#summarys are still hard for me personally but like

[trashytracktales]

Hiii, I’m not sure if your requests are open, but if they are, could you write something with Lando and Reader where they have been dating for just a few weeks, haven’t had sex yet. One day they’re working out together at Lando’s house in Monaco (the room with the mirror from the video I Ate and Trained Like Lando Norris for 24 hours). Reader is doing squats with her back towards the mirror and Lando can’t help but stare at her ass and he gets hard / flustered so he stops from doing his exercise and reader asks him what’s wrong and before he answers she realises he’s horny so she teases him - this time on purpose- and then they fuck in that room on the floor

In the heat of it | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you for trusting me enough to bring this to life, it was... something 🥵

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𐙚 summary ──── They've been dating for a few weeks now, but the time was never right for them to get intimate. During a playful workout together, Lando gets caught staring, sparking a moment that leaves them both realizing just how deep their connection actually goes.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, fluff & smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, swearing, established relationship, suggestive/flirty behavior. MDNI!

𐙚 word count ──── 3.6k

𐙚 date ──── Nov. 12, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── Enjoy watching Lando learn that some cardio sessions have unexpected side effects 🤍🎀

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IT DOESN’T TAKE long before Lando starts to regret his decision. It would have been much easier to invite his girlfriend to have lunch together. That would have saved him from a constant dry mouth and irregular heartbeat every time he feels her eyes accidentally landing on him.

The smooth floor and sophisticated equipment in his personal gym are softly bathed in the morning sun that seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Monaco's streets are still peaceful at this hour, considering it's the middle of the week, and the port is sparkling in the sunlight.

The room usually has a subtle scent of cedar and rubber, fresh and energized, but now it carries a sweet honey scent, borrowed from her presence.

They are already halfway through their warm-up. She’s pulling a resistance band around her thighs, stretching before they dive into the heavier part of their routine, her focus completely on the exercises he’s walked her through. But, of course, a huge part of her focuses on how Lando touches her, purposely, to guide her when her posture doesn't match the exercise.

Even in simple gym shorts and a T-shirt, Lando somehow manages to look so effortlessly attractive — curly hair a little messy, face flushed just enough from their recent sets, and his labored breathing after putting in the effort. He’s all energy, fluid in his movements, though he's clearly trying to keep his pace casual.

“Lookin’ strong,” he teases, flashing a grin as she adjusts her stance.

The girl shrugs, “I’m just that good at following instructions. Although, I think having one of the best trainers in the area helps, too.”

Lando lets a chuckle out, “I won't go easy on you just because you kiss-ass. But it’s cute to see you trying.”

Even though they have only been dating for a few weeks, there is an undeniable spark between them two, especially in a setting where every glance and skin-to-skin contact feels amplified by the intensity of their exercises. Her sports outfit leaves no room for interpretations, hugging her curves and defining her lines, and Lando's imagination is stimulated every time he turns his gaze towards her.

He’s now down on the floor, holding a plank, his core engaged and muscles taut as he fights to hold his body up and spine straight. She’s supposed to be timing him, but the second he shoots her a cheeky grin, she decides she can’t resist a bit of fun; in her defense, he started it. With a simple touch, the seconds freeze on the screen of his phone, then she places it on one of the boxes stored in the corner of the room.

“Hi there,” says the girl in a soft tone once she sits down in front of him just inches apart, propping herself up on her elbows so her face is level with his.

Lando raises his eyebrows, trying not to laugh as his shoulders shake slightly from the effort of holding his body weight. “Don’t,” he warns her, breath coming in controlled puffs.

“I’m not doing anything,” she smiles innocently, kicking her feet in the air while inching a little closer until her nose almost brushes his.

He laughs at her bad acting, his arms starting to shake a bit more. “Outrageous is what you are.”

She pouts just as Lando dips his head down, managing to steal a playful kiss. Their lips meet briefly, soft and warm, before he pulls back up to maintain his form. It makes her sigh in frustration, the ghost of a kiss not nearly enough for her. If anything, it only leaves her wanting more.

Luckily, he doesn’t pull back when she cups his cheek in her palm, pressing her mouth on his once more, his giggles mixing with hers as he tries to keep his balance. Savoring the feel of his lips and the way Lando grunts softly into the kiss, she can feel that this one is more deeper and slower — much real — making her shiver. It seems as though everything else disappears, the feel of each other reminding them both why they decided to give the relationship a shot in the first place.

“And you are so fun to corrupt,” she admits, finally getting up to give Lando time to recover.

After a few sets, she finally moves on to squats, and Lando follows her positioning herself in front of the mirror. It wasn't even supposed to be there, but he sometimes uses the gym as a storage room for random packages. This one, specifically, came in the mail a few weeks ago and he didn't have time to hang it in the hallway, where he initially planned. So, he simply let it rest against the wall in his gym room, and it's been there ever since. Forgotten.

Giving the circumstances, he is seriously thinking of leaving it there for good.

Conveniently, Lando decides that now is the perfect time to start his Russian twists, so he bends over to collect a dumbbell off the floor, then sits down on the yoga mat. Right in front of her.

Unaware of the effect she's having on him, he watches her go through each squat with his eyes trailing down on the reflection of her ass in the mirror, an intense warmth spreading over him as he tries to focus on his own exercise. It is quite innocent — he's just respectfully looking — until it isn't. Until he feels it in his boxers. Until he almost drops the dumbbell, which catches her attention.

Lando tries to ignore it, though, to nonchallantly brush it off, telling himself that it's natural and that he's just admiring her physical appearance. Anyone in his shoes would do it. However, his thoughts start to wander, images flashing uninvited as his heart rate quickens for reasons far beyond the exercise.

“Are you okay down there, hotshot? What are you fighting?” she asks curiously, raising her head just enough to catch the dazed look on Lando’s face.

Her voice pulls him back, his breath catching for a moment, “Yeah, never better.”

It's his husky voice that gives it away. Right after, she notices a lingering gaze, and the soft pink creeping across his features as his eyes are fixed ahead. She stops, fixing her posture and straightening her back as she turns to catch his gaze in the mirror. She realizes exactly what's going on in a matter of seconds, a little grin forming in the corner of her mouth.

“Am I too dictracting, Lando?” she purrs, her question — and the fact that he knows she caught him in act — not helping at all.

“No,” he lies, “But I think you’re killing it with those squats.”

“And if I turn around to finish my set, what then?” she whispers, a challenge glinting in her eyes as she brushes the tip of her tongue against her lower lip.

His breath is shallow the moment he decides to abandon his exercise. “Then you would be killing me,” he admits with no restraints. “So, by any means, proceed. Please.”

She glances over to see Lando lying flat on his back, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes, as if he's in serious pain. His other hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. It’s still funny to see him like that, but then she notices the way his chest rises and falls a bit too fast, and her eyes drift lower, catching a glimpse of the growing bulge in his shorts, an unmistakable proof of what she’s actually doing to him.

Suddenly, all the amusement disappears from her face, being replaced by a warmth that wraps around her neck, and rising to her cheeks. Her heart is slowly starting to race, small impulses between her thighs forcing her to close them together.

Swallowing hard, she crosses the small space to kneel beside him, gently pulling his arm away from his eyes. His lashes flicker open, meeting her gaze with a mix of embarrassment and desire. And so much lust.

“How can I help you?” asks Lando, his voice rougher than usual, trying to keep things light, though the hint of vulnerability shows in his eyes, and it's not that hard to read.

She chuckles nervously, “The question is how can I help you?”

In response, Lando uses the same hand to wrap his fingers around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. She feels his hand squeezing a little, the other one moving to her waist, hesitating before pulling her completely on top of him, without breaking the kiss. His tongue slips firmly into her mouth, just as it has done so many times before, but now it feels somehow different. Somehow, they both know that the kiss is meant to lead to something much more intense, because there's nothing stopping them anymore.

In the intimacy of his apartment, without interruption, Lando lowers his hands to her waist, rubbing her against him. Slowly. Repeatedly. The pressure forces them to moan in unison — a brief taste of the pleasure they are about to share. His hands then drop lower, roaming over her thighs, then back down to her ass, cupping it in his large palms.

He breaks away just enough to murmur, his voice low and almost reverent, “That enough of an answer?”

“Positive,” she replies, feeling his breath hitch as she shifts on top of him, straddling his hips, her hands splaying over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.

Her lips find his again, sweet and intoxicating, each kiss sending sparks to her core. The new position makes her feel him much more firmly between her legs, taking Lando by surprise when her hand lowers to cover his length, massaging him through the thin material of his shorts.

“Fucking hell,” his lips stutter against hers, while rocking his hips into her touch.

“Yeah…” she agrees, breathing hotly above him, “Did I do this to you?”

Before Lando gets a chance to even think of an answer, she slips her hand under the elastic band of his boxers, taking him in her hand, feeling him in his entirety — deliciously soft skin, warm and ready, and so painfully hard.

It makes her ache for him.

She pumps his cock in her hand a few times, enough for her to feel how he shifts under her. It takes her a lot of self-control to stop herself from taking him in her mouth the second she hears his sweet little panting, her thumb rubbing softly over his swollen tip.

The workout itself had left Lando’s muscles burning, but her touch it’s something else entirely, igniting a heat in him that burns deeper than anything he’s felt before. Five more minutes enjoying the same high and he can give up cardio completely. Guaranteed.

Slowly coming back to his senses, Lando realizes that he has free will, so he slips his hands under her sports bra, palming her hungrily until he feels her nipples hardening under his touch. He breaths heavily as he rolls them between his fingers, managing to make her respond with a soft meowl, her grip on his cock losening.

That's his cue to take the lead, pulling her bra over her head in a quick move, and flipping their bodies over so that now he's hovering above her, eyes filled with need while looking down at her.

“Hi there,” Lando copies her tone from earlier, feeling a little fraction of the power she had over him.

She wants to talk back so badly — one of her sarcastic little comments that she knows he loves — but all she can do is let out a pathetic whimper between her lips when his mouth finds home on her bare breast. At that, Lando feels a shiver running down his spine, looking up at how she closes her eyes in pleasure, arching her back more against his mouth.

“Driving me insane with your pretty ass, baby,” he says, breathing heavily, managing to cover her body in a thin layer of goosebumps, “And your pretty fucking nipples.”

“Lando…” she lets another cry slip out, opening her eyes to look at him.

The image that greets her makes her breath catch in her throat. The way he sucks on her nipple while playing with the other one, and the way he looks up at her through his eyelashes — it’s all too much. She ends up wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him down with her. Then she runs her hands down his back, tugging at the edge of his shirt, tossing the useless material carelessly to the floor before pulling him closer for another kiss.

Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, skin on skin — who says heaven isn't real?

But if that's heaven, then what can she name the feeling she gets the moment his hand slips into her gym shorts and his fingers brush against her soaked entrance? Because it feels way too fucking good — much better than she expected, and certainly much better than her own hand whenever she pictured his face while fingering herself.

Lando starts slowly at first, spreading her wetness around her pussy, then fucking his fingers in and out, while cautiously watching her facial expressions changing. It’s not taking him long before finding that sweet, sweet spot that makes her roll her hips into his hand, desperation painted all over her face.

“Lan… yes,” she starts panting, “That’s—yes, right there.”

He hums proudly, sealing his mouth to hers, while parting her thighs with his knee so he can spread her more in front of him. Feeling herself open to his touch, so easy and wet, he no longer feels self-conscious about the way she's so quickly tunring him boneless under her gaze. He realizes that the feeling is mutual, and it makes him want her even more.

If that's even possible.

The sound of his fingers repeatedly fucking into her is all that anchors her in the present moment, but the second Lando feels her squeezing around them, he stops so he can silently ask for her permission to take the last piece of her clothing off.

She nods in a rush, swallowing the lump in her throat in anticipation.

Every inch of her is now bathed in the soft, golden light streaming through the window. Warm shadows are cast along her curves, the light outlining each delicate contour of her body as though the sun itself is painting her in real time. The image is so powerful yet vulnerable as she stands there, her figure glimmering with an almost unearthly serene confidence. Lando is utterly captivated by how ethereal she looks, like a goddess come to life, the kind he never imagined he would be close enough to even touch, let alone enjoy. He feels like he’s witnessing something sacred, something so incredibly rare, and the awe he feels is mixed with gratitude that she’s here with him, letting him see her in a such perfect lighting.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Lando finally manages to say, hoping that he hasn't started drooling all over her in the meantime. “All of you.”

“Your turn,” she says in a muffled voice, slightly bashful at the way he stares at her like he wants to devour her. Which is not far from the truth.

He agrees that it's a fair request, realizing that the only thing separating them now are his own shorts. Without protesting — because that would be so fucking dumb considering how hard he is — Lando gets rid of them with the speed of a perfect qualifying lap.

Matching the same pace, Lando’s hands slide around her waist, his fingers pressing gently into her hips as he guides them both to the side so they can face the window — or that's what she thought. Confused at first, she's frowning at him, then follows his gaze, lost in the direction of their reflection, understanding immediately what he really wants — a show. A show just for them, in which they can lose themselves together, without limits.

She sighs at the sight of their hot, naked bodies, the way he aligns himself with her, and how he’s finally pushing inside, enough to hear her whimper. She watches as he stands above her, his hands gliding slowly over her sides, up her arms, grounding her in his touch. The image of them together, framed in the soft glow of the room, feels surreal — so intimate and vulnerable in a way that’s completely new for both of them.

Lando pauses, pulling out at her little whimper, then pressing back in, but just the tip.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, “You're so fucking wet it keeps slipping out,” adds Lando in a low tone, so turned on that it makes her clench around his head.

To her frustration, the speed at which Lando pushes back inside might as well be negative, causing her to explode with how needy she becomes in the meantime. But just as she’s about to encourage him to sink further, he buries himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust.

“Lan…” she says as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, “You… feel so good,” she takes a moment to breath into his skin, then she turns her head to catch their reflection once again.

Lando is already looking, and when they make eye contact through the mirror, he starts fucking her slowly and gently, as if he could break her.

“See how silly you look for thinking we won't match?” he sounds so amazed by how easily she opens up for him, over and over again, with each steady thrust of his hips, “See that? Taking all of me so well, baby.”

“Lando,” she cries out at the way his cock throbs against her walls, because she knows it's way too slow, even for him.

It's simply agonizing.

“So perfect around me,” he states, “Can't believe I lasted that long. Should've fucked you from the first night.”

At this point, he's just rambling, but the thought makes her stomach tie in a knot.

“You would've let me, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” she speaks, already drunk on the way he feels inside her, “I would have let you fuck me in the plane bathroom, on the way to Imola. And back in your driver's room, when Oscar caught us kissing. And last week, outside the club… Fuck. I wanted you to fuck me there so bad.”

His mind goes blank with all the lost opportunities, causing him to gradually increase his pace, the sound of them connecting so obscene.

“Wh—” he almost chokes on words, “Why didn't you say anything?”

“You—stressed about work. I… I didn't want to be—distraction,” she tightens her legs around him, keeping him inside her, the words losing their meaning as Lando shifts his position, wrapping his arm around her thigh to open her up even more for him. "Like that, mhm, yes!"

“You're so tight, fuck,” he swallows hard as he squeezes roughly at her thighs. “I'm so close.”

She knows that will leave marks on her skin, but nothing beats the pleasure of having Lando fucking himself so deep inside her, that her vision starts clouding.

All common sense went out the window the moment she stepped through his door, anyway.

She can feel his breath warm against her neck, hear the soft hitch in his breathing as he leans in, his lips brushing her shoulder, never breaking eye contact with her in the mirror. Lando's hands are making their way to cup her ass, pulling out all the way, before fucking back in, all over again, until he finds the perfect rhythm between their bodies. He moans loudly, pressing his upper body on her, their scents blending together and sweat transferring from skin to skin. They move so in sync, completely attuned to each other, and the sight of their shared pleasure, reflected back at them, turns everything into fireworks, her mind completely empty. Except for how well she's being fucked.

“Lan—Lando,” she's so close to sobbing that she shuts her mouth at the sound of her voice, thinking it's too pathetic to whine as she cums around him, her release dripping all over between their bodies.

The wet sound her pussy makes gives Lando way to fuck in deeper, taken by surprise that she finished without any warnings. He grips her ass one more time before he stills inside her, his cock throbbing, and pulls out right before he starts leaking, resting his cock against her thigh, his entire length coated in her release. His cum drips from his tip to her inner thigh, making him groan while he fixes his gaze on the mirror at the image of them.

She buries her fingers in his curls after he finally collapses on top of her, their heavy breaths echoing throughout the room. With his head on her chest, he can feel her heart racing, gradually slowing down, and lets out a soft laugh as she shifts a little under him.

“We're so fucking matching, baby. Let's gooo!” exclaims Lando, exhaust evident in his voice.

She feels her cheeks warm, “I think you’re a little biased right now,” she jokes.

Lando shifts slightly so he can see her face, brushing a thumb tenderly along her side. He smiles softly, the usual spark in his eyes softened by something deeper, so gentle.

“I'm just happy.”

Her heart flutters, and she feels him sink even closer to her, threading his fingers through hers.

“And very sweaty,” she adds with a chuckle.

“I'm pretty sure that's you,” he teases, letting the moment pass slowly, then calling out her name in a serious voice.

“Mhm?” she hums while turning to look in the mirror, watching him getting comfortable on top of her.

“Where do we go from here?” asks Lando.

“Your bedroom, I hope. The floor is killing my back.”

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2024

[theonottsbxtch]

MISS YOU BABY | MV1

an: i need a hug from max verstappen stat, based off this request! thank you for sending it :)

summary: max thought his girlfriend was missing his final race during his triple header, little did he know she'd planned to come and visit all along.

wc 3.6k

The hotel room she was in was quiet.

She sat cross-legged on the bed in a dark hotel room that mirrored his, only three floors below, making sure he couldn’t see her surroundings. Her phone was propped up against a pillow, and Max’s face filled the screen, his hair still damp from the shower, tousled and messy. He looked worn-out but managed a small, tired smile just for her.

"I’m sorry, Max. I really tried to get time off, but there was just… no way," she said, the fib slipping from her lips with surprising ease. "I wanted to be there with you. Especially now."

Max exhaled, leaning back against his headboard. “I know. It’s alright.” His voice softened. “I just miss you, is all. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek, wishing she could reach through the screen and wrap her arms around him. "You’ll get through it, though. You always do."

"Doesn’t feel that way." He laughed, but it was brittle around the edges. “I feel like I’m letting everyone down. The team, the fans… you.” His eyes searched the screen, as if he might find a solution hidden somewhere in her gaze.

"Never me." She leaned closer, her face so near to the camera that she could see her reflection in his eyes. "I’m so proud of you, Max. Always. No matter what."

For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression softening, and the tension she’d seen in his face for days seemed to melt, just a little. "I wish you were here," he murmured. "I swear, you’re the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes."

She swallowed, feeling her heart pull toward him with a force that was hard to resist. "Soon, I’ll be back with you. Just… hold on a bit longer, okay?”

She gazed at his face on the screen, her heart swelling as she watched the way his eyes softened every time he looked at her. She knew he was tired and worn down, but in this moment, he looked at peace.

"I love you, Max," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

He closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, and when he opened them again, there was a warmth there that seemed to cut through the miles between them. "I love you, too," he replied, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "More than you know."

She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling her cheeks flush, and nodded. "Get some sleep, alright? Big day tomorrow."

He grinned. "Yeah, yeah. You, too. Dream about me, okay?"

She laughed, rolling her eyes, but her heart skipped all the same. "Always. Goodnight, Max."

"Goodnight, love."

With a final smile, she ended the call, letting the screen go dark as she leaned back into the pillows, her heart fluttering with anticipation. She’d hardly been able to sleep on the plane ride here, and she could already tell tonight would be the same.

Still, the thought of finally seeing him in person tomorrow kept her too giddy to care. She’d surprise him at the track, slipping through the garage just as he arrived, or maybe even at breakfast if she could manage it without spoiling the surprise. Her mind spun with ideas, each more elaborate than the last, but all she really wanted was to see his face light up when he realised she was there.

Pulling the covers up to her chin, she let her eyes drift closed, replaying the moment over and over in her mind, savouring the thought of his reaction. She loved him fiercely, and she knew that being here—no matter how much of a secret she’d had to make it—was exactly where she was supposed to be.

As she finally began to drift off, her last thought was simple but bright, shining like a promise: Tomorrow, he’ll know.

And while she was glad she held onto the secret.

The following morning she wished she’d told him earlier.

She woke to the faint glow of her phone on the nightstand, her morning alarm. Blinking herself awake, she squinted at the screen and saw Max’s name, followed by the time—5:02 a.m.

Heading to the track early today. Miss you already, wish you were here.

She smiled, feeling that familiar warmth spreading through her chest. But then her heart sank a little. She’d been hoping to catch him in the hotel this morning, maybe surprise him over breakfast. Now, with him already gone, she'd have to adjust her plans.

Throwing back the covers, she got up and went to the window. Rain streaked down the glass in thick, heavy drops, and the sky was a murky grey. The weather was only supposed to get worse throughout the day; she knew that’d make things complicated, especially for an outdoor track. She had no clue if her surprise would even be worth the stress of navigating the drenched, crowded paddock.

After a moment’s hesitation, she tapped her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she reached the name she wanted. She dialled, and after a few rings, Max’s assistant, Sophie, picked up.

“Hey!” Sophie greeted, sounding pleasantly surprised. “What’s up? Did you make it in?”

“Yes, I’m here!” she whispered, unable to contain her excitement. “I wanted to surprise him before he heads out on track, but with this rain… do you think I should even bother?”

Sophie sighed sympathetically. “Honestly, it’s a mess out here. They’re saying the rain’s going to be even heavier by the time qualifying starts. He’ll be in back-to-back meetings until then, and I’d hate for you to sit in the rain, just to get a few minutes with him.”

She nodded, glancing out the window at the sheets of rain. “So you think I should wait?”

“I’d say hold off until right before the race,” Sophie replied. “He’ll have a short break, and I think he’d love the surprise then. Plus, everyone’s less frantic between qualifying and race prep.”

“Good point,” she agreed, a little disappointed but knowing Sophie was right. The track on a rainy race day was chaos, and if she could avoid it until the right moment, she’d have a better chance of actually spending time with him. “Thanks, Sophie. Let me know if anything changes?”

“Will do! He’ll be so happy to see you,” Sophie said warmly. “Hang tight, okay?”

As she hung up, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement, knowing the surprise would be even more perfect with the wait. So she ordered herself a coffee, sat by the window, and watched the rain pour down, imagining the look on Max’s face when he’d finally see her just before the most important race of the weekend.

The rain hadn’t let up by the time she arrived at the track, the skies dark and moody, the air thick with humidity. She’d navigated her way through security and weaving lines of drenched fans, her heart racing as she got closer to Max’s garage. But by the time she finally made it, he was already in the car, helmet on, visor down, his focus entirely on the track ahead.

Her heart sank a little as she scanned the bustling garage, hoping for some last chance to catch his eye. But he was already strapped in, a crew member leaning in to give him a final check before he rolled out. She spotted Sophie in the corner, scribbling something down on a clipboard, and made her way over to her.

“Hey,” she whispered, feeling the dampness of the rain still clinging to her hair and clothes. “I… I just missed him, didn’t I?”

Sophie looked up and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, he was swamped the moment he got here. They barely had time to get him settled with all the delays.” She gestured to the grid display above them, where Max’s name glowed beside the stark “P17” position. “Rough start, but he’ll be glad to know you’re here.”

She nodded, feeling a pang as she glanced at his car just as it rumbled to life. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel, even from a distance she could see the tension there. She let out a breath, feeling a swell of pride and worry all at once. “Well, I’ll be here watching, then.”

Sophie handed her a headset, which she slipped on just in time to hear his engineer’s voice crackle through with the first instructions as they prepared for the start. The rain was relentless, turning the track into a slick, treacherous maze, and she felt her stomach twist as the cars peeled out onto the track for the formation lap. Max’s car trailed near the back, but she knew he’d fight, as he always did, with a ferocity she both admired and feared in moments like this.

The race began, a chaotic blur of spray and metal, the cars kicking up rooster tails of water, visibility nearly zero as they fought for position. She gripped the edge of her seat as the laps ticked by, heart pounding with every close call. It quickly became clear that the conditions were only worsening, drivers struggling to keep their cars on track, a few even skidding off into barriers with loud, bone-jarring crashes. Her hands tightened around the headset as Max navigate his way forward, battling his way to P10, then P6.

And then, just when the tension seemed to reach its peak, there was a deafening crash, followed by a sudden hush as the red flag went up, halting the race.

Her breath caught in her throat. The screen above replayed the incident—a skidding into the barrier that had caused an emergency stop. The seconds felt like hours as she waited, desperately searching for a glimpse of his car on the feed. Finally, there it was, intact, safe. Relief flooded her, and she felt her shoulders sag.

The race restarted after the delay, and she watched in awe as Max took advantage of the reshuffled positions and tire changes, surging forward with a newfound intensity. Lap by lap, he clawed his way through the field, passing car after car with a precision that made her heart race. It was as if he’d transformed, harnessing every ounce of his frustration from the last few races, channelling it into something extraordinary.

The garage erupted in cheers as he moved into P3, then P1. She stared at the screen, hardly daring to blink, her heart racing as he crossed the finish line in first place, drenched in rain and glory.

She could hardly believe it. From P17 to P1. He’d done it.

Forgetting herself, she laughed, a sound of pure joy, her heart swelling as she watched him slow down, the victory finally sinking in. She couldn't wait to see his face when he finally realised she was here, to be the first person he’d see when he stepped out of that car, soaked and grinning, finally at the top.

Ripping her headset off, she followed the crew as they ran out to parc fermé, her heart racing as fast as the roar of the crowd. The team, buzzing with excitement, parted slightly as she joined them, nudging her to the front so she’d be the first face he saw. She could barely breathe as she caught sight of Max’s car, now still, the rain glistening on its blue-and-red bodywork.

With all the force he had he climbed out, pulling off his helmet to reveal damp, messy hair and a face lit up with exhilaration and disbelief. For a moment, he simply stood there, taking in the shouts of the crowd and the blinding flashes of cameras. And then, his gaze landed on her.

His eyes widened, his exhaustion and surprise giving way to pure joy. Without hesitation, he broke into a run, crossing the slick tarmac with the kind of speed and determination that made her heart leap. She barely had a second to react before he wrapped her in his arms, his lips crashing against hers as he pulled her close, his hands pressed firmly against her back, as if he still couldn’t believe she was real.

“You came,” he murmured breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at her, his face filled with awe and happiness.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she replied, her voice trembling with emotion, brushing a wet strand of hair from his face.

He smiled, a bright, unguarded smile that melted her heart. “God, I needed this. I needed you.”

And then he kissed her again, a kiss filled with all the missed moments and the words they hadn’t been able to say, the thrill of his victory mingling with the fierce love they shared. She felt the rain soak through her clothes, the crowd and the noise around them fading as they held each other, his arms wrapping around her as if he could protect her from the rest of the world.

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered against her lips, his forehead resting against hers, his hand gently brushing her cheek. “P1. And you’re here.”

She laughed softly, her eyes shining. “You deserve it, Max. I knew you could do it.”

He held her close, a triumphant laugh bubbling from his chest as he buried his face in her neck, and they stood there in the pouring rain, lost in each other, savouring the victory and this long-awaited moment they both knew they’d never forget.

As the noise of the cheering crew and fans started to swell around them, Max pulled back slightly, brushing his thumb across her cheek, his gaze lingering on her face as if he was trying to commit every detail to memory.

“I have to go,” he said softly, his voice tinged with regret. “The interviews, cool-down room, podium… but wait for me? I’ll meet you in my driver’s room as soon as I can.”

She nodded, understanding but already missing the warmth of his arms. “I’ll be waiting. Go,” she whispered, giving him a small smile. “Enjoy every second—you deserve it.”

He pressed one last, lingering kiss to her forehead, then turned and jogged off to join the waiting crew, helmet in hand, while she stayed rooted to her spot, watching him disappear into the crowd. Her heart swelled with pride as she trailed after the team to watch his interviews, his beaming, breathless face glowing with pride and energy as he spoke about the gruelling conditions and the unbelievable climb from P17 to P1.

Then came the cool-down room, where she watched from the sidelines as he bantered with the other drivers, sharing exhausted smiles and congratulatory claps on the back, the weight of his achievement settling in as he finally let himself relax a little. She couldn’t help but smile, feeling as though she could burst with joy just watching him, his eyes sparking with energy even as he looked ready to collapse from exhaustion.

And finally, the podium. She felt the crowd’s excitement echo through her as she looked up to see him standing tall, drenched from head to toe, a bottle of champagne in hand. When he raised it in victory, the crowd erupted, and she joined them, cheering at the top of her lungs as he sprayed champagne with abandon, laughing as he celebrated with the other drivers. His eyes swept over the crowd, and when they found hers, he gave a subtle nod, a silent promise that he’d be back with her soon.

After the podium, she made her way to his driver’s room, her heart fluttering as she paced the small space, the thrill of the day lingering in every fibre of her being. And then, finally, the door swung open, and there he was.

He looked completely worn out, his hair still damp and messy, his fireproof undersuit clinging to his skin. But his smile was bright, and his eyes lit up the moment he saw her.

Without a word, he crossed the room, pulling her into his arms, his lips finding hers in a soft, exhausted kiss. She melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as he held her close, the adrenaline and joy from his victory radiating between them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” he whispered against her ear, his voice low and hoarse. “Winning today… and having you here with me. It’s everything.”

She brushed a strand of damp hair from his face, smiling as she traced her fingers along his cheek. “You did it, Max. I’m so proud of you.”

He took her hand, pressing it to his heart, his eyes never leaving hers. “None of it would mean anything without you,” he said quietly, his voice steady.

She felt her eyes sting with tears, overwhelmed by the depth of his words. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always be here.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world slipping away. He stroked her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, as if savouring each moment.

“Let’s get out of here,” he finally murmured, his voice warm and soft, “celebrate somewhere a little less chaotic.”

She laughed, nodding. “Anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”

They headed back to his hotel, hand in hand, a peaceful quiet settling over them as they left the track behind. Once in the privacy of his suite, he gave her a lingering kiss, then smiled, nodding toward the bathroom. “Give me a few minutes to wash off all the champagne and… probably half the track dust,” he said with a laugh.

She grinned, watching as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the suite a moment later. While he showered, she took the opportunity to pack up her things from her own room, gathering her scattered belongings quickly. The thrill of being close, of finally sharing a space for the night, filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the tropical heat outside.

By the time she returned, he was out of the shower, towelling off his damp hair, his expression softening as he took in the sight of her standing there with her things. Without a word, he crossed the room and took her bags from her hands, setting them by the closet as he gave her a smile that made her heart skip.

Once they’d both changed into fresh clothes—she’d opted for a simple dress, and he in casual jeans and a loose shirt—they slipped out of the hotel through a side exit, making their way to a tiny, tucked-away Brazilian restaurant that had been recommended. The place was hidden, small enough to be missed by the crowds, with soft, low lighting that created an intimate, cosy atmosphere. A few locals lingered around tables, but they paid little attention to the couple as they took a corner table in the back.

They ordered caipirinhas and he reached across the table to hold her hand, his fingers tracing gentle circles on her skin as they laughed over silly little things, shared stories from the past few weeks, and spoke of things beyond racing, beyond work, just slipping back into the easy flow they always shared. The food was rich and delicious—small plates of feijoada, grilled meats, and pão de queijo—everything flavorful and homey.

He leaned across the table, his eyes warm and filled with that familiar spark, as he watched her speak, clearly savouring every moment. “You know,” he said softly, “I think this is the best victory celebration I’ve ever had.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling back at him. “Same here. I missed just… being with you like this.”

They stayed until the restaurant closed, lingering over the last bites of dessert, letting the night stretch out as long as possible. Eventually, they headed back to the hotel, the city streets now quiet and still beneath the soft hum of streetlights.

Once back in his room, Max changed into a pair of soft pyjama bottoms, leaving his chest bare, his skin still warm from the shower. She slipped into one of his t-shirts, the fabric soft and oversized, the scent of him comforting and familiar. When she stepped out the bathroom, he was already waiting for her by the bed, his gaze softening as he took her in, a gentle smile curving on his lips.

Without a word, he reached for her, lacing his fingers through hers as he pulled her close, guiding her to the bed. She sank into the mattress beside him, and he wrapped an arm around her, drawing her against his chest, his fingertips trailing absently over her shoulder. She nestled into him, feeling his warmth seep through her, a cosy silence wrapping around them.

They lay there, tangled together, her head tucked beneath his chin as he gently traced circles on her back, his breath even and steady. He tilted her chin up, his eyes searching hers for a quiet moment before he leaned down, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss, filled with a tenderness that said everything words couldn’t. She kissed him back just as gently, savouring the intimacy of being close like this, the world beyond these walls feeling miles away.

When the kiss ended, he pressed his forehead to hers, a soft sigh escaping as he held her close, one hand settling over hers, fingers intertwined. They stayed that way, her head resting against his heartbeat, lulled by the steady rhythm.

Finally, they drifted off, still tangled in each other’s arms, wrapped up in the warmth and comfort of just being together. As the night settled around them, Max couldn’t help but smile, holding her a little closer as he slipped into sleep, his heart full and light.

Max couldn’t have wished for a better weekend.

the end.

[p0orbaby]

The Lion in the Jungle Shows No Shame

summary: you go into labour

warnings: some minor mention of contractions but that’s it

a/n: rich!reader is me; not the rich part, but the so over everyone part

word count: 1.7k

-

The boardroom at the training ground is frigid, an oppressive sort of sterile, painted in a corporate beige so calculatedly devoid of warmth it borders on offensive. The colour has clearly been chosen by a committee, signed off by no less than five department heads, all with the express goal of sapping any ounce of levity from the room. The walls bear only the club’s logo in gleaming gold, catching the light like a freshly polished trophy, austere and daunting. You’re seated at the head of the table in a chair meant to look sleek and modern but which you’ve always thought resembles a throne, albeit a minimalist, joyless one. You take pride in this spot, preferring the vantage point of a monarch observing her court, where each word, each glance can be read as an unspoken directive. A panel of finance officers sits to your left, expressionless and obedient, while the marketing strategists and department heads to your right wait, perched on the edge of their seats, eager to impress, or perhaps, not be dismissed. You’ve made your mind up on all of their fates already, but they don’t need to know that.

You sit back, legs crossed, and let your gaze drift to the person currently holding court—a sponsorship officer droning on about a potential partnership with an energy drink. The whole affair is tedious, but you feign interest, allowing only a flicker of annoyance to register as you twist the cap of your Montblanc in slow, deliberate turns, a small, repetitive comfort amidst the boredom. The sponsorship officer is yammering on about margins and high-profile market share. You nod, keeping your expression intentionally neutral, a carefully cultivated mask of polite detachment.

Nine months pregnant isn’t ideal, but that doesn’t mean anyone gets a pass. If you’re still here, they have no excuse for underperforming. You’ve kept every meeting, every review, every grueling evaluation on schedule, so there’s no room for them to slip up. Your presence is a reminder that leadership doesn’t come with compromises or concessions—not even now. Alexia might have opinions about it, but she knows better than to question your commitment. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Then, there’s a twinge—a faint prickling in your lower back. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just the sort of trivial discomfort you’ve brushed off for weeks now. You shift slightly, adjusting in your seat. Subtle, hardly noticeable. But someone—some unfortunate junior in marketing, possibly fresh out of his MBA programme and clearly untrained in discretion—glances over. He catches it, the flicker of discomfort. There’s the faintest suggestion of concern on his face, a furrowed brow, a hesitant question half-formed before he thinks better of it.

Good.

You meet his gaze and reward him with a smile—half genuine, mostly a warning. He gulps, as if he’s swallowed something sharp, and turns his attention back to his notes.

Then the pain intensifies, sharper this time. It tightens low and fierce, radiating like an overstretched muscle, and you have to will your expression to remain steady, blank, entirely unaffected. Your eyes fixate on the PowerPoint slide, as if by staring hard enough you can dissolve the discomfort into the soulless white glow of the projector. But no, it’s there, settling in like an uninvited guest who intends to stay.

The marketing intern glances up again. This time, he actually manages a look of pity. He’s hardly subtle about it. You almost laugh—almost—except the contraction twists hard enough to force you to hold your breath, and your fingers press a touch too hard against the table.

The finance officer drones on, oblivious, his voice a steady monotone against the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Someone in the corner clears their throat. The sound cuts through the room like a scalpel.

“Ma’am,” he says, hesitant, looking anywhere but at you. “If you’d like to take a break—”

You wave him off with a flick of your wrist. “I’m perfectly fine. Let’s keep this moving, please.” Your words are clipped, precise, the kind that leave no room for doubt. You feel the weight of the room’s collective discomfort settle around you, like fog gathering, thick and stifling. The intern looks at you again, wide-eyed, uncertain, and you catch his gaze with a look so cold he almost recoils.

“Of course,” he mumbles, fumbling with his laptop, frantically tapping keys as if the sheer speed of his typing will save him from your wrath.

The next contraction slams into you with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch. A sharper, hotter pain spirals down your spine, and you grip the edge of the table, harder this time. The finance officer is rambling about revenue share and high-growth potential, but his words are disintegrating, merging into the mechanical hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, until they’re nothing but a dull, meaningless drone.

“Ma’am?” The intern speaks again, tentatively. “Are you sure you’re… alright?”

You turn to him with a look that could shatter glass. “Do I look unwell to you?”

His face drains of colour. “No, of course not,” he stammers. “Just… checking”

There it is again, that shift. It’s slight but palpable, a crack in the air. Power slipping. The assistant to your left, normally so silent and obedient, dares to glance your way with what might be concern. Another staffer coughs, hiding his expression in a notebook, though you can see his eyes darting nervously across the table. They’re all shifting now, uncomfortable, glancing at each other in a silent exchange, a web of tension growing thicker with each stolen glance.

You grit your teeth, willing the pain to dissipate, willing them all to get back to their work and stop—just stop looking at you like you’re some fragile artefact about to shatter.

Then, your assistant, Julian, a man so dependable you’d have trusted him with your life savings, makes the first move. He stands, smoothing his tie, clearing his throat in a way that’s maddeningly self-assured. “I think we need to get someone,” he says, his voice gentle but insistent, like a fatherly reprimand. “Just… in case”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Sit down,” you say, your voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Now”

He hesitates, and the silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, inexplicably, he defies you. “I’m calling Alexia,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

The shock is visceral, immediate. You can feel it rippling through the room, see it in the furtive glances darting across the table. You, the unassailable chief, suddenly vulnerable, and worse, defied. You hear murmurs, soft but unmissable, as if they’re collectively holding their breath, waiting for you to explode.

Alexia. Coming here. The idea sends a fresh wave of mortification rolling through you, sharper and hotter than any contraction. Alexia, with her bluntness, her inability to mince words. She’ll walk in here, she’ll see you, and she’ll say exactly what she’s thinking, in front of everyone.

The finance officer clears his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe we should… reconvene another time?” He avoids your gaze, wisely. His voice is tentative, as though he’s testing the air for danger.

“Absolutely not,” you bite out, voice like ice. “We’re finishing this meeting. Right now”

But it’s too late. The tension is too thick, the unease in the room too palpable to ignore. You can feel their eyes on you, hesitant, searching, a quiet mutiny blooming under their skin, as though you’re something fragile, a rare beast they don’t quite know how to handle. You grip the edge of the table again, willing the pain to subside, to vanish, anything to regain control of the situation.

Then, the door swings open, and there she is: Alexia, in her training kit, her hair damp with sweat, her eyes blazing with a fury so palpable it sends a ripple of shock through the room. She locks eyes with you, her expression a lethal blend of exasperation and concern. The silence deepens, everyone watching with barely concealed curiosity.

“You’re still here,” she says, each word clipped and loaded, a statement more than a question. It lands like a slap.

You force a smile, though it’s tight and strained. “I’m fine”

She sweeps a gaze across the room, her eyes taking in the faces of your subordinates, each one frozen in various states of unease and fascination. When she looks back at you, her expression is a mix of incredulity and… pity. She almost smirks, as if to say, Look at you now.

“You’re in labour,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, her voice filled with a quiet, unmistakable fury. “And you’re… what? Leading a meeting?”

You can feel the weight of their stares, the barely-concealed smirks, the disbelief. You, their fearless leader, brought low, bossed around by your own spouse in front of them. You can already hear the whispers, the knowing chuckles that will ripple through the ranks for weeks, the stories that will morph and grow.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” you manage, but your voice is weak, a mere shadow of its usual authority.

“Necessary?” Alexia repeats, crossing her arms. “You think it’s not necessary to go to the hospital when you’re about to give birth?”

Someone stifles a laugh—an intern, no less. You shoot him a look that promises retribution, but it’s lost amidst the pain that surges again, more intense, unrelenting. Then, Alexia’s arm is around you, firm yet gentle, steering you toward the door with a resolve that’s unyielding.

You give one last, desperate protest. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Really, I—”

“Enough,” she says, and her voice is a balm, a force, something that both steadies and infuriates you. Her arm around you is warm, grounding, and for a moment, your frustration melts, replaced by something softer, something you won’t allow yourself to name.

As Alexia guides you out, you catch a final glimpse of the boardroom, your staff looking back at you with expressions ranging from bemused pity to unspoken amusement. You know, with chilling certainty, that this will be the story of the month, if not the year. But with Alexia’s arm wrapped around you, her presence beside you, that irritation begins to fade.

The door closes, sealing you from their whispers, from their smirks. Just this once, you let it go.

[rottenfyre]

⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʏ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere HOTD x Targaryen Reader Part 2

Summary: After your mother's death, your life wasn't the same anymore. Everything was changing so fast and you were just watching.

Warning: Y/n herself is a warning.

Notes: English is not my first language. Gifs don't belong to me, credit to the owner. Hope you enjoy!

The air felt cool against her damp skin as she stood in front of the window, watching the distant glow of King's Landing beneath the night sky. Her body was still warm from the bath, the steam lingering in the room as it slowly dissipated, leaving behind the soft scent of lavender and rosewater.

She let her fingers trace the edges of the windowpane, feeling the cold, hard glass beneath her fingertips. It was quiet tonight—eerily so. The usual sounds of the city seemed muted, as if the world outside had gone still, holding its breath.

Her handmaid, Elira, stood behind her, gently brushing through her wet hair. The familiar rhythm of the bristles moving through her locks was soothing, almost meditative. Elira had always been there. Since the very beginning. They were the same age, but Elira had always known her place—quiet, loyal, obedient. Always there, always in the background, never faltering.

"It still hurts, you know... losing her." She spoke softly, her voice almost a whisper, more to herself than to Elira. She stared out into the dark horizon, her eyes distant. "Mother was... everything. The only person who truly knew me."

Elira didn't respond—she never did when it came to such things. She just kept brushing her hair, silent, attentive, like the shadow she had always been.

The ache in her chest intensified, a dull, ever-present throb that threatened to consume her. Who’s going to love me now? Her mother had been everything. The one person who had always been kind, always been gentle. And now, she was gone. The gods, if they even existed, had taken her away. Not just her mother, but her newborn brother as well.

Y/n blinked slowly, her eyes burning. Why did they take them? What kind of gods would do this? Why leave me behind with nothing? She couldn’t understand it, couldn’t process the emptiness that had swallowed her whole since that day. The pain was constant, gnawing at her insides like a beast that wouldn’t stop.

She hadn’t left this room since they told her. She hadn’t gone to the funeral. What would be the point? Rhaenyra had been the one to carry their mother’s body. She could have done that too. She could have honored her mother, but what was the point when she wasn’t even here? She was dead. Dead.

Y/n closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into the sensation of the brush moving through her hair. "I loved her. I always did... I was kind to her, wasn't I?" The words felt heavy on her tongue, as if she were asking herself more than Elira. She knew the answer already. She had been kind. She had been gentle.

She sighed softly, her breath fogging the glass in front of her as her thoughts drifted. It was supposed to be a boy. A brother. I would’ve been kind to him too. She had already chosen the Dreamfyre egg for him, already imagined what he would look like with his silver hair and violet eyes.

But now... there was no brother. No mother. Just silence.

Suddenly, a sharp tug at her scalp broke through her thoughts, jolting her back to the present. She flinched slightly, her eyes narrowing as she turned her head just enough to glance at Elira.

"I'm so sorry, princess! Please forgive me!" Elira’s voice trembled, her hands shaking as she quickly let go of the brush, dropping it to the floor. She fell to her knees, her head bowed low, not daring to look up at Y/n. "Please, forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t... please, please, forgive me..."

Y/n stared down at her, unblinking, her mind oddly blank. Elira had always been loyal. She had always done what she was told. And now here she was, groveling on the floor, begging for forgiveness over a simple tug of hair. It was... pathetic.

But she didn’t feel angry. She didn’t feel anything.

"It's alright," she said calmly, her voice soft but devoid of emotion. "You can continue."

Elira hesitated for a moment, her hands still trembling as she slowly picked up the brush again, standing on shaky legs. She resumed her task, this time more careful, her movements slower, more deliberate.

Y/n turned back to the window, her gaze distant once more, her mind drifting in and out of the haze that had settled over her ever since her mother’s death. She could still hear Elira sniffling softly behind her, no doubt still terrified of making another mistake.

It’s fine, she told herself. She’s always been like this. Always afraid. Always apologizing. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

She closed her eyes again, her fingers tracing the cool glass once more, feeling the chill seep into her skin.

“I made a decision,” Viserys looked between his daughters. “I have chosen to name Rhaenyra as my heir.”

The words hit her like a wave of ice-cold water, freezing her smile in place. Wait… what? Her mind stumbled, struggling to make sense of the words. Rhaenyra? She blinked, willing herself to understand, to hear something else, but the reality pressed on her, unyielding.

“That’s… great, Father!” she managed, her voice tight and bright. Her lips twitched, and somehow, she forced them into a smile. She clasped her hands in front of her, feeling them shake, the tremors threatening to give her away. Hold it together, she thought desperately, teeth gritted behind her smile. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them see.

A cacophony of voices began to rise within her, whispering, hissing, each word cutting into her like a thousand small blades. Weak… pathetic… that’s what you are.

Her nails dug into her palms as she continued to hold her smile. No, I’m not weak… he just doesn’t see my worth yet. He doesn’t understand. But he will, he will…

That’s why Father chose her, isn’t it? Because you’re useless. Because you’re nothing.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, who was watching her with a mixture of pride and hesitance. Rhaenyra, the golden girl. Rhaenyra, the heir. Rhaenyra… the one Father loves. Her stomach twisted painfully, but she forced herself to keep smiling, her jaw aching from the strain.

Of course he doesn’t love you, they continued. Why would he? You’re not what he wanted. You’re just a mistake, a failure, a useless little girl who couldn’t be more than a shadow.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat like a drum in her ears. She felt hollow, as if she were disappearing from within, crumbling like ash. I’m not useless, I’m not… But they laughed, drowning her, making it impossible to think.

Look at him. Look at how he looks at her. Do you see that warmth in his eyes? He has never looked at you like that. He never will.

Her hands were trembling openly now, and she clasped them tighter, willing herself to stop, to silence the whirlwind inside her. I am more than this, she thought, but the words felt empty, like something fragile that could shatter with a single breath. She lifted her gaze to her father, but his expression was unchanged, his eyes full of pride—for Rhaenyra.

That’s all you are, isn’t it? A disappointment. A shadow, unwanted and unloved.

Her head swam, and she could barely hear anything beyond the mocking laughter echoing in her mind. But she kept smiling, the mask she wore cracking at the edges, her heart sinking with each passing second. You're wrong. You're wrong about me. Father does love me… he has to…

“Are you all right?” Viserys asked, frowning slightly.

The words jolted her back to the room, and she forced herself to nod, ignoring the way her throat tightened. “Yes, Father,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She wanted to scream, to cry, to tear down everything around her, but instead, she turned to leave, her face carefully blank.

As she walked away, the voices clawed at her, unrelenting, ruthless.

Useless. Unwanted. Weak. That’s why he chose her. That’s why he’ll always choose her. Because you will never be enough.

It's finally over. It had been a long day, a day that had dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. Today Rhaenyra had been named heir to the Iron Throne and she had to bow before her.

As she walked, Elira, kept a respectful distance behind her, her soft footsteps barely audible. The quiet murmur of the castle, usually so comforting to Y/n, only seemed to intensify the ache in her chest. She quickened her pace, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor as the thoughts spiraled deeper. Why her? Why not me?

"Thanks the gods it's Princess Rhaenyra,"

Y/n froze, her entire body stiffening as she heard the words. Her mind raced, and her steps slowed, her breath catching. She looked around the corner, and saw a small group of servants standing near a doorway, talking among themselves. Her gaze narrowed as she caught the full statement.

"Ah, yes, I'm really thankful the King didn’t choose that mad cunt," one of them laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that made her skin crawl.

"What did you say?"

They immediately froze when they heard her, their faces draining of color. She could hear their frantic whispers, the way their voices faltered in fear. One of them, took a hesitant step backward.

The servants' eyes widened, and they all started stammering apologies, their words tangled together in a rush of panic.

"Please, my lady, we meant no harm, we were just—"

"We were just talking, milady. Please forgive us—"

"Please don’t—"

Her eyes locked onto the boy who had spoken the words. He looked terrified now, his face pale, his eyes wide with fear. She took a step forward, the rage bubbling over, her movements fluid and quick as she closed the distance between them. The boy shrank back, but it was too late.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Y/n half-yelled, her voice a venomous hiss. Everything that had been building inside her—the anger, the hurt, the rejection—came flooding out in a violent, unstoppable wave.

The servants froze, some of them taking instinctive steps back, but they couldn’t escape.

Before the boy could even react, Y/n was on him, her hands grabbing his hair. With a sickening crack, she slammed his skull against the stone wall. She didn’t even register the impact at first, her vision turning red as the anger clouded her thoughts. She did it again. And again. And again.

The sound of his skull crashing against the stone echoed in her ears, drowning out everything else. She didn’t hear the cries, the pleading, the desperate sobs. She didn’t hear Elira begging her to stop, her voice barely cutting through the haze of fury.

"Stop! Please! Stop!" Elira cried, her voice high with fear, but Y/n was beyond reason now. She could feel the boy’s head break beneath her hands, could feel the blood running down her fingers. The sound of his sobs, his frantic begging, only drove her further into madness.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, it was over. She stood there, panting, her breath ragged as she stared down at the boy’s lifeless body. His head was a mangled mess, blood seeping out from the cracks in his skull. Her hands were slick with it, the red staining her fingers, her palms.

She blinked, coming back to herself slowly. The haze began to clear. She looked down at the body, her heart still racing, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Her chest heaved, and for a moment, she could barely comprehend what had just happened. She didn’t even remember how she’d gotten here, or how many times she’d struck him.

He’s dead.

The thought hit her like a punch to the gut. Her heart sank, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface, still clawing at her insides. She turned to look around at the others—the servants were trembling, staring at her in horror, their faces pale and filled with fear.

Why... Why they are looking at me like this?

Y/n glanced down at her dress, now soaked in blood. It was one of her favorites. She frowned as she looked at the deep red stains, the fabric ruined. What a pity.

With a deep sigh, she straightened up, her anger beginning to ebb, leaving a hollow emptiness behind. Her voice was calm, too calm, as she turned to the servants. “Clean this mess up,” she ordered, her voice flat. “And make sure no one finds out about it.”

She didn’t care how they did it, just as long as it was done. She turned to Elira, her voice still controlled, though her emotions were a mess inside her. “Prepare the bath for me,” she said softly, almost pitiful. “I need to wash.”

As she walked away, Elira hesitated for a moment before following her. The others remained rooted to the spot, too afraid to move. Y/n walked through the hallways, the blood drying on her hands, her mind drifting in a haze of confusion and sadness.

I’m so tired. The thought came suddenly, washing over her like a wave. She let out a breath, shaking her head slightly.

But as she entered her chambers, she start thinking about the scene she left behind. The servants would clean it. They always did. But they would never forget. And neither would she.

With that, she closed the door behind her, her thoughts already shifting again, the sadness creeping back in.

"The realm will never accept a woman as their ruler," Rhaenys muttered, her voice laced with the bitterness that always seemed to cloud her words when the topic of succession arose.

Y/n tilted her head and nodded, the movement slow, almost sympathetic. Oh, how tragic, she thought, her lips curling into a faint smirk. All this whining and hand-wringing. Pathetic.

She softened her features, arranging her face into what she imagined looked like mild concern. "Tragic, isn’t it?" she said, her voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed sarcasm that neither of them seemed to catch.

"When I am queen I will create a new order," Rhaenyra said, her tone defiant, her chin lifted as though challenging the world to disagree.

Yes, yes, Rhaenyra, I’m sure you would be a shining example of wisdom and honor, Y/n thought, fighting back a laugh. Keep dreaming.

"Of course you would, dear sister," Y/n replied smoothly, giving a slight, dismissive nod. "The realm would be lucky to have you."

Rhaenys glanced at her, as if sizing her up, before letting out a low, sardonic chuckle. "Men would sooner burn the kingdom than let a woman sit on the throne," she said, a bitter truth in her words that, for some reason, still failed to resonate with Y/n. Power wasn’t something one was given—it was taken. And anyone too weak to seize it had no right to it in the first place.

She hid her thoughts behind a sip of wine, watching them both with a half-lidded gaze, letting their words drift over her like idle gossip. What a pair they are—one too proud to realize her limitations, the other too bitter to let go of her grievances.

"Oh, yes, a kingdom ablaze," Y/n murmured, feigning a wistful tone. "How poetic. Such a tragic tale, isn’t it?" She held out her glass, staring into the dark red liquid as if pondering something deeply moving, though in truth, she was only admiring the way the light caught the wine.

Rhaenyra sighed heavily. "They underestimate us. They see us as delicate things, fit only to be wives and mothers."

"Do they?" Y/n’s smile widened, an amused glint in her eyes. Oh, the endless suffering. Boo-hoo.

Rhaenys was watching her with an arched brow, clearly picking up on the subtle mockery in her tone. "You don’t seem very troubled by any of this, Y/n," she observed, almost as if accusing her.

Y/n shrugged, a slow, lazy movement that exuded indifference. "Oh, I am devastated, truly," she replied, the sarcasm practically dripping from her words. "What a tragic world we live in, where women like us must endure such indignities. Really, it’s heartbreaking."

Rhaenyra shot her a sharp look. "This isn’t a joke, Y/n."

"Of course not," Y/n replied, her voice smooth as silk, unfazed by her sister’s disapproval. "Nothing about any of this is funny." She took another sip, savoring the wine and the absurdity of it all. I should be the one that wear the crown, not you.

Then, as though the thought had only just occurred to her, she sighed and placed her empty goblet aside. "Ah, but I must take my leave, unfortunately." She glanced over at them, feigning a regretful expression. "I’ve a fitting to attend for my dress, you know, for Father’s wedding. It simply wouldn’t do to be unprepared for such an occasion."

The slight in her tone was subtle, but it was there, veiled in a pleasant smile. The wedding going to happen sooner or later. What a spectacle it would be. Their dear father, so desperate to secure his legacy that he’d wed a mere girl, and all to produce another heir—a boy, if the gods were willing, and if not… well, it hardly mattered to her.

"How dutiful of you," Rhaenys remarked, a hint of mockery in her voice. It was clear she saw through Y/n’s thin veneer of civility.

"Indeed." Y/n inclined her head, lips quirking in a smug smile. "After all, it’s so important to play our parts well, isn’t it?"

She glanced back at them one last time, giving them both a pointed look, her smile widening as she took in their earnest, troubled faces. "Farewell, then. Do enjoy your discussion. Such deep, meaningful words, truly," she said, voice dripping with false admiration as she turned on her heel, sauntering away without a second glance.

Y/n strode toward her father’s chambers, Ser Criston trailing like a shadow at her side. She had a perfectly charming smile painted on her lips until she came up short, blocked by two guards standing in front of the doors. Their hands gripped their spears, glancing at each other nervously before looking back at her.

“Step aside,” she said, voice a silky command.

The guards didn’t budge.

One of them, foolishly brave or utterly clueless, raised a hand. “I’m sorry, my lady, but the King has asked to not be disturbed.”

Her smile faltered, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re saying I can’t see my father?” Her voice was calm, almost amused. She tilted her head, letting her gaze drift over their faces with cold scrutiny. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

The guard stiffened, clearly feeling her gaze like a blade. “We have orders.”

She chuckled, the sound smooth as honey but laced with venom. “And do you have any idea what I could do to you for disobeying me?” She leaned in, voice dropping low. “I could have your tongues ripped out, have you hanging from the city walls by your intestines, all while you beg for mercy.” She smiled, sickly sweet. “Or I could just tell my father you disrespected his daughter.”

The guards flinched, glancing at each other but standing firm.

She clicked her tongue, gaze sharpening. “Perhaps I should have Ser Criston here peel the skin from your faces, inch by inch? How does that sound?”

Criston’s hand drifted to his sword, his eyes darkening in anger at their defiance. Before he could make a move, Otto appeared around the corner, striding toward them with his usual calm authority.

“Ah, my lord Hand,” Y/n said, smile widening as she turned toward Otto. She cast the guards one last look before redirecting her attention.

Otto looked at her and then at the guards, clearly sensing the tension in the air. “Is there a problem here, princess?” His voice was calm, as if he hadn’t just walked into a potential bloodbath.

She tilted her head, letting out a soft, exasperated sigh. “Oh, nothing major, Lord Hand,” she purred. “Just a minor misunderstanding. These men seem to think they have the right to keep me from my father’s chambers. Quite peculiar, don’t you think?” She cast a smug glance at the guards, watching as they shifted uncomfortably.

The guards started to speak up, but Y/n shot them a warning glare, silencing them immediately. “In fact, I’d say it was downright insulting.”

Otto nodded thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Well, princess, your father is about to attend the small council meeting. I’ve come to fetch him myself.”

She clenched her jaw, an annoyed sigh slipping from her lips as she finally gave a small nod. Fucking cock suckers. But she kept her expression calm, respectful even. Otto had always been fond of her—treated her like one of his own, in a way. No need to break that little bond just yet.

“Very well,” she murmured, stepping back as she allowed Otto to enter. She watched him disappear into the chamber, then turned her gaze back toward the guards, her expression a warning that needed no words. They quickly looked away, pretending to be more interested in the floor.

Moments later, Otto returned with her father. Viserys offered her a faint, apologetic smile, but his focus seemed elsewhere, a bit distracted. Odd. Otto, too, seemed unusually composed, almost as if there was something else on his mind.

As they walked away, Y/n glanced toward the chamber doors, half-distracted, until she caught a flash of red hair in the corner of her vision. A woman’s figure seated on the edge of the bed—her father’s bed.

Her heart skipped a beat, eyes widening. She had to suppress a sudden laugh, biting her nails as her excitement bubbled up. Oh, now that’s just… delicious.

There’s no way… Is that…? Did Otto really…? Oh, you sly, clever old fox. So that’s why Father’s been so preoccupied. And here I thought he was just mourning my poor Mother.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Criston’s voice brought her back to the present. He glanced at her with concern.

She smiled at him, a flash of brightness that was all teeth. “I’m perfectly fine, Ser Criston,” she murmured, her gaze still lingering on that red hair. Alicent. The Hand’s sweet little daughter, warming dear Father’s bed where Mother once lay. Oh, it was almost poetic.

Without another word, she wrapped her arm around Criston’s, a little too tight, leading him away, her smile widening as her mind danced with happiness. The thrill of it all simmered under her skin, making her eyes glint with a mad sort of glee.

Oh, Rhaenyra… if only you knew. Your dear friend is right here, warming our father’s bed. Such a pity you don’t see it yet. Poor, poor little sister.

Criston glanced at her, brow furrowed in confusion. “Is something the matter, my lady?”

“Nothing at all,” she purred, letting out a small laugh. “I’m just… happy, that’s all.”

As the small council convened, Viserys rose to his feet, his expression serious yet strained. She cast a brief glance at Rhaenyra beside her, who watched their father with rapt attention, completely unaware.

Don’t tell me Father’s actually going to—

“I have decided… I am to marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”

The silence that followed was exquisite. Y/n’s smirk widened as she glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, whose face had turned from shock to disbelief. Rhaenyra’s eyes met Y/n’s, wide and wounded, and in that brief exchange, Y/n’s smirk told her everything. Yes, dear sister, I knew. I knew before you did. And now… so do you.

Y/n’s gaze turned cold as she looked across the room at Corlys. He sat motionless for a moment, disbelief and anger barely concealed in his face as he processed what the King had just announced. She barely held back her sneer of disgust.

This pathetic man… offering up his child to this decrepit old fool just to worm his way closer to the throne. What a spineless little weasel. Tried to sell sweet Leana to Father… You’re nothing but a cock-sucking snake, Corlys.

Corlys’ face hardened. Offended, he shot Viserys a withering look before standing abruptly and leaving the room in silence. Y/n’s eyes followed him, the smirk still tugging at her lips. Good riddance, you worm.

Next to her, Rhaenyra had gone pale. She shot a look of absolute betrayal at Alicent, whose face was touched with guilt, as if she’d known this moment was coming yet hadn’t prepared for the sight of her friend’s hurt. Then turning on her heel and storming out.

Poor, naive Rhaenyra… How perfect, to have this all crumble around you while you stood unaware.

But Y/n stayed, savoring the stunned silence that filled the room, and then, without missing a beat, she plastered on her most sincere smile.

“Congratulations, Father!” she chimed, her voice warm as she moved toward Viserys.

Viserys let out a sigh, though a relieved one, as she embraced him, patting her arm gently. “Thank you, my dear,” he replied, clearly grateful for her support.

She released him, turning to Alicent, who was still wide-eyed, not quite sure what to make of the sudden affection Y/n was showing. She shifted uncomfortably as Y/n opened her arms to her.

“Alicent,” Y/n murmured, drawing her in with a tight embrace, voice sweet as honey. She leaned close to her ear, her words just barely audible to anyone but Alicent.

“Oh, Alicent,” she murmured into her ear, “I always knew you were a little whore.” She felt Alicent’s body stiffen, but she continued, undeterred. “You shouldn’t be so pleased with yourself—you’ve married my rotting father, after all.” She let out a mocking laugh, barely a whisper. “I can only imagine… his ‘crown jewels’ are as decrepit as the rest of him. But lucky you, you’re the perfect breeding mare, aren’t you? A nice, wet hole to keep his cock warm,” she added, voice dripping with contempt, “Every night you’ll lay with him, his decaying hands on you, his disgusting, rotting body. I’ll bet even his—” she sneered, “—cock is rotting.”

Alicent’s face flushed, her breath catching as she stood, stunned and trembling in Y/n’s arms. Y/n only smiled, tilting her head to kiss her on the cheek.

“I’m so happy for you, Mother,” she cooed, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Alicent, visibly shaken, managed a faltering smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you… daughter.”

Part 1

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

[emchante]

Divorced dad!Daniel + “Sighing softly at the shell of your ear so you can hear how much you affect them” -> imagine you’re the first person he’s with after a long time and he’s so vocal when you palm him through his boxers 🙏🏼

~🫠

sweet temptations | d. ricciardo

summary: daniel had been relieved from dad duties for the weekend, so he invited you over for dinner. not long after, you’re on top of him and helping him get off— something he hasn’t experienced in a while.

prompt: “sighing softly at the shell of your ear so you can hear how much you affect them” + divorced dad!daniel

warnings: 18+ content, post-divorce daniel, handjob through clothing, dirty talk.

w.c. 1.3k+

masterlist | requesting rules

a/n hello lovelies! divorced dad!daniel series finally has it’s first official blurb and i’m so happy with it. thank you to my wonderful anon for requesting, i loved writing this. please let me guys know what you think, i would love to hear your thoughts and would be honoured if anyone wanted to drop into my inbox so we can explore this series together <3

the night was cool, the streetlights of the neighborhood glowing dimly through the thin curtains of daniel’s living room. you could count how many times you had been round at his place on a single hand, as he often came to your house, whether that be with or without his kids.

this weekend he was free from dad duties, and he had invited you to his house for dinner. this.. thing you both had going on was still new. it was more than a casual fling, but nothing had been set in stone or defined as of yet.

that didn’t matter currently, not when you found yourselves entangled on his sofa, the fingers of your right hand tracing lines up his exposed chest.

daniel’s breathing was heavy, his rose-inked hand was firm on your waist, pulling you closer. your left hand trailed down his body, brushing over the hardness straining against his trousers. a shudder ripples through daniel’s body, a low groan erupting from him.

“god,” he breathes as his head falls back, sunken eyes dark and hooded as he gazes up at you, full of need. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

you smirk at his words, giving him another gentle squeeze. his response is immediate— a long-drawn moan, his hips shifting toward your touch, craving more. “i think i have a small idea,” you tease, winking as your thumb circles over his hardening cock.

you relish in the whimper that escapes him at the small movement, enjoying the jerking of his hips at any touch. your eyes trailed over him, taking in the sight in front of you. the older, handsome and —quite frankly— powerful man that everyone seemed to fawn over, was currently beneath you on his worn down sofa, cock straining as he moans for your touch.

you lean on your right hand, using it to ground yourself as you move closer to daniel’s face. you place a line of soft kisses from his chin, up his jaw and one final kiss on top of the freckle that resides under his ear, before moving your lips up.

“but still, tell me,” you whisper, biting on the bottom of his earlobe and gaining a soft gasp from him before continuing. “tell me what i do to you, daniel.”

a deep flush creeps over daniel’s cheeks, but he doesn’t shy away. instead, his right hand moves to your face, nudging it until you’re both eye-to-eye. his dark eyes were clouded with desire and need, staring deeply into you.

“every time you touch me, it’s like— i don’t know,” he stammers, voice quiet as he tries to gather his thoughts. “it’s been so long since someone made me feel like this. it’s like im re-experiencing everything all over again, like this is all new to me,” he explains, licking his lips as he stares at you, waiting.

you lean down and press your lips into his, capturing him in a slow kiss as you let your fingers work him slowly; palming him through the fabric of his trousers. his reaction was instant, another low, guttural moan erupting against your lips; and it sent heat pooling in your belly.

“god, you’re so sensitive,” you murmur against his lips, pulling back and pointing your head down to watch. you press your hand a little harder, and are rewarded with a twitch beneath your palm.

daniel nods quickly, head tilting to the side so his lips are against your ear. you bite your lip while he pants into your ear, swallowing thickly before sighing softly. “yeah, you— you have no idea,” he stammers, hips bucking up into your hand again desperately. “please.. don’t stop.”

your fingers found the button of his jeans, and another shaky breath escaped him. you tilt your head back up to look at him, and his eyes meet yours with a look was half-desperation, half-anticipation.

“is this okay?” you whisper, wanting to double-check he really was okay with this. despite his eagerness, you wanted to make sure.

any doubts you had were shut down in an instant as his hand grabbed your face, pulling you closer to capture your lips in a fervent kiss. “more than okay.”

your hand makes its way into daniel’s jeans, cupping his straining cock through his boxers. you give him another squeeze, enjoying the warmth in your hand now you were closer to his cock than before. the sound that escapes daniel can only be described as pure, unfiltered relief. “oh— oh my god,” he chokes out, his voice straining as he stretches his head back against the couch.

you could feel him pulsing beneath your hand, the heat building as you continued. you were drawing needy sounds from him that made your own heart race, desperate to hear more. the sight before you was one you wanted to memorize, so you kept your eyes trained on his body the entire time.

as you kept stroking him through the thin fabric of his boxers, you bit your lip as you listened to the string of soft moans fall from his lips. his head was writhing from side to side, hips shaking and jerking almost uncontrollably as the pleasure started to truly overtake him.

he tried to get into somewhat of a rhythm, focusing on trying to grind his aching cock against the palm of your hand. another deep groan escaped him as his body started to tighten, and you knew he was nearing the edge.

you move your face closer to daniel’s again as your lips ghost his own, his eyes opening as he tries to keep them trained on you. you can tell that daniel wants you to lean in that inch closer, connect your lips and kiss him hungrily again.

but you don’t.

you keep your lips brushing his own as you continue to stroke him, eyes boring into his own. daniel gets bored of your little game fast, and leans forward to capture you in another kiss. he kisses you like his life depends on it, tongue grazing your bottom lip slowly before slipping it into your mouth. his hips continue to buck into your hand, thrusts becoming more hurried.

“come on, daniel,” you murmur against his lips, pulling back. you lick your lips before taking you bottom lip between your teeth, squeezing his aching cock and sighing. you move to his ear again, kissing just behind it before whispering to him. “let go for me.”

daniel’s body shuddered, his breath hitching as his whole body went rigid, and with a final strangled moan, he did as you said. you could feel the heat and dampness through the fabric as daniel finished, his head falling back against the couch while squeezing his eyes shut, riding out the waves of pleasure as small whimpers and groans escaped him.

you continued to cup him through his boxers, your thumb slowly rubbing against his softening dick through his boxers. when his breathing was starting to even out, his eyes opened slowly and he lifted his head to look at you. you slide your hand out from his unbothered jeans. you wink at him, licking the slight wetness off your thumb which causes a low groan to come from daniel.

daniel uses his hands to push himself up, back resting against the armchair before moving one of his hands onto your waist, and pulling you into him. you rest your forehead against his own, and daniel takes it upon himself to place a soft kiss onto your lips.

⋆˙⟡ enjoy the fic? come chat to me through my ask box, publicly or on anon! i’d love to talk to you and hear your thoughts about it <3

[mywhisperingwords]

these three little words | fred g. weasley

summary: four times fred told you he loved you and one time he truly meant it word count: 3.6k masterlist

“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

Fred put a hand on his heart while saying, “You wound me greatly.”

Rolling your eyes, you kept walking, leaving him behind, “And yet you are still alive and well just to annoy me.”

Behind you, you could hear him snickering to himself before he caught up with you.

“Just you, my darling,” he told you, putting his arm around your shoulder, “besides, all I said was that your sudden interest in Potions was quite suspicious. For some unknown reason I doubt that you do it for George and me.”

He put his mouth close to your ear, his hot breath tickling your cheek and the sudden closeness made it hard for you to comprehend the next words he whispered, “One might wonder if some specific professor has anything to do with that.”

It took you a moment, but you finally realized what he meant.

“Are you seriously accusing me of fancying Snape? Snape of all people? Sickening,” you shouted as you pushed him away from you with a revolted expression. “That thought alone makes me want to throw up in your face.”

“Now, now, don’t be so vulgar. Snape is awkwardly handsome, quite old and wise. Maybe he could teach you some things,” he started winking suggestively at you before breaking in a laughing fit.

All you could was stare at him, horrified by the idea alone.

This whole conversation only sparked because you mentioned your study’s that were related to potion making. Which you only took up, to help out with new creations in relation to Fred, and George, of course.

Maybe he wasn’t that far off with the whole fancying idea, he just confused the person you fancied.

“Do you hear that?” he asked abruptly, a serious look on his face, that made your stomach twist in an uncomfortable way.

“What?” you asked, still annoyed but also a bit nervous. You weren’t that far away from the forbidden forest and you never knew what kind of creatures were luring in the shadows.

“I thought I heard,” he paused for a moment, suspension rising, “wedding bells.”

“Merlin, you’re a git,” you moaned.

You swiftly turned away from him and crossed your arms, more annoyed with him and his stupid jokes. Quickly you started walking, trying to get away from him.

Maybe it was your attitude or maybe he just realized that you were done with his jokes at the moment but he immediately went after you.

When he caught up with, he again put his arm on your shoulder, before saying, “Aw, come on. You know I was just joking.”

Ignoring him, you kept on walking in the direction of the castle. You weren’t bothered by his jokes, not really. It’s Fred you’re talking about here, he does not mean any harm — at least not to you.

You were also not upset by his little scare, or maybe a little bit. To be honest, you were not quite sure why you were so agitated currently.

Maybe it was the fact that you spent your free time studying, just for him, and George of course. But mostly for Fred. And all he could do is make a mockery out of it just so he doesn’t have to deal with real feelings.

Because you knew, that he was overwhelmed when you told him your studies were a way of helping him and George with their products. Fred wasn’t someone who asked for help, he’d rather deal with his problems on his own. But he also knew that accepting offered help wasn’t a weakness, especially when it came from you.

You recognized it in the way he got quiet for a moment, avoiding looking at you, his cheeks turning a shade of pink, before starting to joke around.

It was a typical Fred reaction.

“Don’t be like that, darling. I love you, don’t ignore me,” he murmured, pressing his lips against the side of your head.

Sometimes you wondered if he knew, when he said things like that but you were aware of the fact that he only saw you as a friend—he had made that clear numerous times.

“I’ll stop ignoring you if you stop joking about me and Snape,” you told him.

He held up his hands in surrender, “Deal.” Grinning at you, he linked his arm with yours, continuing the way up the hill towards the castle.

After a beat of silence, he interrupted it by saying, “But be honest with me, you fancy him at least a tiny bit, right?”

This time, when you pushed him away, you couldn’t help yourself and let out a laugh at his stupid joke.

&

Nights like these were your favorite.

Sitting in Gryffindor common room that was buzzing with conversation, around the fireplace with the people who felt like home to you, and Fred, who was so much more.

All the jokes, the laughter and the love that was shared between you made it sometimes difficult to deem this your life—it felt too good to be true.

Angelina was just retelling the story of how her newest fling asked her out, right after he won his quidditch game. The whole school witnessed that slightly awkward scene, but Angelina was head over heels about this public display of affection.

You could see that George was not so fond of these news, he was averting his gaze and seemed to obviously be more than annoyed at Angelina’s pawning about this handsome Hufflepuff boy.

If only George would tell her how he felt, but who were you to judge, considering you could not even tell your best friend about your feelings.

George’s behavior seemed to be obvious to anyone but Angelina, but Lee was the one to finally put George out of his misery and interrupt her speech, “I can’t even fathom what rid that guy to do all that in public.”

Angelina rolled her eyes, while everyone else laughed. “Maybe the fact that he knows what a woman wants?” she said, raising her eyebrow at you, clearly looking for support on this matter.

But you were the wrong one to address, because you couldn’t imagine anything more horrifying than somebody confessing their love for you in front of everyone.

“I understand that you like that kind of thing, but me personally, I think I would die of embarrassment. I don’t want my love to be so out in the open, at the end of the day it’s only between me and that person,” you told her, giving her an apologetic smile.

While trying to convey your thoughts on that matter, you couldn’t help yourself but let your mind wander to the person you always thought about these days it felt like.

Fred was sitting right next to you, but he was not his usual loud and joking self. There was something weighing on his mind and you wished you could just crawl inside it to find out what was wrong.

But you could not, so all you could do was lean to his side and quietly ask him, “Are you alright?”

Your words seemed to have pulled him out of his thoughts, because his eyes locked on yours, he was quiet for a moment, taking his time to think about his answer. He seemed to find it in your face, because he slowly began to grin before jumping out of his seat, interrupting George who was just talking enthusiastically.

Even with everyone’s eyes on him, he seemed to have only eyes for you.

“Oh, dearest lady of mine heart!” he exclaimed, striding toward you with a grand sweep of his arm. The room fell silent, a few chuckles escaping from his friends as he carried on with exaggerated passion.

He took your hand, eyes glinting with mischief as he dropped to one knee. “Thou art as radiant as the morning sun that doth chase away the drear of night,” he intoned, voice dramatic and thick with feigned longing. “Might I but win a single glance of thy affection, my soul would soar higher than the castle towers!”

You bit back a grin, feeling your cheeks heat up as everyone laughed, watching Fred carry on his theatrical performance.

He leaned in, lowering his voice just a touch. “Ah, fair lady, dost thou know what torment ‘tis to sit beside thee, with no claim upon thy heart?” His tone softened, eyes suddenly more serious than playful. “For, alas, thou hast bewitched me in ways I can scarce confess.”

Someone whistled, and George called out, “Go on, Freddie! Pour your heart out!”

With a smirk, Fred straightened and gave a bow. “Then, my fair one, grant me but a single smile, and I shall know all is well with my heart—for it beats for thee alone.”

&

You were staring holes into the ceiling, wide awake.

That wasn’t a rarity these days.

The impending war was hanging over your head, the uncertainty these days was keeping you up most nights nowadays. Never knowing if the next day would arrive with word of the beginning of the end.

You were staying at the Burrow, a house that has always felt like a safe place, a second home, to you. Lately it didn’t feel as secure as it used to, only the people occupying the space giving it the feeling of a home.

People were scared and though you tried not to show it, you were too.

Sleep was not going to come, you were sure of that. It has come worse and worse in the last few weeks.

That was the reason for why you would spend most nights in at the porch, looking out at the trees until the sun would rise and the rest of the house would wake up.

Some nights Fred would catch you up, not being able to rest himself, so he’d keep you company for a while, until sooner or later falling asleep on the floor next to you.

He would sometimes try to lighten the mood, trying to get you to laugh. Trying to put a smile on your lips, to make these times feel less daunting. And other times he would just sit in silence next to you, watching the sunrise. That’s when you would know that even Fred himself was struggling with being hopeful.

But you would never talk about it, because that would mean that this was real. The possibility of death and loss might not just be that — a possibility.

This night was different than the others and you couldn’t quite pinpoint why that was.

Maybe the reason was, that Fred was already out of bed. Normally you would be the first to come downstairs and he would soon after follow. Sometimes you would swear that he would just listen for your footsteps down the hallway, before he would emerge from his room.

This time when you walked down the stairs, you saw that the side door was slightly open.

When you walked by the kitchen window, you could see Fred sitting outside, staring at the night sky.

He did not acknowledge your presence when you took a seat next to him. All he did was continue to stare at the stars that shone so brightly, even in times like these, looking deep in thought.

After a few minutes of silence, his quiet question was a startling reminder that this fight was taking a constant toll on everyone, even the ones filled with happiness.

“Don’t you wish that it would all just end?”

You did not expect a question like this from him, the one person in this world that always had a hopeless optimism, no matter how bad things looked, he was the one that always said that things can only get better, even with a dagger in his heart.

There was no answer, that you could give him. At least not one, that he did not already know himself.

After a long moment of silence, where you admired the clear night-sky, you told him in a soft voice, “The stars are beautiful tonight.”

“Yes, yes they are,” he agreed, but when you looked over at him, his gaze wasn’t directed towards the sky, no, it was directed at you.

All you could do was stare back at him, and listen to the beating of your heart. You swore, if you stopped breathing, you could also pick up the beat of his.

“I love you,” he whispered and the beating of your heart stopped, for only a second, “You’re my best friend.”

How strange it was to feel anything at all.

&

You were bleeding.

A few moments before, you got hit, you think, you couldn’t remember when it happened exactly.

All you could do was to keep going, ignoring the humming pain at your side. The adrenaline pumping in your veins was keeping you from thinking clearly, acknowledging the deep wound.

The one and only thing that was on your mind, was Fred.

Ever since you heard his name leaving someone’s lips, mentioning that he was hurt, severely, all you could do was look for him in every face that laid on the ground. So many bodies, so many souls that have left before their time.

You felt guilty, that every time you did not see his face on any of the bodies, you felt a sense of relief.

With every turn you took, people were trying desperately to make it out alive. It was a miracle that you were even still alive at this point, with the way you were running past Death Eaters without a care in the world.

It was in the Great Hall where you finally found him, sitting on one of the gurneys.

Without a second thought, you ran towards him, engulfing him in your arms, needing to make sure that he was real and not just a figment of your imagination. There was too much demise for you not to consider that you yourself have already passed.

But when Fred put his arms around you and pulled you against his body you knew that this was real, because it hurt like hell. He was pressing against the wound on your side and you were hurting him too, you must be, given the state he was in. But not any of this mattered when you felt so secure in his arms.

“What were you thinking?” you muttered in his neck, not wanting to let go of him, “You could be dead.”

Fred’s ghost of a laugh brushed the skin of your cheek, leaving a haunted touch. His response to your worries was unconcerned, “I’m not.”

His carelessness made you push him from you, turning your head to the side, so he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the tears welling in your eyes when you whispered, “But you could’ve been.”

The realization hit you at once. There was a sudden urge to just scream your soul out, as you acknowledged that there was a possibility that you could not be sitting here with Fred.

But you did not lash out, no, you broke down. The adrenaline rush and the fear of losing Fred was leaving your body at once and you began crying, not being able to hold them in any longer.

There were so many emotions you were feeling in this moment, guilt for not staying with Fred, anger at anyone who harmed him, and panic for everything you have endured to still be alive.

Fred reached out his hand, taking ahold of yours, muttering sweet nothings to you, “I’m okay, hey, I’m okay.” But you wouldn’t hear it, even if his words rang true. The idea of finding a lifeless Fred in the Great Hall was still to raw. All he could do to comfort you, was to hold you, and he did as he continued to whisper, “I’m right here, alive and breathing.”

You heard his words but you did not recognize them, too caught up with sorting through the mess of your mind. But his next words finally got through to you, because he confessed with a low voice and a soft smile, “I love you too much to just leave you like that.”

Only a few moments later, he noticed the blood on your shirt, a fearful expression on his face as he saw your exhausted eyes, yelling out, “I need a healer. Now!”

&

Something shifted between the two of you after the war, you could feel it in the air, almost being able to touch it with your bare hands.

It was in the way he looked at you, like you would vanish the moment he looked away, and the way he touched you, the way he refused to let go of you, like he feared that you might fade away from his life.

As if he wasn’t the one that could’ve almost slipped away from you.

Maybe it was a reassurance to him, to feel that he was still here, alive and breathing.

To you it was torture. Never before has he been so close to you, yet so far. It was cruel, if you were being honest.

You had taken on the responsibility of helping out with the shop, with Fred healing and George being overwhelmed with the workload, it only made sense.

That was at least what you told yourself. The whole truth was, that you too were scared that if you only for a second turned around that he would be gone. That it had all only been a dream, and Fred had not survived the war but had succumbed to his injuries.

But he had.

It was a day like the one before, you sat next to Fred in the office after the shop had closed, looking over some of the paperwork.

You worked in silence next to one another, but all you fixate on was the way his thigh was plastered on your thigh, the way his arm was pressing right into your arm. It was hard to tell where you began and he ended, everything was blended together and you loathed it.

You hated it, because it was everything you ever wanted, but it looked wrong, misshapen.

“When I was talking to George earlier, he asked if you were staying over again, I told him that you were,” he mumbled, not looking up from his work.

That had been another thing that had been creeping into your new everyday without you noticing it at first. You spend most of your time at their flat, only going to yours to get the mail and water your plants, that were slowly rotting away with the amount of times you were actually around to take care of them.

Like so many other things, it had been unspoken. An unspoken agreement between you, that was just there.

Just like it had been unspoken that you would no longer spend the night on the living room sofa and instead on Fred’s bed, when he saw the uncomfortable sleep you would have on that sofa. Which was not completely true, because it wasn’t the sofa keeping you awake, it was the nightmares.

It was a day like this, long ago, when instead of letting you go left to the living room, he gently took your hand and lead you into his room. Neither of you said a word, when you got ready for bed. You just laid down together, taking comfort in one another, while holding onto each other.

You did not talk about, how you slept better together, or how the nightmares were fewer now. That was just another thing that sneaked its way into your everyday routine.

So when you walked up the stairs into his flat, that felt more like home to you than your own home, you did not say anything, because it was just the way things were now.

And you did not say anything, when you two stood in his tiny bathroom and undressed for bed, because it was just the way things were now.

And you did not say anything, when you crawled into his bed, onto your side, because it was just the way things were now.

But when he put his arms around you, and whispered those three words into your ear, like it was just a part of your new normal, you could not keep quiet any longer.

“Don’t say that, please, don’t say that. Not if you don’t mean it,” you whimpered into the darkness of the night.

He tightened his grip on you, whispering “But I do mean it.”

You were shaking, and with a raw throat you told him the truth, “Not in the way I want you to.”

“In what way do you want me to mean it?” he asked, voice soft.

“In every way.”

He put his lips on your neck, “I do, in every way.”

For the first time in, what felt like years, you finally let go. You let go of all that pain you endured over the years, all of the confusion and agonizing fear you felt. Sobbing into the arms of the man that you have loved, long before you even knew what love truly meant.

And all he did, was hold you together, so you could fall apart, continuing to whisper these words in your ear.

[planetpedri]

Can you write hector fort x FC Barcelona intern reader where she's talking with her supervisor in the area the boys are training and Hector got interested in her, then she and the supervisor go talk w the boys and Hector start showing her his interest for her. (sorry for my bad english😭)

Only angel — Héctor Fort.

Pairing: Héctor Fort x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Héctor first saw you, he swore you looked just like an angel.

Word count: 980+

Disclaimer/s: fluff , reader is a sports photographer intern + the supervisor is made a up person (oc sort of) !

A/N: haven’t written for Héctor in a while so hi!! this was lame and bummy asf but whatever..

Walking through the quiet halls that lead around Ciutat Esportiva building, you take a peak into one of the open doors. Luckily for you, it held just the person you were searching for.

“María?” You call out, pressing a hand onto the wooden door and pushing it open further. “It’s me.”

The dark haired woman glances up from her desk, smiling at the sight of you. “Oh! Good! You found me, I was beginning to wonder wear you were.”

María was a friend of your aunts, so when she found out about your interest in sports and photography, she offered you an internship. It’d made your year, and today was your first official day.

“Yeah, I got a little… lost.” You chuckle, closing the door behind you. Finding a seat in front of her desk, you clasp your hands together. “Where do we start?”

María’s eyebrow lifts, amusement flashing across her face. “Eager, aren’t we?”

“Very.” You nod vigorously, “and a little nervous.”

Standing up, she grabs her camera and another, “this one’s for you.” She beckons for you to grab it, which you do with wide eyes.

“Oh wow.” You exhale, “this is.. thank you.”

“You’re welcome, now, let’s go meet the team, shall we?”

The walk up to the field was, well—it took a lot of breathing. The stairs had nearly winded you. Brushing a few pieces of hair from your face and straightening your shirt, you take a look around. Your eyes landed on a lot of different people.

It was hard not to be in awe seeing the players of your favorite team only feet away from you, live in action. María, beside you, watched you with a smile. “Impressed?”

“Very.” You laugh.

Twenty feet away from you stood Héctor Fort, his eyes trained on you curiously. Leaning to his left, he nudged Pau. “Who’s that?” He asks, pointing in your direction.

Pau followed his line of sight, shrugging when he didn’t recognize you. “No clue. But if she’s with María, i’m assuming family or maybe an assistant.” He glances at his friend, who was still staring. He smirks, “chill out, you don’t know how old she is.”

“Why would you say that?” Héctor gasps, swatting the back of Pau’s head. His friend laughs, jogging away from him.

Héctor’s eyes look back to you, his heart skipping a beat as you laughed at something María said. You looked like an angel with the sun shining down on you as your smile brightened.

When it came time for their water break, María leads you to the group. You followed her, nervously fidgeting with the straps that held her camera securely around her neck. “Boy’s!” The woman called out, waving to get their attention.

Hansi Flick, their coach, turned to face you first. He says something to the team, which you couldn’t hear, but it has their rowdiness turning into calm behavior.

“I’d like you to meet my new intern,” María introduces you, and in turn, the guys all say their ‘hello’s��. “She’ll be working alongside me and when i’m gone, she’ll take my place. Please be kind to her.”

Your lips had formed a pursed lipped smile while nerves wracked your body. It was awkward having so many eyes, much less all men’s eyes, on you.

Once that humiliation ritual was over, you found a seat on the sidelines where María suggested you sat while she ran back to her office to grab a few more supplies.

You snapped pictures here and there, not realizing you’d focus on one person in specific. Héctor Fort. He was your age, your friend’s favorite player, and he was cute—very photogenic.

You were clicking through the photos you’d taken, deleting the bad ones and smiling proudly at the good ones. You failed to notice when a shadow came over you, too enthralled in your camera.

“Hello?” A deep voice spoke above you, nearly scaring you. Nearly.

Snapping your head up, you come face to face with the man who belong to the picture you were just looking at. “Oh! Hey! Sorry, I didn’t notice you! Do you need something?”

Héctor shrugs, “just wanted to introduce myself. I’m—“

“Héctor.” You force a quick smile, “I know.”

A faint flush spreads across his cheeks. “Right. I suppose you would.” His eyes drift down to your camera, “is that me?”

Now it’s your turn to blush. “Uhm, yeah. I was taking individual pictures while I wait for María.” There’s a beat of silence, in which you realize he’s waiting to see it in full. “Oh! Here.” You take the strap off around your neck and diligently hand the camera to him.

Heart spreads across your hands when his fingers graze yours. He examines the picture, an impressed look passing over his expression. “Wow, this is.. really good.”

You laugh, “it’s really not that impressive. But, thank you anyways.” A sense of pride swells in your chest, his approval meaning more to you than he might have known.

“Could you send it to me?”

Blinking at him stupidly, you don’t catch onto the fact that he wanted you to send it to his number. “Sure! I can have María email it to you.”

Héctor suppressed a smirk, your obliviousness only made you all the cuter. “I meant send it to me, personally. As in, my number.”

Oh! Oh, right. Because he definitely wasn’t lowkey asking for your number.

“For sure, yeah. Like, me? Or, María..” You trail off. You sounded silly stumbling over your words so hard.

“After practice, find me. I’ll give you my number.” He smiles, “it was nice meeting you,” he says your name, and the way it rolled off his tongue so smoothly had your heartbeat stuttering.

“You too.” You force out, waving goodbye to him as he walks away. You were really starting to love this internship.

likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future héctor posts.

DTS , @halfwayhearted @sakashq @hrts4havertz @spidybaby !

[shuafiles]

lie to girls [l.jn] preview

SUMMARY | it was hard watching jeno struggle with his relationship, but it was even harder when he ran to you for comfort every time. especially when you, his long-time best friend, have been in love with him for the longest time. but when jeno starts lying about where he’s going and who he’s with, you realize the biggest lie might be the one you’re telling yourself—that he’ll ever choose you. or girls will cry, and girls will lie, and girls will lose their goddamn minds for you.

PAIRING | nonidol!jeno x afab!reader

CONTENT | university au, angst, best friends to ?, aespa members included, cheating, swearing, drinking, smut (not everything is included in the teaser yet but just so you know whats in store)

WORDS | 855 (just this teaser)

A/N | sneak peek of what im working on! im planning on making this a looong one but i was too excited so i decided to share without spoiling too much. let me know if you like it! total wc is still unknown and the release date will hopefully be before november ends. also its my birthday today so heres my gift to you :D

“hey.” jeno greeted you, standing at your front door, which only meant one thing. they fought again.

you pushed the door wider, letting him inside. he looked like a mess, his shoulders slumped, dark bags around his eyes, hair disheveled. even from afar, you could tell he was going through something. his phone was in his hand, checking for notifications, but he let out a huge sigh when the home screen was empty.

“do i even want to know?” you prodded, eyes watching him as he plopped down on the couch. his head tilting back on the headrest, head filled with thoughts.

“you know how she is.” jeno mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands. “said she needed some space.”

unfortunately, i do know how she is. jeno’s girlfriend, karina. they’ve been together since first year of college when jeno met her at some random party. they were the kind of couple on campus that, at first glance, seemed perfect, but you knew all too well what kind of chaos haunted them in private. you were too familiar with how she behaved with jeno; most of the time, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

jeno didn’t even have to say anything when you saw him at your front door. you have grown accustomed to this pattern: the same heartache, apologies, and cycle of hope and disappointment. and every time it occurred, jeno ended up here—at your door, at your couch, sulking.

you wanted nothing more than to scold jeno for letting himself get run over by her, but you kept your lips sealed. deciding that giving him comfort and support was probably what he needed right now.

“again, huh?” you sat down on the opposite side of him, tucking your legs beneath you.

“i don’t even know what that means, y/n.” jeno sighed, running his hand through his hair. he lifted his head to face you, gaze soft as he held eye contact with you. “one minute, everything’s perfect, and we’re fine, but suddenly, i’ve apparently done something wrong, and she won't even tell me.” his voice cracked, hopelessness evident in his tone. it pained you to see him like this. how many times is he going to let her do this to him?

“well, did you do something wrong?” you asked, but you knew jeno too well, he wouldn’t do anything to sabotage his relationship. sure, he has made mistakes in the past, but he was a good person, a good friend, and a good lover, you suppose.

jeno stayed silent for a moment, recalling if he had done something to make his girlfriend upset. “i–no, at least i don’t think so.” he shook his head, “i’ve just been busy with classes, but i always make time for her. and everything we’re together, i always try to make it special. you know?”

you nodded along to his words, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. you have heard this story countless times, so you could probably recite it to him. it wasn’t unusual for karina to act like this; she’d get upset over something vague, and then jeno would beat himself up for it, but he’d still bend over backward to get her back.

“maybe she’s just going through something?” you said, trying to think of what to say to ease his mind.

you and karina were acquaintances at best. it’s not like you didn’t try to be her friend, but something about her attitude just seems so off-putting to you. you weren’t entirely sure if karina was fond of you either. of course, you never told jeno any of these. you knew he wouldn’t listen, not when it comes to her. he loves her. he’d return to her every time, like a moth to a flame. and you’d be there, picking up the pieces when he got burned.

“i wish she’d just tell me what’s on her mind instead of leaving me wondering what i did wrong.” his face twisted into frustration with a mix of confusion.

“jen, you know i can’t help you if you don’t tell her what you’re feeling.” this time, you couldn’t hold back. “you’re supposed to tell her these, not me.”

jeno flinched at your words, somehow unsatisfied with your advice. “yeah… you’re right.”

you watched his expression, his eyebrows furrowed while he was deep in thought. “i’m sorry if it’s not what you wanted to hear.” you hesitated, knowing you were treading dangerous waters. “i just think… you deserve someone who actually appreciates you.”

jeno stayed silent, processing your words as if he hadn’t told himself that a million times. but for some stupid reason, he couldn’t keep it in his head. he looked down at his phone, tapping the screen once more, but to his disappointment, there was still nothing. “i know you’re just looking out for me, y/n. but… i just can’t give up on her. not yet.”

and just like that, you could feel him slipping away, back into her orbit, leaving you alone with all the things you couldn’t say, wondering when he would run back to you again.

[fruitjoos]

homesick

pairing: patrick zweig x reader

summary: you get homesick while moving into your college dorm and it’s all patrick zweig’s fault.

Patrick stood in the middle of your new dorm room, a box tucked under one arm and a screwdriver in his other hand. “Alright,” he said, letting the box drop onto your desk with a thud. “Bed’s set, desk is done, shelves aren’t gonna collapse. I think that’s everything.”

You nodded, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, your arms crossed like you weren’t sure what to do with them. The place was still too empty. The walls bare, boxes only half unpacked. It didn’t feel like home, and the thought of it ever being home felt impossible.

Patrick gave you a look as he wiped his hands on his jeans, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Babe, you’re gonna be fine, you know. You’ve got this.”

You swallowed hard, nodding again. “I know,” you said, but your voice wavered in a way you hadn’t meant it to.

He frowned, stepping closer. “Hey, are you—are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, waving him off, but your throat felt tight. You weren’t the kind of person to cry, not even in front of Patrick, and definitely not over something like this. But the thought of him leaving, it hit you harder than you’d expected.

“I mean, I’ll be back next weekend,” he said, trying to sound casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. But his voice softened, and his hands found your shoulders. “It’s not like I’m disappearing off the face of the earth.”

You looked down, blinking rapidly. “I know. It’s just... weird.”

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head like he was trying to figure you out.

“I’ve never done this without you,” you admitted, barely audible.

Patrick’s eyes widened a little, and for a second, he didn’t know what to say. “Hey,” he said finally, pulling you into a hug. “You’re not doing it without me. You’re just doing it with me a little further away. That’s all.”

You laughed weakly into his shoulder, holding onto him longer than you should’ve. When you pulled back, he smoothed a hand over your hair and gave you a soft smile. “You’re tougher than this place. And I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me.”

But he was wrong.

The moment he left, the dorm felt impossibly empty. You tried distracting yourself—unpacking, wandering around campus, anything, but nothing worked. That night, lying alone in your twin XL bed, you couldn’t stop thinking about the nights Patrick had held you in your room back home, his arm draped over you, the sound of his breathing steady against your back.

You hadn’t realized how much of a home he’d become to you until now, when you couldn’t reach out and find him there.

The week dragged by, every text and phone call from him a small comfort but not enough. When Saturday finally rolled around, you found yourself pacing your room, watching the clock like a kid waiting for Christmas morning.

When you heard the knock on your door, you practically sprinted to answer it.

Patrick stood there, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a knowing grin on his face. “Miss me?”

You didn’t say anything, just threw your arms around him and buried your face in his chest.

He laughed, his arms wrapping tightly around you. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea,” you mumbled into his shirt.

He leaned back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m here now,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

That night, as you lay curled up in his arms on your tiny dorm bed, the homesick ache that had been gnawing at you all week finally disappeared. Because home wasn’t a place. It was him.

[d-z20]

Heavy Hits, Soft Touches

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You meet your rival, Rio Vidal, in the MMA championship ring, both of you determined to prove you're the best. Years of tension and unspoken chemistry finally come to a head in a brutal fight that leaves you both bloodied and bruised. But when the crowd fades and you're left alone in the locker room, you discover that maybe you've been fighting something else all along

- OR -

You and Rio have it out in the octagon but are flirting the whole time (MMA AU)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of violence/fighting, hurt (physical), angst, comfort, implied smut

Words: 2.9k

A/N: This fic is based on this request. No smut, but I am more than happy to create a fic that details just how you spent the night wrapped up in each other if literally even one person asks...

Have a gander over to AO3

The locker room is quiet now, the echoes of the cheering crowd fading into the background. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, seeing blood smeared across your cheek, the bruise blossoming under your eye. You press a towel to your split lip, but the sting doesn't bother you as much as it should. Not when your thoughts are still wrapped up in her. In Rio Vidal

Your rival. Your equal. The woman who's been your greatest challenge and your biggest distraction for years now. From the moment you stepped into the MMA circuit, she was there, always one step ahead, always pushing you harder than anyone else. You've faced each other in the octagon before, trading victories in matches that never failed to make headlines. The press loved to play up your rivalry, spinning stories about how much you hated each other. But the truth? You didn't hate her. You respected her. Maybe a little too much, because with that respect came an attraction you couldn't shake, an unspoken chemistry that lingered every time you met her gaze.

The problem was, Rio knew it too. She knew exactly what kind of effect she had on you, and she wasn't above using it to her advantage.

You had just faced her in a non-title match to drum up excitement for the championship in a few weeks. It might not have been the final tonight, but with the way you both fought, it could as well have been. You could still remember the way she'd looked at you right before the third and final round, her gaze burning into yours, a smirk pulling at her lips as if she knew she had you right where she wanted.

The crowd's cheers had faded into a dull roar in your ears; all you could hear was your own breathing, the pounding of your heart, and her voice cutting through it all.

"Don't look so tense, sweetheart," she drawled, her smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. "You're not scared of me, are you?"

You glared at her, wiping the sweat from your brow. "In your dreams, Vidal."

She chuckled, low and dark. "Oh, you're always in my dreams."

Before you could respond, she lunged forward, throwing a punch that you barely dodged. The crowd erupted as you countered with a hook to her ribs, but she didn't even flinch. Instead, she grinned, her eyes lighting up with something almost feal. She liked this—you could tell. She liked the challenge, liked the way you pushed back against her.

You exchanged blows, neither of you holding back. Her fists hit like a freight train, and she was relentless, forcing you back against the cage. She pinned you there, her forearm pressed into your throat just hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. Her face was inches from yours, her smirk maddeningly cocky.

"You're not tapping out on me, are you?" She taunted, her breath hot against your ear. "I thought you were tougher than this."

You gritted your teeth, shoving back against her with all your strength. "I'm not tapping out," you snapped, your voice a harsh rasp. "Not to you."

"Good," she purred, leaning in closer. "I'd be disappointed if you did."

You twisted out of her grip, slamming your elbow into her side. She grunted, stumbling back, but she was smiling. It was almost like she was enjoying the pain, like every hit was a game to her. You went at each other harder, trading punches and kicks that left you both bruised and bloodied. You managed to land a brutal uppercut that caused her head to snap back, and for a second, you thought you had her.

But then she was on you again, sweeping your legs out from under you. You had hit the mat hard, the air knocked out of your lungs, and before you could recover, she straddled you, pinning your wrists above your head.

"Gotcha," she breathed, her grin wide and predatory. She was bleeding from a cut above her eyebrow, her lip split, but she had never looked more alive. "Still think you can beat me, sweetheart?"

You struggled under her, but she had you locked down. You could feel the strength in her grip, the way her body pressed against yours, and it had sent a shiver down your spine. You hated how much you had liked that—how much you had liked her like that.

In the end, she won. Barely. A split decision that had the crowd on their feet, the commentators buzzing about how you'd almost had her. Almost. She'd helped you up in a rare moment of sportsmanship, her hand lingering in yours longer than it needed to. "Better luck next time," she'd said, her voice low, challenging you.

You'd stared at her, every muscle in your body screaming in protest, but you'd nodded. Because you knew. The championship title was coming.

-

Tonight was finally the night. The championship fight—the one that would decide it all. The culmination of everything you've worked for, everything you've fought for. Five gruelling rounds, each more brutal than the last. You'd both won this title before, but you'd never faced each other in the finals. It was the match everyone had been waiting for, the one that felt like it was written in the stars. And you were going to fight like it too, like there was nothing outside that cage but the two of you.

The announcer's voice booms through the arena, introducing you both as the crowd roars. You barely hear it; your focus is entirely on her. She looks as fierce as ever, her dark hair tied back, a cocky grin plastered on her face as she rolls her shoulders, shaking out her arms. She knows the cameras are on her, knows the crowd is eating it up, and she loves it.

"You ready for this sweetheart?" She taunts, her voice carrying over the noise. "Wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself in front of everyone."

You smirk, stepping forward into the centre of the octagon. "I'm not the one who should be worried."

The referee goes over the rules, but you're not listening. You're too busy staring her down, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as you wait for the bell. It's the longest few seconds of your life, but then it sounds, and you're off.

The first round is brutal. You both go straight for it, no holding back. You know each other's styles too well; there's no feeling-out process here. She throws a quick jab, and you slip to the side, countering with a hook that catches her on the cheek. Her head snaps back, but she barely flinches, her grin widening like she's enjoying it.

"Nice hit," she breathes, ducking under your next punch and driving her knee into your ribs. It knocks the wind out of you, but you don't back down.

You grapple with her, twisting her into the cage. "Save your flirting for later," you grit out.

Her eyes flash, and she shoves you off with surprising strength, spinning you around and slamming you into the mat. She's on top of you in an instant, her hand gripping the back of your neck as she leans down, her breath hot against your ear.

"Why wait?" She purrs.

The bell rings, saving you from whatever comeback you were going to throw at her. The ref separates you, and you both stand, chests heaving, staring each other down with a wild intensity.

The second round starts off even more aggressive than the first, both of you refusing to back down. Your body is already aching, each movement a reminder of the last time you had fought, but you pushed through the pain. You can't afford to show weakness—not to her.

She lands a sharp jab, then a right hook that rattles your skull, forcing you to stumble back. Before you can react, she's on you, driving you into the cage with her full weight. The cold metal digs into your back as her forearm presses into your throat, pinning you just like before. Her face inches from yours, her smirk even cockier now, her eyes dark with something that isn't just competition.

"Déjà vu, sweetheart," she taunts, her voice a low purr. "You looked so pretty the first time I did this. I just couldn't resist doing it again."

Your breath catches, a mix of frustration and something you don't want to admit, burning through you. You shove back against her, trying to twist free, but she's got you trapped, her body flush against yours, holding you there effortlessly.

"Fuck you," you rasp, glaring up at her.

Her grin widens as she leans in closer, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Is that a promise?" She whispers.

For a second, you falter, caught off guard by the heat of her words and the way her breath skates over your skin. But then the bell rings, signalling the end of the round, and she pulls back, stepping away with a wink.

The third round is a blur of punches, kicks, and blood. You're both landing hits that would drop anyone else, but not you two. You're too stubborn, too caught up in this unspoken battle between you that goes beyond the championship.

In the fourth round, she gets you in a chokehold. It's tight, and you can feel the pressure building in your head, the edges of your vision starting to darken. The crowd is on their feet, roaring for a finish. You could tap. It would be the smart move. But you don't. You twist, clawing at her arms, and somehow manage to slip out, rolling away just as the bell rings.

You barely make it to your feet, and she's right there, hands on her hips, shaking her head with a grin. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

You spit blood onto the mat, grinning back. "Never."

The final round starts, and you both go all in. It's a flurry of strikes, both of you too exhausted for any fancy moves. She lands a solid punch to your jaw, and you stumble back, but as she moves in for the kill, you manage to sweep her legs out from under her. You drop on top of her, pinning her down, your forearm pressed to her collarbone.

For a second, you think you have her. But then she bucks her hips, flipping you onto your back, her body pressing against yours as she traps your arms beneath her knees. The referee moves in close, checking your position, and you realise you can't get out. Not this time.

The ref's voice is distant, calling the end of the fight. Rio just managing to secure victory once again. She pulls back just enough to let you breathe, but she doesn't get off you right away. Instead, she leans down, tilting her head, face inches from yours.

"Looks like I win again," her voice a mocking whisper. "You gonna cry about it?"

You laugh, breathless and bitter. "Fuck you, Rio."

Her grin widens as she leans in even further, her lips brushing your ear. "Maybe later, sweetheart."

She finally lets you up; the crowd's roar fills your ears as she raises her arms in victory. You stand there, chest heaving, staring at her as she soaks in the applause. She glances back at you, a flash of something softer in her eyes before she winks and turns away.

-

You don't see her again until you're both in the locker room, alone for the first time. You're sitting on the bench, wiping blood from your knuckles, when she saunters in. She looks as bad as you do—bruised, beaten, but somehow still infuriatingly cocky.

"Aww, do you need a hand?" She asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm, but there's a glint in her eyes that wasn't there before.

You roll your eyes, but you don't protest when she kneels in front of you, taking your hand in hers and dabbing a wet cloth against your busted knuckles. Her touch is surprisingly gentle, and you look down at her, catching the way her gaze softens as she cleans your wounds.

"You fought well," she admits quietly, not meeting your eyes.

"So did you," you reply, your voice just as soft.

Her hands linger on yours for a moment longer, her fingers tracing over your bruised knuckles like she's memorising the shape of them. It feels so different from the fight—so tender that it sends a shiver down your spine. You can feel the warmth of her hands seeping into your skin, and it's almost comforting. Almost enough to make you forget how brutal you were to each other earlier.

She shifts her focus, moving the cloth to the cut on your brow. You flinch when she presses against it, but she hushes you softly, like she's soothing a frightened animal. "I've got you, sweetheart."

Your breath catches at the endearment. It's the first time she called you that in this way, it feels different—like she's letting down her guard, if only for a second.

She looks up then, and for a moment, the mask slips. There's no smirk, no teasing grin—just Rio, looking at you for the first time. It's raw, and it makes your chest ache in a way the fight never did.

You swallow hard, taking the cloth from her hands. "Your turn," you say softly, gesturing for her to sit. She hesitates, like she's not used to letting someone else take care of her, but she sits down anyway, her expression guarded.

You crouch in front of her, your hands trembling slightly as you clean the cut on her brow. Her eyes flutter shut, and for once, she doesn't have a smart remark or a cocky grin. She's just quiet, letting you work in silence. you can see how exhausted she is now, how the adrenaline is starting to fade and the pain is setting in. You touch her bruised cheek gently, and she winces.

"Sorry," you murmur.

She opens her eyes, meeting your gaze. "Don't be," she says, her voice rough but sincere. "I've had worse."

You roll your eyes but can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "Of course you have."

She chuckles, the sound low and husky. "You're good at this," she comments, watching you dab at her split lip with a tenderness she doesn't seem to expect.

"I've had a lot of practice," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. But it's hard when she's looking at you like that—like she's trying to figure you out, like she's seeing something in you she hasn't before.

You brush her hair back, revealing a small cut near her temple. Your thumb lingers against her skin, and she leans into the touch, just for a second. It's such a small, vulnerable gesture that it almost breaks your heart.

"Rio," you whisper, her name falling from your lips like a confession. You lean in closer, pressing a kiss to her temple, and she closes her eyes, exhaling a shaky breath.

Her hand comes up to rest against your chest, not pushing you away, just holding you there, feeling the beat of your heart under her palm. "You don't have to do this," she mutters, but there's no conviction to her words.

You shake your head, cupping her face in your hands. "Yes, I do."

Her gaze drops to your lips, and you realise just how close you've become, your knees almost touching, her breath warm against your face. You're not sure who moves first, but then her lips are on yours—gentle at first, as if testing the waters, but it quickly turns desperate, hungry. It's like everything you've ever felt for her—all the frustration, the anger, the unspoken longing—boils over in an instant.

She pulls back, her forehead pressed against yours. "Come on," she mutters. "Let's get out of here; my place isn't far."

You nod. standing up on shaky legs. You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as she does the same. Without another word, the two of you leave the locker room together. The ride to her place is quiet, the air thick with anticipation. Every bump in the road sends a jolt of pain through your bruised body, but you barely notice. You're too focused on the way her hand rests on your thigh, a silent promise of what's to come.

When you get to her apartment, she unlocks the door and leads you inside. You both drop your bags by the entrance, and she turns to you, eyes searching your face as if looking for any sign of hesitation. but there's none. You reach for her, pulling her close, and she kisses you again—deeper this time, like she's been starving for it.

You spend the night together, wrapped up in each other, bruises and all. It's not gentle or slow; it's rough and passionate—the kind of release you've both needed for so long. And when it's over, you lie tangled together in her bed, your head on her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

In the quiet, she runs her fingers through your hair, her touch surprisingly soft. "I guess that settles it," she chuckles.

You tilt your head up to look at her, confused. "Settles what?"

She smirks, brushing a thumb over your swollen lip. "Who really won tonight."

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 15 "Herr God, Beware"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 3k

A/N: Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter in particular. It was my favorite out of the entire fic 🥺🥺 And now, just some smut before we enter the finale (3 more chapters) 🥹

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter (tba) →

Feyd-Rautha's strong hand clutches the wrist of his giggling, ticking time bomb as he herds her down the hollow hallway, back to her own chambers. Blackened water still dribbles down the thick curve of his pale calves and his feet leave wet imprints on the tiles. A black bathrobe clings damply to his shoulders, fabric curling around the salacious shape of his muscles.

Lilia quickly vacates her Lady's quarters and closes the door, Glugo at her hand, when the half undressed na-Baron and his beloved rush past her into the bedroom in a hurry.

His darling had wanted to have him right there in his tub. He had to stop her, rising out of the diluted healing concoction dripping wet. For their first time as proper betrotheds, he doesn't want to be submerged in claustrophobic bath water. He has a special place in mind, one that has her eyes growing round when she realizes that Feyd-Rautha does not intend to fuck her on the bed.

"Feyd! It's meant for cryo sleep, not for—"

"Open the lid, my darling, please."

Desire claws at his belly and a near perverse delight floods him when his fiancée obeys. Her pupils give a telltale flicker to the side and the top of the Sarcophagus swings open by her invisible command.

"What are you doing?" She giggles, her voice still high-pitched from the afternoon's victory.

Feyd-Rautha lets the bath robe drop to the floor and her eyes fall from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist and the muscles of his glutes that flex beneath his fair skin when he raises one long leg and climbs into the man-shaped mold that had sheltered his darling during her long journey between the stars.

"I want you to have me in here."

His semi-hard cock falls against his navel as he sinks down. The gel padding of the mold is surprisingly soft, cool to the touch but quickly warming up to his damp skin. The surrounding walls are lined with tubes like blood vessels and the chamber hugs him like he was transferred back into the womb.

"It's designed for one person," she scolds, but her hands are already at her waist, sliding under the hem of her trousers.

"And your trousers are designed for men, yet you are wearing them." Feyd-Rautha lets one corded arm dangle out of the sarcophagus, beckoning his betrothed closer with a curl of his hand. "Come here," he purrs. "Sit in my lap."

"You dare lecture me on my clothing when I've just discovered—?" Her trousers and boots are kicked to the floor with ferocity and when she climbs into the mold to him, Feyd's cock swells to full hardness without even a touch. His woman's eyes flash with the kind of indignance that he had hoped to spark.

His pelvis leaves just enough space on each side of the chamber for her to slot her folded legs, though it is a tight fit. Feyd-Rautha's hard flanks warm her knees and she frees her torso from the cover of her tunic with a swift curl of her arms that has her chest popping out and her breasts lifting as she stretches her arms high. The garment tumbles to the floor and Feyd-Rautha's hands are immediately at her hips and belly.

When she meets his gaze and lets the apex of her thighs sink down on his pelvis, feeling the soft squishiness of his balls against her cunt, she realizes the true nature of Feyd's provocation. While her eyes are glaring with fire, his are glossy and wanton like the deep-blue oceans of her old home.

The hand with which she intends to aim the gun at the Baron slides over Feyd-Rautha's warm chest, where his heart beats, and he makes no move to overpower her or coax her into action, just holding her expectantly to his straining manhood. She lowers her voice, wild giggles replaced by a sultriness that comes from the overflowing well of her earlier victory. 

"Is that what you desire right now?" She coos, eyes gliding proudly over the hard, masculine body that lies so docile beneath her. He has been vulnerable with her before, when he needed her touch to keep himself from drowning, but never like this. Not with his pretty mouth open and his blue eyes rendered so dark with lust, like he's going to come apart willingly at a fleeting touch of her hand.

His submission is not an escape tonight, it is triumphant.

Feyd-Rautha nods and his tongue darts out briefly to wet his pink bottom lip. She eclipses the light of the golden glow globe and he readily cranes his head for her trailing hand, moaning when her fingers encircle his throat. The thick tendons that stretch from base to jaw strain against her palms, yielding under pressure, because despite how hard he looks, Feyd-Rautha is made of soft flesh, like anyone else.

As he gazes up admiringly, he briefly wonders how old his betrothed actually is. He's never asked her, but she glances down at him with a wisdom and confidence that melt his bones. Willingly, his knees fall apart against the walls of the man-sized cavern.

She's going to make it alright. She's going to cure his rot.

"Can you ask me again?" He demands pleadingly, his voice a low rasp that vibrates against the palm of her hand.

"Ask you what?" Her thumb brushes over the sharp tip of his Adam's Apple. It is cute, the way it jumps away from her touch, like a frightened animal.

"To be your husband."

"But you already said yes," she purrs and makes sure that he feels the weight of her against his pelvis. With the way she's seated on him, her clit comes to rub against his smooth pubic mound as she leans forward a little.

"But I want to say it again," Feyd-Rautha confesses. A part of him yearns for her to ask him again every new day, so he knows she hasn't changed her mind.

"How about you ask me now?" At that, her betrothed's strong fingers twitch around the soft flesh of her hips.

"Will you be my wife, my darling? Will you honor and serve me til death do us part?" His pupils fill out the blue pools of his irises with comical dilation and a heavy inhale raises his chest a bit closer to her breasts.

"Is that how Harkonnens ask for the hand of their Lady?"

"You need to say yes," Feyd-Rautha snarls with a pleading darkness gathering behind his eyes.

"I will, if you ask me right." Her cheeks are rounded in a coy grin, infuriatingly disregarding the distress that pounds against Feyd's ribs. His hold on her tightens and so does hers around his pale throat. At the possessive touch of him, her cunt provides moisture that flows across Feyd-Rautha's sac.

"Will you be my wife and let me honor and serve you til death do us part?"

She laughs brightly and the flexing of her muscles brings the cradle of her thighs against his pelvis in an involuntary jerk. When her betrothed moans, she repeats the same motion, this time deliberately, and leans down to his face, nestling it within her palms.

"I was thinking more of loving and caring for each other til death do us part, but I suppose honoring and serving works too, as long as we both do it."

"And does that mean yes?"

"Of course it does, silly boy. Yes, I will be your wife. And my wedding gift to you will be death."

He shudders obscenely at the power that lies at their fingertips. The power to not only put an end to his tormentor's regime, but to throw the universe into a new dark age — The universe that had always looked away from his suffering, endorsed it.

"Would you say this is a worthy gift, my love?" His woman purrs lovingly and slowly grinds her sweet, wet cunt against the base of his cock. 

Feyd-Rautha nods, moaning quietly. His hands just lightly aid the rolling of her pelvis that has his cock jump longingly against her abdomen, plump head almost nudging her navel. She feels the velvety hardness of him against her belly and arches her spine to meet the next twitch of his aching length.

"Then so be it."

One hand abandons his neck and embarks on a journey down the length of his smooth, tapered torso.

Feyd is the perfect harmony of strong and vulnerable. Thick muscles wrapped around his chest and shoulders, his thighs powerful and hard, his wiry forearms entwisted by prominent veins that stretch all the way down to his hands, knuckles still dusted in the purple remnants of bruises from the afternoon brawl. 

Yet, there is a graceful felinity to his long limbs and slender core and the way he carries himself, every muscle in a perfect equilibrium of poise. The skin she skims is made soft by lotions and oils, the perfectly delicate cover for the hard swells of his abdominal muscles that flex deliciously in the wake of her fleeting fingertips.

"Woman~" he moans low and sweetly and her gaze falls on the absurd dip of his cupid's bow and the plump curve that defines his bottom lip.

"Yes?" Her fingertips gently dance around his twitching length, indulging his abdomen in ticklish caress while avoiding the place where he aches all over.

"Please." Feyd's pelvis rolls up against her cunt, bare feet seeking purchase against the odd, cushioned floor of the sarcophagus.

To Feyd-Rautha, tonight is a night of self-indulgent weakness. He has grown long tired of living behind the guards of violent defense that he has erected around himself, sick of the impotent fear and rage his uncle has cultivated in his misshapen boy heart.

Perhaps Feyd would have been able to kill the Baron without her. But an animal may not be able to free itself from its cage, even when the key in the lock is turned. It may just need someone to push the handle and open the gate.

His darling may be diabolical for the knowledge she has unlocked with the aid of the machine that calmly hums beneath his back, but she is not diabolical to him. One sweet plea from his lips has her lifting her pelvis and his cock readily jumps against the folds of her cunt.

Another day, his hand would have been around the thick base of his cock to angle himself into her entrance, but tonight he waits for her smaller hand to guide him. The briefest of touch has his mouth open and his neck strained in anticipation, and then the wet heat of her meets his weeping slit.

"Oof~" A little sound escapes her lungs when the blunt tip of him spears her open wide, generously slick but otherwise unprepared. She holds herself there, fingers twisted into the skin of his tensing stomach. Feyd-Rautha waits with agonizing patience as the head of his cock is veritably crushed by her tight walls.

He is so absurdly sensitive, the impossibly slow descent of her pelvis has him hissing through his teeth.

"God, what did they, agh, feed you to make you grow to this size?"

Feyd-Rautha lets out a burst of boyish laughter, then curses to the Sun in Harkunnin  before he can tell her that, if not genetics, it could have only been the extraordinarily carnivorous diet he had enjoyed as a boy. She raises herself and the slow glide of her cunt massages the aching inches of his cock.

His voice grows guttural and deliciously pathetic as she establishes a slow, rolling pace, aided only gently by the push and pull of his hands. He feels truly cocooned in the way her walls wrap around his cock and her soft hands on his chest press him down into the cushioned gel pads.

The moisture from the bath has long dried on his skin and what dampens it now is a warm flush of arousal. Blue eyes are glued to the movement of her flesh, trailing over her tummy and breasts before meeting the calm, simmering confidence in her eyes. Her torso folds itself halfway over his chest, one hand propped against the gel cushion next to his head, the other cupping his flexing jaws.

"My baby just needs someone to take care of him, isn't that right?"

Feyd-Rautha's brows twitch briefly at the unfamiliar moniker, but its meaning is clear and his pelvis shudders against his will. A deep, sweet desire blossoms at the base of his spine, waiting to be spilled.

"My baby boy has been so lonely all his life, but I'm here now. I'm taking care of you."

He wants to be something for someone, something of value, something precious, something coveted and even vulnerable. For once in his life, someone is standing up for him and Feyd falls head first into the white-hot ignition of love that pulses at his core and reaches so quickly into his balls and the root of his cock.

"Yeeesss," he moans, brows scrunching together tightly. The steady rocking of his beloved's hips milks him dry of his cum and his lungs wheeze in breathless huffs. Tears prick at his eyes below closed lids.

"My darling," she sighs, her voice a shiver that flows across his face along with her hot breath, so close, so sweet.

"More," he demands even though his empty cock begins to burn from the deep rhythm that fills her out from entrance to navel. Feyd-Rautha's strong fingers cling needily to her hips and she grins upon his request, straightening herself. A bead of sweat dribbles down between her breasts.

"Then be good and help me, yes?"

His thumb is on her bundle of nerves before she can even finish her sentence, blue eyes wickedly gleaming with determination. It is the least he can do to reward her for being an angel sent to him across space and time. 

Her pelvis rolls back and forth, meeting the perfectly placed pressure of the pad of his thumb. Even with him half flaccid, she still feels deliciously full, and the gravelly moans she pulls from his throat sinfully aid the approach of her climax, a tightening pressure against the base of her spine that seems to be pulling every muscle inwards to her core.

In their wake, they make a mess all over his lap and balls, inky seed marking them both in sticky trails.

Where another man might struggle, Feyd-Rautha has little trouble growing hard again from having his future wife around his overstimulated cock. The pleasure-pain of it makes him sink his teeth into his plush bottom lip and his fingers into her waist, taking back a smidge of control. His shaft twitches against her tender walls.

"Just like thi-is, ahh, Feyd—!" Her toes curl against the outsides of his thighs.

"Almost there, sweetling," he promises, positioning his soles safely against the cushioned ground and then pistons up into her cunt. The force and stamina behind his thrusts is effortless, splitting her poise. Her torso falls against his, breasts flattened against the hard planes of his chest, lips finding his.

Feyd-Rautha drinks up his to-be wife's needy whines like wine from a chalice, wraps one strong arm around her middle while his thumb remains on her swollen, little clit. His cock does the rest, rhythm powered by his thick thighs, he slams himself into her slick cunt.

Moments away from climax, her tongue squirms against his and her pelvis tries to escape from his hold, the first tendrils of white-hot pleasure so overwhelming that her first reaction is flight. But Feyd-Rautha's grip screws itself tight around her waist and the next, perfect circle of his thumb has her coming apart on his cock, drool slipping into his open mouth, in glistening rivulets down his black teeth.

Feyd gives himself to the sweet strangulation of her cunt, shuddering from each burst of seed that is wrenched from his balls. Each clench of their combined release sparks like a bang of fireworks, a rumble that shakes the fundament of the universe.

Their bodies grow still aside from their lungs' heaving and Feyd-Rautha's cheeks are dusted in a blush, lids drooping low as he lets his big hands wander over the curves of her body in blissful delirium. When his hand arrives in her nape, their lips meet again for a slow dance in the afterglow of their release — lazy, sloppy kisses and slow grinding of their hips while sweat cools on their flesh.

A silly thought tugs on the strings of his drowsy mind. If he fell asleep right here and she closed the lid of her sarcophagus over him, he could time travel to a world where the Baron is already dead and burned. He has not a doubt in his heart that she will make it happen.

With a sweet sigh, his darling straightens herself, fingertips lingering on his belly as she admires him from above. Golden glowglobe light spills from the crown of her head down her shoulders like a bridal veil, like a ruler's cape. Feyd-Rautha's hand moves up her sternum and cups her warm cheek. Her lashes flutter shut and she exhales slowly, and by the time she casts them open again, her gaze has sharpened itself to the tip of a spear.

She was an unshaped piece of wood, pulled out of the grave, then carved into a lumpy shape by the Bene Gesserit and set on the board, a wildcard pawn with promising genes, ready to play.

Now, she is about to shatter the chessboard with a fractal hammer, because now she has a reason. 

For him. For her new kin. And out of rage. And for freedom.

The Bene Gesserit didn't just open a relic from space. What they did is unleash an invasive species from a time capsule into a delicately stable ecosystem, and she intends to unravel it like a tumor from within.

Ash, ash — You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the [ice] I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

   - Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

A/N: Because I'm an asshole, I will say the following: Two characters will die in the next chapter, and one of them you're looking forward to. Give me your best guesses 😌✨ If anyone guesses correctly, I'll eat my own arm.

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Four)

Summary: “I wonder what color your eyes were…” Ghost wanted to tell her they were brown like hers, but darker. Hers were the type that shone golden in the light, like nutty chocolate and a perfectly brewed cuppa. His were the color of pitch, of the damp, overturned earth of a fresh grave. Fitting, for a man like him. For a monster like him. Word Count: 3176 Warnings: still no smut, triple asterisk denotes a POV change as usual Notes: Happy birthday @kaya-nets ! Here is a surprise midweek update as a little gift, and a thank you for being the first person on tumblr to leave feedback on Dove! It is greatly appreciated, especially since I had a hard today. I hope you had a great birthday! AO3, Masterlist

“It’s nice to meet you, Simon.”

Ghost was sure no word had ever sounded so beautiful. To hear someone calling him by his name again, after all this time, was… he had no words to describe it. If he were religious, he might’ve called it a come-to-God moment. But his dog tags said No Preference for a reason, and that reason was that Ghost had stopped believing in a higher power a long time ago.

As he looked at his little dove, holding his tags and giving him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, he thought that maybe he’d finally found one he’d happily worship.

He groaned softly, trying to say hello back, and then gestured at her, cocking his head to the side in question.

“What is it?” She asked. He pointed at his dog tags again, then at her once more. Her brows furrowed in confusion, and he grunted, like that would help her understand what he was asking. Maybe it did, or maybe she just remembered how first meetings were typically supposed to go, because her brows went up this time and her pink lips parted, a rosy blush darkening her cheeks. “Oh! Oh, my name, of course. I’m Lelia Par—Addams. Lelia Addams.”

Ghost caught the slip, and the mix of panic and sadness that flashed through her eyes at it. He couldn’t exactly press even if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He had no desire to see his dove upset.

He tried to say her name, despite knowing it was useless. But it was just so pretty. Lelia. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.

That was one of Johnny’s favorite chat up lines, Simon’s voice in his head said distantly, sounding both exasperated and wistful. Ghost ignored it. He didn't know who Johnny was and no amount of trying to force his ruined mind to cough up the memory of him would work. But staying in his dove’s presence, might. She was the reason he’d remembered the name at all.

“Thank you for saving me, by the way,” Lelia said a moment later, handing him his dog tags back. She still looked faintly embarrassed. “Both times… I— I would be dead without you. I suppose not all soldiers are bad…”

Ghost knew that if she were aware of all he’d done, both before and after he’d turned, she wouldn’t think so highly of him. Nonetheless, he would very much have liked to find whichever soldiers made Lelia decide she was better off out here on her own, instead of back on a base, safe and warm and fed. He thought about the way her eyes had looked broken and glassy as she’d spoken about the place she’d come from, and how she’d insisted she’d rather be ripped apart than go back, not a trace of exaggeration in her voice. Whatever had happened to her there must have been hellish.

Ghost wanted to move forward to comfort her, but he’d seen the way she’d gagged and grimaced when he got close to retrieve his tags, slipping them over his head once more. He knew that he smelled something awful, that he always would no matter what he did, but he would at least try to clean himself, for her sake. She couldn’t afford to lose the little food she’d eaten.

There was a stream not far from here, he’d been near it yesterday before he’d decided to investigate all the noise. And he was fast, faster than he had been when he was human. He could be there and back in half an hour, tops.

Lelia, on the other hand, barely looked like she could make it to the front door.

He was incredibly reluctant to let her out of his sight for any length of time. Even just going around to the back of the cabin to dispose of the body earlier had made him twitchy. And if it was just a matter of his smell, he’d wait until tomorrow, when she was rested enough to make the trip with him. But it wasn’t. He could see just how dehydrated she was—chapped lips, dry skin, a constant tremor in her hands… she needed clean drinking water, now. And if he could get some from the stream for her to boil, she would be set.

He would have barricaded the door for extra protection, but it opened outwards rather than in. Shoddy installation job if he’d ever seen one. So instead, he pointed at her, and then at the bedroom. He awkwardly put his hands under his ear and then closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. He bumped his broken jaw as he did, and his teeth clacked against each other loudly.

He heard a little giggle, soft and high pitched. He opened his cloudy eyes to see his dove watching him, a pretty smile on her cherubic face. Her laugh was beautiful, pure and sweet. It was the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard. The sunken skin around his eyes crinkled a little bit, the only evidence of his smile.

“Fine, fine, I’ll go take a nap,” Lelia said, still giggling, as she headed for the bedroom. She disappeared inside, the door closing behind her. He waited until he heard her heartbeat slow and her breaths grow steady, and then he quietly moved the couch in front of it, blocking her in. He didn't want to risk her waking up, finding him gone, and getting herself killed while looking for him. If she decided to look for him. She might not—just because she asked his name and gave him a sweet smile didn’t mean she cared about him, the undead soldier who’d inserted himself into her life and wouldn’t leave her alone. That was alright, though. Ghost was so starved for human interaction that he’d take whatever he could get. And hearing his name from her lips was more than he’d ever expected.

Even if it was less than what he wanted.

With his dove secure, he left the cabin, making sure he didn't hear anyone nearby. There were a few infected a ways away, but if she stayed put—which he’d made sure she would—they wouldn't smell her. He was more worried about other people, but he couldn’t smell or hear anyone within range, so he felt comfortable enough to leave. Barely. He grabbed the large, rusted pail he’d noticed behind the cabin where he’d dumped the other zombie’s body, and then he was off.

-*-

When Ghost saw his reflection in the stream, he understood why Lelia had been so terrified to wake up and see his face first thing.

He’d known he looked bad, he wasn't an idiot. Just because his eyes were clouded didn't mean his vision was. He could see how disgusting the other zombies looked, and he figured he looked much the same.

None of that had prepared him for actually seeing himself.

Blood and gore covered every inch of him, bits of flesh stuck between his teeth and blackened gums—his teeth, which were permanently bared in a snarl, because his lips had rotted away.

That was the most horrifying part, he thought. Not the grey, sunken skin, the milky eyes, or all the gore and viscera. It was that his lips were gone, and he couldn’t kiss his dove even if she’d let him.

You’re disgusting.

The words echoed in his head, and he knew it wasn’t just about his visage. He shouldn't have been thinking about his dove like that. It wasn't as bad as his earlier thoughts, but just about. He was dead. A nasty, rotting corpse that happened to be able to walk around. There was something wrong with him to even be contemplating doing more than hugging Lelia. That was bad enough. She’d never want him to touch her in any way, she’d shown him that earlier when she’d kicked him while he was trying to check her for bites.

But maybe she would let him get a little closer, at least, if he didn't smell so bloody horrid.

It was that possibility that had him methodically strip out of his ragged tactical gear. He washed each piece in the knee-deep stream, even his mask and his boots. He laid them out on the bank to dry, moved a little further upstream, and then repeated the process with his body, dumping bucket after bucket full of water over every part of him.

The amount of congealed black blood and pieces of flesh that came off was concerning. He just hoped that none of the latter was his own.

Finally, he was done, and he stepped out of the stream and redressed in his still damp gear. Moving upstream for a third time, unwilling to contaminate his dove’s drinking water, he filled the bucket once more and began his trek back to the cabin, moving briskly but carefully so as not to spill.

Lelia was still asleep by the time he returned, and so he put the bucket down on the kitchen table, moved the couch away from her door, and then set about starting a fire. There was a small stack of roughly chopped logs next to the old, wood burning stove, and he placed a few inside. He searched through some of the drawers and found a book of matches, letting out a triumphant grunt, unable to believe his luck.

Except of course, things couldn’t be that easy.

Ghost’s fingers were far too stiff and clumsy to light a match. Fine motor skills were difficult for him, his muscles permanently locked in rigor mortis. Even piling up the logs in the stove had been difficult, as had carrying the bucket. He’d had to wrap his arms around it and hold it to his chest because his fingers wouldn't quite bend enough to grasp it by the handle.

After finally getting one of the matches to light, only to immediately drop it on the floor and burn a mark into the wood, Ghost gave up. He would just have to let Lelia do this part.

He moved the bucket onto the stovetop before quietly walking over to the bedroom. He reached out for the door knob and hesitated for a long moment, before letting his hand drop as he turned back around. She’d closed it for a reason, and he didn't need to see her to know she was alright. Her heartbeat and breathing were loud enough. So instead, he resumed his position as her zombified guard dog, and barricaded her door with his body while she slept, standing between her and anything that could bring her harm.

***

This time, when Lelia woke up, she knew exactly where she was.

The tiny bed in the cabin smelled of dust and old mothballs, but it was still far more comfortable than either a tree hollow or the bed she'd shared with Andrew back on the military base. She let herself luxuriate in it for a moment, exhaustion still pulling heavily at her no matter how long she had slept. Finally, she got up, walking over to the door and opening it—only to startle when she found Simon standing directly outside.

“Oh!” She gasped, hand clutching her chest, right over her racing heart. Then, she registered the lack of blood and gore on his face—which looked far less decayed now that it was clean—and the lack of a stomach churning odor wafting over her. He still smelled of death, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been before. “You’re— you’re clean!”

Simon groaned quietly. He was staring at her, as if waiting for something. She blinked several times, and then spoke again. 

“Did you— did you do that for me?”

She knew she hadn’t hid her reaction to his stench well enough. She felt a bit bad, but she also couldn’t help but be relieved he'd noticed and decided to do something about it.

Simon jerked his head up and down in a nod, jaw wobbling. He shifted back and forth a little bit, then tilted his head to the side and let out a questioning grunt, milky eyes downcast. He almost seemed… nervous? Shy? Or like he was looking for her approval. She couldn't quite tell. But the thought was endearing, and she smiled at him.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “This is much better, really. I appreciate it.”

Despite the fact that he couldn't really make any expression, Lelia got the distinct impression that he was pleased with her answer.

Simon shuffled back, and then stiffly gestured for her to follow him. She did so, curious, and she found she could remain quite close to him without being overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. She still left a meter or so between them, as was proper. She doubted he wanted her crowding his space, after all.

He led her over to the kitchenette, and then gestured to a bucket on top of the stove. She peered inside it, and found that it was full of water. She brightened considerably, licking her dry lips.

“Can I drink this?” She asked, already reaching for the bucket. She was so thirsty, she’d even drink orange juice, right now. And she hated orange juice.

But Simon grunted, reaching out and stopping her hand with his own. His glove was slightly damp, and she blinked, frowning as she looked at him again.

“You’re wet,” she said, finally noticing that his gear was dripping a little bit. He grunted, ignoring her, and then gestured at a matchbook next to the stove. She stared at it in confusion, not knowing what he wanted her to do, before turning her attention back to the trail of water he was leaving in his wake. “You shouldn't walk around in wet clothes. You’ll catch a cold—”

Lelia paused, looked at Simon’s already dead self, and blushed.

“Well. Maybe you won’t, but still. You’re getting water everywhere. You should take them off to let them dry,” she continued, trying to recover. Simon gave her what she thought might have been an amused look, if the little crinkles around his sunken, milky white eyes meant anything. Though it was entirely possible she was just imagining it. “There’s a closet in the bedroom. I’m sure I can find you something to wear while you wait.”

Eager to escape after her blunder, she retreated to do just that. She heard Simon let out a grumble that sounded suspiciously like an exasperated sigh, but she didn't let that stop her. She let out her own noise of victory when she found a set of flannel pajamas that looked like they would fit her zombie.

When she returned to the kitchen, Simon was in the process of removing his gear. Lelia watched as he struggled with zips and buckles—he was making progress, but very slowly—and took a step closer to him.

“Do you need help?” She asked innocently, never one to just stand idly by.

***

Simon froze, damnable buckle falling from his stiff fingers. It had taken him ages to get all this off and back on again at the stream, but he’d managed. He would manage again… but his little dove was offering to help. To stand close to him, to touch him, or at least his clothes… he knew he should have said no, that she was just being kind and didn’t actually want to get anywhere near him—but she sounded so sincere, and he was so fucking desperate. So he groaned quietly, almost ashamed, as he jerked his head in a nod, letting his hands drop back to his sides.

Lelia set the clothes she’d found for him on the arm of the couch and then approached, starting with removing his helmet. She was so small, she couldn’t reach even when she stood on her toes, and he had to crouch down a little bit, knees creaking.

“You’re blonde,” she said, surprised. He looked down at her. She was close enough that he couldn’t smell anything but her, and it was intoxicating. But not nearly as intoxicating as the feel of her body heat, so near yet so far. He sniffed discreetly, once again trying to place the floral scent on her skin. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect that. I wonder what color your eyes were…”

Ghost wanted to tell her they were brown like hers, but darker. Hers were the type that shone golden in the light, like nutty chocolate and a perfectly brewed cuppa. His were the color of pitch, of the damp, overturned earth of a fresh grave. Fitting, for a man like him. For a monster like him.

She moved on to unbuckling his vest, and then unzipping his jacket once he’d gotten the bulky gear out of the way. Underneath was a plain black t-shirt, the least destroyed item of clothing he had on, but also the foulest smelling. Her delicate little nose wrinkled slightly, and he would have found it adorable if he weren't so embarrassed. He reeked, still, and she smelt so delicious he began to drool again. He reached up to wipe it away, but his dove beat him to it, using the sleeve of the jacket he’d just discarded. She seemed entirely unphased, rather than repulsed like he thought she’d be, just giving him a smile before stepping back.

“No buttons on that,” she said as an explanation. He didn’t dare mention the buttons on his combat trousers, once again disgusted by his own thoughts. He pulled his t-shirt off after a second of hesitation, knowing the grisly sight that lay beneath. Grey, translucent, thinning skin smattered with deep gashes in several places that would never heal. They were accompanied by faded tattoos and dozens of scars, including a patchwork of rough, burnt flesh over his bicep and left shoulder, going all the way down to his hip. He reached quickly for the dry shirt, but Lelia stopped him.

“Your gloves,” she said, staring at his torso with a look on her face that he couldn’t quite read. It wasn't positive, though, he could tell that much. She tore her gaze away a second later, gently grabbing one of his hands and pulling it closer to her as she undid the velcro strap at his wrist. She slipped her fingers beneath the wrist of his glove, and he felt her skin directly against his own for the very first time.

He groaned, resisting the urge to grab her hand and keep it where it was. He couldn’t feel the softness of her skin, his own senses too numb for that, but the heat of it practically scorched him in the most pleasant way. It sank all the way down to his frozen bones, and when it slipped away as she pulled his glove off, it was agony.

She repeated the process with his other glove, and his bare hands twitched as he fought not to clutch onto hers and not let go. Finally, he regained control of himself, grabbing the flannel pajama shirt and pulling it on. It was a couple sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin and stopping an inch or so above the waistband of his combat trousers, but it would do for now, even if he felt ridiculous.

“You’re shivering,” his dove said, frowning. “I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

She turned around and headed back into the bedroom, and he took the chance to shuck off his trousers. It was almost as if the warmth of her touch had reinvigorated his hands, or perhaps it was just luck, because he managed to get the button on the third try, and the zip on the second. He stepped into the too-small flannels just as she was returning with the quilt he’d given her earlier. He tried to avoid taking it—though he felt cold, he knew it was all in his mind—as he didn't want to contaminate it with the smell of death. But Lelia was stubborn, and she just wrapped the blanket around his shoulders for him, so he looked like he was wearing a flowery, quilted cape.

“There,” she said with a pleased smile, before bending down to pick up his gear and head over to the door. He followed her, a silent, massive, undead shadow, unwilling to let her go outside without him. He stood guard as she hung the clothes over the half-rotted wooden banister of the tiny porch, and when she came back in, he grunted to get her attention again before leading her back to the kitchenette. He tapped the matchbook, then pointed at the pile of firewood in the metal belly of the stove.

“You want me to start a fire?” She asked nervously, and he nodded, pointing at the logs again. She paled. “I don't know… I’ve never done that before. What if I burn myself?”

Ghost didn't like the thought of her getting hurt any more than she did, but they didn’t have a choice. She needed drinkable water, and right now, boiling what was in the bucket was the only way she was going to get that. So he fumbled for the book of matches and then pressed it into her hands—and if he let out another pleased groan when her warm skin touched his again, he hoped she misread it as encouragement.

His dove looked afraid, but she notched her chin and accepted the matches, clearly trying to put on a brave face. He let himself wonder at the fact that she had never used matches before. What kind of world had she lived in, prior to the end of it? Based on her nice clothes, posh accent, and utter lack of survival instincts, he imagined it was something privileged, something sheltered. He would’ve scoffed at the thought if he were still alive—pretty little rich girl with a pretty, perfect life. Had the dead not risen, she likely would have never known pain or fear or struggle. It would’ve angered him back then; the injustice of it all. The jealousy. Now, he just felt sad. She deserved a life like that. Not this hell on earth. She was woefully unprepared for her new reality—and she had suffered for it. The men she had had to rely on to keep her safe had put that haunted look in her eyes that spoke of a pain familiar to him, if unnamable. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember. That he couldn’t kill each and every person that had ever contributed to her suffering. But there was nothing he could do about that, now. All he could do was keep her safe, keep her alive. And maybe even make her laugh again.

It took a few tries, and several broken matches, but Lelia finally managed to get one lit without immediately dropping it in fear. She tossed it into the stove, and while Ghost would have advised her to hold it to the corner of one of the logs, first, it did the trick, and the fire caught. He gave her a groan of approval, and admired the way her face lit up with pride, a rosiness dusting her cheeks as she grinned. She was always beautiful, but when she smiled, she looked like an angel. Something far too good and far too pure for this hellish plane and all the monsters that lived on it, both alive and dead.

Together, they watched the water boil. It was about as exciting as watching paint dry, and took only slightly less time due to the old fashioned stove and small flame. He didn't mind, though, as his dove eventually began to fill the silence with mindless chatter, telling him about the meals her private chef—oh, so she’d been rich rich—used to make for her. Ghost was informed very seriously that Román was the best cook in the world and could have had his own restaurant, but he liked hearing Lelia’s in-depth analysis of his meals too much to leave. Ghost thought it was adorable that she believed that that’s why the chef had stayed, rather than the money he was making. Then again, Ghost had stayed because of her too, so maybe there was some truth to her words after all.

When the water was sufficiently clean, he grabbed the bucket and moved it off the stove so it could cool down. Curiously, he didn't feel any heat from it, despite knowing it had to be hot enough to burn. It only made him crave his dove’s touch even more, the only source of warmth in his cold, undead life.

He searched through the cupboards again as they waited, looking for some sort of cup. He found a single dusty mug with a large chip near the rim. It was no crystal champagne flute, like she was clearly used to, but it would do. He handed it over, and Lelia made a face but thanked him nonetheless. She unbuttoned her pink tweed jacket and untucked a section of her still clean white blouse underneath, using it to wipe out the mug. He stared.

Look away, Simon’s voice in his head ordered. Ghost reluctantly obeyed. You’re a vile creature. You don’t get to look at her like that.

Even if Ghost was alive, he'd probably think the same thing. He’d been old and monstrous then. He was dead and monstrous now. He'd never lived a life in which he would deserve a sweet thing like her. But he still wanted, in this life and the last.

So when Lelia smiled at him after drinking her fill of the purified water, lips still wet and shiny, he tried to ignore the phantom sensation of his undead heart pounding in his chest.

[selunesdreams]

Eating Crow

Chapter 1: The Little Flame of Treviso

“No scars. A talented assassin.” He observed, fixing the cuffs of his shirt. She pulled down the collar of her jacket, revealing gashes along the side of her throat. He let his eyes linger curiously. “My second most valuable asset is my face. I protect it.” "What other scars does she have? What other scars could we give her?” “Hmm.” He ignored Spite’s lust for violence - or maybe it was just plain lust. “What’s your first?” “My aim.”

Pairing: Lucanis x Fem Rook/OFC x sometimes Spite??

Summary: Born to renowned assassins and raised in the heart of Treviso, Fiamma De Riva hasn’t known home in a very long time. Orphaned, she was taken under the wing of her cousin, Viago, and quickly ascended through the ranks of the Antivan Crows.

After being sidelined for a well-meaning mistake, she abandoned the life she once knew to pursue the Dread Wolf alongside Varric, the only person left who still believed in her.

Now living under the alias “Rook,” Fiamma is rallying forces against elven gods. But when she must return to those she once called family for aid, she’s tasked with rescuing the Demon of Vyrantium, Lucanis Dellamorte, who might force her to reckon with the legacy she’s abandoned… and bring her dangerously close to the edge

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Welcome to my Lucanis fic! Mind the tags, grab a cup of coffee, and get cozy. If you're new to my fics, I LOVE lore. I usually get wrapped in dnd lore, but have been a Dragon Age fan for 13 years or something like that (that's terrifying to read back to myself) and you know...lore comes with the territory. I might get a few things wrong, feel free to (kindly) let me know. This is an 18+ fic, MDNI!

Things of note: Rook is Fem, human, mage, Antivan Crow. I like writing storylines and tension, but there will be smut! I don't know how the tags/warnings will evolve, but it's reasonable to expect some messy Spite consent stuff? Please read on AO3 if you need to track warnings, they will be inevitably detailed better there (or just want to be real sweet and give me hits/kudos/comments).

There will be spoilers! I am starting this right at the Sea of Blood quest where you get Lucanis. I suspect it will take me some time to flesh things out so hopefully that gives you time to finish the game!

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

“You can’t be serious.” 

Fiamma De Riva paced Neve Gallus’ office, bright blue wisps parting for her as she changed directions in the small room. The detective had made cozy conditions out of a not-particularly welcoming space. She’d give her that, but the scattered papers and books set her on edge. Perched atop her desk, Neve sat with one leg crossed over the other. Her dwarven-crafted golden prosthetic glinted in the soft light as she bounced her foot in the air impatiently. 

“Rook, we’ve all got tough decisions to make. I know a family reunion isn’t the move you were hoping for, but we need an assassin.” 

“You have me!” 

“We need another assassin. You might be the Little Flame of Treviso, but we need something bigger, we need-”

Fiamma could hear the weariness in Neve’s words as she touched her forehead absentmindedly and winced, forgetting about the nasty cut gracing her forehead.

Fiamma felt a pang of guilt - if she’d told the mage to stay behind, perhaps things would have ended differently. She might not have gotten hurt and Varric…

Varric.

She shook her head, swallowing hard. Varric was going to be fine. Nobody else seemed worried about him. Why should she be? 

“You need the Demon of Vyrantium.” 

Neve offered a smile, holding out an opened letter. Fiamma took it apprehensively, her fingertips tracing the wings of the Antivan Crows’ seal.

“I’ve already arranged a meeting with his grandmother, First Talon Caterina Dellamorte, and your cousin, Viago.”

With a resigned sigh, she tossed the envelope aside and crossed her arms, averting her gaze. “I hate that you’re right.”

Neve pushed off her desk, squeezing Fiamma’s shoulder on the way out.

“If it’s any consolation, I usually am.” 

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

Fiamma arranged for them to meet with a former friend, Teia, in Treviso, prior to meeting with Viago and Caterina. It would soften the blow of returning home to be greeted by a friendlier face first. 

“You made it. I hear you go by Rook these days.” 

“It’s good to see you. Neve, meet Andarateia of House Cantori.”

“No need to be formal with friends. Teia, please. Come, Viago is gathering the others. He’s happy you’re home.” 

“I somehow doubt that.”

“He’s missed you. You broke his heart when you went away.” 

“And he broke mine when he had me waiting on Caterina like a handmaid instead of protecting our city.” 

Teia sighed, proceeding to lead them through the city.

“When you said the others, did the others include Illario?”

“Oh, please, Fi-Rook. He doesn’t bite.”

“He might as well.” 

Fiamma glanced around at their surroundings, the dilapidated buildings, the quiet streets that were once bustling with life, romance, and joy. 

“I hate seeing Treviso ground down like this.” 

“This occupation will not last. The Antivan Crows remain. And one day, I will see a knife through every would-be tyrant’s throat.” 

They took a zipline to the Crows’ headquarters. Fiamma swung from the bars, enjoying the wind on her face as the city skyline swept below her feet. She landed with a cat’s grace, greeted by the familiar thud of cobblestone beneath her boots. She’d never admit it out loud, but she missed this. 

“A casino. Nice.” Neve said as they walked across a narrow beam.

“The Cantori Diamond.” Fiamma sneered. 

“Watch it.” Teia called back to her.

Vaulted ceilings and plush furniture awaited them in the meeting chamber. Fiamma eyed the empty goblets near one chair, wondering which was full of the diluted poison Viago dosed himself with every day. Paranoid bastard.

“Two years.” Her cousin growled as they entered. 

“Nice to see you too, Viago.”

“Did you finish that contract? To stop your Dread Wolf?” 

“It wasn’t a formal contract. I left, remember?” Fiamma asked. “When you called me an embarrassment to our house? But since you asked, no, not yet. Things are more complicated.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Crows always finish the job.”

“We just can’t take initiative, right? My run-in with the Antaam taught me that.” She bit back.

“Don’t let him scold you too much. Vi was worried about you.” Teia interjected to ease the tension.  

Viago lowered his head, clearing his throat and kicking at the polished ground under his boots. “Fiammetta-”

“It’s Rook, now.” 

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Illario shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching her with a pained expression. She’d deal with that later. 

“Rook. You remember Caterina Dellamorte.” Viago said.

“A pleasure.” She gave a slight bow. Despite changing the First Talon’s linens and bringing her breakfast on her balcony, Fiama had acquired a fondness for her. 

“Have you finally returned home, Fiamma?” Illario interrupted, and the thin smile Caterina began to offer vanished. 

“I’ve come to ask for assistance. My current target is a pair of elven gods - that’s what they call themselves, at least. They’re ancient blighted mages. I need our best. Someone who brought blood mages and Venatori to their knees.”

“My grandson.” Caterina said, her brow furrowing. 

“Lucanis Dellamorte is dead.” Viago said, “He was killed a year ago now. If you’d remained home, you’d know-”

“Dead?” Fiamma blinked. She never thought it would be possible for anyone to best the Demon of Vyrantium. Not unless foul play was involved. Despite his occasional smugness, she found no pleasure in the news. Particularly since there wouldn’t be another assassin on offer even half as good as him. Her eyes flicked to Caterina, to offer condolences. The First Talon would never admit to playing favorites, but in the time Fiamma spent in her home, and being courted by her youngest grandson, it was clear Lucanis was who she favored to take her place. 

“What I say doesn’t leave this room.” Caterina said, “The body our people brought back was not my grandson. It was dressed in his clothing, but it had been altered with blood magic to have his face.”

“My cousin is still alive?” Illario hissed, “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“His ship was attacked. We knew someone sold him out…so you kept your suspicions to yourself?” Viago was clearly surprised by the news. 

“But you’ve brought it up now. Why?” Neve asked. 

“I’ve had eyes on the Venatori ever since they took my grandson from me,” Caterina answered. “They were hunting your Dread Wolf. And what you did to his ritual threw them into disarray. They made mistakes, and now I have a location. The Ossuary. Where the Demon of Vyrantium is kept. Find this Ossuary. Find Lucanis, and you’ll have your god-killer. And I’ll have my grandson.” 

“Come. Caterina arranged a boat. One of our mages will meet us there.” Illario said, leading them to the docks.

“A boat?” Fiamma asked, following him down the steps. 

“Did you think the Venatori would keep a normal prison? Or that one could hold the Demon of Vyrantam? The Ossuary lies beneath the sea. A fact I learned mere minutes ago. Maybe she thought I’d act too rashly trying to save him.” He said bitterly, his eyes meeting hers. “Seems everyone enjoys keeping me in the dark.”

“Illario-”

“I would have words with you upon your return.” He commanded, “Right now, I need to learn whether my cousin is still alive.”

A small boat rocked in the gentle current by the dock, a lantern affixed to its bow. A Crow in a purple hood watched them warily, waiting.

“There, you take the boat.”

“You’re not coming?”

“You play the alluring hero. You’re the one who needs redemption so badly.” Illario was on edge, but there seemed to be more to it than a broken heart and family drama. “Someone has to make sure we weren’t followed.”

As the boat pushed away from the dock, Fiamma watched him disappear into the streets of Treviso. She didn’t miss him. Most times, she didn’t like him. But she knew how he felt about his family, and her heart ached for him, even just a little. 

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

By Lucanis Dellamorte’s count, he had been in this underwater prison for a year. 

Give or take.

It would be beautiful if he were here for any other reason. When he’d arrived to start the contract assigned to him, the views were breathtaking. 

Occasionally, he’d prayed the enchantments keeping the Ossuary in place would fail. That he’d drown and get lost in the fade, or wherever he was bound to go. What would happen to him in death? And Spite, the demon who shared his body and consciousness? They had an agreeable ally ship, if only because they were both imprisoned and stuck with one another against their will. 

He’d scratched a mark for each day in his crystalline prison. With no weapons, he used his fingernails, sometimes scraping until he bled to carve a line deep enough. He had to remember. He had to survive. 

The days Calivan didn’t send for him, he scratched to the left. The days he was tortured, on the right. Eventually, the right became so crowded, they all blurred together. 

A familiar voice caught his attention outside, interrupting his ritual.

“We don’t have to fight. We’re just here for Lucanis Dellamorte.”

“Come to save us?” Spite asked eagerly. “Took them long enough.”

But who was it? Not Caterina. He’d know it was her in an instant. Not Teia…

“Razikale, Dragon of Mystery. Lusacan, Dragon of Night—” As the Ossuary Guard began his incantation, Lucanis sensed Spite’s excitement.  

“Hear your faithful call—” 

“Now, now!”

With the guard distracted, the defenses of his prison were weak enough that Spite propelled them over the top.

He was flying.

A lifetime of training and muscle memory returned to him instantly. On instinct, he seized the nearest guard from behind, using him as a shield as another advanced on him with a sword, cutting clean through. With a swift, fluid motion, he propelled the lifeless body into his attacker, sending them into the air to be impaled by a nearby crystal stalagmite. With a running charge, he snapped the necks of two advancing guards, stealing one’s sword. His hand closed around the hilt, the cool metal causing him - and Spite - to shiver with anticipation. He turned at the sound of footsteps, slashing the throat of the final Venatori.

“Lucanis.”

He turned slowly to greet his rescuer, the essence of Spite’s wings retreating into his spine. 

Fiamma De Riva. Viago’s little cousin. She’d been sentenced to serve as Caterina’s assistant as punishment for foiling a Crow operation. Good intentions aside, she’d acted rashly, and whether she believed it or not, she got off easy. 

De Riva had always been pleasant enough. A bit cold towards him, but he didn’t hold it against her. Lucanis could tell her ego was hurt. Even worse, he knew she looked at Caterina’s home, the home he grew up in, and felt he hadn’t earned it. And she’d been right. He’d only earned his place in those halls by birthright, but his place in the Crows…he’d earned through blood and sweat.

But never tears. Caterina had no patience for tears. Poor Illario. 

She’d been given the quarters next to his during her assignment. Despite her reputation for being a bit of a spitfire, living up to her namesake of “Little Flame”, she was quiet. Polite. And she treated his grandmother well. Earned her respect - no simple task. She was possibly the only person who Caterina Dellamorte would listen to regarding her health. If little De Riva had tacked a few more years on to his grandmother’s life, she had his gratitude for it. 

Oh, how Illario had pined for her. She entertained it for some time, before his spoiled nature got on her nerves. But he fell hard. Once, his cousin drank himself into such a state outside Fiamma’s locked door that he nearly failed to fulfill a shared contact. Lucanis had to slap him awake, then pull him along just so he could do all the heavy lifting.  

He’d do it all over just to see his little cousin again.  

“Little De Riva? She looks like a grown woman to me.” Spite interjected, making him acutely aware that he was never alone in his thoughts. 

“I’m only five years her senior. But five years is a sizeable gap when you’ve known someone since childhood.” Lucanis thought back quickly, dismissing the demon’s observations. 

“Dellamorte!” Beside Fiamma, a dwarf woman had her bow pulled tightly, aimed in his direction.

“Rook. He’s possessed by a demon.” She warned. 

“Rook?” Lucanis tilted his head curiously. 

“It’s complicated.” She blurted. “Caterina promised us a mage killer if we broke you out of here. Can I count on you?”

He nodded. “I can still work.”

“Are you really possessed?”

“It’s complicated.” He said, glancing around the room. “I will help you, but I need something from you first. They have a vial of my blood. They can use it to control me. I cannot leave it in their hands. And…I had a contract when I was captured. One of my targets is here. Calivan.”

“Blood magic.” She scowled. “Come on. He’s good to go, Harding.”

“Forget the contract. We need to get out of here!” Harding said, her arrow still pointed at the center of his chest. 

“Crows don’t break contracts.” He and De Riva said in unison.

Harding sighed and lowered her bow. “Alright, let’s make this quick.”

“I’ll owe you.” Lucanis said as they exited the chamber. 

“I’m sure we’ll owe each other when this is all over.” Rook countered.

“Yes. I’d like to be owed a favor by the Little Flame.” Spite growled with delight.

De Riva was an impressive assassin, he thought to himself, as they fought their way through Venatori. He hadn’t seen her fight often, but it was evident she wasn’t out of practice. She’d left Treviso shortly before he’d been captured, where he wasn’t sure, but it was encouraging to see a Crow refuse to give up her work. It was good work. 

“I found it!” Rook’s voice broke him from his thoughts. She held the flask of his blood in the air and his stomach clenched. She was a mage, after all, and with his blood in her hands-

“Destroy it!” He and Spite snarled at the same time. She hesitated, staring at the vial in her palm. 

“Can I trust you? Can you promise me I don’t need to stow this for safekeeping?”

“Not hers!” Spite screamed in his head. “Stop her! Throttle her until she-”

“You can trust me,” Lucanis said evenly. 

Rook’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re right.”

She threw the vial to the ground, and with a flick of her wrist, ignited the remnants of his blood in flame. 

“Thank you.” He said, 

“Don’t mention it. Let’s go kill your target.”

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

Caterina was nowhere in sight when Lucanis returned to Treviso.

“Maker…” Teia breathed as he and Rook entered. 

“What happened here?” Lucanis demanded. 

Illario slammed his fist on the table. “A message. From Zara Renata.”

Spite raged in his skull, so loudly that he didn’t notice Illario approaching.

“I can’t believe it. You’re home.” He said, grasping Lucanis’ thumb and wrapping his fingers around it in a typical Crow handshake. 

“Zara…her people got this close?” Lucanis asked, letting his arm fall to his side as he paced, assessing the room. 

“The woman who runs the prison?” Rook asked.

“The woman who captured me.” Lucanis glanced towards the door. “Where’s Caterina?”

Teia lowered her head and stifled a sob, Viago coming behind her and placing his hand on her shoulder. Something always existed between them, but Lucanis wasn’t sure if they’d acted on it yet.

“The Venatori got her in the confusion.” Viago said. 

“I get two of you back, just to lose the other.” Illario lamented.

“Lucanis…I’m so sorry.” Neve said from behind Rook.

“No…time…to…grieve!”

Lucanis ignored Spite.

“I need to work.”

“You should take some time-” Neve began, holding out her hand.

“He doesn’t need time.” Rook interjected, stepping forward and holding his gaze. “He needs a target.”

Spite’s responding arousal was palpable. 

“I like her.”

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

Lucanis braced one arm on the weathered mantelpiece, staring into the flames as they crackled on the hearth. He was in the fade. Or something like that. The Lighthouse, Rook had called it. And what a strange place it was. Fiamma - Rook now, as she asked him to address her - had another companion, Bellara, who had been thinking out loud since his arrival. 

“-they’re the same thing. Mostly. Kind of,” she said to Neve from the table. 

“Except one will manipulate you. Or kill you. Or both.” Neve replied. 

The doors to the kitchen opened.

“What’s everyone talking about?” Rook asked.

Lucanis turned away from the hearth. 

“Spite.”

“The demon inside of Lucanis.” Neve clarified. “When a person gets possessed, the demon usually takes control.”

“And they turn into a monster. The spirit just…molds them. However they want.” Bellara added.

Neve’s mouth formed a line. “I’ve heard of abominations being cured by killing the demon in the Fade. That’s not a sure bet, though.” 

“Well, there’s one way…” Bellara said, staring at her hands, “but it’s…well…we’d have to, um…”

“You’d have to kill me,” Lucanis finished. 

The room seemed to hold its breath.

“We’ll find another way.” Rook said. She didn’t seem impassioned about the statement, but it was comforting she wanted him alive. Behind her, Spite admired her with a sinister smile. 

“She won’t hurt you. How sweet.”

Get away from her. Lucanis commanded.

The demon leapt back next to the fireplace, crouching, and Lucanis turned his head to ignore him.

“I want to talk to her.”

The others continued their conversation, but he couldn’t hear anything over Spite’s impatience. 

“Let me talk to them! I want. To talk. To ROOK!”

“ROOK!”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, Spite channeling all of his energy into the equivalent of a punch to the face. Lucanis pinched his nose, feeling the blood pool between his thumb and forefinger, with a stifled gasp of pain. 

Bellara shot up from her seat, mouth agape.

“Lucanis!”

He held out his hand in protest, his voice calm, summoning years of training to keep himself from trembling. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“What just happened?” Rook asked. 

“He’s throwing a tantrum because he didn’t get his way. He’d do this in the Ossuary. The Fade does whatever a spirit wants. Real walls with chains, not so much. Just…give me a minute. He’ll get bored once everyone leaves.” 

Rook lingered, hands on a chair back, as the others left, eyeing him warily. 

“You’re still here.” Lucanis said.

“Having an abomination in the Lighthouse makes me nervous.” She finally said after several beats of silence.

He bristled. “Well, being an abomination makes me nervous, too.”

He held up a hand to silence her, walking around the table until he was only a sword’s length from her, studying her face. He couldn’t fault Illario for being heartbroken. She was stunning. How many times had she used her looks to her advantage? Was she like Teia, killing only men who deserved it by luring them to their deaths, like a Siren at sea? Or did she use the advantage of her beauty to kill more than just politicians and rapists?

“No scars. A talented assassin.” He said, fixing the cuffs of his shirt. 

She pulled down the collar of her jacket, revealing gashes along the side of her throat. He let his eyes linger curiously. 

“My second most valuable asset is my face. I protect it.” 

“What other scars does she have? What other scars could we give her?” 

“Hmm.” He ignored Spite’s lust for violence - or maybe it was just plain lust - and took a few steps back, dragging his finger along the wood of the dinner table.

“What’s your first?”

She turned to depart, the heels of her boots clicking on the stone floor as she strode towards the doors, throwing them open. She grinned over her shoulder back at him, showing him just how charming she could be. 

“My aim.”

[simpforpeterp]

stanford pines x reader

I Believe in a Thing Called Love

summary: on the road trip to bring the kids back to california, you have to keep ford awake!

warnings: none!

word count: 749

After deciding to drive the kids back to California this year for a road trip, Ford was unlucky enough to be picked to drive overnight. Stan, Mabel, and Dipper are asleep in the backseat despite the music you were blaring to keep you awake so you can keep Ford awake.

After all, if you had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, it’d only make Ford more tired. So, you’re night driving buddies. He has a lot of catching up to do music-wise so you’ve been playing your favorite songs going up from each year.

He, to be honest, doesn’t give a shit about the music. He’s not a music person, it takes up too much time and can be distracting. He especially hates when songs are over three minutes because he thinks the singers are being selfish by taking so many minutes of his life.

But watching you while it plays? Singing and having such a great time? His heart could explode any minute now. This thing between you two hasn’t been spoken about yet. It’s only been stolen glances and a silent yearning. Neither of you believe that the other would be interested because of the slight age difference.

Nonetheless, you can flirt with him in very small ways through the songs you play.

“Can't explain all the feelings that you're making me feel. My heart's in overdrive and you're behind the steering wheel,” You place a hand on his arm that gets a smile out of him before you jokingly snake it up to his shoulder. “Touching you, touching me

Touching you, God, you're touching me.”

You sit up straighter for the chorus so happily and in shock that the people asleep in the back are still asleep.

“I believe in a thing called love. Just listen to the rhythm of my heart. There's a chance we could make it now. We'll be rocking 'til the sun goes down. I believe in a thing called love, hoo, ooh-hoo.” You tap along the windows as you sing, the wind moving your hair perfectly.

“He’s not singing, he’s yelling.” Ford tells you through laughter, speaking over the music.

“You totally suck. You’re no fun.” You laugh with him as he slightly turns the volume down.

“You totally suck.” He jokingly mocks your voice and then realizes what just happened. He just acted childish for the first time in decades.

“And what do you listen to?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not THAT boring.” You laugh and the sound is music to his ears as you slightly turn your body to face him even more. He desperately tries to keep his eyes on the road but it’s so hard when it comes to you.

“You really don’t listen to anything?” You ask, glancing over at him, curiosity in your eyes and he shrugs, trying to play it off.

“I…never made much time for it,” He admits, his voice soft. “Always had too much on my mind. Music felt like…well, like a distraction.”

“You’re allowed to be distracted every now and then, you know. Life isn’t just about… equations and discoveries and whatever else goes on in that brain of yours,” You shake your head, amused. “I’m distracted ninety percent of the time. Music is rarely the cause. It actually helps me focus sometimes. It drowns out the noises that drive me crazy like if I’m in a library, it feels like my senses are amplified. I hate hearing every push in and out of everyone’s chairs and pens writing, I need my headphones.”

“Maybe so. But I don’t think I’d ever be good at it the way you are.” He hums.

“Good at music?” You laugh, incredulous. “Ford, it’s not about being good at it. It’s about feeling it.”

Ford watches you, captivated. The way you let yourself be so free, so uninhibited—it’s something he envies, a part of life he’s never quite understood but longs to experience.

“I’m not the type of guy to ‘feel’ the sound of a bunch of different instruments.” He chuckles.

“Maybe you’re just lame then.” You gently nudge him.

“Lame? How many degrees do I need to get to not be lame?” He asks.

“Negative ten. You need to loosen up.” You tell him.

“And how do I do that?”

“I don’t know. Listen to some music.” You tell him with a small smile pulling at your lips as you lean on the window and look away.

[imawreck]

Soldat

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x Original Character

Summary: Max is rescued, but she isn’t the same… and she makes a hard choice.

Warnings: Graphic like always, mentions of hospital stuff, mind manipulation, cliffhanger (sorta), scars

Word Count: 4,656

Tony-

I couldn’t figure out how it’d happened. How Bucky had went all Winter Soldier without his trigger words, or why Friday hadn’t immediately notified us.

He must’ve tricked her, but that still didn’t answer what caused the switch. Those answers would have to wait until after I wasn’t staring down the barrel of a gun, though.

Bucky spoke in Russian, and I couldn’t understand what he was saying to Rumlow. Whatever it was, the man had gone paler than a ghost in the clutches of Bucky’s metal arm. Steve shifted his weight on his feet anxiously beside me, like he wanted to intervene, but the guy was beat up as hell.

And frankly, I didn’t think anything could stop the man in front of us.

Not with the way the rage shone in his eyes, the way it rolled off of him like he could barely contain himself.

Bucky’s head snapped towards me, beckoning me forward with the nose of his gun. “Escort us to the hangar. If anything gets in my way, I’ll kill you and everyone in this building.” I took a hesitant step forward, feeling Steve’s worried gaze on my back. Bucky’s eyes snapped to Steve, “You too.” Steve limped forward, holding his ribs.

Bucky’s hand still clenched around Rumlow’s throat as he turned back to him. I watched as he set his feet back onto the floor only to kick his knees out from below him and exchange his neck for the front of his shirt. He jerked his head towards the door, eyeing Cap and I, “Elevator. Now.”

Bucky began dragging Rumlow’s struggling form towards the elevator as he kicked and screamed.

“Friday,” I said shakily, and Bucky paused at my words. His whole body tensed, cold blue eyes boring into me. I knew that if I said one single word out of line, this would be where I died. “Don’t engage alarm system. Keep us incognito.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bucky’s shoulders relaxed a fraction before he was back to dragging Rumlow after us. We crammed into the elevator, both Cap and I putting as much distance between Bucky and ourselves as we could as he forced Rumlow to his knees in front of himself, metal fingers gripping the nape of his neck to force his head down.

Bucky’s gravely voice bit something out in Russian, and Rumlow shuddered. “S-she’s alive, I swear,” Rumlow answered in English, “I saw her myself.”

This seemed to both assure and infuriate Bucky. Another rumbled Russian sentence was spoken.

I watched as Rumlow’s throat bobbed, and fear leaked into his eyes as he stared at the ascending floor of the elevator. “She was undergoing an operation when I left,” he swallowed, “but she was alive.”

Again, a growled question on Russian.

“I don’t know! I was just there t-to…” It seemed Rumlow had thought better of what he was going to say, and his jaw clamped shut.

Bucky gripped the back of his hair and slammed his face into the elevator doors hard enough to dent the steel. There was a sickening crunch and a garbled cry.

“Ready a jet. Weapons, fuel, everything.” Bucky didn’t look back at me as he spoke, only kept staring down at Rumlow’s mangled and bleeding face.

I nodded, muttering for Friday to do as he asks.

When the elevator leveled out, Bucky kept us pinned with the gun as he dragged Rumlow towards the jet that was already running, fully stocked and prepped for takeoff. It was a single person jet for solo missions, nearly imperceptible if it weren’t for the tracker embedded in it.

Just as I had thought it though, he tore open one of the side compartments by the door and yanked out the wires, tossing the small tracking device to the floor and crushing it under his boot.

He leveled us with a gun one last time, eyes wild. “Don’t follow, and don’t send anyone.”

I honest to God don’t know why he hadn’t killed us already. Maybe it was because he hadn’t truly been triggered, but I didn’t know. Maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever the reason was, I was grateful when he lowered the gun and hustled into the jet, Rumlow shouting as he was dragged into the hangar.

Cap and I both watched as the jet lifted off and disappeared into cloud cover. It wasn’t long before Cap spoke.

“We should send a team after him. He’s not in his right mind.”

I scoffed, “No shit. But if we do, there’s no telling what he’d do. He’s unpredictable when he’s like this, and we don’t know if he has orders…” But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. Bucky had only one mission in his mind.

Get Max back. And I don’t think he really cared what it cost to achieve it.

—————

Max-

I had somehow managed to fall asleep, albeit fitfully, after doing as much as I could to mend my mangled body.

I felt heavy, and my stomach growled loudly in hunger. My mouth was dry, and I honestly couldn’t remember the last time they had brought me rations. Maybe they didn’t plan to. Maybe this was it.

Giles hadn’t even showed up since he dropped me the meager medical box, and I didn’t know how long it had been since then. It could’ve been hours or days—I couldn’t keep track.

I shifted, hearing the clicking at my back and fighting the urge to claw at it. I hated it, whatever they’d done. It was annoying and loud, echoing in my skull whenever I moved. The lack of knowing what it was really haunted me, but I didn’t have the energy to panic about it. Not when I had more important things to focus on.

Hunger, thirst, pain.

I was wearing thin, and I think Giles knew it. He knew he was close to breaking me, and I wanted to make him hurt for it. I wanted to tear him to shreds, wanted to make him hurt the way I had for all those years. For stealing the sliver of peace I had been able to hold onto for the short time I was with the Avengers.

If I lived, I would spend every waking second hunting him until he was wiped clean from this world.

I closed my eyes, cheek pressed to the cold concrete with the intention of trying to sleep once again, when I felt the vibrations. A constant thundering, like a stampede was heading towards me.

My eyes snapped open, locking on the door as the grew more apparent. Shouts, all Russian and very panicked, echoed towards me.

“Protect the asset!”

“Don’t let him- he’s through the first blockade!”

Bullets thunked into the walls outside the door, pinging off metal and burying themselves in the concrete. The stomps still thundered, growing closer with the shouts and screaming men.

The door flung open a moment later, and a flurry of men in uniforms poured in. All of them wore worried, frightened expressions. They cleared a table, the contents atop it clattered to the floor as they hauled it over to block the door. They surrounded me, guns raised towards the door.

None of them seemed too concerned with me. Whatever was outside that door had scared them shitless.

Then the screaming started. Sharp and grating, just beyond the door. I could hear strangled yelling, thumping, and bullets continuing to puncture their targets.

I could sense the foreboding that settled into the soldiers surrounding my cell. I would’ve laughed if my throat wasn’t so dry I thought I’d choke.

Suddenly, all of the commotion outside the door stopped. The air stilled, and not a soul moved.

There wasn’t a sound when the figure appeared in the foggy glass window on the cell door. Tall, looming, and utterly still. The glass was old and covered in so much grime you couldn’t see in or out of it.

That didn’t seem to settle the men around my cage. They shook, bodies trembling and hearts pounding.

The figure moved fast, an arm coming up to shatter the small window and thrust something through it. The metal hit the ground, and a hissing filled the air.

I covered my face with my arm, holding my breath as gas filled the air and choked the soldiers. They struggled to yank gas masks from their belts, and I eyed the nearest soldier to the cell.

Shoving up from the ground, I gripped his tac vest and yanked him against the bars with as much strength as I could muster. He thudded against it, shouting, and dropped his mask to the floor. I yanked it into the cell, pushing myself to the center and out of reach as I fumbled with it. My lungs stung for a few moments before I jerked it over my head and set it in place.

I took a clean breath of air as they began to slump over. Dead or asleep, I didn’t want to know. I sucked in another breath, my eyes finding the door once more.

I wasn’t prepared to see his face, wasn’t prepared for the way it froze me in place and stalled my heart. Flashes of memories or hallucinations—couldn’t tell the difference anymore—barreled through my head. I couldn’t fight the knee jerk reaction to flinch away, to clench my eyes shut and push myself into the corner of my cell.

I couldn’t watch him die again. I couldn’t see his blood on my hands again.

The door scraped open, kicked in by his heavy boot. I heard the table screech across the concrete, and bodies slumping to the floor. Still, I didn’t look up.

I heard the shuffle of his clothes, the softest scuffs of his boots on the floor, saw his shadow block the light behind my eyelids. I knew he was right there. I knew it was him, and yet I couldn’t stop the dread from suffocating me.

It was too much stress for my abused mind, my tired body, and I felt my mind go dark just as the door opened.

—————

Steve-

Bucky- or rather the Winter Soldier- returned to the tower with Max two days after holding Stark and I at gunpoint on the landing bay.

Max was in critical condition when they arrived, and Bucky was still not Bucky. But he wasn’t completely the Winter Soldier either. Not in his actions, anyways. He’d broken into the med bay when he arrived back and had demanded that the Doctors in the wing tend to Max immediately. He was caring, even if it was through the threats on several individuals lives.

He wanted someone to help her.

The Avengers had all showed up on the level to handle him, and Wanda ended up restraining him with her magic and forcing him to his cell. He’d gone ballistic when we’d removed him, and he still remained the Winter Soldier even after he passed out after days of relentlessly roaring and slamming his fists into the cell walls.

It had been two weeks since then, and still wasn’t himself. Less Soldier and more… confused. And Max was in a coma.

The Doctors had done every test possible after she was deemed stable and still hadn’t woken up. Even brain scans, but they’d come up strangely. Her brain was active, more so than normal, but there were strange dark lines that moved in every scan. It was unnerving, and left the team disturbed when the information was shared with us. Wanda, who’d given a brief explanation of her last encounter with Max, had gone pale at the news and excused herself from most meetings regarding Max after that.

I’d catch Peter or Stark visiting her when they were free. They’d sit and talk with her, or sometimes just hold her hand and not talk at all. It was painful to watch even if Max and I weren’t close.

Because we weren’t close at all. Which really brought me to question why I found myself sitting in the same chair I’d seen Stark sitting in just a few hours ago. It was late, around eight. Most of the team had dismissed themselves to their rooms, and I’d taken one last round to visit Buck in his cell before I somehow found myself here.

I gazed down at Max, her body still, and her breathing even and deep. Still sleeping.

Seeing her like this, vulnerable and… and relaxed for what felt like the first time in a while was strange. It was almost like I could see her as just a woman, not as the thing I’d seen her as in that bunker. But I couldn’t forget that, probably wouldn’t for as long as I lived.

Still, it made me rethink the way I had treated her.

“Hey, Max.” I didn’t say it louder than a whisper, afraid she’d snap awake for some reason. “I… I don’t know why I’m here. Maybe because I need to apologize for the way I have spoken to you in the past. Maybe… I don’t know.”

I felt silly, sitting here alone and talking to a comatose girl I didn’t really know and didn’t know if I wanted to. But she meant something to Buck. And I had been unfair.

“Listen,” I took a breath, resting my head in the palms of my hands. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you when you were with us in the compound. I’m sorry for assuming the worst from you, even though you’d proven to us that you weren’t what Hydra wanted you to be. I owe you that.”

I looked up at her pale face, her white lashes where they remained rested closed. “Bucky isn’t the same without you. He’s… he’s like a shell. I’ve never seen him this bad, not even before we found you. And now he’s in some sort of limbo soldier state and I don’t know how to help him. I know you would, though. You always did. Even if I disliked you for it.”

I pressed my palms to my temples. “Maybe I should… maybe he needs to see you and it would help him. Maybe if he could just be near you—.”

Something latched onto my hand, and my gaze snapped down where her hand clenched my wrist in a bruising grip. Ultramarine lines snaked out from her palm, similar to Wanda’s gift, creeping around my arm. They weren’t elegant or enchanting like Wanda’s power though. Not with the way they tangled themselves like overgrown weeds, twisting over each other as they reached towards my head.

I yanked at my hand, but her grip held fast, holding me in place as they wrapped around my neck. Part of the vining strands separated and plunged itself into my ear. I tried to scream, to call for help, but my brain blanked and my vision went white.

I thought it had, anyways. But the longer I waited, the longer I realized I was awake. That I was conscious.

And that I wasn’t alone.

Max sat on the ground in the middle of the whiteness, her expression blank and empty. She wore the hospital garb she had been in when Bucky had brought here back. The bloodied, thin fabric hung off her gaunt form.

I took a step, then another, but the closer I got, the more the whiteness around me darkened and scenery sprung around me. A cell, guards donning a red emblem that made rage flicker in my gut, and Max remained in the middle of it all.

“Max?” I kept my voice low as a guard materialized next to me.

None of what was happening made sense. I had just been in the tower sitting next to her, then here? Something was very wrong.

“Max,” I stepped closer to the cell, this time raising my voice a bit more. “Hey, it’s Steve.”

She shifted, blinking a few times and hugging herself with a shiver. I noted the cold air when she did, suddenly very aware of how real this all seemed.

Her hair fell over her eyes, and she didn’t move to fix it. “You aren’t real.”

I paused at that, frowning. I looked around, taking in the scene around me. Because that’s what I thought it was. A scene, or a memory of some sort.

I recalled the brief description of Max’s new power that Wanda had briefed us on from her experience with it. It wasn’t much to go on, seeing as Wanda was unwilling to share too much of what she’d seen. But it was the concept that I was interested in.

Wanda had seen the same disturbing blue power flaring out from Max right before she was thrown into what I could only guess was Max’s memories. Which seemed the only logical conclusion I could find as I knelt by the cell.

This must’ve been somewhere she was kept, maybe even the exact cell she was in just weeks ago. I kept taking note of what was around me, how cold the air felt, the way I could hear the shuffling of the guards. It would be easy to confuse this for reality with how detailed it was.

But certain things didn’t line up.

There was emptiness on the other side of the door to the small cell, like nothing existed outside this room. The guards eye color changed, or the weapon they held would miraculously become something different when I glanced away. It was small things, but enough to solidify my theory.

“Max.”

This time, she glanced up. Her eyes were watery and red, and her mouth was a flat emotionless line. “I really don’t need you to taunt me, Steve. Can’t you see I’m done? Can’t you see I’ve given up? It’s over!I’m tired of the pain, the hate. I’m just… I’m so tired.”

“Hey, don’t say that.” I gripped the bars, “I’m not here to taunt you, or anything like that. I…” I swallowed hard. “I was actually apologizing to you before. I knew you couldn’t hear me, but I needed to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I treated you, how unkind I was. You didn’t deserve that. I just didn’t understand before, I didn’t know why you were the way you are.”

Her face scrunched up in disbelief as a bitter laugh echoed off the walls. “God, even my hallucinations make you sickeningly righteous.”

I blow out a breath at that, reminding myself that she doesn’t understand that this is literally all in her head. And that she does have every right to be bitter with me. I was a prick.

“This isn’t a hallucination,” I keep my voice even and low. “What do you remember before this?”

She frowned, her eyes far off and her skin getting impossibly paler. “Winter. I remember Winter outside that door.” She nodded towards the steel door across from her, and a shadow moved over the window.

I reminded myself that this wasn’t real, and focused back on her and not the looming silhouette outside of the room. “That was real. Very real. Bucky rescued you two weeks ago. You’re currently in a coma at the tower.”

Her eyes widened, and her head started shaking slowly.

“Max, just listen to me. I’m not lying to you. Bucky got you out of here. Your powers— the new ones, they’re keeping you and I in here. Just a few minutes ago, I was sitting next to your hospital bed in the tower. I swear to you, I’m telling the truth.”

Max just stared and stared, her brows pitched upwards and a lost, almost helpless expression pouring over her features. After a while, she finally spoke up. “What do I do? I don’t know how to… how to get us out.”

I blew out a breath, looking around. There wasn’t anything obvious that indicated an exit other than the door. I glanced back at the cell, which now had a door where only bars had been moments ago. I blinked, “I think you just have to want to leave.” I nodded towards the cell door.

I watched her process things, her eyes flitting around the room to the guards. “They’ll try to stop me.”

I shook my head, patting my chest. “I’ll keep them from doing that if they try, okay?”

She looked at me then, a million emotions in her eyes. Vulnerability wasn’t something I was used to seeing from Max, and it twisted something in my heart.

Something I hadn’t felt for a hundred years.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

On shaky legs, she shuffled towards the cell and gripped the bars. With a gentle tug, the door creaked open and her eyes bounced between the guards. None of them moved, but I moved towards her anyway. She needed to feel safe.

I offered my hand, smiling in what I hoped looked like an encouraging gesture. She took it, her pale hand gripping mine like a lifeline as she padded quickly towards the steel door to the room. It groaned as she yanked it open, and we were plunged into reality.

———

Max-

I gasped for air, my throat burning as I registered the world around me. The real one, I hoped.

Bright lights blinded me overhead, and a tube was lodged in my throat. I reached up, yanking out the wires and needles in my arm in the process, and pulled it out. I coughed, gagging for a moment before I could finally just breathe.

Steve was slumped in the chair next to me, his body twitching every few seconds. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing steady. Alive, at least.

I gathered my wits, taking a few minutes to assess my body. Steve had said I was out for two weeks, and the improvement of my condition from the last time was proof enough. I wasn’t hungry, for one. No pains in my body. I didn’t feel like my mouth was full of sand when I swallowed, which means I was hydrated for the first time in a while.

I was… fine. Alive, breathing, and whole.

Mostly.

The clicking was still there. It reverberated through my skull making me hyper aware of every move I made, metallic and haunting.

I shoved it out of my mind, as far as I could. I just needed to get out of this bed. I needed… I needed to see what they’d done to me. I needed to make sure I was really here. That this was real and not some twisted mind game again.

With heavy limbs, I swung myself to the side of the bed. If this was really the tower, Friday would’ve already notified Tony or someone to come check on me immediately. Which meant my time frame was severely limited.

I made my way into the elevator, hustling as much as my groggy body would allow, and punched my floor number. It rose, and I counted the numbers lighting on the panel as they passed. When it leveled with my floor, I waited long enough to squeeze through the opened doors and hurried to my door. I shoved it open, noting the crumpled covers and the distinct smell of leather and that familiar cologne.

I took a moment to close my eyes, to breathe him in even if he wasn’t truly here. It was a small hint that maybe… maybe it really was real. I didn’t let it sit with me long, snapping open my eyes and storming to the bathroom.

I ripped off the hospital gown and let my eyes roam over my pale skin. Scars, all new, peppered my body where none had been before. Pale shimmering skin where my regeneration had tried and failed to heal them correctly. I lifted my eyes more, noting more as I kept looking upon my image in the mirror. When I got to my neck, my heart stalled.

There, right next to the column of my throat, was the distinct insignia of Hydra. The skin wasn’t shimmery, not completely, anyways. Like part of it had healed when I was still under whatever was in that injection. Parts of it were deep pink, nearly red against the shimmery pale counterparts. But it was unmistakable even with the frankenstein healing. Hydra had marked me permanently, like property.

Rage clawed at my chest, seeped into my veins, and solidified my resolve.

I went to the nightstand, pulling out my belongings, and then reaching under the bed for my ammo box. I set them on the covers before yanking out the duffel I hid along with them, and shoved everything inside.

I made quick work with my small closet, packing the most useful, purposeful items I owned and a few I had sentimental value in, and shoved them in too. I changed into a hoodie and a pair of cargo pants, lacing my boots and pulling my hand gun from under the nightstand, shoving it into my waistband.

I didn’t really think about what I was doing. It was instinct and muscle memory alone. When it was all done, and the room looked vacant and bare of any hint of me, I paused to think.

To consider what I was about to do.

What I was about to leave.

The tower and the Avengers had been a home to me. They’d been friends and family. I’d… I’d allowed myself to put down roots for the first time and I was about to tear them out. Tony would be devastated, and so would Thor and Peter. The others, I wasn’t so sure.

I’d hurt them. I knew what I’d done would come back to haunt me every night for the rest of my life. I knew that some of them wouldn’t be able to forgive me. That Wanda would seek me out for revenge someday and she might succeed.

I couldn’t stay. It would hurt them more than I already had. They would be better off… happier, if I did what I’d always done and disappear.

So I grabbed a notebook from my shelves, scribbled down a few things and labeled them, leaving them neatly on the bed. I hesitated a moment longer before writing something for Bucky. Even if he didn’t love me, or he wasn’t alive to read it, whatever the case… he deserved closure.

The elevator pinged down the hall, and I hauled the bag over my shoulder. With one look back around my room, I locked the door and turned towards the balcony.

When I stepped out, the cool air was welcome as it nipped at my skin. The cool metal of the hand railing was a solid reminder of reality. Of this place, and what waited for me beyond.

I glanced down at the pavement below, knowing the jump would hurt like hell. I’d live though, probably be healed by the time I made it to the end of the block.

I steeled myself with a breath, and one last look out at the city.

This would be the last time I saw it for a long time. It was time for me to start my own path, to follow my own desires and make my own decisions. I was out from Hydras thumb, and I would make sure it stayed that way forever. I would never be put in a position like that ever again, and anyone who tried to take my freedom from me again… I’d tear them apart.

It was time for a new leaf, for the past to be laid to rest. I’d rend Hydra from this earth, and make a new name for myself.

Pounding started on the door, muffled voices shouting behind it, but I didn’t turn back. Instead, I hauled myself over the railing and plummeted down…

To a new beginning.

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[brain-deadx0]

There is a way to imply enemies to lovers in a summary while still giving the overall plot. Romance novels do it all the time. Like, "Superhero Man and Captain Villain have been enemies nearly as long as they've been a hero and a villain. But what happens when these two enemies face a threat to both their lives in the form of an alien space cat bent on turning the world into its personal playground?"

Like, you can guess there will be some sort of enemies to friends thing going on while still knowing that the plot is two guys have to stop an alien invasion and thats from like, half a paragraph. Give people a reason to want to learn about your characters. Why are superhero man and captain villain enemies? What happens to make them interact when the space cat shows up? Why did the space cat show up in the first place?

Sorry it’s early but you really can’t use fanfiction terms in a non fanfiction context like if someone is trying to sell me a book to read and they tell me there’s an enemy to lovers I would be annoyed because why are you spoiling the story lol