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dragonnarrative-writes · 6 months

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Transferrable Skills Part 1

Transferrable Skills Masterlist

Your therapist warned you about superstitious thinking. You've been working on it. In fact, you've been very good at catching it, challenging yourself to relax, and letting things go. Even before this big work trip, you consciously avoided the "unhelpful" rituals and reminded yourself that the little ones were just to make you feel secure, not to actually influence the future across an ocean.

"I'm very nervous," you had told Señor Snuggly two weeks ago. Your worn out stuffed lizard hadn't said anything back, of course. "That's normal, because it’s an international flight. So I'm going to give you a hug good-bye, and you're gonna stay here to watch the house. I know it's not going to change anything, but I'll feel better knowing you're here."

At the airport, you realized that you had forgotten your toothbrush. It had satisfied the part of your brain that was looking for one (1) thing to go wrong. Superstitious thinking, but the kind that helped you to relax and listen to music until you boarded.

Now, forced to sit on the floor, surrounded by shouting men with guns, your brain is stuck on your lopsided stuffed animal and blue toothbrush. Of all the things that could pop into your head, why those?

You almost let out a nervous giggle at the mental image of Señor Snuggly using your toothbrush as a shiv to save the day. And then the idea of what would happen if you started laughing right now almost startles you into another burst of giggles. You clap your hands over your mouth and curl into yourself a little bit more.

Next to you, your boss throws you a sympathetic look. "You okay?"

"No talking!" The nearest assailant yells in heavily accented English. You're pretty sure the attackers have been speaking Russian, but you could be mistaken. He brandishes his gun. "You want to die?"

"She needs to go to the restroom," your boss answers.

"No, I don't," you protest. You really, really do, and have for the last two hours. But being escorted out of the room alone seems like enough of a Bad Idea that your bladder can wait.

"No, she does not," the man confirms. "Shut up. Do not talk."

You meet your boss's eyes and try to silently convey, Why are you trying to get me killed?

His doughy face says back, I am a white man who goes to the gym once a week, and I really like the John Wick movies. I have delusions of being a hero. If one man takes you to the bathroom I have the mistaken belief that I can overpower two men with guns to save everyone. Also you're a black woman, so don't you have super powers? I believe in you, queen.

You may be projecting.

Ten minutes later, just as you're wondering if you should suggest a group field trip down the hall to the bathrooms, a series of gunshots rings through the building. The energy in the room goes from nervous to frantic in an instant. Your bladder shuts up. The Russian men start shouting and waving their guns, apparently too agitated to speak English. Two hostages start crying because no one else speaks Russian, just English, French and your half-forgotten, informal, Mexican Spanish.

Another three Russians come bursting in the room, snarling something you can’t understand. They grab at a couple of people, force them to stand at gunpoint and gesture to the rest of you. And then everyone is up and kind of moving in the direction of the door. But you can’t get out of the door because they’re blocking it, but they’re really agitated that the room is still full of hostages. And then some people are being pushed back down to the floor. Your boss ends up sitting back down again. A hard hand closes on your arm before you can get down, and you and four others are dragged out.

The leader says, “You all are dignitaries, yes? Your embassies will send money or they will watch you die.”

This is, potentially, the worst possible scenario. None of the five of you are even remotely important, let alone dignitaries. You’re not 100% sure about most of the others, but you’re an aid. An aid to an aid, really. The blonde woman with the remarkably sharp bob is a personal assistant. Today’s conference was about health data management, of all things.

You decide you’re not going to die with a full bladder. You look to the man holding your arm in an iron grip and point to the upcoming door on the right. “Can I please go to the restroom? I’ll be quick.”

He asks the leader something in Russian, and then you’re being shoved through the bathroom door. He doesn’t follow you into the stall, but it’s still so awkward to pee knowing that there’s a man with a gun waiting for you. You’re so glad you aren’t on your period - opening the wrapper on anything right now would feel louder than it has since middle school.

The door to the restroom opens just as the toilet finishes flushing. You hear a scuffle, an aborted shout, and then something heavy hits the floor. You freeze, heart racing. But then there’s no more sound.

You wait for what feels like an hour but must only be a minute before calling, “H-hello?”

You don’t get an answer. Unlocking the door and easing it open, you peek out and stifle a gasp. The man who had escorted you is on the ground, a pool of blood growing around him. His gun is gone.

You’re halfway through washing your hands before you realize you’re on autopilot.

It takes everything in you to fight down the urge to freeze in place and make yourself inch around the body to the door. When you poke your head out, the hall looks so normal that it makes you dizzy for a second. You try to decide what to do through the anxiety fog. You can’t hide in the bathroom with a dead body, and you probably can’t go back to the big room with everyone without getting shot. You have no idea where the other faux-dignitaries were taken. Apparently, there’s at least one person going around killing people in bathrooms.

You try to think of what your therapist would say in this situation. All of the options feel bad, she would say. So you can’t not do anything because it feels bad. Thank the anxiety for trying to keep you safe, then try to pick the least awful course of action.

“Fight, flight, freeze, fawn,” you whisper to yourself. Fighting is right out. “Flight, freeze, fawn.” There’s a body pouring blood right behind you. “Flight, fawn.” No one is around to appease. “Flight.”

Another gunshot and shouting. It sounds like it’s coming from the left, so you head right.

You shuck off your sensible kitten heels and fervently wish your otherwise sensible pantsuit wasn’t pastel purple in this very beige hallway. Not that a thicker-than-European-average black woman mincing around in a Swiss hotel and conference center would be inconspicuous in a black suit, your mind counters itself. You try to force your brain to shut up, with mixed success.

You wander a good five minutes, reminding yourself not to panic at every locked door you try. The halls are so quiet that you half convince yourself that you’ve gotten out of immediate danger. So of course, right as you’re about the round the next corner, one of the Russians appears, reeling backwards. And then he collapses, a knife sticking out of his neck.

You can’t really worry about that, though, because right after him comes one of the largest men you’ve ever seen. He must catch sight of you out of the corner of his eye, because his head snaps to look at you. You barely register the assault rifle in his hands because his eyes bore into you through the top half of a human skull.

Oh, I’m glad I already peed, you think, staring into the eyes of Death.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” the man says, growls really. “What are you doing here?”

“I… bathroom? Please don’t kill me. I’ll cooperate.” you squeak out. Oh, fawning! Cool.

“Price, I’ve got one of the hostages,” he says, nonsensically. “I’ve cleared the east wing.”

You jump when his walkie-talkie - of course it’s a walkie-talkie - squawks back an “Affirmative. Status?”

“She’s up and walking,” the man says, not taking his eyes from yours. “Seems uninjured.”

“Stow her somewhere safe.”

“Negative,” Death says. Before you can panic because what the fuck does that mean? he says, “Bringing her back with me.”

“Copy.”

When he takes a step toward you, you stop breathing. Everything in you is screaming RUN and DON’T MOVE at the same time. His second step in your direction results in a full body twitch. You get the impression that the gun is pointed at the ground, but the only thing you can really see is bone white over a black mask and what might be really pretty brown eyes, but the shadow from the overhead light really makes it hard to tell and your vision is going a bit darkaroundtheedgesandohI’mstillnotbreathingthat’snotgreat.

You’re shocked into gasping when a gloved palm touches the side of your face. The rough material helps you settle into your body, just in time to start hyperventilating.

And that’s when things get weird, because Death says, “Easy, lovie. Settle, f’ me, yeah? Deep breaths, like we’ve practiced.”

Your brain latches on to the familiar command to settle before you can even question why it’s familiar. The way the man makes a long, low shushing noise makes you so suddenly weak in the knees that you stagger where you stand.

And then it clicks. Holy shit. You know this voice. You know these commands. You’ve been listening to and learning them at least once a week for the last six months. He doesn’t even sound that different from over the phone or on a video call.

“There you go, that’s good,” Simon, the dominant you’ve been seeing online, tells you through his skull mask. “Keep breathin’. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

It’s the second time in your life you’ve been surprised out of a panic attack. “W-what the fuck? Si?” you gasp. “What are you doing here? Did you kill that guy?”

“Questions are gonna have to wait,” he says. “Keep breathing. In for four, hold for two. In for two, out for eight. Can you do that?”

“Why are you in Switzerland?”

“Breathe,” he rumbles. “Settle.”

“No,” you hiss, even as your shoulders relax another fraction. The corners of your eyes start prickling with tears.

“This is a double red light situation,” Si says, staring into your eyes. “I know you’re scared, but I’m going to get you out of here. You trust me?”

“You are wearing a skull on your face.”

“And you’re wearing a purple suit,” he answers. “There are people who want to shoot both of us. You get one more outburst, then you’re breathing and following me. Acknowledge.”

What the fuck? “This isn’t a scene!”

His eyes bore into yours. “Might surprise you, but I’m aware. Acknowledge.”

A distant shout makes you flinch. You relent. “Acknowledged. Four in, hold two, two in, out eight. Follow.”

“Good girl,” he says, patting your cheek once. “Stay behind me.”

#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction #transferrable skills #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #kink fics #this turned out so much more humorous than i expected and is so much fun to write #manic pixie dream ghost

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simp4konig · 1 month

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"You drive me crazy."

Obsessed! Nikto x Reader

Word count: 2472

Nikto's POV! Sporadic uses of "Y/N" — otherwise, reader is referred as "You".

To say that Nikto is obsessed with you would be an understatement 😵‍💫...

Nikto's psychological state gradually deteriorates as you read!

Google Translate Russian lmao 💀,, please forgive any errors! 😟

Edit: Realising that this fic is darker than my usual works. Warning my readers for darker content!

Edit 2: Added the appropriate "dark content" tags. <3

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I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

I've lost my mind long ago. We're losing it as we speak. I've lost myself long ago and I have not known what to do with ourselves.

Of course, not all was lost. I was cleared for service. I can approach situations without hesitation or uncertainty — but most importantly, kill methodically.

All I need are targets. Just give me targets. Nothing else matters. Nobody.

But I found you. I found you. And you found us. Although there was nothing to find, you found us.

How? It's a mystery. An enigma. An unsolvable puzzle.

My name is Igor. Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich.

Игорь. Igor. I—gor. Two syllables. Four letters, in English. A not so common name in Russia, according to the statistics: in 1991 — the year of my birth — approximately 37 baby boys born were named as such. In 2021, only 17 baby boys born were named Igor. I would assume the number declines each year — maybe less than a dozen Igors were christened this year. Or a single digit. Nine. Eight. Seven. Or even less than five.

October 13, 1991 was my exact date of birth. I was born in Novgorod, when Russia was still the Soviet Union. I had parents. A sister…

…Yet that means nothing to me.

Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich? That is foreign. That is not anyone that I know of. I am Nikto. I am no one. Nobody to know, yet somebody that I know of. Not this… Igor. I am nobody. Никто.

When the voices are quiet, that's when I can silently mourn the man that I once was.

Though, can you mourn someone whom you don't know? Can you mourn the faceless person in the casket, whose face is unrecognisable? Can you mourn at a funeral that no one attended, and hadn't taken process?

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to repeat it, yes?

I knew it. We knew it. Everyone else knew it.

But you didn't. You. You.

You… remind me of someone.

They're dead now.

They were just a target. Too bad I can't remember who they were.

But you're not. You're more than a target.

You treated me with kindness when everyone avoided me like the bubonic plague. A Black Death following the death of the former Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich and the black, black blackness lingering — a reminder. But not anything that allows us to remember, or reminds us of who we once were.

I don't remember anything. I don't remember anyone. Photographs of my family before the torture are irrelevant. Documents stamping my existence could just as easily make us inexistent. Nobody exists any more aside from Nikto.

A cacophony of voices has infiltrated my brain. Our brain. We will never be me anymore. We are who we are now.

I am a broken man. I hear the voices of many men, who won't let me sleep, won't leave me be, won't give me peace. I was one of those men. Maybe all of the men are me?

But if all of them are me, and I am all of them, then who are we? What are we?

Then again… who I am is nothing. What I are is everything. What we are — crazy.

The pieces of the puzzle aren't fully there. Surely you must have been aware, my treasure?

You were doing your due diligence to arrange the puzzle pieces, so meticulously and with dedication, devoting hours of your time and wishing for the finished product to be cohesive, but you won't find that within us. How unfortunate.

Some of the pieces are missing. Some of them don't even fit. What you're left with is an incomplete picture — one which will never be completed.

No matter. You can be the missing puzzle piece, yes?

My fellow operatives named me Никто — “Nikto”, meaning “Nobody” or “No-one” in Russian — for… what did they say? My “uncanny ability to replicate other people and hide [my] true identity”? Ironic — seeing as replicating an identity is not the same as claiming your own, and being an individual. Having an actual identity, as opposed to being forced to think that being nobody can suffice.

Funny. I was apparently religious before all of this.

Have you heard of Orthodox Christianity? It's a branch of Christianity most often practised in Eastern Europe, in case you weren't aware. Orthodox Christians believe that Jesus redeemed humanity by sacrificing himself through crucifixion — unlike Catholics, who believe that Jesus sacrificing himself through crucifixion was all in an effort to redeem humanity.

Perhaps I was an altar boy in my childhood. Or wore a cross around my neck. Maybe I was devoted, and prayed in the morning, before a meal for grace, in the night, before a mission for mercy, during a mission out of desperation, and after a mission as gratitude.

Such bullshit.

Obviously, God doesn't exist — not in the ethereal, omniscient sense.

Oh no.

The God is You. You are my God.

Just like with Orthodox Christianity, and the salvation of humanity after the sacrifice of Jesus, your presence, your mere existence, was salvation. You brought redemption unto us.

Of course, following my torture, God became an abstract concept. How could the Holy Father abandon me? How could my prayers after the tortue be so wilfully ignored? Why would he actively play a passive role in my damnation, as I'm burned, as I'm beaten, as I'm bruised, abused, cut, and mutilated?

No one was born a sinner. Not even me, this nobody. So what kind of retribution was this — a disfigured face, ruined body, and voices which infiltrated my psyche, words equivalent to the evil of the Antichrist?

But You? You made it worthwhile. Your kindness. Compassion. Charity. It was all worthwhile. Even to gaze at You from afar.

Well.

For the most part.

We have repented for our sins: stealing Your dirty laundry, Your hairbrush, Your t-shirts, and other trinkets which we deem Holy Relics; using Your lip balm without permission, You none the wiser; committing sinful acts in the comfort of your own bedroom, only for You to return, oblivious. We apologise for that nagging paranoia, demanding You to turn around, to catch a glimpse of the eyes staring at You, but You not noticing us when we were camouflaged in the shadows. For stalking You and learning Your schedule. For hacking into all of Your devices and acquiring every little piece of information available from Your digital footprints.

But, You forgive us, yes?

Don't look so horrified, dushka. We left no trace, yes? No evidence. You said You have forgiven all of our transgressions. Think of this as a confession, nothing more. Besides, we never tampered with You belongings. They're all still with us. Just like you will.

You are our oxygen. Without You, we can't breathe. Our lungs suffocate without Your natural scent to fill them, to keep us alive. Our eyes go blind with time without the sight of Your face, Your body. We can't hear anything other than Your voice — our ears tune out any frequencies and wavelengths that don't leave those pretty little lips, yet wage civil war amongst ourselves, spitting curses that cut like knives and pierce like bullets. And Your lips. And Your eyes. And Your eyebrows, hair, hands, neck, God — everything.

You won't abandon us, yes? You wouldn't abandon us, would you, мое сокровище? You are our treasure. I treasure you — all of us do: your pretty little lips, that speak in the softest of tones to us; those eyes that stare in slight fright, yet crinkle in as genuine of a smile as you can manage; those eyebrows that furrow over your bright eyes in the subtlest of frowns, in sorrow or frustration, maybe vexation — and that's just your face. What about your hair? Your hands? Your neck? Your body? What is there not to treasure?

Боже мой, Bozhe moy, my God. Oh God, it's as if an angel has descended and granted us salvation, a merciful deity absolving us of our sins and cleansing our soul. And both the angel and deity are You — working in perfect sync, so benevolent and forgiving, taking pity on a creature so pitiful, so ruined, so unfixable.

We can't remember what some of those was.

Those puzzle pieces, of course.

Zakhaev’s torture stole some of the pieces to the jigsaw, and the puzzle won't ever be solved. We ourselves interrogate, torture, eliminate, kill. Sometimes we dissociate. Other times I am completely in control. Yet all the time, we are committing sins, sins, sins.

And You forgive them. Forgive us.

Every prayer is us praying for you, to you, about you. And each one concludes with your sacred name, whispered in hushed tones as the syllables are too precious to utter out loud.

Poor, poor thing. You probably didn't even know what you were signing up for, did you? You probably intended to be charitable. Sympathetic. And you were, sweet one.

But you were naive to have assumed that we wouldn't become possessive of you like an unwanted stay mutt of its only bone. So innocent — perhaps stupid — but we like to think that you were misguided in your intentions, yet guided by some God.

An ignorant God? If You're the God to worship, then are You an ignorant one? An innocent, naive, and unconditionally loving one? Yet, one that, despite Their obliviousness, can knowingly soothe with a simple string of words? With a caress?

What an oxymoron. It suits You. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Aw. Are those tears, dushka? Let's wipe them, hmm? Kiss it better, yes? You will like our lips on you.

Don't scream. Don't hurt those vocal cords. We like the sound of your voice. We want you to talk.

There there, little one. You look beautiful when you cry, but you look most beautiful when you're smiling. Smile, hm? Do it for us. Your Nikto.

You don't have to be afraid, you know. Don't be afraid, krasotka. We love you.

Here, put your hand on our chest. Feel how our heart is beating? It beats only for you.

Our abdomen, our stomach. You feel how toned that is, yes? You feel the muscle?

What about our biceps? The strength in our forearms? They're all for you. We're all yours, yours yours yours.

Our blood looks good on you, dushka. The blood really accentuates your nails. But please, stop. Stop.

You don't have to scratch us, or scream. You know that none of that will change anything. You know that we will love you, even if you tell us you hate us. It's too late.

Get used to touching us, yes? What's left of us, anyways. Yes, our body won't be the most appealing, or the handsomest, but it's all for you. Every inch. All for you — just like how you are all ours.

You're ours, just as much as we belong to you. You could stab us with a knife and we'd smile. You could shoot us with a gun point-blank in the head and we'd thank you. What an honour it would be to live with you by your side, or die by your side. We're a dead man either way. Your dead man. Your Nikto.

You underestimated my capacity for violence. Or were perhaps too naive to understand it.

That's okay. Put your hand on my face. Just like that. See? Nothing to fear. It's just us. Your Nikto.

I can feel it shaking. Why do you shake so much, hm? Don't be afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. You should know there's nothing to be afraid of. After all, you were fearless when it came to speaking to me, and weren't afraid to reach out to us. Surely you don't want to abandon us now?

That's too bad. You won't abandon us. We won't let you.

I'm crazy: I don't think I need to repeat it, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy.

I am already crazy yes but it is You who drives me to insanity do You know that? Why do You deny? Do not deny us this yes? Yes You do know that it is You who makes me mad beyond return of course You do You've always known it and You know it now little one You're just pretending feigning ignorance with surprise in Your eyes. Why pretend that it was all a pretense? Your kindness? Your sympathy? Your company? It was not pretense to us no it was everything. Everything we could have hoped for prayed for and lived for.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy, baby.

Craaazyyy. Crazy crazy crazy!

You have made us the craziest we have ever been from the moment we met Your eyes and will be forever driven crazier with Your around from the day You die. And that won't be anytime now, my treasure. We will treasure You, take care of You, keep You safe. You will want for nothing, we can assure You — nothing, nobody, no one. Only Nikto. Nobody will ever look at You, as their eyeballs will be gouged out for having the audacity to spare a glance at the pinnacle of perfection. And nobody will ever want You, nobody will taint that precious skin with unworthy fingers, as anyone who tries will have them broken have their bones crushed to dust their skin muscles and tendons ripped to ribbons until there is no body left.

Nobody will ever look at You. Only Nikto. Us. Forever, and ever, and ever and ever and ever we will have our eyes on You until our retinas dissolve and our pupils can no longer absorb light and we become blind and crippled, crying, crying crying crying for You, crying only for You. You crying out for us until Your voice is hoarse from moaning, until our name becomes a prayer just as much as Yours is to us.

We love You. Think of nobody. Only Nikto. Only of Nikto. Only for and against Nikto. We will live for You. We do already, do you understand? We're yours. Yours. Yours yours yours yours yours yours to have yours to hit yours to scratch with those nails yours to scream at yours yours yours yours yours. Yours. Yours! Yours!

Yours!

Y/N.

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it. You should have known it.

And if you didn't know it, then You will know it.

Because You drive me crazy.

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A/Ns

Really really really Really REALLY had doubts about posting this and thought that no one would like it. I felt inspired and happy and proud of myself when I was almost finished but it took me days to conclude the work since I was second-guessing whether or not I should post this after all. Kind of embarrassed, in all honesty, but I decided to post it in the end since I quite like it. :'>

I just wanted to highlight your, @//connorsui, lovely, lovely words when you reblogged my last Nikto post 😭😭😭💘💘💘. To receive not only some compliments, but your thoughts on my headcanons AND analysis *AND* your evaluation of my post was so, SO heartwarming to wake up to in the morning 🥹🥹🥹💓💓💓, especially when it was so long!!! Like, what?!! 😢😢😢😢😢😿😿😿😿😿😭😭😭😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💖💖💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨

Thank you so so so SO much for your positive feedback !!! I've read it over four times by now. O really appreciated and still appreciate it. ☺️💞🫶💖✨✨💕💕

(I also want to kiss Nikto's scarred face ☹️☹️☹️ just wordless acts of intimacy where words aren't necessary and just to show the man some affection, regardless of how he looks 😟💝 need that ugly traumatised Russian man SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭)

Inspiration for this gained from:

thisvvv song!!! and Chapter 7 in Metro 2035 lol,, when Artyom was drunk and disorientated I thought it was written really REALLY well and I wanted to incorporate his meaningless drivel into this.

Nikto's voicelines and his various voices/sporadic changes in character

the Fandom Wiki

my own headcanons lol 😋

From fluff this whatever the fuck this is!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoyed 💗💗

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del-thetiredwriter · 3 months

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Saintess of dragons part 3

Part 1 , part 2

English is not my first language.

Gif is not mine

Warning: female reader, not really dark themes.

You watched with sadness as the stone coffin sank into the sea. You were guilty. You felt regret for her death. You could have saved Laena, but you didn't because of your cowardice and selfishness. Rhaenys and Corlys lost their daughters, Laenor lost his sister, the girls lost their mothers because of you.

You didn't speak at all during the funeral. You just hugged the girls and offered your condolences to the Velaryons. Afterwards, you went to your room like everyone else.

When you opened the door, you saw a silhouette that you didn't recognize, with her back turned, on the seats. Silhouette of a woman. The woman turned towards the door and smiled and curtsied as she saw you.

“I greet the saintess.”

She was a brunette and elegant woman. Her long hair came down to her waist. She had an attractive yet disturbing smile. It wasn't a reassuring smile, but it fit her mysterious aura.

You straightened your stance. The woman spoke again:

"Would you like tea?"

"Who are you?"

You asked coldly. No one could enter your room without your permission. House Targaryen was also included.

“I am the person you are looking for. I am the person you are desperately looking for, the one who can send you back to where you came from. Shall we talk a little?”

You hesitated for a moment, but you had nothing to lose. You should have taken this gamble. It was the first time in years that anyone had talked about where you came from.

You closed the door and sat across from the woman.

“Please allow me to introduce myself again. I'm Elenor. And I am the person you are looking for. The witch who can open the portal.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You are already showing that you trust me by sitting across from me. Besides, it's the first time in years that someone is talking to you about the portal. You have no choice but to trust me."

She was right. You tightened your skirts nervously. You tried to look calm.

“So Elenor, why did you come now? Why did you come especially now?”

The witch smiled.

“Oh my lady there is something you especially need to do today. I came to remind you. But before that, we still have time, so I'd like to explain things a little to you. For example, why you don't age or why you suddenly lose your memories."

"Continue."

“The portal door opened 15 years ago, of course I didn't open it and I still don't know why it was opened. However, my lady, you are not from this world, so time and fate do not work on you because you are not in destiny anyway. It's like time has stopped for you. However, you once tried to change fate. You remember. It made you suddenly forget some of your memories.”

You nervously took a sip of your tea. You remembered that time very well. Elenor continued.

“No one can change fate, but you, who come from another world, can because there is nothing binding you. However, every time you change destiny, you become a part of this world. And as you become a part of this world, you lose the memories that connect you to your world, that is, your self.”

With what Elenor said, everything fell into place now.

“So why are you here?”

You asked again.

The witch took a sip of her tea.

“I want to make a deal with you. Prevent this war from happening and I will send you back home.”

Elenor held out her hand to agree. A silence fell in the room.

"Do you realize what you're saying-"

“You need me or you can't go back home.”

Elenor interrupted.

You tightened your skirts. She was right. You wouldn't have found your way home without her help.

“Okay, I accept your offer .”

You reluctantly shook the witch’s hand. The brunette smiled and stood up. She moved towards the window. She looked at you for the last time.

“Then we agreed. See you until our next meeting, Saintess. And you'd better act quickly, because it would be better for you if the crown princess's blood wasn't shed tonight.”

When she jumped from the window, you rushed towards the window, but the sorceress had disappeared. You should have acted quickly.

You were walking through the corridors with fast, running steps. The rustle of your skirt echoed off the stone walls illuminated by torches. You finally reached the room and threw open the large doors.

All the courtiers had gathered except you. Alicent stood disheveled next to Visersy.

When you saw Aemond's face up close, you felt truly sorry.

Lucerys and Jacaerys were with their mother.

You sighed. Here we go, you thought.

“The legitimacy of my son's birth was put loudly into question. Called as bastards. My sons are in line to inherit the iron throne your grace. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so-”

Rhaenyra was speaking, but you interrupted her and intervened.

“Excuse me, my king, but it's late and I don't think anyone can think clearly in their current state of mind. It would be best for everyone to return to their rooms.”

Just as Alicent and Rhaenyra were about to protest, you spoke again.

“The children of the princess are the legal heirs to the throne. Don't worry, I will personally intervene in this matter. And my Queen, I understand you, but if anyone is responsible for this unfortunate incident, it is me, so if you wish, I would give up one of my eyes for the prince.”

Alicent bit her lip. Rhaenyra was not fully satisfied. No one could object because you intervened in the incident.

"There's no need." Said the tired queen in a defeated voice.

“Then I will grant the little prince one wish in return. Apart from that, please everyone go back to their rooms now. It's been a tiring day.”

Visersy nod.

“Saintess is right everybody shall return to your quarters.”

While everyone involuntarily returned to their rooms, Daemon continued to sit in his chair, grinning. He slowly stood up and started taking slow steps towards you.

“Wow, this is the first time you've used your authority. Very strange."

"What are you talking about." You spoke harshly. Being alone in the room with him made you nervous. As he moved towards you, you took a step backwards until your back was finally pressed against the wall.

“Whose side are you on exactly, huh? You were inactive until the morning now-“

“You make it up in your head. Besides, I'm not on anyone's side." You interrupted him.

The white haired man laughed.

“We'll see about this, little saintess.”

He kissed you on the forehead.

"Good night then." He waved his hand and left you alone in the room.

#dark hotd x reader #yandere #yandere hotd #dark hotd #hotd daemon #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #dark house of the dragon #yandere house of the dragon x reader #house of dragon fanfiction #yandere house targaryen #yandere house of the dragon #house of the dragon

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lovefoolholland · 1 year

Text

about you - theodore nott x reader

summary: the train reminded theo of you. thestrals reminded theo of you. what did theo remember about you that wasn’t as heartwrenching?

warnings: angst, a couple of lines from little women (greta gerwig’s movie)

a/n: i can’t stop picturing theo as a the 1975 type of guy. like, he gives off matty healy’s vibes, you know?

English is not my first language!

The platform didn’t quite spark memories of you, but boy did the compartment he and his friends shared sparkle something.

“Theo!” exclaimed Pansy Parkinson, clearly confused by the looks on Theodore Nott’s face “Are you alright?”

That was an understatement.

“Indeed” he answered instead.

“You don’t seem alright” Blaise inquired, and Pansy gave him a glance.

“I’m just tired” Theo said, rolling his eyes.

“Tired of spending all summer thinking of Y/N, I’m sure,” Draco’s voice spilled like venom, and Theo turned to look at him with a dark demeanor in his eyes “am I wrong?”

“Shut up Draco” Pansy said, and then looked at Theo with an apologetic smile.

“It’s fine,” Theo heard himself answer “but you’re incredibly wrong. Apparition always tires me.”

No one mentioned Y/N again, but Theo could feel the tension in the air.

The compartment reminded him of the smell of freshly baked cookies, and how – somehow – you always managed to smell like that. You’ve mentioned before that you’d stayed over at the Weasley’s for a couple of days before going back to school, but it had never occurred to him until later in the relationship that cookies were something Molly Weasley surely did the morning her children (and her friends’ children) left for Hogwarts.

Now, he missed the smell and he missed having his head dipped into the top of your head while his arms tangled on yours as you read some boring book that had to do with the classes to come.

“We’re here mate” said Blaise when everyone but him had gotten out of the compartment.

“Thanks” he said, and watched as a bunch of students started walking towards the thestrals that always drove everyone to the castle.

He didn’t find you in the crowd.

He got up and got out of the train in order to get to the castle in no time. He didn’t want to keep depressing himself over his failed relationship and the memories everything in Hogwarts brought him upon with.

At least not until he saw your wild hair waiting for a carriage.

“Hey” he said, and you couldn’t help but jump in place once you saw him.

“Oh, hi” your voice was as soft as the day he left you “, waiting for a thestral?”

He stared at you for a solid minute, watching how you curved your hands in your robes and a shy blush creeped up your cheeks. He then nodded.

“Yeah,” you nodded along “how long have you been here?”

“Not that long” your voice came out squeaky, noticeably ashamed “I just got off the train. I fell asleep.”

“What?” he asked, quite interested now “Why? Didn’t your friends wake you up or…?”

“I was alone” you said, pulling your lips together.

Of course you were.

“Right,” he said, uncomfortable “we should probably start walking.

“We should, yeah.”

The two of you made your path down the castle in silence, both of you unconsciously thinking of the other.

Theo remembered the first time he got on one of these carriages. He was incredibly nervous, and that’s when a girl with a bright smile sat next to him and started asking him questions. Just… Asking. She didn’t know about his nerves, if anything, she was interested in meeting new people and getting to know them.

That girl was you.

Four years later, during the Triwizard Tournament year, he had told you about the Yule Ball during your ride to the castle and had noticed the way your cheeks flushed when Draco mentioned he was going to ask Pansy to go with him, pretty proud of himself.

Days later, he asked you, and you went together.

Now it all seemed like a daydream, a cruel, plain daydream he had the day he told you he didn’t want a relationship with you anymore. How he told you that anyway or another, you were an obstacle in his life.

How stupid of him.

“How has your family been?” you asked, head tilting towards him.

He frowned.

“Father’s been pretty busy. And mother's portrait has been asking about you.”

Of course he had to say that.

He looks up to you to find a startled, yet satisfied expression on your face. He feels as if hot porridge has been spilled all over his face and neck because he knows he has turned red out of embarrassment.

“Send them my greetings” you simply say before accelerating your pace “, come on, we’re going to be late for dinner.”

“Wait, T/N,” the lights of the path leading to the school flick a little, and you stop in your tracks as he reaches to you “how have you been?”

You open your mouth and then close it. It almost seems as if you want to tell him everything about your summer but… But you can’t.

“Good,” you say, and start walking, slower this time, to the castle “my parents have been pretty busy too. The Ministry is going mad over the news of the return of You-Know-Who.”

“Yes, of course,” he says, and then slightly smiles “did you stay at the Weasleys?”

He’s met with silence. You look at him with suspicion, and he notices.

“What?”

“What is the point of you asking these questions?”

He scoffs.

“Alright, sorry. I won’t be asking anything else.”

“No, Theo– I mean, Theodore,” your breath hitches in your throat “it doesn’t bother me. At all. You know it never will.”

He knows what you’re asking.

But why?

As the two of you step into the entrance of the castle and Flitwick tells you to register yourselves, Theo realizes why.

“I’ve missed you” he confesses, and notices you try to evade his eyes “, Y/N–”

You take a sharp breath before speaking.

“Stop it,” she says, and he notices the tears forming on your eyes “Theo, you’re being mean.”

“Mean?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, mean” you emphasize in the word, and suddenly the two of you find yourselves right at the doors of the Great Hall.

Theo realizes neither has the intention of going in.

“I’m telling you how I feel, I don’t see how that’s mean.”

“No,” you say again, and now inevitably make eye contact. He instantly regrets, you’re on the verge of tears “you don’t get to say this, not after hurting me so much.”

“Y/N…”

“Not when I haven’t forgotten about you, not completely” you hiss, and take a step back.

Theo’s mind runs wild.

“You haven’t forgotten about me?”

The choice of words amuses him. How can you forget all that you’ve been through? From sleeping in each other’s arms on the train to the sight of you wearing captivating robes to the Yule Ball, dancing until the last song ran out.

“No, okay? I’ve tried, and I’ve tried, and I’ve tried, but I can’t” you say, tears sprinting down your cheeks as they turn red “I miss you on the train, I miss your arms around me, and I never know what to think about but…”

“You think about me” he finishes off, and takes a step towards you “, do you think I’ve forgotten about you?”

He knows you know that’s impossible.

You put your lips together tightly and look up at him with a frown.

“No.”

“That’s right,” he says, cupping your cheeks with your hands. He cleans the tears with his thumb “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

You close your eyes once you feel his skin against yours.

He silently dips his head and kisses your forehead. You still smell like freshly baked cookies.

“I’m sorry.”

You simply nod.

He sighs and dips even more, sliding his hands against the back of your neck before kissing you more feverishly than before. Both of your heads spin as every student storms out of the Great Hall, and even a poltergeist calls you two out.

“I will never forget you,” he assured you “all I can think about… Live about, is you. I’ve never stopped.”

You smile and nod, opening your eyes and clenching him by the robes surrounding his body.

“Never let go, Theodore Nott.”

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randombush3 · 6 months

Text

a sense of coming home

ona batlle x reader

summary: part two of this! ona and you are (frustratingly) still just friends

words: 6.5k (i have NO idea why i waffle so much but lets pls allow it)

warnings: there's like five secs of smut at the end

notes: this has been the most self-indulgent fic i've written because this is how i met my gf and so i am glad to show you a nice happy ending

again, the quote is from 'this side of paradise' (said gf's fav book - i don't recommend however because the protagonist is a twat)

also i didn't proofread bc i am exhausted and i am hungover and i am very ready to go to sleep (#globetrotting is not for the weak) x

There is something difficult about forcing oneself back to their toxic roots. Ona discovers as such as she presses her body into a temple of meaningless sex, but she does so because she is a driven person. Ona is determined to get over you, once and for all, except she’d quite like to stay friends (hence why she agreed when asked). She also thinks it would expose her to fall out because her feelings shouldn’t have existed anyway, so she technically shouldn’t be heartbroken?

Anyway, Ona rampages through Manchester! They appreciate her accent – some even ask her to speak to them in Spanish when she is three fingers deep inside of them, to which she obliges with little fanfare – and it isn’t like the city lacks queer women. It is a super solid way to keep her busy, to tear her attention from hungrily checking your Instagram whenever possible.

It’s also what lands her with coronavirus. She’s embarrassed to admit just how many people she has come into contact with when the club doctors ask her questions over the phone.

You send her a lovely message after hearing she is yet another fallen soldier.

Ona is at home, isolating, and you are apparently trapped in Spain, unable to get into Italy. You haven’t quite made it to your parents’ house since your flight was supposed to depart from Madrid. “How come you’re not on the phone to one of your ‘connections’?” Ona asks suspiciously, wondering why this call has lasted longer than ten minutes. “Surely someone knows someone else and they can get you back home.”

“I’m hardly out of my depth in my own country,” you remind her with a twinging sigh, pained that she has suppressed all memories of your childhood. “It’s not like I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Didn’t you get rid of it in your head to make space for Italian and English? Oh, and French too, right? That’s where the fashion weeks are.”

You laugh at her pride for knowing something about your job, but it is not to ridicule her. “I am speaking to you, aren’t I?”

“In Catalan,” she points out. “Forget Spanish, but don’t forget Catalan.”

“I can’t. It’s the language everyone uses to tell me about how fucked you’ve been lately.” You take in a deep breath, uncomfortable with Ona’s silence but knowing your piece needs to be said. “Are you aware of what happened a few months ago? Why I missed the wedding?” One of your friends met her dream man and he whisked her off to Menorca for a small ceremony. Only the people she loved the most were invited, which included your childhood friend group. “We were in New York, a whole bunch of us. It was late but the show had been a big deal so we went out to celebrate, and… these ‘friends’, these people, they aren’t the same as you and me. Most of them are English, you know, and they come from very fancy schools where addiction is normal. Two of them ended up in the hospital that night – the bag hadn’t even made it round to me by the time they’d dropped. I know it seems far-fetched, but all I’m trying to say is that addiction has consequences. Bad consequences.”

“So you’re not on my side?” Ona isn’t taking this too seriously. A few people have joked about her questionable new hobby, but no one has made it seem so dire that they have needed to get you involved. You who, of course, Ona will listen to.

“I am always on your side.”

That is her main take-away from the conversation, Ona chooses, when it ends an hour later. She swoons, meaning the last twenty women have been a waste of time, but she also tortures herself into ignoring the potential problem. Being a sex addict would be embarrassing, so she won’t be.

Though your subtle shaming for her abundance of quick-fix flings is hypocritical, Ona would also hate for you to see her that way. You can avoid commitment all you like, but she is determined to be different to prove to you that she is a viable candidate, should you wish to stop stringing her along. It’s probably toxic; it probably means that you are both clinging onto a friendship that should either end or be labelled something else. It probably is the push and pull that has kept you interested, Ona thinks, because she knows that you like the chase.

However, as much as she’d like to be freed of whatever game she is caught up in, she can’t seem to let you go like that.

…

The next time Ona and you have a proper conversation about something other than how your love lives have been stunted or how people back home are not as successful as the two of you is when most of the restrictions have been lifted.

You waited out the pandemic in Vilassar de Mar, much to your annoyance, but now that you can travel again, the first person on your mind to visit is your childhood best friend. You’re not as close as you used to be, having drifted further during even more years apart, but it does not dull your love for her, nor hers for you.

Ona has changed her mind about Manchester and is forcing herself to like it. It works enough for a visit from you to be the last thing on her mind, and so she slows her response time down until the next arranged date to see each other in person is all set for the summer before the Euros in England.

You’re not quite home but you are in the country, and, with the pre-Euros camp in two days, Ona is spending the final few hours of calm left before the storm in the comforting presence of her mum and dad.

And… you, apparently.

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” is Ona’s greeting when she opens the front door.

Your smile is wide and genuine, and you are holding a gift bag in one hand. There is a nice bottle of wine in the other. “Not even an ‘hola’?” When no reply comes, you swallow the emotions that have arisen; the ones that are maybe, just a little bit to do with how soft Ona looks with her hair down. And the slope of her jaw. And the ghosts of defined biceps that bulge even when she isn’t flexing her arms. “I’m dropping by to see your parents. I thought you were in Barcelona with your footballer friends.”

“You visit my parents?” asks Ona curiously.

“Of course.”

With that, you side-step her and call out to her mother, announcing both your arrival and your desire to hand them their gifts. Dinner is just about to be served, and Ona is soon tasked with setting another place at the table for you as though the last ten years had never happened and your friendship hadn’t lost its innocence.

Maybe it would be better for Ona to not know what it feels like to kiss you, to touch you, to – dare she think it – love you. It would certainly make things less painful, and would have saved her from catching at least one illness and spending a good amount of money on Ubers to escape from random apartments. It would make it easier to listen to you talk about your life in Milan, where you seem to exist in a bubble of incredibly attractive people who are desperate to hold hands and form a raft.

“Modelling can be brutal,” you agree, nodding at Ona’s father as you follow on from his concerns about your career. He voices them regularly; whenever you see him. Ona realises you have spent a lot of time with her parents without her. “It gets quite competitive between the girls so I’ve been somewhat avoiding them. They’ve brought in someone new, scouted from Germany, I think, and I’m a little worried that I’ll have to switch agencies if they start prioritising her.” You glance at Ona, wanting to know if she is listening, hoping she is. You wish that she were as good at suppressing her feelings as you are. You wish she didn’t look at you like you hung the moon, because you know that you have to tell her you have hung it for someone else. “I’d move tomorrow, to be honest, but I’ve started seeing this guy and he’s convincing me to stay in Milan.”

“The minute he is your boyfriend, you bring him here,” commands Ona’s mother in a tone she hasn’t yet used on her actual daughter (said daughter has never mentioned anyone before). “Show us a picture of him! Is he a model like you?”

He is, and if Ona holds her fork tighter after she sees the photo you pull up, that is her business. You secretly take in her clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows, and this might be the worst thing you have ever had to do. To see her so defeated, so hopeless, is upsetting, especially since you are harbouring the same feelings. However, you are able to admit when it is time to throw the towel in, and you can no longer live like this.

Ona is too perfect for you. She is driven, hard-working, and funny. She likes to nutmeg little children on the street, and she likes to buy them an ice-cream if they slip a goal past her, slotting the flat footballs into imaginary nets and celebrating as though they have just won the Champions League. She knows a lot, more than she thinks she does. She cares about people, but sometimes it manifests in anger, in frustration.

Any aspect of her is an aspect that you could love, and that is reason enough not to. Because how can you allow yourself to taint such perfection?

But, in this unspoken rejection, the compliment is obscured from the recipient’s view. All Ona sees when you gush about how he buys you flowers and takes you out to dinner, is a burning, bright question. It flashes red and yellow, both as a warning and cry for attention. How can she compete if you don’t even recognise her as a competitor?

…

“--And then they proceeded to finish a film they were halfway through as if it were the most normal thing ever,” Ona rants the minute she hits the concrete of Las Rozas, walking into the facility with Aitana and the other girls who travelled with her from Barcelona. Only the midfielder has been gracious enough to listen to the entire monologue, but the others joke that that is because Ona’s emotional state has led her to spiral in her native language. It is forbidden for them to openly speak Catalan in the Spanish camp, according to Jorge Vilda, who loves to hurl a ‘we can send you back to where you came from in an instant’ their way if he so much as hears a ‘bon dia’. Naturally, Aitana doesn’t give a fuck about the rule, although Ona chooses to believe that she is listening because she cares.

“Are you done?” Aitana asks thoughtfully, sucking on her bottom lip as she tries to absorb her friend’s crisis and formulate a valid, sensible response. The two have known each other for a while now, and Aitana remembers a time when Ona was relentlessly teased by their older teammates for being in love with her best friend. It is clear to her that those feelings never ceased, though she has heard through the grapevine (Leila Ouahabi) that you are now a model and you live somewhere in Italy. You’re part Italian, is what Leila also claims, having professed your ethnicity to a small huddle of fellow gossipers one day in the gym at the Barça training facility.

“No! Nothing is ever done with her. It’s viscous and it continues in a horrid cycle that has me flapping around in circles like some idiot. I am one of her boys.” Ona groans dramatically, the sound perhaps a little too loud. A few of the girls in front of them turn around to see why a cat seems to have been strangled, but they quickly lose interest when they see it is just Ona and her disastrous situation. “Do you know how fucking humiliating it is to be one of her guys? I am a professional footballer! I play for Manchester United, one of the most historic clubs in the world, and I am about to represent my country in a major tournament. I am successful, Aita, and yet I am still not enough for her.”

“Maybe she only likes men.”

“A man has never made her scream like I have,” she bites back. Aitana blushes, but Ona is too far gone in her rage to hear her crudeness nor preserve her friend’s sanity. “She’s been like this since she decided she was gay! Isn’t that hilarious? ‘Ona, I think I’m gay’, she said. I know lesbian breakups can be hard, but there is no way my cousin fucked her up to this extent.”

“I can’t help you with this, Oni,” Aitana laments, sorry to have to confess this to her friend. “I think you need to talk to her about it. A proper conversation to fix long-term issues, not like the ones you obviously had when agreeing to stop having sex and things like that. Only she knows what she’s thinking.” It is definitely not the advice Ona wants to hear, but she cannot deny the midfielder’s wisdom. “But for now, we focus on winning.”

…

You are more than a little confused.

To start from the beginning, Ona’s cousin fucked you up. She broke your heart, and that first impression of dating girls was incredibly traumatising. With girls, you don’t just kiss and sleep with them, you get close – really close – and then when you break up, it is like you have lost both a girlfriend and a best friend.

Men are a lot simpler. Men like you and they aren’t shy about it. They can sometimes be just as cruel, but you have never felt invested enough to care too much.

Some nights, you don’t fall asleep, tossing and turning between your sexual identity, aware that you don’t need to label it but desperate to… discover yourself. If you don’t understand that part of you, how will someone else? How can you be loved? How do you even know who you want to love you?

For as much as Milan is great, it definitely doesn’t help you with your crisis. Girls in Milan like to do what they want. It is not uncommon for the models to kiss each other in clubs, in front of appreciative male gazes or not, and then reveal their engagement to their future husband the very next day. It’s easy to be drawn into such a bubble, but the minute you step out of it, you are hit with the real world.

It’s what makes the pandemic so distressing for you personally, because you are forced to live like normal people for some time. Your eyes are held open and the question is shoved down your throat, and it really doesn’t help that Ona’s cousin never moved out of Vilassar de Mar.

She sees you one day, saying hello from a suitable distance as you pick up milk as per your mother’s request. “I heard you’re modelling?” she asks with no agenda, no seductive glint in her eye. You notice the ring on her finger, and she feels the heaviness of your staring. “Oh, I got married a year ago. Did Ona not tell you?”

You realise that you and Ona try to avoid talking about anything other than the love interests you have. “No, she didn’t. Congratulations, though. She’s a lucky woman.”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re happy for me,” laughs the woman opposite you, amused and somewhat apologetic. “Look, I’m really sorry for how I acted when we were younger. I was definitely not the most mature person out there, and I know I hurt you.”

“I cried for months.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. You suck in a deep breath, trying to hold the memories of your pain at bay. “The first breakup is usually the worst but at least it gets better, as you probably know.”

She looks at you expectantly, awaiting your confirmation. It never comes.

“I haven’t dated another girl since,” you tell her, sounding rather detached from yourself.

Her eyebrows furrow and she is clearly frowning behind her facemask. “What about Ona? I thought you were together when you lived in Madrid. It takes more than a friendship to do what you did.”

You were originally going to go to university in England. It was your dream, and Ona wasn’t entirely aware of the situation because you hadn’t wanted to tell her you were leaving. Then she was sent out on a professional contract to Madrid, and it wasn’t like you were the only one leaving.

Ona’s cousin, years ago, had suggested that you go to Madrid if you wanted to get away from Vilassar de Mar. “You’ll be close enough to come home when you’d like, but not so close that you’ll feel as though nothing has changed,” she had said.

No one had known about your offers in England aside from your parents. And Ona’s cousin, who’d only found out because you had called her, drunk on celebratory champagne, because you had to tell someone.

“You gave up a dream for her because you didn’t want her to be alone.”

“I moved to Milan. In the end, she was alone.”

“You sound like you regret it,” she replies, nodding once at you to bid you farewell and then heading over to a woman who is standing with a puppy in her arms. You watch as she pulls down her mask and kisses her wife, her eyes shining with love and happiness, and your blood runs green with jealousy.

You hate Ona’s cousin for devastating you once more.

Do you regret it?

It’s unclear.

You try to make sense of it when you don’t hesitate to fly back to Italy the minute you can, going home to lick your wounds at Ona’s non-committal response to meeting you when you are in London the next month. It hurts that she is no longer at your beck-and-call, but you are somewhat happy for her. You know that lines have been crossed and that she has suffered for it. You know that you are probably the one at fault here.

This time in Milan, you don’t fight it as much. You kiss other girls and let them go home to their boyfriends; you submit to the thing you had convinced yourself you would never become.

As you drive yourself deeper and deeper into your stereotype, the thought of Ona gets pushed away and newer, more culturally-acceptable fantasies come to mind.

It takes a photoshoot for him to ask you out on a date.

It takes returning home and gaining the approval of Ona’s parents (who are far more open than your own) for you to agree to be official.

You don’t ask Ona what she thinks. She’s busy, you reason, because she is representing Spain at the Euros. She won’t care who you are dating and she certainly doesn’t need it rubbed in her face.

There are many reasons why you go out with him.

One is that you do like him; he’s nice, he’s funny, he treats you well. (He’s not Ona.) Another is that rent is going up and him sharing the load is helpful. (He’s not Ona.) There is also that he is very popular within the agency, and your chemistry on camera is enough to keep your jobs rolling in and casting directors satisfied.

He’s not Ona. You know that.

That's the whole point.

If he were Ona, you’d be deeply in love with him. If he were Ona, you would never leave the house, never leave his embrace, never leave the little bubble created when it is just the two of you and no one else. If he were Ona, you would be excited about the conversations he gently guides you into; marriage, children, where you are going to live one day. You’d miss him more when he isn’t here. You’d care.

But you just… don’t.

Another year passes, more Ona-less than the last, and then she is suddenly coming back home to Barcelona, a medal around her neck and word of a relationship floating above her head.

You could ask her about it if you wanted to because she is still one of your closest friends, but the truth is, you really, desperately don’t want to hear it. While Ona has been falling in love with someone else, you have been proving your stupid feelings to yourself.

The act (your current relationship) lowers enough for you to go home for Christmas. You leave Milan as though fleeing from a hurricane, and you refuse to control the damage until you have entered the new year. Your parents aren’t entirely sure they want you moping about the house, confused how someone so successful can revert to a moody teenager the minute they are back in safe territory, and they heavily encourage you to accept an invite that was extended out to you a few months ago.

Your friends are going skiing in Andorra, and they’d like for you to come with them.

“Ona won’t be there,” one of them regretfully informs you. “She said she doesn’t want to make things weird. She has a girlfriend – or, I don’t know, a talking stage. She wants you to have fun.”

“But Ona and I are friends,” you try to explain, feeling exposed by the look of pity she gives you; the same look someone receives when they find out their ex has gotten married or something similar. As a defensive mechanism, you hastily pull out your phone and dial her number. Everyone watches you, now uninterested in their food as you dine and plan your holiday.

Ona picks up on the third ring, escaping her dinner with Lucy and rushing into the cool, nighttime air of Barcelona.

“Hi?” she says – asks – with raised eyebrows, wondering if you’re in danger.

“You’re coming skiing with us, aren’t you?”

Your friends hide their laughs behind their hands, surprised by how firm your tone is. You do not need it for Ona, because she does anything you say regardless, but they enjoy seeing this side of you. This is someone who has had to fend for herself in a foreign country.

Removing the phone from her ear for a moment, Ona sighs, disappointed in herself.

“Yeah, of course. I’ve missed you, you know.”

…

Skiing is not something Ona is really allowed to do. As a footballer, her legs are what pay her wage. Career-destroying planks of metal are not the best way to spend the dying embers of the year. She knows that. She does, she swears, but she is so eager to go that Jonatan cannot crush her dreams. He tells her, “if you get injured your contract will be reviewed, Ona Batlle,” and she promises him that it won’t happen. Nothing bad is going to happen.

It will be the first time she has spent more than a day with her childhood friends, and she is unbelievably excited.

Lucy finds it adorable and makes it known, helping her pack for her trip, versed in what to bring because her sister skis or something like that (Ona can’t really focus on her almost-girlfriend's monologue). Lucy likes Ona a lot, and it makes her stomach flutter when she thinks about Ona and her friends talking about them. She’s sure her feelings are reciprocated, and she cannot wait for Ona to return to her in the new year, all smiles and lingering hangovers, and ask her to be her girlfriend. Officially.

Your friends convene in the centre of Vilassar de Mar with two cars between you. There are ten people coming.

Someone, most-likely trying to keep the peace, instructs Ona into one vehicle and you into the other. The drive isn’t too long, but you suppose that the tension is uncomfortable for those who aren’t accustomed to maintaining a friendship despite the weight of it.

It’s five days, and you are determined to have fun.

Ona is naturally good at this, although she claims it is her first time. You, living in Milan, are just as advanced.

By the third day, the both of you agree that going off together to do some of the harder runs will be harmless. Spending the day together won’t feel like a date or a romantic holiday. Watching Ona glide over the compacted snow won’t be attractive, watching her cocky smirk as she scales the bumps along the side of the piste won’t do anything.

It won’t. (It does.)

And it just has to be the third day that someone pulls out two bottles of tequila and a drinking game that is going to ensure every single one of you is off your face by midnight.

In rooms opposite one another, you and Ona call your respective partners and tell them about how great a time you are having, actively avoiding telling them about who you spent the day with as though it counts as cheating. It doesn’t, technically. Nothing has happened. But, still, it feels intimate and secret; forbidden.

Then, there is a shout that rings through the house. Everyone comes to the table; the party has begun.

Ona finds out that she is absolutely terrible at drinking games, and loses in every way possible.

You find out that she is still just as touchy when she is drunk.

Your friends try not to comment on it, all having agreed upon yet another passive role in such an irritating situation. Their non-interference almost ceases by the time Ona climbs onto your lap, head turning as she whispers something into your drunk ears, making you laugh privately. In fact, someone has to hold someone else back before they shout at the two of you to make out or break up.

But it’s not really necessary, their prompting, because it hits a certain hour and… nothing else matters anymore.

Ona has been touching you the whole night and you have finally reached your limit.

Boyfriend be damned, you lead her to your bedroom.

She asks you many times if you still want this, and you cannot think of anything to say other than ‘yes’.

You’re not as drunk as she is, and you both know that, but everything feels so perfect and right.

When you wake up the next morning, your anger is more at yourself than the sleeping woman beside you, but she is an outward target for such a boiling emotion and it just makes things easier.

“Ona.” You shake her awake, not caring for her hangover. “Ona, I can’t believe we’ve done this.” She rubs her eyes, dazed and confused for a moment but coming to her senses soon enough. “I have a boyfriend, Ona, and… I don’t like you like that.”

It’s not true.

It’s really, really, really not true, but the fact that you have said it is enough for Ona to leave your room with the intention of never seeing you again.

She gets the train back to Barcelona, turning up at Lucy’s flat in floods of tears, and barrels straight into those strong arms with the intention of never mentioning what she has done.

…

You break up with your boyfriend a month later. Or rather, he breaks up with you, tired of being messed around, tired of your hesitation to fully commit.

The break-up is not the most upsetting thing you’ve been through, but your ego is a little bruised.

You try to make it look like you are having a great time in Milan, even though the agency has once again discarded your file and overlooked you for shoots you used to book in an instant. You try to seem like things aren’t falling apart, but it’s of no use when your father calls you and tells you that your mother is ill.

It isn’t cancer but it’s similar, and you know that you need to come home.

You pack your bags and leave without a second thought, because maybe Madrid was far enough. Maybe there is a reason Ona signed for her home club again and most of your friends still live relatively close to their parents.

Maybe you are not meant to be separated from those you love, because running away is futile if you are always going to end up together again.

In Barcelona, a modelling agency eagerly draws up a contract with you. Although you are from there, your career being based in Milan previously creates an international allure about you (or so they say), and you are assured that work is going to rush towards you as though someone has just knocked down a dam.

Your job is secured, your mother begins treatment, but there is something you cannot shake off.

It hurts to think of Ona, to think of how you left things, but it helps, too. Seeing her face in your mind is comforting. You hear her voice as you drift off to sleep, and you let it soothe you in your dreams.

“Ona has a girlfriend,” her mother tells you when you next visit them. Her frown is unexpected because all she has ever wanted is for her children to be happy and loved. “It’s not right, it doesn’t feel right.” You begin to shrug your shoulders and crawl into your shell, but she interrupts your thought process; “I think you should go see her.”

“Why?”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Just do what I say.”

You nod because she is so scarily sure about it, and you… It’s hard to believe, but you call Ona.

She picks up.

“I was sorry to hear about your mum.”

“Don’t worry. She’s fine.”

“Are you back at home?”

“Yeah, I am.” You pause. “Well, not quite. I’m living in Barcelona.”

Something fizzes in the air; pops, crackles.

“Need me to show you around the city?”

And it’s Ona, so how could you say no?

…

Your visit goes very well.

She takes you out to dinner and shows you around her neighbourhood. She introduces you when she runs into people she knows, and she is insistent about dragging you to her football match on the weekend.

Everything is seemingly forgiven and Ona is intent on integrating you back into her life.

She wants you to feel at home, though she knows you should already, and she wants to lessen the stress of hospital appointments and death and, if not death, then a difficult recovery.

You are sitting in her apartment – now devoid of all signs of Lucy – on her comfortable sofa, watching something together after a day of walking around and sealing up the cracks that formed in Andorra.

Sitting leads into cuddling and then into wandering hands that eagerly roam underneath layers of fabric.

Ona’s breath hitches as you brush the hard lines of her abs, your hands particularly drawn to them and just how strong she has become. “You must have only felt them on men,” she offers as an explanation. “How many have you slept with in comparison to–?”

And your hands stop.

“Sorry,” Ona mumbles, seemingly upset at her outburst. “I’m just curious. I can’t work you out.” She can’t quite look you in the eye, mainly due to the logistics of your position, but she isn’t sure she wants to see the truth attached to her statement.

You question if that’s a good thing, the fact she needs to ask; the fact that she has no choice but to communicate. It was going to happen sooner or later. “A few,” is what you settle on. Ona leaves it at that, carefully pulling the hair tie from your plait, unravelling it with one hand as the other rests against your stomach in an embrace. You smile. “You’re not going to ask who?”

Her fingers stop for a moment. “No.” She speaks so quietly, her voice almost a whisper in your ear. “I don’t care about them.” You relax into her more, feeling her against your back, feeling the softness of the blanket against your feet as it hangs at the edge of the sofa.

“Who do you care about, then?”

“You.”

Carefully, both her hands hold your hips and she sits you up, smiling as she does. You tell her she’s showing off, she replies that you are always showing off. To that, you brush those hands from your sides and lean down to kiss her, more decidedly for once; more in control. It’s a surprising feeling for both of you, the forcefulness. Urgency. Not unfamiliar, but unexpected for this time on this day.

The last time you kissed Ona, you had a boyfriend.

Your mouth goes to her neck as soon as she decides that she wants her hands back on your hips, pushing you down into her lap. It’s now a competition, you think. She’s quickly coming completely undone by your kissing and biting, but you are not ignoring the feeling as she makes you grind down, makes you need that friction. “Fuck,” you moan in her ear. She grips you tighter.

You start to pull off her shirt having had enough of the grey between you, asking if it’s okay, if she’s sure she isn’t too tired. Her reply is, “take it off, god,” and then the removal of your clothes that get thrown just shy of the wine glasses set out on her coffee table. Leggings aren’t the most practical for impromptu sex, but she’s quick and smooth and someone who has definitely done that before.

With your bare chest on display and almost nothing between Ona and you, she lifts you up for a moment with the intention of flipping the two of you, getting you on your back. You pause for a moment, trying to decide if she’s doing it because she wants to or because she thinks that’s the only way to do it, but her hands are moving now, up your sides, round the front of your chest and you relax. She laughs quietly, amused, because the tension dissipates, dissolving like sweet, sweet sugar in hot coffee as soon as your legs wrap around her back.

Ona asks before she does it, picking you up and laying you back down without needing to part her lips from your own. You watch her as she sits up, body in between your thighs. “You’re going to just stay there?” She shakes her head. “I can top,” you tease, a stark contrast from how it was the last time you did this. Ona doesn’t like being told she can’t do something. However indirectly.

“Yeah?” You nod, biting the smirk out of your lips. “I don’t care.”

You are in the process of rolling your eyes when her cocky mouth is put to good use. Your underwear was taken off at some point earlier — you hadn’t realised. Ona’s head moves between your legs, up and down, your hand that isn’t holding onto the sofa in her hair, the soft waves lacing between your fingers.

She’s good at it; thorough, practised. Her tongue circles your clit for a moment before dipping into your entrance. Something about the cockiness of her movements, her tongue, her hand rubbing between her own legs, makes everything more surreal, more blissful. She moans softly, lips kissing their way up your body, hands no longer focused on herself. Instead, they take the place of her mouth, two fingers inside you as quickly as it takes for her to ask if you are okay to carry on. Your reply (“yes”) is cut off quickly by her mouth on yours, tongue swiping at your bottom lip in another question of permission. You can taste yourself on her.

At her command, you sit up, letting her pull you back onto her lap as she sucks at your neck. “Don’t leave any marks,” you warn as her teeth pull a whimper from your supposed stoicness. “I don’t want the makeup artists asking questions.” It comes out too late, because you feel her teeth graze your collarbone quickly, not painful, no, but something that feels so, so good. “Ona.” She sighs in disappointment and adjusts where you are in her lap, so your legs are either side of her thigh.

You find yourself rocking slowly, letting her savour your breasts between her hands and her mouth. She whispers that she wants to see you come, that you don’t need to hold back – not with her, not ever – so you start grinding down, harder, faster. Her hands drop back to your hips, guiding your movements, forcing you to slow down when she feels everything building up. Each time, you let out a “fuck” and attempt to go against her grip to get that friction. “Not just yet,” she mutters, no longer touching you anywhere other than where her hands meet your hips and her thigh presses between your legs.

“Fuck off, Ona,” you breathe, frustrated. “When, then?”

She slows the pace even more. “Can you last a little longer?” You look at her face, brushing away the strands of hair that have fallen over her eyes, ghosting your fingers along her cheek, running your thumb along her lips. She smiles again, eyes creasing slightly.

As her hands drop to cup your face, you say, “you’re beautiful.”

Ona blushes.

You look down at her exposed cleavage, nipples pebbled against the sports bra that is unusually low-cut. It might border on intense staring as you begin to grind against her with the intention of actually getting off now. She laughs, saying her eyes are higher up than that, but going back to her trail of kisses along your jaw nevertheless.

For what seems like longer than a few seconds, the build up finally stops, the tower toppling over in a rush of pleasure. Ona’s hands move your hips as your head drops to rest on her shoulder. She talks you through it, telling you that you look so pretty, telling you that she’s so turned on.

And that’s when she whispers it.

It has taken years to get to this moment, many of them filled with unnecessary suffering.

It has taken years but it does not matter.

Ona tells you that she loves you and that is when you have finally come home.

#woso x reader #woso #randombush3 #barca femeni #woso imagines #ona batlle x reader #ona batlle #ona batlle smut

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golbrocklovely · 2 months

Text

the rakish gentlemen // sam and colby

A/N: just a general statement across the board: i'm not going for historical accuracy here. i did a very small amount of research for this, most of which was based on the language and some of the societal norms but even then, it wasn't a thorough search. so if things are incorrect or not quite right… that's why. also this is heavily inspired by my new found love for bridgerton, so anything in the story that reminds you of that (show or book wise) - that's also why lol anyone that writes regency romances or stories, props to you bc the formal English alone made me want to off myself. just kidding… but not really. anyway, i hope you enjoy this one. it was fun to write once i got the hang out it. lmk what you think and i'll see you guys with another fic (hopefully) soon :)

prompt: being out in society was enough of a challenge, but overhearing two very sought after lords' snide remarks about you made you want to give up altogether. that is until you hatch a plan - make them beg for your hand in marriage, and then leave them high and dry. it should be simple enough. || AU!regency era sam and colby x fem!reader

trigger warning: formal english (lol), historical inaccuracy, lots of 'samuel' and 'cole' so if you don't like that don't read lol, snc are kind of dicks but they turn it around by the end somewhat, just a whisper of smut but not really, cliff hanger ending??, heavy on gender norms of the time period so be weary of that if that's something you don't like, bit of angst, everyone is of age/in their 20s

word count: 6347

~~~~~~~~

The weather in London during the middle of spring was the absolute best time of year, according to most in the Ton. To Miss Y/N Y/L/N, it was the most splendid of weather to promenade with one's closest confidant, and for her that was Miss Amelia Ruteledge. The two had been inseparable since childhood, living across the street from one another. And coming out in society together only strengthened their bond over the last two seasons.

"How eager are you for Lady Gillingham's masquerade ball this evening?" Amelia asked, coyly stealing a glance at Y/N.

"I can hardly wait. I am positively elated." Y/N replied dryly, her faux smile wide.

"Y/N, must you indulge in sarcasm?" She questioned.

"Yes, Amelia. I must," a quiet laugh fell from her lips. "It is hard for me to be excited for yet another ball, one where I will again be doomed to the corner of the room, watching as others dance."

"I had presumed you enjoyed observing." Amelia teased.

"It is not as fun anymore, ever since your courtship with Viscount Throne began." Y/N sighed, wiping away pretend tears from her cheeks, "Alas, my spinsterhood is in full bloom."

She shook her head, patting Y/N's arm sweetly, "Don't be ridiculous. You are nowhere near being a spinster."

"I'm two years out in society with little to show for it. One might believe I had contracted the plague, given how much the gentlemen of the Ton disregard me." Y/N rolled her eyes, her voice bitter.

"You mustn't say that. You are an absolute catch, by all accounts." Amelia argued, looking into Y/N's eyes.

She huffed. "Thank you. But your opinion apparently is the only one that is favorable towards me."

"That is simply not true," she protested back. "I believe many gentlemen in the Ton would admire you once they were acquainted. But I would not be surprised if your charm and wit intimidate them, thereby causing their reluctance."

A cheeky smile appeared on Y/N's face. "I couldn't have said that better myself." The ladies giggled, continuing down the walkway towards a small pond. Y/N glanced upwards, noting the eligible men coming their way. Grabbing Amelia's arm, she yanked her behind a tree close by, pressing her back tightly against the oak.

Amelia furrowed her brow, "What ails you?"

Y/N hushed her, looking over Amelia’s shoulder. "I don't wish to speak to anyone else presently. Particularly suitors."

"So you think hiding behind a tree is wise?" She blinked.

Y/N wanted to glare, but held back. "Guess I'm not as witty as you thought."

Amelia peaked behind the tree, their maids coming closer to them. She gestured for them to stop, not wanting the men Y/N was so flustered by to notice. The maids turned towards each other, giving a knowing look, and faced the pond instead.

"Did they leave yet?" Y/N whispered.

Amelia hummed. "No. They are still coming our way."

"Damn." She cursed, scrunching her face.

"Speak louder. I am sure your coarse tongue will make them leave hastily." She gaped.

Y/N held back more careless words, doing her best to remain calm. "I am certain that any gentleman has heard far worse words than a solitary curse from a lady's lips."

Amelia peaked again, her eyes widening. "Oh, you are correct about that. Did you see who was coming?"

"No. I just knew it was three gentlemen." Y/N dissented.

"It's Mr. Beaumont... with Lord Golbach and Lord Brock." Amelia choked out.

"Ah, even worse than I imagined." Y/N gulped.

Lord Samuel Golbach and Lord Cole Brock were some of the most sought after men in all of the Ton. Eager mamas and anxious daughters alike pined to be seen affectionately by the two Lords. They were not only rich, but handsome - a deadly combination. And with years of friendship under their belt, they were basically family to one another. Everyone out in society knew - to get in good graces with one, you had to be liked by the other.

But even with everyone wanting their attention, they were seldom to give it out. The rakish behavior displayed by the two was known throughout, which confused Y/N deeply. Why play cat and mouse if one knows it's not trying to be caught? Why pretend to be an eligible bachelor if there were no plans to seek a wife at all?

Y/N knew to stay away. She had no interest in them, moreover.

"Mr. Beaumont, I do believe you are one of the funniest men in all of London." Cole chuckled, clasping the man on the shoulder.

Edward bowed, "Such high praise coming from you, Lord Brock. You two are going to tonight's ball, yes?"

"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world." Samuel grinned, glancing at Cole knowingly.

"I must ask, are there any ladies that have caught your eye this season?" Edward continued.

Samuel shook his head, "Unsurprisingly, no. Cole and I have very high standards. So high, in fact, it has been impossible to find anyone worthy of matching with."

"How incredibly rude." Amelia murmured.

"I am confident there are several ladies in the Ton that would be worthy of becoming your wives. What about Miss Mullens?" Edward mentioned.

"Terrible dancer." Cole quipped.

He questioned, "How about Miss Walford?"

Samuel frowned. "Her character is sorely lacking."

"Miss Ramsbury?" He puzzled.

"Beautiful indeed, most obnoxious laugh I've ever heard however." Cole jeered.

"Miss Y/L/N! What about her? She seems well." Edward exclaimed.

A silence filled the air, Y/N only hearing the sound of her pounding heart within her breast. While she may not have harbored interest in either Lord, the notion of their thoughts about her caused her skin to tingle thrillingly. She had never heard a man speak of her in any way, romantic or otherwise. She was eager to know.

Both men snickered, an almost childish laugh cutting through. Samuel cleared his throat, "You must be joking, Beaumont. That lady, would be the last on our list to ever be courted by us. Remember, we have high standards."

"Not even worthy of considering, if I'm honest." Cole sniveled.

“I suppose those are the lower ranking ladies of the Ton.” Mr. Beaumont chortled.

Amelia moved to jump out from behind the tree, ready to give all three gentlemen a piece of her mind. Y/N grabbed her arm, yanking her close. She motioned for her to remain silent, listening once more to the Lords and Mr. Beaumont.

"It is getting late, good sirs. I must be arriving back home soon for late afternoon tea with the missus. Good day, Lord Golbach. Lord Brock. Best of luck on your endeavors." He bowed, the Lords following suit.

Y/N finally turned to all three gentlemen, still covered by the oak tree. She watched as the Lords went off in the opposite direction as Mr. Beaumont. She waited until they were far enough away, taking her first breath in for what felt like years.

"I cannot believe those men!" Amelia screeched lowly.

Y/N slid down the tree, resting her head back, exhausted. "It's incredible, really. Dare I say... humbling?"

"Calling them rakes is the nicest thing I can think of. They are-" She started.

Cutting her off, Y/N placed a hand up. "Save your words, Amelia. Heaven knows I'm thinking far worse than you."

She stared at the ground for a moment, replaying their words over and over in her head. It hurt to hear how cold they were towards her, someone they had never even had a single conversation with.

"Lord Golbach and Lord Brock don't know you, Y/N. And by the way they speak of strangers, they don't deserve to know you either. No wonder no one has won their affections. They have far too much for themselves." Amelia retorted. She fanned herself, feeling her skin growing hot with anger.

Y/N mumbled. "High standards, remember?"

"I have heard of the numerous rejections they’ve given to the ladies of the Ton. It's astonishing how sought after they remain." Amelia declared, utterly appalled.

Rejected. The word echoed in Y/N's head. No one knew that feeling quite like her, especially not the Lords. Who could ever reject them...

Abruptly, Y/N jumped to her feet with an incredulous smirk; an idea rushing to the forefront of her mind.

"Pray tell, what is that look for?" Amelia queried.

"I believe the Lords just need a dose of their own medicine." She sang snidely.

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"What lady in all of the Ton has ever rejected them? Every girl and mama swoons at their feet; that's why they feel they can judge and dismiss anyone they want, regardless of how perfect a match the lady might be," Y/N stated. "So... what if that is turned on them?"

"How?" Amelia leaned back against the tree, studying her friend.

"Tonight's ball. It is a masquerade. Those two have never spoken to me, not once in all of the two years I've been out. Yet somehow, they've already declared I'm not worthy to be their wife just from mere appearances alone. Well, what if they aren't worthy enough to be my husband?" Y/N's eyes were wild, a mischievous glint sparkling within.

She gasped, "You're going to reject them?"

"I shall make them plead for my hand in marriage, only to desert them after all." She boasted.

"Do you think you can do that?" Amelia cocked her head to the side.

Y/N rolled her eyes, "I plan to beat them at their own game. I am sure they won’t know what to do with themselves when a woman is actually disinterested in them. Plus, anything else my charm and wit can make up for… hopefully."

"Are you sure your skills are up to the challenge? This could possibly ruin you if done incorrectly. A man won't take his pride being scorned." Amelia worried, holding Y/N's hand briefly.

She gave Amelia's hand a gentle squeeze, "I have been watching for two seasons what works and what doesn't. I've always been too frightened to be myself, to be vulnerable. But I have nothing to lose tonight. I am not interested in them, and they do not even see me as a potential match. I have to do this, for my pride alone."

Y/N strutted away, nodding to her maid to follow her. She stopped for a moment, turning back to Amelia. "After tonight, no more Miss Wallflower."

~~~~

Luckily for Y/N, being friendly with the modiste had its perks. For one, she was able to have some alterations done to her gown long before the ball. She was used to wearing more muted colors; colors that faded her into the background of any dance. But now, staring in the looking glass at herself, her rose colored gown almost sparkled in the candlelight.

She knew this would be one of the more flashier gowns, even for a masquerade. Lady Gillingham's balls were always known as being a bit uptight; the masquerade was the only one where going against her rules was allowed. But most in the Ton dared to not break them even so.

Y/N felt a rush of nerves hit her. Would this be enough to cause the Lords to notice her? She hoped. If not, her whole plan would be foiled.

The carriage ride to the Gillingham estate felt like an eternity. Y/N fanned herself repeatedly; the cool night air doing nothing for her warm skin.

Amelia and Y/N wrote to one another to meet at the Gillingham lineage painting that adorned the entrance. Both ladies concurred that the face of Viscount Gillingham in the painting always looked like he was cocked eyed; something they both had jested about their first time out in society. They knew that was their spot to meet if they needed to step away from it all. But tonight, because of their masks, they wanted to be able to find a familiar face in the crowd if anything was to go awry.

Y/N pulled her cloak tightly to her bodice, making sure her dress was covered. She gazed around the foyer of the estate, the grand ceilings always making her feel so small. She could hear the ball had commenced, a fanciful melody being played by the orchestra echoed down the halls. She waited under the painting, glancing at all of the attendees coming through the doors. Which one would be Amelia and her Viscount?

Rounding the stairs, a golden dress shone in the corner of Y/N's vision. She turned, making note of the matching locks of hair.

Along with their meeting spot, Y/N and Amelia devised a query only they knew. Y/N studied the woman, finally speaking. "Excuse me, have you ever read Emma? It is one of my favorite novels."

"There is nothing like staying home, for real comfort." Amelia quoted, relief hitting her at the sound of her friend's voice.

Y/N sighed, "Oh thank Heavens it's you Amelia. I thought you might already be in the ballroom."

Amelia shook her head, "I informed you I would wait until your arrival to enter the ball."

Y/N gazed over Amelia's shoulder, looking for someone. "Where is your Viscount?"

She smiled, "He had affairs to tend to, and said he wouldn't be able to make it tonight. So I'm all yours."

"You don't have to stay with me all night. Just until my plan works on the Lords." The girls locked their arms with one another, slowly walking towards the ballroom.

"They've already arrived. I saw them come in moments before you." Amelia whispered low.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, "Well, let's make our grand entrance then."

As the ladies walked into the ballroom, Y/N noted that they were the last two to enter. She held her breath, staring over the railing of the beautiful marble stairs. She could feel all eyes turn to her and Amelia. Amelia trotted down the stairs, her gloved fingers holding the banister gently. Y/N waited until she was at the bottom, and began her descent.

Now was the time to woo over the men of the Ton, she thought. She untied her cloak, letting it fall off her shoulders; leaving it on the stairs. Light gasps fell from around the room. She knew her alterations would cause a stir, but gasps? She was taken aback by such sounds.

Not only did she go gloveless to this event, but her slightly lowered neckline showed off her most precious of jewels in more ways than one. The modiste spoke of how most of the Ton was not breaking Gillingham's rules, disregarding the whole point of a masquerade. Y/N knew this was her time to shine. To become a rule breaker.

Lord Golbach and Lord Brock were rule breakers themselves. And even more so, heartbreakers. They were aware of this too. Samuel and Cole gave each other a quick glance, noting the breathtaking beauty dressed in rose coming down the stairs.

Eligible gentlemen from around the room scurried over to Amelia and Y/N, doing their best to introduce themselves quickly. Cole smoothed out his suit jacket, parted his way through the crowd and reached Y/N in no time.

Y/N was taken aback by all the men surrounding her, never having this much attention before. As she glanced up, her eyes immediately made contact with a pair of striking blue ones. The pleasing smile, the chestnut hair, the almost devilish gaze.... she knew it could only be one man.

"Miss Rose, lovely to make your acquaintance." Cole bowed, speaking over all of the men pining for her.

She scrunched her face, confused. "Do you believe that to be my name?"

He blinked, "No. I'm simply calling you that because of your gown."

"Oh..." Y/N cleared her throat awkwardly, returning to a more disinterested persona. "How clever."

"May I accompany you to the floor?" He asked, his voice as smooth as silk.

A man in the small crowd let out a scoff, "Good sir, I do believe I was-"

"I think I can speak for myself, your grace." She turned back to Cole, a playful smile on her lips, "I'm afraid you aren't the first to ask. But if you care to wait, I'll gladly dance with you second."

Lord Brock was surprised, but he chalked up this misunderstanding to her not knowing who he was. No one ever denied Cole a dance. Even those with cards completely filled out. He bowed graciously, moving out of the way so she could be guided onto the dancefloor by the other gentleman.

By his short stature, Cole could tell it was Viscount Davis. While he did have a lot of money, he was a tiresome presence to be around. And surely, Miss Rose would soon find that out herself.

And Y/N did, in record time. Being eye-level with a gentleman was not exactly something she was used to, but all it did was make her very aware of his eyes stealing glances at her bosom. The song ended rather quickly, the Heavens listening to her pleas. Before she could even curtsy at the gentleman, Cole was already next to her, waiting to join her in the next dance. She almost laughed at how eager he was; how easily her plan was playing out. They bowed to one another, and the music slowly began. His expert hands slid into hers, warm and welcoming. His close proximity made her aware suddenly just how handsome he really was. She could understand, for a moment, why so many ladies fawned over him. And her heart skipped a beat.

"Would you be alright with me breaking the rules this evening?" Cole chimed in suddenly.

Y/N cocked her head, "That depends on what you intend to break."

"I would like to tell you my name, and perhaps you will tell me yours?" He wagered.

"Perhaps..." She trailed off, detached.

"I'm Lord Brock. And if you glance over your shoulder now, the man by the refreshments table is Lord Samuel Golbach." He motioned with his head behind her.

Y/N did peak, noting the eyes of Samuel following her and Cole around the room. "Hmm. Interesting."

"May you wish to tell me yours now?" Cole smiled.

"No, I do not." Y/N shook her head plainly.

"I am surprised. But maybe I shouldn't be," Cole spun her, pulling her back into him. "It appears that you resemble me in many respects."

"And what respects are those?" She questioned.

"If I may presume, you seem inclined to forge your own path. You do not heed merely because it was asked of you." He remarked honestly.

Y/N felt her heart skip again, damning her feelings internally as she kept up her charade. "And you have been able to deduce all of this from the mere twenty minutes I've been in this ballroom?"

Cole smirked confidently, "What can I say? I possess the ability to read others well, particularly charming young ladies."

She held back the urge to roll her eyes at his response. While she wanted to beat him at his own game, she didn't want to be rude. "And how well has that worked out for you, my Lord? Since apparently you and Samuel can't seem to find a match."

Hearing Sam's name fall from her lips was shocking, but that alone made him like her more. She was feisty, and he enjoyed that quality in a woman. "Having standards set high has caused some issues, yes. But maybe I will find the one tonight."

"Have you already encountered someone that has peaked your interest?" She inquired.

"I would say so. It shouldn't come as a shock since you're the only one I've danced with tonight. And the only one I plan to." He brought his face closer to hers, flashing a charming smile.

"How delightful," Y/N mimicked his look. "I cannot say I feel the same, unfortunately."

His face dropped instantly, "I beg your pardon?"

Y/N wanted to relish in this moment for forever, but the music was slowly coming to an end. "Oh, my apologies, my Lord. I thought we were speaking candidly."

"You... you don't enjoy my company?" Cole stammered. Stammered.

"Well, you are an accomplished dancer and pleasing to the eye and yet... I am unable to see you worthy as a potential suitor." She curtsied dramatically as their dance finished, her mischievous eyes sparkling from the flames of the candles. "My deepest gratitude, my Lord, for being my second dance. If you'll excuse me, I must go see my other suitors, however."

Y/N turned away, swaying her hips sensually as she walked over to Amelia. Her skin felt like it was on fire from where Cole had been touching her. Even though she hated admitting it, something about Cole was mesmerizing. Intoxicating, even. If she hadn't heard what he said this afternoon, she could see a world in which she would fall for him.

But she couldn't focus on that now. She couldn't believe she had actually done it. She successfully rejected one of the Lords.

Amelia gaped, staring at Y/N. "I'm in awe of you, truly. You are a goddess amongst men."

"I feel like I'm going to faint." Y/N grabbed Amelia's arm, keeping her back turned towards the dancefloor.

"Really?" Amelia pushed her glass to Y/N, who nodded a 'thank you'.

"Sort of." Y/N downed her lemonade, the refreshing citrus drink calming her nerves only slightly. "Is he still looking over here?"

"If by 'looking' you mean casting daggers, then indeed, that is the case. And," she giggled nervously, "try not to faint when I tell you this, but Lord Golbach is making his approach."

Y/N swallowed hard. "You jest."

Amelia gave a weary smile, "No, but I must make my getaway."

She backed away quickly from Y/N, who called out, "Wait, Ame-!"

"Miss Rose, how wonderful to finally meet." Samuel interjected suddenly.

Y/N took a deep breath, spinning on her heel to face him. "Lord Golbach."

He raised a brow at her, "You know who I am."

"How could I mistake a face like yours for any other?" She replied with a sneer tone.

Sam sucked his teeth, her biting tongue captivating him immensely. Ladies hardly ever truly said how they were feeling around him, and it was refreshing to hear such honesty. "I would entertain that notion if Cole had not informed me of disclosing my identity to you."

Her smile dropped, "I would still be able to pick you out in any crowd, my Lord. I would just have to look for the trail of broken hearts and I would instantly find the two of you."

"My reputation makes me sound harsh." He deadpanned.

She held back the urge to roll her eyes, "I think you and Cole are, in fact, harsh. Reputation or not."

A playful grin rose on Sam's face as he reached out his hand towards Y/N. "Dance with me, Miss Rose."

"And if I say no?" She responded defiantly.

"I will leave you be," he answered. "But what fun you will miss, declining a dance from a gentleman whom you have already passed judgment upon."

She was surprised by Sam's charisma, his almost flirty nature. She politely took his hand, allowing him to guide her onto the dancefloor. Bowing, she steadied herself.. She was not used to this attention, especially from such desirable gentlemen. She knew deep down she shouldn't like teasing the Lords, but part of her enjoyed knowing they found her coveted.

He gazed down at her, inspecting her. "Your gown is quite suitable. You must come from a high ranking family."

"Thank you," she replied plainly. "And yes, some would say that. It helps that I am acquainted with the modiste in town, as well."

"Really? Not many are like you in that way. I've always found it odd how the higher ranking families in the Ton look down upon the working class." Sam admitted.

Y/N nodded, "Truly. It is such a pity. They are no different than us, the only major thing is that we were born into wealth."

"We are all human, after all." He concurred.

"Respecting our fellow man and cherishing the relationships we have and can make should be number one priority. It's a shame how many in the Ton don't see that." She remarked.

Samuel raised his eyebrows, spinning the young lady in time with the music. "You are one of the only women to think so. Many I have courted never spoke of such qualities."

She could feel her skin grow warmer with annoyance, "Interestingly, my beliefs stem from other women I've had the pleasure of knowing. How often do you ask any? Or do you merely go off of appearances and assumptions alone?"

His face dropped, a bitter smile resting on his mouth. "You and I must be similar in that regard."

"Possibly, yes. However, you are the one with a reputation of casting aside women you don't deem fit enough to be courted." Y/N argued, glaring.

He scoffed, "My apologies for having-"

She interjected, "High standards. Yes, I know."

The dance slowly began to end, her grip falling limp in Sam's hold. An anger unlike Y/N had ever felt was bubbling inside of her. Her grace and dignity almost flying out the window when she looked up at Sam, who seemed perplexed by her words. "I thank you for proving my assertions correct."

"And what exactly where they?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Your character is sorely lacking, and I will never want to court or be married to a man like that." Y/N spun on her heel, pure fire filling her veins. She ought to not have become so agitated, but she was unable to restrain herself. While both men played innocent and kind to her face, she knew of how mean they spoke of her mere hours ago. The sole reason they were like this was because of their ignorance of her identity. She had been taught her whole life to be respectful, to both men and women, no matter what ranking they were. And to see such blatant disrespect come from such a high caliber of men in the Ton infuriated her to no end.

This is who was supposed to be the aspiring husbands in the marriage mart? Being a spinster did not sound too bad after all.

Y/N wanted to find Amelia, but decided against staying in the ballroom. She ventured off to the entrance, standing at the portrait. She paced for a moment, trying to calm her nerves. She heard footsteps coming from the ballroom, expecting Amelia to be following her. But two men walked through, Samuel and Cole.

Her eyes widened as she watched them search for her. She rushed up the stairs, finding the closest room and hiding inside of it. It was a study, most likely Viscount Gillingham's. She closed the door swiftly, praying they hadn't seen her do so. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on the window. Fresh air sounded absolutely wonderful to her. She walked over to the window, attempting to open it.

The door swung open, Sam and Cole staring at her quizzically. "What do you plan to do? Shimmy down the garden wall?"

She huffed, turning to the gentlemen. "Do you take pride in stalking ladies or is that just an extracurricular for you both?"

"You have a surprisingly mean spirit for a lady. You must have suitors lining the street waiting for your hand." Cole sassed, stepping into the room.

"Well, as long as you both aren't in line, I shall have decent prospects." Y/N sniveled.

Samuel ranted, "Pray, what precisely is your objection to us? You do not resemble any woman we've previously courted. Why do you harbor resentment?"

"I do not have to have been courted by you to dislike you, Lord Golbach. Perhaps I find your inability to care for a woman's heart atrocious and that alone sparked my malicious feelings." She rebutted, her hands firmly on her hips.

"Did we hurt a sister of yours? Perhaps a friend." Cole responded, almost in jest.

She shook her head heatedly. "No. No. As humorously as that would be, you hurt mine without ever courting me. So congratulations are in order for that feat."

Both of the gentlemen's faces dropped, annoyed. "How?"

"I overheard you, today, at the park. Along with your friend Beaumont. You all had such a delightful time picking apart different women, none of which measured up to your standards for one reason or another." She spat.

Cole shook his head, almost trying to reset his vision. "A-And what is wrong with having standards?"

"There is nothing wrong with that," Y/N grunted. "The problem lies in how you go about finding those standards. Let's not play foolish here: you both know how sought after you are. And you also know that you most likely won't be finding a match anytime soon. So why be out in society?"

Sam’s eyes rolled for a moment. "Are we not permitted to partake in revelry?"

"You can, but not at the expense of women's hearts or reputations!" Her voice boomed off the walls of the study. The room fell silent, the men watching her with wide eyes.

She continued passionately. "Do you know how completely ignorant it is to badmouth a woman to one of your fellow gentlemen? It is already hard enough as a lady to find a suitable husband when you have every other lady fighting for said affections. But to have fellow men berate and downgrade you as if you are a second-prized poodle is humiliating. Because if you two think that way about me, how else do the other men of the Ton feel? How am I supposed to navigate a labyrinth I had no realization I was in?"

Both men were stunned into silence, but finally Cole spoke. "We should be wiser with our words, yes. But it's not exactly easy for us, either."

"Oh please." She murmured, exhausted.

He moved towards her, shaking his head. "We are told to act a certain way, to be men. The rakish behavior we have to put on is all but a front. At least for him and I. It is exhausting wanting to be open and vulnerable and honest when no one reciprocates those feelings back. So it's easier to put up walls and guard yourself and pretend to be something you're not. But in the end it all hurts the same."

"But you're a man. And not just any one, a prominent one. You could..." Y/N exhaled. "Change what is expected."

"It is not that simple. And it's already a lonely road for those that do not follow what is to be asked of you." Cole paused, swallowing. "I often wonder if a love match is something I will ever find, or if I'm doomed to face a marriage with a woman that is a complete stranger to me for the rest of my days."

She frowned, "Find someone to love, then."

Cole bit his lip harshly, holding back his hurt, "I wish I could. I wish my family would allow that. There are certain expectations I've been destined to meet since birth that I wish I could shake. But it's not as simple as it sounds."

Y/N looked towards Sam, "And what about you?"

"I... I don't know how to express myself. At all," he muttered, stoic and awkward. "This life of mine is not even remotely fulfilling. And I am afraid I am wasting it being someone I never wished to be."

For a moment, Y/N's heart ached for both gentlemen. She stared at them, and they were no longer men, but boys. And for the first time in years, when she expressed exactly how she felt without fear of rejection, she felt like a girl again. The brutal honesty of being a child with no expectations placed.

"I apologize for being so… careless." Her demeanor softened, "Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed so harshly.."

"No. Your honesty is refreshing. I don't think anyone has called us out in years." Samuel commented.

Cole smirked, "Or ever, really."

She giggled, and genuinely smiled, for the first time all night. They smiled back, their grins earnest.

"You have the sweetest of laughs. Almost like honey." Samuel complimented.

She bowed her head, doing her best to hide her blush. "T-That is very kind of you to say, my Lord."

Cole chimed in, the men sharing a look. "May I ask you a question, Miss Rose?"

Y/N nodded, watching them as they drew closer to her.

"Would it be alright if I call upon you tomorrow?" He asked.

Samuel added, "I too, would wish to do that, as well."

Her eyes widened, "I beg your pardon?"

"You are merely unlike any lady I have ever encountered. Unlike any we have met before. And I am certain that both of us would cherish the opportunity to become better acquainted with you." Cole explained genuinely.

"Even after I've insulted you to your face?" She sassed.

"Even more so, yes." Samuel's eyes glimmered mischievously.

Y/N questioned, "Are you sure that would be wise?"

"I would say it's about as wise as you being in a room, alone, with the two of us. Unchaperoned." Cole's voice deepened, causing Y/N's eyes to flutter.

Y/N suddenly became very aware of how close the Lords were to her. Her lips parted, wanting to gasp, but she was rendered speechless. She glanced between the two of them, watching as the space between them and her came to an almost close. Her back was up against the window sill, and she could feel the heat of Sam and Cole's bodies rolling off onto hers.

She closed her eyes tightly, savoring the moment. This was her first time truly feeling stirred by the presence of a man. Multiple men.

"But you are gentlemen." She choked out.

His eyes darkened. "Of course. We would never do anything untoward an honorable young lady, like yourself."

"All you have to do is say so, and we'll stop." Sam uttered huskily.

Cole spun Y/N to face him, her mouth falling open in surprise. He stared at her devilishly, his eyes taking in every part of her slowly. A breath blew across the back of Y/N's neck, startling her. She glanced over her shoulder through hooded eyes to see Sam, closing the space between her and him. His mouth danced up her neck, stopping right under her ear.

"Do you want us to stop?" Cole whispered softly.

Y/N shuddered a breath, his hands cupping her waist as he stepped closer to her. His mouth was on the other side of her neck, peppering light kisses up and down her throat. Y/N closed her eyes, her chest heaving as her breath fought to catch up. Y/N had had one kiss before in her entire life, right before coming out into society. And she had heard whispers of what... intimacy, between a man and woman was like.

But this was a whole new world for her.

Heat pooled low in her stomach as the men traced their lips over her skin, breathing her in. Sam's hands rested lightly on her lower back, tracing up and down her corset lining. Cole's hands rubbed up and down her bare arms, goosebumps rising in their wake.

Their bodies were firm up against hers. It was almost like a waltz the way the Lords' movements guided her. She was entranced by it all, following their every direction. Then, suddenly it hit her.

She won. And not only did she win, but the clock was very close to midnight. And it was time to leave.

Y/N took a deep breath, something she felt she hadn't done in ages, and slithered her way out from between each man.

"Well, gentlemen, this has been a lovely evening. But I must be getting home." Y/N stated calmly.

Both men were stunned into silence, again, by her. "Wh... What?"

"Did I say something surprising?" She gazed innocently at them, then headed towards the door.

Samuel and Cole stared at her in awe, an almost amused smile resting on their lips. She truly was incomparable.

As she opened the door to the study, Samuel called out, "You must tell us who you are, at the very least."

She paused, her hand resting on the handle. She had considered making her getaway, not letting them know who she was. But part of her wondered what their faces would look like once they knew it was her, Y/N, that left them this way. Hot and bothered.

She untied her mask slowly, holding it delicately in her hands. She turned back to the Lords, gazing at them both.

"Goodnight, Lord Golbach and Lord Brock. I hope you have a splendid evening." She bowed, and rushed out, taking the stairs quickly.

Sam and Cole stood in silence for a while, reliving the moments they had just shared with Y/N. Neither one could wrap their minds about what took place, or that it was Y/N - of all people - that had caused these feelings to occur. Feelings that both men had not experienced in a very long time, if ever.

Sam stuck his hand out to Cole, raising an eyebrow at him. "May the best man win."

Cole smirked, grasping his friend's hand tightly. "Indeed."

The gentlemen knew only one of them would win Y/N's heart. And now it was time to see who could ever conquer such a feat.

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agathaandbrienneslesbian · 8 months

Text

Hearts of Justice

Miranda Hilmarson x Secretary!Reader

Hello everyone and happy new year to you all <3 I am back with a new mini-fic.

Decided to make a lil illustration for the fic :3

Reminder that I have a Taglist now so make sure to use it <3

Also big thanks to @weemssapphicfor beta reading this piece <3

Disclaimer: English is not my first language!

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Kissies, Love confessions

A/N: Y/N is a secretary at the police station where Miranda works. But what happens when y/n has to console Miranda after a rather rough breakup?

Words: 2'100+

AO3 Link

Taglist

-----

You have been working at the station for about two years now.

When you first started, Miranda Hilmarson had been the only friendly face there. The two of you immediately became best friends, spending your breaks and sometimes even free time together.

Technically, you weren’t a Constable, like Miranda. No, you worked as the station's secretary. You supposed this might have been the reason why they didn’t necessarily welcome you.

Of course, you have been the topic of many bets and pranks, especially from your male coworkers. You never understood the allure of such childish things but… when you were with Miranda, childish things seemed to just make sense. Listening to her gush about her favourite show or how passionate she was about her work, despite being picked on herself, was the highlight of your day. You supposed that’s why the two of you got along so well. Miranda and you shared the same struggles. Even though the both of you didn’t necessarily have a good connection to your coworkers, you still made it through the day with the help of each other.

A few months ago, you noticed how your affection towards the blonde Constable has changed. It has… intensified. And, of course, it had to happen right when that stupid Adrian dumped her. You never understood what she saw in him… he was a liar, a cheat, didn’t treat her right. It made your blood boil. Seeing her be so hopeful when you knew all he would do was make her cry, break her… it made you so unbelievably angry. And when the inevitable happened, and he dropped her, you were there. You caught her in your arms, cradled her gently and whispered apologies and soft affirmations as she sobbed in your arms on the couch of your flat.

“He didn’t deserve you”, “I am so sorry he did this to you”, “You deserve better, Mir”, “I will not leave your side. I promise”, “Never again will I let anyone hurt you like this”

It took you a good hour to have her relax in your arms. Still, you didn’t move. This is when it hit you. This exact, stupid moment was when it hit you. How much you actually admired her. How much you cared for her… how much you loved her. It hit you like a brick, square in the face, and your heart sank. You were in love with her. You couldn’t tell her… never… you were her best friend after all, and you certainly didn’t want her to think you used her in her most vulnerable state, so… you stayed quiet.

For days

For weeks

For months

Half a year has passed since that fateful night, and it simply got more and more difficult to hold back your emotions, your feelings, your affections. So, you started distancing yourself. Small things at first like your lunch break, the hours you worked.

In the end, you only saw her at the station, walking in and out. You have completely detached yourself from her and it… hurt. But you couldn’t tell her… could you? She wouldn’t understand…

It took all your strength to deny her once more when she asked you, with a hopeful glimmer in her eyes, if you wanted to join her for a beer after work. You hated the defeated look on her face as you declined, coming up with yet another excuse. But this time… something was... different.

You could swear you saw tears. Miranda was… truly upset. This wasn’t your intention, this wasn’t what you wanted… before you could stop her or say something else, tell her you changed your mind, she walked off. Strong and long legs taking her down the halls and out the door. With a defeated sigh and tears burning in your eyes, you leaned back. That’s it… you’ve done it… Miranda probably hated you now.

“I would go after her if I were you…”

A strong voice spoke from behind, and you jumped, not expecting to be ambushed like that. You quickly turned in your chair to see the small detective standing behind you. A frown laid itself on your face as you looked at her questioningly.

“I- what?”

“Oh, you heard me.”

You looked at the brunette, then turned your face to the exit. Maybe… with a quick move, you stood, making your way out. Robin was right. You couldn’t let this be. You wouldn’t be the reason why Miranda cried. Never. You promised her.

Panting heavily, you finally caught up with the blonde who sat on a bench outside, frantically smoking a cigarette and wiping tears away. The sight broke your heart.

“Mir…”

You said softly, watching as she jumped and her eyes widened. She turned her head away and quickly wiped away her tears.

“Yeah… yeah?”

You took a deep breath and sat down next to her, just looking at her, unsure about what to do. You took a deep breath and pulled her into a hug. She quickly wrapped her arms around you, hiding her face in your neck. You could physically feel her relax in your arms, and it made your heart constrict.

“I’m sorry… I would love to go have a beer with you tonight.”

You spoke softly, running your fingers through her hair. Gods, you missed being this close to her.

“Really…?”

The blonde asked quietly. With a deep breath and a nod, you pulled her even closer.

“Yes, really.”

You whispered and let go of her. Miranda let go reluctantly and smiled at you, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Wanna… meet at my place?” she asked softly and you nodded. Taking her hands and squeezing them gently. Miranda’s cigarette now on the floor, forgotten by the two of you. Her smile brightened a bit and she nodded.

“Then I’ll have some beers cold and ready when you arrive.”

“That sounds wonderful!”

—

The rest of the day had been strangely uneventful, besides the growing worry and fear of what tonight might bring for you. You almost lost your cool this afternoon, wanting to press sweet kisses to her head and face. But you held yourself back. Miranda wasn’t interested in you like that…

After work, you quickly rushed home, took a shower and changed into something a bit less formal and more comfortable. You styled your hair and added just a smidge of makeup. Not too much. With one final look in the mirror, you quickly made your way over to Miranda’s place. Standing in front of the door, your nerves started getting the better of you. You can’t do this… this is gonna be too much for you. Before you could decide if you wanted to leave or not, the door in front of you opened.

“Ah, I thought I had heard something!”

Miranda smiled down at you and stepped aside for you to enter. With a shy smile, you stepped into her flat. It had been weeks since you’d last been here. It smelled like her and you felt slightly dizzy. After taking off your shoes and sitting down on her couch, Miranda quickly followed with two beers, handing you one.

“I’m glad you’re here. I started to miss your presence.” she said softly and blushed, quickly taking a swig from her beer. You did the same, trying to suppress your blush. She missed you…

“You’ve been very busy lately… what had you so occupied? Maybe a special someone?” She asked softly, wiggling with her eyebrows but the way she asked the question… something seemed off.

“Wha- no! Well… not really… not like you think… I’m not…”

A bright blush crept onto your face, and you quickly took another big sip of your beer. Gods, you wouldn’t survive this. Miranda watched you closely, a sad frown on her face.

“Then… why were you avoiding me..?”

The pain you felt in your heart almost made you double over. This is never what you wanted. You never wanted to hurt her. With a sigh, you set the beer down and started fiddling with your fingers.

“It’s not… easy..”

“Tell me! Please! Have… have I done something wrong?”

“No…”

“Have… have I hurt you? Have I been a bad friend? Y/n please! I must know. What have I done to you? Have I said something that upset you or-“

“NO! No… Miranda… no, you could never…”

You sighed. You couldn’t tell her…

Looking up you saw her face, pain, fear, worry, sadness. You- you just had yelled at her…

“Oh gods, Miranda, I am so sorry I… I didn’t-“

“No it’s.. It’s okay…”

She spoke softly and set her beer down. She was about to get off the couch, but you grabbed her wrist, holding her in place. You had to tell her. You couldn’t see her so upset any more, it was too painful. The blonde’s icy blues looked at you, confusion written on her face as she waited for you to proceed.

“Miranda I- the reason why I was so distant… I don’t know how to tell you.”

You took a deep breath. Miranda had moved your grip, holding your hand now. Her thumb softly rubbing over your knuckles, trying to help you feel calm. It just made you even more nervous. She cared so much.

“The reason why I was so distant was… I am in love with you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for an answer but when none came you pulled your hand from her grip and covered your face.

“I- I have realised that I felt this way the day that asshole broke up with you… it hit me like a brick and… I didn’t want to tell you. You were so broken… you needed a friend not… that. I-I couldn’t be around you any more because it was just eating me up from the inside every time we spent time together. I had to distance myself because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable… I didn’t want to- to take advantage of you I- I care too much… Miranda, I love you…”

Silence. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes but if you had looked up you would have seen Miranda's face. A bright blush had covered her face, ears and chest, eyes wide, staring at you with hope, with longing, with unspoken emotions. You loved her. She could be loved, someone, you really loved her.

“I-I’m sorry… I’ll see myself out, please just forget-“

“No…”

You turned to look at her, taking in her features. She was… smiling. Not in a ‘making fun of you’ type of way, no, a genuine smile. Miranda moved closer, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you close, running her fingers through your hair as she pulled you against her body. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around the strong blonde, falling into her embrace, her scent, her soft breaths against your shoulder, falling into her.

“Y-you’re not mad? Uncomfortable? Disgusted?”

Miranda pulled away to cup your face, wiping a tear from your cheek as she looked into your eyes.

“I could never. I love you too much.”

She whispered, smiling softly down at you. Your eyes widened. She… loved you?

“Miranda I-“

“Can I kiss you?”

You looked into her eyes, her icy blue orbs reflecting nothing but love, care and hope. You nodded, cupping her cheeks and gently tucking some hair behind her ear.

“Please!”

She leaned in, you felt her warm breath on your skin and then her soft, warm lips against yours. It was a perfect fit. Like the last piece in a puzzle. She completed you and in that moment all of your worries flew out the window. Miranda was gentle and careful. Her lips moved against yours with soft movements, and she made sure to hold you as if you were about to fall apart. She held you, she protected you.

After a minute or two, she pulled away and smiled softly at you, pressing a gentle peck to your forehead. You smiled and closed your eyes, enjoying the feeling of her soft, warm lips against your forehead. You belonged here. In her arms, in her embrace.

“After that night… I started realising how much you actually mean to me. Of course, it took a while for me to realise that what I felt for you was more than friendship. When you started distancing yourself, I was afraid… I thought you noticed. That I- somehow had shown too much, said too much… scared you off…” Miranda admitted and stroked your cheek gently. Keeping eye contact with you. You pressed a quick peck to her lips and the palm of her hand.

“You could never. I love you, Miranda.”

The blonde Constable smiled and pulled you into another embrace, leaning back against the couch and having you snuggle into her arms. Where you belonged.

“I wouldn’t want to be loved by anyone but you.”

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Taglist: @erinyaya @phexyce @aemilia19 @weemssapphic @gela123 @winterfireblond @Xxmecverxx @unicorniusfallapatorious @gwenistheloml @yourgaeyisshowing

As always, Likes, Comments and Reblogs are welcome <3

#gwendoline christie #sapphic #fanfic #wlw #reader insert #ao3 #gwendoline christie fanfics #queer #miranda my baby #miranda hilmarson #gwendoline christie characters #miranda hilmarson x reader

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rainylana · 1 year

Text

“Kiss me.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: eddie is having a bad day, so he looks to you for comfort.

warnings: bully!eddie, mean!eddie, slight perv!eddie mentions of smut and masturbation, mentions of eddie’s home life.

Eddie was tired, mentally and physically. Tired of his life, his friends and his fucked up family, apart from Wayne of course. He was tired of school, his band. Just tired. He was tired of living everyday pretending to be happy when he was only miserable. The trauma from his childhood was haunting him, the scars from his dad a big, nasty reminder of growing up.

The only thing that was keeping him going was you. Ironic, when it reality, you hated him. He treated you terribly. He knew it, he loved it. It was the only way he knew how to express himself. He fantasized about you, thought about how your cunt would feel with his cock penetrating inside of you, how it would feel to kiss your lips and pull your hair.

He got off treating you the way he did, being mean. He stole your things, pulled at your hair and tripped you in the halls, made fun of you in class in front of everyone. He loved to make you cry. He never once thought about having a civil conversation, asking you out on a date or just being openly friendly. He didn’t want that with you. Growing up was difficult. He learned how to express himself in different ways unlike everyone else. Wayne tried his best to raise him honorably, to respect people, especially women, and treat them right, but Eddie was complicated.

Deep, deep down, he was a good person with a good heart, he just didn’t know how to share it with anyone.

He wasn’t having a good day whatsoever. Everything was pissing him off. You were pissing him off. Your smile, your laughter. The fact you were obviously having an enjoyable day. He wanted you to be miserable like him, so he needed the chance to get you alone.

He sat in a seat in the auditorium, not participating in choir practice for the third time that week. His feet were propped up on the seat in front of him, arms crossed with tatted flesh and bracelets, clad in dark clothing. He watched you sing with your peers, chin high and that ugly pink bow that sat on the back of your head. He wanted to ruin you, and he hated that he was growing hard while watching you.

He loved your little stockings, your knee high socks and white shoes. The little bows you wore and the gold, cross necklace around your neck. You portrayed innocence, but Eddie knew better. He could practically smell the way you dripped for him.

When the bell rang and class was dismissed, Eddie stood, stalking over to you slowly and predatorily, like a hunter and it’s prey. You were left behind by your friends while you gathered your things, turning on your heel to wave goodbye to the teacher. He internally scoffed. Always such a goody-two shoes.

You gasped when you came face to face with him, left alone in the empty auditorium. Your face melted into fear, the look that he loved.

“What is it, Eddie?” You tried not to let your voice tremble. “I already gave you the homework for english.”

He shamelessly looked you over. “You seem like you’re having a good day.”

You gulped, knowing he was about to ruin it. “I am.”

He smirked. “Couldn’t help but notice you were watching me over there.”

“I was not.” You defended, adjusting the hold on your books. “I was singing.”

“Sure,” He stared at the open exposure of your chest.

“My eyes are up here.” You tapped your head, spinning on your heal to walk away.

He let you get a few feet away before stopping you again. “Don’t you have something for me?”

You stopped, shoulders dropping as your hand went to your hair. You turned to glare at him, pulling out your pink ribbon and tossing it to him. “You are so weird. What the hell do you do with those anyway?”

He watched the way your hair cascaded down your shoulders, and he looked down to the new silk ribbon he could add to his collection. He always made you give them to him.

“I like annoying you.” He smelled it before putting it in his pocket, making your face flush.

He smirked. “If it bothers you so much than stop wearing them? Ever think of that?”

You could, but that would mean you wouldn’t be getting as much attention.

“Whatever.” You brushed off. “Can I go?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

You groaned, which turned into a gasp when he grabbed your arm, yanking you toward him. “Eddie!”

He stared at you long and hard, holding you against his body firmly. Your breath was heavy, eyes fluttering rapidly as your eyes were locked.

“If I told you I wrap your sweet little ribbons around my cock, what would you say?” He whispered.

Your eyes widened, lips parting in shock.

“If I told you,” His other arm wrapped around your back, trapping you in his grip. “That I think of you scuffing your knees for me? That I get off to making you hate me? What would you say?”

Your eyes filled with tears, your heart racing and face flushing. You hated that heat rushed to your thighs.

He searched your face, looking for something, you didn’t know what. Answers, maybe? An explanation to why he felt the way he did? Why he had to grow up the way he did, experience such a horrific home life and father. Why was he falling in love with you? And why, damnit, couldn’t he tell you.

“Kiss me.” He said softer, not letting go of you.

It wasn’t an order or a demand, for once, Eddie was soft with you. It made you throb. Your eyes fluttered closed and you stood on your tip toes. You shakily placed your lips on his, giving him a delicate kiss. He imagined kissing you many times, but it was never like this. It was soft, gentle. You moved your lips with his like soft ocean currents.

When you pulled apart, he let you go slowly, releasing your arms from his tight grip. He was at a loss for words, looking down and avoiding your eyes. He felt so much. For once, he just wished he could tell you how he felt, why he did the things he did. Maybe kissing you was his way.

“Eddie-” You began to say before he cut you off.

“Don’t.” He shut his eyes, overwhelming.

But Eddie was Eddie. He was complicated, an over thinker. He made things much more difficult than they needed to be.

He looked at you, a mixture of sadness and anger taking over his features as he turned to walk away. “Just don’t.”

#lana’s shit post #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #stranger things #stranger things season four #joseph quinn #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson headcanons #bully!eddie

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alpaca-clouds · 1 year

Text

An Overview Over the Solarpunk Anthologies

I thought, where I am already here, trying to get everyone to engage with Solarpunk as more than just an aesthetic and pretty flowers, I should give a quick overview over the Solarpunk antholigies, that have been released so far.

Note that so far most releases within the genre are in fact short stories. Though if anyone is interested, I can make a list of the novels I am aware of!

Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World is pretty much how the genre got its start. The book was originally released in Brazil and only recently had been translated into the English language. It only covers a few stories, but those are a bit longer than your average short story to make up for it.

Sunvault: Stories of Solarpunk and Eco-Speculation has been quoted by many writers in the genre to have been a massive inspiration to them. The stories are very diverse and cover lots of ground.

Wings of Renewal: A Solarpunk Dragon Anthology is probably the weirdest out of this bunch. While all of the other anthologies mostly focus on either SciFi settings or stories set in the here and now, Wings of Renewal mixes Solarpunk with Fantasy elements. At times those stories are SciFi, too, at times they are really mostly fantastical.

Glass and Gardens: Solarpunk Summers explores a wide variety of Solarpunk settings, some hopeful, some less optimistic. It is mostly set in warm and hot scenarios, though those can also vary quite a bit.

Glass and Gardens: Solarpunk Winters then went ahead as a "sequel" of sorts to explore the concept of Solarpunk in colder climates.

Multispecies Cities: Solarpunk Urban Futures has probably to be my favorite one from the anthologies edited by Sarena Udaberri. It explores how humans and animals can live together in Urban settings. And once again, the stories vary from those set in a more futuristic and a more present setting a lot.

Fighting for the Future is the most recent of those anthologies, as it has only released last month. (And yes, this also means: I have not yet read it at all.) It features stories of Cyberpunk and Solarpunk futures - as well as stories where both intertwine!

Bioluminescent: A Lunarpunk Anthology is exactly what it says on the cover. An anthology featuring Lunarpunk stories. So Solarpunk with a bit more mysticism to go with it. And as this also only has released earlier this year I admittedly also have not gotten around to reading it yet.

This does remind me though: Would anyone be interested in me writing mini reviews to the stories in those anthologies?

#solarpunk #lunarpunk #solarpunk fiction #anthology #short stories #overview #scifi #clifi #science fiction #climate fiction

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iamasimperyk · 19 days

Text

Too Hot Too Handle

Summary: You are part of the cast of Too Hot To Handle but so is Rafe. Let's say you didn't get along till a certain workshop.

Warnings: Talking about insecurities, self-doubts, cussing, mention of men using women for other pleasure, Too Hot To Handle season 6 inspired, not proof read, English is not my first language

Pairing: Thth!Rafe x Thth!reader

You have already seen Rafe Cameron in many dating shows. He was hot, there was no doubt, but he was also an asshole. He was known for making out and sleeping with girls, having them wrapped around his finger, just to ignore them as soon he got what he wanted.

"Are you alright?" The girl next to you asked.

You quickly nodded, "Yeah, just zoned out for a bit."

It was true you zoned out a little bit but it was all Rafe's fault, but let's start at the beginning.

----

It was a sunny Friday afternoon when you got an email with everything you need to know about your time on 'Too Hot To Handle'. The problem was, that you never wanted to be a part of that show, so why was Netflix reaching out to you?

You immediately called your best friend about the email, but she wasn't as shocked as you. She was the one who sent your application to Netflix since she wanted you to loosen up a little and have a fun summer.

It wasn't like you couldn't have fun, you just wanted something genuine and not some meaningless flirts and one-night stands here and there. Best conditions for Too Hot To Handle.

----

It was a weird feeling being recorded all day, but you tried your best to calm yourself and remind yourself about the fact that everything would be fine. You were a little introverted, but you were also confident and ready for this new experience.

You walked in by yourself in a tiny black bikini, waving at the people who were already standing by a table, drinking champagne.

"Oh my god, girl, you look stunning." A beautiful blond girl smiled at you, hugging you instantly.

Everyone complimented at least one thing about you, which you could just return, the people here were definitely hot.

Chad, one of the guys, handed you a glass of the pearly liquor, "So, you are from the US?"

You nodded, "I am from California, yeah."

"Well, in case you haven't noticed till now, I am British." He chuckled a little.

"The accent gave it away." You took a sip of your glass.

As he was about to say something once again, someone else came down the stairs.

No.Fucking.Way. Why was Rafe Cameron here? Not a single person here was popular, except for him.

"Well, hello," He said with his typical smirk, greeting everyone.

"God he's so hot," Lucy sighed, nearly drooling.

The other girls were quick to agree while you just rolled your eyes.

It was true he was hot but there was nothing else behind that pretty face and toned body.

----

After everybody introduced themself, you all started to explore the villa. Guliana and you sat down on one of the beds and started gossiping, "Tell me, who's your type?"

She seemed to think about it for a few seconds before she slightly shook her head, "Chad looks good, Rafe too, but there is no one who really catches me. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, everyone here is handsome, but I can't imagine myself with someone of them." You answered honestly.

"I bet everyone else already started to make out with each other," She giggled and you couldn't help but do the same.

However, you two were interrupted by a certain blue-eyed guy, "Seems like you two have a good time."

"How many rules did you break by now?" Guliana asked him, laughing.

"I haven't seen Lana till now, so everything is fine." He smirked, sitting down next to you.

You moved away from him a little, feeling slightly intimidated by his presence. "No offence, but I have seen some of your shows, and Too Hot To Handle would have been the last show I would have thought to see you in."

Rafe shrugged, "I am here to have some fun and win some money, nothing's wrong with that."

"And I bet almost every girl here would love to have some fun with you." The blond girl chuckled, playing with her skirt.

"Well, I am not picky. Every girl in here is hot as hell." Rafe answered cockily.

Rafe Cameron was even more arrogant in person, who would have thought that was possible?

"You aren't much of a talker, huh?" He suddenly said, looking at you intensely.

"I love to analyse, that's all." You smiled back sweetly.

"Oh, so what do you think of me? Tell me what you could analyse about me till now" He questioned with way too much confidence.

You couldn't believe this guy. He was impossible.

"That's for me to know. I will get a drink now" You mumbled, standing up and leaving the room.

----

That was the first and last time you talked to Rafe since Lana made her arrival last night, telling Rafe and Bri that they had to leave the retreat because they were too horny to be true.

You felt at ease now that Rafe was gone. You didn't know why but there was something about him you didn't like, however, it didn't matter anymore since Rafe was no longer part of the show, or so you thought.

When Bri and he came to the retreat once again, they told you about their 24-hour punishment.

"Guys, we have to be more responsible when it comes to our money, " Guliana sighed.

"Yeah, she's right, you all keep it in your pants." You mumbled, as loud for everyone to hear.

Rafe let out a chuckle, "Come on, just because you are too prude to make out with someone, you don't have to be so rude."

"First of all, it's not rude if I want you to behave and second I know how to have fun, I simply don't want everyone's tongue down my throat.", You rolled your eyes at him, clearly pissed.

----

The next days were all the same - people spent money on all kinds of sexual acts. That way the reason why Lana decided it was time for a workshop.

You all got paired up with someone you had no connection and surprise your partner was Rafe.

"Today's workshop is all about being honest and peeling back the layers. I am here to help you make a deeper connection with yourself, so you can make a deeper connection with your partner. All right, it's time to pick up those mirrors in front of you. Take it and look at yourself in it. What do you see?" The workshop leader asked.

"I see a Latina mamacita over here, of course!" Flavia giggled.

"Hot, toned, good-looking," Rafe was the next to answer.

You also looked in the mirror, your eyes glancing at every aspect of your body. You were confident, yes, but everyone had some insecurities deep down.

The others, however, seemed to love their looks as much as they could.

"Little booties matter! I can see it!"

"A little tiny waist."

"A nice little rack."

"I like my lips. I like my eyes."

"I like my hair."

The workshop leader let out a chuckle, "Alright, y'all. One second. I want you to start thinking about who you are behind what you are looking at in the mirror. Does anybody here feel like you have to put up a front? To put up a facade?"

Everybody slowly started to raise their hand, and you as well.

"If we can't be honest and real with ourselves, who can we keep it real with? Nobody," He went on, while everybody looked a little closer at themselves, "Look at yourself again. Is it the actual real you? Or is it a facade?"

Slowly, people began opening up about their feelings. It was amazing to see their masks gradually coming off.

"Y/n, what do you feel you have to portray to the world?" Now it was your time, to be honest.

" I feel like I have to keep my walls up so people don't hurt me. In my past, I tended to get attached to guys way too easily and they used that against me," You let out a quiet sob as you thought about your past, "I just want to be loved like everyone else. I know I look good but deep down I have these doubts. Is my waist too thin or too thick? Do I really like my nose? Am I too short? Why do I not have curves like the others? I think I started to doubt myself because I was constantly used by men."

That was the truth, and you felt embarrassed to admit it.

"Rafe, give her a hug for me, mate," Demari told him. The two of you have become quite good friends in the last few days.

Rafe looked down at you for a moment before he carefully wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tightly. It was strange but somehow it felt good.

"Rafe, what about you? What do you feel you have to put on for the world?" The workshop leader asked him.

He let go of you slowly and looked at himself in the mirror, "I know I look good and in the past, I have often used that privilege to get what I wanted. I have always gotten what I wanted and I made sure to keep it that way, but the truth is I am scared. I am scared to let a woman hurt me, so I leave them before they can do the same to me. Sometimes I also doubt the fact that I can be a good boyfriend or husband one day. I don't want to have children just to fuck them up as well."

You felt sorry when you heard those words. As soon as he was done speaking, you hugged him as tightly as he had hugged you before.

After a few seconds, you felt him wrapping his arms around you as well. You weren't sure how long you stayed like this but as the workshop was done he let go of you.

You didn't know how to feel but something in you told you that for the first time in his life, Rafe also didn't know what to do.

~~~~~~~~~~

Please tell me your thoughts on this on because I am kinda proud of it🥹

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #outer banks x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #outer banks x y/n #outer banks x you #obx #rafe x reader #outer banks #too hot to handle #thth #thth season 6 #too hot to handle x reader

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jagibee · 1 year

Text

Call Me Luna

(Stray Kids x Reader)

Chapter 6

6,213 Words

A/N: Sorry that the story is being so slow! I promise it will pick up in a bit! In the meantime, enjoy some Chanlix! Also, just a reminder, when I write something like “‘“this”’”, it means the characters are speaking in English.

TW: Talk of dieting, discussion of sex

…

After a very eventful day, it hadn’t taken you very long to fall asleep once you had completed your nightly routine. The bed was nice, if a little stiff, and you ordered more room service for dinner, this time knowing what you liked. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as fun as the last time you ate, but you still went to bed full and satisfied.

Then your phone rang and startled you out of your sleep. You didn’t even check the time when you picked up immediately after seeing the caller ID.

“Hello? Chan? Is everything alright?”

“Y/N!”

Well. You wanted the sound of him saying your name tattooed on the inside of your brain.

“What is it, Chan?”

From the other side of the phone call, you could hear a couple different muffled voices before there was a shushing sound.

“Just wanted to hear your voice, really. And make sure you’re okay after today.”

You felt your heart melt a little at that. “I’m fine, great even. You’re all so amazing, this is literally my dream job.”

The muffled voices were even louder, but you still couldn’t make them out. You were curious about them, but didn’t want to pry.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Y/N. Half of the reason I called is because I need a break from my other members asking questions about you, and when they’re going to meet you, and why they didn’t get to meet you today.” You heard him sigh dramatically. “One of these days I’m actually going to start selling them off to Stays.”

You felt your lips twitch. “How much are you selling them for?”

Chan hummed thoughtfully. “I think I’ll just trade them for their SKZOOs. If someone comes up to me with one, I’ll let them rent that member for an hour.”

You heard an outburst from his side and laughed before replying. “If you do that, there will be a stampede of people at the company building waving their SKZOOs. Anyway, what have you been telling your members about me?”

“That you’re hot!”

Your heart fluttered. Was that…?

“Han! Give me my phone back!”

You heard a commotion and a sharp yelp before someone said something over the phone again.

“I am so sorry, I definitely did not say that- not that I don’t think you’re hot! Or, well, I don’t not think that, but there’s- I don’t want to disrespect you or-”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “Chan, it’s alright! I don’t not think you’re hot, either.”

There was a pause from every voice on the other side and you started to wonder if you went too far when you heard a quiet “thank you?”

You smirked at that. “You don’t have to thank me, it’s sort of obvious.”

The other voices started cackling at that and in order to save Chan, you changed the topic. “So, are you still at the studio?”

Seemingly glad of your mercy, he sighed slightly before speaking. “Yeah, but we’re almost finished up. I’ve got Changbin and Hannie with me, plus Seungmin because he said everyone at his dorm kept bragging about getting to meet you.”

Your cheeks suddenly felt very hot. “Really?”

“Yeah, they really liked you. But it’s kind of hard not to. Oh, by the way! Tomorrow I’ll pick you up at the front of the building again and then the two of us are having a meeting with Felix to discuss his heat. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” you responded, trying your best to stay calm despite what he said about it being hard not to like you.

“Alright! Then we have a recording session, where you can meet the rest of our members.” There was a small eruption of cheers from the other line and you felt your cheeks hurt from how hard you were smiling. “Then, I was thinking we could all go out to dinner, if you’re interested? I figured we could celebrate you meeting all of us and the end of your first week and everything.”

You stifled a snort. “I haven’t actually been here for a full week. I arrived on Tuesday and my first day at the company was Wednesday.”

You heard Chan giggle. “Yeah, well, when you’re with these guys, it’s like dog years or something. Every day actually lasts a week, so really we’ll be celebrating your third week!”

You were glad that hotels were required to have scent blockers on all of the rooms, otherwise the entire floor might have smelled the cacophony of emotions you felt.

Rolling over on your bed, you almost choked on your own saliva when you saw the time on the clock. “Well, as much as I enjoy talking to you, I think that in order to not fall asleep in the middle of my third week, I should go back to sleep. Can I let you go?”

There was a clatter from your phone before you heard Chan’s voice again. “Shit, did we wake you up? Sorry! But yeah, go back to sleep for sure. In fact, we should go back to the dorms. Seungmin fell asleep on Changbin’s lap.”

Fuck, you couldn’t wait to meet them. “Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow! Get back to your dorms safely!”

“We‘ll try our best. See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

…

The next time you woke up was much less eventful, your alarm ringing out rather than your ringtone.

You took a few minutes to just lay down and stare at the ceiling. There’s no way that really happened, you thought. There’s no way any of this is really happening.

However, a quick check of your call logs confirmed that you received a call from bangfuckingchan at 3:52 a.m.

Before you could have an existential crisis at too-damn-early in the morning, you decided to get out of bed.

After hanging out with the boys yesterday, you decided to put on an outfit that was a bit more casual, something that didn’t make you feel out of place while they were laying around eating tteokbokki in their sweatpants. You finished your morning routine and got in the car once it arrived.

The drive wasn’t too long, the hotel was just a bit too far to walk so you arrived at the company building quickly.

If there was anything that could rip your earlier doubts from your mind, it was the sight of Chan and Felix waiting on the sidewalk and waving at your van as you drove up.

You were so excited to see them again, you almost tripped when getting out. Luckily, you managed to catch yourself before face planting. Unluckily, it was still far from graceful as you extracted your foot from where it had gotten caught.

You turned to see Chan and Felix jog up to you. Before they were able to say anything about your awkward landing, you blurted out, “What, no coffee today?”

Chan blinked in bewilderment. “Uh… no? Are you alright?”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him in mock offense. “What, you’ve never seen someone get out of a car like that? That’s the style these days.”

Felix grinned at you and turned to Chan. “Yeah, hyung. Everyone is doing it. There’s a dance challenge and everything.”

Chan just sighed at the two of you. “Really?”

“Totally. You probably just haven’t heard about it because you were too busy getting hip surgery, old man.”

You let out a startled laugh at Felix’s joke while Chan’s jaw dropped.

Once he got over his shock, Chan turned his face to the sky and groaned. “Ugh, you need to stop hanging out with Seungmin.”

“We literally live together.”

Chan reached out and pulled Felix’s beanie down over his face. While he struggled to escape, Chan turned back to you and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “So, there’s a cafe less than a block away, I was thinking we could get some breakfast and then get down to business?”

Felix finally emerged and flicked Chan’s cheek in retribution. Before they could start fighting in the street, you decided to intervene.

“Breakfast sounds perfect. Let’s go!”

You grabbed them by their hoodie sleeves and started walking in the direction Chan had pointed earlier. Felix slid his arm from your grasp to hold your hand normally and you hoped he couldn’t feel how your heart rate sped up. Chan seemed perfectly fine with you hanging on to his shoulder like a sugar glider, but your hand was cramping, so you released him. He glanced back at you before offering you a crooked elbow. You were thankful for the face mask the company required you to wear as a precaution so they couldn’t see how their actions were affecting you.

The walk was short but nice, the three of you striding along in comfortable silence.

Before you knew it, Chan was steering you into a little shop with flowers and herbs on the windowsills. The place was larger than most cafes, but it didn’t take away from the cozy vibe. There were beanbag chairs and couches along with several plants both hanging from the ceiling and settled along the walls. The only lighting was from the windows and the dainty fairy lights winding back and forth across the ceiling like a dazzling spiderweb. There were fuzzy rugs layered on top of each other, each one more cushy than the one before. In the center of the room was a counter with several baked goods on display. There was a worker watering the plants before she turned to you and welcomed you in.

“Wow. Okay, I guess I know where I’m going to work if you guys ever fire me.”

Felix giggled next to you. “I know, right? Just wait until you see the little desserts! If you leave and come work here, I expect you to bring me free leftovers.”

“Deal,” you told him, squeezing his fingers in yours.

Chan unhooked his arm from yours and instead rested his hand on your back, gently pushing you forward until you stood in line.

There was just one person in front of you, so you didn’t have to wait long. Felix shuffled you over to look at the pastries.

You almost gasped at how amazing they looked. There were little cakes shaped like flowers, cookies with hearts frosted on them, muffins with faces made out of chocolate chips.

Felix seemed particularly drawn to a little cat-shaped brownie. The ears were made of little wedges of chocolate and the whiskers were frosted on.

“Do you want that?”

Felix glanced back at you, eyes wide in surprise. “Hm? Oh, well, it looks good but I’m supposed to be dieting. You know, I’ll probably eat a lot during my heat, especially sweets, so I like to just avoid them for a bit before so I’m not eating too much.”

“Felix, Y/N! What do you guys want?” Chan called from the register.

You both told him what drinks you wanted and Felix went off to find a place to sit.

“Actually,” you turned back to Chan. “Can I have the little brownie cat, too?”

“That one?”

“Mhmm.”

“Are you going to fight me to pay for it?” He asked, eyes crinkling above his mask.

“No,” you mused, “I’ve decided that if you want to pay for me that bad, that’s on you. As a matter of fact, why don’t you just buy me the whole shelf of desserts? Maybe all of the drinks too. Or just buy me the cafe. Whatever you want.”

He chuckled at you, shaking his head. “Maybe later. For now, I think a drink and a cat brownie are good.”

You shrugged. “Fine. But let me know when you’re ready to sign the real estate papers.”

Turning around to look for Felix, you found him sitting in a window seat tucked behind a circular coffee table reading something on his phone.

You dropped down next to him, back to the window, and had a mini heart attack when he instantly moved over to rest his head on your shoulder.

“Have you seen this?” He turned his phone so you could read it.

JYP Entertainment Signs On Full-time Caretakers

Earlier this morning, the company revealed that it would be signing on caretakers for a few of their bands. The caretakers’ names or identities were not released, but we did get a list of the bands. Each of these bands have substantial fanbases, so it will be interesting to see how they react to their favorite idols working with a caretaker.

What is caretaking and why would a K-pop band need a caretaker?

Caretaking, while it has become much more common within the last few years, has been around for decades. Usually, only the wealthy could afford them, but nowadays, several people can hire a part-time caretaker with just a click of a button on their phone. However, with a company as influential as JYPE, using the caretakers full-time seems to be the way to go.

The role of caretakers is to make sure that omegas are happy and content so that they don’t go into omega drop. While companies don’t always tell us why their artists go on hiatus, it is safe to assume that with their stressful jobs, there must have been some danger regarding omega drop, so it’s good that this company is taking their omegan artists’ health seriously.

You let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Are they serious? They’re making a lot of guesses, and some of this is just straight up wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” Chan asked, showing up to the table and setting down a tray of drinks, along with the cat brownie.

He grabbed the drinks and set one in front of Felix and another in front of you, raising his eyebrows underneath his baseball cap as he sat down across from the two of you.

Felix slid his phone over to Chan. “This morning, the company released a statement about the new caretakers.”

Chan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah? That’s not what’s wrong, is it?”

Felix tapped his phone to bring Chan’s attention to the screen. “This article is just being a bit weird about the whole caretaker thing.” Felix’s eyes shifted to the cat brownie. “Ah, you bought one for yourself?”

You smiled at him. “Well, it looks good, doesn’t it? But it seems a bit big. I’m not sure I could finish the whole thing on my own.”

He glanced between you and the brownie carefully.

“It’s a shame, too. I’d hate to waste food this good by throwing it in the trash.”

His lips pursed together.

“If only there was someone here who reminded me of brownies and cats that I could share it with.”

He huffed. “Hey, noona.”

“Yes?” You hummed.

He closed his eyes and slumped back into your shoulder. “Do you want to share it?”

You gasped theatrically. “Why, that’s a great idea! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself!”

You felt him shake with suppressed laughter as you moved the brownie over to cut it.

“Wait!” He yelped, sitting up. “Are you done with my phone?” He asked Chan.

Chan had finished reading the article by now and was watching you and Felix.

He straightened up and passed the phone back. “Yeah, I read it. God, that article. Well, hopefully people will know that that’s not the best source for information about our company or caretakers. I texted our managers, though, and they said it really doesn’t matter what one article says.”

You ran your fingers along your cup. “At least it’s not negative? It does say it’s good that the company is taking your health seriously. Of course, it would be better if they didn’t only mention omegas. All subgenders need caring for. Also, caretakers aren’t just there to prevent omega drop. That makes it sound like we just sit around and read magazines as long as omegas aren’t in danger of omega drop.”

“Hey.” You looked up as Chan reached across the table and took your hand from your cup, holding it in his. “We don’t think you’re just going to sit around reading magazines. We know you worked hard for this, you went to school for years and everything. No matter what people say about you or caretakers in general, we’ve got you.”

Felix looped his arms around your waist. “We’ve got you, noona.”

You squeezed Chan’s hand and ruffled Felix’s hair. “Thanks. I’m not taking it personally though, I just wish people wouldn’t make assumptions like that.”

Both of them nodded at you as you took off your mask, grabbed your drink, and took a sip. “Oh, shit. That’s good.”

They started cackling at your change in attitude when you remembered something from earlier. “Hey, Felix, what did you want to use your phone for?”

His eyes lit up. “Oh! I wanted to take a picture of the brownie and post it on bubble.”

He grabbed his phone and took a picture from above. However, he frowned at his phone one it was done.

“What is it?” You asked, taking another sip of your drink.

He shook his head. “There’s something missing…”

Felix glanced between you and the dessert and you tilted your head in confusion.

“Oh!” He clapped his hands together. “Noona, can I have your hand?”

You raised your hand for him and he took it without hesitation. He moved your hand and his to make a heart shape next to the brownie and took a picture with his other hand.

He brought the phone closer to his face, his freckles dancing as his eyes crinkled.

“Oh!” He looked up from his phone again. “Channie-hyung, did you want to be in the picture?”

Chan had moved his mask under his chin in order to drink his juice, so you could see his face as he smiled. “No, that’s alright Lix. Go ahead and post it.”

Felix nodded as he did just that and set his phone down. “Okay, now let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks!”

You smiled at his enthusiasm. “Sure thing! Will you pass me the knife, “‘“baby”’”?”

The two of you froze and blinked at each other before you realized that you should apologize. “Oh my god, I am so, so sorry. I should have asked to call you that and I didn’t-“

“No, no!” Felix said, waving his hands. “I actually really like being called that.” You couldn’t see much of his face since he still had his mask on, but as he handed you the knife, you could see the tops of his cheeks stretching like he was smiling.

You tightened your fingers around your drink, trying your best not to squeeze it too hard and have it explode on you. “Well, alright,” you replied, summoning your courage, “I guess I’ll have to call you that more often, then.”

Felix’s eyes widened a bit at your comment but before he could respond, Chan cleared his throat. “As much as I love this, we should be getting back to the company soon. You want to eat the cat now instead of taking pictures?”

Felix rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Chan as you cut the cat into thirds.

“Three?” Chan asked, tilting his head in confusion.

You held up the knife dramatically. “If I don’t argue with you about paying, you don’t argue with me about eating.”

He ducked his head, adjusting his hat. “Ah, fine. Sure.”

You grinned and turned to Felix. “Youngest first, right?”

He shook his head at you. “No, no, you’re new here, you go first, noona.”

You shrugged at him. “Alright.” You picked up a forkful from your third of the cat and held it in front of him.

His eyebrows raised at you. “R-really?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you want me to make airplane noises too?”

Felix’s lips twitched up as he leaned forward and ate the brownie off your fork.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, “I love this.”

You took your own bite and instantly understood his reaction. “Holy shit. Did they put the secret to happiness in this or something?”

Chan wheeze-laughed at your antics before taking his own bite. He stopped laughing immediately and his eyes widened. “Wow.”

The three of you quickly finished the cat brownie, Chan and Felix having a mini battle with their forks at one point.

You left the cafe, making sure to remember the name, and walked back to the company the same as before, one arm looped through Chan’s and one hand holding Felix’s.

Once you got to the company building, Chan told you that there was a small meeting room that you would be going to in order to discuss Felix’s heat.

You and Felix followed Chan’s lead as you all piled into the elevator and made your way to a door labeled Meeting Room 32J.

The room itself was fairly plain and it obviously wasn’t in use much. The walls were completely bare, the table was plain black-painted wood with six seats, two on each long side and one on each short side. There were two windows on the back wall and that was about it for decorations.

You sat down on one of the long sides of the table, Chan and Felix across from you, and you all took your face masks off.

You noticed Felix shifting uneasily and thought about how to make him more comfortable. Reaching out your hand, you wrapped it around his own and he glanced up at you from where he’d been staring at the table.

“Hey, “‘“baby”’”,” you murmured, “do you want to take your scent blockers off? And have me and Channie take ours off too?”

He blinked at you before grinning and ducking his head. “Yeah, that sounds nice. Thanks, noona.”

You squeezed his hand. “Of course.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Chan smiling at you before he started peeling off Felix’s scent blocker with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times.

Once he’d removed both Felix’s and his own, and you removed yours, Felix visibly relaxed at the blend of scents. With your earthy-floral scent, Chan’s eucalyptus, and Felix’s lemon dessert, the room was overtaken by a nice, sweet, nature-like aroma. You felt relief in your shoulders from tension you didn’t even know you were carrying and sank down in your seat a little.

Chan cleared his throat and sat forward, folding his hands in front of him. “So,” he started, “I’m going to be honest, I don’t know exactly what we need to talk about or how to talk about it, so if one of you two wants to start…”

You giggled. “Chan, I know you’re used to being the leader, but this isn’t my first time as a caretaker. I know what we have to talk about, and what boundaries we need to set, but if I have any questions about specifics regarding idol life and your company, I’ll definitely ask. Is it alright if I lead this meeting?”

His shoulders slumped as he exhaled. “Please do.”

You let go of Felix’s hand to dig through your bag and bring out your notebook and a copy of the band’s files. You flipped the page to the one with Felix’s information and slid the papers over to him.

“This is what they gave me about you and your heat. It’s not much, so we’ll definitely have to go over more specifics about what your heat is like and what you like to do before, during, and after it, but let’s make sure we prioritize. What are some things not in this file that you think I need to know? And the list can be as long or as short as you want it to be.”

Felix and Chan stared at you for a few moments with wide eyes.

You frowned at them and crossed your arms over your chest. “What?”

Felix blinked and read over the file while Chan shook his head at you. “You’re so… professional.”

You couldn’t help but snort at that. “Well, I have been trained for this and I’ve had clients before you, so I like to think that I’m pretty good at it.”

Chan smiled widely at you, showing off his dimples. “You are pretty good.”

You pursed your lips and turned to Felix. “So, anything stick out to you?”

A crease formed between his eyebrows and his fingers clenched slightly around the paper. “Well, I guess all this is true. I like to keep my nests very private. But, there’s a big difference between Hyunjin and I when we nest. That’s one of the benefits to us not having synchronized heats anymore.”

You tilted your head. “Anymore? You used to be synchronized and now you aren’t? What happened?”

Felix bit his lip and glanced at Chan. The alpha raised his hand and started to pet Felix’s back soothingly.

“When Hyunjin had his hiatus, I sort of… went into a surprise heat? A bad one. The doctors say it was basically halfway between a normal heat and an omega drop. So, that wasn’t fun. And Hyunjin’s occurred as scheduled, a couple weeks later. Then the company decided that it was easier to have just one omega in heat at a time. That way one of us can still do individual schedules and it’s easier for the others to take care of us when they’re only taking care of one omega. Plus, we discovered that it’s good to have a grounded omega taking care of an omega in heat.”

You nodded and wrote a few things in your notebook so you wouldn’t forget. “And do you like having separate heats?”

Felix frowned like he was uncertain about how to answer. “I… understand the reason why we have them separately. And I like getting to take care of Hyunjin properly during his heat.” He smiled tentatively. “Honestly, the best thing about separate heats is the nests.”

“Ah, the nests!” Chan giggled.

You couldn’t help smiling in response to their behavior. “What’s this about the nests?”

Felix shifted, rubbing his hands over his thighs repeatedly. “Well, Hyunjin and I don’t fight a lot. Not real fights, anyway, just little arguments. But when it comes to nest building and who is allowed in and where we build it…” His eyes widened like he was telling a ghost story around a campfire. “It’s not pretty.”

“That’s sort of ironic, given that’s it’s the two of you involved.” Chan smirked, brushing a strand of Felix’s hair behind his ear.

Said ear then reddened as Felix’s jaw dropped. “Hyung!”

“What?” Chan asked, a little too innocently.

Felix pursed his lips together and glared playfully at Chan until the alpha poked him in the ribs. “Pay attention, Lix. This is important.”

Felix sputtered back at him. “Wha- me? Hyung, you’re the one who- you pay attention!”

Chan snickered and Felix pouted as they both turned back to you.

You forced yourself to hold back a laugh at their contrasting expressions. “So, tell me more about the differences in your nests.”

Chan smiled at Felix fondly. “Well, for Lixie it’s basically all or nothing, but Jinnie is very particular.”

Felix nodded along. “Yeah, it’s sort of funny. I don’t even like people looking at my nest unless they have explicit permission, but once they get in it, I don’t really care where they sit or if they change the nest. Hyunjin, though,” The corners of his lips twitched. “He likes nesting in common spaces and anyone can go in and out as they please, basically. But, if you move a blanket or a pillow, he gets pretty offended. I still have nightmares about the last time that happened.” He said with a shudder.

Chan closed his eyes and smiled ruefully. “Ah, poor Jisungie. It wasn’t his fault that he tripped when Seungmin grabbed his ankle. It wasn’t even Seungmin’s fault since he was asleep when he grabbed him.” He slid his hands up to cover his face. “That was the worst fight they’ve ever had since they got over that whole ‘dance better, rap better’ thing.”

The corners of Felix’s lips twitched upwards like he was trying to hide a smile. “Even though the nest fight was almost completely one-sided.”

“Hyunjin was angry enough for the both of them.”

“He was angry enough for the eight of us! Do you remember what he did when we tried to defend Jisung?”

“I wish I could forget.”

You didn’t know exactly what they were talking about, but your imagination filled in the gaps of their story and you laughed along with them.

The three of you finally calmed down and you were able to return to the topic.

“So, Felix, you’ve told me you understand the reason you and Hyunjin have different heats, but do you actually prefer it or would you like to try and get in synch again?”

He glanced between you and Chan like he was uncertain. “I’m not really sure. I don’t think I have a preference, and if the company thinks separate heats are better, I’m fine with that.”

You nodded and jotted that down in your notebook. Then, you closed it and set it to the side. “Alright, I think it’s time we address another heat topic.”

“So.” You clapped your hands together and brought them down to rest on the table. “Sex.”

Felix’s jaw dropped as Chan choked. “What?” They gasped, almost exactly in unison.

You shrugged back at them. “Look, I know it can be a bit of an uncomfortable topic, and I know that especially with your career, you’re essentially taught to avoid any discussion of sexuality, but it is pretty important that we can talk about your sex lives comfortably, for you two and all of your members.”

Chan was the first to collect himself, though his ears still blazed. “Alright. What do you need to know?”

You met his gaze calmly and pushed out soothing hormones. “How would you characterize the relationship between everyone in your pack?”

He glanced at Felix before meeting your eyes again. “We’re all in a romantic polyamorous relationship.”

You nodded as more questions filled your brain. “Is everyone in your group dating all seven other members?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all exclusive or does anyone have a relationship with someone outside of the group, either romantically or sexually?”

This time Felix piped up. “No, we’re all exclusive.”

“Okay.” You paused. “This is where it might get even more personal. If anything is too uncomfortable or if you don’t want me to know something, just say so and I’ll back off.”

Chan’s eyes widened. “Really?” His eucalyptus scent sharpened in surprise.

“Yeah, really.” You flashed an amused smile at him. “If you’re uncomfortable around me, that sort of defeats the purpose of having a caretaker, doesn’t it?”

“Huh, I guess it does.” Chan said, a smile forming on his face to match yours. “Ask away, then.”

You took a deep breath and got a heavy dose of eucalyptus scent. It calmed you instantly, the tension in your muscles fading away until it felt like you, Felix, and Chan had known each other for all your lives.

Get it together, you told yourself.

“Do you all have sex with each other?”

They both nodded stiffly in response.

“Alright. And you help each other through your heats and ruts in that way?”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

You nodded and reached out to Felix, patting his hand gently. He grabbed your hand and began to massage your palm. “Okay, now the questions are going to be a little more focused towards you, “‘“baby”’”. Is that okay?”

He bit his lip and squeezed your hand. “Yeah, noona, I’m good.”

You smiled at him and pulled your notebook over, flipping to the page where you had written your checklist.

“Okay, so since we’re already talking about it, let’s just get it out of the way. How do you like your members to take care of you sexually during your heat? Do you like one person at a time or multiple people? Is sex your main priority when you’re in heat?”

Felix’s fingers twitched against yours and Chan reached over to rub his back. “Well, it really depends on the individual heat. I like having sex during my heat, but mostly I just want to stay close to my pack whether that’s sex or just cuddling. I don’t like being alone much and I really feel like the more the merrier, again, whether it’s sex or cuddling.”

You stroked your thumbs over his hand. “Good job explaining that to me, “‘“baby”’”.”

He blinked at you before ducking his head. “Really? Thank you.”

“Of course. Now, what does your preheat and postheat look like?”

Chan interjected. “Wait, postheat? What’s that? I thought that as soon as the heat was over, that’s it.”

You hummed thoughtfully. It wasn’t unusual that he wouldn’t know about postheat. Most omegas didn’t even know about it. “Postheat is when the heat is over, most omegas like to do a day or two of selfcare to allow their bodies and minds to get back to normal. It’s a bit overlooked, even by some omegas, especially the ones who are anxious to get back to the other parts of their lives. However, making sure your omega is happy during postheat is the best way to avoid omega drop.”

Chan’s eyes widened as he glanced between you and Felix. “Really? Oh, shit, I feel really bad about not knowing this.”

Felix shook his head and turned his face to Chan. “Hyung, you always take care of me and Jinnie even if you didn’t know. It’s not like you abandoned us once our actual heat was over. Also, I didn’t even know about postheat.”

You nodded along with Felix’s words. “Yeah, Chan, I only know because of my caretaking education. But you don’t really seem like the type of alpha to just leave your vulnerable omega to go get a coffee or something. Also, if you want, I can send you some academic articles on the best things to do during postheat and the things to avoid.”

He smiled shyly. “Ah, thank you. That would be great.”

You turned back to Felix. “So, preheat, postheat, what do you like during that time?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he considered your question. “Well, I like to make a nest during my preheat instead of waiting until my actual heat. I eat a lot of sweets. I actually like to bake a bit before and then I eat those.”

Chan giggled. “A bit? You bake enough to feed an army!”

Felix raised one hand defensively, the other still clinging to yours. “Hey, I can’t help it! It’s my deep, dark omegan instincts telling me I have to provide food or my dumbass alphas will starve.”

Chan laughed even more at that. “You know we can just order food, right? Or go grocery shopping? Also, I love your food but we can’t survive on just brownies for a week.”

Felix grinned at that. “I know that in my head. But the rest of me doesn’t really care about all that. Anyway.” He turned back to you. “My postheat is basically just cuddles and bath time. And more eating.”

“That sounds like a great routine,” you commented.

He nodded, smile going a little smug. “It is pretty great.”

“Oh, shit,” Chan blurted, looking at his phone. “It’s almost time to meet the others in the studio.” He studied yours and Felix’s interlocked hands. “Are we ready to head up, or do you want to talk more? I can tell them to wait if we need to stay.”

You shook your head and released Felix’s hand to stuff your notebook back into your bag. “Nope, I’ve got all the good stuff. If I remember anything else, I’ll just ask. Unless either of you wanted to ask me something?”

They had both stood up, ready to head out, but they paused at your question. Then, Felix raised his hand tentatively. “Are you going to be there during my heat? Or do you just wait until it’s over and take care of the other members in the meantime?”

You took a breath, considering what to say. Unfortunately, Chan had already put on a scent blocker, so you could barely smell the eucalyptus and it didn’t have the same effect as last time. “Well, it’s mostly up to you. If you feel comfortable with me by then and want me in your dorm, then I can hang around and take care of you, but if you don’t want me around at all, I totally understand and won’t be offended. We don’t have to decide right now, especially since you might not even know what your omega will want until it’s your preheat or your actual heat. So, take your time and think about if you want me there or not.”

Felix nodded, smiling at you as you both put on your scent blockers.

“Alright!” Chan clapped. “Are you ready to see where the magic happens?”

…

Taglist:

(Bold means I can’t tag you, sorry for the inconvenience!)

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@detectivedoodle

@niaalove

@scarletrosesposts

@royal-shinigami

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gremlinmodetweeker · 2 months

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König aka The Human Weighted Blanket pt 1

Let it be known by anyone and everyone that, based on my stupid quick google searches, only less 4% of US men are taller than König. Less than 1% of women in the US are taller than König. So, if I'm guessing that the majority of english speaking fans are in North America or Europe (and this is a very uneducated rough guess), which are two places with very tall people, then I am going to make the uneducated guess that König has probably met only at most 5 people in his entire life that are taller than him. The likelihoods of you being in that 5 are slim, so bear with me when I choose to write a YN shorter than König. Again, forgive me for being a bit discriminatory when writing here, but if you'd like a post for taller YNs, please tell me.

Okay, so, König is big, we just covered this in the above paragraph. But the thing is, height is one thing. Weight is another. To keep a man like König fit, he eats a lot of food, and I think he builds to be a broad man as well as a tall man. This is someone who makes a door frame look small when he ducks through it (which btw, average standard door height is 6'8). So with such a big body, such immense strength, he has learned to be a very gentle man.

König is the type of person who really makes an effort to control himself. He has extraordinary self discipline that he makes an effort to exert every day. He's not the kind of guy to be caught slacking in this department. He's not gentle to an effeminate state, he's still a big gruff man, but if he wanted to he could crush a watermelon with his hands. He is quite careful when opening bags of chips. As a teenager, his mother would have him vacuum up his messes, which is probably what drilled this principle into his head.

So this is where you come in.

König is always gentle and careful with the amount of force he puts on other people. When you tell him to lay on you, he's a bit confused.

It doesn't matter if you're 4'8 or 6'9, he's going to be worried about you. Obviously more if you're a pipsqueak (like me, hehe), but even if you're tall and strong like him he'll still be nervous. He really isn't used to this sort of request. Who the heck asks for this? Who tells him to do this?

If you're asking just because you want him to, he's much more hesitant. Why would you want to be crushed? He's never really heard of such a thing. He can't understand why. Sure, he'll do it, but you probably won't get his full weight (not until he realizes that you're serious about this, at least). He doesn't lay on you for long, and he doesn't push you in any way, and instead is constantly asking if you're alright because he's worried he'll break you. He is so confused.

If you're neurodivergent or something, then he'll understand a bit more, but he'll still be nervous. It'll take less convincing to get him to relax, but still he'll worry. After all, you're a human being and he doesn't want to hurt you. He especially doesn't want to hurt you because you asked for him to do something nice for you. That would devastate him.

Now, the thing that will crush him. If you're having an anxiety attack, you needn't tell him twice. He'll do anything to help. Genuinely. He knows what anxiety attacks are like himself. He'd never wish that pain on anyone else. So if you manage to string the words together to ask for help (and I am so proud of you for being so strong), he'll do it for you without a second of hesitation. Well, somewhat. He'll lay on you, yes, but he'll hold back a bit. It might take you telling him you'll be alright for him to fully relax himself. So yes, you will need to remind him you're okay, but only once. Then he'll do it for you. And the next time you have a panic attack, he'll do it again without you having to ask again. He'll do it for you whenever he can.

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moonriseoverkyoto · 10 months

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Whistle while you work

Synopsis - sometimes all a little lass needs is to just holler the lyrics of an angry female-empowering country music, but a certain beloved Scot just can’t help but be worried he screwed up

cw: swearing, medical and military workplace inaccuracies, playful language, suggestive content, heavy flirting, slight miscommunication trope(this hurts me more than this hurts you believe me), nicknames, use of Scottish and southern(Georgia/texas) accent that some readers may find corny or displeasurable

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x southern!medic!reader

Author’s note: I know I said I was busy but I heard “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood come on the radio and it’s been an ear worm that sticking to my brain like flies on a horse. But once again I’m here to remind you that I’m taking southern notes from Georgia and Texas because I was raised in one and I visit family quite often in the other. I am completely open to constructive criticism but if you have nothing nice to say then you just scroll past it costs you absolutely nothing to mind your business. Italicized is singing btw.

©️moonriseoverkyoto 2023. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

Soap had begun to have a routine with you. He could often come visit you after shift hours or you would come along on missions and be his first pit stop at base. It was a beautiful little arrangement that the F1F begun to adore. You were the warm fire to warm their cold hearts or the blazing hearth to whip them into shape if they got rowdy. So it was a little jarring to him when he strolled into your clinic and heard an angry drawl.

“Right now, he's probably slow dancin' with a bleach-blonde tramp. And she’s probably gettin’ frisky.”

Your voice had him weak at the knees but there was something off in your pitch. A grit, an anger, a frustration. He suddenly began retracing his steps, trying to find a failure placed upon his behalf.

“Right now, he's probably buyin' her some fruity little drink 'Cause she can't shoot whiskey.”

“Bonnie?” the man called out to you, his reaction was controlled but his heart thumped against his chest trying to break out. When you didn’t respond he decided to stay by the doors out of your vision to figure out what was the issue, studying you.

“Right now, he's probably up behind her with a pool stick. Showin' her how to shoot a combo. And he don't know”

Your hips began to sway against the rising tune and even in your scrubs, there was a clear muscle memory when it came to the rhythm of the song. Soap quickly exited and left to go to the common room to find the rest of the F1F playing poker

“There’s loverboy, we were wondering how long it would take for you and-“

“Firstly, she’s my friend Capt’n you know that. Secondly, Somethin’s a mattah with Bonnie.” Soap cut Price off quickly not caring for niceties.

“why because she’s running a little late?” Gaz spoke while checking his turn. It was comical how they knew you by your nicknames from Soap rather than your god given name.

“Aye ‘nd she’s singin’ this song of ‘ers and it’s got me all worried. I mean I know that I’ve been a wee bit busy lately but I’ve made sure to make me rounds and when I came to her place she was swinging hips and I ken to know when somethin’s a mattah with me Bonnie-“ Simon’s head turned to his friend with interest as Gaz cut the rambling man short.

“Calm down mate. We cannot understand you when you go back to the ancestral plane with that tongue of yours” Gaz spoke. Price waved him off to let the Scott breathe.

“She’s up tae high doh.” Soap rushed out, his brows knit together trying to piece together what could’ve happened.

“In English, lad” Price spoke up. However somebody came to his rescue.

“The phrase is meant to be used to describe when somebody is pent up, flustered. It’s a Scottish saying.” Ghost answered with a deep baritone. Everyone was surprised but secretly noted the phrase for whenever they had to go solo with the Mohawk man.

“So go talk to her” Price responded to Soap with a look that said he was ordering, then he offered a small gift of liquid courage

Soap refused the drink and made his way back over to the infirmary. His brain scrambling to find an answer.

“I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive. Carved my name into his leather seats”

Your belted notes rung through the doors and hit his ears. He vowed he would find out the issue and fix it just so he wouldn’t have to hear the pain in your voice. He came around the corner as you stood in front of a table, organizing your different surgery and procedural tools. He spotted the AirPod beneath your trucker hat (since wearing a traditional cowboy hat was too distracting in the work place even during the quiet shifts. )

“I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights. Slashed a hole in all four tires-“

Soap swallowed all his worry as he grabbed an AirPod out and spoke but you beat him to the punch.

“Who in all of god givens creation just ordered a free fuckin’- Oh sweetheart Johnny it’s you.” Your fire calmed just as quick as it kindled.

“hey lassie I was getting worried about you” Soap said. His heart and maybe something else throbbed at your honey tone. One day he’d finally act upon those feelings but today he needed to worry about something else. “What’s got you all worked up?”

“Are you saying I’m throwin’ a hissy fit?”

“Noo jist haud on there Lassie. I jist was-“

“Heavens to Betsy! You do think I’m havin’ a hissy fit, why you oughta know that I was the best little-“

As you two went on back and forth, the distance between your bodies got smaller and smaller. Two wide eyed grins plastered across your face. He cut you off with a smirk

“Oh I’m sure you were the.. how do you say it again? Oh right” Johnny leaned in closer and his voice dropped, “the best little girl this side of the Mississippi. Ain’t that right, hen?”

“I know damn well you did not just call me a hen from a damn barn house-“ you went to speak again but got cut off as your throat hitched, soap’s mouth just by your ear and his tone got unrealistically deeper and more dominant. A careful hand grazing your hip.

“Shut yer pus for a moment, hen. Tell me what’s a matter. What’s got you so up tae high doh.” The male spoke.

You were silent for once. All the cogs in your brain just stopped. Everything was quiet, if you had perfect hearing you could hear Johnny’s poor heart banging to get out of his chest in anxiety from him boldly caressing your waist.

“Aww come on lassie, need me to buy a wrench for that brain of yours”

“I misplaced my sewing needle. Well I did or one of the stupid nurses did but I can’t find it and I won’t find it till the cows come home” you huffed.

“The one from your nana?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“No need for the ‘tude. May I look?”

“Sure. It’s no bigger than a minnow in a fishing pond” you said softly as he gently moved you aside to look at the table below. His trained eye spotting a glint on the ground. He reached over to pick it up and show it to you.

“Bless your heart! Good god Johnny, oh my sweet I could kiss you!” You cried out with the biggest grin. You leaned forward and kissed him softly on his cheek. His stubble gently scratching your soft, plump lips. His cheeks barely flushed as his smirk transformed into a smile and a small chuckle left his throat. He took a moment to memorize the feeling of your lips for later.

If that’s all it took to make his little Bonnie proud. He’d search every haystack for your needle in a heartbeat. You were his everything, he’d wait until the right moment to tell you. Especially when he was pretty sure the rest of the team was right around the corner listening to them. He’ll confront them later, for now he wants to stay in this moment with you. Watching his sweet hen, praising him. Grinning as she danced around with the needle he found, and even maybe hid.

MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Slang translations

Noo jist haud on - Now just hold on there

Heavens to Betsy - southern expression of surprise

Hen- a woman (Scottish term of endearment)

Bonnie - a beautiful woman, Scottish term of endearment typically paired with Bonnie lass

Lass/Lassie- beautiful woman, term of endearment

Shut yer pus - Scottish way of saying hush up, not literally referring to genitalia

Does a bear shit in the woods - kinda like a sarcastic response of “duh.” Whenever you’re asked a question. Hard concept to explain but I hope it’s not just me who got this from their southern mama

no bigger than a minnow in a fishing pond - comparison of size

Author’s note: AAAAAAAA I DID IT. I wrote my first fic. Oh my god. I’m so tired but I hope everyone loves this as much as I did. Please go listen to the song as well. It’s “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood

General Taglist (comment to be added) : @glossythor @banana-beans-police

also thank you for the support for the series: @fruitsa1ad

#soap call of duty #call of duty requests #call of duty #soap mctavish #john soap mctavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #cod x southern!reader #x southern!medic!reader #john price #simon riley #gaz call of duty #country!medic!reader #john mactavish #Moonwritesstuff

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