#mywriting*

[sophiria]

A Family Affair

clanhead!Gojo Satoru x stepmother!Reader

cw: stepcest/pseudocest, stepmother-son relationship, reader is occasionally addressed as mother, family/clan dynamics, motherhood, discussion and appearance of children, implied past infidelity (not between gojo and reader) words: around 800

The birds chirped as they perched on the trees, and the flowers of the estate's luscious garden were in full bloom.

As you basked in the pleasant weather, a wave of powerful energy rippled through the air, and footsteps neared your position. 

"I didn't expect you to stop by this early," you mused, turning around to face your stepson. "Hello, Satoru."

His features softened. "Hello, mother." Satoru materialized not far away from your figure. "I had some time off."

You tilted your head to one side. "Come here." Your voice was mellow as you opened your arms, inviting Satoru into your embrace. "I missed you."

Satoru closed the distance between your bodies, and you stood on your tiptoes before taking him into your arms and wrapping them around his shoulders. 

"How are you doing, Satoru?" You held him to yourself, your hands caressing the back of his head. "Rumor has it that curses have doubled lately."

He splayed his hands on your back and buried his face into your neck. "These past few weeks have been exhausting, but you know I recover faster than anyone else."

You leaned back and placed one of your hands under his chin, tilting it up. "And your eyes?"

He hooked a finger into his blindfold, and it slipped at the end of his neck. His sky-blue eyes glowed, yet they were uncharacteristically bloodshot. "The strain was bad, but nothing that can't be fixed."

You studied his features before cupping his cheek and brushing your thumb under his eyes. "You'll need to fight with your blindfold on for a while, Satoru."

He circled your wrist with his hand, holding it gently. "Are you worried about me, mother?" His tone was deep and humorous. "You know I'm the strongest."

You held his gaze. "I know you are." A soft smile surfaced on your lips, and your cheeks made him think of ripe peaches. "You can't blame me for worrying, though."

Satoru pressed his lips against your wrist. "You've been doting on me ever since you married my father," he murmured as his lips grazed your skin. "To think I'm actually older than you."

You leaned forward and nuzzled his snowy-white hair. "Do you mind it, Satoru?"

His lips left your wrists, and he took your face between his hands. "No, I don't mind it." Satoru rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. "It doesn't change the way I feel about you."

You looked up at him through your lashes. "And how do you feel about me?"

A little chuckle left his lips. "I think you know." He wrapped his arms around your upper body, enveloping you fully. "You've known ever since the first night of your marriage to my now deceased father."

His lips found yours, and Satoru took you in an open-mouthed kiss, languidly swirling his tongue around yours as you reciprocated, noses bumping against one another.

Someone neared you both, clearing their throat before bowing. "Clan-head Gojo-sama," they called out reverently, addressing him first and then you. "Gojo-san."

Your lips separated, and you both tilted your head towards the source of the voice. Then, you spoke up. "What is it?"

The servant kept their head slightly bowed. "Your scion has finished their studies for today, Gojo-san. Shall I bring them in?"

You and Satoru exchanged a look. "Of course," you replied. "You can tell my child they can join his mom and big brother."

A third type of cursed energy wafted through the air, and your child approached the both of you. The servant bid their goodbyes, leaving the three of you alone.

Satoru grinned. "Hey there, kid." He placed a hand on your little one's head, ruffling their hair. "How did today's training go?"

Your little one huffed. "Too hard!" They rummaged through a tiny bag and pulled out some sweets. "Now I need to eat sugar or my head will keep hurting."

Satoru raised an eyebrow. "'Too hard'? What?! Kid..." he let out a dramatic sigh, ruffling your child's hair once more. "You're strong—you know you can do it."

You smiled in amusement as you looked at your child. "Remember to brush your teeth after it," you warned them gently. "And leave a little space in that belly for dinner."

Your child rolled their eyes and then popped some candies into their mouth. "By the way..." they eyed Satoru. "How do I call you now that we're alone?"

He smirked softly and swiftly scooped them up in the air, which had your child squealing before laughing. 

"You're my child," Satoru told your little one as he stole one of their candies. "You can call me dad, of course." He narrowed his eyes briefly. "And once the higher-ups retire..." he paused, smirking at his own choice of words. "...you'll be free to call me dad in public too."

[noeverse]

Among Crowns, Prologue: The Wheel of Fate

Author's Notes

Be welcome to my first HOTD fic! I'm excited to share it with y'all and see where this story takes me. I hope you guys love Aurynn and her story as much as I do!

English isn't my first language, so please forgive any typos/grammar mistakes

If you wish to be tagged in this series, let me know in the notes and asks!

This series will contain canon-typical sexism, sexual themes, violence, infidelity, among other tags to be added, as well as some canon takes from both Fire and Blood and HOTD, and even some liberties of mine

Summary: Princess Rhaenyra, seeing the state of her court and claim to the throne, decides to switch her cards; her firstborn son will marry Lady Aurynn Mormont in order to have a shot with ensuring the North's allegiance, and Lord Rodrik Mormont shall take Baela as wife in Jacaerys' stead. With war at their doors, these siblings will play whatever tune its sang in order to live in a volatile enviroment.

Words: 2.0k

Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon x OFC (Aurynn Mormont) Baela Targaryen x OMC (Rodrik Mormont), eventual Cregan Stark x OFC & Alyn Velaryon x OFC (Aurynn Mormont) and OFC x OFC (Visella Targaryen @blood0fthedragon x Aurynn Mormont)

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: None (they will be added as the series progresses)

Tagging: @aeksion-aekse @mini-kunoichi @huramuna @blood0fthedragon

Princess Rhaenyra paced herself in her chambers, the thought of war coming soon heavy on her mind. Alicent had made her move already, and she was running out of time. For ten years, they had been playing the political chess. Her eldest son was of age. And Baela seemed perfect for him; however, she was not blind. She had seen the way Jace looked at the Mormont girl.

She was certainly a beauty, with a long cascade of brown curls, expressive brown eyes and a wit and charm that easily matched others. And she was from a beloved and fierce house from the North. Baela was a Targaryen, and a daughter of her beloved husband, however, it was clear that there was no attraction between one another. If Rhaenyra was to sway the North to her side, then a successful marriage between a Northern and her son would be the wise thing to do.

She also was aware of Rodrik’s eligibility. He was strikingly handsome, an accomplished warrior, a patron of the arts and cunning in politics. However, his wandering eye escaped nobody. Someone as brazen and ill-tempered as Baela could either make him better or worse. Perhaps, if she played the game right, it could be done well.

Summoning her advisors to the chamber, she asked “Tell me, my lords, about Lady Mormont.”

Both men looked at one another “Well, Princess, she is a certified beauty, and an accomplished one at that. A famous companion of the princes, and someone very much wanted in all of Westeros. Why, only on her thirteenth name-day we received numerous letters from all the places. Do you plan on arranging a marriage for her, Princess?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She folded her hands.

Aurynn was brushing her very long hair, sighing as she performed her nightly dance with her Northern ringlets. It had been almost eight years since she arrived at Dragonstone after a pact between her late lord father and the princess. Life had been good, playing with the princes and getting to hone her courtly skills. And perhaps find a good marriage, one with a lord that would treat her well and give her beautiful children and a purpose.

Suddenly, a knock interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to see sweet Luke, doubt in his eyes. She had always seen him as a little brother, and the feeling was mutual. “I… am not interrupting, am I, Lynn?”

“Of course not, sweet boy. Do come, tell me what’s on your mind.”

He sat at the edge of the bed, used to seeing her in nightgown and her hair down, something that raised many eyebrows “As you know, Mother is to send us to gain alliances. With our dragons.” He was fidgeting, as he usually did. She got up from her seat and squeezed her hands in his, calming his racing thoughts.

“Take a breath. Order your thoughts,” he did as she told him “Now, speak slowly.”

“I’m afraid, Lynn. What if something goes wrong? What if Arrax gets sick? Jace looks so confident…”

“Just because someone sounds confident doesn’t mean that they are. And I know what you’ll say: ‘but Jace is perfect’. He is virtuous, yes, but he is but a boy. As am I. As are you. There is nothing wrong with being afraid every once in a while.”

“Are you ever afraid, Lynn?”

“Many times a week, my boy. That I will be betrothed to a cruel old man. That everything I’ve worked for isn’t enough. Of my house’s fate.”

Luke flushed “If it helps, I’d sooner marry you than ship you off to a cruel old man.”

Aurynn threw her head back and laughed, a melody that often calmed and soothed the young prince. Then, she kissed his cheek “Oh, Luke, my dearest boy, I’m afraid I’d be deemed to old for you. Besides, you and Rhaena seem to get along just fine.”

“The sentiment isn’t only mine.”

Aurynn frowned, amused “How come?”

Lucerys flushed, the face he did when he talked too much “I, uh, should go to bed. I have much to prepare with, uh, Arrax. Good night, Lynn!” Then, he sprinted away from the room, leaving an amused and confused Aurynn.

The next morning, Aurynn had dressed herself with a beautiful purple ensemble and had finally coiffed her hair in a complicated hairdo when her door was knocked “Who is it?”

A masculine voice replied “Princess Rhaenyra sends for you, my lady. I am to escort you to her.”

Feeling nervous and excited, she polished herself and opened the door. Taking a deep breath, she nodded “Let’s go then.” After crossing a corner, she asked “Do you know what business does Her Grace want to do with me?”

“I do not know, my lady. I am only following orders.”

They finally entered the room, where at the top of the table was Rhaenyra, Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela. Curtsying to them all, she gave them a friendly face “Did you summon me, Your Grace?”

“Do approach the table, Aurynn. Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you, I’ve had breakfast a few minutes ago.” It was a small lie. Her stomach was made of knots, and she prayed that none of them heard her intestine roar.

“As you know, you’ve reached age of marriage, and your presence has not escaped my allies. Men all over the Vale, the North and other regions have been sending me owls for your hand, offering you all sorts of luxuries. Even houses that are allied to Alicent’s party have offered to swear fealty to me if I were to give you your hand in marriage.” She looked around the room “However, my council and I have agreed that none of these men are a match worthy of you, and have thus come to a decision.” She then looked at her eldest son and proclaimed “You and my son Jace shall marry within the month, and you, Baela, shall marry Lady Mormont’s brother Rodrik. He is handsome, rich, young and a formidable ally. He is sailing to accept your hand as we speak.”

Aurynn’s gaze turned to an equally stunned Jace. They had known each other all their lives, and Aurynn had always admired Jace and had fancied him for long, even after his duties had taken over. They have had a strong connection that raised question of marriage before Princess Rhaenyra married Prince Daemon and betrothed his daughters to her sons.

Nevertheless, one couldn’t simply reject the formidable Prince of Dragonstone. She bowed to the princess and recited “I thank you for this privilege, Your Grace, and promise to be the loveliest, most dutiful wife to your son.”

Jace woke up from his shock and gave them a rehearsed smile “If it pleases my mother, it shall be done. Might I have a moment alone with my betrothed?”

He didn’t even wait for his mother to respond before they both curtsied and he practically dragged her out of the room.

“Jace!” Aurynn exclaimed, surprised at her reaction.

He didn’t seem to hear her, still in stupor. They walked and walked, his grip on her, until they finally got out, in the beautiful garden they used to chase one another and laugh and munch berries.

“Jace, you’re hurting me!” Lynn finally exclaimed.

Said words seemed to wake him from his stupor and let go of her hand, clearly embarrassed “Forgive me, Lynn. I didn’t think I was gripping you too hard.” He examined her hand and gave it some gentle strokes. Her breath caught. “I didn’t know that my mother would pull this off.”

“Jace, it’s alright—,”

“Lynn, being my bride is being in the eve of danger. I understand if you’re scared.”

She looked at him defiantly “I am a Mormont, Jace. I am not scared of a drunken prince and his desperate mother.”

He squeezed her hand, a small smile on his lips “I know that you are as fierce as a Northerner comes, but this is different. You’d be queen someday, if we aren’t betrayed. Besides, you deserve better than someone whom they call ‘bastard’ behind his back.”

“I don’t care about that, Jace. I care about your good opinion and your mother’s. If you don’t wish to marry me, say it. You have the power to undo the alliance.”

He smiled sadly “I am flattered that you think me of someone with power, but my mother’s made her choice. Your brother is on his way. And… I do like the idea of marrying you.”

Lynn looked at those tender brown eyes and swallowed “Truly, Jace?”

He gave her a tentative look “Do you, Lynn? Like the idea of marrying me as well?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, her gaze went to his lips, and he seemed to notice. Soon, his hands were on her hips, squeezing the light Dornish lace and stroked aside a wild ringlet.

“I—,”

“Jace!” A familiar voice called.

They both bolted away, clearly flushed. Luke was running towards them, Joffrey in tow, “Is it true? You and Lynn are to be married?”

It was Lynn who spoke “Yes, dear Luke. Your mother was generous enough to allow me to join our family.”

He smiled “Amazing! It’s just like when we were boys! You and Lynn married, in those imagine games we used to play when—,”

Jace, clearly embarrassed, placed his hands on his brothers’ shoulders and cleared his throat “Let me tell you all about it in our dragon pit. I am sure Lady Mormont has many preparations to make for my brother-in-law’s arrival, don’t you, Lynn?”

Trying not to chuckle, Lynn nodded, taking the opposite direction to the castle, wanting to busy her toes in the sand. When she reached the beach, she found a familiar silver hair. She slowly and gently approached her “Might I sit?”

Baela looked at her and nodded wordlessly. She sat besides her at a respectful distance and looked out at the sea “If you’re wondering, I am not angry. Neither of us asked to be moved around like chess pieces.”

Baela sighed “Isn’t that all we are? Chess pieces to move and discard to their heart’s delight?”

Lynn bit her lip “Gods, I hope not. I suppose that, to our fathers, we are, but Princess Rhaenyra is no man.”

“She ought to behave like one if she is to hold the throne one day.”

It suddenly hit her. Baela was tragically right. Being a woman was unsafe as it was in Westeros, and Princess Rhaenyra must’ve felt cornered by her rivals for her to make such sudden move. Jace was a great man, but a man nevertheless. As was Rodrik, and Luke, and everyone in the council.

She liked Jace, and with time, she might even grow to love him, but she was no fool either. She knew from a young age which role to play if she wanted to win the eternal game of survival in a world where women were feeble and discardable little things.

“Let them think that we are,” she declared “but we will know the truth. Let them believe the illusion that we are innocent, meek and playable things, as long as my will is made.” She looked at Baela “reforming a man like Rodrik is no easy task, but it is not impossible.”

Baela seemed to catch up “Go on.”

“Give him something that no common girl can give him. A reason to be with you alone. Let it be your bedding skills, or wealth, or the illusion of having the girl he’s dreamt of having, and he’ll be yours. Make yourself irreplaceable, and he shall be yours. Isn’t that what men want in a woman, after all? A gem so rare, so wanted, that if they do not take care of it, it may slip from his fingers.”

Baela smiled at her “I pray to the Gods that your brother is as cunning as you, Aurynn. We’ll need all the wit and conniving we are allowed to show in this tryst.”

[endlessly-cursed]

Primrose Gray's Legacy, Act One: The Younger Years, Chapter Eight: Infatuated

A/N: It's been sooo long, but it's finally here!! Completing this chapter was no joke, but it's done and I'm proud of how it turned out, not to mention this was one of my faves to write so far! Enjoy!!

Summary: Primrose has a crush. The problem? She's a promised woman and must have some discretion, however, it is not an easy task

OCs featured: Teddy Ellison and Hestia Herron ( @cursebreakerfarrier ) Roxie Haley and William Berkeley ( @mjs-oc-corner ) Niamh Kelly ( @unfortunate-arrow ) Siobhan Llewellyn ( @kc-and-co ) Gwendolyn Archeron ( @thatravenpuffwitch ) Professor Capel ( @camillejeaneshphm )

OCs mentioned: William Devlin ( unfortunate-arrow) Abraham Alden ( @cursed-herbalist ) Miranda Iverach ( cursebreakerfarrier )

Word Count: 2.1k

Taglist: @gaygryffindorgal @nicos-oc-hell @camillejeaneshphm @hphmmatthewluther @catohphm @thatravenpuffwitch @magicallymalted @cursedvaultss

March, 1893

Primrose found herself once again distracted in Charms class. The reason? A brown-haired, boyishly handsome Gryffindor boy who was snickering with his friends and plotting something. Probably a prank. She sighed. He was simply charming, handsome and quite witty when he wasn’t tormenting the staff with said pranks.

“Lady Gray,” Professor Herron called “while I am aware that one cannot pay me attention forever, I suggest you come back to us.”

Primrose cleared her throat and flushed deep red. Roxie arched an eyebrow and elbowed her “So, who is it that you’re looking at? Certainly is not your oh-so-dear fiancé.” She smirked.

“Later,” she whispered “I am still in Professor Herron’s field of vision.”

She chuckled, amused by how nervous and distracted the ever-perfect Primrose Gray was. After class, she linked arms with her and beckoned Shiv and the others: Gwen and Niamh. Mira had fallen behind, talking to the gruelling Mr. Hawthorne.

“So,” Roxie asked “who were you staring at?”

Primrose bit her lip “I do not wish to drop names or point. Tis quite rude.”

“Then whisper! C’mon, don’t leave us hanging!” Gwen pleaded.

“Aye, we won’t get to see you so flustered again, lady.” Shiv teased.

They all rounded a corner and the lady gathered all of her friends and, out of earshot, she whispered “Arthur Ellison.” Then she quickly broke up the congregation and put her face in her palms as the girls squealed and Shiv laughed at her “You have a crush on him?”

“As if you don’t make eyes at Galen!” Gwen defended.

“I dinna!” Shiv retaliated.

“Focus! Prim has a crush on—,” Primrose shushed her, now aware of the portraits around. She then whispered low enough “Prim has a crush on Teddy!”

They all laughed and Primrose moaned with embarrassment. All of the girls gathered around and started teasing her. Mira at last joined and, after being told of the situation while whispering, she joined the teasing “Oh, perhaps you’ll write him some poetry!”

“Oh, good heavens, no! Tis but… a small fancy, that’s all.”

“For now.” Roxie giggled.

“Ooh!” Gwen gasped, “what if we put him a secret name? So nobody may overhear!”

“I vote for Gryffindor Git!” Cried Shiv.

“How about Pukwudgie?” Gwen suggested.

“Too obvious! He’s one of the few transfers from Ilvermony!” Primrose cried.

“True! Oh! How about Bear? Like the teddy bear!” Roxie suggested.

Shiv started chanting “Prim likes Bear! Prim likes Bear!”

Primrose covered her face in shame once again, all the girls chanting, calling the attention of some older students and the occasional teacher. She spotted Professor Falcon and quickly told the girls to hurry to class now.

“Why?” Shiv asked “I dinna want to go through history o’ magic!”

She whispered “Professor Falcon is within earshot. The man is a terrible gossip and very meddlesome!”

“Except when it comes to his daughter.” Gwen giggled.

“Aye. If looks could kill, Earl Abe would’ve died burned a’ the stake.” Shiv continued.

They all laughed before entering Professor Capell’s class. Some girls sighed “The subject’s boring, but my, is he dreamy…” Gwen commented.

Primrose noticed how the young professor pretended not to hear it before he turned to the class “All right, everybody, let us begin with, I’m afraid, a rather dull lesson: wand lore.”

Almost all of the class moaned in unison, knowing they’d be stuck there for an hour and a half hearing of different kinds of wood. Not Primrose. She looked forward not addressing Bear’s issue.

“Good morning, class!” The flying professor greeted “Today we shall learn about…”

Primrose sighed. Flying was not her forte, given her fear of heights. Despite her rooms being in high places, she was not a woman of constant adrenaline. Most of her friends seemed to get the hang of it, but she only made a fool of herself. This was not the adrenaline she was used to.

She nevertheless tried, but was, as usual, wobbly “Higher, Gray! The skies do not bite!” The teacher cried.

For some reason, her broom made a violent spin and she let out a screech as she started falling, and closed her eyes, bracing for impact… when a pair of strong arms caught her and, with their own broom, set her on the ground. She looked up to see Mr. Ellison himself, who must’ve pulled it off with his friends. Her eyes went wide and flushed deeply “I… t-thank you, sir, Mr. Ellison.”

He smiled, and her stomach fluttered “Please, just Teddy. And it is my pleasure to rescue ladies in need of assistance.”

She nodded, flushed and embarrassed before the teacher sent her to polish brooms and scare off Peeves.

Later, at luncheon, she talked to her friends about the incident. She buried her face in her hands, groaning of pure embarrassment “I can’t believe that just happened!”

“I know. It was actually quite chivalrous of him to rescue you that way!” Roxie smiled.

“Nah. I could’ve pulled i’ off.” Shiv argued.

“And your face! Oh, Prim, you had the colour of a tomato!” She giggled.

They all giggled and Primrose threw a breadcrumb toward Gwen. She shrieked and threw one back. They were, however, stopped by someone clearing its throat. She looked around, and a few Slytherins and other boys had gathered, expensive-looking gifts with them.

Before she could even put a name to the situation, they all introduced themselves as high-ranking men of all places and offering their ‘allyship’, though Primrose knew they were trying to woo her out of her current engagement to promise herself to them instead. When she realised it, she pursed her lips and held her head high, nodding and giving dry ‘thank-you.’. As one of them tried their own luck, a baritone chuckle caught her attention.

He had dark brown hair, intense blue eyes and a rather strong physique, and was looking in her direction “Whatever is so amusing?” She asked, sick of social climbing opportunists.

“All the gifts in the world and none satisfy you?” He teased.

“It is none of your business.”

He observed her further before starting to shoo everyone away, and turned to her once the herd of hyenas was gone “Allow me. Mr. William Berkeley. You are Lady Gray, correct?”

“Indeed. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She extended her hand, and he saluted her, and for once, she was thankful that he did not kiss it. Taking a better look, she realised she had seen him before “Do you play quidditch?”

“I do. I just started this year.”

She nodded “You have an impressive technique.”

“Tis just practise and passion for it, m’lady.”

She smiled “Prim.”

“Sorry?”

“You may call me Prim. After rescuing me, I believe we should leave formalities behind.”

He smiled “Very well, then, Prim. I shall see you around.”

Something told her that she had just made a new friend. Father would certainly be proud. Mother? Not so much.

A month had passed since the incident, and Primrose was desperate to spend some time with Teddy. It sounded stupid, but his presence was quite comforting, and she always laughed in his presence. At her age, very few people could make her laugh.

But the miracle happened: talking to Shiv, she casually commented “Oh, and apparently your Bear is looking for someone to tutor him in history of magic. That poor boy’s failing and is quite desperate to find someone patient enough to put up with him for a few hours.”

Prim grinned “Oh, Siobhan, you mad genius! That’s it!”

“Huh?”

Upon seeing Primrose’s expression, however, she caught up with her scheme.

“If you excuse me, I have a bear to save from the historical wolves.”

“Gimme the details later!”

Naturally, she entered the Gryffindor common room and cleared her throat upon seeing Teddy laugh with his friends “Do forgive me if I’m interrupting, but I believe one of you gentlemen is looking for a history tutor?”

Teddy, naturally, stepped out of the circle “That’d be me. I suppose you’re good at the subject?”

“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but Professor Capell said once that I am one of his best students.”

Teddy grinned “There is nothing wrong with a little bragging. Shall we?”

Primrose nodded. Although her expression was calm, inside she was about to faint. Her heart beat fast, and she felt like she was out of breath. Sitting down in one of the couches, Teddy started explaining “I admit I am not good at memorising so many facts, and have failed several exams. Professor Capell has assigned me a four-page essay on any apprentice of one of the founders, but I don’t know where to start.”

Primrose smiled calmly “You’re in luck! The age of the founders is one of my favourites. In fact, during some personal research, I found that my ancestor, Henriette, was an apprentice of Helga Hufflepuff and key to the founding of Hogwarts.”

“Influential how?” He had his quill ready.

“If I remember correctly, at nine and ten she had raised a small army that rode into one of the most key battles of the Mages Wars and won it because of a stirring speech.”

As she spoke of her ancestor, she couldn’t help being mesmerised by his beauty: his russet brown hair, his calming brown eyes, his soft skin, untouched by age, his overall presence. He was beautiful, and she had to restrain herself from stroking his hair. After taking notes, she smiled at him “Got everything you need?”

“Yes. Your ancestor sounds incredible! It must be amazing, to have such a long family history.”

Primrose bit her lip “Well… there is also the price of legacy. Of maintaining it. Having a powerful bloodline is complicated.”

Teddy nodded, somehow understanding it. Then, he shrugged “Shouldn’t stop you from being twelve years old in peace.”

Primrose chuckled “Technically, I’m still eleven but… thank you.”

Months passed, and Primrose tutored Teddy, and, in exchange, taught her some flying skills, and got to know him well enough. It was nice, seeing Teddy in unusual elements. During that time, she figured out how to help him learn history: telling it as if though it was a legendary story out of a storybook, which she apparently had a knack for.

“Do remind me of what happened how did the Battle of the Four Mages turn its tides?”

“Easy! Lady Henriette, with Lord Frederick as her champion, led her sizeable army to battle, all shouting for the lady’s loyalty and to justice, rather than the nobles or power.”

Primrose smiled “You got it in one! A few weeks ago, you would’ve mixed Lord Lachlann with Lord Frederick.”

He gave her a crooked smile “Thankfully I didn’t?”

She chuckled “I’m proud of you, Teddy. You’ll do amazingly on the next essay!”

“Will you proofread it as always?”

Primrose gave him a sweet smile “I think it’s time that you trust your own judgement.”

Teddy blinked “Are you sure?”

“Positive! I… have faith in you, Teddy.”

She blushed furiously and looked away. She could hear the boys’ snickers and teasing glances. Was it truly that obvious?

On the day of the submission of the essay, she observed Teddy take a deep breath and give the essay to Professor Capell, and sat with his friends, not without giving Primrose a ‘Hope this doesn’t backfire’ look.

The end of the year was almost there, and Primrose had been told by Tadgh Lynch that Professor Capell had called Teddy and would be discussing his grade. She waited outside, fussing with her uniform. Then, the door opened, and Teddy came out with a wide grin “Guess who’ll be in your class on second year!”

Primrose squealed “I knew it! I knew you could do it!”

Teddy hugged Primrose, and she, over the moon, hugged him back. They looked at one another before Primrose was called by William, who also sought her help with history. Clearing her throat and waving goodbye to Teddy, she went over to William. He arched an eyebrow “What was that about?”

“Celebrating that a good friend has passed a subject he was struggling with.” She declared, nonchalantly.

“A good friend whom you’re taken with.”

“Nonsense. The only man I am taken with is my dear, future husband.” She held her head high and walked faster towards the library, an amused William in tow.

Were she admit out loud such a thing in a place where all walls have ears would’ve been a reckless and tragic thing to do.

September 1st, 1893

Primrose sat down with her friends this year, laughing and commenting their summers. Then, Siobhan taunted “Excited to see a certain Bear?”

She chuckled “I’m afraid to inform you that my infatuation with him has washed away over the summer. Besides, it would’ve only spiralled into something treacherous, don’t you think?”

The ladies agreed, chatting away as the Hogwarts Express took them to their next adventure.

[jessicatredes]

The town square was packed tight with people, corralled this way and that by Peacekeepers, dependent if you could be reaped or not.  Livestock or spectator.  Children moved slowly through the lines, fingers pricked and papers blotted with blood.  The southern sun already high in the sky, clothes specifically worn for the reaping showing signs of sweat and dirt already.  Banners with the Capitol emblem shifted with the soft summer wind.  While the nearby processing plants were closed for the holiday, the smell of leather still lingered in the air.

The front of the Justice Building had been transformed into a makeshift stage.  Several sets of chairs lined the outside of the building, each separated by a tall vase filled with native bluegrass and wild flowers.  Two glass bowls sat on either side of a microphone.  Thousands of slips of paper filled them, each adorned with a child’s name in identical print.  A small tapestry hung over the stands the bowls were on, embroidered with a cow skull and Ad multos annos; a wish for a long life.

Once the area had become claustrophobic and the cameras were rolling, the mayor’s family and living victors emerged from the building.  All look defeated, except for the woman following up the rear in a gaudy, bright outfit.  A pantsuit in deep navy, with what looked like tinsel running through the fabric, matched the woman’s hair, pulled into a high ponytail.  

“Sit! Sit!  We’re beginning soon everyone!”  The woman fretted, flocking between the two sides of the stage. “Everyone!  Good posture and big smiles!” 

Cordelia Poverly, Capitol Escort assigned to District 10 for a second year in a row.  Her anxious behavior was probably due to her opening year as an escort ending within the first ten minutes of the game.  Two twelve year olds reaped, killed in the immediate bloodbath.   In an interview alongside their mentors, Cordelia chirped that not all debuts were stellar; no indication of remorse for the dead.

Another handful of minutes passed before the Justice Building’s belltower rung out ten times, signaling the hour and start of the reaping.  The Capitol woman threw her ponytail over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face before stepping up to the microphone. 

“Welcome, welcome!  What a glorious morning to celebrate the start of the 68th Hunger Games,” She paused for a small clap, looking back at the others on the stage.  They followed suit, though less enthusiastically, before she continued.  “As we all know, the Hunger Games are a solemn reminder, brought forward by the Treaty of Treason, to never repeat the Dark Days.”

The many screens dotted around the square, presently broadcasting Cordelia’s introduction, flickered to a film all were familiar with.  Scenes of war and disarray, narrated by President Coriolanus Snow, shifted to peaceful clips.  Prosperity.  Joy.  Families together and clear skies.  As it came to an end, the screens switched back to Cordelia.

“Wonderful,” She sang. “And now, before selecting our brave tributes, let’s remember our living victor’s who proudly represented District 10 in prior games.”  

Turning slightly, she faced half to the crowd, half to the right of the stage.  Six chairs lined this side, with four occupied.  Two instead had a small card embossed with the district’s emblem.  Cordelia listed off the living, clapping as each briefly stood and waved to the crowd. 

“Falabella Hackett, 43rd Hunger Games… Colter Barlowe, 39th Hunger Games… Lusitano Whitlock, 27th Hunger Games… Valencia Camacho, 22nd Hunger Games…

“Fantastic! Now,” Cordelia said, turning back to the front and clasping her hands together.  “For the main event.”

The tinseled woman moved away from the microphone, standing behind the bowl on the right side of the stage.  She slipped her hand in.  Dug around the slips.  Pulled a lone paper out.  Moved back to the center.  All this done while the spectators looked on, holding hands and breath.  The late morning sun baking the already restless crowd.      

“For our brave young lady…” Cordelia paused long enough for a true hush to fall over the district.  “Marlo Hackett!”

There was a second of stillness as the name settled over the crowd, creeping across their minds.  The last name, just briefly said moments before, began to register.  Hackett.  Prior victor.  A startling and hysteric cry was let out on stage.  Falabella attempted to stifle her outburst, hand covering her mouth as she turned away from the cameras that would be focusing closely on her.  

In the last rows of the pack of children, a small girl, only thirteen, stepped out.  She looked pale.  Wiped the sweat from her brow as the sun continued to beat down on her.  She half-tripped, caught by another girl before they released her just as fast, like they’d somehow be reaped as well.  Eventually she staggered up the stairs.  Ushered by Cordelia to her spot on the stage.  Marlo looked to her mother, tears streaking her cheeks.  

“What a reaction from our latest victor,” Cordelia said, placing her hands over her heart in faux pity. “As always, after a tribute has been selected, a volunteer may step forward.  Do we have any valiant girls in the crowd?”

A beat.  Stifled crying was all that could be heard at first, little Marlo rubbing her eyes constantly.  Another.  Falabella racked with sobs.  Cordelia surveyed the crowd, preparing to move on to the boys.  Then, before she could speak, only a few rows away from the stage, a single hand raised.

“I’ll volunteer,” a seventeen year old called.  Her eyes briefly met with Falabella’s, before looking back to the Capitol woman.  The front rows parted.  Staggered away, confusion on their faces. Volunteer? This was a girl from one of the community homes.  No relation to the Hacketts, and little to no reason she’d feel the need to replace Marlo.  No reason to sign herself to certain death.  

The teenager walked forward, back straight and head high.  She reached the top of the stairs.  Her vision felt tunneled despite her attempted confidence, sunspots dancing in her eyes.  She copied Marlo, wiping the sweat from her face in an attempt to look more put together.  During this, Falabella had rushed to Marlo, yanking her daughter away from the front and back towards her chair.  Clutched her to her midsection.

“Lovely, I don’t believe District 10 has had a volunteer in several years!” Cordelia said, pulling the new tribute towards the microphone.  “Please, introduce yourself.” 

The girl cleared her throat.  Eyes danced to the cameras closest to her, ignoring the harrowed faces across from her.  A cold dread seeped into her.  The reality of what she’d done sinking in.  She stepped closer to the microphone, voice not betraying her nerves.

“Sutherland Acosta.” 

[spiridakos]

idyllic (41901 words) by bookishgypsy Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: Chicago PD (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jay Halstead/Hailey Upton, Jay Halstead & Hailey Upton Characters: Hailey Upton, Jay Halstead, Kim Burgess, Kevin Atwater, Adam Ruzek, Hank Voight Summary: She feels him slipping away from her, but he doesn’t realize how bad it’s got until it might be too late.

[balmacedapascal]

TITLE: Arsonist's Lullabye FANDOM: HBO's The Last of Us RATING: Mature (for violence and strong language) SHIP: Perry/OFC TAGGING: canon divergent, enemies to lovers, post apocalypse, canon-typical violence, more to come SUMMARY: Allison never wanted to come through Kansas City. Perry never wanted to have an outsider shooting his men. And neither of them wanted to rely on each other to survive. But you don't tend to get what you want when living twenty years after the collapse of polite society.

CHAPTER ONE

If it had been up to Allison, they never would have set foot in Kansas City. Something about the city had set her on edge even from a distance. She’d seen what happened when a QZ fell. She’d experienced the immediate effects and seen the aftershocks. And none of it had ever been any good. But the group had established early on that this was a democracy, not a dictatorship. And when they’d blown a tire half a mile outside the city and been forced out of the van that had been held together with duct tape and desperation for a hundred miles too long, she had been outvoted. The prospect of reaching some kind of shelter before nightfall was a greater possibility than whatever negatives she threw into the conversation. So she’d bit her tongue and took the lead as they started the trek into the city. 

READ ON AO3

reader taglist: @deadbranch @callsign-bee

[buildmeafairytale]

Just thinking about a chubby farm girl who has never gotten much attention from the boys in her village or neighboring town. Some of them even pick on her, fegning interest only to turn around and laugh with their friends. She grows into a shy but sweet woman, with a full life of friends and family. She does not have a romantic life and only pretends to be okay with it.

One day she leaves her home to visit a friend who lives in a different village. A much less...human village. Her friend warns her about this, but leaves a few details out.

It's an orc stronghold. Her best friend moved into an orc stronghold.

She trots up on her horse and ohhhh boy. The guards at the door to the stronghold are young, close to her age. Young men who are given an easy task of keeping track of who is coming in and out, and to help anyone in need.

At the sight of this soft woman, their eyes jut out of their head and they basically make that 'ahhh oooo gah' noise.

Que all of the single orcs trying to court her during her stay.

[carlyraejepsans]

so who's excited for the valentines day UTDR newsletter.

[xiaq]

I remember the first pride I ever attended: seventeen, half terrified, half bolstered by reckless bravery. In the parking lot, I painted my eyes in pink-purple-blue using the review mirror. On the walk to the parade route, I purchased a flag with cash and tied it around my neck like a cape.

I remember crawling up onto a metal electrical box on a street corner--violently hot against my bare skin in the Texas sun. I remember the heat didn't matter once the parade started, once I caught a handful of thrown beads, a crown, a fan. Someone passed me a bottle of bubbles and I blew them out over the crowd as not one, not two, but three church floats bedecked in crosses and rainbows marched past. I remember feeling like I could breathe for the first time maybe ever. But I also remember walking back to my car at the end. Giving away my crown, my fan, and my flag to two kids in a wagon, trying not to let my pathetic envy show as I met the eyes of their smiling parents. I cleaned the paint off my face in the same parking lot I applied it.

I kept the necklace--cheap and plastic and dangerous. I kept it for the first fifteen minutes of my drive until my anxiety demanded I pull into a gas station and throw it away.

I went to work: a four hour shift I'd said was eight. It was one of the few times I ever lied to my parents unless you counted the pervasive, quiet, lie of omission that lasted another decade.

Today, I got ready for another pride with my husband. I wore my denim vest with its collection of queer enamel pins. We walked together from our house to the parade route. At the end, we walked back together in a crowd of other pride-goers.

I texted my parents pictures without fear.

And this time, I took my beads home.

[remuslupinslittleslut]

hiii lovely! could you do a poly!marauders one where the reader wakes up needy and decides to relieve herself by grinding one of the marauders' thighs, leading to her being slowly and passionately fucked by all of them?

I think maybe I need to work on following instructions, I just took this and went with what turned me on at the time, hope you enjoy anyway 🩷 I think I'm not that good at slow and passionate....

Masterlist.

James had his tongue buried in your pussy, your hands tugging at his hair, back arched and hips grinding down against his face. You shuddered as the edge of that one cliff came closer and closer.

Waking up was a disappointment. No James between your thighs (which was always a disappointment). It hadn’t all been a dream though, your hips had been grinding against something, only, not James’ tongue. Sirius was laying behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, your hair tickling his cheeks where it lay, pressed into your neck. His thigh was shoved between yours, and you realized you had been using it, in your sleep, to get off against. Sirius had beautiful thighs. Fleshy. They weren’t quite as good as James’ face, but not that far off. The memory of your dream fresh in your mind, along with the lovely thoughts of Sirius’ thighs, you decided to keep going, using his thigh to rub your clit against.

It took a few moments to get that really good feeling back, your orgasm having slipped away as you woke up. You tried to replay the dream from your inner eye, focusing your every thought on the feeling of James’ tongue against your clit.

Sirius’ arms wrapped harder around you pulling you closer, thighs flexing from between yours.

“Morning love,” his raspy voice murmured into your neck. “Having fun?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, hips moving in tandem with the flex of his thigh. “Ah- so much fun.”

You couldn’t help the moans escaping your mouth as his hands moved to your hips, guiding you against him, lips kissing down your shoulder.

“Such a pretty girl, getting off against my thigh, even in your sleep?”

“Y-ah-yes.”

Using his grip on your hips, he stilled your body, stopping your hips from moving, making you whine out in protest.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, lips against your ear, “just wanna be inside you.”

“Nghh,” you groaned, unable to wait a second longer for the feeling of Sirius’ cock inside you. Pushing your hips back against his crotch, you tried expressing your want without words. Thankfully, Sirius was used to your antics and lifted the hem of your shirt, fingers finding your already dampened hole, pushing in softly, spreading slick around, readying you for him. Grinding back once more, your body told him to hurry the eff up.

“I’ve got you babe,” he murmured, “just gotta get you ready.”

Only a few seconds later, he pushed down his own underpants, freeing his cock, giving it a few pumps before pushing your side slightly, moving you to lay partly on your side and partly on your tummy. Taking one strong hold on your hip, and using one hand to line himself up, it wasn’t long before he pushed himself inside of you, letting a loud groan out.

“Fuck, babe, feel so good,” he said, hips thrusting against your backside. “What got you this wet huh? Did you have a nice dream?”

Your cheeks burned; getting off against one of your boyfriends was one thing, telling him about your wet dreams about your other boyfriend was different. But Sirius felt so good inside you, and you knew he’d enjoy it if you told him, so you bit back your embarrassment and told him.

“Ye-ah,” your voice came out broken, his thrusts were more passionate than usual, long and languid strokes, taking his time, but you still struggled to speak through it. “I dreamed– that – oh – Jamie was – going down on me – he’s so – go-od at that.”

The hand on your hip squeezed harder as Sirius’ other came around to squeeze your tit.

“He really is good at that, maybe he should do it now, huh?” His words made you moan. “Jamie? Will you take care of our girl? She needs your mouth, I think.”

You hadn’t even realized that James and Remus had woken, but it wasn’t surprising; you weren’t exactly being quiet. When you met his eye, James looked at you with so much love in his eyes, adoration written all over his face.

“Sure thing,” he said, quickly looking over your shoulder to meet Sirius’ (whose hips had slowed down even more) eye. Looking back at you, James leaned in for a quick kiss and a “good morning, love,” before he dipped down along the bed, settling in between your thighs, hands caressing your milky skin.

As James got to work, tongue lapping with skill at your clit, Sirius kept moving his hips, dragging the head of his cock against your walls, reaching the most lovely places of your center. Just like you had in your dream, you reach your hand down to grab a hold of James’ hair, grinding your hips against his mouth and chin. Unlike your dream, though, you were also grinding back against Sirius, who stopped moving his hips, allowing you to get yourself off using him.

“Damn, babe, you’re so hot, so beautiful for us, so good, getting yourself off huh? Using my cock and Jamies’ face like the little cockslut that you are? Yeah, doing wonderful my love,” Sirius murmured against your neck, the grip on your hip having gotten softer, allowing you to move at your own accord.

James, whose mouth was slightly occupied, only hummed in agreement, as his tongue swirled around your nub.

Knowing how much his words affected you, Sirius kept talking you through it.

“Good girl, that’s it, does it feel good? Is Jamie doing well? D’you like my cock inside you? Are you gonna let Remmy have a go after you’ve milked me? Gotta take care of out moony y’know– fuck, look at him, watching you, he thinks you’re so pretty, our pretty girl, doing so well, are you gonna come? Gonna come all over me, and Jamie? Ready and open for Rem?”

He spoke absolute filth into your neck and ear, nipping at the skin, licking and biting at it, it sent shockwaves through your body, and you could feel that edge getting closer again. You did as Sirius said, looked at Remus, who had now sat himself up, leaning against the wall, pants pulled down to his thighs, hand around his cock, pumping slowly, eyes roaming over your body, you face, your tits, where Sirius played with your nipple, down to your core, where James’ head was stuck between your thighs as your hips ground against him.

It was all so hot, and as Sirius kept coaxing you to come, you finally did, hips stuttering and thighs squeezing James’ head. If you weren’t in the middle of an orgasm, you might be worried about hurting him, though he didn’t seem to mind.

“Pretty girl, doing so well,” Sirius said, moving your hair out of your face as your body kept convulsing. “Lay down on your tummy for me, babe.”

You did as you were told, and Sirius moved behind you, without ever pulling out completely. Straddling the backs of your thighs, he squeezed your arsecheek hard before he thrust himself inside you. It was almost too much, the cock you had just came around still being shoved inside you, but it also felt good, and you knew Sirius was close and that the feeling of him coming inside you would be worth the overstimulation.

“Hurry up Pads,” Remus groaned. His hand was no longer wrapped around himself, but rather around James’ now soft cock. It wasn’t the first time he’d come untouched from eating you out; in fact, he often did, but Remus would always enjoy taking one more from him, tugging at his soft and aching member, forcing him to give up just one more orgasm. “My turn soon.”

Trying to speed up the process, always ready to please Remus, you tried squeezing your walls around Sirius in time with his thrusts, tensing your muscles and using that grip to milk him dry.

You were rather successful. It wasn’t many seconds before he grunted as he came inside you, hips stilling and head falling down to kiss the back of yours.

“Thank you, love,” he murmured, before pushing himself up and off of you, moving to lay beside you. “Go ahead, moons.”

Remus flipped you over, apparently done with James’ spent cock.

“Hi darling,” he said, sitting next to you, face leaned down to kiss you. “Sleep well?”

“Morning Remmy, yeah, I did, you?” Your voice was still airy, still affected by your orgasm.

“Slept like a prince, baby, loved waking up to your little moans about Jamie’s mouth,” he teased, leaning away from your face and straddling your chest. “Are you gonna let me fuck your face now, baby? It won’t take long, promise, just need your mouth right now.”

His words felt like a mocking of your dream and your words about James, but it was sexy nonetheless, turning you on again, leaning your head back against the pillow and allowing your mouth to fall open. Instead of answering verbally, your tongue fell out and you relaxed your throat, showing Remus that you were ready for him.

“Such a good girl,” he said, raising his hips and feeding his cock into your mouth.

Focusing on your breathing and staying still and laxed for him, you allowed his cock into your mouth, his hips already stuttering from the feeling. His one hand was around his base and the other laid against your cheek, sometimes moving his cock to push against your cheek, feeling it with his hand.

Normally, you wouldn’t allow Remus to fuck your face like this, his cock was too big and it always bruised the back of your throat, but he did say he would be quick – and he was. The hand against your cheek wiping away the first set of tears running down your face, and it was as if the contact of thumb and tear pulled him apart because he was spilling inside your throat, cock slightly vibrating, and spurting come, filling your entire mouth.“Now that’s a good morning,” he murmured as he moved to lay beside you, kissing your entire face, licking into your mouth and tasting himself on your tongue. “Let’s get cleaned up, I’ll eat you out in the shower.” He added as a response to your groaning, not ready for the day to start.

[thedreamlessnights]

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it. 

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing. 

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long. 

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path. 

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel. 

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face. 

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch. 

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now. 

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

 “Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.” 

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same. 

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel. 

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best. 

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too. 

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees. 

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?” 

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.” 

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud. 

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything. 

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound. 

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood. 

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?” 

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision. 

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind. 

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething. 

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief. 

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps. 

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him. 

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck. 

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it. 

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand. 

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again. 

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot. 

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment. 

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements. 

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble. 

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire. 

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals. 

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

 You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

[sophiria]

"Go out with me."

Your movements halted, and your eyes grew wide as you processed the words just spoken to you. You tilted your head to the right, and your bewildered gaze landed on his back just as he was dunking. A swish and then a thump as the ball and his trainers hit the ground.

When Aomine turned to face you, he found you still staring at him, your mouth opening and closing a few times before you uttered a single word.

"Uh?"

He wiped off the dampness from his forehead with the hem of his shirt before striding toward your position.

"Go out with me," Aomine repeated as he looked at you. "Let's hang out together, just the two of us, and see where things go from there."

You blinked owlishly. "You're not kidding, aren't you?"

Aomine raised an eyebrow. "Does it look like I'm joking around?" His tone was confident and tinged with humor, though the way his shoulders seemingly stiffened wasn't lost on you. "I just want to take you out."

The hint of a dazed smile appeared on the corner of your lips. "I thought you didn't like me."

"Hmm." He closed the distance between your bodies while holding your gaze, and then his eyes narrowed briefly. "You thought wrong." His gaze dipped to your lips before returning to your eyes. "Well?"

You slightly tilted your head to one side. "Okay," you breathed. "I will go out with you."

His smirk morphed into a genuine smile. "Good," he said, feigning to be deep in thought for a few moments, "so I can finally convince you to wear my shirt number at my games."

A soft snort left your lips. "I do like wearing my general Touou Academy basketball shirt, though. It's pretty stylish. And..." you trailed off, then your eyes sparkled with mischief. "It was actually a gift from Imayoshi-san."

His brows furrowed. "Oi," he warned, and you couldn't help but grin at the oblivious jealousy that suddenly appeared on his features. "I definitely don't want to hear about evil glasses giving you things right now."

You smiled playfully and brought one of your hands up to his face. You ran your fingertips along his jawline, and his cheeks flushed as he tried to maintain a stern expression.

"You're naughtier than I thought you'd be," Aomine rumbled, wrapping his hands around your wrists as he gazed at you through half-lidded eyes. "Not that I mind it."

You hummed and peered at him expectantly. "Don't look at me with those dreamy eyes," he gruffed, though his words had the softest tone you'd ever heard from him. "It's very distracting."

You bit your lower lip to stifle a grin at his flustered state. "Then how do you want me to look at you?"

Aomine sighed and leaned forward until his lips brushed against yours. "You're a damn tease," he muttered against your mouth. "You're lucky I'm into it."

[pastorpresent]

Logan, who rolls his eyes at Wade's constant moving and squirming in their bed. Logan, who grumbles at him to shut up during the night when they are both trying to sleep because Wade won't stop rambling nonsense. Logan, who growls and shakes him off whenever they accidently end up intertwined in their sleep.

Except then Wade ends up on a merc job that runs through the night and Logan can't fucking sleep.

At first, he isn't sure what the problem is. He did his usual routine, set up the pull out and climbed under the covers, looking forward to a night with the bed to himself.

He then proceeds to toss and turn for hours. His brain won't shut off enough for him to fall asleep, and he can't get fucking comfortable. It's driving him insane, and he lies there for hours, utterly frustrated because he is tired. He's exhausted, actually, and yet he can't fall asleep and the why of it all doesn't hit him till about 3am.

The bed isn't creaking softly under Wade's constantly bouncing leg and shifting positions. There's no running commentary that quietens his own thoughts enough to let him drift off. There's nothing warm and solid that smells like Wade to wrap himself around during the night when his body is craving touch the most.

He gives up with a growl, flicking on the TV and relenting to the fact he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. His brain won't shut the fuck up repeating Wade's name like a damn mantra, and his body is practically vibrating with anxiety over the fact the merc wasn't next to him right now where he was supposed to be.

(Ridiculous and possessive, he scolds himself. Wade is his own damn person, and he has more important stuff to do that be Logan's emotional support teddy bear. Not to mention he's over two hundred fucking years old, and shouldn't need an emotional support teddy bear.)

Wades gets back at six in the morning. Logan can smell the thick scent of his blood before he actually sees him, and he's already up and at the door as Wade enters silently.

He almost jumps out of his skin when he sees Logan standing there waiting for him.

"Fuck, peanut! Warn a guy next time! I thought you'd still be sleeping," Wade says, pulling his mask off, clutching his chest dramatically.

Now that Wade's here, standing in front of him after Logan spent the last eight hours craving his prescence to a nauseating degree, he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't want to freak Wade out with his own stupid attachment, settles on a "you okay?"

His voice cracks, and Wade looks instantly worried, taking a step into his space.

"I think I should be asking you that," he frowns, and Logan shrugs, tries to keep his tone light and casual as he replies, "couldn't sleep."

It comes out the opposite of light and casual. The heaviness of the emotion there is embarrassing and obvious, and Wade clicks on without any further clarification.

Logan cringes, waiting for the jokes. Waiting for Wade to gloat about making it so he can't sleep without him, and the thing is Logan would take it all on the chin. Would accept every condescending word if it meant that Wade would just come to bed with him.

Except Wade's face goes soft instead, and he's tugging off his blood stained gloves and lifting both hands to cup Logan's face. His expression is... fond, and Logan wants to tell him he doesn't deserve it, but instead he just kind of melts into the touch. Into Wade's warmth. His smell. It's intoxicating, and a better distraction than any bottle Logan had ever found himself at the bottom of.

"I... come to bed, please? I'm so tired," Logan mumbles, and Wade smiles.

"There's no where else I'd rather be, sweetheart. Let me shower off the blood and I'm all yours."

Logan's anxiety spikes a little despite himself, and he's scanning over Wade with concern, "are you definitely alright?"

"Immortal, remember? I'm completely fine peanut, but if you want to join me in the shower to examine me yourself I'm not complaining," he wags his non-existent eyebrows, and Logan snorts.

"That shower would never fit the two of us."

"Is that a challenge?"

And he isn't sure why, but the warm familiarity of their back and forth sends him into a fresh wave of emotion again, and he finds himself pulling Wade in for a hug before he could chastise himself for even wanting it.

Wade hugs him back tight, running a hand over his back, "so no more overnight jobs?"

Logan grumbles his disapproval, and Wade chuckles in his hold.

[endlessly-cursed]

A Living Dynasty, Chapter Four: Helga's Team

A/N: After months of hiatus and troubles with the doc, I present thee, the fourth chapter!

Summary: With war close to Henriette's doors, she must prepare for the storm ahead

OCs featured: None

OCs mentioned: None

Word Count: 2.1k

Tagging: @hphmmatthewluther @camillejeaneshphm @gaygryffindorgal @that-scouse-wizard

The man gaped at me before recomposing himself and nodded “Right away, my lady.”

After a few minutes, he was back, and took me to the queen’s room, where she was doing needlework. I quickly got on my knees, my eyes fixed on a floor carving as I spoke “Your Majesty, I thank you for receiving me in such circumstances. Your kindness knows no bounds.”

I felt her smiling at me “Stand, my dear. We are among friends, are we not?”

I stood up and sighed “I am glad that you are not angry at me, Your Majesty.”

She motioned me to sit “For not marrying that orc? Heavens, no! Though, do keep this to yourself. The King is still… you know…”

I nodded. I finally smiled “I have missed you, dear friend. How are my parents? And the court?”

The queen shrugged “Your parents have been looking for you, well, mostly your mother. Your father has taken a mistress in order to procreate a male son should you turn up dead.”

I scoffed, brushing off the sting in my heart. But of course, he’d replace his biggest disappointment. A mere girl was no use of him anyways. Aelfgifu took my hands and squeezed them, and I tried not to cry “I miss my mother, but… I can’t return now.”

“What shall I tell them then?”

I squared my shoulders. As much as I’d chat with my oldest friend for days, there was a mission at hand “That I am fine, and in good hands. But I did not come to talk about my parents. This is bigger than them.”

“Go on.”

I swallowed “Have you ever been told about the wizards in the Isles?”

Aelfgifu looked at me “Yes… Most of them are at my king’s service, as well as my lord father.” She then seemed to realise “Henriette, my dear, what have you gotten yourself into?”

I bit my lip “I… am one of them, it seems.”

Aelfgifu’s grip softened as she looked at me, searching for something: a laugh, a joke, something. Then, she dismissed her ladies and squeezed my hands “Henriette… you do realise what happens if you get caught, yes? I won’t be able to stop Aethelred’s wrath if he ever finds out.”

“That is why I need your help. Not only to hide it, but with something else. As queen of the land, wizards and people are killing one another for the mere greed of a few lords I know you despise. Magic or not, they are your subjects, and they need you.”

The queen bit her lip “What would you have me do?”

“Talk to the king. Tell him the horrors of civil war, especially with magic around. There could be some great damage, and the court would be divided. The consequences could be fatal. Seek a punishment that needs not to draw blood unnecessarily.”

Aelfgifu sighed, nodding “Very well, I shall see what I can do. But my dear, keep yourself out of harm’s way. You are new to this, and of delicate constitution. I’d hate to bury you.”

We hugged, and I knew that I had to go back to Helga “I need to go now. My master is waiting for me.”

“Is he at least kind?”

“…She’s wonderful.”

With that, we bid goodbye and I left as quickly as I had come, paying the guard a handsome reward for not telling that I had been there at all.

Then, I was off back to the Highlands.

When I reached the camp, there were already tents and warriors of all gender and kind talking and joking.

I spotted Godric and greeted him “Ah, there you are! I suppose you have news of the queen. Come, I shall take you with Helga.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

When we reached Helga’s golden tent, Godric cried “Guess who came back!”

Helga looked up and sighed, embracing me “I am so glad you made it back! Oh, there is so much I must tell you about!”

“Indeed,” Godric added “the Thane’s feast was incredibly eventful.”

Helga side-eyed him, and he cleared his throat and was out of the tent, leaving us be. I frowned “What feast?”

“That is for later. So, what did the queen say?” She asked, motioning me to sit as we ate from what she normally cooked. I took a bite of pork as I started telling her about the meeting, and skipped telling her about my parents and my father seeking a male replacement. It was humiliating enough to hear it from the queen and my oldest friend already. What Helga didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her, right?

Readying myself in war gear, but without wearing an armour, since I was not prepared enough, I sighed, knowing this battle would be hard to go through. I had heard tales from my father fighting for the king, and of course, my warrior grandparents, but this was different. And highly terrifying. I realised now that, were I want to defend my property, I’d be helpless.

So obviously, I went to the greatest warrior for advice. “Ahem. Lord Gryffindor?”

Kind Godric smiled upon seeing me “Ah, Lady Henriette! Anything I can help you with?”

I bit my lip “This is a bit embarrassing but… do you know anyone who’d train me for battle? I won’t be in the front lines, but I’d like to know the basics at least.”

“Why, of course! I also happen to know a formidable warrior. Luxia, beloved, come here!” He called.

A beautiful and fierce-looking woman came towards us. She had black hair, impassive brown eyes and a powerful and imposing armour that was richly decorated with a bloody red cape. She arched an eyebrow and Godric explained “This is Lady Henriette of Wessex. She’s in need of a trainer, and I know you’ll make of her a fine defender. Do be nice to her, darling.”

“Very well.” She kissed Godric on the lips and turned to me “Come, my lady. I know the movements that a delicate-looking woman like you can pull off without breaking any bones.”

Not exactly encouraging, but she was Godric’s best, so I was stuck with her. She continued talking “You may need a helmet, and a better-tied hair. I shall call my groomer for it. And better boots. Those will sink you in the mud before you can say ‘Amen’.” She observed one of the newer farmers who had joined the ranks recently. He was handsome, with short blonde hair, blue eyes and an innocent look “You there! Blonde boy! Tuck your thumb inside your palm or you’ll break your hand. Also, separate more your legs or you’ll be easily thrown.” Then, she turned to me “Speaking of stances. We’ll start with the basics. First, stand firm, and separate your legs.” I did as she said, and she nodded “Not bad. Plant your feet a bit firmer to the ground. Good. Now, as I told blondie over there, tuck your thumb inside your palm and widen your shoulders. Like that! Now, try to punch me.”

Not wanting to look weak or hesitant, I did as she told me, but she was faster, blocking my punch and kicking my feet. I fell straight to the ground and a yelped. Luxia got close to me “Two mistakes, my lady. One, your legs were too widened. Two, you did not observe my stance. Get up and we’ll go through it again.”

I did as she said, refusing to prove my father right, gritting my teeth. She was so good and straight-forward, it was quite infuriating. It infuriated me that I was so helpless. If only my father had been like hers, I’d be telling you a different story.

“Now, to the stance I taught you, but this time, observe me and my movements. Seek any weakness, and learn my strength.” We rounded each other, and I observed that, while her stance was flawless and firm, she was incredibly tense, given her breaths. That’s when the idea came. I’d pretend to punch her in the face, while elbowing her ribcage.

Observing how the other warriors spun for a moment, I pretended to commit that mistake, but this time, my stance was right and firm, and I spun gracefully, elbowing her in the chest hard. She stumbled back a few paces, coughing and shocked. Everyone stopped to see the commotion. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman to be trounced by a newbie. The whispers told me that.

“Never have I seen someone trounce Luxia Thorne so easily!”

“Even Lady Thorne seems shocked!”

Luxia arched an eyebrow at me and laughed “Not bad, m’lady. Being observant in battle shall save you.”

“Fighting isn’t only throwing punches. It requires cunning and thinking on your feet.” We both turned to see Lady Rowena with her new apprentice. She turned to me “Lady Thorne is all about brute force, and while that is helpful, without said qualities, one is bound to fall in battle. You did well, Lady Henriette.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I… shall keep your counsel in mind, my lady. Now, shall we go over offensive spells?”

I nodded, and both went over some defensive spells you might have learned by now. We might have even set one tent on fire because of said spells.

“But wait,” Primrose cut, “those spells are technically harmless. I train with dummies and nothing of the sort ever happened.”

“That is because magic ran more wildly in my time than in yours, child. It was volatile, and unpredictable. During those times, it was raw and uncontrolled. Many liberties were taken. Nothing was regulated or heavily studied like now. Very few mages could have the privilege to take a hold of their own magic.”

“Were you? One of the lucky ones?”

“Yes, as were my children. This was the reason why Hogwarts would be founded later. To help mages all over England and its isles to harness their power and have a certain grip on it.”

Prim stood silent for one moment. She had always heard the story of how the founders came together and built Hogwarts, but never the reasons that led them to build it. The price of it. The lives they had lost before they decided to come together and build it.

But she could now know it. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded “Go on. What happened afterwards?”

“Historians were right on one thing. I didn’t fight any battles physically, but my duties weren’t completely useless. Indeed, I was Helga’s representative on the diplomatic talks, which many forget to mention.”

“How’d that go?”

“Well… we didn’t start with the right foot if I’m being honest.”

“You know what?” I said, panting “I don’t think I’m made for the fighting.” I was breathing heavily, exhausted by the whole training. Luxia shifted.

“I was afraid I’d have to say it. I’d hate to see you killed on the battlefield, my lady.”

“There must be something I can do. I’m going to talk to Helga.”

Nodding to one another goodbye, I marched over Helga’s tent, and decisively raised my chin “My lady, I ask you to please give me a non-warring role. There must be something I can do that doesn’t require me to use a sword.”

Helga looked at me, then sat there, pensive, until a deliver boy came in, panting “My lady, I’m afraid your diplomat has been assassinated by Lord Leofric.”

“What?! I needed him to sit with the lords and the rebels and trace out a peace treaty!”

Suddenly, it struck me “Wait, hold on. Lord Leofric, as in Lord Leofric of East Anglia?” The boy nodded “I know him! Me and his daughters grew up together. That man loves war and bloodshed more than anything.” I turned to Helga, who eyed me curiously “I know each of the men who’ll be at the table, as well as their weaknesses. Send me, Helga. Let me draw the peace. Someone who’s familiar with both sides is what you need.”

Helga caught up silently, and smiled widely “Very well, Lady Henriette. Have it your way. You shall sit with Lady Rowena representing a neutral side and bring us a potential peace. I shall tell her the news.”

Together, we formed a plan: since I wasn’t the favourite of the court right now, I’d go there in disguise until the talks started under the name Senator Gemi. When the talks begun, I’d reveal myself and they’d have to listen to me, despite my reputation. In the meantime, I’d write to the queen so she’d use her influence to sway the rest of the court… and the king.

It’d be a tough fight for peace, but I was more than ready to prove to those old men that I was more than a marriage broodmare.  

[jessicatredes]

i was tagged by @gwynbleidd for wip wednesday :-) pretend it is wednesday LMAO. pls enjoy this random blurb of my dovahkiin's wedding <3

mara's blessing

hollan paced back and forth within the bridal quarters, biting her nails absentmindedly. the servants provided to her from high queen elisif had finished fretting after her, and were now instead straightening the room. "i'd think you're having doubts with your nerves."

the dovahkiin sighed, stopping before one of the stained glass windows facing towards the temple's courtyard. she could see servants moving about, setting up the reception area for after the ceremony. she wondered what the food would be. "i'm just saying," her mother continued, posed on one of the lounges. "as a child you weren't afraid of anything. you haven't sat still since the day's started." hollan sighed again before turning away from the window. across the furniture, her mother, two aunts, and cousin all looked back; their eyes roving over her for any mistakes in her appearance. "i was never the center of attention to such a degree as a child." hollan said bluntly, raising a hand up to her lips. the habit had started once wedding planning had begun. "and elisif wanted to ensure the ceremony would be befitting for the high queen's court mage." her cousin, marisette, gave her a small smile. "i'm sure hadvar is feeling just as nervous; it's not everyday the ysmir is betrothed."

"you still have time to run." hollan's eyes widened, moving from the closed door of the temple of divine to hadvar. he gave her a small smile, shrugging before looking up to the clear blue sky. "if you wanted to, ysmir." she huffed, looking up as well. a hawk circled above, flitting in and out of the temple's steeples. a second seamlessly joined, appearing suddenly but not disrupting the first. they continued their areal dance, unaware of the engaged couple watching below. "i'll take that as a sign from kynareth to stay." hadvar chuckled at his bride, side eyeing her. "shouldn't we be hoping for a sign from mara?" his smile grew wider with the question. the dovahkiin focused on the birds. they appeared to be floating, barely moving their wings as they coasted on solitude's soft winds rolling in from the harbor. they reminded her of dragons. she'd never say it aloud, but she sometimes missed seeing the great beasts skating across the horizon. "the mother of nords wants to see one of her sons getting married by her handmaiden." hollan met her fiancé's eyes. "besides, kyne is known for providing good fortune." hadvar looked down at his feet, stifling a louder laugh. as he raised his eyes to her again, about to speak, the temple doors opened.

"under the authority of mara, the divine of love, i declare this couple to be wed. i present the two of you with these two rings, blessed by mara's divine grace. may they protect each of you in your new life together."

[musicallisto]

hello beloved I hope your shoulder surgery goes well!!! as a little distraction can I please ask for a franco colapinto x driver!reader, enemies to lovers? love u and thinking of u always xoxo

· · · · ♡ BOOM, CRASH! (fc43)

… starring franco colapinto x f!driver!reader ... 2.4k words ... in which you get into a nasty crash, and the first person to visit you in the hospital is the last guy you'd ever imagined being worried about you. ... warnings for crash, hospital, injuries, blood, nothing too graphic i think! reader is a bit of a bully tbhh but it is a cutthroat sport 😌 ... if you haven't noticed already, these are all very self-indulgent for me, and this is no exception.

Ironically, the last words you remember telling Franco Colapinto before you barrel into the wall at turn 12 were “Don't crash it.”

“What?”

“Don't crash it,” you repeat pointedly. “Logan wasn't exactly irreproachable in that regard. Budget cap's drawing closer.”

Your smile is wide but dulcet, not quite reaching your eyes, and your teeth are sharp and gritted. To any inopportune cameras that would be pointed at you right now, you only look like a well-meaning driver giving your rookie teammate advice before his second-ever F1 race... but neither you nor Franco miss the electricity crackling in the hallway outside the driver rooms.

“What makes you think I'm gonna crash it?" the Argentinian bites back, all fluttering eyelashes and wolfish smile. Unfazed, as always. Grinds your gears like little else can. "If anything, you be careful to not crash into me. Since I'm starting ahead on the grid and all.”

“Right, I forget it's your first time in Baku. You'll see what I mean soon enough, anyway.”

Your steps lead you down the hallway and to the garages mechanically, a path you've taken dozens of times, wearing different colored suits, following behind different teammates in stride. And this year's Williams blue would've suited you perfectly... if it didn't come attached with the pretentious goofball traipsing behind you.

You don't even bother looking back when you speak again. You raise your chin and brace yourself for the artificial lights of the pitlane.

“Good luck, or whatever.”

“It wouldn't kill you to be nice, you know?”

“Wouldn't kill you to know your place.”

The door handle creaks beneath your gloved hand, drowning out whatever it is Franco mutters in Spanish on the other end of the hall—”re amargada la piba esta” he mumbles to no one but himself—, and at last you are safe, at peace in the nervous bustle of a garage entirely devoted to you.

Sure, getting a new teammate midseason is a tough predicament to find oneself in: a whole new dynamic to establish, a whole routine to fall into. And newbies always get the chance to make good first impressions; not the girl who’s been sitting in the car for two years. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t mind it—Carlos Sainz will be snatching your first driver privileges next year anyway—but it would be easier to comply if the aforementioned new teammate wasn’t an annoying pain in the ass, flirting and laughing his way through the paddock with that detached nonchalance that believes everyone must be wrapped around his finger, and then having the gall to outqualify you on one of your favorite circuits. On his first-ever time there!

So yes, maybe it’s your ego taking up too much space in the tight cockpit of your Williams, obscuring your vision. Maybe it’s the disastrous grip you’ve reported twice now on the radio—Okay, Y/N, we heard that and we’ll get back to you.

Whatever it is, somewhere around lap 20, your car oversteers into a wide spin right as you enter the rapid turn. The steering wheel snaps out of your hands, and it’s like a giant strangles you with all its might for a blink of an eye, barely even a second.

You only know you’ve hit the wall—hard—from the ringing in your ears and soreness of your jaw. What used to be your front right tire lies in front of your smashed wing, rubber and carbon scattered pitifully. Your finger shakes when you lift it and press the radio button.

“I’m OK… I think.”

A flash of red catches the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if it’s from the flag being waved outside of track limits, a Haas zooming past in the corner, or… it’s hot, and viscous on your eyebrow, dripping into your eyes. You bring your hand to your forehead, where your helmet is crushed inward, just above your left eye. Smashed into your forehead.

Then everything kind of blurs together. You vaguely feel someone helping you out of the wreckage, their distant yapping about concussion symptoms not helping your light-headedness at all. You think you slip out of consciousness for the first time then, on the track still, because your next memory is of an ambulance—or what you assume to be an ambulance, you’ve never ridden in one before, and you even think to yourself this new procedure is pretty excessive from the FIA, the medical car was quite sufficient—and then it’s back to nothingness until you wake up for good on a stretcher, hooked to some sort of medical tube—perfusion?—as you’re being ushered into a quiet hospital room.

The nurse who visits you is sweet, filling in the blanks in slow, accented English. The gash to your forehead is pretty deep, but nothing the surgeon doesn’t see at least once a week! (At that, you lift a groggy hand above your brow bone, where you feel a thick bandage.) A few stitches later and you’re good as new, though the blood loss and concussion combined left you pretty weak, and justify keeping you in observation for the night. It’s just protocol, you’re probably used to hospital visits in that line of work of yours, she jokes—and you know you’ve recovered almost all your mental acuity because you get offended at that. No, you don’t usually crash. In fact, you haven’t all season…

And it had to be today of all days, in Baku… after you told Franco to not crash it.

When the nurse leaves the room with the promise she’ll be back in an hour, you let out a long, dreary sigh. Fernando Alonso’s grainy voice over the radio comes to mind. ¡Karma!

Night falls quickly outside your window with nothing to kill time but your phone. After catching up on the race results—somehow you’re too exhausted to feel irritated at Colapinto’s points finish—and posting a reassuring Instagram story for your followers, you’re left to the mercy of your ruminating thoughts. Sleep is impossible to catch; the adrenaline of the race hasn’t worn off yet, and you’ve been knocked out so long now you’re desperate to leave this stretcher.

You’ve just about decided to call the nurse for an early discharge when a shadow appears behind the door’s little windowpane, hesitates for a second, and then knocks. Medical personnel wouldn’t bother; it’s probably your family, or maybe even Vowles, or…

“Hey, how… che, estás hecha mierda.”

You tense immediately when you catch the brown waves of hair and unmistakable accent as Franco walks into your hospital room. He looks genuinely stumped, like he hadn’t expected to see you in such bad condition, so much so he forgets to shut the door behind him.

For some reason, the sight endears you. Makes you want to take him in your arms, feel his realness in this hallucinatory evening. What a ridiculous thought!

“Stop it with the Spanish,” you protest, devoid of your usual fire however. “Maybe it works on your fangirls, but not on me.”

“I said you look like shit.”

“Oh.” You look him straight in the eye, the silliness of the situation dawning on you, and against all odds you start to laugh. A real laugh, more than a chuckle, one that sends phantom pains stabbing through your sore abdomen. “Well if that’s all you’re gonna say, you can stick to Spanish! I don’t want to hear it.”

What did the nurse say about the anesthesia’s side effects? Do they include feeling a little glad and relieved to see your detested teammate? To know he’s the first person to check up on you?

Whatever the reason, you’re laughing, absurdly, and so is Franco, chuckling to himself as he closes the door and drags a chair closer to your bed. His eyes crinkle like a little kid’s, and that’s when you notice his disheveled appearance. Cheeks a little flushed, hair tousled like he’s just run a marathon, he’s wearing a crumpled-up Williams shirt, no doubt the first thing he could get his hands on after the race. It hits you then that he’s probably just off media duties, and the fact he’s alone, with no team delegation in tow, indicates he left early. Just to get to you. To make sure you were alright.

You are a competitor, but you aren’t a monster. The idea Franco couldn’t be bothered to wait for James, or anyone else, tugs at your heartstrings.

“Thank God you told me not to crash it, huh?” he teases between chuckles.

“Shut up.”

“Careful, Y/N, the budget cap is coming for you,” he wiggles his fingers over your face like a looming ghost.

You turn your head away to face the wall, huffing in exasperation, but a throbbing pain traverses your skull, and you wince. Franco’s eyes darken, smile fading into a grave expression.

You rarely see him like this outside of the helmet. It’s novel, but it’s welcome. Almost attractive, in a way.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I… My helmet smashed into my forehead. I was bleeding pretty bad, apparently, they had to stitch me up. I got concussed too. Aren’t helmets supposed to absorb these hits?”

“Concussed?” he repeats, and holds out his hand in a peace sign. “How many fingers?”

You stick out your tongue at the Argentinian, flipping him the bird.

“And now?”

“Ah, come on, don’t be so mean,” Franco chuckles, scooting a little closer to your stretcher with his chair. Unfazed, as always. But this time it doesn’t peeve you; you’re rather thankful for his cheeky banter, actually. For a moment, in the blur of cold white lights and carbon fiber debris, you’d started to fear you could lose it for good. “We were just starting to become friends!”

“That’s because I’m concussed. I don’t want to be friends with you, we’re rivals.”

“Well the whole rivals thing isn’t working very well for you lately. Maybe you’re better off being friends with me.”

You roll your eyes, but the gnawing anxiety that roars in your stomach whenever someone pits you against the rookie stays quiet for once. Perhaps you’re still under the influence of the tranquilizers… or perhaps those brown eyes holding you in their light, tender in a way you’ve never seen them before, make it harder to get mad at him.

“I’ll consider it.”

And you don’t mean it just yet, but you don’t don’t mean it. What do you even hate Franco Colapinto for? Stealing the spotlight from you just two weeks into his career? Flirting with every living being on the paddock except you? Or forcing you to up your game and face your fears?

A stabbing pain crushes your skull all of a sudden, and you shut your eyes, teeth gritted and muscles taut, to try and breathe it out… to no avail. When you open your eyes, Franco is staring at you, brows furrowed in that same serious, concerned expression that sends a wholly different type of pins and needles through your body.

“Everything alright?”

“No… The painkillers. I need another ketoprofen,” you whine, squinting your eyes against the harsh hospital lightning.

“Should I call the nurse?”

“No, they’re on the table over there,” you gesture blindly. “There’s a glass too.”

Only sounds inform you of what’s going on once you close your eyes, faint lights and colors barely piercing through your eyelids. The rustling of fabric, then someone fumbling with cardboard and pills, your sink opening, and then cautious footsteps stopping at the edge of your bed.

“Here.”

You take the pill between weak fingers and fight with all your might to sit up straight in the bed without moving your head… but the soreness and exhaustion from the race and surgery overpower you. So much for neck strength.

“I can’t,” you huff out in defeat. “I can’t tilt my head.”

“It’s okay. Take the pill,” Franco orders softly, and you put the drug on your tongue, too tired to raise the outrage of him bossing you around.

Slowly, carefully, Franco brings the rim of the glass to your lips, and you drink all that you can, training your attention on the medication going down your throat—and not on your teammate’s intense gaze fixed on your mouth, nor the proximity of your bodies or his slightly ragged breath.

“Thank you,” you exhale when you’re done.

Luckily for him, he has his back turned to you when you speak, setting the empty glass down on the table, so you don’t notice his bashful smile. He’s never heard you so docile, affable, even, and though he likes it when you bite back… it feels great, too, to know there is a way to pierce that armor of yours.

“Franco,” you call out to him, neither of you missing how this is one of the first times you’ve called him by his first name. “Do you mind… staying? Just until James or someone else gets here. It gets so boring.”

He spins on his heels in disbelief, scrutinizing you in search of mockery, or irony, or your usual callousness… but all he reads is earnest and the slightest hint of embarrassment, all he sees is your outstretched hand. So he brushes it with his, not daring to hold it purposefully just yet. Like he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome into your bubble.

“Yeah, sure. But only so you won’t get bored.”

“Of course,” you smile faintly as he sits back down on his chair. Your eyes meet in newfound amusement, maybe even temporary fondness. “Don’t go around thinking I like you.”

“Me? I would never. We’re rivals.”

You give a small appreciative nod, and after some instants of silence, clear your throat and ask him to recount the end of the race. Just as you expected, his storytelling is dramatic and entertaining, interspersed with words he doesn’t remember how to say in English and the unmissable zest of grid gossip Franco always brings to his tales. You chuckle, gasp, and pester even, as much as you can with your aching skull and limbs… and barely notice the minutes ticking by, or how you wish the rest of your team would never show up, your distaste for Franco slaking.

Maybe you can be persuaded into liking his presence, after all. So long as he stays out of the car, though… and remains your personal nurse.

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)