#ivy hover

[soracities]

What is your favorite flower?

for scent? jasmine, mock orange blossom, dog rose, lavender, honeysuckle, wisteria for looks? rosemary, laburnum, alpine gentian, baby's breath for Vibes? passionflower, impatiens tinctoria, dandelion, flowering ivy, blue himalyan poppy 💙

[lost-prince-x]

.

[theostrophywife]

the crush theory.

pairing: lorenzo berkshire x reader.

song inspiration: london boy by taylor swift.

author’s note: this is just a cute indulgent coffee shop! au with my sweetheart enzo. majorly inspired by all the boyfriend vibes louis has been serving with miss olivia lately. let’s not even talk about the ass grab with his big hands and rings…🫣

Enzo Berkshire never quite managed to master the language of love. 

Despite being a polyglot and a linguistics major, romance remained a complete mystery to him. It wasn't like he could craft a conjugation chart to help him not make a fool of himself in front of the girl of his dreams. When it came to matters of the heart, Enzo often found himself at a loss for words. Perhaps that was the reason why he never mustered up the courage to speak to you. 

Until that one fateful fall morning. 

The kiss of autumn arrived on campus a few weeks into the semester, freeing the city from the grips of the summer heat and bringing with it the changing of leaves and the distinct scent of cinnamon and apples. Enzo shoved his hands into the pockets of his burnt orange corduroy trousers and savored the sound of the jewel toned leaves crunching underneath his loafers. As the wind picked up, he wrapped his chunky knit cardigan tighter around himself to shield against the chilly breeze. 

The ivy covered brick buildings and cobblestone streets faded into the background as he walked past the quad. Deja Brew, the little hole in the wall cafe that Enzo frequented, greeted him like an old friend. The coffee shop was located on the outskirts of campus and was only a short walk from his dorm, which made it the ideal place to conduct his tutoring sessions. Not only was it convenient, but the cozy and quiet ambience provided the perfect setting for Enzo to teach his fellow struggling students. 

As time went on, the choice of location became less about convenience and more about catching a glimpse of you—the surly barista that worked the morning shift. For the past few months, Enzo developed a rather embarrassing crush on you. There was something about your scowl and no bullshit attitude that drew him to you like a moth to a flame. Though in his case, Enzo was perfectly content to hover a safe distance from the proverbial light of your fancy French cigarette lest he get burned. 

Upon first glance, anyone would have been intimidated by you. With your faded band tees, ripped jeans, and scuffed leather boots, Enzo was well aware that a girl like you would never be interested in a bloke who's wardrobe consisted of sweaters with elbow patches, floral print button downs, and neatly pressed pleated trousers. Needless to say, you were way too cool for him. 

Enzo was resigned to merely admiring you from afar, but fate seemed to have other ideas. The bell above the door tinkled softly as he made his way into Deja Brew only to stop dead in his tracks when he spotted you at the register. Usually, you were behind the bar manning the espresso machine during the early morning rush, but not today.

Today, you were front and center. 

Part of him considered walking out the door, but given the fact that the shop was nearly empty, a hasty exit would definitely not go unnoticed. Enzo had no choice but to suck it up and approach the register with resignation. The minute he opened his mouth, he was sure he’d muck things up. 

Enzo swallowed thickly and pushed his round framed glasses further up the bridge of his nose; a nervous habit he developed when he was younger. The erratic beat of his heart echoed in Enzo’s ears as his gaze flickered up to your face, expecting to be greeted with a frown. To his surprise, your lips curved into a small smile once you spotted him. 

“Lemon balm tea with two pumps of peach syrup and a dollop of honey, right?” 

Enzo blinked at the melodious sound of your voice, nearly missing the fact that you’d recited his exact order, which shouldn’t have been surprising given the fact that you’ve been making it for him for months. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little warm inside as you looked at him expectantly. He stared in stunned silence for a moment. 

You furrowed your brow in doubt. “Did I get that wrong?” 

“No, no, it’s right. It’s great. It’s perfect—“ Enzo cleared his throat, mentally kicking himself for rambling. “I’m just surprised that you remembered it.” 

“Of course I remember it, you’re one of my regulars. I’d be a pretty shit barista if I forgot your order.” You cocked your head, tapping your lips thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, do you want your croissant warmed up, Lorenzo?” 

“You know my name?” 

Enzo hadn’t meant to sound so starstruck, but hearing his name come out of your mouth made his heart skip a beat.

“And your social security number too,” you deadpanned. Enzo’s eyes widened, which made you chuckle. “I’m just having a laugh. I promise I won’t commit identity theft against you. Unless you piss me off.” 

You accompanied the statement with a cheeky wink, which only made Enzo even more nervous. 

"Don't look so nervous, peach. I swear I don't bite."

“Right. Sure. Of course,” he stammered. “The tea and the croissant sounds good, Y/N.” The realization that you’ve never told him your name came a beat too late. “It’s on your chest. The name tag, I mean. I wasn’t just staring at your chest. Though I’m sure it’s very nice. Bloody hell, I’ll stop talking now.” 

Enzo cringed at himself, but eased when you laughed. “You’re a strange bloke, Lorenzo.” You said as you began making his drink. “But I’ve got to admit, it’s oddly charming.” 

He chuckled, trying to hide the flush coloring his cheeks. “That seems to be my sweet spot.” 

"As sweet as peaches," you retorted as you added two pumps of peach syrup into his tea. "You'll have to excuse the fruit references. Before I knew your name, I referred to you solely as the peach guy."

"Is that good or bad?"

Enzo hiked his backpack over his shoulder and meandered down the end of the counter where you were topping off his tea with a dollop of honey. You swirled it into a heart pattern before sliding the warm cup into a sleeve. 

"Well, I've never met anyone who's preferred drink could constitute as a dessert, so it's certainly something. You're an enigma, Lorenzo," you said thoughtfully. "Though I think I like peach better. You don't really strike me as a Lorenzo."

“You can call me Enzo. I prefer it over my full name. It sounds so stuffy.” 

“We certainly can’t have that,” you said with a smirk. “Enzo. I like it. It’s rather becoming. Not stuffy at all.” He chuckled as you handed him a brown bag. "I might still call you peach from time to time. Force of habit. You understand, right?"

"Of course," Enzo replied. "El loro viejo no aprende a hablar."

"You kiss your mum with that mouth, peach?"

Enzo flushed. "It's Spanish for the old parrot does not learn to talk. Basically their equivalent of you can't teach an old dog new tricks." He shifted his weight onto his other foot. "What I'm trying to say is, I don't mind if you call me peach or Enzo or whatever else you'd like."

"You're giving me way too much freedom, Enzo. I intend on taking full advantage." You winked as you slid his drink over to him. “Enjoy your croissant. I put a little something extra in there for you.” 

Enzo peered into the bag and saw an extra pastry wrapped in black cellophane next to his croissant. The brownie didn’t look like any of the ones behind the counter, which meant that it was probably homemade. Strange, he wouldn’t have pegged you for a baker. 

“Oh, you really don’t have to—” 

“Nonsense,” you countered, waving off his protests. “Really, you’d be doing me a favor. It’s an experimental recipe of mine, which makes you my guinea pig. As payment, I expect a full report on the brownie tomorrow morning. Don’t hold back either, peach. I want a brutally honest review.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Enzo said in reassurance. “In any case, your guinea pig will take ample notes.” 

“That would be much appreciated,” you said with a serious nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Enzo-not-Lorenzo.”

Enzo couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.” 

Enzo rubbed his temples, willing the headache forming behind his eyes to vanish. Unfortunately for him, his last tutoring session with Flint seemed to have left a permanent mark. While Enzo usually enjoyed teaching French, Marcus was proving to be a rather difficult case. Not only was Flint unwilling to do the work, the knobhead also spent the entire session leering at you instead of studying the conjugation chart that Enzo poured his blood, sweat, and tears on. 

“Merlin, I have no idea how you deal with rich, smarmy arseholes all day.” 

Enzo looked up to find you seated across the table, sliding a sandwich, a fruit cup, and a bag of crisps towards him without missing a beat. He hadn’t even realized it was already an hour past lunch until his stomach grumbled at the sight of food.

“One could argue that I’m also a rich, smarmy arsehole,” Enzo countered, picking up a grape and popping it into his mouth with a slight smile. “Yet you seem to have no problems dealing with me.” 

“Yes, well, everyone knows I’m just using you for your body. Specifically, your taste buds.” Enzo shook his head in amusement before taking a bite out of the sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly, his favorite. “Besides, how else am I supposed to learn new insults in different languages if I hadn’t met you? Speaking of which, I believe I’m completely justified in saying that Flint is a total gehirnverweigerer.”

“Marcus isn’t so bad. He just needs a bit of a push,” Enzo replied rather unconvincingly. 

“If by a push you mean my boot against his arse, then I wholeheartedly agree.” 

“The French have this saying, petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid. In English, it roughly translates to: little by little, the bird builds its nest.” 

“Except Flint isn’t a bird, he’s a twat,” you deadpanned. “The bloke was too busy staring at my arse to even pick up a lick of French. To think, you even made this cute little chart and everything. You have the patience of a saint, Enz.” 

“One of us has to,” Enzo replied as he tore open the bag of wotsits. “Given your proclivity to violence.” 

“Don’t make me take your crisps away, Lorenzo.” 

Shielding his wotsits from your vengeful wrath, Enzo flashed you a saccharine smile. For good measure, he even batted his pretty honey eyes at you. The audacity. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite person in the whole entire world?” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Berkshire. Now finish your lunch or else I’ll be very cross with you.” 

Enzo smiled to himself, wondering at the fact you were complete strangers until a few weeks ago. Ever since you gifted him with the best brownie he’s ever tasted in his entire life, he became your designated taste tester. Every morning, Enzo would start his day off with his usual lemon tea and whatever new pastry recipe you had chosen to tackle that week. Between the scones and muffins, Enzo learned that you intended on opening your own bakery after uni. Hence, his very important role of reviewing your recipes. 

Granted, Enzo didn’t know how much of a help he actually was given the fact that he thought everything you made was amazing. Still, the novelty of finding a fresh pastry in his bag with a handwritten note from you never failed to brighten his morning. Especially since you signed each one with a crimson kiss print that made him blush every time he laid his eyes upon it. It was safe to say his crush had only gotten worse the more he got to know you. 

As you settled behind the counter to help with the afternoon rush, Enzo attempted to get some work done before classes started for the day. With finals fast approaching, he was caught up on making sure he had everything in order. It wasn’t until Enzo heard a familiar voice when he finally tore his gaze away from his laptop screen. 

Enzo froze as he watched one of his best mates saunter up to the counter. Even from his seat by the window, he could tell that Mattheo was flirting with you. In hindsight, his friend seemed exactly like the type of guy you would go for. The broody bad boy who probably listened to all the obscure bands that you often talked to him about. As Mattheo directed his smoldering gaze at you, Enzo thought he might be violently ill. 

Squinting across the coffee shop, Enzo angrily shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers in an attempt to keep himself from strangling his curly headed friend. 

In a tone that was at least an octave deeper than his regular voice, Mattheo drawled a question at you. “What’s good here?” 

You stared at him pointedly before waving a hand towards the menu. “There’s coffee, there’s pastries. It’s really not rocket science.”

The deadpan delivery combined with the utterly unenthused expression on your face nearly made Enzo snort out loud. It might’ve been an arsehole move to rejoice at Mattheo’s fumble, but he found it immensely satisfying that you seemed to be immune to the infamous Riddle charm. 

“A bit feisty today aren’t we, love? I just wanted to see what the pretty lady behind the counter recommends.” 

Enzo watched in amusement as you slipped on your signature scowl, the one that made him fall for you in the first place. “The pretty lady recommends that you stop holding up the line so she can get to the other customers who actually know what they want.” 

Hiding his smirk, Enzo feigned surprise as a dejected Mattheo plopped down across from him. “Merlin, that was brutal. Is the barista always this mean? I complimented her pins and she stared at me like I’d grown an extra head.” 

“Y/N isn’t really a people person,” Enzo supplied. 

“No shit, Berkshire.” Mattheo tapped his fingers on the counter. “Let’s just get to class before I embarrass myself any further.”

“That’s probably for the best,” replied Enzo. 

Ignoring Mattheo’s glare, Enzo packed up his laptop and put his tray away. He followed his mate through the throng of people, which had thinned out once more. They were a few steps away from the door when you called out his name. With a raised brow, you held out a pink box. Enzo smiled sheepishly in return. He couldn’t believe he’d almost forgotten the dessert of the day. 

“One lemon berry scone. Less tart, per your critique last week.” He took the box from your hands, blushing furiously when your fingers brushed against his. “Have a good class, peach.” 

“Thanks, Y/N. I’ll have your full report ready tomorrow.” 

“You better.” Enzo nearly dropped the box when you winked at him. “Later, Berkshire.” 

Smiling to himself, Enzo came face to face with a gaping Mattheo. “For Salazar’s sake, it’s like I don’t even exist.” He muttered before breaking out into a grin. “No wonder my moves had no effect. Mate, she obviously fancies you.” 

Enzo’s cheeks immediately heated as he pushed out into the quad. “What? No. Y/N and I are just really good friends.” 

“Now I understand why you come here so often,” Mattheo remarked. “If the mean hot barista plied me with baked goods and called me peach, I’d be coming here every day.” 

“It's an inside joke about my drink order..." Enzo tried to explain. "The point is, Y/N isn’t mean. She’s actually really nice.” 

“Yeah, because she likes you.” 

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Does too.” Mattheo countered. “Why else would she bake you a scone?” 

“She wants to own a bakery someday. Obviously, that means she needs someone to test her recipes out on,” Enzo explained. “It’s how we became friends.” 

“Right,” Mattheo said with a shit eating grin. “Friends.” 

Enzo rolled his eyes. “Can we just please get to class?” 

“Whatever you say, peach.” 

“I have a theory,” Mattheo announced. 

Enzo sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Not this again, mate.” 

The rest of their friends perked up, abandoning their laptop screens and textbooks in favor of the newest piece of gossip. The little corner of the library that their group had claimed was fairly quiet, which was supposed to be optimal for revising, but Mattheo couldn’t seem to let his conspiracy theory go. He'd been badgering Enzo about it for a week.

“Berkshire here refuses to believe me, but I have it on good authority that Y/N has a crush on him. 

“Y/N,” Theo started, “You mean his mean barista friend? She’s proper fit.” 

“Don’t call her fit,” Enzo replied rather defensively. 

“A little touchy there, Berkshire.” Regulus said with a chuckle. “Is that jealousy I sense?” 

“For the millionth time, Y/N and I are just friends.” 

“Is that the same friend that makes all those tasty pastries for you?” Draco asked with a raised brow. “I’ve seen the cute little notes she leaves for you posted all around your dorm. With the adorable kiss prints and hearts. Seems to me like Mattheo’s right. Y/N’s sweet on you, cousin.” 

“Do me a favour and stop being a snooping twat, cousin.” Enzo retorted with a frown. “Y/N’s just being nice. It’s what friends do.”

“None of my mates have ever gone out of their way to bake me a bloody thing,” Blaise declared in feigned offense as he wrapped an arm around Pansy. 

“Yes, well, none of your mates even know where the oven is located, let alone how to operate it,” replied his girlfriend. Pansy smiled at Enzo. “Besides, I think their friendship is sweet.” 

“Thanks, Pans.” 

“So you don’t fancy Y/N?” Theo asked. Enzo opened his mouth then closed it. He was well aware that his friend was baiting him, but he refused to fall into Theo’s trap. 

“Like I said, we’re friends.” 

“In that case, you wouldn’t mind if I asked for her number, right?” 

As a matter of fact, Enzo did fucking mind. He minded very much. Too much, probably. But he couldn’t very well say that out loud. Instead, he masked his scowl and returned his attention to revising. 

“Knock yourself out, mate.” 

Theo smirked. “Alright then, let’s go.” 

“Go where?” Enzo asked disinterestedly, flipping through his study sheet for Latin. 

“To Deja Brew,” Theo replied smugly. “We all need a study break, anyways.” 

“You want to go there? Right now?” With each question, Enzo’s death grip tightened on his notes. “To ask for Y/N’s number?” 

“That shouldn’t be a problem, right? In fact, maybe you could introduce us.” 

Enzo would rather walk on hot coals. “I think I'll pass. I've already seen her turn Mattheo down and that was brutal enough as it is. I don’t need an encore.”

“Riddle’s probably not her type.” 

Mattheo frowned, crossing his arms. “I’m everyone’s type.” 

Theo chuckled. “Apparently not hers. Perhaps she’d prefer a handsome Italian, no?” 

Mattheo rolled his eyes. “In your dreams, Nott.” 

“Now I’m intrigued,” exclaimed Blaise. “I’d never miss an opportunity to witness Theodore get humbled. Are you sure you’re ready for a woman like Y/N, Nott?” 

“Please,” Theo scoffed. “I was born ready.” 

Against his will, Enzo found himself at Deja Brew ten minutes later. In his usual corner by the window, he brooded like a petulant child. This was a horrible, terrible, and idiotic idea. All he wanted to do was revise and now his study session had been hijacked just so he could watch Theo flirt with the girl he fancied. 

“You know, you can put a stop to this any time you’d like,” Mattheo said in a sing-songy voice. “Just admit that my theory is right. Y/N has a crush on you and I’m willing to bet that the feeling is mutual. Isn’t it, Berkshire?” 

Enzo crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. Instead of giving into Mattheo’s childish pursuits, he opened his laptop and pretended to be immersed with Russian translations. 

“Have it your way, Enzo.” Regulus declared, nodding towards the register. “Nott’s about to give us a show.” 

As irritated as he was with his friends, Enzo couldn’t tear his gaze away. Theo marched up to the counter with swagger and confidence, slipping on his signature smirk. You looked up from your phone screen, giving the tall and lanky boy a sweeping gaze. The unenthused expression on your face screamed that you weren’t at all impressed.

“Y/N, is it?” Theo drawled, squinting at the nametag pinned to your apron. “A pretty name for a pretty lady.” 

“Thanks,” you deadpanned. “My parents gave it to me. Now what can I get started for you?” 

“Aren’t you going to ask me for my name?” 

“I know who you are,” you replied dismissively. “One of Enzo’s friends, right? I heard about your little stunt in the fountain. You know, December’s not really a smart time to go skinny dipping.” Theo flushed as your eyes trailed down to his crotch. “Certain parts shrivel in the cold, Nott.” 

“I assure you, my parts were perfectly intact.” 

“That’s not what Katie Bell said,” you countered, tapping your lips thoughtfully. “I believe I heard something about shrinkage.” Theo opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. “I’ll tell you what, Theodore. Why don’t I fix you up a cappuccino? It’ll help keep you and your parts warm and cozy.” 

Enzo bit his lip to keep himself from bursting into laughter. The rest of his friends snickered as they watched a dejected Theo return to the table. 

Regulus snorted as he sat back down in defeat. “Merlin, that was hard to watch. Absolutely brutal, really.” 

Theo glared at Regulus in response. “I’d like to see you do better, Black.” 

Regulus winked. “Watch and learn, boys.” 

The older boy had about as much luck as Theo. Though the attempts had put him in a foul mood at first, Enzo was absolutely elated as he watched you turn down his friends. Regulus received an eye roll while Draco reeled from the head to toe once-over that humbled the absolute hell out of him. 

“It’s useless,” his cousin mumbled. “She hates everyone.” 

“Or maybe Y/N just doesn’t appreciate random blokes chatting her up while she’s trying to do her job,” Pansy said with an eye roll. 

“Oh bloody hell, here she comes.” Regulus muttered under his breath. “I don’t think my ego can take another hit.” 

The boys cowered as you came closer, but you didn’t pay them any mind. Instead, you set a fresh mug of tea and a lemon scone down in front of Enzo. 

“Last one, I promise. It’s finally perfect this time.” 

“You said that the last three times,” Enzo said with a chuckle. “They were all brilliant, by the way. Not that you listen to my well crafted reviews.” 

“You say that about everything I make, Enz. Honestly, a girl bakes you a couple of treats and suddenly I’m the best thing since sliced bread.” 

“I’m just being honest,” he replied with a shrug. “You couldn’t bake a single bad pastry if you tried.” 

“I’d like to try a pastry,” Mattheo interjected. 

You tore your attention away from Enzo. The smile that you reserved for him transformed into a scowl, your entire body language turning stern. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?” 

“Riddle,” Mattheo supplied. “Mattheo Riddle.” 

“Right,” you said slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “My pastries aren’t for sale. You’re more than welcome to try the day-old brownie behind the counter though. If you can manage to chew through it.” 

Mattheo sputtered, but you paid no mind to his aghast expression. Enzo fought the urge to kiss you right then and there. 

“Closing again tonight?” he asked, ignoring the blatant stares from the rest of his friends. 

“Unfortunately. Diggory bailed again. Probably too busy snogging Cho to come in for his shift,” you said with an eye roll. 

“Leave those lovebirds alone,” Enzo quipped back. “They’re in their honeymoon phase.” 

“I can’t for the life of me understand how they aren’t sick of each other by now.” 

“That’s because you’re a mean old grump.” You glared at him, which only made Enzo smile. “Luckily for you, that doesn’t deter me. I’ll come keep you company if you want. I promise to be way more entertaining than Cedric.” 

“It’s not a hard task to accomplish, but I’ll take you up on it nonetheless.” 

“I thought you might say that,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll meet you back here after my last class. Pad Thai tonight?” 

You nodded and grinned back. “This is why you’re my favorite, peach.” 

The boys gaped as you ruffled his hair in parting. They waited until you were out of earshot before launching into a tirade. 

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“Just friends my arse.”

“I can’t believe she actually smiled at you!” 

“It’s strange how treating Y/N like an actual human being instead of pestering her while she’s trying to work yields such positive results,” Pansy retorted. “I think you all need to start following Enzo’s example. Clearly he’s had more success than you lot.” 

Blaise patted Enzo on the back. “Mate, you might be the most oblivious bloke in all of Britain, but you’d have to be an absolute knobhead not to see what’s right in front of you.” 

He hummed in response, glancing up at the exact same time that your gaze met his from across the room. You winked, making him blush furiously. Merlin, you were pretty. It was honestly unfair. Maybe Zabini was onto something.

When it came to you, even Enzo had to agree that he was a total and absolute knobhead.

Later that night, Enzo helped you clear the plates and mugs as the last customers trickled out of Deja Brew. The soft sounds of your perfectly curated playlist trickled over the speakers as you flipped the sign to closed. He watched with a small smile as you hopped up onto the counter and beckoned him over. The fairy lights twinkled above the ceiling, illuminating your smile as Enzo took his place next to you. 

The sight of you grinning up at him tugged at his heartstrings. There were coffee stains on your jeans and apron, your thick hair was falling out of its braid, and a cold bowl of Pad Thai awaited in your lap and yet he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. 

“Aren’t you glad Cedric bailed?” Enzo teased, knocking his shoulder with yours. “Now you get to enjoy cold noodles with your favorite person.” 

You chuckled, nudging him back. “I suppose this is nicer than listening to Diggory ramble on about Quidditch. It’s always bludger this, bludger that. I honestly considered bludgeoning him myself.” 

“To be fair, the man could merely breathe and you’d still find a way to be annoyed by it.” 

“No one needs to inhale that much oxygen.”

“I rest my case, you mean old grump.” 

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You know, if anyone else called me that I’d poke their eye out with a fork.” Enzo chuckled as you stabbed into your bowl of noodles. “Besides, I have every right to be grumpy. It’s been a long day. Thanks to your incessant little friends.” 

“I’m sorry about the guys,” he said earnestly. “I tried to talk them out of flirting with you, but they’ve got this crazy theory.” 

“Oh?” You asked, raising a brow. “What’s the theory, then?” 

Enzo flushed, avoiding your gaze. “They uh…” He cleared his throat and stared at his shoes. “They think you fancy me.” 

“Hmm,” you hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re not idiots after all. Your friends are right. I do fancy you.” 

White noise rushed through his ears. Enzo’s mouth fell open as he met your gaze. Surely, he hadn’t heard you correctly. 

“You alright there, peach?” 

“You…” Enzo trailed off, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You like me?” 

You chuckled. “I have for a bit. Thanks for finally noticing.” 

“How?” Enzo muttered. “What?” He cocked his head, trying to search for the proper words. “Why?” 

At the moment, it appeared that one syllable words were the full extent of his vocabulary. All those languages in his head and yet he couldn’t form a single coherent sentence. 

“Enz, I know your drink order by heart,” you explained softly. “I make you cupcakes and muffins. I write you notes every day. I thought I made myself pretty obvious.” 

“Gods,” he breathed, silently reprimanding himself. “I really am the most oblivious bloke in Britain.” Enzo licked his lips, turning over to look at you. “I just thought you were being nice.” 

“Lorenzo, when have I ever been nice to anyone?” 

“I am a bloody idiot.” 

“You never made a move, so I just thought you didn’t see me that way. Which is fine, by the way. I don’t mind being friends.” 

Enzo turned so fast he nearly smacked into the register. “Are you kidding? I’ve had a crush on you for months. You’re the best part of my day. Waking up and knowing that I get to see you every morning is the only thing that gets me out of bed.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You’re out of my league. You’re smart and funny and not to mention way too cool. Honestly, I thought you’d go for someone like Mattheo or Theo or literally anyone else but me. Someone a little more…” he trailed off, waving a hand over you. 

“Scary?” 

“No! Well, yes. Someone more confident and intimidating.” 

“Bad boys aren’t really my type.”

He scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion. “They’re not?” 

“No,” you said, setting down your food and turning over to face him. “My type is a nerdy linguistics major who teaches me how to curse in six different languages and who makes cute little conjugation charts and orders drinks that should quite frankly classify as a dessert.” 

Enzo’s smile grew wider. "I like you too, you know. A lot. Like, embarrassingly so. With your grumpy little scowl and all black wardrobe and dry humor. I like all of it."

You beamed as Enzo leaned closer, tracing your lips like he was trying to commit the curves of your smile to his memory. His heart pounded in his chest as your eyes flickered up to meet his.

"Then kiss me like you mean it, Enzo."

Despite your confidence, the air left your lungs as soon as Enzo cradled your face in his hands. The twinkling lights made his brown eyes shimmer like pools of honey in the dark. The tension stretched between you as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours ever so gently. They briefly closed around yours—tasting, testing, taunting. Then the dam broke free.

Enzo pressed you closer and kissed you like his life depended on it. You smiled against his lips, melting into his touch as he tilted your head back for more. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as Enzo sighed into your mouth, his lips molding perfectly against yours. The once shy and experimental kisses turned needy and passionate, making you feel slightly lightheaded. Enzo savored your soft sighs, kissing you over and over again to elicit more.

It wasn't until you felt like the air had been depleted from your lungs when he finally relented. He pressed his forehead against yours, noses brushing as you both grinned at each other. It felt right to be this close. It felt like you were made to do this all along. Enzo brushed his thumb over your cheek, looking dazed as he pulled back to look at you. 

“It’s about time, Berkshire.” 

“Hey,” Enzo grumbled, pecking at your lips. “You can’t blame me. I couldn’t even look at you without blushing and making a fool of myself. You’re so intimidating.” 

“Not so scary now, am I?” 

“Oh no, I’m still terrified of you. But I’ve also seen you cry during the Notebook, so I know that deep down inside, you’re just a big softie.” 

You started to protest, but Enzo just leaned in and kissed you again. With his lips pressed against yours, you couldn’t even remember what you were about to say. As he pulled you into his lap, you heard cheers coming from outside. Behind the glass window, his friends were cheering and wolf-whistling rather obnoxiously on the street. 

Enzo responded by flicking them off and kissing you even harder, pressing your bodies together as you giggled. He hauled you to your feet, his arms circling around your waist as he dipped you for a better angle. Your back hit the counter as you raised to your tiptoes, winding your arms around his neck and mussing up his hair as you arched for more. The hollering only grew more incessant when Enzo grabbed your ass and squeezed. The groan that escaped from his mouth made you dizzy with desire.

If one kiss could elicit such a response out of you, it was almost scary to think what else Enzo had in his arsenal. A cheeky little smile curved against his lips as though he knew exactly what you were thinking. You basked under the warmth of his gaze, feeling flushed and flustered. That pretty face had you entirely fooled. Enzo was far from innocent.

“Gods, I really fucking fancy you.”

With a smile, you kissed the tip of his nose. “I really fucking fancy you too, peach.” 

Despite the many languages in Enzo's arsenal, no phrase or saying could convey how he felt better than his lips against yours. Maybe he hadn't quite mastered the language of love, but he had a feeling that you'd be more than willing to teach him.

[historiaxvanserra]

These Violent Delights | An Eris Vanserra story

Summary: At a ball in Hewn City, you meet your match in Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 7.6k

Previously called If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power. I changed the name to adapt if from a one shot into a series.

You had been born on a night like this, you think. The storm-streaked clouds line the heavens like flowering hydrangeas as they dissolve into a black abyss and the moonlight shines like pearls on the water where the horizon meets the Sidra. 

Storm-streaked they had called you. 

When you were a little girl, your father had told you that you had come into this world in the same way as the old Gods had. Born from the merciless depths of some unknowable blue-darkness; cruel and beautiful, and fearless. 

Now fear is all you know. 

The crack of forked white lightening against the darkening horizon pushes you further into introspective thought. The visions come with the quiet; flashes of silver and gold and the icy embrace of the water. That infernal cauldron and what it had taken from. It haunts you, even in dreaming.  

Of late, the days seem to pass in a state of perpetual purgatory, marred by memories and the water– an unforgiving tempest that tears through you. 

The water cleanses but it also devastates. 

Your father had once called you water; the salt and the sea. 

You had always wondered what that meant. 

But here you stand-- a storm incarnate; volatile, half-wild and isolating. And who can become the water without inheriting its violence, or its loneliness?

The feeling of harsh violet eyes on you is enough to drag you gaze from your spot near the balcony and the storm as it rages outside. 

“Are you ready, Nesta?” Rhysand’s voice is velvet night as it reverberates around the small waiting room. 

A chill runs down your spine when you catch his eyes, glinting and violet in the dim light. You regard Nesta cooly as she tilts her chin upwards. 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Nesta’s eyes are lined with kohl and looking at her is like looking into the eye of a storm.

She always had an austere kind of beauty that left you speechless. 

Rhysand only nods simply before taking Feyre’s arm and approaching the large doorway. Nesta and Elain fall into rank behind them with practiced ease. It is you who hovers awkwardly in the background for a moment before taking your place in the middle of the formation. A solitary figure amongst them. 

You swallow thickly and you catch the lingering scent of a night chilled mist as you bristle. A whisper of night wraps itself around you like a cold comfort. These days his scent seems to follow you like a shadow; though, you suppose when you’ve spent every night this week wrapped around him, trying to drown out your own thoughts, there is bound to be a trace of him that lingers there.

At last, the towering doors to the throne room yawned open. 

The throne room is lined with black candles and evergreen wreaths frame the doorway, and moonflowers climb up the high, onyx pillars like ivy. And on each side of the aisles there were two magnificent banquet tables, piled high with food enough to feed a city. Though it was not to be touched without express permission from the High Lord.

A ripple of dark power reverberates through the mountain as The High Lord and Lady enter the throne room. You swear you feel the mountain wail in their presence. It is a powerful thing and you feel something within yourself begin to stir with it. 

A cold rage as it makes a home in your chest. 

The courtiers pale as they approach, parting like the tide as their High Lord and High Lady brush through them, crowned in silver crystals and garbed in midnight black robes. 

Rhysand looks beautiful you think as your eyes find him in the procession-- he stands tall against you all, his hair perfectly quaffed and the rich scent of mandarin and night-blooming jasmine seems to follow him.

All that pales in comparison to Feyre; the dress she wears is like tangible shadow. Gossamer thin silk and tulle that glitters with flecks of silver starlight, all gathered about her waist with a thin belt that accentuates the swell of her stomach. 

The room beholds her with baited breath; a sense of awe and ire. 

She looks like the visage of some ancient Goddess of the moon; pale and beautiful in the silvery light. 

You sense a shift in the air as they approach the dias and Rhysand’s shoulders tense; he is a picture of male pride. There is a dangerous quality to it that chills you to the bone. A cold violence that feels almost kindred to you. Feyre’s full red lips part and she smiles until it seems to dampen Rhys’s anger as he reaches for her as they climb the steps of the onyx dias. 

Keir’s face is twisted in a half-grimace, somewhere between astonishment and anguish. Behind him the Eris Vanserra remains fixed in place, his face set in a painfully neutral expression as he regards the High Lord and Lady. 

Motion from behind you beckons you to move as Nesta and Elain fall into step with you and begin to pace the length of the aisle and approach the dias. 

All three of you are dressed in Night Court black. A symbol of your place amongst the royal family. A warning of the dark power which you all possessed. Stolen and gifted from that cauldron. A reminder of your value. It is a carefully rehearsed routine as Nesta takes her place between you both, the flare of her skirts bushing against the marble floor with each long stride. You and Elain flank her sides like two wraiths. 

Elain looks sallow in black, you think as you catch her eyes. A poor initiation of the coldness you wear so well etched onto her beautiful face and steely determination in her dark, rich eyes. 

Nesta outshines you all tonight-- her golden hair braided into a crown atop her head and a delicate crown glints in the lantern light, slender spikes jutting forward in a dark corona. Her wicked eyes glinted like cobalt in the light. She’s dressed all in black. The gown itself is skin tight and embroidered with intricate silver brocade, twisting vines and moonflowers adorn the velvet bodice, tracing the curve of her breasts and sinking low, to her navel where the silver thread gathers about a sapphire that matches the crystals on her crown. 

Nesta is a cruel beauty; enough to bring a God to his knees. 

And Cassian looks about ready to sink to his knees before her as you regard him on the dias. 

Nestas moves with a feline grace, expressive and smirking as she takes her place between Cassian and Elain on the platform. 

Feyre and Rhysand sink into their thrones with a measured grace and from your stop between Elain and Azriel you can see all the eyes in the room as they flit from one member of the Inner Circle to the next. 

But it is the strange amber gaze of Eris Vanserra that you meet in the gathering crowd. He offers you a courteous nod and the ghost of a smirk graces his full lips and you send a scathing look in his direction in return.

You hope he feels the bitter sting of your coldness as your eyes try to find anything else in the throne room to focus on. 

Azriel rolls on the balls of his feet as the silence settles in the room and he inches so close to you that you feel the scarred pads of his fingers brush the exposed skin of your back. 

“You look good in black,” his voice is impossibly quiet, almost inaudible as he dips low enough that he is speaking into the shell of your ear. 

A cold chill runs up the length of your spine.

“Thank you, Shadowsinger,” You say simply, a feral smile on your lips as you bare your teeth to him. 

A laugh sharp and cruel rings through you and Azriel’s hand tangles in the lengths of your hair tugging sharply. 

“You are most welcome,” Azriel agrees, his voice is like shadow and wind as it graces your ears “most welcome indeed.”

Azriel steps back into line as Rhysand stands to address the crowd. 

Your own spine straightens as though it is muscle memory by now. Obedience. To bend and break as the High Lord and Lady saw fit. 

Rhysand looks like Night Triumphant as he regards his uncle with a strange union of cruelty and cordiality. Recently Rhys and Feyre had softened slightly with the people of Hewn City. Keir in particular. They can’t afford to isolate him from court politics-- in case the need arises for his Darkbringers to fight again. Hence the fact Rhysand even abides his presence at all. Rhysand’s cruel gaze lingers just a touch too long though. A careful reminder of the fate he’ll earn if he ever decided to go against Rhys. 

It’s been months since you’ve been to Hewn City, longer since you involved yourself in court politics. Longer still, since any whispers of the Trove or Briallyn reached you. Though you aren’t naive enough to believe it is over. 

None of the Inner Circle are. 

That is why you find yourself in Hewn City tonight. Swathed in the sallow light, and painted like a pretty whore; all red lips and dark eyes, with trembling hands, wanting nothing more than to be back in that little cabin with your sisters by your side-- as you were when you were girls. 

Feyre rises to her feet to join Rhys and she addresses the crowd, “May the blessings of the Winter Solstice be upon you.” 

The crowd seems to hum in acknowledgement and then they bow in a show of deference. 

Or blind obedience. 

Your eyes meet the strange amber gaze of Eris Vanserra once more, and it is you he looks at when he kneels. 

Keir slinks forward, offering your sister a low bow, “Allow me to extend my congratulations, High Lady.” His voice drips with false flattery as he dips his chin in a show of esteem. 

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator as he stalks forward, offering your sister a devastating, cultivated smile that feels almost authentic. “And allow me to extend my sincerest wishes, on behalf of my father and the entire Autumn Court.”

Rhysand’s mouth curls into a wicked half smile, his eyes darken to an amethyst color as she speaks “I’m sure your father will be most pleased for us.”

The implication that hands in the air is a dangerous one and you can feel the color drain from you at the terse exchange. A few more beast of silence and--

“Music,” The High Lord calls out and the orchestra from behind the mezzanine begins to play lightly, the sounds of lyres and harps ring through the air. 

Feyre once again addresses the crown, every inch the High Lady, “Go--eat--enjoy.” The crowd of silent courtiers disperse throughout the room as they aim to take their places at the tables. 

Each banquet table is piled high with an obscene amount of food and you find yourself feeling ashamed of the blatant opulence before you. When once you had nothing. Now you live without wanting. It makes you feel ashamed. How your old self would resent this wasteful indulgence. 

Turning away from the feasting courtiers you turn inwards towards the thrones on the dias. 

Now only Eris and Keir remain standing before the High Lord and Lady. You notice how neither of the men has deigned to acknowledge Morrigan’s presence behind the thrones. She looks ethereal and savage as she smirks down at them, her lips look as though they are stained wine red. 

Blood red, you think. 

The Illyrain’s at either side of you and your sisters look more like beasts carved into the dark stone of the mountain than anything else. Azriel and Cassian are clad in black armor, each adorned in ruby and sapphire to match their siphons that glow faintly in the low light. The brothers look as though they are the visage of some Gods of old; statuesque and hard-faced as they regard the Autumn Prince.

Cassian in particular looks like he might invoke some of that ancient power to stop Eris from dancing with Nesta tonight. He had not objected but, how could he? Rhys was his brother and his High Lord. Obedience is easier than the alternative. 

And the fate of The Night Court-- his home-- could rest on Eris’ alliance. So he will bite his tongue in the knowledge that what Eris offers is a chance at defeating Briallyn and Koschei. 

From your spot you watch the Autumn Prince with piqued curiosity. He will not stop looking at you and it is infuriating. 

It brings a cold anger bubbling to the skin's surface; all biting fury and icy violence. 

The conversation between Keir and Rhys seems to come to a natural end and the lull in the conversation has the whole room falling into silence, waiting for their next order. Like puppets.

And your sister the puppet master, pulling the strings as she commands, her voice like thunder at midnight, “Dance--”.

The courtiers like a midnight sea part and pair off in swathes of dark silk and velvet. Even Keir retreats into the crowd and pairs off with a dark haired female. 

Eris turns on his heels, the wrap of his riding boots against the floor echo through your head. 

“Before you join in the merriment, Eris,” Rhy’s voice is a velvet drawl as he presents a long black box, “I’d like to present you with your Solstice gift.”

You swallow hard and step forward. Procuring the box from Rhysand you press forward, one long stride that brings you face to face with the Autumn Prince and for the first time you truly look at him. 

A night-kissed wind envelops the pair of you, enough to wrap behind Eris blocking the dias from view of the dancing courtiers. 

Eris Vanserra is devastating; he has a cruel sort of beauty, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones that look sharp enough to cut into you, but his eyes are soft and unwavering. He is a strange juxtaposition.

Eris arches a brow at Rhysand and you flip open the carved lid of the box. Eris stiffens, his voice low and dangerous. 

“What is this?” he asks, somewhere between disbelief and wariness. 

“A present,” Rhysand clarifies and you catch a glimpse of ruby and gold on the hilt of the dagger. 

You refrain from grimacing at the truth you are confronted with. Rhysand and your sister want to sell off Nesta like a broodmare and her Made weapons with her. 

A truly beautiful piece. And dangerous too. 

Like Eris, something in you calls.

Eris’ hand hovers over the open box and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“You sense its power, then?” Feyre asks voice dripping with a sense of smugness that does not suit her in the slightest. 

Eris nods carefully, his eyes flicking to the High Lord and Lady before finding yours again. 

“There’s flame in it,” he says, hand still hovering over the weapon. As if something in him senses its true power. He closes the lid abruptly. “Why give it to me?”

Feyre smiles lightly and shrugs, “You’re our ally.”

Feyre rests a protective hand over the swell of her stomach, “You face enemies that exist outside of the usual rules of magic. It’s only fair to grant you a weapon that operates outside of those rules too.”

You stand transfixed by the twitch of his jaw and the bob of his throat as he considers her words. 

“It is truly made then?” He asks, carefully. His eyes never leave yours and it is your voice that answers his question. 

“It is, My Lord.” your voice comes out all cold and gravelly, unlike yourself. 

Rhysand speaks again though the beating of your heart renders him almost mute, “From my personal collection. An heirloom of sorts.” 

“All this time,” Eris’ voice is dark and thoughtful, “ all these years you possessed a Made weapon and you kept it hidden.”

“Even during the war,” Eris says more to himself than anyone else. 

There is a dangerous sense of anger and skepticism in the air as Eris examines the weapon again, his hand once more runs over the length of the dagger, his fingers barely ghosting the cool metal. 

“Don’t take our generosity for granted,” Feyre offers in warning, her voice quiet and threatening. 

Eris stills and nods in acknowledgement. He extends a smile that looks courteous enough to be genuine and once more allows his finger to run over the smooth length of the blade. “Thank you,” 

“Might I leave it in your safekeeping while I dance, My Lady?” Eris’s voice seems distant and far away and it takes a moment for you to realize that he is speaking directly to you. 

You look at him coldly, unable to muster the warmth of genuine affection when he is looking at you like that. It is infuriating. That someone so cruel might also be so insufferably handsome. 

“Yes, My Lord.”

Feyre nods to Rhys and Eris in acknowledgement and against your better judgment you let your eyes linger over the graceful curve of his calves and up over the contours of his muscled thighs, all the way up over the broad expanse of his chest and finally becoming entangled in the unbound curls of copper hair as he sweeps it over his shoulder. 

Devilishly and devastatingly handsome. Sun-blood handsome. 

Feyre’s soft lilt brings you back to reality as she says “Use it well, Lord.” 

Your sister's smile curves into a soft smile at Eris and extends a hand to him, “Ordinarily I would ask you to dance, but my condition has left me quite unwell.” Feyre makes a show of looking between the two sisters who stand in line with Cassian and Azriel. 

Elain, at least, has the good grace to give the impression of seeming interested. Nesta though looks bored. As though she is only half listening. As though they hadn’t just given away the dagger she’d Made. 

Perhaps it was the way that Nesta’s grey eyes had drifted away from the dancing sea of courtiers, or the forlorn look on Cassian’s face as he stood on the dias, but either way it made you realize something. That maybe the Illyrian General meant more to Nesta than she would ever let on. More than that dagger-- more than magic or power or court politics.  

Feyre notes the direction of Nesta’s stare and then looks between you and Eris. The corners of her lips twitch in nervous anticipation as her eyes settle on you. 

“My lovely sister shall take my place.” Feyre nods to you and for a moment you let the icy wrath in your stare settle over her before dipping your head to her. 

Eris’ throat bobs as you assess him with that same cold gaze. A slender hand takes the Made dagger from you and you hold out a hand to him. 

He extends a sculpted arm out to you, his large hand wrapping around you as you yield to him. His long, deft fingers brush against yours; his skin is warm to the touch and even in the pallid light it is clear and pale, with golden hues that compliment the warm depths of his eyes. Your chest grows taut and you feel emotion course through you with the force of a raging tempest. 

You loose a breathy gasp and for a moment you exist somewhere outside of yourself. You hear Eris’ voice, a warm, low timbre as he utters your name. He offers you his arm as you descend from your spot on the onyx dias. The sound of your slippers echo in the silent chamber. Eris’s face is set in a painfully neutral expression and you try your hardest to mirror it. Hoping he will not see the storm raging inside of you. You think of Nesta and the way she moves with such thoughtful grace and so you copy it; your chin tilted high and each step becomes a glide as you reach the edge of the marble dance floor. 

The eyes of the courtiers fall onto you. 

You feel the heat of Eris stare as it burns into the side of your face-- you feel a pair of violet eyes on you too. A cold chill spreads through you when his talons scrape dangerously and then you see him in your mind's eye. What a dangerous turn of events. 

Dangerous? You had never considered yourself as something dangerous. 

Nesta might have seduced Eris, but you will bring him to his knees. Rhysand’s cold tenor rattles around your mind and for a moment you see him standing at the precipice of a cliff as the storm rolls in, and the jagged rocks below look like the opening of a Helmouth. 

There is no doubt that Nesta is more beautiful. With a feline sort of beauty; long legs and a graceful neck, all angular and steely eyed. Nesta had inherited the aristocratic sort of beauty that your mother possessed. You had always been half-wild, unapproachable and--

Well, it is your mother’s voice that resounds in your head, of two sisters one is always the dancer and one the watcher. 

Tonight the roles reverse as you take your place in the middle of the dance floor. You will bring him to his knees. 

You catch Azriel’s eye as the instrumental music fades into momentary silence. From his spot on the dias he looks like a dark God; and he looks like he might just tear Eris to blood ribbons when his hand wraps around your waist. 

Eris brings you so close to him that you're pressed against him and as the harp begins to play, high and sweet, he smiles softly at you. As if the notes of music wrap around you, you raise your palm to his flat and open, an invitation if he has even seen one. 

The low stringed instruments usher in the music like a coming storm, a summons to the dance in a rushing of music, like water. You remind yourself to smile wickedly at Eris as he slides a broad hand over the curves and divots of your waist and hips. You lift your head high and, looking up into his perfect face you bare your teeth to him. All ruby red lips and pearls and he smiles so wickedly that you’re not sure who is supposed to be seducing who. 

Those strange amber eyes-- so haunting in the faelight. 

The harps and lyres sing so beautifully in the air and when the violins begin to play, it feels like a siren song in the air. A beckoning. As your body moves with the ebb and flow of the dancing tide. 

Eris leads you into the waltz, he moves with practiced ease. He knows every note, every trough and swell of the music, each nuance and note. 

Nesta would outdance you everytime. This you know. She moves like the music becomes her. And in so many ways it does. Her body bends to the will of the orchestral sound, and it bends to her too. 

So you will have to play it differently. 

The music sweeps you up in it’s tide, and as the music swells you decide to surrender yourself to the water. Let it wash all over you. Your body, once rigid and taut, goes pliant in Eris’ arms. You let the orchestral sound drown out your doubts and give yourself over to it. To him. His fingers ghost the line of your spine and he pushes you further still, against him. So close that you feel your heartbeat in tandem and your body bends to his will. 

It is easier to bend than to break. 

Better to relinquish control than have it taken from you. 

Eris’ eyes widen and soften then-- as if he feels it too-- you feel his hands loosen before tightening again around you. Somehow different now. Somehow, strangely, comforting. 

He moves with such grace and skill, his body reacts to every fluttering note and pause in the music. And the whole time his eyes are on you. And you can’t look away. The dark, warm depths of his eyes like a slow-burning fire that consumes all in its wake. 

You find the faces of your family in the crowd and you see that their normally composed demeanor seems to have shifted, their eyes wide and jaws slack as you move with the tide. 

Tonight you are the storm and the fire will bend to you. 

You will bring him to his knees, you think. As the music washes over you. 

Has there ever been such a haunting and mournful sound in all the world? Your name falling from Eris’mouth perhaps.

The snippets of the music Nesta had described to you, from her memory of the Veritas, paled in comparison. It flows and swims around you, filling you like water, and if you let it, it could be enough to drown you. To sink into the depths of the high-arching song. 

Eris smiles again when you fall into step with him so effortlessly, like you are an extension of him. 

One soul in two bodies.

His broad hand tightens over the flare of your hip, his fingers flexing before digging into the malleable flesh. The smile you give him feels much too vulnerable and genuine to bring you any sort of comfort. 

Eris' amber eyes shine with feral delight and you see yourself reflected in his eyes; you look like sin personified. The dark material of your dress gathers about your waist, held in place only by velvet ribbon and a few embroidered onyx crystals. The deep cut of the dress is so low that it bares the ample curve of your breasts and your strain to catch your breath because of how tight the dress has been laced. 

The person you see in Eris’eyes looks like the incarnation of some ancient deity; dark and cold, and cruel. And beautiful. 

Eris’ broad hand spreads across the middle of your back, pressed firm between your shoulder blades and you burn beneath him. As the music lulls and flutters his gaze locks onto yours and flame simmers in those dark topaz eyes and a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. Cat-like and feral as he dips you low, supporting your weight in his arms. His face comes to hover over yours and you’re transfixed by his unyielding stare. 

Beautiful and haunting eyes.

One hand is wrapped around his neck and the other you bring to touch his cheek with the tenderness of someone who has never truly been touched. His face falters and something akin to raw vulnerability flashes in his eyes. 

Bring him to his knees.

In one swift movement Eris sweeps you so that you are standing upright, pressed so close to his chest that you feel each groove and divot of his sculpted chest. You place that same hand over his blazing heart and as the music filters into stunned silence, Eris eyes you with feral delight. 

For a moment, as the heaving in your chest subsides you allow yourself to remain in his tender grasp. His fingers ghosting the curve of you hip and the small of your back, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into the skin there. 

The faces of the courtiers turn upon you. 

You, this once-human female, barely out of girlhood, who had been thrust into this world of dark power and politics. 

Who stood before them now, coloured in the murky green hues of Hewn City. 

Storm-streaked girl. 

It is like being born again and the mountain trembles in your wake. 

The eyes of your High Lord and Lady land on you and Eris at the foot of the dias. Rhysand rises in his seat and his violet eyes meet yours and something wicked and enchanting flashes in them. Feyre regards you with a wild smile and she laughs before tipping her head to you in acknowledgement. 

And in a show of secret defiance you plunge into the deepest curtsey you can manage; your chest still rising and falling with a dramatic flare, and your skirts pool around you like inky shadows as you sink low onto the marble. You dip your chin ever so slightly, never quite breaking eye contact with the cruel violet gaze that assesses you with a dangerous glint. 

A laugh of dark joy bursts from Eris beside you who in turn, offers his own small bow before capturing you again in his firm hold as the orchestra begins to play again. 

Your mother had always wanted a Prince for Nesta, and yet, here you were-- beautiful, cruel and merciless, with the Autumn Prince sinking into the cold depths of your eyes. 

Everyone who has ever loved you has underestimated you. But looking into Eris’ eyes you see something kindred to you. 

You will bring them all to their knees. 

Eris' amber eyes gleam with want as he takes you in again and you loose a shaky breath as he leads you into the next dance. 

The music is soft and light, the strings sing a song so aching and mournful that you feel once again overcome with it. All of your violent coldness, all that biting fury, rendered a useless ruse as the music becomes you. 

Eris might be the monster they all say he is, but looking at him now, in the soft light, you see something else. 

“Trust Rhysand to keep such a beautiful creature to himself.” Eris’ amber eyes study you carefully. 

You school your face to remain neutral, with just a touch of scorn as you bite back. 

“If beauty is all you can see, My Lord” You say, your voice dark and taunting, “I fear you have missed the point entirely.” 

“Intelligent too,” Eris chuckles darkly and wraps a wisp of your unbound hair around his forefinger, “and dangerous.”

You don’t deign to reply though Eris continues his assessment of you, his eyes trailing over you, afire with dark promise. 

“I’ve seen you before though,” Eris asks as he steps into the next part of the song, “haven’t I?”

His eyes narrow on you and you think back to the last time you saw Eris Vanserra. 

“At the High Lords meeting,” You say quietly, your voice thick with shame as you recall the meeting some months back. 

You had been little more than a wraith then, when the dreams of drowning in that cauldron plagued you nightly, a girl gulping on a woman’s grief. Now those dreams only come with the coming of a storm. A warning or some ill-fated omen.

“The time since the way has changed you.” It is not a question but a statement. 

You don’t smile at him like you should. Instead you meet Eris’ burning stare with a measured look of your own, “For the better, I hope?”

Eris thinks for a moment, as if looking for the right words to express his meaning. 

“You are a Goddess.” he says slyly gesturing to the dress as the skirts brush against him, baring the slit in the thigh to him. 

“Then kneel to me.” You say, not missing a beat as Eris laughs wickedly and brings his mouth to hover over the shell of your ear. 

“It seems you came to play the game tonight, afterall.” Eris says, his voice a low murmur in your ear. 

He spins you again, quick and violent before you crash back into him again, “don’t believe the lies they tell you about me.” 

“But I should believe you?” You ask, arching a brow to the cruel prince. 

“You shouldn’t believe anyone here, Little fox.” Eris tips his head towards the dias where Mor watches the pair of you from her spot besides the High Lord and Lady. 

“The Morrigan knows the truth,” Eris insists, “though she has never revealed it.” 

“Why?” You ask curiously. 

“Because she is afraid of it.” Eris’ voice is tempered and quiet and he casts the Inner Circle a look of his own, “they all are.” 

Your mouth twitches with the ghost of a smirk as you press yourself further into him, “You don’t do yourself any favors with this mask you wear.”

“Don’t I? I’ve managed to ally myself to this court, under constant threat of being discovered by my father-- do you have any idea what he’d do to me if he found out, Little fox?” Eris asks, the fire within him lighting and flickering in his amber eyes. “I ally myself with this court, I offer aid when I can, I placate Rhysand with ceremonies and shows of deference. Why do you think that is?”

Eris dips you again and the fan on his unbound hair brushes against your bare shoulders. 

“Because there’s something in it for you.” It isn’t a matter of question. You know it to be true and you see it in the way that Eris regards you with a mixture of fondness and caution. 

“Because there is something in it for me,” Eris confirms, “and tell me, what is in it for me?”

“What is it that you want, My Lord?” You ask, fluttering dark lashes at him and the music swells. 

“What is Rhysand offering?” Eris counters and leads you further into the center of the floor. 

“Nothing that I have the power to grant you.”

Eris laughs, the sound like silk on your skin and you shiver as he brings his lips to graze your ear, “I very much doubt that, Little fox?”

You swallow thickly and a surge of dark power pricks at your skin. You let him see it; all that cold rage, and the violence of the sea. 

Eris' face twists but not from fear and a strange look of reverence shines in his eyes. 

The waltz comes to a close and as the music fades into the chatter of the courtiers he whispers into your ear once more. 

“They say your sister Elain is the beauty, but you are something else entirely.” His breath is hot and sacred on your neck, and a broad hand strokes the bare skin of your back and you find yourself arching into him. 

Eris takes a step back from you, holding your hand above your head and turning you slowly as his eyes roam the curves and contours of your body, “You are wasted in the Night Court,” 

“Truly wasted.” His voice is a low whistle as you stop in front of him now. 

“And where might I be used more effectively, My Lord?” 

Eris chuckles again but before he can answer--

“Get your hands off her, Eris.” Azriel’s voice is like cold death that cuts through the spell that Eris has you under. His wrath comes off him in waves that crash against you, halting your movements. 

The dancing sea around you seems to cease to move as Eris and Azriel lock eyes. 

Eris straightens his back and he closes his hand over yours-- gently, almost protectively-- and he locks his eyes onto Azriel. 

Hazel and amber meet and shadow and light seem to dance in the air. The courtiers wait with baited breath. 

“I don’t take orders from the likes of you, Shadowsinger.” 

You stifle a snarl as you look at Azriel. Who does he think he is? He has no claim over you. He had made that much clear when you started this thing. A means to an end. A placeholder for another sister. 

“Am I to understand that you’d like to dance, Azriel?” You ask cooly, trying not to let your violet rage show in the darkness of your eyes. 

“Yes.” His voice is insistent and thick with jealousy and the promise of violence. 

Before you can pull yourself from Eris’ protective grip, Azriel is tugging on your wrist and bringing you into his side. 

Eris bares his teeth to Azriel and fire dances in those strange amber eyes. “Go sit at your master’s feet, dog.” 

Azriel laughs darkly and his shadows become a violent wisp of dark that wraps itself around you in a possessive manner. 

You swallow down the shame that you feel when Eris looks at you -- like all the power you had just moments ago has been ripped away from you, and now you are just another piece on the board to be bought and sold as your High Lord saw fit. 

A pretty whore, painted like some dark Goddess.

You band an arm across Azriel’s chest as he lunges forward in a flurry of movement. 

“It’s alright,” you offer Eris an apologetic smile, “I’ve taken too much of your time already.” You say diplomatically, taking Azriel’s hand in your own and pulling away from Eris.

Feyre and Rhysand had given up one of Nesta’s Made daggers in the name of Eris’ continued alliance, surely, one interrupted dance will not jeopardize it. 

Eris offers you a taut smile and he bows his head to you, “Very well then, we’ll play later, Little Fox.” 

Eris doesn’t so much as acknowledge Azriel as he ventures towards the dias again. 

Azriel holds you in place, one hand wrapped around your shoulders and he searches you as if looking for signs of injury. His touch is cold and biting. 

“Happy now?” you roll your eyes at him. 

Azriel stares coldly at you, his face set like stone, as if carved into the dark stone of the mountain, “not in the slightest.” 

You glance hesitantly over his shoulder and see Rhysand and Feyre each sharing a look of subtle fury. Azriel will no doubt be on the receiving end of a mental lashing. If Azriel has cost them this alliance it comes down on you too-

“He touched you and I-,” Azriel’s voice is weighted and serious at the same time you speak out. 

“Whatever has passed between us,” you say gesturing between you and him, “it has to end, Azriel.”

If Azriel felt anything at all but cold indifference his face does not show it. 

“Because of Eris?” Azriel asks incredulously, his tone full of venom.

“No, of course not,” You say truthfully, “because we are fools to think this will ever be enough.” 

A beat of silence lingers in the air between you.

“For either of us.” 

Azriel takes a moment to think about it and you see the recognition flash in his darkening hazel eyes, he looks over his shoulder in Elain’s direction. Carefully, measured, he looks at you again. 

“You want Elain.” You say matter of factly, even with a hint of sadness, “don’t deny it-- and I…” your voice trails into nothing. An errant whisper of power. 

“And what do you want?” Azriel asks, his voice once dark and cruel is something akin to familial. 

“I’m not sure yet.” you say thoughtfully, looking back to the dias where everyone regards you and Azriel warily. 

Azriel softens and he lets go of your arms and hides his scarred fingertips in the pockets of his dark colored tunic. He runs a hand over his face in regret and looses a shaky breath before laughing again. 

“Rhys is going to fucking slaughter me.” Azriel says and you laugh quietly, muttering in agreement as you link arms with his and lead him through the dancing sea of courtiers to the wine table. 

Azriel takes a goblet in each hand and offers one to you. The wine is dark and red and stains your lips like blood. The taste is woody and spiced, it tastes a little like Autumn. Azriel leans into the onyx pillar and angles himself away from the prying eyes of the courtiers as they dance. 

You’re at his side and move so that his body obstructs the view of Rhysand and Feyre, shunning their ire. 

“How pissed do you think they’ll be?” You ask grimly. 

“With you?” Azriel asks, cocking a brow in confusion. You only nod and wait for him to continue. Azriel swallows a large mouthful of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of a scarred hand “not at all, you did them a favor-- practically had Eris on his knees.” 

“Good.” You meet his eyes and for the first time tonight you feel as though you might just have something to offer. 

“Be careful with Eris,” Azriel says gently, his hand on your arm, “not everything he says is to be trusted.” 

“But I can trust you?” You ask, thinking back to what Eris had said earlier in the evening.

“Always.” Azriel says.

The orchestral music comes to a dramatic close and you see Nesta and Cassian dancing happily in the crowds. Elain remains on the dias and you catch her eyes as she watches you and Azriel with careful, wide eyes. 

“Come on, Shadowsinger,” You say defiantly, pushing yourself from the onyx pillar, “time to face the High Lord.” 

Azreil huffs indignantly and pushes away from the pillar, abandoning his goblet and stalking his way to Elain’s side on the dias. She smiles softly at him and you see some of the tension in Azriel’s shoulders dissolve into nothing but a contented ease. 

You approach the dias with a quiet reproach and as you meet Feyre’s eyes she croons at you, her smile is once of a brilliant radiant light that spills from her. A stark contrast to the cold darkness that you carry so well. 

Eris' voice is dark and serious as you approach The High Lord, his jaw tightens when Rhysand regards him with a cool violet gaze. 

“I have my reasons.” 

You’re not entirely sure what they’re talking about and when you take your place next to Feyre she places a hand on your arm in comfort. Though it does nothing to settle the acid churning in your stomach nor the storm that is raging inside of you. 

“Care to share those reasons with us?” Rhysand asks, picking at an errant thread on his beautiful dark tunic. 

For a moment his eyes glaze over, muted violet as he speaks mind to mind with the Autumn Prince.

Rhysand’s lips twitch lightly and you can see that whatever words passed between him and Eris has pleased him greatly-- at least given him the upper hand so that he doesn’t feel threatened but Eris’ commanding presence. 

Eris steps forwards again and adds, “Bestides, it is a bonus of course, that in doing so, I would be getting what has been owed to me even since my betrothal to Morrigan.” 

Rhysand studies Eris and then casts a fleeting glance along the line to you, standing dutifully at Feyre’s side. 

Like the docile, and obedient sister he wants you to be. 

A conduit of his dark power. A piece to be played in this game of power and politics. 

“Anything I want-- anything at all, whether it be armies from the Autumn Court or your firstborn, you would grant me it all in exchange for the Archeron girl as your wife?”

Azriel, still somewhat territorial, lets loose a low growl that rumbles like thunder through the air. 

Eris doesn’t deign to even look in his direction-- instead those haunting amber eyes linger on you. His eyes are soft and dark, burning into yours, and you find yourself caught in the unyielding, all consuming fire that is Eris Vanserra. 

Eris turns back to Rhysand. “Not as far as my heir, but yes, Rhysand. You want armies against the human queen? You’ll have them, and anything else you might ask of me.” 

“Just for her?” Azriel’s voice is cutting and suspicious as he hones in on Eris Vanserra. 

“The girl, and, when the time comes, you’ll aid me in seizing the Autumn Throne from my father.” Eris adds, his eyes shine with that slow-burning fire, “and then you’ll have all the armies you desire.”

Rhysand and Feyre share a look of pure delight, irreverent to anyone else but you see it for what it is. Feral delight at their victory. 

“I couldn’t very well let my wife’s sister go into battle unaided, could I?” 

I said bring him to his knees, darling. What dark magic is this? What have you done to him? Rhysand’s voice is like night-kissed air in your mind. 

Feyre’s laugh rings through you like birdsong and you can’t help the satisfied smirk that curls onto your lips.

You’re about to speak when you catch Eris’ eyes; those strange amber eyes. And then you feel it. 

A bond that grows taut and reverberates through the hall, like a ripple of power and a golden thread bridges the distance between your body and his. 

“Mate?” Eris’ voice strains with the weight of it, and you feel like light goes all through you, as though you are little more than a shadow or a memory as you allow yourself to sink into the dark waters that live within your mind's eye. “My mate.”

Your name breaks apart in his mouth and in a flash of violet and murky blue you’re greeted by the storm as it breaks over Velaris. On the horizon, dark and ominous as it approaches. You reach the balcony and wade out into the violent night, waiting for the storm to stake its claim to you. 

You were born on a night like this, you tell yourself. Like the Gods of old; born from the storms and the seas, to withstand the hardships of this world. To be cruel and merciless and beautiful. 

You whisper it, until you feel that bond in your chest grow taut, strained with the distance between you. And as Eris’ emotions run like water into you, for the first time in a long time you allow yourself to feel. 

To yield to the storm as it breaks against you with all the force of a great tempest.

[honestsycrets]

enfócate | tutor!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | tutor!miguel x student!reader, fake boyfriend!peter x reader

❛ type | explicit

❛ summary | jess is clear: miguel o'hara is a terrible boyfriend. he'll inevitably hurt you-- but peter has other ideas. or, you blow miguel in a library.

❛ tags | spanish tutor!miguel, bratty reader, a kiss with Peter, Miguel's jealousy, bjs, fake boyfriend!peter, slight obsessive qualities, fuck buddies, undefined relationships, fuck boy Miguel.

❛ reqs fulfilled | see here.

❛ sy's notes | the pov on this piece bothers me, it jumps between reader and Miguel. however, i did write two separate pieces for this request (a combined 25 pages vs my usual 11/12). so, i decided to meld them together to create this piece. anywho, if it bothers you, i understand! ❤️ I yoinked a lot of the Spanish from my Spanish learners textbook, hopefully, it's acceptable.

He knew he wanted you from the first day he saw you in the tea cafe. 

Jess and he rarely visited the tea shop. It was settled on the edge of campus. Close to the social sciences and arts, but far from the work he did in the Genetics department. As a Ph.D. student, however, not all the work was done in the lab. Jess liked to see the different types of people that came to this tea cafe, where the chair cushions were fluffy emerald pillows and plants hovered overhead.

“Miguel? What's---” 

You stood apart from the other students with their sloppy, half-cropped, or frumpy appearances, there was a particular care you took to dressing. It was the embroidered bow in your hair that drew his attention. When you left to fetch a refill of chai, he noticed the soft, frilled socks in tiny ankle boots. He just knew you would taste sweet, leering as he watched you at the drink bar. Jess glanced in your direction, the way you adorably bowed your head after the tea artist gave you your drink, and just knew. Jess looked over her shoulder. 

“Not her.”

Jess’s voice was a drawn-out sigh of your name, punctuated by her fist beating the table. Miguel perked at the mention of your name. Oh, so she knew you. She was probably sick of his shit. Good, he was also sick of being used as a vibe check for the lesbians she wanted to pick up.

“Don’t you have enough side pieces?” 

Miguel didn’t respond. 

“She probably has a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Look who she's with.” 

That finally got a response. 

“You don’t know that,” he kept his eyes straight ahead. You caught him staring, wiggling your little fingers in a hello as you sat at a table. "I want her."

You sat with an incredibly frumpy, annoying photography student who once took his picture for the lab website. Could he be… his attention wavered when you pulled out a book: Español para el siglo. His lips quivered into a wildly sardonic grin. Oh no, no no. It was too easy. 

“You’ll ruin her. She’s too innocent.” 

He leaned in. 

“Are you going to help me or not?” 

“Buenas tardes,” 

Two chairs and a thin desk. The small study room was more of a glorified broom closet for its students. You were lucky that there was a large window that looked out over the student union, flowers blooming up its brick siding. Bits of lush dark green ivy poked into the window’s view from the library’s tall wall. As the sun set on campus, rich orange and pink settled over the sunset on that warm Friday afternoon. At least the sight was pretty for how overwhelmingly small the space was.

It wasn’t the space that bothered you. It was your tutor.

He was big-- big big. Not just a little big, but really big. The kind of big that was on bodybuilding competitions. It made his long, blue-grey muscle shirt and grey sweats look tiny, sucked to his well-pumped muscle. The room felt a lot smaller as you looked at him, his long brown hair whipped back over his neck. His eyebrows raised on his dark forehead, arms turning one over another, a bundle of muscle.

“Ah... you're him? The man from the tea shop.” 

He pulled free his sunglasses and set them down. His warm chocolate eyes glanced from the edge of your now too-short skirt to the glint of a dagger necklace that beat between your breasts. He’s staring. Why is he staring-- you finger the dagger between your thumb and index fingers, soothing yourself with the manipulation.

“Miguel.” He warmed, pulling the seat out beside him. His voice was buttery and smooth, almost like rich caramel. The lilt in his voice lightened, inviting you to take a seat by him. You should. You thought. Sit down. “Siéntate." 

You stared.

"I said sit down.” 

That was a bad idea. You paused, slipping the bag down from under your shoulder and onto the beige tile by the door. Miguel watched every slight movement. That’s fine. It’s natural to do that. You tugged the bottom of your skirt and took a seat beside him. Miguel pushed the chair back in, pushing your chest to the edge of the desk space. Oh-- oh boy, he was strong. Of course, he was, he was built like a-- 

“Bueno. Now you're settled. How can I help you?” 

Do that again.

“Me? Oh! I... Jess said you could help me need to pass a test,” you murmured. The four semesters of Spanish seemed relatively easy compared to being stuffed next to this Adonis in this tiny study room. Your legs settled over your skirt, hands working over one another to will down the pulse of your wily excitement. What was wrong with you? “To pass my language requirement.” 

You should have been able to do that alone but-- let’s say you weren’t the most applied to the language in your childhood. A tutor was a great alternative to embarrassment and thousands of dollars in classes. If only he didn’t look like… this. His large hand left the pasty back of your chair.

“Hm,” he paused. “¿Puedes hablar español?” 

“Sí,” you murmured. “My mami was-- well, I should have listened to her.” 

Hm. 

You want to know what Hm means. Your leg tremored on its own accord. He swept a leather bag by his side up and pulled out a thick folder, running across several tabs. Lab notes, diet plans, pruebas. 

“It happens,” he notes, sliding a page free. “Let’s see how much you know, princesa.” 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to know more, to hear the hum of Spanish bouncing off his lips. It was a world apart from your mother’s shrill screams on Saturday mornings to clean an already clean house. It held its own beauty and mystery when he spoke it. You took the page from him, setting it down on the bland tablespace by your phone, lighting up with a notification.

Jess When you meet Miguel, don’t do it.

"¿Princesa?" you asked.

"You dress like one. Don’t worry if you fail,” you plucked out a pink mechanical pencil, complete with little animated characters tightened around the wrapping. You perked at his words, choking a small smile. “I expect you to.” 

Why was he like this? You took another unfortunate look at him, his large forearm plastered over the desk, making the book he had to look like peanuts in comparison. God, he was hot-- you felt comparatively hideous, drooling over a man that was out of your league. Maybe he could be your piece of eye candy this year. Your phone buzzed along the table again. Miguel’s eyes shot to it, a frown pulling at his lips. 

Jess Don’t fuck him. He can’t keep his dick to himself.

He reaches over, flipping your phone down with an overworked smile sundering his expression. It’s almost fake. 

“Are you…” you turned your eyes to the questions on the page. “A student?” 

“Grad student,” Miguel answered. So, older than you then. “I graduated with a BA in Spanish and a BS in Genetics.” 

“Oh! A dual degree?” The man couldn’t be normal. He had to do both. “Did it… take a while?”

“No, it was accelerated.” 

He was unreal. There was no way this man was ordinary. It was physically impossible for the man to be that hot and successful. You scribbled across the page, nipping the back of your pencil at particularly hard questions.

“So you just do this for… a living?” you asked him. 

“I teach and train clients, yes.”

“Train?” 

“Gym,” Miguel set his cheek on his fist.

“I do cardio with Jess. No strength training for me.” Jess-- who suggested Miguel to you. You had some shit to bitch at her about the next time you saw her. Namely, why she didn’t warn you about Miguel. He was a boon for chaos in your life.

“I’d waste your time. I’m all marshmallow,” you pat your soft belly. “All pan dulce and burros.” 

He chuckled. 

“You have a beautiful body.” 

And that was that. You set the pencil down on a page half full of answers, glancing toward his full lips. They were quirked into an arrogant smirk. He knew the effect he had on women. He glanced to the page, then to you, his lips growing into a smile laden with arrogance. 

“Your hips--” he glanced down, “My girls couldn’t pay to get them.” 

He noticed. You supposed that the miniskirt wasn’t the best choice for meeting a new man.

“Do you talk to everyone like this?”

“No. Only the ones that look at me like you did." 

Oh. 

 If it were a game of whom ate whom up first, you had to be honest-- it may have been you. You couldn’t shoot anything back at that, angling your head down at the page guiltily. A sigh fell from his chest. His large hand came to the back of your head, cupping the thick bow on the back of your head. His fingers ran across the silk, teasing it between his fingers.

“Calm down, you’re not the first one to do it. You won't be the last,” he turned your head to look at him, large fingers combing through the strands of your hair. He chased the panic in your wide eyes, doe eyes blown wide. Your heartbeat soared into your chest, choking you there, looking for an outlet from your shame. 

“Breathe for me,” he leaned in, his warm breath tingling your ear. His cologne was clean, like the lapse of the waves on the shore back home where the tropical heat was a second skin. You listened, taking a weary, deep breath in, then out again. Again. 

“Go on.” His knuckles rapped on the sheet. Miguel’s hand fell away. You found yourself longing for it again. 

“He’s gorgeous.” 

“I told you not to fuck him," your superior, Jess said, her feet bouncing off the stairstepper effortlessly.

“I didn't-- I just, he called me beautiful.” 

“He would call anyone beautiful if it meant fucking them. Don’t fall for it.” 

You knew Jess wouldn’t say it unless she were serious. She always knew what you needed help with, where to locate a good solution, and had the right words to calm you down.

“How?” you said, louder than you intended. You were suddenly thankful for the pounding music that beat down on your ears in your school’s gym and the rush of people that came and went. “Jess, you’re a lesbian. You don’t understand-- he’s thick. Like, he’s luchador status big. Big, big.” 

“I’ve dated some thick women.” 

“And he likes me,” you said pointedly, rushing to the topmost step, remembering his words. The way he calmed you down from your embarrassment, seeming without concern for his own body. It was… sweet. “Men usually don’t like me, Jess. I’m too… soft.” 

“Okay, girl, whatever,” you were pretty sure she rolled her eyes. “Unless you’re going to be another one of his fuck toys, just ignore him.”  

“How?”

Her stare trained on the floors lapsed. Thirty and she was still going. “If you don’t want him, just fire him. What’s going to do? Come find you?” 

You stopped for the entirety of five… or ten seconds. Enough to consider her words. Enough to quite literally get plop off the stair stepper and onto the cold floor. Jess exhaled a stale breath, reaching over to jam the STOP button on your machine. Ow.

“Good job.” 

Miguel likes to tutor you. Not because you’re good at Spanish, no, for a girl that grew up with a Spanish mother, your skills are quite poor. But he likes the opportunity to have you in a room all by yourself, late at night. Wednesdays are great days for that. 

Your soft buttercup yellow dress is short today, exposing your thick thighs that take up so much of the chair. He pretends that he’s listening as you go over a list of irregular verbs, your lip pouting in response to the irregular verbs. Some were simple in their familiarity like poder with endings such as pudiste; but the plurals and other irregular verbs, you pouted at. It was cute. 

“Miggy, it’s not funny, ” Oh, nicknames now. Miguel throws a glance at your glossy lips, undoubtedly sticky but oh so soft looking. 

“I never said it was.” 

“You’re smirking.” 

“Then don’t whine,” he said. “It’s cute.” 

“Oh--” As to be expected, you shifted your hands between your legs, drawing your skirt in between your legs. He faltered and took a glance, coasting his eye over its edges and memorizing the way it fell over your skin. You’ll ruin her, he remembers Jess saying. She wasn’t wrong, he sensed the bit of it now, how close you sat-- 

“Take a break, princesa. Vocabulary-- ascendencia.” 

Rather than take a break, you turned and caught the corner of his lips in what was a terrible, cherry-red kiss that would stain his skin. But the connection of your lips, puckered in a pouting kiss on his skin, caught him off guard. 

“Descent,” you took his red pen out of his loose grip, scribbling descent by the word. Fuck. Miguel took a sip of now cold coffee. A smile kept pulling at his cheeks, looking out of the window and catching the slight reflection of your lipstick smeared across his lip and cheek, he bobs his head into a nod.

“Correcto.” 

You’re with Peter the first time you see Miguel with another woman. 

It’s at lunch. Tuesdays and Thursdays are regularly spent running to the College of Arts, waiting for Peter to get out, and a picnic. Today, you forgot to bring lunch, running off to the union hand wrapped around his elbow as he talked to you about a bright new camera lens filter.

“These new pictures are going to come out perfect! Thanks for lending me the money,” he beamed. You loved the way he talked about his art-- stopping to show you his newest pictures of the camera that hung around his neck. Peter was always good with a camera, catching you in all the prettiest angles in your trade of photos for… sponsoring a lens or whatever. Or, at least, bringing down the cost. “Look at this one. Look how pretty you look in that dress, kinda like a pin-up! We should do some’a those next.” 

Feet thumping over the pavement, you failed to sense Miguel's presence until you smelled his peppery cologne carried on the air. There, on a bench, he sat next to a girl. She was pretty, with long dark hair and soft skin. Her hand was on his thigh and his arm around her shoulder, eating the last bit of a flaky empanada-- your eyes burned, the closeness of her head on his shoulder, clearly done and finished, waiting for whatever next plan he had. You don’t want to know what that could be.

“Huh? Oh. hi Miguel!” Peter waved to your dismay. You held onto him a little tighter, wringing circles around his sleeve. Miguel spares you two a glance, his eyebrows pushing together. But he waves, lazy and short. You stifle the hot prick of tears at the corner of your eyes and yank Peter away. “Wha-- I’m coming, I’m coming!"

Days later, Peter has a plan.

“I’ve got it-- the solution to your tea guy problem! You should have told me sooner that it was Miguel.” 

Peter was very excited. Why, you weren’t sure. He liked to feel helpful. That’s why he was a photographer. Photography lets others feel beautiful and seen. He picked at your lunch, his head flopped on your thigh as he worked through his camera. 

“I’ll be your boyfriend!”

“You want to be my boyfriend?” you offered him a grape. He opened his mouth with an adorable ‘ah’ of his his lips. You slipped the grape between his lips. He chewed appreciatively. “I don’t know, Peter. Isn’t it lying?” 

“C’mon, I know Miguel. He’s macho. The kind of guy you have to make jealous. And I can do it! I’m boyfriend material. Aren’t I?”

“Sí. But I don’t think I can make him jealous.” 

It was a sunshiney day, sprawled out at lunch on a cool picnic blanket, tracing the clouds when you heard his voice. Soft, smooth, inviting. Your head spun around, this time with a lean blonde-haired girl-- her legs were long, tummy nice and flat, blue eyes shining like little sapphires set in her pale face. She swooned on his arm. The perfect sorority princess. What if he called her princesa, too?

“--close lab with me--” 

“I can do it myself.” 

Miguel’s eyes caught yours, raising his hand lazily to greet you as he walked down the sidewalk, undoubtedly back to his genetics lab on the other side of campus. Over where brilliant boys and girls and theys were, rushing through accelerated scientific programs while you figured out how to fix broken artifacts. He lived in another impossible world. A realm far away from Peter and you: photography and the maintenance of culture and art.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Peter's eyes were glossy with concern. “It’s okay. We don’t have to-- did I say something wrong?” 

You shook your head. Peter sat up, his eyes bounced up-- from Miguel over his shoulder to your sudden sad eyes. Peter set his hand on your cheek, the fibers of his soft pink cardigan tickling your jaw. Your eyes tore from Miguel, whose pace became sluggish as if steps along took immense effort. Peter’s nose bumped against yours, clumsy and oh so Peterish-- his hand on the middle of your back, his warm but cracked lips swallowing the gasp that tumbled from your lips. He tasted of sweet fruit, the sloppy lunch you shared, and a silly comfort. 

He watching? Peter murmured against your lips. 

You nearly forgot to return the kiss, captured in the way Miguel stared-- something in his warm brown eyes was almost wounded. Peter shoved you onto the picnic blanket, a soft sorry murmured under his breath as his thin frame fell between your legs. Miguel stomped away, his bumbling blonde rushing to keep up. 

“Oh yeah,” Peter rolled over onto his back, crossing his legs one over another. You watched Miguel stomp past the tall hedges, out of your line of sight. “He’s gonna be mad at you.” 

“Peter!” 

Miguel was still in a bad mood hours later. 

“¡Qué surpresa!” he murmured, offering you your paper blotted with red circles. “You did remarkably shit on this test. Do you focus on anything? Or just Peter?” 

“Perdona me.” Your focus was shot with his consistent presence in your life. Not that he could appreciate that. 

“How long are you going to keep wasting my time?” 

“Are you talking about the Spanish or--”

Miguel set the red pen down, a sharp slam snapping the pen under his force. The fragile plastic snapped into shards of plastic. He flicked it away, paper and pen both, his large hand flexing in and out of a closed fist. You traced the tracks of his veins along his forearm.

“Are you mad that I kissed you?” 

“Stop.”

“Or are you angry that Peter did?” 

 “Don’t touch me.” 

Though he said that, you didn’t listen. You slid out of the chair and in between his spread legs, your hands trailing his handsome jawline. He jerked back when your lips caught his, the legs of his chair hitting the wall. Though he said no, his mouth opened to your kiss, and his palms flushed against your soft cheeks. You pinned him between your body and the wall-- and though you were sure he’d quickly whirl you off if he really wanted to, he didn’t. His tongue pushed into your mouth, owning yours. His hands skimmed your back, trailing lower and lower down your deep red dress until he connected with your ass. 

“You need to stop.” Miguel broke from his kiss. Though he said that, he brought you onto his lap. You felt little in his large arms, his hands guiding your hips over his crotch. “Before I do something you’ll regret.”

You listened to the sounds of the library’s floor. The scrunch of take out into the trash, the sing of a door opening and closing. It was dinner time. Most everyone had gone to get their snacks— and here you were, looking down at Miguel with rapt eyes. 

“Peter is just a friend.” 

“A friend who happens to jam his tongue down your throat,” he turned the word over on his tongue and found offense in it. “Now why do I doubt that?” 

“He only wanted to help.”

“By kissing you?” 

Your fingers trailed his jaw, dipping back down for another kiss if only to say you could. That Miguel couldn’t tell you what to do. A sound of frustration ripped up his throat. You felt him, his dick twitching to life behind those sweatpants. He felt big. You bit your lower lip— a movement that didn’t escape his attentive eyes. 

“By making you as jealous,” You slid off his lap and onto the dirty floor. But as you lifted a hand, cupping his dick through the heavy fabric, he couldn’t bear to stop you. 

His lips pulled in a wicked grin, your soft palm stroking along his length. He hooked his thumbs into his sweats, yanking them down over his knees and onto the floor. His cock kissed his belly, straining with droplets of moisture at the tip. Miguel set his hand on your shoulder and forced you to heel on the floor. His temperament evened out. “You were jealous.” 

“Yes--” you murmured. “Are.. those girls, are they special?” 

“Special? No, none of them are.” 

“I want to be.” 

“That so?” Your soft hands trailed along the dark hair on his calves, up his thighs, settling your nose where his muscular hand tightened around the root. He wrenched his swarthy hand along his length, drawing along his veiny cock shamelessly. "Let's see how much you do, princesa."

“Please.”

“Aquí se habla español.” Miguel teased. Your fingers dipped down, small tickles of your fingertips as his heavy balls. He watched you massage them with half-lidded eyes, his lips pursing in a pleased hum. 

“Por favor.” 

“Abre,” you did, sliding your soft mouth open, a well of saliva on your tongue. Miguel slid himself into your warm mouth, a ruptured groan fizzing in his chest. You didn’t want to be too loud— someone might look into the small window on the door, and see you on your knees between Miguel’s thick legs, sucking his cock down when you should be going over that test you just failed. 

You caught the salty beads at Miguel’s top on your tongue, sliding sloppily around his thick head, and lapping at his slit for more. Your soft hands stroked along his length, clumsy and shy. He hummed in approval, a sound you were more than thankful to elicit. Miguel took a fist full of your hair and drove himself into your mouth, your tongue stroking the underside of his length. 

“Pero mira esto,” Miguel wrenched his head in your hair, grabbing handfuls of it in his palm. “You can focus on something. Sucking my dick.”

Even if you wanted to look up, Miguel drove your head down onto his dick, the dark, trimmed tuft of his pubic hair tickling your nose. He drew his hips back. You nearly pulled off him, if not for his hand assuring that you wouldn’t move off of it. Drool coursed down from your lips, soaking your chin and neck, connecting to his cock as if it were a spiderweb. Your cheeks flushed with blood— you must have looked a mess. 

“Coño," Miguel tutted with his tongue, grasping his phone. Your lips pursed around his tip, eyes flickering up to catch the lens of his phone camera on your ruined face. A picture or a video, you weren’t entirely sure. Only that it sent thumps of pleasure down your core to know he wanted to record it, keep it close. You suckled along his sensitive head, working his moans free. He set his phone aside. 

Miguel stood and dragged your head along with him to pin you between the ledge of the desk space and his wonderful hips. His hands slipped behind your head, keeping you still and steady, driving himself deep into your mouth. Past your tongue, down your throat, it felt like he hit parts of you that you could only dream of. You struggled with his size, choking the urge to swallow him when he forced you to hold him there. As if your throat was just a hole for his pleasure. Your sad attempt to suckle him down was tempered by the rocking of his hips, his needy face fucking. Your eyes screwed shut, bits of color dancing behind your eyes, the easiest way to deal with this was to focus— on the way he tasted, the scent of his fresh body wash, the light judder of his hips as he came close. 

"Hah-- ay, qué rico," his nails scraped the back of your neck, sloppy and undefined thrusts filling your throat. He spurts thick ropes of his cum down your throat and mouth, withdrawing to jerk the last bursts of his cum over your lips. Miguel’s breath fell from his lips in heavy gulps, meeting yours down on your aching knees. Strings of coughed-up cum connected your sodden lips to his cock, globs of his seed slipping between your breasts. You ached. 

“Tate quieta.” 

You don’t know where you’d go, your palms catching yourself on the floor. He snapped another photo, humming appreciatively. Miguel reached into his gym bag, pulling a sweaty shirt free. Your fingers dipped into his warm cum that spattered across your warm chest, drawing it to your lips. He tasted salty, tangy, and just right.

"You look so-- so beautiful, princesa, just perfect," Miguel bent down, wiping the rest of his mess from your chest and face, gently stroking away all evidence of your face fucking before cleaning his cock and tucking himself away into his sweatpants. He chucked the t-shirt back into his bag, glazing his eyes over your hazy, exhausted eyes. He crouched down. 

“Rule one, I never share my women,” he settled his knuckle under your chin, urging you to look him in the eyes. Something told him you wouldn't be as easy as the others, but for some reason, he shrugged the thought aside. “As long as I'm fucking you, you date no one but me. If I find out you are, we're done. Am I clear?”

He was a walking red flag. But for once, in your good girl life, you wanted that. You wanted to fuck in the library-- against the genetics building late at night-- to kiss him during a sunny picnic. More than you wanted a lot of things. His eyes went soft with your answer. 

“Claro que sí, Miggy.”

He loves it when he gets what he wants.

[love-bitesx]

OMG OMG IMAGINE YOU PUTTING YOUR HAND ON HOBIE’S FACE AND THEN HE INSTEAD TILTS HIS HEAD SO HE KISSES YOUR PALM AAAAA 😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

ANONNNNNNNNNNNN I LOVE YOU

hobie x gn!reader

sweet lavender hung in the air, wafting through your apartment as the incense stick burnt down to its stem, clumps of scented ash crumbling onto the wooden window sill. gentle hum of music emanating from the decorated stereos, uniting elegantly with the whisper of traffic on the streets below your window.

hobie’s weight held you flush against the sofa cushions, legs tangled like web, hovering over you. veined hand running along your thigh, across your hip, stomach, anywhere he could reach. it wasn’t suggestive, nothing inappropriate, just the gentle touch of a lover – drinking in your skin through his fingertips. content hum vibrating your throat, hobie lowered his head to nip at your collarbone, a path of tender kisses leading to-and-from your lips.

it was a treasured moment. you finally had him to yourself – no patrol duties, no grumpy miguel chirping away, no missions or grand tragedies – just your hobie, soft to the touch, present with you for as long as he wanted. there was no rush, no need, no pressure, simply his lips sipping on your sweet aroma; a scent that refuses to leave his clothes, his skin, his mind. he doesn’t complain.

ghosting your fingertips along his arm, following the veins that wrapped his forearm like ivy, you danced across the distantly scarred skin of his chest, his body melting in your wake. your movements were slow, steady, and he grew restless in anticipation. teasing along his neckline, following the lines of his throat, you rested both hands on his cheeks – soft, but jagged from stubble.

cupping his face kindly, you succumbed to his dark brown eyes, half-lidded as he smirks down at you. no words were necessary, your eyes told him everything he needed to know, and he hoped that his carried the same sentiment. and boy, they did. dark with passion, and lined with a look that said nothing but ‘i love you’, lashes sitting pretty as you looked at him in awe.

turning his head, he placed a kiss to your open palm, eyes still trained on you and if his hands weren’t still firm on your waist, you could’ve sworn you’d turned to liquid and melted into the couch, putty in his hands.

“you have no idea what you do to me, hobie,” you whisper softly, so soft it falls through his chest like heaven, and he wishes he could bottle the sound.

placing another kiss, further down, and one more onto your wrist, your skin erupted into goosebumps, body shifting underneath him, and this time, it didn’t feel so innocent.

“why don’t you show me, then, darlin’?”

tags: @melisseus @meowmeowmau @fiannee @reneny @midnightnoiserose @sweetheartlizzie07 @soulaanshere @punksnlovers

[ilyuu]

a confession.

words born from within the depths of feelings, the heart a tug to a path too intimate, too unfamiliar to a few as it navigates. at the tip of their tongue rests a string of words that can shift ties alone (or he confesses to you.)

ft. alhaitham, dainsleif, diluc, scaramouche & xiao.

warnings : bits of angst (dainsleif, diluc & scaramouche), fluff, literally fluff, confessions (surprise!) alhaitham is a menace, lmk if i missed anything!

a/n : hi 😀

alhaitham.

“i love you.”

sway of leaves, tips touching the glass. soot dusting the shelves, worn covers and pages left open. muted shades of a home a comfort. in the living room, wherein tinted shards of glass swallows the light in colors, it paints a myriad of shades onto you. and yet, it all fades into the background, a scenery, as the book in your hand weighs a bit lighter than it was a second ago; his words to the air weigh heavier than the ones in hand.

“…huh?”

his eyes turn to his side, on you, taking in any and every feature of yours to read any reaction - he didn’t need to look , with how close the two of you are, he could feel the warmth radiating from you. the quiet that you once enjoyed seemed to stretch on for what felt like an eternity.

“wait, wait. like as in like or…”

“is there another definition i should be aware of?”

the book in his hand slowly closes to a shut, a small bookmark tucked in the pages. the words printed onto there, words of one’s perspective out of the many fragments of the whole, falls for naught in this moment in particular.

“i love you, [name]. what i feel for you goes beyond the confinement of someone i see as, no less, a companion. i enjoy your company more than i expect to, i find myself thinking of you throughout points of the day despite of no reason to, among others, your voice had always stood out—”

“alhaitham.”

“—as well as wondering for your well-being whenever i have yet to see you for the day. on that note, when we do occasionally cross paths, i’d find myself in a state of tranqu—”

“stop.”

he does. the light hides little, and he sees how you try to hide yourself in your hands, not letting him see a bit of the look you’re wearing right now. but it’s obvious. if anything, it might as well be an open secret between the two of you with how his gaze subtly softens. those eyes you’ve always been drawn to, since the moment you’ve seen him, sees you and alone.

“…i love you too.”

“i thought as much.”

“would it kill you to be a bit more romantic?”

he hums. no later, he leans in and presses his lips against your temple. the surge of happiness that followed that small peck only made you to cave into yourself further. in some distant part, you’ve heard him say, “is that alright with you?”

dainsleif.

red petals swaying, akin to windmills. a draft of wind drifting in the air. a quiet aria that floats aloft aimlessly (one neither you or him can catch.) from the tower, though careful, you found yourself sitting on a jagged edge of the walkway, ivy and moss slithering among the cracks of the walls. your fingers felt the rough surface for a few moments, taking it all in alongside with him. the cold in the air isn’t the same as him - a familiar touch, there was, to him with all the time you’ve been with him.

and too much familiarity has you lulled into a state of comfort and unconsciousness. he’s noticed that as he sees you away fro and to, toppling. his hand hovers over your head, lightly pressing it against his shoulder as some sort of stability - or a pillow, whichever you prefer. there’s a tension in his fingers, nearly trembling, as it touches you, as if not used to this (and he isn’t.)

it burns. his fingertips burns.

“…there is no need for me to stay,” he murmurs, words faint in the name of the wind, “and i am aware of that as much as you are. there is nothing that roots me to this land - no relation, no matter of emotional connection… other than you.”

“time again, i am reminded how i live beyond the constant flow of time. something fleeting is but a dream. and you’ve given me a many; these moments with you… feels akin to a dream. none that asks for a endless life, a demise - simply a life with you.”

“i… i love you.” he looks at you. the air brushes your hair (in a way he yearns to as of late.)

“i love you more than i should.”

diluc.

soft shafts of sunlight rousing awake at the dot of the horizon. mahogany handrails bearing years of use. a pair of birds chirping, a string of song. the rails held you still as you stare at the skies, a melting harmony of rose and gold, always something of a sight that stole your breath away. it felt even better, framed by his presence, waves of his warmth wafting over to you. the slight wisps of wind tousled his hair, more of a mess than it already was, as he soaks in the touch of dawn once more (and yet again.)

and underneath your eyes does he slowly lose his composure, bit by bit. do

“you know,” your voice lifted the soft silence in the air, “i like watching these types of sunrises, i’ll say that… but any other reason you woke me up this early and dragged me here?”

“ah…” he shifts his gaze from yours, all curious, all seeing. he coughs into his fist, trying to clear his throat of all the tension. “i suppose my methods were a bit… unorthodox. in fact, yes, there is.”

“oh?” you lift your head up, just enough to look at him. you didn’t notice how close the two of you were together, and so you nearly touched the tip of his nose with his. “oh—”

he stays silent. his skin, as pale as it is, flared into a shade as red as his hair is, to the point that you don’t know where he starts or ends. he opens his mouth and closes it, the amount of times he did lost on you, and ended up biting his lip. there’s a bit of hesitation in every little thing he did, a stiffness, as he blows out a puff of air.

“hey, diluc?” you tilt your head, and as you stare at him with those eyes of yours, he feels as though it truly was the last straw. “do you need anyt—”

“i love you.”

your breath caught in your throat as much as his did. once again, a silence hangs, and yet, a quiet question and an unsaid answer remains in the air. he’s avoiding any contact with you, rather content in just staring at his fingers, biting into the wood of the handrails to the point of leaving marks.

“i… i— wait, what?”

he winces. so do you and you try again. “i mean… diluc, can you say that again? please?”

the seconds stretch on. it didn’t seem as though he’ll say anything, alright with the way his confession coalesces with the sun-kissed vines and barrels. and then he did. “i love you, [name]. always had, always will.”

“if it’s not too much for me to say, then… i’ve always appreciated how you stood beside, even when i’ve, on multiple occasions, attempted to push you away for your own good. a light that never yielded - the one thing that didn’t change.”

“and i’ve admired you for that. soon, that admiration turned into adoration with every single thing you do, and it had only grown from there.”

his cheeks cooled down a bit, yet still held some red in it. “of course, this is simply how i feel. whether you share this or n—”

“i do.”

he spun his head to you, and met eyes that held the same, if not more, adoration as his. the epitome of your feelings in your words as you said, “i love you too, diluc. always had, always will.”

scaramouche.

nature of the night surrounding the two of you. waves ebbing and flowing, foam rolling in. reflection of a moon rippled in the eye. he digs his hands into the sand, feeling the particles lost on his skin and, if anything, to numb the air nipping at him. he feels your eyes on his, eerily similar to the sea - calm, silent. patient. he folds his fingers, nails biting into the palm of his hands to etch in the feelings, thoughts, that kept a home in him a bit longer than he’d like.

“you know,” he says, “never in all the years have i existed did i think there was room for something futile.”

“i’m starting to wonder what isn’t futile in your eyes.”

“not the point.”

“agree to disagree.” there’s a smile in your voice - not that he has to see it, he just hears it and it’s enough for him. “but i’ll shut up. go on.”

“as i was saying,” he sighs, as if to let go of that air trapped in his throat, “you’re well aware of all the connections i’ve made, and that it all didn’t end as some happily ever after either like those stories.”

“again and again did the world tell me that i’m not worth the love of a family, a friend, let alone… someone more.”

from the corner of his eye, he sees you perk up at those last few words. like a small dollop of fire swallowed in the dark - a hope. and he looks to you, seeing you in your whole as you did just a few moments ago. he’d look at you in a particular way, maybe, as he watch your eyes widen just slightly, and that small light in you flickers to life.

you didn’t give yourself that hope though, you refuse to. this is him you’re talking about. the fact that you’re even here right now next to him because he asked you to was a miracle in and of itself. you’re as close to him as you’re alright with, and didn’t wish to cross this line that was so far away when you’ve met him - you didn’t want to feel far from him.

he opens his mouth, and with a voice dripping with hesitation, he says, “and you defy the world simply by being with me. everything you say, think, do - it’s as if you’re against fate itself, the very fate that ties us all together, whether we like it or not. that’s why i like you.”

his next words drips with a tenderness you seldom hear from him (up to this point.) “that’s why i love you.”

xiao.

lanterns lit, dotted across like stars. a bittersweet scent of incense clings to him. blades of grass crunching beneath any shift of movement. away from the life of the last few hours, the sun just shy of sleeping, the greetings of lofty shadows followed the two of you along the path to a place familiar, a step closer to home, if anything. since then, with little to o space within you and him, the times your hands grazed sending a static each and every time (the same with the slight blush touching his cheeks.)

“[name].”

a soft call of your name tugged you out of your thoughts. when you set your gaze on him, he stares back to you - feelings that you can’t put a name to coalescing. you see him open and close his mouth many times, the words at the tip of his tongue, and simply not taking form the way he wants them to. it’s cute, if anything, and as it continues, you couldn’t help the small smile that came to your lips.

there’s a small voice in the back of your head that tells you what, but it quickly quietens when his fingers brushes the back of your hand yet again. this time, he twines with yours. the cold presence of his glove sends a shiver to you - a rather pleasant one. from that, it’s as if he’s found the words.

“i… i am fond of you.” his eyes flits to yours. “more than i have intended. than i realized. at some point, in some time, your presence, your very existence, became… irreplaceable. something that i come to look forward to. and… the thought of not seeing you, even if for a day…”

his hand tightens its hold on yours.

“i am aware of how selfish this request is, and that i am not worthy for someone like you - that there is someone else that is capable of cherishing you - but… if you’ll let me have this, at the very least…”

you feel the pad of his thumb brush the back of your hand in slow, simple circles, whether to soothe you or himself. who knows? only that the touch sent a smile to you. you carried his hand to yours, and his questioning eyes widened just slightly when he feels your lips graze his knuckles in a feather-light touch.

“and i’m fond of you as well, xiao.”

he huffs, and turns his head the other way. the few streaks of sunlight held him in such softness, and coalesced along with the shade of his irises in a warm tandem.

general taglist (open!) : @zuyoo, @starz222, @haliyamori, @kazumist, @tartaglia-apologist, @mikacynth, @angelkazusstuff, @doumalove, @kpop-and-otome, @emo-mess, @mx-kaedehara . . .

[sinnadone]

[Image description: a fifteen-panel digital Supernatural fan-comic, which begins with the last ever shot of the show, of Sam and Dean Winchester gazing wistfully over a river while leaning on the railing of a bridge with the Impala in the background, as the camera floats up and away from them. The four panels depicting this recede into darkness, which continues for a bit, until it is interrupted by the sound effect of a snap and dissolves to show the brothers waking up on the floor of a motel room, Sam with a headache and Dean with a startled “What the-”. The full, panel-by-panel description is under the read-more.]

Happy anniversary! here’s how gabriel can still win

[Image description, panels 1-4: the last ever shots of the show, receding into darkness until it is interrupted with a snap.

Panels 5-6: the darkness fades away to show Dean bolting awake with a cut-off yell of “What the-”. He is on the wooden floor of a motel room with a dark green-and-brown interior. Sam is on the same floor, in the background to Dean’s left, propped up on one elbow and touching his forehead with a wince. “Hell...?”, continues Dean, quieter, as his hand hovers over where the rusty rebar should be sticking out of his chest, finding nothing of the sort. In the meanwhile, Sam notices that the skin on his hand looks as young as the day Dean last died.

Panel 7: the brothers turn to each other in silent disbelief.

Panel 8: a voice from off-screen draws their attention to the upper left: “A terrifying little nightmare, wasn’t it?” They face the direction, Sam with shock and Dean with a raised eyebrow.

Panel 9: the camera turns 180% degrees to reveal Gabriel, casually laid out on top of the motel room’s desk, looking down at them with a smirk. His torso’s propped up with an elbow, both legs slightly bent, one parallel and one perpendicular to the desk’s surface. The hand of the arm doing the propping up is hanging off the edge of the desk and holding a can on whipped cream, while the other hand is leaning on his raised knee. On the wall behind Gabriel is a large framed painting of many golden wings. He continues, “This is where the fuck you’d be without Cas, blah blah blah...” . The panel stretches down to include the space under the desk, a bit of the floor and the Winchesters’ legs up to the knees.

Panels 10-11: a close-up on Gabriel as he snaps his fingers and a strawberry pops into existence right over his thumb and index. He sprays a dollop of whipped cream onto it, closing one eye in concentration.

Panels 12-13: the camera moves behind Gabriel, looking over the Winchester brothers staring up at him. Leaning the hand holding the berry back onto his knee, he exclaims: “So saddle up, boys!”. The background goes out of focus as he throws the strawberry into his mouth with a flick of his wrist.

Within a half-circle-shaped panel #14, the dome of it intersected by radiating lines, he savours the taste, smiling with his eyes closed.

The camera zooms in on his face, lit up from below by bright flames he is suddenly surrounded by, eyes glowing gold. Looking down and somewhat at the viewer, he says: “We’re going to Super Hell.” End of the main description, only background details and appearances after this point.

The comic is styled to look as if drawn on dark brown craft paper. It is fully colored but completely unshaded, except for the last drawing of Gabriel surrounded by fire, which features fully rendered lighting and flames. The motel room has dark green walls and dark wooden floor and furniture; on the side of the room closest to Sam is a one-person bed, and on the side closest to Dean is a two-person. All three men are white and vaguely in their thirties-to-forties, and all three are wearing jeans in various shades of blue. Sam has dark shoulder-length hair parted in the middle and wears a dark jacket over a red plaid button-up, Dean has dark blond hair in an Ivy League-type cut and an army-green jacket over a dark T-shirt, and Gabriel has blond combed-back waves and a purple short-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone. End of description]

[buggysangel17]

The Bride of A Warlord

Summary: You have arrived to what you now call your new home, it was scary and confusing, but at least you have someone else to keep you company. Characters: Dracule Mihawk x Wife!Female Reader (Amihan). Perona Word Count: 1,198 Chapter Warnings:  Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence (I am still in episode 20 of OP Anime so please bear with me on the fucked up timeline of events here)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Send Me An Ask?

You were consumed by a cocktail of fear and excitement.

But that was only natural to feel in your current predicament. Taken from your home due to circumstance that was no longer in your control. You turned to what you now call your husband. Dracule Mihawk was a man not to be trifled with, one of the Seven Warlords and dubbed the Greatest Swordsman in the world.

“I will have your room prepared as soon as possible.” Mihawk spoke, interrupting you from your train of thoughts.

All you could do was nod. You were taken from your own home, miles away from what you had once been so familiar with, a place that you had deemed had become your own prison. Any form of freedom you would take, even if it means being under the circumstantial marriage with one Warlord such as Mihawk.

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, having no right to complain or react negatively for a short wait.

Even without looking at him, you’ve noticed his sharp yellow eyes glued fall to you. Turning to looking up at him, you noticed his narrowed eyes, a frown that was something you had gotten so used to rest on his lips.

“You will call me by my name, I do not agree to have you calling me of anything else while under you are under my care.”

You gulped, but nodded your head in agreement. This man, as handsome as he was, still scared you. Having caught firsthand the destruction his sword could make to your entire island should his will make it.

“You are not here as my prisoner, you can freely explore the castle should you wish to do so. All I ask is you not to leave unless you tell me or have me to accompany you, is that understood?”

“Yes—Mihawk.” You responded quickly.

As you step off the grandiose boat onto the rocky shore of Kuraigana Island, your heard races with anticipation and uncertainty. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and new adventure, but it’s the sight before you that leaves you breathless. Your new husband’s castle, looms high above, perched on a ragged cliff that seems to defy gravity.

The castle is a dark, imposing fortress, its jagged spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a giant’s skeletal hands. The stone walls are as grey and foreboding as the thunderclouds that hover over the island. You can’t help but shudder at the stark contrast between the castle and the vibrant, tropical island that surrounds it.

Your arrival has not gone unnoticed. From the castle's towering parapets, you catch glimpses of shadowy figures watching your every move. As you start to climb the narrow, winding path that leads to the castle gates, your footsteps echo in the eerie silence.

The closer you get, the more details you can make out. The castle is adorned with intricate, Gothic architecture, with gargoyles leering down from the eaves. The windows are narrow and slit-like, like the eyes of a predator, and they seem to be keeping a watchful gaze on you. The walls are covered in ivy and moss, as if nature itself is trying to reclaim this imposing structure.

You can't help but feel a sense of unease as you approach the massive, iron-bound gates. The air feels heavy with centuries of history, and you can't shake the feeling that the castle holds secrets, both wondrous and sinister, within its ancient walls.

As the gates slowly creak open, revealing the cavernous darkness beyond, your heart pounds in your chest. You have entered a world unlike any you have ever known, a world of mystery and danger. And as you step across the threshold, you can't help but wonder what awaits you in this forbidding castle on Kuraigana Island.

As you step through the imposing gates of Mihawk's castle, your heart is still pounding with trepidation. The exterior of the castle had filled you with a sense of foreboding, but as you cross the threshold and enter the grand foyer, you are struck by a stark contrast.

The interior of the castle is a complete surprise. The space is bathed in warm, inviting light that spills from ornate chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Elaborate tapestries hang on the walls, depicting scenes of epic battles and exotic landscapes. The polished marble floors beneath your feet reflect the glow of the many candles that line the corridor leading deeper into the castle.

Your husband, Mihawk, takes your hand and leads you forward, his expression unreadable. His grip is reassuring, grounding you in this unexpected change of atmosphere. You exchange a glance with him, and for a moment, you both share a silent understanding of the paradoxical nature of the castle.

The air inside is fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, and the walls are adorned with vibrant paintings and delicate porcelain vases filled with blossoms.

As you explore the interior of the castle, you discover cozy sitting rooms with plush sofas and grand dining halls set with opulent feasts. The contrast between the grim exterior and the opulent interior is almost surreal, and you can't help but marvel at the transformation.

Mihawk guides you to a balcony overlooking a breathtaking garden bathed in moonlight. The sight of it takes your breath away, and you realize that the castle holds a world of beauty and wonder that you could not have imagined.

As you stand together on the balcony, surrounded by the enchanting sights and sounds of the castle, you can't help but feel a glimmer of hope and excitement for the future that awaits you here, in this magical, enigmatic place.

It wasn’t your home, no, far from it, but with this new found freedom, all you could think of right now is what the world could possibly be able to give you now.

“You have a guest along? That’s surprising from you.”

You tensed, immediately finding yourself stepping closer to the man you now call your husband. Turning to the owner of the voice, the sight of a pink-haired girl over a decade younger than you had floated towards your direction with what you think were ghost accompanying her.

“Not a guest.” Mihawk explained his gaze was on you, you tensed as his hand had rested on the small of your back. “My wife.” He introduce without much of a hesitation in his tone.

“Wife?!” The girl gaped and was immediately all over you, questioning you and your life decisions and how much of a sour sport Mihawk was to her especially as he had left her all alone in the castle.

“You have a daughter?” You inquired.

“No, just an unwelcomed guest.” He explained earning the offense of the girl that you now learned was named Perona. “But she will keep you company for the instance that I will be out for a while.”

You nodded turning your attention to the package that came with now living in the same home, in the same castle, and in the same Island as your new husband. It was a chaos that you were slowly but surely coming to enjoy as time goes by.

[superprincesspea]

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 15 - Forfeit

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

When your mother and sisters break away to join the queen in the wheelhouse, you’re taken to the stable where the horse waiting for you is a chestnut mare with a little white patch between her eyes. 

“Flare,” the groom calls her, and she does not look pleased to see you. 

In fact, she snorts when you offer her your hand, her foot stamping on the hay, and you think the only thing worse than a long ride to the Kingswood, was to do it on a horse that already hated you. 

Still, it wasn’t really the riding you minded so much as the company, Aemond’s company to be precise, though you had not yet seen him. 

“Your saddle, my lady,” the groom says, interrupting your thoughts before presenting you with a fine brown side-saddle, its leather work embossed with dragons and ivy. 

“I shall be riding astride this morning,” you tell him, deciding there was no way you would ride an untested horse without the complete control of both your legs. 

“But this saddle is a gift from the Queen!” The groom retorts, looking completely aghast at your suggestion, his brow knitted and his words curt despite your rank. 

A gift? Surely not.  

Yet , the brass work is all shiny and new, the leather without cracks or marks to sully the pattern. But the most startling detail, which you’re not quite sure how you’d missed before, is the pommel, where the first letter of your name entwines with a dragon. 

For a gift, it’s certainly an extravagant one and hardly fitting for the third daughter of Borros Baratheon.  

You’ve never even had your own saddle before and refusal feels so awfully rude you hardly dare to say it, yet, if Alicent wanted you to travel to the Kingswood with the men, then you should be free to ride like one too.  

“That may be so,” you say, chin up, defiant , “but I shall be riding astride or not at all.”  

And to be perfectly honest, you didn’t want to be riding around on a lavish gift detailed for a Targaryen either.  

What would people think?  

What was Alicent thinking? 

“You heard the Lady,” Aemond’s voice causes you to start as he appears by your side, his presence enough to force the groom to submit to your wishes without another word.  

But you don’t thank him, you’re too busy trying not to think about how he’d asked you to marry him the last time you’d spoke. Yet you can think of little else. 

“This is the horse they have given you?” he says, his foot easing onto the bottom rung of the fence, his tone enough to confirm your fears.   

“Is there something wrong with her?” you ask, a sinking feeling pulling at your stomach. 

“Not if you enjoy unruly beasts.” 

You meet his eye, and a smile twitches at his lips before he glances over your shoulder. 

“Boy ,” he calls to the stable hand hovering in the background, “is there no other horse to saddle for the lady?” 

The boy shrugs, his attention darting around nervously before finally admitting, “the queen requested Flare personally , my prince.” 

“Hmm ,” Aemond’s jaw tightens, his finger drumming on the fence as the groom returns with a new saddle. This one black with yet more dragons.  

“Have my lady saddled on Ōños and I shall ride Flare,” Aemond tells him. 

“But -” the groom half protests, neither wanting to disobey his queen or his prince. 

“You'd rather my lady was thrown from the horse?” Aemond says, and it's not a question, his tone is sharp, commanding.  

Aemond gets what Aemond wants. 

“You need not switch horses with me,” you tell him, when the groom scurries away again, thinking you do not wish to have a prince of the realm thrown from a horse on your account. 

But he shrugs, unconcerned, “I am the superior rider, so it only makes sense for you to have the easier horse.” 

You can’t help but laugh, amused by the utter certainty of the words coming from his mouth and, even if you were quite sure they were true, it was such an arrogant thing to say that you felt compelled to refute it. 

“Tell me,” you say, eyes wide, “is there a reason his grace already considers himself superior when he has never even seen me ride?” 

“You have seen my dragon, yes ?” 

“Briefly , but this is not a dragon, it's a horse.” 

His eye slides to Flare then back to you, “I trained on horseback every day of my childhood before acquiring Vhagar then three times a week after that. How often do you ride, my Lady?” 

"Six times a week, when I am home,” you answer, with so much confidence you almost believe it. But you would not be bested yet again, and you were certainly no novice since your father, who’d always longed for sons, had insisted on frequent practice.  

A fresh smile quivers at Aemond's lips, his brow raised, "is that so? Then perhaps my lady will need to come to my aid when I am struggling to keep up with her?” 

You picture Aemond on a wild bucking horse and can’t help but laugh, “I must say, it shall be difficult to aid his grace if I am too busy making fun of him.” 

“Oh, I have no doubt in that regard, Lady Baratheon,” he says, seeming to almost enjoy the prospect, before the groom returns with the new horse, all saddled and ready, and certainly not what you expected. 

The horse Aemond had ridden at the tourney was a destrier, strong, fierce and entirely black. But this one is smaller, a palfrey perhaps, with a pure white coat and mane, so bright and unblemished, he almost looks as though he cannot be real. 

“What did you say his name was?” you ask, words formed with a gasp. 

“Ōños.” 

“Is that Valyrian?” 

“It means ‘Light’,” he answers, his hand pressing to your lower back, guiding you closer, “he was a name day present from my Grandsire when I was a boy.” 

“Hello Ōños,” you whisper, stretching your arm to offer him the scent of your hand and he nuzzles into you, allowing you to stroke the spot right between his big dark eyes.   

“You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, moving to pet his neck and run your fingers through the wiry bristles of his glossy mane. “And such a good boy...” you add, admiring him more with each pet, “so gentle... so calm...” 

“You offer more praise to this horse than you have ever given your prince,” Aemond says and you’re not sure if he’s scolding you or teasing you, as he moves to ensure your saddle is tight around Ōños waist. 

“Are there not ladies enough at court who praise his grace?” 

“None that matter .” 

“Very well ,” you say, clearing your throat as though your heart isn’t fluttering, “I believe my prince has the most wonderful horse.” Then you laugh, petting Ōños again, “or is that just further praise for you, sweet boy?” 

Aemond snorts and you look back at him with yet more laughter. 

“If my lady offers crumbs, I shall eat them heartily,” he says, extending his hand to help you mount. 

“I have no need for assistance,” you decide, thinking you were finding his company unbearable enough without the touch of his hand, as you take the reins and secure your foot in the stirrup. 

But Aemond grasps your waist to help you anyway. Easing you up and over, the skirt of your gown rising to the very top of your thigh with the motion, so you feel the coolness of the air as it hits the bare skin above your stocking. 

Gods . 

You look down, just in time with Aemond, who reaches eagerly for your hem, as though he is a gentleman.  

Yet , as he pulls the skirt back down the length of your leg, his progress is marked with the delicate touch of his fingers in a way that cannot possibly be accidental.  

Gods. Gods. Gods.  

He meets your frozen stare, his eye dark, and you should say something.  

Anything !  

But your breath is trapped in your chest, and you can only give thought to the almost unbearable rush of tingles which have hurried excitedly to some deep, unreachable place in your core. 

Then he smiles, and it's not a wicked smile, its content , satisfied , and you hate it, almost as much as you hate the way he takes hold of Ōños’ bridle, leading you out into the yard as though nothing is amiss.  

Yet, what was the alternative? For him to gloat? Or worse, for him to say one of the thoughts which seemed to race behind the look in his eye?  

You didn’t want that . What you wanted, was for you to say something. To react. To scold him. To remind him you were a Lady of house Baratheon and not to be treated as such.  

With all of this in mind, and the tingles subsided enough for you to breathe,  you shift forward in the saddle, so your words can reach him despite your hushed tone.  

“Do not imagine you can take such liberties with me again,” you say, and Aemond stops before he turns to look at you, his smile more wicked than you have ever seen it. 

“You give me little credit, Lady Baratheon, my imagination is far more creative than that.” 

You frown, not quite understanding his meaning, then understanding it all at once and your gasp is quickly followed by a glare.  

“If I told my father what you just did, he would have your hand!” 

“If you told your father,” he begins, the wicked look on his face turning decidedly smug, “he would give me your hand, and I’m quite willing to test the theory if you are, my lady?” 

He's right, of course , and that only adds more fuel to your temper, though in a yard brimming with people, you can only seethe in silence. Looking at anything but the prince as the morning sun beams down so pleasantly you could scream. 

Seven Hells!  

You’re beyond grateful when the groom arrives with Flare, providing you momentary relief from Aemond’s unwavering attention, as he moves to inspect his own saddle, before mounting her in one smooth motion which she does not take kindly to.  

She stomps in protest, and Aemond pulls at her reins, his hand on her neck, his words low and inaudible in the busy yard, as he gets her under control. 

“We should leave before everyone else,” he says when she has calmed, reaching for Ōños’ bridle again and pulling him in time with Flare. 

“We should wait,” you insist, glancing to where Ser Maurin is talking with some of the other men, none of them yet mounted on horseback. 

"And get stuck trudging through the droppings of a dozen horses all morning?”  

Your nose crinkles at the idea and, when Aemond smiles, you imagine he’s thinking something along the lines of, ‘that’s what I thought’ , as he continues to lead you towards the open gates. 

When you make it as far as the wheelhouse, you peek in through the slatted windows, catching just a glimpse of your sisters talking excitedly with the queen before Aemond releases your bridle and kicks his horse into a trot. 

But you don’t follow, you pull on the reins, stopping Ōños since you’re in little doubt that following Aemond will be a mistake. 

Yet, you can’t deny the part of you that wants to do it anyway. Because despite what you like to think about yourself, or honour and decorum, there’s a thrill to Aemond’s company that you find irritatingly compelling. 

Why was that? You wonder, thinking how safe and easy a ride would be with Tyland Lannister by your side. But he isn’t even invited, you realise now. It’s only your family, Aemond’s family and the guards.  

Drawing your hand across the reins, you half-heartedly tell yourself to turn back towards Ser Maurin, where you will be safe from any further improprieties or proposals of marriage, but that’s not what you do.  

Perhaps you can blame Ōños, who reacts quickly to even the slightest hint of pressure from your feet. But that would be a lie.  

It's your decision to chase Aemond, and Ōños is only too happy to gallop through the yard, as you were sure he’d done countless times before. And it's reckless to ride like this, with so many people in your path, but you seem to have left all common sense in the stable, so why stop now? 

You jump a cart filled with apples, overtaking Aemond’s lead, and he was right . You didn’t want to spend the morning trudging behind the wheelhouse. You wanted to fly, and the Kings Road stretches ahead with barely an obstacle in your path. 

Ōños, seeming to sense your excitement, picks up speed with little encouragement, dashing through the gates, his hooves pounding the earth so hard you can feel your hair slipping from its pins.  

Your horse at Storms End could never run like this , he’s far too old and far too lazy. But Ōños is so powerful he feels unstoppable, yet you must stop, knowing you will quickly leave the procession behind entirely if you keep going. 

You tighten your legs, pulling at his reins and he comes to a halt quickly, obediently, turning when you pull the rein again, so you can look back, and see that Aemond’s horse has barely run half the length of yours.  

Instead, she’s picking at the brambled hedges which flank part of the path and Aemond is trying desperately to coax her back into his command. 

You stifle your laughter, trotting closer. 

“Does his grace require my aid so soon?” you tease, more than a little pleased by the look of frustration on his face. 

Aemond bites back a grimace, his words laced with exasperation and spoken in High Valyrian as he pulls tightly on the reins. But Flare gives into his insistence at her own pace, taking one last bite of the sun ripened fruits before moving on. 

“Perhaps you should ride at the back of the procession after all?” you tease again, noticing the wheelhouse is now ambling its path through the gate. 

“Or perhaps I should abandon Flare with a squire, and we can ride pillion as I’m sure my mother intended?” 

“Ha ,” you scoff, your eyes narrowing with a dare which should not be coming from your lips, yet you’re feeling so pleased with the situation that it sneaks out anyway, “you’ll have to catch us first.” 

Aemond’s eye darkens, his hand snatching to grab your wrist before missing entirely, “is that a promise?” 

You don’t answer but you enjoy the adrenaline which pumps in your veins. Yet, why not enjoy it? For once, you’re the one with the upper hand and it feels good, you want to toy with him like he always toys with everyone else. 

Unable to contain your smile, you lead Ōños in a circle around Flare, careful to keep just out of reach before you kick him into another gallop which Aemond tries, but fails, to keep up with.  

Yet, as always, Aemond is not interested in losing. So, instead of chasing you for miles of road, he turns, heading back to the gold cloaks who are leading the procession before dismounting to switch horses with what looks like Ser Willis. 

His new horse is a deep hazelnut brown and much more obedient than Flare, so now the chase is really on, as he seems to fly towards you without any hesitation on the horse's part.  

“Come on,” you say excitedly to Ōños, adrenaline still beating in your veins as you kick him into action, charging down the road and leaving Aemond to race through clouds of dust instead of the ones you’re sure he’s more accustomed to. 

You keep your lead, all the way to where the road splits into a fork, and you’re forced to slow into a trot, unsure of which route to take. 

“Caught you,” Aemond says, grabbing Ōños’ bridle so he can pull you both towards him and you roll your eyes. 

“You didn’t catch us,” you tell him, allowing yourself to feel as smug as Aemond usually is, “I stopped.” 

“A promise is a promise, Lady Baratheon,” he tries to remind you, your horses turning in a tight circle to keep you together. 

“I don’t recall promising you anything .” 

His jaw tightens, frustrated, but his eye smiles, “you’ll deny your prince his reward?” 

“I’ll deny a cheater ,” you retort, nodding to the horse between his legs, “you were supposed to be riding Flare.” 

He releases Ōños’ bridle, a long breath blowing through his nose, “I did not wish to lose.” 

“Nor have you won.” 

He laughs, his gaze scraping across your lips, “how about a race then? First to the camp shall choose a forfeit for the loser.” 

You scoff, feeling a little uneasy at the prospect.  

You were already too far ahead of the wheelhouse and feeling quietly certain that there would have been some raised brows at the way you and Aemond had raced ahead of the procession. 

Yet, that’s not what you say, or what’s really holding you back, “I do not know the route.”  

“It’s only one road from here to camp and Ōños has done it a hundred times.” 

You give him a pointed look, “as have you .” 

Aemond bites back whatever expression wants to grace his face, “you’re afraid I’ll win? You have the better horse.” 

If you refuse him, it would be as good as admitting you thought he was the superior rider after all, and you were not about to do that . “I’m not afraid.” 

“Then prove it.” 

“Well...” your heart pounds, “what exactly is the forfeit?” 

His smile fills his cheeks, his eye looking as blue as the sky behind him. 

“When you win, you can tell me,” he says, and you pretend you’re only half considering the bet as you line Ōños up, so it will be a straight shot when you kick him into action. 

“See you there! ” you call over your shoulder, racing ahead and unable to contain the burst of laughter which cackles mischievously from your chest. 

Now was your chance to best him once and for all and you were not going to squander it, except , Aemond doesn’t follow behind. He jumps the farmers fence, racing his horse through the field and you really should have known better.  

In Cyvasse he was always ten steps ahead, so why should this be any different? 

Yet, instead of giving up, you only push harder, pressing Ōños to go faster, leaning into every turn as tightly as possible and trying to keep your eyes ahead instead of searching for a dragon. Perhaps that's what he wanted, for you to lose focus, for you to assume his victory. But he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed winning. 

You can see the clearing in the distance, see white tents and staff already milling around to ensure everything is prepared for the queen’s arrival. But you can’t see Aemond and that makes you nervous. 

You shift your weight forward, almost crouching to gain momentum, just as Aemond’s horse jumps through the trees, landing mere paces ahead of you on the road. 

But, while his horse must slow to right itself after such a jump, you and Ōños are only moving faster.  

You speed ahead and you can feel him tight on your heels as you make it right into the centre of camp. 

“Woah,” you tell Ōños, who seems intent on charging straight through the clearing and beyond, and you're grinning from ear to ear when you circle back to meet the miserable expression on Aemond’s face. 

Victory had never felt sweeter, and you intended to gloat. 

“You look quite unhappy, your grace,” you say, panting as you try to catch your breath. 

Aemond doesn’t reply, and you suspect he is a sore loser of the worst variety, as he kicks his leg over the horse with a frown, before handing the reins to a groom whose probably been standing around since dawn. 

“I only wish everyone was here to see how I beat you,” you add, determined to salt the wound but Aemond’s frown is soon smoothed into a reluctant smile. 

"Congratulations,” he says, taking your waist and pulling you from the horse so you’re securely in his embrace.  

“Though I must admit,” he whispers, still holding you tightly, “I would much prefer my lady to be the one doing the forfeiting.” 

You’d forgotten about that part, winning had been pleasure enough alone but a fresh smile brightens your face before you push his arms away. 

“Hmm ,” you say teasingly, strolling through the small stretch of camp with Aemond as your shadow, “what's a good forfeit for the most repugnant man in the world?”  

He coughs out a laugh, and you already know precisely what his forfeit needs to be, if you are to make it through this picnic with any sense of decorum, but you don’t say it, not yet .  

You keep walking, and quickly make your way past the clearing, to where the forest grows beautifully lush and dense, and if you were to choose a picnic spot, it would be this . Not the cover of a tent with servants to bend to your every whim, but here, where the trees tangle with the undergrowth and the only thing you can hear is the unmistakable chorus of the woodland.  

“Are you going to tell me or not?” he says, and his impatience makes you want to hold your tongue for as long as possible, but you take small comfort in knowing you’re just about to annoy him. 

“Your forfeit,” you say, turning to look at him, “shall be to stay at least 20 paces away from me for the duration of the picnic.”  

It might not be very exciting, but it was the only forfeit which made any sense if you didn’t want to spend the entire day wrapped up in his company. 

His eye narrows, his head tilting, “and if I don’t?” 

You laugh, half amused, half annoyed, "then you shall be obliged to complete an even more humiliating feat!” 

Aemond’s jaw ticks, “such as?”  

You glance to where the river rolls lazily in the distance and think of all the times he’s mocked you for that day on the beach, “how about a dip in the water, since you like suggesting it so much?” 

Aemond snorts, moving closer, “my lady only wishes to punish me when I think she would have found her forfeit very enjoyable indeed.” 

Now it's your turn to snort, “if my forfeit was to marry you, then you are mistaken.” 

He grins, his eye meeting yours, “I cannot marry you in the Kingswood, but I do find it interesting that you would conjure the idea so readily.”

“I -” you start, your cheeks reddening but he was right. He hadn't said anything about marriage, that was all you .  

Seeming to eat up yet another portion of your embarrassment, he unclasps his cloak, letting it fall to a pile on the forest floor.  

“What are you doing?” you say, confused , though your gaze holds a keen interest in the way his long fingers begin loosening the buttons on his doublet. 

“You said so yourself, if I cannot stay away from you, then I must take a dip in the river.” 

The blood drains from your face, your heart stopping just as you meet the determined look in his eye.  

“Because I didn’t think you would do it!” you gasp, and the smile that fills his face is made up entirely of mischief. 

“Do you not take your bets seriously, Lady Baratheon?” 

“Apparently not as seriously as his grace!” you exclaim, reaching to swat his hands away from his chest and dissuade any further progress along the buttons.  

But Aemond is resolute and, as each button comes loose, he steps closer, forcing you to back away. 

“My lady must believe I would have ensured she took her forfeit very seriously indeed,” he says, his doublet falling open to reveal the stark white linen of his tunic, the strings bound tightly at his neck. 

You take another step away from him, your back colliding with the rough bark of a large tree. 

“Do you want to know what it was? Your forfeit?” he asks, slowly loosening the long strings with a single pull. 

“No.”  

A smile quivers at the edges of his lips, and he inches right into your personal space, while the tree holds you still. And you can’t move, only watch, as his tunic unravels enough for you to see there are no bandages across his chest, only the bruise. Faded to a bloom of green instead of purple and so striking against his alabaster skin that you inhale a sharp breath.  

Yet, you’re not looking at that . At least not for too long. You're staring at his hands, as they sink downwards to slide the end of his belt through its loops, each click of his buckle making your heart jump. 

“This is absurd,” you whisper, your body tensing. 

"Really ?” Aemond’s voice is low, seductive . “When I watched you undress, I found it quite mesmerizing.” 

Your eyes flick to meet his and he must see the puzzled look on your face.  

He had found you in the water, had he not?  

“I was on the clifftop, resting Vhagar,” he says, answering the question which had not yet left your lips, “and just before I turned to leave, there you were. Wearing the black and yellow of house Baratheon.”  

He pauses, letting the information sink into your bones, and you can hear the tightness in his breath before he laughs softly and continues, “I already thought it unusual for a high-born lady to be alone, so imagine my surprise when you began to take off all your clothes.” 

He watched you. From the very first moment. He watched you.   

You remember the way your chemise had billowed from your hands, forcing you to chase it down the beach. On the cliffs, he had certainly not been close enough to see every detail, but he had seen you. Your freedom, a moment that had felt so pure, so private . 

Your temper burns and you push him with all your might, the action not surmounting to much considering the man you’re trying to repel, and his strength only serves to frustrate you further.   

“You really are the worst man that ever lived!” You say and you mean it, but Aemond only smiles, enjoying the suggestion and possessing not an ounce of shame in his actions, past or present.  

“I'd say there’s hardly a man alive who could have resisted watching you.” 

Perhaps he was right. But he was the man who had been there that day and, though he could have left without saying a single word, he chose to fly closer, to stand where you could see him. To humiliate you.  

Still, that is the least of your concerns as his belt comes free and his hand moves to rest beside your head on the tree, the hairs on the back of your neck pricking to attention. 

“You’re out of your mind!” you tell him, thinking there was no way you were going to stand around while he took off all his clothes, and when you push him again, he doesn’t budge. He inches closer, his other hand tangling in your hair. 

“From the moment I saw you on that beach, yes, ” he concedes, a spark of warmth flickering across your chest, but you ignore it.  

“I hope you jump in the river, and it carries you out to sea!”  

Aemond bites back his laughter yet he’s so close you can feel the echo of it rippling across his chest, and smell that all too familiar scent of his skin.  

“It would be most unfortunate if I were to die without first kissing my lady, do you not agree?” 

“I am not your lady.” 

“But you have no objection to the kiss?” he shifts slightly, his nose brushing with yours. 

“Yes ,” you’re barely breathing, “I have an objection. I- ” 

But Aemond doesn’t want to hear what you’re about to say, he wants to kiss you, and you anticipate the touch of his lips with more desperation than you thought yourself capable of.  

Yet , as his head tilts, and you feel the heat of his lips searching for yours, you come to your senses and turn away, his kiss landing on your cheek with a low groan.  

Still, it is a kiss, Aemond’s kiss, and even if it hadn’t intended to land as such, it was still warm and delicate on your skin, and you couldn’t ignore the way your body reacted. Wanting more, wanting so much more that you were afraid of your own desires.  

“I think his grace is forgetting himself,” you scold, your words no louder than the flutter of a butterfly wing, but really, it is you who is forgetting yourself . 

“If I am forgetting anything,” he argues, his breath hot on your cheek, “it is why I did not kiss you sooner.” 

“I'd say it’s because I do not want you!”  

“Need I remind my lady that she has the most terrible face for deception?” His voice is strained, a single finger pushing along your jaw, forcing you to look at him. 

"Need I remind his grace that I still find him the most repugnant man in the entire world?”  

Or was that just another lie to crumble under his scrutiny? Surely not. No, you find his behaviour mostly smug and sometimes downright appalling. Yet that didn’t stop the way your skin ached for his touch; it didn't stop it for a heartbeat. 

“You can remind me every day when we are married,” he promises with a slow, easy smile and, just as you think he might try to kiss you again, you hear a noise. Both of your heads flicking towards the sound. 

It’s the wheelhouse, you realise, innocently ambling its way towards the clearing, while you’re standing hot and breathless, pushed up against a tree with Aemond’s clothes half undone and decorum fully discarded. 

This was madness! Complete and utter madness! And you only had yourself to blame. 

“I’m never marrying you!” you say, resolute , before his gaze returns to yours and he stares at you for a long moment. 

“Then my lady must allow me the honour of proving her wrong,” he vows, stepping back so he has room to refasten the strings on his tunic. 

You scoff, trying not to look at anything but his face, “I have quite made up my mind on the matter.” 

“As have I.” 

“This is not a game Aemond, you will not win.” 

He pauses, surprised, delighted , “ what did you say?” 

His name, you realise. You said his name. Not his grace or my prince or even Prince Aemond, just Aemond.  

Your fingers press across your traitorous lips but it's too late to take it back now. So you don’t try. You don’t even dare to say another word.  

You’re free to move and you do so assuredly, hurrying back towards camp with your hands brushing through your hair to hide any evidence from your little misadventure in the woods.  

Seven Hells!  

If Alicent had contrived to force you into Aemond’s company, then she had succeeded entirely.  

You’d made one bad decision after another from the moment you’d laid eyes on him in the stable, and if you were being completely honest, you didn't trust yourself not to make another one. 

No, what you needed to do was find Cassandra and stick to her ladylike manners for the rest of the day. Perhaps she would even switch places with you in the wheelhouse? Yet, as you think this, you remember how you’d insisted on riding without a side-saddle. Of course you had, because you were just as Septa Orella had always told you. A defiant, ill-tempered girl.  

~~~

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list.

[cubeofanhilation]

How I think dpxdc would go

The whole gang graduated high school, and one of them got an invite to Wayne gala (idk which yet) and they decide to make a whole trip out of it. So they all decide to sight see in the second most fucked up city, attempts to get her hands on fear toxin, Tucker tries to track down Oracle, Danny ends up accedentily fight crime,

Danny: *finishing up with some random mugging, and see’s Jason* yo why tf you dead

Jason, taken aback by the comment: *shoots him in the kneecap, and it goes right through Danny*

Danny: …

Jason: …

Danny: I'm going to take this as my que to leave *yeets outta there*

Jason: wtf

and Wes?He takes this as a fucking challenge, he tries to figure out who the batfamily is, so he purposely gets himself kidnapped so he can get a better look, and he immediately figures everything out, (they're bad at hiding it, and Wes is batshit insane, we love him for that). He meets Bernard around then, probably fresh out of kiddnapping (see previous post) Then they head to Wes’s uncle's house, and everyone

sees the E. Nygma on the mailbox and then Wes then casually reveals The Riddler is his uncle, and he's married to the penguin and everyones like “wow that explains a lot” then they end up playing some stupid game like clue or something, until it turns out the Quinnzels were coming for dinner. That includes, Harley Quinn Poison Ivy, Bud & Lou, and Tempest (long story as to why they're there, can elaborate if anyone's interested) Wes then proceeds to tell everyone he figured out all the bat identities (previously telling his friends, Danny first because he's in love), and the Riddler and the penguin start feeling awkward because now they're the only ones who don't know who batman is.

Then it's the next day, Tucker and Sam check out the sketchiest places because, it's fun, and surprises everyone (maybe including some of the batfamily) with how prepared they are to deal with this shit.

Danny and Wes go on a date because they're adorable. They end up getting lunch, then going out and stalking two-face, because Danny hates evil, and Wes doesn't trust politician. They easily stop him from robbing a bank or whatever, and th n the batfamily shows up and Wes is like “nope! Not being interrogated again!” Picks up Danny bridal style and runs away

Then comes the gala, first off

Babs: how would you know that I'm Oracle?

Tucker: my best friend is a mad lad, anyways-

*Cut to Wes hovering over Tim like “I k n o w w h a t y o u a r e!”*

Chaos breaks, shenanigans ensue, by the end the ghost gang ends up in the bat cave and they clear everything up, and maybe start an alliance, also Danny is like “dude the ectoplasm that resurrected you is not completely out of you're system in a healthy way yet! You gotta do something” and throws supplements at Jason.

[pileofmush]

don't crush the wings

pairing ➸ luffy x fem!reader

details ➸ tags: modern au! humor & spice! gratuitous use of the f-bomb // cw: no smut, but a little suggestive; drinking. everyone's at least 20 & this doesn't take place in america; reader wears a dress & is called a girl at one point // wc: 2k

a/n ➸ happy halloween! 🎃 muahahaha

“We are gonna get fucked up tonight,” Nami sings into your ear with a sharp giggle. She’s sitting on your lap, turned towards you with a long bottle in her dainty, manicured hand. Fishnets run up her thighs, up, up, up into her short black miniskirt, and the fabric rides up farther as she wiggles in your lap. 

“Or just fucked,” you mutter, side-eyeing your friend. You know for a fact that Nami has goals she plans to achieve by the end of the night, and they probably have something to do with a pretty girl whose name starts with ‘V’ and ends with ‘ivi’. 

It’s Halloweekend, a Friday night, and you’re pregaming in the shoddy little apartment you share with Nami and Usopp. Nami’s dressed to kill as an alluring vampire vixen, and Usopp’s fiddling with the zipper of his Party City superhero costume. Knowing your friends, you expect for a little mayhem to occur tonight. Especially considering the party you’ll be attending: hosted by none other than the ASL brothers. 

If there’s one things you can trust the ASL brothers to do, it’s to wreak havoc on society. If there’s a second thing you can trust the ASL brothers to do, it’s to throw a decent party. 

Nami swats your thigh at your remark and thrusts the bottle into your hands. “Drink more,” she orders. “You’re not nearly drunk enough.” You fumble for your Hello Kitty shot glass and pour liquor into your glass.

“Just drink from the bottle,” Nami chides, fingers curling around the hem of your dress. You take this in stride; sink into the spotty old couch Usopp salvaged from a flea market with a sigh. Nami’s a flirty drinker: you know this. Get a couple drinks in her and she’ll get touchy and bossy—or, bossier than she already is. The girl cocks her chin up at you in challenge. “Don’t be a pussy.” She’ll also get mouthy.

You reject her protests with a minute shake of your head. “No way.” Usopp trots over from across the room with a matching Hello Kitty glass, and you tip the bottleneck until vodka pours out, to Nami’s displeasure. “I’m not a fucking heathen.” 

“Cheers to that,” Usopp says, then clinks his glass with yours—Hello Kitty to Hello Kitty. He throws his drink back and immediately starts coughing. 

You smile at your friend’s pathetic demonstration, raise your glass, and toss the drink to the back of your throat. It goes down a little smoother than your first had, but still lights a fire in your chest, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

A loud knock has your head swiveling to the front door. “The calvary is here!” Someone from the other side shouts. 

You say Usopp’s name, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says and shuffles toward the door, probably resenting the day he signed a six-month lease with two bossy girls. He quickly unlocks the door, swinging it wide open. A boy springs through the entrance with a loud whoop, arms in the air. Behind him struts the moss-headed Zoro, who heads straight for the kitchen, determined to find the booze and drink you out of house and home, you’re sure. Hovering by the entrance lingers Sanji, who towers over Usopp.

“Are you seriously dressed as Batman?” You hear him ask.

Usopp’s pitch raises unnaturally as he defends himself. “The ladies love Batman!”

Sanji snorts. “What do you know about ladies?” He asks, stepping around the Walmart Superhero. Suddenly, he halts, gaze locking on you and Nami like a fucking aim-bot. 

“Nami-Swaaaaaaan!~” He croons.

Nami grabs the bottle from your hands and takes a giant swig. 

“And you must be an angel,” the blond appears at your side, sighing dreamily. A crown rests atop his head; his hair shines like spun gold. Blegh.

“A fairy, actually.” You reply, jab your thumb at the iridescent wings strapped to your back. 

He nods reverently. “Ah, but of course. You’re made of faith and trust, magic and whimsy, my ethereal little pixie.” 

You blink once, twice. Wonder if this loon pregamed the pregame, or if he’s just naturally this ridiculous. Nami takes another shot of vodka, and Sanji’s eyes track the curve of Nami’s neck as she gulps and sighs.

Damn it all to hell. You debate stealing the bottle and drinking from it like a heathen. Nami was right. You are most certainly not drunk enough for this. 

Nami and Usopp’s friends are… Well. They’re something, alright. You met the duo in college and fell in love with their snarky energy, but their non-college friends? You pan your head from Sanji and Zoro, who are halfway to beating each other’s faces in in the middle of your kitchen, to their springy friend Luffy, who’s quite literally bouncing off the walls. Yeah… You try to avoid them when you can.

But. Tonight’s Halloween. The one day you’re legally required to make bad decisions. 

So, more alcohol. You tug the bottle from Nami’s death-grip and take a healthy swig. “What happened to ‘not being a fucking heathen?’” She quotes, mirth bubbling in her voice. 

You open your mouth to say something unbelievable witty and dry, but are interrupted. “Who’s fucking heathens?” Someone behind you asks. Both you and Nami turn to face Luffy, who’s leaning over the back of your couch, upside down. 

“Nami,” you deadpan, at the same time she intones your name. 

Luffy laughs, boyish, but also… Not. His hair’s pulled towards the ground, black curls pulled back to reveal thin brows and half-lidded eyes, and the expression is a little… Sexy. Somehow. Impossibly. Kinda lazy-like, with a shit-eating grin, and it’s... 

You clear your throat, feeling a bit warm. 

“Shouldn’t you be with your brothers? Y’know. Hosting a party right now?” You ask. Luffy chortles. In your peripherals you can see Nami considering you, undoubtedly smelling blood in the water. 

“Nah. Ace n’Sabo threw me out ta stop me from eating all the snacks,” he says. His words aren’t quite slurred, but come out as a drawl, low and intoxicating. You have no idea how this man did a complete 180 in the span of 30 seconds. It’s giving you serious whiplash.

The front door opens once more, and Nami lets out a little squeak. Ah, that’s probably Vivi and co. Hmm. Dimmed lights, a sultry voice warbling over the speakers, intermingling with the occasional drunken shout… This is turning out to be a successful pregame. 

Nami jumps off your lap, stealing the bottle from your hands one last time. Her limbs tremble before she inhales deeply, steeling her nerves.

“Have fun,” you say, shooting her a look. 

“Oh, bite me,” the vampire snaps, then stalks off to go flirt with Vivi. You silently wish her luck (the amount of times you’ve had to listen to her hopelessly pine is staggering) and turn back to face Luffy again, a twinge of uncertainty in your gut.

He’s dressed like a football player, you realize. It’s a good look on him. His jersey is neon yellow and trimmed in green, but the color’s not as obtrusive as it might be in brighter lighting. And it shows off his lean figure, which is. Nice.

Appreciative as you are of his frame, you’re thinking up exit strategies by the minute. This is uncharted territory. You can count the number of times you’ve had a one-on-one conversation with the man on a single hand, and, don’t really feel like stumbling your way through small talk.

“You’re glowing,” Luffy notes. “S’pretty.”

Never mind. This is cool.

“Thanks,” you say, sheepish. “It’s the body shimmer. I’m a fairy.”

“A pretty one.”

Ah, fuck. 

You don’t really feel the alcohol all that much, but there’s a pleasant buzz floating through your body, and it’s making you a little more… susceptible. To simple compliments like that. It has your heart stuttering, but in a good way. You want him to say it again.

“What, that you’re pretty? ‘Cause you are.” He nods. “So pretty,” he concludes; dark eyes sweeping over your frame. 

Did you say that aloud? 

You blink. Rack your brain for something coy to say. “You’re, um. Yeah. You’re pretty, too.”

Fuck.

Luffy laughs at that, and you’re grateful, because you are totally off your game tonight. But he doesn’t seem to mind, just leans in closer, still upside down, and it gives you an open view of the column of his throat. Golden brown skin, taut and firm until he swallows. You tense and back up a little to see his whole face.

He’s close, incredibly close. You can smell the Corona on his breath as he exhales. And you don’t really kiss random people at hangouts after only like, two compliments, but your brain is starting to consider him the exception. 

You pull in your bottom lip reflexively, and his eyes dip to your mouth, tracking the motion. His pupils dilate. He looks, he looks hungry.

Fuck fuck fuck—

The door opens again and more people trickle into the apartment, pulling you out of whatever weird ass trance you were in, and you curse. Is this a pregame or a party of its own? The fuck. 

You lean back, hands seeking purchase on the couch cushion to support you, but maybe you’re a little more drunk than you think you are, because you completely overshoot it, body tipping toward the floor. Your head spins as you realize in real-time that you’re about to eat shit, squeezing your eyes shut before impact.

Somehow, quick hands race up your body and flip you so that instead of falling on your back, you’re braced on top of something, cushioning your fall. Your eyes open. Luffy grins from beneath you.

You’re straddling him, you realize. Make to get off him, but his hands tighten on your waist and then loosen. A suggestion. 

You stay. 

Everyone’s eyes are on you, searing into your skin, but they’re nothing compared to the hot hands sliding down, palming your thighs. You don’t know whether to be mortified or grateful that you chose such a short dress. Luffy hums appreciatively.

Grateful it is.

Time to do some damage control.

“Mind your own business,” you hiss, looking up at the room. Everyone returns to their previous occupations, albeit reluctantly, sneaking glances out of the corner of their eyes.

You turn your gaze back to the man underneath you. “How the hell did you do that?” You accuse. It should be humanly impossible for someone to perform such complicated maneuvers—while inebriated, mind you!

He just shrugs. “Didn’t wanna hurt your fairy wings, did ya?”

That is. Ridiculously sweet. 

“Fuck,” you say. It just slips out. 

Luffy’s eyes sharpen. “Yeah?”

“What?” Your breath hitches. God, you sound wrecked. 

Luffy waits a beat. Runs calloused hands up and down your thighs, and you just barely contain yourself from shuddering in his grasp. But it may be for naught, because you’re melting like putty in his hands. 

He yawns, then licks his lips. “Wanna make out?” He asks abruptly. 

It’s at this moment that you wonder exactly how you wound up here. What choices did you make in your life to end up like this? Splayed out on your apartment floor, surrounded by tipsy acquaintances, straddling the most bizarre man you’ve ever had the misfortune to come across? Fucking Halloween, man. This might just be the most humiliating thing you’ve ever experienced. 

...

You say yes.

In the end, you don’t end up making it to that party. 

[wileys-russo]

Heya! Hope you’re having a good day!

Could you do a Mary Earps blurb or fic where the reader meets her and maybe some team mates in a Karaoke bar and they end up duetting an ABBA song and falling for eachother? Thought of this when I saw the lionesses tiktok of her walking / dancing to voule vous 😭😭 if not no worries whatsoever!

voulez vous II m.earps

"oh no come on!" your best friend ivy groaned as the uber stopped outside your favourite karaoke bar, causing you to clap happily practically jumping out of the car as it was still moving with a gleeful squeal.

"once she's had enough alcohol you should know we always end up here." your other best friend archie grinned, thanking the driver and pulling her out with him as she groaned and dug her heels in.

"why are you being a buzzkill ive! few shots and you'll be up there front of stage and centre of attention like you love." you teased, squishing her cheeks in your hand as the three of you sauntered inside waving hello to the security guard you knew too well who hid a smile.

"yeah yeah yeah. you're buying first and second round then while i warm my voice up!" ivy grinned and shoved you toward the bar as you playfully rolled your eyes, flipping your friends off and turning around.

though you'd failed to realise someone was turning away from the bar as you did, causing you to practically tackle the poor girl to the ground in your haste for a drink. "oh my god i am so sorry!" you blurted out quickly with wide eyes, hurrying to your feet and almost slipping on the alcohol you'd caused her to spill as her hands grabbed you.

"you're fine love. no use crying over spilt milk...or vodka." the taller girl grinned, and you breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn't angry, face warm with embarrassment.

"please let me buy you a new drink. it's the least i can do!" you pleaded as her hands stayed on your hips and she agreed, hand moving to the small of your back as she guided you to the bar.

"can i get six shots of soju and..." you trailed off glancing to the mystery girl whose hand remained on your back, adding on her drink order.

"six? needing some liquid courage to hit the stage are we?" the girl teased with a pearly white grin and you couldn't help but feel something in your stomach stir as you properly drank her in.

"oh no i could crush any song stone cold sober. but my penance for dragging my friends here every weekend is the promise of free shots and the pleasure of both my delightful company and angelic voice." you smiled, not missing the way her eyes looked you up and down a few times, and you felt a sense of pride in the way they lingered on your exposed cleavage for just a moment.

"hey!" you gasped as her hand shot out, tapping the eftpos machine with her card before you'd even touched yours, mouth forming a small o in shock.

"call it payment for your angelic voice i'll be listening out for later." the taller girl smirked, clearly happy with herself as you shook your head. "deal. maybe even a duet? if you have enough of those. thanks...stranger." you winked toward her drink before you stretched up and kissed her cheek in thanks.

you smiled seeing a small blush coat her cheeks as you noticed your friends hovering close by and grabbed the tray of shots, leaving her behind you. "try not to knock anyone over this time would ya!" she called out teasingly before grabbing her own drink and heading off in the other direction.

"um do you know who that was?" ivy gasped as you all did your shots with a wince, returning the tray to the bar and settling into your usual table. "no? i knocked the poor girl to the ground when you pushed me to the bar." you rolled your eyes.

"mary earps. ring a bell?" ivy waited impatiently for you to react as you only stared at her blankly. "oh my god she's like one of the greatest goal keepers in the world she won the golden glove at the womens world cup! she starts for england." ivy continued as both you and archie continued to look on unimpressed.

"christ its hard work being friends with you both sometimes." she sighed with a defeated shake of her head. "we don't watch football! we can't all have life long aspirations of being wags." archie rolled his eyes.

"yeah well once i marry a rich footballer i won't need to slum it around here with you lot anymore, sounds like a win for me." she shrugged, a beat of silence passing before all three of you burst into laughter.

it was a few hours later and you finished belting out your fourth song of the night, duetting cher with archie as it was his turn to pick, the two of you finishing and taking a very drunken bow as you stumbled off the stage to applause.

archie dipping off to use the toilet and ivy having left a half hour ago, to even get her in there for an hour was win for you know how much she detested it, you hovered by the bar to get a drink.

"you know, you weren't lying about this angelic voice of yours." you perked up hearing a familiar voice, the tall girl from before appearing beside you with a grin, whose name you now knew to be-

"mary." she introduced herself right away, holding out her hand making you laugh. "what is this? the first day of school?" you teased, shaking her hand and sharing your own name as she pulled you a little closer into her body. "think you still owe me a duet." she grinned down at you.

and that was how you found yourself singing your heart out to voulez vous, almost unable to get the words out through your laughter at marys dance moves, the tall girl shaking and shimmying and popping her body all over the stage much to the amusement of you and her group of friends who cheered her on from the floor.

as the song came to an end mary grabbed your hand, spinning you around and dipping you as you let out another pelt of laughter and she hit the final note before pulling you up.

spotting archie waving furiously at you across the bar as you hopped off stage you thanked mary for the song and the drink, again kissing her cheek and darting away as she watched on, mouth opening to speak but you were already gone.

letting out a groan she collapsed into her seat, eyebrows knitted into a frown as her head fell to ella's shoulder.

"tooney. i think i just fell in love!"

~

turns out mary didn't have to wait more than a few days before she'd see you again, and she'd be lying if she said you hadn't been a constant thought in her mind ever since. and she was kicking herself for not getting your number.

which made her feel ridiculous given she'd had all of two interactions with you and only knew your name. but she couldn't describe it, there was just some sort of connection, an energy, like an invisible string that had drawn her toward you, and that made her want nothing more than to see you again.

alessia was down for the weekend visiting from london, and of course it was only a matter of time before the girls clusmy nature had reared its head and she'd smashed a wine glass.

mary being her usual motherly self had hurried to clean it up without a second thought, and having had a few glasses of wine herself head lead to ella driving them to the emergency room as mary found several shards of glass lodged in her palm.

"earps?" she looked up hearing her name, tapping alessia's leg as the blonde tiredly pulled her head off marys shoulder and slumped into ella, the time nearing one in the morning now as she left her friends behind.

"so, what seems to be the probl-" marys breath caught in her throat as the nurse entered the room, you catching her eye as the words fell short, your coworker giving you a strange look before leaving the two of you and returning to reception.

"well hi." you smiled in surprise, mary stammering out her own greeting as you appeared in front of her. "whats happened here then?" you gently grabbed her wrist, starting to unwrap the gauze ella had messily wrapped around her bloody palm.

"thought i'd test out what glass feels like? turns out, its very sharp." mary attempted to joke, hissing as you tenderly touched the swollen skin, sending her an apologetic look.

"i'll be sure to note that down for our medical research." you joked lightly, letting go of her and moving to grab what you needed. "oh fuck off!" mary swore quietly to herself with a wince of pain as you grabbed her wrist again, tweezers in hand as you started to pick out the small shards.

"so a little birdie told me these are quite important to you in your line of work." you smiled nodding to her hands, doing your best to distract her as she continued to wince in pain.

"oh nah, can always use these too!" mary joked, wiggling her ugg covered feet. "i'll be sure to take good care of you then, mary queen of stops i heard it was? can't believe i sang with royalty!" you teased, lips curling into an amused smile.

"i think its me whose the lucky one if we look at the current situation. but do you make a habit of knocking over future patients? were you just trying to take me down so i'd end up here and we'd meet again?" mary grinned, proud of herself as you let out another laugh.

"you've figured me out. my whole routine is to injure beautiful women i meet in bars so i get to con them into our first date being in the emergency room!" you gently ran a glove covered thumb over her palm, checking carefully you'd not left any remnants behind.

"i need to clean it, this is gonna sting." you warned softly, mary nodding and biting down on her bottom lip as you sprayed the cuts with antiseptic, wiping over them as gently as you possibly could.

"well we've avoided an amputation. england is once again in safe hands!" you smiled, patting her leg with your free hand and peeling off your gloves, moving to dispose of the glass shards as mary hopped down from the table.

"i think the entire country is now forever in your debt love." mary grinned as you ran her through some basic aftercare, opening the door as marys heart leapt into her throat, surely this had to be some sort of universal sign.

"um look with the risk of being too forward. could i maybe get your number? i'd like to take you out on an actual date, if you're open to that." she was quick to ramble out, her cheeks flushing bright red which made you smile.

"i think i could be persuaded. maybe we can step up from here and go to the hospital cafeteria!" you teased, grabbing a sticky note and a pen from reception, scribbling down your number and sticking it to marys shoulder making her grin widen.

"i think i can do even better than that."

[bratzforchris]

More smut to the sugar daddy fic please I’m begging or just more smut in general you write so good

Make It Better

❃

Summary: Luke finds himself questioning his relationship with you when he starts to feel you drifting away, only to realize you're too valuable to lose. Part 2 to this fic <3

Pairing: Sugar daddy!Luke x feminine reader

Warnings: Smut, DUB CON, brief phone sex scene, masturbating (m), oral (m and f receiving), arguments, bondage, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, unprotected p in v, pet names, blasphemy, Luke makes reader dress up, fluffy ending (I think that's all, but lmk in the comments if I missed something!)

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: This is based off an idea/request from @gladexmuses! I'm so glad you all love this AU :)) Once again, Luke strayed more towards boyfriend than sugar daddy, but I can't help it. I'm just so soft for bf Luke :p

DNI under 18

❃

You sighed, throwing your book down on the table. As much as you adored learning and knowledge, exam season was your least favorite part of being in college. You didn’t know what it was, but you’d suddenly been struggling in nearly all of your classes. Maybe it was the harder material, or maybe it was just your body starting to shut down from the stress, but either way, you didn’t like it. You reached for your phone to call Luke, only to hover above the device, contemplating your next move. 

You longed to call Luke and vent all your problems to him, but the more anxious part of you remembered the very generous donation Luke had made towards your tuition last month. You didn’t want him to worry, or think he’d made a mistake by paying off the loans for you to attend Columbia. You also knew that in order to afford the lifestyle he lived, and the sugar-babylike relationship he gave you, he was most likely working, despite it being Sunday. You laid your head down on the small desk in your dorm, sniffling softly. 

Your whole life, you’d been defined as the “smart girl”. You were in the gifted and talented program as a younger kid, only to be followed by being the valedictorian and the only person from your graduating class to end up at an Ivy League university. So to struggle now felt like a hit to everything you had ever known. Were you even qualified to be at this school? 

Just then, your phone began to buzz on your desk, indicating an incoming call. You picked it up and turned it over, seeing a rather risque picture of Luke flash across the screen. As much as you didn’t want to bother him, your heart longed to talk to Luke, and besides, he was already calling you. 

“Hi.” You said softly, innocently, just the way he liked. 

“Hey baby girl,” he hummed. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, my usual…” You said nonchalantly, trying not to let your emotions shine through your voice as you twisted a lock of hair around your finger. 

“Come over,” Luke practically moaned into the phone. “I need you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” You teased him, a smile crossing your face slowly. 

Instead of answering, you could hear Luke beginning to jack off in the background of the call. His hips bucked against the bed, the springs making squeaky noises as Luke’s right hand pleasured him. His moans were so loud that they nearly crept through the phone, tickling your own heat and making you clench your legs despite your stress. 

“Oh god, Y/N,” the blond whimpered out as he came close to climaxing. “Need your body so fuckin’ bad, princess.” 

You clenched your thighs tighter as you listened to Luke get himself off, moaning so damn loudly when he came. Even after all this time, you didn’t understand how his pull on you was so magical. You weren’t particularly in the mood to have sex, but you still felt called to go seek out your sugar daddy anyway, his presence making everything better. 

“Fine, be there soon,” You smirked. “Clean yourself up before I get there.”

“You better watch your slutty little mouth, baby girl.” he said into the phone, voice rough and husky from the effects of his self-pleasure. 

You giggled cutely, blowing a kiss into the phone before hanging up. You shoved your assignments to the side of your desk, trying to put them out of your mind for the moment. Right now, all you were supposed to think about was Luke. You packed your Fendi purse that Luke had bought for you carefully, before slipping out of your dorm and down the stairs of your residence hall. When you stepped out into the cold of New York City in November, you gulped in a breath of fresh air, glancing up at the gray sky. The sidewalk was bustling with people, even at two in the afternoon on a Sunday, but hey, that was city life for you. 

You stayed rooted in place for a moment, head craned back as you examined the skyscrapers that towered over your head. No matter how long you lived in New York City, you were always in awe at the architecture. You stood frozen in place until your phone pinged with a message, reminding you of what you were supposed to actually be doing. 

Luke: I miss you and your hot body, baby

You replied back to Luke with a “be there soon” and a winking face, before starting the trek to the subway station. You wondered what Luke had planned for the afternoon as you boarded the train. You weren’t particularly in the mood to have sex, but you did want the blond’s company. When he wasn’t domming you in the bedroom, you could see that loving little boy shine through his personality, before the stress of the world and his job on Wall Street got to him. You laid your head back against the window, listening to your favorite playlist while you thought about how much you adored Luke. 

Before long, you reached your stop and you hurried up the stairs to the sidewalks of 57th street. You craned your neck and smiled up at Luke’s enormous glass building. This neighborhood left you in awe no matter how many times you came to Luke’s apartment. You hurried into the high-rise building, pulling your key from your bag. At this point in your relationship, Luke had given you your own personal key to his penthouse suite, and you quickly slipped into the private elevator, punching the button to go up to his floor. 

“Luke?” You called out when the doors opened, stepping into his home. “Where are you?”

“Over here.” he called out from the enormous, L-shaped couch in the living room. 

You walked over to the sofa, peering over the back and smiling at the sight you saw. Luke was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants with no shirt, glasses on and carefully reviewing what looked like some sort of graph for the stock market. If you didn’t know him, you would’ve just assumed he was a typical twenty-eight year old and not a multi-billionaire who also happened to be your sugar daddy. 

As soon as the blond saw you looking over the back of the couch, he placed the laptop aside and pulled you over the furniture and into him. “Hey, pretty girl.” he said, planting a deep kiss on your lips. 

“Hi Luke.” You whispered softly, relaxing into his arms. 

The blond simply didn’t answer; instead, he opted to run his hands up and down your ass, moaning softly. His strawberry-blond stubble scratched against your cheek as he let the low, throaty sound flow into your ear. Once he had gotten his fill of feeling you up, he whispered in your ear. 

“My smart, sexy girl.” he hummed huskily. 

That made your stomach drop to your feet. How on earth were you supposed to explain to Luke your declining grades, especially after he’d paid your tuition. There was no way you could explain to someone that was, a) paying your full ride and b) a multiple PhD holder from Ivies, that you were nearly failing classes. 

You pushed up off Luke’s chest, straightening yourself out. You pushed your glasses up your nose and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I shouldn’t have come today,” You said softly. “This was a mistake.”

Luke quirked his brow at you, looking you up and down. “What was that?”

“I’m sorry…” You mumbled, standing up off of Luke’s lap and going to grab your bag. “This isn’t your fault at all, it’s mine. I need to go.”

The blond grabbed your wrist, searching your eyes deeply. “What’s going on, baby?”

“Nothing, Luke. I gotta go.” You whispered sadly, yanking your hand from his grasp and starting to make your way towards the elevator. 

Being 6’4”, Luke’s strides placed him in front of the exit before you could get there. “Not until you tell me what’s going on,” he said, blocking your way out, arms crossed over his chest. “You immediately agreed to coming over, Y/N.”

Your heart raced as you looked up at Luke. In your heart, you really believed he was a good man, but you recalled stories you’d heard and seen in the news headlines about women like you, sugar babies, getting seriously hurt or killed because they chose not to do what was asked of them. 

“I…I can’t tell you, Luke. I’m sorry. It’s nothing bad, I’m not seeing another man. It’s just–I can’t.” You whispered. 

The blond snorted, rolling his eyes. “What? So you can’t even talk to me now?” 

“No!” You protested. “I just don’t want to burden you. You deserve to dom me when I’m happy, Luke. Not when I’m miserable, that’s not fun for you.” 

“Oh baby,” he cooed. “Never in a million years would you ever be not fun for me,” the blond brought you into his arms, running his large, warm hand up and down your back. “Now, why don't you tell me what’s going on, hmm?” he asked, tipping your chin up with his hand. 

“I can’t.” You mumbled into his broad chest, tears pricking your eyes. 

“And why is that? Are you cheating?” he asked seriously, face growing stern for a moment. “Be fucking serious, Y/N.”

“I’m not,” You said truthfully, relaxing when you could tell Luke believed you. “It’s just, well, I don’t want to burden you since our relationship is rather…transactional.” You said, drifting your eyes from the blonde’s face to his hardening dick. 

“You can tell me anything, baby girl,” Luke chuckled, knowing you’d noticed his situation. “Kink is more than just sexual; it’s emotional too. You know that.” 

“Well…here goes nothing,” You sighed, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know if it’s because it’s exam season or if I’m just stressed out, but I’ve been really struggling in my classes.” You mumbled, hiding your face in the blond’s chest. 

“Princess, why didn’t you just say that?” Luke kissed your forehead. “You know I won’t judge my pretty girl. Do you need a tutor? Homework help?”

“It’s just…when you called me smart and sexy, it made me feel like I’d let you down. Especially after you paid for my tuition. I feel like I’m letting everyone who has ever called me the smart girl down.” You said, starting to cry. 

“Baby girl, look at me,” Luke hummed. “You are not letting anyone down, okay? I wouldn’t have paid your tuition if I didn’t believe in you. A period of downs doesn’t mean there aren’t new ups coming. And if anyone judges your grades, fuck them. You’re at an Ivy League university, Y/N, and you’re killing it,” he smirked. “Not to mention maintaining a perfect body, but that’s not a conversation for right now.” Luke chuckled. 

You smiled softly at the blond’s reassurance, filled with new hope. “You aren’t mad?”

“Never.”

You hugged Luke tightly, burying your face in his chest and inhaling his strong, manly scent. “You smell good.”

“Why thank you,” he laughed. “Now, let’s make sure we get that stress taken care of, yeah?” Luke said, reaching for the button on your jeans. 

“I’m not sure,” You whispered softly. “I don’t know if I really want to. I would like a kiss, though.” You smiled. 

“I’ll make it all better, princess.” he smirked, slowly running his hands up your back and undoing the clasp of your bra. 

You couldn’t help the moan that escaped your lips as Luke ran his hands along your boobs. Luke planted a kiss on your lips, beginning to roughly make out with you. His heated body pressed against your own was slowly turning you on, but you still were unsure about if this was a good idea or not. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Luke mumbled, picking you up under the ass and carrying you into his large, master suite bedroom. The blond sat you down on the bed, eyeing you carefully. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking you up and down. “Well, you know what to do.”

You knew what Luke wanted, so you quickly kneeled on the bed, looking up at him and fluttering your lashes. “Yes sir.” 

“Good girl,” the blond said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

Luke left your side, going into his huge, walk-in closet. Part of you wondered what he was doing, but part of you also knew. Your dom absolutely adored when you wore lingerie, and you were pretty sure he’d gotten you a new set. Sure enough, he stepped out a moment later, holding a pile of pink, lacy fabric with something metal on top. He came back to your side, smirking with that look that had made you fall for him way back. 

“What better way to ease you into it than a new set, hmm?” Luke smiled. “Arms up, baby girl. You know this is my job.” 

You nodded, allowing Luke to remove your shirt and bra, and then your pants and underwear. You had to admit that letting him take the reins was slowly relaxing you, allowing you to go into your floaty subspace, not worrying about anything. Once Luke had undressed you, he revealed the pink fabric from earlier to you. 

It was a lacy, hot pink lingerie set. The rose embroidery outlined the cups of the bra perfectly, and on the ass of the panties was Princess in white rhinestones. They clipped together with hot pink garters, studded with the same matching rhinestones. The set wasn’t what caught your eye, though. Luke dangled a pair of handcuffs in front of your face, a devilishly handsome smirk on his beautiful face. You were used to bondage in your and Luke’s scenes, but these handcuffs were different. They were a beautiful, shiny silver, with the wider part inlaid with shiny, Swarovski crystals that glinted in the sun that was streaming in through the large glass windows. 

“Luke…it’s beautiful. Thank you.” You whispered sweetly. 

The blond slid the lingerie set on you with care, leaving slight kisses all over your skin. He then grabbed the handcuffs. “You’re gonna be a good girl and let me do what I want, right? I know you have it in you, princess.” Luke smirked, planting a heated kiss on your lips. 

“Mhm,” You said, bowing your head as you continued to kneel. “I promise.” You smiled. 

“I knew you had it. Good fuckin’ girl.” Luke smirked, putting your hands in the cuffs and then attaching you to his enormous headboard. 

You smiled softly up at him, nodding your head. Luke pulled out his phone, snapping a quick photo on his phone. Once he had done so, he tossed the device to the side, hooking his thumbs on the waistband of the panties. 

“Relax, honey. We’ll get all that stress properly fucked out.” he smirked. 

Luke slid the flimsy lace off your legs, chuckling when you unconsciously clenched your thighs. He spread your legs apart with his large, ringed hands, lustfully licking his lips as he gazed at your already wet slit. The blond didn’t even really give you the opportunity to say much else before he began to tap out a gentle, pulsing rhythm on your clit. 

“Oh god,” You whimpered. “Don’t be a tease.”

“‘M not teasin’, honey. Just getting you ready to cum.” he said, planting a kiss on your pubic bone. 

“Right there. Oh my god, keep going.” You gasped out, wriggling against your bonds as Luke hit a particularly pleasurable spot with his fingers. 

“Awww, you don’t even need my tongue to cum, baby.” Luke teased you. 

You panted as Luke crouched down, beginning to run his tongue up and down your slit and across your thighs as he continued to pleasure your clit. He was humming soft things about how good you tasted and how pretty you were, teasing with soft flicks over his tongue. Once he’d had his fill of practically torturing you, the blond began to fully eat you out, enjoying the way your legs were clenching around his neck. 

You felt the warm ball that had knotted itself in your stomach burn hotter, as well as your walls beginning to contract, and you knew you were close. “Hmmm, Luke,” You whimpered. “Need to cum.”

“Not yet, honey. Haven’t had my fill of you.” Luke lifted his head for a moment to speak, landing a smack to your ass, to which you cried out in pleasure. 

You were panting and huffing as Luke continued to eat you out, hands straining against the cuffs. Between his tongue and the stimulation on your electric spot from his fingers, you were ready to orgasm faster than you ever had before. Finally, Luke decided he was truly ready to taste you. 

“Cum for me, honey,” he whispered into your folds. “Cum all in my mouth, baby girl.”

You didn’t need to be told twice; you immediately let go, tugging against the handcuffs as you came in his mouth, letting out erotic moans as you did so. “Oh god, Luke.”

“You like that, princess?” he asked, sitting back on his haunches and staring at you with an expectant smile. 

You nodded quickly, letting a string of praises for the blond fall from your lips. Luke grabbed the key to the handcuffs off the nightstand and undid your bonds, pressing a soft kiss to the red spots on your wrist with a quiet, husky “good girl”. As soon as you were free from the restraints, you sat up, throwing your arms around Luke’s neck. 

“Thank you for encouraging me, I needed that.” You smiled, giving him doe eyes as you kissed his cheek. 

“You’re welcome, pretty princess,” Luke smiled, groping your ass. “Do you see why I said I could never be mad at you earlier?” he asked. 

You nodded, snuggling into his chest as you laid your head on his shoulder. You played innocent for a moment, before you snuck your hand down to his sweatpants-clad dick. You cheekily ran your hand up and down his shaft, palming him as you giggled. 

“Is that you asking for more, my love?” Luke asked you, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Maybe,” You giggled. “Depends on what you’re offering, sir.”

“I’m offering for you to be filled with my dick, but if you don’t want that…” he shrugged nonchalantly. 

“No, please. I do.” You hummed, running your hands through his blond curls. 

“Get on your knees, then.” Luke said firmly, but not unkindly. 

You did as he gasped, wincing when you realized how sensitive your pussy still was from Luke’s stimulation, which elicited a laugh from the blond. Once you were kneeling, you looked at Luke through your lashes, smiling as you watched him remove his pants and begin to palm himself until he was acceptably hard. 

“You gonna be a good girl and take my whole cock in that slutty little mouth?” he smirked. 

You nodded quickly, reaching out for him. “Let me make you feel good.”

Luke smirked, getting on his own knees in front of you, an expectant smile on his face. “Suck.” he demanded, landing another spanking to your ass. 

You immediately took Luke’s tip into your mouth, running your tongue across the head of his dick in a way that made the blond grunt out with pleasure. As you got him worked up, you began to pump the lower part of his erection with your right hand, watching him throw his head back erotically. 

“God, makin’ me feel so good, baby.” he hummed out. 

You responded with your own moans vibrating against his dick as you took more of him into your mouth, which got even more of a reaction out of Luke. By this point, you had taken almost his entire length into your mouth, sucking and running your tongue along his tip. Luke was letting out moans akin to a male pornstar, his head thrown back as he thrusted his hips to meet your jaw.

“Mmmm, need to cum, princess.” he gasped out as his dick hit the back of your throat. 

You smiled up at him with your eyes as he landed another spank to your ass, enjoying the way it shoved you further into him. The whole scene was rather unholy, but it was definitely hot. Luke was thrusting his hips as he panted out, while you sucked him off, letting out your own girlish moans. Without warning, Luke suddenly clenched his muscle and began to cum, thich, white ropes of the substance shooting down your throat. 

“Good fuckin’ girl.” he huffed. 

You slowly pulled back from Luke, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Yum.” You giggled. 

Luke kissed your forehead, running a hand through your tousled hair. “You really are the best sugar baby in the world.”

“Thank you,” You smiled, pushing yourself ever close to him, smirking when you realized his cock was still hard. “It’s all because of you.”

“Is that so, baby girl?” the blond chuckled. 

You nodded your head, slowly leaning back against Luke’s silken pillows to prop yourself up. “Mhm…I was thinking you could maybe, you know, remind me of that?” You smirked sweetly. 

“Oh baby, someone’s horny today,” Luke grinned, running a hand along the lacy bra that was still clad to your tits. “What happened to that ‘I don’t want this’, huh?”. 

You blushed, looking up at him as he straddled you. “You just made it better, I guess. That’s what happens when you’re smart, and loving, and might I add oh-so-sexy.”

He shook his head, wriggling his hips in the slightest way to give you a bit of friction. Not a lot, but just enough to turn you on. “You know you’re really being a slut right now, my love.” Luke looked like the most handsome devil as he spoke. As if he could burn the world down and smirk as he did so, but it would all be for you. 

“Only for you, Lu,” You hummed, pressing his hands to your boobs. “Only for you.”

“Are you in it for me, or for the money?” Luke teased you. 

“I mean mostly for you, but the money’s nice too.” You winked. 

Luke kissed your forehead as he dug his hips into your own. “Keep talking like that and I might just fall in love with you, princess.”

“You know, that wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” You smiled, lifting your head to make out with him. 

The blond moaned at that, continuing where you two had left off a few minutes before. You noticed him move to line his tip up with your entrance, smirking as he did so. “Can you take my cock, baby? Or are you already so fucked out.”

“God, Luke. Please just fuck me.” You whined out, gripping at the sheets. 

Luke immediately slammed into you at your request, smirking as he looked down at your face. You weren’t used to Luke’s size and length without a condom, and you were practically intoxicated with ecstasy at the feeling of him grinding against you bare. The blond fucked into you hard and fast, bucking his hips against you in a way that would definitely leave bruises there tomorrow. You didn’t care though, the feeling of Luke inside of you had taken every coherent thought from your mind. 

Moving from dripping the sheets, you tangled your hands in Luke’s blond curls, practically yelling out as he rode you. Luke must’ve been feeling extra horny today; whatever it was, you were definitely feeling its effects, but you couldn’t say you were mad about them. You were always ready to cum faster on your second orgasm than on your first, which led you to where you were now, gripping Luke’s hair as a tear rolled down your cheek at the overstimulation. 

“Luke, I’m so close.” You gasped out, feeling yourself tighten in preparation for your climax. 

“You can do it, baby girl. I know you can. Show me how strong you are.” Luke coached you, enjoying watching you squirm. 

“Luke, please,” You cried out. “Need to cum.”

The blond gave one last hard thrust against you, landing a smack to your ass as he did so, before quickly pulling out, just in time to cum all over your stomach as you hit your own climax. “God, so sexy.” he moaned. 

Luke laid down beside you, rubbing your tummy to coach you through the rest of your high, feeling his own body start to relax a bit.  By the time you had finished, you were both beyond exhausted. You flopped over into Luke’s arms, panting heavily as he held you, your naked bodies pressed together. 

“Thank you,” You whispered softly. “I needed that today.”

“You’re welcome, baby girl. I love you.” Luke cooed. 

“Are you busy this afternoon?” You asked sleepily. 

While Luke was practically the king of aftercare, especially for a sugar daddy, there were definitely days where you’d both cum and he’d go back to working. You were hoping today wasn’t one of those days, but Wall Street was so unpredictable, you never knew. The blond snuggled you closer, running a hand about and down your back. 

“Nope, but there is a little gift waiting for you on the kitchen counter if you’re ready to leave.” he smirked. 

“Luke!” You swatted his shoulder lightly. “This is more than enough.” You said, gesturing down at your bra. 

“I don’t think so,” he shrugged. “What better way to get in the Christmas spirit than a pair of red bottoms, huh princess?”

“You didn’t!” You said, gripping him closer and kissing him. “I can’t believe you bought me a pair of Louboutins.”

“Only the finest for my girl.” Luke said, kissing you deeply. 

“I love you, Luke. I’m sorry about earlier…” You whispered. 

“Ah ah, no sorries, my love. There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re struggling,” Luke looked at you seriously. “I hope you know that you can tell me anything. My degrees, my career, none of that affects how I look at you, okay?” 

You nodded, snuggling into his chest. “Thank you. Naptime now?” You asked. 

Luke chuckled, holding you ever closer. “Always. I love you, princess.” 

[ratgrinders]

Which of the ratgrinders never has their phone charged and which is always at 100

GHJKFSDFSF this kind of turned into phone headcanons along the way

Kipperlilly - AGHAST that anyone would leave their phone below 15% and then just forget to charge it. She comes prepared with a portable charger in her bag at all times and considers 70% to be low. Has a nice, slim wallet case with a screen protector, and the phone itself is nice and well-maintained Android but far from top-of-the-line.

Ruben - Is the one who forgets to charge it. Luckily though he immediately got the FANCIEST phone he could after he got rich, and it thus has a relatively good battery life and only gets down to about 30%. While the phone case itself is damaged, the actual phone is mostly fine with only some minor scratches on the side. The case has a sticker with 'I made you a cookie, but I eated it'.

Ivy - Loses her phone constantly, and is always forgetting to charge it so it keeps hovering at around >5% and dying on her. Has a brand name designer phone case and the latest iPhone, but the phone screen itself is shattered.

Oisin - His nepo baby ass probably got some fancy experimental Google phone (or equivalent). Keeps it charged up most of the time but generally doesn't pay much attention to it, just casually keeps it in a simple black leather phone case.

Mary Ann - Has a cutesy Hello Kitty phone case, specifically one of those otterbox type cases that's meant to withstand a lot of shock. Her battery indicator actually broke a while ago and doesn't show correctly, so noone can ever tell how much battery is left.

Buddy - Generally keeps it charged. Used a flip phone until VERY recently (Ruben gifted him a phone at the beginning of Junior Year), and is still making the adjustment. Hasn't even gotten a phone case yet.

Lucy - Is pretty anxious about keeping her phone charged actually, since she always wants to be able to reach people/people can reach her. Her phone case is a clear, light blue. It broke the day she died in the Far Haven Woods.

[aki-shun]

◈Stained Love◈ [M!Reader x YAN!OB!Malleus Draconia]

It’s hard to hit the submit button, not type this post ���▽〒

Part-1「here」 Part-2

TW: somnophilia(?), some unauthorized things?? I don’t know what to write here but it’s not healthy （＾-＾) and no smut just little spicy…( a little?)

Sorry for bad grammar (English is not my first language)

Little lightning flashes around the island. The sounds of thunder echoed throughout the dorm. Ambiance was dark. A hum amongst the voices. The words of an old song. Bright lime green eyes scanned his surroundings. Lilia was lying on a bundle of thorn ivy next to his throne. Some of his limbs were wrapped in ivy. On the other side of the throne, Sebek and Silver were leaning against each other, and some of them had ivy on their limbs… Eyes wandered around the hall in front of the throne. All of his friends were surrounded by thorn ivy, but they still had a peaceful expression on their faces. After all, they were all living the dream of their happy ending right now. Happy endings that will last 1000 years. Finally, his eyes turned to you, who was asleep in his arms, unaware of everything. Unlike the others, you had a little more thorn ivy on your body. Parts of your clothing had been torn by thorns, leaving thin little red marks on the exposed skin.

He rubbed his cheek against your hair and inhaled your scent. Ahh, that unique scent that can change everything in the world, your scent. He brought his left hand to your cheek and stroked it lightly. He had always loved to feel your skin. To touch you, to feel you. He can do this forever. He can do anything with you forever…but then you

✶ ✧ · 𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕡 · ✧ ✶

I’m going home, Malleus.

What do you mean ‘you going home’?

I return to my world, to my true universe. My home.

𓆩✧•═𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕡 𝔼𝕟𝕕═•✧𓆪

Why did you want to leave him? Why did you want to leave him alone in his coldness again? Don’t you know how lonely he is? Don’t you know how much he hates sitting alone in the cold? You know. How lonely he is. How much he hated it. How hard him tried just to make a friend.. And yet you wanted to leave him. With that smile that will make her heart beat fast. You said that to him with that smile of yours. You are really brave, aren’t you? You dared to think that after telling him that would let you go. You stupid human. Humans do tend to be really stupid. How pathetic that you are one of them. But it’s okay. He is here to guide you, to prevent you from doing things you shouldn’t be doing because of these stupid thoughts. So hug this sweet sleep and wait for it’s time to wake up. When you wake up, it will give you a more realistic and more beautiful happy ending than in your dream. So sleep now Darling.

His hold on you tightened as Malleus thought about this. Blot drops were dripping from your body all over you. His left hand was hovering over your body while his right hand was holding your body. If you were awake right now, you wouldn’t be mad at him for doing this, would you? Of course you wouldn’t be angry. You will never be angry with him. You always responded to him with the compassion and happiness he longed for. You would be kind to him as if there was a small child in front of you, answering every question he asked, and if he did not understand something, you would tell him with the same enthusiasm without breaking your expression.

You were different. You are not like the others. You’re not like the ones at school. You’re not like Sebek or Silver. Even if Lilia cares about being nice to him, it’s his duty. He trained and raised Malleus because it was his duty. Even though they were close, Lilia didn’t always cross the King-Commander relationship between them. It’s always been a distance. Nobody doesn’t even stay in the same room as him, and no one talks to Malleus unless they have to. But you are not like them. You didn’t shy away from it. You didn’t distance yourself. You invited him to events, even if you didn’t have a purpose. You gave him nicknames. You didn’t hesitate to talk to him at night. You were even willing to do so. You didn’t hesitate to touch him, hug him, dance with him. You responded with the same enthusiasm. You really listened when he talked about Gargoyes. You even asked him more questions about these topics. You joined him at club events. You once gave him a drawing of gargoyes from Noble Bell College. You are not like the others. You did not distance him like the others.

That was the mistake you made. Distance, you did not put a line.

His hand travels over your body. His face is buried in your neck, inhaling your scent. His mouth opens slightly and he places light kisses from your cheeks to your neck. His kisses hardened and began to leave bruises on your neck. He pulled back and looked at the marks he had made. A dark smile formed on his face. He leaned over your face again and kissed you on the lips. Since he had not yet confessed his feelings to you, he would always come to your room at night while you were sleeping and give your sleeping figure light kisses. Every day, regardless of the hour, he watches you, he remembers everything you do. He was going to open up to you that night, but you gave him the disgusting news that made him nauseous. But it is no longer a problem. He may confess his feelings to you when you wake up. After all, 1000 years pass in the blink of an eye. He didn’t stop touching and kissing you while he was thinking about it. How could he stop though? He was completely dependent on you. The addiction he never wanted to let go. He used to have to leave your room before sunrise, but now he had a long time ahead of him.

But these simple kisses and touches weren’t enough during this time… He needs more. It needs more. Malleus needs you. And you are a good enough human to present yourself to him while you are sleeping soundly. Right?

◸Zelf’s cat was jealous. So you have to wait for more… ᓚᘏᗢ◿