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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 5 months

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*SPOILER FIC FOR LOKI S2 FINALE*

Do not read until you have watched or are otherwise ready to be spoiled. THIS IS YOUR WARNING!

Idunn & The Golden Apple

In the village of Time’s Ridge, they say when a little girl is sacrificed, she is adopted by the gods and granted any wish she makes. When the orphan Idunn is driven over the side, she blinks and finds herself before a mysterious entity known as the God of Stories. Luckily, in order to gain his favor, she brings a small sacrifice of her own before his glowing throne.

Characters: Loki, OFC (child), cameos of Thor and Mobius Genre: Tragedy, Comfort, Found Family Word Count: 3.3k Content Warnings: SPOILERS FOR LOKI S2 FINALE!, Loki gives off dad vibes, child sacrifice

This time, the annual sacrifice at Time's Ridge was almost a scandal. Woeful Idunn was only ten-years-old.

She stood on the precipice, overlooking the glowing green abyss she’d once played beside thoughtlessly, unaware at the time that it was about to become her grave. Her thick red hair was woven into two braids, laced with daisy blossoms. Idunn was wearing a gray frock meant to symbolize her mortality and humility, she kept her hands in the pocket of her simple, tattered pinafore, her left hand curled around a small ball hidden away.

Instead of weeping like most sacrifices did, Idunn was choosing to go with at least a little dignity (not that anyone was there to be awed by her maturity--being an orphan, no one really cared how she looked anyway). Perhaps she wasn’t even all that upset about being picked by the Leader to die on behalf of Time’s Ridge. A less-brained individual might be flattered by being selected.

Of course, Idunn knew better. The only reason she was here was because no one would miss her.

The green glow of the bottomless pit was somewhat new, and that was when The Ritual began, some two generations before Idunn was born and left to die by a helpless mother. No explanation was given, but the green aura of the trench appeared, and suddenly: the perpetual storms plaguing the fields ceased. People stopped disappearing mysteriously…at least until things began getting worse again. Then, only a few years before Idunn was born, a child fell into the trench and disappeared, but time and the weather stabilized again, and so it was accepted that only the gift of a child’s wish brought personally to whatever god watched over Time’s Ridge, the sad little village at the end of the universe, would bring safety back.

It was always such an honor to be picked to die, until it was your turn. Then, if you were fortunate enough to have a parent of means, your only hope to live to see the following year was to have them bribe the Leader to pick someone else.

“Idunn, Blessed Daughter of Time’s Ridge!” The Leader began his ceremonial monologue, which was surprisingly ho-hum for being the prologue to child homicide. “Today, you are being sent into the Higher Worlds to seek out aid for our small community--”

I’m not waiting for this, the little girl thought. Let’s just get it over with. I have nothing to stay for. She covertly pulled the golden ball from her pocket and held it up, slowly turning before the crowd.

“May I eat before I jump?” she asked. Gasps rang out.

“Where did she get one of those?” someone called out.

The Leader smiled sadly, shaking his head. “You may, Little Idunn. Though I am not sure as to where you found one. But be aware, silly girl, even one of those won’t save your conscious life now.”

Idunn twisted her lip, looking at the golden apple in her hand, shrugging and taking a large bite. The taste was as if the Creators themselves invented the perfect sweet. The crisp skin snapped between her teeth, and the delicious juices felt almost like a cool, gentle tea rolling over her tongue.

I just hope the weird peddler who sold it to me was right, Idunn thought bravely, looking down at the apple as the bite mark she made instantly healed itself, creating a perfectly full piece once more.

A bolt of lightning broke overhead, causing the little girl to jump backwards, startled, her courage failing her for the first time.

“An honorable sacrifice should not be afraid of a little lightning,” mocked a cruel adolescent from the crowd.

Idunn looked back over her shoulder at her glowing tomb. “I’m not overly fond of what follows,” she replied, deciding to turn around, the juices and magic sugars from the golden apple beginning to fall into her stomach and move around inside, warming her core.

Work quickly, work quickly…come on…

She breathed in and raised her voice, which boomed many times larger than her petite body would suggest she could utter. “I hate you all, and I would live forever with no guilt at all if it meant each one of you got to fall into the pit in my place. I hope the timeline frays and swallows you all whole!”

The disapproving murmurs from her assembly of executions gave her a small pinch of satisfaction. One last victory for the condemned. She couldn’t delay it any more when the cruel Leader signaled for the pounding, rhythmic drums to sound.

Fine, even if this is it for me, I don’t want to be here anyway.

The only regret Idunn had in the moment before she fell forward into the abyss was that she was born in Time’s Ridge, a place so afraid of the shifts in time and space that were otherwise so natural around their realm that they would throw children off cliffs in order to make the gods happy.

Gods, Idunn thought. Good thing gods aren’t real.

Idunn decided not to give the Leader the satisfaction of reciting the poetic Final Prayer of the Sacrifice, and instead did a graceful twist of her small body, her red braids flying about her face and standing out even in the twilight suns, falling over with just enough time to wave goodbye to the village before meeting her fate at the bottom of a fraying timeline’s abyss.

The little girl felt the sensation of falling…more falling…even more…then a blinding green light followed by the feeling of being lifted by a thin arm or branch---

Gods aren’t real. Gods aren’t real. Gods aren’t real. Gods aren't--

Infinite branches of time, universes, were binding Loki to his throne amidst a sea of green matter and light, where he would be sitting until time itself decided to rip his duties from him and end existence.

That…that would be soon, right?

Worse than the eons that were beginning to pass before his eyes without him, promising adventures he would never have, romantic nights he would never see, were the whispers, the noises. Loki could hear every spoken voice in every timeline, but they were all a low, maddening hum that rang in his ears as he sat, legs apart, in his supernatural throne room, nothing but the years for company. Of course, the voices of those he knew in life were the loudest and hardest to hear.

And he was hungry. So. Damn. Hungry.

Even Gods needed to eat, but what was there to find in Loki’s palace of emerald and gold, buried underneath countless layers of timeline branches, ensnared in the prison of Yggdrasil? Loki couldn't die of starvation, but the hunger pangs would frequently send surges of pain through his core, out his arms, and as a result, a few timelines would flicker for a moment before regaining normalcy. It was likely these places would only see inclement weather or a few years of time skipped over as a result.

It was painful, but the only way Loki could check on his few allies was through the branches tying him to his noble seat. Sometimes, he would follow the sound of Mobius’ slow voice and find his favorite timeline: where Mobius was happy, retired, living with his adult sons and their spouses and children on a cabin by the beach (three jet skis and an ATV in the garage, of course).

He smiled as he saw OB’s TVA manuals and novels being stored away in a timeproof capsule for posterity, ensuring his legacy. The little man was never taller.

He’d even caught a glimpse of Thor from time to time, and Loki had spent countless hours following him from afar as he traveled with a small band of space brigands. He even managed a chuckle upon seeing what Thor was getting up to: “Father would be embarrassed…and that music is terrible.”

Not that it mattered.

He was forever burdened with glorious purpose, just as he’d prophesied as an arrogant youth. Now, I’m gloriously burdened, Loki thought. He nearly smirked at the poetic irony, or perhaps it was justice for his past transgressions that fit the same meter. A Loki with freedom would have enjoyed the twist for what it was.

A tear formed at the corner of his left eye at the thought. Forever. Here. No food or love or friendship to keep his heart from slowly eroding away with the millennia.

Suddenly, the branches around Loki’s wrists began shaking, writhing in his grip, as if a blustery wind disturbed them. He looked up, his eyes following one of the timelines furthest away from his immediate sight: a gray and lethargic piece of the Tree of Life. As the other tendrils of time began shaking furiously at some invisible disturbance, this branch suddenly exploded into a thread of white hot light before curling in on itself and returning to its original state.

Loki attempted to get to his feet, but he was still bound by the thousands of other timelines he protected. No matter, the odd shift in the air quickly subsided, at least until a brief ‘pop’ was audible from somewhere ahead of Loki’s line of vision, buried behind the twisting strings of time.

“Odd,” analyzed the God of Stories, “but amounting to nothing.”

Alas, he was wrong. For almost immediately after his declaration that the anomaly was of no concern: a small, high voice cooed from beyond the branches.

“H…hello?”

Loki felt his heart still, his skin cool, and a strange current in the air moved about the green chamber, rustling the hem of his cape where it met his boots. It was the first time since he took his place on the throne that it did so.

No, it’s a trick.

“HELLO?”

No one, no mortal could survive being here. It’s why it had to be me…

“Is there someone here?”

No, that’s certainly another’s voice.

Loki dared to hope after all this time. He opened his mouth to reply…but nothing fell out other than a few sharp notes and breath. Had it been so long since he’d used his vocal chords?

Out of the tangle of time streams before Loki, a diminutive, pale figure stumbled over herself, gripping something yet unseen in her hand, wearing a disgusting, dirty gray slip. A little girl, no older to existence than a spring lamb.

Norns, it’s a child!

“Is this heaven?” the little girl asked, brushing a fiery red braid from her shoulder and walking hesitantly into the throne room. “Or somewhere else?”

Loki’s mouth hung open, but his words still somehow failed him.

“Are you The Creator, or some God? Are you real? I didn’t think you would be. I guess I’m glad you are.”

The questions were pouring out of Idunn’s mouth so quickly that Loki was reminded of himself as a child, when he’d ask his mother one too many questions.

“Maybe I should--”

“Who are you?”

Idunn was so startled at the Green King’s first successful words to her, she leapt backwards, tumbling over a branch that her ankle met by accident. Loki nearly attempted to rise again.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m Idunn,” said the girl, regaining composure remarkably quickly.

“...Loki.”

A moment of awkward silence went by before Idunn took another step back toward the throne. “Are all those a part of you?” she asked, her thoughts as aimless and unorganized as any ten-year-old’s.

Loki looked up into the time vines, feeling smaller and more alone than ever in the surreal presence of this little creature who’d managed to survive an entrance into open time without being torn into tiny threads and scattered across space.

“I suppose they are.”

Idunn sighed, shrugging and positioning herself at his feet. “I didn’t know gods were real. I thought they were just an excuse to--”

“--oh, gods are real, little one--”

“--get rid of me.”

Loki fell silent again, this time stunned at the bluntness of the child, and the darkness of her admission.

“What kind of miniature sorceress are you, Miss Idunn?” he asked, his voice starting to lighten in an attempt to alleviate the child’s fears. “Your powers must be fearsome if you stand before me now fully intact.”

“I’m not a witch,” Idunn conceded. “They just chose me for the sacrifice this year, and I had something to help myself survive.”

Loki didn’t know what part of this distressing declaration to address first. “Sacrifice?”

Idunn nodded, looking about the branches above her head, pointing to the one that was still recovering from the intrusion. “Time’s Ridge. They call it The Village at the End of the Universe. They sacrifice a child every year to stop the storms.”

The God of Stories was aware of the histories of many of his burdensome tethers by now, but even Time’s Ridge was a mystery to him.

“Sacrifice?” he repeated as the oblivious blatherskite before him went on, her fears quickly alleviating into a more normal enthusiasm that suited a youth her age.

“Yes,” affirmed the girl, “but the night before they took me to the abyss, a strange man came by my cell window and offered me this.”

She showed Loki the golden apple, causing his jaw to drop again. The girl was unfamiliar, but the apple was unmistakably Asgardian. A rare delicacy, the Golden Apples of Asgard gave the Gods their eternal youth and immortality. Every god had a single one on their person, for sometimes one could find themselves pulling back from the edge of oblivion by virtue of one bite.

They were so rare because they were so difficult to cultivate. Any one mistake during the process would render the apples lethal to even the Allfather. The only grower Loki knew to be alive was an elderly Asgardian somewhere out in the cosmos. How he made his way to this little urchin teetering at the edge of everything and knew to offer her the last apple in existence, Loki couldn’t even guess.

“Did he say where he got that?” Loki’s eternal hunger suddenly caught up with him again upon seeing the golden apple in her small hand.

“No. All I can remember is that he was very strong and handsome for a peddler. Only other thing I can remember is that he was blonde. Oh, and he had a big hammer with him, too. I think he was looking for me directly, like he knew who needed this.”

Loki’s cold skin shot back into a warm heat that made two more tears stain his cheeks.

Idunn looked regretful. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to make you cry! Did you want a bite?”

Loki looked sadly off to his sides. “I cannot eat. I cannot let go of even a single one of these timelines, little one. I couldn’t hold an apple or a spoon.”

The child looked from Loki to the apple, and back. “So then I’ll help!” she said as simply as if it were the answer to 1 + 1.

Before the god could protest, or even ask, Idunn had taken it upon herself to climb Loki’s throne and sit in his lap, holding the unbitten apple before his lips. “Don’t you want--?”

Loki didn’t wait, his hunger overriding any sense of decorum, and accepted a large mouthful of fruit, almost unhinging his jaw like a snake to consume as much sustenance in a single crumb as he could. As a result, Loki had accounted for half of the apple with his bite. Idunn giggled at Loki’s accomplishment.

The food was not only the single most delicious morsel of food he’d ever consumed, but he felt it travel down to his stomach before warmly blossoming, artificially filling his stomach for the time being. The pains subsided almost immediately, and a surge of energy filled Loki’s veins.

Then, something remarkable happened that he didn’t expect. The timelines glowed gold instead of green for a moment, and each one that was even remotely loose or frayed was repaired and made stronger than it had been before. Small orbs of gold began appearing above their heads, looking as if golden apples were growing on the branches of the World Tree. Idunn gasped.

“Pretty!” she whispered. “I didn’t know these could do that!” she declared excitedly, looking down at the apple.

“Nor I,” said Loki, his gratefulness to the strange girl present in his tone. I wonder if this is affecting the beings within?

“Do you have children?” asked Idunn, suddenly. Loki shook his head, his large, horned diadem nearly whacking the girl off her perch.

“No. Do you have…parents?” he asked hesistantly in return.

“No. No one wanted me.”

Loki’s heart went out to the child. “I know the feeling.”

Idunn sighed. “Why do you think they picked me to jump at Time’s Ridge?”

Loki looked sadly down at the apple in Idunn’s fist, already repairing itself.

“I’m alone,” Idunn continued. “I had to come here in order to save everyone else while they move on with their lives without me. No family, no reason to expect to find one.”

Norns, am I looking into a mirror? Loki smiled, feeling an odd new sensation one could only describe as paternal. “Perhaps…when two unloved, unwanted people find each other, there’s a family to be found there, little one.”

Time passed, how much neither the entombed god nor the condemned child knew, but this was because neither cared. It was here that The God of Stories was able to share his own tales for the first time, and once he and Idunn moved past the initial shock of discovering one another here, in the darkest and least likely of places, his long stretches of details quickly became libraries’ worth.

Idunn may have been young, but her maturity was at least partially Asgardian. Loki suspected her heritage could have been closer to his own peoples’ than one would expect of one of the lowly residents of the edge of time. As such, Loki found his paternal instinct toward Idunn grow, and as infinite measures of time began to pass, he began encouraging her to eat and rest in between stories and songs. After all, she was only as immortal as the apples made her. She was not a god, nor a full Asgardian.

Before long, Loki felt compelled to say what had slowly begun to creep into his mind once she appeared: it’s so wonderful having someone to talk to.

Instead, he addressed what he least wanted to. “Idunn,” he said. “Unlike myself, you are free to leave here at any time.”

She sighed. “Are you tired of me now?”

He quickly denied her with a sad face and a headshake. “I suppose I just wanted to inform you that you could probably enter any one of these timelines and find a better world to live in than the one you knew…and the one that is here.”

Are you mad? thought Idunn. Why would I leave you, the first person to ever listen to me?

“No, I think I’ll stay here a while. You need someone to help you eat, and I need…”

Loki smiled and completed her thought. “...a glorious purpose?”

“Exactly.”

She nodded. “As long as I have this, and as long as you won’t tell me to jump off a ridge, then I will be here for you, King Loki.”

“Sweet daughter Idunn,” Loki whispered in relief, “just know one final thing: please don't call me King Loki.”

Idunn giggled and threw her arms around Loki’s shoulders in an embrace of perfect love and trust. For the moments she couldn’t see his face, Loki allowed the tears to fall freely.

Thus, the Goddess of Youth took her place alongside the God of Stories, giving him the strength and companionship he needed to hold reality aloft on his shoulders for however long the whims of fate would have him there.

For as long as she stayed there, Loki never knew loneliness again.

Yeah, this fic is basically "a wild daughter appears!" like Thor: L&T was for Thor, but Loki just can't and shouldn't be alone on top of the multiverse like that. Come on, y'all.

MY MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @acidcasualties @coldnique @fictive-sl0th @gigglingtiggerv2 @gruftiela @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @itsybitchylittlewitchy @joyful-enchantress @loopsisloops @lokisgoodgirl @mochie85 @muddyorbsblr @michelleleewise @mischief2sarawr @peachyjinx @anukulee @queen-chaos-of-hell @purplegrrl27 @ozymdias @smolvenger @mrs-illyrian-baby

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iamthecomet · 1 month

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Dear Comet, if you are still accepting prompts - Please - thrusts into your hands my fav rarepair - Cowbell/Aeon #20.

Ok, so like, I have barely written Cowbell, so I was worried about doing him justice, but the second I put these two together it all just...happened. I get it. They are just SO good together. YOU ARE SO RIGHT. Here's 700+ words of Aeon being so sweet to Cowbell (AS HE DESERVES).

Aeon spent his first few months topside unsure of Cowbell. Watching the older ghoul from afar. Fascinated by his outright refusal to even pretend to be human. Movements too fast, too sudden. They’ve gotten to know each other slowly. Aeon slipping into his orbit when he can. Walking next to him on their way to the gardens. Sitting next to each other at Mass.

Aeon gathers bits and pieces. Finds Cowbell strangely secretive. Speaking in a rasping whisper most of the time. But Aeon loves his stories. Stories of his time on the road. Of his small moments on stage. Of the pit. Aeon hangs on every gravely word as Cowbell recounts.

Aeon finds him easier to talk to than some of the other ghouls. The band ghouls especially. He knows he’s one of them now but that still doesn’t feel right. They feel like they’re on a pedestal above everyone else whether they want to be or not, and Aeon doesn’t know how to climb up to stand next to them–he doesn’t know if he wants to.

“You never take your mask off,” Aeon observes, one warm spring day. They’re sitting in the center of Primo’s hedge maze. The fountain in the middle of the clearing bubbling away. The air smelling like lilacs and fresh tilled dirt. Cowbell sighs, slides his finger over the sharp jaw of his mask.

He has an older one–there are quite a few ghouls around who still wear them. Mist, Omega, most of the working ghouls who were summoned during that era. Aeon knows Dew has one–has seen it on his bookshelf. He suspects Dew puts his old uniform on sometimes in an attempt to disappear.

“Not a pretty sight, kid,” Cowbell huffs out, dropping his hand to lean back on it. To tilt his head up toward the sun like he can feel it on his face through all that metal.

“I showed you mine,” Aeon offers, pointing to his own maskless face, his damaged left eye and the scars surrounding it. Cowbell turns his head to look at him. Aeon can see his eyes narrowing behind the mask, thought, maybe. Or he’s about to tell Aeon he doesn’t know what he’s talking about–that he can’t possibly understand.

Instead, Cowbell sits up, he sighs, and takes his mask in both hands, lifts it. He settles it down on the grass between his knees and takes his time before he looks over at Aeon. It gives Aeon time to study his profile. The wild dark hair. A jawline, sharp like the one on the mask. Crooked noise, pale gray skin. One thin horn curving back over his skull, deadly sharp at the point. The other broken off near the base, rough and jagged.

When Cowbell turns, Aeon gasps. He’s gorgeous. Scarred yes, but most ghouls are somewhere. His face made of sharp angles, cut glass. Eyes, lined with dark make-up, looking almost owlish, one glittering violet, the other vibrant amber.

Aeon can’t help but touch him. Can’t stop himself from reaching out and cupping that razor sharp jaw in his palm to see if it will hurt him. But instead, what he gets is Cowbell leaning into that touch. Eyes fluttering closed, breath heaving out in a sigh.

Aeon isn’t stupid. He knows what privilege he’s been given. Knows that Cowbell doesn’t let anyone touch him like this, see him like this. That he has been given a gift that almost no one else here has–to really see this ghoul for who he is.

Aeon inches closer. Caresses Cowbell’s scarred cheek. Holds him. Studies him. He may never get this chance again–he wants to remember this. To commit every angle, every line, every scar to memory so he never forgets.

“So pretty,” Aeon mumbles and Cowbell scoffs. Eyes cracking open.

“Liar.”

Aeon shakes his head. “Shut up and let me look at you.”

Cowbell does, eyes still slitted open, watching Aeon’s face intently.

“Can I?” Aeon asks–doesn’t really know what he’s asking for until Cowbell nods and he does it. Leaning in to press gentle lips over the scar that bisects a dark eyebrow. And then another over a silverly line cutting across the bridge of his noses. And then his lips are grazing over the scars on Cowbell’s cheek.

The older ghoul chuckles. “What are you going to do, kiss them all?”

“Maybe.” Aeon mutters, lips dragging over Cowbell’s temple.

“We’ll be here all day.”

Aeon hums, unbothered not pulling away. Tasting salt and metal on Cowbell’s skin. “Good.”

#comet writes #moth #cowbell ghoul #aeon ghoul #phantom ghoul #kiss game #fic game

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 11 months

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Hi friend! May I request something fun with Aemond or Daemon for a birthday gift? (Birthday is tomorrow). Not expecting it to be done tomorrow. Just a surprise of some kind? Pretty please? Hell it can be crack. End of the world final hours cuck scene. Whatever is in your awesome headspace.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR YESTERDAY, ANTI! HOPE YOU HAD A FABULOUS DAY. PLEASE ACCEPT THIS OFFERING OF NAME DAY SLOPPY TOPPY WITH UNCLE DAE DAE.

Warnings: Smut, oral (m receiving) Word count: ~1.1k

Tedious. Fucking tedious.

It’s Daemon’s name day and he’d rather spend it anywhere but here, surrounded by his brother’s Hightower whore and her miserable brood. He surveys the spread of food that’s been laid out across the dining table, glowering over the rim of his wine cup. It is farcical that anyone sitting around him would want to celebrate him. Were it not for his wife and brother he’d have told them to shove their celebration up their arses.

The day had started off well enough. He’d awoken, fucked his pretty little bride full of his spend and then been presented with a new saddle for Caraxes that she’d had commissioned for him. He was keen to try it out and had intended to head to the Dragon Pit to do just that, when a paige had informed him that the presence of both him and his Lady wife had been requested by the King in the dining hall. Daemon had given her a suspicious sideways glance and she’d shot back a knowing smile. Infuriating little temptress.

He now sits, brow furrowed into a scowl, as he is made to suffer through disingenuous toasts and forced merriment. He finds himself looking back on the name days he’d spent exiled from King’s Landing with wistful longing, as Viserys regales the room with yet another unflattering tale from their childhood, which earns titters and wry smiles from all those gathered at the table.

“You are sulking.” His wife whispers, leaning over to place her hand gently on his arm.

“I’m not sulking.” He grouses. “I didn’t ask to be here.”

“That’s exactly what sulking is!” She says with a soft laugh, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Look, they’re bringing out a strawberry tart!”

Daemon rolls his eyes as he sees the serving girls set down the enormous dessert and begin portioning it out. “That’s Viserys’ favourite, not mine.” He seethes under his breath.

“You are being a brat.” She chides jokingly, sweeping her finger through the cream on the plate that’s just been placed in front of her and tapping the end of his nose with it.

The sight of this earns raucous laughter from everyone else and the white hot flash of anger that surges through Daemon has him clenching his fists, until he takes a breath and looks at the soft curve of his wife’s mischievous smile. He sighs, visibly relaxing and wipes his face with his napkin.

He takes her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. “I just wanted a day with you.” He tells her honestly. “Alone.” He adds, eyeing the rest of the guests with annoyance.

“Just get through dessert, and then we can be alone for the second of your surprises for today.”

Slowly she sucks cream from her fingers, her eyes never leaving his and he feels his mouth run dry, as he stirs in his breeches.

They pass the rest of the meal in silence, though she keeps a hand on his thigh. The feel of it is like a brand through his trouser leg that has him unable to focus on anything else besides dragging her back to their quarters and burying himself inside of her.

By the time the plates are cleared away and people begin to excuse themselves, Daemon feels like he is crawling out of his own skin with anticipation. He grabs her by the wrist, practically dragging her from her seat and stalking from the hall, offering a non committal wave over his shoulder as Viserys calls after him.

If any of them think he is going to be kept waiting a moment longer they can all get fucked. Today is his day.

The walk back to Maegor’s Holdfast feels twice as long as usual, though his pace is purposeful, keeping a tight hold of. He spares a sideways glance at her. Her pupils are blown wide with lust, a flush of excitement dusts the apples of her cheeks a light pink, and her lips are parted slightly with the exertion of keeping up with his long strides. He has to have her now.

Pulling her into a secluded alcove, he delights at her squeal of surprise, wondering what other noises he can force from that pretty mouth of hers before the day is over.

“We’ll be seen!” She hisses, as he grabs her waist and presses hot, open mouthed kisses to her neck.

“Mmmm…then we’d best put on a good show.” He murmurs, hands shifting to lift her skirts.

“Ah, ah, ah.” She pulls away, shaking her head with a teasing smile.

He steps forward, eyes ablaze with passion, seeking to seize her once more, when she lowers to her knees in front of him. His jaw drops when she begins to unlace his trousers, he could peak from the sight of that alone.

He tilts his head back, hissing through his teeth as she frees his erection and pumps languidly at it.

“Are you ready for the second part of your birthday surprise?” She whispers coquettishly, not waiting for him to respond as she delivers a kitten lick to the head of him.

“You wicked little tease.” He groans, his fingers threading into her hair as she slowly wraps her lips around him, taking him in deeper.

Gods, her mouth, it will be the death of him.

She hums around him, using her hand to stroke at what won’t fit into her mouth and the sensation sends an ache straight to his stones. He desperately wants to grab hold of her head and thrust, but resists the urge, allowing her to service him at her leisure.

“So filled with charitable benevolence, and on my own name day, no less.” He thinks smugly to himself, watching through hooded eyes as her head bobs back and forth.

Each swirl of her hot wet tongue across the head of his length nudges him closer to the edge and his grip on her tresses tightens as his breathing becomes ragged.

“Fuck!” He growls. “Just like that, my wanton little harlot.”

She stares up at him, doe eyed and prideful and Daemon knows he is done for. With one final hollow of her cheeks and a flick of her wrist around the base of him, warmth shoots along the length of his spine, causing his balls to tighten as he releases into her mouth, watching slack jawed at the bob of her throat as she swallows. Slut.

He withdraws slowly from her, tucking himself away and running his thumb across the plush swell of her bottom lip, collecting drool and spend alike and pushing it back into her mouth.

He’d suffer through a dozen more name day celebrations if they all end like this one.

#daemon targaryen #daemon #the rogue prince #daemon stannies #pro daemon targaryen #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen fan fiction #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fan fic #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd smut #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fic

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heartfullofleeches · 2 years

Note

The God probably lies to the other followers, telling them if they give them offerings daily then they will let the others go out with you, spend time with you, (and if they receive enough offerings at the end of the week) even touch you! Aren't they generous?? (Mf just waiting for the right moment for them to have a physical form and steal you away lol)

Trying to get the cult started in your name to worship a dark God was hard work. Within the confines of your tent, you seek rest for another day you've failed at your true goal. As you drift you to sleep, you grow unaware to the figure standing at the tent's entrance.

The follower tightens their grip around the basket in hand. They had missed the ceremony of sacrifical offerings; the day spent on making sure it was absolutely perfect. They creep to your side; blood rushing to their face. Being alone with you was like a dream - even if you were unaware. Their hand itches toward your bare hand, stopping before they lost complete control. Just being here was punishable by banishment; not by your own words, but by those of the others. If they actually touched you, who knows what would happen. Temptation bit at the back of their mind - as well as the whisper of a disembodied voice.

"Child....."

The voice is deep, foreboding. A rasp they've heard before in their slumber, that they usually ignored. You were the only voice they'd listen to. Just as they were about to tune it out, it continues - catching their attention.

"You wish to touch their flesh, correct?"

They swallow hard, dipping their head in agreement.

"It... is all I've ever wanted since laying eyes on them."

"Then toss your offering into the flames of my blood. As their master, they have no choice but to comply to my command. You may have your moment with them if i I deem it worthy."

They hug the basket to their chest. Was what they were hearing really true? Or simply delusions guided by their swollen heart. They look at you, so blissful and unaware - an absolute gift from the higher powers. They'd do anything to hold you even once.

They remove a piece of their offer and place it by your bedside, leaving the tent and crossing the field to a cabin across the way. Within the cabin; down a crimson carpet, a fire burns brightly in its ceremonial fountain. The red edging the orange flames flickered a deeper color than one would find normal; the heat given off like standing at the gates to hades.

The follower walks up to it, dumping their gift into the pit; flames jumping higher at the fresh fuel.

"Worship me... For them."

They kneel, clasping their hands together in prayer. The words feel uncanny on their tongue. Wrong. But they'll do it - for you.

"My... lord, by your grace please give me the leeway to take hand with the one you’ve choosen as your disciple. Let me walk by their side for the rest of our days. Please.... let me kiss them goodnight."

The dark god accepts their worship and offering. Muffins.. it was a start at least. It could feel its power growing; the door between your realities so close - yet still not in reach. So close - to you. They almost felt sorry for the pathetic beings that fell at your feet; if the way they looked at you didn't digust them so. Eager for the day it could smite them all and claim you once and for all. For now, that was only a distant dream.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere insert #Yandere God #Yandere cult #Cult yandere #soft yandere #yandere story #tw yandere #x reader

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theostrophywife · 1 year

Text

in heat.

masterlist

(ithan x reader)

author's note: a full fledged oneshot because my favorite wolf boy deserves it. good god the banter in this. i love ithan so much and i am spreading my propaganda. warning: soft fluffy smut. so sweet it might give you a toothache. summary: your nosy best friend ithan gets more than he bargains for when he barges into your apartment with beer and pizza, thinking you'd have a quiet night in.

The darkest pits of Hel could not compare to the sharp stabbing sensation in your womb.

You doubled over in pain, clutching at your midsection and pressing the heating pad over your lower abdomen to ease the cramps, but it still felt like someone was actively burying a hatchet in your stomach. It was only the first day of your heat and it already felt like bloody murder. You nearly cried at the realization that you’d have to endure at least six more days of this excruciating pain.

Luckily, you’ve been given the whole week off from work. Sabine may be a selfish sadist, but even she understood the pains of a female wolf’s heat. It was likely the only reprieve you would be allotted as you twisted sideways onto your couch, kicking the blanket off your feet as you flipped through whatever trashy shows were on at this hour.

The doorbell rang and you groan in response, barely summoning the energy to sit upright. Thinking that it was the pizza delivery that you placed an hour ago, you hollered across your flat with no intention of coming to the door.

“Just leave it on the mat,” you call out.

You waited a couple of seconds before the ear splitting ringing buzzed through your flat again. Huffing in annoyance, you stomp across your living room and yank the door open—fully prepared to give whoever it was on the other side an earful, but stop short when you catch a glimpse of the male standing in the hallway.

Ithan Holstrom gives you a wolfish grin and briefly flashes you the box of pizza he'd undoubtedly snatched from the pizza delivery guy along with a six-pack of beer currently cradled in his arms before he’s barging into your apartment like he owned the place. The wolf makes himself right at home, plopping down on the couch and cracking a drink open.

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at your friend. “What are you doing here?”

The male takes a slow sip of his drink, patting the spot next to him. “It’s Friday, which means it’s movie night. I would’ve invited you over to the house, but Flynn and the girls are attempting to barbecue and I don’t really want to be there when Ruhn starts yelling at them for burning the grass in the backyard. Again.”

Shit. You’d been so distracted by the pain of your heat that you’d completely forgotten to cancel movie night with Ithan.

“I can’t do movie night tonight.”

Ithan twists to face you, his soft brown eyes examining you from head to toe. The messy bun you’d haphazardly thrown your hair in was nearly coming undone and spilling over the top of the thick, fluffy blanket you’d wrapped yourself in. The lounge shorts you were wearing were so short that they barely skimmed your thighs. You hadn’t bothered with pants this morning, but you did slip into your favorite Jelly Jubilee fluffy slippers—a gift from Bryce, of course. Ithan never understood your shared obsession with the Starlight Fancy toys, but he found it endearing nonetheless.

“Do you have other plans?”

You wave your hand over your current attire, shooting your best friend an incredulous look. “Yes, Holstrom. I clearly have a hot date to jet off to. Can’t you tell by my Jelly Jubilee slippers? I’ve been told it’s an absolute turn-on.”

Ithan rolls his eyes, fighting the smirk tugging at his lips. “Such a smartass,” he says fondly. “I’m asking because you having other plans is the only plausible reason I’ll accept for canceling movie night. Otherwise, I don’t see a reason why we can’t hang out.”

“I’m…busy.”

“Oh?” Ithan asks, raising a brow. “With what? Bryce is with Athalar and I’m here right now. So what else could you possibly have planned?”

You huff in annoyance. “I have other friends, you know.”

“Doubtful,” the wolf says with dripping sarcasm. He drums his fingers over the couch, a frown forming while his gaze flickers back up to you again. “We don’t have to hang out tonight if you don’t want to,” Ithan says softly.

The uncertainty in his voice softens your grumpiness. You sigh, teetering over to where he’s sitting and cocooning yourself even further within the confines of your blanket. “It’s not that I don’t want to hang out,” you start, absentmindedly blowing at your bangs. “I’m just not sure that I’ll be the best company tonight.”

Ithan cocks his head, noting the nervous shuffling of your feet. There was something different about you tonight. He couldn’t quite place it until you shifted again, bringing with you a wave of your signature scent—midnight rain and sage, tinged with a warm undertone that smelled so delicious that he had to resist pulling you into his lap just so he could catch another whiff.

“Did you use a different soap?” Ithan asks, entirely distracted by the heavenly fragrance. “You smell really good.”

You blush, shaking your head. “No.” Avoiding the wolf’s gaze, you stare at a spot on your pink rug. “Like I was saying, I’m not feeling that well so we have to take a rain check on tonight.”

“Are you sick?” Ithan presses, concern flooding his eyes. He rises from the couch, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. Your knees buck underneath you from the simple touch, but your friend is too busy fussing over you to notice. “Do I need to call a medwitch? I can ask Hypaxia to come by—”

Burning fucking Solas.

“Ithan,” you growl, drawing your friend’s attention. “Please do not summon the Queen of the Valbaran Witches for a house visit. I’m not sick. I’m just…” your eyes dart around the room as you attempt to look at literally anything else but the male standing before you. “I’m in heat.”

For what seemed like the longest ten seconds of your life, Ithan was silent. You dared to finally spare a glance in his direction, surprised to find him already looking at you.

“Oh,” was all he said.

“Yeah, oh. Now you see why I can’t hang out.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care if you’re in heat. I still want to hang out with you.”

You blink. “You’re not…grossed out by it?”

Ithan looks at you as though you were the one acting strange. “Why would I be grossed out by it? We’re wolves. It’s normal. I mean, besides the grumpiness, I think I can manage,” he shoots you a cheeky wink that makes you chuckle.

“Now come on, I know you’re dying to watch some godsawful romcom.”

You roll your eyes, but the tension eases in your shoulders as Ithan beckons you to sit next to him. He passes you a slice of pizza once you’re settled in and hits play on one of your favorite movies. It was a cheesy love story, but you absolutely fell for it every time. Ithan would never admit it, but he enjoyed watching these terrible movies just as much as you did.

The two of you fell into your usual movie night routine. The city lights dimmed outside and brought with it a cool shift in the air. Despite the blanket wrapped around your body, you still shivered as the air conditioning came on. Wordlessly, Ithan pulls you into his arms and envelopes you in his warmth.

Not an ounce of shame sluices through you as you greedily cuddle against him, feeling his soft chuckle sweep over your skin as he adjusts the blanket around the both of you.

Ithan pulls the string on your hoodie—his hoodie technically and pokes your cheek with it. “I thought one of the guys took this from my laundry pile. Tharion and I got into it, but as it turns out, you’re the little thief that stole my clothes.”

You childishly stick your tongue out, shoving your hands in the pockets of the Crescent City Sunball hoodie while throwing your legs over Ithan’s lap. “Not my fault you left it here. Plus, it’s comfy and it smells good. You’re not getting it back.”

The wolf grins. “Keep it,” he says, his voice dropping an octave lower. Seeing you in his clothes made him feel a strange swell of pride. Ithan liked the sight of it more than he should. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, leaning against him to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Your best friend shifts, pulling you to his side and resting his hand by your hip. You tried your best to turn your attention back to the movie, but you were suddenly hyper aware of every sensation as Ithan’s fingers trace circles along the sliver of skin peeking out from underneath his hoodie. The sweeping touch makes you freeze in place, your breathing soft and shallow as your eyes flutter close.

It feels good—so good—to feel Ithan’s caress sweeping through your body. You release a small sigh of satisfaction that rumbles through him like crackling thunder before an oncoming storm. The two of you had cuddled plenty of times before, most of them innocent and platonic, with a few that had him wishing he’d pressed for more, but not like this. Never like this.

The tension was so thick in the air that he could almost taste it on his tongue. Perhaps it was your heat affecting his senses, but as his fingers inched towards your ribcage, all Ithan knew was that he wanted to hear that purring sound come out of your mouth again.

Before he could think better of it, Ithan fully pulls you into his lap, the tip of his nose brushing against your neck as his right hand roams underneath the large sweatshirt nearly swallowing you whole. He sweeps your hair over your shoulder, breathing in your scent while you shift your weight above him.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Ithan murmurs against your skin. “You smell really fucking good.”

You swallow thickly, desperately trying to focus on the movie playing on your television to distract yourself from how aroused you were. “Thanks. You do too. That’s mainly why I stole the hoodie.”

“You like smelling like me?” There was a hint of a smirk in his voice, laced with an edge of possessiveness that makes your head swim.

“Mhm,” you reply, sinking back into his chest. “You smell all warm and cozy, like mahogany and pine.”

Ithan chuckles. “Good to know you find my scent so pleasing.”

You could barely make out the words as his fingers inched higher, eliciting a shiver out of you. Despite the reaction, there was nothing but heat rushing through your veins from your close proximity.

“You’re freezing,” Ithan observes, sounding every bit like the concerned friend that you knew and loved. Except there was something like lust and desire twisting through his features as you turned to face him. “I read that temperature irregularity is one of the main symptoms of a female wolf’s heat.”

You snort. “Been doing a lot of research on Wolf MD in your free time?”

The male rolls his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I have. I thought it might be helpful to know just in case my best friend ever needed the information, which I was just about to share before she interrupted with her usual smartass comments.”

The thought of Ithan researching your possible symptoms was mildly amusing and also extremely heartwarming. It was just so thoughtful and kind and sweet, which was basically your friend wrapped up in three words.

“Alright then, wolf boy. Share the remedy with the class.”

He shakes his head at your sarcastic quip. “According to the internet—which only contains true and absolute facts—” the accompanying cheeky wink makes you chuckle softly. “Skin to skin contact should help regulate your body temperature.”

A tinge of pink blooms high upon your cheeks at the suggestion. “Is this just an excuse to see me shirtless, Holstrom?”

Ithan rolls his eyes once more, pinching your side. “I’m just telling you what the expert opinion is. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“So…we’re just supposed to get naked and cuddle?”

The more you thought about it, the more enticing the idea was. You were already doing one of two of those things and the only obstruction left was the clothing between you. And you very much wanted to rid yourself of that pesky little barrier.

“That’s the general gist of it,” he says, his soft brown eyes darkening. “I think chest to chest would suffice. We can keep the blankets around us if that’ll make you more comfortable.”

Ithan offers you a genuine smile, which almost makes you feel bad about all the filthy thoughts currently running rampant in your hormone addled brain. Almost.

You swallow, facing your friend. “Only if you’re alright with it—”

“Of course. You know I’d do anything to help you.” You didn’t doubt the declaration for one second. It was just the type of male Ithan was. “Plus, I know you’re dying for the chance to ogle my abs.”

If only he had any idea how accurate that statement was. You roll your eyes, gesturing for him to turn around. “In your dreams, Holstrom.”

Ithan’s laughter sweeps over your skin as he faces the other way, giving you some much needed privacy. You stare at the back of his head for a brief second, weighing the consequences in your head. Cuddling was one thing, but doing it while semi-nude was completely new territory. It gave you pause, clearly on the precipice of crossing some invisible line of your friendship. The boundary that grew thinner and thinner the more the two of you spent time together.

Unbeknownst to you, Ithan was facing the same dilemma. The wolf was more than aware that he could possibly fuck up your friendship if he took this any further, but if there was anything he learned over the past few years, it was that life was short and he was done pretending that he wasn’t crazy about you. He only hoped you shared the same sentiment.

Throwing all caution to the wind, you quickly slip out of his hoodie before tossing it to the other end of the couch and wrapping the blanket around you.

“You can turn around now,” you say softly.��

Ithan did so slowly, his gaze trailing up to your face as he tried his best not to let it sweep past your exposed shoulders and the lacy bra that seems to be peeking out from underneath your knit throw. He busied himself with the hem of his shirt, lifting the article of clothing over his head in one swift move.

You didn’t have nearly as much self control as Ithan did as your eyes roamed over the expanse of his golden brown skin and the muscles that rippled underneath while he shifted closer to you. Pure electricity crackles over your skin as he pulls you into his arms once more, this time without the barrier of your clothes. You let out a pleased hum as Ithan presses you flush against his chest, his natural warmth chasing away any trace of the cold.

“Better?” He asks, his voice rough and husky.

A soft moan is all you can muster as you greedily wrap your arms around his neck, drowning yourself in his heat and scent. Ithan was so godsdamned intoxicating and you knew that if you ever got a taste of him—a real taste—that you’d spend the entirety of your immortal life still craving more.

The notion wasn’t helped as he skims his fingers over the back of your bra, tracing tantalizing circles that nearly made you go out of your damned mind. You nuzzle your nose into the crook of Ithan’s neck, lips barely brushing over his tanned skin as he inhales a sharp breath. Your hands moved of their own volition, dancing over his strong back and threading through his hair, which slipped through your fingers like silk.

Ithan stills, his breathing soft and shallow while you wrapped yourself up in him. Large hands grip the tops of your thighs, shifting your position so that you were currently straddling him. You could feel how tense Ithan was underneath you as you released his strands and ran a teasing finger through his perfectly sculpted abs.

“Ithan?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. Your best friend’s eyes snap open, giving you a glimpse of the dark desire dancing in his chocolate gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking that touching you is the most alive I’ve ever felt. I’m thinking that your scent is so intoxicating that I want to drown myself in it.” The gruffness in his voice makes your core clench with need. “I’m thinking that I really want to fucking kiss you right now.”

You bite your lip and Ithan’s gaze immediately zeroes in on the movement. “Then what are you waiting for, Holstrom?”

“Such a smartass.”

The teasing remark is the last thing you heard before Ithan closes the gap between you, pressing his lips softly against yours as though it was taking every ounce of self control not to ravage you right then and there. Unfortunately for Ithan you didn’t share his patience and you hungrily pressed against him for more, arching into him and causing the two of you sink into the cushions. Your lips meld together and all of Ithan’s restraint vanishes as he flips you on your back without breaking the kiss.

You moan against his mouth as he trails his hand up your inner thigh, toying with the hem of your shorts. “There’s something else I read about your heat. A remedy to the cramps and pain that you’ve been suffering from.”

“And what would that be?”

Ithan smirks and the sight knocks the breath out of your lungs. He was so godsdamned pretty that it should honestly be a crime for him to walk around looking like that. “I can show you better than I can tell you,” he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Then by all means.”

The male attaches his lips onto your neck as he yanks your shorts off your legs. Ithan hooks his thumb on the waistband of your lace panties, his gaze boring into you as he impatiently tosses them to the side.

“Can I touch you?”

You nod, barely containing the anticipation building in your chest. Gods yes.

You hadn’t realized you’d said that last part aloud until you were met with Ithan’s smug grin. “No sarcasm for me, sweetheart?”

“Are you going to touch me or not?”

His soft chuckle of amusement makes your blood sing. “So impatient. Maybe I’ll make you beg for it.”

This demanding side of Ithan wasn’t one that you’d ever seen and you instantly decided that you liked it. While you adored the caring, sympathetic best friend you were so used to, the male before you reminded you that there was still a wolf lurking underneath that soft and sweet exterior.

“I’ll get on my knees and beg if that’s what you really want, Ithan.”

And fuck if that didn’t make his cock twitch in his pants.

Ithan could barely contain himself as he stroked your sex, the movement so languid and painstakingly slow. Your thighs are shaking as he hovers above you, his bicep flexing as he teases a finger over your slick folds.

“Is this what you learned from the totally reliable internet doctors? Teasing a female in heat until she goes out of her godsdamned mind?”

Gone was the boyish grin you loved so much and in its place was a sexy, seductive smirk that made the arousal pool in your core.

“Actually, no,” Ithan says nonchalantly as he circles your clit. “The doctors said that orgasms help with the pain. A female in heat should cum. As often and as loudly as she likes.”

His gaze slides over your surprised expression, drinking in the utter shock on your face. “But since you’re too busy being such a smartass, maybe I’ll let you handle it yourself.”

You stare back at him defiantly. “Don’t you dare.”

Ithan chuckles. “I guess I’ll just have to find another way to keep the sarcastic comments from coming out of your pretty little mouth.”

He doesn’t give you the time to respond before he plunges two fingers into your soaking entrance, swallowing your moan into his mouth. Ithan curves his fingers inside of you as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting, teasing, and licking every part of you that he can get ahold of.

You rake your nails over his back and he growls with pleasure, the sound of your name a breathy moan coming out of Ithan’s mouth.

“Fuck. Are you always this wet, sweetheart?”

“Only for you.”

The soft whimper drives Ithan absolutely wild. “Damn right.”

The fog of lust and heady desire threatens to swallow you whole as Ithan nips at your neck, plunging his fingers in and out as you buck against his hand. The tension in your core was threatening to unravel with every sweeping touch.

“Gods, Ithan. That feels so fucking good.”

He responds by curving his fingers against your walls, hitting the sensitive, spongy spot that had you seeing stars. Ithan’s other hand slides behind your back, unclasping your bra without you even noticing. How the Hel was he so good at that?

A glimpse of the wolf within peeks out as he takes the lacy fabric between his teeth, discarding it over the edge of the couch without a second thought. His free hand cups your exposed breasts before his mouth claims a nipple, running a tongue over your stiff peaks with a low moan.

“Have I ever told you how much I fucking love these?” Ithan says, utterly mesmerized by your breasts. “They’re perfect. Just like every inch of you.”

You blush at the compliment. Coming from this male, who was literally flawless in every possible way, made it that much hotter.

“Mmm, I think you’re the perfect one out of the two of us. I mean, have you seen yourself? You’re just so damn pretty.”

You giggle as Ithan peppers kisses all over your face. “I prefer devastatingly handsome. Or irresistibly sexy.”

“Glad to see that you’re not letting the compliment go to your head, Holstrom.”

“I can’t help it. You’re my weakness.” He kisses you softly, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. Ithan smiles, bright and beautiful, just for you. “Now come on sweetheart, doctor’s orders."

His thumb circles against your clit, shifting you from the sweet moment to absolute insatiable hunger for him. Your soft pants echo against the walls of your flat as Ithan urges you towards that sweet release, patiently fucking you with his fingers even though he wishes it was his cock that was inside of you instead.

Soon, he reminded himself. He’d make you cum with his fingers before he even let himself think about his own pleasure. Ithan wanted to take care of you first.

“So close—oh gods—Ithan I’m gonna—“

Your best friend coaxes you through the orgasm, never once relenting while you ride out the high. The sight of you writhing in pleasure beneath him is the prettiest thing Ithan has ever seen. You were so open, so vulnerable, showcasing a side of you that he only let himself think about in the late hours of the night. Seeing it in the flesh shattered every expectation he might’ve had. You were absolutely fucking exquisite.

Wild eyes stare back at him, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving from the intensity of the pleasure. To his surprise, you pull him down to you, capturing his lips once again like he was your lifeline. Just when Ithan thought you couldn’t possibly turn him on even further, the desperation and neediness you were exhibiting makes his cock stiffen to the point of pain.

Your thoughts seem to head in that direction as you reach for his crotch, palming his generous length in your hand. Ithan curses as you unbutton his jeans impatiently, eager to know if he was as big as he felt. He purrs into your mouth as you yank the fabric down over his hips, moving quickly to remove his boxers. Ithan’s brown eyes rolled to the back of his head as you grind down onto his cock, teasing him with the slightest bit of friction.

Ithan grips your hips so hard that you were pretty sure his fingertips were marked onto your skin. At least you hoped to gods it would. “Stop fucking teasing. Tell me what you want, baby.”

“I want you, Ithan.” You maintain eye contact as you sink down to his abs, holding his gaze as you lick your way up his six pack. “I want all of you. Right here, right now.”

You couldn’t be bothered to take things to your bedroom. Ithan drove you fucking wild. You were a female on the brink and you wouldn’t be satisfied until you were filled with all of him.

“Fuck,” Ithan curses. “Then take all of me. I’m yours, sweetheart. I always have been.”

Something like pride and satisfaction dances in the pit of your stomach before you crawl onto Ithan’s lap, bracing your hands on his chest before sinking down onto his length. The male watches every inch of him disappearing into your tight cunt, his head rolling back at how snug you felt around his cock.

Ithan pulls you into a tight embrace as your hips roll against him, lifting higher and higher until only his tip is sheathed inside of you.

“Now what did I say about being a fucking tease?”

You smirk before sinking down in one swift movement, your thighs clenching as you ride him with reckless abandon. Ithan can’t stop looking at you, at the way your eyes burn with fire as your moans grow louder and louder. It’s only when his name falls from your lips that he decides he’s had enough of this little game.

Ithan flips you over, taking full control as he snaps his hips into yours. The way he’s fucking you into the couch makes you dizzy with pleasure, head nearly hanging off the armrest as he picks up the pace. It’s relentless and punishing like he’s waited far too long for this opportunity.

That made two of you.

“Fuck Ithan, right there. You feel so good. So fucking good.”

Ithan nearly came from how vocal you were being. He’s never had someone so open to giving feedback, so unabashedly unapologetic about voicing what they liked and didn’t like in bed. You were bossy and demanding and he knew you’d make him work for it. Ithan found it incredibly fucking sexy.

“Right here?” he teases, rutting into you at the perfect angle. Ithan holds your hips down as you greedily thrash for more of him. “So eager, sweetheart. What if I want to take it slow? Really make you work for it?”

Ithan’s thrust was shallow, barely giving you an inch or two. You dig your nails into his back, cursing all the while. He was such a godsdamned tease.

“Now is not the fucking time,” you growl into his mouth. “I’m in heat and literally begging for it. Would you deny a female pleasure?”

“Never. But I don’t recall you asking. Tell me how you want me to fuck you and I’ll happily oblige.”

You held Ithan’s gaze, refusing to balk from this beautiful male. No matter how intense those searing brown eyes felt on your skin.

“I want you to fuck me hard. Rough,” you declare with confidence. “Don’t hold anything back, Ithan.”

“Burning fucking Solas,” Ithan mutters above you. “You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart.”

You smirk, ready to strike with another sarcastic quip but Ithan slams his hips into yours with such fervor that you could do nothing but moan in pleasure as his cock filled you to the hilt. Ever the generous male, Ithan delivers exactly what you asked for, thrusting at such a relentless pace that you could barely keep up.

Stars and time and space flit across your closed lids. Ithan was dragging out every whine and moan and pant, feasting on your overheated skin while you writhe underneath him. You could feel the beginning of another orgasm rising within you and so could Ithan by the way your walls clenched around him. The wolf traces the outline of your lips, his voice raw and ragged as he continues rutting into you.

“Open your eyes, baby. I want to watch you cum.”

There wasn’t a shred of sanity left in your body, but you somehow managed to open your eyes and found yourself staring back at the dark, chocolate gaze that threatened to swallow you whole. With sweat glazing over his broad shoulders and solid chest, you couldn’t help but admire Ithan in all his glory.

He smirks as though he could read your thoughts before flicking his thumb over your clit, pushing you to the edge of that sweet release.

His name is a prayer on your lips as you came, hurtling over the edge of yourself and into the cosmic bliss of euphoria. Ithan follows you soon after, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he bites down on your flesh. His thrusts grow sloppy as he spurts inside of you, panting against your cheek as he spends all of himself on you.

For a moment, there’s no sound in the room besides your heavy breathing and the background noise of the movie playing on your television. Ithan pulls out slowly and you both lie back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The gravity of what just occurred hung in the air, but you weren’t even focused on that.

The absence of pain—gut-wrenching and agonizing pain that plagued you for the majority of the day was nowhere to be found. You squealed in delight, startling Ithan out of his recovery.

“I know the sex was good, but there’s no need to yell.”

“Shut up, smartass.” You roll your eyes, swatting the male on the back of his head. Ithan grumbled a complaint, but he was cut off as you threw your arms around him. “You were sent to me by Luna herself. My pain is completely gone. I guess your pervy little research paid off in the end.”

The wolf pinched your ass, causing you to yelp. “It wasn’t pervy. I was merely trying to help my best friend.”

“Well consider me thoroughly helped. Although I’m a little mad.” Ithan’s face contorted with worry and you can’t help the desire to kiss that expression right off his face. “We could’ve been doing that during movie nights instead of watching these cheesy rom coms the entire time.”

He chuckles in amusement. “I happen to enjoy those movies, but I enjoy being with you even more.” You roll your eyes at his cheesiness, but smile nonetheless. “I mean it. I like being around you, no matter what we’re doing. Naked or fully clothed.”

“I like being around you too, Ithan. You’re probably my favorite person, but I’ll deny it if you ever tell anyone.”

He pokes your cheek. “Please. Everyone knows that you have a big, fat crush on me.”

“In your dreams, Holstrom.”

Ithan grins, pulling you to his chest and making the traitorous butterflies flutter around in your stomach. “You’re such a smartass,” he says, his lips hovering mere inches away from yours. “But you’re my smartass.”

And for what seemed like the millionth time that night, Ithan kisses the absolute Hel out of you.

taglist: @viradeity @moony-thoughts @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @demirunner @swansworth @brekkershadowsinger @mattte-black @highlady-ofillyria @owllover123

#it's me hi i'm the problem it's me #ithan holstrom #ithan smut #ithan holstrom smut #ithan x reader #ithan x you #crescent city #hoeab #hosab #sjmass

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tech-whale · 1 year

Text

Misread Emotions

Pairing: Blaise Zabini x Hufflepuff!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Maybe some angst it’s probably not that bad though, fluff, that's it

I do not give permission to people republishing, printing, copying, reposting or stealing my stories

✧☽☀☾✧☽☀☾✧☽☀☾✧☽☀☾✧☽☀☾✧☽☀☾✧☽☀☾✧☽☀☾✧

Blaise Zabini was a man of few words, many people found him intimidating, and many others at Hogwarts couldn't understand the little things he did to express his emotions. You could though, at least you liked to think that, you would catch how he smiled to himself when one of his friends did something amusing, or the looks of irritation at some of their more unfavourable actions, his way of looking right through people he didn't care for as if they had never existed in the first place, and the look he gave you one of annoyance.

You could never understand what you had done to make him find you so annoying and unapproachable that his opinion of you could never change, but you did remember the first time he had given you that look, it had been in your fourth year Snape along with many of the other professors decided that since there was a competition your school was competing in they should promote inter-house unity, although you believed that Snape was forced to do it. Snape taking his chance to torture his students even more decided to choose our partners for potions for the whole year and he had pit you with Blaise Zabini. When you had first been put with him you were ecstatic, you had been harbouring feelings for the boy but the annoyance that spread across his face the more you talked with him lowered, and lowered your hope of any romance blooming between the two of you.

So now you sat hopelessly staring at him while he sat eating utterly oblivious to your longing stare. However, you couldn't say much as you had tuned out to what your friends had been talking about until one of them shook you much too harshly in your opinion and brought your attention back to your table.

“Are you staring at Zabini again?” Susan questioned, turning to answer her you took in the unimpressed look on her face and changed your answer to one that would not make her lecture you for hours.

“NO, I have completely and utterly forgotten about him. Why should I like someone after what happened.” You remarked, stuffing slices of peach into your mouth to avoid having to talk about this anymore.

“Because you so got over him after that, and didn't get drunk last year and confess your love for him to us during a party.” Susan quipped back, you cringed at the mention of that party, but even more, so that people still remembered the ‘incident’, even though you were the one that brought it up.

The ‘incident’ as everyone had named it was something known throughout the entirety of the housemates in your year as well as quite a few other students in your year and a few above. The ‘incident’ occurred about a month before the yule ball in your 4th year, right around when everybody else started to ask people out to the ball.

It had been a nice day. You remember that the ground was covered in snow but it wasn't too windy and there weren't any clouds so the sun had direct access to the usually freezing halls of Hogwarts. You had planned it out from scouting, or as Susan called it stalking, you figured out what Zabini usually favoured at Honeydukes and found out about a book he had been eyeing up for the past few weeks. And so you were ready to give Zabini his gifts, ask him to the ball where the two of your loves would be cemented forever and he would then ask you to be his partner and you would live happily ever after the end. Well, maybe not all of that but you were at least hoping that he would accept you as a date to the ball. You had tuned into all the gossip in the school to make sure he did not have a date, even going as far as getting the Hogwarts gossip magazine some of the students usually put together. The ball was filled with people and their dates as well as speculated dates to the ball.

Carrying your bag of gifts you looked for him across the courtyard, having seen Draco and his posey walkout there only a few moments ago, finally spotting him walking away from the group you took the chance and made your way over to him.

“Zabini could I speak with you for a moment?” You asked, your fingers fiddling with the ends of the string you used to tie the bag together. The only response he gave you was a silent nod of the head.

I just wanted to give you this and ask if you wanted to go to the Yule ball with me?” You stuttered out, thrusting the bag into his chest and locking your arms at your side once he took the gift from you. You waited for his response until you heard the horrible sound of mocking laughter. Looking up you spotted Draco and his gang walking up to the two of you as he and the rest of them laughed and pointed at you. You looked towards Blaises face to see if he would say anything to defend you or to make fun of you. Instead of being met with laughter by him, you were met with a face full of disgust, it was worse than any rejection you had imagined in your head. He looked down at you with such a horrid facial expression, if it had ended there you would have been fine but no, he dropped the bag you had given him onto the ground for the contents to spill out onto the snow-covered ground.

“Oh Blaise don’t be cruel, it’s obvious that they are madly in love with you.” Pansy mocked in her usual high and annoyingly squeaky voice.

“She’s right you know Zabini, you really shouldn't be cruel your admirer at least had the idea to corner you alone.” Draco jested, as he walked over to wrap an arm around Zabinis shoulders and peek at what you had gotten his friend, only to shriek in delight when he realised that you must have put great detail into finding out what his friend enjoyed.

“Why are you still here?” You heard a cold voice ask, looking up Blaise's face of disgust looked down at you and with that, you turned on your heel and took off back to the Hufflepuff common room where you could cry to the comfort of your friends.

But even as you ran from them you could still hear the jests and taunts that the Syltherins threw at you, you really should have listened to your friends.

Shaking your head you tried to push the memory back into the locked box in your brain that it was usually located in and tune back into what your friends were doing, only to realise that they had gotten up and were grabbing their bags to go.

“Where are you guys going?” You asked curiously as usually, they would stay the entirety of lunch and rarely ever wanted to leave, though you felt pretty silly when they looked at you as if you had just forgotten the most essential thing in the world.

“We have potions now, and you know how long it takes to get to the dungeons,” Susan answered, shaking her head as she muttered curses at you, realising yes it was time to go, you shot up from your spot at the table, careful not to spill any food on your uniform and grabbed your bag to head to potions with your friends.

Entering the potion classroom you slipped into your seat doing your best to avoid the gaze of your teacher at any of the students you had arrived late to the classroom. Slughorn takes the same wanting of inter-house unity as Snape had done two years ago, although with a much smaller group.

The stool next to you was pulled out from under the desk causing you to tense up at the presence that had now joined you at your table. You could feel his eyes boring holes into your skull as you pulled out a quill and some parchment, pausing when Slughorn called you all to gather around his desk to be introduced to the potion that you would all begin to start brewing.

Slughorn introduced the potion that you would be brewing: Amortencia, a powerful love potion. Deciding to show one of the potions many interesting natures he called each student up to come and smell the potion. You fiddled with a fraying edge on your robe as you waited for Slughorn to call you up, the anticipation slowly eating away at your nerves. You knew what you were going to smell, or more likely who you were going to smell, you just really didn't want to have to admit that to your friends who would inevitably ask once class was over.

Finally, after what felt like hours, probably only a couple of minutes, you were called to the front of the class. Leaning over the cauldron you were jit with the smell of earl grey tea, expensive cologne, old inks, and the yellowing pages of the books in the library. All smell’s you would associate with Blaise Zabini.

Moving back to your spot with the rest of your class you kept your head right at the board to avoid the wanting stares your friends were casting at you. Although looking straight ahead also gave you the view right across the caldron holding the potion, giving you perfect sight of each student's face as they each went to smell it, and just your luck the person right across from you now was Blaise Zabini. Watching him as he shifted his body forward wafting the scent of the potion up. After a moment his eyes flickered up and you could have sworn that he smirked just slightly when your eyes met. But just as quickly as you saw it disappeared and he went back to his spot at the back of his class with the rest of Dracos posey.

The rest of the class went by relatively quickly, with what you can only describe as an aggressive amount of teasing grins and knowing looks thrown your way. But along with your friends being obnoxious, you could say that the accidental bumps of your and Zabini’s hands happened more than what would usually happen. You could also say that there was more lingering gaze coming from the boy beside you, you really couldn't have this happen it would only give you false hope.

And just as you thought once you had arrived in the common room you were swarmed by your friends with a million questions about what you had smelled, or should you say who you smelled.

“Come on (Insert Name), you have got to tell us.” Susan chided as she rocked you back and forth trying to convince you to tell her who it was.

“Well, I did smell some expensive cologne, old ink, and old books.” You answered back being careful with what you said to not give away who exactly it could be, although knowing your friends and what they knew of you it couldn't be more obvious.

“That's just things you would use to describe Blaise, honestly you keep saying you got over him but it is so obvious that you're still head over heels for him. Just admit that you like him, even though he’s a total jerk and doesn't deserve you, the heart is an uncontrollable force.” Susan spoke, wrapping you in a warm embrace as she cuddled up to you on the couch so you wouldn't have to wallow in pity on your own.

Moving on from that day you noticed a significant shift in Blasises actions, in the great hall during meals you made more eye contact with him and he seemed to hold it for longer, in hallways or crowds it seemed like he would look for you in them always being able to find your eyes, it was even more extreme the accidental bumping of your hands happened even more and it seemed like his hand would linger each time.

It all concluded when you felt someone bump into your back looking at who it was, you saw Zabini walking away from you. Just as you were about to call out to him you felt something in your hand, not understanding how you hadn't felt it there before you opened your hand to find a neatly folded piece of paper.

‘I’m sorry, meet me by the lake at midnight sharp.’ the note read out in handwriting that was oddly familiar to you.

And so for the rest of the day, you waited anxiously for 12 to roll around, and when it finally did you threw on your sweater and snuck out of your dorm careful not to wake any of your roommates who would insist on coming with you so that nothing bad happens to you.

Slipping into the corridor waited to hear any footsteps before you carried on, hurrying through the passages out to the lake where you saw a figure standing, the moonlight reflecting off the lake and onto them creating a halo around them.

Standing in front of the figure you were met with the face you had memorized so many times, the face that made your heart swell and the very face that shattered your heart into a million pieces.

“Zabini what are you doing here?” You asked shifting on your feet as you stated out at the lake refusing to meet his eyes.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened that day, I shouldn't have acted like that. I was flustered and I got nervous. No one I have ever liked has confessed to me like that.” He answered reaching out and grabbing your hand. Looking at his face it was filled with a softness you had never seen directed at you, a softness that you had never seen ever.

“I know that's not an excuse for what I said but I would like to start over, I want to be something with you, anything, please.” He continued his grip on your hand tightening.

“I think we could be something.” You said laughing up at him.

“Oh and I loved the book, thank you.” He said softly as the two of you leaned in meeting each other as the moon danced across the water.

#blaise zabini x reader #blaise x reader #blaise zabini #harry potter #magic #hogwarts #harry potter x reader #x reader #wizard x reader

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indulgentandidiotic · 10 months

Text

Renaissance Man (Genshin Impact)

Synopsis: It takes a lot to cure your boredom, so you end up catching hobbies and interests like they’re Pokemon. –and how Xiao, Venti, and Xingqiu react. Warnings: Reader is just good at everything idk, talks about specific hobbies to illustrate a point, reader is more artsy (drawing, physical crafts, etc), you’re a business dude, this is a very big ego stroke have fun, not proofread, verrrrryyyy indulgent :D GN Reader

Xiao

In all honesty, Xiao finds you annoying. At first. You were more overwhelming to him, and a bit too noisy. But he’s seen you around Liyue, and you’re pretty capable and polite otherwise, so he isn’t too bothered by your presence.

He didn’t indulge you in the beginning, as expected. But you were patient and with a lot of time on your hands, seeing as you were a wanderer who just took odd jobs and sold the products of your hobbies. You had long since taken up cooking, and hearing that the mighty adeptus Xiao favored Almond Tofu, you tried making it. Every time you stopped by the inn, you had a fresh plate of Almond Tofu that you’d leave out for Xiao.

Xiao was confused by your gifts. He was not a being who granted favors in exchange for gifts, so he wondered what your motives were.

But it was simple! Your journey to Liyue was both a pit stop on your way to the Chasm (exploring purposes), as well as to meet one of the less elusive Adepti (at least in the sense that his “base” was near mortals) to ask about the history of Liyue and its battles. The story books in the shops of Liyue were not enough to satisfy your curiosity, so you just had to ask from a primary source!!!!!!

Xiao did find you interesting despite your noise, he must admit, so he eventually warmed up to you, thanks to both that and your patience and gifts. You’ve learned to lower your volume and keep a steady speaking rhythm, and Xiao has come to enjoy your ramblings about random things, at least a little bit.

When you visit Wangshu Inn, you two sit on the topmost terrace and drink tea as you talk about your travels and the knowledge you’ve gained, and he even answers your questions about the battles he’s fought in or the details of Liyue’s history sometimes, though you never push further if you sense he’s uncomfortable.

He’s thought mortals to be interesting creatures, in the sense that it’s hard to understand their rituals and thoughts, and that sentiment hasn’t changed. The more he listens to you ramble about the fish species in Liyue compared to those in Mondstadt, or about the theory of the fake sky and how deep that rabbit hole actually goes, he gets more confused about how humans think.

But… (thanks to the traveller and the events of the Chasm and Xiangling’s cooking event, etc) Xiao has learned to just. Accept you. He has come to find your company enjoyable compared to the days he’s spent alone. When his own, negative thoughts come to cloud his mind, you always seem to be there to distract him with whatever nonsense you’re spewing (positive).

And you, happy that Xiao has warmed up to you, and him just becoming precious to you because of his nature, have given him gifts. Things that you otherwise would’ve sold, like teasets or clothing accessories or paintings, you’ve given to him. Xiao isn’t materialistic, but he appreciates the sentiment.

What he appreciates more, though, is the time you picked up an instrument for him. You once saw him play the flute, and decided that hey~~ What’s another hobby, yeah? You’ve got soooo much time before your departure to the Chasm haha! So you learned the flute! And though he finds it embarrassing that you saw him playing and decided to learn the flute because of him, he enjoys listening to you. He even wrote down what he remembered of that one song, long ago, and you have since learned how to play it. Not with the same feeling as he once heard it played, but passable. o7

With enough pestering, you’ve even got Xiao to learn how to paint and crochet, too! He had refused at first, telling you how such hobbies were too delicate for someone like him, but you didn’t listen. You figured you were close enough to him now to be able to bug him to do things with you, and luckily, you were right!

Overall, Xiao enjoys your company. You’re quite lovely, and the way you speak about your interests with such enthusiasm and smile when you’re engaged with is a sight for sore eyes. Xiao is also very happy, though he’d never ever admit it, that you’re so patient with him. He doesn’t like to imagine how dull his days would become again, if you were to leave and never pay him a visit. You’ve given him distractions and peace away from his duties and painful past. You’ve forced him to learn skills that he would’ve never picked up otherwise, and he likes it. Not that you’ve helped him find “purpose”, but you’ve helped him to see that his anyone can enjoy his presence (you, the traveller, etc etc 👀) and that his hands can do wayyy more than just fight.

Please delay your journey to the Chasm!!!!! 🙏

Venti

Woahhhh!!!! You’re so talented omg!!! Will you craft him a bottle for his wine? Maybe you can weave a picnic basket for your escapades together! Hmm? Basket weaving isn’t a hobby of yours? Well it is now! Don’t look so weary! Venti will join you in making some!

He’s short on mora, ya know? Your interest in arts and crafts comes in handy when you can make mora off it! He’ll be pestering you for stuff now!

But in all seriousness, he’s impressed! You pick up new hobbies seemingly every moment, not necessarily getting bored with the old ones, but getting burntout so quickly.

Hanging out with him made you interested in music as a whole, and you started to play the lyre and violin to pass the time. Sometimes, when you’re bored, you’ll join him as he sings for the public.

You’re not one for composing music, at least not yet, so you often paint your ceramics while Venti composes new ballads on his lyre. You never really plan what’s going to end up on the ceramics, so you often find yourself subconsciously painting the scenes Venti describes as you zone out.

Well, it seems Venti is your muse! Your adventures with him are frequent, so you find yourself indulging in your personal hobbies less often, but when you do, you’ve got a whole bucket of inspiration to use! His songs and rendezvous with you leave you breathless and fulfilled, and you wind down by sketching the moments that left impressions on you, or planning up a new embroidery piece.

As he is your inspiration, you are his. It’s lovely having a companion like you, who is so willing to go anywhere with him no matter what’s on the agenda. He likes how focused you can get when crafting or playing an instrument, you just look so serene. Perhaps the next song he’ll compose will be a simple one, praising that one person who can do anything well and looks so good doing it~ 😜

Venti loves when you take an interest in music history. See, he knows allll the songs!!! He can sing each and every one for you, and while he may not know everything about the song, he’s sure to know about the context of the song and the general time-period it was written. It makes him happy to see how interested you are in what’s basically the history of his people; he’s glad there are still those who care to keep the legacy of those long-gone going.

Venti is wise and he is old, but that does not mean he’s seen everything. One of his wishes is to explore every nook and cranny of this world, and through you, he can fulfill bits and pieces of his wish. He enjoys listening to your infodumps on anything at all, even if it’s about that one specific rock only found in one corner of the world which is your favorite. It’s still information about the world, and so he is grateful. Please keep talking to him about your interests! He also loves how blissful you look when you’re speaking about such topics.

Overall, Venti has so much fun with you that he can’t imagine life without you in it!!! He’s never felt this content before. Having you by his side as his muse, and telling him about all the things that you cherish and have an interest in, and connecting over the arts–those are things he wouldn’t trade for anything. Not even a bottle of wine! 😡🍾

Xingqiu

He’s got another person to gush about books to!!!! He’s so happy! Chongyun is great and all, but he doesn’t have the same passion for certain book series’ that he does! He is so happy he is crying sobbing shaking! He is recommending you books at every turn because he knows you’ll start reading them the minute you have a second to spare.

Your passion is immense, which he loves. You just get so interested and caught up in every little thing and he finds it adorable! (Careful, though. If you’re too adorable Xingqiu might start teasing you 😞) When you two are together, it’s a just a whirlwind of Xingqiu showing off his knowledge on trade and commerce and swords and martial arts all the while you look at him with awe and stars in yours eyes. Either that or you two are talking up a storm in the corner of some restaurant, tossing character analysis thoughts and theories on story development back and forth.

Aside from books, he indulges you in your other ramblings, engaging with you even when the topic doesn’t particularly interest him. It’s the least he can do when you take the time to indulge him!! Besides, perhaps some of this information could be of use to the Guild in some way?

He is impressed by your art skills, too! He thinks you to be very sophisticated, what with your beautiful pottery and paintings.

In fact, he was the one who brought up you selling your art. He prepared a permit for you and everything!

He wonders if you can write well, too, if you had ever taken up the pen while bored. You had, actually. During your travels, you’d sometimes write poems. Xingqiu finds them a bit… well, you’re not the best poet, but everyone’s a bit cringe (says the person whose book is beloved by all of Inazuma).

Overall, you’re very important to him!!!!! It’s so amazing to have someone to gush about your interests to, not someone who just listens, but is fully engaged in what you have to say. He enjoys indulging you in your interests when it comes to the Guhua clan and its arts, as well as the general details of the Feiyun Commerce Guild, because he also gets to show off.

I'm just silly!!

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astarionslittlejuicebox · 5 months

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The Promise of Eternity (Part 10)

Author: @astarionslittlejuicebox

Imagine: The reader helped Astarion ascend and became his spawn. After saving the world from the Elder brain and it’s destruction, the reader and Astarion set out to take on the world together. While he promised to never forget the gifts the reader has given him, Astarion has seemed to have changed his attitude towards the reader in the last century…. After someone breaks one of Astarion’s rules, how will this affect the reader’s fate?

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader

Trigger warnings: potential for minor spoilers, suggestive themes, language, mentions of death, mentions of blood, abusive relationship, mention of slavery

Word Count: 1881

Imagine Series

Side Notes:

This imagine series takes place 200 years after the events of Baldur’s Gate 3. Everything you read in here is a story from my mind outside of the original BG3 character Astarion.

In this imagine series, Astarion is a bit more unemotionally unavailable, and this series will follow the decisions and consequences of that change. This is not canonically accepted and it is just an idea I’ve had in my head! (I do believe Astarion might truly care for the reader after Ascension, but that is open to individual interpretation.)

In this series, TAV is mildly based on my first character I played in BG3; she is a drow and I will make references to her in her background and knowledge as well. I do apologize that it is not 100% your own imagine, but the name for TAV is up to you as well as anything else that I can think of leaving to you, the reader, to decide.

I appreciate everyone who reads the imagines and this series, and I hope you enjoy the story!

TAV POV

I didn’t drop the comfort of the invisibility spell until I was in the comfort and seclusion of the rock cave. After setting the backpack and satchel carefully on the slate gray rock floor, I took a few minutes to cast Leomund’s tiny hut to make the small cave a bit more comfortable in the cooler evening hours of the autumn season. I lit most of the candles in the cave and proceeded to set out all the supplies from my satchel and backpack. As I grabbed the vial of blood from the satchel, I felt a familiar hunger pain start in the pit of my stomach, and I mentally cursed as I had been so occupied all day and had forgotten to feed. Taking a focusing breath, I finished setting up the alchemy kit to test the contents of both flasks I had poured from the chef’s wine bottles. Pouring the liquid from the first flask into the testing tube, the amber light flickering from the burning candles gave away to my keen drow eyes that the liquid has a slight shimmer to it.

Be always weary of the surface dwellers, and even those that reside in the Underdark with us. You never know if you were to run into a fae, but you’ll know by the shimmering dust those mischievous creatures leave behind. Mother’s tough-love lessons found their way into my thoughts once more as I proceeded to test the liquid in various ways. After running a series of tests on the liquid, my eyes widened as I came to a stunning conclusion: the wine was mixed with dust from a fae, and a single drop of blood from Astarion. Further testing revealed that the wine could enable the fae creature to easily charm whoever’s blood was mixed into the wine.

Clever. I thought. Make a wine to charm a usually hard to charm elf. If I had been living in the Underdark, the effort to charm the ascended vampire might have been commended, but I was far more upset about it at the current moment. Luckily for Astarion I was trained when I was a young drow to make antidotes for such things, so I set to work making a specific antidote to the charming wine. Fortunately for me, I was able to make one charm antidote from a single drop of blood in the half-full vial; however, it did take me a few hours to correctly make it. Once it was complete, I glanced outside the cave entrance to find the moon rising slowly in the dark black sky before it disappeared behind several clouds. I sighed heavily as I begun to test the contents of the second flask. The tiefling had mentioned that it was to be a more potent and longer lasting charming potion, but as I tested and studied the second flask, I made a grave discovery: the second bottle was not a charming potion but a potent poison.

He doesn’t want to use the vampire for nefarious means, he wants to avenge his daughter. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I hurried to pack up the antidote for the charming wine and all of my evidence against the traitors living in the castle. Astarion was in terrible danger, and I had to protect him.

My unfortunate victory on the discovery was undermined, however, by the familiar ache of my fangs wanting to sink themselves into a vein. I groaned as I regretted not sneaking something for me to feed on before coming down to my hole. Ignoring the growing hunger pains, I packed my satchel with all of my evidence against the tiefling and the chef then left the cave. Checking to make sure the coast was clear, I snuck my way back up to the castle’s back door.

“Wiap (fly).” I whispered as I touched my shoulder. I felt light as a feather as my feet hovered off of the ground. I held my breath as I quietly flew up to the balcony outside of Astarion’s bedchambers. Peering through a window offset of the balcony, I noticed the tension in the shoulders of the vampire lord as he listened to the tiefling say something to him.

“Leave me. I shall seek you when I need you.” He angrily said to her as he turned away from her, but he missed the eye roll she gave him before turning on her heels and exiting the room. Those sharp crimson eyes didn’t notice me as he stepped onto the balcony and into the cool autumn night.

Astarion POV

“What have I done? Why did she leave me?” I let out in a somber voice to the night sky. Zeyis had just informed me that it appeared (TAV’s name) had abandoned the castle—abandoned me—and I felt as if my heart weighed heavy like a ton of bricks in my chest.

The one person I thought would never leave me has left. I thought to myself.

“I did not abandon you, my love.” (TAV’s name)’s hushed voice came from the darkness beside me. Startled, I turned to peer into the darkness. There, perched on the balcony railing, was the gorgeous drow I had fallen in love with many centuries ago. Her (TAV’s hair color) had small stray hairs that had fallen out of the braid her hair was done in, and her ruby-colored eyes took in my face with a bittersweet expression on her lips. The jade dress she wore was crinkled with how she was sitting, and particles of a fine white substance settled on the stone flooring beneath her feet, which were still missing their shoes. I opened my mouth to ask her what she was up to, but her slender finger pressed to her lips told me to hush. “Hiedra told you I had left the castle, didn’t she?” (TAV’s name) asked in a hushed tone, and I felt confusion spread itself on my face at the mention of the unfamiliar name.

“Zeyis told me you had left.” I replied in the same hushed tone, and I watched her eyes as she, no doubt, studied every emotion passing through my eyes. There was no use in hiding it—the drow could read me like one of her favorite books. I swear to all the stars and gods above that she was the only person in the entire realm who could see the person underneath it all, even if I tried my damnest to hide it from everyone. But the look in her eyes right now, the emotion they held, took me back to every moment that I saw the same look in her eyes: when I saw Sebastian at Cazador’s palace, the first time she heard about the carving of my scars, and every time I spoke about life as Cazador’s slave.

“Come here to me, Astarion. I have something you need to see. I know who stole your blood, but I need you to actually see what I saw.” She held out a delicately small hand to me and waited patiently for me to step towards her. “Before you ask, I fear you will understand why I can’t just tell you.” I laid my hand inside of hers, and she gave me a sorrowful smile before she spoke in Draconic. “Drex ekess wer ir geouir gipren wer irthir si sweekmon ekess kaoj (show to the one willing to receive the knowledge I seek to share).”

As (TAV’s name) spoke the last word, the world around me went black as a heavy sadness and heartbreak overcame me. Zeyis’ mischievous smirk and endless taunts echoed through my head as a multitude of flashes of myself pushing the spectator out of the way or blatantly ignoring the spectator’s words played in front of my eyes. All of the dirty insults the tiefling had ever said to the spectator continued to echo in the background until I could see myself standing in front of the spectator. I recognized the robes I had been wearing the day before, and my face bore an expression of…anger? I heard my words replay in my head, “I need you to find whomever has disgraced me in such a manner, but I do not want the entire castle to know what has transpired. You must conduct your investigation in secrecy.”

Flashes and blurs of a library filled with books and a golden dragonborn giving the spectator three specific books passed in a whirlwind before I felt the spectator’s frustration build within me as the spectator struggled to successfully complete a ritual. In a blur, I felt the familiar shifting of warm sand under the weight of the spectator’s barefeet. Brief moments of sitting in front of a large mirror with a drow staring back at me flashed before me as (TAV’s name)’s voice echoed in my mind, “Now, you need to figure out what she actually is, and how she is managing to control our little star. If you figure that out, we may be able to get him back.”

Next, I watched as a beautiful woman with pointy ears spoke with our chef, Ahriman, while standing in the rain outside of the castle before the woman shapeshifted into Zeyis. I heard Ahriman call her name, Hiedra. The visions of that night swirled and melted into Zeyis walking into a room with the chef before they discussed the creation of a potion using a vial of my blood. I felt my hands dig in a chest with a false bottom as the spectator pulled out a half-full vial of a dark crimson liquid. My nostrils were filled with the scent of a finely aged brandy, rosemary, and bergamot--a scent the spectator knew belonged to me. An empty bottle was filled with a similar liquid before the scenery blended to the spectator hastily packing a bag of some kind, but Ahriman’s voice spoke in the background, “Astarion, you will soon pay for taking my daughter from me, and you will know what it is to have lost everything.” After watching the chef leave, the spectator read the words of a letter written to the chef about his missing daughter, and my name had been mentioned in it.

Soon the spectator was testing flasks of wine and learned the tiefling was a fae in disguise. I watched as the spectator took her time creating an antidote to the charming wine the chef created, and the shock as the spectator realized the second flask wasn’t a charming potion, but a poison. I felt the familiar sting of hunger overcome my senses before I found the spectator standing in front of me, hoping I would take her hand. With a blink of my eyes, I stared at the woman in front of me who was now avoiding direct eye contact. Her throat moved as she forcefully swallowed as I made the connections to what I had just seen--she was the spectator, and she had shown me what she had seen and felt for the last hundred years along with what she learned in the last couple of days.

For the first time in a century, I could truly see her again, and I felt horrible for all of the shit I had put her through.

#astarion imagine #astarion x reader #baldursgate3 #baldursgate3imagine #ascended astarion #the promise of eternity

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buttercup--bee · 1 year

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Burn my Desire II

Summary: Aemond Targaryen frightens you, his fearless brutality keeping you at bay. That does not, Gods forgive you, halt the yearning you feel for him. (2/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen/Female!Reader (Lady Ashford)

Warning(s): Heavy Implications Towards Sex; Past Childhood Abuse; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotional Manipulation; Dubious Consent; Minors DNI;

Note(s): Thank you so much to @sroka-zlodziejka, and forevermore a thousand thank you’s to @stardewbat - who literally helped get this story moving agian. Without them, I’d still be twiddling my thumbs, I swear to god.

Main Masterlist ~ Series Masterlist ~ Ao3 ~ Playlist ~ Next

I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.

When told you were to wed Aemond Targaryen, nothing but dread had filled you. Not much was known of him at the time of your union, only that he was deadly, temperamental, and had a dragon worthy of proving it.

Under the fear, the blatant terror, you had wondered. For why would House Hightower give up Viserys’ second son all for the womb of an Ashford? Once, you had believed they would search for a match worthy of Aegon himself, given that they had followed the Targaryen practice of intermarriage. Instead, you were gifted to your Prince husband, and are all the more dreadful for it.

Aemond’s title as second son was of no offense when Targaryens themselves only spared members of their family out of kindness, not duty. Many eager Lords looked to him as an equal to Aegon.

Allegiances sworn centuries ago did not grow well under the guise of dragon’s breath—but it still sprouted nonetheless. You suppose those who are chosen as new members of house Targaryen, are far too scared to poke holes in all their flaws.

Why, your father had lit up as bright as the sun on your family’s banner, when Otto Hightower asked for the betrothal on Aemonds behalf. You had not shined as he did.

In fact, you’re certain if it had not been for the shadows cast upon your face then, many would have witnessed the solemn fear cloaking you.

At present, the moment is as vivid in your memory as the day it happened. Fresh and lively and all too easy to remember.

It makes for common nightmares. Sordid, twisted tales that mirror the viper’s pit you’ve been left to rot in. Mother always did say you were not made for court. Even as a young child, she had done all she could to keep you home, away.

Away from prying Lords and Ladies who wished for nothing upon you but their self-satisfaction. Hopeful, as they always are, for word of torrid affairs within their court.

Your particular situation did you no favors. Lady Ashford made Princess Targaryen; no attributes, secret talents, nor a history worthy of the royal family. Just…you.

Some see it as a disgrace to those who petitioned their lovely, young daughters as a proffer of loyalty. A desire to hold the same strength as house Hightower does—to be inducted within the family for all it’s worth.

A reward for their devotion towards the current King.

Aegon, the fool he is, is more than content to recompense any Lord who piques his interest. No doubt the high Lords who denied Rhaenyra as Queen did so out of want for power, not because they believed Aegon to be Viserys’ chosen heir.

The King did have the benefit of being born a man; an acceptable replacement for a ‘mere’ woman.

Sometimes you imagine Rhaenyra seated atop the throne, head held high, her crown as sharp as the melded blades of Westeros’ fealty.

Other times, when you are brave enough for indulgence, you envision her fury as she takes the heads of those who betrayed her. Oddly enough, you can never bring yourself to have Aemond present in these fantasies.

You fear him, and yet you cannot reconcile with the meager idea of his death. To do so leaves your rabbits heart pittering in your stomach—warped and twisted.

It’s an attachment you cannot decipher. When you think of Aemond, you do not exclude the shield his name carries. Any harm that could have been inflicted on you, namely by the King, dissipated when Aemond draped a cloak of obsidian and gold atop your shoulders.

Perhaps it is gratitude, or something akin to its relief, that masks your dread around the dark Prince? Yet, you must recognize you did not feel this strongly for him, not until what had happened in his solar.

You try to forget, to abolish the memory from your mind until it is burnt to ashes—to dust.

Every night, when you are settled and smothered in fine cottons, you involuntarily relive the entire encounter all over again without your consent. His large hands hot against your hips, mouth pressed tight to your nape, and his aroma; dragon hide you can do without, but the floral soaps had been a welcome surprise.

It’s one you wish to experience once more despite yourself, though he has not asked for your presence since then. Not in such solitude. Your anxieties of approaching him overpower your underlying need to inhale him the way he had done to you.

Is this all it took? A fragment of affection and you were content? That should not appease you—you force it not to. The last thing you wanted was to approach him for a single touch, a caress to ease your anxieties.

But Aemond Targaryen is not a creature of comfort. He is burnt steel, rage, and death. The possibility of him taking you to bed, without a choice, snaps at your mind. One favor for another.

A beast lies in wait within your husband; as one does in all men. It savors the metallic bite of youth, submission, complete and utter control. Your maidenhead, a terrible voice snags at the back of your mind.

Gods, you wished for your mother. For her embrace and guidance. This is too much.

You're torn from your contemplation when a guard at your back announces another's entrance within your area of leisure.

Not a sound escapes your throat when Alicent Hightower waltz inside the gazebo; shoulders pulled back, jaw tense, hands clasped atop the emerald brocade of her skirts —

“You’re here,” she gleams, visibly relaxing when her gaze settles on you. It is an average sight; on your lonesome with only a book or needlework to keep you company, “leave us.” She commands, your personal guard hesitates only seconds before exiting.

“May I join you, good-daughter?”

Declining your good-mother is not an option, whether you wish to or not. Without a word, you put your bookmark in its place, and close your tome with a nod. She sits beside you, reeking of apples and honey and lavender.

Ser Criston Cole stands at the entrance of the gazebo you occupy, hand tight against the hilt of his sword. The sight always makes you ill at ease.

The Queen mother exhales, smiling briefly before averting her attention from your own. An uncommon interaction on her behalf. She has never avoided your patient inspection as she does now, her confidence lacking, and what appears to be remorse sagging her smile.

Before you can pend on its appearance, her expression morphs into one of mild tranquility.

“How are you faring?”

You are consumed in questionable silence, a frown tugging at your plush lips. Every so often she inquires about your mental health. No doubt to ensure you do not give reason to name yourself a hostage. The Reach, regardless of your marriage, has barred itself in a civil war.

Small Lords and civilians alike pledge for Rhaenyra, while the mighty remain loyal to Aegon. Soldiers have been abandoning their posts to fight for her, and you do not blame them.

Though, you cannot allow them to ever hear of your opinions. Neither can the Small Council. A single word from you, even a whisper of doubt upon your station, and many will take it as a sign. One that you are certain the Greens wish to avoid.

With a small, pliant simper, you answer, “I am doing well, Queen mother. Thank you.”

“Good,” she sighs, “I rarely see you anymore, with how often you are present in Aemond’s chambers.” Her laugh is as light as a bell, although forced, unsure.

As are you. In his chambers?

With a mild gape, you clench your book tightly. Why would he tell her that? You haven’t visited his rooms in almost a month. Do you explain this to her, or allow Aemond’s farce to remain? There must be a reason as to why he’d deceive his own mother. Dark Prince or no, you have never met a man as devoted to his sire as Aemond is.

For him to withhold the truth from her—that you spend most days isolated, reading or sewing or sketching—is astounding. You do not have much time to absorb what has been exposed to you, only instinct perseveres in your confusion.

“Ah, yes,” picking at the leather binds of your tome, you proceed, “he has been…attentive, as of late.”

Alicent, pleased with your answer, beams. It takes everything within you not to peek over at the Kingsguard, his brooding form a heavy shadow cast over you both. Would they speak of this later? Mull over your every word until they are satisfied that you are indeed no threat to them still. That you are ever the rabbit you came as, and have yet to shape yourself into anything dangerous.

You are doubtful you could become something more than collateral. A pawn you have been all your life, and there are few ways to climb out from the deep end without hurting others. If you truly wished for power, for absolution, you wouldn’t know where to begin, or if it's even possible.

Seven hells, the Gods know you don’t have the stomach for what they do. The people they hurt. Destroy.

Fire and Blood.

In the distance wildlife twitters, salt filled winds find rhythm in surrounding foliage, the ocean smooths over sand and kisses stone; it is empty, vast, lonely. Familiarity lies there too, rivulets of it trickle in your every crevice, every fold. Cold absence is to you what an old friend is to another.

A sweet embrace that chills you to the bone, and yet it is the only thing you can depend on. The only consistency that you have grown accustomed to. It torments you just as much as it gives you solitude.

At least you have some idea how your life will go on. No mystery or incertitude. Only what has been planned for you.

They crave obedience, a malleable piece easily swayed to their whims. Someone who will aid in their ascension to the throne, without the potential loose ends that might come from another—deceitful, power hungry, cunning—none of which you are.

Alicent is all and none of those things, as if she happens to fall into heaps of chaos by-weekly.

Many within the castle walls whisper of her cruel wit, but never of her desperate reach for protection. Smallfolk and servants alike murmur of her devout beliefs in the Seven, and the love she holds for her children, but even they do not see her as a creature of greed—even if the Blacks would have you do so.

You want to. Want to play folly and witness her acting the cretin; the monster. But most nights, you only see a mother—a child herself who labored heir after heir—unknowing what to do with her children, and is lost for it.

The very woman accosting your thoughts lays a graceful, near delicate palm atop your forearm.

She tightens her hold. Just enough for it to be considered forthright, comforting even. It has the opposite effect.

“I see much of myself in you,” she expels in a deep breath, discontent sprouting in morsels across her personage. You aren’t given time to acknowledge what she's said, her admittance anything but sweet, “which is why I must be blunt.”

You open your mouth to defend yourself, your lie a curse upon your lips, but she charges forth without a care for your interjections.

“You are a dutiful wife, my darling,” she begins, complexion made of steel, “but that duty does not end behind closed doors.”

Her comment slowly sinks within your mind; hot lips, strong hands, abdomen twisted in a nameless heat. It had left your thighs slick, your center had throbbed. You’d never experienced that before, and you fear Aemond will pull it from you once more.

Alicent clasps her hands, the motion brings you up for air—returns you to reality. “My son has offered a kindness I did not know he had,” she admits, a small wisp of pride laxens her posture, “but the wants of a Princess are beneath the needs of a Kingdom, let alone Aemond’s concerns for your comfort. It is your obligation as his wife to produce children, and it is his to ensure that it is done.”

What softness she has dissipates, her gentle coercion replaced by reverence. By a Queen.

She stands then, tall and narrow and divine. Your hummingbird's heart slips into tempo, overstrung and bleeding.

“You shall visit him tonight,” she scans the title of your book, the way you pinch into its gaudy flesh and frowns, “it must be done.”

The evening comes to you in a fog.

You feast alone, a blessing and a curse fit inside a thimble of apprehension. The entirety of it is spent picking at what little you can swallow, and when you are finished, no time is wasted in preparing you for the night.

Steaming, pearlescent water fills your golden tub to its rim. Orange slices, rosemary, and Myrish oils smother your body—the scent is overwhelming, but not unpleasant. It's almost nice enough to lose yourself in. The silence is flecked with wanton peace; desire for security, comfort, perhaps affection. You think of nothing and everything.

Of lilacs and lavenders and sapphires.

Strong hands. Hot lips.

“Rosemary will suit you.”

Startled, you slip further into the water, milky bubbles splashing against the stone floors. With bruising force, you halt your descent from beyond your chin, fingers grinding against solid gold in distress.

Aemond stands not far from where you are seated. Close enough to see the tops of your breasts, that you know. He makes no effort in hiding his appraisal, licking his lips as he takes in what has been exposed. He does give you the faint honor of being quick, diffident—for a husband needn’t take his wife nor her purity into account when she is his. Aemond doesn’t seem the type to take pleasure by force. Not with you. Not yet.

He finds your eyes, all but demanding you submit to his presence. It isn’t intentional, you think, as a man like him reeks of fire and blood. A heavy presence that hinders your forethought.

The Prince is draped in obsidian finery: expensive leather, lightweight brocade, and seamless stitching. It is a stark contrast to that of his Targaryen features. Porcelain laid bare in an endless inky, black sea.

Cotton swells at the back of your throat, occluding moisture, and your tongue suddenly feels twice its size. Candle light illuminates his silver-gold tresses, the dragon glass dagger at his hip, and you can create a clear portrait within your mind of his sapphire eye gleaming, as the rest of him does.

It’s glacial, collecting warmth and imbuing it with rage. A heavenly jewel from the Gods for an undeserving, wicked man.

Dark Prince. Kinslayer. Usurper.

Realization pours down your palate. Thick like molasses, without the telltale sweetness to soothe your dubiety. You were meant to go to him. To be paraded through the Red Keep like a gift—a threat. More were to come into this war, if that was what the Blacks wanted. And you were meant to be the messenger.

Did Alicent speak to him as well, or had he come of his own volition? It is one thing to be invited to his solar, and another for him to put aside responsibility in search of your resting quarters.

Why was he here? Gods, how long has he been standing there?

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he takes a step, then two, arms still locked behind his back. His shoulders seem somehow broader for it, generous chest cutting sharply into his trim waist.

Mouth parting, you draw your knees up as far as possible. “My Prince,” you address, demure, gentle: a lady’s armor.

“Husband,” he corrects, “would you like my assistance?”

Your skin prickles, cheeks scalding in embarrassment. There are no handmaid's present, and you do not wish to exit the tub without a robe to shield your modesty. Aemond has not seen you bare—he has yet to see much of you in general.

However, being well aware of your demands as a wife urges you to comply. It may be a suggestion, but you know what you are meant to do tonight. He was to see you regardless of your comfort.

I can do this, you shiver, fingers numb with exhaustion, he will be quick.

Slow to answer, Aemond’s jaw clenches, a groove of concern entrenched in his pale complexion. It doesn’t fade as it does most times, remaining steadfast in its earlier visage.

His baritone echoes throughout your chamber, velvet smooth and singed in flame. “I shall fetch a handmaid for you.”

He turns on his heel, beginning towards the door.

Alicents' saccharine, though candid nature slithers upright in your mind. A reflection of Aemond’s hostility, his banal affliction towards family, and sharp tongue. You have seen what it means to upset Aemond Targaryen from afar. You don’t want to tempt fate, and discover Alicent is a fury unspoken for.

“Aemond,” you manage to eke out, compliance heavy against your sternum. You’ve never said his name before. Not aloud.

Dense footfalls come to an abrupt stop.

Lower lip threatening to quiver, you suck in a breath, “Some help would be much appreciated.”

It is a slow descent, his gait calculative; Dragons do not think of consequences. They burn and bleed and destroy. Hunt the weak as they do the brave. Aemond reminds you of such a beast, authoritative, domineering, and dictates the lives of the smallfolk and lords alike. All powerful. All consuming.

Heavy cloth bristles behind you, the thick smack of him straightening it out. You bite your lip when he stops beside the basin, cerulean linen held high. Chancing a glance his way, you find him looking the other direction.

Gulping, you slowly stand, shivering as you do. The stone is cold, and you hiss at the sensation while securing the robe around your figure. Aemond flickers your direction, acute interest blatant.

No warning is given when he strides forward, knocking your knees from under you, and pulling you into his chest in a single heave. In an effort to keep your balance, your arms swing around his neck, and you nearly shout under the duress of it.

His body is lithe; solid against you. Agile fingers—smoldering, brokered in flame—crane over the plush expanse of your thighs, melding beneath your weight. Your nails nip at his neck, though Aemond does not react. He is brisk, easily hauling you from one end of your personal chambers to the next.

Stupefied, you allow him to set you down.

The robe is displaced, unveiling your left shoulder, the swell of your breast; your damp legs shimmer as they too are revealed under a shaft of moonlight. Aemond does not move, for a time he just stares. You don’t know what to do under his scrutiny, but you don’t dare interrupt whatever it is he has lost himself in.

You’re on fire. A blazing inferno shaping sinew and bone into hollow ornaments. The sensation pours down your palette and solidifies, tension sprawling from your head to your chest, and coalacing at your center.

Whatever it is, the sensation is familiar. Pitted shame flocks to your sternum, corralling its everlasting tides to your person. It bridges your thighs together, a sweet strain despite your loathing towards it.

You know that if you were brave enough, you could discover exactly what it is you feel. What leaves you clenching around nothing, slick and buzzing.

Involuntarily, you do just as the mere image would dictate. Squeezing oneself shut tight around nothing, is for a lack of better words, abhorrent. Are you meant to yearn for more than…what is said you should want? You are not completely absolved of your education on your marital expectations.

What is meant to happen where you reside, lord husband only inches away—inches?

A breaths width away, Aemond pilfers the oxygen from your diaphragm when he cusps your chin in a vice. A whimper—no, not a whimper, not anything—your mouth outlines what you wish to make into reality, but no sound follows. You try again, urging some variable of sentiment to escape you. Whether it be a gasp or whine needn’t matter, only that it does.

For if this is what rendered you silent, this act of belligerence, would he not take it as exceptional? For as long as you have shared his name, he has not laid a hand on you, and has left you unharmed. You wish for that to remain unchanged, as hopeless as that might be. To remain intact, wherein your mother had been put to ruin, is heavy on your mind then.

Lord Ashford is a punitive man, and has an unrestrained endearment for discipline. His severe teachings have left their mark upon your skin, a reminder of what your mother had been forced to endure all her life. A life she never truly lived.

It feels wrong, the way you react to your husband, his mishandling of you. A voice, timorous, accuses you of being a traitor to your mother and what she had endured until death.

That does not ease the flare inside your chest, how it slithers up the back of your throat, let alone the way you lean into his clutch. Aemond hums, an all too common habit the Prince must have produced at a young age. One that always, without fail, disarms you.

It reverberates alongside your heartbeat, trembles under your loss of cohesion. You are silk to his steel, a petal to iron. Complaisant, tensile, submissive; at his mercy. That is what is coveted in a wife, is it not? What you were taught since girlhood.

Pallid lilac is swallowed whole by his pupil, onyx clouding the once vibrant Targaryen shade steadily. It’s saddening, tragic even, watching something so beautiful and rare fade away in real time.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you blink up at him from under your lashes. His leer traces your plush mouth, his tongue peeking out to wet his own as his thumb draws a harsh line from your chin to your lower lip. Once more, he cranes your head to his pleasure, and you are reminiscent of Alicents caution a last time.

“Kiss me.”

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#house of the dragon #a song of ice and fir #hotd #asoiaf #hotd fic #asoiaf fic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x oc #house ashford

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internetgremlin-writes · 2 years

Text

Flat Spin [Chapter Four]

Summary/Prompt: Flat Spin

1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal

2. A state of agitation or panic [informal]

As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Female Reader

Word Count: 9,200 (don't ask it didn't split up any other way and all of it felt too important to miss out)

Warnings: Miami Madness part 2: crash injuries & silly drunk boys, say it with me kids: INSPIRATION not ACCURACY

messy hair carlos = my entire body shuts down

Previous Chapters: One || Two || Three

Given the chaos of the introduction to Miami, you thought Thursday might have been a bit quieter.

You were, inevitably, wrong.

You had breakfast with Katie and a small entourage of Aston Martin staff who were trying to make your life as easy as possible, much against your will. You spent most of the meal staring over Katie's shoulder, where you could see the back of a mop of jet black hair and strong shoulders with the number 55 splayed in yellow between them. You hated how even the back of him made your stomach clench these days. You could tell by the animated movements he was deep in conversation with his own team, watching as he spoke with his hands to describe something. You wondered what he was talking about. Probably tyres if you knew Carlos at all, it was always about the tyres with him.

“Y/N!” Katie snapping her fingers in front of you brought your attention back to your own table. “Are you even listening to me?” You looked down at your yoghurt, wondering shortly if you could get away with pretending.

“No,” you admitted with a sheepish smile. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“I was telling you where you need to be today, if you actually wanted to know,”

“Not really,” you grinned at her and she tutted at you behind her iPad, but you could see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. You propped your elbows up on the table and battered your eyelashes sweetly at her. “Okay hit me, who do I have to make happy today?”

You wondered if the PR people get a sick kick of satisfaction out of jamming their driver's days full of mindless crap just to watch their faces fall as their own ideas of how their day might go fly out of the window. That was how it felt anyway, as you were briefed that not only would you attend your seat fitting, practice session meeting and the fan signing sessions as expected, but you were to spend any free minute in the Aston Martin hospitality watching and supporting the lower level races and entertainment being hosted on the pit lane. The only saving grace, you figured, was that Sebastian would be there with you.

You were allowed a swim after breakfast, followed by a quick stretch-out session before you were herded out into the paddock to begin duties. Surprisingly, the day slipped by quite pleasantly. The fan meet and greet was so busy it took hours to get through everyone, but the fans were insane which made it worth it for you. You’d never been given so many gifts, had so many kind words and some slightly bizarre requests. After the third man asked you to sign his bare chest you decided to place a blanket rule on body signing.

You also found yourself enjoying the lower races much more than you thought you would. Lounging in a deckchair on your fourth non-alcoholic beer watching the chaos of the pit lane from above was actually quite nice. Not being the one in the middle of it all, stressing about stop times and tyre strategy and arguing on the radio, instead just enjoying the thrill of motorsport as you had when you were a child. It was safe to say you’d missed it. You never regretted becoming a driver, but it made you think of the driver’s wives and girlfriends and part of you was a little envious of the glamour of it all, of the kind of life where your main concern would be picking your outfit for the day. You and Seb were also running a halfhearted betting pool on the F2, and lazily arguing about the most effective lines into a couple of the corners. There were a handful of sponsors around, but not enough to be much of a bother and you were pretty sure at one point when you looked over at Seb he was napping behind his sunglasses.

Much to your honour, you’d been asked to present the awards for the W-Series race, and for once you found yourself not bitterly hating the media duties and public appearances that came with being a professional athlete. The W-Series race had been a spectacular display of driving and there was no doubt that you were excited to hopefully be sharing the F1 grid with more women in the coming years. You told Jamie Chadwick you looked forward to racing her as you handed her the first-place trophy, and the young woman looked like Christmas came early as she caught you with a firm spray of champagne. A photo was taken of the entire female grid, with you in the centre afterwards. You saw it later, all of you with rosy cheeks and arms flung around each other like old friends and immediately bought a framed copy.

You’d heard only briefly from Carlos throughout the day. He was doing a filmed exposé out on one of the fancy golf courses with Lando for the majority of the day. He’d texted you a picture of a very elaborate-looking mocktail, followed by a terrible selfie of him and Lando captioned ‘muppets’. You told him about the W-Series to which he reacted with a thumbs up. By the time you’d had your police escort back to the hotel complex, it was a little past 7 pm.

You: Fancy dinner? Just got back to the hotel

You didn’t think too much about sending the text. You knew it was a long shot given the schedules of the day, but you were itching to catch up properly with Carlos and if it meant you could avoid another dinner going over the fine details of your life with Katie, well, who were you to complain. By the time you’d had a shower and changed into a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting top to try and keep the humidity away, you had three texts.

Carlos Sainz: Still in meetings, they delivered us pizza.

Carlos Sainz: I am sorry, Cariño. You can take me to the date after I win on Sunday.

His emoji use really was horrible, you thought; a chilli, a flexing arm and a winking face with its tongue out. It still made your insides warm.

Track Dad: Come to dinner with me, I’m hiding from Antti.

That was Seb, who’d earnt the nickname last year when he spent most of his time in the paddock chasing yourself and Mick Schumacher around like a parent with toddlers that kept running off. The media loved the relationship the three of you had kindled, with Seb very much mentoring the pair of you. And as for you and Mick, well you just adored him. You’d be surprised if anyone could even dislike the young German, he was nothing but nice, probably one of the sweetest men you’d ever met. He was endlessly kind and surprisingly humble to the point of being shy despite his heritage.

You sent Carlos several snoozing emojis in response and wished him luck with the meetings (but not the race) and responded to Seb that you’d meet him in the lobby in five minutes. To no one’s surprise, when you stepped out of the elevator into the air-conditioned hotel lobby, Seb was waiting for you in deep conversation with Mick. You greeted them readily, pulling Mick into a big hug as you’d not seen him around in a while.

The three of you had a wonderful dinner in the hotel, even if your menu had clearly been sent forward from your nutritionist, containing a thrilling array of steamed fish and steamed veg and plain carbohydrates. It was always easy to be yourself around the three of them, and it made you laugh how when Mick was around Seb changed from the equally troublesome teammate he was with you to a fond parent. You didn’t mind too much, because Mick was equally fun to bounce off and Seb inevitably would end up in the chaos in some way or another. You talked mostly about the upcoming race, trying to find out how best to approach a track you’d never driven before and what the weather meant for tyre strategy and how bad the first turn would be.

You fell asleep easily that night, feeling strangely satisfied and excited to get the car out for practice.

The Friday practise sessions were of little note. You got through FP1 relatively smoothly, only reporting back that your car felt a little slippy on the rear and you had to correct quite a few near-spins. It was hard to set a fast lap with hard tyres and the cluster of yellow flags you had to work your way around, but you still came out with a decent P6 and a bunch of notes you spent your lunch break poring over. FP2 started much better, and already you felt like the small adjustments your engineer had done were giving you a much sturdier and quicker drive. Working onto the medium and soft tyres was also helping, and you were just starting to enjoy the track and work up to putting some good times on the board when you drove past a flashing yellow flag.

“Virtual safety car?” You asked down the radio.

“Yep, confirmed,” you sighed, with a roll of your eyes and took the time at a cruising speed to take a sip of your drink.

“What happened? Is there debris on track?” What you really meant was who happened, but it wasn’t normal for drivers to ask that.

“Negative, no debris on track. Sainz into the wall at Turn 14,”

Fuck.

You knew this was going to happen. It was the nature of the sport that no driver was ever safe or cushioned from accidents. World champions, rookies and everyone in-between crashes out or spins or has technical problems. Hell, just last week you’d proved that. But you really hadn’t expected to hear his name like that so soon. You weren’t ready for the way your stomach dropped and your chest squeezed and the only thing you cared about was if he was okay or not. At least last time you’d been so out of it you’d barely been aware of your own injuries let alone someone else’s. This time all you could think about was what kind of mess he was in.

As you approached the third sector of the track you slowed to a virtual crawl until the stricken Ferrari was visible. It was sat flush against the concrete barrier deep in a gravel trap, but Carlos was out and you saw a flash of his red race suit as he hopped the fence, providing only a small flood of relief to know he walked away. You were distracted for the rest of FP2, even so, you managed to pull a P5 and gain 1.3 seconds on your FP1 time.

Your team seemed pretty pleased with you, and you managed to ignore their comments about Sainz’s sudden trend in finding gravel. It was taking everything you had not to ask everyone you saw if they’d heard anything and if he was okay. Instead, you sat through your debrief meeting, desperately refusing to acknowledge the way Seb was watching you quizzically as you fidgeted and stared at the clock behind Mike and almost bolted out of the door the second it was over. You had your head down in your phone before you’d even turned into the corridor. Carlos had already updated to his Instagram that he was fine and would be competing in the rest of the weekend as normal, and you were halfway through drafting a text to him when you walked right into someone.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, barely looking up from your phone as you hit the send button.

“Hey, what’s the rush?” It was Seb, who’d steadied you and stepped back, his expression unreadable.

“Nothing,”

“You didn’t seem all there at debrief. Is everything okay?” As much as you loved Seb, his attention to detail was sometimes a nightmare.

“Yeah I’m fine, I was just…” You trailed off, unsure of what you were just doing.

“I was on my way to get a coffee, come with me,” one thing you loved about your teammate and mentor was he never asked you anything. His invites were more statements, and you liked that. It made you feel wanted and included and especially in your rookie year it was exactly what you’d needed to help you settle on the grid. It didn’t take long for the pair of you to have fallen into step and locate the nearest coffee machine in the building. You were nursing a steaming americano and quietly observing the emptying paddock when Seb started again.

“Forming close, ah, relationships, with fellow drivers is tricky. You spend so much time together it feels inevitable, but also they are your competitors. It’s hard to find the balance, how much time do these people deserve of you? How much of yourself? How much of your care?” He was staring into the distance, a look on his face that made you wonder if he was thinking about someone in particular as he spoke. “When it takes over your mind, when you can’t concentrate because of them, it can be dangerous. And bad for your career,” he chuckled dryly to himself. “You see it more often than you think. It’s why a lot of us have to change teams,”

“What do you-”

“I think it is very good you are branching out, making other friends. I’m too old to be keeping you company so much, and Carlos is a good man. I wanted to be the one to tell you, so you know it’s not trouble, but to be mindful. Be mindful of how much you think of them when you’re on the track. No matter what’s happening elsewhere,”

“Oh,” Seb offered you a warm smile as he sipped his drink. You could feel the heat rising into your face. “Well I’m not - he’s not my- it’s not like that,”

“Don’t panic so much, Y/N, consider it a general warning about getting close to anyone. I have to be careful myself with you and Mick, and of course back when…” he tailed off and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of Mick’s father and Seb’s initial mentor. The news of Micheal’s accident had been devastating to all motorsport fans - but for Seb, who was as close to him as family - you didn’t want to think about how much it had hurt him. Your phone pinged in your pocket and on instinct you checked it, leaving Seb lost in his memory a little longer.

It was Carlos, assuring you he was fine, but nonetheless, his room number was supplied.

“Go see him,” Seb’s words brought you back to the present as you finished the dregs of your coffee. He had a wry smile that was a lot more Seb. You nudged his shoulder affectionately and thanked him for the coffee and chat, before turning to leave him on the balcony.

“Hey, Y/N,” he caught you, making you turn to look over your shoulder for a moment. “Not that you need it, but I approve of him very much,” he winked at you, the shit. In the sinking sunlight, his blue eyes were twinkling playfully. You hoped you weren’t blushing too much as you nodded awkwardly at the floor and hurried out.

There was a Seven-Eleven on the way back to the hotel. You stopped and bought a slice of rich-looking chocolate cake from the fridge section.

Carlos was quick to open the door for you, his face lighting up when he realised it was you who was knocking. You noticed he was a little slow as he made his way back over to the bed with a stilted gait.

“I brought cake,” you held up the plastic case in your hand as if it wasn’t obvious. You felt a little small and stupid, but Carlos was watching you as if you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“Why?” You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up as you looked at your shoes.

“My mum used to - if I got in an accident - she used to get us chocolate cake on the way home,” Carlos nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” you leant down to place the cake in his minifridge and gently toe your shoes off, padding over to the chair opposite his bed and dropping into it.

“I suppose it means that bad days can end nicely or something,” his expression changed at your throwaway comment, an eyebrow creeping up into his hairline and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that made you feel like a deer in headlights, frozen under his gaze.

“It’s ending very nicely,” before you could open your mouth to question him, he was gesturing for you to come closer, patting the space beside him on the bed. You were all too happy to oblige, your skin bristling pleasantly whenever his arm brushed against yours.

Carlos had been watching a game of football, and you leant quietly against his shoulder as he explained the rules to you. If you were being entirely honest, you couldn’t have given less of a shit about football if you tried, but it was clearly something that Carlos was passionate about and you would have sat there and listened to him recite Pythagoras’ Theorem as if it was the only thing you could ever care about.

It felt strange, but the nice kind of strange, to be back in a plain hotel room together, sitting a little too close on a king-sized bed. Except this time you were trying to ignore the way your skin was thrumming with electricity and the way you couldn’t stop thinking about the last time you saw him when he’d taken you on the most beautiful date you’d ever been on and then kissed you. You wondered if he wanted to kiss you again. It felt like dates when you were 15. When you were so enthralled by the new world that was physical touch that you spent most minutes with a boy wondering if - or when - the next moment would come where your fingers brushed against each other or his arm found its awkward place on your hips or his nose bumped yours as you kissed, badly.

Carlos must have noticed you drift off because he was poking you gently, a playful smile tugging at his features.

“Am I really so boring to you?”

“What?”

“You weren’t listening!”

“I was!”

“No, you didn’t!” He was pouting, somehow managing to look both ridiculous and adorable at the same time. “You came all this way to make me feel better and then you didn’t even listen to me,” you couldn’t help but snort, partly because Carlos was still poking softly at your sides in a way that was starting to tickle.

“All the way from down the corridor, sure,” you rolled your eyes playfully and Carlos gasped with mock offence, matching your energy as his fingers dug into your side, making you squeal as he began to tickle you in earnest. You tried to shimmy away, but he was quick - an arm snaking around your waist and holding you firm against him as he made you squirm. You couldn’t control the high-pitched giggles he was pulling from you. You hadn’t noticed he’d rolled back, dragging you with him so you were balanced in his lap until your stomach was sore and you were begging for him to stop and let you breathe.

The grin on Carlos’ face faded quickly when he realised the position he’d put you in. You didn’t miss the way his tongue slipped out to moisten his lips. One of his hands slipped down from your ribs to your hip, the other reaching up to softly brush a strand of hair that had worked its way loose in the struggle behind your ear. You tried to ignore the way your face was heating up and his touch sent a trail of goosebumps raising along your arm. You placed a tentative hand on his chest, stabilising yourself and searching for boundaries all at once.

Carlos lunged for you. He cradled the back of your head and pulled you down to meet him at the same time as he sat himself up, catching you in a kiss that couldn’t have been more different to the last one. It felt like something was burning between you, something that made you hungry, desperate for him. The smell of cologne and burnt rubber fogged your mind. He was so warm, pulling you close so as much of your body was pressed against his as possible. He made a small noise against your mouth and you felt any resolve you had melt away, your body becoming soft and malleable in his hands.

His arm found its way around your waist again and you allowed yourself a second to revel in the security of him as you broke away from his lips to press experimental kisses along his jaw bone. Carlos shuddered against you and in one smooth motion rolled you sideways onto your back, settling himself between your legs.

Or at least that had been the plan. He leant down to reconnect your lips and winced, pulling back. You reacted immediately, trying to push down the bolt of insecurity that shot through you as you scrabbled up so you could sit opposite him. Carlos groaned and fell back into the position he had been in, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

“Are you okay?” You hoped you didn’t sound as panicked as you felt. His eyes were closed and his breathing a little too shallow.

“Yes, just-” he winced again “Not steady enough. I was told to be resting,”

“Sorry-” you felt small, and suddenly the room was too hot and too cold at once and all you could think about was finding an excuse to leave rather than face him. But Carlos was shaking his head before you could get any further.

“No, Cariño, not your fault. I wanted to,” his thumb was rubbing smooth circles against your hip bone. “God, I want to,” there was something strained in his voice. Your chest blossomed with warmth at his admission that his desire matched your own, and it gave you the confidence to push it down. It wasn’t the right time, for either of you. Not before qualifying, not with injuries.

“How bad were you hurt?” You murmured, your eyes glued to the spot on his neck he kept touching. He shrugged, but Carlos had never been very good at hiding his facial expressions and you knew he was in pain, and probably a little embarrassed.

“My neck - we don’t know how bad yet. There were too many Gs and the concrete wall was bad, I don’t know why it wasn’t Tecpro. And the hip - it’s a contusion but okay,” you made a face as he spoke. You’d had a hip contusion before and you knew Carlos was downplaying the pain.

“Where?” the word was barely a whisper from you, but Carlos understood and he lifted the left side of his t-shirt up.

Arching in a half-moon was a streak of purple that fanned out at the edges, the bruise already well-formed in the hours since the accident. It followed the shape of his hip perfectly, the final tendrils reaching down into the groove that disappeared below the waistband of his boxers. You couldn’t stop yourself as you ran your fingers carefully along the shape of it. Carlos’ eyes never left yours as you watched his face for any signs of pain. He gave you none.

“Shit, Carlos,” you felt his stomach move beneath the pads of your fingers as he huffed out a dry laugh.

“It’s not that bad,”

“It looks bad, are you icing it?” He groaned, but there was a smile behind his eyes.

“Mrs Nurse,” you gave him a stern look. “In the fridge,” ignoring his protests you made your way back to the mini-fridge, collecting an ice pack from the freezer box at the top which you’d previously not noticed and wrapped it carefully in a t-shirt you plucked from the pile on his desk that was waiting to be put away. Before he could protest, you pressed the pack against his clothed hip. He hissed as you did so, but relaxed into your touch. You tried to push down the image that the noise created in your mind.

Carlos’ hand came to cover yours on the ice pack, so you carefully slid away and let him adjust it against himself. You settled against his good side as he turned his attention back to the football, now showing the highlights of the game. You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching up to press a kiss against his cheek, enjoying the way his lips pulled into a smile and his cheeks flushed a little.

You sat with him until the football highlights ended, and your phone had pinged three times with questions from Katie about why you hadn't collected your dinner yet. At the thought of dinner, your stomach growled, which made Carlos’ gaze fix on you with a startled expression.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t eat again,”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” You defended “I came here straight after debrief,” the arm that was around your waist squeezed you into his side and he pressed a dry kiss to your temple.

“‘M glad you did,” you hummed against him.

“Me too,” you could have stayed there all day, but your stomach was making a lot of noise and Carlos was laughing and pushing you to your feet and walking you to the door.

“Go eat, Y/N, otherwise you’ll be no fun to beat tomorrow,”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t be on the front row, Sainz,” he grinned at you.

“P2 is good to start from, no?” You slapped his chest with no malice.

“See you in my mirrors,”

“See you on the podium,”

“Top step baby,”

“I’d still be taller,”

“It’s not about height though, is it?” And then he was kissing you again and pushing you out of his door and you stumbled down to the restaurant to collect your dinner, the haze of him still carrying you.

*****

Qualifying was relatively unexciting. After a strong start and a couple of purple sections you were pleased to have made it to Q3, but that was where things started to slip. An unfortunate late spin saw you struggling to make up time, and your final fast lap was disappointing. You weren’t really surprised when you were told you’d gotten P7, and you didn’t know what was worse. The disappointment of knowing you had so much more to give, or the fact that your team were celebrating because, unlike Seb, at least you made it into the final qualifying round. Carlos had gotten P2, and you watched as he did his live interviews on the grid alongside Charles and Max. You were a little surprised that Max was only in P3, but you weren’t exactly going to be complaining if it meant keeping the championship battle open a little longer.

You survived interviews in the media pen, working your hardest to hitch a smile onto your face and answer politely and professionally as you were questioned on your mistakes in every which way. You knew it came with the territory, but you still dreaded the headlines that evening. Every driver was criticised by armchair experts the second they weren’t at the top of everything, but for some reason, your gender seemed to only become part of the story when you’d either majorly fucked up or snatched a good win.

You were kind of hoping to see Carlos either in the paddock or on the way back to the hotel, but by the time you’d made it out of the team debrief and you’d had a good long rant with Seb about everything the paddock was nearly empty and so was the restaurant. You took your meal up to your room and sat stoically watching a sitcom you didn’t follow and pointedly ignoring the internet and anyone from Aston Martin. The only texts you’d replied to were from your family and the one from Carlos, which came in just as you were about to go to sleep.

Carlos Sainz: Bad luck today. Drive fast tomorrow, I want to battle my favourite maneater.

You were too tired to properly reply, so you just sent him a little heart emoji and slipped into sleep.

You woke up early the next morning. Over a quiet breakfast in your room, you made a resolute plan to blatantly ignore everything that had happened up to this point in the weekend and train all your focus on nailing the race. You made Katie spend nearly two hours in the gym with you going over the final warm-up and conditioning exercises, followed by an extensive stretch-out.

You thought you’d be able to avoid a lot of the chaos of race morning by heading to the stadium early, but you were strongly informed that it didn’t matter how early you were, you were still being escorted by the police to and from the stadium. The second you stepped out of the hotel into the sunlight you were almost blinded by flashes from cameras, and it took you 20 minutes of ignoring the paparazzi and signing items from fans who were wishing you all the luck in the world today before you could even get to your car. Usually, you didn’t much enjoy the fan interactions. It was always nice to have people in your corner but you found being stopped constantly, having to smile for photos and sign something every few steps could wear you down, not to mention the kind of fans that had no boundaries and assumed you would be their best friend, despite having met them ten seconds ago. However today you found their positivity was fuelling something within you, the desire to outperform everyone else stronger than ever.

As a result, you spent most of the day hiding out in the Aston Martin garage and the offices above. Several hours were dedicated to agonising over minute details with your head engineer and strategist, the three of you more determined than ever to put you back on the podium as a minimum. You also spent much longer on your warm-up than normal and went through two cooling vests before you even made it down for the grid walk and National Anthem.

Sometimes you didn’t mind the grid walk, and Martin Brundle wasn’t exactly difficult to chat to. But today, standing beside Daniel Ricciardo for the anthem and admiring the headphones that he wore to avoid talking to anyone before a race, you understood him entirely. It didn’t help that the grid walk was packed. Simply turning away from the anthem lineup to walk back to your car felt like you were immediately absorbed into a mosh pit. A throng of hot, sweaty bodies pressed against you from all angles was doing nothing to help you keep a narrow tunnel of focus. You had three different phones shoved into your face, asking you to say hi to a TikTok live before you even got to the first row.

It almost, almost, felt good to be absorbed in the sea of Ferrari tops buzzing about the place, because at least here you were shielded from pseudocelebrities all clamouring for a piece of - well what you didn’t even know because most of them clearly were not Formula One fans.

When you made it to your car you immediately climbed in, ignoring the way you already felt unbearably hot and how you knew sitting like this for ten minutes before you even got to the formation lap was a bad idea. You spotted Martin Brundle, looking awkward as he tried to flag down celebrities to interview. It looked like he knew as few people as you did. You decided the best thing you could do for yourself was just zone out. You closed your eyes, finding the right groove in your seat where it felt like your whole body was being cradled by the car, the straps comforting in the way they anchored you in. Your helmet smelt like a new car, the way you liked it before the padding became soaked in your sweat. You checked the water tube, twice, and adjusted the position of your radio. By the time you were sent out on the formation lap you felt like a greyhound out of the trap, the only thing on your mind was the stupid stuffed rabbit you just needed to sink your teeth into.

And then you were in position and you were revving and you watched, heart thudding throughout your entire body as those five red circles went out and your whole body was thrown backwards and you accelerated like your life depended on it.

The race in itself was actually quite dull for the majority of it. You took Lando, who started just a place ahead of you in the first three laps and then sat in a comfortable P6 for nearly half the race. The leaders had put a significant gap between yourself and them that you didn’t even see George Russel, who was holding his own in 5th until you’d been driving for nearly an hour. It was an eight-lap battle to get past the Mercedes, who was clearly fighting you for everything he was worth and it took you six DRS zones to finally draw equal enough with him that you could cut him off through a corner and take the position. It wasn’t until after your strategist complimented you on the particularly smooth manoeuvre that you realised it had been at Turn 14.

Just ahead of Russel was Perez, the Red Bull’s tail already taunting you and you could see the back of a Ferrari dancing just ahead of you as well. If you’d thought the battle with Russel had been drawn out, the opposite was true for Checo. It was like you’d caught the Mexican by surprise as you zipped down the inside straight with your DRS open and there was nothing he could do to stop you.

“Okay Y/N, gap for P3 is 2.8 seconds,” your radio crackled.

“Time to send it?”

“Send it.”

“Copy,” you couldn’t keep the grin out of your tone as you began your drive for real. On a reasonably fresh set of soft tyres, you felt like nothing could stop you as you started driving like it was Q3 all over again and your only goal was pole position.

The Ferrari in front of you was making your life difficult. You felt like you were almost matched in pace, every time you got close it inched further away. Every time you took the corner so tightly you could have been Dutch, so did the car in front. For every attack line you could throw at him, he had a perfect defence line.

“Gap to Sainz 0.8 seconds, you’ll have DRS on the next lap. Three laps left,”

“Copy,” of course it was Carlos. He said he wanted a battle and he was sure as hell giving you one. Determined not to cause a second Imola, you played the game mirroring him and just biding your time, inching ever closer. By the final lap you were virtually side by side, but every time your DRS opened his did too as Charles didn’t have much of a lead. You imagined the commentary must be going insane, a Ferrari and an Aston Martin neck and neck into the final lap.

You decided to take a risk and try a manoeuvre you’d only ever discussed in theory. You dropped back, letting Carlos take the lead on you again but staying within DRS. You were trying to pick up a slipstream, hoping that you’d be close enough when your DRS ended that you could use the continued boost of power to just slip past him on an inside corner. It was like Carlos could read your mind, because you got your perfect opportunity, gaining on him with the DRS open, so close you were almost touching his rear wing. You took a deep breath, swinging left to come into the first turn of the chicane sharper than him. You were almost level as you began to push the drift to keep the speed for the second half, but then the Ferrari shot forward and you found yourself following him into the final straight.

You tried to pull level again, throwing everything at the car on the straight, your eyes entirely trained on that chequered flag as you came over the line and pulled off the throttle.

You couldn’t help but hold your breath as you waited for your result over the radio.

“Fantastic drive, Y/N, simply perfect!” Your radio was alight with delighted messages from the team. “P4 confirmed, that’s P4 with the fastest lap. Well done,” you felt yourself deflate a little at losing the podium. You’d really wanted it, to saunter into the media pen and smile sweetly at everyone who critiqued you yesterday. But P4 was good points, and it was your first-ever fastest lap. You had to admit there was something very pleasant about knowing you had the edge on both the Red Bulls and the Ferraris, yet there was still a bitter taste in your mouth as you pulled off the track and into the pit lane to greet your team.

*****

The following few hours were a blur. Your team was delighted with you, and even more so because Seb had clawed his way to P7, meaning double points for the team. The interviews were insane, lasting twice as long as usual as you answered question after question, most of them about the battle with Carlos on the final laps and if you thought there was anywhere you went wrong.

You watched the podium from below, and something in you eased a little. Carlos was all but glowing in the golden evening sunlight, his beam visible across the entire stadium. The trio also had to wear football helmets instead of the Pirelli caps, and there was some bizarre streamer party which was enough for you to be at least a little satiated with watching from afar.

Seb had congratulated you with a twinkle in his eye.

“Good drive. No mercy,” he’d winked as he clapped you on the back and you had to ignore the blush creeping up your cheeks.

There was talk of an after-party, which you were planning on tactically avoiding. You weren’t always straight-laced, and when you were in the mood you loved getting very, very drunk and partying the night away in clubs around the world. But Miami was Miami and you’d had enough. The race had taken everything out of you, you were still struggling to want to celebrate the P4 and to be blunt you were sick to the back teeth of people asking you stupid questions.

You had been about to slide off towards the back entrance when Katie caught you.

“Not a chance,”

“What?”

“You are not sneaking away tonight,” you groaned dramatically, dropping your head back like a small child.

“I wasn’t-”

“The after-party is at this place,” she handed you a business card which you looked wearily at. You didn’t like the idea of a nightclub that comes with its own business card. “It’s being hosted by a lot of sponsors - don’t look at me like that I’m just relaying the message! Mike says it’s mandatory. I’ll be at your hotel room at 9 pm, sharp.”

You just rolled your eyes and grumbled something about free booze, before joining the small queue of drivers waiting for their police escort back to the hotel complex.

Back at the hotel, you showered in record time and then spent half an hour drying your hair whilst staring blankly at your wardrobe. You’d asked Katie if there was a dress code and she was yet to reply, which usually meant no. The idea of clubbing and a sponsorship event happening simultaneously didn’t sit right with you. You couldn’t exactly wear jeans and your team polo to what seemed like one of the most exclusive clubs in Miami. You also couldn’t wear the usual skin-tight, see-through and/or barely-there garments clubbing usually came with. In the end, you picked out one of the shorter dresses you carried with you.

It was a ridiculous little thing and you hadn’t even been sure where you were ever going to wear it, but you’d seen it in a tiny boutique at home and it plagued you for days until you eventually went back to get it. It was satin, silky smooth and the perfect slip, and of course, it happened to be Aston Martin green. You liked it because you thought it made your figure, which was naturally very muscular due to the nature of the sport, appear softer and feminine in a different way to what you were used to. You decided to pair the dress with black strappy stiletto heels that you’d definitely end up taking off or running the risk of breaking an ankle in and a delicate choker necklace. You left your hair down and even experimented with some smudged eyeliner that softened and accentuated your eyes before there was a knock at the door and you were greeting Katie.

Katie immediately commented on the green, so you decided that meant it had been a good choice. She was wearing a skirt and a pretty cami top, also green. You met up with a handful of other team members in the lobby, including Seb who was wearing dress pants and a white button-down shirt with the top button popped open. He’d also trimmed his beard and attempted to control the mane of hair he was currently sporting into an organised sweep.

The club was within walking distance of the compound, much to your dismay as you tried to settle into the rhythm of wearing heels. You wished you were one of those girls who wore heels everywhere, but you spent most of your time in trainers or racing boots so it was taking a little time to get used to the change. Seb let you hold his arm though, and you were almost the same height in your heels.

The queue for the club was already winding around the block when you arrived and you found yourself secretly thanking your privilege as your little entourage was sent straight through a black velvet rope and into a VIP door.

No matter how fancy they are, all nightclubs smell the same. Of sickly sweet alcohol, sweat and an acrid mingle of perfumes and aftershaves. You found your nose wrinkling instinctively, and then within seconds spotted a camera so quelled your expression into a soft smile that said ‘I want to be here’. The party was clearly sponsored by one of the beer brands that had banners all over the race because the usual bar was closed and instead, it was lined with rows of hundreds of green glass bottles, tall tables dotted around also piled high and you even spotted several men in full suits carrying around trays dipping under the weight of the bottles. The rest of the team had dispersed immediately, and you realised that for a lot of the group it would be more about securing investments and sponsors than it would be about celebrating a good weekend.

You were glad you had Seb by your side, quickly joined by Mick who looked very sweet in a red bow tie with a lost expression. The three of you plucked a bottle each off the nearest table and made your way to the seated area where you could watch over the rapidly growing crowd.

“It must be nearly full already?” Mick was shouting over the thumping bass, casting a wary look at the entrance where a steady stream of people dressed to the nines was still flowing in. Seb shook his head, shouting something back that you didn’t quite hear. The three of you stayed in the booths, having quickly worked out that if you lounged around and looked bored enough a man in a suit would bring you a tray of beer.

You were three in and finally starting to relax when Mick grew tired of trying to make small talk over the noise and started begging you for a dance. You decided to agree, Seb taking pictures as you and Mick began a horrible rendition of the funky chicken to a song you didn’t know. He was pulling a wide variety of concentrating expressions as if he was trying his best for you, and it was sending you into fits of giggles. Eventually, Seb clearly couldn’t stand watching the two of you mimic TikTok dances that were getting worse and worse by the minute and cut in.

He was showing off, scoping you up into a ballroom pose with one hand respectfully high on your waist and the other supporting your hand delicately as he swept you around in a couple of easy steps. Mick looked dumbfounded.

“I didn’t know you can dance!”

“A gentleman that can’t dance, tsk tsk,” was his smug response. Ever since he joined Aston Martin, Seb liked to lean into the fantasy that he was James Bond and should behave accordingly. He was drunkenly trying to show Mick how to dance, you not so subtly videoing off to the side when someone caught your elbow.

You’d half expected it to be Carlos, you weren’t sure why, you hadn’t seen him all night, but it didn’t stop the small blossom of disappointment in your chest when you found yourself face to face with a man you didn’t recognise, who was holding out a beer for you. You politely declined as he introduced himself as one of the managers of a company that had stakes in Aston Martin, so you smiled sweetly and made a little bit of idle chit-chat about the cars and the good result until he spotted someone who was clearly more important than you, patted you on the exposed middle of your back in a way that made you shiver uncomfortably and disappeared into the crowd.

You switched onto the alcohol-free beers after that.

The rest of the night followed suit. It was what felt like a seemingly endless cycle of accepting a 0% beer from a man you didn’t know, making a weak attempt at conversation and having a carefully distanced dance with him before he’d see someone else he needed to talk to and move on, leaving you free to sneak off to the toilets for a moment to breathe and take some selfies with the women in there. You’d lost Mick and Seb shortly after the second businessman dragged you onto the dancefloor, and you liked to think you were holding your own quite well, but you still felt a little lost. You were trying to fight the urge to crane your neck around in search of Carlos, but you’d given up after a few hours and accepted there was an even more exclusive party for the top teams.

You’d excused yourself to make another trip to the bathroom, checking your phone on the way to realise it was nearing 1 am and the night was nowhere near over when a hand landed on your bare shoulder, making you turn sharply.

“Cariño!” It was Carlos. He was grinning at you languidly. “There you are!”

“Hello,” it was the first real smile you’d managed all night. Even in the low light, Carlos looked incredible. He was wearing another white shirt, with the top two buttons popped open and the sleeves rolled up the way he had on your date. His hair was a little dishevelled, as he ran his fingers through it you realised why. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright, still with that podium glow as he looked at you. And then he looked at you, his eyes flickering down as he took in your whole figure, right down to your toes that were still miraculously in their shoes, and then raked his way back up to your face. You watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“You look stunning,” he leant in to speak to you, lips gently grazing the sensitive shell of your ear and his hand almost burning on your waist. Your body automatically melted into him. If you thought you’d been relaxing earlier when you were dancing with Seb and Mick, it paled into comparison with the way you felt so right as your body slotted against his, finding your place on his hip with ease.

“Not so bad yourself,” you grinned, playing with the collar of his shirt. His eyes searched your face once more and you knew that if you hadn’t been in a crowded nightclub crawling with journalists and paparazzi and bosses, you would have been all over each other. “You gonna ask me for a dance?” You reciprocated his earlier movement, your lips deliberately catching his ear as you spoke. You felt his chest vibrate in response.

He took your hand and let you carefully to the dancefloor, spinning you expertly and catching you with ease as he found a spot. You looped your arms over his shoulders as he began to move slowly. And then there was a fat hand landing on his shoulder.

“Carlos, my man! My guy!” And Carlos spun around, apparently recognising the man because he dropped you like a hot coal, sending you an apologetic glance and mouthing the word ‘later’ as he was dragged back towards the bar. You should have known it wouldn’t have been that easy to get a dance with a trophy-holder. Although you spotted Charles alone in a corner of the dance floor, thrusting into thin air with a grin on his face that said he was already drunk out of his mind.

You went back to your routine of non-alcoholic beer, bathroom trips and chatting up sponsors, but you weren’t really interested. You were nodding along absentmindedly as they spoke to you, not really listening as you scanned the crows from your new vantage point on the balcony upstairs. You spotted Carlos every now and then, each time deep in conversation with someone pressing another beer into his hand.

By 2:30 am you were almost sober, bored out of your mind and your feet were hurting. You thought you must have done enough for the team and decided to call it a night, texting Katie quickly to let her know where you’d be. The second you were outside the air was like a drink of iced water. It wasn’t cold, instead just soothing as the breeze carried through your lungs and you felt yourself open up as the fumes of the club washed off you. You kicked off your shoes and padded back to the hotel barefoot. You probably shouldn’t have walked back alone, but the streets were alive with post-race celebrations and you followed the well-lit road the whole way back.

You’d barely had time to throw your hair up and wipe off your makeup when there was a hammering at your door. The figure swayed through the peephole, but you knew who it was.

When you opened the door there was Carlos, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked sexy for all but two seconds until he stumbled forwards. You just about managed to steady him and lead him into your room.

“Hello,”

“Mi sol,” his voice was low as he pawed at your dress, not really trying to take it off you but just watching the way the fabric slipped through his fingers.

“How did you get my room number?”

“Seb,” he pursed his lips, making the ‘b’ sound pop, and giggled to himself. He swayed again and you realised he was very drunk. His interest had left the dress and he was nosing at your exposed skin, placing kisses messily along your shoulder towards the base of your neck. You couldn’t deny the goosebumps rising on your skin.

“And how many beers have you been given, hm?” You questioned lightly, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.

“Enough to know you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,”

His lips tasted like beer.

“Carlos,” you weren’t really protesting as you let him walk you backwards until your knees hit the bed, and he crawled on top of you as you laid back.

“I want you so bad,” you could only manage another high-pitched sigh in response, your mind clouding over with your want for him. It felt like he was leaving trails of crackling electricity along your skin.

“Carlos,”

“I know,” he groaned against your mouth, pressing his hips down against your leg, his fingers teasing up your thigh and slipping below the hem of your dress. He was pressing sloppy kisses on any part of your neck he could reach. “You feel so good,” he was drunk, you told yourself. This wasn’t right. It was hard to break away from his spell because he was right. It did feel so good, and he was barely doing anything. “The things I wanna do to you,” you shuddered.

“Carlos,”

“Do for you,” Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Carlos, you’re drunk,” he hummed against your neck, his hips rolling down against yours in vein. You steeled yourself, fighting every instinct in your body as you gently pushed him back, and moved out from under him.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he pouted and whined, reaching out for you like a child. Those stupid brown eyes would be the death of you one day, you thought. You let him hold your hands. “Not tonight, at least,” he had a glazed look on his face.

“Okay,”

You’d have thought he’d fight more than that, but instead, he simply stood up, walked over to your couch and collapsed, eyes closing.

“Carlos, honey, you can’t sleep here,”

“‘S warm,” he burrowed down. You had no idea how he looked so cute, trying to curl up on your couch.

“Come on, you need to go back to your room or they’ll ask questions,”

Carlos, fortunately, had the good grace to be a cooperative drunk and let you walk him back down to his room, you got him in and let him go about wrestling his clothes off whist you got him a glass of water and left a packet of painkillers on the bedside table for him. He crawled into bed after you helped with the final buttons of his shirt, and diligently ignored the way he was trying to encourage you to lose your dress to match.

“You should come to Barcelona early,”

“Hm?”

“Stay with me. I know all the good places,”

“All of them?” He grinned at you, but it slipped quickly, his eyes sliding out of focus before fluttering shut.

“All of ‘em,”

You pressed a sweet kiss to his forehead.

“Okay,” you said, and made your way back to your empty hotel room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Five

Check out my Masterlist here!

Hello hello

As you can see, there was a reason the gap between this chapter and the last was quite long. This was a MONSTER to write but I've had so much fun with it and it's been a nice break from rotations when I've had time

And for anyone getting antsy, there will be a full smut scene in the next chapter, I promise!

So yeah, not much else to say for this one other than I hope you guys like it and as always feedback is hugely appreciated!!

I also cannot thank you guys enough for the continuing support and love i've had not only on Flat Spin but on the prompt challenge and my other works! It honestly means the world and hearing stuff from you guys is so inspiring and motivating to keep writing <3 <3 I know I don't always reply to every comment, sometimes I don't see them straight away but I see them ALL & will get round to replying to all soon!!

<3 <3

Le Gremlin

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