#now I can use fancy words to prove my point

[machiavelli]

Next time someone tries to manipulate me I’ll drop in their face a beautiful semantic analysis.

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[choslut]

u asked for vi thirsts and i simply couldn't NOT show up for our girl.

uhm. care to discuss asking vi as a +1 to a council gala? (and perhaps. the semi-public hooking up that occurs as a consequence of vi just chugging the fancy champagne???)

warnings : semi-public fingering, oral sex, drinking, dirty talk

a/n : this kinda carries on from my most recent vi fic, pussy talk, but also not really… imagine an alternate ending where you do end up going to the gala and vi just can’t keep her eyes (or hands) off of you…

mental note : keep vi far, far away from the drinks at galas.

it started with the welcoming drinks, carried around in tall bubbly flutes by uniformed waiters. vi was more than happy to accept — there’s no limit on welcoming drinks, right? — and by the time everyone is seated, vi has downed at least 5 flutes of champagne.

it's dangerous, having a tipsy vi next to you whilst the councillor's give their welcoming speeches. unlike you, she fucking hates formal events. they're so and boring and so very painfully formal, and she'd much rather be at home with you, strewn across the couch, doing much less formal activities.

now, sober vi would keep these thoughts to herself and instead just fantasize, zoning out to the sound of droning voices as she ogles at you in your gorgeous gala getup. but right now, vi is not sober, and the speeches are getting on her last fucking nerve, so she decides to take matters, or more so, you, into her own hands.

going to council galas with vi can be risky, because as the speeches reach their climax, so, subsequently, are you, writhing in your seat as vi rubs at your clit under the table. your girlfriend is impatient, even more so when tipsy and even worse when drunk, and try as you might to pry your hands away from the wet haven in between your legs, all efforts prove futile.

you're fighting to keep your mouth shut, to appear like your girlfriend isn't threatening to spear you on her thick fingers in the middle of the regal event hall. if there weren't so many eyes on you, you would probably whisper at her to stop it, but that would bait you out, so you let her continue.

vi may have hands dirtied by the juices flooding from your cunt, but her mouth is even dirtier. fueled by the champagne and the glass of ridiculously expensive whiskey she's sipping on, her lips begin to quietly whisper dirty nothings in your ear, words that would shock anyone who had the (dis)pleasure of hearing them.

"let's get outta here baby, fuck," she drawls quietly, powdery blue eyes staring at the point where her wrist is surrounded by the bunched up silk of your skirt. " 's boring, no?"

"you're such a slut for letting me at you like this in public, cupcake. what d'you think they would say if they knew, hm?" that's precisely what you're worried about, what the attendees would say if they knew your current position. so, to appease vi (and to save yourself from degrading public scruitny), you stand up and drag her out silently by the wrist of the same hand she just used to finger you silly.

bonus : you most definitely drag vi off to the bathrooms just to kiss that stupid, triumphant smirk off of her face, and the night ends (somewhat early) with the door of the bathroom locked, and you hoisted up onto the sink, back against the mirror and hands carded through her mussed pink locks as she eats you out like you're her last meal.

it doesn't matter anyways. vi wasn't in the mood for fancy steak and potatoes, much preferring to have you for dinner instead.

© choslut — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

[dismalflo]

Chamomile tea and cold feet

Sirius black x reader who enjoy a quiet night ✩ 688 words

cw: just fluff

an: not sure how much i like this one but i think its cute

This february is longer and colder than you remember last year being. It feels like you're at work for longer than you actually are and there's not enough time for the simple pleasures of your little life.

But here, nestled in the warm glow of your bedroom, under the soft weight of the blankets, sipping chamomile tea, you feel almost content. Almost, because Sirius is still in the bathroom, taking far too long, far too hot of a shower.

He’d flashed that mischievous grin of his before he disappeared into the bathroom, a teasing invitation to join him under the steaming water, all smooth seduction. But you had declined, enjoying the comfort of the bed too much, the chill of the outside world still clinging to your skin.

It’s funny how you’ve become used to the feeling of him around you. It’s as if, without him, the warmth of your own little world falters.

As if on cue, the bathroom door swings open, and there he is.

Sirius steps into the room, the steam from the bathroom clinging to his damp skin, his dark hair tousled, no doubt full of all his fancy products. He looks undone in the loveliest way, calm and comfortable.

You take a slow sip of your tea, pretending not to notice how his eyes slide over to you with a quiet amusement. He always has that look, like he’s about to say something he probably shouldn’t, but instead, he just lets the silence settle between you two.

Sirius moves towards the bed, his bare feet silent on the floor. He leans down, brushing his lips softly against the top of your head, ‘Would you like another cup of tea gorgeous?’ he asks.

You glance up at him, unable to hide the small smile that tugs at your lips. There’s something about his presence, so at ease, that makes everything feel just a little bit brighter. Even when it’s February, and everything feels a little bit off-kilter.

You shake your head softly, setting your mug down on the nightstand with a gentle clink. ‘I’m good for now. Thanks, though.’

Sirius grins and drops down beside you, making himself comfortable under the covers. For a few moments, he just watches you, as if you’ve hung the moon, before the two of you drift into mundane conversation about your day. You used to worry that he might find the slow pace of your life boring, but when he looks at you like that, filled with such quiet affection, you wonder how you ever worried about that.

Eventually, you both settle in, ready for sleep to claim you, the weight of the day slipping away. But just as you're adjusting the covers, you narrow your eyes at him, a smirk playing at the edges of your lips.

’If you steal the covers like you did last night, I swear I’m putting my cold feet on you,’ you threaten.

Sirius freezes, a mock horror crossing his face. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he challenges, but you can hear the faintest tremor of laughter in his voice.

‘I absolutely would,’ you reply, curling your toes against the cool sheets as if to prove your point.

Before he can respond, you inch your toes closer to him, just enough to make him twitch. The moment your toes brush against shin, he jumps like he’s been shocked, scrambling to pull the covers up higher and twisting his body away..

You burst into laughter, watching as he twists and contorts, trying to escape your attack.

“That’s it,” he mutters, but there’s no hiding the way his lips twitch upward, even as he huffs in mock frustration.

In retaliation, he shuffles closer to you, caging you in his arms. His attack continues with soft, quick kisses, finding every patch of bare skin he can reach. His lips trail over your neck, your cheek, and the side of your jaw, until you’re nearly breathless from his teasing.

When he finally pulls you closer, his warmth settles against you, the steady beat of his heart a reminder that, despite the coldness of February, you’ve never been warmer.

[twola]

Firewater - Chapter 1

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

A heist does not go as planned, and you and Arthur are at each other's throats. A/N: A bit of a different direction with this one - expect short chapters, awkward situations, and hilarity out of this one. And updates, more regularly :) taglist: @v3lv3tf0x

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Next

ARIZONA, MAY 1897

“Y’know, if you had just listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

A large plume of smoke is your response—thick, lazy, and defiant as it floats skyward. Arthur leans back against a rough-hewn boulder like he’s got all the time in the world, even with the sting of failure hanging heavy in the heat. His hat is pushed low, casting a shadow across the narrowed set of his eyes. The desert sun hangs heavy in the sky, not a cloud to give a modicum of shade, not a single bit of respite. It's hot, hot and dusty, and a lizard scutters past his boot to hide under the red rock boulder he leans against. 

“Considerin’ half the time you opened your mouth you ain’t doin’ nothin’ but naggin’ me, ain’t worth it,” he retorts, voice cool as a mountain stream but just as cutting.

You don’t even think before you chuck a stale piece of bread at his damn head. It was all the food you salvaged after the botched heist, and even that’s been half-crushed in your saddlebag. He knocks it away with a practiced flick of his wrist, but his cigarette falls from between his lips and drops into the dirt.

Arthur scowls, jaw tightening as he crouches to pick it up. It’s dead, ruined. His hand stays near his boot for a second longer than necessary, like he’s weighing whether he should throw something right back.

“You are worse than a goddamn child,” he growls.

As if to prove his point, your boot stomps against the cracked earth with a sharp slap. Dust kicks up around your feet, and the sun— that merciless bastard that it is—beats down on your neck, sweat already drying into a salted layer.

“Oh, I’m the child? You were the one who ran in there like some hero outta one of those dime novels, guns blazin’ with no damn plan!”

“I had a plan,” he snaps.

“Your plan got us chased out by six bounty hunters, two guard dogs, and a woman swingin’ a broom like she meant it.”

“She did mean it.” He pauses, mouth twitching at the memory. “Caught me right in the jaw.”

“Good. Maybe she knocked some sense into you.”

Arthur pushes off the boulder, looming now, brushing his hands on his pants like he’s trying to scrub the conversation clean. “You didn’t exactly pull your weight neither. Hid behind them crates like a scared cat.”

You step forward, the distance between you shrinks to something dangerous. “I was covering your dumb ass, Morgan. I told you to wait for my signal.”

“And I told you I don’t take orders from—” he cuts off, teeth grinding.

“From me?” Your laugh is sharp, brittle. “Right, God forbid you take direction from someone with a brain between her ears.”

Arthur gets closer still. “You think you’re so much smarter than everybody else, huh? All them fancy words and smug looks, like you’re above it all. But you’re just like the rest of us. Mean and stupid.”

His breath is hot and whiskey-laced, as he leans in, brushing your cheek. “And reckless,” he adds with a sneer. “Don’t forget that.”

“Better reckless than cowardly.” You spit back at him, standing as firm and tall as you can when all six feet of him towers over your petite frame.

There’s a pause. His blue eyes go cold, a line drawn in the sand with your words.

You don’t mean it. Not really. But it’s out there now, and neither of you are ready to back down.

His voice drops low, warning. “You wanna say that again?”

“Why?” you scoff. “You gonna shoot me? Or just sulk at me until I drop dead?”

“I don’t shoot women,” he growls.

“That’s funny,” you snap. “You sure as hell don’t seem to have any problem talking to me like one of the boys.”

“You wish you were one of the boys.”

“No, I don't want to be treated like an idiot. Most of them boys are idiots. Like that would have gone any better with Marion.” You hiss Bill’s birth name with ridicule. Deservingly so.

Another step forward. Your chest brushes his now, breath and heartbeat tangled into something hot and furious and entirely unsustainable.

“You get treated how you act,” he says, quieter now. “You wanna act all tough? Fine, I’ll treat you like that.”

“Good,” you whisper, eyes blazing. “Then we understand each other.”

Silence. Except it isn’t really silence. It’s heavy with the cicadas screaming in the grass. With the crackle of heat in the rocks. With the sound of your breaths coming fast, too close together.

He looks at your mouth. You look at his. 

There is a danger in the air, a stillness that settles in before a rattlesnake bites. That’s all he is - poison and bluster. You want to slap him, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting that much of a rise out of you.

You scowl and turn on your heel, striding over toward your horse. Your boots angrily kick up dust under your skirts as you mount that spry little roan gelding. You pat his black mane and coo gently in his ear as you settle yourself in the saddle. 

You scowl when you get yourself situated and look back at Arthur, who remains exactly where you left him.

“You get to explain to Dutch why we ain’t got nothin’ outta this.” You snipe, eyes narrowing before your spurs dig into your gelding’s side, and he rears before bolting across the hard desert ground.

[russilton]

Huh crocheter George... I can see him doing it and he seems like a person that would make stuff for his friends?

Someone gave Carlos a crochet chili? So something like that

Obviously first to like Alex and Lando etc and now I want Lewis to be a bit jealous and offended that everyone seems to be getting something self made from George from him (except of course, it's fine to give something with potential mistakes to your best friend and other friends but to someone like Lewis? It would have to be perfect which means improving a lot before you dare present something....)

(Anon I have been working on this for months now- since you sent it, but you can’t complain it’s late or that I made it knitting instead of crochet since you got what is in essence, fic) (un-edited because my wife is sick, there was no planning, just vibes)

word count: 4679

It started as a stupid way to prove to Alex he did in fact have artistic skills. Somewhere between grainy YouTube videos and detangling knots it became a way to decompress between sessions, it made for good practice with repetitive actions and not making mistakes, something in following stitch patterns that isn't that different from memorising turns and breaking points.

Incorporating new colours and designs teaches him to build patterns in his head that help with race planning. It's surprising how much the skills intersect. The only problem that arose was just how many scarves he ended up with.

So, George makes everyone scarves. Everyone gets a scarf. It’s a straight line and easy to follow. He has to get rid of the results of his labour somehow.

Aleix? Scarf. Bono? Scarf. Marcus’ scarf has extra fancy tassels. Riki’s has his first ever pole time embedded in it in little pixelated number shaped stitches. Mike’s scarf is almost as long as he is tall, George finally conceding it was long enough when he ran out of yarn at that weekends race. Shov’s scarf is connected in a loop, when asked, George teases ‘it’s because you’ve been here forever, Andrew.’ and has to duck out of the room and set off running before it gets pelted at his head. Shov does keep it though, along with one George manages to slyly pay Anthony to slip into his bag for Jenson. Toto gets sent home with scarves for Susie and each of his children. His is hidden at the bottom, so George doesn’t have to look him in the eyes when he finds it.

George only has to squint at Fred with red ears and nose, on a chilly Silverstone test day huddled up beside Mick in their boyband style white puffers, before he’s handed a black and silver scarf a week later. It doesn’t matter how much he protests being from a northern circle country, if Valtteri got a scarf so does Fred.

The fact Valtteri’s attempt was one of his earlier ones and has a finger sized hole in it is of no consequence. After all, Alex’s scarf has more holes than it has clean runs, but George just tells him it’s to get him used to the Williams style of living. If James Vowles' scarf is a lot neater, George challenges Alex to go and fight him for it.

Charles gets one in a red so vibrant it almost glows, though it’s not until after a summer break, George wouldn’t be caught dead working with Ferrari red in his garage, even now. Mick’s is a similar red, if paler, patterned with a grid of white stitches, and he looks surprised when George drops it in his lap, but it morphs into his wide bright smile when George just nods at him. Even Nicky receives a scarf in Williams blue with little wonky maple leaves patterned in white down the length of it mailed to him after a particularly stressful season opening. Nicky's girlfriend sends him a photo of him wearing it while they stand in snow up to their ankles. It feels good to know he's doing alright.

Eventually George’s scarves get more and more complicated, new patterns and shapes appearing as he pushes the boundary of his easy little plans, and finds new ways to occupy his mind during the hardest parts of the season. Eventually even drivers George knows a little less well find themselves with an unlabelled gift George gets snuck to them— Yuki and Guanyu both have the good sense to not question it too hard. Esteban texts him a middle finger, but he doesn’t get it back.

Even Roscoe gets a scarf, perfectly shrunk in size for his boxy head, rows interwoven with yellow and purple that he wears proudly as a bulldog can for a modelling photo in his home in LA alongside Angela who’d been more than excited to partake in George’s unspoken mission. The Bulldog looks stylish and comfortable despite it not being even close to the right season for it. He’s a professional after all.

—

Lewis gets nothing, which, y’know, he’s fine with. Roscoe got one so that kind of counts, and he’s been told he’s hard to buy for with his eccentric fashion sense, doubled by the fact he has enough money that even he doesn’t know what to do with it all sometimes. He’s worn more scarves than most people have ever owned, the majority of them handed to him by his stylists and then neatly returned that same week, their loan period from the brands vying for his attention ending without much fanfare.

He’s only kept one or two that particularly held his interest, and while Lewis doesn’t know their exact price, he knows that they probably cost more than one of the team's laptops. While Lewis has long been comfortable with his wealth, every now and then it still catches him, like a missed tag in a shirt, itchy and distracting.

This was one of those times.

When he’d first seen the scarves popping up around the garage, in the early part of that season when they’re still racing in deserts and countries close to the equator, he assumed its a new fashion trend he just isn’t aware of yet. It doesn’t make sense to him the way trends usually do; the heat of the climate combined with the way all of them are so varied and different. The only connecting factor is the handmade air to them, holes and sloppy loops peppered across the lengths. He even starts to wonder if one of the mechanics partners was sending them to races with gifts.

Lewis is used to purposefully distressed fabrics, so it takes him longer than he’d care to admit to realise what’s going on. He really should have noticed when Bono got one, as notoriously intolerant to modern trends as he usually is, but it isn’t until Valtteri of all people texts him a photo of himself with one tucked around his neck and newly trimmed mullet on a cycling trip between races that he finally cracks.

———

[VB sent an image]

LH: Where the hell did you get that thing, I keep seeing them everywhere

VB: This is a moustache Lewis, you should be familiar with the concept

LH: Har har

LH: wise ass.

LH: I meant the scarf

VB: Ask your boytoy

VB: it was him who threw it at my head in Spa last week

LH: George???

VB: who else

LH: don’t call him that- since when is he buying everyone scarves?

VB: but you knew who I meant didn’t you

LH: answer the question

VB: I’m pretty sure he made it, there’s a lot of holes

LH: Since when does George knit?????

VB: these sound like questions for YOUR teammate, I have pedalling to do

VB: 👋➡️����‍♂️

LH: what the hell man

LH: did you seriously just ghost me rather than answer

LH: fuck you

LH: and your secrets

LH: I hope tiff beats you

LH: 🖕🏾

[Valtteri BottASS liked a message]

——

The conversation with Valtteri leaves him even more confused than he was before. Despite the fact he now has even more questions swirling around his head, he does not ask George what’s going on. The last thing he wants to do is find out why he’s been excluded from the man himself. Lewis chooses not to question exactly why that is.

He’s also glad he hadn’t asked his stylist to find it for him like he’d planned to, containing his mild embarrassment down to just Valtteri, who he’s reasonably sure won’t tell George he asked about it. Valtteri may deeply enjoy fucking with Lewis, but not enough to have a conversation with George about it. If there’s one thing Valtteri objects to on all levels it’s being involved in… whatever is going on between Lewis and George.

Lewis isn’t quite sure what it is either. They’ve been dancing around each other for years now, Lewis isn’t quite sure when George turned from colleage to friend, and he really doesn’t know where they stand now they’re teammates who spend almost every week together in some form. The formality of clear labels was lost somewhere in the late night strategy sessions and food shared at different tables across the world at every hour of the day, from late breakfasts in Qatar to eyes-barely-open meals at 3am in Singapore. He wouldn’t call George his best friend… but he’s not sure he would call George just his teammate anymore either. He’s George. Whatever that means.

That lack of definition bites him in the ass sometimes, such as cases like this one where he has no idea what he is to George in return.

In his final year with Mercedes it had only gotten harder to figure out where they stood. In the years prior it had been a little easier at least, they'd had their ups and downs as they fought the car and worked hard not to fight with each other, but they'd always settled somewhere level. George's warmth toward him had felt unshakable.

Now it feels like they're both in some kind of pendulum motion, sliding from a desire to keep some distance, to make it hurt less, to an almost clingy need to soak up the time they have remaining together. It feels silly really, it's not like Lewis is retiring, he'll still be there, a couple doors down from George...but he can't escape the reality of knowing it'll be different.

Coupling that with his already complicated and grief heavy emotions about the entire team, and the fact their needs don't exactly line up most weekends, it's been a hard year. Lewis is pretty sure he's pulled George into more hugs this season than he has any other teammate before, but that didn't stop the sting of weeks where George seemed to catch a glance at him and turn tail and run for his drivers room. He doesn't feel particularly emotionally intelligent, but the slip of pain and something pinched in George's too clear eyes had been plain as day.

He knows there's nothing he can really do about it other than let George feel what he feels, but it still felt like a balm when George would grab his hand after a good race with that crazed joy in his eyes he always got, sweat practically flicking off every strand of his hair, and smile so bright it shone reserved just for Lewis, rubbing away any awkward moments from that weekend, like when George had winced when Lewis as squeezed his hand in greeting in Silverstone, mumbling something about sore fingers that Lewis hadn't understood.

Coming into their final races together as they do now, every movement feels amplified, every gesture and discussion hangs with the weight of being potentially his last with his team the team. Thoughts about George and scarves get lost in the heat of desert tracks and a cloying grief he finally has to face head on without the facade of getting through the year. He's not sure he's ever felt this emotional in his life. Leaving Mclaren had been a breath of fresh air and a weight lifted even if he'd loved what they had achieved together. Leaving Mercedes feels like moving away from England for the first time, unsure of what will be on the other side, or if he'll be able to make somewhere foreign and so different feel like his home again. Unsure if he wants to.

George seems to almost disappear behind that. Lewis figures he's giving him time to say goodbye to his team uninterrupted. Despite the fact George had been part of the Mercedes family in a way almost as long as Lewis has driven for them, they both know there's something different about it, and he's thankful for the space. He can press down the guilty, aching and confusing emotions he has about George into a box in the back of his mind to be handled late. He doesn't have time to unpack Georges furtive, almost nervous peeking at him between monitors when he's listening to Shov present their debrief for what might be the last time.

That's does however leave him ultimately unprepared for when George does finally demand his attention, by appearing on the doorstep of his drivers room after they're wrapped up for the evening, qualifying finished and preparations for the race day concluded, with what appears to be a colourfully wrapped lump in his arms.

Lewis is still blinking at the shiny obstacle between them, overhead lights glinting off the chrome coloured paper, when George speaks.

'Sorry mate, I hope I didn't interrupt anything did I?' His voice is oddly high pitched, sounding a little like when Lewis knows he's trying to lie to Toto about how much sleep he's had.

'No man I was just packing up for the night'

'Mind if I come in before you leave? It won't take long I promise,'

Lewis murmurs a quiet uh sure as he steps back, gesturing George inside and then shutting the door behind them as he see's curious eyes in the engineering bay start glancing over toward them. Even Bono, Mike, and Marcus, still clustered in the corner as normal poking away at their laptops seem to be looking over, trying and failing to seem subtle as if Lewis hasn't had over a decade to pick up on what Bono looks like when he's trying to listen to gossip.

In the privacy of Lewis' drivers room George spins around to face him and before he can even ask what's going on, George is pushing the thing he brought with him into Lewis' grasp

The parcel isn't too dense, but there's a weight to it that feels like it has to be good deal heavier than the wrapped scarves Lewis had watched George pass out in the past, and it looks at least three times the size them. Lewis barely has a second to try and figure out what it is before George’s fingers twitch toward him, like he’s itching to pull it from Lewis’ hands and unwrap it himself because Lewis is being too slow. Wordlessly, Lewis holds the package back out, gesturing for George to go ahead, and rather than steal it back out of his hands, George crowds up into his space to start unpicking the paper.

George’s wrapping handiwork has never been strong, but Lewis can’t really pay attention to that when George is this close, towering above him but seeming almost small in his nervousness. The moment feels strangely intimate as George slips those long fingers between his own crumpled tape job, tugging the attached parts free until he pulls back the final fold to reveal his signature woven handiwork.

George steps back then, leaving Lewis holding his presented gift in a cradle of paper. Out of the corner of his eye Lewis sees him twist and wring his fingers together as he watches, but Lewis can barely focus on how George might be feeling as a wave of... something hot and warm rushes over him.

The lump turns out to be a jumper. It's a bright mustard yellow, rich and bold. Or at least, part of it is, the arms and chest in one continuous colour that ends abruptly partway down the torso when one line stops and continues in a slightly paler shade. The difference is almost imperceptible, and likely would hidden entirely if the colours weren’t butted up against each other like this, juxtaposed the way they are. Towards the hem of the thing, the colour shifts again, one step lighter for the last handful of rows falling at the waistline, the changes creating a gradient down the body. When Lewis traces it with his eyes, he can spot small areas in the neck and wrists where the pattern falters, warped patches that correct quickly but don’t quite line up with those around them. Rather than make the whole item look bad, there’s an odd personality to it, a touch of handmade individuality compared to a lot of the pristine items Lewis gets handed by his stylist, not a spec of lint in sight despite the fact they aren’t headed to a closed catwalk, but a dusty paddock.

As his fingers lift the folded bulk of it he spots a little detail along the neckline, a tiny, almost unnoticeable LH in a dark gold colour that would settle in line with his ear. Surely enough on the right side, there's a tiny 44 in the same font, the pair crowning his shoulders. Twisting the woollen form again, he sees there are tiny stars stitched into the cuffed sleeves in the same colour. There's seven by his count, and an eighth peeking out from the inner band where it would press against his wrist.

He's not sure how long they've been stood together now, silent but for the rustling of paper and the jumper as Lewis studies George's work. As he finishes his inspection he becomes aware of the anxious energy practically radiating off George in the silence that the same man finally snaps and breaks.

'I know its uh, pretty hot where we are but I figured, when you get back home- I mean when you get back to England you can- I tried to finish it earlier but-' George stumbles, words sounding unsure and faux light before Lewis interrupts him

'Did you make this?' He breaths, fingers pressing into the stitches as if it might tell him instead.

'Yeah, I wanted to make something... bigger. I know it's not quite what you're used to with the fashion stuff but I thought...well I don't know what I thought' George explains, words trailing into a lilting mumble. When Lewis' eyes dart up to meet his face, George's cheeks are glowing even in the low light of the one lamp he'd left on, face twisted as if braced for a blow. Like he thinks Lewis is going to be mad at him for this, somehow.

'George...man...'

'Sorry- It's stupid I know, if you don't like it I'll take it back, I won't be mad, I swear-' George isn't looking at him anymore, eyes darting around at his feet and his hands that he shoves into his pockets only to yank them out and wring them together again, fidgeting so he doesn't have to meet Lewis' gaze. His uncertainty makes Lewis' stomach hurt.

'It's perfect'

'I can even save the yarn, it's not actually that hard to unravel- what?'

'It's perfect, George, I really like it' He repeats, grabbing Georges arm with the hand he isn't cradling the jumper with, forcing George to stop trying to climb the walls with his eyes and look at him properly.

'You do?'

'Of course? Did you think I wouldn't like it?'

'I dunno I just- I wanted to make something special.' George rasps, surprisingly wet looking eyes boring into his. That stumps Lewis, and he has to drop his eyes back down to the gorgeous golden knit work, so undeniably a labour of care. It must have taken months, When Lewis was so deep in his own head trying to figure out if George felt anything or was just waiting for him to leave, the man himself was working in secret on something just for Lewis.

'How long did this take you?' He whispers into the space between them, not sure he even wants to know the answer, fingers still wrapped almost too firmly around Georges arm, a little worried George might run for the gates of the paddock if he lets go.

'You don't want to know- since before Imola at least. I normally just do scarves cause uh, they're just straight lines y'know.' George starts tentatively, before the dam seems to burst and he begins rambling 'I had to unpick half of it in October cause I'd counted wrong and it was shaped like a pear- there's still some wrong bits I couldn't fix, sorry about that- and I hope its the right size I had to ask Angela for them and she said they're a couple years old and-'

He continues but now it's Lewis' turn to freeze up, puzzle pieces clicking together in his head as he realises George has been working on something just for him since at least May. For over 7 months while Lewis was absorbed in fighting the car and his own emotions George was working away at something specifically for him, without even being sure if he would like it.

George has started to go off into a tangent about getting knitting needles through airport security when Lewis finally stops him, squeezing his arm.

'Why... why'd you do all that just for me?' He grits out, voice scratching against his raw throat, trying to make eye contact with George so he might read it in his face why the hell George put more effort in for him than anyone else.

'Just for you- Blimey, Lewis, cause I had to say thank you somehow, didn't I?'

'Cause I'm leaving?'

'No! No- 'cause you stayed. 'Cause you made me feel like this is my home too. 'Cause you listened to me and never made me feel too young or not good enough when I made mistakes and you never treated me like the enemy or just some guy across the garage. I know I keep saying it but you probably saved my career-'

'George- you would have been fine without me, you've always been good-' Lewis tries to interject, but George just steamrolls past him.

'Yeah but- you didn't make me figure that out on my own. I learned more in a month with you than three years at Williams. You made me a better person'

'George-'

'Please, I know it's a bit much, maybe, but I just had to do something before you left, so you knew.' George's voice cracks a little over the last words, and Lewis doesn't feel much better, eyebrows furrowed and throat clogging as he tries to choke down the indescribable feeling climbing up his throat and threatening to suffocate him in response to George's frank honesty. He's always been better at being vulnerable than Lewis.

He doesn't know what to say anymore, how to tell George that it was never a hardship to be his teammate, that Lewis was the one who struggled to articulate what George meant to him. That he's going to miss this like breathing and he wasn't prepared for that.

Words have never been his strong suit though, so instead he turns slightly and gently throws the jumper onto the nearest couch, ensuring its landed safely and ignoring Georges noise of confusion before he turns and drags George into his arms.

It's become natural, to hug George, another thing that's evolved over the last couple seasons when Lewis would have sworn himself touch averse for the most part. His arms wrap tight around George, one clutching at the middle of his back as the other skates up to cup around the back of his head, fingers slipping on shower damp hair and George's shirt collar.

George's nose tucks into his neck like routine, cheek pressed hard into Lewis' as he winds a long arm around the shorter man's neck to clutch at his shoulder, the other tugging at Lewis' shirt, gripping like Lewis is going to pull away, as if he hadn't initiated it.

Lewis squeezes harder than he imagines is probably comfortable, but George just makes a wet noise into his neck and digs his head down harder, fingers clutching tighter as Lewis runs a thumb over his hairline. There's a damp feeling growing on Lewis' shoulder but he doesn't care, he's not sure how he isn't tearing up himself, maybe he would be if he wasn't trying to memorise the feeling of how George fits against him.

It crashes over him then, blunt as a hammer, that this is what he's afraid of losing. He's afraid of losing this closeness with George when he leaves, when he's no longer going to be the experienced, advising teammate but just another obstacle on the grid George needs to climb over. He might lose the George who crowds into his space looking for Lewis to celebrate with him this way. He might lose the joy and adrenaline of George flinging himself at Lewis with the confidence that he will be caught, when it might be strange if they aren't teammates.

'I'm sorry' he blurts out, words crawling from somewhere in his lungs, only for George to make a confused noise, trying to pull back and stopping when Lewis only grips harder.

'What're you sorry about' George gets out, words wet and quiet where they are muffled against Lewis' shoulder.

'About this, the hugging, I just-' Lewis starts, but George just laughs at him, damp and a little hysterical, face tilting till their noses are practically brushing so he can look at Lewis from within his embrace.

'The last thing you ever have to be sorry for, is hugging me. You can do it more if you want'

Lewis stares at him for a second, gaze darting over George's lax but wet eyes, and the way his cheek smushes into Lewis' shoulder at an angle that must be uncomfortable but yet he makes no attempt to move away from, and yet another thing clicks into place, very much the theme of the evening. He was clearly teasing, but even Lewis can hear the truth under his words.

He brushes a seeking thumb over the nape of George's neck, dragging across the hot skin there. George shivers, fingers flexing against Lewis back, and that's all the permission he needs to tip his mouth onto Georges, lips slotting together in a kiss he hadn't even realised he'd wanted.

It's hardly picture perfect. George's face is sticky from his own tears and Lewis can taste it on his lips, his own cheeks are hot and itchy, and the angle they're at makes the seal of their mouths messy at best, and yet its the best thing Lewis has ever tasted. The hand George had at his shoulder slips along to thumb Lewis' jaw, pressing over his beard, and Lewis wants to drown in it. All his experience flies out the window in the face of following his gut and holding George as close as he can manage.

The slide of their mouths should really be indecent, wet as it is, and he's starting to think a little about being too loud, when he shifts slightly and George makes a breathy whimpering noise that sends any worries about being overheard right out of his head.

Time melts a little, as they curl together, until Lewis' neck really can't tolerate the angle anymore, and he has to pull back, panting harshly just in time for something to go clattering the the floor outside in the engineering bay, making them both jump and reminding them abruptly that they are in fact still at work, in thrown up rooms with paper thin walls that the cleaning staff are going to want to vacuum soon, as thorough as they are.

'We probably shouldn't be- well- we probably should have figured this out before now' George muses, still sounding awful breathless for an athlete Lewis seen run several miles for fun. They'd pulled apart a little in shock at the noise outside, but he's still gripping Lewis' arm, and there's that bright, beautiful smile creeping across his face again.

Lewis glances just over his shoulder, where the jumper is still lying haphazardly on the sofa.

'I dunno, Man. Better late than never?'

[ms-hunter59]

double agent - Scaramouche x reader (lowkey freaky but not smut!)

Summary:

After ambushing the wrong person, you find yourself in a precarious situation - locked up by the Balladeer because he's convinced you're a spy for the Resistance. Since you have nothing better to do with your life, you decide to mess with him a bit.

* * * * *

Rain falls upon me in heavy sheets. It soaks through my hair, through my ragged clothes, but it does nothing to stifle the overwhelming heat within me. It’s become a familiar heat at this point, a mix of anger, tension and an overly passionate need to prove the whole world wrong.

I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. They call me a thief? Can’t deny it one bit. Street rat? Where else am I supposed to go. Murderer? Guilty as charged. I’m far past the point of worrying about the opinions of the people who used to know me, let alone strangers. They can’t pretend to care now, not when they left me in the dust when I needed their help the most.

I crouch a little lower behind the thick bush, not that anyone could really see me in this downpour anyway. I usually target the merchant carts heading towards Inazuma City. Not food, not necessities, but things like luxury silk or jewelry. I only take a bit each time, enough for me to get the money I need without getting too greedy with it. I don’t claim to be fair when it comes to stealing, as I’m sure I’ve taken things from good people as well as the bad ones. But I can’t afford to starve to death when there are still people roaming this planet that haven’t paid for their crimes. Crimes infinitely worse than I could ever commit.

Rain is the perfect weapon to use alongside my cryo Vision. How I’ve managed to avoid the clutches of the Vision Hunt Decree, I have no idea, but I have. After all, if I did get caught, I’d be in trouble for a lot more than just owning a Vision. But so far I’ve been lucky, and ever since I moved my territory out of Inazuma City directly, I’ve had far fewer run-ins with any guards.

But even then, I've been struggling lately. Merchants have been travelling with guards in tow, and I have a feeling it might be because of me. A cart and a single merchant is fine, but it gets trickier when there are people trained to fight in the equation. I'd only be asking for trouble if I tried to attack a whole squad like that.

I catch some movement in the corner of my eye, and a person comes into view. Despite their short stature, I realise it's a man, and not a child either. By the looks of his attire, I doubt he's a simple farmer or a fisherman, especially with a hat like that.

I'd like a hat like that. Once it stops raining, I could sell it for a hefty price. It looks fancy enough.

I scope the area, but when I see there's no one else in sight, I make my move. I'm quick on my feet, the rain muffling my steps as I jump over the bush and sneak up on the man from behind. The blade of my knife presses against his neck, and I can feel him tense against me.

“Give me everything you have,” I murmur into his ear. “The hat too.”

The man doesn't argue, doesn't say a word, but he doesn't move either. My face twitches in frustration. I'm used to seeing people tremble, beg for mercy, but now it's as if I've stopped him just to ask for the time.

“Now,” I say, my tone harsher. “I’m not gonna repeat myself.”

“You're joking, right?” he finally says, not a hint of fear in his voice. He sounds more bored than anything. My frown deepens, and I shift my grip on the knife's handle.

“I'm not joking,” I snap. To my surprise, the man lets out a dry laugh.

“Then you're more pathetic than I thought.” Before I can react, he grabs my wrist, twists it, and slams me against a nearby tree trunk. He pins my hands above my head, practically crushing my bones to make me drop the knife. I stifle a painful groan. He presses my own blade against my throat.

He looked so harmless…

“I'd call you brave if you weren't so incredibly stupid,” he says, his lips curling into a mocking snarl. “Ambushing me like this, you’ve really got some nerve.”

I scoff. Why is he acting like his importance rivals the Shogun or something? He’s probably nothing but a spoiled rich boy who likes to think his existence has great meaning in this world.

His eyes narrow at my scoff, and I feel the blade scrape the surface of my skin. He pulls my scarf off my face, his gaze running over my features. He’s surprisingly strong for his size, though I guess people could say the same about me.

“You’ve been following me, haven’t you?” he says. “I saw you in that little village this morning.”

This makes me pause. “Wait, what? No, I haven’t–”

“Don’t waste your breath.”

“I genuinely have no idea–”

“You think I wouldn’t notice, huh? I’m honestly offended. What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

I begin to realise that I would really be wasting my breath arguing with him. For some reason, this weirdo is convinced I’m stalking him, and since I was in that village this morning, I don’t exactly have an excuse that could change his mind.

“No counterargument? I was wondering how long you’d last,” he says in mock disappointment.

“There’s nothing I can say. You caught me,” I reply, managing a small shrug as my wrists are still pinned above me. If he’s so paranoid as to think he has people following him, I might as well mess with him a bit.

Either he’ll kill me now, or later. It makes no difference to me.

He frowns, confused by my sudden acceptance of defeat. My lips twitch into a smile. “You know, you’re not exactly hard to follow. You stand out like a snowman on a hot summer’s day with that big ass hat–”

My jeering is short-lived when he lets out a scoff, raises his arm, and with one swift movement, my whole world goes black.

* * *

I come to my senses, only to find myself restrained by heavy chains wrapped around my whole body. My head is pounding in a way that reminds me of the last time someone had knocked me out like this, and I try to swallow the dry feeling in my mouth.

It takes me a moment to realise that, despite trying to open my eyes, I can’t see a thing. It seems as if I’ve been blindfolded by my own scarf, and I begin to wonder what could that angry little man possibly want with me. I’m as valuable as an old shoe, if even that.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice calls out, one that I can vaguely match to the guy’s face. His footsteps approach my helpless body on the cold stone floor, and I feel him nudge me with the tip of his boot. “Sit up,” he commands, leaving no room for argument.

Since he notices my inability to push myself up into an upright position, he grabs the chain and yanks me upwards. I grunt, shifting into a not so comfortable and completely vulnerable position. “A blindfold? Really?” I say, which makes him huff. He pulls it off my head, letting the room around us come into view.

It looks nothing better than a prison cell, only much more spacious. More like a storage room of sorts, now meant to store me. There’s no natural light, no windows, no way to escape other than the door behind him.

What kind of nutcase did I run into?

My gaze meets his, the torchlight making him appear much more menacing than before. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he left his silly hat in the corner of the room. Maybe my taunting had gotten to him.

“Who do you work for?” he asks, his tone firm. I was planning on chit-chatting a bit, but clearly he wants to get straight into it.

“None of your business,” I respond. I have no idea where my courage is coming from, but all I know is that if I don’t keep up this brave front, I’ll lose my fucking mind.

“You can’t work alone, that wouldn’t make any sense, so I can only assume you were sent by the Resistance. Or perhaps your loyalties don’t lie with Inazuma at all.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I say, which earns me a sharp slap across my left cheek. My head flies to the side, and I let out a short breath. My head isn’t exactly in perfect condition after being knocked out so violently, so I have a feeling I might start seeing stars soon.

“I don’t have time for your remarks. If you want me to kill you, just say so. It’ll save me a lot of trouble,” he replies. “If you don’t answer me honestly, I won’t hesitate to rid the world of excessive scum like you.”

“Ask away, then,” I say, tilting my head at him. He hums, and after a short pause, he begins to circle around me in a slow, almost predatory manner.

“What’s your mission?”

“I was told to find out more about you.”

“I’m surprised they even know I’m here.”

“They know a lot more than you think,” I reply. I have no clue who they are, but they’re clearly a threat to him. Maybe he really thinks I’m with the Resistance.

“What else do they know about me?” he asks, stopping right in front of me. He crouches down to meet at eye level.

“Sorry, confidential information.”

“It can’t be confidential if it’s about me. Go on, spit it out. You’ve been doing so good so far.”

“Then tell me something about yourself and I’ll tell you if I know it or not,” I say.

He lets out a snort, shaking his head. “I’m not sure that would work. It would benefit you a lot more than me.”

“Well, I have short term memory loss, so it’s not like I’d even remember anything to bring back,” I reply. He raises an eyebrow, amused by my comment.

“Really? So, if I, I don’t know, broke your finger right now, you wouldn’t even remember it in a few minutes?”

“What?”

His smirk widens. My smile drops. A disturbing crack fills the air as he grabs my index finger and twists it at an ungodly angle. Something between a yelp and a whimper escapes my lips and I bite my tongue to suppress the urge to scream. The pain is instant, spreading through my whole hand like a disease.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snap, my breathing heavy. “You just broke my finger!”

“What an astute observation. Good thing they made you a spy and not someone else, right?” he sneers, pushing himself up to his feet. “I’m sure they’re mourning your loss greatly.”

The door behind him slams open, revealing a masked man dressed in all red, bearing some sort of fire gun. I have a feeling I’ve seen soldiers dorning that attire before, and it doesn’t take me long to add two and two together. The revelation sends an uneasy shiver down my spine.

This man works for the Fatui. And judging by the way the soldier addresses him, I doubt he’s just some lowly recruit.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but they want your approval on the newest batch for delivery,” the soldier says, giving him a salute. The man stands up, sparing me one last glance before turning to the door.

“Send someone to watch her for now,” he says. “We’ll talk later.”

“Wait, so you’re…?” I trail off, hoping he’d fill in the blank without me looking like I have no clue who he is. He eyes me once again, but responds without much hesitation.

“The Balladeer, yes.”

“Like, as in one of the Harbingers?” I ask. I’m praying that my deduction is correct, otherwise I have no idea how the Fatui works and why they would give everyone random mysterious nicknames.

“Are you stupid?” he replies. His responses shouldn’t surprise me at this point, but they still do. I blink.

“What?”

“I don’t have time for this right now. Shut up or I’ll have to gag you.”

I watch, perplexed, as he picks up his hat and storms out of the room. The soldier and I exchange a glance, though I can’t read his expression through his mask. He’s probably used to that lunatic, but even then I can feel the fear seeping out of him. He calls for two more soldiers, ordering them to never let me out of their sight, and he departs as well.

* * *

Feeding the Balladeer lies is, as it turns out, way easier than I expected. It doesn’t take me long to construct a fake identity thanks to his constant questioning. Living on the streets has taught me a thing or two about good acting, and he seems completely oblivious to the fact that not a single word that has come out of my mouth has been the truth. If I tried hard enough, I could probably convince him I’m the Raiden Shogun’s long lost sibling. Not that it would benefit me in any way.

For some reason, I’ve agreed to help him. His interrogation has led me to the information that the Fatui have plans to distribute these things called Delusions amongst the masses, and all I could hear from his words was business and money.

He calls me from my cell to his makeshift office in the Delusion factory one day. I can’t really complain about being held hostage like this – I’m warm, energised, and not exactly starving either. At least him keeping me here gives me the chance to get some scoop on the Fatui, something that might come in handy once I escape.

I knock on the door and he swings it open in an instant, a scowl on his face. “I called for you five minutes ago, what took you so long?” he snaps, letting me inside. I shrug.

“Your soldiers are quite chatty.”

“Which one?”

“Why? So you know who to kill?”

“I see you’re learning fast.”

He beckons me over to his desk and sits down, dipping his pen into a nearby inkpot. Not much of a time waster, I see. I settle myself on top of the desk by his right hand, amused by how he doesn’t even bother to hide the twitch of his eye. I take great pleasure in pissing him off, and he hasn’t even hurt me after the first time. Not only that, he even ordered one of his men to tend to my injury. My finger is now being held together by a sturdy stick, wrapped around in gauze.

“So, tell me everything you know again so I can write it down,” he says, spreading out a sheet of paper in front of him. I cross my legs and give him a puzzled look.

“Why can’t I just write it?”

“Because you’d have shit handwriting.”

“You don’t even know what my handwriting looks like.”

“You have a broken finger, dumbass.”

“I’m left-handed, dumbass.”

He shoots up and drops the pen onto the paper, splattering ink all over it. He runs me over with his gaze, taking a step closer until my knees are pressed against his stomach. To my astonishment, he pulls my legs apart and stands between them, just to get up in my face even more. “You really think you’re invincible, don’t you? Just because I haven’t killed you yet doesn’t mean I won’t,” he seethes.

I push down the fluttering feeling in my stomach as his hands don’t leave their place on my knees. “Why haven’t you, though?” I reply, my voice lower than usual. His eyes look like they’re trying to pierce a hole through my head.

“Why haven’t I?”

“Yeah, why haven’t you?” I repeat.

He lets out a small scoff. “Not to inflate your ego, but you’re too interesting to kill… at least now.”

“Oh? So you’ll get bored of me someday?” I say, cocking my head to the side. He follows the movement, his eyes tracing my face, landing on my lips before he meets my gaze again.

“Definitely. Unless you prove to be useful.”

I hum. His proximity makes my skin tingle with a heat I’m not familiar with. “How? By telling you all my secrets?”

“Or other ways. I’m sure I can figure something out for you,” he replies, his face growing dangerously closer to mine.

“So that means you’ll keep me here forever, then? Won’t I get on your nerves too much?”

“You won’t as long as you shut up once in a while,” he says, his eyes narrowed. My smile widens.

“I’m not sure I can promise that.”

“Just give it a try.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

I bite back a laugh. “Make me.”

His lips slam against mine with such force I nearly lose my balance on the edge of the desk, but he catches me, tangling one hand in the back of my hair, the other gripping my knee. I take in a sharp breath and my eyelids flutter shut, returning the kiss with just as much force. My heart pounds against my ribcage, so much so I fear it might burst out of my chest and jump into his.

He doesn’t let me go up for air, doesn’t even let me form a coherent thought as his tongue slips past my lips. His hand slides down from my hair to my hip, pulling me closer to him, letting me wrap one of my legs around his waist. He might be small, but I’m no giant either, and right now his presence towers over me in a way that makes me want him exponentially more.

He nips at my bottom lip, making me produce a small, pathetic whimper, crumbling my cocky attitude in an instant. He grips my clothes like the mere thought of them insults him. My hands slide up his chest to wrap around his neck, the last drop of sanity within me making sure I don’t hurt my finger even more.

He pulls away. His hand goes back up to my hair, pulling my head to the side to give him access to my neck. “You make me sick,” is the only thing he says before he dives in, his lips finding the sensitive skin on my neck. It’s like he’s fighting himself, his deepest desires against his better judgement.

I let out a small chuckle. “You must really love your enemies if this is how you show your hatred.”

“I thought I told you to shut up.” He bites my neck, making me gasp.

“Don’t act like you don’t love the sound of my voice.”

“I wasn’t kidding about that gag.”

“I bet you’d get off on seeing me tied up and gagged,” I reply. He raises his head from my neck, a small smirk on his lips.

“So would you, freak.” His mouth finds mine once more, and the more I kiss him, the more I’m grateful for the fact I wanted to mug him for his stupid ass hat in the first place.

[vermilionsun]

@muspellssynir I see you, you see me, we see eachother [OG Post here]

Word count: 750 Rating: General Audiences Fandom: Touchstarved (Red Spring Studio) Categories: Other Relationships: Ais/MC, Ais & MC Tags: Flirting, Drinking, Teasing, Sexual Tension, Humor, Sharing Food, I think I've covered it

The Wet Wick was bustling with activity as usual. Customers filled the tables, chattering excitedly over pints of watered-down ale, while laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air.

Sitting at the bar, the MC nursed a glass of whiskey. The atmosphere was lively, but they knew better than to let their guard down. That’s when the familiar, subtle clinks of metal caught their attention. Glancing discreetly around the room, their eyes locked with a pair of crimson red ones.

Ais.

The pub's light illuminated his sharp features as he approached, taking a seat on the stool next to them, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "Fancy meeting you here," he said in a low voice.

The MC raised an eyebrow, their bandaged hands instinctively moving to hide beneath their cloak. "I live here," they replied coyly.

"Do you now?" Ais chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well then, I suppose I'll have to come here more often." He leaned in closer, the scent of leather and whiskey wafting between them.

The bartender slid a bowl of nut leather along with another glass of whiskey in front of Ais, who nodded his thanks before turning his attention back to the MC. "What do you think of Eridia so far, Sparrow? Have we scared you off yet?"

The MC took a sip of their drink before responding. "You’re always trying to scare me off, but I think I can handle myself just fine."

"Says the one who almost got killed on their first day here. Thrice. But who’s counting?" Ais commented, half dissatisfied, half amused.

The MC rolled their eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at their lips. "That doesn’t count," they retorted. "Besides, it was four times."

"And how does that not prove my point?" Ais interrupted incredulously.

"I’m still standing, aren’t I?"

Ais chuckled and raised his glass in a mock toast. "To surviving Eridia, against all odds," he said before taking another sip of whiskey.

The MC knew Ais had a point, but they weren’t about to admit it. "You didn’t answer my question, little birdie."

Right.

"Fine, fine," the MC relented, knowing Ais wouldn’t let it go. "It’s all part of Eridia’s charm, right? And you’re definitely making it interesting."

Ais grinned, pleased. "Good to hear you’re finally coming around to my way of thinking, Sparrow." He reached out for a piece of nut leather.

'Sparrow' this, 'little birdie' that. For fuck's sake—

Without thinking, the MC dove in and bit the other side of the piece of nut leather, coming dangerously close to kissing him.

To their horror, the abomination of a snack was actually pretty good.

Ais's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a smirk. "Can’t hold back, can you?"

"If you’re going to keep calling me bird names, I might as well eat like one too," they teased, trying to cover up the fact that their heart was racing.

Ais chuckled, shaking his head. "You know you love it. Just don’t start chirping at me."

"Try me," the MC shot back, using his own words against him.

Ais laughed, impressed by the bold move. "Fair enough, Sparrow," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

As they continued to banter, the tension between them eased, replaced by a sense of comfort. The conversation flowed effortlessly, each of them revealing a little more about themselves with every exchange.

It was… refreshing.

Between exchanges, the MC grabbed another piece of nut leather and popped it into their mouth. Before they could react, Ais’s hand gently grabbed their arm, pulling them closer.

They gasped as their lips met his, giving Ais the opportunity to slide his tongue into their mouth without any warning, then leaving them empty once he’d claimed his prize—the damn piece of jerky—leaving the MC breathless and wanting more.

The MC sat there, stunned and slightly amused. Despite the surprise, a spark of excitement ignited within them. "Now who can’t hold back, huh?"

"At least I’m above-board."

"No, you’re not—" But before they could finish, Ais pulled them right into another kiss.

"You just can’t resist me," he whispered against their lips with a mischievous grin.

"…Bastard," they muttered, trying to hide the smile that tugged at their lips.

Maybe Eridia wasn’t such a bad place after all.

[ash5monster01]

Learning to Love Part 8

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x FemReader!PlusSize

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral, p in v, language, angst, fluff, mentions of bullying, body image issues, fat shaming, mdni!!

Summary: It's not uncommon for you to be shamed for your size, it is however uncommon to be told that no one would ever date you because of it. Rafe on the other hand is used to being called a jerk, that is until he is accused of seeing people for only what's on the surface. It's purely coicidental you two meet right after these accusations are thrown your way. So even though you two don't know each other, and probably never would've looked the others way before this, now you're both going to prove a point. It's simple really, prove others wrong and don't fall in love. Easier said than done.

word count: 4.6k

Part 7 ←→ Part 9

Masterlist

Rafe has no clue why he agreed to date other people and end this agreement with you, especially when you open your front door to reveal you in the sexiest black dress he’s ever seen. His mouth waters at the deep neckline of the dress, revealing cleavage to him he hadn’t seen in a while. The fabric hangs off your shoulders and goes all the way down to just below your knees. The black wedges you wear pair perfectly and your hair is styled half up and half down, with a black bow holding it together. Definitely Mila’s touch. It takes a moment for words to reach his brain and quickly is saved by the flash of a camera in the doorway that has both of you breaking eye contact and looking to the girl.

“What? I’m capturing memories!” Mila defends which has you giggling and Rafe shaking his head.

“I opened the door, you could have at least made us pose” you tell her and she shakes her head as she clicks a few buttons on the camera.

“Posing doesn’t capture the look he was just giving you. If I hadn’t made my presence known he would’ve ravished you right here!” Mila tells you and the back of your neck burns in embarrassment as you turn to Rafe who is also flushed red due to Mila’s words.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not right here” Rafe says as he enters the home, trying to divert the conversation. Yet the topic doesn’t go dismissed because Mila has now handed you the camera and in it is Rafe looking at you like he loved you for real. You wished it was.

“It’s great Mila” you tell her with a smile that you hope is hiding the heartbroken look in your eyes because pretty soon he won’t be around to look at you like that anymore.

“Gonna need that to go next to the one on my desk” Rafe says and your heart flutters for a moment.

“I’ll make sure to get you both a copy” Mila says with a grin as she tucks the camera back into her arms. You smile at her before turning to Rafe who looks so handsome in the black suit he wears.

“You ready to go?” you ask, trying not to let the sadness creep in. Rafe smiles as his hand laces with your own and his free one brushes some hair behind your ear.

“As I’ll ever be” he tells you and you smile as you both start for the door.

“Have fun, don’t stay up too late, and if we decide to have spontaneous sleepovers what do we do?” Mila calls out after you both and you grin.

“We text Mila!” you and Rafe both yell back simultaneously and you hear her satisfied ‘hmph’ as you both exit the small home. Rafe laughs as he leads you to his truck, helping you inside, and doing everything in his power to keep his eyes off of your ass.

“She’s something else” you say as he joins you in the car and Rafe laughs as he puts the truck in gear and reaches over for your hand.

“At least she cares” he tells you with a smile and you nod as you both set off down the road and in the direction of another fancy work party that could more than likely be your last.

When you arrive you can’t help but notice all the pretty women that strut into the event floor, wearing the prettiest dresses, and wearing their makeup done to perfection. Not only are they girls you can now compare yourself too but they are girls Rafe could meet tonight and quite possibly fall in love with. The idea of that was heartbreaking to you. You needed a drink.

“Hey, I’ve got to talk some shop quick do you want to wait for me, maybe find a place to sit?” Rafe quietly asked, his hand squeezing your own and sending butterflies through your stomach.

“Sure, I’m gonna make a pit stop at the bar” you tell him and he grins before swiftly kissing your cheek and rushing off to handle some business. You hate the way your heart clenches as his hand leaves your own but you choose to ignore it anyway and find yourself at the bar.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, hands already busy working on another customers drink. A professional and you admired it. It took you years to perfect the working on autopilot.

“Whatever’s strongest, surprise me” you tell him and he nods as if he gets this response every day.

“Rough day?” a voice fills your ears beside you and you turn to see a shaggy haired brunette. His eyes are as green as emeralds and the freckles that scatter his nose tell you it isn’t often he finds himself in a suit. He’s handsome, gorgeous even, and someone you would’ve yearned to be with before Rafe.

“Try rough summer” you tell him and you’re surprised by the laugh that fills your ears. You’re even more surprised when he sits upon the barstool beside you.

“You remember when summer was carefree and just about fun? I miss that” he says, swirling his glass as the ice clinks inside. You smile as he takes a long sip.

“Do you remember just being carefree in general. Nothing mattered but having fun. I miss that” you tell him with a point as the bartender slides his concoction in front of you. You smile kindly as you grab the glass and take a long sip. The bartender waits for your approval which you grant after the strong liquid glides down your throat.

“That was impressive” the boy beside you says and you draw your eyebrows together in confusion as you look at him.

“How so?” you ask and he chuckles lightly.

“That’s Benny’s speciality drink. Strongest thing in here. I’ve seen guys bigger than me choke on that drink” he tells you and you can’t help the proud grin that crosses your face as he says this.

“Well I wish I could tell you it was just pure talent but I own a bar. Comes with the territory” you tell him and now he’s the one raising his eyebrows at you.

“Owns a bar? Then what the hell are you doing at a company party like this?” he asks you and you laugh, surprised how comfortable you’ve become with this boy in a matter of seconds.

“I’m with my-“ your eyes glance the the other side of the event center to see Rafe laughing with a pretty red head, her fingers curling around his wrist. “Rafe Cameron, I came as his date”

“The CEO, so you only run with the big dogs?” he asks as his eyes follow where yours are. He sees Rafe with the same girl and tries not to chuckle to himself knowing he was wasting his time with a girl like that when someone as pretty as you was over here.

“Something like that, we’ve been friends for a while. I figured I’d help him out” there isn’t any dishonesty to your words. Yes you aren’t telling him he was your boyfriend but for once you didn’t want to lie to every person in your life. For all you know Rafe had already chosen this red head over you. So you were allowed to have a light hearted conversation with an attractive man at the bar. Allowed to just feel normal for once.

“That’s nice of you, and at least the drinks are free” he tells you and you smile wide at him.

“Now I’ll drink to that” you say, lifting your drink which he easily clinks his own against before taking a drink.

“I’m Tanner, I’m in marketing and would rather be on a beach than here” he tells you, large hand reaching across the bar. You gladly put your own in it and give him a firm shake.

“I’m Y/N, I’m a bartender that’s looking forward to being the drunk one for once” you tell him which earns you another laugh, his hand leaving yours and instantly making you cold.

“The more we talk the more I have no idea why Cameron is over there instead of here with you” he says and you can’t stop the way your heart doubles in speed at his statement.

“Why’s that?” you ask, trying to hide the shake in your voice as one of the most gorgeous guys you’ve ever seen sits beside you and does his best attempt at flirting. You didn’t have to look to know washboard abs were hiding under that suit of his, you could already tell the way his biceps flexed beneath his suit jacket.

“Well, so far you’re the prettiest and funniest girl in this whole room and I have a feeling he knows that too” you weren’t entirely sure the last time an attractive man had actually called you pretty, butterflies erupted in your stomach but all at the same time your heart clenched because there was an underlying meaning to his words. Rafe already knew who you were and he still wasn’t willing to choose you.

“Then I guess it’s your lucky day” you say and he smiles wide at you, in awe of the confidence that you were mostly faking because if Rafe got to flirt with pretty girls you were allowed to flirt with the first good looking guy to show interest in you in a while.

“Not to be too forward but I’d really like to ask for your number now” he says and you giggle lightly before holding your hand out. He doesn’t hesitate to set his phone in it and you spot the golden retriever in his background. This guy is your dream guy so why the hell could you not stop thinking about Rafe as you type your number into his phone.

“If I don’t text back right away don’t take it to heart. I normally sleep till ten and work till 4am” you tell him, knowing your schedule was insane for most normal people.

“Noted” he tells you with a nod and before you can ask more about him an arm is wrapping around your shoulders and free hand waving down the bartender in front of you.

“Causing some trouble already?” Rafe’s familiar voice fills your senses and you chuckle nervously as the bartender hands Rafe his usual without even asking.

“You say that like it’s surprising” you say which causes Tanner to laugh beside you. “I’m also making friends, Rafe this is Tanner”

“Hey Tanner, nice to meet you” Rafe says, arm leaving your shoulders to shake the boys hand. If Rafe was being honest he wanted to crush it but he knew to be nice and not upset you.

“I was just getting to know your date here, been a long time since I’ve actually held decent conversation with a woman around here” Tanner says fondly and you hope Rafe doesn’t pick up on his underlying meaning to this comment.

“Exactly why I bring her around” Rafe says squeezing you to his side and you smile softly at Tanner, a bit embarrassed at the situation you were currently in.

“You’re lucky” Tanner says, eyes glancing to you because he wished he could stay with you the rest of night. “I better find some of my coworkers, you two have a good night”

“Yeah, it was so nice meeting you Tanner” you try to make your voice feign how much talking to him had meant to you. He smiles fondly at you, wearing a disappointed look to be leaving you behind.

“Have a good night” Rafe tells him and he smiles with a nod before turning away. “Look at you making friends”

“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t even trying” you tell him and he just smiles, reaching to tuck some hair behind your ears.

“I would, considering that’s how you ended up with me” this has you snorting a laugh which only makes him chuckle until he catches your eyes searching in the direction of where Tanner went. He realizes quickly you liked this boy. You were doing exactly what the both of you agreed to, finding someone else.

“Want to find a table?” you ask turning back just to see Rafe’s jaw clenched. It’s the first time you had ever really seen him angry, at least towards you.

“Was he flirting with you?” Rafe asks, trying to keep his voice calm. He had no right to be jealous, he knew that. Doesn’t mean it was going to stop how he felt though.

“Uh, yeah I guess” you mutter, confused and nervous about this reaction.

“You guess?” his voice is sharp and now you’re more confused then before.

“Well yeah, I gave him my number. It’s no big deal” but he’s removing his arm from around you and a searing pain flows through your chest.

“Fuck, look I know we agreed to this whole seeing other people thing but at my work? Are you trying to make me look like a fool?” his eyes are ablaze and his words are seething out past his lips, you’ve never seen him so worked up before and you instantly feel guilty. Tears burning at the back of your eyes.

“Well I’m sorry Rafe but it’s normally a one in a billion chance a guy like that is interested in a girl like me so forgive me for jumping at the opportunity!” you seethe right back and Rafe’s eyes instantly soften as he sees the tears rimming your own.

“It is not one in a billion” he whispers and you scoff, turning to brush away the tears in your eyes.

“Don’t fucking lie to me Rafe, I’d hope the guy dating me to prove a point would be at least decent enough to do that” you say chugging the rest of your drink, more desperate and in need of a buzz now.

“I’ve always thought you were attractive Y/N” he hisses in defense and you roll your eyes, waving your hand for another drink which the bartender quickly provides.

“Then the next time you want to prove to your friends you can date an ugly fat girl, pick a different one” you say grabbing the fresh drink and starting towards an open table without him. This night had its entirety of ups and downs and you were ready for it to be over. Rafe groaned and tugged at his hair before flagging for a fresh drink himself.

Once the drink was in his hands he was rushing over to where you sat, arms crossed and straw dancing across your lips. No way you weren’t at least buzzed right now but he deserved this cold behavior for being a jealous asshole. He knew that but he had always struggled with controlling his anger. You were no exception considering he never planned on breaking the very rule you set. Falling in love with you. So he knew it was best to just sit next to you calmly and quietly while he waited for you to like him again. You didn’t speak until your drink was empty again.

“Can you get me a new one?” you ask setting the empty glass in front of him and he nodded, standing to go back to the bar that he figured he’d be visiting a lot tonight.

Rafe was correct oh how much he’d be visiting the bar because he could barely see straight and the only thing he could hear was your soft giggles. He knew you were still mad but you were definitely just as drunk as him and you always giggled when you were drunk. He knew you’d rather die then stay the night with him but there was no other way he could get you home safely which is why he checks you both into a room at the hotel and shoots Mila a text letting her know.

“I’m calling an uber” you pout as he guides you towards the elevator, you stumbling slightly.

“Yeah that’s not happening, you get alone in a car with some creep” he tells you, pressing a button to close the elevator doors.

“I’m alone in an elevator with some creep right now” you tell him, arms crossing over your chest and he gulps at the way your breasts push together and spill out of your dress a little more.

“At least I’m a creep you trust” he says taking a step towards you, hands gripping softly at the doughy flesh of your hips. You let out a small squeak as you realize even as drunk as you are that Rafe is checking you out.

“You were mean to me tonight” you pout and he finally lifts his eyes from your chest and pulls you flush against him, hands snaking around your waist. Either you’re crazy or he’s half hard and pressing against your stomach.

“Fuck baby, I know. I just got so jealous” the small gasp that leaves your throat doesn’t go unnoticed and finally you see the darkness of lust in his eyes as he roams your body again. “Just want you all to myself”

“Yeah?” you whisper, barely able to be heard and your heart stops as his hands slide down and squeeze your ass through your dress.

“Yeah doll, you’re all mine” and you don’t even have a moment to comprehend a thought let alone remember you’re mad at him as his mouth meets your own. You react quickly, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling his mouth impossibly closer towards your own. His tongue grazes your own and you can’t help the moan you let out that he muffles with his own mouth. If he wasn’t hard before he definitely was now.

The elevator doors ding open and Rafe pulls away, hand locking on your own as he drags you down the hallway and to your room. You’re giggling again as he shuts you both inside, none of the lights on, but a glow from the city below you shining through the windows. Your giggles stop when Rafe presses against your body again, hands grabbing the zipper of your dress and slowly pulling it down. You know you should be freaking out right now, knowing Rafe let alone anyone had never seen you truly naked. Yet with the alcohol, the look in his eyes, and how badly you want this, you make no movement to stop him. The dress falls and pools around your ankles, leaving you in the bra and thong Mila had picked out for you. You’re nervous for only a split second until Rafe is groaning out loud.

“Baby, please tell me you wore this for me and not that asshole from the bar” you’re not responsible for the way his words make heat pool at your core. You actually don’t think you’ve ever been this aroused due to fear of rejection but you’re drunk mind and the praise from Rafe has taken that fear away. You never thought there’d be a day.

“For you, with encouragement from Mila” and this answer has his lips back on yours in an instant. You whimper as his hand reaches and gropes your breast over your bra. It’s not long until you’re whining in his mouth and reaching for the clasp. Rafe realizes and moves your hand away, reaching for it himself and removing it with ease.

“Can’t tell you how long I’ve been wanting to get my hands on these” Rafe says and you whine as he lets the bra fall to the floor between you both. You watch as he takes in the sight of your bare chest before his hands reach out and give them a squeeze. It’s as if one touch turned him into a mad man and he’s got a mouth around your nipple in a second, his hand pinching the other.

“Rafe, of my God” your fingers curl into his hair as he sucks on each breast, relishing in the soft feeling of them. You’re dripping everywhere and Rafe’s eagerness only excites you more.

Rafe moves to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping your breast in his mouth as he pulls you along. You gasp as his fingers curl into the sides of your thong and starts to lower it. You shimmy along, speeding up the process until they also meet the floor. Once they’re off Rafe pulls back to take a quick look at you. “Wow”

“Rafe?” you’re not sure what you’re even asking for, you just know he needs to do something.

“You’re so perfect, gonna show you that you’re mine and only mine” he says standing, groaning at the way your breast rub across the front of his shirt as he drops his suit jacket from his shoulders.

Once it’s off he’s turning you around and easing you onto the bed. You sit pretty and quiet for him as his hands work slowly at the buttons of his shirt and he drinks your naked form in. You never once thought you’d be comfortable naked in front of someone, especially a fully clothed man. Yet here you were, waiting impatiently for him to remove his clothes so you could gawk at him like he was you. He’s taking to long for your liking though which causes you to reach out and grab the button of his slacks.

“Damnit, Y/N” he hisses as you smile at him innocently, acting as if you accidentally brushing against the bulge in his pants wasn’t on purpose.

You finally get them unbuttoned and the zipper pulled down, your fingers curl into the hem, tugging them desperately. Rafe is trying to calm down, not wanting to cum in his pants before he at least gets to taste you. Once his shirt is fully removed he helps you remove his pants and boxers all at once. You’re shocked at his fully hard member standing proudly and you realize it’s just for you. You exactly as you are, big stomach, wide thighs, stretch marks, and all. He was still just as aroused for you. Which explains why you have your hand wrapped around him without a thought which is something you’ve never done before.

“Okay, okay, you’re tryna kill me” Rafe chuckles as he eases you away and lays you down on the mattress.

“I have no idea what you mean” you tell him and he just shakes his head at you before dropping down to his knees. He slowly eases your legs open and he can tell you’re shy. Yet when he sees how wet you are he has no problem forcing you as wide open for him as possible. Your body shudders as his fingers slowly glides through your folds, collecting slick on his finger. You watch as he reaches it to his mouth and sucks his finger clean. If you weren’t wet before you definitely were now.

“Damn baby, you taste so good” and you don’t realize it until his mouth is on you, sucking your clit into his mouth and teasing your entrance with a finger. Your thighs instantly clench around his head which makes him moan against you. The sensation is enough to have you gripping the sheets, clenching as his tongue laps through your pussy and eats you for all you were worth. You were sure you were crushing his head but Rafe didn’t care, he would gladly be suffocated by you.

He knows you’re close by the way your legs start to tremble so he slowly pushes a finger inside, shocked by how easily you sucked his fingers in. Which is why he doesn’t hesitate to add a second or third, curling them inside. In seconds you’re clamping down on them, twitching from the orgasm he gave you. He slowly pumps his fingers into you, easing you through your finish before removing his mouth and grinning up at you. He’s so hard it hurts but he doesn’t have time to care because this is all he has wanted the entire time of knowing you. Your full trust.

“Rafe, please. I need you inside of me” you tell him when you spot his grinning face and he smiles, removing his fingers which has you hissing. He slowly climbs up your form and helps you readjust on the bed. He reaches for the condom in his wallet, struggling to get his hands to work because yours are on him again, thumb brushing across the precum on his tip.

“You’re so perfect, just the way you are” your heart soars over his words and you quickly pull him down and into a kiss as he pulls on the condom. You continue to kiss him, tongue searching his mouth desperately as he lines up at your entrance. You whimper against his lips as his tip runs through your folds and bumps against your sensitive clit.

“You ready?” he asks pulling away from your mouth and you eagerly nod as he starts to push himself in, head tipping back at how tight you are. It takes only a few moments until he’s flush against you and reaching spots you or anyone else never has before.

“Please do something Rafe” you whine and he takes this as permission to pull out just slightly before pushing back into you. The encouraging moan you let out causes him to find a fast pace. Pretty soon he’s pumping in and out of you, watching as you writhe beneath him and cry out. He’s not going to last long so he reaches for your clit and begins to rub it as fast as he can. His hips begin to stutter when you clench around him, so he moves his hand fast and soon enough you’re squeezing him for all he’s worth and trembling into the mattress. He watches as your eyes roll back into your head and it only takes a few more pumps before he’s finishing and collapsing down on top of you. Neither of you make any effort to move, his dick still nestled tightly inside of you.

“Holy shit” he mutters into your neck, relishing in the feeling of your bare chest pressed against his own and how you breathe unevenly against him from how worn out you were. He had pulled two orgasm from you. He was eager to see if he could get anymore.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking” you say and he chuckles as he sits up, slowly pulling out of you that has you both hissing through your teeth. You wonder how you’re still wet but based on the attractive man in front of you with pecs you want to take a bite out of and the biggest dick you’ve seen in person, you have an idea why.

“Just wanted to remind you who exactly you belong too” he says, drunkness seeping back in. He hopes to remember this tomorrow and block Tanner from your phone.

“I think I like jealous Rafe” you voice slurs, hands running down his chest and abs.

“Good because he’s sticking around, until the only name you know how to say is mine” he says as his hand runs down your side and squeezes at your bare ass. You giggle as he leans and kisses you again, his dick still semi hard and pressed against you. The noise he makes when you wrap your hand around him is one you plan to memorize.

“My turn”

a/n: you’re welcome, I know it’s been a while but I’ve also given you the longest chapter yet and it also included our characters finally reliving some of that sexual tension so Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, I missed you all ❤️

Taglist: @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @fishingirl12 @houseofperfecttaste @abbybarnesstuff @carma-fanficaddict @jjmaybankisbae @exhaustedbutelated @diagnosedpsychosis @daivny @drewstarkeygf @vinniehackersbaee @emsgoodthinkin @apollo3475 @https-urwife @willowalexissss @kisstaya @hcneyedsstuff @lexiereblogs @drewsuncrustables @mveggieburger @marvel4life3000 @bibliophilewednesday @humungouspatrolwolf @ijustwanttoreadlols @jaijustreads @sleepjam @dilvcv @aaronhotchswife @sunshine1218 @lavenderhazeq @theultimatefrenchfangirl @kravitzwhore @chalahyung01 @jenniferpendragon @kitty-marie725

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[twoidiotwriters1]

Chapter 16. Oak-leaved Geranium

Summary: He likes the sound of it in nature, but he dislikes the thought of any man thinking the Princess is his amusement. Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Words: 2,447 Listen to: 'Hit Me Where The Heart Is' -by Mega Simone A/N: I cannot leave these two without plots otherwise they'll just start fucking each other -Danny

Dear Diary,

The Queen has agreed to see Violet Bridgerton but can't tell when she'll have time. I suggested this week's ball, since Lady Danbury told me Mrs Mondrich needs her in attendance. I am torn between many ladies, and I don't wish to disappoint, I'd never been trusted and relied on to this extent, except by my own family.

Alas, as a Queen-to-be, this ought to be a valuable practice. Mother settles disagreements all the time within our noble folk, so I come from capable blood. 

Besides, Ben is reluctant to believe I can do it, and I love proving him wrong.

Benedict is celebrating at Mondrich's with his brother Colin and John Stirling a bunch of little fancies, as he likes to call them. Mondrich himself invited them, this is the last night he'll ever stand there as the owner of his grand establishment.

"Gentlemen! One of my finest bottles of brandy." There is a choir of approval as the man uncorks the bottle. "I cannot have it going to the new proprietor..."

"Another? This way you'll have us wish you closed the club every week!" Benedict says joyfully.

"Sadly, this is the very last bottle," Mondrich starts pouring into a small glass only to watch it run out by the end of it, causing general dissatisfaction. "Damn. I thought there were at least a few more pours..." mumbles the man in embarrassment.

"Surely the drink is yours," Colin says, always the giving soul. "To celebrate your last night owning this fine institution?"

"You mean to mourn my last night," Mondrich replies with a chuckle. "I refuse your pity drink."

"Well, if it's a pity drink, then perhaps I deserve it," Colin is quick to reach for it. Benedict bursts into laughter and Colin frowns. "What?"

"You?" Benedict gives him an exaggerated pout.

"You were right," his brother insists. "Love has made me so simple I cannot even write a sentence this week. It is torture, really." Colin says with feeling.

Benedict leans forward with an intrigued furrow of brow. "What do you need to write?"

The young man tries his best to be nonchalant. "I am writing a manuscript, in fact."

"Ohh," the older brother adopts a high-pitched teasing tone. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Colin responds defiantly.

"What is it about?" Mondrich asks politely. 

"I am editing the story of my travels—Or, in principle, I am," he says vaguely, lifting the glass to his lips.

"No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," Benedict stops him at once and loudly. He makes a condescending gesture to beckon the drink and Colin hands it over with a scoff. 

"Why? You think you deserve it?"

Benedict leans back with the glass in hand, pointing at his brother in accusation. "You at least have a direction for your life while I am floating, purposeless, with no discernible path forward," he makes a show out of his quivering voice, face contorting in feigned misery.

"What?" Colin chortles. "No, no—put that glass down! Let us revise your so-called undiscernible path. Are you not back in the Academy?"

Benedict smiles slightly. "Well, yes, but—"

"And are you not one of—if not the most sought out sketch artist of the season thanks to your job as tutor?"

"Oh, please, that's a mere fancy the ton will forget before winter and you know it."

"It might last enough for you to make a small fortune. If you exploit it now, before the novelty wears out," Mondrich suggests wisely.

"Which brings my third and final point," Colin points at the man in agreement. "Purposeless and feather-weight, you are basking in a Genovian Princess's attention. Or do you think we can't tell? You're making a living out of the thing you like most, unmarried, able to enjoy yourself with quite a beauty. Are you not the happiest you've ever been?"

Benedict's nonchalance is at risk of cracking for a millisecond before he composes himself, wrinkling his nose and giving up the drink. He likes the sound of it in nature, but he dislikes the thought of any man thinking the Princess is his amusement. "Oh, right. That is true, yes." He manages to say in a careless manner.

"I think the drink is mine," John says, holding everyone's attention. "If I am correct in reading that the winner of this game is whoever is the most fortunate?"

"No!" Benedict covers his face dramatically, glad to have a way to brush off and ignore his own mushiness. "Please do not start saying sentimental things about our sister!"

"I was going to say," John stops him, "I am most fortunate amongst us because I have spotted another bottle." He gets up and approaches the missing bottle, earning applause and cheering from the other gentlemen. He brings it back to the table and pours a generous round for each. 

Benedict gets possessed by an outer power as he steals the one glass everyone had deemed the drink of the fortunate, and with a great and secret satisfaction, downs it with gusto.

"What is this I hear about Lady Whistledown?" It's the first thing you ask Benedict as you step into the garden. "I thought it was all figured out?"

Benedict bows and lifts your hand to his lips, politely kissing it. "Not quite. The Queen has asked for proof—it surprises me you don't know it, I thought the Queen was fond of you?" He says teasingly.

You give him a look. "I don't have much interest in the gossip column nowadays—I was nervous when I first arrived, thinking it would shred my family to pieces, but as it turns out, we've done quite well, don't you think?"

"And that's exactly why I don't believe Cressida Cowper is the author," he brings it up again, "she's very envious and cruel, and your blunders are far too many to be left unmentioned the way they keep getting ignored. I'm sure if she had it in her hands to humiliate a Princess, she wouldn't hesitate to do so."

"My blunders are not that bad, thank you very much," you huff, though it comes out without any real annoyance. "I do not know the lady enough to disagree with you, and I imagine your opinion is heavily based on sisterly observations?"

The left corner of his mouth raises when he answers. "Yes. But I watch as much as I complain, you know? I don't hate the ladies of the ton without reason."

"Hate?" You pick up your sketchbook. "Strong word..."

"It is well deserved. You know, I've been thinking a lot lately, about how the ton ostracizes those who aren't quick on their feet. Take John Stirling, for example—with properties all over, and yet he couldn't find a soul in those ballrooms to connect with until my sister came around—My other sister Eloise, or Penelope Featherington—it's all so..." he sighs, deterred by the injustice. "Why are we forced to expose ourselves?"

You watch him, a softness in your voice that comes easily when you face people in distress. "It is not always nice, but some of us need a push, Ben. We may hate every second of it, but once it's over and we've taken that small, scary step... Oh, you breathe so much better for it."

Benedict keeps his eyes down, fiddling with his pencil. "I have taken small, scary steps all my life, and all it does is make me sink deeper in this sodding sandbox..."

"Maybe you're not moving in the right direction," you imply gently. "There is quite a difference between moving sideways in the same spot over and over until you cannot climb out of the ditch you've made, and moving forward."

"Ah, this wasn't about me," He quickly backtracks, smiling dashingly as he brushes it off. "Forget I said anything—"

"There you are," the Queen unexpectedly interrupts your lessons. 

Benedict shoots up to his feet and bows, though the Queen barely notices him as her gaze lands on you. "Your Highness," you stand, amicably smiling at her. "Did you need me?"

"I have decided to attend that ball you mentioned," she says, "the new additions to our society."

"The Mondrich family," you smile at Benedict, hoping he gets your 'told-you-so' message in it, "I'm very pleased to hear that, Your Highness."

"You and your sister will come with me, of course," she says, leaving no room for discussion, "there is no need for Mr Bridgerton to escort you this time."

You glance at the man with amusement as he hides his displeasure behind a stiff smile. "It's all settled, then. I shall tell Marie."

The Queen nods and turns away followed by her little group of helpers. You giggle at the view and turn to Benedict. "That is so funny."

"What? You enjoy watching me get snubbed indirectly even when I'm present?" Benedict scowls.

"What? Oh no, I was laughing at her court," you say grinning. "All those people following her tail—I can barely handle Paula tailing me around the castle and your Queen has ten people everywhere she goes!"

"Yes, but she's lonely," Benedict says in a surprising display of empathy towards his crown. "You have all of our society wanting to strike up a friendship with you, and she only has her King and good-for-nothing children. Though I suppose I'm no one to criticize them..." he mumbles the last part, his brow raising in a self-aware judgy gesture.

"Oh, well..." you blush, realizing you might've sounded quite uncaring. "I'm just a novelty, but you're right, I'm lucky. Even though your Eloise still finds me exhausting."

"Eloise is vexed at the world as a whole," he's quick to ease you, holding your hand once more and kissing it. "Now, shall we start the lesson? I have just been told I won't get a chance to steal you away at the next ball, and I wish to enjoy some of you here, in the garden."

"By that you mean talking, I hope?"

"I'm not as foolish as to try and break the rules inside the ruler's house," he mutters, giving you a playful look of caution.

The Queen arrives with you and your sister on each side, proud and disdainful as you stand before the curious crowd. "As I told you," the Queen mutters to her servant, Brimsley. "Lackluster at best."

Not even a second has passed since her statement when Mrs Mondrich sets her spectacle in motion, revealing a beautifully crafted machine that opens and displays hundreds of paper flowers as the centrepiece of her ballroom. Every guest gasps and awes at it, amazed by the creation. The Queen gives her smile of approval, and the ball continues with high spirits.

You and Marie accompany the Queen to the seats arranged for you and instantly want to leave it. Your eyes dart from one face to the other and are full of displeasure when you notice Benedict is nowhere to be seen. 

"He didn't come," you tell your sister, deeply disappointed.

"Well, he was quite right in assuming you'd get no chance to sneak out, this is a small venue," your sister says, though she's not hating it in the least. "He's told you many times that he hates these events, bella, he deserves a little break, don't you think?"

"A part of me believed that he would come anyway, that being in the same room was reward enough..." you sigh. "Oh, Marie, am I getting attached?"

Before she can reply to that, however, Cressida Cowper steals everyone's attention by delivering a written note explaining the column's scarcity and formally introducing herself as Lady Whistledown. There is something that doesn't sit right with you, her eagerness to be rewarded clashes with the amount of time spent keeping the whole thing a secret. 

You spot Penelope Featherington and Eloise Bridgerton both looking shocked and distressed, and it reminds you of the time Penelope fainted after Cressida's announcement at her engagement party. Now, any woman would be rightfully upset to get the spotlight taken away on her special day, but from what you've heard, Penelope is used to being left out of things, so much so that she's spent most of her life tiptoeing around conversations she's not invited to... and is left to overhear.

Suddenly you see what the ton can't, and a thrill forces you to your feet. You sneak your way down the little steps and follow the two girls who have just gone away to discuss something that you suspect holds great importance.

You're not sure why you're doing this other than there's a part of you that deeply cares about outsiders. Still, you don't dare to make your presence known as you eavesdrop on their conversation, surprised and impressed. Penelope Featherington is Lady Whistledown, and that's the reason why Eloise has been acting so distant and disinterested in the world.

"...The column began because I felt powerless in my own home. I was forced to debut a year early, and I had no say in anything. Writing was the only way I felt I could have a voice. And I should've been using the column to give a voice to the other voiceless."

The young woman's speech shakes you from your stupor and gives you a rush just like the one Tilley gave you when she spoke in front of those men at the fair, it makes you feel a deep respect for these high-society women, fighting back in a country where their gender is held over their heads like a beacon of weakness.

"You must get a full issue out right away," Eloise says hoarsely, "before Cressida does."

"I quite agree," you step into the room, doing your best not to sound like a threat.

"Princess Y/N," Penelope pales. "We were—I was only—"

"You mustn't tell the Queen!" Eloise blurts out.

"Eloise!" Penelope scolds her with dread. "Princess Y/N, please, I can explain—"

"I've heard it all," you approach, bowing with respect. "You're a remarkable young lady, Miss Featherington. A talented writer, clever, and as long as I'm here, you shant fear." You turn to Eloise, looking at you with her mouth wide open. "Neither you nor your family, Miss Bridgerton. You fear Cressida might offend loved ones, and rest assured, I will not stand by it."

"With all due respect, Your Royal Highness, I don't see how a foreigner would be of use in this intimate and complicated affair," she says unable to keep her nerves in check.

Both girls are surprised when they see you smile at her words. "You're right, a foreigner Princess has no influence in the most obscure affairs of your country... but in the most practical of ways, I am an unknown stranger, and some liberties are granted by it that no one born in London could possibly have."

Penelope blinks. "Pardon me, Princess... are you saying you'll help me?"

"I'm sure the Queen will be itching to leave the ball by now," you turn around. "I have to take care of that, but wait here, I shall make an excuse and get us a separate carriage."

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

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[lrlamauthor]

Hello, spamming every platform with the B&N sale because hey look, my weird, queer dragon books got fancy exclusive editions with sprayed edges (feathers and clouds!)! They're currently chilling in the top 200 on the website just behind SJM, which is surreal. These both come out March 4th, so in just under a month! Emberclaw is a brand-new release, the (somewhat delayed) follow-up to Dragonfall, and I was pretty excited that B&N decided to give the first book a glow up, too. It had a standard hardcover and I know people really like matching sets.

Pantomime comes out in September and is my revised and revamped preferred text of my debut, which first came out all the way back in 2013. Thanks to Dragonfall taking off in paperback, I got the chance to go back to R.H. Ragona's Circus of Magic, which is pretty cool. This was the first YA book with an intersex protagonist in any genre, as far as I can tell, though Micah has now been aged up to 17/18 and it is slightly more adult in this re-release.

A month before Dragonfall's launch the first time, I was a freaking wreck. This time, I am anxious, not least because releasing a trans book in today's climate is, well...it's something. I fly to the US at the end of the month for my little tour to New York, Rhode Island, and Boston, and who knows what will be going on in the country by that point. But there's lots to look forward to, and I've gotten really nice messages from people who love the series. Links if you'd like some pretty copies for 25% off (the code is PREORDER25), and it ends Feb 7th, 2025. Any help spreading the word would be great. You can also pre-order from your favourite indie store, too, if you prefer, or request from your local library.

Link to Dragonfall Exclusive Hardcover

"In Dragonfall, Lam has forged a fresh and intricate world, a smoldering romance, and a fire-new take on dragons."—Samantha Shannon, New York Times-bestselling author of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Long ago, humans betrayed dragons, stealing their magic and banishing them to a dying world. Centuries later, their descendants worship dragons as gods. But the "gods" remember, and they do not forgive.

Thief Arcady scrapes a living on the streets of Vatra. Desperate, Arcady steals a powerful artifact from the bones of the Plaguebringer, the most hated person in Lumet history. Only Arcady knows the artifact's magic holds the key to a new life among the nobles at court and a chance for revenge.

The spell connects to Everen, the last male dragon foretold to save his kind, dragging him through the Veil. Disguised as a human, Everen soon learns that to regain his true power and form and fulfil his destiny, he only needs to convince one little thief to trust him enough to bond completely—body, mind, and soul—and then kill them.

Yet the closer the two become, the greater the risk both their worlds will shatter.

Link to Emberclaw Exclusive Hardcover

"What you will find here may be exactly what you love in fantasy: Dragonfall is an intriguing blend of magic, a thief, trickery, and an unexpected dragon." —Robin Hobb, New York Times-bestselling author of Fool’s Assassin

Arcady faces their greatest heist yet: posing as a noble student at the arcane University of Vatra. When the University announces the reinstatement of archaic trials of magic, the ever-penniless Arcady seizes the chance. If they win, they not only prove their worth, but the scholarship will give them more time to unlock secrets and reveal, once and for all, that their grandsire was not the Plaguebringer. Yet grief still leaves Arcady broken, and when they close their eyes, they dream of a certain dragon.

Everen, once the hope of dragons, is now hated by his kind. When he is eventually released from his prison, the Queen is clear: while he may help protect the island from wraith attacks, he is no longer a prince of the realm. As he struggles to find his place in Vere Celene, visions of the past, the future, and tantalizing glimpses of Arcady still haunt him. If he steers the wrong path through fate’s storm, he may never be able to create a future where both humans and dragons live in harmony.

Arcady soon realizes that to survive the rising threats from both their old life and their new one, they must use every trick at their disposal—even magic stolen from a dragon they thought dead. And as time runs out before an ancient danger awakens, Everen must fight his way back to Arcady, earn their forgiveness, and learn what it truly means to be an Emberclaw.

Link to Pantomime Paperback (dunno yet if it's getting an exclusive edition--fingers crossed!)

"Pantomime is a fantastical, richly drawn, poignant take on a classic coming-of-age story . . . a vibrant tale told with surety and grace" — Leigh Bardugo

In a land of lost wonders, the past is stirring once more . . .

Micah runs away from a debutante’s life at home and joins the circus, harboring two secrets–one: he was born between male and female, and two: he may have powers last seen in mysterious beings from an almost-forgotten age.

Micah discovers the joy of flight as an aerialist, courting his trapeze partner, Aenea, and confiding in the mysterious white clown, Drystan. He finally feels free. But the circus has a dark side, and Micah’s past isn’t done with him.

Meanwhile, the strange 'ghost' of a woman with damselfly wings whispers to Micah that only he can help magic return to the realm, and he fears she may be right…

Micah has much to learn, and he must do it quickly—before his past and future collide, with catastrophic consequences.

[tarpauline]

I’m Only Cryptic and Machiavellian ‘Cause I Care || Eddie Munson x Reader

She has always had a crush on Eddie. So she planned a way for them to interact "on accident". Flashforward, they are now dating and she confesses about the plan she made a few months ago.

Or, the one where she successfully plans a way for her and Eddie to meet as if it was destiny. Inspired by Mastermind by Taylor Swift.

Contains: fem!reader, both reader and Eddie are down bad for each other, shitty writing, grammatical errors literally edited this quickly, reader is Steve’s cousin but you guys can imagine her as anything didn't really include any appearance descriptions so it's all up to you, I have terrible communication skills and I feel like it’ll show on my writing so yeah, might be ooc?? Idk I hope I managed to write them right thats all I can think of rn

Word Count: 5,360

AN: My first Eddie fanfic and first ever fanfic here on Tumblr! I might delete this if it flops or if I reread it and end up hating it.

What if I told you none of it was accidental

And the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me?

I laid the groundwork and then, just like clockwork

The dominoes cascaded in a line

What if I told you I'm a mastermind?

And now you're mine

It was all by design

'Cause I'm a mastermind

The restaurant screamed money that only her cousin Steve could afford. Despite dressing in a Maroon dress that she deemed "fancy enough" for the place she still felt like she would stick like a sore thumb in the crowd. Little did she know that her boyfriend Eddie felt the same except he knew he would stand out. In a restaurant full of men dressed in perfectly ironed three-piece suits and women who wore designer dresses, wearing a worn out leather jacket (insisting that it adds a bit more flair to the overall look) over a white dress shirt and a black tie and paired with his only black pants that aren't ripped and black shoes that he definitely borrowed from Steve is guaranteed going to garner a lot of attention. But he pushed aside his thoughts when he saw his girlfriend seemingly glued to her place.

"Hey you okay?", He looked at her with concern before taking her hand and giving it a light squeeze.

She looked back at him and smiled. "Yeah,let's go."

They enter the restaurant and are greeted by the warm atmosphere. The place was fancier on the inside. Tables covered with white cloth with a small vase full of flowers for design. The entire room was illuminated by the chandelier on top.Soft music was playing in the background mixed with the chatter of the fully packed place.

She looked around the room for the familiar face of her cousin. It didn't take long for her to see him as he was waving at them with his date beside him .They made their way over to their table on the far corner of the room. Greetings were exchanged between the pair of couples.

A waiter gave them menus filled with fancy food they don't even know how to pronounce. After a few minutes the waiter came back to take their orders and left quickly. As they were waiting, Steve's date, Clementine decided to strike a conversation with Eddie and her.

"So…", She settled down her glass of water with her perfectly manicured red nails that matches the dress she wore. "How did the two of you meet?"

She can see Eddie smile widely as he looked at her. "It's actually a really funny and beautiful story". He says before diverting his gaze on Clementine.

"So we first met when Steve and our other friend Robin, brought her to one of my band's shows in the club near us. I'm the guitarist of the band,you know…", he pretends to play an invisible guitar to prove his point.

Eddie loved telling everyone the story of how they met. And she loved seeing his wide smile, his bright eyes, and his animated gestures as he tells the story. But along this is the feeling of guilt. The guilt of knowing the truth behind said story.

"We were short of staff in the cafe I work at and luckily she was also looking for a part-time job…", Eddie continued and she felt Steve's eyes on her. Steve gave her a knowing look which she then returned with a glare,signaling him to not be obvious.

The more Eddie talks, the happier he gets and the more guilty she gets. It doesn't help that Steve would smirk at her from time to time.

"And I finally got the courage to ask her for dinner and here we are. Three months and counting," He looks at her with heart eyes and a big smile which she returned. The guilt growing inside of her.As Eddie concluded the story their orders came in.

The double date ended late at night. On the car ride home, she remained silent which didn't go unnoticed to Eddie's eyes.

“Hey, you good?”, Eddie places a comforting hand on her thigh.

“Yeah”, she mustered a smile. “I’m just tired that's all”

-

The next day, she was still quiet the whole ride to school. Eddie had tried to talk to her but they all ended abruptly.

"Are you okay? Are you sick?",Eddie asked with concern as he parked his car in the school parking lot. "You can ditch school and work today if you want, I'll take notes for you."

"Thanks but I'm not sick," she smiled reassuringly.

"Are you sure? Maybe it's because of that pasta you ate last night.What was it? Tagtale? Tagtialie?", He scrunched up his nose trying to remember the pasta.

"Tagliatelle", she corrected him and giggled. "And no it's not the pasta, I'm just quite sleepy that's all."

"Okay, but if you don't feel good just tell me I'll gladly skip class and drive you home", he said with a grin.

"Please don't do that"

"Can't make any promises, sweetheart",he opens the door to the driver's seat before going to your side and opening it. He exaggeratingly bows and offers his hand to you and puts on a fake British accent. "My lady."

She giggled before taking his hand which he was quick to intertwine with hers as they walked through the school doors.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear "You're prettier when you smile, by the way."

-

"I'm planning to tell Eddie the truth about…everything", she said while leaning against the back room door. Steve was inside changing from his work clothes.

It was closing hours for both the coffee shop both she and Eddie worked at and the ice cream shop across it where Steve and Robin worked. As Eddie was closing up the shop she immediately went to consult Steve.

"Okay…?", He says against the door.

"Steve, I'm planning to tell Eddie the truth about everything!", She raised her voice more to make it clearer for Steve.

"I heard you fine the first time!", Steve said. "I honestly don't know why you're working yourself up about this.

"What if he finds me weird and creepy?"

"Come on, we both know Eddie isn't the type to judge people." Steve continues. "Besides, you should give yourself a big pat on the shoulder for using your Machiavellian ways to control Eddie because believe me, if you hadn't that man would've talked my ear off about you."

"One, I'm surprised you know what 'Machiavellian' means", she started. "And two, You make it sound like I manipulated him and three, I’m being serious."

The back door opens to reveal Steve wearing a white shirt with a denim jacket and matching pants. "One, this may come as a surprise to you but I actually do read and two, I'm sorry didn't mean for it to sound like that but you get what I mean and three, I'm also being serious."

"Look", he continued. "Eddie is never going to change his opinion of you okay. That man likes you too much to even hate you. I bet if you tell him something like…you commited a crime the man would be sad,yes. But he would be sad that you didn't tag him along", she laughed at him.

"I'm being serious! Trust me, I'm a man. I know a whipped man when I see one and Eddie is a whipped man!", He exclaimed with a huge grin before laughing along.

-

Steve's words calmed her down a little bit. But the nerves is still there, especially since she is now in Eddie's car. With Eddie. Alone.

"Hey something on your mind?", Eddie asked as he begun driving.

"I-yeah…", she started. 'Its now or never', she thought. " Listen, you know how back then after we met we were coincidentally in the same place, at the same time almost all the time…",she looked down at her lap suddenly finding interest in her nails.

"Yeah why?", He looked at her briefly before focusing on the road again.

"Well they're not entirely coincidental…"

(Flashback)

She had always found it difficult to make friends. Never had been lucky with finding other kids who had the same interest as her. So at a young age she developed a skill…observing people, looking for things they liked, things they disliked and then she would scheme like some sort of criminal and make them like her enough to be her friend. And it has worked quite well in her eighteen years of existence.

But everything has changed once her parents decided to move to her mom’s old town, Hawkins. The reputation and relationships she has well crafted through the years is now behind her. And now she had to make a new one.

At first she was devastated at the thought of having to restart everything. But the longer she thought about it and now that she’s finally in Hawkins she felt like this is a good thing. Maybe this time she'll actually be herself. Maybe this time she'll feel…free.

Her parents picked the house nearest her mom’s aunt and uncle and her cousin, Steve Harrington. She’s quite close with her cousin and even considers him her true friend for she was not afraid to show her true side to him and she was excited to be able to see him more often.

The Harringtons have been helping them with the moving of their stuff to their new home so it was quicker for them to settle into their new house.

Steve immediately introduced her to his friend, Robin Buckley, and despite being a total nervous wreck and blabber she liked him and was happy to have a new friend around. The day after finishing moving in they both invited her to hang out at the local bar they frequent called ‘The Hideout’.

It was a simple bar with wooden chairs and tables. It's warm lights giving it a cozy and warm atmosphere. She sees in the front that a band is setting up.

"That band right there", Robin points using a french fry. "The guitarist and vocalist is our friend."

She sees a man with dark messy hair testing his guitar. He had his leather clad back facing the crowd so she couldn't really see his face.

She didn't have to wait too long to see his face though when the band started playing. He was the frontman and the band was smart to put him in front. He was extremely charismatic and very skilled with the guitar. He also had a nice voice. The band was really good and she enjoyed them despite not being into heavy metal music. They certainly knew how to hype a crowd.

The band finished and thanked the crowd. All customers clapped but she was sure their table was the loudest. The guitarist got off stage and immediately went to their direction.

"That was so good, man!", Steve raised his hand in a high five which the guitarist returned. "Oh by the way, this is my cousin”, he said her name. “You know, the one I've mentioned before"

"Yean, I’ve heard about you. He looks at her with his huge smile,messy hair framing his face, sweating and still catching his breath but looking so beautiful. “Hi, I'm Eddie", he extends his hand to her which she took. It was warm. "Nice to meet you."

“Nice to meet you too”, she returned the smile and she was quite sure that they'd been holding each other's stare and hands longer than usual for a first meeting.

He had to let go first and she can't help but miss the warmth of his hand. "I gotta head back there to help the band pack our stuff I’ll be back", and just like that he left as quickly as he came.

"So that's Eddie huh…", She said as she followed his direction.

"Yeah", Steve replied and he looked at his cousin, eyes widening in realization. "Aw come on!"

"What?", She whipped her head to look at Steve who had captured the attention of the other tables with his sudden outburst.

"Out of all the people you could've been attracted to, you chose Eddie?!", He said in a hush tone to avoid garnering more attention.

"I'm not attracted to him", she denied, which was a lie because she was definitely attracted to him.

"I'm not stupid-"

"Yes,you are"

"Shut up, Robin", Steve glared at her. "Look, my point is, I'm not stupid with this kind of stuff. You're definitely attracted."

"I love the fact you didn't deny that you're stupid", she said playing along with Robin and hopefully changing the subject.

"Haha funny", Steve playfully glared at her.

-

On their first day of school, they were given their schedule and the lock code of their designated lockers. She was walking alongside Robin trying to find their lockers when Robin suddenly stopped.

"My locker is beside Eddie's", she whispered to her, directing her head to the direction where Eddie's unmistakeable back is trying to open his locker.

"Wanna trade lockers?", Robin extends the paper with her lock code. "It's fine by me."

"Yeah sure, thanks", she didn't hesitate. She saw her chance, and she took it.

Robin left her not before mouthing "Good luck in making your move" to her which she shook her head at.

She went to the locker on the right side of Eddie. It didn't take long for him to notice her.

"Hey”, he says her name and she realised that she liked the way he says her name.

"Yeah, it's good to see you, Eddie", she replied back.

"Likewise", he turned back to his locker before adding. "You know, I didn't expect it would take this long for us to see each other again."

This perked up her ears. "Oh you were expecting to see me again?", She asked, trying to fight back her widening grin.

"Yeah, I mean— you're new here so I was kinda expecting Steve would drag you everywhere to familiarize you with this town."

She let out a little "oh" before turning back to her locker. It wasn't exactly the response she expected (and wanted). A long silence sat between them as she tried to think of a way to keep the conversation going. But when she turned to look at him he was already gone. As if on time, the bell rang signaling the first class and she silently cursed herself.

-

The following days started the same. She wakes up early, gets ready, catches a ride with Steve and Robin, goes to her locker, and exchanges "hellos" with Eddie. That's all. No matter how hard she tries there has been no development whatsoever. But thankfully that Tuesday morning seemed to be on her side.

"Oh no", she heard Eddie groan in frustration. "I thought I brought it with me…"

"You okay?", She asked and he stopped checking back and forth between his backpack and locker.

"No, not really… I left my stupid history book at home", he reached up the back of his neck and sighed.

'This is it, this is your chance', she thought."Oh we can share you know", she thanked her brain's quick thinking as she waved her history book in front of him.

He grinned at her. "You're a lifesaver. A literal angel."

They sat beside each other during History class but Eddie tried not to lean in close to read the text better to avoid being caught by Mr. Smith not having his history book on him.

"Look, I wouldn't care if I get caught and sent to detention but if he finds out you're lending your book to me he'll definitely send you to detention too. And I don't want to ruin your good record",were his words.

“Bold of you to assume I haven't been in detention before”, she whispered and gave him a sly grin.

“Oh really huh?”, he is now also sporting a grin himself. “How many times have you been in detention?”

“30”, she said, the first number that comes to her mind.

Eddie's eyes widened. “Well, well congratulations, sweetheart you’ve beaten my record.”

She tried to ignore the way her heart fluttered at the nickname. “How many times have you been?”

“20”, he replied and then they went silent and she thought the conversation ended there until Eddie spoke up again. “Damn, can’t believe someone beat my record.

She left out a quiet giggle. “It's a lie, I've never been to detention before”, and she continued to giggle.

“Wow, you got me there alright”, Eddie said with a chuckle.

But you know what? Spending detention with you doesn't seem so bad", she said as she looked at him. "You don't seem to be bad company to me."

She mentally pat herself on the shoulder as she saw Eddie start to smile wider at her before letting out a small "Yeah?"

"Yeah"

Their eye contact was broken by Mr. Smith's loud voice. "Okay everyone get out one piece of paper we're going to have a quiz."

Everyone visibly groaned.

-

"Hey", are you planning to take a part-time job?", Robin asked a few weeks later. "You know, for college.

"Yeah, but only on Summer break. I don't think I can handle my academics with work", she answered and Robin nodded in understanding before they heard a loud clang of metal as Steve set down his lunch tray at the table.

"Guys you wouldn't believe who got punched earlier in the hallway…", Steve said excitedly as he told the latest gossip in your school.

"He honestly deserved it, he's a real jerk", Robin said and she hummed in agreement.

"Hey guys", Eddie finally arrived at the table and Steve turned to him ready to retell the incident in the hallway a few minutes ago.

"Hey you'll never guess who got punched in the hallway earlier-"

"Yeah I know it was Jason. I was there when it happened. I cheered for the guy who punched him. Man had it coming for him", Eddie chuckled before popping a pretzel in his mouth. She laughed at his antics which didn't go unnoticed by Eddie. They then continued their lunch like they normally do.

After their meals are finished Eddie suddenly talked to her. "Hey are you perhaps looking for a part-time job?", He looked at her before continuing. "You see, two of my co-workers just quit and we are short of staff and these two", he pointed at Steve and Robin. "Already work at the ice cream shop across the street and I can't really ask my band members because they already got jobs-"

"Yeah", she cut him off and he raised his eyebrows. "Yeah I am in fact looking for a job".

"You are?", Steve asked with furrowed eyebrows.

"Yeah we were actually just talking about it", Robin was quick to reply and she mentally thanked her.

"Great, does Friday sound good to you?", Eddie grinned and she nodded.

-

"I didn't know you were looking for a part-time job", Steve said as he drove her home after dropping off Robin.

"Yeah just thought of it this morning", She said trying to sound casual.

"This isn't just an excuse to spend more time with Eddie,right?", He looked at her through the mirror above him but her lack of response answered his question.

"Oh it's definitely an excuse to spend more time with him, you sly fox!", he exclaimed.

"So what if it is?",she retorted. "It's not like you can stop me."

"He plays at the Hideout every Tuesday", Steve said out of the blue.

"What?", She asked not because she didn't hear him the first time, but out of elaboration.

"Eddie's band plays every Tuesday at the resto. Gives you even more time to spend with him", Steve elaborated.

"You're not gonna stop me?"she asked, trying to not sound too happy.

"Like you said, I can't stop you and besides he's a good guy", he continued. " Just make sure to not form any public displays of affection in front of us and don't break up because it'll be awkward. You guys would ruin movie nights."

-

Friday finally rolled around and Eddie offered to take her to his workplace after school. The cafe looks small on the outside but once they entered it was definitely bigger. It didn't have anything special on it. It just looked like any other cafe with small tables and chairs, some couches and a plain white wall with random frames of quotes hanging on the wall.

"Wait here a bit okay", he patted her shoulder before going behind the counter. A random guy entered the shop and stood beside her while a dark haired woman who appeared to be in her late 20s or earlys 30s greeted them.

"Hello, you must be the applicants", she said. She and the other applicant learn her name is Elise and she's the manager of the cafe. She brought her and the other applicant whose name is James, at the counter.

"You will be working here in front of the cashier while James will be brewing some coffee", It didn't escape her notice the flash of disappointment in the boy's face.

The manager told her what to do and which buttons are which in the cashier. It wasn't hard to grasp and she got everything in one listen. The manager watched as she took the order of the very first customer, making sure she got the hang of it before leaving with the boy at the back where the brewing area is.

To say she was bummed that she got the job where she had to talk to the customers and write down their order as they enumerated it incredibly fast was an understatement. She took a peak at the back to see Eddie, his leather jacket nowhere to be seen and replaced with an apron as he made a customer's coffee. Yeah, she was incredibly bummed. Then the gears in her head started to work.

After work, she approached James.

"Hey",she called out to him. " James, right? Listen I can't help but notice earlier that you seemed quite disappointed about working in the brewing area. So… I was kind of wondering if maybe you'd wanna switch? I mean to be honest, I kind of only took this job because I just wanted to learn how to make different coffees", that was definitely a lie but he didn't need to know that.

"Um yeah,sure", he accepted immediately. "Kind of wanted the simpler task, to be honest. But are you sure Elise will be okay with it? She's the manager after all"

“I’m sure she'll be fine I’ll go talk to her”, she reassured James. Elise seems to be a kind woman surely she'll understand it. She then thanked James more excitedly than she intended to. She mentally cheered for her plan's success.

-

On Monday, she entered the brewing area and put on one of the aprons there. Luckily, Elise didn't have any problem at all with her switching their positions.

She heard her name being called and turned around to see Eddie already wearing his apron. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to make coffee", she replied as if it was the most obvious answer.

"I thought you were assigned at the front", he made a pointing gesture over his shoulder.

"Oh um, James asked me if we can switch since he wanted to work at the cashier more", she half lied to him.

"Do you even know how to make coffee?", He quirked an eyebrow at her to which she shook her head at.

"Come on, I'll teach ya", He beckoned her to follow him as he took an order that just came in. " So over here is the creams, and on the left side is the syrup, the coffee and some of the toppings are there at the back…", He started teaching her the basics like how much is one pump of syrup equivalent to, how much drizzle is recommended, how tall the whipped cream is, etc.

“Wait I can't seem to make it right”,she was trying to decorate a latte but the design just won't come out.

“Here let me help”, she suddenly felt Eddie's presence behind her. He had his arms around her and put his hands on her wrists to guide her hands. She tried so hard to focus but it was so difficult when she could feel Eddie's body against her.

Suddenly Eddie lets go of her hands and she was too preoccupied by his presence that it took her a minute to notice the heart design on the latte.

"I did it!", She exclaimed as she showed him the first drink she made..

"Good job! You're a quick learner", He smiled at her and put his hand on her arm. "If you need help with anything else don't hesitate to ask me, okay?"

She felt giddy at the compliment she received and at the warmth of Eddie's body that still lingered.

-

She secretly begged Elise to let her get off earlier every Tuesday so that she can see Eddie's band play at the Hideout. Thankfully, she agreed but in the condition that she will make up for it by working every Saturday.

Steve and Robin were unfortunately too busy and had a stricter manager so they didn't get to join her. She didn't exactly get to mention it to Eddie which is why he was surprised to see her working at the cafe on a Saturday morning.

She was on her way to the brewing area when she heard the bell ring and her eyes met with Eddie. “It's supposed to be your day off,right?", he asked.

"Uh yeah but I decided to make up for it by going to see my friend's band", She smiled at him.

"Oh you don't have to do that-", she cut him off.

"Oh no I insist. At least in the future I get to tell everyone I know that I was a fan of the biggest band in the world before they became famous", she said which earned her a grin from him. "I didn't know you work on Saturday too", that was a lie she figured that if the manager made her work Saturdays for leaving earlier there is no way she is going to let Eddie not make up for his.

"Um yeah gotta make up for the half hours I miss every Tuesday", he said. "So… you think we have what it takes to be the biggest band in the world huh?" His grin was still there.

"Yeah I'm like your number one fan", she said. "Don't tell Robin or Steve I said that though because they love arguing about who's the bigger fan between them."

Eddie laughed. "You're secret's safe with me, sweetheart." Her heart flutters everytime he calls her that.

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret of mine as well”, he moved closer to her and leaned close to her ear and whispered: “You're my favorite fan.”

He moved away and had a wide grin on his face. He winked at her before going to the brewing area.

She felt her cheeks warm up and her heart felt like it was about to burst. ‘Oh shit… I’m completely down bad for this man, aren't?’

-

The final week of school is exciting and stressful. Exciting because vacation is finally near. And stressful because all the teachers were giving a lot of work with extremely short deadlines.

She really tried to keep her mind off her studies while at work but it just kept getting in the way. She got two customers' orders wrong, she almost put too much whipped cream on every drink, and now she accidentally spilled coffee on herself and Eddie.

"I'm so sorry about your shirt", she apologized for what seemed to be the hundredth time after leaving the bathroom wearing a new shirt.

"Hey I already told you it's okay", he reassured her.

"It's just that I'm so stressed about work and Mr. Smith's homeworks which has a deadline that is way too early for the hundreds of amount of school work he has given us", she ranted.

"I understand. He can be a pain in the butt", he told her. “Hey this is just coffee it’ll wash away”, he reassured her again but that didn't seem to remove the frown she had on her face.

"Wait here okay", he returned to the brewing area. After a few minutes he returned with two cups of coffee. "Here, drink this." He handed her one of the cups and she took a sip.

Her eyes widened. "This is so good!"

"I know right!", Eddie exclaimed. "I accidentally made this when I was new here and I got the measurements mixed up and voila! I made a masterpiece."

They sat in comfortable silence sipping the special drink Eddie made before she breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your show last night", she looked him in the eyes. "I really needed to finish my school works."

"Hey it's okay",he reassured her once more. "Although I did miss my number one fan."

She finally smiled at that. "I might get dethroned by Steve or Robin."

"Pfft never!", He laughed before taking a sip of coffee. “You're my favorite remember?”, she nodded and smiled at him.

They fell into a comfortable silence once again but it was cut abruptly by Eddie.

"I really did miss you, you know", she met his gaze.

"Without you there the room just seemed…empty despite the Hideout being packed full". He continued. "No trace of your presence or your smile. Did I tell you you look prettier when you smile?"

"No…", she smiled wider as she shook her head.

"Well you do. I got proof of it right here", his smile widens as he continues to look at her.

"Well then thank you Eddie for making me smile today", she continued. "I missed you too."

"Yeah, seems like we can't stay one day away from each other huh?", He asked even though he already knew the answer.

"Yeah it seems that we can't"

The next words that left his mouth were unexpected but something you've been wanting to hear for a long time."Then how about we spend more time together. Does Monday after work sound good to you?"

"Are you asking me on a date?", She asked in disbelief.

"Yeah,I am", he answered with no hesitation.

"Well then Monday does sound good to me", she answered also with no hesitation.

(End of flashback)

-They arrived at her house just in time as she finished her confession.

"Look I know it may sound a bit weird and it ruined the whole "destiny" thing the events leading to where we are now had but-", she tried reasoning with him but stopped midway when she looked up to meet his gaze and see him smirking.

“Why are you smirki-”, She looked at him, brows furrowed in confusion before her eyes widened in realization.

"You knew the entire time, didn't you!", Eddie bursts out laughing.

"Yep, I sure did", he continued laughing. "And no, I don't find it weird. I actually find it very endearing that you liked me that much to the point that you planned how we'll end up together."

"I hate you",she glared at him.

"Oh you love me,sweetheart. That confession is enough proof of that. And I love you too, by the way", he smiled at her which caused her glare to falter and turn into a smile of her own.He was right she definitely loves him.

So I told you none of it was accidental

And the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me

I laid the groundwork and then saw a wide smirk

On your face, you knew the entire time

You knew that I'm a mastermind

And now you're mine

Yeah, all you did was smile

'Cause I'm a mastermind

[edenspoem]

hi! #8, #11, and #13 for the writer asks please 🤍

omg.. i was waiting for one of these.. THANK YOU.

8. do you prefer the beginning, middle, or end of a story?

hard to say. the beginning can be a rough patch if you don't know what you're doing. the middle can be grueling and too much all at once. and the end can feel tortuous as you're there, but not quite. but, i would have to say the end, because at that point i have written a substantial amount to peek back at and feel proud about (or simply to edit it because.. lesbehonest.. editing > drafting)

11. link three favorite fics.

ok this is a tough one because i have to trudge back and find whatever the hell i've read that actually like.. changed my brain chemistry.. (and is also still up) more than friends by @gracieheartspedro (honorable mention: dagger in the heart) is a more recent favorite.. tbh a classic. and i love jackson ellie. second, a friend in need by @s-4pphics changed the way i think about jackson!ellie so Hard and Bad and I can't stop thinking about It. (honorable mention again: candy crush also had an impact on me, but i think that's because i was in the middle of fortnite while reading it. So. Yeah.) third, pretty girls make graves by a name i can't seem to recall (because the account was deleted) (please let me know if any of you 2023 ogs remember) but another one that still haunts me (in a good way) is marley and me by @total-dxmure again a very old, good ass classic. i miss fics like this guys where did all the good days go. quite literally what is wrong with us now GET BACK TO WORK!!

13. what's a common writing tip that you always follow?

never. over. do. it. okay, being candid, i have a lot of tips that i stringently follow, but good god starting out as a writer a year ago did i need this one. a year ago, i needed to hear that you don't need so many varying epithets. you don't need to explain the microscopic details. you don't need a poem for every emotion. you don't need big fancy words (jargon) that nobody understands. sure, words won't hurt—but a litany of them will. it will hurt your brain. it will hurt OTHER brains. if you can write soft but hit hard without expending it through an entire paragraph of repeats, similies, metaphors, epithets, and absurb amounts of drama, then that makes you a true writer. you shouldn't need 10k+ words to prove yourself. in fact, forcing yourself to hit a goal ends in a bunch of yabber jabber nobody wants to read (unless you're just writing a long-ass story. like me rn tbh. except there's just a lot of lore i don't waste 10 million words on one scene lol). so, no, all the poetical adornments aren't always better. they're fun as hell, and can be a writing style, but oh my god, do those simple one-and-done fics take me the fuck out. besides, writing all that bs will wear you down so fast (learned my lesson). i could ramble on and on about tips. stop me here.

[god-has-entered-my-body]

gjwf girlie telling matty to use a vibe on her because she "doesn't need him" and him trying to prove he can be good enough for her <3

oooohhhhh my god this anon girl u get me

content warnings: shes MEAN, impact play, MEAN, use of ma'am, sex toys

imagine teasing him with the idea that you're going to let him touch you all night, whispering in his ear to "Be good for me, you'll get your reward soon, baby." letting go of the collar of his tiny little outfit with a wink and a flash of your smile, leaving Matty with a faint blush dusted across his pale cheeks.

And then denying him the moment you take him back to your place, hand on his thigh the whole drive, slowly inching up and toying with the garters hugging his hips. Anyone who you drove by could see the state he was in, red and sweaty and dressed in little scraps of fabric you couldn't even call clothes anymore.

God, the way his eyes widened when you got out a vibrator, thinking you were being nice and were going to use it on your pretty boy. The moment you hand it to him, a filthy smirk tugging at the corners of your lips is when his own drops, eyes scrunching up in confusion.

"Come on, sweetheart, don't act dumb now." you condescend him, your tone making goosebumps erupt on his skin and his cock fill in mere seconds, straining against the fabric of his leather shorts (if they could even be called that). The toy makes his skin flush, like he hasn't seen it dozens of times already, pressed against various parts of his body, his dick twitching at the thought.

Matty cocks his head at you, pouting at the fact that he wouldn't be getting his mouth on you tonight, like you'd promised. He starts to complain, but is swiftly cut off by your cruel laughter, little giggles making his heart sink in the best fucking way possible. "You think you deserve to touch me? Who knows where you've fucking been, whoring yourself out to random old men, letting them touch you however they fancy."

The degradation makes Matty's head spin with lust, the only response he can muster being a weak nod of his weak, small tears forming in his glitter framed eyes.

"M'sorry, i'm so sorry ma'am, I didn't mean to assume-" you laugh again, eyeing him up and down with a hungry gaze. You gesture to the vibrator in his hand, motioning or him to come closer. "I guess you'll do for tonight, pretty." you sigh as your eyes rake over the lustful mess he's become, all your patronization only making his cock harder, the bulge in his shorts undeniable.

Matty works quietly, twinges of shame and embarrassment flooding his body when you go on your phone as he inches your thong down your legs. He folds it neatly and lays it down on the bed next to you, looking up with teary eyes as you roll your eyes, nudging his cheek with the point of your heel, raising your eyebrows expectantly.

Your tits spill out of your top, half unbuttoned yet somehow still crisp, Matty's eyes starting to wander upwards to ogle you. Your hand connects with his face with a loud crack, a look of both betrayal and arousal on Matty's face. "Did I tell you to look? Stupid fucking slut, jesus."

Matty whimpers as you spread your legs, already dripping down your thighs at his pleading eyes, hand shaking slightly as he clicks on the vibrator. The buzz against your clit is delicious, and you arch your back wantonly, pleased sounds falling from your lips.

Matty's cock leaks into his underwear, and he resists the urge to reach down and palm himself, knowing your reaction would be everything but pleased. "Such a good little doll, fuckk- at least you're good for something, yeah, sweetheart? Least i'm getting my fucking money's worth- oh god." you writhe as Matty watches the way your cunt flutters at the stimulation, your thighs shaking as your orgasm rapidly approaches.

You listen to his little whines and grip his hair, stroking his cheek sweetly as you screw your eyes shut, your filthy, degrading words only turning Matty on more.

"Such an easy whore, aren't you? Do fucking anything for a few hundreds, wouldn't you, pretty girl?" the pet name makes shivers run up his spine, a wanton moan spilling from his painted lips. Your own whines get louder, whole body shaking as Matty nods his head, turning up the toy one last time as you come undone.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, like you weren't expecting it, lips parted and hips bucking against the vibrator as you ride it out, Matty watching intently. You let him, smiling down at his small frame once your mind starts to clear up.

His eyes are glassy, hands fidgety, and cock somehow even harder than before. Matty thinks you're going to get up and hold him, touch him until he comes in your arms, kiss his neck and feel him up gently, your sweet tone almost lulling him to sleep.

The look on his face when you slip your underwear back on and take out your wallet from your jacket pocket, throwing a couple bills at him with a smirk is fucking priceless, and you swear you could see his bottom lip quiver.

"Take care of your little problem before I come back, i dont want you sullying my sheets."

Matty can barely think as your heels click against the marble floor on the way out, too fucking hard to form a single coherent thought. The sound of your voice in the club, the look you gave him right before you came, the moans that fell from your lips. All of these images replace rational thought as he wraps his hand around his cock, touching himself with frevor, surrounded by fifty and hundred dollar bills.

He feels filthy, like a dirty whore you use for your pleasure and then hide from your wife before she gets home, and Matty fucking loves it.

It doesn't take long for him to cum all over his hand, shorts down around his ankles and hand clamped around his mouth, your ear pressed to the door, listening intently.

[simplegenius042]

Music Monday & WIP Wednesday

Tagging @voidika @raresvtm @josephseedismyfather @noodlecupcakes @imogenkol @socially-awkward-skeleton @inafieldofdaisies @aceghosts @cloudofbutterflies92 @cassietrn @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @derelictheretic @davrinsgriffons @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @carlosoliveiraa @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @alypink @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @florbelles @minilev @justasmolbard @yokobai and @seedsplease + anyone else who'd like to join.

Now onto the Hazbin Hotel songs for The UnTitledverse, Life, Despair & Monsters and one song centered around Arraknis and the Arachnoids in regards to their envy and hatred towards humanity, and a WIP Wednesday for The Silver Chronicles. You can listen and read below the cut:

First up is more on Smile Tunes and more on Samuel Who's side of the story helping Charlie with the Hazbin Hotel alongside the other staff. Samuel is like 50-50 on the whole redemption thing since he knows that some people like Angel Dust don't deserve Hell but people like Alastor definitely do (also he has complex feelings towards "redemption to get into Heaven" since he himself is barred from Heaven for like eternity, not out of any wrong doing, but because his murderer, Edward Carmine, didn't take the ritual he was conducting seriously and unintentionally sent Samuel's soul straight to Hell and barring him from Heaven, instead of the original plan which was Edward sacrifices Samuel's soul so he himself can get a one-way ticket straight to Heaven or be barred from Hell for eternity). Samuel pretty much follows Charlie everywhere and acts as a younger/older adoptive brother (ageing gets weird in Hell), but their dynamic is like "she's the passionate dreamer and he's the guy that uses the fancy sometimes political words to sell the dream" and add Vaggie and you get the additional "call out the opposition's BS while keeping the dreamer grounded". This side of the plot for Smile Tunes is to prove to Heaven that redemption can work before the next Extermination; and what better way than to send one of their apparently fallen/lost exorcists (Kingsley) back to them along with some redeemed sinners. Though Kingsley is noticeably a little different from a regular exorcist as both Vaggie and Samuel come to figure out...

[CW: Mentions of violence and sexual themes]

"I can do this, somehow I know it I'll get Heaven behind my plans ("Charlie, hold on.")

There's just no way I could blow it Not in this once-in-a-lifetime chance ("It's just a meeting.")

To change their minds and touch their hearts Or whatever angels have ("This could be bad.")

Cheer up, Vaggie This could be swell Something tells me that today will be a happy day in Hell!"

"Okay, but just don't sing to them." "That bitch is halfway down the street." "Is she-?" "Oh, she's dancin'." "Ugh, no..."

"There's a warm fuzzy feeling that wafts through the air Every street so revealing, it's hard not to stare It's a realm so appealing, it beats anywhere If you don't mind the smell It's a happy day in Hell!"

In Life, Despair & Monsters, sometime during the midway point, there's a conflict between two antagonistic groups; the Ruins of the Midnight Rise, the main antagonistic force of this series led by Sir Enigma Malvolio and his fucked-up science fair rejects, and the Occult, the secondary antagonistic force comprised of undead magicians and magic-using zealots determined to bring back the Kin (reality benders who were akin to Gods) lead by a lich named Aggravor. They both are an issue towards the protagonists, although both Malvolio's Midnight Rise and Aggravor's chapter of the Occult are rivals to each other; one former a symbol of progress and the future (albeit to unethical degrees) and the latter focused on tradition and the past. The song below pretty much sums up the relationship between these two groups, albeit it would have been Malvolio's progress winning rather than Aggravor's stagnated approach.

"Is Aggravor as strong as he purports? Or is it based on his support? He'd be powerless without the other zealots he's amassed!" * "Oh, please!" "And here's the sugar on the cream He asked me to support** his team!" "Hold on!" "I said no, and now he's pissy That's the tea!"

"You old-timey prick, I'll show you suffering!" "Uh oh, the TV is buffering." "I'll destroy you, you little-" "I'm afraid you've lost your signal

Let's begin I'm gonna make you wish that I'd stayed gone, tune on in When I'm done, your status quo will know its race is run Oh, this will be fun!"

"Fuck!"

[* The Occult is made up of a lot of zealots, not just a few individuals with Aggravor leading this chapter of the Occult. ** The Midnight Rise would never join the Occult and the Occult would never want the Midnight Rise to join them, especially since Aggravor's in charge and has a strict definition of the characteristics they seek for in applicants. However, Aggravor would most definitely have sort out Malvolio for support in the Occult's endeavours, believing himself to understand what a Displacement like Malvolio would want (due to his own experiences with the Occult's founder, the Arcane Urias), however, gets proven very wrong very quickly].

In my LORE, the Arachnoids are beings from another dimension that were called by the Omniscience (basically the living will of the uni/multiverse) to help it expand. The Arachnoids made several sacrifices to enter the realm of the Omniscience such as replacing all their flesh with technology (given the realm of the Omniscience had gravity which crushed the Arachnoids as soon as they crossed the border between dimensions) and straying from their pacifistic roots (especially when building the Exterminators). The Archnoids utilized the Omniscience's power and helped it create worlds and structures and whatnot. They were pretty much the Omniscience's little helpers that built pretty much every natural force and element there was. Until the Omniscience learned to do so by itself, eventually doing what the Arachnoids could never do; which was create life (the Eldritch which were basically the Omniscience's children, and humanity + animals and stuff). The Arachnoids were surprised and curious and wanted to replicate this by making their own life... which resulted in the "Lost Ones" and the "Old Ones" who were swiftly abandoned. It wasn't until they discovered energy from a creature known as a "Paragon" which they utilized to create "the Kin", reality benders and reality-warpers that were the drafts for what would eventually become "the Old Gods" (until those were replaced by "the New Gods" after an incident involving Olympus warring with the other Old Gods). However, it wasn't an event known as the "Extermination Purge Wars" (a conflict that involved a vanished universe, Discord becoming "the Mad Kin of Carnage", and the Arachnoids' use of the Exterminators to wipe out around four generations of Kin). Due to the lack of explanation for such extreme action, especially to the Eldritch, Old Gods and the Bronze Era of the Time Bureau Authority, the Arachnoids were banished from the Omniscience's realm, and were forced back to their own home dimension (with the Exterminators and Boss Series deactivated and locked away in some dimensional pocket prisons/tombs). The Arachnoids have hated humanity for a long, long time, due to the fact that humanity is "important" to the function of the Omniscience while the Arachnoids basically built everything that allowed the Omniscience to become what it is today. Arraknis did not take his species banishment well, and has made plans for vengeance and to prove everyone wrong that the Arachnoids are the superior beings, and not humanity. I believe this song exemplifies this well:

"Let me stop you right there, save us all precious time ("Oh, okay?") If what you're suggesting is letting them climb Up the ladder, oh, they'd rather cross the Pearly Gates? ("Well, um...") Sorry, sweetie, but there's no defyin' their fates

'Cause Hell is forever, whether you like it or not Had their chance to behave better, now they boil in a pot 'Cause the rules are black and white There's no use in tryin' to fight it They're burnin' for their lives until we kill 'em again ("Okay, but-!")

Just try to chillax, babe, you're wasting your breath Did I hear you imply that they don't deserve death? Are they winners? Are they sinners? 'Cause it's cut and dry ("Well actually, if you take a look-") Fair is fair, an eye for an eye

And when all's said and done ("Said and done!") There's the question of fun And for those of us with divine ordainment Extermination is entertainment

Bow-now-now-now-now, guitar solo, fuck yeah!

Hell is forever, whether you like it or not Had their chance to behave better now they boil in a pot ("Where did all you come from?"*) 'Cause the rules are black and white There's no use in tryin' to fight it They're burnin' for their lives until we kill 'em again

Fuckin' Hell is forever and it's meant to suck a lot So give up your dumb endeavor, 'cause you don't have a shot Long as I got your attention I guess I should probably mention That we've made the determination To move up the next extermination!" ("What?!")

[*Whoever's speaking probably just got freaked out by the amount of Arachnoids that there really were in the room]

First snippet is of my FC5 WIP Oh, I Love It And I Hate It At The Same Time. You And I Drink The Poison From The Same Vine. Hiding All Of Our Sins From The Daylight... or as I like to shorten it as, the Daylight AU, because David Kushner's song encapsulates Silva and Paul's relationship. In this AU, essentially Paul escaped with Silva (instead of being separated during the Tumultite Massacre where Silva ends up with her sister and daughter like in her canon story). So the experience leaves them scarred together and worsens their codependency with one another. Silva's a deputy and Paul is a wasp "beekeeper". The Seeds want Silva to themselves but Paul is a significant obstacle in the way:

Jacob shifted on the couch, still stiff, still cautious. Beside him, Joseph was as calm as ever, patiently awaiting their host to return from the cabinet behind them.

It took all of Jacob's self-control to not just take a glance behind him to know what exactly Paul was getting, but given how observant the older man was, he decided against it, not desiring to be put on the spot.

He could hear the sound of glasses clinking and the cabinet creaking close, and it wasn't long until Paul rounded the corner of their couch and sat on the sofa across from them, placing three short glasses and a bottle of an alcoholic beverage down on the table that separated them.

Jacob hardened his eyes on the bottle, the cork plugged in at the mouth of it; a kind of scotch, from what he could read from the label.

Glancing to Joseph, he could see his younger brother's shared blue eyes narrow on the beverage. Neither had requested for a drink, and it bugged him that Paul picked an alcohol drink specifically.

It couldn't be for hospitality, the older man was already well-informed on the Project's rules, so it confused the men to what their host was doing.

Unscrewing the cork, Paul filled the three glasses half way with scotch, placing the bottle back before taking a glass for himself, making no gesture nor indication for either of the eldest Seeds to take a glass for themselves either.

Neither brother moved to take a glass for themselves, and Paul didn't comment on it.

The beekeeper sipped from his glass, a smirk spreading from the taste of the scotch. He focused his pale hazel eyes onto them, intrigue practically written on his face as he spread his legs and crossed one flatly on top of the other, though his face made a strange twitch when he did that.

Jacob finally noticed Paul's clothes were different; similar, but different. The color was still yellow and black, however he was wearing a Henley shirt, two of the top buttons left unbuttoned, revealing some of his dark skin. A contrast to the buttoned shirt he wore underneath his vest and suit. His pants were also different; they were missing the loops and belt he wore in their first meeting, and one of the legs seemed more baggy than the other. A minor mistake, likely another of his self-woven clothes.

It was casual attire; fitting, considering his casual attitude.

Swirling the glass in his hand, Paul didn't waste any time in asking, "So, what brings the eldest two Seeds to my figlia and I's home?"

Jacob looked to Joseph, his younger brother subtly leaning closer as he directed his words to Paul, "We were hoping we could speak about a very dire matter."

Paul raised a brow and tilted his head. Jacob noted that he didn't look worried, just curious. It was the same kind of tic Silva herself had.

"And what would be so dire that Silva and myself are unaware of?" Paul questioned in response, taking another sip of his glass. His tone lacked concern. Gratingly to Jacob, he looked more amused, his smile placid.

Joseph didn't waste time beating around the bush, as they agreed on previously, "I speak of the coming end. The Collapse that will bring upon flames and destruction across the valley, on the mountains and along the river."

Paul lost his smile, pausing mid-sip. His hazel eyes looked to Joseph, expression indiscernible. Jacob couldn't tell whether the older man's mind was racing or shocked into a forced stop.

Not even a minute, Paul finished the rest of his glass, placing it gently back onto the tabletop, empty next to the two filled ones. His eyes never left Joseph.

Paul changed his posture; taking his leg off the other, he sat up and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees while his hands interlocked, nose resting on his hands while his focus narrowed on Joseph.

Jacob tensed, eyeing the man before him as he studied his younger brother. Paul didn't bat an eye to Jacob, making him more suspicious.

Admittedly, his first mistake when meeting Paul was regarding the older man as weak; his previous clothes gave off the impression that his stature was slimmer than it actually was, and his nonchalant and carefree attitude blindsided him.

In actuality, Paul had muscle, clear enough from the clothes he wore now. Not as obvious as Jacob himself, but still well toned. The suit he wore in their first meeting merely gave off the illusion of a lack of strength. And his jocular behavior was likely played up as well, to maintain a distance from his other qualities, such as his sharp perception.

It had Jacob curious. Who exactly was Paul Yellowjack? Was the man before him an illusion of his true self or did he simply exaggerate some of his present traits?

Most importantly, how did Silva fit into this? Does she know who the man before him is or was she as unaware as they were? For some reason, that didn't seem right to Jacob.

He was brought out of his thoughts when Paul let out a hum, breaking eye contact with Joseph as he leaned back up, seemingly satisfied by whatever conclusion he came to.

Paul grabbed another of the filled glasses, holding it by the rim, watching the liquid as he watched it swirl.

He gestured towards Joseph, stating, "Continue."

[howlingday]

swashbuckler au: weiss and jaune end up having a duel, and while weiss can't say he's the best swordsman she's ever faced she can say that he's the most adaptable fighting she's ever seen tldr: jaune pulls some jackie chan improvisation using the environment in unorthodox ways to win fights. slapstick action comedy ensues

Part 1

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You know those awkward family dinners? The ones where the room is tense and feels like it's filled with gunpowder, and all it takes is just one word to set it all off? Yeah, those ones.

Well, Jaune usually felt that every dinner since taking up his father's mantle as the Hero of Aquadia. Tonight, however, was especially tense since the four people hired to hunt him down were also here, eating his mother's special occasion chicken and spice. Now there was heat to help the spark.

"Hah... Hah..." The girl in red huffed as she reached for her glass of milk.

"Is it too hot?" Mom asked. "I usually cut back when we entertain guests."

"My sister never really liked spicy food." Joked the older girl. "Dad used to joke they're the reason she drinks so much milk."

"You sure he wasn't just milking you for a laugh?" Jaune's dad pointed at her with his fork, receiving a fork-point back.

"Please, don't give her any material." The girl in white said with a sigh. Jaune couldn't explain what it was, but there was something about her that seemed... familiar. "Anyway, what exactly is our task in Aquafia? Beyond the scope of capturing this "folk hero" running around in the city?"

"He's not a folk hero."

...

The room was quiet at that. Everyone was staring at me. Why was everyone staring at me? Don't tell me I-

"Care to elaborate on that, Mr..?"

"A-Arc." Jaune gulped chicken. "Jaune Arc. Short, sweet, and rolls off the tongue. The ladies love it."

"Do they, though?" Ruby asked.

"Yes, do they, Jaune?" His father sneered with a sinister grin. Sometimes, Jaune hated his father.

"Please excuse my son's outburst." His mom stated, dabbing her lips with her napkin. "He's a fan of La Lama Lunga de la Aquadia."

"The who the what?" Ruby asked.

"The Longblade of Aquadia." Blake answered. "The hero we met in the street earlier."

"And failed to capture." Mother said over folded fingers. She wasn't happy. Trust me, I'm an expert at making Mom not happy.

"He's crafty." Yang replied. "Really gave us the slip in the harbor after that Grimm attack."

"Haha! Oh, I wish I could have seen that!" Jaune's heart swelled at his father's words, even if these girls were giving him too much credit.

"And the city thanks you for protecting her citizens from the Grimm." His mother tried to get the discussion back to the mission. "But in regard to your real task, you can discuss the details in full with my son and my husband. I try not to involve myself in these childish escapades of heroism."

Jaune sank a little at that. "Sit up straight!" Okay, he sank a lot at it, but could you blame him? His mom just called him, as fancy as possible, out as a child playing hero! Still, his dad was stillin his usual high spirits. Kinda made him wonder how she never caught Dad when he was La Lama Lunga.

"It seems weird, though," The young girl said, "that the mayor of Aquadia would want to capture the hero of her city."

"He's a relic of the past, Ms. Rose." Mother dabbed her lips as she stopd up. "And though we are grateful for his protection in ages past, we must look to the future. If we wish to establish good relations beyond Aquadia, we must prove that we do not rely on fairy tales for our protection, and certainly not on vigilantes, either."

"So to make Aquadia a viable trading partner and member of the kingdom, you want us to hunt down the city's only protector?" Blake asked with a raised brow.

"We have guardsmen and a militia of retired soldiers acting as our reserve defense." Circling the table like a shark, the mayor made her case. "If Aquadia can prove we are just as capable as the northern cities in Vale, then we can prove that we are not merely a tourist trap of a bygone age."

"Oof, politics." Dad said. "Think it's time I called it a night. This talk of fairy tales and whatnot is giving me indigestion."

"We should also head back." Ruby said. "Thank you for the meal, but now it's time for Team RWBY to get to work! Starting tonight!"

Jaune swallowed his chicken a little hard, and started coughing up spices. Everyone stared at him again.

"S-Sorry." He said. "Uh, wrong hole."

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You know what the best part about being a hero in your city? The nighttime patrols. Just you, the chirping creatures of the night, and the pale moon shining into the caldera city at midnight. It's almost therapeutic.

Jaune understood what his mom was getting at, bringing the other cities closer to them by getting rid of the one aspect that separates Aquadia from everywhere else on Remnant. Kinda like how Mistral has that famous sport lady. Pyra, or something.

Still, he doubted she would be getting hunted down just so her city can build economic ties to the rest of the kingdom.

Coming from the docks where an old woman was saying her prayers in a window beneath him, Jaune kept being reminded of why he loves this city. The teenage kids sneaking around after curfew, the young lovers holding hands in gondola rides, the white glyph shining right in front of hi-

Wait a minute.

"Hold it right there, llama loonga!" The girl in white from before swiped her blade at him. Jaune barely had time to catch it as he brought his own blade to his defense.

"It's actually La Lama Lunga, princess." Jaune shoved her away.

"It's heiress, actually." The girl held a fencing position, and judging by her stance, she meant it.

This was bad for so many reasons.

First, this would be completely different from Grimm or rowdy thieving hooligans. He was fighting a genuine huntress, an actual fighter. What little he learned about them ws in one ear and out the other. What? Huntsmen just aren't as fascinating as La Lama Lunga.

Second, his opponent was not only a trained warrior, but she was actually trained in the same weapon as he was! And making this particular dilemma even worse was Jaune didn't know how to actually fence. Sure, he's got the basics from what his dad taught him, but this was a huntress with a semblance.

And that semblance was-

"Are you going to just stand there and stare at me while I arrest you?" She asked, getting closer. "If so, then by all means, continue."

Taking his own stance, he gulped. Come on... Remember what Dad taught you. 'If you ever find yourself outmatched, there's no shame in running.' Jaune took a step back. 'Unless your opponent is smaller than you, then you definitely should feel ashamed.' Jaune kept his feet planted.

She got closer. Oh crap, this really happening to him, isn't it? Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap-

"CRAP!" Jaune leapt out of the way of her thrust. He stepped on his back feet over and over until he caught himself on the edge of the rooftop.

Suddenly, nothing came to his mind. All of his father's lessons fell away as he realized this would be how he died. How the legend ended. He wanted to cry. He wanted to curl into a ball. But neither option was available. So instead...

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" La Lama Lunga ran forward, swinging his blade wildly at the foreign girl. Fear filled her eyes as she backed away, unsure of how to respond! His movements were too sporadic, too unorthodox! She'd never seen a fighting style like this before!

Suddenly, he tripped and fell over, dropping his weapon. He rolled forward, almost falling over the edge. Reaching down, he grabbed a potted flower and tossed it at her. She ducked, narrowly missing a bruise, only to be forced on the backfoot by the vigilante once more when he grabbed his blade again. Then...

"AGH!" She fell off! Jaune ran over to the side and looked down, finding the girl landed safe and sound... into a compost heap.

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"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Yang couldn't stop laughing at breakfast, smashing her fist on the table.

"IT'S NOT FUNNY!" Weiss screeched from inside the shower, on her third attempt to clean herself of the stench. "WHY WOULD THIS CITY EVEN NEED COMPOST?!"

"Apparently, the compost helps improve the soil development for the farms outside the caldera." Blake answered, reading the info pamphlet on compost provided. "The humid air compounded by the naturally occurring chemicals produced in the water make for an improved-"

"IT WAS RHETORICAL, BLAKE!"

"Jeez, this guy really is no joke." Ruby sighed. "Not only to escape all of us, but he managed to beat Weiss, too!"

"N... Not really that hard, Rubes." Yang breathed.

"SHUT UP, XIAO LONG!"

"But don't you worry." Yang pumped a thumb to herself. "With me and Blakey on the case, ain't no way sword boy is gonna last another night."