#Our Lady of Guidance | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

keeksandgigz · 8 months

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somewhere we can be alone

stage manager!eddie munson x theatre kid!fem!reader

a collab with @reidsbtch- mariah is literally the best person to collab with, it's like our brains were making out the whole time we were writing this. thank u for letting me collab with you to write this absolutely not self indulgent, way too long fic together <3

summary: Now on the tail end of graduating, Eddie Munson is required to take part in an extracurricular activity. He's assigned as stage manager for the school's production of Romeo and Juliet. You, the star of the show, aren't too happy to have your senior performance sabotaged by one long- haired metalhead.

word count: 7.7k words

warnings: no y/n, no physical description of reader, swearing, oral (m & f receiving), enemies to fuck buddies to lovers, mentions of queer!reader, it's actually just fucking smut, fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up), cream pie, use of nicknames (baby, sweets, sweetheart etc), eddie being a stupid lovable idiot

This and all of mine and mariah's works are 18+ minors do NOT interact

He’s been slumped in the guidance counselor’s office for thirty minutes, the wooden chair digging into his bones, growing uncomfortable as he listens to her, hardly believing he’s so close to leaving this fucking school himself.

“You’re keeping up your grades and maintaining regular attendance, Eddie. You’re just missing one last thing to be able to graduate.”

He rubs his face, maybe from the lack of sleep, or the restlessness of finally being able to leave the office he spent way too much time in during the past six years, as long as he keeps showing up to school for the next two months. He groans regardless.

“What would this ‘last thing’ be? Am I gonna be sent on a quest to slay a fucking dragon? Is that what’s gonna take me to graduate?” He snaps, the lack of sleep has finally gotten to him– school doesn’t really appeal to his late bird nature.

The counselor gasps at the crudeness of the profanity “Language!” She exclaims, like he’s never heard that before, daring to swear in front of students, staff and faculty alike, but the blonde lady with the ridiculously coiffed and teased and sprayed hair composes herself again, jutting a look down to his student folder again.

He imagines it to be full of red pen marks, every single one of those a proof of his own failure. He’ll steal it the day he graduates– and set it on fire. Hell, he’ll even roast marshmallows on it.

“Anyways,” she explains in a way that really shows the massive stick up her ass that makes her think Eddie should just stop bothering with school altogether. “You have to partake in an extracurricular activity.”

And he chortles. He was thinking something dreadful like picking trash up at the park or feeding and bathing the old people at the retirement home.

“Something funny, Mr. Munson?” Her nostrils are flared, she can’t wait ‘til he leaves her office.

“So like- like drama club and shit?” His tone is incredulous, he can deal with a couple lines to memorize. He’s had to do way worse for his Dungeon Master role, and even then, Miss George likes him– she’s let him and the club play DnD in her room for the past two years. Should be easy.

The counselor takes her glasses off her pointy nose, letting them hang with a tacky pink, flowery chain around her neck. “Well, yes– that’s one of the options. Unfortunately, your GPA is not high enough for you to partake in the school play, per se, so I can only place you in the backstage crew– building sets and moving things around. We’ll put that brain of yours to work.” She chuckles as she hands him a slip of paper to give to Miss George.

Eddie picks up his bag, “Real funny, huh.” He shrugs his shoulders and heads to the school auditorium. Last time he was there he’d gotten caught by a custodian while Terry Richardson’s face was stuck in between his legs, trousers pulled down halfway down his thighs as she gave him a toothy blowjob. He got suspended for a week.

He sees Miss George sat in the audience, scribbling notes onto a notepad as you recite the famous balcony monologue from Romeo and Juliet. He knows you, he’s seen you around– you’re by no means in the popular crowd, but you stand out, in the way that your clothes always seem to border the fine line of what's socially acceptable and outrageously eccentric.

Even if you’re not part of the popular crowd, there’s no denying that, like the rest of the school, you avoid him like the plague, cute as he is. You interrupt your monologue as you see him smirk down the central aisle of chairs. Miss George turns around at the sudden interruption. Eddie just hands her the slip.

“Oh my goodness!” she coos, “We have a stage manager.” And he wishes he could have photographed the look on your face. “Stage manager?! Miss George, you can’t be serious!” You exclaim as Eddie takes a seat next to her, kicking his boots up on the back of the chair in front of him.

A smirk ever present on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow at you. “He doesn’t have any experience.” You continue, not about to have your senior year performance ruined by Eddie Munson of all people. “Shouldn't be that hard to keep a diva like yourself in line, hmm?”

Eddie answers before Miss George has a chance to, the theater now going quiet except for a few snickers from the tech crew. “Alright, that’s enough from the both of you. Eddie, I’ll have our ASM get you up to speed. Now, please continue with the monologue.” The male only grins wider as you glare back, before looking back down at your script with a sigh.

He ventures backstage– not sure what ASM stands for and maybe too embarrassed to ask as he sees kids dressed in black moving wooden planks onto the stage, carrying cans of paints and brushes.

He taps a kid on his shoulder, arranging a prop table, he looks at Eddie like he’s seen a ghost.

“I was looking for the ASM?” The kid is looking side to side, still wondering why Eddie Munson is talking to him.

“Uhhh, she’s in the booth.” He mutters, before turning around and going back to his props. What the fuck is a booth?

Eddie just plainly decides to look for it himself, since nobody’s any fucking help in this school. He opens door after door- a storage closet, a closet just for wood, a bathroom. Arrived at the last door, he isn’t exactly sure he’s ever going to find this stupid ASM- and he still doesn’t know what that stands for.

The noise of a door opening startles you, as you try to put on your dress as quickly as you can to avoid flashing someone. It’s only when you see who it is that you start screaming, and with you, Eddie just pops a hand in front of his eyes, screaming a string of sorries, and that he hasn’t seen anything.

“I was just looking for the booth! Stop screaming!” he screeches, worried he’s gonna get himself in trouble with Miss George if she hears you screaming like you’re getting skinned alive. Thankfully, you stop, as Eddie looks away, aware of your exposed back peeking through the zipper. You clutch the fabric against you, struggling to zip up the back of your dress one-handed.

Eddie makes a whistling sound, distracting himself from the way you seem to be teetering between asking for his help and telling him to fuck off.

“The door to the booth is in the audience, by the way. Off to the side, there’s some stairs.” You huff, slightly getting your zipper up. He goes to turn around, but you stop him. He cocks an eyebrow.

You roll your eyes, lips in a thin line as you keep the door open with one hand.

“Can you make yourself useful and help me with my zipper?”

With an annoyed huff he steps fully into the dressing room, shutting the door behind him as you turn your back towards him once more. Carefully clutching the dress, your eyes meeting his in the long row of vanity mirrors in front of you. You can feel his warm breath on your neck as he steps closer, carefully lifting your hair over your shoulder.

Eddie’s fingers follow the seam of the unzipped garment, barely tracing the bare skin of your back. You try to hold off the shiver from passing through you as he slowly begins zipping it up. A hint of a smirk on his mouth as he notices the goosebumps breaking out across your skin. “Anything else princess? Or am I free to go?”

His fingers now fall away from you, clearing your throat as you try to shake off the arousal that was now coursing through your veins. You wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of knowing how frazzled he had just made you.

Instead of answering, you just groan, eyes lifted up, going past him and clocking him in the shoulder as you headed back on stage. God you were fucking insufferable.

Eddie finds out that ASM means Assistant Stage Manager and that said ASM was none other than Max Mayfield, roped into doing theatre tech for extra credit. And that the booth was where they tampered with the lights and shit. All he had to do as Stage Manager for that rehearsal was oversee the light cues, which proved to be a little more complicated than he initially expected.

He messes up most of the cues in the first act before he finally seems to have gotten a grasp of it. All the while you’re tossing glares his way, using the light cues as an excuse for the harsh looks. But really it’s due to your annoyance at how the mere brush of his fingertips left you wanting more. Wanting more of him, despite your better judgment– you were not about to have him ruin your senior show.

And in spite of that, you closely follow Eddie’s actions. In a lull between scenes he stands up, you follow him with your eyes as he enters back into the auditorium, beelining backstage.

Eddie’s not totally sure what shit designer built the theatre, because he might as well have pissed himself on the way between the booth and the only bathroom in the auditorium. Not only that, but he kept missing cue after cue, followed by the dirtiest looks known to man, straight into his eyes. After the encounter you had in the dressing room– fingers caressing the soft skin of your back, feeling you shiver under his touch, he knew he had some kind of leverage over you.

So when he’s done taking a leak and looks down at the door, he’s sure you’re behind it, slipping a little piece of paper in the crack.

Meet me in the booth after rehearsal. XX

Eddie wouldn’t say he was nervous, his curiosity was piqued more than anything. However, he’s antsy the last half of the show, leg bouncing as he tries to listen and follow Max’s instructions. The girl gives him an annoyed lecture in between cues. But his mind’s a little preoccupied, trying to figure out what exactly you want from him.

So when he re-enters the dark light booth once everyone else has left, he doesn’t expect you to shove him up against the door, locking it with a swift click. His breath hitches in his throat, both in confusion, and at the fact that you’re fumbling with his belt, despite the dirty looks you’ve been giving him the whole afternoon.

“What uh- what are you doing?” His tone is alarmed, stammering as he tries to grab onto the door handle for purchase. You’re too busy getting his jeans down to bother.

“Sucking you off. That okay?” You look at him for a reassurance that comes almost immediately with a violent nod of his head.

He’s confused, but he’s not going to turn you down. After all, he felt the way you tensed under his touch while he was pulling up your zipper, “Shit, fine by me.” He shrugs, acting like he isn’t busting at the seams waiting for you to pull down his pants.

Eddie’s belt makes a clinking sound, along with his wallet chain while you pull his pants down to his thighs. You move his trembling body away from the door, against the table with the light console. His knuckles turn white as he grabs the edges on the table for support.

Gripping the hem of his checkered boxers, freeing his hardened length. Your eyes widening slightly at the sight of it, he’s big— a lot bigger than you expected. Even in the dim lighting he notices your shocked expression.

“Ya gonna just stare at it all night sweetheart?” He asks, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks down at you. You shoot another glare his way, before grasping the base of his cock in your fist, licking a long stripe up the shaft. Feeling satisfied as you hear his shaky intake of breath. Eagerly you take him past your lips, as a low groan leaves his own.

“Shit,” he curses as your warm mouth envelops him fully, ringed fingers knotting themselves in your hair. You open your mouth as wide as you can, taking him deeper. Gagging slightly as he hits the back of your throat, tears brimming in the corner of your eyes as you try to adjust to his size. He’s by far the biggest one you’ve had.

“Talked such a big game with that mouth of yours sweetness, am I too much for you?” Your fingers dig into the skin of his thighs, his cock slipping from your lips as you pull back.

“Do you ever shut the fuck up Munson?” You huff, but before he can reply with another snarky remark your tongue is swirling around the tip of his cock. Silencing him for a moment as you take him back into your mouth.

Another string of curses falls from his lips, as his hips begin thrusting into your mouth with an abandon you haven’t seen before. Your cheeks are hollowed and he can feel himself getting embarrassingly close.

“F-fuck where- where’d you learn all of this?” It comes out in broken pants, and he can feel a smirk forming on your lips as you take him out a second time.

“One thing about theatre people is that we’re all gonna fuck each other. You should see how I eat pussy,” you shrug, putting him back in your mouth, and Eddie swears he’s about to bust in less than a minute.

“I’m gonna- fuck.” But he doesn’t get to finish that sentence, as you take him out of your mouth and stand back up.

Eddie’s bewildered expression is easy to read as he looks at you like you shot his dog. But you get close, dangerously close to his lips, your nose almost bumping his.

“That’s for fucking up my light cue, idiot,” it’s a feeble whisper against his lips before you’re gone into the darkness of the theatre. Too shocked to react, Eddie’s left with his pants pulled down for a good two minutes before registering what happened.

So he’s left blue balled in that stupid light booth, fuming and confused. There was no way in hell he would let you treat him like that and walk away the way you did.

Eddie had been scheming all week between rehearsals, attempting to find a good time to get you alone. He wasn’t about to let you get away with leaving him like that, but you were actively avoiding him.

But an opportunity fell into his lap without any effort on his part, Miss George asking you to stay behind to work on some blocking with her. As the stage manager he was required to stay behind too, his mind already reeling with possibilities.

So when you duck behind the curtain to change out of your costume, Eddie is quick to swoop in. Offering to shut down the lights and lock up, and Miss George is more than willing to let him.

By the time you get back on stage the theater is dark, the ghost light shining brightly center stage. “Eddie? Miss George?” You call out into the darkness, getting complete silence in return.

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding.” You groan, clutching the strap of your book bag tightly. Of course he’d leave you in the dark theater to fend for yourself. “Asshole.” You mumble under your breath, reaching your hand out in front of you as you make your way across the dark stage.

You’ve bumped into multiple set pieces at this point, as you attempted to find the stairs leading down to the audience in complete darkness. Your frustration grows with each passing minute, that is until you hear the shuffling of feet.

“Hello?” You call out again, squinting as if it would help you see any better. Fear stirs in your gut as the theater is silent once more, shadows seeming to come to life in the corner of your eyes.

Once you finally reach the edge of the stage, you grip onto the railing tightly as you fumble your way down the stairs. Sighing in relief as you feel the carpet beneath your feet.

You only make it a few steps further before you feel a hand snaking around your waist, pulling you back into a hard chest. The other hand cupping itself over your mouth to muffle the scream that leaves your lips.

“Screaming for me already sweets? Haven’t even touched you yet.” His voice is mocking, his warm breath fanning across your neck as he laughs. You quickly squirm out of his grasp, a flashlight clicking on to illuminate his stupidly gorgeous features.

“You fucking psychopath! What were you thinking?” you shove him on the shoulder, he laughs as he zeroes in the flashlight on you, red in the face and furious.

“Had to get back at you for how much of a little tease you were the other day,” he croons. You purse your lips together, a deep blush spreading across your cheeks as you try to stabilize your still quickly beating heart.

“Whatever. Fuck you, Eddie.” You spit, but he’s quick to grab your arm and push it behind your back, the flashlight hitting the ground and rolling under one of the seats. His chest is pressed against your shoulder blades as you shudder in his arms.

“You’re not getting away so easily, sweetness.” He breathes against your earlobe as you keen into the warmth of his chest, his nose buried in the crook of your neck as his free hand goes to your waist.

“This okay?” he murmurs, and you nod. A sharp nip to your earlobe makes you hiss.

“I can’t fucking see you nod, can I?” You can tell he’s having too much fun torturing you, feeling his hand travel all across your torso and chest.

“N-No,” you whimper.

“Exactly. Try that again,” his hand rests against the waistband of your jeans, awaiting an answer, teasing the skin behind the fabric. The tips of his fingers brush the skin there, making you whimper in response.

“This is okay.” you breathe out, and it’s the only answer he needs to slip his hand past your jeans, unbuttoning the offending material to push his hand further down into your pants.

“That’s a good girl,” he whispers against your ear as his hand cups your clothed core. You waste no time grinding against the heel of his palm, letting small, breathy moans escape you. Afraid to get caught in the dead of night getting touched and fondled by the town pariah.

“You sound so pretty singing for me, don’t you sweets?” he whispers smugly. His hand feels a little too good against you, your hips grinding back and forth following the rhythm he was creating, “Hmm, but I think you can be a little louder.”

You gasp as he slips his hand inside your panties, his calloused fingers encircling your swollen clit. Your head falls back onto his shoulder, your hand gripping onto his thigh. His digits dip lower, teasing your entrance before slipping one inside and curling them up.

You can’t stop the shaky cry from leaving your lips, the sound now filling the auditorium. A smirk tugs at his mouth, using the heel of his palm to press against your clit. “Listen to that… you’ve got such a pretty voice don’t you?”

You dig your nails into the denim covering his thigh, a low groan sounding in his throat. “Wonder what it sounds like when you beg,” he easily adds another finger inside your wet cunt, thrusting them deeper. “N-Never gonna happen Munson.”

Eddie laughs, pulling another moan from you as his other hand drifts up under your shirt to cup your breast. “We’ll see about that.”

His breath is fanning hot and humid against your neck as you reach around to bring his head closer, needing him to be closer.

Nothing he’s saying is registering in your brain, as his fingers pump in and out of you with a torturous pace, feeling his wolfish grin plastered against the skin of your cheek.

He’s watching your every move, your every breath and whimper, biting his lip at the way your eyes roll to the back of your head every time his fingers curl up in a certain manner. You don’t think you have much time left before you release yourself all over his hand, and he knows it.

From the way you keep twitching and tightening around his fingers, he feels you’re getting close, but much like you did that night in the booth, he won’t let you get it that easily.

“Y’close sweets?” he groans, his own hips now grinding against the swell of your ass.

“Uh-huh,” is all you can manage to say, brain scrambled from his words and ministrations.

“You know what you gotta do now, don’t you, pretty?” he bites at the hinge of your jaw, as you cry out, the noise echoing in the empty theatre.

“You gotta beg for it.” And he hears you gasp at that, a dry chuckle leaves his lips. “You didn’t think I was gonna make you cum that easy did you?”

“Mmm- fuck you, Munson.” you struggle against your brain’s desire to one up him and your body’s desire for release.

“C’mon, don’t you want to cum? I bet you’re so pent up from a whole day of staring at me building sets, aren’t you?” and he’s right, your eyes did wander to his arms in his tight fitting t-shirt, with his hair tied up in a low bun as he hammered nails into wooden boards.

His fingers speed up and you can feel it, you’re so, so close.

“Please, let me,” you whine into his arm, biting at the muscle there. You’re getting so loud.

“That’s right, keep begging for me– good girl gettin’ nice and loud for me,” it’s a growl at this point, a string of please please please follow it. Tears pricking at your eyes with how intensely good he’s making you feel.

So close, so close–

He removes his fingers, jerking you out of that hazy state you were previously in. The male now removes himself from you, retrieving the flashlight from under the seat. Your chest is heaving as you turn to face him, anger now coursing through you as he grins devilishly down at you.

“How cute, you thought I was actually gonna let you cum with how you left me the other day?” Eddie’s laughter fills the theater as he steps closer to you. Your bodies almost touching, lifting his fingers that were just inside you up to your lips.

The brunette carefully drummed the digits against your mouth, “Now, be a good girl and clean up the mess you made.” You glare as you let his fingers slip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them in a teasing manner.

You noticed how his breath hitches, his cock straining uncomfortably in his jeans. But there’s no way that you’re helping him out with his little problem now. You playfully bite his fingers that are still in your mouth, as he utters an annoyed ‘ouch’ before taking them back out.

His fingers make their way to your scalp– yanking at the hair, making you hiss. “You think you’re fucking cute? I’ll see you tomorrow after rehearsal,” his tone makes you tremble, as he takes his hand out of your hair and disappears into the darkness of the theatre, leaving you once again in the dark.

You stumble down the side stairs of the stage and get out of the side door, quickly making your way home.

And it becomes a regular thing, you and Eddie blue balling each other to the point of frustration, like it’s a sick and twisted power game you both play. After rehearsal he offers to lock up for Miss George and you wait for him in one of the dressing rooms, or in the dimly lit booth. He’s become irritable, and you have as well.

If you were insufferable before, now you’re downright hateful as you yell at the light crew to stop messing up your spotlight moment, or that your costume felt too constricting or your prop too flimsy.

Everything has you on edge, but you don’t hesitate to meet Eddie every night that week after rehearsal. Maybe he’ll let you cum this time.

You wait for him backstage, sitting on one of the set pieces, a throne. There’s a dim overhead light shining on you. Eddie’s lip is caught between his teeth as he looks at you on his Dungeon Master throne.

“Get up.” he commands. The shirt he’s wearing is tight, it makes his shoulders look more prominent. You squeeze your legs together.

“Why should I? My legs are tired from being on my feet all rehearsal,” you give him a fake pout as he inches towards you.

“Because that’s my Dungeon Master throne,” it sounds funny coming out of his mouth, voice low and gravelly “It’s mine.”

You chuckle a bit at that, how is this man being territorial over a set piece?

“And what if I said no?” a smile trapped in between your teeth, looking up at him through your lashes.

A dry laugh escapes him as he crosses his arms, “You’re so spoiled huh? Think you can always get your way? Last time I checked, this week it’s been the total opposite, hasn’t it?” and he’s not wrong, he’s given you all but what you want.

“This is my theatre, Munson. I believe you’re on my turf.” and he laughs at that, like you’ve said some kind of joke.

“You do theatre, sweetheart, c’mon you can’t be serious.” he kneels in front of you, grabbing your thighs and moving them apart with ease.

“Don’t be a bitch, Munson.” you hiss, as you feel his lips on your exposed thighs, kissing the skin there.

He whistles, low and sardonic. A wicked smile on his lips “That’s rich coming from you, you’ve had that nasty little attitude this whole week.” he continues with his kisses, while his hand ghosts over your inner thigh. Your breath hitches in your throat.

“I wouldn’t have this nasty little attitude as you call it if you would just let me- fuck.” his free hand ghosts over your panties. Your skin is sensitive, your brain is sensitive. Another touch and you might explode.

“Hmmm, what was that?” he bites at the flesh of your thigh, a high pitched whimper falling from your lips “Need me fuck that little attitude out of you sweetheart?”

And you’ve been wound up so tight for the past week that it doesn’t take you long to rid yourself of your panties. He takes advantage of you standing up, plopping down to take his rightful seat on the throne.

That cocky smirk is adorning his features, but you wanted to smack it off. “As cute as you think you look in this seat… it’s always been my throne sweets.”

Before Eddie has time to mutter another snarky remark you’re climbing into his lap, crashing your mouth against his. You’ve learned throughout the past week that it’s really the only way to shut him up.

His ringed fingers dig into the curve of your hips, eagerly grinding yourself against the bulge in his pants. Eddie moans into your mouth, his tongue licking your lower lip. You part your lips, allowing him entry as your tongues fight for dominance.

He tastes like Twizzlers and cigarettes, a combination you shouldn’t find as delicious as you do. But it only seems to make you needier, the denim becoming damp as you continue to grind yourself onto him.

“Look at you making a fucking mess on my jeans,” he mumbles against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip which causes you to whine as he pulls away. His chest rumbles as he chuckles, grabbing your cheeks in his hand— forcing you to look at him.

“But I’d rather you make a mess on my cock sweetheart.” His words have your head reeling, the male now gripping behind your knees and lifting you up. You squeal in surprise, clutching onto his shoulders to steady yourself. “Eddie, put me down.”

He carefully lets you slide down his front until your feet touch the ground, spinning you around before bending you over the armrest of his throne. His hands travel up your bare thighs, taking his time to appreciate your soft skin.

“Are you going to fuck me or not Munson?” You huff, the male now flipping up your skirt and landing a harsh smack on your ass. “So goddamn impatient aren’t you?”

You hear the sound of his belt clinking open, the zipper being tugged down. It makes you clench your thighs together, something Eddie didn’t miss. His fingers dipping between your legs, teasing you further.

“Trained you well didn’t I baby?” You can’t stop your eyes from rolling, despite how your stomach flipped at the word baby.

And you can feel him then, carefully lining himself at your entrance as you try to grind back into him. A firm hand against your hips stops you. “Ready? I’m gonna go slow,” he mutters, and there’s a gentleness in his words, despite his meanness in how he’s handling you.

You hum in approval and brace yourself. There’s a loud groan coming from behind you as he slips inside your warm heat, reveling in how you almost suck him in, a small gasp leaving you from the stretch.

“Big stretch, huh?” he coos in a cocky lilt, and you almost wanna reach around and punch him, but this idiot has your eyes rolling back from the fullness, and he’s not even all the way in yet.

So you nod, followed by a needy little whine that makes him chuckle low in his chest– you need him that much?

He goes deeper, spurred on by your noises, by how much you need him to fill you up. A sardonic smile on his lips as he bottoms out and slams all the way in, causing you to shriek.

Eddie sets a fast pace, not really giving you any time to adjust, but he’s already nudging that spot deep within you, making you see stars.

You hear him groan, “So fuckin’ tight, aren’t you sweets?” and it’s a rhetorical question, because your tongue feels too big for your mouth and there’s nothing coming out of it besides unintelligible whines and moans as you hold on to the armrest across from you.

Your noises only encourage him to go faster, and it’s almost too much the way he’s hitting that sweet spot inside you. You try to distance yourself from him, just enough to catch your breath, but he grabs your shoulders, using them as leverage to ram deeper into you.

He leans over, his clothed chest against your back, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Goin’ somewhere, baby? Thought you could handle me.” He bites at your earlobe, and there’s just so much going on in your brain that you can’t possibly muster any response to whatever he’s telling you.

“Oh I said that, didn’t I? When we first met. I said I could handle a spoiled little diva like you, and look at that,” he laughs, and you’re sure you’re about to combust. Your fingers reach to grip the cushioned seat of the throne, as another wail leaves your lips.

“Singin’ my praises now aren’t you baby?” The wood of his throne digs into your hips and stomach as he pushes you further into it, a feline movement as he drapes himself off and over you, his hands now gripping the armrest opposite of you for purchase.

Your legs begin to give out, as you beg God or whatever entity up there that he won’t give into his sick little game. That he’ll let you cum this time.

“Shit, sweets, you’re gripping me so tight.” he grunts, a boyish grin on his face as small uh uh uhs fill the room.

“Should we let you cum tonight? We can’t have you being a bitch tomorrow, it’s the end of hell week,” he jokes, and it almost feels humiliating, how he can make fun of you like this and you’re just going to keep fucking yourself back onto him.

“God- Fuck- Please!” you beg, with all the strength you can muster, and he can’t help but let a satisfactory grunt leave his lips.

“Look at you begging, don’t even have to ask now, do I?” and you can feel him twitch inside you. He’s also getting close.

“Ready?” he huffs, with the last little bit of stamina he has, and you can’t brace yourself enough for the wave of pleasure that washes over you with the last few snaps of Eddie’s hips as you come undone with a loud cry, echoing through the dark halls of the theatre.

“Fuck, okay, where should I–” he begins, he’s at his wits end.

“In…side,” is all you can say before he stills himself inside of you, letting his release take over him with a loud groan. His warm cum painting your inner walls, leaving you feeling satiated.

Eddie stabilizes his breath, forehead leaning against your shoulders, days on days of pent up frustration hanging like mist in the air. You’re both able to think clearly for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Jesus Christ,” he huffs, lifting himself off of you as he slowly slips his cock out. You can feel his cum beginning to drip down your thighs, your legs wobble as you attempt to stand. Knees buckling as you try and find your discarded panties.

“Whoa there, I got ya,” he wraps his arm around your waist, holding you against his warm chest. It felt good, leaning against him like that. But you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, “I’m fine Eddie.”

You push yourself off only to nearly fall once more, an annoyed grumble leaving his lips, “Are you always so stubborn?” He reaches down for your panties, guiding you to sit on the edge of the throne so he could help pull them up your thighs.

It was an unusually tender action, and not one that you expected from him. “Thought you didn’t want me sitting here?” You tease, his brown eyes glancing up as he’s kneeling before you.

“I’ll let it slide this one time,” he chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin. A dimple you had never noticed before indenting his cheek, another feature that now found annoyingly attractive.

You roll your eyes at him and stand up, “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow after rehearsal.” You quip, as you try to wobble off the stage, he runs after you.

“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you walk home like this,” and there’s a tender look in his eyes, something close to genuine concern. “My van is out front, I can drive you.” He points in a general direction behind him, and you want to say no so badly.

But you don’t, and now you find yourself being driven home by Eddie. His dingy van smells like cigarettes and weed and it squeaks every time he goes over a bump. There’s loud music blaring through the stereo speakers and an uncomfortable silence between the two of you.

“So uh, you excited for next week?” Eddie’s the first to break the silence, briefly turning towards you.

“I’m actually kinda nervous,” you admit, sinking into the seat. “It’s a big role, big shoes to fill. I guess I’m just scared I’m not gonna be any good.” You chuckle, almost embarrassed at your admission.

“You? Not good? I’ve seen you, y’know? I’m not just staring at your tits during rehearsal. You’re pretty darn good.” He gives you a half smile at that, pulling up next to your house.

You’re a bit flustered by his compliments, finding yourself not wanting to leave his company just yet.

“Thanks, Eddie. I appreciate it,” you smile at him.

“And hey, if you still feel nervous opening night come find me— I’ll help you,” he winks at you and you can’t help but laugh, as you see him looking at you with a big grin on his face.

You look at him back, and God, maybe it’s the streetlights or the moon, but he’s never been more beautiful. In a leap of courage you lean over the dashboard and peck him on the lips.

As you detach from him and reach for the door handle, he pulls you back in deeper, searing and intense, one of those kisses that have your tummy flipping. Except it’s not in the comfort of the theatre, and without an underlying motive behind it.

Just you and him. In his van.

You let your lips part, give him access to your mouth, but he stops you.

“It’s midnight,” he whispers against your lips. “Dress rehearsal tomorrow, you need to rest.” He smiles as you place another peck on his lips. Pouting as you reach for the door handle. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you until you’re inside, seeing the light of your room turn on.

Once he knows you’re safe, he starts his van back up and pulls away from your house with the cheesiest grin on his face.

Opening night. It’s finally here.

You should feel excited, and yet all you want to do is lock yourself in one of the broom closets and hide. You’ve never felt so nervous before, thinking of all the different outcomes that could occur. What if you forget all your lines? Or you have an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction during a quick change?

Your mind is reeling as you enter the dressing room, the rest of the cast buzzing excitedly around you. You fake a smile and sit at your station, noticing the bouquet of lilies resting on the counter top. You can feel yourself flushing, opening the card that came with it.

Break a leg Juliet xx.

You ask around the rest of the cast but no one knows who left them, and while you hoped they came from a certain metalhead… you couldn’t be so sure. Your little cat and mouse game had suddenly turned into something very real, and part of you was afraid it would be over once the curtains closed.

You get ready for the show in a daze, now staring at yourself in the dressing room mirror as nerves rage through your insides. The rest of the cast had dissipated, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts.

“There’s the leading lady,” Eddie’s voice snaps you out of your haze, meeting his eyes in the mirror’s reflection. He must have noticed the look of panic across your features, as he rushes to your side.

You give him a weak smile in return, letting a heavy exhale escape past your lips.

“So uhhh, did you like the flowers?” He asks, and he can see your eyes light up in the mirror, momentarily forgetting nerves, fear and anxiety.

“So it was you,” he coaxes you to face him, kneeling next to you with a large grin.

“T’was I, fair maiden.” He does a half bow from his kneeling position, making you giggle.

“So you’re in love with me now?” You tease, as Eddie’s hands come to rest on your thighs, spreading them as much as he can in your dress before moving in between them.

“I’m literally going to die from nerves, what if I mess up my lines?” you begin, but Eddie seems to have much different plans.

“There she is….” he murmurs, more to himself.

You feel the heat pool in your middle at his words, squirming a little in your seat. Eddie reaches to cup your chin, tilting it down so you meet his gaze. His brown eyes sparkling with mischief, “You know, my offer still stands Lady Capulet.”

“Here? The doors are literally opening in fifteen minutes, don’t you have stage manager things to take care of?” your tone is alarmed, rather, a mix of alarm and excitement.

“My job as stage manager right now is to make sure Juliet feels comfortable enough to go on stage,” he grins, peppering kisses over your hand and wrist.

“But what if we get caught? Or you make me cum so hard I forget my lines?” The nerves make you ramble, as his chin rests on one of your thighs.

“As good as I am at eating you out sweetheart, I doubt that’ll happen.” He bunches the fabric of your costume up your thighs, beginning to give sweet caresses on the skin of your legs.

You seem unconvinced, still.

“Look, I’ll sweeten the deal. If you get all your lines right, which I don’t doubt you will, I’ll take you out on a date.” His lips are pursed in a coy smile.

Your eyes widen, “Like a date date? You and me?” and your heartbeat picks up.

“Who else, idiot?” Eddie laughs, which makes you smile, “Now,” he begins.

“Do you want me to do something about those jangled nerves of yours?” And you can’t help but bite your lip and nod.

His lips begin trailing up your thighs, a shiver running through you from his tender actions. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” He pauses, shifting closer as he switches sides, now leaving open mouth kisses along your opposite thigh. “It is the East, and Juliet is the sun.”

You feel your breath hitch in your throat as he works his way to your clothed center, his eyes flicking up to look at you. “Arise, fair sun and kill the envious moon… and whatever the fuck else Romeo says.” Eddie chuckles before eagerly pressing his mouth against your clothed pussy, his tongue lapping at the wet spot on the cotton.

A gasp bubbles deep in your throat at the sensation, feeling the bliss of his tongue through the cotton barrier, your body easing up from its nervous state.

He looks up at you, “Good, huh?” He hums through the fabric, and you’re wound up so tight you’re already panting.

He taps the side of your thigh to get you to lift your hips, removing your panties in the process.

A low whistle escapes him as you spread your legs for him again, “Talk about eating in costume, baby, jeez.” He chuckles, and the joke makes you laugh too.

A short lived laugh at that, turning into a breathless gasp when his tongue makes contact as he begins to lap up the length of your pussy.

Your hand immediately goes to tug at his curls, not caring that they’re tied up and out of his face to be able to see the cue sheets. The delicious pull at his scalp makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.

A low moan falls out of your lips, catching yourself, hand flying to your mouth as you hear the rest of the cast clamoring outside.

“Gotta be quiet, Lady Capulet,” he snickers as he goes back to burying his face between your legs. His tongue darting in and out of you as a hand reaches for your mouth, wetting two of his fingers.

You don’t hesitate to open up your mouth for him, a bite at the juncture between your pelvis and your thigh, “Atta girl.” He mumbles against the wet skin, popping his fingers out of your mouth to tease at your entrance.

“That’s it baby, focus on me.” A whine escapes you as you’re now grinding on his tongue, his fingers enter you slowly, head thrown back in pleasure.

“You nervous, baby?” He asks, a cocky smile on his face. His fingers curl upward, your eyes squeeze at the overwhelming sensation.

You shake your head, still sentient. Not too far gone yet.

“You gonna use me to get off, my lady?” His fingers are pumping faster, feeling tears brimming on your waterline, hoping to not spill all over your face, your stage makeup seems to be in precarious conditions.

A familiar warmth, deep in the pool of your tummy, “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop” You know how much he likes to hear you sing for him. His spare hand grabs onto your thigh, rings biting the soft skin there, feeling yourself teetering on the edge.

“Thaaaat’s it, you’re doing so well,” he whispers. One more pump of his fingers and you cum with a silent cry, biting onto your hand, feeling yourself pulsate around his fingers.

Without much warning he slips them out, sucking on his own fingers, tasting your own delicious essence.

“Places!” You hear Miss George say backstage, as Eddie retrieves your panties for you and slips them up your legs.

Eddie fixes his hair in the mirror, tying them back. He places a kiss on your cheek with a hurried, “Good luck— uh fuck I meant break a leg.” Then he furtively leaves the dressing room.

You feel a blush spreading across your body, finally relaxed and ready to begin the show.

You leave the dressing room, joining the rest of the cast, full of excitement. You know all your love monologues are going to be directed towards a certain metalhead tonight.

The show goes smoothly and you don’t forget a single line, you’re surrounded by family and friends, ready to do it all again the day after.

You go back into the dressing rooms to grab your stuff and change, but a long mop of curly hair occupies your chair.

“Eddie, you can’t be here!” you whisper, as he turns around with the biggest smile plastered on his face.

“Just wanted to tell my girl congratulations in private. You smashed it tonight,” you blush at the nickname.

“Since when am I your girl?” you ask, not letting him see how much it affected you.

“Since you kissed me in my van when I dropped you off, gorgeous.” He flirts, bottom lip trapped in between his teeth.

“So, how about that date?”

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

tagging: @thornsnvultures, @xxhellfirebunnyxx, @duuhrayliegh, @ali-r3n, @sunnythevampireslayer, @bimbobaggins69, @jamdoughnutmagician, @eiightysixbaby, @aphrogeneias, @daisy-munson, @gravedigginbbydoll, @s6raphic, @take-everything-you-can, @strangerstilinski

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #stranger things #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfiction #stage manager!eddie munson x theatre kid!reader #eddie munson fluff

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ak-vintage · 1 month

Text

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush. Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

#marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x f!reader #general marcus acacius #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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thebenjiblackwoodexpress · 2 months

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Devil's Snare part.2

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Description: Having realised that he's fallen in love with his handmaiden, Aemond tries to sway her heart to him despite her shy and introverted disposition. But he quickly finds that her heart is not easily won. Can the Prince succeed in winning his Lady with an unlikely combination of books, Vhagar, and advice from his sister Helaena.

Part 1 Part 3

Writer's note: thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed part 1. Hoping this doesn't stray too far from the direction you want it to go in. I have another part planned but would also welcome suggestions :)

Warnings: female reader, dual-pov narrative, slow-burn, mention of Granny Vhagar (she deserves her own trigger warning), lots of angst and lots of fluff too, pining, potentially ooc Aemond (although our Lord and saviour Ewan Mitchell agrees he's really just a Teddy Bear). Lengthy as always because if there's one thing I can't do it's get to the point.

Y/N huffed in frustration as she tried to replicate the braided hairstyle Helaena's handmaiden had shown her to little success. She tended to wear her hair in the same practical style each day, not having much skill in this regard. But her newfound intimacy with the Princess had led her to a friendship with her maid, who had a particular skill for elaborate hairstyles. Realising she would be late to her morning duties should she restart, she tied off the braid and set off for Prince Aemond's chambers. In truth, she now preferred to arrive at the Prince's chambers early so she could greet him for the day before he headed off to the training yard and she wouldn't see him again until that evening.

They had come to form what Y/N supposed could be considered a friendship, if any such relationship could exist between a servant and a Prince. Though she could not help her natural timidity, which prevented her from ever feeling truly comfortable in his presence and often prone to stuttering over her words. Prince Aemond seemed more than willing to accommodate this facet of her personality. He always listened to her so attentively, never interrupting her when she stumbled over her words as others often did in frustration.

With the gentle encouragement of Prince Aemond and his sister the Princess Helaena, Y/N had slowly begun to come more and more out of her shell. She recalled only a few nights ago how the Prince had made her laugh so carelessly, completely forgetting her introverted tendencies. He had been kind enough to lend her books from his private collection as she became more comfortable with reading under Helaena's guidance, and he had explicitly told her to select any that should interest her. As she was dusting the upper shelves in his chambers one evening she'd reached for an ornate tome of red leather that she could now tell concerned dragons. Y/N had always been fascinated with the creatures, thinking them godlike and otherworldly and was eager to learn more about them now that this was possible. It took a few attempts of her reaching as far as she could on tiptoe for her fingertips to even graze the spine of the book, it being on the top shelf and Y/N eventually resorted to jumping for it to no avail. Giving up with a huff to blow the hair that had escaped from her braid out of her face, she startled to see a hand reach for the book she'd wanted.

It had amused Aemond no small amount to see his handmaiden's ill fated attempts to reach the book she wanted from his shelves but he'd quickly stepped towards her as she'd made a jump for it, not wishing her to do anything which might cause her injury. He felt a satisfying sense of pride at being able to be of assistance to her, extending his own arm for the red book which he easily reached with his tall stature. It gratified him to feel she might have need of him and that he could be someone she looked to. Handing it out to her, he smiled encouragingly as he saw what volume had taken her interest this time. "So it is dragons you wish to read of? Have they long held your interest Y/N?" Taking the book from him, Y/N's eyes lit with a spark of uncontained excitement Aemond had rarely seen in his handmaiden. "I have since I was a young girl, they are such magnificent creatures. So beautiful and yet so powerful."

Humming in agreement at her assessment, Aemond's smile only grew as he leaned his head closer to her. "Would you like to meet one? I should be glad to introduce you to mine own, Vhagar." Y/N's face paled slightly at his suggestion. "I think I would be terrified if I were to actually meet a dragon in the flesh, My Prince. But I thank you for your most generous offer." Aemond feigned a pensive look for a moment. "I wouldn't be so sure of that, Y/N the fierce dragon rider has a certain ring to it? Does it not?" Aemond's heart swelled at the sweet sound of her laughter, the laughter he had provoked from his shy girl. And yet, he wished her to know that she would never have been in any danger had she taken him up on his offer, Vhagar would heed his commands and surely sense the importance this girl held for her rider. Looking at her earnestly as her laughter quietened, he spoke in a tone he hoped would convey the truth of his words. "You would always be safe with me, Y/N."

Y/N felt her heart flutter at the memory of Prince Aemond's words and as she passed along the halls of the Red Keep she briefly wondered what the Prince might think of her new hairstyle. She almost scoffed at herself for the ridiculousness of the thought, unsure of where it had even come from. As if the Prince should ever think of her hair, or indeed think of her at all when she was gone from his sight. Y/N looked down to ensure she did not trip in her haste as she neared the Prince's chambers. Just as she rounded the corner to his chambers she collided with a hard figure, letting out a yelp and closing her eyes tightly as she braced for a fall. Arms quickly wrapped around her to stop her momentum, one encircling her waist, the other wrapping around her shoulders. Y/N opened her eyes to find it was the Prince Aemond himself holding her and she smiled sheepishly up at him in embarrassment at the situation they found themselves in.

"I apologise My Prince, I was not looking where I was going." Quirking his lip up at her, Aemond pulled Y/N back up but maintained a gentle hold on her elbows to steady her. "I am only glad I was here to catch you little one." Y/N blushed at that and turned away from him slightly to hide it. A second later the Prince had let go of her entirely, taking a step back.

"I will see you later, Y/N."

Y/N tried to look anywhere but at Prince Aemond's eyes as she nodded.

"Yes, My Prince. I wish you a good day."

The Prince wasted no time in turning on his heels to stalk away from her and she could not help but feel that perhaps she had made him angry.

Aemond had waited in his chambers longer than was usual that morning, hoping to catch even a brief glimpse of his pretty handmaiden before he left to spend the day training with Ser Criston. He'd noticed she had begun to arrive earlier at his chambers and he felt hope surge in him that perhaps she sought him out, that she might enjoy their conversations as he did. When she did not show and he could tarry no longer he let out a growl of frustration and practically stormed from his room. Coming round a corner at such a great speed Aemond's eyes widened in alarm as he smacked straight into the very girl who consumed his thoughts. Quickly wrapping his arms around her so she would not fall, he frantically ran his eyes down her form to reassure himself he had not hurt her.

Aemond was momentarily stunned as Y/N opened her eyes and graced him with a sweet smile that had him tightening his hold on her, relishing the feeling of holding her in his arms. He scoffed inwardly at her apology, he had been only too happy to catch her, and had hoped to amuse her with his playful response. But as her cheeks reddened to a deep scarlet and she turned her face away from him, he relented. He pulled her to stand upright, though he could not help maintaining a light hold on her elbows in case she should stumble. Aemond did so love to see her blush, having convinced himself it must mean he had some power to affect her as she did him. But he did not wish to embarass her and cause her to put any more distance between them. He felt keenly that there was a wide enough chasm already.

The Prince tried to keep his tone even and remove any hint of the frustration he felt. He had begun to fear the worst, that Y/N would never feel truly comfortable with him, and if that were the case how could she ever learn to love him? Was he truly so displeasing to her, so terrifying? Anger coursed through his veins at the blow he had been dealt by the Seven in losing his eye, a disfigurement which he feared would also cost him the love of the woman before him, which he had come to covet above all else. Not wishing to show his already timid handmaiden his anger, he took his leave quickly.

Y/N gnawed on her bottom lip in her anxiety. She'd been stewing the entire day over her brief meeting with Prince Aemond that morning and inwardly cursing herself for her reaction to his simply helping her. It had clearly angered him, though she knew not why. She found herself wishing she were not so timid, that she could meet his gaze more easily, not stutter so much when she spoke to him. But the Seven had made her so and she could not see her natural disposition disappearing anytime soon. Nevertheless, she endeavoured to present a more welcoming figure when he returned to his chambers that evening and mend any infraction she had inadvertently caused.

As Prince Aemond reentered his chambers for the evening, Y/N turned to greet him with a warm smile lighting her face. "Good evening, My Prince. I trust you had a pleasant day." Y/N often greeted him as such, and the Prince would always readily respond with details of his training with the knight Ser Criston. She had hoped that falling into their normal routine would smooth over any irritation he might still feel towards her, but the smile fell from her face as he only continued to stand in the doorway staring at her. They passed a few moments in silence before Aemond spoke, so softly she had to strain to hear him. "You've changed your hair." That had been the last thing she'd expected him to say to her and she felt her heartbeat increase at the fact that he had noticed.

"The Princess Helaena had her maid show me some braiding techniques when I expressed an interest. She is kind to me."

"It is lovely." At Prince Aemond's words Y/N felt her cheeks burn and butterflies erupt in her stomach. But she forced herself not to shy away from his complement, lest she offend him as she had that morning.

"Thank you, My Prince. I am glad you should think so." Aemond's already handsome features lit up in a genuine smile, seemingly content at her accepting his compliment.

"You are always lovely."

Y/N's mouth parted slightly in surprise. Complimenting a change in hairstyle was one thing, calling her lovely another entirely. She could not understand his motivation for such a compliment, and felt immediately suspicious of it, despite the wild beating of her treacherous heart. She was just a servant girl, and could not possibly hope to have any claim to the heart of a Prince, so what did he mean by calling her lovely? Not knowing how to respond for the best, Y/N bystepped his words altogether and cleared her throat awkwardly. "I had the wine you requested brought up, it is on the console, and the books you requested brought from the library are on your desk. Will there be anything else this evening, My Prince?"

Y/N watched with regret as the Prince visibly stiffened at her cold tone, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. "That will be all, Y/N."

"My Prince", with a deferential curtsy she strode past Prince Aemond. Y/N quickly grew ashamed of her suspicion in him and her subsequent rudeness as she saw him cast his head down and shift to let her pass.

"I cannot sway her heart to me, Sister. Everytime I believe I have made progress, it is quickly followed by another mistake on my part which only seems to push her farther away from me." Aemond had sought his sister's advice, following his disastrous attempt at complimenting Y/N. He feared he had only made her uncomfortable given her cold reaction. He felt pained at the possibility it was him she found so objectionable, as opposed to an ill advised compliment.

Helaena looked thoughtful as she considered her brother's words. "What have you attempted so far to win her affections, brother?"

Aemond reccounted everything he had tried to do to make Y/N more comfortable around him. He'd hoped to build a friendship with her at first as a conduit for expressing his true romantic affections for her at a time when she would be more amenable to this.

He watched as Helaena pondered for an agonisingly long time on the correct response. But as a woman he expected she would be able to find a solution more ably than he could. "I think you should find a way to spend more time with her. You say it is normally only in the mornings and the evenings that you are together for a very brief time. Perhaps with more time spent in your company she will grow accustomed to your attentions and develop her own affections for you in turn." Aemond thought Helaena's suggestion wise and one he should have considered earlier. All this time he had been so concerned with ensuring he did not overstep any lines with Y/N, so very aware of her shy disposition, that he had not tried to orchestrate any more interactions than those she was already used to. But perhaps he needed to try a more direct approach to win his handmaiden over to him. He quickly developed a plan Helaena would have rejected out of hand had he voiced it.

For the second time that day, Y/N was frantically preparing tea in the kitchens, nestled in the lower levels of the Red Keep. Careless in her haste, she accidentally tipped some of the hot water she'd been pouring onto her hand. Letting out a string of curses, she quickly applied some cold water until she could no longer feel the sting so keenly, then hurried to set the already cooling tea on a tray, aware of the distance between the kitchens and the royal chambers where she needed to be. Prince Aemond had started to ask for tea to be brought to him twice a day about a week ago, having never expressed any inclination for it before. It did create some challenges for Y/N in trying to ensure the Prince's tea was delivered to him hot, all the while having to cross such a great distance in the Keep to do so.

And yet he always asked her to sit with him as he drank his tea, asking her various questions about herself, her childhood, her likes and dislikes. His line of questioning was often quite strange to Y/N, asking her what colours she liked best, whether she preferred the colder or warmer months, what flowers were her favourite. She had not thought any of these things about her should interest a Targaryen Prince. But she could not find it in herself to be irritated with his regular requests for tea, as she had come to look forward to these moments with Aemond. She did not know when she'd begun to think of him so informally, as Aemond rather than the Prince. It seemed to occur naturally over time as their tentative friendship grew and she spent more time in his presence. If Y/N was being completely honest with herself she'd even begun to harbour somewhat romantic feelings for the Prince. Blushing every time he met her gaze or their fingers grazed as she handed him his tea, she was sure he'd find her ridiculous if he should ever find out.

Rushing into his chambers, aware she'd taken much longer to deal with her burn, she began setting the tea before Aemond, stiffening as she heard him speak behind her.

"What is this?" His eyes had fallen on her injured hand and he spoke tensly...dangerously. "Did someone hurt you?"

Y/N quickly moved to dispell this theory as she noted how his hand clenched and jaw tightened. "No, My Prince. It is only a small burn. I was not careful enough when handling the tea this afternoon in my haste to make sure it arrived still warm." At her answer a look of pain seemed to cross the Prince's face as he stood, gently taking her hand in his to assess her injury. She realised she did not like to see him so distressed over her. "It is only a little thing. It will heal."

Gazing down at her, his own good eye boring into her own, a penitent look fell over his features. "I do not much like tea. You do not need to bring it to me any longer. I would not have you hurt yourself again on my account."

Y/N was confused for a mere moment before anger took its place. She had thought it strange when he'd begun to ask for tea so regularly, having never expressed an inclination for it before. And here she'd been running about the Keep several times a day, trying and even burning herself in the attempt to fulfill his request when the kitchens were so far from his chambers on the upper levels of the Keep. Only to find he did not even enjoy the tea. Why would he do such a thing? She roughly ripped her hand from his hold, stepping back from him even as he began to follow her. "Were you laughing at me? Was it a mere jest to watch me run about the Keep all day for no reason?" She did not know where she'd found her courage, or perhaps the audacity to address the Prince in such a manner.

He looked positively alarmed now at the fierceness of her glare, having never inspired it before.

"No, of course not."

"Then why?"

"I only wished to spend more time with you"

The unexpectedness of his answer halted Y/N where she stood, allowing Aemond to close the distance between them until they stood nearly chest to chest.

"With me. But why?"

Aemond moved slowly as if she could bolt at any second, perhaps giving her the chance to pull away from him again if she wished. Recapturing her hand in his, he raised it to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss on the palm of her hand where the burn was. Pulling away, he held her hand against his heart and Y/N couldn't fail to take his meaning even though he didn't say the words directly. He must have an affection for her, perhaps not so strong as that which she held for him, but still there. In this knowledge, she supposed his actions though misguided could be considered sweet. She found herself at a loss for words, her mind swimming with the possibilities of what this could mean, and the inherent dangers of having feelings for a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms as a lowly servant girl.

In the moment she felt unable to decide whether she wanted Aemond to reciprocate her feelings or not, and whether she was comfortable with his advances. He'd seemed to sense her indecision as he gazed down at her face. Releasing her hand and lowering it back to her side, he stepped back from her until he was leaning against a side table. He was always so respectful of her, attentively watching for any signs of her discomfort and responding in kind. She was torn, wanting to reach for him again but knowing within her heart that nothing good could come of their feelings for one another. Better to repress them now rather than let them continue to grow and inevitably lead to dissapointment when he married a courtly Lady or Dornish Princess.

"Good night Y/N."

Y/N's eyes snapped up to meet Aemond's, expecting to find irritation or perhaps disspointment with her confused state. She was startled to find only steely determination in his eyes. "Good Night, My Prince." Willing herself not to turn around and look at him, in case she did something truly reckless, she headed straight for the servant's quarters.

Aemond felt more sure of himself than he ever had that he could win Y/N's love. He felt certain she already harboured an affection for him, she was only indecisive on whether to act on it, perhaps unsure of his intentions. This was understandable and he would seek to remedy it, for he had seen how her eyes had softened as he'd kissed her hand, how she had subconsciously curled her hand around his tunic once he'd placed it against his heart, as if to pull him closer to her. But watching her inner turmoil play out in her expressions and in her silence, he resolved to be patient, stepping back from her to allow her space to think. He loved her and was now convinced she at least held some feelings for him, in the end it did not matter how long it took to convince her of the fact.

@sapphiresandferrari

@pinkykats-place

@superintenseart

@callsigncrushx

@idonotknowenglish

@lportes-22

@misspinkonmars

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pucksandpower · 11 months

Text

A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship

Max Verstappen x reporter!Reader

Summary: Max decides to get relationship advice from a book written in 1815 and it goes about as well as you would expect. But sometimes the wrong formula still gets the right answer

“In our modern age, when so many standards of propriety have shifted, a gentleman may find himself at a loss when attempting to court a young lady. The rules of etiquette that governed such relationships in decades past offered a framework to guide conduct and ensure all was done properly.

This humble volume intends to provide today’s gentleman that same guidance, so that he may pay suit to the object of his affection in a manner befitting them both. Within these pages, the reader will find what constitutes proper introductions, suitable topics of conversation, appropriate gifts or tokens of regard, and protocols for exchanging correspondence.

While society evolves, there remain certain courtesies that bespeak good breeding. Master these, and you shall go far in winning the hand of any respectable young lady.”

- Excerpt from “A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship” by Reginald Worthington, 1815

A gentleman must display impeccable manners, never using foul language and maintaining a calm and collected demeanor at all times.

“So Max, tell us how you’re feeling ahead of the British Grand Prix this weekend,” you ask, microphone in hand.

Max shifts in his seat, avoiding your gaze. “Uh, yeah, feeling good. The car has been quick so far this weekend in practice.”

You nod enthusiastically. As the newly appointed F1 reporter for Sky Sports, you’re eager to prove yourself in the paddock. And getting an exclusive interview with the reigning double world champion is a great start.

“You have not won at Silverstone before. Do you think you can do it for the first time on Sunday?”

“Absolutely. The team have been working hard and I think we have a good chance,” Max replies.

You glance down at your notes. “Now Max, let’s go back to last weekend in Austria. The incident with Lando on the first lap — can you walk us through what happened from your perspective?”

Max feels his face getting hot. The controversial collision is still a sore point after the race stewards penalized him. He takes a breath, pushing down his true feelings.

“Well, it was racing incident,” he says slowly. “Lando had a good start and was alongside going into turn one. It was tight between us and unfortunately we made contact.”

You raise an eyebrow. “But do you feel that you were more at fault? It seemed to be quite an aggressive move.”

Max clenches his fist under the table discreetly. Calm and collected, he reminds himself.

“Like I said, it was just racing. These things happen sometimes between us drivers.”

“So you don’t think it was an unsafe maneuver on your part?” You press. Your piercing gaze makes Max shift again.

Just stay polite, he thinks. But his frustration boils over.

“It was freaking racing, okay!” He snaps, his calm demeanor vanishing. “Shit happens! Lando didn’t leave me space and we collided. Don’t try to blame me!”

You lean back, eyes widening in surprise at his sudden outburst. Max’s heart drops, immediately regretting his loss of composure.

“Uh, sorry about that,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t mean to curse.”

“No worries, I understand it’s a sensitive topic,” you say evenly. But inside, you’re taken aback. You’ve never seen Max Verstappen react like this.

Desperate to get the interview back on track, you move to the next question. “Let’s talk about your rivalry on the track. Do you feel the tension has somewhat decreased this season as you run ahead with the championship?”

Max nods, clinging to the redirect. “All twenty drivers on the grid are competitors at heart. For sure the rivalry grows each season. Not everyone is fighting for the title so there’s less at stake for some but that can change at any moment. There is always respect between us.”

His standard PR answer seems to bore you. Glancing at the clock, you start wrapping up the interview.

“Last question, Max. Any special plans for the British Grand Prix weekend?”

“Eh, not really,” Max mutters, still kicking himself for losing his temper earlier. So much for gentlemanly manners around ladies. You’ll surely think he’s a foul-mouthed jerk now.

“Okay, I think that’s all we have time for,” you say, standing up. “Thanks again for the interview, Max, I know you’re quite busy here.”

“Yep, no problem,” Max mumbles, avoiding eye contact.

You turn to leave, but stop. “And Max? Don’t worry too much about the clash with Lando. It happens to all drivers sometimes. See you around!” You flash him a smile before exiting.

Max sits stunned for a moment after you leave. Even after his swearing and temper, you hadn’t been upset with him.

A grin slowly spreads across his face. Maybe he hadn’t ruined his chances after all!

Walking back to the Red Bull motorhome, Max can’t stop thinking about you. The way you smiled at him, so warm and understanding. And how you smelled vaguely of lavender.

Max has been captivated since you arrived in the paddock but he has no idea how to approach you … or any woman for that matter.

His only experience is with fast cars, not beautiful reporters.

Pulling up to his driver room, Max is greeted by his physio, Bradley.

“How did it go mate? You look bothered,” Brad asks.

Max sighs. “That interview with Y/N was a disaster. I screwed it up!”

He recounts his slip-up angrily cursing about Lando to Brad, who tries to stifle a laugh.

“Really, that’s what you’re worried about? A little swearing? I’m sure she’s heard far worse around the paddock!”

“But the book said to never use foul language around ladies! To be a gentleman at all times! And I failed at the first test!” Max runs an agitated hand through his hair. “Now she’ll never consider me as a suitor.”

Brad gapes at him. “A suitor? Max, what century are you living in?” He glances down and notices the antique book peeking from Max’s backpack.

Grabbing it, Brad starts flipping through the pages incredulously.

“Wait, you’re actually trying to follow advice from this ancient thing to get a girl?”

Max tries to grab the book back, his cheeks reddening. “Give it back! Yes it’s old but shouldn’t dating still be proper and polite?”

“This stuff is wildly outdated. Just ask her out for drinks. Be yourself!” Brad gestures exasperatedly.

“I can’t just ask her out, are you crazy?” Max sputters. “What if she says no?”

Brad places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the bloody world champion. And you’re not too hard on the eyes. She’d be mad to turn you down!”

Max cracks a reluctant smile, appreciating the confidence in him. Maybe Brad is right, Max considers. He just needs to relax and stop overthinking things.

“Tell you what, the team is throwing a big party after the race on Sunday. Why don’t you invite Y/N as your date?” Brad suggests.

Max’s stomach flutters nervously at the thought. “I guess I could try ...”

Brad claps him on the back. “That’s what I’m talking about! Now hand that daft old book over so I can throw it in the bin.”

“No! I mean … I’ll hold onto it,” Max says, snatching it back.

It may be outdated but it still has some wise words, he thinks. Even if he doesn’t follow everything word-for-word, a brush up on manners couldn’t hurt.

Max feels reenergized. One mishap wouldn’t ruin his chances with you.

This weekend he would focus on winning the British Grand Prix. And then he would ask you to be his date for the after-party.

Properly, like a gentleman.

What could go wrong?

A gentleman should compose handwritten letters with eloquence and embellished language to express his sentiments, as these missives often carry great weight.

Max sits at the desk in his driver room, pen poised over a pad of stationary borrowed from the hotel.

He takes a deep breath.

My Dearest Y/N …

He pauses. How exactly does he eloquently express his feelings here? Chewing the pen anxiously, he tries again.

My Dearest Y/N,

Since first you did arrive upon the Formula 1 scene, I have been captivated by your beauty and grace ...

Max groans, crumpling up the paper. This sounds ridiculous! But the book had stressed the importance of handwritten letters to woo a lady. And with his shyness around you in person, writing a letter seemed the best approach.

If only he could find the right words.

Staring at the blank sheet of paper, Max thinks back to the British Grand Prix last weekend. He had taken Brad’s advice and invited you to the post-race celebrations as his date.

To his delight, you had happily accepted.

The party had been going perfectly. You both laughed and chatted easily over drinks. Then the DJ started playing and Max got the courage to ask you to dance. With your hand in his, bodies swaying gently together, Max was sure this was his moment to finally tell you his feelings.

But when he tried, the words tangled up inside. His throat went dry and he could only stare mute into your eyes. The song ended and the magic of the moment faded. You slipped away back to your friends, leaving Max cursing his nervousness.

Which is why he’s now resorted to writing a letter. If only he can find the right poetic phrases, he would be able to express everything in his heart.

Chewing his lip, Max starts again.

My Dearest Y/N,

Ever since you did arrive in this paddock, I have admired you from afar. Your beauty and spirit doth light up the Formula 1 world. Being in your radiant presence doth make my heart soar ...

Max frowns. He sounds like Shakespeare on steroids. This is getting him nowhere. Crumpling up another attempt, he gets an idea. He needs advice from someone more eloquent. Pulling out his phone, he selects Daniel Ricciardo’s number.

“Maxie! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Daniel answers cheerily.

“I need your help. I’m trying to write a letter to Y/N telling her ...byou know, that I like her,” Max mumbles. “But I’m struggling with the words. You’re so smooth and charming — any advice?”

Daniel laughs loudly through the phone. “A love letter mate? That’s adorable!”

Max rolls his eyes. “Haha. Yes, it’s hilarious. Do you have any tips or not?”

“Hmm okay, don’t stress too much over the fancy wording. Keep it simple and heartfelt, you know? Just speak honestly about why you like her.”

Max nods. “Right, speak from the heart. I can do that.”

“Go get her champ! Let me know if you need any more romantic advice,” Daniel teases.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Max hangs up with a smile.

Taking a fresh piece of paper, he starts writing.

Dear Y/N,

I wanted to properly tell you how I feel about you. From the moment I first saw you in the paddock, I thought you were the most beautiful and amazing woman.

Your smile makes me weak. Being near you gives me butterflies in my stomach.

Spending time together at the party was really special for me. I wish I had told you then how I felt. But I get so nervous around you that the words don’t come out right. So I thought writing this might be easier.

I know we haven’t known each other long. But I would love the chance to get to know you more. Maybe we could have dinner sometime, if you feel the same way?

Let me know.

Yours,

Max

Max reads over the short letter and nods, satisfied. It’s simple and honest, just saying the thoughts he can never seem to speak out loud around you.

So, after carefully folding the stationary, Max slips out of the Red Bull motorhome in search of you.

Max finds you chatting with some other journalists near the media center. He hangs back shyly, waiting for you to be free.

You glance up and catch his eye, giving a smile and wave. Taking a deep breath, Max approaches.

“Hi, Y/N. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course!” You say, turning to him. The other reporters conveniently scatter, leaving the two of you alone.

“So uh, I wrote you this letter.” Max mutters, pulling the folded paper from his pocket. His palms are sweating and he rubs his neck nervously. “It’s just some thoughts I wanted to share with you.”

“Aww Max, you didn’t have to write me anything!” You beam at him sweetly.

Max shoves the letter toward you, willing himself to just give it over before he loses confidence. But as you reach out for it, anxiety grips him.

What if you reject him after reading it? Or worse, what if you show the soppy love letter to your coworkersto laugh about?

His pulse pounding, Max swiftly yanks the letter back. Before he can think twice, he starts hastily ripping it up into tiny shreds.

“Max!” You cry out in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“I, uh, just realized how weird it was to write you something so personal,” Max stammers, face flaming red.

He lets the shreds of paper fall from his fingers.

“Oh.” Your face falls in disappointment. “That’s too bad, I’m sure it was very thoughtful ...”

An awkward silence follows. Max curses internally, hating himself. Why had he chickened out at the last second? He scrambles for something to say.

“Yeah, it was too forward of me,” he rambles nervously. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea about us. Not that there is an us! I mean, we’re colleagues.”

You frown slightly in confusion. “Colleagues? I thought we were becoming friends ...”

“Right, yes friends!” Max amends quickly. “Friends is good. Don’t want rumors or gossip spreading. Not that what I wrote was gossip worthy! It was boring really, nothing important.”

He forces out a laugh, cringing at his bumbling excuse. You just stare at him in bewilderment.

“O-kay then ... well, I need to get back to work. See you around, Max.” You give him a strange look before turning away slowly.

Max watches you walk off, letting out a long groan once you’re out of earshot.

He slaps a hand to his forehead. Could that have gone any worse? He’d absolutely butchered it and now you must think he’s a complete weirdo.

Dejected, Max trudges back to the motorhome. He replays the scene in his head, berating himself over and over. If only he had the guts to just give you that letter!

Instead he had to go and make a complete fool of himself. There’s no way you have any interest in him now after witnessing that trainwreck.

Sulking back to his driver’s room, Max finds his teammate in the hallways.

“What’s up with you? You look like you just lost the championship,” Checo remarks.

Max just opens his door and flops down onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh. “I really screwed things up with Y/N ...”

He recounts the whole awkward encounter to Checo, who tries and fails to hold back laughter.

“It’s not funny!” Max snaps, tossing a scrunched up sock at him.

“Sorry, hermano,” Checo says, composing himself. “But really, I doubt it was that bad. Just explain to Y/N what happened and try again.”

“No way. It’s hopeless now,” Max moans. “I can’t face her after that.” He grabs one of the shredded letter pieces off the table, smoothing it out to reveal a fragment of his confession.

Crumpling it back up, Max tosses it aside bitterly. He definitely lost his chance thanks to his own nerves and stupidity.

Max does everything he can to avoid you over the next days, too embarrassed to face you after the letter fiasco. For your own part, you seem equally uncertain how to act around him now.

At races you keep interactions strictly professional. The ease and friendship that was developing between you is gone.

Max hates that he ruined everything before it could even really begin.

It’s not until the Dutch Grand Prix weeks later that you finally confront him.

“We should talk,” you say, catching Max alone after practice one day. “Why have you been avoiding me since Silverstone?”

Max shuffles his feet, staring at the ground. “I just made things weird with that letter. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You step closer, tilting his chin up gently so he meets your eyes.

“I thought the idea behind it was really sweet. I was so disappointed when you just ripped it up. I care about you, so don’t push me away, okay?”

Heart pounding, Max manages a sheepish nod.

You lean in slowly and kiss his cheek, pretending not to notice how his skin turns rosy.

“I’m still waiting to see what you wrote for me one day,” you whisper with a smile before walking off, leaving Max stunned.

Touching his cheek, a grin spreads across Max’s face. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything after all.

The book might know a thing or two.

A gentleman should present small tokens of affection: Offering a lady flowers, a lock of hair, or a sentimental keepsake is a cherished practice.

Max paces the floor of his Monaco apartment, phone in hand as he scrolls through a website about flower meanings and symbolism.

Max clicks on the different options, overwhelmed. Who knew flowers were so complicated? Red roses mean passion but are too strong for courting. Yellow roses signify friendship. White lilies convey purity and innocence.

Max frowns. None of these seem quite right.

Finally he comes across the perfect choice — peonies. According to the guide, pink peonies signal romance, prosperity and good fortune.

Isn’t that romantic? This will be the ideal flower to to show how much he cares for you.

Satisfied with his floral choice, Max orders an impressive bouquet of pink peonies to be delivered to you before the upcoming race.

As soon as you receive them, he anxiously waits for your reaction.

To his disappointment, no thank you comes. In fact, you don’t acknowledge the flowers at all.

When Max finally spots you in the paddock on Thursday, his smile fades at your red-rimmed eyes and congested voice.

“Are you okay? You don’t look well,” Max frowns.

You give a stuffy laugh. “Thanks, just what every girl wants to hear.” Dabbing at your runny nose with a tissue, you sigh. “Sorry, I’m a mess today. Turns out I’m quite allergic to peonies. Those lovely flowers you sent put me out of commission the past two days.”

Max’s eyes widen in alarm. “Wait, you’re allergic to peonies? I had no idea, I’m so sorry!”

He mentally kicks himself. Some romantic gesture this was, practically making you ill. “I was just trying to do something nice ...” he says guiltily.

But you wave off his concern with a smile, touched that he went to such effort. “It’s really sweet of you, truly. They were beautiful. My immune system just seems to have other plans.”

Max shoves his hands in his pockets. “Let me make it up to you. What if I cook you dinner next week instead of flowers?”

Your cheeks flush slightly. “I would really like that.”

***

The following Tuesday, Max puts his meager cooking skills to use whipping up pasta. Pretty soon he has an aromatic tomato sauce simmering away while he slices bread for garlic toast.

When you arrive, bottle of wine in hand, Max greets you wearing a “World’s Okayest Chef” apron. Laughter and light banter flow easily between you two all evening. The domesticity of sharing a meal together feels wonderfully natural. Lingering glances and touches over the table make it clear this is now a proper date.

After dessert, you help Max tidy up the kitchen. Playfully flicking soap suds at each other soon turns into a full-on bubble fight. Laughing and stumbling into each other, Max ends up gently pinning you against the counter.

Your giggles trail off, smiles fading into something warmer. Slowly Max leans in, lips meeting yours in a soft kiss.

When you eventually pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours contentedly. No flowers or grand gestures needed.

Just this — being together.

***

Before free practice of the following race, Max seeks you out, fidgeting nervously with the small pair of scissors in his hands.

“I … I wanted to give you something special. A token of my affection for you.”

Before you can react, Max takes a lock of his light brown hair and starts snipping right there in front of you. Your eyes widen in surprise as the severed strands fall into his palm.

“It’s uh, a lock of my hair. For you to keep,” he explains, holding it out to you sheepishly.

You have to stifle a laugh at how earnest he looks. “Wow Max, that’s really thoughtful but you didn’t have to cut your hair for me!”

Max’s cheeks flush pink. “No, I want you to have it! To show, you know, that I’m devoted to you and all that ...” His voice trails off at your amused expression.

Maybe this romantic gesture is a bit stranger than he realized. But you take the lock of hair from him with a gracious smile.

“Well, I’ll always treasure a piece of you.”

His grin brightens. Then he remembers the other part of his gift. “Oh wait, there’s more!”

He pulls a small oval locket from his pocket and clicks it open to reveal an empty compartment.

“I thought you could keep the hair in this locket, close to your heart,” he explains earnestly. “That way you will always have a part of me with you.”

Your eyes soften, touched by the sentiment if not the unconventional nature of his gift. But seeing how much thought Max put into it makes you melt and you give him a quick kiss.

“It’s perfect, thank you. Here, would you put the hair inside for me?”

Carefully, Max places the strands into the golden locket and fastens it around your neck, face lit up.

“So you really like it then?”

You nod, gently clasping the locket in your hand. “I’ll cherish it always.”

A gentleman should bring a tasteful gift, such as a book of poetry or a hand-painted fan, as a gesture of appreciation for her hospitality when visiting a lady’s home.

Max double checks the address on his phone as he pulls up outside your London flat. He’s visiting for the first time today and wants to make a good impression.

Max looks down at your gift on the passenger seat — a squirming bengal kitten, licking up the treat Max had brought to calm her for the car ride.

You had completely fallen for his two rambunctious bengal cats when you met them at his apartment.

“They are just the cutest! I’ve always wanted a bengal,” you had cooed as Jimmy curled up contentedly in your lap while Sassy climbed across your shoulders.

So when Max saw that the ethical breeder he bought his cats from had this spirited little kitten available, he knew she would be the perfect gift for your first proper date at your home.

A living reminder of the night your relationship began.

Scooping up the wriggling furball, Max walks up and rings your buzzer.

You greet him at the door with a smile and quick kiss, then abruptly stop short at the sight of the kitten in his arms.

“Max, what is that?”

“It’s a bengal kitten!” He announces proudly, holding her up like he is reenacting The Lion King. “I got her for you, as a gift.”

He holds the mewling kitten out to you eagerly. You stare back, mouth agape.

“You got me a kitten? Max, that’s insane!” You exclaim. “Bengals cost thousands of euros, you can’t just show up with one. Oh my god, please tell me you didn’t seriously buy me a €3000 cat.”

Max’s smile falters, realizing suddenly how over-the-top the gift seems.

“I mean, I just wanted to do something really special for you,” he mumbles, face reddening.

The kitten lets out a pitiful meow. You bite your lip, conflicted. She really is adorable. And you know Max meant well with his lavish gesture. Sighing, you open your door wider.

“Okay, I guess I can’t turn away this cutie now. Come on in.”

Max’s face lights up in relief. “You’ll keep her then? That’s amazing!”

He carefully sets the energetic furball down and she immediately starts exploring. You have to laugh as she pounces and tumbles over her paws.

“She’s going to destroy all my stuff,” you stare resignedly as she claws her way up your upholstered couch, claws snagging the fabric.

Max waves off your concern. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for anything she ruins. And I’ll make sure she can come to races too, so you’re never apart.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think they’re going to let a kitten into the paddock?”

“Lewis brings Roscoe so they have to allow cats too or it’s not fair! Don’t worry, I will make it happen,” Max declares confidently.

Despite yourself, you smile at his determination. Gazing down at the kitten now nibbling your toe, your reservations melt away.

She really has stolen your heart already.

“Well, I guess we’re in this together now, huh little one?” You murmur. “Thank you. I think she’s the perfect gift.”

His whole face lights up at those words. Impulsively, you stand on tiptoe to kiss him.

“I think I’ll name her Emiliana,” you suggest softly. “Since she’s my special gift from Max Emilian Verstappen.”

Max grins. “I love that idea.”

Maybe Max is out of touch with normal gift-giving. But looking into his smiling eyes, you know everything he does comes from a place of love. And you wouldn’t change his thoughtfulness for anything.

Even if it means welcoming a hyperactive €3000 kitten into your life.

A gentleman should exercise prudence and restraint in the event that his family honor is insulted. Engaging in a duel must be the last resort, pursued only when all other means of resolving the matter have been exhausted.

“Who’s ready for her first race?” You coo to Emiliana, clipping a leash on to her harness. The energetic bengal kitten twirls in excited circles hearing the jingle of her collar.

Max chuckles, scooping Emiliana up. “I know you’ll love exploring the garage!” Kissing her furry head, he nestles her safely in his jacket pocket for the walk over.

Arriving at the bustling paddock, Max gently puts Emiliana down to allow her to explore, the kitten’s wide eyes reflect the flash of cameras and bright team colors swirling around. With Max’s hand securely in yours, you both smile proudly showing her off to the other drivers and staff.

Most are delighted, stopping to fawn over the curious feline. But as you pass by the Alpine motorhome, she ends up scampering across the asphalt and almost tripping Esteban Ocon in the process.

“Ugh, control your overgrown rat!” He grumbles loudly.

Max freezes, blood boiling at the insult toward Emiliana. Clenching his fists, he spins to confront Esteban. But you grab his arm firmly.

“Max, stop. He’s not worth it,” you murmur. After a tense moment, Max reluctantly relaxes his stance, not wanting to cause a scene.

You steer him away, stroking Emiliana comfortingly. “Don’t listen to the mean man, sweetie. You are perfect.”

But Max continues seething silently.

The remainder of the weekend passes uneventfully and you assume Max has let go of the unpleasant encounter. But once the race starts, you grow anxious seeing the two drivers battling unusually close together.

Sure enough, despite leading comfortably, Max slows his car to allow Esteban to catch up. Your heart drops as Max then swerves aggressively into Esteban’s side, sending him spinning off in a blaze of shredded carbon fiber. Meanwhile, Max continues on unfazed to take the chequered flag.

You’re fuming when Max finally makes his way back to the garage. Seeing your crossed arms and fiery glare, his triumphant smile fades.

“I know what you’re going to say ...” he starts guiltily.

“That you promised not to seek revenge and then deliberately crashed Esteban?” You snap.

Max winces. “Seeing him just brought back all that anger ...”

“So you decided to punt him at 200 mph?” You throw your hands up in exasperation.

“I was not thinking clearly,” Max scuffs his shoe. “My temper took over again.”

Your anger melts slightly seeing Max’s remorse. With a sigh, you pull him into a tight hug. “Do you have any idea how badly you both could’ve been hurt by pulling a stunt like that?”

Max looks down, properly chastised. “You’re right, it was really dangerous what I did.”

“Not to mention nearly ruining your own race!”

“I didn’t care about losing position,” Max admits. “I have already secured the championship. Defending Emiliana’s honor was more important in the moment.”

You shake your head. “Our kitten’s honor is not worth you risking your life! Please think these things through before acting so rashly.”

“You’re right, I wasn’t thinking straight,” Max says sincerely. “I promise to be more responsible going forward. No more putting myself or anyone else in danger over petty spats.”

He hugs you close again. “Thank you for keeping me rational and safe.”

You smile up at him with a soft laugh, letting some of your tension melt away. "Someone has to.”

A gentleman should keep a strict code of chivalry: Offer your seat to a lady, hold doors, and protect her from harm, both physical and emotional.

The Singapore Grand Prix is always a grueling one thanks to the heat and humidity. But this weekend, Mother Nature seems intent on making it even tougher.

Dark ominous clouds have been building all afternoon before finally bursting open right as final practice ends. Fat raindrops pelt down rapidly, sending the paddock scrambling for cover.

Safely under the shelter of the Red Bull garage, Max keeps an eye out for you. He knows you’re stuck in the media pen finishing interviews along with the other reporters.

Sure enough, he spots your ponytail across the pen, soaked through as you attempt to shield your equipment from the downpour.

Without thinking, Max hands off his mic and races out into the rain toward you. Holding his team jacket over your head, he guides you under the shelter of a nearby awning.

“Oh my gosh, Max! You’re soaked!” You exclaim, taking in his drenched state.

But Max just shrugs it off. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Couldn’t let you get caught out there though.”

He rubs your arms briskly, trying to warm you up. Seeing you shivering in your thin blouse — now transparent from the rain — Max feels a pang of protectiveness.

“Here, let me get you something dry ...” He sprints off, returning minutes later with a Red Bull hoodie and umbrella from his driver’s room.

Bundling you up in the warm dry clothes, Max finally relaxes. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. But I wasn’t about to leave you stranded in that!”

You smile up at him, sincerely touched. “My hero! Thank you, superstar.”

Leaning up on your tiptoes, you give him a soft kiss. Max thinks that heart swells three sizes, thrilled that he was able to protect you.

As the weekend goes on, Max keeps finding little ways to display chivalry. Opening doors, giving you his seat, shielding you with umbrellas whenever the rain returns.

You assure him that the fussing is unnecessary but Max insists. He wants you to feel cared for and safe at all times.

Unfortunately, not everyone in the paddock shares that sentiment.

You’re rushing to grab some coffee before the race when you overhear a muttered conversation by a group of reporters that are huddled together.

“There she is — Verstappen’s girl ...”

“Ugh, it’s so obvious she only got the job with Sky Sports because they’re dating.”

“Sleeping her way to the top if you ask me. No way she’d be here otherwise ...”

Their cruel laughter cuts through you sharply. Blinking back sudden tears, you hurry away before they can notice you.

Of course you’ve dealt with doubters questioning your skill and merits before. It’s an occupational hazard as a woman in motorsport.

But having your relationship with Max twisted in such a way stings deeply.

Arriving at the grid, you paste on a smile and try not to let the nasty remarks ruin your day. You have always had to work twice as hard to prove yourself and you were not going to give up now.

But Max notices that something is off immediately. And, when you keep avoid his concerned gaze, he gently presses for answers.

“What’s wrong, liefde? And don’t say nothing,” he adds, seeing you open your mouth to brush it off.

You sigh, reluctantly telling him about the reporters’ hurtful comments. Instantly Max’s jaw tightens, anger flashing in his eyes.

“Who said that? Point them out to me.”

You hesitate, not wanting to cause a scene. But Max takes your hand firmly.

“I won’t let them get away with questioning your integrity like that. It’s unacceptable.”

So you subtly point out the gossiping reporters huddled nearby. Max’s gaze darkens. Turning on his heel, he marches straight for the media center.

By the time you catch up, he’s already deep in a terse conversation with Formula 1’s head of communications.

You watch in astonishment as the offenders’ media access is promptly revoked despite their loud protests. But Max stands firm, insisting this is non-negotiable if he is expected to keep participating in his media duties.

When he finally returns to you, his anger has melted away into concern. “I’m so sorry you had to hear their garbage. Don’t ever listen to it, okay? You are brilliant at what you do.”

Your eyes well up again but this time from gratitude. Even during the pre-race chaos, Max made defending you his top priority.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hugging him tightly. “My knight in shining racing gear.”

Max just holds you close, wishing he could shield you from all harm. Because your happiness and comfort are paramount to him. And Max will gladly take on any dragon — or unscrupulous reporter — that dares to threaten that.

With Max by your side, ready to come to your aid in rain or shine, you know everything will be okay.

A gentleman should always be well-dressed in the latest fashions and ensure that his cravat is tied to perfection.

Max frowns down at the open suitcase on his bed, clothes strewn everywhere. He’s digging through the wardrobe he packed trying to find something stylish to wear for the United States Grand Prix.

The problem is, Max has no idea what the latest fashions even are. Jeans and a team-branded shirt are his staples both on and off the track. But he needs to make more effort for you.

Sifting through his options unsuccessfully, Max sighs. There’s nothing here that screams high fashion. He would have to do the unthinkable and ask advice from someone … like Lewis Hamilton.

Max cringes at the thought of approaching his rival for fashion help. But Lewis is always complemented for his outfits so he is clearly an expert on the subject.

Swallowing his pride, Max fires off a text before he can overthink it.

To his surprise, Lewis responds enthusiastically with suggestions and styling tips. Their competitive rivalry is momentarily forgotten as the veteran driver dedicates all day to helping Max looking sharp.

Arriving at the paddock on Thursday morning, Max scrutinizes his reflection anxiously while scanning his pass. He’s wearing slim-fitting distressed jeans with a silky patterned shirt that Lewis instructed was to be left half-unbuttoned.

Definitely way flashier than his normal attire but Lewis assured him it was very on-trend. So Max takes a deep breath and heads out to find you.

Your eyes widen in surprise taking in his dramatic style overhaul. “Whoa, look at you!”

Max preens a bit, relieved that you don’t seem to be put off by his bold fashion choice.

“I figured it was time to elevate my fashion game,” he spins cheekily to show off the full look.

You have to stifle a laugh at seeing straight-laced Max suddenly dressing like a runway model after fans used to be shocked to see him in anything other than a white shirt.

It’s certainly different but cute that he’s putting in so much effort for your relationship.

As the weekend continues, so does Max’s parade of high fashion outfits. He turns up looking like he stepped off a catwalk in trendy printed shirts, embroidered jackets, and even sequined trousers.

By Sunday, the dramatic style transformation has paddock tongues wagging. Max appears entirely oblivious to the gossip though, just happy that his attempts to impress you seem to be working.

But watching him awkwardly fidget with the billowing oversized silk sleeves of today’s shirt as he tries to focus on preparing for the race, you realize that this isn’t your Max. Not really.

Catching his eye, you gesture for him to join you out of earshot and away from the view of cameras. Gently taking his hands, you meet his gaze.

“Be honest with me, what’s going on with the makeover? This isn’t like you at all.”

He ducks his head with a sheepish smile. “I just wanted to dress nicely for you this weekend. Like a proper gentleman.”

You lift his chin until he’s looking at you again. “You don’t have to try and be someone else for me. I like you for you — jeans, team kit, and all.”

Max’s shoulders relax in relief. “Yeah?”

“Of course! Please don’t feel like you ever have to change.” You lean up to kiss him softly. “Now let’s get you into some racing gear, champ.”

A gentleman should know that prolonged eye contact is a powerful tool for conveying one’s intentions.

“So Max, I have to ask about the incident with Carlos last race. Do you think your aggression was over the line?”

You fixes Max with an inquisitive gaze, microphone poised as you wait for his response. But instead of answering, he just stares back intensely without blinking.

After a long awkward pause, you shift in your seat. “Uh, Max? Did you hear my question?”

“Hmm? Oh right, yeah. It was just racing, these things happen,” he says vaguely, eyes never leaving yours.

You move on to the next question, puzzled by his distracted behavior. Throughout the interview, Max continues gazing at you unwaveringly.

It’s a bit unsettling to have him stare so fixedly without looking away.

Finally you wrap up the stilted conversation, feeling relieved to escape his laser focus. What was up with that?

Over the weekend, you catch Max staring silently at you on numerous occasions — in hospitality, on the grid, across the garage. Without blinking or looking away, he’ll fix you with that powerful gaze until you flush and look away first.

By Sunday you’ve gotten used to the drawn out m moments of extended eye contact.

But during the post-race press conference, Max cranks it up a notch. As you ask Charles a question about the race, you feel Max’s eyes boring into the side of your face. Glancing over, you nearly fumble your recorder.

He’s just ... staring. Blatantly. Right at you as you’re trying to have a professional conversation.

The other drivers keep sneaking amused looks between you two and trying to hide their snickers.

You finally wrap up hurriedly, flustered by Max’s unrelenting eye contact. As the rest of the press file out, you hang back.

“So the whole staring thing ... we’re really doing that huh?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

Max has the grace to look sheepish. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to throw you off! I’ve just been trying to connect with you even more.”

You have to stifle a laugh imagining him sternly holding his own gaze in a mirror for practice. “I could tell! But maybe dial it down a little bit during interviews?”

Rubbing his neck, Max chuckles. “Yeah good call.”

He’s quiet for a moment before meeting your eyes again, this time softer. “I do like the way it makes me focus just on you though. Like the rest of the world fades away.”

“Yeah,” you duck your head, “I like that part too.”

Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. Reaching out, he gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

When Max leans in, eyes fluttering closed, you let yourself get lost in the moment. The outside world disappears and all that’s left is his lips on yours, saying more than words ever could.

A gentleman should never speak of his own accomplishments or wealth in a boastful manner, instead let your actions and character speak for themselves.

“Liefde, have you seen my phone charger?” Max calls from the living room of his apartment. “Nevermind, found it!”

He grabs the charger off of the coffee table, narrowly avoiding knocking over the World Drivers’ Championship trophy displayed prominently in the center.

You stifle an amused smile as you enter. Ever since you jokingly teased Max about being humble, he has made his accomplishments strangely hard to ignore.

Like the fact that his trophy room door now mysteriously stays wide open whenever you’re over. Or how he keeps offering for you to take Air Max whenever you need to travel instead of flying commercial. It’s his unique way of bragging without actually saying a word.

Joining him on the sofa, you have to shoo away one of the cats that is trying to swat the trophy off the table. Max just grins.

“Sassy really loves that thing! Although I guess I can’t blame her, it is very shiny.”

You laugh, curling into his side. “It certainly seems to belong front and center lately. Along with your three championship-winning helmets on the table in the foyer.”

Max attempts an innocent look that doesn’t quite stick. “What? They’re nice decorative pieces!”

“Mmhmm,” you hum skeptically. Glancing around, you note magazine covers bearing his face displayed on the walls along with a framed race-worn suit hanging randomly next to the kitchen.

Meeting his eyes, you give him a knowing look. Max holds your gaze for a moment before cracking.

“Okay fine, I may have highlighted some ... accomplishments since your little humble comment,” he admits with a sheepish grin.

You have to laugh. “Max, you know I was just teasing you! I would never want you to downplay your achievements.”

Twisting to face him, you take his hands in yours. “You’ve worked so hard for everything you have. Please don’t feel like you can’t be proud about it.”

Max’s expression softens. “I know and I am really proud of my racing success.” Glancing around the trophy-filled apartment, he chuckles. “Maybe a bit too loudly recently.”

You lean in to kiss him tenderly. “I love you and I’m so proud of you. But it’s this,” you tap his chest on top of his heart, “This is what made me fall for you, not the jet or the trophies.”

“Yeah?” Max asks, eyes crinkling happily.

You snuggle into his shoulder. “Of course. You’ll always just be my Max.”

But then the gifts start arriving. An Hermes Birkin bag here … some Van Cleef jewelry there. Presented nonchalantly but you know that their extravagance is no accident.

Finally, you have to say something when a couture Chanel gown appears in your hotel room one day.

“What’s going on with all these gifts all of a sudden?” You ask gently.

“Nothing! I just want to treat my amazing girlfriend the way she deserves to be treated.”

You raise an eyebrow and look … and look … and look … until Max cracks. “Okay fine, I may have been trying to show off a bit,” he admits. “But it’s hard not to when I want to give you the world!”

Your expression softens. Taking his hands, you wait until he meets your eyes.

“You could give me plastic rings and clothing from the thrift store and I would be just as happy. Your love means everything to me, not material things.”

“Really?”

You nod and climb into his lap to connect your lips in a slow kiss. Pulling back, you add teasingly, “But I am keeping the dress.”

He laughs, all tension vanishing. “Of course, it will look incredible on you. Like everything does.”

A gentleman should demonstrate a willingness to adapt to a lady’s interests and preferences, cultivating shared hobbies and passions.

“Here we are!” You announce, gesturing at the entrance of the padel club. “I know you’ll love this. It combines the best parts of tennis, squash, and racquetball.”

Taking Max’s hand, you lead him inside eagerly. You’ve been trying to get him to try padel, your favorite hobby, for ages. Finally convincing him to play while visiting him in Monaco, you do a quick rundown of the rules in the locker room.

“So basically we score just like in tennis but the walls and mesh are also in play. You can use them to bounce shots off of strategically,” you explain, miming hitting the ball off the glass wall.

Max nods along, game face on. He’s determined to share your passion for this sport.

“Got it. Use the walls, beat the opponents, win the match,” he summarizes confidently.

You laugh. “Pretty much! Now let’s go kick some butt out there.”

Gripping your paddles, you head onto the slick court. Max gravitates right to the mesh wall, intrigued by the unique setup.

You have to hide your grin — he’s like a kid exploring and testing shots out eagerly. His competitive nature means that he is completely engrossed within minutes.

And Max certainly has a knack for padel. His fast reflexes and coordination transfer over as he adapts his technique. Soon you’re both moving seamlessly around each other, dominating the points against a random couple Max had convinced to play against the two of you.

Hours later, sweaty but exhilarated, Max slings an arm around you grinning.

“That was epic! This is such an awesome game, I can’t wait to play more.” His excitement makes your heart swell. Nothing better than sharing your interests with someone special.

Over the next weeks, you find any excuse to play padel together. On lazy mornings, Max coaxes you out of bed. During race weeks, you even manage to squeeze in a few matches after media day.

Soon Max transforms into a padel fanatic, always scouting new courts and competition. His dedication to mastering every shot warms your heart. And the silly trash talk and celebrations make every match so much fun.

It was no surprise when Max decided to organize a players tournament between races. Getting the other drivers involved had your makeshift paddock league battling it out.

“Here for the padel party!” Daniel crows, showing up in head-to-toe tennis gear.

Charles, Carlos, Lando, and Pierre are there too, warming up their swings. You help Max demonstrate the rules, the other guys teasing him good-naturedly about his new obsession.

Once play begins though, the intensity heats up quickly. Max’s laser focus kicks in as he charges around you protectively, looking to crush anyone who dares hit near you. Luckily you hold your own plenty well too against the drivers.

When the final point is called in your favor, Max tackles you in an exuberant hug, the guys applauding around you. Grinning and flushed with exertion, you all head inside to refuel and celebrate a fun day of sport and competition.

One padel date turned into a shared passion that bonded you both with the other drivers too. And seeing your smile reflecting Max’s own euphoric one, you know this is only the start of many joyful tournaments and casual games together.

Maybe Max went a bit over-the-top in his newfound padel fever. But his willingness to dive headfirst into your interests fills you with more love than you ever thought possible.

Having someone care enough to enter your world so fully and share the things that light you up — that’s the most meaningful gesture of all.

A gentleman should learn to play a musical instrument or be a connoisseur of music, as serenading a lady can be a charming expression of affection.

Max turns the acoustic guitar over in his hands, plucking experimentally at the strings.

With your birthday coming up, serenading you seems like the perfect romantic gesture. Now he just has to actually learn how to play this thing. It seems simple enough — how hard can the guitar really be?

Max starts pressing on the strings randomly, the resulting discordant notes making him wince.

Okay, this might take some work.

Pulling up a beginner tutorial on his phone, he starts practicing the basic chords. But his fingers fumble clumsily, refusing to contort into the proper shapes. The more he tries, the worse the mangled sounds get.

Frustrated after the thirty minute lesson yields little improvement, Max sighs. “How am I supposed to woo my girlfriend with music if I can’t even play a damn C chord?”

Time for a professional to step in. Max books lessons with a private guitar instructor, determined to nail this down in time for your birthday surprise.

At the first lesson, the instructor eyes Max’s hands critically. “Right, let’s start by getting your fingers conditioned ...”

He takes Max through various stretching and dexterity exercises to limber up. Max nods along dutifully until the instructor pulls out a contraption with rubber bands and metal prongs.

“What the hell is that thing?” Max asks warily.

“A finger strengthener — we need to work on your independence and stamina,” he explains matter-of-factly, fitting the device over Max’s hand.

Max grimaces as the rubber bands strain against his fingers. The instructor just nods approvingly. “Perfect, twenty minutes per day with that.”

By the end of the torturous lesson, the only progress Max has made is identifying the parts of the guitar. He’s nowhere close to actually playing.

Max leaves discouraged but even more motivated to conquer the instrument somehow before your birthday. He continues meeting with the instructor multiple times a week, practicing rigorously outside of lessons too.

You notice his new habit of constantly stretching his fingers but Max plays it off casually not wanting to spoil the surprise.

The week before your birthday, Max has made marginal improvements but is still far from properly playing full songs. Desperate, he invites the instructor over for one final intensive lesson.

After two grueling hours of relentless drills, the instructor throws his hands up. “I’ve never had a student struggle this much with guitar basics. Maybe we should consider something easier, like the triangle or a recorder ...”

“No!” Max interrupts forcefully. “The guitar is a classic romantic instrument. I just need more practice before her party tomorrow.”

The instructor sighs. “If you say so. Just keep working on your fretting transitions and we’ll hope for the best.”

After he leaves, Max stays up late into the night strumming determinedly. By your birthday, his fingers are sore and calloused within an inch of their lives. But he can semi-confidently stumble through a love song and that’s enough for tonight.

When the moment arrives, he takes a deep breath and begins gently playing the intro to “Thinking Out Loud,” ready to serenade you. Max makes it halfway through before the chords descend into choppy noise.

You still applaud enthusiastically after, smiling ear to ear. “That was amazing, my love! Thank you so much.”

Max ducks his head bashfully. “It still needs some work. But I’m glad you liked it.”

Laughing, you take his tortured hands and kiss each fingertip. “I loved it because it came from you. That’s all that matters to me.”

Warmth blooms in Max’s chest. No matter how imperfect, you appreciated his efforts because of how much heart he put into it just for you.

In the end, no amount of lessons could transform Max into a virtuoso overnight. But he did become accomplished in one universal language — love.

And at the end of the day, that means everything.

A gentleman should recognize and appreciate a lady’s accomplishments, whether in the arts, charity work, or society.

“So Max, what are your thoughts on taking pole position here in Brazil?” The reporter asks.

Max grins into the mic. “Yeah, feels great to put it on pole here. The team has done an amazing job dialing in the car.”

He pauses and then adds, “Of course my girlfriend Y/N also put in a stellar qualifying effort yesterday covering the action for Sky Sports. Her commentary is always so eloquent and insightful.”

The reporter smiles amused as Max continues raving about your on-air skills for several minutes before remembering to refocus him on the results of the actual qualifying seasion.

This has become a familiar trend lately in Max’s interviews. No matter the question, he manages to redirect the conversation to highlight your various talents.

“... our pace was really strong today, I think we will be able to keep the top step tomorrow. Oh, speaking of strong pace, Y/N just ran a personal best 5k time last week during training ...”

In team debriefs, the same thing happens. Engineer queries about race strategy are derailed into praise about your presenting skills. PR reps trying to discuss Max’s social media posts somehow end up hearing about your recent venture into pottery making instead.

Even in casual conversations, you come up constantly.

“Morning, Max! How are you today?” His trainer asks while spotting a weight lifting session.

“Doing great! Y/N is also doing great, she’s learning Dutch and picking it up so quickly. Have I mentioned how talented she is with languages?”

By now the whole paddock is highly familiar with your many accomplishments, since Max seizes every possible opportunity to spotlight them.

You find it rather endearing, if a bit silly at times. Like when Max commandeered an entire interview just to detail the charities that you volunteer with.

“You know I’m capable of mentioning my own accomplishments if they come up naturally, right?” You tease him later.

Max looks sheepish. “I know, I just like bragging about you! I’m really proud of everything you do.”

You soften, giving him a quick kiss. “That’s really sweet. But maybe tone down the constant spotlight a little?” You suggest gently.

“Noted,” Max chuckles.

He makes an effort after that to highlight your achievements only when truly relevant. Because while he could praise you all day, Max also respects your wishes.

And he realizes you don’t need him to validate your worth — your talents speak for themselves. But he still can’t resist sharing little proud snippets whenever your accomplishments come up organically.

Over time you appreciate Max’s admiration and support more and more. Having someone so genuinely invested in all aspects of your life is incredibly touching.

Maybe he goes a bit overboard in his praising sometimes. But knowing that Max is always your biggest cheerleader, when it comes to racing coverage or otherwise, means everything.

A gentleman should seek the permission of the lady’s father or guardian before proposing, demonstrating respect for her family and social conventions. Once granted, he should choose an intimate setting for the proposal, away from the public eye. He must then express his intentions with sincerity, dropping to one knee and presenting a ring as a symbol of his commitment.

Max takes a deep breath, fidgeting with the small velvet box in his pocket. Today’s the day — he’s going to ask your father for permission to marry you.

You’ve reassured Max time and time again that your dad loves him but that does nothing to settle his nerves as he knocks on the front door of your childhood home.

When your father welcomes Max inside warmly, he relaxes slightly. Clearing his throat, Max launches into the speech he prepared.

“Sir, I’ve come today because I want to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. We have been together for years now and I want to spend the rest of my life with her, completely committed to her happiness. She is the most amazing person I’ve ever known.”

Max pauses, blushing. “Sorry, I had this whole thing planned out better. I guess what I’m asking is — may I have your blessing to propose to Y/N?”

Your dad grins, clapping Max on the shoulder. “You know you didn’t have to be so formal about this. I already see you as part of the family.”

Max smiles bashfully. “I just wanted to show my respect for you and Y/N. Your blessing would mean a lot to me.”

“You have it absolutely. I couldn’t imagine anyone better for her than you.” He pulls Max into a hug. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Max leaves on cloud nine, thrilled to have this traditional step done right. Now on to planning the perfect proposal location away from prying eyes ...

After scouring options, Max selects a peaceful mountaintop in the Swiss Alps. Complete with luxury chalet just for the two of you — intimate but romantic.

Max painstakingly decorates it with flowers, candles, and photos of your relationship throughout the years. For the ring, he chooses two large natural diamonds in an unique asymmetrical setting, symbolic of two imperfect halves making a flawless whole.

Now fully prepared, Max just has to wait for your upcoming vacation to pop the question. He spends the days leading up to it buzzing with nervous excitement.

The helicopter ride to the mountain is pure torture for him. What if you say no? What if he fumbles the proposal speech? Endless doubts race through Max’s mind.

But as soon as he sees your delighted smile taking in the warmly lit cabin, his anxiety melts away. This evening is about letting his heart speak.

Through a private chef-cooked dinner, your laughter echoes in the chalet just like it always sounds. Full of joy and life and love.

Max knows that he’s ready.

Taking your hand gently, he leads you outside onto the moonlit balcony. Time to finally ask you to be his forever.

Max clears his throat, meeting your eyes. “Y/N, from the moment I met you, my world changed. Your smile and your light fill my days with meaning. You make me a better man.”

He slowly kneels, pulling out the ring box with trembling fingers. “I want to laugh with you, cry with you, share every high and low for the rest of our lives. Will you make me the luckiest man in the universe by becoming my wife?”

You clasp a hand over your mouth, eyes glimmering with tears. You only manage to get out a watery “Yes!” before also dropping to your knees in front of him.

Grinning ear to ear, Max slides the ring onto your finger with a kiss. “I promise to always love and cherish you.”

“And I promise the same to you, today and always.”

You throw your arms around him, both giddy with joy under the stars.

The customs that got you to this moment may have been old-fashioned but your love is timeless.

2K notes · View notes

edenesth · 7 months

Text

The Way to His Heart [15]

Pairing: general!Seonghwa x wife!reader

AU: arranged marriage au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: Life has been hell ever since your mother's passing many years ago. Despite being from a prominent family, you've never received the privileges associated with it. It only got worse with the arrival of your stepmother and her daughters. When the intimidating General Park was in search of a wife, your father seized the opportunity to dispose of you, simultaneously securing a connection with the powerful general—killing two birds with one stone.

Part 14 | Fic Masterlist | Part 16

"I still don't understand why you had to creep around instead of just approaching her and introducing yourself properly," Jongho remarked, rolling his eyes as Wooyoung clicked his tongue in frustration, "Oh, come on! Can you blame me? She's so beautiful, I got nervous, alright?! I've never had to talk to her before, and I just... I panicked!"

The assistant squinted at his friend, "You do realise if the general catches wind of any of that, you'll be out of a job. Don't tell me you have a crush on our mistress..."

"And you don't?!" The private investigator squeaked, eyes widening in disbelief as Jongho shook his head, unamused, "That's inappropriate. Don't you ever suggest such a thing again."

Wooyoung kept his mouth shut, realising that his friend would be the last person interested in hearing him gush about how pretty he found you. He was fully aware that you were his employer's wife and therefore off-limits. Still, it wouldn't hurt to indulge in the innocent fantasy of being a secret admirer.

Besides, he still valued his life, and it wasn't as if he was actually in love with you or anything. Deep down, humans are all visual animals, and he found his tiny crush on you completely justifiable.

Turning serious, Jongho inquired, "So, what did the mistress need help with? She's been secluded in the study ever since Prince Yeosang's departure and hadn't spoken to any of us until you showed up. Something must have happened."

With a smug nod, Wooyoung responded, "Ah, it seems I already know more than you. How does that feel, senior assistant Choi?" His grin disappeared when the younger man did not react as expected, only staring him down intimidatingly, as if daring him to continue with his playful shenanigans, "Ugh, fine, sheesh. The fourth prince invited her to his birthday banquet happening next week. She's really anxious since it's her first royal event and without General Park. She wants guidance on dealing with the royals."

Head shooting up at the revelation, the assistant knitted his brows together in concern, "The fourth prince... invited her to his birthday banquet? Did he say why?"

The private investigator shrugged, a hint of nonchalance in his tone, "He mentioned that since General Park is away, he hoped Lady Park could represent him this year."

A troubled expression clouded Jongho's features as he processed the information, his mind racing with possible implications. The idea of His Highness extending such an invitation seemed out of the ordinary, sparking unease within him.

Noticing the younger man's troubled demeanour, Wooyoung nudged him on the shoulder, concern evident in his voice, "Why do you look so bothered, man? What's on your mind?"

Jongho's stomach churned as he mulled over his thoughts, his voice tinged with apprehension as he responded, "I wouldn't have been surprised if it had been any of the other princes. But Prince Yeosang? He hasn't hosted a single birthday banquet in years. And besides, his connection with the general is minimal at best. So... what do you think he wants with our mistress?"

That revelation made the private investigator sit up straight, suddenly grasping the complexity of the situation. If what his friend said held true, it meant the fourth prince was plotting something. A surge of protectiveness for you washed over him, wanting to ensure your safety and not let his role model down.

Turning to the assistant, he asked, "Damn, I don't like the sound of that. So what's our move? Should we warn her?"

Jongho shook his head adamantly, "Absolutely not. She'd panic, and that's the last thing we need. I'll fetch the dressmaker; he's one of the general's closest friends, and along with Physician Jung's help, we'll try to figure this out."

"Oh, one more thing!" Wooyoung interjected, grabbing the younger man's attention, "Lady Park did mention that it would be great if she could somehow get in touch with Royal Secretary Choi. It seems she believes he's the only one who can offer helpful advice for navigating the royal event."

Pondering this information quietly, the assistant nodded, "Fortunately, I've corresponded with him on behalf of the general several times. I should be able to reach him easily."

Jongho furrowed his brows, noticing the unsettled expression on the investigator's face, "What's bothering you now?"

Wooyoung sighed, his expression clouded with uncertainty, "The lady also expressed her doubts about whether the royal secretary would even consider helping her. She's unsure if someone as busy as him would take the time to assist her."

Shaking his head, the assistant offered reassurance, "Don't worry. Royal Secretary Choi is genuinely one of the kindest people you'll ever meet. He shares a friendship with the general and will certainly lend a hand to our mistress if she needs it."

That would soon be clear to them all when San arrived to grace everyone in the general's estate with his presence in just a few days, leaving Hongjoong, Yunho, and Wooyoung in awe as they watched the handsome man with an exceptionally fit physique—perhaps a little too fit to be a mere secretary—walk past the three of them, who were sitting in the living hall, with a respectful nod and courteous smile.

Jongho exchanged knowing glances with them as he ushered the royal secretary into the estate and towards the study, where you awaited his guidance with your studies.

"Am I the only one who thinks that guy seems more suited for the battlefield than the royal office?" Wooyoung quipped, prompting a reluctant nod from Hongjoong. For some inexplicable reason, he found the private investigator mildly annoying, almost like a younger brother, "As much as I hate to admit it, you're right about that. He does give off that vibe."

Yunho, known for his wisdom and maturity, offered a shrug in response, "We shouldn't judge someone solely by their appearance. Perhaps the royal secretary excels in matters of intelligence rather than physical strength."

Rolling his eyes, the dressmaker fired back, "Obviously, we're just joking. Lighten up a little, Yunho, or you'll never find a wife with that boring ass attitude."

The physician pursed his lips at the jab, while Wooyoung watched with amusement as the banter between the two friends unfolded, "Says you? You're older and still single. Perhaps the problem lies closer to home."

Hongjoong scoffed in disbelief and placed his hands on his hips, "Excuse you, I'll have you know there are plenty of women vying for my attention every day. It's not my fault I have standards."

"I could say the same." Yunho retorted.

Before the banter could escalate, Jongho intervened with a heavy sigh, "I leave for a minute, and you're already arguing. How is it that all of you are older than me?"

"I agree, assistant Choi. Their behaviour was rather immature," The investigator remarked, feigning innocence when the doctor raised an eyebrow, "You're the one who instigated the whole thing."

Just as Wooyoung opened his mouth to defend himself, the assistant rubbed his temple wearily, "Oh my god, enough. Let's not forget why we're here today—to figure out the intentions of Prince Yeosang regarding our mistress."

"Is that the purpose of this gathering?" Eunsook queried as she appeared by the entrance of the living hall.

The four nodded in confirmation, and the head maid sighed before joining them, "If that's the case, I believe I may be of help. I was with the mistress in the palace on the day the master discovered he had to depart for war. Something happened with the prince while we awaited the general's return from his emergency meeting."

As she recounted the incident at the cherry blossom garden, a dawning realisation settled over all of them. Suddenly, it all clicked into place: why Yeosang, known for despising his own birthday due to its reminders of his painful existence, was now planning a celebration and extending an invitation to Lady Park, of all people. It was clear to the group that the prince had set his sights on the general's wife, and this elaborate scheme was likely his attempt to lure you away from Seonghwa.

"I understand we're all concerned about what His Highness might attempt to win over our mistress, but I believe we should have a little faith in her. Her devotion to General Park is undeniable. I don't think she would easily forsake him after all he's done for her." The physician suggested, hoping to ease the tension in the room.

As the others visibly relaxed with the reminder, the dressmaker appeared to be the only one still troubled, "Yeah, about that..." The dread in the room heightened at Hongjoong's uneasy expression.

"What is it?" Jongho inquired cautiously.

With a frustrated expression, the eldest man among them ran a hand through his hair before recounting the recent encounter with Jinjoo, your stepsister, and the doubts you were starting to entertain about your husband, "I'm sorry, it's all my fault."

The elderly woman's stomach sank at the revelation, but she shook her head to reassure the dressmaker, "No, Hongjoong, it's not your fault. You couldn't have known her stepsister would be there. No matter how much we deny it, the truth has a way of surfacing. We can't hide it from her forever."

The others nodded in agreement, though filled with worry at the implications. They knew Eunsook was right. Eventually, you would likely discover the truth. They just hadn't expected it to happen so soon, especially with Seonghwa away at war. The thought of you being possibly swayed by the fourth prince's charms sent shivers down all their spines.

Well shit, that's not good at all.

"San, you're an absolute lifesaver. Thank you so much." You expressed with gratitude after the lengthy crash course he had just given you on dealing with royal figures when attending such events, offering a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

Returning the smile, the royal secretary noticed the fatigue and stress evident in your expression. He sensed there was more to your distress than just the fourth prince's sudden invitation to his birthday banquet. Perhaps his close relationship with his elder sister had sharpened his perception of women's emotions.

Observing your troubled expression, San gently inquired, "Are you feeling quite alright, Lady Park? If you're worried about the general, I can assure you that he is being partnered with only the best military strategist in all of Joseon. They have yet to lose a single battle thus far, I'm sure this time would be no different."

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over you at his words. On one hand, you appreciated his attempt to ease your worries about your husband's safety. On the other hand, a nagging curiosity gnawed at your mind, Jinjoo's words still lingering, urging you to delve deeper into the mysteries surrounding your family's punishments.

San's position as the royal secretary and his close friendship with the general made him an ideal source of information. Surely, he would know the intricate details of the case and could provide you with the answers you sought. However, the thought of uncovering the full truth filled you with trepidation.

What if reality's more than you could bear?

You wrestled with your inner turmoil, unsure of whether to broach the subject with Royal Secretary Choi. Part of you yearned for closure, to finally understand the events that took place without your knowledge. Yet, another part hesitated, fearing the potential consequences of unearthing Seonghwa's carefully buried secrets.

As you glanced at San, who was patiently awaiting your response, you grappled with your decision. Would you dare to confront the shadows of your fears, or would you continue to dwell in uncertainty, afraid of what truths lay beneath?

To hell with it.

Taking a deep breath, you responded, "Thank you for your reassurance regarding my husband's capabilities. However, that's not precisely what's weighing on my mind..."

He arched a curious eyebrow, intrigued by what other concerns could possibly be bothering you besides Seonghwa's safety, "I'm all ears, my lady." He offered, inviting you to share your thoughts.

Lowering your head, you recounted your recent encounter with your stepsister and the unsettling doubts it had stirred within you. Then, with a hesitant tone, you inquired, "May I seek clarification from you regarding my husband's role in the Jang family's punishments?"

San maintained a composed smile, betraying no hint of shock at your revelation. With a calm demeanour, he laced his fingers together before him, "I empathise with your concerns, Lady Park, and I want you to know that they are valid. While the details of the case are confidential, I can offer some clarity to ease your worries."

You held your breath as he continued, "The truth is, His Majesty was responsible for determining your family's physical punishments, but the general took charge of overseeing the entire process."

So, it's true.

Your heart sank at the confirmation.

"Understandably, you may find his involvement frightening. However, you need to know that this has always been the nature of his job. If you think him cruel, remember that every drop of blood shed was in service of this nation's security. He's doing what only a few have the guts to do. And in this case, it's out of love for you that he was determined to ensure that those who harmed you and your mother faced justice. My lady, can you truly fault him for that?"

His words struck you like a boulder, and you realised he might be onto something.

The royal secretary grinned as he observed your expression, knowing his words were making an impact, "Besides, you've been here long enough to witness how good he can be to those he cares about. That includes you, all the staff in this estate, as well as his loyal friends currently seated in the living hall. Surely, there must be a good reason why these people choose to remain by his side, wouldn't you agree?"

Noting your silence and contemplative expression, San understood that you needed time to digest everything. While he hoped he had made a valid point, he knew that your conflicting emotions wouldn't dissipate so easily. Nevertheless, he had done his best to encourage you to keep an open mind and speak the truth.

Ultimately, the next steps were up to you.

"As much as I'd like to stay and chat, I have another appointment scheduled in an hour, so I should probably head to my next destination." He announced, rising from his seat opposite you.

His words snapped you out of your reverie as you got up after him, "Ah, yes, of course. I can't thank you enough for everything, San."

As you escorted him towards the exit, he smiled warmly at you, "You're most welcome, Lady Park. Don't fret too much about the royal event next week. I'm sure you'll do splendidly, especially considering you've already managed to impress the fourth prince. He's not an easy royal to handle, so that's quite an achievement."

Prince Yeosang is... not easy to handle?

Before you could ask him to elaborate, the royal secretary was already boarding his carriage. With a defeated sigh, you waved at him as the vehicle began to pull away.

Heading back inside, your mind reeled from his words. His Highness had never seemed difficult around you, so you struggled to comprehend what San meant. Besides his slightly playful demeanour, you didn't find the prince hard to handle in any way.

Before you knew it, your head began to throb with the endless thoughts swirling around. Eunsook rushed over in concern when she saw you swaying, your hands pressed against your temples.

"Mistress! Are you feeling alright? Oh dear, you look exhausted," She exclaimed, her worry evident in her voice, "That's enough studying for today. Go and rest. I'll bring you dinner when it's ready."

Throughout the rest of the week, Jongho and the others couldn't bring themselves to warn you about the potential advances of the fourth prince. They noticed how visibly stressed you were, dedicating all your time to refining your ladylike etiquette and practising formal speech with the head maid. Your determination for perfection in your debut at a royal event was clear as day.

After receiving all the help you needed, you were finally ready for the banquet. Standing before the mirror, you inspected yourself, admiring the delicate red flower the dressmaker had once again helped you paint on your forehead, perfectly complementing your new hanbok, "Are you pleased with the look, Lady Park?"

You nodded enthusiastically, "Absolutely, Hongjoong. You never disappoint, and you know that."

With newfound confidence, you departed from the general's estate, accompanied by Jongho and Eunsook. Mentally reviewing the list of potential royals in attendance, you appreciated Wooyoung's efforts in the past week as he assisted you with retrieving specific books from the public library and studying the royal family tree.

The private investigator lingered near the estate's entrance after seeing you off, his jaw slightly agape. He had always found you pretty, but seeing you all dressed up and with the flower on your forehead, he was struck by your ethereal beauty. Just as he was about to entertain the thought that Seonghwa must have saved an entire country to deserve someone like you, he realised that might actually be true.

"Excuse me, Jung Wooyoung. That's not your lady to be ogling like that. Behave yourself, or I'll have to whoop your ass on behalf of the general." Hongjoong warned, rolling his eyes as the younger man pouted before sulking back inside the estate.

As your carriage approached the familiar high palace walls, Jongho and Eunsook exchanged determined glances. They had agreed to stick by your side at all times, wanting to protect you from whatever schemes Prince Yeosang might have planned for the event.

"We've arrived, mistress." The assistant announced as the carriage came to a stop.

With the head maid's assistance, you stepped down from the carriage with slightly less ease than when your husband carried you, feeling a pang in your heart as you were reminded of him. Despite your complicated feelings, you couldn't deny the longing for his presence. You hoped he was safe and well while you attended the birthday celebration of another.

Approaching the grand entrance of the hall hosting the fourth prince's birthday banquet, you noticed that the palace staff responsible for announcing guests had recognised you immediately, sparing Jongho the need to introduce you. As you reached the entrance, the staff announced in a loud voice, "Miss Jang, eldest daughter of the former Minister of Military Affairs, has arrived."

Your shock was palpable as the announcement rang out, your eyes widening and your stomach sinking at the unexpected introduction. The last thing you wanted was to be associated with your father, especially not at such a prestigious event. You had been specifically told by the prince that you were here to represent your husband. So why would they announce you like that, using your past title, when you now held a new and official one as the general's wife? The discrepancy left you feeling uneasy and out of place as you stepped into the grand hall.

What's the meaning of this, Your Highness?

« Preview of Part 16 »

"General Park! Letters for General Park!"

The messenger's urgent cry echoed through the camp, drawing attention to the main tent where Seonghwa typically conducted his affairs between battles. Bursting into the tent, the messenger gasped for breath, his eyes darting around, "Sir, may I enter?"

"Come in," A deep voice replied, but it wasn't the general's. Officer Song, the military strategist, sat alone inside, his gaze fixed on the newcomer, "General Park is uhh... preoccupied elsewhere at the moment. What brings you here, soldier?"

Handing over the stack of letters he carried, the messenger answered, "The general has received a few missives, one from his assistant and another from His Highness, the fourth prince."

Mingi's brow furrowed in confusion, "The fourth prince?"

The messenger nodded vigorously, "Yes, His Highness mentioned it's regarding an urgent matter and should be delivered to the general as soon as possible."

Officer Song nodded in acknowledgement, "I see. Leave it to me, soldier. I'll ensure it reaches him as soon as he's available."

As soon as the messenger departed, Mingi's curiosity overwhelmed him, and he unfolded the letter from Prince Yeosang. His breath hitched as he absorbed the concise yet weighty message. The prince started off by conveying gratitude for Seonghwa's service to the nation and extended well wishes, reassuring him not to worry about returning.

However, the content took a surprising turn with his final paragraph.

'Out of respect for you, I am writing to inform you that I will be proposing to Miss Jang. I believe she deserves the freedom to choose her own husband. Perhaps what she needs is someone who can remain by her side and not cause her any worry. If you truly care about her happiness, you would understand.'

Once again setting the stage for the main event HAHA sorry for the (sorta) filler chapter, but I promise there will definitely be drama in the next part.😈

Also, thank you so much for 1.3k followers! As always, thank you for reading and please let me know your thoughts! <3

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#edenesth #the way to this heart #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #park seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #arranged marriage au #joseon era #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #ateez fic #historical au

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gubsbuubs · 7 months

Text

Hotch’s Daughter

(18+nsfw)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Hotch´sDaughter!reader

Word Count: ~ 6.5K

Warnings/Tags: Lots of teasing, BANTER, Hotch´s!Daughter,smut, Enemies to Lovers.

Request: This one-shot was inspired by a request for an enemies-to-lovers featuring Hotch's daughter and Spencer Reid -》 basically I've been having this thought for a few weeks now and I'm embarrassed to ask, I thought of something with a..I don't know if I can call it that enemies to (fuck) enemies, hate sex maybe (?) something like Hotch's oldest daughter It's somewhere between s9 and s12 Reid (whichever you think is best) and a difference of about 7 to 9 years. Reid just doesn't like Hotch's oldest daughter because he thinks she's maybe a little irresponsible (not that she's just a 20-something woman who's a hard-partying college student [that's not that important, so just extra info]) something like that also Y/N always teasing Reid in a passive-aggressive way (I have no idea what examples, sorry) when no one is around I don't know if you have a list of tips, but I would also like something like during sex "You've always wanted to fuck your boss's daughter, right Reid" and again LOTS of teasing during sex. I kind of thought of something like a college party where Y/N is like “competing at beerpong” or something (not drunk enough to be drunk) and for whatever reason Reid is at this party (a case or something or like Morgan dragging Spencer to a party with the excuse of "I know this guy and he's having a party and I feel like you need to relax Spencer", so he drags Reid to the party) and the rest (Y/ N and Reid) end up in a room alone. I know I've already asked for a lot, but I'd also like something like Morgan looking for Reid and hearing the “little noises” he and Y/N make through the door and the next day teasing him at work with it 🤭

Summary: Y/n, Hotch’s daughter, cleverly exploits Spencer’s boundaries by flirting to incite him. While Spencer remains resolute in maintaining distance, the tension between them escalates until one day, he finds himself unable to resist.

A/N: Hi my loves! This is just filthy and it´s ginormous, so sorry.

My requests are open! 🍒

English is not my first language- barely proof read this

As I strolled through the bustling bullpen, my sights set on the unit chief's office, I spotted Derek at his desk, buried under a mountain of paperwork as usual. With a mischievous grin, I called out to him, "D!! Party at my place Friday at ten p.m. You better show up."

Derek's head snapped up from his desk, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Woah, woah, woah!" he exclaimed, rising from his chair and halting me in my tracks. "What do you mean a party at your place, young lady?"

I chuckled softly at Derek's protective tone, he was more than just a family friend; he was like a brother to me. Working alongside my dad for years, Derek was an integral part of our family, just like the rest of the team. When my mom passed away, Derek's support was invaluable. Having experienced the loss of his own parent, he understood the depth of my grief like no one else could. He became my rock, offering solace and guidance through those dark days. I owe a lot to him; without his help, I doubt I would have had the strength to finish high school. He turned my pain into strength, helping me navigate through the toughest moments with his unwavering support and understanding. Derek's presence in my life has been a blessing, shaping me into the person I am today.

As I approached Derek's desk, I leaned down slightly to meet his gaze, a familiar smile playing on my lips. "You know… Mr. Hotcher and Jack are away for the weekend, visiting Beth," I said, my voice filled with excitement. "So, I'm inviting my friends from college to come over to my place to throw a party."

Derek chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement. "A college party? Really, Y/n?" he exclaimed with a hint of disbelief. "I'm way too old for all that."

I grinned, knowing Derek's idea of a good time might not align with the typical college scene. "Come on, Derek," I teased, nudging his arm gently. "You're never too old to let loose and have some fun. Plus, you'll fit right in with your timeless charm."

Derek chuckled again, his expression softening. "Alright, alright," he relented, a twinkle in his eye. "I'll make an appearance, but don't expect me to stay past my bedtime."

I gave him a playful wink and a grateful smile. "That's all I ask for," I told him as I made my way to my father´s office.

I knocked three times, as I always did, and without waiting for a response, I pushed the door open.

"Hi, sweetie," my father greeted me with a warm smile, his tone softening as he saw me enter. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I just need some help before you leave," I replied as I gave him a hug, "I knew you would be leaving tonight, and I just need some advice. I'm having trouble with a paper. It´s constitutional law, and I have to submit it next Monday."

As I sat on the chair across from his, eagerly awaiting my father's assistance, he remained focused on his paperwork at his desk. After a moment, he glanced up at me with a regretful expression.

"Honey, I'm sorry," he began, his tone apologetic. "But I'm not going to be able to help you. I have to leave in a couple of hours." He checked his watch, a sense of urgency evident in his voice. "I'm sorry, but I would really love to help you, but I can't."

"Oh, no, Dad!" I exclaimed, feeling a surge of panic rise within me. "I really need your help. Where the hell am I going to find someone else who knows about constitutional law?"

The urgency in my voice seemed to catch my father's attention, his expression softening with concern. "I understand, sweetheart," he said gently, "But I really have to leave soon. Is there anyone else you can reach out to for help?"

I shook my head, feeling overwhelmed by the thought of finding someone else to assist me on such short notice. "I don't know, Dad you're the only one I trust to help me with this."

"Well, I know of someone who could help you," my dad suggested, his tone thoughtful.

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his hint. "Who do you have in mind.

My dad hesitated for a moment before answering, "Spencer Reid."

Spencer and I had a history of butting heads, constantly at odds with each other. He seemed to harbor a deep-seated animosity towards me, viewing me as irresponsible and reckless. Our personalities clashed at every turn; he was the epitome of a straight-laced, by-the-book good boy, while I reveled in pushing boundaries and challenging authority.

It didn't take long for me to realize that I could get under his skin by flirting with him when no one else was around. It was like he was going crazy because I only did it when alone with him or when no one seemed to notice. And it wasn't like he could accuse me outright. After all, I was younger and his boss's daughter, so who would believe his crazy theories?

So what better way to annoy the brilliant, uptight Spencer Reid than to play with his emotions and disrupt his carefully controlled world? I knew it was a dangerous game, but I couldn't resist the thrill.

The only one who knew about my provocations and how annoyed Spencer got was Derek, and he always told Spencer he only got so mad because he knew he was attracted to me but couldn't lay a finger on me or Hotch would kill him. Spencer always denied it, but I share the same opinion as Derek.

With the passing years I noticed a subtle shift in Spencer's demeanor, while my flirtatious antics had initially left him flustered and embarrassed, over time, he seemed to grow more confident in his responses. No longer did he react with the same level of embarrassment as before.

Despite Spencer's growing confidence, the frustration I could provoke in him never truly dissipated. If anything, it seemed to intensify as he became more accustomed to my teasing. To an outsider, he appeared calm and composed, but beneath the surface, he was like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

Asking Spencer for his help would be no easy task. I knew he would likely deny it, given our history of butting heads and the tension that simmered between us. Despite his expertise in constitutional law, I couldn't shake the feeling that he would refuse to assist me, simply out of spite or a desire to avoid any further interaction with me.

"Dad, I appreciate the suggestion, but I don't think Spencer would be willing to assist me," I said hesitantly, choosing my words carefully.

“What? No! Of course he is; I know you two aren't that close, but he is definitely more than happy to help," he asserted confidently.

Before I could protest, my dad immediately dialed the number on the phone. "Spencer, can you come by my office, please?" He spoke to the receiver with authority. I watched in disbelief as my dad took charge of the situation, seemingly unfazed by any potential reservations I had about seeking Spencer's assistance.

As the call went through, a knot formed in my stomach, uncertainty gnawing at me. I felt a sense of resignation wash over me, realizing that protesting now would only complicate things further. With a heavy sigh, I decided to stay silent, choosing instead to lay back on the chair and stare up at the ceiling, lost in my thoughts as I waited for the impending arrival of Spencer.

Shortly after, a knock was heard at the front door, and I could feel my heart race with anticipation. "Come on in," my father said.

"You called for me, sir?" Spencer's voice filled the room as he entered, his presence commanding attention. "Reid, hi. Please, sit down," my dad gestured towards a chair.

As Spencer's eyes immediately locked with mine, I rose from my seat to allow him to take it. With deliberate steps, I made my way to stand behind my father, positioning myself so that Spencer's gaze was met with my silent presence looming over him.

"Well, Spencer," my dad began, his tone measured as he addressed him, "I asked you to come here because Y/n has a paper to do for constitutional law, and she requested my help, but I have to leave. So, I was wondering if maybe you could help her."

As my dad spoke, I could sense Spencer's hesitation growing. His eyes darted up to me, and I gave him the smuggest grin I could have mastered, relishing the irony of the situation and how much I was enjoying it.

With a sense of satisfaction, I observed Spencer's struggle to hide his unease. He was caught between wanting to keep his cool and not wanting to help me. If I had asked him myself, he probably would've refused just out of spite. But now, with my dad asking so nicely, Spencer had no way out. He couldn't say no to my father.

"Yeah, um," Spencer cleared his throat, his discomfort palpable. "I could help her," he reluctantly conceded, his words laced with annoyance.

I couldn't help but smile widely at Spencer's visible frustration, reveling in the satisfaction of knowing he was forced to comply with my father's request. Meanwhile, my dad remained oblivious to the tension in the room, with his head down and his attention focused solely on the paperwork before him.

Spencer's gaze bore into mine, and his eyes narrowed with irritation. "Anything else, sir?" He inquired, his tone tinged with impatience.

"No, that's all. Thank you very much," my dad says, briefly looking up from the files and giving Spencer a slight smile. "But if you two need to schedule a time to work, please do it outside. I just really need to finish this," he adds, his tone slightly rushed.

I seize the moment to kiss my father's cheek, bidding him farewell with a soft, "Have a great trip, dad. Say hi to Beth for me" and with that, I stepped out of his office. Spencer was already making his way towards the break room as I closed the door.

As I entered the room, I found Spencer already brewing some coffee, so I stood by his side, leaning against the counter.

"That was so sweet of you, Spencer, agreeing to help me out," I remarked, my words dripping with irony as I playfully mocked him.

"Don't be difficult, Y/n," Spencer responded in a frustrated tone, still focused on the task at hand and not bothering to look at me.

With a sly grin, I spoke, "I have to admit, Spencer, the idea of having a taste of Professor Reid excites me very much." My words were casual but tinged with a hint of mischief, aimed at both teasing him and stoking his frustration.

Spencer paused in his task, his grip tightening on the handle of the coffee pot, as my words hung in the air between us. Slowly, he turned to face me, his expression unreadable as he met my gaze. "Y/n, you know I'm only helping because your father asked me to," he replied evenly, his voice tight with restraint.

"Oh, Professor, don't be so uptight," I purred, "After all, who wouldn't jump at the chance to learn from a man like you?"

I watched with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction as Spencer's gaze shifted upwards to the ceiling, his breathing growing deeper as he fought to regain his composure.

His jaw clenched tightly, and the muscles in his neck were visibly tensing as he battled to suppress his rising frustration. Despite his efforts, I could see the simmering irritation beneath the surface, a testament to the effect my teasing was having on him.

Spencer's gaze flickered back down to meet mine, his expression a blend of annoyance and resignation. "Y/n, this is not the time or place for your... games," he replied, his voice firm and authoritative.

Undeterred by his stern tone, I leaned in closer, the corners of my lips curling into a playful smile. "Oh, Spencer, where's your sense of adventure?" I whispered huskily, my voice laced with mischief. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little excitement."

His gaze hardened, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes before he regained control. "I'm not afraid of anything," he retorted, his tone sharp. "But I have more important things to focus on than dealing with your incessant need for attention."

I couldn't help but chuckle softly, my amusement bubbling up as I continued to push his buttons. "Oh, Spencer," I teased, my voice dripping with mock sympathy. "It must be exhausting being so uptight all the time. Maybe you just need to loosen up a bit."

As Spencer's frustration simmered beneath the surface, I leaned in closer, the twinkle in my eyes daring him to retaliate. "Come on, don't tell me you're getting worked up over a little harmless banter," I continued, my tone laced with provocation. "Maybe you're just not up for the challenge."

Spencer's frustration reached its peak, evident in the sharpness of his tone. "You know what? Just email me the paper requirements. I'll write it for you," he said tersely, his patience worn thin. "I don't want to have to deal with you."

With that, the door swung open, revealing Rossi.

"Uncle Dave!" I exclaimed with excitement, unable to contain my joy at seeing him. I rushed forward and enveloped him in a warm hug.

Rossi raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I didn't know you were here, kiddo," he remarked, returning the hug with a smile.

"Oh, I came to ask Dad to help me with a paper," I explained, my voice tinged with faux innocence, "but he couldn't help, so he asked Spencer." With a subtle smirk, I continued, "And uncle Dave, Spencer was so kind, he offered to write it for me; do you believe it?"

Rossi chuckled at my explanation, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Well, it looks like you've got yourself quite the helper," he remarked with a grin, nodding towards Spencer.

I glanced back at Spencer, noting the hint of annoyance still lingering in his expression as he poured his coffee. It was clear my teasing had gotten under his skin more than I'd anticipated, but the satisfaction of seeing him flustered outweighed any guilt I might have felt. His irritation was palpable as he begrudgingly accepted the task of writing my paper, his movements stiff with frustration.

"Well, anyway, thanks, Spencer," I said, a playful grin spreading across my lips. "You were a real sweetheart for agreeing to write it. I've got to run now, but I'll shoot you an email with all the details. Kinda need it ready by Monday, okay?" I added, punctuating my words with a playful wink. "You're the best, Spence."

With those words, I leaned in to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, a mischievous twinkle in my eye as I knew it would only leave him more annoyed. Ignoring his exasperated sigh, I waved my goodbyes at Rossi and made my exit.

As I walked away, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how effortlessly I had turned the situation to my advantage, leaving Spencer to deal with the consequences of his reluctant agreement.

—x—

Friday came around, and I spent the afternoon hastily preparing my house for the party, rushing to stock up on booze and snacks. As the sun dipped below the horizon, my friends began to trickle in.

The party unfolded beneath the starlit sky, casting a dreamy glow over the backyard pool area. Colorful lights twinkled around the pool, illuminating the water in shades of blue and green. Laughter and chatter filled the air as guests mingled around the pool, their voices blending with the rhythmic beats of the music.

I had a full-on bar set up, stocked with all sorts of booze, beer, cocktails, you name it. Bottles of beer and liquor lined the counter, while colorful cocktails were expertly mixed and poured into plastic cups. The backyard was packed with all sorts of random people, just having a blast. Music was pumping, and bodies were moving everywhere. Everyone was enjoying themselves and letting loose.

In one corner, a game of beer pong was in full swing, and I was getting my pong on, sinking shots, and taking names like a boss.

Amidst the laughter and cheers, a random guy's voice cut through, calling out to someone nearby. "Yo, guys, the cops are here!" he exclaimed, his words sending a wave of panic through the crowd. The comment caught my attention, and I glanced up from the game, scanning the room until my gaze landed on Derek, who had just arrived.

"Guys, don't worry, it´s just my big brother!" I yelled, "And he is not a cop; he is actually FBI, but he is NOT A SNITCH!" I slurred my words as I rushed to hug Derek. "And ladies, he is singleeeeeeeeee! So feel free to shoot your shot!!"

Derek chuckled at my introduction, playfully rolling his eyes at my antics. With a grin, he accepted the attention, raising a hand in acknowledgment to the crowd.

"You came!" I exclaimed, my excitement bubbling over as I jumped up and down in front of him like I was a little kid meeting their idol for the first time.

"Of course I came; you invited me, so I had to come," he replied with a chuckle, his tone affectionate as I hugged by his side.

"I'm glad you're here. I have a great friend for you to meet," I said, eager to introduce him to someone new.

"I actually brought someone with me," he said, looking down at me.

"What? You dirty dog... Who's the lucky girl?" I asked, surprised by his unexpected response.

"Well," Derek chuckled, trying to contain a laugh, "his name is Spencer."

I playfully smacked his bicep, a grin spreading across my face. "What? Really? I thought you had a girlfriend for a moment."

Derek shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Nah, I just brought Pretty Boy with me." As he spoke, I couldn't help but glance around the lively crowd, searching for any sign of Spencer amidst the sea of partygoers.

"Well, where is he anyway?" I inquired.

"Oh, he said he had some files that he needed to drop," Derek replied nonchalantly, his gaze drifting over the house. "He's probably in your office."

I made my way inside the house, the sound of laughter and music fading away as the door closed behind me. Traversing through the familiar halls, I eventually entered the office. Spencer stood by the desk, his attention focused on a document as he scribbled away.

"Is that my paper?" I asked, my excitement evident as I quickly moved to stand by his side.

Spencer glanced up, a condescending smirk spreading across his face. "Yeah," he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "I just needed to cut something out. It sounded too smart to be written by you."

"Well, I must say, Spencer, I'm impressed with how quickly you wrote the paper," I teased, my voice laced with faux innocence.

Spencer's jaw clenched tightly, his frustration evident as he fought to maintain his composure. "You know, Y/n, if you actually put in the effort, maybe you wouldn't need someone else to write your papers for you," he retorted, his tone sharp with irritation.

I sat on top of the desk, a mischievous glint in my eyes as I locked gazes with Spencer. "Well, aren't you just the sweetest for helping out a damsel in distress?" I teased, a playful smirk playing on my lips. "Guess I owe you one now, huh?"

He took a deep breath, his hands slipping into his pockets as he regarded me with a knowing look. "Don't you start, Y/n," he warned, his voice laced with annoyance.

I chuckled softly, enjoying the way I could always push his buttons with just a few words. "Start what, Spencer?" I replied innocently, batting my eyelashes exaggeratedly. "I'm just expressing my gratitude for your generous assistance."

Spencer shook his head, "You know exactly what you're doing," he countered.

I leaned in forward in his direction, my playful demeanor masking the underlying tension between us. "Do I, Spencer?" I asked, my voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Or are you just imagining things?"

Spencer's gaze held mine, a mixture of exasperation and something else flickering in his eyes. "You're impossible," he murmured.

A smirk played on my lips as I traced a finger along the edge of the desk, enjoying the way he couldn't tear his eyes away from me. "And yet, here you are, still falling for my tricks,".

Spencer's lips twitched with a hint of amusement, though he tried to maintain a facade of indifference. "I'm not falling for anything, Y/n”

I chuckled softly, "Sure, Spencer," I lightly patted his chest. "Keep telling yourself that."

As Spencer leaned forward, he rested his hands on the desk under me, his presence engulfing me. I felt a rush of anticipation course through my veins as his hands laid on either side of my thighs, sending a jolt of electricity through me as our skin touched.

"Is that a threat, Spencer?" I whispered, my voice laced with a mixture of challenge and intrigue.

His lips curled into a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly with amusement. "Not a threat, Y/n," he replied, his tone softening as he leaned in even closer, his breath ghosting over my lips. "A promise."

"You know, Spencer," I murmured, "Sometimes I wonder if you've got what it takes to handle someone like me."

"Oh, really?" he replied, raising an eyebrow "And what makes you say that, Y/n?"

"Well, let's just say," I whispered, my voice filled with mischief, "I've seen the way you tiptoe around me, like I'm some delicate flower that might wilt at your touch."

Spencer's expression softened slightly, "Ah, yes," he conceded, his head fell back slightly as he sighed "the boss's daughter, untouchable and off-limits.

"Exactly," I replied, "And let's not forget, I'm also significantly younger than you. Double challenge, isn't it?

Spencer's amusement faded, replaced by a hint of seriousness as he regarded me. "You know, Y/n," he began, “playing this game, using your position as Hotch´s daughter to your advantage... It's risky."

I raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Risky? How so, Spencer?" I asked, my voice carrying a hint of challenge.

His gaze hardened, and the warmth in his eyes was replaced by a steely decisiveness. "Because one day, you might push me too far," he replied, "One day, I might not be able to hold back anymore."

I felt a shiver run down my spine at the seriousness of his tone, the underlying threat sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. Despite my playful facade, I couldn't deny the flicker of apprehension that sparked within me at the thought of what Spencer might be capable of if pushed to his limit. But instead of backing down, I met his gaze head-on, a defiant glint in my eyes.

"Is that a warning, Spencer?" I countered, my voice steady despite the racing of my heart. "Or a promise?"

"You always get what you want, don't you?" He remarked chuckling, his breath warm against my the skin of my neck.

I met his gaze with a sly smile, reveling in the tension that crackled between us. "Only when I set my mind to it,"

Spencer's lips quirked into a half-smile as he retorted, "No one likes a brat."

"But you seem to tolerate me just fine, Spencer," I teased, my voice dripping with mock innocence.

Toleration doesn't mean I actually like your attitude. Maybe you need to be taught some manners." Spencer's tone was firm.

"Oh, Spencer," I replied, "I didn't realize you were volunteering for the job."

Spencer's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he regained his composure. "Don't push your luck, Y/n," he warned.

But I couldn't resist the opportunity to tease him further and see just how far I could push him. Leaning in closer, I let my breath brush against his ear as I whispered, "Or what, Spencer? You'll finally lose your cool and show me what you're really made of."

His jaw clenched, a hint of frustration flashing in his eyes as he resisted the urge to react. "You're playing with fire, Y/n," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mixture of warning and desire.

A thrill coursed through me at the knowledge that I was getting under his skin, that I had the power to unravel him with just a few carefully chosen words. Ignoring the warning bells ringing in the back of my mind, I leaned back with a smirk, my eyes alight with mischief. "Then let's see who gets burned first,"

I quipped, grabbing his tie and pulling him closer. Our faces were inches apart as our lips collided for the first time. Our kiss was hot and hungry, tongues clashing, our mouths grappling for dominance. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him even closer as his hand traveled down the small of my back. Our bodies pressed together tightly, the heat radiating from within only adding to the intensity of the moment.

My breath quickened as our lips pulled apart, and my fingers tangled in his hair as I slowly pulled away. My heart thumped in my chest, my body humming with a rush of pleasure. Spencer's eyes were glazed, his breath coming in sharp, shallow breaths as he stared at me.

With a sly grin, I pulled back slightly, "Careful, Spencer," I murmured, my voice low and teasing, "Are you sure you want to keep playing this game?"

Spencer was still breathing heavily, and his eyes focused on me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. My body buzzed with pleasure, and I felt myself melting into his touch.

"Only if you can handle it," His voice was hoarse, as though he were gripping onto his composure by a thread. "And I think we're beyond the point of asking if I want this to keep going... don't you?"

I swallowed; my voice was as low as a whisper. "You tell me."

His hands traveled down my back, his thumb caressing my hip with slow, deliberate strokes. "Don't play games with me," he murmured, his voice trembling with desire.

My breath caught in my throat as Spencer's lips grazed my neck, and I could feel my body reacting to his touch. Spencer's words were hot as they hit near my ear, sending shivers down my spine as his hands continued their exploration of my body.

"I'm not playing games," I whispered, my body trembling as his hands traveled lower, slowly moving towards my thighs. I shivered but made no attempt to move away, knowing that he wanted me to stay right where I was.

"Then what are you doing?" Spencer asked, his voice low as he gripped my waist, pulling me closer. "Because to me, it seems like you're asking for more."

"I'm not asking for anything," I chuckled, "I'm letting you take what you want."

Now was his turn to let out a chuckle "And what exactly do I want?" his voice filled with amusement, as he lifted my dress up until it covered my hips, his hands still firmly gripping my bare ass.

I swallowed hard, my body trembling as he played with me, his fingers gripping me hard. My breath caught in my throat, and my head tilted back, my body yielding to his touch.

"I think I want to hear you say it," Spencer murmured, his voice low, his eyes burning into mine.

Spencer's gaze locked onto mine. I could see the conflict playing out in his mind—the struggle to reconcile his desires with the reality of our situation.

"You want to fuck me, Spencer; you always have," I asserted confidently, refusing to back down. "But you were just afraid of crossing that line, of stepping into forbidden territory. Afraid of what it would mean to want someone like me… Hotch´'s daughter,"

Spencer's lips curled into a faint smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes. "You know what they say," he chuckled softly. "The forbidden fruit is always the most desired."

"So, what do you say, Spencer?" I tested him, "Are you ready to take a bite?"

"I think I'm ready for more than just a bite," Spencer replied, his words full of aggression as he leaned in closer. I shivered as his hand traveled down between us, stroking the lace of my panties with his fingertips. At an excruciatingly slow pace, his touch grazed the soft material that covered the skin. I couldn't help but squirm against him, my breath coming in short, as my body tightened in anticipation. I let out a light moan, and Spencer chuckled in response.

The anticipation was killing me; his fingers were slowly caressing my sensitive bud, just teasingly enough to send shivers down my spine. His touch was gentle but insistent, and his fingers were enough to drive me wild with desire.

I couldn't help but move against him, his breath in my ear and his fingertips grazing my covered skin. It was exquisite torture, leaving me desperate for more, and Spencer knew it.

I let out a soft moan, unable to contain myself anymore, as he moved the lacy fabric aside to gain full access to where I wanted him most. His touch was tender but firm, his finger tracing upward on my wet slit.

"Please, Spencer," I moaned, my body shaking with desire.

"What's that? I couldn't hear you," he answered, his voice low and steady as he chuckled.

"You talk too much," I whispered, my voice husky with desire. My hands traveled between us, reaching for his, and I guided his fingertips to my entrance, pushing them inside. As his fingers filled me up, a soft moan escaped my lips, the sensation sending shivers down my spine.

Spencer's face was a mixture of surprise and desire at my bold actions, his eyes darkening with a hunger that mirrored my own. My quiet cries of pleasure filled the room as he moved his fingers in and out.

His eyes fixed on mine as my face twisted in ecstasy, his grip solid yet delicate as he grabbed the back of my neck.

"Hey, hey, hey," Spencer warned, “Eyes on me," he gestured with his free hand for me to look him in the eyes. "I want to see your face when you cum on my fingers."

I felt both embarrassed and eager all at once, but I couldn't resist the lure of his challenge. His voice was low, and there was a hint of authority in his tone. Feeling a rush of heat flood my face, my gaze shifted between his face and watching his fingers move inside of me.

My eyes widened as I felt myself teetering on the brink of ecstasy, every nerve in my body alive with anticipation. The intensity of Spencer's gaze only fueled the fire within me, pushing me closer and closer to my breaking point.

"Fuck, Spencer, I'm... I'm gonna..." I struggled to form the sentence as waves of pleasure crashed over me, rendering me speechless.

"You're gonna cum, pretty girl?" he asked, a sweet look of anticipation in his eyes.

I could only nod my head before it fell back in pleasure, and a throaty moan escaped my lips. A look of satisfaction crossed his face, and I could feel the pleasure all over my body. I closed my eyes, just taking in the sensation.

"Yeah, just like that," he said as he withdrew his fingers, his gaze locked on mine, savoring the moment. He put his fingers into his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Oh, it's even better than I imagined," he said with a soft moan escaping his lips.

I captured his lips, still tasting the remnants of my desire, and pulled him into another heated kiss. With skill, my hands flew to his belt, swiftly undoing it as I eagerly wanted him inside of me.

He pulled his clothes down, freeing himself, breaking away from our kiss momentarily to look down as he stroked himself a few times. His breath hitched with a low groan. I watched him intently, my own desire mounting with each passing moment.

With a hunger that burned hotter than ever, I leaned forward, my lips trailing along his jawline as I whispered, "Don't keep me waiting, Spence."

And so he didn´t.

"Oh fuck..." I moaned as I watched him sink into me with ease, his head falling to the crook of my neck as his jaw clenched in pleasure. My walls gripped him tightly as he bottomed out, filling me completely. My eyes widened as he thrust for the first time with a force that left me breathless. His movements were primal, fueled by a raw passion that consumed us both. I could feel every inch of him as he thrust, each movement sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body.

Spencer's lips curled into a devilish smirk as he leaned in closer, his breath tickling my ear. "You like that, Y/n?" he whispered "You like feeling my cock inside of you.?”

I squirmed beneath him, unable to form a coherent response as his words sent shivers down my spine. "Spencer," I gasped, my voice barely a whisper, "shut up… just... keep going."

Spencer's lips curled into a sly grin as he leaned back slightly, his gaze locking with mine. "You always have to get what you want, don't you, Y/n?"

Spencer's lips curled into a sly grin as he leaned back slightly, his gaze locking with mine. "You always have to get what you want, don't you, Y/n?" He teased, “You wouldn't give up until I fucked you senseless."

"You're enjoying this as much as I am," I replied "Don't act like you're innocent in all of this."

Spencer's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, believe me, Y/n," he whispered huskily, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

As Spencer's thrusts grew more forceful, I found myself succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that washed over me with each movement. The rhythm of our bodies colliding echoed in the room, filling the air with the sounds of our shared desire. My nails dug into his back, my fingers clutching onto him desperately.

Spencer's movements were primal, driven by a raw passion that ignited a fire within me. With each thrust, I felt myself spiraling closer to the edge, my body on the brink of ecstasy as he pushed me further and further. I couldn't help but lose myself in the intensity of the moment, my mind clouded by the overwhelming pleasure that consumed every fiber of my being.

“I need to cum, spence, please," I practically begged, my voice thick with desire.

Spencer's smirk widened. "You want to cum on my cock, baby?" he teased, his voice dripping with lust.

My answer was a breathless "Yes, please, yes," barely more than a whimper, as I surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through me.

With one last, hard thrust, Spencer pushed me over the edge, and I rode the waves of ecstasy crashing over me.

"Fuck, yes!" He cried out as my body trembled with the force of my climax. And as I reached the peak of my pleasure, Spencer found his own release, his body tensing against mine. With a final, primal grunt, he pulled out, his hot release spilling over my thigh.

The room was filled with heavy, tense silence as we both caught our breath, the aftermath of our heated encounter hanging thick in the air. Spencer's hand moved gently, cleaning me up with tissues he picked from the box behind me on the desk.

"This can't happen again," he reiterated, as he threw away the tissues, his voice firm “It's risky. Hotch wouldn't hesitate to shoot me if he found out," he chuckled nervously.

I nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of his words. "I know," my gaze dropped to the floor.

"But God…" He approached me again, his hands cupped my face. "That was something else," he murmured, brushing his lips against mine. "It's going to be hard to stay away from you, now that I know how you taste, and how good you feel around me." Spencer's lips met mine once more, kissing me sweetly. "It's going to be hard to resist you."

I teased, my voice laced with a playful tone. "And you can bet I’ll make your job harder"

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Spencer's lips curled into a small smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "But seriously, this… this can never happen, okay?" He emphasized, "We can't tell anyone about this. Not even Derek."

"I understand," I replied, my voice soft "Our secret stays just between us."

He nodded in agreement, a sense of relief washing over him as he realized I understood the importance of discretion. "Good," he murmured as he kissed my forehead.

—x—-

As Monday rolled around, Spencer arrived at the office and settled into his desk. Before he could even get started on his work, Derek immediately approached him, leaning in with a sly grin. "Hey there, pretty boy," he says, his voice low but teasing tone.

Spencer looked up, "Hey, what's up?"

Derek leaned in closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So, what happened last Friday? You left the party early, man. Everything alright?"

Spencer hesitates, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. "Uh, yeah, I wasn't feeling too well. I thought it was best to head home."

"Feeling under the weather, huh?” Derek chuckles, not buying it for a second.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as Derek's teasing hit a nerve. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he stammered awkwardly, "Yeah, I was just not feeling right."

"So, you didn't hear anything when you were inside the house?" Derek whispered.

Spencer's heart raced, realizing Derek might know more than he's letting on. "What would I even hear?"

Derek's grin widened as he leaned in closer, his voice low and teasing. "See... when I went inside to look for you, because Y/n went to look for you but you two never came out…. And then I heard a couple getting it on in Hotch's office, and I was just wondering if you knew who it was. I want to know all the juicy deets."

Spencer's face flushes crimson but he maintained a facade of innocence, refusing to betray any hint of guilt. He cleared his throat, “Ah, well, you know how it is at these gatherings," his tone was light but his pulse racing. "People can get carried away. But as for the identity of that mysterious couple, I'm afraid I'm just as clueless as you are, Derek."

Derek chuckles knowingly, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Sure, Spencer, whatever you say," Derek pats Spencer's back in a mockingly sympathetic gesture, "But next time, maybe find a quieter spot than Hotch's office. It's hard to keep things discreet when the walls are practically paper-thin."

546 notes · View notes

shadowdaddies · 7 months

Note

hi! i firstly wanted to tell you how much i love your writing and how perfectly you write every character. you’re so talented😊

i was wondering if you could write an eris x reader where it’s at the high lord meeting or some other big event and reader is part of the night court, maybe related to one of them, but mated to Eris and nobody knows. maybe something happens like Beron insults her or one of the Inner Circle insults him and they accidentally reveal the bond by getting protective? it can have like soft, comforting smut as well if you’d like but either way, i trust you completely :)

thank you so much! you are so kind, this ask made my day. and I love this prompt, I had a lot of fun writing this💜

Heated Admissions

Eris x Reader

warnings: none

Shoulders rolled back, you schooled your features into your practiced Night Court facade. A deadly glimmer shone in your eye, confident smirk on your lips as you followed you High Lord and Lady into the chambers where the other High Lords were gathered.

Heart pounded, nostrils flaring slightly the moment you entered the room, your mate’s presence intoxicating despite your best efforts to ignore him. Like a moth to the flame, you allowed your gaze to flick to Eris’s as you took your place across him at the long table, each of you standing behind your High Lords.

Amber eyes were already focused on you, Eris’s eyes raking over you as though he were sizing up an unworthy opponent. But behind his piercing glare, Eris sending a wave of admiration and encouragement down the bond.

You flashed him a cocky smirk, appearing taunting to everyone else around you, all the while sending him your own love as you leaned against the wall, arms crossed as you looked down your nose at Beron.

Azriel grew tense at your side, your hand finding your friend’s arm to give a comforting squeeze, internal satisfaction seeping through you at the confirmation that the tonic had worked. Unwilling to take any chances of your hidden mateship being discovered, you and Eris had each taken a tonic to dilute the scent of the mating bond - but you had never tested it until now.

While Azriel relaxed next to you, Beron’s murky brown eyes stayed trained on you, his gaze assessing in a different way as Rhys introduced you to the room.

“This is my Military Advisor. She will be explaining our strategy against Hybern moving forward,” Rhys drawled, a lazy smirk settling over his features, violet eyes alight with challenge as Beron and Tamlin visibly tensed.

You stepped forward, hands clasped in front of you, nodding a polite greeting to the High Lords as you prepared to lay out your proposal for a joined strategic effort.

You’d hardly opened your mouth when Beron guffawed, allowing himself a loud, mocking laugh through his sneer. He did not address you, not Feyre, instead looking to Rhysand.

“You think that I care what proposal some young, lowborn female has to offer? Surely, Rhysand, things cannot be going so poorly for you in the Night Court that you’ve resorted to such sad excuses for leadership and guidance.”

Rhys’s power rolled off of him in dark waves, cutting off Beron before he could continue further. But it was too late. Eris’s eyes were glowing with barely contained fury, flames sparking at his fingertips as his gaze flicked between his father and you.

Azriel tracked Eris’s reaction as well, the Illyrian’s siphons glowing a bright cobalt as he misjudged your mate’s protective instincts as a threat. Wings twitched, your only hint before Azriel lunged across the table towards Eris.

Time seemed to slow as your adrenaline kicked in, hand flying for the collar of Azriel’s leathers as you pulled him back. Hazel eyes found yours, the spymaster uncharacteristically startled by the feral anger that left your entire body shaking. “Do not touch my mate,” you growled before you could register the words.

Gasps sounded throughout the room, Azriel’s jaw slack while he relaxed, nodding at you in understanding. You flashed him an apologetic smile before turning to face the rest of the room, bracing yourself to stand against Beron’s wrath.

Instead, a frightful smile spread fully across the High Lord of Autumn’s face, a wicked gleam in his eye as his eyes roamed over your body in a far different light than earlier. “Well, my son, it seems that you have more interests in the Night Court than I’d gathered.”

The tension grew unbearably thick, Autumn and Night Courts poised to jump at each others’ throats in the blink of an eye.

But it was Helion who cleaved the silence like a spell, the rich timbre of his voice blanketing the room in a sense of calm. “How wonderful that two Courts so often at odds with each other would find the greatest common ground, love.” The wink he sent your way before continuing sending a furious blush over your cheeks, “but I would love to continue the conversation which so many have journeyed here for, if our lovely Military Advisor would continue.”

No one dared to question the High Lord of Day, settling in as you spoke. Leaving the meeting, you felt surprisingly optimistic from the High Lords’ reactions to your plan, Feyre and Rhys encouraging you that you would debrief further in the morning. You didn’t miss the pointed look that Rhys gave you - one that would strike fear into most anyone - indicating the debrief would include divulging of information from you about the mating bond.

Bidding them good night, you turned on your heel towards the room in which you were staying, shoulders slumped as exhaustion and anxiety weighed you down. You shouldered the door open, thinking of your mate as you stumbled through. You had wanted to see him more than anything, but after the Inner Circle’s reaction tonight, you didn’t dare seek Eris out.

Spinning around, you locked the door behind you, letting your head rest against the wood as you sighed, mind reeling with the potential ramifications of that meeting.

“Something on your mind?” a familiar voice purred from behind you, your spirits instantly lifting as you turned to see Eris’s red hair glowing in the dim faelight. A feline grin graced his lips as the Autumn Lord sprung gracefully from the bed, the smell of cinnamon invading your senses as he strode closer.

“Are you alright?” you whispered, hand finding his sharp jawline as you searched whiskey eyes for any sign of worry. Eris simply chuckled, mirthful gaze set on you as he tilted his head into your palm.

Tongue flicked out against the skin there, to be swallowed by a warm, lingering kiss that sent shivers down your spine. “I am just fine, my love. I am assessing my father’s stance on us, and will adjust my plans accordingly. For now, all I want is to be with you.”

His eyes were soft at the admission, unguarded emotion that he only allowed to you see giving you the peace you needed. “I’m all yours,” you promised, pulling your mate in for a searing kiss before you led him towards the bed.

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thesirencult · 9 months

Text

PAC READING: CHRISTMAS WISHES FROM YOUR FS

PILE 1

Your FS is going through a "10 Of Swords" moment. They have been blinded from the truth. Her light is stronger than any illusion's. You are part of this truth. You and this person share a very special soul bond. Your lives' are parallel to eachother, a thin thread connecting the dots until the moment you meet.

"Keep your map close to your chest darling.

Not many people will understand the journey you are embarking on. I do. I want you to know that I wish that all wishes come true the next year. I'm kinda hopping one of them involves me ; )

I wish you get to heal. I wish the sun is warming up your skin and your eyes are shining with hope. I wish I was there to hold your hand. We could embrace eachother under the sun.

You are my sun.

My Sun. Take the chance and that leap of faith. It will bring you closer to happiness and to me. There are times the most illogical choice and the most risky one leads us to success. The paradox of risk.

I wish you keep the flame in your heart alight and your optimism helps you rise above every single. I wish you find love and guidance within your soul.

Goodbye, for now, my Sun and Merry Christmas <3"

PILE 2

Your person is not happy. They are far away from you but energetically they can feel that you are struggling. Your person is very spiritual and they want you to hold on for a tiny bit longer. They might be older than you. When you meet they will take on the role of a mentor. They see you, the real you and they want to help this diamond form under pressure.

Your FS is very calm, cool and collected. They know what they want. Your message is more heav,y but I know, deep in my heart, that you are telepathetically connected and they constantly send you messages, especially through songs and quotes you stumble upon.

"I wish you could see yourself from my POV. The amazing, beautiful, strong soul that you are. I wish you could look at life through a different prism. I want you to take the reigns and show everyone who you are. I wish you find the strength to own your beauty.

Your energy is mesmerizing. Like a cold night under the full moon and a wolf howling in the background. Hecate.

Choose sovereignty. Choose yourself baby. You're not unlucky. Your time just hasn't come yet.

I want you to push one last time baby. Do it for me. I'm sorry I'm not there to wish you "Happy Christmas".

I wish you manifest your dreams,I wish you dare to invest in your future, in our future without thinking you don't deserve it.

You have more options than you think. Don't make any bad choice you will regret later.

I love you baby. I want you to be healthy and strong."

PILE 3

Your FS is very "hungry" for you. They want you to let them take control. They are more possessive and obsessive than you would expect. They show their emotions through touch and on the bed.

They are daring and won't mind to show that you are theirs to everyone. Your FS knows taht you have big goals and they want you to know that in the future you will achieve all your dreams.

They are pretty succesfull themselves and they want you to get that bag and level up. They love material things and they invest in their future. You would meet in an environment supporting your level up (gym, career day, course, seminar etc.).

"My lovey dovey Sweetheart,

I wish you indulge this season. I wish you let your hair down for a while. When you are mine I will help you calm down. I will take the burdens off of your shoulders and tie your hands. Merry Christmas my lovely baby. I wish this time next year we are together, driving around in our luxury vehicles.

Let me dominate you. Let me take control. I will wrap satin sheets around you and carry you to the bathroom. A bathtub full of rose petals. Champagne for you my love. Sit on my face.

I wish you achieve all your goals. I wish you get your dream car, you bossy little lady. I will hold your hand through everything. I'll be by your side on long nights and I will proudly parade you around and show you off to everyone. I want them to know that the most accomplished person is mine.

You are mine. Mine. Mine.

Always yours, your FS."

#astrology #tarot reading #level up journey #pac reading #tarot #pick a photo #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a picture #soulmate #intuitive readings #psychic #channeled message #future spouse #twinflame

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jade-jini · 10 months

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omg thank youuuuu g!p loser reader x sana pls 🥺💕

(Perfect moment to bring Sha-rich AHHH)

Daddy’s rich girl who “works” at the company as well with you. Unlike her, you worked your way up to an important position in the company. You invested time, worked and studied hard, and had a position almost as important as her. Almost. Of course nobody could ever have more power than the owner’s daughter, right?

However, the fact that you were able to have such position already spoke a lot about how smart you were. Not a lot of people, specially at such a young age, could get there. If they didn’t know who Sana was, they’d wonder how tf is she technically your superior. Specially when you’re the one who basically does all the work for her.

“Y/n-ssiii” she called in her respective animated tone. You were talking with some coworkers in their desks when you quickly looked at her and gave her all your attention, feeling already cheered up at the sound of her pretty voice.

“Yes, Ms. Minatozaki?” You answered sweetly with those heart eyes you could hardly hide from others, happy to see her already ‘cause you were wondering when was she gonna get to the office (lost puppy behavior-). You knew it was common for her to just show up at any time she wanted to.

“Father has assigned me some hard hard work.” She said with a pout as she showed you a folder. “and I need the help and guidance of the smartest person here, Aka you. No offense, ladies.” She said as she gifted a charismatic smile and wink to the young secretaries you were previously talking to.

Everybody knew that when Sana said “help her”, it meant that you were gonna do all the work for her.

You, of course, would have gladly accepted right away, but you were full of work too, and wanted to take things slow this week rather than having to focus on working hard on your and her work as well. Again.

“I’d love to, but I also have this project and I act-” you tried to explained but she stopped you, already feeling bored hearing the excuse.

“Ah! This is important, y/n. You wouldn’t want our ceo to be missing such an important part of his presentation for this week, presentation that I remind you, you’re part of, right? Or is it that you can’t handle being part of it? ‘Cause If you can’t I can find somebody else that-” now it was your turn to interrupt.

“No!” You quickly said grabbing the folder from her hands. For some reason the idea of somebody else spending time with Sana like that made you horribly jealous (territorial puppy?). It felt like it had more than one meaning. It was more than just somebody helping her with work. “I can do it, ma’am. I’ll have it ready as soon as possible.”

“Sounds great! See you soon in my office.” She said with a big smile as she softly touched your forearm before leaving. You simply sighed, wondering why was it so hard to resist her. You turned around once her silhouette disappeared, just to see your coworkers looking at you and shaking their heads. You shrugged, and excused yourself to your own office to start working.

Some people would think Sana is using you to look good in front of her daddy and his important partners. You had coworkers looking at you with sad eyes, feeling empathetic about “the poor sunbaenim who is too good to say no and has to work so daddy’s girl doesn’t show how unprepared she actually is for this business”. Most of the people in the company liked Sana though, she was charismatic and that’s something that can get you far in life as well. You appreciated her qualities, and saw beyond. But of course there were always those few employees…

“Y/n sunbaenim should be the one with her position”

“Seriously, she’s so qualified. How unfair” some coworkers would whisper. What they didn’t know is that Sana was compensating you and very well for your help with her job.

In her own particular way.

“y/n! Oh my god. y/n~.”

Sana’s moans were getting loud to the point you were starting to concern that some people might be able to hear you guys from outside her office. But being drunk in her taste, you couldn’t care less about that. And Sana didn’t care at all when she was feeling this good, at the end of the day she (her dad-) owned this place. Who was gonna fire her?

You were almost naked, your upper body exposed, your wrists tied behind the chair you were seated on. Your pants were still on though, and your boner was already hurting but you didn’t dare to complain, focus on the task given to you. Not any important report that she needed to have on her daddy’s desk by the end of the week, or any structure analysis of who gives a fuck. No. right now the only thing that mattered was Making Ms. Minatozaki come in your mouth.

But how did you even get here today? Let me explain, it’s easy.

“Ms. Minatozaki, I brought you the latest report as you asked, with updates about last week’s movements in the graphs that our investment teams have been working on.” You said as you entered the woman’s office, several papers in hand battling not to fall as you fixed your glasses how you could.

Right as you stepped a foot on her office, she closed the door with your back against it and locking it behind your back, making you drop your documents and gasp in surprise “w-what’s going on, Ms. Mi-” but you couldn’t finish your question, as she started kissing you like she hasn’t seen you in years. You were caught off guard, moaning in her mouth as you grabbed her forearms. You always loved when Sana kissed you, sometimes you just wished she’d warn you before doing it out of a sudden.

“Ma’am, please, w-wait” you asked, feeling her hand traveling down to palm your dick over your pants “oh god…not there please…”

“Why not? I’m sure it misses me.” The older woman teased with a smirk, trying her best not to laugh. She went to leave wet kisses on your neck, biting it and grabbing your cock more ‘till she was basically masturbating you over your pants.

“Ms, Wait- fuck~ wait! Sana, wait!” You moaned, feeling weak in her hands, containing yourself from simply surrender to her touch was such a hard task, and slowly your brain almost forgot why would you even try to do it anyways.

“You have no idea how much it turns me on when you call me Ms. Minatozaki.” She whispered next to your ear, to then let out a mischievous giggle. “Although my name sounds just as good when it comes from your pretty lips, baby~” Sana teased, and went back to your neck, undoing your tie and shirt. Your trembling hands slowly tried to go to her lower back, but she had other plans “Ah Ah! You’re not using those right now, come here puppy.” Sana guided you to a chair she had in her office, and softly pushed you until you were seated. As she straddled you and went back to kissing you deeply, you didn’t realize that she tied your hands behind your back with your own tie until she stepped up to get something from her drawer and you tried to move.

“Sana? What’s going on?” You asked as you tilted your head, confused but clearly excited, already feeling your member pulsating, needing attention and missing the pressure Sana was giving it when seated on your lap. She was right. Your whole body missed her. Even when you guys hooked up very often you always wanted more of her.

“Nothing we haven’t done before, pretty puppy” she said as she showed you the leash and collar she bought just for you, with a blindfold as well, biting her lip clearly as eager as you were to start.

Oh.

“You wanna do that here?!” You asked her, clearly surprised.

“What, are you gonna tell me you don’t want it?” She asked back giving you a “you know damn right” look. Sana knew, you could never tell her no.

“… no ma’am.”

And that’s how you ended in the position you were in.

“That’s it baby, keep going like that. I’m gonna come~” you heard the older woman say as you basically fucked her pussy with your tongue, and you wished you could see her facial expressions but again, you didn’t dare to complain, not wanting to be punished. Even though you couldn’t see her, all of your other senses were very awake. The taste of her pussy against your tongue, making you drool creating a mess on her cunt as you felt some of it on your chin. The sounds of her voice moaning your name, as praises also filled the air. The sensation of the leash being pulled, keeping you as close as possible to her. Everything was having you on edge. You felt you could almost come untouched just by pleasing this woman.

Just as she stated, Sana came in your mouth, holding the leash and your head in place as she grabbed your hair a little too hard, sending a little pain, but not too much that you were uncomfortable.

“Fuckk your mouth feels so fucking good…” she moaned as she moved your mouth all over her cunt, helping herself ride the last highs of her orgasm. “It’s time to help you now, isn’t it puppy?” She asked in a cute tone, teasing you over your pants with her bare foot. With how neglected your cock felt, your hips automatically moved towards her foot, desperate for friction. This made the older woman laugh, you were such a cute needy puppy for her. “aw don’t be weird, puppy. I’m not using my feet for that. Got something better for ya.”

And as the seconds feel like ages, with the uncertainty of the darkness, you felt her hands slightly moving your pants to let your member free, and you felt how it hardly slapped against your own stomach. The sensation of your own precum making you groan, but you didn’t find it bothersome actually. The fact that it was still coming even when Sana wasn’t stimulating you at all in any ways made her hungrier for you.

“Aww, poor you. That probably hurts, doesn’t it darling?” She cooed. You nodded, a pout decorating your lips as soft whimpers started to leave them. An almost too loud moan escaped you once she started to slowly jerk you off “Shhh it’s ok, I’ll take care of it.” She said as her palm was now all over your tip, playing with the precum. You thought she was gonna make you come like this, until you felt the overwhelming and warm sensation of her tight pussy. God it felt like heaven. With how sensitive you were, and the desperation of not being allowed to touch her with your own hands. You felt you could come in any second.

Sana started riding you at a steady pace, knowing you were close but also not wanting you to finish too soon. She was playing with the pace, torturing you and enjoying the sounds you’d make when she slowed down robbing you of your own orgasm. If only you could see that damn smile she had on her face. “Sana, please… stop playing with me.. I need to come, please.”

Ouh she loved the sound of that. How you desperately begged her, knowing she had full control over you in every aspect. She needed to hear it more. “Hmmm ask again baby. Ask again and I’ll think about it.”

“Please, please, I’m begging you ma’am, please..” you sobbed, needing your sweet release, unconsciously thrusting your hips up, fucking her as fast as she was fucking you.

“Fuck..! Just like that, baby. Keep fucking going like that. Fuck me good.” She moaned between teeth in your ear, feeling herself getting close to her second orgasm as well. As you came, the sensation of your seed inside her drove her crazy, jumping even faster on your cock making you sob and ask her to please slow down, feeling overstimulated. But of course Sana didn’t stop until she was making a mess on your cock, making you fill her up even more.

———————

For somebody with her own office, she surely enjoyed rather going to more dangerous and small corners of the building.

“Wait, they’re gonna hear us…” you whispered with the little reasoning that was left in your mind as she quickly unbuttoned your pants while you were against the door of a janitor’s closet.

“No, I don’t think they will.” She said as she took her panties off and made you take them into your mouth before getting on her knees.

“Sana, we have a lot of work to do, please.” You said, taking her small piece of clothing out of your mouth for a second.

“Then let’s make it quick, and put that back in your mouth, now.” She said and before you could argue, she started sucking on your tip, moaning at the taste. Your eyes almost went completely white, getting already watery ‘cause of how sensitive you felt and how good Sana’s mouth was. You couldn’t help but to thrust your hips a little, hoping she’d get more of you inside her warm mouth. “Hey what did I tell you, hm? If you wanna fuck my mouth, you ask for it.” She scolded, teasing part of your shaft with her teeth “Understood?”

“A-ah~ yes ma’am. Can I please fuck your mouth?” You almost begged her, your voice coming out muffled ‘cause of her panties and you clenched the edge of the table next to you to try and have some self control while you waited for her answer.

“That’s better, yes you can baby.” She answered as she put her tongue out, giving you more access to her mouth, eagerly waiting for you to use it as your own fuck toy. And of course you did, getting deep inside her throat creating such wet and impure noises that would make whoever walks outside that closet turn around and leave the whole floor. Sana took it out of her mouth as she tried to catch her breath, replacing it with her hand instead. However, you were quick to put it back in, grabbing her head firmly.

“Nu-uh, we can’t risk it falling on your clothes. We can’t go to our meeting all dirty. You’re gonna swallow it all, aren’t you, baby?” You told her looking straight into her eyes, and she nodded, knowing she had no other option. She looked so cute like that, giving you those puppy eyes. People thought nobody could have more power than the owner’s daughter. Yet here you had her, on her knees listening to your every word and letting you use her mouth. People could call you a pathetic loser if they wanted to. As long as you could enjoy Sana. Not so long after, you came in her mouth almost making her choke. Still, she made sure to take everything you gave her, licking your dick clean, and getting a little too excited that you almost were starting to get hard again. However, you grabbed her arms and pulled her back on her feet, you guys had an important meeting and you were almost already late. She groaned, complaining and clearly wanting more “I promise after this meeting we can go wherever you want and do whatever you say, but please let’s go. We worked hard on these papers, remember?” You told her with a pout, a surprising switch on you that Sana was still trying to get used to.

“Ugh, fine..” she sighed as she rolled her eyes, and you both carefully got out of the closet (be who you areeee) after making sure you were presentable.

Getting to your meeting like nothing happened, clearly in a better mood than earlier that day, your cheeks red and sometimes stuttering as Sana continued eye-fucking you, fantasizing about what you promised earlier and impatient for the day to end to take you home,but she had the biggest smile planted on her face ‘cause there’s nothing she loves more than playing with you and having you around her finger during office hours.

A lot of people thought she was just flirting and playing with you, making you nervous or dreaming about a chance with her just so you would do whatever she wanted, but never actually batting an eye your way. The way Sana thanks you for your help (which she very much enjoyed as well, so it was a win-win for her every time), you could honestly say it was very fair tho.

Now, Sana was no idiot. She knew damn right what it was told about her and the way she treated you. She knew some people thought she was taking advantage of you and manipulating you ‘cause you were too good and innocent. You looked so shy and well behaved. “If only they knew” she thought. Yes, you were sweet, but innocent? Impossible, and if you ever were then she was sure she already broke you ‘cause with how easy she made you hard, and with how hard you pound on her, it was impossible to consider you innocent. Well behaved? Of course tho, you were so obedient for her. Just for her<3.

Continuation here <3

#kpop gg #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #twice x y/n #twice x fem reader #twice x reader #twice #twice sana #twice imagines #twice scenarios #twice smut #sana x reader #minatozaki sana #twice sana smut #g!p reader #loser reader

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