#My treacherous mind had different plans

[blitzwhore]

Okay, so, for the kisses list you have pinned, what about 17 for Stolitz? 👀

17. Kisses as a promise

I started writing this a few days before the trailer dropped, and finished it after watching the trailer. I can't explain how hard it was to write something so angsty after knowing the direction their relationship was headed in canon 😭

Stolitz | ~830 words | Teen and Up | Angst, pining, emotional hurt, sad Stolas, Stolas loves Blitz, Stolas lets Blitz go

On AO3

Stolas was no stranger to wanting things he could never have.

He'd gotten used to it, or so he'd thought. Through years of having his interests mocked, his thoughts dismissed, his future meticulously scripted and his fluttering heart kept carefully locked away, his only hope had been that, someday, he'd find comfort in a wife that would understand and share his situation. And, when even that hope had faded, he'd found solace in his daughter, his love for her keeping him afloat as he resigned himself to an immortal life half-lived.

After all that he'd been through, he'd thought he'd known the pain of being broken-hearted.

But this. This might just be what broke him beyond repair.

He would have held his breath, in equal parts awed and crushed by the sight before him, were it not for the fact the rhythmical rise and fall of his chest seemed to be lulling Blitz in his sleep.

Blitz, who was curled up around him, cheek buried in Stolas’ chest feathers, arm draped across Stolas’ stomach.

Blitz, whose tail was curled around Stolas’ torso and whose leg was twined snugly with Stolas’ thigh.

Blitz, who, unburdened by the weight of consciousness and the anxiety it carried, was purring, the low vibrations expanding from Stolas’ side, where their bodies were pressed together, to every corner of his being.

It was silly, and perhaps a little pitiful, but Stolas was close to tears from being—even if by pure chance—allowed to see this part of Blitz. The part of Blitz that wasn't too afraid to let himself be at ease around Stolas. The part of him that wasn't a bit too broken, a bit too scared to let go and trust.

The Blitz whose expression was completely serene. No grimace pulling at the corner of his lips—no frown settled between his eyebrows, no sneer of annoyance always bubbling close to the surface.

The Blitz whose body was soft and heavy against Stolas’. No cringing back from too-gentle touches, no turning away from a too-soft gaze.

The Blitz Stolas yearned for most.

How cruel it was that he would be granted this, would be allowed to hold Blitz at his softest, while knowing this was not something he could ever have. Not in any real capacity.

It ached knowing that he had no way of stopping this ephemeral moment from slipping through his fingers. Knowing all he could do was treasure it, soak himself in it before he inevitably lost it.

Careful not to wake Blitz up, Stolas touched his fingertips to his horn. In response, Blitz nuzzled his chest, and Stolas had to gulp past the knot suddenly constricting his throat. Another soft caress down his horn, and Blitz's purring intensified.

I love you, Stolas thought helplessly, the feeling pouring out of him in heavy waves as tears welled in his eyes. He had no idea what to do with these feelings anymore, and could only repeat himself over and over again, silently mouthing the words he couldn't bear to say out loud. I love you. I love you. I love you.

In his sleep, Blitz sighed, the tip of his tail twitching as he dreamed.

His body was so light in Stolas’ arms and, still, the weight of this moment was more than Stolas could bear.

He closed his eyes, and willed away the selfish want and the maddening hope.

He couldn't keep going like this.

He needed to let go. He had Blitz right in his arms, safe and perfectly at peace, and he needed to let go.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Stolas craned his head forward and kissed the top of Blitz's horn.

I promise, dearest, he thought to himself, the tip of his beak quivering against the smooth surface, I won't let us continue hurting each other like this. I'll be strong enough for both of us. I'll love you enough to let you go.

He pressed his forehead to Blitz's horn and breathed through the agonising pain in his chest. Breathed in Blitz, too, feeling his closeness for a second longer. Just one more moment.

Then, before he could foolishly talk himself out of it, and though he might as well have been ripping out his very heart, Stolas disentangled himself from the embrace, limb by limb.

Aching as Blitz resisted it in his sleep, wanting to stay close.

Crying silently as he uncurled Blitz's tail from around his waist.

Breaking inside when he settled Blitz on the bed by his side and Blitz's hand moved around the bed in search of him.

Of all the hardships he'd endured throughout his life knowing there was no other choice but to face them, this was, by far, the hardest thing he would ever do.

And, still, Stolas had to do it. For both of their sakes.

Keeping the storm raging inside him carefully at bay, Stolas exited the bedroom, leaving Blitz, and with him his very heart, behind.

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

And I'm back with Part 3 of the "Merlin accidentally conquers Camelot" au! Thank you all so much for your patience and continued support for this story! It makes me so happy to see people get excited by my silly (and occasionally delusional) au ideas!

NOTE: You can find part 1 here and part 2 here.

EDIT: And you can find part 4 here!

And without further ado, onto the new stuff!

It was rather drafty in the lesser furnished cells of the dungeons. Merlin knew this well, as he had spent many nights during his first couple of years in Camelot trying and failing to get any sleep on the cold stone floors of those cells, kept awake by the freezing chill that would sweep through the dungeons at any given moment.

Merlin also knew that Arthur had never been kept in one of those cells, even on the rare occasions that Uther had him locked up for going against his orders. Whenever Arthur had to be put in the dungeons, he had been put in the fully furnished cells, meant for prisoners who were members of noble families.

Even when they were held in the same dungeon, the nobles and the peasants were subjected to wildly different experiences.

With that in mind, Merlin stopped by Arthur's chambers (or... were they his chambers now? Merlin certainly didn't want to think about that.) to grab Arthur's favorite blanket off of his bed. It was a luxuriously soft blanket, dyed a rich Pendragon red. That blanket was fit for a king and a pain for a manservant to wash, but Merlin had always taken good care of the blanket, knowing how much Arthur liked it.

Merlin folded up the thick blanket with meticulous care, ignoring both his own trembling hands, rendered unsteady by the volatile emotions welling up in him, and Gwaine's presence behind him, silent for once. Despite Gwaine's undying loyalty and penchant for mischief landing Merlin in an even worse situation than before, he seemed to understand the solemnity of Merlin's actions and the profound sense of grief over the life he had lived once before that had been so suddenly torn away from him.

The motions of carefully folding up the blanket filled Merlin with both comforting familiarity and near-crippling sorrow. Would he ever do this again, ever provide support and comfort for Arthur again? As much as Merlin wished to stay optimistic, even if his plan to reinstate Arthur as the rightful king of Camelot succeeded, the darkest corners of his mind hissed that Arthur would never tolerate his presence again, let alone trust him, after usurping him and, in Arthur's eyes, proving everything Uther had ever said about sorcerers to be true.

Merlin's heart plummeted, nearly stopping him in his track towards the dungeon entirely, at the mere thought of what Arthur must think of him now: a treacherous, conniving sorcerer who had manipulated Arthur into becoming his friend only to betray him. Merlin blinked, banishing his tears before they could roll down his face and fall onto the blanket in his arms, and forced his feet to keep moving steadily forward. No matter what Arthur thought of him now, how deeply Merlin has unintentionally wounded his friend, or how catastrophically Merlin's world felt like it was crumbling down around him, he needed to set things right.

Merlin clung desperately to that conviction, the thrumming need to set things right again, as everything else in him wanted to curl up in a dark corner and never move again. After an eternity and yet all too soon, Merlin descended past the gates of the dungeon, where he forbade Gwaine from following him any further, down the noble cell blocks, which were filled with sleeping, but thankfully uninjured knights, and finally through the dark, damp, empty, and cold peasant cells.

He couldn't see Arthur at first, but his magic sensed that he was here. Like always, it jumped, tugging on Merlin to act, whenever Arthur was nearby, causing Merlin to pause his step in order to focus on whatever his magic was attempting to do. This time, it tugged his attention towards the unlit torches lining the walls of the cell block. Light them, his magic seemed to beg of him, our king is cold!

Merlin's immediate reaction was to stop his magic, to push it down so that no one would notice, and, after a deep breath, he did just that. As Merlin stood still, holding Arthur's blanket in his arms and cherishing what would likely be the last few seconds that he could ignore what had happened over the last day and pretend that everything was normal, he heard the voice that he'd been both yearning and dreading to hear for the past day coming from the cell at the very end of the dungeon.

"If you're waiting to sneak up on me, you'll have to try harder than that. I can hear that neither magic nor a crown have made you any more stealthy, Merlin."

Merlin flinched backwards, expecting but yet somehow still unprepared for how much vitriol and bitterness Arthur hissed out his name with. He had heard Arthur yell out his name in variety of tones over the years, ranging from annoyed to bemused to downright furious, but he had never heard his name pass from Arthur's lips like this, spat out from his mouth like it was poisonous and vile. It caused so much hurt to well up in Merlin's chest that he felt it like a bruising punch, causing him to wince in pain, still hiding where Arthur could not see him.

As Merlin stood silently, only a few steps away from Arthur's cell and facing Arthur's well-deserved fury, and tried to desperately blink away the tears gathering in his eyes, his magic abruptly tugged his attention towards the torches again, more insistent this time. Letting out a stuttering breath, Merlin obliged with his magic's request this time, and the torches lining the walls burst into bright, golden flames in an instant, filling the cells with a merry warmth that felt entirely out of place.

Merlin heard a sharp gasp coming from Arthur's cells as soon as the torches lit up by themselves and winced. Right, Arthur was fresh off of Merlin's betrayal, so he was probably pretty jumpy, especially around magic.

Merlin's guilt rose alongside his frustration. Everything he does with his magic, he does it for Arthur, and yet every single damned time it backfires on him and somehow hurt Arthur! A spell meant to heal his father kills the king instead. A battle waged to ensure his continued reign steals his sovereignty instead. And lit torches meant to provide him with warmth and comfort scares him instead!

But before even more guilt could build up inside of him, Merlin heard Arthur's voice once more.

"I won't be scared by a coward of a sorcerer who would steal everything from the man he claimed to serve! Or is the great Emrys too important to even face the fool he tricked into believing that he was his friend?"

Before Merlin's mind could even process Arthur's words, his feet were already carrying him to the end of the hallway, right to the front of Arthur's cell. He needed to prove Arthur wrong here, their years of friendship weren't a lie or a trick, Arthur needed to believe that! Too much of Merlin's life, his very soul, was woven into his bond with Arthur, he couldn't let Arthur have any doubt that their bond was even real!

As he finally arrived at the door to the cell that held Arthur, Merlin's heart stuttered again, this time with grief. Based on the ferocity in his voice, Merlin had expected to see Arthur pressed up against the bars, ready to battle his perceived opponent. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of Arthur, sitting alone on the dirty stone floor, his face wearing the same dejected and defeated look it had just days earlier, after Morgana had taken the citadel and Arthur doubted his own ability to rule his people. The only difference was that the lost look in Arthur's eyes from before was gone, replaced by a scornful glare that had Merlin feeling like he was the scum of the earth.

Merlin opened his mouth, ready to apologize, plead for forgiveness, whatever it took to just stop Arthur from looking at him like that, like Merlin was his enemy, but no words could form in his mouth, as too many emotions were welling up in his chest that it closed off his throat entirely. Merlin drew in a deep, fortifying breath, purposefully avoiding eye contact with a still-glaring Arthur the entire time. Once he felt like he had his feelings even marginally under some tenuous control, he finally met Arthur's gaze and held out the blanket like a pathetic peace offering.

"I brought you your blanket. I know it gets cold down here."

Merlin was rather proud that his voice only wavered slightly, not giving an indication of how disastrously close he was to breaking down into tears in the middle of the dungeons. Arthur merely stared at him for a moment, bewilderment appearing on his face for a few seconds before it was quickly wiped away by angry sneer.

"I don't accept gifts from the likes of you, sorcerer! It's probably cursed or enchanted to kill me so that you can finally get me out of your way for good!"

"No!"

The blanket fell to the floor as Merlin grasped the bars of the cell with both hands and pulled himself as close as he could to Arthur, who had flinched back at Merlin's outburst. His magic flared again, wanting to break down this barrier between them so that he could get closer to Arthur, but he denied its request, knowing that such an action would only agitate Arthur even more.

"Arthur, please, I never meant for any of this to happen! You must believe me! I only wanted to for Camelot to be safe from Morgana and for you to retake the throne! I only want to secure your reign, not end it!"

That, it seemed, finally got a reaction out of Arthur, but it wasn't the one Merlin was hoping for. Arthur finally stood up from the floor and stormed over to the cell door, getting close to Merlin, but just out of reach.

"And why on earth should I trust a word you say?! You've done nothing but lie to me for years, even when I gave you my complete trust! I thought you were my closest friend, the one person in my life who would never betray me, but as it turns out, I never even knew your real name, much less where your true loyalties lie!"

Merlin's face fell at Arthur's accusations, knowing that he was, in some ways, completely right in them. Still, he met Arthur's accusing glare with as much honesty as he could. After all that his own actions had taken from Arthur, he owed him the truth at the very least. Merlin spoke again, trying to muster up a calm, soothing tone despite his strong emotions.

"I know that you don't have much reason to trust what I say now, but I will do all that I can take make this right. I was born with magic, yes, but I was born this way for a purpose, and that purpose is you, Arthur. I am Emrys, destined to be the guardian of the Once and Future King, who will rule over the greatest kingdom history has ever known and bring peace the likes of which has never been seen throughout the land."

Merlin could see the moment of realization on Arthur's face as he put together who exactly the Once and Future King was, his eyes going wide with shock. Despite the situation, Merlin has just a bit of a smile on his face as he reminisced on fond memories.

"When I first met you, I just couldn't understand how such a prattish clotpole could ever be a king of legend, but the longer I stayed by your side, the more I could see the king that you were destined to become. A great man, a great leader, who will always stand up to protect his people, even if it means putting himself in danger."

Merlin's speech trailed off as he smiled gently at Arthur, trying desperately to give him reason to believe Merlin, to believe in the prophecy that tied them together, and, above all, to believe in himself.

To Merlin's surprise, he could see Arthur confusion melting into... something. It looked like something along the lines of hope or awe, which gave Merlin hope in return. But just as quickly as it was there, Arthur's expression shifted again to a frustrated anger.

"Even if what you're saying isn't some trick, your little bedtime story is wrong anyways! I can't be the Once and Future King if I'm not even a king in the first place!"

Merlin sighed deeply, knowing that they'd get to this point eventually. He had a plan, but would Arthur ever agree to it?

"I've tried! I tried to simply order the council to make you king again, but they won't do it! Geoffrey stopped me with some old laws that Bruta wrote! He said that I can't abdicate the throne to you because you're no longer legally a nobleman."

Arthur eyes widened frantically at the mention of Bruta's laws, his breathing picking up with panic. He backed up from the bars of the cell and began pacing around.

"Bruta's code, damn it, I forgot that they applied in these situations! Wait..."

His eyes snapped back to Merlin, looking red-rimmed and on the verge of tears. His voice, which was so full of fire mere seconds ago, now sounded hollow. Merlin's hope wilted upon seeing Arthur like this, and his magic flared again, still wanting to destroy the barrier between them.

"This means that the Pendragon house is no longer recognized, doesn't it?"

Merlin could only nod, unsure of what he could do to comfort Arthur. At Merlin's confirmation, Arthur took a shaky breath, trying to collect himself from the inner turmoil that he was surely experiencing.

"Everything... I've lost everything."

Merlin gave Arthur what he hoped was his most comforting smile, but it didn't do much for Arthur's hopeless disposition. After a small sigh, Merlin spoke again in a soft, comforting voice.

"Arthur, all is not lost. I have a way to make you king again! We just have to make you a noble again, and then I can abdicate the throne to you! And luckily for both of us, there's an easy way to make a peasant a nobleman quickly! And you should know, you wrote it into the laws yourself!"

Arthur blinked at him, not comprehending what Merlin had said for a couple seconds, before a sliver of hope showed on his face. However, as soon as it was there, it was gone again, once more replaced by anger and betrayal. Arthur quickly stormed over to the cell door, this time reaching the door itself and wrapping his hands around the bars so that he could yell in Merlin's face.

"I knew it! This was a trick!"

"What are you talking about? How would me knighting you and then giving you back your throne be a trick?!"

"You would have me swear on oath of fealty to you, which would legally, and for all I know magically, put me under your command! This was all just another plot to control me, wasn't it?!"

"Oh come on, you wouldn't have to mean it when you take the oath! You'd just have to say the words and then let me abdicate!"

"So now sacred oaths of loyalty are nothing but empty words to you?!"

"Gods, you really can't make anything easy for the both of us, can you, you prat! I'm just trying to give you your crown back!"

"You would have me disrespect the sacred oaths of knighthood! I would never swear an oath of fealty to you! It is a sacred bond of trust, which is apparently something that you know nothing about, Emrys!"

Merlin flinched back, still unused to Arthur saying the name given to him by the druids, much less hissed out in anger. Merlin backed away from the cell door and took a deep breath, trying to find some solution to this mess.

"So, I take it that you would not accept a knighthood from me?"

"Never."

Merlin sighed again, his eyes drifting around the dungeons as he tried to think of a different way to make Arthur a nobleman. Eventually, his eyes drifted back towards Arthur, who was still holding onto the bars of the cell door. As Merlin looked at Arthur, pondering any solution that he could possibly come up with, a metallic flash caught Merlin's eye, drawing it to Arthur's left hand.

There, the torchlight was reflecting off of Ygraine's ring, the one that Arthur rarely ever took off. Merlin was glad that Arthur still had it with him after everything that had just happened to provide some comfort, but it still didn't present Merlin with any solutions...

Wait.

Oh no.

Swallowing thickly, Merlin called out to Arthur again.

"Arthur, do you know of any, any other ways to elevate a peasant to the status of a noble?"

"I'm afraid not. Me granting knighthoods to peasants was the first legal opportunity for peasants to elevate their stations. There is no other way."

Merlin closed his eyes and tried to hold back his frustration. He wouldn't have to resort to that, surely?

"And you've really thought this through, Arthur? If you don't accept a knighthood, I don't think that there's any other way that I can legally make you a noble again, much less the king. Are you really prepared to go the rest of your life as a peasant with no title, no lands, no riches, nothing?"

Merlin could see that his words gave Arthur pause, forcing him to at least reconsider Merlin's offer. Merlin internally pleaded with Arthur to please don't be an idiot, just take the offer!

Finally, Arthur seemed to have reached his decision, as he glared at Merlin once again with conviction.

"I might be forced to live out my days as a peasant, but at least I'll be a peasant with my honor and integrity intact."

Merlin was, at this point, sorely tempted to bash his head into the stone wall behind him. Why, why did this clotpole have to make his life so difficult?!

Merlin gave a heavy sigh as he nodded, accepting Arthur's decision. Arthur looked rather smug about Merlin conceding to him, which he wouldn't be feeling if he knew exactly what Merlin had in mind as his contingency plan.

"Very well then. You've made it clear that you won't willingly take this one opportunity for me to give you your throne back. But make no mistake, you are the Once and Future King. This is your destiny, and I will see that it comes to pass, no matter what I have to do. I know that it might be unfair, but I only ask that you forgive me for what I do next. Please remember, everything I do, I do for you and the kingdom that you're destined to build."

Arthur's expression had gone from smug to confused to concerned very quickly, but Merlin didn't acknowledge the slight fear that had appeared on Arthur's face. Instead, he carefully pushed Arthur's blanket, which had been lying at the foot of the cell door, through the bars, ensuring that Arthur could grab it.

After that, Merlin turned on his heel and walked out of the now silent dungeons, his footsteps sounding authoritative and ominous as they echoed off of the stone walls.

Despite his measured footsteps, Merlin's mind was moving at sprinter's pace, trying to plan out everything that would need to be done in the coming days. The first thing that he definitely needed to do was let the steward know that he needed to plan a wedding on short notice.

After all, it wasn't uncommon for conquerors to marry their war prizes.

I hope you all enjoyed this continuation! Were you right in your guess as to what Merlin had in mind at the end of part 2? Please let me know if you'd like another part of this story!

I'll try to tag everyone who asked for a part 3 here. Thank you all for your support!

@magic-mushroomss @miyriu @whole-buncha-snakess @achillesuwu @aerismoon

@tidalwavesandthunderstorms @marki9 @isaidno @retro-wallflower @samwinjester

@lascienzadellafantasia @sugar-coated-prat-dragon @theoldfroglady @ryeallytired @mind-of-a-crow

@whynotreinventmyselfeveryday @likeapaperplane @odinjm @orliththedragon @aglmry

@caraspud @aostrek-236 @justaz @slippysalt @coffee-shop-gay

@the-king-and-the-druidess @theroundbartable @fanfic-library-for-me @linotheghost @scuttlingsleipnir

@guiltyscarlet

And, as always, than you for reading through my ramblings! :D

[holllandtrash]

6 to 1 | lando norris (part 7)

pairing: lando norris x leclerc!reader part 7 in the 6 to 1 series (read part 1 here)

the lead up to the silverstone race is treacherous, painful and downright confusing, and you're not referring to the weather. you find yourself being pulled in different directions and just when you think you've figured it out, your path leads you right back to where you started in the first place

word count: 6.9k tags/warnings: just a lot of angst im sorry

Usually, when you attended the races, you were there all weekend. From Friday morning till the end of the podium ceremony on Sunday. But for Silverstone, you were dreading walking into that track and seeing Charles so you pushed back your travel plans and decided to only go for the race.

Lando ordered a car for you to take to the hotel Saturday night, something that he really didn’t have to do but he insisted on it and you were starting to figure out which battles to pick with him. This was not one of them. 

He had to be at the hotel with his team Wednesday night, so you really didn’t get to spend too much time with him after the shoot with Quadrant. 

Which, honestly, you were okay with. You needed to pack as you were heading straight back to Monaco the following Monday with Charles and Arthur. You weren’t looking forward to that plane ride. If you were lucky, Charles would have a good weekend and he wouldn’t bring up Lando.

But the second the car pulled up to the hotel, a few drops of rain hit the windshield. The driver made a comment about how conditions would only get worse for tomorrow and you so desperately wanted to ignore the possibility of a wet race, however that seemed to be what everyone was talking about in the lobby.

You picked up your room key and texted both Lando and Charles that you arrived. Lando texted you back immediately saying he was in a briefing with his team but that he’d stop by your room after and Charles, without any context, sent you '1125'. His room number.

You dropped your luggage off, but didn’t give yourself any time to settle in before heading up the few levels to floor 11. Charles didn’t have to say anything other than his room number, you got the hint. He needed to talk to you. 

The door swung open as soon as you knocked. 

“Look I don’t want to fight,” you started off, already sounding defensive as you followed Charles into the hotel room. 

“I don’t want to fight either,” Charles agreed with you, opening up the mini fridge to pull out a bottle of water. “I just want to know what’s going on in your head, Y/N. What are you doing getting involved with a driver?”

“Lando’s just a friend,” but even you didn’t believe your own words. 

Charles gave you a look, one that told you he saw right through your bullshit and you pulled your fingers through your hair, needing a way out of this that didn’t paint you or Lando as the bad guy. 

“Okay fine,” you shrugged helplessly. “I like him, I think. Is that what you want me to say? It’s not as though I’m dating him and even if I was, what’s the big deal?”

You probably didn’t need to add that last question. It was just an open invitation for Charles to tell you everything that was weighing heavy on his mind.

“This is a dangerous sport, Y/N, but this is what all of us drivers have signed up for.” Charles started off with what you already knew before hitting you where it would hurt. “We know the risks when we get in the cars, but we don’t have to think about anything besides what’s on the track…” his pause was deafening. “But if you started dating him, that’s an entirely new element that’s now being introduced to the race.”

You scoffed, “No it’s-”

Charles held up his hand. “Listen to me, Y/N. You would be on the back of my mind if I’m ever even near him on the track. And you’ll always be on his. He might stop pulling risky moves, knowing that if anything happened to him, it would destroy you and not only that, there would be no more racing between us because subconsciously, you’ll be in the cars with us, telling us not to fight, not to put our lives at even more risk.” 

He reasons for you not wanting to date a driver lined up with yours, but he was able to offer it from the perspective behind the wheel.

“It’s the same reason why I’m terrified for Arthur to ever move up to F1,” Charles further explained. “I would jeopardise my own race for him, for his safety. I would do anything to protect him and I would do anything to protect you. If you started dating Lando, then that need to look after you, automatically extends to him.”

You felt sick. You needed to lean against the wall behind you, feeling your legs grow numb. The worry in Charles’ eyes assured you that he was no longer upset or mad about you going behind his back to hang out with Lando, he was now concerned for what lay ahead. 

“I love you and I want you to be happy, I want nothing more than for you to find a partner to be happy with,” Charles rubbed his hand over his face as he shook his head. This was as painful for him to get out as it was for you to hear. “But selfishly, I don’t want you to put your happiness in another driver.”

There really wasn’t anything for you to say. Charles had every right to be selfish. This was his career, his life. You weren’t supposed to be any more intertwined in it than you already were. 

You pushed yourself off the wall, ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach as you turned to walk towards the door. 

Charles tried to follow, “Y/N, I didn’t mean-”

You held up a hand towards him as you turned and forced a smile on your face. You really didn’t want to fight. You loved your brother, you wanted to respect what he was asking. He had given you so much. Because of him, you had dozens upon dozens of opportunities and met the most incredible people. 

You could give up this thing with Lando, whatever it was. And better you did it now before it became too hard to walk away.

“You should get some sleep” you told Charles, your voice almost caught in your throat. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you in the morning.”

You left his room without another word. The elevator ride back to your floor was slow, treacherous even as you thought about what sort of conversation you needed to have with Lando. 

You’d wait till after the race. It wouldn’t do anyone any favours to call this whole thing off right before his home race. The least you could do was wait until after to break his heart. 

But then the elevator opened and you saw the driver who had taken up all of your thoughts leaning against your hotel room door. He put his phone away when he looked up and spotted you. His smile broke you. For so long you wanted to be the reason for it and now you were going to be the cause of why it would disappear. 

“How was the drive?” Lando asked, stepping out of the way for you to unlock the door. “It’s starting to rain, hey? The team thinks it’ll be pretty bad for most of the race tomorrow but what’s Silverstone without a little-”

“Lando,” you cut him off promptly, turning the handle to push the door open. You met his eyes for a second before you had to look away, before he could catch on that something was wrong. “Look, I’m really tired, I just want to go to sleep, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Lando was a little taken aback, but he didn’t try to talk you into staying up. He reached forward and gave your hand a squeeze, “Okay, yeah, get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

All you wanted to do was pull him into your hotel room and spend the next few hours with him until he had to leave to go to bed. Even then, you’d probably be able to convince him to just spend the night with you. 

But you couldn’t do that. The most you could do was offer up a sliver of a smile before walking into the room and letting the door shut behind you. 

Suddenly, a wet race for tomorrow seemed like the least of your worries.

You arrived at Silverstone with Charles. He had tried to talk to you all morning and it wasn’t as though you were mad at him, you were just frustrated with the position he had put you in.

It didn’t help that the second you scanned your badge and stepped past the gates, you felt the first raindrop of the day hit your cheek. You looked up, and even with the dark shades on, it was impossible to miss the incoming storm clouds.

“Wet race today, hey?” 

You turned over your shoulder to see Pierre scanning his badge as well. The two of you hadn’t spoken at all since your conversation in Montreal. You asked yourself why you even stopped walking to wait for him, especially since Charles had gone off ahead to get out of the rain.

“Still giving me the cold shoulder?” Pierre asked as he approached you. The two of you started walking down the paddock, thankfully the Ferrari motorhome was close.

“Still telling everyone we slept together?” You retorted and Pierre dipped his head back and laughed.

“Chérie, I told like four, maybe five people,” Pierre tried to play it off, but when he saw you weren’t about to give him the time of day, he grabbed your hand and forced you to stop walking. “Come on, we’re friends. Don’t cut me off like this.”

“No, you and Charles are friends,” you hastily pulled your hand away from his grasp. “I’m just someone who got caught up in the moment.”

It blew your mind how cocky Pierre could be sometimes. It almost made you want to tell Charles what happened just because you knew it would cause a fight between them. Maybe Pierre would second guess his actions if he was getting yelled at by his best friend.

And that way, Charles would have something else on his mind besides you and Lando. If anything bad happened on the track, not like you want something to happen, he could blame it on finding out about Pierre and you. Surely learning that his closest friend and sister slept together was much worse than whatever this fling was that you currently had with Lando.

Speaking of Lando…

You hadn’t even seen him walk through the gates. Your frustration, and therefore your attention, was solely on Pierre. It wasn’t until the bright orange hoodie became impossible to ignore that you pulled your eyes away from the French driver.

Recently when you looked at Lando, you felt a swarm of butterflies attack your stomach. 

Those butterflies were still there, but it was as if they were now trying to claw their way out of your stomach, fighting each other and making you suffer the consequences. 

You didn’t want to end things. 

You wanted to meet him halfway as he approached you and collapse in his arms, who cares who saw? You wanted to kiss him without a time limit and wish him good luck today. You wanted to hang out in the fucking McLaren motorhome which is something you never thought you’d ever find yourself wishing for.

“Little gloomy today, huh?” Lando asked, sounding a lot chipper than how you or Pierre looked.

You glanced up, as did Pierre and you shrugged. The less you spoke now, the easier it would be to end things later.

“It’s not too bad yet,” Pierre pointed out.

“Oh I was talking about Y/N’s outfit,” Lando joked, nudging your arm with his elbow. “What’s with the all bla- are you okay?” Lando's smile dropped and his tone did a 180 the second he noticed you weren’t in the mood for one of his jokes. He glanced between you and Pierre and not so subtly raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t do anything this time!” Pierre announced, hands held up beside his head in defence as he started to walk away. “Paddock Princess over here was in a bad mood before I said anything.”

You watched him head off for a second before your attention went back to Lando. You tried to dodge his hand when he reached for your sunglasses but he was too quick, pulling them right off your face. 

“You’ve been crying.” 

“You should get inside before it really starts to rain.”

“Look either we keep stating the obvious or we talk about what’s going on,” Lando demanded, not giving you any other option. There was no lighthearted tone any more, no more playful attitude like he usually had when he saw you in the Paddock. 

More people started to walk through the gates, people that were going to want Lando’s attention if he didn’t keep walking, you both knew this. 

“Can we not have this conversation right here?” You asked him, lowering your voice as you nervously glanced around. Ideally, you wouldn’t even be having this conversation. 

And in a strange twist of fate, you got what you wanted.

Lando could see right through you, he saw the hesitation just from your stance alone. The guilt in your eyes was clear even if they were slightly puffy and bloodshot. They way you refused to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds told him that something heavy weighed on your shoulders, something heavy enough to take out the both of you. 

And Lando didn’t want to have this conversation either.

He might not have known exactly what was on your mind, but he didn’t need to ask anything to know it wasn’t good. That and how quick you were to turn him away last night, it was all starting to add up. No words needed to be spoken.

He handed your sunglasses back to you and nodded slightly, like he was accepting the outcome of this, like he knew he couldn’t change your mind, so why bother trying? He walked right past you without saying anything, but that’s what you wanted right? 

No conversation was easier than laying it all out on the table. It was easier to accept the reality as it was than to hear yourself say the words ‘we can’t be together’. 

You slid the sunglasses back on your face and waited a few seconds before heading towards Ferrari, making sure to stay on the opposite side of the paddock. Neither one of you so much as glanced at the other. You heard his name being called before you walked up the bright red steps and the moment you entered the motorhome, you let out the heaviest exhale that had been pressing against your chest. 

Was it even reasonable for you to be reacting like this? You weren’t even dating.

But you were throwing away the possibility of something great, all because you knew you had to put Charles first. 

He was the first person you saw when you walked inside and gathered your bearings. He was in the middle of a conversation with his assistant when you grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

“I hope you’re happy,” you spoke through a bitter laugh. “Me and Lando are done.”

He seemed confused, but when his features softened after a moment, you could tell that he was in fact pleased to hear this news.

“Good,” Charles nodded. “You shouldn’t date a driver anyway.”

“No you shouldn’t have this much say over my life, Charles,” you rubbed your hands over your face, letting what was once sorrow turn to anger. “It’s not fucking fair.”

“It’s not fair?” He raised his voice as well, neither of you caring about the handful of people that were nearby. “I put my life at risk every weekend, the least you could do is not give me something else to think about when I get in the car!”

“You don’t have to think about anything other than the points, don't worry.” You assured him. The venomous tone was impossible to miss. “And good luck today. Hopefully my heartbreak doesn’t ruin your race for you.”

Charles groaned, rolling his eyes at how dramatic he thought you were being, “Y/N-”

“Oh, no, wait, you only give a shit about my feelings when I start caring about a driver other than you, right?” You patted his shoulder, a bit of force behind it as you sucked in a sharp breath. “Brother of the year, over here.”

You walked past him and he was smart by not trying to talk to you, instead choosing to go up to his drivers room. You sat down on the couch in the hospitality lounge, lips pursed together tightly as the sound of raindrops hitting the window behind you started to grow loud enough to drown out your own thoughts.

You would have loved nothing more than for the race to start, to stand in the back of the garage and flip Charles off before he slid his helmet on. You wanted to flirt with Carlos right in front of your brother before he was inevitably dragged away. You wanted to watch the race and cheer Lando on for a change. You wanted to do anything and everything that would purposely get under his skin.

But things never seemed to work out in your favour. 

It was announced the race was postponed due to the oncoming storm and you stayed right there on that couch, watching everyone else scurry around to figure out the new game plan for the day.

Charles' assistant tried talking to you at one point, but you just shook your head. She got the hint and turned right around.

You weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone in the motorhome, that was pretty obvious. If the all black outfit wasn’t enough to deter people away already, your constant crossed arms and the fact that you wore sunglasses inside sure had people second guessing whether or not they wanted to approach you during the wait.

A couple hours went by and you received a few curious looks, but the only person who didn’t give a single fuck that you were purposely trying to look reclusive, was Carlos. 

He dropped down on the couch beside you, arm stretched on the back of the couch behind your shoulders as he playfully twisted the end of your ponytail around his fingers.

You yanked your hair out of his hand, “What do you want, Carlos?”

“Why are you in a bad mood?” He was straight to the point, you liked that about your friendship. There wasn’t any bullshit.

“I’m not,” okay maybe there was a little bullshit.

“Okay,” Carlos nodded, going right back to playing with your hair, “Why is Charles in a bad mood?”

“I don't know, it’s not my problem.”

“I think it is, hermosa,” Carlos snickered, “I think you two are each other's problems.”

“Fine, you know what,” you turned on the couch to face him. Carlos was a bit taken aback to see you give in and talk so easily, “Charles’ problem is that he thinks my life affects his and my problem is that I care too much about what Charles thinks. Do you see how this is a bad cycle for us to be in?”

Carlos paused. You could tell by the way his jaw tensed he was trying to figure out what to say, but you were purposely vague and the more time that passed with you just staring at the Ferrari driver, the more it sank in for both of you that he probably couldn’t help you.

“Is this about Lando?” Carlos eventually asked. “And how about how you two have been getting close recently?”

You inhaled a sharp breath, “This is about me practically being forced to put Charles first.”

“As opposed to…”

“Putting myself first.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows. Everything you said was just adding to the confusion and you eventually just gave up trying to keep it bottled in.

You repeated what Charles had told you last night. You told Carlos about the added risks Charles had if you started dating a driver, you shared the concerns and how guilty you felt for wanting to see things through with Lando when you knew you owed it to Charles to call things off. You expressed that you were upset and angry and broken and confused at the same time, which shouldn't have been possible.

“He told me he didn’t want me to put my happiness in a driver,” you rested your elbow on the couch, cheek to palm as you tried to ignore the pain of Charles’ words for the second time in less than 12 hours.

Carlos didn’t say anything for a few seconds. And then those seconds turned into a minute. And then that minute turned into three and you had to hit his arm to get him to look at you, worried that he had been thinking too hard and accidentally zoned out.

“Carlos,” your eyebrows furrowed together, “Say something.”

He opened his mouth, only to close it once again. You rubbed your hand over your face, wondering why you decided an F1 driver would make a good therapist. 

“I just-” Carlos couldn’t get the words out. “I don’t get it, is all. When we get in the car, we know that nothing else matters except the race. Charles doesn’t have the right to pull you into the car with him, metaphorically of course. If he does that and messes up his race, that’s his own fault.”

You wished that was the case, but Charles didn’t see it like that. 

“Okay, let’s say you were dating a driver, Lando, for example” Carlos started off, dragging his fingers over his lower lip. “Charles is the one who needs to learn how to separate it. He needs to learn when it’s time to see Lando as the competition and when to see Lando as the person who makes you happy.” Carlos dropped his hand to your leg, “That isn’t on you. That’s on him.”

“But it’s just going to make his life difficult and I don’t want that for him.”

“Charles is a grown man I think he can figure it out,” Carlos’s assuring smile spread across his face. “Plus with the amount of gossip that goes on in the paddock, I don’t get why this, your happiness, is what he’s choosing to make you feel guilty for.”

You nodded in agreement before Carlos’ words actually hit you. 

“Wait,” you pointed a finger at him. “What gossip?”

Carlos instantly knew he messed up, “I didn’t-”

“What. Gossip.”

But his silence said it all. This fucking Pierre bullshit was coming back to haunt you again. You dropped your hands to your face and let out a muffled scream. There were a handful of people who were nearby who gave you a look of concern, but none of them mattered.

When you looked at Carlos again, his face had gone red. 

“So you know and Charles knows?” You asked. “About me and Pierre?”

“Well he doesn’t-” he shrugged. “Charles has an idea but he’s not going to ask you or Pierre about it. He can pretend it didn’t happen if you never confirm it.”

“But he knows,” you clarified. It wasn’t your fault that Charles just wouldn’t accept the reality of what happened. “He knows and yet somehow, that doesn’t affect him on the track? He can race Pierre like normal but the second I’m actually happy with someone, it’s game over?”

Again, Carlos didn’t know how to respond and this time, you weren’t sticking around and waiting for him to. You stood up from the couch and walked up the stairs of the motorhome, knowing your brother was in his driver's room. Carlos was hot on your heels, probably regretting having dug this past up because whether he liked it or not, he was now caught in the middle of it.

You didn’t even knock on Charles’ door, you just swung it open. Charles was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone, half dressed for the upcoming race. His fireproof long sleeve was on but his drivers’ suit was hanging around his hips. He looked up at you, confused as to why you just barged in.

You just blurted it out.

“J'ai baisé Pierre.” I fucked Pierre.

Charles’ mouth dropped.

You repeat yourself, in English this time. “I had sex with Pierre.”

He stood up, looking at Carlos behind you for help, but Carlos was just as stunned as he was.

Finally, you said it in Italian, just to get the message across loud and clear. “Ho dormito con il tuo migliore amico." I slept with your best friend.

Charles was speechless. He tried to sputter out the word ‘what’ but he had no voice. He just kept shaking his head, as if that would do anything.

“And-” you decided to keep going. Everything was already up in flames so why not keep feeding the fire, right?

You turned and grabbed Carlos’ shirt to pull him towards you. Before he had time to react, you pressed your lips to his. For a second, you did panic about not knowing whether or not he would even consent to this but when you felt Carlos start to kiss you back after a few seconds, presumably forgetting his teammate and your brother was standing right in front of you, you figured it was fine.

You pulled back and looked at Charles, “-I just kissed your teammate.”

“What the fuck-”

“I like Lando,” you harshly cut him off.

This was the first time you were saying it without the word maybe in front or i think following it. This was also the first time you didn’t feel any sort of hesitation. It was freeing.

“I like him. And I don’t know how strong these feelings are, I don’t know if they’ll last, all I know is that he makes me so stupidly happy, and selfishly-” you used his word against him. “-I want to hold onto that for as long as I can.”

You felt Carlos tap your shoulder and you held up a finger towards him, indicating that this was not the time to dissect that kiss. 

Charles looked ready to strangle you. And Carlos, but mostly you. “Y/N why are you saying this? Why did you just kiss him?” He gestured to his teammate. “What the fuck is going on? I race today and you think it’s smart to drop all of this on me?”

“Charles, you seem to think that what happens in my life affects yours, more specifically affects what you do on the track and I don’t think that’s the case.” You took a step forward, keeping your voice as calm and reasonable as possible as you said what you should have told him last night. 

“Really, it’s just what you choose to do with the information that you’re given and now you know everything. Now there’s three drivers on the track you might see differently as opposed to one and I know you. I know you’re a strong enough driver, and strong enough mentally, to not let any of this get to you. If you want your emotions to get in the way when you’re in the car, that’s on you. That’s not on me.”

There was definitely an easier way to go about this conversation. You didn’t have to walk in announcing you had sex with his best friend and kissing Carlos probably wasn’t needed, but it all furthered your point.

“My life is intertwined with yours. It has been since I decided to accompany you to all of these races and yes, I will be your biggest supporter but I will also live my own life at the same time,” slowly but surely you could see Charles' shoulders drop as he started to untense. “You can’t blame my feelings for Lando if you have a shitty race, okay? You can’t blame me.”

You started to back up and Carlos stepped out of the way for you.

“Where the hell are you going now?” Charles asked.

“To fix things,” you waved off his concern and practically ran down the stairs and out the front doors of Ferrari.

You were sprinting as you made your way down the paddock. The rain was coming down hard now and your eyes were set on the McLaren motorhome. 

You probably looked insane. Running down the puddle-filled paddock in platform boots without an umbrella but in all honesty, this was probably the best time for a grand gesture. Everyone who worked for the media was finding shelter right now, you were in the clear.

You walked up the steps but someone from the team who had been standing outside under the awning stopped you before you could reach for the door. 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Leclerc, you can’t just go in there, not without an invitation,” he told you, obviously recognising you as being Charles’ sister. It made sense. You were, by association, with Ferrari.

“I need to talk to Lando,” you wiped at your eyes, pushing the wet strands of hair out of your face. You felt around for your phone but came up empty handed, figuring you must have left it back on the couch in Ferrari. “Please, two seconds. That’s all I need. Tell him I need to talk to him.”

He held up a finger and opened the door to head inside. You waited for a second but your clothes were soaking, your hair was sticking to your face and neck. Your make up was ruined and the rain was freezing cold, so obviously you walked inside as well.

A hush fell over the motorhome when the door shut behind you. Mostly because you stood out like a sore thumb. Everyone was wearing orange, you were the only one dressed in all black and you were the only one who looked like they just jumped into a pool with all of their clothes on. 

You smiled awkwardly, shoulders tightening as you pressed your back to the door. You were wondering who was going to say something first, who was going to kick you out, and surprisingly the one who spoke up was Oscar.

“For christ sakes get her a towel or something,” Oscar called out, standing up from the table he sat at. You mouthed a quick thank you to him.

You and Oscar had never exchanged a single word before, maybe a smile here or there, but you were truly appreciative that he acknowledged you as someone who just needed to dry off right now, not as someone who was associated with Ferrari. 

Someone who worked with Hospitality crossed the floor with a few clean dish towels, telling you it was all she had at the moment. You thanked her and then looked up at Oscar who was also making his way to you. 

“Hi,” you breathed out, ringing out your hair. “I know I shouldn’t be here-”

“Oh I don’t mind at all,” Oscar laughed. “I take it you’re here for Lando?”

You didn’t nod. You actually didn’t say anything, your mouth just fell open and you forgot how to breathe when you realised that Lando had most likely told his teammate about you.

“I might be,” you reluctantly answered. “I might also be here because I heard that you guys have the best espresso machine.”

“Espresso is a piss poor reason to venture outside during a storm.”

You chuckled, nodding in agreement as you wiped the cloth under your eyes. The amount of makeup that had transferred to the towel was horrendous. You didn’t even want to know what you looked like right now. 

“Is he-” you glanced towards the staircase behind him. Why was it so hard for you to finish your sentences? Why was Lando clouding every one of your thoughts to the point that you couldn’t get more than a few words out? Why did he affect you so much?

At that moment, the security from earlier started to descend the stairs. Instinctively, you stood closer to Oscar, trying to make it seem as though he was the one who invited you in.

“He’s busy,” was all the McLaren employee said.

“Bullshit he’s busy,” you spat, coming across much harsher than you intended to. “The race is postponed, he’s not doing anything!”

“He told me to tell you he’s busy.”

You looked at Oscar, it was obvious he felt a little awkward standing in the middle of the conversation, but he wanted to help. What was good for his teammate was ultimately good for the team and Oscar so desperately hoped you weren’t here with malicious intent. 

“You can hang out in my driver's room,” he offered, his lips curving upwards into a smile. Oscar turned to the security, “She’s my guest too, it’s fine.”

This employee knew Oscar was lying through his teeth and all three of you knew Oscar’s room was right next to Lando’s. But because you were given the go-ahead from a McLaren driver himself, he couldn’t do anything to prevent you from walking up the stairs, boots squeaking against the floor the entire way. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you shot Oscar a thankful smile and he gave you a thumbs up. Part of you felt horrible for never giving him the time of day before. Subconsciously, you saw him as the driver who replaced Daniel and held a bit of a personal vendetta, but it was clear he had a good heart. 

You waited until the security guard looked away before sneaking around the corner to where Lando’s room was located. You read his name on the plaque a few times and thought about knocking, but if he knew you were outside the door he wouldn’t open it. 

So you turned the handle and pushed the door open. Lando wasn’t even in his racing suit, opting for a pair of joggers and a hoodie as he waited for the race start to be announced. He was leaning against the massage bed and looked up from his phone, barely even acknowledging you before turning right back to his phone.

“I don’t really feel up to chatting right now,” Lando muttered.

“Fine then just listen,” you walked in and shut the door behind you. 

Your heart was pounding and you would have liked to blame your trembling on the fact that you were just standing in the rain but you knew it was because you were finally about to be honest with Lando.

“I think I made a mistake,” you stated. Lando didn’t look up, choosing to disregard your words. You couldn’t blame him. You went from barely being able to look at him a few hours ago to dramatically confessing your feelings. “I didn’t want to admit it before, but Lando I really- I like you.”

“Yeah you like a lot of things,” Lando was unamused as he scratched the side of his face. “You like chocolate cheesecake, you like daisies, you like Daniel’s merch-” he inhaled a sharp breath, still keeping his eyes on his phone. “You like speaking French over Italian, you like supporting the underdogs, you like that you have a presence in the Paddock.” This was taking a turn, “You don’t like driving, you like when someone understands your humour, you like putting your family first even if it means putting yourself last, you love cooking, you have a weird obsession with shitty movies.”

 Finally he looked up.

“You like when people compliment you but you never know how to respond. You like being needed but you don’t like needing someone. You don’t like the unknown which is why a relationship scares you, regardless of who it's with. You like leading me on because you don’t care about the consequences afterwards and I fall for every word you say, every hypothetical you tease, because I think that maybe this time, it’ll be different, and do you want to know why I know all of this? Why I've put up with all of it?” 

This seemed like a rhetorical question but you responded meekly anyway, “Why?”

Lando paused. He pushed himself away from the bench and walked towards you slowly. His jaw tightened, there was no trace of a smile. Even if what he had to say was good in nature, it was only going to destroy you. 

“Because I like you,” he said, sounding so sure of himself and simultaneously like he wanted to take back those words the second he said them. “But I’m not about to waste my time at this halfway point with you. There’s a line here and I’m willing to cross it, to meet you so far past the middle it to make this work, but I don’t think you can say the same. So until you decide, fully and completely, what you want…stop stringing me along.”

Lando had never been so serious before.

Your entire friendship, relationship, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it, was playful and fun and he was the reason why your jaw hurt from laughing. He was the person who wanted to take care of you, to make you smile and now he was so close to giving up on all of that, all because you were going to put Charles first.

You genuinely couldn’t blame him. You had been back and forth for weeks. It may not have clicked until now, but you had been leading him on. He had done so much for you and practically overnight, you were nearly ready to forget all of it.

There was a knock on the door. Neither of you made the move to answer it, instead letting whoever was on the other side inform Lando through the wall that it was time to change and head down to the garage. 

He was waiting for you to say something. He was waiting for you to tell him that you wanted him. And you knew you did, but why couldn’t you open your mouth? Why did your fears outweigh what was right in front of you? Why was it still so hard to let yourself be happy with Lando?

Lando nodded, accepting once again that no answer was probably better than the answer he didn’t want to hear. He gestured towards the handle of the door. Without saying a word, he was politely asking you to leave. 

And because you still couldn’t say anything, because you couldn’t meet him halfway, you left. You stepped out in the hallway, avoiding the eyes of nearby McLaren employees as you walked down the stairs. You passed Oscar before reaching the front doors and he gave you a hopeful look, curious if all was worked out between you and his teammate. 

You shook your head, still unable to find your voice. 

When you stepped outside, it was still raining but it had eased up. It was a light drizzle compared to the storm you ran through earlier. 

By the time you made it back to Ferrari, most people had already left to go to the pitlane and the garage.

An exception to that was Charles.

“Don’t,” you demanded. You didn’t want to hear anything from him, but he was clearly waiting for you. He didn’t comment on your rung out appearance or your smeared makeup. It wasn’t his place to, anyway. He just stood up and walked over to you, zipping up his racing suit in the process.

“I stand by what I said,” Charles declared and all you could do was roll your eyes as he continued. “You shouldn’t put your happiness in a driver.”

“And what if I already did?” You retorted, quite loudly. “What if I already did and I didn’t realise it until it was too late and now- and now I have nothing? What if I’m worse off now than I was before?”

For a split second, you could see it in his features. Charles was conflicted too. 

There was Formula 1 driver Charles Leclerc. The man fighting for championship winning points. The guy who risked his life every time he stepped into the cockpit of the car.

And then there was your older brother. The one who hated that he was the one who put you in this situation. Your brother, the one who said he wanted to keep you safe, was the sole reason there was a sense of vulnerability and emptiness looming over you. 

You didn’t feel those things because you had feelings for Lando. You felt those things because Charles made you feel guilty for supporting someone other than him. 

And even after everything, after you came to the realisation that you wanted Lando, after you dropped a bombshell on your brother, after you ran across the paddock for some stupid grand gesture, where did you find yourself?

Standing in front of Charles.

No wonder Lando had his doubts with you.

“I can’t be here,” you admitted, your chest feeling tight once again. “I can’t watch the race, I’m sorry.”

For once, Charles wasn’t going to stand in your way. He had done enough damage.

“Take the plane back to Monaco if you want, there’s a car that will take you the airport-”

“No, I’m not going to Monaco,” you shook your head. Monaco was the last place you wanted to go. You didn’t want to walk into your empty flat. There was nothing for you there.

There was nothing for you here either. You couldn't stand to look at Charles. Lando wasn't going to talk to you until you figured out what your intentions were but you couldn't figure it out if you were watching a race. You needed to leave.

And you needed to go to the one place that actually felt like home.

masterlist here

taglist: @moneymasnn@thotd-f1 @masonspulisic @mcmuppet@f1-futurewag-16-3-4-63 @alilstressyandlotdepressy @themisric @happydazzz123 @moonxblossom @norrisleclercf1 @scarlettisconfused @sbgal @e-lisa-bettan @harrysdimple05 @ophcelia @alesainz @fandomxs1 @majx00 @sbgal @mehrmonga @themockingjayreader @f1mockingjay @topguncultleader if i missed anyone im so sorry

[nayziiz]

Disturbed | OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader (she/her)

Author's note: I'm trying something a little bit different with shorter form fics, so please send through any requests or feedback. These one shots will likely not have a second part unless it really speaks to me to continue with it. Thank you!

Masterlist

In the high-stakes world of motorsports, where the roar of engines drowned out all other sounds and the smell of burning rubber hung heavy in the air, Oscar stood as a beacon of unwavering determination. His name was synonymous with calm and resilience, his reputation forged on the anvil of countless hard-fought battles on-track and defying odds by helping keep his team in the running for third in the Constructors Championship. From the moment he first strapped himself into the driver's seat, Oscar had possessed an indomitable spirit that seemed impervious to the twists and turns of the race track.

Race after race, he pushed himself and his car to the very limit in pursuit of glory. Whether navigating treacherous hairpin turns or duelling wheel-to-wheel with his rivals, Oscar never backed down from a challenge. His resolve was unyielding, a relentless force that propelled him forward, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

But for all his unwavering determination, there were moments when he faltered too. It was on one particularly gruelling race day that the cracks in his armour began to show. Everything seemed to conspire against him – mechanical issues, strategic missteps, and a relentless onslaught of bad luck. Each setback chipped away at his confidence, threatening to unravel the very fabric of his resolve.

As the race wore on and Oscar's fortunes continued to decline, a sense of despair settled over him like a suffocating blanket. Doubt crept into his mind, gnawing away at his confidence and sowing seeds of uncertainty. For the first time in his career, he found himself teetering on the brink of defeat, his once unshakable resolve shaken to its core.

Amidst the chaos of the pit lane and the cacophony of roaring engines, there was one constant that anchored Oscar's fraying sanity – her. She was the quiet strength in his corner, the steady presence that never wavered, no matter how tumultuous the storm. Her belief in him was unwavering, a beacon of light cutting through the darkness of doubt.

With each passing lap, she mumbled quiet prayers in the garage. She was his rock, his anchor in the storm, her unwavering support a lifeline in his darkest hour. And though he struggled to find solace in the midst of defeat, he knew that as long as she stood by his side, he would never truly be alone.

As the chequered flag finally fell and the race came to an end, Oscar found himself staring down the bitter taste of defeat. But in the arms of the one who had stood by him through it all, he discovered a glimmer of hope amidst the wreckage of his shattered dreams.

“Oscar, listen to me,” she said, her voice cutting through the chaos of the post-race pit lane like a beacon of clarity. “I know things didn’t go as planned, but you've got this. You've faced tougher challenges before, and you've always come out on top. This is just another step to reaching the top.”

He glanced over at her, his eyes searching for reassurance in the midst of his turmoil.

“But what if this time is different? What if I've finally met my match?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

She reached out and gently took his hand, her touch a comforting presence in the midst of his turmoil.

“You're Oscar Piastri,” she said, her voice unwavering. “You're one of the most talented drivers out there, and nothing – not even a bad race – can change that. You have the skill, the determination, and the heart to overcome anything that comes your way.”

In the aftermath of defeat, Oscar realised that his strength did not lie solely in his ability to conquer adversity, but in his capacity to accept defeat with grace and humility. And though the road ahead may be fraught with challenges, he knew that as long as she stood by his side, he would always find the courage to carry on. For in her unwavering support, he found the resilience to rise from the ashes of defeat and chase his dreams once more.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 1: The Fall-Down House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, alligators, kids, parenthood, smoking, cupcakes!

Word Count: 7.2k (she's very chonky for a first chapter).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Since this is the first chapter of a new series, I'm going to tag a bunch of usual readers, but I won't tag you again unless you want me to. 💜

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“What do you want to do to me?” you whisper through the phone, stretched out across your bed like a cat as George Michael’s Faith plays from the baby pink Panasonic boombox out in the kitchen. It’s late afternoon, and fading daylight falls in tiger stripes through the window blinds. The May air is hot, muggy, golden; cicadas hum in the southern live oaks, an ancient earthen music like rattling bones.

A few seconds pass before he can reply. It was a bold way to begin. You are admittedly a little impressed with yourself; an idea like this has been pacing around in your skull like a beast behind bars for years, but you’ve only now set it loose. “That’s difficult to explain in words,” he says; and in the low, teasing purr of his voice you can hear that your gamble paid off like striking oil. He has a British accent, which you never would have expected. You only recognize it from clips you’ve seen of Prince Charles and Princess Diana on 60 Minutes. “But I’d enjoy showing you.”

It’s laid open beside you on the bed, his personal ad in the Bayou Journal: Educated white male in his mid-20s. Single and not looking to change that. Seeking an open-minded, adventurous, and spirited lady for short-term D/s arrangement. Be prepared to answer the following riddle: I’m small but loom large, I’m Italian but French, I give away much to gain little. Who am I? Best regards, An Indecent Gentleman. “I’m waiting.”

“You understand what is meant by D/s?”

“Of course,” you say, your best feigned flippantness. You only know because Amir told you; he’s been daring you to call for three days.

“Thank God,” the man on the other end of the line sighs. There is an inhale like a drag on a cigarette. You imagine what he might look like: broad or slight, dark-haired or blonde, striking or average or homely, treacherous or safe, forbidden fruit or just plain forbidden. “I’ve had four different women ring me thinking I’m going to be their boyfriend, dinner and flowers and everything. They’re functionally illiterate down here.”

How unfortunate, you think. He’s highfalutin. But alas, no one is perfect. That’s no prohibitive obstacle. He doesn’t need to be faultless; it’s not as if you’re planning to marry the guy. “I like when someone else is in control.”

“Why?” This is a test, you can feel it. You can sense his rapt attention across the wire, through the electricity and the lush treetops and the rust-amber sky.

“I have a lot of…responsibilities in my real life,” you explain. “A lot of pressure. I make the decisions, I look out for other people. Sometimes I want to be the one who’s told what to do.”

“I can make that happen. And the riddle?”

“It’s Napoleon.”

The grin is sharp and triumphant in his voice. “Good girl.”

“He was short but an emperor. He was born in Corsica to an Italian family, but he ended up ruling over France. He sold off a bunch of French colonies to focus on conquering Europe and still couldn’t quite manage it. But the U.S.A. got this charming little corner of the world as part of the bargain.”

“You’re a historian,” the man says, sounding pleased.

“No sir, we all had to learn about him in school whether we wanted to or not.”

“Sir,” he echoes, tasting it, savoring it. You imagine a pink tongue flicking out to skate across his lips. Then he is abruptly cool, impersonal, businesslike. “Listen, I’ve got a scar down the left side of my face. It’s thin, it’s clean, but it’s noticeable. The eye is glass, although you can’t really tell unless you look closely. Is that a problem?”

A scar? Is he a veteran? A lion tamer? A motorcycle enthusiast? You try to remember what kinds of hobbies British people have. Isn’t there some kind of sport where men swing sticks around while riding horses? That sounds like it could put an eye out. Perhaps to your own surprise, you find that you are more intrigued than uneasy. Oh, you realize, dull like dawn through mist. I like him. I want him. Not just THIS, but HIM. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Brilliant. I don’t want to talk about it again.”

“That’s fine.” You hesitate. “There’s actually something I should tell you too.”

“Hm?”

The hum of his voice is arrogant, hungry. You try not to get distracted. Blood rushes hot and ashamed into your cheeks. “Um, well, uh, sometimes it’s difficult for me to…you know. Finish. Not when I’m alone, just when I’m with a guy. Especially if I’m anxious. And I don’t want to feel worried about faking it or making sure it happens or dealing with you getting offended or upset or whatever. Because it’s fine, really. It doesn’t mean I’m not having a good time. I’m just…stuck in my own head.”

There is a sound you can’t quite match to an expression, an exhale, a scoff. “Obviously I wouldn’t be mad at you. But you’ll come. I know you will. I’ll make you.”

And you’re flooded with a relief that you never dared to hope for. A confession spills out in a trembling whisper: “Please.”

“When?” he says, eager, urgent.

“I think if we don’t do it now, I’ll lose my nerve.”

There is a razor-thin pause, and then he asks for your address.

~~~~~~~~~~

You haven’t had a man in your bed in years; you are abruptly and unkindly reminded of this when you paw through the top drawer of your bedroom dresser and find only practical, deadly unsexy cotton Kmart underwear. You dash to the closet, yank open the squeaking door, and—tucked away in a cardboard box of winter clothes like sweaters and jeans, forgotten, needless—unearth a sprinkling of insubstantial silk and lace, all in luxurious gemstone hues: amethyst, ruby, sapphire, onyx, emerald.

“Oh, hallelujah.” You throw off your sunshine yellow shorts and tug on what were once upon a time your favorite panties. They don’t fit nearly as well as they used to; they fit horribly, in fact. They evaporate the thrill and leave nauseous trepidation in its place. “Oh God. Oh no. Oh no, oh no.” You steal a harried glimpse of the clunky black alarm clock on your nightstand. The flashing red numbers inform you that you have approximately ten more minutes until he arrives.

You jog pantsless to the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of sweet tea—ice cold, bright with a squeeze of lemon juice—and pace back and forth across the wooden floor as you sip it. The pine boards slope at just the slightest angle; if you laid an apple by your feet, it would roll. The house is sinking. It was built at the turn of the twentieth century, but it won’t live to see the next. Ailing sunlight casts your shadow against the wall, mint green, spider-leg cracks inching through the paint. Outside cicadas buzz and doves coo in long, mournful whirrs.

You pick up the phone—pink to match the boombox that is now playing Poison’s Nothin’ But A Good Time—next to the refrigerator and dial with one finger, your other hand still clutching the frosty glass of sweet tea. It rings twice before he answers.

“Wassup?” Amir says distractedly. You can hear a commotion from his living room on the other side of town: his grandmother squawking, ambient applause, Wheel Of Fortune.

“Quick, what should I wear?”

“Huh?”

“The guy! The guy from the ad! I called the guy! What should I be wearing when he shows up?”

Amir cackles. “Ho, you must be truly desperate, why the fuck are you asking me?” There is some shrill protestation in the background. “Grandma, don’t you dare try to act like you’ve never heard that word before, we just rented Aliens.”

“You know what men like,” you plead.

“Not the straight ones!” And then, not to you: “Grandma, calm down. Grandma, Grandma! It’s my homegirl. She has an emergency. She’s got a man coming over and she doesn’t know what to wear. What did you wear for Pop Pop? What? What?! You expect me to believe you got seven kids out of that dude with just some old floral nightgown?! Prairie girl fabulous? Looking like you’re on your way to join the Donner Party? Okay, if you say so! Phyllis knows best!” Amir’s attention returns to you. “Grandma suggests a nightgown.”

You are skeptical. “That seems slutty.”

“You’re inviting some stranger over for an all-expenses-paid ride on the Pussy Express and you’re concerned about looking slutty?!”

He has a point. “Okay. Okay. Yeah. You’re right. Okay.”

“You wear that nightgown with confidence and you take that random kinky man directly to bed, do you understand me?” Amir orders.

“Totally,” you say, gulping sweet tea with a shaking hand.

“Good luck. I gotta go, it’s the Bonus Round. Hope you have a few rounds to tell me about tomorrow.” Then he hangs up.

Back in your bedroom closet, you find a black satin slip that runs to your ankles and flows like a ballgown. You put it on some nights when you’re feeling desirable, after a bath of bubbles and steam, candles and Madonna, freshly shaved legs and shimmering with Pond’s, when you want to lounge around daydreaming, when you want to remember the fantasies you once had about what your life might turn out to be. Now you wear it in the fading daylight, nothing underneath and golden sunbeams turning your skin to something that warms and glows.

You appraise yourself in your dusty dresser mirror, and you think: Not too bad, actually. You’ve had your hair up in a haphazard bun. You reach to take it down, then stop yourself. You like the wayward wisps, the I-don’t-care-too-much casualness. Your breathing is slow and calm again. There is a noise outside: tires crunching on gravel. Your glass of sweet tea, now mostly just ice cubes, is sweating on top of your dresser. You grab the glass, swipe the Bayou Journal off your bed, and take both to the kitchen counter, still speckled with flour, powdered sugar, flecks of cinnamon. Then you pad across the sloping wooden floor in your bare feet to open the front door. Amber dusk streams in; you can hear bullfrogs croaking and the hoots of the long-eared owl that lives in the collapsing, overgrown shed behind the house. Spanish moss hangs like cobwebs, like chandeliers. The tree swing rocks idly in the breeze. The first notes of You Shook Me All Night Long play from the kitchen boombox.

His car is red, sporty, with a logo on the grill that you don’t recognize, a series of circles intertwined like rings. He cuts the engine and steps out into the driveway as you watch from behind the screen, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed over your chest. He’s tall, trim, blonde, wearing Adidas sneakers and light-wash jeans and a Marlboro jacket that it’s far too hot for. He peers around, taking in the trees and the house through his black aviator sunglasses. He puffs one last time on a cigarette before putting it out on his own windshield and starting towards the porch. And immediately, primally, you crave him like water or air.

He climbs the groaning steps, splitting wood and rusty nails. You open the screen door to meet him in the threshold. And he takes off his sunglasses so he can look at you, stowing them in a pocket of his jacket, his gaze not wavering from yours, his lips not saying a word. Yes, he has a scar, but it doesn’t diminish him in the slightest. Yes, his left eye may be glass, but you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t already told you. You’re too tangled up in the right. His iris is a brisk greyish blue, not like the ocean, not like the bayou, more like the sky before a hurricane, heavy with the threat of wind and rain. His face is strong, jarring, beautiful in a rare way. His full lips are curling into a grin.

At last, you speak first, an inane observation that feels somehow significant. “You found me.”

“I did.” He nods towards the large lavender sign out by the mouth of the gravel driveway. Hand-painted on it are the words Hummingbird Bakery and a logo that Amir designed, a hummingbird feeding on the frosting swirl of a cupcake as if it’s a flower flush with nectar. “You told me to look for the sign. That helped.”

“What kind of car do you drive? I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s an Audi Quattro.”

“Audi,” you repeat, like a hopelessly distant place, New York City or Los Angeles or Paris or the moon. “Is that British?”

“German, actually.”

“You’re from a very different world.”

“Yeah, I am.” His eye flicks up and down your body, black satin that curves and clings; his grin widens. “But I could learn to like yours, I think.”

You step back so he can follow you inside. The screen door shuts with a bang. Under the shadows, as the sun sets into the west, he unzips his Marlboro jacket and tosses it onto your living room couch. Underneath he wears a white t-shirt. We’re opposites, you think dazedly, wondering what he will taste like when he kisses you. He grazes his fingertips down the front of your throat, continues to your chest, stills when he hits the satin of your slip.

“You can tell me to stop whenever you want to,” he murmurs, and you breathe in his smoke and cologne and dauntless, dizzying self-assurance. “But until you say stop, I’m gonna keep going.”

Your heartbeat is drumming beneath his hand, part exhilaration and the rest nerves. You are afraid of disappointing him; you aren’t sure what to expect. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Aemond.”

Aemond. Foreign, like Audi, like Paris. You give him your own in return. He leans in, presses his hips to yours, denim and satin that you can feel his heat through. And you think he’s going to kiss your neck, or bite it, bruise it, mark it, claim it, claim you; but he only ghosts his parted lips from the edge of your jaw to your bare shoulder, inhaling slow and deep, drawing your atoms into his lungs until they tumble down the narrowest corridors and into his capillary beds, into his bloodstream. You moan softly, helplessly, and turn your face to kiss him.

“No,” Aemond growls, teasing you, catching your chin with one hand to hold you still. His other hand glides down the front of your slip and stops between your legs. Through satin the color of a starless midnight, his fingers stroke you roughly, commandingly. Animalistic yearning bolts low to weaken your knees, high to rip a gasp from your throat. “Nothing underneath,” he notes in approval.

Oh, I like him, you think, in equal parts ecstatic and petrified. I REALLY like him.

But are you going to be able to impress him too? Are you going to ruin this?

You whimper, unintentionally and almost inaudibly. Aemond is studying your face; furrows appear in his scarred brow, so faint and fleeting you might have imagined them. Then his hand retreats as he says: “Show me your toys.”

You gape up at him; this is not what you anticipated. “What?”

“I want to see how you make yourself come. You have toys, don’t you?”

“I do,” you admit, though you’ve never used them with anyone else before.

Aemond smirks mischieviously, then commands: “Show me. Right now.”

You lead him to your bedroom and slide open the middle drawer of your dresser. You glance at his reflection in the silvery glass of the mirror; he’s staring, not at your body but at your face, his gaze locked with yours, his mouth open, entranced, hungry. You move to stand against the wall, smiling sheepishly as Aemond shoves aside folded sheets and pillowcases to reveal your collection. It’s nothing too adventurous: five vibrators in different colors, styles, sizes.

“Quite the assortment,” he praises.

“They were gifts from a friend.”

Now Aemond is dubious. “A friend?”

“Don’t be jealous. He doesn’t like women.”

Aemond laughs, warm and boyish like he’s breaking character; and you are alarmed by the wave of fondness for him that crashes through you. It’s something that could pull you under. It’s something you could drown in. He picks up the largest vibrator: long, thick, pink like soft feminine vulnerability, like love. Then he is darkly, deliciously stern again. “On the bed.”

“No.” Not because you’re genuinely protesting. Because you want him to make you.

Aemond grabs you around your waist and drags you towards the bed as you squeal, giggle, fight him halfheartedly. He throws you down onto the wildflower-patterned duvet and climbs between your thighs, parting them as he pushes the hem of your black satin slip up to your waist. Abruptly, you are bare for him, exposed, fiery dusk air cool against your wetness. Aemond is still fully clothed, white shirt and pale blue jeans. He is holding your legs open with his own. You can see the bulge of his cock beneath the denim: at least as large as the vibrator and hard with insistent longing.

I want him, you think as you hear the vibrator click on. I want him, I want him…

Aemond brings the pink silicone tip to your flesh, and instantly you’re ravenous. It shocks you how much more erotic this is when someone else is holding it, when someone else has you entirely at their mercy. You cry out, loud and shameless, euphoric. Your back arches; your fingers twist into the duvet. As he presses the vibrator down more forcefully, Aemond braces his hips against yours, grinding into you through his jeans, taunting you, conquering you.

You fumble for the button and zipper of his jeans. “Please—”

“No,” Aemond snarls, beaming, snatching your hand and pinning it up by your head. His other hand is still circling your clit with the tip of the vibrator. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

“Aemond, please, I need you—”

“No,” he says, defiant. He makes the rules. He has the power; he’s in control. Suddenly, he pulls the vibrator away. You yelp in dismay. “You know,” Aemond quips cavalierly. “It’s a shame you have such a difficult time finishing when you’re with a man. I bet you’re not even close.”

“I am,” you whine, in agony, in ecstasy.

Aemond pretends to be surprised. “Hm.” He returns the vibrator to your skin, slick, hot, aching in the most wondrous way. You sigh as the pleasure surges through you, as you soar up to the previous plateau and then begin to ascend beyond it. You must have repositioned yourself without noticing; Aemond releases your hand to smack his palm against the inside of your thigh. “Keep your legs apart. I want you wide open for me.”

“I will, I promise.” I’ll do anything you tell me to.

Aemond’s hand ventures lower. Two of his fingers glide inside you and thrust in time with his hips. “Fuck,” he hisses, breaking character again; and something rocks through his shoulders, his spine, a divine temptation that he is battling.

“Aemond, more,” you plead, looking at the massive outline of his cock under his jeans.

“Not yet,” he pants, fucking you with his fingers as the vibrator hums against your clit. “You have to come for me first, baby. You have to earn it.”

And you’re close, you really are, you’re closer than you ever would have imagined you’d be with him tonight, this stranger, this elusive British man, this man from a personal ad in the Bayou Journal that you almost never replied to. Your hair has come undone and is wild around your face; your heart is pounding frantically; your skin is bathed in a sheen of victorious perspiration. When was the last time someone made you feel like this? You can’t recall; the answer might be never. There is a spellbinding, intensifying sensation of warmth, of opening, you’re only seconds from the brink, you’re ready to step off the precipice and into open blue air the same color as his eyes—

Aemond yanks the vibrator away again, grinning toothily down at you.

“No!” You scrabble for him with shaking hands, pulling yourself up as you reach for the vibrator. Aemond pushes you back onto the bed. Despite your protests, you love the feeling of his weight on top of yours; you love the organic symphony he’s built of, muscle and bone and skill and power. His fingers are still pumping in and out of you, keeping you soaked and throbbing, pinning you to the edge of an orgasm without permitting you to succumb to it.

“It’s going to be so good for you like this, baby,” Aemond insists, low and raspy. He’s reading your face, attentive to every detail, drinking up your desperate body and quivering voice. “I swear I’m not torturing you for no reason. Let me show you. Let me take care of you. When it happens, it’s going to blow your fucking mind. Are you ready?”

“Yes, now, please, do it now,” you whimper as you lie beneath him, open, bare, senseless, vanquished.

Aemond drags his tongue over the tip of the vibrator, moaning with lust as he tastes you. Then he at last presses the pink silicone to your clit once more. In your electrified nerves, in your scalding blood, there are sparks and momentum and currents rushing towards the cataclysmic breaking of a rogue wave. “Nice and slow,” Aemond murmurs. “Let it build.”

Instead of the peak, you reach another plateau, so high and so rapturous you can’t stand it, you can’t fathom climbing any farther. It’s becoming so sharp and intense it’s almost painful. Fresh anxiety flashes in your mind like lightning. The momentum begins to dissipate like dewdrops under the late-morning sun. Oh no, I’m going to lose it, I’m going to disappoint him—

Aemond lifts the vibrator off you again; before you have time to collect yourself enough to speak, to apologize, he’s slipped his fingers out of you and carefully guided the vibrator inside, stretching you, filling you, thrusting rhythmically but not too viciously or too deep. He places his thumbprint on the place where the vibrator was just seconds ago and circles quickly, once, twice, again, and then…

You try not to scream, but you can’t help it, can’t stop it; the climax wrenches out of you indescribable pleasure, vanished fears, awe and relief, twisted muscles and gasping breaths, every electrical impulse of every atom, and each time you believe it’s over it rolls a little farther like an endless summer afternoon. When it’s done—truly done—you aren’t sure exactly how it happens but suddenly you’re sitting upright on the bed and the vibrator is lying forgotten on top of the duvet and Aemond is laughing, kissing you—sweat and nicotine, smoke and salt—and caressing your face with his hands, saying: “You were such a good girl. You did amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

“Okay,” you exhale unsteadily, smiling. You nod to the very noticeable bulge in his jeans. “Your turn.”

“No,” Aemond says primly.

“What?”

“No,” he repeats. “Not today.”

“But…but…why?”

The curl of his lips is crooked and playful. “To prove I’m not just here to get myself off.” He kisses you again, far more tenderly than any random dom from a personal ad should. “You don’t trust me. But maybe next time you will.”

“How could I trust you? I don’t even know you.”

“We’ll have to spend more time together.”

“You seriously aren’t going to fuck me right now? Me? A mostly-naked stranger you met up with exclusively for the purposes of fucking?”

“Are you dissatisfied?”

In truth, no; your pulse is slowing, your thoughts are calm, your lust is satiated, you’re reasonably certain that you’ve sprained no less than four muscles. You feel like the sky after rain: emptied, unburdened, untroubled, at peace. “Not at all.”

“Then you shouldn’t be complaining.”

You reach out to touch Aemond’s unscarred cheek and he smiles. You try to ghost your fingertips over the left side of his face and he flinches away, leaves the bed, takes the vibrator to the bathroom to scrub it with soap and water. “Can I at least pour you a glass of sweet tea or something?” you call after him. “I feel guilty. I feel like I didn’t uphold my end of the bargain.”

“You exceeded all of my expectations,” Aemond says with a strange sort of somberness. “But sweet tea sounds great.”

You take five minutes to clean up and change into real clothes—ratty denim shorts and a red, white, and blue Pepsi t-shirt, chaotic hair, no bra—and then meet Aemond in the kitchen. He’s surveying the large circular table, which is littered with covered cake plates in a hodgepodge of sizes and colors; you found most of them at yard sales and thrift shops. The sun has set and the stars have risen; the kitchen is illuminated by yellow-hued florescent light. Night air flows in through the screens of the open windows. The boombox is currently playing Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now.

“What’s the deal with that?” Aemond asks about the cluttered kitchen table.

“They’re the baked goods. For my bakery.”

“Right,” he says, remembering, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “The sign out front.”

“Would you like anything? Today we had butterscotch chiffon cake, coconut custard cake, blackberry dark chocolate cupcakes, pecan pie, red velvet brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, lavender black tea cookies, chocolate meringue pie, butter pecan muffins…”

“How about those?” He points.

“Oh! Those are banana bread cupcakes. One of my favorites.”

“Banana bread…cupcakes?”

“Here.” You plop one on a plate for Aemond, then go to the refrigerator to pour two tall glasses of sweet tea. “A lot of people put chocolate chips in their banana bread, but I feel like any chocolate really eclipses the banana flavor. It’s so subtle, you know? So what I do instead is cinnamon, honey, cream cheese frosting, and a tiny bit of sea salt mixed into the batter. If you get the ratio just right, there’s this really great blend of saltiness and sweetness, and the banana is still the star of the show. Of course I’ve fucked up plenty of times too and almost given myself dangerously high blood pressure. If I ruin a batch, I’m the one who has to eat it. We can’t let anything go to waste. Our profit margin is thinner than a crescent moon on the best months.”

“Oh my God,” Aemond says. He’s taken a bite and is now gawking at the banana bread cupcake. “You made this?” He gestures to the table. “You made all of this?”

“My best friend Amir runs the business with me, but most of the recipes are mine. My mom used to bake all the time when I was little. Now she has rheumatoid arthritis and has given it up, more or less, but that’s where I learned a lot of what I know. And I try to come up with new ideas each week to add to the rotation.”

“This is exceptional,” Aemond says. His mouth is full of the rest of the cupcake. He washes it down with a few gulps of sweet tea; ice cubes jangle in the misty glass. “This is, like, insanely good. Can I have another one…?” He’s already lifting the cover off the cake plate.

You chuckle. “Yeah, seriously, have as many as you like.”

“How much do you sell them for?”

“The cupcakes are $1, but you don’t have to pay me. You get the unrequited orgasm discount.”

“Just $1 each.” Aemond is incredulous. You aren’t sure what that’s about. He sets the second cupcake down on the table, tugs a black leather wallet out of his jeans pocket, and gives you a $10 bill.

“Aemond, really, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Take the money. Stop talking about it.”

You smirk up at him. “Is that an order, sir?”

He grabs your jaw with one forceful hand, kisses you roughly, bites your lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He tastes like cinnamon, honey, sugar, sex. “Yes,” he says, grinning wickedly. Then his hands drop to unbutton your shorts. The idea of stopping Aemond doesn’t even cross your mind; your desire for him—him specifically—is back, flaring red and primeval and irresistible. “I want you on top of that counter—”

Outside there are footsteps bounding up the front porch, loud on the creaking boards. You tear away from Aemond and hurry to re-button your shorts. What? Already??

You know exactly who it must be.

Well, now I’m definitely never going to see Aemond again.

He’s terrified, he’s wondering whether he should try to jump out of a window. But really, he’s already been spotted; his Audi Quattro is still waiting for him in the gravel driveway. “Please don’t tell me that’s your homicidal armed boyfriend or something.”

“No,” you say. “It’s my daughter.”

“Wait, your…?!”

The door swings open; you hardly ever lock it. Cadi trots in just as you are flipping over the copy of the Bayou Journal on the kitchen counter so Aemond’s personal ad is no longer visible. Instead, what now faces up—dotted with flour, powdered sugar, cinnamon, grease stains of butter—is a column about the rigs opened in Lake Verret. Just what this town needs, you think distractedly. An environmental disaster.

“Mom, whose radical car is that—?” Then Cadi spies Aemond and blinks at him a few times. She is ten years old but thinks she’s your age, short hair, short temper, denim overalls and a t-shirt underneath patterned with multicolored horses.

“This is Aemond,” you explain. He waves awkwardly and then resumes nibbling on his second banana bread cupcake, avoiding her scrutiny. “He’s a friend.”

“But you don’t have any friends,” Cadi replies.

“Watch it, Child Of The Corn. I have friends.”

“You have like one friend.”

“What happened to your sleepover with Mawmaw? I thought you were excited to trick her into watching Hellraiser.”

“Blockbuster didn’t have it. Then Great Aunt Ethel called and said she broke her hip. Mawmaw dropped me off here on her way to the hospital.”

“And she didn’t even think to check with me first, huh?”

“As if you’d have anything better to do.” Cadi races to the refrigerator—careening around a shellshocked Aemond—and heaves open the door. “What’s for dinner?”

“I think we have some Swanson’s meals left. Oh, and spaghetti.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “Who made it?”

“You’re in luck! Not me. Amir.”

“Yay!” Cadi trills, then drags out the pan and begins spooning mounds of spaghetti onto a plate. Aemond looks to you, intrigued.

You say: “I bake, I don’t cook.”

“She really doesn’t,” Cadi concurs.

“Completely different skillset.”

Cadi places a few paper towels over the heaping plate so sauce doesn’t splatter all over the microwave and then sets it to three minutes. As she waits to eat, she wanders over to where the Bayou Journal is lying on the counter and scans the page: Viserys Targaryen, three state-of-the-art oil rigs, Lake Verret, an additional 50 employees hired, Jade Dragon Energy. “Those bastards are going to get their way, I guess.”

You sigh. “Yup.”

Aemond is alarmed. He polishes off the last of his cupcake, frowning as he licks frosting from his lips. “You don’t approve?”

“They’ll blow up the whole town,” Cadi says matter-of-factly.

You smile wanly at Aemond as you sip your sweet tea. “You work for Jade Dragon, right?”

He stares back at you—stunned, perhaps even fearful, a deer flooded with headlights—but doesn’t speak.

“It’s alright. I figured you must. Some smart British guy way out here in Cajun Country? It’s gotta be for a job. Don’t worry. We won’t shoot and skin you or anything. It’s not your fault. You’re just collecting a paycheck, it’s not like you’re running the company.”

“Right.” Aemond grabs a third cupcake and gnaws at it. After a moment he adds: “I have a degree in petroleum engineering. I just moved to Napoleonville last week.”

“I knew it,” you say.

“Boo!” Cadi heckles jokingly. The microwave beeps, then she disappears into her bedroom with her plate of spaghetti. You hear Cadi turn on her little television and flip through the channels until she finds Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aemond watches her closed door for a few seconds—still processing, you assume—and then turns back to you.

“Her name’s Katie?”

“Cadi. C-a-d-i. It’s short for Arcadia.”

He is impressed. “Greece?”

You titter nervously. You don’t know what he means. “It’s a town up by Shreveport, it’s where Bonnie and Clyde were arrested or killed or something. I’m not sure. Her father picked it.”

“You didn’t have an opinion?”

“Um, I wasn’t really…uh…conscious for a few days after she was born. By the time I was up and around again, he’d already filled out the birth certificate.”

What is that you see flicker across his face like the transient surge of a lightning bug? Curiosity? Apprehension? “I see. And her father is…” Aemond raises a blonde eyebrow, the one his scar cuts through. “On an aircraft carrier somewhere?”

You laugh. “He’s not deployed. We’re divorced, Willis lives about fifteen minutes down the road. It’s amicable.”

“So I don’t need to worry about him showing up on your front porch to murder me with a 2x4 full of nails.”

“No. Although he is the town sheriff.”

Aemond smirks. Is this a challenge or an inconvenience? “Why’d you two split up?”

You shrug, glancing at Cadi’s bedroom door. She is quite aggressive with her television volume; you’re confident she won’t be able to listen in if you keep your voice low. “It’s not that interesting a story.”

“I’m extremely interested.” And he sincerely appears to be, head tilted to the side, eyes fixed on you (though you know the left one sees nothing), thoughts whirling like storm winds.

“Well…we only ever got married because of…” You gesture towards Cadi’s room. Aemond nods, following along. “And I was too young and I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know what I wanted out of a man, I didn’t even know I had the right to set standards to measure a husband by. Willis wasn’t terrible. He didn’t hit me. He just wasn’t really who I wanted.” You chew at your lower lip, peering down at the kitchen counter, drawing circles in the sparse flour dust. “He never even proposed to me. Not properly, I mean. I told him I was pregnant and he said: Well, guess we oughta get married, huh sugar? and then drove me to the Kmart up in Gonzales to pick out a ring.”

“Classy,” Aemond mutters.

“I had to buy it myself, actually. Willis didn’t have enough cash on him. He paid me back later, but still. It wasn’t about the ring. I don’t need gold and diamonds. But I need someone who really sees me and understands me and chooses me, you know? I’ve never felt chosen. And I decided I didn’t want to settle for that. If I ever get married again, I want the whole goddamn thing. The real thing. I want the candles and the flowers and a boombox blasting Heaven Is A Place On Earth. And if that’s not in the cards, I guess I’m not the marrying type.”

“And you’ll make do with occasional visits from your friendly neighborhood dom.”

You grin up at Aemond. “Yeah, exactly.”

“You really hate Jade Dragon?”

“Companies like that…they just use us. Our land, our labor. And then when they decimate the place they pack up and disappear overnight, no pensions, no retirement, no unemployment, no meaningful cleanup, just Thanks for the millions! Bye! and we’re left to live in their filth.”

“That’s a rather cynical perspective,” Aemond says.

“It’s a realistic perspective,” you counter. “In 1965, there was a pipeline explosion in Natchitoches, in ‘79 there was an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, in ‘80 a Texaco rig accidentally drilled into a salt mine under Lake Peigneur and destroyed the whole ecosystem. Two weeks ago there was a refinery explosion an hour east of here in Norco. 4,500 people had to be evacuated from their homes. So no, the jobs sound nice, but in my humble estimation they’re not worth dying for.”

Aemond considers you, a look that is not patronizing or combative but not convinced either. And there’s something else too: a caginess, a nervousness.

“And these Jade Dragon people, the Targaryens? They have a history,” you continue. “I read about it in the Bayou Journal. Last year they had an oil spill at an offshore rig near Ketchikan, Alaska. They poured hundreds of thousands of barrels of poison into the ocean and killed a bunch of dolphins and whales and everything. Fishermen went bankrupt, people committed suicide.”

“Mistakes happen.” Aemond places his empty sweet tea glass in the sink.

“But they didn’t make it right. Their lawyers blamed a defective piece of equipment and kicked liability back to the manufacturer. They’ll be battling it out in court for the next decade. And meanwhile, the people of Ketchikan get nothing but misery. I don’t want Napoleonville to end up like that.”

Aemond gazes out the kitchen window and into the cicada-rattling night, faraway, pensive.

“But seriously,” you say, more casually now. “I get that it’s not your fault, Aemond. I don’t hate you or anything. You’re working for a living like anyone else. You can only do so much.”

He looks back to you and smiles vaguely. “I just go where they tell me to.”

“And that’s why you like to be in control when you’re with me.”

“Yes,” Aemond says; and on his face—strong, scarred, perfect—you can see that he is reminiscing, that he is planning what he wants to do to you next. But he can’t do any of it. Not here, not now.

“I’m sorry about…you know. The kid thing. I really didn’t think she’d be home tonight. I would never subject her to something like that, walking in to find a strange guy in the house. And I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable either.”

“It’s okay. I believe you.”

“I don’t usually do this. I’m sure you think I’m lying, but I’m not. I’ve had two boyfriends since I got divorced seven years ago, and both times it didn’t last long and Cadi never met them. And it wasn’t…like it is with you. The dynamic, I mean. The…control thing. They were just normal dudes.”

“And they couldn’t satisfy you,” Aemond says, taunting, proud, setting your blood on fire.

“No. They couldn’t. Not even close.”

You both stand silently in the kitchen amidst a cascade of inconsequential noise: Eurythmics from the little pink boombox, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles from Cadi’s room, cicadas and bullfrogs and the long-eared owl from the world outside that is primordial and feral and green. For the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel not like the piecemeal potential of a desirable woman but whole. Aemond’s right eye traces every curve and edge of you in a way that makes you think: Maybe I will see him again after all.

“Come on,” you say, turning towards the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”

But when he steps onto the creaking porch—pulling on his Marlboro jacket, watching lightning bugs bloom like daisies in the yard—Aemond seems to be stalling. “This is lopsided,” he says, tapping the wooden boards with his Adidas sneakers.

“I know. The whole foundation is, it’s sinking. We’ll have to move eventually. But we’ve been in this place since Cadi was five, it has a lot of memories. She calls it the Fall-Down House.”

“Cute,” Aemond says, but he’s pondering something. “Do you own it?”

“Oh no, God no. We rent.”

“Are you saving for a down payment to put on a new house?”

This is a rude question. “A little,” you reply curtly. Not enough. You need to make money to save money.

“Okay.” Aemond senses your discomfort. He’s good at that; it’s an advantageous skill for a dom to possess, knowing when he’s approaching a limit long before you have to shut him down. He descends the porch steps. “I’ll be back for more of those cupcakes—” There is a shrill, alien hissing from out by the tree line. Aemond shouts and scrambles back onto the porch, throwing an arm in front of you to shield you from his enigmatic nocturnal adversary. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Just a gator,” you reassure him, amused.

“A what?”

“An alligator.” You show him the shadow that lurks beneath a young oak tree draped with Spanish moss. “She’s over there. Just stay on the gravel once you get off the porch.”

Aemond is puzzled. How does anyone live in this hellscape? his face says. “How do you know it’s a female?”

“She’s not too big, and she doesn’t bellow. But she sure loves to hiss.”

“I think alligators should have gone extinct with the rest of the dinosaurs.”

“Well, there’s a secret to dealing with them.”

“Yeah?”

You smile, skating your fingers into the sleeve of Aemond’s Marlboro jacket and up his forearm until you feel goosebumps rise on his skin. “If she gets mean, you just have to bite back.”

Aemond chuckles, turns your face towards his, kisses the apple your cheek…and then, for only a moment, his teeth close around the sensitive flesh there leaving a whirlpool of pulsing, forbidden heat. He whispers through your hair: “See you soon.”

“Will you?”

“Yes,” he says, severely now. It’s a commandment, it’s a need. “I absolutely will.”

Aemond leaves you, strides across the gravel driveway without glancing back, ducks into his car, lights a cigarette; you can see the rust-colored glow through the windshield as he takes a drag. You wait in a flurry of moths under the dim florescent bulb of the front porch until his Audi Quattro veers onto Route 401 and disappears.

I hope he meant it, you think as a lightning bug lands on your knuckles and illuminates there like the gemstone of a ring. I hope I’ll see him again.

Then you shake away the insect and go inside to see if Cadi wants to help you clean up the kitchen and get a brown sugar pie baked for tomorrow. As compensation, you’ll offer her the $10 bill Aemond gave you for the cupcakes.

[justporo]

"Astarion?"

"Yes, my love?"

You were lazing away a summer's night. The sound of crickets chimed through the air and your wide open bedroom windows.

The city had practically been burning up the last couple of days - even the nights were unpleasantly warm and humid. And so the only thing you and your vampire had been doing was wasting the nights away in your huge bed with the silk sheets providing at least a bit of cool counterbalance. And of course the cold skin of your vampire served as a pleasant heatsink.

And Astarion had found it quite delightfully entertaining when he'd figured out how you would sigh blissfully when he pressed his cool hands to your body and he felt the heat of your skin under his fingers.

Right now you were, both of you, laying there all splayed and fully naked. The vampire on his back reading a small leather-bound collection of poetry. His legs were angled because your crossed ones lay beneath them as you lounged there on your stomach, drawing what you could see through the frame of the open window.

As you were busy with your art your mind had kept wandering - until a question had formed in your mind that you just had to voice.

"Why me?" you asked your lover, turning your head to look at him, your work momentarily forgotten.

Astarion lowered his book: "What?"

"Why did you pick me? Or fall for me?"

You felt anxiety creep up your spine as the words left your tongue.

Astarion stared at you in silence, taken aback by the surprising question. A wrinkle formed between his furrowed brows - deep in thought.

"That's kind of a loaded question, don't you think?"

Your heart dropped a little at that reaction and you turned back around and looked at your sketch. Hopefully he hadn't caught how your facial expression had dropped.

The bed shifted under his weight when Astarion put aside his book and climbed over to you.

You didn't dare to look at him. Thankfully a curtain of hair was still covering your face as the vampire came closer.

But you felt his presence as he leaned over you. His cool arms covering yours as his hands wandered down from your shoulders to your fingers, sending shivers down your exposed spine. And then you felt his smooth lips press a delicate kiss to your temple.

"My heart," he began so silently even the cricket sounds almost drowned them out. "There's no need to hide your face. And no need to be frightened," he whispered and with a single finger lifted the soft strands of your hair covering your face from sight.

Your eyes flitted to your lover's only shortly. But when you saw nothing but warmth in them you dared to take a longer peek.

"I fell for you, Tav, because even that first night, when I had fully other plans, you made me think how things could be different."

You opened your mouth to reply something but Astarion promptly shushed you.

"I might have not realised or appreciated it immediately but you showed me that it could be more, that I could be more."

His voice was starting to rise now as he continued his monologue. And you felt how your heartbeat started to quicken as you kept listening to his confession.

"And I figure most important was this, darling," Astarion continued and his red eyes were incredibly bright even in the low light of this summer night.

"Despite you barely knowing me, you were so eager to just give yourself to me. I was so used to offering up myself, others taking everything from me I was forced to offer up. But you didn't care for that. You wanted to be held, yes, but you were willing to give me everything of yourself for it."

Your eyes widened as you listened to Astarion opening up about this. You felt treacherous burning in your eyes, announcing tears that would probably follow shortly after. And as you stared into the crimson eyes of your vampire you saw all of your feelings mirrored in them.

Astarion leaned closer and made your body turn around. Softly pulling you around by your shoulders until you were on your back and your lover directly over you.

He pressed his lips to yours as he lowered his full weight of his body down onto you, your legs wrapping around him like it had become second nature for both of you. His hands gently wandered from your shoulders down your body, covering as much ground as possible while his tongue slipped into your mouth.

You moaned into his open mouth, arching your back until you felt your heated skin connect with his cooler body.

The corners of Astarion’s mouth curled up as you did that. You felt it as you were still kissing him and realised that you were proving his point.

Astarion broke the kiss, his face hovering directly over yours as your hands clung onto his back.

"How could I have refused such an offer?"

A/N: Quite some time ago I was tagged in a post by @lumienyx to answer why Astarion fell for my Tav and I had this on my mind for a long while. So here's my answer to that question.

[nanaminokanojo]

ACCIDENTALLY IN LOVE | part 48

-meet cute? a cheesy musical number? forget it! love makes itself known to you through a minor car accident, a broken arm, and a treacherously charming temporary chauffeur

CHARACTERS: sukuna x you/reader | jjk characters

GENRE: full-length smau + prose | bad boy x good girl | college au | a lot of firsts | aged-up characters | strangers to lovers | smut | fluff | angst | ooc depictions - soft sukuna ftw

TW/CW: strong/mature language | adult content so mdni on some parts | mentions of alcohol and/or smoking | mentions of injury, promiscuity and bullying | pet names because they're cute with 2D men | toxic behavior | will add more if something arises

MASTERLIST | CHAPTER INDEX

<<prev part 48 next>>

A/N: Contains prose with panels in between. Mind the order.

"Don't you have anything to review for?" you asked Sukuna who was walking beside you on your way to the library. You were surprised to see him after your class, leaning against the wall and pushing himself off it the moment he saw you. He was sporting that usual smirk as he threw his jacket over his shoulder.

“I do my reading at my own time.” He walked beside you. “Mind if I tag along with you?”

“I’m going to the library. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll go anywhere with you.”

“Your call.”

Your exams were coming and you had every plan to get in as much studying as you could on your breaks when you weren't hanging out with him and his friends. It was unexpected how your schedules seemed to have shifted from just minding your studies and your engagements with charities to adding socializing and actually investing time to be with them. You didn't regret a single thing about it, thankful that you've met them and they wanted you around just for the very purpose of having fun. It was good to have friends for once.

He glanced at you. "Getting sick of me now?"

"That's not what I meant." Your steps faltered, panicking for a second, but you calmed down when you saw how he was suppressing a snicker. You pouted at him. "I should be asking you that. You're the one being inconvenienced."

"No and no. Not in a million years." He slung an arm over your shoulder. "I wouldn't even be here if I didn't want to be."

Just as quickly as he had put his arm around you, he let go when this crowd of girls suddenly flocked around him like crows to a piece of meat. You immediately stood aside, immediately reading into whom they were after, smirking at his direction when you saw the helpless look on his face. 

"Sukuna, you haven't been showing up at parties," one of the girls said, latching onto his arm while the others agreed, asking him one question after the other.

It got you thinking how many of them he had kissed like he kissed you, how many of them received his undivided attention which, although offered at a limited time, still counted in the same manner as yours did in that it was genuine human interaction. You may not be sleeping with him like all those other girls were but you were no different from them where your bond with Sukuna was concerned. 

Almost the whole time since you got injured, his attention remained on you. You’d like to think he was paying special attention to you, but then he wasn't yours, and he may leave when you've recovered. So, why were you suddenly feeling strangely upset over the fact that these other females were surrounding him, treating him like they knew him better than you did? 

"I'll be at the library," you told him, as you walked ahead. You didn't like what you were seeing, and although you couldn't do anything about how you felt, you had the choice and will not to act on it. 

You've already found a seat at the farthest corner of the library you could find, your notes spread on the table in the organized manner you always do when he finally showed up. His arrival wasn't something you expected at all, but he was there anyway, pouting at you as he pulled out the chair beside you, trying hard not to make a noise. But his presence has always been loud, something that made itself known with the least effort, enough to fill your apartment with life whenever he was around. 

"Why did you leave me out there, bunny?" he whispered. His lower lip jutted out, his chin on the heel of his palm. 

Pretending to be busy with sorting your stuff out, you didn’t even look at him. “Sukuna, you’re whining.” You glanced at him when he didn’t say anything before turning your book to the next page. "You looked busy there. I didn't want to be a party pooper." 

"That was hardly a party," he complained. 

"It looked like it."

He just looked at you as if he sensed something off, but you pretended not to notice and continued reading. But then he asked, "Do you disapprove of my…uh…habits?" 

You shook your head, glad that your opinion mattered enough for him to ask. "I'm not in any position to say anything…” 

Your words hung in the air, promoting him to say, “But?”

“I can't say I'm for it either." 

Sukun arched a brow at you, fighting a smile yet cautiously asking, "Why not?" 

"Well, they're bound to haunt you someday, especially when they get in the way of things you want to achieve in the future."

“How?”

You shrugged, setting you book down. “What if you genuinely like somebody but they don’t agree with what you do? Or it gets in the way of you making connections you need for certain purposes.” 

Sukuna grinned cheekily at you. "So, you worry about my future?" 

Detecting his teasing tone, you brought your book down, meeting his gaze squarely. "Yes."

It was his turn to be speechless at your honest response, so you felt the need to explain yourself.

"I don't need reason just to wish you well even if you were a stranger. It's the same as not having any reason to wish you ill."

"How are you a real person? The world doesn't deserve you." 

You just chuckled at his sentiment. "I'm hardly perfect, Sukuna, but I consider you my friend after all, the first one I made on my own," you lifted your injured arm, "although it needed a little push."

He pulled away slowly, confusion drawing itself across his handsome features. “Just a friend?” he asked, sounding disappointed, but you immediately saw through his ploy to mess with you. 

“You’re really good at this,” you told him, shaking your head as you returned your attention to the book.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You didn’t satisfy that with a response, grinning to yourself instead.

TAG LIST: @catobsessedlady @kyo-kyo1 @junehasnotbeenfound @lavender-hvze @guacam011y @eyered @hellomeow12 @its-princessmara @light-yagami-l @domainofmarie @mythoscalliope @noble-17 @pheonix-eclipses @weebbuscuit @sukunasbudussy @lu-c1na @vinnieswife @the-haitani-baton @iaminyourfloors @needtoloveoutloud @r-ryuko09 @somestardeww @swirlingcurses @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @bronze-metal @iluv-ace @kidd3ath @multifandomloner @ichorstainedskin @ti-mame @hellyyy06

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI’S “JUJUTSU KAISEN”. [20240608]

PHOTOS/IMAGES/GIF/FANART/ANY MEDIA CREDITS GO TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Pop A Plan B Before I Let Him Trap A Bitch (NSFW 18+)

First Lady of Private Garden Fic

AN: Jealous Jackman 😜

Synopsis: Jack isn't very happy with you after he hears your verse on FNF remix and decides to make a little song of his own

Pairing: Husband!Jack Harlow x Wife!Reader

Requested by: my treacherous twin @harlowsbby 😘🥰

Thank you @hoodharlow and @nattinatalia for helping me 😘

Warnings: Mention of a miscarriage

First Lady of Private Garden Masterlist

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Jack was currently in New York for a few appearances while you were home in Atlanta working on a few different things and he was fuming.

Maybe he was overreacting a little bit, but a fair warning would have been nice from you as he was still trying to wrap his head around your verse and the song that you were featured on. 

The FNF remix with Glorilla and JT had been released and Jack had your verse on repeat, sitting in disbelief as to why you even mentioned that last line.

Pop a plan B before I let him trap a bitch

He was trying to gather his thoughts because you had just sent him a text asking if he had listened to it and if he liked it. That was something that the two of you always did when you wanted to keep songs a secret from each other so it could be a surprise. 

A text response wasn't going to get his point across so he decided to call you on facetime.

When you picked up, his face came into view and you were nothing but smiles. But you could tell that something was wrong with your husband and you were immediately going to try to pull it out of him.

"Hii baby! I miss you! You okay?"

"You got something you wanna tell me? Now I'm trying to trap you?" Jack asked and you were extremely confused as to what he was talking about.

"What you mean babe? What in the world are you talking about? Trying to trap you? Last time I checked I had a whole ring on my finger and we have the same last name."

"You know EXACTLY what I'm talking about so stop fucking playing with me.” You then looked at your husband sideways and took a deep breath to calm yourself not wanting to go off on him because you were definitely ready to.

"Pookie, I'm not a mind reader so be an adult and say what's on your mind."

Jack was quiet for a few seconds before confessing on why he was so upset.

"Your FNF verse."

"Did you like it? We had so much fun in the studio that day." You answered while smiling in the camera and Jack knew he was mad at you and wasn’t even paying attention to how excited you were about it. 

"Pop a plan B before I let him trap a bitch? Are you serious right now?"

Oh. So that’s why he’s upset.

"Baby, it's just a song. You know I meant nothing by it. Didn’t I marry you?"

"How am I supposed to know that? And you've been asking me to get you pregnant for the longest. So what the fuck?"

"Are you really mad about this? Like seriously Jackman?"

"Do I look overjoyed to you right now? I thought it was fucking clear that I was mad." 

"Baby come on. Don't be mad. It was just meant to be something fun and that was it."

You were a little disappointed in Jack’s reaction seeing how proud you were of your verse and the fact that you had been getting a lot of features with many different artists.

Jack just shook his head before responding to you and you knew that he was about to be an entire ass about this for the next few days. All you knew was that by the time both of you got back home, he had better fixed his attitude. 

"I'll talk to you later." Jack immediately hung up without telling you that he loved you and of course it made you feel some type of way because he usually never hung up a call without saying it to you.

You simply threw your phone on the side of you and shook your head in disbelief.

After Jack had hung up with you, he sent a quick text to Drama saying he wanted to meet up with him in the studio.

What better way to let out his frustrations?

He couldn’t have sex with you to let it out and besides, you were the one that he was mad at. 

Jack- My mind is racing and I need to get it out

Drama- Been working on some things and I got the perfect beat for you. But we can listen to a few of them and then you can decide which one fits best. When did you want to do it?

Jack- Today. You in New York?

Drama- I am. Give me an hour and we can make it happen. I'll send you the address.

It was now Friday and you and Jack had barely spoken to one another since the whole incident of him being mad about the FNF verse. You even sent him nudes as a last resort and all he sent back was a thumbs up leaving you even more pissed.

And you had gotten all of the perfect angles too.

You figured he would come around when he was ready and that you were done stressing over it. If he planned on being an ass, he could go right ahead while you continued to do your features on other people’s songs.

You just planned on giving him head in the hopes that he would forget about it, but if he didn’t even react to your nudes, you didn’t know how that was about to suffice.

You then got a text from Saweetie and you were highly confused.

Saweetie- OOP Jack's new song is FIRE

You- Huh? When did he release it?

Saweetie- uh? At midnight. He didn't tell you? It's called Mockingbird Valley with Drama. Doesn't he tell you everything since yall are attached at the damn hip?

You immediately pulled it up on your phone and began listening to it.

But it wasn't until you heard a few lines that left you with your jaw on the floor. 

I'm finally speakin' up to anything that's not okay with me

Okay, so far so good.

Long way from my wife having kids

You were starting to get annoyed.

Course I got a main, but I'm still out here a la cartin'

Was he fucking serious?

You immediately sent him a text still in disbelief about it. In no way shape or form did you put in your verse about having a main and a side piece and you were about to get on him about that. 

You- Oh, so you think you funny huh? You better fucking answer me, Jackman and answer me now.

Jack- Yeah I'm the funniest

You- I will kick your white ass. Now why would you say that!?

Jack- Same reason you said that last line in your verse

You- You know that you are the only person that I ever want to have kids with so why are you acting like an ass? Oh and you got a main but you still out here a la cartin? I wish you motherfucking would, I fucking dare you.

Jack- It’s just a song, babe. I didn’t mean anything by it. Sound familiar?

Just then you called him on facetime and he was simply laying in the bed in his hotel room eating strawberries and looking at you.

“You got some fucking nerve.” You blurted out when you saw how calm he was. 

“Oh? Me? You started this shit, so don’t get mad now.”

“MY WIFE IS A LONG WAY FROM HAVING KIDS? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?”

“Go ahead and pop that plan B the next time we go at it to make sure. Don’t want to mess anything up for you.”

“Nah, now your ass is being petty with a capital P. We usually say a whole bunch of different things in our lyrics, but this is what set you off?”

“Are we done talking about this?”

“Oh because you got your lick back you think that everything is all good? Fuck outta here with that bullshit. I thought you would be proud of me, but I guess not. I am always supportive of you. ALWAYS. And this is what I get in return? If you want to act like this don’t bother coming home until you get rid of that fucking attitude.”

“I am always proud of you so cut that shit out and I’m supportive. I LITERALLY GOT DRAMA TO SIGN YOU. I always want to see my wife win at everything she does but why would you say that shit when we just recently had a miscarriage? What was the reason?”

Oh, that’s what it was.

“I wrote the lyrics before it happened so I didn’t do that on purpose. Is that what you’re so mad about? And didn’t your ass say my wife is a long way from having kids? Make it make sense.”

“And you didn’t think to change the lyrics? And I didn’t mean it in that context, it was a response to what you had said in FNF.”

“For what, Jack? For fucking what? Is me changing the lyrics going to suddenly bring our baby back? Didn’t fucking think so.”

You could feel your eyes start to water and Jack noticed this and knew he had fucked up and went a bit too far.

“Baby.. I-....”

“I have to go, got things to do. See you whenever you get home.”

“Baby, wait a minute!”

Without another word, you hung up the phone and placed it on DND for the rest of the day not wanting to be bothered with anything or anyone. 

The next morning you woke up to see your husband beside you and he was wide awake looking over at the TV and playing with Blanche and Sophia who were both perched on his lap.

You really didn’t want to talk to him, but you knew that you needed to.

All you did was turn around and face away from Jack which immediately led to him getting a pout on his face.

“Baby girl?”

“What, Jackman?”

“Can you turn back around and look at me so we can talk about this?”

“No.”

“Baby, come on. I need to apologize to you because I definitely overreacted and took it too far. I just… for some reason when I heard it, I just got pissed off. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. And don’t ever for a second think that I’m not proud of you because I am. I love you and always want to see you be successful in everything that you did. You’re my baby girl and you know how much you mean to me. When I said that line in the song, it was simply a response back to what you said in FNF and nothing else. That was not meant to be taken any other way.”

“It sounds as if you were saying that I’m incapable of having kids because of what happened.”

“No, Y/N. I don’t think that at all and I apologize. You’re going to get pregnant when the time is right and I have no doubt about that.”

“Hmm.”

“Baby, please turn this way and look at me.”

You slowly turned around and saw Jack looking at you before leaning over to kiss your forehead. 

“I love you, mamas.”

“And I love you too no matter how much you get on my last nerve.”

“I deserve that.”

“And the fact that you only sent me a thumbs up emoji when I sent you nudes the other day? You had me fucked all the way up with that one. I hit all of your favorite angles and that’s the thanks that I get?”

“I-... I was mad at you still, but if it makes you feel any better, I definitely had to make good use of my hand when I saw them. Especially the one where you were on all fours and I know that I could probably see that pussy dripping from a mile away.”

Blanche and Sophia had hopped down to do only God knows what and you were simply staring at Jack.

“You okay?” He suddenly asked and you simply nodded.

“I’m fine.” You answered while shrugging but you slowly sat up to take your shirt off throwing it across the room leaving your top half bare in front of Jack.

He immediately raised an eyebrow at you and all you did was look at him.

“You owe me for that response to my nudes and I want it now.” You desperately pleaded as you could feel the flood gates opening up down below and Jack hadn’t even touched you yet.

“Say less, mamas. But be careful what you ask for.” Jack said as he hovered over top of you before sliding down your shorts and seeing how wet you were. All he did was take two of his fingers and slowly massage your clit as you went to answer him. 

“What?”

“I’m still not showing you any mercy for what you did. You ready for me? Because I didn’t plan on stopping any time soon.”

When you didn’t answer him, he stopped his movements to peer down at you and gave you a look. 

“I’m ready. Just come on.”

“Get on all fours. Now.”

—

As Jack was pounding into you from behind, you were grabbing at the sheets beneath you and you were a screaming crying mess.

The two of you had been at it for at least an hour switching to different positions, but Jack once again wanted you on all fours.

“Shit… shit…. Oh fuckkkkkkk!”

“There’s my good girl. You gonna cum for me again?”

You simply nodded your head, but quickly opened your mouth to respond because you knew that Jack would stop his movements if he didn’t hear you.

“Yes!”

In the process of Jack fucking you into oblivion, your bonnet had fallen off and it was somewhere across the room so your hair was literally everywhere. The only thing that you would probably get on him about was sweating out your hair.

Jack then slid out of you before starting to eat you out from the back.

You absolutely loved every time that he did this and it took everything in you to hold still.

“Babe….” You let out while trying to catch your breath, but Jack simply kept going.

He inserted two of his fingers in you while keeping his mouth on you and you knew that you were close.

“Shit…. Jackkkkkk.”

“Damn, you never call me by my first name when I’m in you.”

“Baby, let me cum. Please let me cum.”

“Not yet. Almost, be patient.”

Jack had then slid back into you and you knew that you weren’t about to be able to hold on much longer.

“BABYYY!”

Jack then reached underneath you to massage your clit and you were squirting all over him within a matter of seconds. 

Jack soon followed and pulled out of you, releasing all over your back.

You would have preferred your face, but that could be for next time. 

“What you got to say now mamas? Screaming, crying mess underneath me. Did that make up for me not saying anything about the pictures you sent me?” Jack asked as he slapped your ass and you immediately groaned. 

“Leave me alone.” You replied while collapsing onto your stomach and trying to catch your breath.

“Nah, we not about to leave this bed until I get you pregnant. Go wash the cum out your weave and get ready for the next round. Pop a plan B, my ass.” 

Taglist:

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[lvrdrafts]

The Snakes Bite Part 2

Summary : Bucky tries to forget the breakup so he goes on a mission where finds some new shocking intel on his broken relationship

Warnings : Nothing rlly

A/N : fluff ending for a past blog

Part 1

Bucky's heart still felt heartbroken knowing that the person who he thought he would get married cheated on him. Sam was supposed to come in a few minutes to get a coffee and Bucky was trying his best not to cry.

He heard the door open and go up quickly. "Hey Bucky you left the door open, I mean I know your confident with that Terminator arm but-" Sam stops his tracks when he sees Bucky's eyes are red. "What happend" Sam rushes to Bucky giving him a hug which caught Bucky off guard. "Y/N cheated- I wasn't good enough to keep Steve or her." Sam looks at Bucky with sympathy "Hey Buck how about we go on a mission to get out mind of this situation" Bucky nods silently. 'I actually came here to tell you that there is this Russian wannabe hydra mob group that has a 'secret weapon' so our job is to find out what it is and stop them".

Bucky hesitated, his mind still clouded by his belief that you had betrayed him. But the prospect of a new mission provided a temporary respite from his torment, and he agreed to accompany Sam.

Their mission took them deep into the heart of Moscow, where a notorious Russian mob was wreaking havoc on the city. Bucky's focus shifted to the task at hand as he and Sam navigated the treacherous underworld, determined to find out what was this secret weapon, trying his hardest not to think about you.

Upon infiltrating the base, Bucky and Sam discovered a hidden room—a makeshift digital lab where the mob orchestrated their malicious schemes. As they examined the equipment, Bucky's eyes widened in disbelief. Strewn across the room were monitors displaying the very photo that had shattered his relationship with you.

"Oh my gosh they were gonna brain wash you like Hydra but with different words so they-" Bucky starts shaking his head "No, no, no it was fake no and i actually believed it. They were just trying to break me apart and-" "Hey Buck" Sam puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder "you can explain this to Y/N and im sure she will understand, trust me but first we go to get out of here"

Bucky's breath caught in his throat as he realized the extent of the deception. The mob had not only manipulated the photo but had also orchestrated a meticulously planned setup to deceive him. The weight of his misplaced accusations hit him like a tidal wave, and the realization of his own mistakes filled him with regret.

With a mix of fury and determination, Bucky shared the newfound evidence with Sam. "Sam, they set me up. They photoshopped the photo and used it to tear us apart. Y/N was telling the truth all along." Bucky and Sam rush out of the base taking hard drive with all that information with them too, they got onto the plane and headed back to New York.

Arriving at the doorstep, Bucky hesitated before knocking, his emotions overwhelming him. When the door finally opened, revealing your tear-stained face, a mix of surprise and cautious hope flickered in their eyes.

Bucky's voice trembled as he spoke, his remorse palpable. "Y/N, please forgive me. I made a terrible mistake. The photo, the accusations—I believed them without question. But I've discovered the truth. The photo was fake, and I should have trusted you."

Your eyes widened in a mix of disbelief and vulnerability. "Yeah I know that it was fake, I'm just suprised you didn't believe me after three years together"

Bucky's heart sank, tears welling up in his eyes. He understood the gravity of his mistake and the lasting impact it had on their relationship. The weight of his remorse was overwhelming. Bucky falls down on his knees "Please-" you hear Bucky's voice crack "I thought I wasn't- I'm not good enough for you so it would make sense if you would cheat on me with a guy who doesn't have trauma and grumpy and-". You go down on your knees and start to cry while hugging Bucky "Baby you were always good enough if anything I thought that I wasn't good enough"

Bucky's eyes lit up with hope, a renewed sense of determination shining through. "Your too good for me baby. I'll do whatever it takes to earn back your trust. I'll be patient, understanding, and I'll show you every day how much you mean to me."

Y/N took a step forward, closing the distance between them. They reached out, gently cupping Bucky's face. As their lips met in a tender, heartfelt kiss, the weight of their past mistakes faded away. In the quiet solitude of the apartment, Bucky and Y/N found solace in each other's arms. On that day on they stopped hiding their emotions and were open on how they felt.

[doodle-pops]

Lords of Gondolin | Being In An Arranged Marriage With Them

Request: I’m excited to see what you have written :) if you think it would be fun maybe you could do it for the lords of Gondolin like Glorfindel or Ecthelion? – @hermaeuswhora

A/N: Following my arranged marriage AU, this one has been structured differently since a few characters did not originate in Valinor. Galdor, Ecthelion, Egalmoth and Glorfindel were all written having their arrangements in Valinor upon their return/rebirth, while Rog and Maeglin had theirs transpiring in Gondolin.

Warning: arranged marriage, resentment, negligence, angst, loneliness, mentions of Maeglin pinning after his cousin, sprinkle of fluff and comfort for some

꒷꒦꒷Galdor꒷꒦꒷

Galdor's demeanour is marked by silence, a weighty silence that those around him cannot ignore, especially in the wake of the news. However, despite his wordless protest, his parents press on with the explanation of his impending marriage.

Confronting this crisis proves to be a perplexing challenge for Galdor. Having traversed the treacherous Helcaraxё, faced numerous wars, and endured the Fall of Gondolin, the third kinslaying, and the War of Wrath, he finds himself at a loss. The complexities of this situation elude him.

Nodding along to the exchanged words, Galdor's mind is a whirlwind of thoughts as everyone joyfully anticipates the forthcoming wedding. Even during the meeting where he first encounters you, he seems neither present nor absent, caught in a state of detachment.

While greeting you with respect and learning about you with nonchalance, Galdor's distant gaze is unmistakable. It's not meant as disrespect, but the prospect of an enforced marriage weighs heavily on anyone's sanity.

As the entire arrangement unfolds, transitioning into shared living and wedded life feels surreal to Galdor. Despite your animated discussions about future plans, his aloofness persists, absorbing your words without full comprehension.

Playing the role of a perfect husband, Galdor fulfils his duties diligently—strolls, teatimes, meals, social gatherings, festivals, and even family dinners—all executed in quiet compliance. Eventually, a moment of realization dawns on Galdor, prompting him to address the lack of sincerity that has quietly persisted in the background.

“Forgive me if this seems all too sudden, Y/N, but…my behaviour. While you may not have noticed the way I treat and respond to you—without earnestness—I fear that you do not deserve the way that I am currently. Please allow me to explain—all this, the arrangement. I have yet to grasp the true nature and because of that, I have not been true to you as I have been with myself. And because of this, I wish to start over.”

Your innocence is the reason why you've struggled to reconcile with his apparent lack of seriousness. Yet, you graciously dismiss his explanation, assuring him that he exceeds your expectations. Galdor experiences a mix of relief and concern, sensing that you may be overlooking the depth of emotion behind his actions.

However, with his newfound awareness, his role as your husband remains unchanged, yet now, his gestures carry a heightened emotional resonance. Every 'good morning, evening, noon, and night' carries a weight of significance. His smiles and laughter become more genuine, and conversations take on a deeper sense of purpose.

Galdor gradually comes to terms with the marriage dynamics, understanding that you had no say in the arrangement. Despite any reservations, he chooses not to express dissatisfaction, focusing instead on building a foundation of trust and comfort for your shared life together.

꒷꒦꒷Ecthelion꒷꒦꒷

Upon his joyous return to the Blessed Realm, marking the end of his long sojourn in Mandos, Ecthelion is swiftly met with unexpected news: the proclamation of his intended marriage. In the backdrop of his years of carefree existence in Beleriand, this revelation catches him entirely off guard.

The nobleman is plunged into a state of incredulous uproar, vehemently opposing his parents' wishes. However, his return to Valinor signifies his subjugation to his father's authority as the true Lord of the House of the Fountain. Despite Ecthelion's resistance, he finds himself reluctantly compelled to meet you and your parents.

While you, elated at the prospect of uniting with the renowned Lord Ecthelion, bask in the glory of his Middle Earth victories, he languishes in the waiting room, brooding like a disgruntled child. The entire encounter is marred by Ecthelion's rebellion against the terms negotiated between his parents and yours.

Concern begins to gnaw at you, fearing that the esteemed Lord you heard tales of in Middle Earth might be a façade. Ecthelion, harbouring no ill will towards you, unfortunately channels his distrust of his parents and frustration with yours through piercing glares directed at you.

Despite Ecthelion's fervent protests, both sets of parents remain indifferent, leaving the two of you alone in the waiting room to familiarize yourselves, while they withdraw to deliberate wedding arrangements.

Ecthelion maintains a frosty demeanour throughout, unable to muster the warmth required to mask his displeasure. His attempts at melting the ice are restrained, and he refrains from taking the conversational lead, leaving you to navigate the uneasy exchange.

“I apologise if I have insulted you in some way, Milord. It was not my intention to make you feel discomfort through this arrangement, but if it pleases you, I will do my best to limit our interactions to reduce the ambience this arrangement brings you.”

As your words reach him, a subtle twinge forms in his heart, though all he offers in response is a nod in your direction, a silent acknowledgment of your compassion.

Living with Ecthelion demands a mutual respect for privacy, ensuring that both of you have your own space. Shared breakfasts and mealtimes are a rarity, occurring only if you manage to catch him at the opportune moment; otherwise, you'll find yourself dining alone. Much of your time will be spent in solitude, interrupted only by occasional check-ins to ensure your comfort is consistently met.

Despite his reserved nature, rest assured that Ecthelion strives to convey essential matters regarding the household or family. While he harbours resentment for the forced marriage, he recognizes his duty to fulfil the basic role of a husband in meeting your needs.

In the public eye, Ecthelion maintains a façade of unity, well aware that the whispers of Valinor surround your union. Whether at events or social gatherings, his pride compels him to wear a smile and engage in polite chatter with you on his arm, concealing the fact that the icy distance between you two remains intact.

꒷꒦꒷Glorfindel꒷꒦꒷

Upon his return to the Blessed Realm after years in Middle Earth, his parents warmly greet him, unveiling the surprising news of an ongoing arranged marriage. Glorfindel, caught off guard, contemplates whether to respond with a forced laugh or unleash a string of profanities at this unexpected revelation. Without hesitation, he turns to his father, demanding clarity in an instant.

Much to Glorfindel's chagrin, the reality of an arranged marriage for the esteemed young Lord becomes apparent upon his return. As the true Lord of his house, his father's authority leaves Glorfindel with limited options, compelling him to voice his protests and seek his mother's intervention, given the deep respect he holds for them.

This incarnation of Glorfindel is far from the merry and radiant being known during his time in Middle Earth. You who were acquainted with tales of Lord Glorfindel's past, witness a stark contrast. He avoids direct eye contact, concealing his anger and ensuring you are shielded from its full force.

His resentment is not directed at you, but rather at the arrangement orchestrated by both sets of parents. Despite his inner turmoil, Glorfindel endeavours to maintain composure in your presence, reserving his desire to flip tables and shatter glass for moments when you are not around. For now, he remains outwardly passive.

It's evident that he grapples with inner turmoil whenever you are nearby. Despite his sincere efforts, tension underscores his actions. The façade, crafted to sustain a smooth relationship given his dispute with both sets of parents, endures for a considerable duration before finally unravelling.

“I’m sorry! I truly believed that I could hold out while upkeeping this façade, but it has done more harm than good. Please do not believe that I hold something against you, it’s our parents. I know that you’re a lovely person to be around and do not deserve this lowly behaviour from me, so I wish to apologise and seek forgiveness while wishing to start anew. Perhaps with a friendship?”

While you may have hoped for a more immediate romantic connection, Glorfindel's desire to start as friends is a thoughtful approach, far preferable to the prospect of a sudden end, as you've heard in others' experiences. Throughout the relationship, Glorfindel consistently strives to be amiable and reliable, ensuring a solid foundation.

Glorfindel remains steadfast in controlling his temper, especially when his parents scrutinize your relationship. His commitment is not just to appear perfect but to genuinely be the best arranged husband possible.

As seasons turn, you witness the side of Lord Glorfindel that has captivated Middle Earth. Your days are infused with humour and comfort, and should you desire more of his company, it is readily available.

Throughout your marriage, Glorfindel is attuned to your needs, adjusting his actions to bring you comfort. Whether you seek space, a new garden, an expanded house, or simply wish to deepen your connection, he willingly embraces and supports your desires.

꒷꒦꒷Egalmoth꒷꒦꒷

Tables are being flipped and profanities are leaving his mouth in a swirl of furry. He can’t believe, despite how grown he is and all the things he has faced on his own in life, his parents still wish to dictate his love-life with an arrangement. He knew such acts were popular among the royal family, never suspecting that he would be subjected to the trend.

Egalmoth refuses to submit so lowly to allow someone to select a spouse for him to spend his eternal peace with. The power he once held as a Lord to Kings in Middle Earth is stripped away as he returned as the son of a Lord who he must abide to.

The room takes on an unprecedented chill, surpassing even the biting cold of winter. During the meeting, as your parents bask in their satisfaction, Egalmoth directs a piercing glare at the table, as if intent on searing holes into its surface.

Despite your attempts to bridge the gap and quell the fiery tension, Egalmoth remains steadfast in maintaining distance. His demeanour and actions are unyielding, operating on a frequency of self-satisfaction that defies your attempts to find common ground.

The living arrangement entails cohabiting with a virtual stranger; it's akin to sharing a dwelling with a spectre. Greetings are reduced to mere "good morning" and "good night," a routine destined to persist. Even the entreaties of fellow Lords fall on deaf ears as they endeavour to persuade him to give the relationship a chance.

Frustration mounts as Egalmoth actively avoids you, seemingly going to great lengths to dodge encounters that are not of your making. Despite your earnest efforts to cultivate some semblance of acquaintance, he prefers to exist as a ghost, perpetuating an unsettling distance between you.

“You seem to believe that I had something to do with this arrangement when I didn’t know who you were until your arrival. I hate it just as much as you do, so face it! We’re stuck like this unless you wish to separate which you can. I don’t know what’s holding you back, but I’m trying to make things bearable and you’re not helping. I’m tired, so please…just tell me you don’t want me around…”

Egalmoth was taken aback when he witnessed the tears welling up in your eyes in response to his distant demeanour. Though he never intended to inflict pain through his communication style, he found himself inadvertently doing so, leaving him feeling regretful and remorseful. His initial goal was to avoid forming deep emotional attachments, not to cause you distress.

Despite his reluctance to fully embrace the role of a husband to someone not of his choosing, Egalmoth recognizes the need to bridge the emotional gap between you two. While he maintains a certain level of distance in his affections and gestures, he is committed to projecting a more approachable and interactive persona whenever circumstances allow. One tangible step in this direction is sharing daily breakfasts and lunches with you.

Over time, Egalmoth acknowledges the importance of overcoming his reservations and investing more freely in your relationship. He endeavours to set aside his differences and foster an environment where a meaningful connection can thrive. Realizing that accepting the role of a husband may require an extended period, he opts to first establish a foundation as a supportive friend before gradually navigating the complexities of marital ties.

꒷꒦꒷Rog꒷꒦꒷

The giant craftsman is confused at the words spilling from the lips of his advisor since Gondolin was a place of freedom. Having come from a rough background and learning about the Noldor culture, he felt like this was a contradiction, but obliges after they informed him it was frequently practiced.

Rog patiently meets his future spouse and their parents, wanting to go along with the arrangement as he complies with the customs of the Noldor. It does not come as a surprise the first time you meet the giant blacksmith; he is as gentle as ever and makes you feel welcomed. It’s your parents who treats the union as automatic boost in society.

As much as Rog wasn’t interested in getting married, the choice he was offered made his idea on the situation flip. You didn’t appear snobbish or greedy for power which made him all the more open to accepting to court you and proceed with a wedding eventually.

This being his first relationship, he is cautious to not mess anything up and pray that this marriage would be successful. He listens to all your needs and wants, going out of his way to fulfil them as best as he could. At times, he would turn to the other Lords, as unwedded as they are, for guidance.

The only thing Rog doesn’t like is addressing you in conversations as his arranged spouse or his spouse he earned through an arrangement. It never dawned on him the stain it would leave on your title when he agreed to wed you. Now he makes sure to never allow the terms ‘arranged’ to be used when addressing you. It makes him wish you two could have met another way because it’s a constant reminder how you were both forced.

“It never occurred to me how much I would come to despise the term ‘arranged’ when referring to you. I’ve grown fonder of you day by day as this marriage progresses. But rest assured, you have nothing to fear when it comes to our love. That, to shall grow stronger for you as the days wield overhead.”

You truly have no issues or quarrels with Rog through your entire marriage. As the Lady/Lord of his house, you will be spoilt endlessly with riches from his crafts that others may be jealous at the lavish life you are living and how dearly your husband spoils you rotten.

Attending dinners the other Lords hosted will be extended to you and even they would warmly welcome you as their friend’s spouse. Gifts would be exchanged, along with praises and jokes that their gentle-giant friend married before them, and he needed to teach them his tricks.

You don’t have anything to fear when it comes to your future with Rog. Out of all the Lords, even Glorfindel, Rog is most open to the idea and content with progressing things to truly become a happy couple, forgoing the friendship stage.

꒷꒦꒷Maeglin꒷꒦꒷

Maeglin is confused and in a silent outrage because you were not the person he wanted to end up in a relationship with from the very start. His true desire was his cousin, and after being aware of this, his uncle chose to construct an arranged marriage to deter his focus on another person.

This isn’t going to be one of those ‘his heart turned from her to you to moment he saw you’ situation because his desire will continue to focus on his cousin, and it will be displayed through his protests when his uncle summons you all for a gathering to offer the arrangement.

Your parents are pleased since Maeglin is the King’s heir and by marrying him, it would make you a royal, so immediate status boost. You on the other hand have been aware of the Prince’s interest for another and already understood your position throughout this marriage whether you were for or against it. Your entire life would become nothing more than being his spouse with a title while he lusts after someone else.

Deep down, he has it somewhere that you are apart of this arrangement to sway his focus. Makes him distant and negligent all the more. You can try to reach out and pacify the situation for him to pardon your presence, but it doesn’t even make sense because Maeglin had never accepted you as his spouse.

To him, you’re like a guest living in his house after he was forced by his uncle to make your stay comfortable—which he does for the basic commodities. If you want to have a difference made, take it up with the King, but even he doesn’t have a say in the privacies of a married couple.

 However, Turgon does his best to ensure that you and Maeglin are allowed to spend more time together in hopes of building a relationship. You and Maeglin would be invited to dinners, balls and festivals as a couple in hopes of something blossoming. However, any conversations would have to be created by you, even when the other Lords congratulate you both or initiate conversations, it’s you doing most of the talking.

“My Prince, might we speak? I know that your focus lies elsewhere and I am not here to sway if you think so. All I wish is simply to live a peaceful life as your spouse until my presence is no longer required…I don’t know how long that would be. But perhaps during my time under your household, we can be well acquainted with one another a little more?”

It is an internal struggle in his mind to acknowledge your words because he doesn’t know if this is a trick where he would end up gaining interest or if you were being genuine. He was so focused on lusting after his cousin that your attempts at making your time with him bearable were shot down.

Maeglin truly doesn’t know at this point whether to shift focus onto you during your time with him or to let you go because he believes that you would continue to be hurt if you stayed at his side.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @hermaeuswhora

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[cass-the-mess]

Was it Real?

Vikhor "Stitch" Kuzmin x Bell!Reader SMUT 18+ MDNI

Photo cred: @pricescigar

A/N: This has been brewing in my drafts since MARCH lol, and I suddenly felt the urge to finish it today so I hope you guys enjoy it!

Synopsis: Bell manages to break out of Adler's mind control early on in the game. She infiltrates the KGB to hopefully reconnect with the current leader of Perseus himself Stitch, angst ensues, old feelings emerge, betrayal happens, they deal with it in the most reasonable way: Shmex :)

CW: Dark themes, dubious content, SMUT, office sex, ex-lovers to enemies to lovers? Stitch is a bad guy ish, possessive sex, degrading, PWP, canon typical violence (this is COD) but not the main theme of this, they're in love but it's complicated because she's a double agent, not really a happy ending but also not a sad ending.

P.S. this one is dedicated to @stararch4ngelqueen because she's great and she makes me wanna keep writing so :)

P.P.S. Dialogue in Italics are flashbacks, dialogues in bold are russian.

You see him right away when you turn the corner of the hallway, his imposing form walking out of the elevator surrounded by some of his most trusted men. The silvery scar tissue cutting through the left side of his face and into his eye adding onto the threatening aura around him.

You remember him, you remember the relationship you had with him before you got taken away and had all of your memories jumbled and carefully rearranged to fit into the narrative the Americans wanted you to be a part of.

Vikhor Kuzmin aka “Stitch”, current leader of Perseus, your mentor, the man who had taught you everything you knew. The man who had made you into the woman you were. That woman was long gone, that thought angered you. You had no loyalties to the American cause, nor to the men who you were currently working for.

Your loyalty to Russell Adler, the leader of this operation, was especially treacherous. You knew what he did to you, the lengths he had taken to turn you against the very people who had built you from the ground up, whatever charade you were currently playing by “helping” him sneak into the KGB to recover intel, was about to end. Sooner rather than later.

You watch intently through the shaded glass of the door you’re hiding behind as Stitch walks through the empty corridor, the armed men at his side posting themselves at strategic points in the hallway as he continues to make his way through the space, not sparing them a second glance, his patterned eyes ice cold and constantly searching and analyzing. The hood covering his head as well as the mask obscuring the bottom half of his face keeping his true emotions from shining through.

Your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him, you didn’t know where you stood with him anymore, you knew just how important Perseus’ cause was to him, and how loyal to it he was. You doubted he’d ever forgive you, no matter the circumstances surrounding your disappearance, people didn’t just leave Perseus, and if they did, they were found and dealt with. You knew because that was your job, the executioner. The shadow of death, you were the last thing traitors saw before the light left their eyes.

At one point in time, you were his most trusted advisor, his right hand, his friend. You’d spent countless hours with him, the both of you planning, scheming, organizing, a myriad of different operations to spread your influence through the western countries. Most of which had greatly succeeded, you were always five steps ahead of the Americans.

You don’t know when exactly it changed, when your relationship with the stoic, brutal man, changed. When you became something more, when he started looking at you with a glint in his eyes, when his face relaxed a little when it was just the two of you in the same room, or when he started removing his mask around you. Exposing the gnarled, scarred skin of his face to you, letting you see just how truly broken he was.

But you didn’t think he was broken, you saw a man that had overcome challenge after challenge, continuously coming out on top and never giving up. Your respect for him grew, as did your heart. Butterflies swarming your abdomen whenever he looked your way, not needing to say a single word to you, his eyes always speaking so loud in the silence of the room.

Then he started smiling at you, not a full-blown smile, you didn’t think the man was even capable of such a feat, but a small, subtle quirk of his lips. So small you thought you’d imagined it at first. A fleeting curve of his full lips towards you, gone as fast as it had appeared. The memory makes you blush slightly in the dark space of the office you’re hiding in, chewing at your lips anxiously as you wait for him to dispatch the men around him, giving you an opening to talk to him. Hoping your connection plays in your favour, hoping the man won’t shoot you where you stand, knowing that he would, knowing that he should.

Afterall, you’d not only betrayed your cause, but you’d also betrayed him. That realization had weighed heavy on your shoulders ever since you woke up from whatever trance Adler had you in, all of your memories coming back to you in painful bursts, flashes of images blinding you as they assaulted your brain. The pain you had felt as each memory hit you, still sizzling inside you, causing a shiver to trail up your spine.

You take a steadying breath as you watch him through the tinted window, his white, scarred eye, glinting under the artificial light emanating from the fixtures above him. You’d asked him once if he could still see out of that eye, out of curiosity, but also because he seemed to see everything, all the time. Nothing ever escaped him, you wondered how he was able to be so alert with half his vision gone.

“I see.” Had been his curt answer, not giving you anymore detail than that, leaving you to speculate in silence about it, you found it unlikely that his vision had remained intact after taking a knife to the eye, though you supposed miracle stories could happen and he might’ve just been very lucky.

What had surprised you the most though, was weeks later, when you and him had been working together late one night, both absorbed in your respective tasks, you weren’t really paying attention to him, too preoccupied with finishing your own paperwork. He was though, you’d come to learn that he always was, his eyes always straying back to you, no matter how many times he tried to scold himself. You remember it like it was just yesterday, the scene playing out in your mind like a movie. That had been the start of something that meant so much more.

“it’s colour. I can’t see colour.” He’d said suddenly, his voice gruff from lack of use, the heavy Russian accent wrapping clumsily around the syllables of each word, startling you out of your state of deep concentration and forcing you to look up at him, your mouth agape at his sudden answer. The dim, amber lighting of the light above you, bouncing off the discoloured surface of his eye as he looks at you with an unwavering gaze.

“I- is it, weird…? Seeing colour with one eye and not with the other?” You’d replied to him after a beat, your voice coming out unsure as you took a hesitant step towards him, his two-tone eyes following your every movement like a hawk.

He’d never really given you a clear answer, his shoulders lifting in a shrug before dropping his gaze from yours and going back to his work, pensive look on his face as he continued to meticulously organize the papers before him. You didn’t blame him for not answering, hell, the fact that he even talked to you in complete sentences was something to marvel at. Considering he usually only interacted with his men, and even then, he would only really bark orders at them before dismissing them.

He tried though, you could tell he did, his English was choppy at best when he tried to talk to you, sometimes jumping back and forth to Russian when he couldn’t find his words. You’d started to learn Russian that way, and he started to learn English. It was beautiful really, now that you thought about it, he would teach you words in Russian, and you’d teach him the same words in English. He’d get frustrated when trying to pronounce some words and you’d giggle in your sleeve as he grew more and more flustered, the tips of his ears growing red with embarrassment until he huffed out a curse and gave up.

Your throat grows tight at the memory, eyes starting to sting with unshed tears as emotion threatens to overtake you, he was a complicated, brutal man, and yet he was so patient and gentle with you when you were together, his naturally gruff voice growing softer when he spoke to you. It hadn’t always been that way, of course, at first, he dismissed you as just another body in the sea of men he had to direct, not giving you his time of day, and barking orders your way the same way he would the rest of the men.

But then you’d started to make your mark, your work within the organization gaining more and more recognition from your peers, whispers growing and growing until they became a loud roaring in each room you would walk into, eyes tracking your every breath. Soldiers hanging onto your every word like they were prophecy.

He noticed, like he always did, way before everyone else did. Taking matters into his own hands and tracking your progress, reviewing everything you did himself before approving it to be passed down the chain of command, reeling in the few men who thought acting like dogs would get them anywhere but six feet deep with a bullet between their eyes. And so, the whispers started to change, echoes of Perseus’ executioner leaking from the cracks in the walls, men thrice your size averting their gaze when you walked by, in fear of angering their leader, knowing him as the type of man to not make threats, only promises.

He would seek your advice more often, confiding in you and asking your opinion on certain aspects of operations he wanted to greenlight. You’d been privy to the birth of many successful missions, a lot of which you’d tweaked and reworked under his careful guidance, the subtle glint in his eyes growing more and more every time you managed to surprise him, the pride in his voice unmistakable when those plans came to fruition.

One of those nights after a successful mission, he’d finally kissed you, it happened out of nowhere and even he seemed surprised about it. He’d been watching you all night from across the room, ice cold eyes trailing after you as you mingled with men unworthy of your attention, men who had no idea just exactly who they were talking to. His own thoughts surprised him, the sudden possessiveness coursing through his veins startling him and causing him to stiffen up in the corner of the room he was standing in, the men attempting to congratulate him on yet another successful operation immediately backing up at the sight of their leader so wound up.

You weren’t paying attention, not really, the sudden peak in popularity you were going through quite hard to digest at that time, going from “just another body” to Perseus’ Executioner was already taking its toll on you. So when a harsh slap resounded from across the room, startling everyone into silence, you took a second to understand what the buzz was about, your Russian at the time not as fluent as it was now, add to the fact that your brain was fuzzy from the effects of the alcohol you were drinking, the only words you caught amongst the whispers of the room currently staring in muted fear at their leader were “fucking mongrel” and “kill you where you stand.”

He'd stormed out after that, his anger palpable in the now silent room, the man victim of his wrath left to lick his wounds on the carpeted floor of the decorated conference room you were all left standing in, he wasn’t one for parties to begin with, he’d told you as much during one of your many late night conversations, social gatherings made him feel uneasy, especially when they served no purpose.

The remaining guests had slowly started to leave after that, some of them throwing you a questioning look as they walked out, forcing a frown to form on your face, sure you were still considered an outsider to this whole operation but you’d been with this team for months now, your work was paving the way for generations to come, Stitch was the first one to back that statement, his trust in you unwavering.

With that in mind, you decided to follow after him, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in your endeavours as the fuzziness in your brain started to dissipate from the alcohol you’d been indulging in earlier. His usual hangout place in the late hours of the evening tended to be in a room adjacent to his office, he used it for multiple different purposes, and right now, that room held most, if not all, of your joint findings for future operations. You decided to check there first.

You found him hunched over one of the tables, a piece of paper crumpled in his large fist, his shoulders heaving under the thick charcoal material of his jacket, the hood covering his head doing little to conceal the man’s current emotional state. You took a hesitant step forward, not wanting to startle, or anger him further in the state he was in.

“Vik…?” You’d called softly, the nickname somewhat new and foreign to you, but you’d taken to calling him that when it was just the two of you alone, his alias always felt wrong to say, you were never quite able to put a finger on why exactly you felt that way about him, but when he’d given you his real name after countless nights spent working with you, you’d decided to go with it, accepting the gesture as what you could only imagine meant something far greater to him.

He never did answer you, his hooded head shaking back and forth in the confines of the room, the flickering light above you doing very little in terms of actual lighting, mostly casting shadows on every corner of the room, illuminating his figure but not highlighting any of his features.

He was mumbling something under his breath, the heavy notes of Russian syllables registering in your mind and forcing you to get closer to him in an effort to understand his tense ramblings. He’d heard you for sure, but he was probably too far into his own head to really acknowledge you at this point.

You took another hesitant step forward, coming to a stop next to him, his words sounding clearer now that you were next to him, but your brain still couldn’t find the right associations at that moment, too overwhelmed with the events of that day to make sense of it all.

“Vik- Can you slow down? I can’t make out what-“

He’d turned around then, his bright eyes pinning you in place, his right eye as blue as the iciest lakes of Russia, and his left eye, as white as the tallest peaks of the motherland’s mountains. He rarely held any warmth in them, even when he looked at you, it didn’t surprise you, after all, the man was a product of his environment, and his environment had been nothing but harsh and unforgiving. All in all, he’d come out of it mostly unscathed, a smart and intimidating man with a steel resolve and an ambition for revolution, it was hard to not admire him in that sense.

“Fucking pigs. Have no respect for their superiors.” He finally answered after a long moment of looking at you, his breathing had calmed down some and he was finally able to slow down when he spoke, the harsh, grating sound of his dialect oddly comforting to you.

You frowned at him then, not understanding his anger, closing the distance between the both of you and gently grasping onto the scarred hand that was holding onto the piece of paper you’d seen him crumpling up when you walked in, extricating it from his grasp and straightening it.

Your eyebrows shot up as you carefully unfolded the paper to reveal the source of his anger; a crudely drawn stick figure with pigtails and enormous breasts, bent over in front of a hooded stick figure holding a knife. The drawing obviously representing you and him engaging in something obscene.

At the bottom of the piece of paper you made out the words “Perseus’ whore”, scrawled in sloppy writing, no doubt an attempt at humor from whoever gave this to him. You shook your head as a deep sigh escaped you, crumpling the offending art project and throwing it in the bin next to the table.

“He’ll get what’s coming to him.” You whispered as you gently placed your hand onto his broad shoulders, the soft fabric of his jacket warm under your touch, your head tilting slightly to catch his eyes. “The men closest to us respect me as they respect you Vik, this will not go unpunished.”

“No matter. I will not allow such vile conduct from lowly insects. He will pay with blood.” He’d said, carefully enunciating every word to make sure you understood his meaning well, his voice had grown rougher with barely contained anger.

The tension in the room had suddenly come to a boiling point, you remember the feeling vividly, his eyes had slowly dragged up your body until they’d landed on your face. The intensity he’d held in his gaze at that moment seared in your mind forever. You feel your breath hitch just at the memory, your throat bobbing as you swallow uneasily.

“My executioner. Together we’ll watch the world burn.” He had finally said, his rough hand carefully taking your much softer one from where it lay on his shoulder, fingers intertwining as he’d closed the distance between you and him. His mask long forgotten on the table next to you, he’d probably taken it off when he walked in, chucking it carelessly onto the pile of paperwork currently taking up most of the surface.

You remember smiling at his ruthlessness, the rough Russian words had somehow seemed so romantic to you in that moment. You remember the way his scarred lips had felt as he’d finally pressed them onto yours, so warm in contrast to the cold man they belonged to. You remember the way he’d held you that night, the way his muscular body had felt against yours, the way he’d whispered your name almost reverently in between soft kisses, his body gently crowding yours against the desk, pushing you up onto it so he could fit himself between your legs, his lips never leaving yours.

He'd taken you, right then and there, on the desk. Pushed everything off the wooden surface so he could have access to all of you without restraint. His lips explored your skin, worshipping every inch of it, every scar, every blemish as if the simple touch of his lips would somehow atone for the sins of others against you. The words he’d whispered to you alternating between Russian and English, he wanted to make sure you understood just how much you meant to him.

You’d done the same to him, ensured to kiss every scar you could see, your fingers gently traced the damaged skin of each and every one of them as you whispered your own words of worship to him, the taste of his skin burnt into your DNA, the shape of each of his tattoos engraved into your mind forever.

That night changed everything.

The memory fades, your heart clenches in melancholy at the knowledge that you’ll never be able to regain his trust, his softness, his love. All that you were eclipsed, and all that could’ve been was now nothing but wishful thinking on your part.

Vikhor didn’t forget, most of all, he didn’t forgive.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally dismisses his men with a curt nod followed by a rough command, the armed men hastily retreating to their assigned post, leaving the hallway deserted for the most part and the path to his office clear.

You follow his gaze as he sweeps the hallway himself one last time, the iciness of his eyes as they take in every detail one last time makes your heart beat faster in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s out of fear or excitement. After a moment his critical gaze lands directly on the door you’re hiding behind, his eyes squinting at the tinted glass as you duck, a curse escaping your mouth.

The majority of his face is hidden by the gas mask he constantly wears outside, coupled with the thick hood obscuring his head, it’s hard to make out his expression as he finally turns around and enters his office, the door clicking quietly behind him. A relieved sigh leaves your mouth, you shuffle quietly, gathering your thoughts and trying to calm the storm raging in your mind as you get closer and closer to what you came here to do.

You hope he’ll listen, at the very least let you apologize and explain to him what happened to you, maybe even believe you when you tell him that your heart never left this place, that your purpose was and still is to be at his side, to rule the empire you helped him build over the years.

You know your chances are slim to none, but a small part of you hangs on to that sliver of hope that he’ll spare you, that he’ll accept the information you bring him. You swallow uneasily as you get up from where you were crouching on the floor, you throat suddenly dry and constricted. Most of all, you hope that he’ll remember his love for you, the love you both shared for one another before all of this went down, before your entire identity was ripped to shreds, before you were ripped from him.

You scan the hallway one last time before opening the door as quietly as possible, your eyes jumping from corner to corner to make sure no one sees you. You know this place like the back of your hand, spent countless hours walking through these very halls, working with some of these people, and yet, you’re nothing more than a ghost now, another soul lost to the cause, another name whispered, another body never recovered.

You step carefully, gracefully to his office, the blinds behind the tinted window are always closed and today is no exception. You strain your hearing in an attempt to decipher what he’s doing behind the closed door, nothing reaches you but dreadful silence. You grasp the door handle with a sweaty hand, fingers shaking as they wrap around the cold metal, your breath quickening as you slowly turn the handle and push open the door, one foot stepping in before you stop dead in your tracks, your eyes widening.

The sight before you is enough to make your stomach drop, you see the man you love lounging behind his desk, relaxed as ever, one foot propped on top of it, the heavy military boots he wears resting on the worn wood as he stretches his body out. His right hand wrapped around his gun, the metal glinting menacingly in the dim light of the room as he slowly rocks the weapon back and forth in his hand, dragging it over the surface of the desk every so often.

His other arm hangs on the side of the chair, out of view. His head is inclined slightly to one side, eyes pinning you to the spot as he glares at you with an intensity you’ve only ever seen directed at insubordinates within his ranks. The sword of Damocles hanging over your head in the very room you’d engineered Perseus’ most successful hits.

You open your mouth to speak but no words come out, your breath rushes out of you as you try to find your footing.

“Close the door.” He finally says, his English rusty and broken, his eyes unwavering as he tracks your every move like a predator waiting to pounce. You fumble with the door for a moment before finally closing it.

“Lock it.” He tells you, his voice coming out as growl and forcing a shiver of uneasiness to trail up your spine, every fiber of your being telling you to run, to get away, to save yourself before it’s too late.

“Vik-“ You start quietly as you turn around to face him, not moving from where you stand in fear of angering him further.

“Vik? After all this time?” He interrupts you roughly in Russian, his tone dripping with venom and disdain at your use of his given name. You miss the way he flinches at your voice, the lighting in the room too dark to perceive the slight reaction.

“Please listen to me, I promise- I promise this isn’t what you think it is.” You answer back in Russian, your voice quivering with unshed tears as you take a hesitant step towards him, imploring him to find it in him to listen to what you have to say.

“Do you know how many men I have looking for you, executioner? Do you know the price there is on your head right now, my love?” He spits that last part at you like the word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, like he can’t believe he ever called you that to begin with.

He gets up then, slowly, confidently, his foot slowly dragging across the desk before falling heavily on the floor with a dull thud, the weight of it making the desk tremble slightly. The barrel of his gun drags against the wooden surface as he slowly rounds the desk to come face to face with you, standing well over a foot above you.

His smell assaults you then, clean linen and a hint of fresh mint overshadowed by gunpowder that sticks to every piece of clothing he owns. A smell that was once familiar and comforting now eliciting a shiver of fear in you, pale eyes that once held your entire world now only hold anger and hurt, a hurt that runs so deep you feel your heart crack under the weight of his gaze.

“I’m sorry Vik, I’m so fucking sorry, you have to listen to me please-“ You whisper as your voice breaks under the torrent of emotion raging through you.

“The Americans, they took me, they experimented on me, forced me to forget everything, made me into their puppet so I could feed them information on Perseus.” You tell him, stumbling over your words as you try to make him understand what’s at stake. His eyes harden, the scar running through his left eye looks even angrier like this, the usually pale blue of his right eye now looks almost black as anger simmers in it.

You swallow uneasily as cold metal presses under your chin, forcing your head up and straining the muscles of your neck.

“And? Did you? Did you betray us? Did you betray me, my love?” He whispers as he presses the cold metal harder against the delicate skin there, the heat in his gaze igniting something inside you, it feels wrong, so fucking wrong but you can’t help yourself as a whimper escapes you.

“No. No, I- “ You swallow uneasily as you try to keep your head upright and your gaze on his, refusing the let him see how scared you are.

“I told them nothing, I invented false leads to throw them off your scent. I convinced them to let me come here to get information because I wanted to warn you- They’re coming Vikhor, they want your head, Adler wants your head.” At the mention of Adler his other hand shoots up to wrap itself around your neck, pushing you against the door violently, the hand holding the gun lets go suddenly, the weapon clattering to the ground.

His now free hand comes up to his masked face, ripping away the constricting contraption to reveal more of his scarred flesh to you, his full lips pulled back into a feral snarl as he lowers his head to your ear. “You’re telling me Russell Adler is outside this fucking building waiting for you to bring him intel on ME?!” He rasps out in a deadly whisper, the hand around your neck tightening as he slaps the other one against the surface of the door, making you flinch.

“No. Not here. I’m alone, I promise I came alone, they trust me, I made them believe they could trust me. You need to move to a different location NOW Vik, I’ll give them a random location to give you time to get your men mobilized but you can’t stay.” You reply, one of your hands closing gently around the one at your neck, squeezing gently, reassuringly. Your eyes pleading with him, trying to get through the thick layer of ice between you and him.

He smirks then, his lips twisting in a deformed grin, exposing perfectly white teeth from the corner of his mouth as his hand loosens and his thumb slowly drags across your lips, his breath fanning across your cheek as a humorless laugh escapes him.

“I should fucking kill you, make an example out of you, discard you like the dog you are.” He whispers seductively, his eyes fixated on your lips as his thumb continues to rub gently across the delicate skin there, trying to coax your tongue out to wet them.

“Vik-“ You whimper breathlessly, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

“No, instead I think I’ll let you continue on this mission of yours, you keep feeding them faulty information and you keep giving me information like the good little bitch you are, and maybe, MAYBE, I’ll let you live.” He growls out, his lips now dangerously close to yours, a wicked glint in his eyes as his tongue pokes out, dragging across his own lips as hunger starts burning through the glaciers nestled in his eyes.

His mouth is on yours then, he’s kissing you like he’s never kissed you before, desperation driving his every move as both of his hands cradle your face, one of his knees pushing your legs apart, forcing your core against his clothed thigh, the thick muscle under you flexing to accommodate you.

Your own hands grab onto the sides of his face, his strong jaw speckled in stubble, the rough texture of it making you moan into his mouth, giving him the perfect opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue meeting yours for the first time in almost a year. A guttural groan escapes him at the taste of you, his desperation increasing tenfold as he suddenly scoops you up, one hand securely around your waist, while the other grabs a handful of your ass, encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

You hear commotion as he drops you on his desk, his lips never leaving yours as he sweeps everything off the wooden surface, in one swoop all the clutter occupying his desk is sent flying across the room, you hear what you assume is a mug, shatter as it hits the floor.

His hands are grabbing everywhere at once, pulling at your clothing as he tries to get as close as possible to you, his need presses insistently against your stomach, pulling a moan from you as you try to move against him, your own delirium getting the best of you, all previous thoughts or worries gone from your mind as you finally feel him against you once more.

“Need you, Vik, please” You whine out, your hips straining towards his for any kind of relief, the Russian words coming from your mouth in such a needy manner pushing him into a frenzy, his hands dipping under the fabric of your shirt, pulling away from you just long enough to tear the piece of fabric off of you, exposing more of your skin to him. His hands immediately going to your breasts, pulling the cups of your bra low enough to expose them.

“Shut the fuck up, don’t say my name like that, not when you ripped my entire fucking heart out when you left, not when you left and took my soul with you. I couldn’t fucking think without you, I can’t fucking live without you.” He growls out, his voice betraying him as it cracks with emotion at his own admission.

Your answer comes as a moan as his lips wrap around one of your nipples, tongue curling over the sensitive bud, your hands tighten around his neck as you throw your head back in pleasure, hips grinding against his pulsing erection, the friction not nearly enough to provide any relief through the thickness of both your pants, you let out a frustrated cry at that, deciding to take matters into your own hands, you slide your fingers down his muscular chest, the wild thumping of his heart vibrating through your skin.

You reach his belt buckle a few moments later, nimble fingers working through the loops of his belt in quick efficient movements, finally freeing it. You hurriedly unzip his pants, his hips push into your hands as he continues to explore your skin, kissing and biting every inch of exposed flesh, making you his once again, making sure you’re real and not just a figment of his imagination.

When your hands finally wrap around the thickness of him, his forehead drops against your sternum, a grunt escaping his mouth as you slowly pump his length, your own mouth leaving a trail of sloppy kisses along his jaw, his name like a prayer on your tongue, reassuring him that you’re actually there, that you’re real, that you love him.

“Can’t- can’t wait. Need you, right here, right now.” He breathes out, his hands fumbling with your pants impatiently, almost tearing them in his haste to get them off of you, not even caring to remove them completely.

“I’m here, I’m here my love, take what you need.” You whisper reassuringly, your lips catching his in another kiss as his big hand cups your core, fingers dragging through your arousal before pushing one thick digit inside you, the tight ring of muscles relaxing around him as he starts thrusting his finger in a steady rhythm, more of your arousal leaking out around his hand.

You push your face against his clothed shoulder to muffle the sounds you make, not wanting to get caught, your teeth sinking into the thick layer of muscle when he adds a second finger, the soft squelching of your wetness resonating throughout the dark room, coupled with the soft curses leaving his mouth occasionally as you continue your own assault on him, precum leaking steadily from his tip and onto your hand, making a mess of his own.

“Always so fucking wet for me aren’t you? Even when you betray me, this pussy knows who it belongs to.” He growls possessively in your ear, his movements growing more relentless as you start clenching around him, the degrading statement only adding to your growing arousal.

You cum suddenly, violently around his fingers. Tears spring to your eyes as you throw your head back, a broken half sob, half moan escaping you as he continues to thrust his fingers slowly inside your pussy, your legs shaking from where they’re still hooked around his waist.

His fingers slide out of you, forcing a hiss from you at the sudden emptiness, but the feeling doesn’t last long, you feel the thick head of his length pressing against your opening, the familiar feeling causes a shiver to rip through you.

“Look at me. Wanna see you when I make you cum.” He commands, breaching you with a steady thrust. You struggle to keep your eyes open at the onslaught of pleasure overtaking you, your eyesight blurry from tears of pleasure threatening to spill out, but you nod clumsily, one hand twisting into the material of his sweater when he starts working himself deeper into you, his breathing growing ragged at the feel of you taking him deeper and deeper with each thrust.

You lose track of the words coming out of your mouth, Russian and English coming out as a jumbled mess, different variations of his name as well as pleas to let you cum fade into one another, his hips stuttering every so often when your voice cracks around the syllables of your prayers to gods who gave up on the both of you long ago.

His hands end up around your jaw once again, the roughened skin holding your face softly as his piercing eyes hold yours, his own jaw clenched hard enough to make the vein on his forehead jump with strain as he wrestles with his feelings and with the pleasure coursing through his body, wave after wave assaulting his senses like an unrelenting storm.

When your release comes, it’s an all-consuming inferno, the muscles in your core collapsing onto the heavy thickness of him within you, forcing his thrusts to turn erratic in turn. Your head thrown back in a silent scream as you soak the desk beneath you with the proof of your pleasure, a pleasure that gets stretched out as he chases after his own release, pumping into you with abandon, strong hands holding onto your head as his own eyes roll back into his head as he finally cums deep inside you.

You both lay there panting for a moment, your minds reeling, your hearts clenched tight with emotional turmoil, wanting to stay here forever, and wanting to disappear at the same time.

When he finally pulls out, a hiss escapes him, his eyes fixated on the evidence of your coupling slowly leaking out of your abused cunt as he tucks himself back into his pants gingerly, the mask of tense indifference he wore earlier falling back into place seamlessly.

“Go. Grab your shit. I’ll find you when I’m ready.” He grunts, turning around and exiting his office without another word, leaving you there.

[y-rhywbeth2]

So glancing between the original games and the third - again - and thinking about the difference between the feral and Chosen bad endings and how I'm going to interpret them in my own canon. BG3 lore is irrelevant to me from now on I'm entering the phase where I'm assimilating my playthrough into my own Realms canon.

Also, Durge appears to be soulless. I am aware of the way the game treats Durge as though they have a soul, but BG3 makes strange choices where lore doesn't match up all the damn time. Astarion is clinically dead but the rest mechanics still need food. BG3 talks like Wyll is a devil, and they definitely don't have mortal souls. Dark Urge identity crises and complicated relationship with personhood, how I love thee.

Major BG2 spoilers, so I'll put that under a cut just in case anybody would like to play those games blind.

I noticed this a while back, but Durge's situation is reminiscent of a soulless Bhaalspawn. When their soul - the portion of them that is "them" and not entirely Bhaal - is removed they start displaying the same symptoms and slipping into what is basically the feral ending, judging by Imoen's behaviour:

"Who-who... who is that? Keep back... Keep back! [...] Who is Imoen? I don't know that name. I don't know that name! She's not here! [...] Get away from me! I'll... I'll kill you! I'll rip your eyes from your filthy faces! Do not tempt my wrath! Do not... I... she's not here. I do not know that... name. [...] I see... yes... I see... She's not here... Someone else will come..."

We have dizzy spells and risks of blackouts (otherwise known as Bhaal threatening to take over):

"Your step falters, your vision spins, and you feel something is very wrong. For an instant you are conscious of nothing but the rushing of your blood."

Bhaal literally just assuming direct control rather than flooding you with the urge to murder. Also pain caused by said attempt at taking control:

"A shock of pain passes through your body, and you feel you mind slipping away, forced aside by the darkness within." - "Your blood cools, and mind and body are reunited under your control. Your will had faltered, and the essence of Bhaal was there to take advantage. The void where your soul once was overflowed with murderous fury, the mark of a deity that no longer exists. The taint of Bhaal has affected you differently than Imoen, reacting with your strength of will. You will eventually lose yourself unless your stolen soul is restored. A fate, as they say, worse than death." - "The madness fades, and the essence retreats, but if this continues you will lose not only yourself , but also everything you hold dear. The uncertainty of your condition has obviously worried those you travel with. The quest is treacherous enough without having to worry about what you might do."

Most Bhaalspawn have mortal lineage and were left to develop their own identities until they hit adulthood and Bhaal decided it was time to start pushing them into killing each other as part of the resurrection plan. Their souls are explicitly divine in nature, but they had time and freedom to develop those souls. Each demigod is a potential fledgling god.

The soul and the conscious mind aren't the same thing, so personality and decision making can continue but the emotions and personhood are... not quite there, only the echoes of it. It's been compared to wearing a mask and acting out a part in a play, rather than actually living as that person.

Durge it seems was engineered from the very beginning so that they would never have that chance. Created directly from Bhaal, with no other parent (let alone a mortal one) to dilute him; Bhaal started forcing their hand to kill from a far younger age (before puberty) rather than waiting for them to reach adulthood. and Sceleritas was following them closely ensuring that people would be around to have "accidents", like Alfira.

But it's also notable that Bhaal doesn't just want a puppet, he needs a Bhaalspawn with the drive and power to be his avatar. He somehow needs Durge blindly loyal and lacking in independence but also in possession of "strength of will" to be worthy of/able to house and use his power.

It seems that Durge does not have a soul the way their siblings do, all they have to resist Bhaal with is their mind and sheer willpower. If they disappoint Bhaal then he will simply assume control - something he can do any time he likes. Over the course of BG3 they start developing something like their own soul - judging by the way Bhaal and Sceleritas are still in touch and seemingly testing them, I can only assume this is actually according to plan; Durge is supposed to cultivate a spark of their own divine soul over the journey (and also get tadpoled and help Bhaal take over the Netherbrain and thralls through them, as Sceleritas kind of mentions).

If they fail then Bhaal goes for the feral ending; they go into the "Imoen" category where they're not worthy of his attention and he just uses Durge as a puppet.

Mystra can't force mortals to become her Chosen, they must consent, so possibly that rule applies to Bhaal too? I don't know, but it explains why Bhaal needs them to accept. If they resist then they're clearly strong enough to be worthy but wilful enough that Bhaal decides the risk of that spark of a soul is too great a risk to him and his plans and tries to destroy it but fails because it's too late, and Jergal cuts this fledgling divine soul free.

If they accept becoming Chosen then they are agreeing to be imbued with a fragment of Bhaal's divine essence. Bhaal gets what he wants and merges it with another fragment of his divine essence, presumably setting the stage for him to become a full deity walking the face Toril through Durge's/his body. The fledgling spark of individual is lost in Bhaal when the two fuse; the threat of the resist ending isn't present, because that spark is gone, so if you defy him again he just takes over and we get the punishment ending.

[olympeline]

@fireandspiceland’s recent posts made me realise I never knew how much I needed a USUK cardverse/omegaverse combo AU in my life. Well now I do! So have a Situation Involving Them that I just came up with:

The King of each of the four Suit Lands is always an alpha, the Queen an omega, and each kingdom has their own way of choosing their royal pair. In the Land of Spades, the Queen is born with his or her Royal Mark and so taken from their family and raised to rule from a young age. Meanwhile the King gains the Mark once he or she beds the Queen in heat for the first time. This means the Queen is born to rule, but the King can be anyone so long as they’re an alpha. To make sure they get someone worthy, a potential King must face a series of trials. Ending with the most treacherous of all: catching the Spade Queen in the traditional hunting grounds of the Garden of Thorns. Catching the Queen, subduing them, then bringing them back to the castle to be wedded and mated during their next heat. While the Queen can fight to kill, obviously the would-be-Kings can’t. Which puts them at a huge disadvantage right from the start.

The Spade Queen is always a powerful mage so the threat of facing them one-on-one is enough to repel all but the most elite warriors. Nevertheless, there’s usually a new Spade King a year or two after the Queen comes of age. The prize of a kingdom is a big motivator after all. Enough to bring the greatest warriors from all over and make them daring. But - unfortunately for the kingdom - their latest Queen is different. Their latest Queen is one Arthur Kirkland: green-eyed, straw haired, peasant son of a sailor turned Spade Queen-in-Waiting from the moment his midwife spotted the Mark before the cord was even cut. As is traditional, Arthur is a mage. But even for a Spade Queen, he’s not just powerful but stupidly powerful and ruthless with it. He’s also proud, haughty, and absolutely bound and determined that no one, but no one, is going to subdue him. He’s nobody’s broodmare, goddamnit! He’s his own man! Arthur bloody Kirkland is not getting wedded and bedded, not ending up wasting his talents raising litters of babies while some meatheaded brute usurps his place in the kingdom he’s been learning to rule since he was barely more than a babe himself! Arthur has a razor sharp mind and many plans for the Kingdom of Spades. Plans to reform society and make life better for all who live there. Something he can’t do if bound to a Spade King and forced to do his or her bidding. The laws of the land make the King of Spades monarch supreme. The Queen utterly subservient to them and there to birth royal children - Dukes and Duchesses of Spades - who can then be married off to forge alliances with other kingdoms. Excuse Arthur while he seethes at the thought of all of his brilliance being squandered on a life of endless sex followed by birthing royal brats in a nest.

Arthur had his first heat in his early teens and the kingdom officials started the tournaments as soon as he did, confident they’d have a new King of Spades in a year or two at most. Only to grow increasingly horrified as Arthur destroyed every champion brought in to chase him. Most of the time he didn’t even bother to run as a Queen usually would. Instead just calling on his litany of flesh melting, bone shattering spells to finish each encounter in mere minutes. His sixteenth birthday passes, then his eighteenth, nineteenth, on and on. Now the Queen of Spades is close to his twenty-first year and still he’s unmated! Not only that, but his reputation has grown so fearsome that the kingdom officials can barely find any champions willing to face him. The old fossils are close to despair and Arthur is smugger than a smug vendor at a convention of smuggery. He knows if he can make it past his twenty-first birthday then he will legally be an adult and the kingdom’s steward will have no choice but to hand all the powers of monarch supreme over to him. The old King of Spades is long dead and so is the old Queen. Making Arthur the undisputed highest authority in the Kingdom of Spades once he comes of age. Then no one can stop him making himself Queen Regnat, able to rule with no King. Able to change whatever laws he wants. Able to put a stop to these cursed tournaments once and for all and choose his own Spade Prince - not a Spade King, a Spade Prince! Subservient to his Spade Queen! Definitely a Prince - in peace.

He’s so close now, just one more month to go. All the years of training and endless sleepless nights of practicing spellcraft til he keeled over from exhaustion will be worth it. Arthur knows he can do it. He’s powerful now, so, so powerful. Who could ever hope to match the sheer force of his black magic? As far as he knows, there’s only one challenger left who’s been stupid enough not to throw in the towel. A young knight from a minor noble family by the name of Albert or Alfred or some such. Arthur barely listened to the details when Councillor Yao told him he had another challenge coming up. Arthur has practically been through more would-be-Kings than he’s had cups of tea. He’s heard it all before. He’s sure this Alfred or whatever will be no different.

Quite sure.

(This is getting long so end of part 1! Hopefully you guys will be interested in reading more once I type it up. 😘)

[hrefna-the-raven]

Heart of Steel

Fallout masterlist - main masterlist

Chapter 1

Songs for this chapter:

Summary: Elder Maxson makes his rounds through the airport, inspecting the soldiers training and to check how you're dealing with your punishment. Although he definitely did not expect to find you...singing...

Notes: this story will move a bit off canon obviously :) I promise the next chapter will be a bit more interesting and yes, songs will be an ongoing theme for this series :D

Chapter 2 - Tour of Duty

In the early hours of dawn, a solitary figure treaded the tarmac of the airport yard, savouring the warmth of the first rays of sunshine after another sleepless night. Elder Maxson, the man who carried the weight of leadership as his sole companion, was observing his men silently. Soldiers trained like clockwork, their laughter and the clanging of their tools against power armors echoing across the yard. His presence, his stern gaze was a subtle reminder of the devotion they poured into their tasks. Salutes punctuated the monotonous rhythm of work, an acknowledgment of the authority he wielded. The thought of you popped up in his mind again as he made his way to the main building, a triumphant smirk on his face. He was certain you would have learned your lesson by now, cleaning the latrines and the showers had brought every slightly rebellious recruit back on track quickly. He expected to hear the sulking grumble of resentment but most certainly not the lyrical notes that flowed through the building. As he entered the shower area, the echo of his boots was drowned by a different rhythm - music. A melody woven through the moist air and the gleaming tiles. Shadows danced to the tune, shaping an image of you at the end, holding a mop like a dance partner, your movements painting a bizarrely beautiful tableau across the tiled floor.

Let's rock , everybody, let's rock, everybody in the whole cell block, was dancin' to the Jailhouse Rock

Maxson stood still, the stern creases of his forehead softening, his steel-blue gaze capturing your oblivious performance. You were supposed to suffer, to contemplate about questioning his orders, not to enjoy, yet there you were, swaying and laughing, your spirit untouched by the chastisement. An inexplicable warmth coiled around his heart as it reminded him of his own stubborn spirit and his love for music. His damned treacherous heart echoed with an unexpected rhythm, a dance that he had long pushed away for the sake of duty, a dance of life and love that you offered through your buoyant demeanour despite the hardships you went through after waking up from your two hundred year slumber. But while his heart danced, his mind refused to acknowledge this unfamiliar, unsettling sensation. He was the Elder of the Brotherhood after all, a stern leader, not a love-struck fool for a woman, a new recruit, he barely knew. He cleared his throat, startled you spun around and almost dropped the mop at the sight of him.

"Aspirant", he called out, striding towards you as his heart hammered in chest, "Really? Jailhouse Rock? While you're executing your punishment?", his strict voice echoed through the room.

You straightened, a smug grin lighting up your face. Whatever he had planned you'd be prepared and the warm feeling of delight filled your entire being.

"Well, Elder", you hummed, "should I not keep my spirits up, even in punishment? But if it's the song itself, I can change it."

You switched the channel of the radio on your Pip-Boy and another song echoed through the room.

Life could be a dream, sweetheart, hello, hello again , sh-boom and hopin' we'll meet again, boom

Arthur stood there in silence, the lyrics of the song whirling around in his mind, etching themselves into his memory, forever linked to your figure swaying and humming along with the tune. When you noticed the lack of his response, you turned the radio off, the abrupt silence hanging between the two of you, heavy with unspoken words.

"Maybe not the right song", you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

Breaking the silence, Maxson's dry voice pierced through the tension.

"Status?", he asked, his tone harsh and commanding. It was his way of deflecting from the vulnerable moment that had just passed between you.

"All done, Elder."

"Latrines?"

"Clean as a whistle, it'll almost be a shame as soon as the first sweaty cheeks touch it again.", you grinned.

The twitching of Maxson's eye didn't go unnoticed. It was a small crack in the facade he had carefully constructed, revealing the control he was struggling to maintain in your presence. Since the first moment you stepped up to him on the Prydwen, you were becoming a distraction that threatened to unravel the carefully crafted walls he had built to survive in this world. Despite facing this slight disadvantage, his determination to break through what he perceived as a charade remained unwavering. He never lost his spark and resolute nature but the past years had sapped the joy for the simple things in life. Bound by his duty, the boy, who's soul was forged from eternal steel, found himself sitting within his fortress of solitude that turned into an inescapable cage that denied him the very nourishment his soul needed to thrive.

"I have a vertibird on standby, fully armed and ready to depart. Use it to carry our message to Fort Strong and wipe those dirty mutants from the face of the earth", his voice was harsh but carried a yet barely perceptible tremble.

It was his second test, the continuation of his plan to...he inhaled sharply, clenched his teeth in an insidious moment of anger as the boundaries between his meticulously devised plan and his innermost desires began to blur before his very eyes.

"Yes, Elder. Will I be part of a team?", your soft voice snapped him back to reality.

"Of course. Such an important mission will not be entrusted to a single aspirant, especially not one who joined merely a day ago. You'll have a head paladin accompanying you and you will follow his instructions without questioning. The success of the mission will depend on it."

"Will I work with Paladin Danse?", you asked out loud, hoping that Maxson might indulge you with an actual answer.

"You'll be awaited on the Prydwen in 20. Report to Danse and get familiar with your power armor. Don't dally, Aspirant. Dismissed."

He managed to spin around just in time to hide his smile. His heart beat so fast it threatened to burst through his chest as excitement coursed through his veins like a wildfire that could potentially grow out of control.

You could sense a hidden smile lurking beneath his stern expression as he spun around, making a deliberate effort to hide it. You took a deep breath, attempting to calm your nerves in thought of the upcoming mission. This was the moment you had been longing for, the chance to prove yourself as a member of the Brotherhood, just as, back then, you'd proven yourself during your first mission in the army, and you'll finally get a chance at proving your competence to him, getting closer into his well guarded space.

A nervous chuckle passed your lips as the realisation of your first mission in this new world and the prospect of having your very own power armour within the Brotherhood truly settled upon you. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming given the little time you had to prepare, knowing that the path ahead was filled with danger and uncertainty. You were almost thankful that your first experience in this radiated wasteland was your encounter with the Minutemen while fighting off a deathclaw in an old rusty power armour. You were determined to find out who this mysterious knight in power armour that you were supposed to follow into battle was, wondering if it could actually be Danse supervising you on this mission. You already missed the Paladin and his gentle but stern guidance. You placed the mop away and sauntered towards the Prydwen, whistling a soft tune, readying your mind for the battle to come.

Chapter 3 - Show no mercy

Feel free to reblog if you enjoyed the story :)

[glaciertea]

Masterlist here~

Tales the Songs Weave

Ch.8<< >>Ch.10

Notes: The floodgates are opening. Also! There are some influences/inspirations from the amazing @politemenacephd fic, A Fortunate Mistake. I'm sure that's a house name by now, but it's such a good read. 12/10. Highly recommend!

CW/TW: Mentions of drug use, grief/mourning (in a way, yeah), anxiety

Chapter 9: I'm Going to Give All My Secrets Away

Word count: 5.1K

You rocked from side to side, anticipation sweeping over your body as you swished your head back and forth, your hair following with every pivot. 

“I hope he didn't get lost.” 

You pulled your phone out and reread the last texts you sent to each other. You planned to meet early, enough to beat the crowds despite it being a Thursday morning. 

Taking one final inspection of your clothes, you sighed out. A frilly, floral lilac romper you took from your job, a white turtleneck, and some ankle boots you dug from underneath your bed. 

“Is this too much? Am I overdressed?”

“I think it looks good on you.” A voice sprung out of nowhere, but you instantly recognized it. 

“Miguel! You made it!” 

You bounced on the balls of your feet before taking a glance over at him. “And my, you sure do clean up nicely. Maybe I'm underdressed.”

He donned a black pullover sweater that hugged every curve of his muscles, gray chinos, fancy leather black boots, and his shades. You bit your tongue to release yourself from daydreams dipping into treacherous territories. 

“I believe we are both appropriately dressed. Ready to head through?”

You enthusiastically nodded your head as you made a beeline through the pergolas with different dangling flowers, welcoming you both in. 

“So this is also your first visit?” Miguel trailed a bit behind, not wanting to overtake you with his steps due to his much longer legs. 

“Mhm. I've been passing here so much during my commute to the shop. I know they allow a certain part to be free to the public, but I think you have to pay once you get to this pretty gate surrounded by hedges of animals. Or so that's what I've read on the website.” 

Your eyes glimmered at the many hues of Mother Nature. The sky was blue with very few clouds, and the weather was perfect for a stroll. 

Miguel couldn't help but observe your eagerness, a crack of a smile breaking in. You were so exquisite. So endearing. 

And it afflicted him because of what he exactly wanted to disclose. But he shook them away as the day had just begun, and he had no desire to ruin what bit of chance he had left with you.

After making it out under the pergolas, they were greeted by several stone fountains, surrounded by bushes of azaleas, roses, and a few others. Manicured hedges and trees decorate the picnic tables and benches that line the gorgeous scenery. 

“This is the part that is free to enter, but beyond that archway is the rest we have to pay for. And so far, I believe this will be worth every penny.”

“I agree.”

Wiping your hands on your romper, you spied one of the splatter-painted benches. “Would you like to sit and take in the environment for a bit before jumping into the big sections?”

“That'll be a good idea.” Miguel held his arm out, signaling for you to lead the way. 

You ambled towards one in the middle that presented a view that oversaw the fountains and all. Settling down, you both inhaled the refreshing atmosphere. 

The only noises that rang around were the water jetting and trickling, birds whistling whimsical melodies, and your boots occasionally crunching the perfectly cut grass.

“I hope it stays like this for the day. It said Thursdays are pretty slow, unless there's a school trip or rented-out event. And luckily, on the calendar, there's nothing going on today.” You crossed your legs, swaying them leisurely.

“You certainly did your research for this.”

“Of course! I want this hanging-out date to be decently fun.”

Miguel quirked a brow at that. “Hanging out date?” 

You became flustered; your mouth managed to act faster than your mind. You did latch onto the idea of this being a date, as you secretly hoped for it to be. But you didn't want him to know because you were nervous about spooking him away. 

“Well, I–uh, yes! Well, more so hanging out than the date part. I mean, I know I told you Monday that it could be whatever you want it to be, so if you want it to just be hanging out between two friends… a-are we friends?”

Miguel dipped his head down at you. He never personally put a label on what precisely your relationship is with each other.

He's undeniably sure he relishes your company and the equanimity you give him. How he's able to unwind with no hassle of being hounded whenever he's close to you. 

“Yes, we are friends.”

You couldn't contain your giddiness as you did a little dance. “Oh my gosh! I've been meaning to ask but didn't know how! I mean, even though we do spend a lot of time with each other, I didn't want to assume and pressure you into a domain you weren't comfortable with.”

Miguel was going to miss those jabbers. Your tender temperament. 

“Thank you. And I'm glad you're happy to be friends with me, of all people.” 

“Hey! Why would I not? You are a very sweet, patient, loving, and caring gentleman who always manages to put a smile on my face… How you light up the days when you laugh, the fun we have, how we're able to converse about what goes on in our thoughts. How handsome you are…” 

You gazed out over the man, getting lost in his features.

Miguel's heart raced at the adjectives you used to describe him. How depressing it'll be when you learn he's the opposite of all of it. 

“Right! What I'm trying to say is to stop that. Don't speak so ill about yourself. You are a terrific person, and I want you to be able to take that with stride and pride.” You hoisted yourself up, holding your palm out. 

“So shall we explore what Mother Earth has in store for us?”

Miguel was entirely speechless. He's so used to mostly negative connotations that hearing any favorable terms, especially from you, threw him off heavily. But it also stroked his ego, which had bubbled up earlier.

His enormously harsh and brawny hand engulfed your dainty one, but it seemed so right. “Si, I'm very excited to know as well.”

You battled to keep your composure, as you frankly didn't foresee him taking it. It was a fight you had to win. 

Fingers entwined, you make your way to the gate, where Miguel paid for both of your entry tickets, despite your attempts to use your card.

“No. Guarda tu billetera. Remember, I'm supposed to be treating you.” 

You promptly gave up when he whispered in your ear. You begin to reflect on how you simply fall from grace whenever you're near him. It was too easy.

Way too easy. 

The garden was bountiful. There were different varieties of plants, ranging from shrubs, flora, trees, and more. An aesthetic kingdom of creations in harmony. Trails winding into split sections as they hugged a serenely large, sparkling crystal blue lake. 

“This is magical. It's like I stepped inside a fantasy novel!” You waltzed in some more before doing a twirl with your arms wide out. 

A wistful smile emerged from Miguel. He adored the terrain, as he hadn't encountered anything so naturally expansive. Well, besides the vast majority of colorful spiders at the HQ. But what molded this into a more unique case was your presence. It added more to an experience he hasn't sensed in forever.

And this will be another chapter closed when the sun sinks into the horizon’s line.

“Do you wanna see the map, Miguel? It looks big in person, but this place is decently tiny.” 

You slid back over to him as you held out the map in front of both of you. 

“Should we make our way towards the tulip clusters and go from there?” 

“That sounds like a plan. Lead the way, and I'll follow suit.”

Bowing your head, you folded the paper and placed it in your bag. Journeying ahead, you were dazzled by the profusion of flowers decorated into numerous shapes and designs, or how they were authentically grown. 

You both wandered towards a pathway until you looped back to the beginning before consulting the map and then headed in an entirely new direction. 

And your conversations, just as plentiful as the wildflowers, were full of liveliness. 

You discussed whatever popped up in your minds, ranging from tales of your younger days to just the everyday moments in life. You did most of the speaking, and when you detected that you prattled on a bit too much, you'd start to apologize excessively. 

“Hey, you're fine. I enjoy hearing what you have to say. It lets me know you're having a good time.” 

“But I also want you to be able to speak your mind as well. I love to know even a sliver of what you're feeling.”

Miguel sensed his spirit and heart crack. Damaging spider webs formed, threatening to destroy the security he fictitiously fabricated. 

He was conflicted, but he knew. “I want to. I will; trust me. Just not right now.” 

You tipped your head at the statement. “Whenever you are comfortable, Miguel.”

You grazed his arm before swiveling your head around the flowers bordering them.

“You know, as we were walking, I had a revelation. A form of interpretation, one can say.”

“And what would that be?” Miguel shadowed your gaze.

“If we were flowers, what would we be viewed as? Everyone would have a slew of choices for one another, but what would be the most common?”

“That's an interesting concept. If you were a flower, I could see you as a sunflower or a daisy. Maybe even a tulip.” 

You folded your hands, placed them on your thighs, and looked up at him. 

“Would you like to know why I chose those flowers?” Miguel angled himself so the sun could project off you just right, giving your skin that glow. 

“Tell me one, and the other two can be a mystery.” Your fingers wiggled in a mystical sort of manner.

Miguel released a brisk waft out of his nose as a snicker merely snuck its way out. “Eres una mujer tonta que adoro mucho. The reason I chose daisies as one is because they're known to represent new beginnings. They bring joy, hope, and cheerfulness.” 

Miguel clenched his hand as he prevented himself from stroking your cheek and hair. “And you certainly do yield those qualities.”

You were dazed when he expressed that, clearly drawn back from his response. 

“O-oh. Thank you; that's very kind of you.” You tried to hide your giddy smile at his conception of you.

“Now my turn!” You clasped your hands near your chest.

“Alright. What do you perceive me as?” His eyes reflected curiosity as he locked onto you.

“I think you would be a red petunia and a purple hyacinth. Oh! And lavender and marigold.”

Miguel intently gathered your choices; a hint of astonishment poked its way through. 

“That's fascinating, especially with… the marigold.” Miguel creased his heavy brows. 

The flower that connects life after death. 

He was thankful for shades so he could conceal his honest reactions. 

“Should I also explain one, or do you want it all to be a secret and leave it up to interpretation?” You teased him as you secured a few inches towards him. 

“Usually I would prefer to know everything, but for now, let's leave it in the air.” A smile tugged on his face. 

“Deal. Now, shall we continue?”

“Si, sigamos adelante.”

“I'm gonna assume you're agreeing with me. Onwards!” You leapt a foot off the ground and did a quick spin, managing to stick the landing smoothly. 

A full-on grin ultimately stumbled on Miguel as you made your way to another part. 

As the day continued, more people filled the garden. It wasn't crowded, but a good couple of people passed by every several minutes. You stooped over, leaning into a bush of peonies as Miguel stood by. 

“You know what I enjoy about flowers?” You leaned in to sniff one.

“What's that? How they can smell like a permanent perfume department?”

You couldn't help but snort as you nodded your head. “And they say you aren't funny. Yes, I love the fragrance each one gives, but there's more to it.

“How much life they give. These colorful, beautiful things bring so much to us. They give food to the bees, the butterflies, and more. How they grow to show us what the world graces us with.

“How emotions can be expressed within one. Many bring joy, love, and compassion. But some can even show sadness, sorrow, or anger. But I sometimes envy them.” You brushed over a peony with your thumb.

"Why is that?" Miguel squatted next to you.

“They aren't afraid to present vulnerability.”

Miguel's brows furrowed, and his face crinkled in puzzlement. “I don't think I understand.”

“When a flower wilts, it shows it by the petals falling and the colors losing their glowing hue. It could be saying I need more water or sunlight. Or maybe they just need someone to talk to. They aren't afraid to ask. And when given that love, even if it's just a cup of water, they are able to grow back. Brighter than ever.

“They show it's okay to drop those defenses if you truly need help. There will be someone who wants to see that radiating color spring. Oh! I'm sorry for rambling. Do you want to go this way? I don't think we've been into this section.” You adjusted your romper and idly stretched. 

Miguel was stunned. It still never ceases to amaze him how you comprehend existence. Even as a mundane flower, you manage to observe more. And it stung his heart more. He didn't deserve someone with a soul like yours. His was dark compared to your light.

The further you traveled into the gardens, the more he learned how warm and gentle you were. The more it frightened him when he finally revealed what he was and what he did.

You rotated back when you noticed Miguel didn't budge. You head back, crouching next to him, concerned if you offended him.

“Miguel? You okay? Did I say something that hurt you?”

He suddenly snaps back from his inner torment.

“Huh?! Oh, no, no. No hiciste nada mal. You are fine, just lost in thought. What you said was very graceful and poetic. You know, I've been meaning to tell you that you have a very beautifully passionate heart.”

You squeaked as you flailed your wrists. “No, no! Thank you, but no! Just how I personally understand the world around me. Um, differentiating opinions and views, you know?”

“And my view and opinion of you won't change.”

You plastered a dumbfounded countenance. “Thank you, Miguel.” 

Miguel sucked in a gulp of air before exhaling. “I think I'm ready to share more of how I'm feeling.”

“Are you sure, Miguel? I don't want to force you into something you're not-”

“Listen. This is what I want; this is what I want–need to get off my chest. You aren't forcing me into anything–no corner, nothing like that.”

You gnawed at your bottom lip and bobbed your head. “Here, let's go sit somewhere. I think I saw a resting area near the entrance.”

You made your way back, and the atmosphere brewed a high, rising strain, mostly from Miguel. Sinking onto the garden bench, you both observed a playground across the stony tracks and hedges. 

A group of school kids were sprinting and climbing on the jungle gym excitedly. A scowl nearly surfaced on Miguel. It was as if the universe was purposely mocking him. 

The shouting of children and trees whooshing in the breeze caught your ears before you emitted a breath of air. 

“You okay? It seems you are a bit… lost?” Your voice faint as Miguel dazed at nothing in particular. He was fraught with anxiety about how to even begin foretelling his horrid misdeeds.

“My brain is foggy. I know I have to tell you, but I don't know where to exactly start.” His left leg began to jitter, restlessly bouncing as his nerves skyrocketed. 

You hovered your hand over the knee, just as you did when you first hung out together. He watched you as the limb slightly decelerated, your fingers massaging in circular motions. 

“And I'm afraid that if I do tell you, everything will fall out of place.”

You joined your legs, eyeing the children gleefully darting around playing, before twirling back to Miguel, eyes affixed on him as your hand proceeded its movements.

“You don't have to, Miguel. Remember, only when you're truly ready for something to be told is, of course, okay with me.”

Miguel was marginally drawn back by your reply.

“But I said that I would tell… are you not upset?”

You shrugged your shoulders. "Why would I be? Everyone is entitled to keep a few thoughts and sentiments to themselves."

His jaw clenched. He didn't have to force himself? He could go at a pace he desired? 

But now that's not the case. He had to rip the abundance of bandages with no hesitation. He couldn't hamper it; he was conscious of his decision. He just wasn't prepared to lose you.

After one inhale and a long exhaust, his mouth opened. 

“As you know, I'm Spider-Man. You know my purpose is to protect you and the citizens of Nueva York.”

You made sure to only listen. Holding onto every word he gave. 

“But there's more to my position as Spider-Man than just that. Are you aware of the massive building that's been erected in the middle of the city?”

You incline your head. 

“Do you know what it's for?”

Ashamed, you shook your head. You passed by it a couple times, never engaging enough to digest the purpose of the structure. You presumed it was another megacorporation.

“Inside those walls and structures lie hundreds of others. An elite strike force of spider-people dedicated to protecting the multiverse.” 

Your head remained slightly sloping, but your face stayed the very same. 

“Do you know of the theory that there are multiple alternate universes? That there’s a surplus of variations of you, but each exists slightly or drastically different from one another?”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“Well, that theory is true. And I lead varying types of Spider-Man who capture anomalies that don't belong in those worlds. To make sure a universe doesn't collapse within itself.”

“That's why you're always so tired…” You mumbled before clamping your hand to your mouth. “I'm so sorry; that was rude of me to say.”

Miguel chuckled at that. “No no. You're right. It's not a light job. I'm usually alert. I barely stray away as I have to command and distribute tasks. Well, minus the times when I stepped away for-” 

He eyeballed you for a second, biting his cheek, before diverting back to the original topic. “I'm not just Spider-Man. I'm an operation. The day I learned I wasn't the only one was mind-boggling, to say the least. But I soon recognized how disparate I was.”

“How so?” You asked meekly. 

“How the story is supposed to go is that Spider-Man gets bitten by a radioactive spider. Rather it be at a lab or a flower shop, they will always be punctured by one.”

Miguel focused on the cloudy sky before gazing back at you. That steady, composed face didn't falter once. 

“I, on the other hand, was infused with one. Remember that night when I bit that woman and my body was in a frenzy?”

“I do; it was our first time meeting.” You both smiled at how far ago that encounter was.

“Well, I did some samples because I had to know what caused my body to berserk the way it did. The slew of stimulants that circulated within the woman was ridiculous. But there was one that caught my attention. The one I had personal history with.”

Miguel huffed a huge blow of air. “Rapture.”

He circled his neck, anticipating the judging leer of disgust from you. Yet he was greeted with two blinks, your hand still rubbing his knee. 

“Take your time.” Your voice held that sincerity. 

That baffled him. Why were you not sneering? Standing up and denouncing him before turning away, abandoning him forever? 

“Before I became this figure, someone I knew drugged me with it, and I became highly addicted. The reason why my immune system reacted that way was to prevent any sort of damage to me. To battle it.” He grunted.

“Rapture messes with a human's DNA, and I for certain wasn't going to let this thing forcibly destroy me. So, I began to rewrite my own DNA. Everything seemed fine until a jealous coworker sabotaged my process, and then I became… this.”

Miguel held his claws up, his eyes glossing over the monster he became. A curse with no reverse or means of escape. 

“I've done so many wrongs ever since I became this thing. Wrongs that I fear will hurt more and more people.”

You squeezed his knee as your eyes searched his face. Even though the shades concealed him, you felt the pain radiating off of him. 

“It wasn't your fault, Miguel. You were forced into a situation that you attempted to escape from. I'm so sorry you went through something traumatic like that.” 

You chewed your tongue as Miguel let you continue. “And there will be times where you may do something unpleasant, but it's how you go about resolving them. And Miguel, you are a good person.”

You removed your hand and stroked his arm. “You are keeping thousands of universes safe and the people of Nueva York. You may make mistakes, but you strive to do the right things.”

Miguel choked back a snort. “I'm not a good person. I did heinous things. I-”

A lump caught in his throat. He had to snatch this bandage off. The one that hardly contained the gaping wound. The one that was going to fade everything. The one that will unveil the fiend he truly is. 

“I got my daughter killed. I-I killed my daughter.”

He envisioned the terror and revulsion from you this time. And yet, nothing changed. An extra state of peculiarity, but still the same. You waited for him. You perceived that there was a significant amount of context behind the words he blurted.

He couldn't drop the subject. He had to press on. “There was a world where I was happy–well, a version of me. I had a family, a beautiful daughter. And that copy of myself… was killed. So I went and replaced him because I didn't want her to be alone.”

His eyes glassed as the memories faded. “I thought what I did was safe, that I was just taking care of my daughter and being there for her. Just being so happy.”

Miguel held back the tears. “Then one day, during her football match, the world just started to glitch. It began to unravel.”

Miguel dug his claws into his scalp as you mindfully detached them, preventing him from doing any damage to himself. 

“Did you know it was going to do that?”

He violently shook his head. “No, no, of course not. But it's my fault! She's gone because of me. She died in my arms because of me! And this is the bear I must burden! It is an endless tribulation. The clock that will never stop ticking, dangling the fault I caused!”

The wooden bench made an ear-wrenching din as Miguel's claws restlessly grated it. You withstood it as your concerns for him rang through. 

“They say time mends all wounds, but it's sometimes hard to tell when it exactly begins. Does it happen naturally? Or does it begin with you? It's a scary thought because it can be unknown to some.”

Miguel held his breath as you spun your body to him, showing you were ready to understand. 

“You hold this guilt as a constant reminder, but in a way, it's unfair to you. You couldn't have known something like that would come.” You rubbed your thumb across his knuckles.

“But I did–I did cause it.”

“You didn't, and I think that's the hardest part. When something around us is out of our control and falls, one of our usual instincts is to blame. And for many, it's ourselves.

“You're locked in this cage, having to grasp a constant reminder of a traumatic experience no one, no parent, should ever go through.”

“I-I…” Miguel didn't know what to say.

“I'm so sorry you went through that pain. I'm so sorry, Miguel. You both didn't deserve that pain. I may not be able to relate, though I can sympathize. You believe you're a bad father, but you're far from it.”

“But I got my daughter killed…”

“But you didn't mean for that to happen.” Your voice was soft.

Shuffling over some now, you glided both of your thumbs on all of his knuckles.

“You are still a good father; things like that will never change. You love and care for her, and I believe your daughter loved you with all her heart.”

Your eyes refused to give up their hold on him.

“Would you like to know why I chose those flowers for you?”

Miguel nodded his head slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Purple hyacinths are gorgeous as they stand tall and proud, but they hold so much sadness to them. Red petunias are striking, vivid, and vivacious, but they also represent the anger they keep. But underneath is that marigold and lavender." Your intent never changed.

“Those flowers that show tranquility and that beauty for life. The lavender brings peace and serenity as it fills the air with its loving scent, soothing the aching mind. Marigold is that lively golden yellow that can be spotted beyond the many reds and purples.

“I know underneath you hold that marigold and lavender buried deep within, they want to blossom out. To be free and seen.”

“La muerte no es el final, sino una continuación del viaje.”

He mumbled it so lowly and swiftly that you couldn't quite catch it.

You refrained from asking. When he was ready to tell, you would be by his side.

“¿Por qué estás haciendo esto? ¿Por qué no te enojas? Ay, you are too gentle.” 

Miguel rested his back on the bench as the kids’ voices reverberated between the two. Full of hope, innocence, joy, and full of amazement.

The jubilation he craved. The memories he misses.

“I don't think it's because I'm gentle; I think it's because you just want someone to listen. You are facing so many things alone that it doesn't sound like there are many in your corner.”

You directed your finger towards his glasses. “May I?”

Miguel's breath hitched as he hesitantly bowed his head. 

Removing the shades, you mindfully placed them in-between your thigh and his, and you gazed into his glossy eyes. 

Under the shade, they remind you of wine red, smooth and sweet. But now, you could only see the red petunias. The purple hyacinths.

“Know that I'm here for you. I don't know how the ones at your job interact with you–besides Peter, of course. It sounds like he enjoys interacting with you a bit too much.”

A puff of laughter escapes from Miguel as a small smile appears on yours. “But I'll always be right here. Even if I were to move somewhere else, I'll still be right there, Miguel.” 

You began to run your thumb against his cheekbone.

“I will be here until you discover that field that's blanketed with nothing but lavender and marigolds.”

Snap.

“Thank you. I'm so… Thank you.” 

“Of course.” You beamed as your stomach rudely began to rumble.

“I think my stomach is trying to eat itself. I think they have a cute cafe here, a befitting choice for this place.” You carefully placed the shades back into his claw as Miguel glazed over them. 

You stood up and stretched. “Lunch will be on me! I know it's supposed to be you paying me back, but I want to treat you as well.” You followed Miguel with your eyes as he stood up to his full height.

“I can still sense there's something on your mind. Well, there are many things, but a specific one. You can tell me if you'd like.” You nudge your hand against his, making an offer to hold it if he wanted. 

“I'm scared in a way. I don't want to hurt you.” Miguel instinctively pulled back a bit, as you did as well, understanding. 

You both began to trek over to the main gate as your eyes fixed on the lake. 

“I don't believe you'll hurt me. If something were to arise, we'd find a way through it. Unless it was something super bad, but I have a strong gut feeling that things will be okay!”

You paused in front of an archway arrayed with an assortment of flowers. “And my view and opinion of you won't change.” 

Miguel didn't utter a single word. Not a single sound escaped. 

You gulped, wondering if you had done anything wrong, until you felt his fingers in your hair. The hues from the floral and sun made you only shine brighter.

Miguel had taken his sunglasses back off, his eyes straining in the sunlight, but he didn't care.

“Miguel?”

He leaned down. “Gracias, mi corazón.”

Your lips were soft, and Miguel tasted something sweet as he dipped his head down even more. Your eyes widened until they were heavily closed. 

Your arms clumsily tried to wrap around his neck until you got it. He moved his hands to your hips, hearts beating against each other's chests. Miguel could hear yours.

He wondered if you could hear him too. 

Pulling away, you both panted heavily. You grasped his face between your palms, carefully knocking your forehead against his. 

“Are we still friends?” You cheekily grinned, receiving a hefty laugh from him. 

“Yes, a tiny bit more, I would believe, but yes.” He stole one last kiss before your stomach snapped at you two, growling loudly. Miguel couldn't help but laugh even harder. 

You lovingly captured every crease in his face and how beautifully he fits into the scene around him. How the gold from the sun really suits his tanned skin.

“Te adoro, corazón. Now let's get something to eat.” 

Hand in hand, you two amble to the cafe with no words, as your presence near each other tells it all.

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Note: I won't keep plugging it in, probably like every few chapters so it doesn't get annoying haha, but if you'll like to tagged when I update for the next chapters, you can click here💞

@ella-janehaven @prozacgooble

[d-raewrites]

"You deserve to be loved"

#125

Pairing: none, anyone you choose

Warnings: mentions of depression/anxiety, mental health issues (referred to as a storm), descriptions of thunder/lightning storm. One use of the word “fuck”. I think that’s all.

Genre: Romance, Comfort, Mental Health

Rating: E/SFW

Word Count: 1658

Author’s note: This one is a little self-indulgent, as someone whose mental health suffers. Unedited. I have been neglecting my love of writing for too long, so I’m starting something new. Every night I’ll draw a prompt from a list of numbered 1 through 450, and then I’ll write something based on that. If you’d like to request a number, please send it in. Thanks for reading!

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She sat alone in her room, listening to the raindrops as they pelted her windows. Another boom echoed from outside, her hands shaking like the walls, showing her own resolve breaking. Pouring a cup of tea, she walks over to the sofa, counting each step as she measures both the storm and her emotions. She sets her steaming mug down and pulls the blanket up to her as she curls up on the couch. Just as she reaches over to grab her book, another loud boom echos through, causing the lights to shut off. Cursing softly she throws the blanket back, feeling unnecessary anger to rush through her. Taking a few shaky breaths she walks around the room, lighting candles as she moves until the room has a soft glow. Making her way to the bathroom to do the same she hears a key in the door before it’s pushed open. He shakes his hair out of his beanie and pulls off his wet jacket while slipping off his shoes. “What are you doing here?” The confusion clear in her voice.

“It’s really bad out.” He replies as if she can’t see the evidence all around her. 

“I’m not afraid of storms.” She says plainly, walking over to her room to grab a change of clothes for him. Finding a few things he’s left benind on various movie nights, a habit he’s always doing. “Shower and change, you’ll get sick.” She hands him the clothes. “I’ll make you some tea and snacks.” He nods taking the clothes from her and presses a kiss to her forehead. A relief washes over him that he made it in time. Watching her walk into the kitchen he takes note of her almost robotic tendencies, a sure sign that the tornado in her mind has already started. Closing the bathroom door he strips down and turns the water on in a hurry. 

Returning to the kitchen, she pours another steaming mug of tea and arranges a few snacks on a plate. Nothing too big, just fruits, crackers, and some cheeses, making a mental note that she needs to go grab groceries soon. She hears the water shut off as she moves everything to the coffee table and pulls her blanket back up on her lap. His late-night visits weren’t uncommon, but this visit had definitely stumped her, she couldn’t remember any plans they’d made. He had said he was busy this weekend and wouldn’t really be available, she understood, his job was a bit more demanding. Thoughts of why he’d come by when he already had a full schedule swirled through her brain. She wasn’t someone who was afraid of storms, she needed no comfort from them, so that was quickly ruled out. On the contrary, actually, she loved them. She had read a quote years ago stating that storms were proof that even Mother Nature needed to cry sometimes. It oddly comforted her, knowing that something so strong and so willful needed a release at times. She had found comfort in that release. Comfort in knowing that when her mind bullied itself, and she was so close to losing control, she could take a card from something so powerful and just rage. 

Tonight was no different. She felt it fully. She knew her mind was falling into the pit it so often builds for itself. Her unbridled emotions and shaking nerves were proof of that. Just like the clear blue sky had turned dark and treacherous just a few hours ago, her mind seemed to be doing the same. Hearing the bathroom door open he makes his way toward her. A guilty feeling floods her at the thought that he might see her. He had seen her bad before. Not at her worst by any means but it still worried her that her approaching clouds may change that. It was often so hard to tell how bad it would be until it was too late. She’d get too wrapped up in the storm to control anything, like a tornado, never pausing to worry about the destruction it caused, too wrapped up in its own world to even notice. 

Bringing the steaming cup to her lips she sipped softly before picking up her book and opening to the bookmarked page. She hadn’t made it far, too many interruptions both internal and external tonight. So she hadn’t learned much about this new book boyfriend she was bound to fall for. She’d had so many already each one she’d pick up and hold, spending time hoping that just maybe, they would help her fight the chaos her mind built.

“Thanks,” he says plopping down on the sofa next to her, taking a long drink from his mug before standing again. “Make room,” he says, placing his hands under her arms using his muscles as an unfair advantage to lift her up, placing them both on the couch again, her body now situated between his legs. He softly pulls her back to his chest signaling for her to relax as he situates the blanket again allowing them both to get comfortable. She allows him as she rests her elbow on his now bent knee so they can both see the book. “This a new one?” He whispers brushing his fingers through her hair, moving it to her other shoulder, clearing his view. Her small nod is accentuated by tense shoulders, not in an uncomfortable or awkward manner. He’s seen that many times when she’s been in a situation that wasn’t appealing for her. No, this is more of a buzzing with sparks coming from the inside. The ones that leave her exhausted, shaking and crying from the memories and thoughts that plague her. 

“It’s the one you bought me last time.”

”Any good so far?” He asks, moving her head back against his shoulder after situating himself again. 

“I just started it, nothing too big yet. Basically just a girl that moved to a new city. She has a job as a doctor. That’s all I know so far.” Another flash of lightning lights up the room and she snuggles a little more against him. 

“Glad your candle addiction came in handy.” He says pulling her closer, feeling her heart hammering against his chest. Anytime now, that ticking will skip and the bomb will go off, but he has no plans to go anywhere until she’s her again. “Showering in the dark would have been difficult.” She just nods holding the hand he has wrapped around her stomach as a comfortable silence falls upon them. Ten pages later she moves to turn the page only for him to stop her. “Wait, you’re faster than me.” He whispers against her hair, quickly trying to finish the page they are on. Chills race up her back as the rain pounds harder outside, now bringing the wind howling along with it. 

“Why did you chance it you idiot?” He slowly pushes the book down looking down at her as she turns to look up at him. “Why would you risk coming all the way over here? You know I’m not afraid of storms.”

He only nods. “I know. I know you love them. The chaos and unpredictability. You find comfort in them. It’s your little way to sitting and listening. Of being sympathetic to Mother Nature and her breakdowns.” She nods slowly, still not understanding.

”But don’t think for a single second that I haven’t noticed your own storm moving in. And just like you do for nature, I want to be that for you. I know it’s not the best time to say it but I love you, and as so much more than a friend type of way. You always say Mother Nature deserves to be loved in her darkest days. That’s why you prepare and sit with her. I want you to know that you deserve to be loved too. Even more so on your darkest days. You deserve to be loved whether you’re bright and sunny or raging and storming.” Her heart rate slows just a tad as he pulls her fingers through his. “I’d like to be the one who gives you that love. The one who sits and holds you. Who will read, eat, cry, yell, scream, talk, whatever you need. I would like to be that comfort if you’ll have me. Please?”

She moves to open her mouth but the rainstorm makes it in first, silent tears fall down her face as she stares at him. An onslaught of negative words filling her head. Leaning down he presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls the book back to a place they can both see. “I’ll even share you with all your book boyfriends, however many you have or acquire. Just let me be the main guy, and the only one who gets to hold you.” He feels a soft shutter shake through her. “I’m right here, not going anywhere and those voices and thoughts in your mind can fuck off. I am yours and you deserve every bit of love I have and so much more. I’ll show you everyday, if you’ll let me.”

Turning to face him, he gets his answer as she presses her lips to his. The kiss is chaste but filled with so much. So much understanding, hope, comfort, attraction, lust, and love. She felt the storm inside shake and falter just a bit as his hold tightened on her. “Since you’ll share, I think I’d like that.”

He presses soft kisses to her hair as she settles back on his chest. “I love you too. Just promise you’ll hold on okay. You know in my storm I’m not reasonable and this one is feeling big.”

He nods resting his head on hers as he squeezes her tight to him. “I’m not afraid of storms either. I promise to love you through them all.”

Main Library

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