against the back of the couch, legs spread wide holding a book in his hand- demanding the attention, his eyes raked over me then behind me onto bunny, I turn to Julian and in a soft, almost weak voice sound a good morning to both him and henry, after id turned around I was pulled down by bunny, who was sat on one end of the couch, and now had me squished between him and henry on the other end. After ten minutes of Bunny leaning over me to talk to Henry, while I was chatting with Francis about his coat, the twins finally arrived along with Richard and Julian started with the class, starting with Plato as we had been previously informed he would.

“let us end with Plato's virtues as discussed in his book The Republic. For Plato virtue comes from the form of the good. Only in knowing the good, which is an independent self-subsisting entity, can one be virtuous. Virtue is only thought of as a characteristic of the person insomuch as come to know, the good.” he looked up at us “Do you agree with his definition?"

“I think this definition is quite unfair”

Henry turns to me and scoffs “Are you really saying that Plato's wrong?”

“I didn't say that he's wrong I just said that I don't agree entirely with his definition, and even if I was saying that he's wrong, it's not a crime” I try to stay calm to match his coldness but its proving to be very hard.

“it is a crime. He's Plato!”

“he's not a god!” our voices were now rising.

and Julian had to step in, “Henry please let her continue, go on please” he nodded to me and Henry leaned back in his seat clearly not happy.

“I was saying that, in defining virtue as something you only know is unfair, I'd say that it is more of a learning curve”

“So you think that an honest man and a man who’s a liar but is trying to become truthful are equal?” Henry arose again'

"I think, that someone who acknowledges their vices and is actively trying to better them is perhaps even better than someone who’s only known virtue because it is against their nature to be virtuous thus they master the virtue of wisdom and temperance, don't you think Henry?” I address him with a slight smirk barely noticeable, but I know he saw it from the way he clenches his jaw.

”very well, let's leave it here today, and next time we'll discuss vice and virtue more in depth”

after collecting our things we all leave the room and huddle at the bottom of the stairs. Standing there with Charles and Francis, we were talking about the best materials for winter days, Francis having quite an expertise regarding the matter, but that subject is cut short by Bunny -dragging along Richard, Camilla, and Henry.

“What do you all say we go grab a bite? There's a place in town they have the best pancakes, the one down the street from your house Henry.”

“I'd eat just about anything right now, to be honest” Francis chimed in looking At me,

“I am quite hungry, plus I need to go get some ink from the town square,” I said looking in my bag at the empty bottle of ink.

“Great so we'll go, Henry would you drive us” Bunny looks at Henry not asking but rather stating.

“Sure but my car only fits 5 people 6 if we push it, so I can't drive us all”, he stated staring me in the eyes, challenging, just for a second just intended for me to see. I open my bag reaching for a cigarette and lighting it, using the time to try and think of something clever to shoot back, but I didn't have the chance as Francis beat me to it, turns out he caught the look Henry shot me, taking my hand in his, pulling out car keys from his pocket looking at henry, “it's fine henry, we'll take mine, I want to get some ink too, we'll meet you at the restaurant after”

and with that he dragged me along with him, as we headed towards his car, my biggest relief was getting a break of bunny's blabbering, and Henry's- well Henry's everything, happy that from the looks of it, I'd already made a friend of Francis. As soon as we're out of earshot I turn to him a big sigh escaping me, “he's just unbelievable, you saw how annoyed he looked with me from the second he saw me? I don't get why he's this aggressive, and why only with me!”

we get to the car and he gets in before answering “Oh trust me everyone saw that, he never gets this agitated with anyone really, not even when Bunny's acting stupid”

“I didn't do anything to warrant such attitude from him, also you see his friend- bunny, while coming to class today randomly started talking about his girlfriend and how she is a proper ‘respectable’ woman because she likes kids and some shit, really weirded me out”

“I can't say that I'm surprised he just says stuff like that sometimes, which store do you get your ink from?”

“It's just to the left of the dry cleaners, he really doesn't seem like the kind of guy you'd expect to be studying classics y’know, I wonder how he and that old grump became friends”

“They've been friends for years and Bunny was Henry's only friend, before college, met at some all-boys boarding school in Europe and have been friends ever since for a good chunk of time you would never see Henry without Bunny. Is it this store?”

“Yes the one with the yellow sign, I wouldn't expect he'd have many friends with that attitude of his.” we both get out of the car and into the stationary shop, we greet the lady working there and get our ink mine brown and red, Francis's black, after that, we wander to the notebook section, ultimately getting distracted by all the pretty covers and different paper for about 20 minutes, chatting the brunch completely forgotten.

That's until Richard comes in looking for us, he stops by, “Where have you two been, we've been waiting for thirty minutes, bunny is getting really hangry” his hand wanders about the notebooks, looking at the different covers,

“Just a moment Richard we're almost done”.With that we grab our ink and notebooks we definitely don't need but were too pretty to leave on the shelf and I also grab a notebook that Richard was eying, as a gift and check out, heading towards the restaurant.

Not much occurs there, except for Bunny annoying Henry and Charles, i mainly just eat my food and chat with Francis, Richard, Charles, and Camilla, making a point of not participating when Henry is involved in the discussion until it all comes crumbling down when bunny, thought he was bored from torturing Charles, turned to me “say you-he pointed to me across the round table- are you religious?”

the question completely unexpected “I uhh…It's complicated” I answer trying to avoid getting into a discussion with him, but that didn't work of course

“Complicated how?”

“I mean I was raised catholic but that wasn't something I felt I belonged to, so as a teenager, I became very interested in paganism, and now it's harder to decide”

“And why do you not endorse Catholicism?” He pushed, all of them now staring at me with intensity and curiosity

“From my experience with the church, it seemed that most of those who belong to it and claim they are the men of god are morally corrupt money thirsty predatory assholes,” I say it so casually and only the looks on everyone's faces -except for bunny, who wore a smug expression- made me realize that maybe I had gone too far,

and Henry obviously wasn't gonna let it slide, he chuckles leaning over the table in my direction “My, my, little miss know it all feels she's way above religion now, how surprising” he mocked, voice high pitched not entirely believing what he said.

“I didn't say that Henry,” he isn't stupid and he knows what I meant but he just wants to get a reaction out of me

“Really? Then what did you say, because to all of us that's how it sounded.”

“You know what, fine. Interpret it as you want, I'm not going to justify my own beliefs to you.”

“Because you can't, can you?”

“No Henry trust me I'm more than capable but you don't deserve wasting my breath on you” I shoot back, and I could feel my ears becoming red, just as I was about to lose it,

Richard chimed in, “That's enough Henry don't you think. Let's just have the food and leave.”, and with everyone having already been done with their food we sat for five more minutes paying before we went back to college the same as we came.

Maybe that first class was what had drawn the outlines of my relationship with Henry, rivals always looking for something to jump down the other's throat about, and while it was mostly Henry who started with a scoff or chuckle or some offhanded comment, I never let it slide and more often than not I'd be the one escalating the situation. Our egos were far too big to admit that what we came to was childish.

#henry winter fanfic #henry winter x reader #henry winter #tsh #tsh donna tartt #the secret history #richard papen #camilla macaulay #camilla macauley #charles macaulay #francis abernathy #bunny corcoran #donna tartt

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velvet4510 · 10 months ago

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I guess I’m one of those weirdos who so deeply feels the essence of an instrumental leitmotif from a film score associated with a particular character or couple, that I start associating said leitmotifs in my head with ANOTHER character from an entirely different film/book/series. And I’ve built up a whole library of leitmotifs for LOTR characters even though I ADORE Howard Shore’s original score for the trilogy. I consider these leitmotifs to be add-ons, NOT replacements.

Nor do I intend to completely disassociate all of these themes from their intended films/characters; some of them are perfect fits for the films they were written for. It’s just my mind going wild like usual. (But I admit, in some cases, the pieces are from films I dislike, and thus I would rather see these great songs associated with something of LOTR quality rather than what they were actually stuck with, especially when the lack of lyrics gives you the freedom to let the melody take you wherever it takes you, personally.)

In the case of Silmarillion characters and relationships, well, it’s a different story - it really is my attempt to cobble together what could be a hypothetical score, if it were brought to the screen. Obviously it’d never be this exactly, but I would hope a composer for a potential screen adaptation of The Silmarillion might be inspired by themes like these.

In some cases, the characters these themes were originally written for don’t resemble the corresponding LOTR characters very much, or at all. Also some of them have titles that by themselves could not be more different from and unfitting for Tolkien’s world. It’s just the melodies on their own, without context or even name, performed by these gorgeous orchestras, that have come to remind me of particular Tolkien figure(s).

I also have found lots of “love themes”, both romantic and platonic, for character relationships, as you’ll see. I’ve included romantic themes for canonical couples, as well as for pairings that I personally ship. I know Shore already gave Aragorn and Arwen a theme, but as I said, these are all extra additions and not replacements.

And yes I have a lot of Star Wars stuff in here, because I love Star Wars…but I love Tolkien more.

For the heck of it I’ll share some of these, with links to each song on YT. It’s hard to explain why I made these choices/associations, but maybe you’ll get it if you listen to some of them.

CHARACTER THEMES

The Valar = “Guardians of the Whills Suite” by Michael Giacchino

Lúthien Tinúviel = “Once Upon a Time in the West” by Ennio Morricone

Túrin Turambar = “Anakin’s Theme” by John Williams

Nienor Níniel = “Helena’s Theme” by John Williams

Frodo Baggins = “Romeo” by Nino Rota

Sam Gamgee = “Rey’s Theme” by John Williams

Aragorn = “The John Dunbar Theme” by John Barry

Gandalf = “Yoda’s Theme” by John Williams

Legolas = “Rose Tico” by John Williams

Éowyn = “Marion’s Theme” by John Williams

THEMES FOR LANDS/LOCATIONS

The Undying Lands = “Out of Africa” by John Barry

ROMANTIC LOVE THEMES

Frodo x Sam = “Love Theme from Ben-Hur” by Miklos Rozsa

Beren x Lúthien = “Love Theme from The Godfather” by Nino Rota

Faramir x Éowyn = “Han Solo and the Princess” by John Williams

Aragorn x Arwen = “Love Theme from Cinema Paradiso” by Ennio Morricone

Sam x Rosie = “Love Theme from Dances with Wolves” by John Barry

Bilbo x Thorin = “Andante Cantabile” by Bernard Herrmann

Thingol x Melian = “Indecent Proposal” by John Barry

Fingon x Maedhros = “Wuthering Heights” by Alfred Newman

Galadriel x Celeborn = “Central Park” by James Newton Howard

Finrod x Bëor = “Somewhere in Time” by John Barry

Aegnor x Andreth = “Love Theme from The Scarlet Letter” by John Barry

Finduilas x Gwindor = “Deborah’s Theme” by Ennio Morricone

Túrin x Beleg = “Midnight Cowboy” by John Barry

Mablung x Nienor = “Wanda and Vision” by Christophe Beck

Tuor x Idril = “Conversation Piece” by Bernard Herrmann

Eärendil x Elwing = “Tennessee” by Hans Zimmer

Elrond x Celebrían = “And Then I Kissed Him” by Hans Zimmer

Pippin x Diamond = “Love Theme from East of Eden” by Leonard Rosenman

Merry x Estella = “Love Theme from Rebel Without a Cause” by Leonard Rosenman

Elanor x Fastred = “Theme from A Summer Place” by Max Steiner (arranged by Percy Faith)

PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP THEMES

Elrond & Elros = “Brothers” by Hans Zimmer

Merry & Pippin = “Flying” by John Williams

Legolas & Gimli = “Rain Man” by Hans Zimmer

Boromir & Faramir = “Luke and Leia” by John Williams

Bilbo & Frodo* = “The Mother’s Love” by Miklos Rozsa

Sam & Elanor = “The Ludlows” by James Horner

I may add to this as I think of more, or even replace certain songs entirely if I come across a better match. Always return to the pinned post here to see the most recently updated list.

* Bilbo & Frodo’s melody is heard in the first minute of the linked track, 0:00–1:01, and again at 1:48. Also, the love theme I associate with Frodo & Sam starts playing at 1:03, making this whole thing fit all the hobbits even better.

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patchwork-crow-writes · 1 year ago

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Thoughts on Kris x Ralsei

This is so long I had to split it up into parts - this is Part 1, which looks into how the roles that Kris and Ralsei are given contributes to the idea of their romance. As more parts are written, they'll be linked below in this handy-dandy TOC!

Part 1: And They Lived Happily Ever After <- (You Are Here!) Part 1.5: I Believe Your Choices DO Matter Part 2: A Pair of Star-Cross'd Lovers Part 2.5: In Another World, We Could Have Been (Just) Friends

Okay, so.

Wanted to elaborate a bit on my viewpoint of this ship, because I don't think it's something I've ever really discussed before and I think it's actually a very interesting dynamic (or at least has the potential to be, depending on where the rest of Deltarune goes).

So, Kralsei is cute, isn't it? It's fun to hug the fluffy boy and watch him melt into incomprehensible stuttering and blushing. All the little signs he's really, really into Kris, all the cute little snippets of dialogue you can initiate with him, all the alone time they spend together, in both chapters... honestly, the game makes it hard not to root for this pairing.

And yeah, it's cute... in a very surface-level, don't-think-about-it-too-hard kind of way. But once you start thinking about it... hoo boy. There is. A LOT to unpack here. So much more is going on just under the surface, and once you see it, it's difficult to un-see it. And in my opinion, it makes the Kralsei dynamic so much more nuanced, more compelling, and potentially quite tragic.

Now, a disclaimer: it's fine to like this ship on a surface level. No real harm is being done, these are fictional characters and it doesn't matter what reason you enjoy it for - if it provides comfort to you and gets you through, then more power to you! This is more me sorting through my thoughts on the subject and is not a judgment on how others approach it. With that said, and in the spirit of full disclosure, this will go into slightly uncomfortable territory - picking apart the idea of destined love, the deconstruction of common romance tropes, how outside manipulation might play a part, and even the potentially incest-adjacent nature of the relationship. If you don't want to deal with any of that, you can stop reading right now, and that's okay. Please continue to enjoy Deltarune in the manner that is best for you, and thank you for your attention thus far :)

If you're still with me, then please click the read more and we'll get started.

Part 1: And They Lived Happily Ever After

The first thing you have to understand is that Deltarune is utterly determined to cram the notion of Kralsei down the player's throat. The game is not subtle about this in any way, shape or form. Everything from the narration, to the dialogue, to major game events, to item interactions, and even the roles that Kris and Ralsei play both in the story and the party, serves to reinforce the notion that these two are very likely to end up romantically involved with each other in some way.

Let's look at the characters first. Kris is portrayed as the noble knight - stoic, unwavering, courageous, a natural leader - clad in medieval-inspired plate armour and wielding a sword and shield. And Ralsei is the archetypal princess - demure, dainty, kindhearted, nurturing - who uses magic to heal his allies and pacify enemies.

I did not mistype there - Ralsei is a prince, but the characteristics associated with him are more commonly found amongst female healers in JRPGs. Think Fina from Skies of Arcadia, or Marle from Chrono Trigger (minus the temperment), and you might have an idea of what I'm on about.

Think of knights and princesses for a moment. Imagine St. George slaying the dragon to save a helpless damsel. Imagine Lancelot and Gwenevere. Robin Hood and Maid Marion. Link and Zelda. Squall and Rinoa. Every single fairy tale involving an imperilled princess and a knightly rescuer. For a more modern take, imagine The Bodyguard. Ness and Paula. I could go on, but then we'd be here all day.

Suffice it to say that there is a pretty entrenched tradition surrounding these archetypes - a male-coded, phsyically-adept, courageous, stoic, action-oriented figure, is paired with a female-coded, magically-adept (depending on the medium of course), less-physically-capable by comparison, emotional, and more passive foil. The (male-coded) knight protects and rescues, the (female-coded) princess nurtures and soothes.

It is a very, VERY emotionally-charged dynamic, by its very nature. Through their acts of service to their protectee, the Knight displays their devotion and care for the Princess, and is in turn emotionally-enriched and cared-for. There is a great deal of physical and emotional vulnerability between them, and it is therefore ideal for romance stories.

Look at Kris and Ralsei again, through this lens. Kris is immediately put into the role of Knight, and Ralsei quickly establishes himself as a classic Princess. Almost instantly, before you've even become aware of it, you've made the connection - they're going to fall in love, because that's what ALWAYS happens in these stories. Ralsei supports and encourages Kris, both in dialogue and in battle, and Kris...

...Kris, uh...

...they...

...hug Ralsei sometimes...?

...they... they give him a ribbon...?

...no, that can't be right.

But it is right, for two reasons. One, Kris doesn't have to do anything. The roles are already established, and Ralsei is playing his part like a pro. And two, Kris doesn't do any of those things in the first place - you do. It's the player who hugs Ralsei, who gives him the ribbon, who picks the dialogue options, who makes the connections. You're the Knight in this scenario, not Kris.

Because Kris doesn't get to make that choice. Kris has to do what you tell them to do. And many of us have already jumped to the conlusion that this romance is happening, becuase that's what always happens. The Knight and the Princess fall in love. They get married. They live happily ever after.

So we ship them, because hey, it's cute, and it's easy. I can't stress enough how easy the game makes this. I'm fairly convinced that Ralsei was designed by comittee, like the Funzo toy in that one episode of the Simpsons. Like he was created with the sole purpose of being the most disgustingly adorable, lovable, awkward little cinnamon bun that ever existed. Like he was created to generate the maximum emotional response in players. It's the cuteness response dialled up to 11, and we are almost hard-wired to want to protect this little bundle of fluff from any and all danger, because lookit how sweet and adorable he is! The glasses make his eyes look all big, his fluffiness is reminscent of that of baby animals, he stutters and fumbles his way through dialogue, and you just want to scoop him up and put him in your pocket or something.

And so, we're more than happy to fulfil the role of the Knight to Ralsei's Princess. Whether Kris actually wants to or not. Because it does become increasingly obvious that outside of our influence, Kris is still their own person, with their own goals and desires, but no real agency with which to pursue them. Would that we could know what they truly want, but we are never presented with an opportunity to find out.

The thing is, Kris is not particularly... knightly. They play pranks on their friends, they swipe sweet treats from their mother, they seem to enjoy getting a rise out of people, and particularly from Asriel, if the story about "dropping the lizard into the pit to jump higher" is any indication. They sleep through class, yet by Berdly's grudging admission they are the "third smartest in the class". The only reason they go to church is so they can drink the "sick fruit juice". They don't seem to have any issue with prank-calling their mom, while she's taking about them with their tutor, while they're standing just out of sight, while they're balancing a trash orb on their head.

Nothing about this behaviour screams "Knight." If anything, it would make more sense for Kris to have become a Rogue-type character upon entering the dark world. So the question remains - why is Kris forced into that role? And to what extent is the seemingly "fated" romance between Kris and Ralsei part of that role?

Folks, we have barely scratched the surface here. If I keep writing here this will become a novel, so I have to stop for everyone's sanity. But I will follow up soon, looking into the ideas of Purpose and Destiny and how they relate to Kralsei in-game. If you've stuck with me up to this point, let me just say thanks, because wow I wrote a lot here, and it's probably a bit rambly and says the same things two or three times, but I just. Had to get this onto the page in some way or another, so... here it is.

Thanks for reading, and see you in the next one :)

#essay #thoughts #rambling #deltarune #kris dreemurr #Ralsei #Kralsei #Krisei #shipping #romance #character archetypes #Knights and Princesses #long post #Part one of several #oh my god there's so much ground to go over here I didn't even know #and we're only TWO CHAPTERS in #no wonder I'm obsessed #theory

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ch4rryc0smos · 3 months ago

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⊹ scent of summer — a. donaldson.

synopsis — tennis, college, and everything in between. a celebratory party that leads to the same quiet night, just this time with unspoken words that finally leave their prisons.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, late-night conversations, teasing, friendly banter, admiring, friend of a friend, domestic fluff, tooth rotting fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of being drunk, if that counts.

word count — 2.4k.

author's note — i love writing oneshots, they are so fun, i swear. and i also love art very much, if it isn't obvious yet. i saw this challengers series here, and i really want to write one now, but i simply don't have enough time, i've realised. i had to put another one on hold, and over that, it requires planning. i might just die. anyways, happy reading!

masterlist.

The crowd cheers, and Marion’s ears won’t stop ringing, no matter how hard she tries to make it stop. She’s also trying to act like this isn’t totally hurting her (it is, but Art can’t know that). Art’s mop of blond hair is glistening, shining even, under the sunlight. It beams down on him, the warmth spreading under his palms. Every time he gets a bit too close to where she’s sitting she’s almost sure she can count the sweat droplets rolling down his forehead, the skin wrinkling in focus and his lips forming a pout. Every time he spares her a glance, she feels the smile bloom all over, and instead nods at the court.

Don’t get distracted, she thinks. Tashi sighs beside her.

Tashi, her superstar-model of a best friend turns towards her, giving her a tired look. “I don’t know if you being here gives him a confidence boost or if it distracts him more—”

“I’m hoping it’s the first.” Marion’s eyes are glued onto Art’s fluid movements. He hasn’t glanced at her once since the last time their eyes met, and she’s glad. Because he looks like he has the upperhand right now. And she hates how mushy his grunts of focus make her feel. They make her feel all fuzzy and her brain turn into pathetic mush. She huffs, turning away from the teasing eyes that Tashi has focused on her. She stares at the way Art practically bounces from one place to another, his eyes darting back and forth.

Marion’s leaning forward, breath caught in her throat as Art goes for the winning strike, his groan full of so much relief Marion has to grip onto Tashi’s hand. Her best friend grins, laughing and throwing her hands up. Marion topples back onto her seat, laughing out in relief alongside Tashi, eyes stuck to Art’s approaching figure as he jogs up to them.

“Must’ve helped him loads, with you in his sweatshirt,” Tashi whispers into her ear when she notices the general direction Art is walking in. She slips her hand out, sitting up straight.

All while Marion feels the warmth pool in her face. She huffs, looking away.

“Hey—” Art has to stop and take a deep breath, his voice is shaking slightly.

He’s not been that unfit, surely.

“Not hitting the gym recently?” Marion says, standing up so she can ruffle his hair. He grins at her like he’s not seen her in ages. She shakes her head when he tries to wrap his arms around her. She is not hugging him while he’s got sweat all over him that makes him look like he could be the ultimate beacon of light, with all the reflection and the gleam of his pale skin.

“I want a hug,” he says, his racket hanging at his side.

Marion looks behind him, his sulking opponent storming away, she fights back her grin, focusing her gaze on his, smiling softly. “Not until you get a shower. You better scrub off that stench, Mr. Donaldson.”

He grumbles in indignation and hands her his racket, telling her he’ll be back soon. She knows exactly what to do. She waves off Tashi who’s already talking to Patrick, animated as she narrates the game that Zweig has also just watched anyway.

Marion weaves her way through the retreating crowd, she walks into the quiet of the campus walls, walking up to the room where Art camps out before games. She drops his heavy bag onto the floor, and stuffs the racket into it. She frowns at the crumpled tissue paper she forgot to throw away, dropping it into the dustbin stowed away in a corner, hidden from the public eye. She closes her eyes and lets her behind hit the chair stationed next to a metal closet. Her eyes flutter close and she relaxes into the cold of the room.

And then footsteps echo outside, quick as they came, the door is thrown open and Marion opens her eyes to meet Art’s gleeful face.

“Hey,” she whispers, smiling up at him.

“You good?” He stops in front of her sitting figure, looking down at her. She nods, standing up. “How was the game?”

“Shouldn’t I ask you that?” she mumbles into his shoulder, momentarily forgetting that he’s yet to take a shower. “You better let go of me, Art.”

“Why?” he mumbles, almost whiny while he tightens his grip around her waist. “I want to celebrate with my favourite girl.”

“Later?” she cards her fingers through his messy locks of blond hair, unintentionally melting in his arms. He pulls her closer, supports her full weight against him, somehow not wanting to collapse onto the floor.

Marion doesn’t get him sometimes, but she doesn’t question it. She hears him mutter something, and let go. She smiles.

“By the way,” he starts, rummaging through his bag, “Tashi, Patrick and I will be having a little party at our dorm later tonight, you should—”

He’s interrupted by her phone pinging incessantly. She glances at him apologetically, and pulls it out. Lo and behold, it’s Tashi. Talk about the devil. She skims the message, it’s something about what Art was just mentioning. Marion laughs.

“Tashi mentioned it,” she says.

Art raises an eyebrow at her. “Well, I was doing it before her.”

Marion grins, shaking her head as she steps up to him, planting a gentle kiss on his jawline before she takes the run, sprinting out of his room, and towards her dorm. She makes a mental note to reply to Tashi later. She expects her best friend to probably be with Patrick, either dissecting the game, or eating his face. And either way, she doesn’t want to deal with them, not just yet.

Whenever they have these little parties, they’re timid, alright, but it never fails to end up with Art and Marion alone, the former listening and Marion speaking to her heart’s content, spurred on by Art’s nice gaze, and his interest, and the late hours of the night that ask her to open the windows into her mind.

To him.

But the next day, neither of them talk about the way they’d end up curled in each other’s embrace, smiling like they’re on cloud nine, holding each other’s faces, pressed together.

When Marion reaches her dorm, she’s not surprised when she’s greeted by silence. She unlocks the door and steps in, a steady flow of sunlight flooding in from the window that she’d left open earlier in the morning. The air is humid, Marion now feels sweaty. She blows air into her t-shirt, shivering as she stares at her reflection on the mirror on her closet. Tashi’s tennis attire is thrown across their beds. Marion grins, picking it up and tenderly placing it on a corner.

Now, she has to get ready. She wishes Tashi was there, to help her.

She isn’t the best with things like this, and she would appreciate the emotional support.

Well, it never appears.

The night air clings onto her skin as she wades her way through campus, feet carrying her down the same path that leads her back to his place. And Patrick’s place. Tashi had called her earlier, letting her know that she’s already with Patrick, that she didn’t realise the time passing when she was with her boyfriend. Marion laughed it off.

And now she treads through silence, the stillness of the quiet night making her stiff, but she continues anyway.

She’s ever grateful to safely reach her destination. Her wrist reaches upwards to place three measured knocks on the door, she waits, bouncing from heel to heel. And then the door cracks open, locks of blond greet her before a face does, then Art appears in his entirety.

A smile breaks onto his face the second his eyes set on her. Oceans crash against the shore, a forest dances in the distance. She smiles back at him.

“I hope I’m not late,” she says, scratching the back of her neck.

He shakes his head, “not at all, don’t worry.” He holds his hand out for her. She accepts it graciously, letting him tug into the threshold of his dorm room. Laughter caresses her senses, her eyes immediately straying towards the direction of the sound. Tashi and Patrick are on the floor, grinning as Marion approaches them.

She notices Tashi taking a swig out of a beer can. And then her eyes inch upwards, and when she notices her best friend, she starts grinning. Marion sits down beside her. Tashi places her hands in Marion’s lap. The Brit holds them gently, playing with her fingers.

“Mari’!” she says, smiling, brown eyes staring into hers.

She blinks at her, “Hey, Tashi—” Marion starts, but is rudely interrupted by Patrick. Who is somehow slurring his words already.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He wiggles his eyebrows at her.

Marion shakes her head, face-palming. And suddenly the pressure of two palms are on her shoulder. She turns her head around and she’s nose to nose with Art Donaldson, kneeling behind her. He smiles. Marion sighs, tapping his nose, making him move back.

“Mari’...” he elongates the last vowel, pouting.

“You’re not drunk, are you?” she asks, glancing at the other two, who look considerably wasted, for the measure.

“Not quite.” Art nuzzles his nose into her shoulder, breathing deeply. She turns around to him fully and wraps her arms around him.

She laughs softly, “I can’t be the only one who isn’t drunk,” she whispers, eyeing the other two with mock disdain. Patrick grins, giving her and Art a look that plainly goes ‘just kiss already’, Marion looks away, trying to ignore the way her cheeks flare up.

Tashi on the other hand, is staring at Patrick, and then glancing at Marion. And she shrugs.

One thing leads to another, a cigarette break for Patrick has him going with Tashi to who knows where. But they’re not back, and it’s been a while.

“Don’t think they’ll be back any time soon,” Art mutters, face pressed into the crook of Marion’s neck. The latter nods in agreement, running her hands on his bare skin under his thin cotton shirt. His hands are on her waist, also under the warmth encapsulated by his sweatshirt that’s hanging loose on her skin. His hands are warm to the touch, and she shivers, but doesn’t ask him to let go.

At some point through the night, the window was thrown open, and it’s been like that since. Warm air wafts through the open window, the scent of summer lingering in the room, clinging to their skin. Marion’s chin rests on Art’s head, he’s tracing random shapes onto the skin of her sides, her eyes flutter close.

She feels shuffling, and suddenly warm air—No, a warm breath is fanning right against her face. She opens her eyes a sliver, to meet Art’s eyes, his lips inches away from hers. His hands have her caged against the headboard of the bed. She stares up at him.

“What’s wrong?” she asks him, voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothin’, you jus’ look pretty,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead to hers. She has to reach up, wrap her arms around his neck. She wants to turn her face away before she’s sure she’ll bloom into a scarlet mess, but Art’s fingers find their way onto her right cheek. She instinctively leans into the touch, how she does often, more often than she should.

“I don’t,” she breathes into his fingers, turning her head slightly so she can place kisses on his fingertips.

“You always do,” Art counters, turning her face back so he can look at the entirety of it. He breathes softly, she’s back to counting every smile line, eyelashes, stray strand of hair, anything, so she doesn’t have to stare at the way his lips are parted.

The way he looks incredibly kissable.

And the way that makes her heartbeat stutter.

She shakes her head, Art tilts his head.

“Please,” he whispers.

Her breath hitches in her throat. She thinks she knows exactly what he’s asking, but she’s scared to say anything, to just say yes.

“Please what?” she breathes out with a shaky voice. He shuffles, pressing closer against her. Her eyes close.

“Look at me.” His hands trace the expanse of her face, cupping it.

She opens her eyes. The look in his eyes is so plain, she nods.

He leans down, captures her lips in a gentle kiss, pulling her as close as he can. She wants to crumble in his arms, he tastes like summer, or whatever she thinks it tastes like. His lips are warm, but soft, his breath makes her heady, tint of peppermint making her head spin. His hair is tickling her face as he presses ever closer, trying to seemingly memorise the way her lips move in sync with his. Her arms are pulling him closer by the neck until they’re practically moulded into one another. Hands weave into his hair, tugging at it.

He groans softly.

The butterflies erupt in her stomach.

When he pulls away, her chest is rising and falling quickly, shaky breaths slipping past as she stares at his red face, eyes barely open. He’s grinning. She chuckles.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers.

“You’ve said,” she whispers back, reaching out and pulling him closer by the nape of his neck. There’s no resistance, he just crumbles onto her, his head nuzzled against her shoulder, where he’s now peppering feather light kisses.

She presses her face into his hair, drinking in the scent of… the beach that infiltrates her senses. He is summer, to some extent. She reckons.

“No but, you just…” he trails off, breathing softly against the crook of her neck. She glances at the clock hanging on the wall, 01:44 it reads.

“Mhm, whatever you say,” she hums, closing her eyes, relaxing, Art’s weight pressed against her. He snakes his arms back around the skin of her waist, under the sweatshirt. She relaxes into his grip more, feels the exhaustion tugging at her consciousness.

“Wear my sweatshirt more often,” he whispers, voice quiet, the tiredness lining every syllable.

She nods against the headboard, holding him closer.

The strong scent of summer is wafting in from somewhere now, and she can hear a door creaking open, can hear the quiet murmurs of people from somewhere, but she ignores it. Marion’s mind is consumed by the urge to sleep and by Art’s comforting weight, and the way his chest is rising and falling against hers.

Summer surrounds them, and sleep speaks in quiet whispers to her. She smiles against the top of Art’s head, doesn’t care if there are obscenely loud giggles echoing around her, she’ll deal with it later.

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allzelemonz · 2 years ago

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Awakening Again: Bill Williamson X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, implied masculinity, Reader referred to as ‘man’ in the summary Physical Sex: AMAB implied Rating: G/Fluff Warnings: Incredibly gay and closeted Bill, friends to lovers, kissing, confessions, childhood crush, Bill is a simp Summary: When his childhood crush joins the gang, Bill can’t help but fawn over the man just like he did when they were kids.

He first sees you when you’re talking to Dutch. Your hands are on your gunbelt, a smile is on your face, and you shake Dutch’s hand. Bill is frozen where he stands, the beer bottle in his hand falling when you take your hat off and say something that makes Dutch laugh. You’re here. Of all the places you could be, you’re just a few feet in front of him. And you look so different. He hasn’t seen you since you were teenagers, daydreaming about the army and a million other things. Things Bill would never admit, especially not to you.

He can’t handle the feeling of his heart twisting, so he turns and hurries to the other side of camp where he won’t be able to see you. But you invade his mind again, just like when you were younger. Your eyes look like they have that same twinkle, your hair is that same cut that he always liked, your smile still hits him harder than any bullet, and the new addition of a gun on your hips makes everything worse. He feels like a dumb teenage boy again. The same teenage boy that fell for his oldest friend, that stammered over his words when he was too close or shivered when hands lingered on shoulders or arms.

He fell hard and he thought it was over when he joined the army and you went off on your own, but every last feeling shoots through his heart, mind, and body as Dutch introduces you to the gang. Bill has no idea how this will go. He doesn’t know if he should avoid you or let things go back to how they used to be. But when he catches the look on your face he knows he can’t just run away. You’re staring at him, your lips slightly parted in disbelief, and your blinking a bit erratic. Maybe you’re as nervous as he is.

The gang retreats as Dutch gives you a pat on the shoulder before returning to his tent. Bill remains, watching as your eyes look over him. He knows he’s changed. He’s bigger than the last time you saw each other, hairyer too. Suddenly he feels a little self conscious. He might be ugly to you now, with his extra weight and receding hairline. Now he regrets not wearing his hat today, not wearing that shirt that makes him look buff, not fixing his beard up these past few weeks. You look like heaven compared to him. Everything he imagined when he used to stare at you.

Your hug doesn’t help his senses. Your arms wrap around him and his head spins, arms acting on their own to return your hug. The warmth you bring fills him and his face burns red. You’re holding him, arms strong and comforting. He wants to stay here forever, but all you give him is a minute of bliss before you pull away and smile at him in disbelief.

“Marion Williamson.” You mutter, shaking your head. “You, uh, you look good.”

His heart skips at the sound of his name, his real name, coming from you. He hasn’t heard it in so long, especially not accompanied with your pleasant voice. He registers what you said slowly. You complimented him, you think he looks good. His heart skips.

“Y-Ya look good too.” He hesitates before he says your name and it feels so nice to say again.

Your smile, the bashful way you glance down, makes it hard for him to breathe. You are just what he remembers yet immensely better.

“Didn’t know you were in a gang.” You say, shrugging. “What happened to the army?”

His heart sinks a little. He could never tell you what happened, the men he hurt and the respect he lost. “Didn’t suit me much.”

“That’s a shame.” You sigh. “I remember how excited you were to join up.”

“What, uh, what brought ya here?”

“Oh, I just needed work. Dutch seemed nice, good ideas and all.”

Bill nods, his hands nervously fidgeting at his sides. “Y-ya wanna sit down, have a drink?”

“I’ll leave the drinking to you, but sure, Marion.” You smile. “I’d love to.”

Bill smiles and leads you over to the scout fire where you won’t be bothered with the other members of the gang, grabbing a beer from one of the crates along the way. Sitting with you brings back a lot of memories. In particular, sitting by a fire with his other dumb teenage friends talking about nothing. Sometimes you’d elbow him or pat his back while you talked to the others. Little touches he cherished as his cheeks would heat up behind pubescent stubble.

He tries to think of something to say that isn’t stupid. “I, uh, I been goin’ by Bill these days.”

“Bill?” You test. “I like it, suits you.”

“Ya think so?”

“Sure.” You nod. “Most of the boys called you Williamson anyways.”

Bill chuckles. “When they was bein’ nice.”

You sigh, your eyes flicking over him. “Ya really do look good, Bill.”

His face turns pink beneath his beard and he looks down at the ground to hide it. His finger taps nervously against his bottle at a quarter the speed of his heart.

“Never thought I’d see you again.” You mumble. “But you’re so…”

Bill looks up at you and you look just as lost in your own head as he is. There’s another bottle wasted as he moves closer to you, it falls to the ground completely forgotten. It’s a surge of confidence, an overflow of need, as he holds your face and presses his lips to yours. His heart feels like it might burst when you move against him, returning the kiss. One of your hands holds his against your cheek and the other rests on his knee as you scoot closer.

He’s imagined this a thousand times. Granted, not in a long time. But he remembers all of those assumptions, all of those hopes. Your lips are rougher than he thought they’d be, probably chapped from travel. Your hands hold him with a certain gentleness he’s never felt, a feeling he wants on him all of the time. You taste like something savory, a lingering meal that Bill is happy to experience hours later. But he needs to breathe, he needs to let his brain function for once today, so he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted that, Bill.”

He laughs lightly, a smile stuck on his face as he presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Ya couldn’t a’ done somethin’?”

You hum, your hand squeezing his softly. “I didn’t wanna scare you off.”

“I don’t scare so easy.”

“We both know you do, Bill.” You chuckle.

He turns a little red at that. “Shut up.”

You lean in and kiss him again. Bill sighs into it, letting a hand move into your hair. He thinks he could kiss you forever, until his lips wear away.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption x reader #bill williamson #bill williamson x reader #bill williamson x male reader #red dead redemption x male reader #x reader #x male reader

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aidenwaites · 28 days ago

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The graphics aren't super flashy, but I wanted to throw something together like this since I got lucky enough to have a lot of time to dedicate to reading this year <3 none of these are in a particular order.

Honorable mentions:

Chain-Gang All-Stars by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. Bones and All by Camille DeAngelis. The Warm Bodies trilogy by Isaac Marion.

Honorable mentions (movie edition): Lisa Frankenstein, Stalker, Bodies Bodies Bodies, Hundreds of Beavers.