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merlucide · 2 months ago

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Prayers in Silk

pairings 𓇼 Highschool!Satoru x Fem!Reader (enemies to lovers type)

synopsis 𓇼 it was new years in 2006, and as the year changes, so do the hearts of two people. At the shrine on the cold new years morning, you and Satoru make your wishes, unaware that the prayer he holds is far more significant than you realize.

warnings 𓇼 light cursing, cheesy bit at the end

word-count 𓇼 2.6k

“Ehhh?! You’re seriously wearing a kimono?! In this weather!?” Gojo bafflingly exclaimed, pointing at your satin yellow kimono. “Uhh? You aren’t dressed up?!” You glare at his comment, crossing your arms. He was wearing his grey sweatpants and a his navy blue jacket, quite boring compared to your glamorous look. It was New Year’s Day and you were going to Hatsumode, which is the first shrine visit of the new year. You wanted to look nice in the presence of the Kami’s, is there something so wrong with that?

To Gojo Satoru, apparently it was. “Too much effort, and like, it’s freezing,” He retorted stuffing his hands back into his jacket. It wasn’t actively snowing, but ice ice glazed the sidewalks, and frost dusted the bamboo, creating a picturesque—albeit chilly—path to the shrine. You had originally made plans with Shoko to go to the shrines, that somehow turned into an invitation for Gojo and Geto as well. And you had no problem with that, except Gojo. He was insufferable—loud, smug, and annoyingly good at getting under your skin, and unfortunately he liked getting under yours the best.

You let out a dry sigh and rub your hands together, “Where’s Geto?” You ask, looking around for the black-haired boy. those two are like one in the same, it’s odd to catch one without the other. “They needed him for an emergency mission or something,” He answered nonchalantly. You hummed in acknowledgement, a few minutes later a ‘ding!’ went off and you pulled out your phone. A notification from ‘Shoko-tan<3’. you opened the message.

‘Hey sorry can’t meet- they dragged me in on an emergency mission. Sorry again (*´Д｀*)’

You sighed deeply through your nose and closed the lid, sliding it back into your kimono’s obi securely. Gojo’s brow raised at you slightly, an amused glint in his eyes as if he was about to comment on how “traditional” you looked, but he bit back the remark with a smirk.

You clapped your hands against your red cheeks and turned towards the frozen stone steps. “Shoko can’t come, I’m going now,” you firmly state, not sparing a glance at the snow-haired boy as you make your ways into the bamboo enclosed path. Gojo blinks a few times and trails behind eyeing you. The path to the shrine was filled of red and black torii above your heads. “Sooo, whatcha gonna ask for eh?” He drawls, blowing air into his hands. You sigh, “I don’t know yet.” “You should pray for a boyfriend, you probably won’t get one otherwise,” He smirks, head tilted towards the sky, avoiding your gaze.

You abruptly turn “Excuse me?!” You scoff, “Well for your information I was asked out multiple times in the past few months!” You glare at him, which he just sticks his tongue out tauntingly. Your dating life has always been amusing to Gojo for some reason. Always poking fun at you for not having a boyfriend yet or how you’ll end up alone or whatever nonsense he can come up with to elicit a reaction from you.

You sharply exhale and continue down the path, it was a bit busy as expected, but not nearly as busy as you thought it would be. You also went much earlier to avoid the crowd. “Well then, what are you going to ask for, hm?” You spare a quick glance to him. “Meh, I don’t care, maybe a free ticket to America. Never been,” you stare at him baffled, ‘seriously?’ you think. “..You’re going to ask… for a plane ticket?” You echo. “Yeah, never been sounds cool, besides the chicks there are super hot,” he exclaimed on the last bit. “A plane ticket? Are you serious?” You exasperatedly ask. “What? It’s a wish, isn’t it?” He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll send you a postcard.”

“You know this is the time to ask about like— health and happiness right?”

“Duuuh, I did grow up ‘tradish’ y’know,” he replies mockingly, adjusting his glasses up. You just shrug and turn your gaze to the shrines entrance. You step underneath the temizuya, the water basin had ice on the sides of the walls, the temple keepers had already cleared the ice out, no doubt it was freezing. You took your right hand and took the ladle, scooping it and pouring the water into your left hand. ‘Oh it was freezing!’ You shudder, “You’d think they’d have like, a heater or something, ugh,” you groan, switching the ladle to your left hand and pouring it on your right. This was the purification process, it’s how you show respect and properly participate in the ritual. And as much as you want to make the Kami’s proud and honor them, this sucked ass.

You poured a little bit of water into your left, holding it up to your lips and rinse your mouth. Now’s not the time to think of germs. You swish it around a few times, then spit it to the side of the basin. Gojo chuckles behind you about who knows what, “Oh hush, it’ll be your turn soon,” you tilt the ladle upright, watching the water trickle back down into basin. Then you hand it to Gojo, who takes it and steals your place. He repeats the process with a little more complaints than you, ‘THIS IS FUCKING COLD.’ You just snicker watching him, then you continue into the shrine.

“Seriously, that sucked,” Gojo moans, stuffing his wet cold hands back into his jacket. “Shush already, be caaaaalm,” you mock, both of you walking on the side of the path, nodding at those leaving. You make it to the main shrine, it was brown and red, like most temples. this one wasn’t very big, since you didn’t go to the cities shrine, figuring that would be much more busier. It was small and modest. The concrete torii stood in front of the shrine, moss growing on the top, little komainu stood next to it, and there was little circle candles on both sides of the shrine.

You stood in front of the offering box and dropped in your five yen. Gojo repeated the action, flipping it off his thumb. You both faced the shrine, and bow deeply twice. Then clapped your hands twice, in sync, then you both tilted your head down in prayer.

You had thought deeply a few days prior of what you would ask for. Your life wasn’t perfect, but you were happy—that wasn’t what you wanted to ask for. You weren’t poor, nor were you rich, but that was fine too. What you wanted wasn’t something material. Maybe it was love, maybe it was clarity, or maybe it was just the strength to navigate the path ahead. Man, this was hard. As a jujutsu sorcerer, tomorrow is never promised. You accepted that, you knew one day you would probably die against a curse. That hit harder after your kouhai died. You don’t want anyone around you to have the same fate. You bowed your head slightly and pressed your hands tighter together. “Please let those I care about have a long and happy life… and maybe let me figure out my own along the way.”

You open you eyes and stand up, Gojo was already standing, waiting for you. You bow deeply once more and turn to face him. “So what did you end up asking for?” He asks, piercing blue eyes peeking behind his slipping glasses. You shrugged softly, “For those around me to live their lives to the fullest,” you reply, dusting off your kimono. Gojo snickers, “Gosh you really are so selfless,” He praises mockingly. You click your tongue, “Well then, what did you end up asking for, hm?” “Tickets,” “Are you serious?!” You exclaim. You seriously thought he was joking, how stupid is he. You shake your head. ‘unbelievable’.

He just gives his cheeky boyish grin he always gives you, oh how you hated that smile. You both left the main shrine, making your way to the shop booth to buy omamori. You figured you’d get one for Shoko since she couldn’t make it. You looked at the colorful options, picking up a blue omamori with written kanji, ‘protection’. You looked for one for yourself, you already asked for protection and guidance, so what charm should you get?

“Hey, what are you getting?” You ask, turning to the lanky boy. “Gotta guarantee that I stay number one,” Gojo smirks, dangling a yellow omamori, kanji reading as ‘success’. “Meh, I’ll get Suguru a ‘protection from bad luck’, sounds good enough.”

Your fingers ghosted over the pink one, lifting it up and brushing your finger pads over the lettering.

You paid for both of you, because Gojo apparently ‘forgot his wallet’, ironic since he’s fucking loaded. You put yours and Shoko’s omamori into your obi, the tassels sticking out ever so slightly. You both begin the journey out of the shrine grounds. The sun had begun to melt the frost, it hadn’t warmed up much but it still felt warmer. That was when you came face to face with the crowd, oh it’s a wonderful thing you went earlier. It was kind of ridiculous just how many people went to the shrine for Hatsumode. Gojo bends down to the shell of your ear, lowly speaking, “Good thing we got here when we did.” Groups of family and friends pooled in, squeezing against each other. You and Gojo were pushed to the very edge of the path due to the crowd, a girl passed you in a lavender and pink kimono. “See, I’m not the only person dressed up,” you boast, smirking at the boy who was wordlessly mocking your comment.

You and Gojo squeezed your way through the narrowing path, the weight of the crowd pressing in from all sides. People were pushing and shoving, their chatter creating a constant buzz in the air, but it felt oddly isolating. You were still too aware of Gojo standing just a few inches behind you, his presence impossible to ignore. You could feel the heat of his body just behind you, his breath warm against the back of your neck. It was an oddly intimate feeling, and you refused to acknowledge it.

But just as you turned to throw a glance back at him, to make sure he was still with you, someone bumped into your shoulder, pushing you backward into Gojo. You stumbled slightly, surprised by the force of the collision, but before you could step away, you realized something was different.

Gojo hadn’t moved.

In fact, his hands—his hands were now firmly holding your arms, steadying you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a split second, everything felt oddly still. Gojo’s hands held onto your forearms, and the usual barrier,—the feeling that he was untouchable, inaccessible—had melted away. His Infinity, his usual shield, was absent in that moment.

You didn’t know if he meant to lower it, or if it was a slip-up, but his fingers lingered a little longer than necessary before he quickly pulled back, his usual smirk sliding back into place as though nothing had happened. “You fallin’ for me too?” he said nonchalantly, his tone teasing, but there was something else in his eyes—something fleeting, almost imperceptible.

You cleared your throat, trying to hide the rush of warmth in your cheeks. “Watch where you’re going, dummy,” “YOU BUMPED INTO ME?!” You rolled your eyes and continued pushing through the mess of people.

The moment passed, but it left an unspoken question hanging in the air between you two. ‘he’s so annoying’ you thought, that’s definitely what you thought.

The crowd was finally thinning out, and with a sigh of relief, you stepped through the last few groups of people, Gojo following at your side. The shrine’s path grounds were gradually clearing, and the chill in the air didn’t feel quite so biting anymore. You adjusted the fabric of your kimono, a subtle movement that caught Gojo’s eye as you did. A small piece of pink caught his attention from the edge of your obi—the tassel of your omamori peeking out.

Gojo didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual. That pink hue—he knew exactly what it meant. Love. The omamori meant for romance, for heart’s desires. It was so clearly sentimental that it almost made him roll his eyes. He quickly shifted his gaze away, though, as if he hadn’t seen it at all. You were probably the type to hope for something soft, something you could hold onto. He wasn’t the type to believe in things like that.

It wasn’t hard to imagine why you’d chosen it, though the thought of you wishing for something like that… It stirred something strange in him. You’d picked something soft, hopeful. Did you even realize what that said about you? You acted so tough, sharp edges and biting remarks, but this? This was something else entirely.

As you turned ahead, tucking the tassel back into the folds of your kimono, Gojo’s smirk returned, casual, but with an undercurrent of something else. His gaze softened for just a split second before he looked away again. His hands found their way into his jacket pockets, the silence stretching between you both.

“Guess we’re headed in different directions now,” Gojo said, his voice low, almost as if the words didn’t fully match the thoughts behind them. “Good luck with that wish of yours. Cya at school.”

You didn’t quite catch the weight behind his words, brushing them off as just another one of his teasing remarks. You nodded, walking ahead without a second glance.

As your figure retreated, Gojo lingered behind for a moment longer, standing at the edge of the steps, watching you as you walked away. His hand brushed against the omamori in his pocket, the action so subtle it could’ve been missed by anyone else. But to Gojo, it was something more. It was a reminder of the prayer he made, the charm he chose.

Success, yes. But there was more to it than that. The charm was supposed to symbolize the strength to keep going, to push forward. But what Gojo had truly wished for, what he had really prayed for, was simpler than that.

—He’d lied, of course—he hadn’t wished for plane tickets. That was just a convenient story to cover up the truth. He’d stood at the shrine, hands clasped loosely, head bowed just enough to make it look like he cared about decorum. But his mind had only been on one thing. On you.

He had wished for you. Not in the way your omamori was about love, no, not that. But he had prayed for the strength to keep you safe, to give you the life you deserved—the life where you didn’t have to fear the world or what it might take from you.

He had prayed for the kind of strength that would allow him to be by your side, to protect you, to ensure that no curse would ever hurt you. Maybe you didn’t realize it, but Gojo saw the way your smile lit up even in the darkest moments, the way you kept going despite everything. And he couldn’t stand the idea of you ever losing that light.

So, he held his omamori tight, fingers curling around the small charm, as a quiet breath slipped past his lips. He didn’t need to tell you what he’d really wished for. You wouldn’t understand. But in that moment, Gojo made a promise to himself: he would do whatever it took to make sure your life, your happiness, was something that could never be taken from you.

You may have prayed for the happiness of others, but Gojo? He prayed for yours—and for the chance to be the one who made it possible.

I have 4 things to say:

This rlly tested my Japanese culture knowledge 😭🙏

I got excited writing this bc there’s a chance I can go back to Japan in a year or two!!

this was mostly proofread but shit probably doesn’t make all sense 😭

oh my gosh editing the colors took forever HELPP

feedback + Reblogs appreciated pls! :)

made November 27th 2024 (I’m excited for Christmas season okay??)

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goldsbitch · 22 days ago

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Twelve grapes

Ladies, gentlemen and everyone in between, above and beyond. Entering a new era - lestappen. I guess it hits everyone at some point.

I wish you all a happy 2025, may it be filled with exciting races and storylines. I invite you to read a short prologue for my upcoming series.

There was something different in the air that one night. More magic than you'd usually find during New Years Eve. Must have been faith herself, pulling few extra strings and having this specific group of girls, who hadn't known each other prior to that evening, crumpled up under the table.

The wine, that had flown freely the whole evening, got replaced by the original form of the fruit- a massive bowl of grapes sitting in between the circle. The new year was about to enter and somewhere around Europe, under a random old wooden structure, that looked like it was about to fall down under the weight of all that laid on in, wishes were about to be made. The girls hardly remembered each other's name - one got dragged to the party by her friend (insisting that she ought to stop wallowing about that one guy who had his hair a little too long for this decade anyway), the blonde one got ditched by her older sister and followed this group after meeting them in the bar. Another one was visiting the town with her parent and the next one was on a student exchange programme. All of them were pretty sure they'd never see each other again. But this is what brings the true charm of girl power. Leaving all the older people and annoying guys behind, they followed the Spanish one, who introduced the tradition of eating twelve grapes during the last seconds of the old year. Fueled by one shared wish - to find the one. May the new year be the one they fall in love, madly and happily this time. Stop dwelling on the past and allow new stories to start. There were giggles, hopes, dreams, and knees bumping into each other. Unburdened eyes full of anticipation. Maybe this year would finally the one for the one.

"Ok, ok - is everyone ready? Grab a few grapes so that we don't all kill each other. And get the wishes ready!"

"Who's watching the time? I didn't bring a watch!"

"I have it and we're nearly 30 seconds in!"

They had to almost shout at each other, other people in the room, the ones not curled up under a table, making enough noise to surely be heard in the apartment above.

The Spanish girl finally spoke up, taking the initiative of the chaos in her own hand.

"Girls, girls. Calm down everyone. We gotta get ready. So we all agree - we'll go and make a wish for all of us to meet the perfect guy next year!"

"Who's gonna start?"

"Guy, I am not ready!"

"Ok, fine, I'll go first - tell me when!"

"15, 14, 13. -go!"

"My dream guy will be passionate!" yelled the Spanish girl entusiastically and shoved one piece in.

First grape in, 11 to go.

The girl on her left followed quickly. "He will be brave, not afraid to tell me he loves me!"

2 in, 10 to go.

"Succesfull, a winner!"

The shy one was finally on to speak, fighting the breath that got stuck in her throat.

"Go on, go on, we're behind on time!" one of the girls cheered, laughing, because it really didn't matter if they got it right.

"FIne, he'll have beautiful eyes!" A wave off muffled "Awww" hit, as they tried not to gag on the ongoing stream of juice and peels.

"Yes, and he will dress well!" shouted one.

"Um - I don't know - eh, he'll hate the cold!" followed another.

"What? Why?"

"I really don't wanna live in the cold..."

"Guys, we gotta move! No sidetracks!"

"I want someone curious!"

"Sense of justice-"

"-A bit of a bad boy!"

"How many was that?"

Cheers of the crowd outside of the table broke in. New year was finally here.

The blonde one was nearly choking on her grapes and laughter. "Eight, we need four more!"

"Fine, uh, make him cute and sometimes shy!"

At that point, they were just chugging grapes in, barely keeping score of how many they'd actually taken from the big bowl, which was emptying quickly.

"Obsessed with me!"

"Ten, two more!"

"Nice eyes-"

"We said that already!"

"Fine, uh, he'll be sensitive!"

"One more, one more, grab a last grape and we'll do it together! Uh, I don't know, what will his favorite color be?"

"Red!-"

"Blue!-"

Two of the girls shouted over each other, making the rest laugh, if they hadn't been already.

The Spanish one concluded. "Nice, that's all! Everyone take one for red and blue!" With that, the last grapes were chewed.

Faith does work in funny way. Wishes often come true, but rarely in the form you imagine they would. All of the things they wished for got granted. But perhaps not immediately. Who knew wished skip the generation. The last girls to crawl back from under the table would meet again one day, many times in fact. However, they'd never realize it. Charles Leclerc's mother would never know she had just clinked the glass of none other than the future Max Verstappen's mom.

chapter 1

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vi0l3tluvsu · 21 days ago

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Five more minutes..

Collin Zabel x Reader

Tags: New Year’s Eve, late night work, officer!reader, Zabel’s partner at work, fluff, sleepy Colin, pretty short

A/n: I only had a one person read this and it might be a little shit but idk I thought it was cute even if it’s a little rushed

You’d been on the steak out for fifteen hours and Collin was getting restless. Being away from his house for so long tended to drive him crazy and you knew just how weird he could get. “How come they keep getting away?” He was reviewing the file again, and again, you couldn’t take it anymore. His instant rambles about this detail or the other, but it was all that had been soothing him. “Let me…” he reread the address again, and his face went pale. His eyes stiffly turned to you, followed by his head, “What was the address you said we were supposed to watch, again?”

You huffed, frustrated by his asking, “Why? Questioning my reading skills, detective?” Your face pulled into a sour frown, “East St. Queen’s street, 13986.” Your eyes met his and you went pale too. “….why.. are you questioning my reading skills…” your faces turned awkward.

“Yes. Yes I am … questioning your reading skills.” He grit his teeth as he spoke and dragged his finger up to the address on file. Your eyes followed his finger as it landed just below West st. Queen’s street. “You are very lucky you’re so pretty.” He pinched between his eyes and took a deep breath, picking up his radio and dialing into the station’s frequency, “this is Detective Zabel,” …. “Yeah.. yeah. We’re on the other side of town. Give this case to someone else, I’m going home.” He sighed, putting his radio down and stretching. He put the car into reverse and pulled out of the abandoned lot you had been waiting in, headed down to the high way and back to the precinct to get into his own car.

As you pulled onto the highway and into the bustling traffic, he put a hand on your thigh, rubbing circles onto your skin through your uniform. “I’m sorry, Co- detective..” you took hold of his hand and intertwined your fingers gently, “it was a foolish mistake, it won’t happen again.” Colin sighed, thumb still tracing as he drove silently down the highway.

Once back at the precinct Colin opened your door and you both went back inside, he plopped the keys to the borrowed car back into his locker and returned the case file to his boss before clocking out. You followed in suit, clocking out and changing back into your civilian clothes, Colin blushed when he saw your outfit. It was his favorite, and the colors brought attention to your eyes in a way he always fell for. “Wow..” he whispered it, as if anything louder would cause you to disappear, “you look.. astonishing..” he took your hand and the two of you left for home.

“I can’t believe it’s almost New Year.” Your attention was on the road but your mind was elsewhere, thinking about what was going to be made, who’s family you’d see, and so on, “just four hours til 2025” you waited for a response, turning to look at him when you finally came to a stop light. He was asleep, eyes fluttering and mouth slightly open, he looked peaceful. Almost angelic in the dim sunlight shinning through the windshield. “You’re a goof..” you sighed out, and sat the rest of the car ride home in silence.

You gently shook Colin after pulling into the driveway of your abode, he groaned with every shake eyes squeezing shut as he fought you to just sleep in the car. “Stop, lemme..” his words were slurred and lazy, the hours straight staring at the same building must have worn him out. “Mmnnhh..” his eyes opened slightly as he slumped up, “okay..” he yawned, “I’m going..” you helped him up the steps to your bedroom and before you could even suggest taking off his shoes, he flopped down and fell right back asleep.

You chuckled, untying his shoes and placing them at the door before getting yourself into pajamas and climbing into bed with him. “Honey… “he trailed off, wrapping an arm around your waist as you settled against the bed frame, “..milk..” you turned the TV on, flicking until you landed on the last two hours of the Law and Order marathon before the channels switched over and the count down started. Colin was tossing in his sleep, grabbing at you with a twisted look on his face as he grumbled and relaxed; you pet his hair, smoothing and combing the knots and fly aways as you cooed and hushed him.

The hours passed quickly with each episode until 11:59 was painted the TV screen and your crime show became the bustling streets of New York. You shook at Colin for the second time that night, and his eyes opened lazily as he recognized the time on the television. He looked slightly horrified as he stared at the counting numbers 11:59:23, he shot up, scrambling out of the bed and dashing to the kitchen. 11:59:35 “shit!” He exclaimed, you could hear his pounding feet searching the apartment. You giggled at his frustration, 11:59:45, he came back into the bedroom. He was exasperated and tore through his bedside dresser. 10! The tv called out, “Baby.” he was sweaty, out of breath, 9! You turned to him, down on one knee on his side of the bed, your eyes widened. 8!

“Colin..” your heart felt like it was pounding out of your chest. 7! The tv called out, “what’s .. what’re you doing?” He just smiled at you, knowingly. 6! His eyes were soft and expectant , 5! “Colin I’m serious.” You smiled too, heart and stomach awake with butterflies.

4! “Will you, please,” 3! He chuckled, “make me the happiest man in the world..” 2! His eyes met yours, “and marry me?” 1! The tv was ablaze with light as the ball fell, fireworks outside startled you into reality as Colin pulled out and popped open a small box.

You smiled, tears filling your eyes, “Yes!! Of course I will.”

——-

My bad guys this probably sucks but I wanted to put something out for new years and this was all I could think of!!

#colin zabel #evan peters being a cutie #Evan peters fanfic #Colin Zabel x reader #colin zabel fluff #congrats on the marriage y/n #evan peters #mare of easttown #mare of easttown fanfic #Colin mare of easttown #new years fanfic #new years fic #sleepy colin Zabel

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vintageshanny · 26 days ago

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Christmas Kisses - Part 2 - Start the New Year Off Right

Content: Takes place in December of 1976 and mentions Elvis’ loneliness at that time. A little bit of angst, some smut, and a lot of fluff. This is basically my Christmas gift to Elvis, telling him how wonderful he is. ❤️ 18+

Read part one here: Christmas Kisses

Josephine gave herself one last look in the mirror as she heard a pounding at the door.

“Coming!” she called out as she grabbed her purse and keys. A man with brown hair graying around the temples opened the door. He didn’t even bother to introduce himself but just gave her a slight nod and motioned for her to follow.

The man finally spoke when they turned onto Elvis Presley Boulevard. “So how’d you and the boss meet?” Josephine detected a hint of something in his tone...animosity maybe?

“Oh, well, we, uh, we both just happened to be looking for company on Christmas Eve.” Josephine tried to select her words carefully but realized she had made herself sound like a hooker. “I mean, not company like that, but um, just someone to talk to.” She could feel herself turning red as the man beside her chuckled. “He’s just a very nice man,” she finished with a whisper.

“Hmm. He can be,” the man muttered, almost to himself, as they pulled up the drive to Graceland.

Josephine got out and steadied herself on the rhinestone heels she had picked out to wear. Elvis had called her just once since last week, to confirm that she still wanted to come to his party. He gave no indication of how fancy it was going to be, and she was too nervous to ask. They’d had such a great connection in person, but on the phone he almost sounded like he was embarrassed that he’d let himself get so vulnerable. She decided it would be better to be dressed up than to be looking too casual at a fancy party.

Elvis nervously paced the living room, trying to be attentive to his friends and their families as his mind drifted to Josephine. She would be here any minute, and he felt strangely nervous. After she’d went back home on Christmas, he had replayed their conversation in his head, wondering what on God’s green Earth had possessed him to open up so much to a woman he’d just met. Some of the things he’d shared had been downright embarrassing. She must think he’s a complete fool, asking if it’s okay that he couldn’t get it up all the time.

Josephine walked through the doorway and instantly spotted Elvis, dressed in a light blue suit. Their eyes locked and she saw his jaw go a little slack as he approached her.

“I’m sorry, I might be a little overdressed. I wasn’t sure what to wear,” Joesphine murmured as he grabbed her hand and looked her up and down, his eyes sparkling with delight at her curve-hugging black sequined jumpsuit.

“Naw honey, ya look perfect, jus’ beautiful,” he murmured as he pulled her in for a hug. “I mean, wow,” he exclaimed as he pulled back and looked again.

“Now you’re gonna make me blush,” Josephine smiled. “You look pretty ‘wow’ yourself,” she added, her eyes roaming over his physique.

Elvis just laughed a little and looked nervously at the ground, not sure if she was just being nice.

He pulled her into the living room and started introducing her to his friends, his hand gently caressing the small of her back. His hands pretty much stayed on her all evening, wrapped around her waist, rubbing her shoulder, playfully pinching her side. Josephine reveled in the affection after such a dry spell.

“So,” Elvis whispered in her ear as they sat snuggled up on the couch together. “Are ya gonna give me a kiss at midnight?”

Feeling somewhat emboldened by the tender look in his eyes, Josephine leaned over close and whispered back. “I’ll give you anything you want at midnight.” She let her hand squeeze his thigh ever so slightly, and she could hear his breath hitch in response.

Elvis looked into Josephine’s eyes, his heart racing a little bit at what she’d whispered. He usually felt a little apprehensive about a woman being so forward, but he could see the tenderness in her eyes, and he knew this offer was from her heart. He wanted to kiss her so badly right here on this couch, company be damned, but he knew that if he got aroused, the opportunity to take advantage of it might be limited.

“Honey,” Elvis said lowly, glancing around to make sure everyone was preoccupied with their own conversations, “can I-I-I, uh, show ya somethin’ upstairs?”

“Absolutely,” Josephine responded, nerves and excitement making her body tingle. Elvis grabbed her hand and led her through the kitchen and up the back staircase as discreetly as possible.

“What did you want to show me?” Josephine asked with an innocent smile as Elvis locked the door to his bedroom behind them.

“Honey I jus’ needed ta do this without all them nosy sets of eyes watchin.’” Elvis grabbed her waist and pulled her in close to him, his soft lips crashing into hers. He took his time kissing her, his hands rubbing her back. He reached down and gave her ample bottom a squeeze as his tongue slipped into her mouth. “Can I see more of ya, baby?” Elvis murmured as he reached for the zipper on the back of her jumpsuit.

“Mmm-hmm,” Josephine tingled with anticipation as he slowly pulled the zipper down. She leaned slightly forward and let the jumpsuit slip down, the fabric pooling around her ankles. She carefully stepped out of it, now standing before him in just her heels and a pale pink bra and panties.

“Goddamn,” Elvis breathed out as he took in the sight of her. He reached out and squeezed one of her breasts, seeing the way her nipple hardened through the thin fabric. He let his hand trail down her stomach, his fingertips brushing over the waistband of her panties, sliding down over the silky material and settling in between her thighs, feeling the warmth and dampness that awaited him there. With his other hand, he pulled down each bra strap, one at a time, letting the material fall and expose her soft, round breasts to him, both nipples now begging to be licked.

“Ohhhhh,” Josephine let out a guttural moan as Elvis leaned down and caught one of her nipples in between his teeth, tugging ever so gently. As he sucked on her, his hand down below slipped inside of her panties and continued its rubbing there. His fingers explored every part, tracing through her little mound of hair, rubbing her soft lips, sliding through the wetness, pushing gently inside of her. As Elvis switched his mouth to her other nipple, Josephine continued to let out soft moans, unable to control herself.

“Ya like that baby?” Elvis asked in a low gravelly voice, his lips tracing up over her collarbone and attaching to her neck. His fingers continued their intricate dance inside of her panties.

“Oh God, yes,” Josephine groaned, her eyes fluttering down to see that he seemed to be enjoying it very much as well. She reached out and started to unbuckle his pants. She noticed that he tensed up ever so slightly, but he let her continue, removing his hand from her panties so he could help undress himself.

As he slid his pants off and removed his jacket and shirt, Josephine felt her heart racing at the sight of his body, that broad hairy chest now on full display. She couldn’t help but notice that he looked a little bit shy standing before her in just his white briefs, and she wondered if he knew how sexy he was.

“Elvis,” she whispered, stepping forward, letting her hand run down his chest and over his stomach. She grabbed his hand and put it back inside her panties, missing the feeling of him touching her. “It feels so good to have your hands on me.”

Elvis smiled that cute little crooked grin and let his fingers play with her again. “Is that right, baby? What else do ya think would feel good?”

Josephine could see from the bulge in his underwear that he still seemed to be enjoying himself, so she decided to encourage him. She reached out and pulled on the waistband of his underwear, peeking down at his thick hard dick that looked like it was aching to be set free. It looked so good. “I would love to feel this inside of me,” she whispered, barely able to think straight from the feeling of his fingers massaging her most intimate parts.

“I would love that too, honey.” Elvis slid her panties down her legs and helped her onto the bed, leaning her back against the pillows. He slipped off his own underwear, letting himself spring free, and laid between her legs. “Lemme jus’ make sure you’re good and ready for me first.” He really needed to make sure that he was good and ready, but she didn’t need to know all that.

As he lapped at her soft folds with his tongue, he could feel his dick growing harder and harder until he knew it was now or never. He quickly pulled himself up and lined up with her soaking wet entrance, sliding in, feeling the way her opening gripped him so tightly. A couple of pumps and he’d probably be done for. Lucky for him, it seemed like she was almost ready, too.

“Ohhh, God, Elvis!” Josephine wailed out as he pushed all the way inside of her, beads of sweat forming at the gray hair on his temples. “Oh, that feels so good,” she whimpered, feeling him thrust in and out. He knew he was about to explode and needed to make sure she was satisfied. He reached down and rubbed her little nub as he continued thrusting, and it sent her over the edge. As she moaned his name and clenched around him, her legs shaking, he thrust one last time, feeling himself cum deep inside of her.

Josephine loved the feeling as he lowered his body onto hers, pinning her against the mattress, his softening dick still inside of her. As they lay there in a state of bliss, the clock struck midnight.

“Baby, where’s my midnight kiss?” Elvis laughed as he lifted his head and planted one on her.

“I think I gave you a lot better than just a kiss,” Josephine giggled, hugging his body tightly against her own. She didn’t want him to leave her ever.

“Ya sure did, honey. Hmm, I don’ think I’ve ever been inside of someone at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Gotta start the year off right, I s’pose.”

“Do you think they’re wondering where we are?” Josephine asked as Elvis finally slid out of her and rolled to the edge of the bed, pulling his underwear back on.

“Nah, they probably jus’ figure the old man has gone to bed early,” Elvis said in that self-deprecating way.

“Elvis, you’re not old!” Josephine insisted.

“I don’ know, baby, I think ya jus’ bring somethin’ outta me. I’ll tell ya honey, I ain’t been this aroused in a long time.”

“Well, I hope you know that even if you hadn’t been so, um, aroused, I still would’ve had a great time with you.” Josephine moved over behind him and wrapped her arms around him, leaning her head on the back of his shoulder.

Elvis turned and kissed the top of her head. “That’s sweet of ya, honey. I gotta use the bathroom. There’s some pajamas in the drawer there if ya wanna wear some.” He nodded toward the dresser and headed for the bathroom.

As Josephine pulled herself up and slipped into a navy blue nightshirt, realizing for the first time that he was expecting her to spend the night, she noticed a partially crumpled piece of paper on the floor next to the garbage can. She picked it up to throw it away, but a couple words jumped out at her. She smoothed the paper out and her heart sank into her stomach as she read the note that was written.

“Help me Lord to get through all of this. I am so tired of it. I think I would like to sleep forever but rest does not come easy for me. Show me a way out from these problems.”

Just as she was about to put the note back, Elvis emerged from the bathroom in his robe and saw it in her hand. She could see the immediate flush of anger spread over his face.

“What the hell do ya think you’re doin’? Pickin’ through my garbage? Ya gonna sell that to the press like those damn vultures who used ta call themselves my friends?”

Josephine tried to keep her voice calm as she responded to his rage. “Elvis, I’m sorry. I found it on the floor, and -”

“Like hell!” Elvis continued to explode with anger. “Why don’t ya jus’ get the hell outta my house! Come over here and seduce me jus’ ta betray me like this!”

“Elvis, I’m not going to leave with you this upset. I need to make sure you’re okay. You can keep yelling, but I’m going to stay here with you.”

The fire still burned in Elvis’ eyes. He picked up the only thing that was within reach, a book, and flung it against the wall. Then he turned and headed back in the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Josephine sighed and sat down next to the bathroom door, her back leaned against the wall. “Elvis, can you hear me?” No response. “Elvis, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to pry. It was an honest mistake.” At this she heard a low grunt, but no movement to come back out. “Look, I don’t know if you’re just mad or if you’re embarrassed or feeling vulnerable, but I want you to know that I understand. To be honest, I’ve said a lot of prayers that sound just like this. Life is hard sometimes, y’know? And I can’t even imagine the kind of pressure you must face.” The lock turned and the door opened. Elvis shuffled back out and sat on the edge of the bed, looking a little sheepish at his angry outburst.

“I’m sorry I screamed at ya honey, I know ya weren’t tryin’ ta snoop.”

“Elvis, you don’t have to hide from me. I want to be here for you.”

“I’m supposed to be the strong one. I have to take care of everyone, I don’t know any other way.” Elvis’ head dropped down, and it broke Josephine’s heart to see him look so defeated.

“It’s okay to let someone take care of you sometimes, too. You don’t deserve to have the weight of the world on your shoulders. Let me take care of you,” Josephine implored, rising and joining him on the bed.

“Honey, I think you’re real sweet, but ya don’t know what you’re gettin’ into. I mean, I’d love ta see ya some more, but I can’t ask ya ta take care of me.”

Josephine reached over and grabbed Elvis’ face, turning it toward her own. “Elvis, look, we don’t have to talk about a future together this early. But I see how strong you are, how brave you are, and how tired you look. You said yourself, ‘start the new year off right.’ Let me take care of you tonight. At least this once. Let your guard down and just let me love you.”

“What are ya gonna do?” Elvis asked, trying to blink back the tears that had formed at her kind words.

“I’m going to give you a nice bath, tuck you into bed, and just hold you in my arms. Can we do that?”

Elvis nodded and let her lead him back into the bathroom. He sat on his chair and watched as she drew the bath, testing the water temperature with her wrist. She helped him up from the chair and untied his robe, slipping it off of his shoulders. She could see him blush a little bit as she slid his underwear down his legs, but he didn’t resist. She tried not to stare at his soft chubby penis dangling between his legs as she helped him into the bath, but she must have been unsuccessful.

Elvis smiled a little bit as he asked, “Why are ya blushin’, honey? I’m the one who’s standin’ here naked as the day I was born.”

“I’m sorry,” Josephine whispered, feeling the blush grow deeper. “I just want you to relax and be taken care of, but you have a very sexy body. It’s hard not to notice it.”

The smile spread across Elvis’ face as he lowered himself into the water. “You’re a real sweetheart, honey.” He lay back against the tub as Josephine found some soap and a washcloth and got to work. She gently scrubbed every part of his body – his chest, his back, his pubic area, even in between his toes. “That all feels real nice, honey.”

“I told you, it’s okay to just relax and let someone take care of you sometimes.” She swallowed nervously before continuing. “About the note I found, I know it’s personal, but please know you can always talk to me. Okay?”

Elvis just nodded but didn’t say anything more about it.

Josephine helped him out of the bath and grabbed a clean towel to dry him with. She started with his shoulders and worked her way down, kneeling to get everything from the waist down. As she gingerly dried his private area, he looked down and smiled.

“Are ya lookin’ at my sexy body again?”

Josephine laughed and nodded. “Well, there’s a big hunk of sexiness in front of my face right now.”

Elvis chuckled at that description. “Hmm, I’ve never thought of him as bein’ particularly sexy lookin.’”

“Are you crazy?” Josephine asked, looking up in surprise. “He, I mean it,” she laughed, “is very sexy.” To drive home her point, she leaned in and gave a soft kiss to his velvety smooth foreskin.

“Ooh,” Elvis responded as a little shiver went through him. “Gonna be hard ta relax if you’re doin’ stuff like that, honey.”

“Sorry, I just had to have a little taste,” Josephine smiled.

“Maybe ya can have another taste later,” Elvis teased.

Josephine led him over to the dresser and helped him into a pair of pajamas.

“I jus’ need my medicine,” Elvis said, swallowing some pills with some water before laying down on the bed.

Josephine laid down next to him, snuggling up against his chest and letting her arm wrap around his stomach, her fingertips gently massaging him.

“Baby?” Elvis asked, his words starting to slur from exhaustion.

“Yes, Elvis?”

“Thanks for not leavin’ me,” he whispered, his eyelids drooping shut. “Thanks for takin’ care of me.”

“Of course,” she responded, holding him close as he drifted off to sleep. “I love you.”

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @whositmcwhatsit @missmaywemeetagain @lookingforrainbows @thatbanditqueen @be-my-ally @ellie-24 @from-memphis-with-love @arrolyn1114 @atleastpleasetelephone @i-r-i-n-a-a

#Elvis #elvis fan fic #Elvis fan fiction #Elvis smut #Elvis x oc #Christmas fic #new years fic #i love this man

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underthetree845 · 1 year ago

Text

His Lady

Chuuya/fem pm! Reader Cws: pm fem! reader, mutual pining, getting together, alcohol tw, jealous chuuya, fluff, pent up emotions, light angst (little argument), reader is high up in the port mafia, reader flirts to get information (briefly), new years party, let me know if I missed anything! About 3.5k words Summary: What was being built up finally spills over at the new years eve party all the higher ups in the port mafia have to attend. A/n: So happy late new years I guess! I don't know I wanted to try a little something. Chuuya is so hard to figure out how to write- I did my best though! Black hearts divider credit // Red hearts divider credit.

You strode up to the grand staircase clad in your pretty crimson dress, the one gifted to you exactly one week prior. He told you that the shade would match his suit lining and tie. You didn’t question why he thought the two of you should match, but it proved impossible to stop thinking about leading up to the event. The boss’s sudden calling for an end of the year bash at the most luxurious banquet hall in town was suspicious to say the least, but with how often every executive and subordinate in the port mafia felt overworked, no one could find it in themselves to care.

As a high-ranking member yourself, Mori had you preview the profiles of some of the guests that would be attending. You were sure your superiors were swamped with even more. The presence of an executive alone provided a statement. Who they chose to mingle with, who they pointedly ignored.

Just as you were about to head inside, a familiar voice sounded from behind you. The word fell from his lips before he could stop it. “Damn,” he murmured. You spun around on instinct, and were met with the stormy blue pair of eyes you had grown so fond of; somehow all the more dazzling under the light of the moon.

“Chuuya,” you breathed, taking the time to soak in his appearance. Just as promised, his tie, suit lining, and even the handkerchief peeking out of his pocket were a deep scarlet. The way his gray vest hugged his body complemented his frame in a way that made your stomach do backflips. For once, Chuuya decided to step out into the world without the familiar pork pie that usually sat atop his head. It was a true blessing whenever you got to admire the way his hair fell to frame his face so artfully; what you wouldn’t give to run your fingers through it.

Your breath hitched when you noticed the way his eyes raked over your form, and you had to clear your throat once for the man to blink back to reality. You could have sworn that the faintest tint of red adorned his cheeks. “...Could you be any more gorgeous?” Chuuya let out a low chuckle and suddenly you felt your face go hot. “I- uh-” you stammered for a moment before clearing your throat a second time, “Come on, let’s head inside, people are expecting us.” you turned and approached the entryway. Chuuya followed closely behind you, sharing a nod with the servant who held the door open. The hall was littered with specs of gold; spotlights, balloons, and crystalline chandeliers distorting light and scattering it around the room. Round, black-clothed tables formed the perimeter, each with a warm oil lamp sitting comfortably at its center. Expensive-looking tapestries hung between tall marble pillars against every wall, only further complementing the gold-traced designs etched into the molding. Servers wearing black bow ties and suits fluttered from table to table like honey bees in a garden, eager to serve their purpose with a near endless list of tasks. Your heels tapped lightly against the polished floor as you made your way inside, trying not to gape at the extravagant orchestra that played in the far corner.

A long balcony wrapped around the perimeter of the room above your head with doors along the outer wall. It hung over a portion of the tables, shrouding them in shadow and contrasting greatly with the way the center of the hall was illuminated to create a slightly elevated dance floor. Clear glass made up almost the entirety of the walls above the balcony, creating a translucent dome that surely made for a very pretty picture on such a night. You and Chuuya found your way to a vacant table and it wasn’t long before you were approached by a waiter who requested that you provide your drink and food orders for the evening. “This place is breathtaking,” you commented, eyes still scanning over the venue. “I wanna know how much of our goddamn budget the boss spent on this,” Chuuya clicked his tongue and crossed his arms. He leaned back in his seat and you gave him a sympathetic smile. He sighed as he felt his resolve crumble away. It didn’t take long for your drinks to arrive. “S’ there anything you were looking forward to tonight?” Chuuya asked lightly, swirling around the wine in his newly-acquired glass before taking a sip. You paused for a moment. “...You mean, other than the huge New Years Eve bash being thrown by the mafia in, like, literally the most high class place I’ve ever stepped foot in?” “I mean, what were you hoping to get out of the evening?” Chuuya mused, “How’re you hoping to end this year?” Well.

“Oh… I’m not really sure. Honestly it’s pretty nice already to get to enjoy this place,” you smiled bashfully, bringing the rim of the wine glass to come into contact with your lips. Slowly, your head tilted back, allowing the chilled liquid to slide down your throat. The Dolcetto was rich and sweet, refreshing and left an herbal tang on your tongue. Appreciating the complexities of wine had gotten easier since meeting Chuuya. “I know of a few more places like this, if you’re interested,” Chuuya offered nonchalantly, “I could always use some company.” Your head snapped in his direction. “...Seriously? You would?” he couldn’t help but admire the small glimmer in your eyes. “Yeah, if it’d make you smile like that, I’d do it every week,” he replied with a grin. You leaned back in your seat with a new thrum of excitement in your chest. “What about you, Chu?” you inquired curiously, “Were you hoping for anything special tonight?” Now it was Chuuya’s turn to pause. The longer he looked at you, the harder it was to deny the growing ache in his chest. Being around you was one the thing he had always been waiting for yet he never knew he needed. He wanted to be able to come home to you after a long day. To show you how much you meant to him. To open his eyes and have you be the first thing coming into his focus on a Saturday morning, knowing that neither of you have to get out of bed. He would take you anywhere your heart desired, hand you the world on a silver platter if he could. “To be honest Y/n,” he started, “the best part of tonight is-” “Ah, to meet you at last, Mr. Nakahara!” a lively voice sounded from your left. It belonged to a stout man, maybe a few centimeters taller than Chuuya, who gripped onto the lapel of his suit with both thumbs and stood with one leg out. The executive looked over to study him for a moment. “Oh,” you saw Chuuya’s eyes flicker with recognition, “Mr. Penrod, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He put on one of his business smiles and stood from the table as you watched with intrigue. Atop Penrod’s head sat a suspiciously lopsided fluff of black hair, mostly brushed back in an effort to emulate elegance. Penrod’s eyes flickered from yours back to Chuuya’s and his expression changed. “Ah, forgive me madam,” he turned to you with a slight bow, “Would you allow me the pleasure of knowing your name?” “Ah, it’s L/n Y/n, and the pleasure is all mine,” you stood with a polite curve of your lips and shared a handshake with the man, which he prolonged for a moment longer than what would have been entirely comfortable. “Mr. Mori just sent me your way, Mr. Nakahara sir,” Penrod brought his hands together with an amiable grin, “I believe there are certain matters of due time for us to discuss.” It was clear who he intended to share the discussion with and who he did not. Not that it really bothered you; he wasn’t on the profile list Mori gave you anyway. “Would you mind if I stole you away from your lady for a brief time?” “‘Course not,” Chuuya replied, turning to you for a moment, “You don’t mind, do you, Y/n?” “I- no, not at all,” your voice wavered slightly. Chuuya nodded. Your eyes trailed the pair until they disappeared into the crowd, and you slumped back in your seat. The flutter in your chest was impossible to suppress. There was a single thought running through your mind: Why didn’t Chuuya correct him?

One hour left. Lipstick stained the rim of your wine glass, and your second and your third. A plate of appetizers sat mockingly on the table, long since left to go cold. Taking one more glance at the empty seat to your right, you decided that waiting any longer would prove to be a waste of your time. You caught several stares as you made your way through the sea of people, eyes filtering the crowd for any face you could recognize. At last, you spotted a man standing at the bar with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair straight as a pin. It has been slicked back, and he appeared to have a habit of running his right hand through it every so often. You let out a sigh, put on your best sugary grin, and strode over to tap the shoulder of the man’s navy suit. He turned his head, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes studied the contours of your body and face before a suave smile settled on his lips. The feeling that formed in the pit of your stomach was so different from the one you got when Chuuya looked at you that way. The man’s name, as you pretended not to know as he introduced himself, was Yamamoto Taishi. He was twenty six years old, a recent graduate of the finest college of finance and business relations in the country, the youngest son of the chairman of banking relations in Japan, and, as you quickly discovered, stupidly easy to win over. All it took was a few feathery touches up his arm, batting your eyelashes, taking one step closer, and you had him on the barstool next to you, babbling away in intricate detail about all the deals he was to handle alongside his father with flushed cheeks and breath that reeked of whisky. Little did you know, a certain redhead across the room was having trouble not shattering his own whiskey glass to pieces at the sight. The way Yamamoto looked at you made his stomach turn unpleasantly. Calm down dammit, Chuuya told himself, It means nothing. You know that. “Isn’t that something, Mr. Nakahara?” a gentleman’s voice sounded from his left, and Chuuya snapped back to the conversation he no longer cared to be engaged in. “Without a doubt,” he voiced smoothly, “Actually, I wouldn’t mind hearing more. Do you think you could elaborate on the last part of what you said?” “Of course, back to-” Miyazaki started again. Or Minamoto, or Mitsuba, or whoever the hell the guy introduced himself as.

Chuuya found himself unable to care as his gaze trailed back over to your form. He grit his teeth at the way the blonde man next to you seemed to be leaning closer and closer with every passing second. The moment the man decided to rest his hand on your thigh, what remained of Chuuya’s patience dissipated in a matter of seconds. Murmuring something about excusing himself to the restroom, Chuuya abandoned his glass on a nearby table and tried to calm the stinging feeling under his skin as he swiftly approached the scene. Thirty minutes left. “Ah, there you are, Darlin’, I was looking for you,” you recognized his voice instantly; before you could even process what he said, you felt his gloved hand snake around your waist to rest low on your hip. Chuuya’s cologne invaded your senses when his form leaned into yours, your heart giving an involuntary stutter. He eyed down the man still sitting in front of you; you’d be embarrassed to admit that you forgot the blonde existed for a moment. Retracting his grip from your thigh, Yamamoto leaned one elbow on the bar and upturned his chin to give Chuuya a sneer. “And who are you supposed to be? You’re kind of intruding.” “Yeah, Chuuya, what exactly are you doing?” you questioned. He ignored the implication in your tone. “You shouldn’t be fooling around with guys like this,” Chuuya turned his head to look at you and you struggled to place the emotion in his eyes, “you’re out of their league.” Yamamoto’s frown deepened. “And just who are you to claim that? The way I see it everyone gets a fair shot,” he retorted. “I’d just rather have my lady not waste her time on…” Chuuya gave the man a once over, “a man so clearly lacking the ability to treat her the way she deserves.” “You didn’t answer my ques-” Yamamoto tried to object again but Chuuya cut him off. “Anyway, we’d better get going, don’t you think so, Gorgeous?” Chuuya grinned at you, and you found your protests weak as he slid his hand down to grasp yours and lead you somewhere the air was quieter.

The hidden staircase had been cut from a gray granite; it spiraled left as you ascended. You barely got to take in the view of the ball from above before Chuuya swung a door open that led you outside. Twenty minutes left. The cool air on your skin did little to quell the heat bubbling underneath. You swore to yourself that you would refuse to leave the balcony until the executive gave you some clear answers.

Chuuya released your hand from his grasp but kept walking until he reached the polished railing overlooking the city and port of Yokohama. He leaned against it with a sigh, looking out onto the horizon as a thick silence filled the air.

“So, will you explain, or do I have to ask?” you started slowly, stepping up to meet him. He turned to look at you, his eyes deep and filled with thought. “What’s there to explain?” he sighed, turning to face you and leaning his hip against the railing, “Last time I checked, you’re not an idiot.” “That’s-” you let out a breath, “that’s besides the point. It’s still something that should be said.” “What is?” Chuuya’s grip on the railing tightened. “Why you acted like that with Taishi back there,” you attempted to prod, “I was just trying to squeeze information out of him. You know that, you were doing the exact same thing.” “Oh, so you’re on a first name basis with the gentleman now?” Chuuya scoffed slightly and you rolled your eyes. “First of all he insisted that I call him that, and second of all, buttering him up was the easiest way to get him to start telling me what I needed to know. Which I would have found out a lot more of, by the way, if someone hadn’t interrupted.” “I’d hardly call what you and I were doing ‘the same thing,’” Chuuya murmured, and you furrowed your brow. “And why not? The boss gave you a list too, right?” you placed a hand on your hip, “Profiles, attendees, individuals in possession of valuable assets. Yamamoto is quite the blabbermouth when he’s eager to show off.” “Freakin’ hell, I wasn’t the one...” Chuuya gestured to nothing, “gettin’ handsy with some goddamn court brat! From what I could tell there was a lot more than just an informational exchange going on there.” “Why does that bother you, Chuuya?” you took a step closer, “You still haven’t answered my question.” Lowering his eyebrows, Chuuya brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and let out a sigh before crossing his arms. “You want me to spell it out for you or somethin’?” he looked at you again, defensiveness subtle in his tone. “Yes, Chuuya! That’s what I’ve been asking,” you replied, your eyes steady. Ten minutes left. “You want me to explain why I hate seeing you flirt around with other guys like that?” he scoffed slightly, annoyance bleeding into his voice. You noted the way he said 'other.' “I wasn’t flirting, that wasn’t real, you know that!” you insisted, but the man just continued. “You want me to explain why I can’t bear to see you making eyes n’ shit like that? Why I wish I could just keep you close?” Chuuya’s voice raised in volume. “For someone so direct you sure are being elusive about this, Chuuya,” you implored the man. “You want me to explain why I wanted to make sure we would match tonight? Why I bought you that dress that you look so… goddamn perfect in…” Chuuya clenched his jaw. “It’s because I want you to myself. It kills me that I can't tell if you care, and it kills me that I can’t seem to control myself around you.” “Chu, you-” you were about to cut him off but his fuse reached a boiling point. “I can’t control the fact that I love you, okay, Y/n?” he shouted slightly, “I…” he trailed off, and a deafening silence hung in the air. The flush that creeped into Chuuya’s cheeks rivaled the red of his hair. Five minutes left. Muttering a few curses under his breath, Chuuya turned to face the city lights down below, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Chuuya had been drawn to you like a moth to flame. It wasn't right, your relationship was supposed to be professional, with you technically being one of his subordinates and all. Murder and death were common in the field you both worked in. His affection for you scared him. After all, what good things are meant to last? He wanted to protect you, he'd never forgive himself if he let such a beautiful soul be ripped from the world. Chuuya found that you were strong, kind, and no matter how many times you insisted otherwise, so much braver than he could ever be. He adored the way you always fuss over his injuries after a mission, even if it was the tiniest bruise. You deserved all the good things the world had to offer, and a small selfish part of himself hoped you could find it in him.

The man glanced your way and let out a sigh to find that you hadn’t moved from your position. “Listen… Y/n,” his voice was steady and quiet, “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to…” “So…” you started, and Chuuya held his breath, “you were jealous?” Chuuya let out a few sputters and turned to face you again. Only then did he notice the tinted color of your cheeks. The way you clutched a fist to your chest and looked at him like no one and nothing else existed in the whole world. The smallest hint of hope flickered in your expression, and his heart did a backflip. “I… guess you could call it that,” he admitted with uncharacteristic hesitancy. It took a moment for you to voice your response. “...I would be jealous too,” you muttered, and although Chuuya caught what you said he asked you to repeat yourself. “What was that?” he took a step forward, blinking a few times. You took a deep breath. “If I saw someone flirting with you- or if I saw you ‘making eyes’ at someone else… I would get jealous too…” you felt heat crawl up your neck at your declaration. Chuuya looked at you like your head was on backwards. “And why is that?” his voice carried softly, neither of you taking notice of the muffled sound of voices counting down from inside. “Because I love you too Chu…” you spoke quietly but he still caught it. You could hear your heart pumping in your ears. Just as Chuuya was about to spill out a reply, a startling boom sounded from your left. You turned your head and sucked in a breath at the display. Eruptions of colored fire danced around each other in the night sky. They echoed through the air, creating ethereal reflections in the water off in the distance.

“Happy New Years, Gorgeous,” Chuuya’s tender gaze never left your face. You turned back to look at him, and in that moment, with the way the moon and fireworks illuminated your form, he swore the sight before him was the most breathtaking view of his entire life. A light breeze blew by, the echoing explosions from the fireworks somehow fading into the distance. He glanced down at your lips and, even if ever so slightly began to lean in. A fuzzy feeling started in your chest as you closed the gap. His lips were warm, you’d never grow tired of the way he held you, kissed you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. You murmured softly after you pulled away, gentleness laced in your expression. “Happy New Years, Chu.”

A/n: Thank you for reading! I hope you can find many things that make you smile this year ^^

Tagging: @a-random-weeb @ringsofsaturnnnn

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thereoncewasagirlnamedjane · 20 days ago

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you’re a mean one.

‣ pairing — lloyd hansen x doctor f!reader

‣ contents — oneshot, coarse language, rom-com vibes??? dark but soft??? new year special, allusions to violence, blood/injury, fluff, and i would say morally grey protagonists but tbh there’s really nothing grey about them.

‣ summary — they say that there’s nothing more frightening than a pissed off, gun-wielding, profusely-bleeding lloyd hansen who’s trying to be nice… except, maybe, for his equally unstable doctor.

‣ word count — 1.8k (omg finally a short one!!)

‣ notes — this is my first time writing for lloyd and it was so much fun, even if writing a rom-com style piece for a couple of psychopaths is still extremely hard lmao. i might make this AU a ~thing~ later, although i’m still a bit unsure 👀 anyway, happy new year, my loves! bonus points if you can pinpoint my pushing daisies reference 🤭

✩ read on ao3 ✩ janie’s masterlist ✩ library blog

Lloyd stares down at the brown file folder lying open on the kitchen counter, your picture pinned to the inside flap, pondering how quickly even the most carefully laid plans can change.

Because you were supposed to be the means to an end. He’s been doing this a very long time and he’s since learned, that for men like Sierra Six, it always comes down to sentiment. According to Carmichael’s intel, before you left the CIA for the private sector in search of more, let’s say, lucrative work, you and Court Gentry had quite the history—the sordid romantic kind, the kind that’s the easiest to exploit.

Lloyd scoffs, his hand tightening around his wine glass. The thought of you in bed with that rogue CIA shitbag makes him physically ill, and he quickly throws back the remainder of his drink to push down the bile that’s rising in his throat.

You were supposed to be bait. Lloyd was to kidnap you and hold you hostage, use you to lure Gentry out into the open. It’s a classic move; it had worked so swimmingly—er, for the most part—with Fitzroy and his niece, after all.

But he’s made a devastating miscalculation.

He failed to consider how different you’d be compared to what was written about you on paper. He already knew you were probably decent, if not outright good, at your job, but to be singlehandedly the most talented surgeon he’s ever met? And he’s met a lot of them, given his line of work. At the very least, you are a million leagues ahead of his previous physician; casualties have gone down drastically since you came around.

And even though he’s been shot, stabbed, and shivved more times than he can count, he can barely even see the scars those wounds left behind. Your sutures are impeccable, each stitch immaculate and uniform, like a work of fucking art—and he’s not exactly the kind of man who’s known for appreciating art.

Not to mention you are absolutely fearless. The day you met, when he’d slapped those handcuffs on you and pressed the barrel of his gun to your temple, demanding your cooperation or else he’d splatter the walls with your pretty little brains, you simply smirked and said, “I don’t know, Mr… Hansen, was it? I only bow down to one master.”

He almost swore.

“Talk dirty to me then, sweetheart,” he quipped back, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear, not expecting you to lean in closer and press yourself to places you had no business touching.

“The almighty dollar,” you whispered, your beautiful face then splitting into a wide and menacing grin that matched his own. He felt a shiver shoot up his spine and almost ruined his favourite pair of pants on the spot. Lloyd took a deep whiff then, his nose buried in your hair, the sweet smell of your shampoo mixing with the distinct scent of batshit crazy. It made him a little lightheaded, to be honest.

To a mercenary like himself who’s loyalty also only ever lay with the highest bidder—and he uses the term “loyalty” with a very large grain of salt, the kind that’s less like a grain and more like those blocks they give cows to lick—you were a woman after his own damn heart.

He really had no choice then, did he, but to place you under his employ. Not only was he already in the market for a new doctor, he needed someone exactly like you—someone who showed no fear whenever Lloyd lost his temper and threw one of his infamous tantrums. Even Brewer would have to leave the room with a roll of her eyes, but the way her shoulders tensed up belying her discomfort… but you?

“Calm down and shut the fuck up already,” you’d tell him, looking bored as you carefully inspected your perfectly manicured nails, “or else I’ll pump you so full of ketamine your pathetic little heart explodes.”

You’d then bat away the barrel of his gun that he points at you in anger, calling him a goddamn drama queen. You never bat an eyelash whenever he returns to the base with someone else’s blood splattered all over his clothes, some of it even dripping from the ends of his hair.

And on occasions when he does return all banged up and cut open, you’d giggle manically as you unravelled a roll of gauze, bundling the strands together in a tight wad before unceremoniously jamming it into his wounds. He’d scream in surprise and agony, a litany of curses bouncing off the walls while you ordered some nearby men to hold him down by the shoulders. Once it was over, with Lloyd panting through the pain and sweat dotting his hairline, you’d unabashedly boop him on the nose with a proud grin.

“Here you go, Boss Man,” you’d cackle, pulling off the plastic off a lollipop and shoving the candy into his mouth, sugar mixing with iron on his tongue. “For being such a good boy.”

If anyone else spoke to him the way you do, they would already be sinking to the bottom of the harbour. Whenever he threatens to end your insolent, insignificant life with a simple wave of his hand—because what exactly did you think happened to his old doctor?—you’d laugh right in his face as though you don’t believe him.

You really are fucking insane, aren’t you?

Lloyd rules over his criminal syndicate with an iron fist, a notoriously short fuse of a temper, and a penchant for holding grudges for as long as it suits him. It’s why, even though it’s been weeks now since he last saw signs of Sierra Six in the vicinity, he should still be more than determined to use you to get even.

All good things to those who wait, after all, and Lloyd definitely knows how to savour a meal.

He’s killed countless times before and slept soundly afterward, sometimes pulling the trigger so casually he didn’t even bother looking at his target. He’s never had any moral qualms about using people to get what he wants, then disposing of them once they were no longer useful. You wouldn’t be the first, and you certainly would not be the last. He can make it so that nobody even knows you’re missing, and he should, by all means, enjoy every last delicious second of it.

So, why?

Why, if he is all those things and more, are you somehow the dangerous one?

Because, a voice taunts him, a voice he’s both thrilled and loathed to realize is none other than his own… wait, what’s the opposite of a conscience?

You won’t do a damned thing. Not now, and not ever. Lloyd picks up your file and, after a few more seconds of meaningless contemplation, he tosses it into the nearby fireplace. He watches, growing more satisfied by the second, as the flames lick at and curl the edges of the pages, the logs popping and crackling until there’s nothing left but cinders and ashes.

Because you and everyone else in this godforsaken place is wrapped around her tiny little finger. Everyone at the mansion straightens and practically salutes when you pass, some of them staring after you longingly as you walk by. Men hardened by years of service, disillusioned by a government that was more than happy to use them for their own means and then leave them to fend for themselves once they were back on home soil, simper and whine just for a few seconds of your attention.

It makes him fucking seethe, so much so that he’s made sure to threaten every single one of them with acid poured into the empty eye sockets—oh, because they will be empty once he’s scooped the eyeballs out of their heads with a dull and rusty melon baller—of the next person who makes heart eyes at you.

After all, while they say that near death experiences can change a man, it can’t change him that much.

“You’re not supposed to be drinking yet,” your voice drifts into the kitchen, prompting him to turn around and smirk when he sees you leaning against the doorway, that blasted white coat doing things to him it shouldn’t be. You glance around, noting the lit candles and chilled champagne, smile growing wider when you smell a roast cooking in the oven. “And here I was thinking you only ever call on me when you’re bleeding or dying.”

“You’re my doctor, that’s kind of how it works,” Lloyd snarks, knowing that, if he’s lucky, you’ll make him pay for that comment later. “And I’m not dyin’ anytime soon, cupcake.”

“Is that right,” you chortle, striding closer to pour yourself a glass of wine. The movement jostles your coat open enough that he can see your outfit underneath, the same one you’d been wearing when you stitched him up the other night. “So, this isn’t your blood that came out of a giant hole someone cut into your body, staining all of my nice clothes?”

“Occupational hazard, but if it makes you feel better—” and since when did he care about what made people feel better? “—I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe,” he offers, eyes trailing up the shape of your thighs, the mouthwatering curve of your hips, his hand finding its way into the delicious dip of your waist. For the first time in his life, Lloyd is seriously considering honouring a promise.

“You certainly know the way to my heart,” you turn around in his arms and loop one arm around his waist. He yelps when you press at his wound, the skin healing well but still tender. God damn, he thinks as he watches your gaze darken; it actually gets your rocks off when he’s in pain, doesn’t it? “Looks like you’ll live another day, at least.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he can’t help but quip. The oven timer goes off suddenly, at the exact same time the clock strikes twelve. “Now get your claws off me, you sick freak, or the food’s gonna burn.”

Despite the colourful nicknames, you seat yourself at the table and softly hum your approval, sounding much more pleased than offended. And Lloyd knows he’s just as crazy as you are, even though there really hadn’t been much doubt, because he proceeds to serve you dinner in full view of his henchmen. He doesn’t think they’ve ever seen him set foot in the kitchen once since he started this little business of his, but tonight they will learn.

You are his, the Harley to his Joker, a tenacious but not so delicate flower blooming in the concrete. Tonight, he finally makes that clear to everyone who’s around to see, and they all have no choice but to bow down to the newly minted queen of his castle.

“Happy new year, Boss Man,” you grin, “think we’ll make it to the next one?”

“Maybe,” he considers before clinking his wine glass against yours, leaning in close enough to taste the dessert off your lips, “no thanks to you, sunshine.”

It earns him another pinch, but damn it all if he doesn’t like it.

fin.

afterword — not me finding new ways to incorporate food as a love language in my stories 🙈 i can’t help it, okay???

#lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x f!reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x asian!reader #lloyd hansen oneshot #lloyd hansen fluff #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen #new years fic #go frost yourself! winter event

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amazinglystay · 22 days ago

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New Year’s eve✨

Han Jisung x Y/N

·:¨⛦𓆩♡𓆪⛦¨:

Summary:

Y/N and Jisung ring in the New Year with love, laughter, and unforgettable moments alongside Stray Kids and F/N, surrounded by fireworks and friendship.

T/W:fluff🌸(with a kiss)

·:¨⛦𓆩♡𓆪⛦¨:

The warm glow of fairy lights filled the living room as laughter and chatter bounced off the walls. Y/N adjusted her scarf, cheeks pink from the winter chill as she and F/N stepped into the Stray Kids dorm. The air was alive with excitement, everyone eager to ring in the new year together.

“Jisung!” Y/N exclaimed as he appeared from the kitchen with a tray of snacks. His face lit up when he saw her, and he quickly set the tray down to pull her into a warm hug.

“You made it!” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I was starting to think you’d be late.”

F/N smirked from behind. “Traffic was insane, but she wouldn’t stop texting me about how excited she was to see you.”

“F/N!” Y/N groaned, playfully shoving her friend, but Jisung just grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Good to know you missed me,” he teased, pulling her closer.

In the corner, Bangchan was fiddling with a Bluetooth speaker, Hyunjin draped over the couch trying to pick the perfect playlist. Felix and Changbin were in the kitchen preparing drinks, their laughter ringing out as Seungmin and Jeongin debated which fireworks to set off later. Minho, on the other hand, was perched on the arm of the couch, scrolling through his phone while absentmindedly tossing treats to his cats, who roamed the room like royalty.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Bangchan called out, waving them over. “We’re setting up a game night before the countdown. You in?”

Y/N glanced up at Jisung, who nodded enthusiastically. “Of course we’re in!” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the couch. F/N joined Hyunjin, who was already working his charm, and Felix appeared moments later with a plate of cookies.

“Try these,” Felix said, holding one out to Y/N. “They’re still warm.”

“They’re amazing, Lix,” Y/N said, smiling at him. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”

“Not as amazing as my rap in our last track,” Changbin chimed in, earning an eye roll from Seungmin.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” Minho deadpanned, setting his phone down. “Changbin’s endless bragging or Hyunjin’s playlist full of heartbreak songs.”

Hyunjin gasped dramatically. “Excuse me, my taste is impeccable!”

The games began, filled with laughter and playful arguments. Jisung was fiercely competitive, especially when it came to charades, while Y/N couldn’t stop laughing at Jeongin’s over-the-top acting. Minho had everyone in stitches with his sarcastic commentary and sly jabs, especially when he managed to win the trivia round by pretending he didn’t care. By the time they were done, the clock was nearing midnight.

“Alright, everyone!” Bangchan announced, turning down the lights. “It’s almost time!”

Jisung pulled Y/N outside, where the group gathered with sparklers in hand. The night was crisp, the stars above twinkling like confetti scattered across the sky. Minho stood near the edge of the group, a small smirk on his face as he filmed the scene on his phone.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!” they all began counting down, their voices blending into one. Jisung slipped his hand into Y/N’s, his eyes glimmering with affection.

“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” Fireworks erupted overhead, casting vibrant colors across the night sky. The group erupted in cheers, sparklers lighting up the scene.

Jisung turned to Y/N, his voice soft. “Happy New Year, love.”

“Happy New Year, Jisung,” she whispered. Before she could say anything more, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a sweet, tender kiss as the world around them seemed to pause.

“You guys are so gross,” Changbin groaned, but his teasing tone couldn’t hide the smile on his face.

Minho shook his head, pocketing his phone. “Someone had to document this for the cringe compilation.”

“Leave them alone, they’re cute,” Felix said, nudging Minho.

As the night went on, the group laughed, sang, and danced under the stars, welcoming the new year with joy. For Y/N, there was no better way to start it than by Jisung’s side, surrounded by the people who made life so special.

·:¨⛦𓆩♡𓆪⛦¨:

A/N: Hopefully you like this 🤞🏽. Happy new years and remember to eat sleep and drink loads! Okie byeeee!

#han jisung #han x y/n #han jisung x reader #Skz x reader #New years fic #skz x y/n #skz scenarios #skz x you #skz fluff

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ineffableclassics · 27 days ago

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Unable to hold out any longer, Aziraphale has given in and played right into Crowley’s hand. But what if a temptation was all this would ever be?

______

"Sometimes when people are around me, they tend to pick up a bit of residual... ”

Lust?... Love?... Crowley searched for the right words. How could he tell Aziraphale that his own feelings towards the angel were indirectly stimulating the sexual desires of everyone at the party?

“Demonic energy,” Crowley settled on. “And I’ve never known you to be bothered by it before.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms indignantly. “Well! Perhaps it wouldn’t bother me so much if you ever were to focus any of that… "demonic energy"... on me."

“What?” Crowley stared back at him in disbelief.

“You could, you know. Tempt me.”

Words: 13,046

Status: Complete

Rating: Explicit

@redundant-angel

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snarky-magpie · 22 days ago

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(When else should I share this, if not today?

James and Sirius. Idiots in love. New Year's tradition. Oblivious pining. Best friends. Roommates. Unconditional support. All the good stuff we love about prongsfoot <3)

Sirius leans against the wall and watches the swathes of stars above. James sidles up to him, nudging him with his shoulder. His legs feel unsteady. He can’t tell whether from Sirius’ proximity or all the liquor he’s consumed, but he refuses to make a fool of himself by landing on his ass and uses the house for support as well.

“There’s me,” Sirius points up after a moment of silence, his pale finger charting a path for James’ eyes to follow, but he doesn’t need to rely on it. After years of friendship, he can find Sirius’ star almost blindfolded, but he still uses the opportunity to study the lines of his elegant hand before cutting to the bright pinprick in the sky.

“Beautiful,” he says. His gaze drifts down, landing on Sirius’ face.

“Yeah,” his friend responds, not meeting his eyes. Good. James has already made a fool of himself tonight. He can’t seem to stop, but he’s glad his weakness has slipped past undetected.

Tatters of voices drift outside from the house when the countdown begins.

Sirius twists around, his shoulder pressed against the granite wall as he looks at James, grave and sober. All the alcohol he consumed during the evening must’ve left his system. Or perhaps he used a sobering charm when James wasn’t looking.

“So. Tradition still on?” he ventures a question.

I think I’d rather die than not kiss you.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” James counters as lightly as possible, choosing not to reveal his true feelings.

He knows that Sirius doesn’t care as much as him. His world hasn’t turned upside down. His perception of their relationship hasn’t tilted on its axis. This only gives him a bit of a thrill. To him, it’s nothing more than a tradition, a piece of their shared history. A shard in the mosaic of their friendship, one he insists on adding to the picture over and over for whatever reason. The thing is. James doesn’t care why right now. The old year will die in seconds. The new year will roll in. His life will continue. He will move on. But for the next several moments, he’ll let himself imagine what if.

“…three, two, one…”

Fireworks burst into streaks of color in the distance, burning hot afterimages into James’ retinas. That’s the last thing he sees before Sirius explodes from his spot, grabs his face with both hands, and crashes their mouths together. He gives James no time to brace himself. There’s no prelude, no anticipation, no drumroll leading up to the big moment. Only the stars above them, the hiss of waves against the rocks on the shore, and the blazing line of heat on James’ lips.

#prongsfoot #bambibelle #fic rec #my writing #new years #new years fic #dead gay wizards #the marauders #james potter #sirius black

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indigosunsetao3 · 21 days ago

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Happy New Year, John Price

New Years Story Single Dad John Price x Reader Reader is female New Years fluff

Happy New Year!💙 This story idea has now transpired into a potential holiday story in general. Every holiday has a chapter, but they come out around the holiday in question. The relationship progresses as any relationship would over the passage of time, so you'll get snippets of where they are at, say, Valentine's Day, Easter, Father's Day, etc. All the way back around to Christmas a year later.

When was the last time you went out for New Year's Eve? Let alone dress up?

Years. That's the answer. A typical New Year for you was spent either in your own flat on the couch or at a family member's house on their couch. Trying to fight the crowds to stand in the cold and usually rainy evening was not your idea of fun. Then, the mess of trying to get home was even worse, and it took another two days to try and recover.

Yet, here you are. Standing near the door, staring at yourself in the mirror to make sure everything looks okay. The restaurant John invited you to for the evening is the epitome of elegance. You had only seen it in passing when you ventured into that area of London but knew its reputation nevertheless. The online reviews you had scoured had done enough to make the nerves ten times worse when trying to find an outfit that would fit.

Prepping to get ready had started hours ago. A long 'everything shower,' as they called it, morphed into every other self-care thing you could think of. Then, the original outfit you picked wasn't good enough, so your whole closet ended up on the bed. And the bathroom counter was a disaster you opted to clean up the next day.

As you lean forward to assess your lipstick one last time, there's a small knock on the door. John is right on time. You take a shakey breath, hesitating for a few seconds to open the door so he doesn't know you are standing right there.

"Evening," John says with a smile standing there. You see him do his best to keep his eyes on your face, but you catch the quick sweep he does. "Ready to go?"

"Evening," you answer, doing your best to keep your eyes in check as well. He cleans up well. Almost too well. The suit is clearly tailored to fit him perfectly, and his wool knee length jacket looks like it was custom made to his body as well. "Ready. When did you get home?"

Since Christmas morning, you have not actually seen much of John. You had slipped back into your flat while he and his daughter enjoyed going out in the snow on Christmas. The following afternoon, they had left, presumably to go to her mother's house, and he had been gone until now. The only way you had spoken had been a few texts back and forth confirming the date, the time, and when he wasn't out of the country, some sweet good morning and asking about your day messages.

"Few hours ago," John replies as he opens the passenger side door for you and shuts it gently before going around to his side. He had already been out and warmed up the car, the interior toasty compared to the bitter cold you had just walked through. Hopefully, the walk to the restaurant wouldn't be long, or you knew you'd regret the dress. "Landed in Heathrow this morning, and believe it or not, it's warmer here than where I had been," he answers with a small grin. He hadn't told you where he had been deployed to, and you didn't push, but secretly, you wondered where it could be colder than it was now. Antarctica?

Downtown London was a nightmare to navigate in the holiday traffic. Where it would have stressed you out, John seems perfectly at ease. Slipping in and out between cars and turning down streets for shortcuts without needing a GPS. All the while keeping up the casual conversation and never once grinding the gears as he shifted.

At the valet you step out as John speaks with the man before coming to your side to offer his elbow. Even in your dress and heels, and John looking as good as he did for your date, you feel out of place as you step inside. The restaurant is quiet, calm, and refined compared to the whipping wind and revelers out on the street. It's also packed with people who looked as if they stepped right out of the movies with how sophisticated they all were.

"Price," John says to the maître d as he steps up to the podium. "Reservation for two."

The man glances at you before going to his list and you watch his eyes flare with shock for a second as he finds John's name.

"If you'd like to leave your coats and follow me," he states as someone helps you out of yours and gives John the return ticket.

John follows behind you on the way to the table, winding through the restaurant until you are right in the middle of the large picture window. It was a prime table for two, and as the man removes the reserved placard and John pulls your seat out for you, it sinks in just where you're sat. Right on the river with a beautiful view of the city.

"How did you manage this?" You ask quietly as the man steps away after handing you the prefix menu. "Surely this place books out weeks, if not months, in advance. Unless you had another date that bailed," you joke, though your stomach churns a bit with uncertainty at that thought.

"I have contacts," John answers with a teasing grin. "Sometimes my job pays off in more ways than one."

"Is one of them the Queen? Because I think that's the only way-" you start as the waitress appears to take your drink orders.

"Not knighted yet," John answers with a wink as the woman leaves. At the still incredulous look you give him, he continues, "I know the owner. The Picadilly incident," and when your face shifts in recognition, "I was there, managed to save him from a bomber."

"Oh," you shift a little uncomfortably. You, of course, knew what happened but luckily were not around, but you didn't know that John had been there. He seemed to think the less people knew about his job, the better; the most you knew was he was a Captain in the military and kept it at that. "Well, lucky for him and everyone else," you give him a small smile. "That was a disaster. I helped with some relief efforts."

John doesn't answer, and the conversation shifts to a lighter note as the waitress returns with drinks. Despite every table being full, the restaurant is still a hushed silence. It makes for easy conversation, and after a few glasses of wine for each of you and a fantastic meal, John subtly checks his watch.

"Ready?" He asks as he signs off on the bill, careful to keep it from your view, though you don't try to look too hard. You instead busy yourself with watching as the street lights start to dim and see the shift in the atmosphere. It wouldn't be long before Big Ben rang in the new year and fireworks started.

"Oh, yes, probably best to get out of here before everyone else tries to leave," you agree, though a bit disappointed about missing the show, as John tucks a few large bills under his receipt and offers his arm. He doesn't reply, but you can see the small upturn of his lips as he leads you toward the back of the restaurant.

"Isn't the exit," you start as you turn your head toward the front, "that way?"

"Is it?" John inquiries as the coat checker appears at a set of stairs in the back and hands you your coats.

"I...Yes?" You reply, a bit confused, as John helps you into yours before gesturing for you to lead the way up. "Where are we going?"

"You didn't think I was going to take you out for New Year's in downtown London just to go home before the celebration starts, did you?" John finally asks after an endless loop of stairs.

"Dinner was plenty. I'm usually in bed before it all," you stop as the cold air hits your face when the door to the rooftop opens.

There are a few other couples up on the roof, but it's limited and even more exclusive than downstairs. You twist to look at John as he leads you with a hand on your lower back to the iron railing. The spot has the perfect view of downtown London above all the buildings. The winding river, the dimmed lights, and the center of the show, the London Eye and Big Ben.

"This was really the main event," John confesses as a waiter dressed in a thick coat and gloves hands him two flutes of champagne. "Dinner was just...the preshow," he states as he hands you yours.

"John this is," you pause as he slips next to you, tucking you into his side for warmth as his hand grabs the railing. "I mean, if wrapping gifts was all it took for something like this, I wish you would have come to me a year or two ago."

"It's more than that. I'd been looking for an in for a while, and it seems fate finally stepped in," he answers before gesturing with his hand toward the focus of the evening.

You can faintly hear voices starting their countdown, but as they get closer to zero, the voices grow louder. Other couples join you at the rail, and John pulls you a bit closer. You grin, readying your glass to clink with John's as he raises his own.

"I never thought I'd be this grateful for snow," you respond as everyone counting hits zero.

"Me either," John replies with a soft smile, letting you finish your sip of drink before leaning down for a gentle kiss.

As you return it, among the loud cheering and fireworks, you feel the buzz of his cell phone in his breast pocket. A phone call. As he lingers, letting you catch his lips a few more times with yours, he pulls his phone out and smiles a bit.

"Emily?" You inquire as he gazes at the photo on the screen. "Go on," you say with a smile, "I'll still be here."

And leaning against him, you watch the show, vaguely listening to his conversation with his daughter. To everyone's surprise, it seems, she managed to stay up, and the first thing she wanted to do was call her father to wish him a happy new year. The conversation is relatively short, and after John promises to send her pictures in the morning, he hangs up.

"If this was our first date you have set some high expectations," you add, tilting your head up to look back at him after almost ten minutes of fireworks.

"Are you saying you're willing to go on a second?" He asks with a small eyebrow raise as people begin to disperse around you to get in from the cold.

"If you're willing to ask," you answer. "I don't think I'd say no."

"Happy New Year," John whispers against your lips before giving you a less chaste kiss.

"Happy New Year, John," you reply back with a soft sigh.

-----------

Christmas can be found here.

#call of duty #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod #john price #captain john price #john price cod #single dad john price #single dad price #john price x reader #x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #new years #new years fic #call of duty new years #new years fluff #holiday fic #my fic

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theglowsociety · 23 days ago

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Resolutions don’t mean anything without action.

It’s easy to sit down and make a list of goals, but nothing will change until the focus shifts to building the habits and mindset of someone who gets things done—consistently, not just when it feels good.

The truth is, nothing long-term or meaningful is achievable without discipline, grit, and perseverance. Being unstoppable isn’t a gift; it’s a skill that’s earned through effort and commitment, day in and day out. It’s tough love, but the reality is this: if it’s not possible to start now, today, what makes anyone think they’ll suddenly be ready when the calendar flips to 2025?

The only resolution worth making is the one to become the kind of person who follows through. A person of action. A person of discipline. A person who does the hard things even when it’s uncomfortable.

Don’t aim to do random things that feel good in the moment. Build yourself into someone unstoppable. The kind of person who sets the tone, keeps promises to themselves, and pushes forward no matter what.

Start today. Because waiting for the “right time” is just another way to stay stuck.

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goldsbitch · 14 days ago

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Twelve grapes

chapter 2 - Red and Blue

Does he always talk so much?" Charles asks, wondering whether excessive talking is a requirement for Red Bull drivers. Max snaps right back. "Only when he's awake." Charles nods understandingly. "Must be hard for you," he mocks Daniel's tone.

or Charles spends the afternoon pinning over his ultimate rival.

warning: m/m kiss, 8k words

Fake it til you make it. But, Charles has been faking it for so long now, he can hardly remember what it feels like to believe in himself. He pushes through. There is no other option.

It only dawns on him after the dreadfully long medical exam, when he’s finally out of the car and watching the replays of Alonso launching himself over his Sauber. It hits him when he sees all the other people, worried and then relieved that he survived just fine. Another tell-tale sign is all the phone calls and messages he keeps getting, from just about anyone he's ever met.

But, there isn't fear inside of him - he does not allow that emotion entrance, ever. He is convinced that if he had, it would be over for him in the world of motorsport. And who is he without that?

Anger piles up inside him, which is not an unfamiliar feeling, but the intensity is on another level.

It feels like the paddock is trying to suffocate him. There are people, cameras everywhere and he would give anything to leave - like right now. He walks and walks and walks. Circles, triangles, whichever will confuse anyone watching the most.

The start of his first F1 season feels like a bittersweet dream. Him coming in, having three amazing races and then finding the person source of misfortune for the following ones. DNF's, crashes and who knows what else. There is always the debrief afterwards, where he has to sit and watch his mediocre teammate smirk with unmasked joy. Charles believes he is not a violent person, but if he really had to punch someone, it would be without a doubt Marcus Ericsson.

The more he spirals, the clearer the face of his teammate becomes, until Charles finally snaps, finds an alley between the technical trucks and proceeds to start kicking one of the tires with everything he has.

The-stupid-blonde-asshole. Untalented-waste-of-a-seat. He can't rob him of his chance at Ferrari. He is so close.

"Uhm, hm."

The excessively loud pseudo-cough snaps the young driver back to reality. Only then he realizes just how tense his whole body is and how his foot hurts from the numerous kicks he granted to the truck in front of him. He can't calm himself immediately. But, he stops and turns around, to evaluate the damage he would need to clear by not making sure enough to avoid any witnesses. He quickly concluded the worst thing to happen would be for a fan or a team principal to stand there. When he locks eyes with the person standing few meters into the alley, he makes a mental note never to assume he can imagine the worst.

Standing there, with all his grace and beauty is none other than Max Verstappen. He spares him one look and then goes on to examine the kicked tire. Charles is about to drown in embarassment when he hears him speak.

"Not bad for a French guy," he remarks with a smirk and stands back up. Why anyone would think teasing someone mid-rage is a good idea is beyond Charles. He avoids looking at him as he bites his lips in frustration and adds blond people of all hair shades to his list of enemies. Max's hair counts as blond, therefore that makes them two people he wants to kick, along with Marcus. As if he could read his thoughts, he runs his hand through the messy, post race strands, which sends Charles into the loudest sigh he probably ever mustered.

"You know, I have a special wooden desk back home for when I need to punch things," the Dutch says matter-o-factly.

"I don't have an anger problem like you," he snarls through gritted teeth, failing at proving his point.

"Right. I also have a cheeky bottle of whiskey in my driver's room, if you wanna take the edge off." Yes, alcohol after an anger spree practically screams healthy, Charles wants to reply - but doesn't.

His heartbeat is somewhat coming back to down to post-race normal, he rests his hands on his waist and stares at the tire once again. He gulps, turns his look back at Max, who is still standing there, waiting. Never before he thought that Max would be the one offering him help to find his peace of mind. He must be tired or sick. "Come on, Charles," Max states, but does not move. There is something incredibly grounding about his certainty. A wave of calm hits Charles like a tsunami. Out of nowhere, it's like time stops and the world around fades into a grey hue. Charles counts his deep breaths. Stoic Max stares at him, as if he knows something more than him. It's the tone he uses that grounds him the most. Charles would normally snap back into getting mad at that fact that three words and Verstappen manages to change his mood - but he is so tired. Sudden realization of that steers his answer. "Ok," he says simply and tries not to read into the smile that creeps onto Max's face. Charles can't get the song Pale Blue Eyes out of his head.

Charles is happy that unlike him, Max still has all of his five braincells working and chooses the least visible way into Red Bull motorhome. It is probably a miracle that he manages to sneak him in, though it was way later after the race than Charles assumed. His anger walk must have been minutes long. He suppresses any guilt about his team, who are probably searching for him. He likes Sauber people, but tries not to think of the as his team. Because they hopefully won't be for long. It's the thought about the ongoing Ferrari talks that get his riled up again. Maybe walking into the den of the devil - Red Bull - was the biggest mistake he made that day. A visible reminder of how Max already had everything Charles wished for. Top team that's capable of fighting podiums. A place that screams "Max' home". He is not a visitor, he is someone who the teams counts on in their plans for the future. Not only is Charles still angry, he feels smaller than ever, as he drags behind him. The perfect metaphor for his career so far. Anger is slowly getting replaced by despair. Typical Charles' spiral.

He sinks in deep into the couch in Max's room. A small glass with honey colored liquid is in his hands immediately after. This is the moment Charles remembers he hates whiskey.

"So, you're on a bit of a run of bad races, huh?" Max opens and sips his drink, without even a hint of having an intention of toasting. Then again, Charles has nothing to toast to. Yet. Despair gets overshadowed by the hope the Ferrari contract might be a way out of this "run of bad races".

"Yeah. The car just does not have it. Or maybe I don't have it and it's actually good that other people crash into me, at least the fans get a good show."

"There is a difference between self-criticism and self-hatred, you know?" Max says in an uncharacterically calm tone. Charles can't think of any other reply apart from an eye roll.

"However, you had an impressive start. I was actually worried," Max continues, making Charles's heartbeat freeze. "For a moment," he adds maliciously after few seconds of silence, bringing Charles back to life. Max was worried and now he pities him. Oh, how nicely paved the way to hell is.

"I don't need you to feel sorry for me," he spits out, party regretting that he ever followed Max, partly happy he can be unreasonably mad at someone without much of a consequence. He's always playing the good PR boy. It's all calculated, he is not in his final destination yet. His goal is not simply to be in F1, his goal is to crush it. And he is sitting across from the one who is on his way to have it all. Max dared to smirk as he kept casually leaning against the motorhome wall.

"I would never degrade you by feeling sorry for you, mate," Max reacts, his tone hinting he shared Charles's disregard for drivers pitying each other.

"Good," Charles concludes and sips from the horribly bad drink.

"Was the crash bad? I saw some replays and I'm surprised you're sitting here. I'd expect you be to locked with the medics," Max changes his tone to a more casual one. Like they weren't talking about a several G crash involving multiple cars and a world champion flying over his head.

"I think this was my worst one yet," he admits. "The medics let me go after making sure they do every test on this planet on me."

"So, tell me. You pregnant?"

Charles laugh as the stupid joke. He blames his tired mind. It is noticable that Max is pleased with himself. Who would have though he'd be sitting here, in a Red Bull driver room, after a massive crash, cracking dumb jokes with Verstappen out of all people.

"How long is the car going to take to repaire?" the Dutch asks, waking Charles up a bit. Was that why he brought him here? To lure information out of him?

"I'm sure it's fine. I have other cats to whip," he remarks quickly, already planning on starting to being the one asking questions.

"Wha-you're whipping cats?" Max frowns, half confused, half concerned.

"Yeah, why would-"

"Whipping cats?!" It is Max now who would be called the "angry" one in the room.

Charles doesn't understand why he looks so baffled. "Yeah, j’ai d’autres chats à fouetter, it's the mechanics problem to do so."

There is pure confusion in the room, before it finally clicks. "Mate, I don't think that translates directly. I don't want to give out advice, but don't go around saying you're whipping cats for fun," Max mutters.

"Um, does it not?" Charles speaks while red runs into his face. It's all the languages in his head, one jumping over another. How is it that everyone else seems to not make these mistakes anymore.

Finally, Max lets out a small chuckle. "Happens to all of us," he contradicts what Charles didn't even have a chance to say.

To say the door opens silently and smoothly would be an understatement. Daniel Ricciardo slams in, like the owns the place. Charles does not understand many things, the Australian driver will probably be on the top of that list. He automatically stiffs up.

Daniel closes the door and pauses, taking in the scene with his "punch me" grin. "Well, well. What do we have here? Max Verstappen and… wait, don’t tell me." He snaps his fingers theatrically. "Charles Leclerc. Sauber’s crown jewel."

Charles’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

Max observes without a reaction. Daniel does not wait a response. "Didn’t expect to find you here, mate. Shouldn’t you be back at Sauber, poring over data and figuring out how to make that car go faster than a lawnmower?" he sings his vowels in a tone so unpleasant to Charles's ears. Yes, Charles thinks. I should be. But I am not. Sue me.

Max shoots Daniel a warning look, but Daniel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He leans against the counter, his tone shifting, almost sympathetic. "It must be hard, though. Coming into F1, everyone expecting you to be the next big thing. Having all those hopes and dreams on your shoulders, only to realize... the car’s not good enough. That no matter how talented you are, sometimes you just can’t win."

Charles stiffens, his grip tightening on the glass. He feels his anger building up again and the urge to storm out growing inside. He closes his eyes with the hope that maybe once he opens them again, the Australian will be gone.

Daniel smiles, almost kindly. "But hey, chin up. Every legend has to start somewhere. Even if it’s at the back of the grid."

There’s a beat of silence. Charles swallows hard, trying to keep his emotions in check. Max, sensing the shift in mood, stands abruptly.

"Daniel," he says sharply. "Enough."

Daniel puts his hands up in defense. "Chill out mate, I'm just surprised he is here and I wanna cheer him up. But, Charles," he turns away from Max, "you're always welcome here. As a visitor, you know. Just to be clear," he says and ends it with his iconic, punch-worthy smile. To add another layer to Charles's pile of discomfort, he goes and puts his arm around Max, like the overly touchy friend he must be. Max does not seem to be phased by it. Charles tries not to think about how often that must happen. It's hard to control the cocktail of emotions, so adding a hint of jealousy to it is making his glass overflow. The older driver pinches the younger one's cheeks and Charles can't help but roll his eyes and shift his focus on the nearly empty glass of whiskey. One more minute of this and he is out.

To his luck, since Daniel seems to have run out of jokes to throw around, he spins on his heel and starts walking away. "I'll leave you guys to it then. Charlie, if you want, we are going out later in the evening, text me if you wanna join," he says and walks out. Charles finds it amusing to think he'd have Daniel's number saved. Once the door closes behind him, he can finally breathe again.

"Does he always talk so much?" Charles asks, wondering whether excessive talking is a requirement for Red Bull drivers.

Max snaps right back. "Only when he's awake."

Charles nods understandingly. "Must be hard for you," he mocks Daniel's tone.

Max nods back overly dramatically. "Yes. It is. Especially when the noise blocking headphones are just...not good enough."

Charles puts his head in his hand, exhaustion creeping in.

Max seems to not notice that and continues in their talk. "You really don't like him, do you?"

There is a smirk forming at Charles's lips. "And do you like him?"

Only he knows with what kind of undertone he is asking. The jealousy still present in the air. He hopes Max does not pick up on it. Or does he? It's a confusing day.

"Yeah. He's a good friend," he murmurs back, blue eyes now locked with the messy green ones. "Do you want a refill-"

Charles can't cope anymore. No more whiskey.

"Max, why are you being, so..." he interrupts him and immediately pauses, searching for the right word to define what ever he had been so doing. And since he can't find anything better suited, he inevitably ends up with: "...nice."

Out of all the things he would describe Verstappen, this was probably the last of them. Truth be told, the only reason he followed Max to his motorhome in the first place was the immortal curiosity Charles was born with. Anything that involves Max seems to draw him in. All of the arguments - which there hadn't been many these last few months - all the snarky comments and exchanges, frowned upon looks and lines shared through media...Charles knew, deep down his biggest weakness was just how much he wanted to be accepted by Max. The allure of Verstappen - Charles imagines that's how everyone feels about the Red Bull driver.

"I don't bother spending my time on thinking why I do, or say, things," he proclaims nonchalantly, providing Charles with something that feels like the key to the enigma of it all. Well, of course, that would explain hell of a lot things about this man. He stares at him, as he keeps his casual lean on the table and fiddles with his glass. There is something about that statement that Charles finds hard to believe. But he decides to keep that question for the future.

It's only now that Charles realizes he is not calm, in fact, he is the opposite of that emotion. Tense, on edge. Like before jumping off a cliff. He wasn't like that before Daniel interrupted them, only once he left them alone again. The contrast of just how much he hated Daniel's presence and if fact appreciated the lack of it starts to hit. Charles had been in different driver's room before. But, never in Max's and it was never kind of like this. Suddenly, he is hyper aware of his every move, how small this rooms feels, contrasting its actual size. The couch underneath him is too hard and the icy glass is starting to hurt his fingers. He gulps. Max has never looked so tall before.

"You're weirdly quiet. Getting calmer now?" Max asks and interrupts the thought spiral Charles fell into.

"Yeah, all calm now," he lies and almost burn holes into Max with his stare. He wants to stay in this moment forever. There is nothing pleasant waiting for him out there.

Charles winces after taking a last sip of whiskey. "You don’t even like it," Max notes, watching him. "No," Charles admits. "I hate it. It tastes like someone melted a campfire and put it in a glass." Max laughs, genuinely this time. "Then why did you take it?" "I don’t know. Peer pressure?" "Next time, just ask for a soda. You can still be mad with a Coke in hand."

Charles just nods, without needing to respond. Max takes a deep breath in and a pause, before he speaks again.

"When are you leaving Spa? Do you have time this evening?"

Charles's response would have been very different hadn't been for Daniel's invitation. "I'm not going out with you and Daniel," he says firmly.

Max rolls his lips. "So, you do have time."

There is a tingle somewhere deep inside him. An urge, curiosity and the inability to say no to Max. "I'm leaving at midnight," he replies and it sounds more like a question.

Max grants him one of the most obnoxious smiles this century has seen. "We'll just have to make sure you're back on time. Go to the hotel and pack your things in advance. Oh, and don't wear white sneakers."

Charles is totally normal about it. It's a perfectly acceptable reaction to pack in a time a pit stop crew would be impressed by. Cancelling a gaming session with one of the engineers he had scheduled for the evening was also a perfectly ok thing to do. The pacing around the room and nail biting until his finger tops bleed is maybe little over the top, but he is alone in the room. He's allowed to freak out.

He and Max are mere acquaintances. The definition of friends not really applying to them. It would be totally ok for him to hang out with his usual suspects, but this was new. Was Max luring him into a trap? Was he going to have him strip naked and then have his Dutch friends jump over from the bushes and laugh at him?

Charles is someone who freaks out ahead of things. He considers that to be an advantage for racing, panicking on flights rather than in the cockpit.

He unpacks and then repacks his suitcase, just so that he has something to do. Curses himself for only bringing one pair of dark blue sneakers (and white ones, of course).

He has been like this for the last hour. Waiting on Max to text him he can finally go downstairs - because he is not going to let him know that he is pacing nervously. He is not going to sit in the hotel lobby, like some loser that has nothing better to do than to wait at him.

Charles blames the headache on the crash.

The sky gets progressively darker when he start giving up on Max ever texting him. Charles is a stupid, stupid boy, for believing he was talking seriously about making plans with him.

This hotel room ceiling isn't the most interesting piece of art work, but Charles would be able to repaint it by memory by the amount of time he spends laying on the unmade bed and staring at it. There is a little crack in the left corner, slight elevation between the hallway and the bedroom and a knock on the door.

A knock on the door. His mind goes immediately to the handsome Dutch driver (not that the image of him ever left since they departed, really), but he quickly gets himself up and adjusts his expectations to reality. It's probably someone from Sauber checking on him. Or his manager with some updates, he also rarely texts before coming over.

Deep breath and he opens the door. His face is calm, but if someone took Charles's pulse, they'd probably send him straight back to the medical centre. Max is standing there, looking calm and composed as ever. Back in his casual non-team wear. If it were up to Charles, he'd finally take him shopping for some flattering clothes. This is not doing him justice at all. Thank God his face is protected from the effects of that ugly stripy t-shirt.

"Hey, man. You good to go?"

Most people would send a text—or, at worst, ask reception to make a call. The fact he must have asked for his room number (and the more alarming fact he managed to get it from them) and then came all the way up, is concerning.

Max's brows furrow. "Have you lost the ability to speak in the last two hours?"

Charles slaps himself mentally. "Funny. Hello to you too."

A totally concerned-free smile spreads on Max's cheek and he walks past him to his room. "Let's grab your bag and get going, we're on a schedule."

Before he has time to blink, he is standing in a hotel elevator and Max Verstappen is carrying his bag.

There is the usual crowd of people mingling around the hotel - crew members, reporters, some overly excited fans. Charles tries to hide as Max leads them through shortcuts, this place obviously being his playground. Charles manages to relax himself a bit when he realizes nobody probably managed to get a picture of them walking together. Another miracle of the day.

The sports car, older model, but obviously worked on, growls to life as Max turns the key. The engine’s rumble reverberating through Charles’s chest. He sits stiffly in the passenger seat, his fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the seat.

There is an old school smell of a cheap gas station car scent that punches through his nose. Max seems to be extremely comfortable in the car, as if he’s had it for years.

Without much of a conversation, they depart. The car smoothly jolts forward, tires screeching slightly as Max accelerates out of the hotel parking lot. Talk about subtle. Charles is sure the sounds of this vehicle must have had half of the heads turn. The streets of Spa blur past them, the small town lights quickly giving way to the empty countryside roads. They drive on roads between fields, sometimes pass a small lump of forest. Max is treating the road as an old partner, smooth sailing - but definitely on the edgy side of things. If Charles hadn’t known Max as a Formula 1 driver, he’s think he was some small town tuning guy.

"You drive like this on the track too?" Charles mutters after minutes of silence, trying to sound casual.

Max grins, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "No, I’m much faster on the track,“ he says as he hits the top of the hill a little too fast and sends them nearly flying before they land back on the road. He laughs and it is in that moment when Charles realizes that THE Max Verstappen is just another car guy.

The countryside passes them by and Charles has to admit there is some sort of magic to it. It’s different than the roads around Monaco, more rustic and northern. Less glam and more roughness. Had he grown up here, he’d probably spend his teenage years cruising through.

„Did you used to drive here a lot when you were young?“ He asks, head lots in his own thoughts.

Max does not reply immediately, but then he goes onto explaining that yes, he has driven through every road this place is surrounded by. As early as when he was fourteen. Charles rolls his eyes and makes few comments on the incompetence of the local police.

„Is there a specific place we’re going to?“ Charles asks after what feels like thirty minutes of driving, glancing nervously at the dense trees closing in around them. He is not checking the time, his trust lies with Max on that.

"You’ll see," Max replies, his tone maddeningly cryptic and sends the car into another turn in a way that would have then crash had there been any car in the opposite lane. Charles is not bothered by Max's driving, he knows he is more than capable of judging the situation. Had the driver been anyone else, he'd be out of the car after the first turn. His faith lies in the fact Max probably does not want both of them dead.

"Great," Charles mutters. "This is how horror movies start, you know."

Max chuckles, flicking the headlights to high beam as they zip down a narrow country road. "Relax, Leclerc. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it on the track. More fun."

Charles throws him a glare. "Very comforting. Thanks."

Max doesn’t respond immediately, his focus sharp as he takes a turn far faster than Charles would.

"You’re tense," Max remarks, barely hiding the amusement in his voice.

"Oui, I wonder why," Charles shoots back with lips turned upwards. It's a different kind of adrenaline, to completely give in and follow his lead.

Max glances at him briefly, his smirk widening. "You don’t trust me?"

"I trust you to try and scare the shit out of me, yes," Charles remarks.

"Good. Keeps things exciting."

Charles tries not to wonders what exactly "things" means in this scenario. He notices that he left all of the worries and stress of today back at the hotel. It feels like they'd been on the road for days, in the good way. Time works in funny ways.

The road grows narrower, the trees taller and denser. They block nearly all of the remaining sunlight. Charles realizes he hasn’t seen another car, or even a house, for several minutes.

"Seriously, Max. Is there a destination we're going to?" His tone is sharper now, just a hint of panic in it.

"You ask too many questions," Max replies smoothly, his hands steady on the wheel.

"Forgive me for being curious when you’re driving me into the middle of nowhere," Charles says, his voice rising slightly, tone set on teasing mode. He hasn't noticed, but he is scrunched in the seat, leaning on the door and completely comfortable, despite the potential death threat of this all.

Max chuckles again, clearly enjoying himself. "Are you always this dramatiqué?" he mocks his accent.

Charles turns to him, exasperated. "Dramatic? You’ve practically kidnapped me. It is what it is, I have to face the situation. I am ready to cooperate. Should I start preparing a ransom note? "

Max tilts his head thoughtfully, his smile teasing. "Who would pay for you, Leclerc?"

"Funny," Charles deadpans, though his heart skips at the flirtatious edge to Max’s tone.

He leans over to examine the dashboard. "At least we have enough fuel to last us long."

Max looks in the same direction and bites his lip.

"What?" Charles asks, double checking if he hadn't read it wrong.

"Yeah, that thing has been stuck like this for years."

Charles lets out a loud breath. "Putain, Max."

Max finally parks the car as they reach something resembling a gate and a fence (he, of course, does not park like a normal person, but drifts the car in - Charles is not even surprised at this point).

"We're here," he announces and kills the engine.

Charles examines the creepy surroundings and sighs.

"What's up with you now?" the cheery Dutchman asks him.

"I'm trying to pick which God to pray to."

He hits his arm playfully. "Come on, enough with the drama, you're gonna like this," he says convincingly and gets out of the car. Charles has no intention of not following him, his blood flowing in the opposite direction than usual. Or at least that's how it feels.

He walks few steps behind him and takes in the scenery. The damp grass, leaves and small stick crunch below their feet. A distinctive humid forest smell is something he hadn't felt in forever and it's surprisingly refreshing to take a deep breath. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his jacket, trying to fight the chilly air. Max appears to be unaffected by any of it and walks with intention. He passes the small cottage, which looks like it needed a renovation twenty years ago. Charles was expecting that to be the their final destination, so when Max walks by it, he nearly trips on wet leafs, trying to follow his direction. He hopes it went unnoticed.

It all starts to make a bit more sense when they pass the first two cars, parked in a place where normal people would plant a tree. He starts to realize this must be some sort lair of the Verstappen family or their close friends. The further deep they go into the forest / garden, the more car parts, tires and general junk they pass. Charles has many questions, but the anticipation of what is that Max actually wants to show him stops words in his throat.

Right on cue, Max starts speaking on his own, gradually slowing his steps. "My dad and I would come here in between races and we'd fix old cars together. It's a good place to test parts and repair karts. But it's become so messy over the years," he comments as he has to kick a random door frame blocking their way. "One day I'll come over for few weeks and clean it all up. He's never going to do that on his own."

The intimacy of this information is something Charles wasn't ready. He keeps his silence, sensing Max does not need a reaction anyway.

"But, there is a plus side to this being currently a shit hole," he stops and turns around to face Charles, who mimics his move. Even in this dim low light, Max's eyes shine like something out of this planet. "We can fuck some shit up," he grins like a little kid he was just few years and hands Charles an obscurely massive hammer that he picked up somewhere along the way.

Charles gives him a questioning look, before slowly accepting this strange object. Max's grin does not leave his face.

Charles stares at the hammer in his hands, its weight unfamiliar but oddly grounding. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Max gestures ahead, and Charles’s eyes follow to where an old, rusted Volvo car sits under a drooping tree. The windshield is cracked, the paint flaking off like dead skin.

"Whatever you want," Max says casually, leaning against a nearby pile of tires. "But I’d start with the windshield."

Charles’s jaw drops slightly. "You want me to, what? Smash it?"

Max nods, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. "It’s therapeutic. Trust me."

"Max, this is ridiculous."

They stare at each other and Charles feels guilty all of a sudden, for dismissing his idea so bluntly. He sighs as he faces second instance of peer pressure from the other driver within the span of few hours. He wonders which choice exactly he made this morning that steered his day in such a different direction. Had someone told him he'd be smashing cars with Verstappen in the evening, he'd laugh in their face.

"Just try it. One hit. I won’t tell anyone."

Charles hesitates, his grip tightening around the hammer’s handle. The thought of swinging it, of letting loose, feels... disturbing. But then again, everything about this day has been weird. Maybe that’s the point. Max babbles along, as he always does once he starts, something about getting all the emotions out.

Charles ignores the rest of his speech and tries to imagine this is just like any other sport, be it tennis, golf or anything that involved swinging. He takes a deep breath, picks up the inexplicably heavy hammer and swings it against the windshield. The material is surprisingly sturdy and the hammer bounces back, driving the force into Charles's body, as if to mock him. This pisses him off, he can't have Max laughing at him and calling him a "pussy". He tightens his lips, adjusts his stance and swings once again.

Finally, a crack appears at the point of impact, the quiet sound of breaking multiplied by the silence of the forrest. This is followed by a muffled cheer behind him. Charles is still surprised at how much force he needs to use to actually make any damage on the old plastic laced glass and it rilles him up. He is not going to walk away from here being beaten by a windshield older than him. He swings again.

And again, again and again. Each impact comes with bigger force until the glass start to crumble apart. He does not feel cold anymore, the old fire he barely tamed this afternoon fully back up.

Marcus. Alonso. Stupid lawyers making things too complicated. The reporters. Sauber. Ferarri. Ferrari. Ferrari.

The pieces are not only crumbling, but now they're falling in every directions - and Charles feels alive. Ferrari. He moves a bit to smash every little part that still survived in the corner. Ferrari. The structure of the windshield is completely falling apart. Ferrari. He smashes the big pieces that are pathetically lying on the ground, mushing them down into nothing. He lefts out a heavy breath. Ferrari.

I will be a Ferrari driver next season.

Only when he lets go, no more damage left to be done on his victim, he realizes he said those words out loud. He is met with a curious stare of Max Verstappen. Charles slipped up when he wasn't suppose to. It's been brewing in him for weeks now. Only his managers know. He figures not even Sauber knows.

"Nothing is final yet. It could still fall to shit," he clarifies, staring at Max with anticipation.

Max shifts his weight from one leg to another and blinks few times. "Nice. I hope it works out for you."

Charles is careful now, coming down his high, facing the consequences. "Please, don't tell anyone," he almost pleas, worried that this info getting out might somehow sabotage the whole mission.

The mood changes. Surely, he must feel it too. This is no longer "two bros smashing shit together". Oh God, please, does he notice the way the air stopped moving? Is his mouth also dry? His skin fired up with unholy electricity? Max as unreadable as ever. It's making Charles's brain spin. He would give everything, almost anything, for a quick glimpse into the brain of the enigmatic guy standing in front of him.

He isn't a teenager anymore, but Charles knows the boy is not fully a grown up yet. His features are a mixture of the hard lines and angles of and adult athlete, but all of that is still combined with youthful - Charles would dare to say naive - softness. It must be something in the damp air. Maybe he is suffering from fresh air reverse-toxic shock. His lungs so used to the painful unnatural environment of a racetrack, that it only takes few minutes in the forest to make him feel dizzy. He has to draw his gaze away for a moment. Deep down he knows he's going to appear as a creep, eyeing his rival, with an open mouth. If he could, he'd choke on the words Max's says and drown in his eyes for hours. But, that is not normal. Max is just few centrimeters taller than him, but it feels like he is towering over him. Charles's main concern should be that he had just revealed a precious information to the competition. He has to actively remind himself what the objective is - and that it does not have anything to do with just how long Max's eye lashes are.

"You know I wouldn't tell anyone," Max says, momentarily kicking Charles out of his haze.

He stands still, frozen and barely reacts to the smile Max sends his way. Once again, it's like Max is drinking a third brew of the same tea Charles is having - the smirking boy unaffected by the bitterness.

He takes two steps closer to Charles. "My turn now," he whispers and reaches for the hammer Charles forgot he was holding. Max passes him by and the Monegasque stays still for a moment, trying to memorize the feeling of Max's fingers lightly brushing his own.

The trip back is like a negative photo, contrasting the brightly colored banter they shared when they were driving in the opposite way. The car is quiet, so quiet in fact Charles's in praying for Max's stereo to work. It does and now their drive is accompanied by some bad radio station, speaking in a language he does not understand. Like a third passanger in the car, laughing Charles directly into his face. You don't even understand the radio. How can you believe you'll ever understand what you feel right now.

Darkness has fallen some time ago and it's the first time Charles actually whips out his phone, to check the time and his messages, but mainly to distract himself and avoid looking at Max. Because suddenly, the Dutch boy is too close. He doesn't know why, but it's like Max has found a way how to make it physically impossible to be in his presence - yet this car, with Max in the driver's seat, is also the only place on the planet where Charles wants to be. There is comfort and excitement. Comforting excitement. Charles must be going crazy, he thinks and ignores all messages on his phone and reverts back to watching the dark countryside.

"Text your team that you'll arrive directly to the airport," he hears a pragmatic order from the driver's seat. Charles dares to look at him, but his eyes are glued on the road. He obeys without a comment. The realizations only hits him at that moment. Max has probably ditched way more people than he himself did, in order to go on this ride into nothingness. There are probably people waiting at him at several bars, his motorhome and few volunteers lined up to follow him to his hotel room. And yet, there he is, sitting next to him, driving on nameless roads.

"Did you have good time with me?" he asks, like the anxious boy he is. It's not a brave question, it's full of unspoken uncertainty and a worry, that Max had hoped for him to be a more entertaining company. Is that why he doesn't speak as much as he did on the way here?

Charles knows the way to doom is to push Max Verstappen. That boy won't do a single thing he does not believe in, unless the contract under he is makes it impossible. He hopes he is not pushing right now.

"You know this is the first time you've looked at me since we left the cabin?" the Dutch proclaims, ignoring his original question. And he is right, Charles is hyperaware of that.

Charles lets out a short laugh, the kind that’s more exhale than sound. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

Max’s lips roll into a grin as his eyes flick back to the road. "I’ve heard that before. But I think you like it."

"Don’t flatter yourself." Charles rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it.

"Too late," Max fires back smoothly, his grin widening. "Besides, you’re the one who agreed to smash my old car. What does that say about you?"

Charles straightens up, almost offended. "I did not-"

He is quickly interrupted by the Dutch. "You did not what - you didn't smash my car? Is that what you're saying?" He is clearly amused with himself and to prove that he playfully smashes the steering wheel.

Charles is silent, inhaling so much air to calm himself down he might actually explode. Impossible, this man was sent from hell to torment him.

"And didn’t that feel good?" Max continues smoothly, his voice dripping with chilli honey. Sweet, but punching.

Charles doesn’t answer, which only makes Max’s eyes widen.

"Aha! You did like it," Max says triumphantly.

Charles huffs, crossing his arms. "I never said that."

"You didn’t have to." Max’s tone is smug, his confidence infuriatingly unshakable. "Admit it. You enjoyed smashing something for once instead of, I don’t know, smiling politely and saying merci."

Charles snorts. "You think I’m polite?"

"Painfully," Max replies, his tone still teasing but just sharp enough to make Charles sit up straighter. "Like you’re afraid to let people know what you’re really thinking."

"And what are you thinking, Mr. Painfully Blunt?" he says more like a joke and does not expect and answer.

To prove Charles wrong, once again, Max turns slowly to face him. He makes sure each word he says has enough time to ripe. "That it's obvious I had a good time with you, Leclerc."

It's the same as trying to ignore a deafening sound. Even if you block your ears, it still pierces through. It creeps up into your chest in waves invisible to the naked human eye. A loud beat that makes your chest alive and your throat stuck - because whatever you might say, it won't be heard over the noise anyway. It does not need addressing, but it's impossible to disregard.

If I slip up, even for a moment, it might ruin everything we’ve both worked so hard to pretend doesn’t matter.

To completely counter anything he is trying to suppress, Max casually puts him hand on Charles's thigh - on Charles's thigh. The part of the human body between the knee and the hip. It's a true test to stay normal about it.

"Don't get lost in your head again, Charles," he says ever-so-casually and removes his hand to put it back on the steering wheel.

If they were to crash and die right now, Charles probably wouldn't mind. He's about to have a heart attack anyway.

It was getting more than clear they were reaching the final destination, even if only by the decreasing amount of trees growing next to the road. City lights and signs pointing to the airport giving away that this trip is about to end.

If Charles started this afternoon angry, he is ending it confused - about himself, about what kind of person Max Verstappen actually is and how is he suppose to go about his life after this. It's not a new information to him that he likes guys. But it is the first time he has to face having a tiny, minor, minuscule crush on another driver.

As they near the airport so much he can see the small plane he is about to board with the closest of his team, Charles speaks again.

"Maybe drop me of one street away...Just so that people don't have questions."

It's a pragmatic suggestion and he hopes Max does not read anything into it.

"Fair," is the response he gets and is somewhat satisfied with.

This time, Charles braces himself for another "drift park", but is met with a casual and very precise parking on Max's part.

They sit in silence for a moment. Charles wants to do something, but he can't put a name on it.

"Well, it's been fun. Thanks," he says almost coldly and pulls the thirty years old door handle.

Nothing.

Next to him, there is a chuckling noise. Charles tries again, but the only effect this has in the increase of volume on Max's laugh.

Fine, two can play this game, he figures and turns to him with a raised brow.

Charles meets his gaze for a long moment, the weight of the playful challenge hanging between them. "You know," he says finally, his voice low, "I could just climb out through the window."

Max snorts, leaning back and pressing the unlock button with a flourish. "Be my guest. The the dramatic diva you are.“

"You use that word a lot, you know?"

Max keeps his act on. "I think it's time to leave now," he teases and does absolutely nothing in order to open the car.

Charles leans back, also not intending on moving. There is warmth in his chest and it's spreading all over his body. The smile he has on his face is one he can't prevent.

"Is it now," he questions, and tries to open the door once again, this time without even looking at the handle. None of them expecting any other result.

After few shared looks, Max clicks some random button on his side of the car to unlock the doors. The soft click feels like a challenge.

Charles lingers, his hand resting on the handle but not pulling it. "You know, for someone who claims not to care, you sure put a lot of effort into keeping me around."

Max raises an eyebrow, his grin turning slightly lopsided. "You noticed?"

"I’m not blind," Charles replies, leaning back into the seat, a flicker of playfulness in his expression.

Max looks at him for a moment, something sparkly in his gaze before he nods toward the door. "You better go before I change my mind."

He tries opening the door once again and this time it really does.

Charles moves back and exists the car, pit in his stomach growing. He has to wait few seconds for Max to get and open the trunk with his keys. Illuminated only with the back lights, red mixing with yellow, he moves automatically, never letting Charles go off his sight. He hands him his bag and receives a little "Such a gentleman," comment from Charles. And then they keep standing there, as if Medusa herself turned them into a stone.

Charles feels possessed. Like he’s not in control of his movements anymore. He lost that ability somewhere in the woods.

He is pretty sure he’s shaking from the panic that drives him. His body is floating two meters above the ground.

Max’s eyes burn into him, as if it was all a dare.

The boy is standing too close for his own good.

Charles is pretty sure there is acid running through his veins. He knows, he is absolutely certain, he will regret whatever he is about to do.

There will be no going back.

Should I touch him, it will the perfect way to ruin this newly found friendship.

Max does not move or walk away.

Fuck it, he thinks and slams his lips again Max’s. Knock the wind out of me, Max Verstappen.

It is quick as a lighting, but bright as such. He reaches over to the back of Max’s head and holds him still, but giving him enough freedom to pull away. I’m begging you, please don’t.

It’s cathartic to know what his plump lips feel like against his own. He holds his lower lip between his own and moves, once or twice. He knows his time is running out. For a moment, he allows himself to drown in this real life fantasy. Max’s lips are soft and addictive. It’s like running a marathon is the time you would do a sprint.

He fights the urge to continue and moves back. Knowing this one moment, lasting only few seconds will be locked in his fantasies forever.

He pulls away and tries to avoid looking at Max’s face, knowing well enough that whatever he finds there, won’t be pleasant.

„I’m sorry,“ he murmurs and almost runs away to the airport.

Festival of shame is about to begin, but the insides of his body still burn with excitement and desire. He kissed Max Verstappen and he didn’t pull away immediately.

Their first and only kiss.

It was a mistake, one that Charles will have to apologize many times.

But he’ll be happy to die for. Feeling this alive should be illegal.

He does not look back. His bravery ran out the moment he put their lips together.

Oh, God. I’m stupid, I’m stupid, stupid, stupid.

chapter 3

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colorsunimaginable · 3 months ago

Text

the spare // chapter sixty-nine // death eater ! tom hiddleston oc x plus size ofc - voldemort wins au

story summary:

While on a mission to avenge the death of her best friend, Ilvermorny graduate Melisa Alder finds herself in the middle of the fight to defeat Voldemort. Upon capture after the Dark Lord's triumph, she's being sold at an auction with other muggle borns and blood traitors. Her only hope is also her only bidder - the tall, dark, and handsome Thomus Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's younger half-brother. Is he just another Death Eater or is he hiding more than just his face beneath the mask? Will she realize her true potential to be one of the resistance's greatest weapons?

*a Voldemort Wins AU with Tom Hiddleston cast as an OC x a plus size protagonist* *takes place in The Auction universe by Lovesbitca8*

words for this chapter: 4.6k warnings for this chapter: p in v

banners by @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST

Chapter Sixty-Nine:

The closet is dark, but there’s just enough light reflecting from the floor to ceiling mirror. I can see the white of Rodolphus’ eyes as they grow in shock.

Then he grins.

“Well, well, well. Hello there, pet.” His wand presses into my cheek and my grip on the knife tightens, the sharp edge digging into his throat. The smug look on his face sours as his smile dips and his eyes narrow. “How did he do it?”

“How did he do it?” I growl. “You mean how did I ?”

“Get away from her,” Thomus snarls, popping in from around the edge of the door.

Rodolphus doesn’t move, but I ease the knife back a little. The movement draws Thomus’ eyes and he gapes at me.

“ Alder ,” he hisses. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

“Back up,” I bark at both of them. I don’t like being cornered like this. Thomus glares, but listens, backing out of Rodolphus’ way when he finally moves. I follow, keeping the blade within stabbing distance. Out in the room, Thomus snatches Rodolphus’ wand from his grip, keeping his own pointed at him.

I twist the knife, turning the pointy end to press up under his jaw. “Tell me how to break the curse.”

Thomus is standing just beyond Rodolphus’ shoulder, his expression hard as he shakes his head, warning me not to continue. Rageful frustration boils and bursts from my chest. “What other option is there!? One misfired spell and I’m right back to where I was - or worse ?”

“You’re scared ,” Rodolphus purrs, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. “As you should be, Mudblood. Whatever it is you’ve done, it won’t be enough.”

I fight to keep my lower lip from trembling, but I twist my knife, pressing upwards. He looks me dead on and doesn’t flinch when his skin punctures from the pressure. A line of dark blood trickles down his neck, staining his white collar.

“He’s not going to tell you,” Thomus says calmly, putting his hand on my raised arm. My gaze bounces from one man to the other before I latch onto Thomus’ eyes. They’re firm, indicating his emotions are under control, fully masked.

Meanwhile, I’m the complete opposite. My throat is tight and I know if I try to speak, my voice will wobble and I won’t be able to hold the tears back. Swallowing audibly, I start lowering the knife.

Rodolphus chooses that moment to snicker. “That’s right, dog, listen to your master.”

Now that makes me snap. The rage in me spikes so strong, he’s lucky I only stun him. His knees give out from under him and he crumples to the floor. The decision was impulsive, but not one I regret.

“I was under the impression that your magic was keeping the curse contained. Is that not true?” he asks.

I take a few deep breaths, feeling a little better with Rodolphus knocked out. “It is,” I reply slowly, matching his tone. Finding it hard to meet his eyes, I inspect the skull handle of the knife in my hands. “But one day it might not be.”

He steps forward, cupping my cheek, and forcing eye contact. “I promise to find a solution. This won’t be forever.”

“Okay,” I whisper. My heart believes him, trusts him. I step back and look down at Rodolphus. “What’re we going to do now?”

Thomus sighs loudly and crouches down. “It’ll have to be something terribly clever or I’m knee deep in a pond of shit.”

An unexpected giggle escapes as I crouch down by the pile of broken lenses and bent metal that remains of my glasses. “You mean knee deep up shit creek?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Close.” My hand hovers over the pile as I try to keep a straight face and murmur. “ Oculus Reparo .”

A white light flashes over my glasses as the pieces come back together again. When I put them on, Thomus is still kneeling by Rodolphus, poking through his pockets.

“Do you rummage through pockets often?” I ask, a bit surprised. So far he’s pulled out a flask, a few galleons, mints, and a folded handkerchief.

Thomus shrugs. “Easy to get information without so much as a word spoken.”

“Hm… Fair enough,” I sift through the small pile of things and pause at the heaviness of the handkerchief. Hoping not to find any boogers in there, I use only the tips of my fingers to shake it around. Thankfully, no boogers, but something golden and shiny with a distinct hourglass shape clatters to the floor.

“Is that a bloody Time-Turner?” Thomus says with disbelief. “What’s he doing with that?”

I gasp. “This solves our problem, doesn’t it?” I ask excitedly. “We only need to go back to the last couple of minutes before he knocks. We just have to be ready.”

Thomus takes a sniff of whatever’s in the flask, raising a brow at me before taking a sip. “Ready with what?” he asks. “We were kind of in the middle of something there, if you care to recall.”

As I scramble for something clever to say, I glance up at him to find his eyes trailing down my body. I’d get to be right in the middle of that again? I swear my clit throbs at the thought.

I clear my throat and change the subject. “Maybe you came up here because you were feeling sick? Drank too much? Does that sound plausible?” My hand stretches out toward the bottle of champagne he’d brought in earlier and it drifts soundlessly over the floor to me. I use magic to uncork it before taking a long sip. I pass it over to him as I continue to speak. “Because I’m thinking, you’re already gonna be sweaty and red-faced anyway, you know? And you might as well actually drink, it’ll make it more believable.”

“Right,” he nods after a moment’s consideration. He brings the bottle to his lips. “And where will you be?”

“Disillusioned. It’s what I should have done the first time,” I admit. “Have you used a Time-Turner before?”

“Only a few times. Yourself?”

I shake my head. “Never.”

He points his wand at Rodolphus’ wound and heals it, scourgifying his collar too. “Then we’ll need to be extra careful.”

After a surprisingly quick discussion, we agree on what needs to stay the same and what needs to change. We ready the scene and get into position. From Thomus’ explanation, if we’re relatively in the same spot, doing the same thing as our past selves at the time we’re traveling to, we should morph into our past selves.

“How much time do you think you’ll need before he knocks?” I ask, holding the turner up close to get a better look at the fine sands.

Thomus sits on the window seat, loosening his tie and shrugging off his jacket again. I’ve remained in my leggings and hoodie, having skipped the outfit change to save time. I run my hands over the sides of his face, fingers threading into his hair. His hands find my hips and he guides me closer in between his knees. His hands travel under the hoodie, roughly grabbing my breasts and squeezing. His fingers on my nipples are oh, so soft though.

“You’re sure we’re not gonna forget the first time around?” I ask, hearing the nervousness in my voice.

“Darling, if we do, I’ll have no problem recreating that experience with you,” he promises.

His reassurance makes me feel better and I let my mouth find his. He kisses me like it’s the first time he’s done so all night. His tongue traces and savors the taste of my lips. I quickly become lost in the gentleness, my head beginning to swim with desire for him all over again.

His hands on my hips urge me to turn around, reminding me of our mission. When I hear the soft clicks of his belt being undone, I quickly thumb my pants and undies to my knees. His fingers spread across the curve of my butt, his palm caressing. I plant my hands on his thighs, just above his knees and push my hips backward.

Thomus chuckles and shoves the hem of my hoodie further up my waist, humming his approval. “Look at you, so needy, already?”

I bite my lip and silently laugh. My eyes are closed, trying to focus on how I feel. Every measured breath, the ache in my thighs, the thick head of his cock as it easily slides past my still-slick lips.

I take a sharp, full breath to speak, but I still sound breathless. “More like impatient.”

True to my word, I rock my hips back and he glides home in one go. The forceful, delicious impact of my body on his makes him release a deep groan. His fingers dig into my hips painfully, pulling me to him still. Short, desperate moans escape my throat as I adjust to his size and the tight fit. My thighs are already burning from this position and from earlier, but his cock just feels so fucking good. The muscles in his thighs flex beneath my hands as he grinds against my ass.

Before we get carried away, I fumble for the Time-Turner hanging from its long chain around my neck. I twist my torso, slinging the chain around his neck too.

His breath is on the edge of running away from him as he speaks. “Give the gear a half turn forward and a quarter turn back. That should put us where we need to be.”

I nod, unable to stop moving my hips as I turn the knob the specific way Thomus instructed. The moment I’m done, I hear the rapid ticking of a clock and gears turning as the hourglass begins to spin.

We watch the room as time reverses. I see ourselves crouched over Rodolphus before he’s on his feet, backing up towards the hallway door. I see Past-Thomus undress and see myself backing out of the closet stark naked. At that sight, I quickly avert my gaze back to Thomus.

All too soon, our past and present selves join at the same place on the window seat. Our positions are different, but the act is the same. I refocus on rocking my body and feeling every drag of his cock in my pussy.

I can tell the exact moment when our past and present realign themselves. My pussy is pulsing and suddenly much wetter. My body feels like I’ve been getting thoroughly fucked for a bit longer than it does two breaths ago. The pleasure flowing through me skyrockets right to the beginnings of a mind-numbing orgasm.

Thomus shudders behind me, releasing a guttural groan, having landed in the same predicament. Then without any warning, his hands are shoving me forward and pulling me back, fucking me like he just can’t help himself. His hips are somehow jerking up, too, making his cock hit just the right spot. My eyes roll into the back of my head as my orgasm takes over my body. I push him as deep as he can go, feeling my pussy squeeze and contract around his big cock.

“ Merlin’s beard ,” he hisses low as he cums, fingers digging bruises into my hips. His hips are twitching underneath me, shoving his spasming cock in and out the tiniest bit, milking every last ounce of pleasure from my cunt.

“Oh my god,” I say when I can breathe again.

Thomus lets out another tortured groan as I force myself to stand. His dick slips out with an audibly wet plop and I can’t hold back a shaky laugh at his words, shimmying up my pants on wobbly legs.

Pants on, I grab the champagne and shove it towards him. “Drink up.”

He stands, redoing his belt. He’d already opted to take his suit jacket off. I reach out to unbutton the top of his shirt, then up further to ruffle his hair a little. He takes the bottle from me and chugs just as Rodolphus announces his arrival with his fist against the back of the door.

Of course we’d been expecting it, so this time we don’t immediately jump into panic mode. Thomus takes his time drinking, unbothered by the persistent asshole at the door. My eyes bounce around nervously, and I wave my hand towards the bathroom, making sure it’s lit as if he were just in there.

“Thomus!” Rodolphus barks. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been sent to fetch your ungrateful ass.”

Thomus pauses to burp before taking one last swig, then starts for the door. I grab the front of his shirt and plant a kiss on his cheek. He gives me one in return before I step back and Disillusion myself against the wall.

Thomus opens the door just enough for his body to be shown. He slumps against the frame, and I can hear the faux exhaustion in his voice. “What do you want?”

Rodolphus’ words repeat. “You missed your brother’s toast. How could you have - “

“Not that it’s any of your bloody business,” Thomus interrupts, “but I’ve been quite unwell this evening.” He fakes a gag, but it sounds pretty convincing to me.

“You can’t be serious,” Rodolphus scoffs. “Do you honestly expect me to believe - “

“Believe what you wish,” Thomus interrupts.

The door Thomus is propping open jolts suddenly, but he’s quick to grab it and prevent it from opening more. “Is she in there?”

“Who?”

“You bloody know who.”

“Seeing as how it’s my bedroom in my family estate, the contents of it are none of your business,” Thomus says pointedly. “Don’t you have anything better to do on New Year’s Eve?”

“This isn’t the first event you’ve mysteriously disappeared from,” Rodolphus says. “Forgive me for wanting to know my wife’s whereabouts.”

“I don’t care about your wife’s whereabouts,” Thomus seethes. “My only concern is that she isn’t here.”

“That’s a first -”

“I retreated to my own toilet to vomit, and the evidence should still be there, Lestrange, if you so desire to look.”

“Ugh,” Rodolphus scoffs angrily. “You’re revolting. Your mudblood’s really rubbing off on you.”

“If that was your only reason to disturb me - “

“Yaxley wants you to join us,” Rodolphus says. “In that little drawing room off the stairs.”

I can see Thomus’ stance reluctantly shift as he straightens. His elbow pops in and out of view as he finger-combs his hair again.

“If I must,” Thomus growls, then he steps out, shutting the door behind him.

I breathe a sigh of relief and sag against the wall. Thank god that’s over. We got everything done in time.

In … time.

With horror, I look down and see the Time-Turner still dangling from my neck.

Oh my fucking god, how the fuck could I forget?! I mean, since we rewound time, does that mean he has another copy of this Time-Turner and we have this one for free?

I don’t even want a Time-Turner. It’s too tempting of a problem solver. I’ve gotta put it back in Rodolphus’ pocket.

Keeping my Disillusionment charm up, I creep open the door. Thomus and Rodolphus are hardly down the hall, so I open and close the door slowly so as to not make any noise. I’m still in my socks, so I quickly and, more importantly, quietly glide down the hard wood floors after them. The good thing about the Disillusionment charm is that as long as no one’s looking for you or really at you, you’re practically invisible. Especially if you’re really good at it - which I am.

By the top of the stairs, we aren’t alone anymore. Thomus had stopped for some reason and I guess it’s because he sees his brother. I hear a man call out, “Lucius! Come join us. We were just discussing Geneva.”

Thomus peeks over the railing as he continues down. Lucius replies, “Of course. Give me a moment to put my pet to bed.” My eyes immediately start looking for a place to tuck myself in and hide.

“Bring her,” the other man continues. “I was just about to come looking for you as well. We have the other one in here too. And see? Here comes Rodolphus with your brother.”

Oh my god, the other one ? What the fuck does that mean? Hermione wasn’t the only Lot allowed to come?

Thomus and Rodolphus have disappeared from sight, so I creep forward until I’m able to see heads below. Yaxley is standing next to the stairs, looking up at the pair descending them. Between their bodies, I see Lucius’ blond head, Hermione’s curls and twinkling jewelry.

Lucius still hesitates, even as they move to accommodate Thomus and Rodolphus. Yaxley gets impatient. “Don’t be stingy. Your guests want to see the finest horses in the show.” He smirks. “Maybe we’ll let them wrestle.”

“Just for a few minutes, I suppose,” Lucius stiffly replies.

No more words are said as they all shuffle into the small sitting room below the stairs. I move down the stairs so quickly I’m practically flying - well, falling. But I’m holding onto the railing for dear life, just trying to get to that door before it closes.

The feat proves impossible though, because that’s exactly what it does. And now I’m fucking stuck in the main hall. I can clearly see the couple hundred people still partying in the ballroom. Back to my last plan, which was looking for a place to hide.

There’s a promising spot across the room by the windows. I beeline for the dark curtains, swiftly turning into them. Tucked away, I’ll still be able to see when they open the door.

I stand there long enough for my feet and thighs to ache, and for at least ten songs to go by, until finally someone opens the door. It’s Lucius and Hermione. He’s taking her back to her room, and thank fuck he doesn’t close the door.

I dart to it, but then slowly inch my way in. My eyes bore into all the faces I can see, making sure no one is looking at me. Thomus is just lowering into a chair near the front of the room and Rodolphus is deeper in, sitting on the armrest of his brother’s chair. I crouch walk to Thomus’ chair, hiding between the back of it and a liquor cart.

“And where’s your Lot this evening, Thomus?” Nott Sr.’s old, scratchy voice skitters from another chair. “Why isn’t she being trotted out as part of the Malfoy parade?”

My poor thighs can’t handle crouching anymore, so I kneel next to the wall, my face by Thomus’ shoulder. At Nott’s question, I look up at Thomus for his response.

Dolohov snickers. “Because that one’s not a trophy, is she?”

Rabastan smiles after his drink. “You got that right, mate.”

“Can you believe what Witch Weekly wrote about her?” Mulciber jumps in. “There’s no way a mudblood did all that.”

A few voice their agreements and laugh, because it’s just so funny I guess. Then Thomus’ soft, sure voice silences them. “Yes, I believe it. Why don’t you?”

The question’s aimed at Mulciber, who looks taken aback by it. He smiles in disbelief and his eyes bounce around the room. “Because it’s obvious, isn’t it? A girl like her, beating all those Purebloods, it’s got to be fake. The tournament was stolen from them by a bloody charlatan.”

“Mulciber,” Thomus says, sounding vaguely concerned at this man’s answer. “There’s thousands of eye-witnesses, first-hand photos, and official documentation of her achievements in those tournaments, and you believe they’re fake?”

All eyes swivel to Mulciber like the camera’s just zoomed in on his face. The embarrassment easily gets to him, because his face turns pink and he responds with anger. “Oh, right, like you’ve seen all this evidence.”

Surprisingly, Rodolphus is the first to Thomus’ defense. “The twat’s a bloody journalist,” he says, sounding appalled at his fellow Death Eater’s stupidity.

“So?”

“So yes, I’ve done plenty of proper research on her,” Thomus replies, a hard edge to his voice. “Is it really that hard to believe what they say is true?”

“Alright, fine, if she’s this big shot mudblood , what’s she doing with you then?” Rabastan asks.

Before Thomus can even respond, Avery, who’s standing by the fireplace with Ginny tucked into his side, shoots out, “Would you ever consider selling her?”

“Why would you buy her ?” Mulciber asks, visibly disgusted. “You’ve already got the second most expensive cunt of the lot!”

“You should know by now that we all have different tastes, Mulciber,” Avery says, clearly referencing something. “Sometimes my pet is a bit too… fragile, if you catch my meaning.”

God, why are all of these men such sadistic fucks ? I’m glad I’m hidden so I can hide the disgust on my face.

“She isn’t on the market,” Thomus states, almost angrily. “I’m very aware of the value of my property and she’s worth far more than you think.”

Avery gives him a dubious look. “Surely it can’t be all that large of a sum. She isn’t even a virgin anymore.”

“You got that right,” Dolohov snickers. “Verified that myself.”

“And it was never any secret,” Rodolphus slides in.

A lot of them kinda laugh at that. Not Thomus, though. Rodolphus winks at him from across the room, and Thomus’ hands clench tightly in his lap. Being this close to him means I can hear the deep, steadying breath he takes.

Avery heartily chuckles. “Well, it all feels the same in the dark. Doesn’t it, Thomus?”

“I… have to disagree,” Thomus says without the same humor. “With this war, all the long hours and hard days, a soft body to come home to is a welcoming respite.”

His honest confession silences the room before Dolohov cracks a joke. “Well, I need a nice tighter ass than that fat cow’s got.”

“Young man, watch your tongue!” one of the portraits hisses. Looks like one of Thomus’ grandmothers.

Some snicker at the scolding, but Yaxley’s authoritative voice from the end of the couch speaks above it. “Did you hear they’re demanding her release?”

They’re what? My eyes widen and the vibe of the room suddenly turns serious at the question.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Thomus answers.

“Who’s demanding her release?” Rodolphus asks.

“ Witch Weekly and their American associates The Witch’s Voice ,” Yaxley says. “Whether or not the mudblood actually possesses this preternatural wandless magical ability doesn’t matter - they certainly believe it. Of course her release is out of the question. She needs to remain under lock and key, not with the rebels fighting against us.” He looks around the room, meeting everyone’s eyes, settling on Thomus’ last. “How much of a threat do you believe she poses?”

“She does not pose a threat while she’s in my custody,” Thomus replies. “I’ve gone to great personal lengths to ensure that.”

My chest is painfully tight, an ache growing there at his words. What’s he talking about?

“Excellent,” Yaxley says. “Expect the Dark Lord to demand an audience with you soon within the new year.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomus replies.

Yaxley stands, buttoning his jacket. “Now, I will rejoin my wife and daughter in the ballroom as I encourage you all to as well.”

Thus begins everyone’s exit. They mill about, taking their time, chatting over nothing that I really care about. Thomus doesn’t move immediately and I take this opportunity to place my hand on his forearm resting on the chair. Tension springs to his muscles at my touch and I slide my hand down to his. He subtly glances down at his hand to watch me slip the Time-Turner into it. I get on one knee, lifting my lips to his ear.

“Put this back in his pocket,” I whisper. “I’m gonna wait here until the coast is clear.”

I slink back into my corner, watching as he drops his chin, not looking in my direction. Rodolphus has already left the room, so I know Thomus is gonna have to follow him. Which he does when he realizes the few remaining in the room aren’t planning to leave yet.

Of the three that remain, Mulciber and Rabastan say a few things I can’t hear before they’re snickering amongst themselves. Nott Sir. is passed out in his chair. The other two slowly make their way to the door, their conversation growing louder.

“Did you hear back from Montague’s uncle in France?” Mulciber asks.

Rabastan sighs heavily. “No, so that means there's another defector for Thomus to find.”

“I can’t believe the boy would leave, especially with his father’s health.”

They pause by the door. Rabastan scans the hallway and double checks that Nott is sleeping.

“Thomus is supposedly the last person to have seen him,” Rabastan says, “but you didn’t hear that from me.”

Mulciber agrees to keep quiet as they finally leave the room.

I’m frozen while my brain struggles to process all of this new information until Nott’s snore reminds me my exit window is closing. Without being seen, I slip back upstairs to Thomus’ room.

~*~

I finally pass out for a bit after crawling into bed for the millionth time tonight. It’s still dark when he returns. When he sees that I’m awake, he gives me a gentle smile and kisses my forehead.

My heart thuds heavily in my chest, very awake now that I’m swooning over forehead kisses.

He pulls back the covers and I open my arms to him. He crawls right in, his head on my chest and my arms around his shoulders.

“How’d it go?” I ask. “With Rodolphus?”

“Bit underwhelming,” he answers. His voice is a little muffled because his face is half-buried in my boob. “I just waited until he was drunk enough. Didn’t take long.”

“That’s a relief,” I sigh.

“What’s a relief is you not being seen,” he says, sounding irritated and impressed. “Had you been there the entire time?”

“I only came in when your brother and Hermione left.”

He exhales heavily and his head shakes a bit. “I’m sorry you had to hear all of that.”

I think for a second, then I chuckle. “I’ve definitely said way worse to myself, don’t worry. They can say all they want, but I did get absolutely railed tonight, so…”

His shoulders shake under my hands with silent laughter. “Yes, that’s true,” he says after he can take a breath. “I’m surprised you haven’t any questions regarding the articles about you.”

“The ones demanding my release?”

“Yes.”

“Well, isn’t it up to you? It’s not like the cops can come and take me away, right?”

His arms tighten over mine, his leg hiking over my thigh. “No one can take you from me,” he says darkly. “I won’t let them.”

I’m stunned by the intensity of his words. New year, new Thomus, I guess. My fingers start to comb through his hair, which does its job to calm both him and me.

Tonight’s been a big night for us. The whole thing with Rodolphus, the meeting, and let's not forget he more or less admitted to having feelings for me, to caring about me more than he should.

The problem is that I want it so… so bad. The whole thing with Rodolphus could've went much worse if he didn't trust me to handle myself. He went to so much trouble to sneak me in here to be able to kiss me for New Years. He even defended me in front of a roomful of his peers and superiors. Like, how else am I supposed to feel? How am I not supposed to want more when I've been gifted a taste of what I've always wanted? This has to be the universe's form of punishing me.

For now, I kiss his temple and drape my arms over his shoulders to hold him tighter, dreading the day I can't.

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