#ofc reader

[lady-rose-moon]

The Meeting || I Have You || Loki x OFC!Reader ||

A/N: hello everyone and welcome to the first chapter of I Have You! I hope you all enjoy this as it is very dear to my heart.

For people who have not read it, you can find the OFC's introduction HERE to know who the reader shall be through the duration of this story!

↣ MASTERLIST

↣ I HAVE YOU MASTERLIST

Again, welcome to I Have You!

The winter solstice had just ended, and the parties had ceased their music, parents were gathering their children and guiding them home from a long night of celebrating the next change of season, though it shall not happen for the next few months. Asgardians old and young had gathered to celebrate that they were in the deep of winter and spring shall soon bloom. 

In the Asgardian Palace, the Aesir royal family had just finished their evening celebrations with their fellow lords and ladies of the other realms, apart from Jötunheim’s King, Laufey. Asgard and Jötunheim hadn’t had the best track record so it was best that they be left to themselves. The golden walls caught the last fires from the torches that hung from them, showing a slight regality of the now dominant darkness outside. At the head of the large table, King Odin finished his chalice of wine and set it down, rising to his feet to look down the table. Thor, his firstborn, was surrounded by his friends as they discussed the latest battle they had snuck away to fight. Odin admired Thor’s bravery and need for battle but did not approve that he sought out a fight when it was not needed, if he carried on then it could lead to more than just a verbal thrashing from the King and Queen of said realm. The old King sighed and raised his staff, Gungnir, high in the air before bringing it down on the stone floor to make a loud bang which brought all attention to him. 

 “Welcome to newer times of the year, my friends. I hope the next year will be as peaceful and thriving as this one has been,” Odin spoke, and the table listened to him as he spoke, truly enamoured by every word the Allfather spoke, “I apologise for my brief appearance, but I must retire for the night. I wish you all safe travels home, goodnight.” The table chorused a soft goodbye and Odin stood, departing from the dining hall with his wife on his arm.

Everyone resumed their conversations once the doors to the dining hall shut behind the departing King and his Queen. About halfway down the table, a boy sat beside Volstagg and a black-haired girl that couldn’t be much older than himself. This boy was Loki Odinson, second born to Odin Allfather and Queen Frigga. The boy did not look happy to be attending the dinner that his mother had firmly demanded he attend. He had wanted to stay in his room and read all night, watch fireworks from his window and celebrate his own way but Frigga would not allow it. 

 ‘You are almost 1,000 years old now, Loki, you must make a name for yourself.’ His mother had said to him that morning. But Loki had already made a name for himself, he had married young to a giantess, Angrboða. With her, he had sired three children: Fenrir, Jörmungandr and Hel. Loki loved his children with his heart, he had tried his hardest to keep Fenrir close to him so that Odin could not get his hands on his beloved son but while Loki was in the bath one night, a member of Odin’s Einherjar had snuck into his room and stolen his firstborn. 

Angrboða and Loki mourned the loss of their son and continued to do even after Angrboða informed Loki that she was with child once more. The child had been born strange, an egg instead of a baby. Loki had been confused as he held the bloody egg, but he felt nothing but love as his baby grew inside it. The same happened to his egg that happened to Fenris only this time, it took less time. Angrboða was watching over her egg fondly as Loki was meeting with officials from Vanaheim when a member of Odin’s Einherjar came in from a door behind her and promptly knocked her out, stealing the egg. The next Loki heard of the egg, Odin informed him that it had been thrown into the oceans of Midgard and Loki grieved, grieved for the loss of his first son, for the banishment of his second and for the love he knew he will never receive off Odin now.

When Hel was born, Loki saw her half-dead body and sobbed, resting his head on Angrboða’s chest as his child suckled her nipple for milk. He wasn’t sobbing because he didn’t want this child, he already loved her so much! He cried because he knew she would also be considered a monster by Odin and sent away just like her elder siblings. Loki and Angrboða tried to convince everyone that she had lost the baby, that it had been stillborn but the Allfather had not believed her. Loki had taken it upon himself to keep Hel close and to protect her, he did not leave her in her cradle for a bath, he did not let her sleep away from himself and Angrboða.

 Loki was terrified of losing his only little girl, he had always wanted a girl and cherished her cute giggles and excited squeals whenever he showed her simple magic tricks. Even through all this added protection, Odin had torn his only daughter from his arms and banished her to Helheim. That day came and went, many more passed and soon even Angrboða left him, she had died of a broken heart at losing all three of her children but Odin passed the death off as the flu to his citizens and life went on. 

Then there was a time, three hundred years later, when Loki decided he had had enough of grieving for his family, and he wanted to ruin Odin. Loki decided it would be funny to seduce Odin’s current warhorse, Svaðilfari. It had been all fun and games until she discovered she could not turn back from a mare into her human form, she had used her magic to scan herself and found another little bundle of magic beneath her own. Loki’s heart stopped and she realised she could not stay near Asgard’s palace while she was pregnant with her child and so she ran. Many warrants went up all over the Realm to find the prince and as she was reaching her eleventh month of pregnancy, she had hidden to wait out the rest in the mountains and away from any other life.

When her son, Sleipnir, had been born and she could shift back into her human form, she held her son close to her and looked down at him lovingly, appreciating this blessing from the gods. Sleipnir had been born a foal as she had carried him that way for the whole duration, she watched him change into a normal human as his magic slowly built up over the few hours, she spent holding him. He looked just like her, ebony hair already on his head, deep green eyes, and the cutest smile he’d ever seen since… her heart skipped a beat as she remembered Hel and her smile. Sleipnir had Hel’s smile and she was so proud. 

Two months later, when he was sure that Odin wouldn’t think him to be the culprit of Svaðilfari’s disappearance, he returned to Asgard castle with Sleipnir. Odin had been suspicious of course, but Sleipnir showed no reason to be a threat, so he wilfully ignored the child for once. Loki had been thankful for this, and he had shown his son around the castle with a bright smile, listening to Sleipnir’s cooing and enthusiastic squeals. 

Then they arrived, Queen Serena and her two daughters, Serenity, and Isabella. It was widely known that Princess Isabella was adopted after her father had saved her from her mother and sent her to live with the royal family of Midgard’s moon.

Loki was required to stand with his family, staring boredly at the new royalty that he would have to study about later as he itched to get back to his son safely locked in his chambers.

"King Odin, oh grand Allfather, I present my daughter, Princess Isabella Moon to you and pronounce her my heir to the title of Queen of the Moon Kingdom," Queen Serena announced and Loki raised a curious eyebrow as he took in those words. This Queen is favouring her ward rather than her firstborn, he mused to himself, perhaps I, Odin's second born still may have a chance against my brother if that is so.

"The Nine Realms recognise Princess Isabella Moon as heir to the Moon Kingdom," Odin replied, holding his hand out to Isabella and watching as she took it warily, "Princess Isabella Moon, can you declare with your whole heart that you will honour this title and always respect your mother's choice?"

Isabella's back straightened and she nodded bravely, "I so swear it, Allfather," she replied softly, her voice catching in Loki's ears unexpectedly, igniting a curiosity that had been dulled through motherhood.

Odin nodded and looked beyond the Princess to the crowds, "I present to you, Crown Princess Isabella Moon of Midgard, the heir to their Moon Kingdom!"

The crowd applauded and Isabella smiled nervously as she looked out to the crowd, waving hesitantly as she realised the situation she was in before her younger sister grabbed her hand and dragged her out onto the dance floor.

Despite his interest, he took no notice of Princess Isabella as he was still nursing Sleipnir and recovering from his birth but later in the night when cuddling his already sleeping son, she walked up to him with a gentle smile.

“May I hold him, your majesty? I won’t wake him, I swear,” the girl smiled and looked at him with a curious look in her eye and he reluctantly handed his son to her, watching her carefully as if she would turn away and take Sleipnir from him. She didn’t. She took a seat beside him and gazed down at the young boy in her arms with a soft smile before she began to speak again, “is he yours? Mother had me and Serenity informed of your fluidity to respect you! He’s so beautiful, he looks like you.” 

Loki looked at the girl with surprise evident on his face before he smiled and nodded as he gazed down at his son, “his name is Sleipnir. I love him more than life itself and if something happened to him…. I wouldn’t forgive myself…” He mumbled weakly and smiled gently at her before huffing and wiping his eyes quickly, “I’m sorry, I’m still very hormonal. Mother says it will last a month longer and then I shall be back to normal.” He gently took Sleipnir back from her and smiled lovingly at his sleeping son’s face. 

Smiling, Isabella tucked a bit of hair behind Loki’s ear and watched him curiously, “forgive me, the Allfather spoke of you and said your reputation was horrible, that you cared for no one but yourself and your son.” That made Loki laugh as he looked up from his baby to meet Isabella’s eyes, his heart so full of grief and pain that Isabella could see it so clearly on his face and she reached her hand out and cupped his cheek, flinching back when Loki instinctively flinched away from the contact.

“Please don’t,” Loki mumbled, looking away from her and down at his son, “I’m not at all crazy about contact after what has happened to my family.” He sounded so broken, his eyes were glossy with unshed tears and Isabella hated herself for taking all this time to get to him, to get to her soulmate.

“I’ve gone through many lovers, Isabella, I’ve never been able to hold them. Please don’t think you’ll be the first to try to stay with me, the last one died because of me and my family.” 

Isabella sighed and nodded, giving him a smile before she stood up and moved to kneel in front of Loki and Sleipnir, pushing away some of Sleipnir’s loose hair and she giggled when Sleipnir started to rouse from his sleep, “I suggest we should move him, your highness, if he wakes right now, he shall not sleep the night.” Loki nodded right away and lead Isabella through a side door and down a corridor or two until he got to the grand doors of his chambers, and he turned to her with a shy smile.

The way Isabella’s heart fluttered when she saw Loki’s own smile was indescribable! She had just met the Godling, and she already knew that he was the one she was assigned to by Ymir and the Yggdrasil. Gently stepping back, she gave a small wave to Loki and to Sleipnir’s slowly rousing face before she turned on her heel and left. 

Loki watched her leave with a sad smile before Sleipnir started to get fussy and he laughed, walking into his room and over to his bed after locking the front door and all the windows, “you are a fusspot when you just wake up, sweetie!” Laying Sleipnir down, Loki undressed him from his onesie and proceeded to change him before giving him a new nappy and conjuring up a bottle of warm milk as he paced around his bedroom, smiling down at his son as he watched the young boy drift off again while drinking the milk. Sighing in relief, Loki slipped into bed and laid Sleipnir down beside him and held his tiny hand in his own before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

"Thank you," he whispered into the night, his mind thinking of the Princess he had just met and the promise of a better life.

He had let his guard down. Odin had backed off. Everything was supposed to be fine! He had merely stepped into the next room to grab Isabella and show her that Sleipnir had finally said “mummy”! When he came back, though, his son was gone. His son was gone, along with the last of his heart. Dropping to his knees, he stared at his bed where his child had been not two minutes ago. He broke. His heart was now sawdust blowing in the Asgardian summer. Isabella knelt beside him and rested her head on his shoulder as she tried to hold back her own tears. It had been a year; she had known the broken family for a year and had become quite attached to Sleipnir, so this loss affected her deeply. She watched as her soulmate’s heart shattered and the boy in front of her barely looked like the proud mother, he had been just three minutes ago... He looked so vulnerable, so broken, so helpless and Isabella hated seeing him so. 

“It can’t be so, I just left for a moment! How did... how did he get in here...?” Loki mumbled weakly, more to himself than to the woman holding him so lovingly. He stood abruptly and started pacing around the room, trying to figure out the fateful lapse in his judgement. Why had he walked out on his son? Did his son cry? Did he call for his mummy only to be taken away still? Where had Loki gone wrong in his watch? Why did he look away?! 

“Loki, you’ll burn a hole into the marble if you carry on pacing,” a gentle voice whispered by his side, a warmth surrounding him as Isabella took him into her arms and sniffled, “we will all mourn for them alongside you, but you must remember that I can easily break the treaty with Asgard for this, you know Serenity will agree to my choice when she finds out about this and so will Mother.” Isabella stroked her hand through his silky hair and frowned when Loki shook his head.

“No, this is another of Father’s malicious tests of loyalty. Pull out now and he’ll forbid your return to Asgard the moment the comment leaves your mouth. I can’t lose you too, Isabella, you’re the only one left!” Loki begged her, his weakness shining through now that he had lost all of his children. Isabella helped him cling to her as she shushed him gently, stroking his hair and frowning.

The Demoness knew that she would not be able to forget how broken Loki looked on the day he lost his foal. All of the faith that she had for the Allfather and belief that Loki and Odin might be peaceful someday shattered the moment the first tear rolled down Loki's cheek. Now her loyalty was to Loki and only Loki.

Delicately, she cupped his cheek and smiled lovingly at him as she lifted his head so he could look at her, “I’m never leaving you, I have you, I promise.”

~~~

@lokisgoodgirl @lokisninerealms @evelyn-kingsley @slpnbty2001 @jennyggggrrr @hahaha12123445 @ozymdias @holdmytesseract @itsybitchylittlewitchy @lovingchoices14 @xorpsbane @huntress-artemiss @muddyorbs @nerdy-fangirl-65 @lonadane @silverfire475 @chantsdemarins @iamsherlocked1479 @kittiowolf210 @just-someone11 @stupidthoughtsinwriting @loki-laufeyson-1054 @fictive-sl0th @coldnique @anukulee @eleniblue

~~ fic tags ~~

@thegodofnotknowing @crimson25 @simping-for-marvel @buttercupcookies-blog @vileepponine @pinestwinssimp

[eraserbread]

Obsessed with your Nanamin ♡ Also obsessed with the idea of our boy being a virgin before he meets his wife so she's his one and only. Wow I wish he was real.

four weeks into dating, and kento's barely even grazed your hand. it's not that he doesn't like you, because he does a little too much. you're all he thinks about -- all he pines and stews over when he's alone.

you two met in the odd space between high school and the thought of university where nanami was finally feeling the toll sorcery was taking on him, only going out once a week to drink his guilt away. it’s there, at dinner with co-workers that he meets you — a mutual friend of his desk mate who had a little too much to drink one night.

now, nineteen-year-old nanami was not the nicest. he drank and spent his sleepless nights staring at walls, begging for a reason, or just purpose.

he has terrible insomnia because he sees the ones he lost to curses every time he closes his eyes. it’s why he left sorcery in the first place. he’s not strong. he’s barely capable of keeping his own head up. call it teenage angst, but nanami will call it his burdensome state.

eighteen year old you was full-spirited and beautiful. you always had friends begging to go out drinking and partying. that year was a whirlwind of nasty hookups, terrible hangovers and love-lust. safe to say, you and kento were complete opposites.

all that to say — opposites do attract, and nanami's been obsessed with you ever since that fateful drunken night.

it was one particular morning date over two cups of strong coffee that you finally poke a little further than the stupid childhood stories and plans for the future. you want him to touch you.

"i won't lie, i've been waiting for you to touch me this whole time." it feels embarrassing to finally say out loud, but you didn't know how many more hints you had to give him.

he stills over his sip of coffee, vibrant hazel eyes going stagnant. you can tell you finally got him -- you sparked a reaction.

that day, as soon as he gets you home, he's pushing you on the bed. nanami's all heavy breaths as he crawls over you in the afternoon light, biting over his bottom lip as he meets your gaze.

"i'll try and be gentle..." he whispers before sliding down and tucking his head under your loose t-shirt. kento fits so perfectly there, purring against your warmth as he kisses up your stomach, lips finding their home against your lower sternum.

you're blushed down to your toes, rocking your knees together under kento's lanky frame. he's got you on lock, left hand finding your wrist against his sheets to hold you there.

you've never been this intimate. he's closer to your heart than you are.

"can you breathe down there?" you whisper, breathing harder when you feel him drag to your left nipple.

"mhm." he responds, vibrating the entirety of your body. he gives your nipple a little experimental lick, stopping to gauge your whining reaction. "breathin' you."

"fuck, kento."

he's blushing so fucking hard when he comes out from under your shirt, golden hair ruffled with static. it gives you something adjacent to cuteness aggression, you just want to kiss him already.

it's missionary that first time -- he hovers over you like a angel, pretty eyes screwed shut as the tip of his cock drags slowly through your slit. it's driving you crazy, all this build-up, but nanami can't stop. he fucking loves the way touching you like this felt, this was enough.

"you won't... it's not gonna hurt me, just do it. put it in." it's your final, desperate plea for more, but he's too caught in his head. he shakes it.

"i can't... i can't cause i'm gonna - I'll finish." he's tucking his cheek into his shoulder, whining low as he guides his tip across your entrance. it dips so perfectly there like it's meant to fit, but he just doesn't do it.

it's actually starting to get annoying.

deep down you have an inkling he doesn't really know what he's doing. but, it's okay because neither do you. you know that his lips on your sternum felt good, but the thought of his body inside of yours felt even better.

you just wanted him to take you. you've never wanted something more.

you whine. "nanami, what are you so afraid of?" you try, snaking hand up his naked back to the base of his neck. he shivers hard at your touch but he loves it.

"don't wanna... oh, baby..." he murmurs when your fingers find the tension knot just at the base, using strong fingers to massage over it. "just don't wanna hurt you."

"the only thing that'll hurt me is if you leave. just don't leave me," you pull him close, hugging both arms around the back of his neck.

"so, just put it in... please, please please."

[mwphisto]

Sylus plans your birthday out down to the very last detail. And I mean the very last.

Your day was filled with all of your favorite things, from the arcade to your favorite stores, cafes for sweet treats, and your favorite restaurant for dinner.

Sylus bought you more gifts on top of the things he had already purchased for you, just happy to see you smile. Plus, he was finding it oddly cute that you’d get shy asking him for certain things. As if he’d ever say no.

“It’s your birthday, kitten. Pick whatever you want.”

Still, it took two more stores for you to finally stop giving him a little glance each time you dropped something in the basket. Sylus could tell you were being mindful not to over consume but still treating yourself how he intended you to.

Sylus would drain his bank account — it would take a damn long time but still — if it meant seeing you smile the way you were smiling, that little sparkle in your eye as you uttered little thank yous with a skip in your step.

What Sylus couldn’t wait for was what came later.

He kicked the twins out for the night. He got your favorite desert for your birthday celebration, and he had every intention of eating that damn dessert off of your body.

It wouldn’t be your birthday if he didn’t take hours to worship every single inch of you. To sing you the praises you so throughly deserve, and make you feel as good as you make him feel every goddamn day.

You, his sweet little kitten, the other half of his soul. You deserved every ounce of love that he could provide you. And dammit, he was going it make it happen.

[hoodzgyal]

sex with clark is the most reassuring thing ever. he’d be a great virgin killer, the way he’s constantly checking in on you, lovingly rubbing circles on your clit as he ruts into you from below.

there’s something so powerful in the way a mountain of a man like clark just lets a pretty thing like you use him for your pleasure, lazily bouncing on his dick.

there’s something absolutely yummy in the way he says “i know, baby, i know,” as you moan and keen. something even sexier about the way he murmurs when you finally find your rhythm, “that’s right, baby doll. fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckme—”

[landologged]

GG, Norris

Pairing: lando × gf!reader

Genre: graphic smut, oral sex (m → f) under a desk ;), semi‑public/twitch risk, brat‑taming, dom!lando & mouthy reader, humiliation kink, breeding talk, dirty talk, possessive behaviour, consensual power play, established relationship

Description: Lando’s been a gremlin all day—yanking your hoodie strings, tossing socks, and chirping over you every chance he gets. When he goes live, you crawl beneath the rig and silence him with your mouth while thousands watch none the wiser. He tries to keep composure; you dismantle it. Stream ends, revenge flips to punishment, and somewhere between the threats and the afterglow he whispers the kind of promise that could ruin you in the best way.

notes: im not sorry, word count is 5k

Lando’s been insufferable all day—mouthing off with that cocky little smirk like he doesn’t deserve to be dropkicked down a flight of stairs. He kept poking at you—tugging your hoodie drawstring when you were mid-sip of coffee, talking over you just to mimic your voice, tossing socks at you from across the room like some feral child. And now, the little shit’s live on Twitch, backlit in RGB glow like some overgrown gamer gremlin, laughing with Max like they’re both not moments away from divine punishment.

You slink past his racing rig and stupid ergonomic chair, a silent predator in sweats and a tank top that’s just a bit too tight. The headset muffles the rest of the world for him—he doesn’t notice the shift in weight behind his desk, doesn’t register the flicker of your eyes or the deliberate arch of your brow as you crawl under the desk like you own the fucking thing. 

Max is saying something idiotic through the tinny headset—Lando’s wheezing, practically giggling, “Nahhh mate, I’d still smoke you even if you had DRS in bed.”

Instead of answering, you let your hand drift down, slow and mean, gliding from your own knee across the dark stretch of space beneath the desk until your fingertips graze his leg. He doesn't flinch—yet—too caught up in his smug little monologue to clock the shift. But then your palm flattens against the inside of his thigh, deliberate, claiming. Warmth bleeds through the cotton like ink in water, slow and spreading, and you dig in just enough to let him know you’re not here to be cute.  The laughter catches in his throat mid-sentence. His voice jumps a full octave, cracking like a teenager's as he fumbles, tries to swallow the noise back before Max notices– which he fails.

Max pauses. “What was that?”

Lando’s legs stiffen beneath your hand. You feel the tension coil all the way up to his hip, a ripple of sheer panic trying to mask the unmistakable pulse already starting to throb under your fingers. His joggers do little to hide the way he’s swelling, thickening, betraying every ounce of self-control he thought he had.

“Uh—a hiccup.” Lando's laugh is sudden and high-pitched, edged with panic. His hand instinctively drops to his lap but stops short, unsure what to do with it. “I think I’m choking—on water. Gimme a sec.”

You hum, low and deliberate, a sound more vibration than voice, letting it roll up from your chest and sink straight into the fabric between his legs. Your mouth opens against the outline of him, plush lips parting just enough to press—not a kiss, not quite. Just heat. You drag your mouth along the length of him through his joggers, every inch a slow, possessive claim, like you’re mapping him out for future destruction. Tongue sliding flat, letting the fabric soak it up, just damp enough to cling to the shape of him.

His cock twitches, eager and betrayed, shifting under the thin material like it’s trying to reach you, to meet you halfway. You don’t speed up. Oh no, you slow down, mouthing him like he’s a lollipop you’re too mean to unwrap. Teeth graze, barely, just enough for nerves to spark awake and skin to goosebump beneath the cotton. The heat of your breath sinks in like a bruise, and when you do it again—open-mouthed, tongue curling under the head through the joggers like you’re licking sugar off the skin of an apple—he breaks. His breath punches out in a strangled hitch, hips jolting forward like the instinct’s not even his own. His legs tense around you, thighs stiffening against your shoulders, not to push you away, never that—but to brace, to survive whatever the fuck this is turning into.

You can feel the way he’s trying to keep still, failing spectacularly. The way his knees tremble just slightly, muscles locking like a man standing on the edge of something deep and slick and inevitable. And you haven’t even gotten his pants down yet.

“...You good?” Max again.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, just—hydrate or die-drate, innit?” His accent falters on the last syllable as you tug his waistband down, just enough. Just enough for your nails to dig in a little, for your lips to ghost over skin that’s already twitching with anticipation.

You look up, watching his face from the shadows beneath the desk, the glow from the monitor painting him in sinful outlines—blue along his jaw, red flickering in his eyes like he’s caught fire from the inside. His lips are parted, plush and trembling, his tongue darting out to wet them like that’ll help him speak normally through the chaos boiling in his bloodstream. His eyes are glassy, lashes fluttering fast, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tension twitch at the hinge, like he's physically holding himself together with spit and prayer.

He’s trying to look normal—like this is still just a stream, just banter, like he isn’t seconds from sliding out of his own skin. But he’s fucking awful at it. That smug little posture is gone, replaced with a boy unraveling in real time, held together by a desk and a prayer and your mouth hovering dangerously close to the one thing he absolutely cannot control.

He mutes himself with a frantic click of the hotkey.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he hisses, voice low, shredded, already fraying at the edges. His breath fans hot over his mic. 

You smirk against him. “Keep playing, Norris.”

Then you sink your mouth around him, slow and possessive, and he keens—silent, jaw clenched hard as his head drops back against the chair.

Yeah. He’s not making it out of this stream alive.

You hollow your cheeks, tongue dragging slow and deliberate—like you’ve got all the time in the world and none of it belongs to him. Lando’s hips twitch, one foot knocking into the desk leg with a soft thud that rattles his fancy mic arm. Panic flashes across his face, barely contained, the kind that screams this is the best and worst idea we’ve ever had and I’m gonna cum in thirty seconds and Max is gonna hear it live.

“You alright, bro?” Max’s voice filters through the headset again, casual, cruelly unaware.

“Yup. Peachy.” Lando’s voice is an octave too high. “Just, stretching.”

“Sounded like your desk kicked back, mate.”

You almost laugh, the sound curling at the back of your throat, smothered by the weight of him on your tongue. He’s heavy, twitching, a pulse stuttering beneath the sensitive skin you're dragging your mouth along with surgical precision. But there's no room for giggles—not when he’s splintering in your hands like this, breaking down second by second.

His grip on the armrests is brutal, white-knuckled like the chair might fly off into orbit if he doesn’t anchor himself. Fingers twitching, veins standing out on the backs of his hands like cords about to snap. He looks like he’s bracing for a fucking crash landing, every muscle drawn tight, thighs trembling against your shoulders, breath locked high in his chest like he's afraid if he exhales, he’ll cum right there.

And his neck—oh, his fucking neck. It's flushed, blooming red like spilled wine, the color crawling up from beneath the loose collar of his hoodie and painting its way up the column of his throat to his jawline, delicate and obscene. Like someone hit him with shame and turned the heat to maximum. It’s arousal in high-def, the kind that leaves no mystery—just raw, visual confession. Every time your mouth moves, the flush deepens, his head tips back a little more, and you can see the exact moment he forgets what his own name is.

He unmutes for a second—rookie mistake. “So yeah, like, turn three’s actually—” inhale, hiss, muted again.

Your teeth graze just enough to make his whole body jolt. You can feel the curse bubbling in his throat but he swallows it back with the desperation of a man on the brink. He’s trying to look normal, trying to hold a conversation while his girlfriend is under the desk sucking the literal soul out of him. You feel the curse rise up in his throat, bubbling hot and mean behind clenched teeth. But he swallows it—forces it down with the kind of restraint that hurts to watch. He’s holding onto that last shred of composure like it’s a lifeline, trying to sit still, trying to keep talking, keep nodding, keep pretending this is just another stream.

You see it all—feel it all. The twitch of his stomach, the locked tension in his knees, the way his chest is rising faster than before like he’s run a lap with his mic still on. He’s dying. Glorious, twitching, overstimmed death-by-girlfriend, right there on Twitch dot TV.

Max is talking about tire strategies now. You could not care less.

Lando’s trembling like a leaf in a wind tunnel, one hand inching under the desk like maybe, maybe he can tap out, call a time-out, beg for mercy. But you swat his hand away, sink deeper onto him, and he fucking chokes.

You let up, just a little, lips slick, your voice hushed and syrupy sweet. “Something wrong, babe?”

“Y—You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin up at him. “Good. Maybe Max’ll do your eulogy.”

And then you go back down, faster this time, twisting your wrist just enough to make him arch off the chair like he’s been tasered. His breathing’s fucked—shallow, staccato, gasping like he’s drowning in it. Every exhale sounds like it costs him something, punched out in ragged little hiccups, broken up by the frantic clench of his abs as he tries—fails—to keep still. His thighs are shaking now, twitching against your shoulders, his hips stuttering forward helplessly every time your throat flexes around him.

You feel him throb against your tongue, thick and twitching, precum slicking the back of your throat as he tips further into sensory collapse. He’s close. Too close. He knows it. You know it. His body’s already betraying him, every nerve lighting up like someone tripped the emergency alarm.

He mutes again—fingers slapping the hotkey with blind desperation—and croaks out a whisper through clenched teeth, like he’s physically fighting his own orgasm just to speak. “You’re actually evil. You’re—fuck—this is—oh my god.”

Your nails dig into the skin above his knees. You want him to feel every inch of it. Humiliated. Helpless. Falling apart on stream with that good-boy face, talking strategy with Max while your mouth is swallowing his soul inch by inch. He wanted to be smug. Wanted to sass. So, he got what he deserved, streaming in front of thousands with that innocent little “I’m just gaming, guys” voice while his cock’s buried in your throat and his world’s turning to static.

Max keeps talking.

Lando continues spiraling. You, however, keep going, until his legs are trembling like Bambi’s on ice, until he clamps a fist over his own mouth and stifles a moan that might have gotten him permanently banned off Twitch.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don't stop. Of course you don't. His thighs are tensing around you like a vice, breath coming in ragged, clipped gasps, and all you do is suck harder—deeper. You flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, twist your wrist at the base just enough to grind against that sweet spot, right where your lips meet your hand, and that's it. 

His whole body seizes. One sharp inhale—then silence. His jaw drops open, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown to hell, and the only sound he manages is this strangled, high-pitched gasp like his entire soul is getting yanked out through his dick.

He comes hard. Violently. No buildup left, no warning, no cool-off—just one catastrophic surge that hits so fast it nearly knocks his headset clean off. The mic light’s still blinking red, but it's not picking up anything coherent—just the wet, broken gasps of a man short-circuiting live on stream. His hips buck once, twice, a desperate, instinctive jerk that punches him further down your throat. His hand scrabbles at the edge of the desk like he's trying to grip onto reality. He doesn’t make a sound—and that silence is deafening.

You feel it—every pulse, every twitch, the thick, hot spurt flooding your mouth like his body’s trying to drain itself in one brutal release. You swallow around it, greedy and unrelenting, and he whimpers. Honest to god, a full-body shiver rips through him, like you just unplugged something vital and he’ll never reboot the same again.

When it's over, he slumps. Muted. Boneless. Useless.

“…You okay, Lando?” Max asks.

Lando clears his throat. “Just finished.”

There’s a pause.

“…The race?” Max says, confused.

Lando closes his eyes. “Yeah. That.”

You lick your lips and crawl back out from under the desk, smug as hell, like you didn’t just commit several crimes beneath the camera frame. You lean in, peck his cheek, and whisper, “Next time, don’t throw your sock at me.”

He exhales like he’s seen god. Or you. Same thing, really.

He shuts down the stream like he’s defusing a bomb—mouse click too loud, movements too stiff, the awkward silence after Max’s “alright, catch you later, bruv” hanging in the room like smoke. The second OBS fades out and the little red dot of "Live" disappears from the corner of his screen, Lando leans back in the chair with the slowness of someone trying very, very hard not to look like he just got soul-snatched under his own desk on the main stage of the internet.

His head rolls toward you.

That look of ungodly levels of boyish spite. The kind that comes from being publicly humbled in the most private way possible.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” he says, voice rough, lazy, dragging over gravel and sin. His eyes track you like you’re prey. “Think you’re clever, crawling under my desk like that, nearly got me banned.”

You smile. Innocent. Shrug like, what, me?

And that’s apparently the wrong answer. Lando stands up so fast his chair screeches against the floor, and you don’t even have time to register the chaos before his fingers are digging into your hips and he’s spinning you around, walking you back, back, back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and—

You drop like a rock.

He follows, covering you in one smooth motion like a storm front rolling in, all hot breath and twitchy hands and revenge written across his grin.

“You wanna be a brat?” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, already undoing the hoodie you stole from his closet like he’s got a personal vendetta against it. “Then you’re going to get treated like one.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you tease, breath hitching as he peels the hoodie off and tosses it somewhere across the room like it insulted his whole bloodline.

“I’m a victim, actually.” He pins your wrists down, pushes his knee between your thighs and forces them apart, slow and deliberate. “Live on camera. Absolutely violated. Twitch chat saw me ascend.”

“They only saw your face.”

“And you saw god. So now it’s your turn.”

You try to sass something back—I already did the work or you’re welcome or something equally stupid—but he cuts you off with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, no finesse, just need—raw and immediate. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp, then chases that sound into your mouth like he’s trying to steal it. It’s messy, greedy, spit-slicked and heady, full of consequences you feel before you even fully register them. His tongue slides against yours, fast, dirty, dominant, like he’s fucking your mouth just to shut you up.

Your thoughts scatter like coins dropped down a storm drain. You barely register the way his hands move until they’re already on you—fingers sliding down your arms in a slow drag that makes your skin light up, trailing heat to your wrists, your sides, your hips. Then he grips. Not gentle. Claiming. Thumbs digging in just above the curve of your ass, yanking you into place with an ease that makes your breath stutter.

He adjusts your body like you’re just a piece of the equation he’s solving. Angles your legs wider. Tilts your pelvis. Lines your hips with his like a weapon locking into its holster. Every motion says mine. Every shift says you’re not getting away.

“No escaping this one,” he mutters against your mouth, already rutting into you like the world’s ending and it’s somehow your fault. “Gonna make you fucking feel it.”

And then he’s rutting into you, grinding hard, slow, mean, the thick line of his cock dragging against you through too much fabric, not nearly enough friction. His hips roll like he’s trying to fuck the regret out of you before he’s even inside, like it’s your fault the world’s on fire and he’s the only one allowed to burn you down.

His hand slides down between you like he’s tuning a high-stakes radio, all intent and zero patience, fingers greedy as sin and twice as confident. He doesn’t hesitate, just slides them under the waistband like he owns the access, the privilege—and fuck, he finds it instantly. Wet. Soaked. You feel the shift in him the moment he registers it—his whole expression flickering into something darker, meaner, more satisfied.

“Ohhh,” he purrs, dragging the word out like he’s tasting it, that fucking grin spreading across his face like oil in water. A menace. A brat. A smug little demon who just found gold under your panties. “Look who’s not so innocent now, huh?”

You scowl up at him, even though it takes everything in you not to arch into the touch. Your breath catches the moment his fingers glide between your folds, slow and maddening, like he’s just checking inventory. Like he’s confirming, with smug fingers and a smirk, that you’re soaked through and so goddamn ready it’s embarrassing.

“I was innocent,” you snap, biting the inside of your cheek to hold composure, “until you started acting like a fucking gremlin all day.”

He doesn't even blink—just grins wider, proud and wicked. “I am a gremlin,” he says, dipping just the tip of one finger in, a slow, cruel tease that makes your thighs twitch. His eyes are locked on yours, watching every flicker of reaction with sick delight, like this is his favorite game and he’s already ten moves ahead. “But you—you crawled under the desk, babe. You woke the demon up. You knew what you were doing.”

“I was avenging myself. It was emotional warfare.”

He laughs—really laughs, head tossed back for a second before he looks down again, still grinning but now it's dark, calculated. “Yeah? We’ll see about that, darling.”

And then he pushes in—two fingers, deep and sudden, no warning, no teasing, just a hard, unapologetic thrust that knocks the air right out of your lungs. The stretch is immediate, obscene, that thick press opening you up so fast your body has no time to think, only react. You gasp, sharp and strangled, hips jerking up into his hand like you’ve been electrocuted. Your nails sink into his arm on instinct, clutching like he’s the only solid thing keeping you from short-circuiting completely. Muscles flutter around his fingers, slick and clenching, already threatening to pull him deeper, to take more, even as your brain tries to catch the fuck up.

“Oh—fuck—Lando—”

“That's the one.” He curls his fingers just so, smirking down at you like a man who just found nuclear launch codes in his back pocket. “You sound so much cuter when you’re not trying to be a little shit.”

You shoot him a glare, trying to form something savage and witty to bite back with, but all that comes out is a broken whimper as he starts pumping his fingers in and out, fast, obscene, squelching sounds already filling the room like he’s making a fucking smoothie with you. You slap a hand over your mouth, scandalized.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and pinning it beside your head. “You made me suffer silently on stream. Now you’re gonna sing for me.”

“Y-You’re insane,” you pant, legs spreading wider without meaning to, traitorous body arching off the bed into his hand like a slutty heat-seeking missile.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, thumb flicking your clit now in tight, fast circles, the way he knows makes you go from sassy to needing an exorcism in under thirty seconds. “You made me come so hard I hit a Windows error sound. You don’t get to talk shit.”

You try. You really try to keep up the banter, to sass something, anything—but he thrusts his fingers in deeper, and your voice cracks into a moan that embarrasses you on a spiritual level. Like the neighbors are gonna know kind of level.

“Thaaaat’s better,” he murmurs, face hovering just over yours, warm breath brushing your cheek. “That’s my good girl. What happened to all that backtalk, huh?”

You hiss through your teeth, grinding against his hand now like a bitch in heat, shameless. “Y-You’re cheating—using your—skills—”

He chuckles, so cocky it hurts. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls his fingers out just as your legs start shaking, cruel bastard that he is, and you let out a noise that could get you arrested in three countries. He sucks those fingers into his mouth, exaggerated, obscene, humming like you’re fine wine and he’s a connoisseur.

Then he’s sliding his boxers down, slow and casual like he’s got all the time in the world—like his cock isn’t flushed dark and aching, already rock fucking hard, already glistening at the tip with precome that beads thick and lazy along the curve of him. It bobs up against his stomach as the fabric clears it, twitching with every heartbeat, a full display of just how wrecked he still is and just how far from finished.

You can’t stop staring. Can’t help it. The way he’s thick and veiny, that curve you know too well, the flushed red of his tip already wet enough to make your mouth water—it’s mean, the way your body reacts without permission, clenching tight like it’s starving for him. Your thighs shift, instinctual and desperate, a slow rub for friction he hasn't even allowed yet.

“What?” he says, tone light, mock-innocent, voice still gravel from groaning your name minutes ago. His hand wraps around the base of his cock and gives it a lazy stroke, slow enough to show off, smearing his own slick over the shaft while his eyes dare you to break. “You gonna apologize yet?”

He punctuates it with a little flick of his wrist—just enough to make a drop of precome slide down the underside, thick and slow.

“Never,” you spit. “Die mad about it.”

Your voice is sharp, but your cunt is soaked, needy, betraying every ounce of sass with a slick heat that clings to him as he shifts closer. He just laughs—low, smug, dangerous—like he’s already decided you’ll be swallowing those words in moans.

Then he lines himself up. His hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it down between your thighs with excruciating slowness. The head drags along your folds, thick and pulsing, smearing you open with the kind of pressure that makes your back arch off the bed on reflex. It’s not even in yet—not really—but your whole body shudders, already anticipating the stretch, the slide, the ruin.

“Oh,” he grins, cockhead nudging your soaked entrance, hips rolling forward just enough to catch—not push, not yet, just press. That dangerous little tease of what's coming. “I plan to.”

And he grinds it there, circling slow, obscene, just enough to coat himself in you. Just enough to make your breath stutter and your legs fall open wider, helplessly, hungrily, like your body’s given up on pride entirely. Your clit’s aching from the friction, nerves lighting up with every teasing pass of his swollen tip.

He watches you squirm beneath him, his grin sharpening like a blade. “Hope you’re ready to scream that apology when I’m buried in your guts.”

And then—he pushes.

Slow.

So fucking slow. Not even a thrust—just pressure, the barest push of the head breaching you, thick and deliberate, like he’s forcing your body to recognize him all over again. Like he’s marking every nerve ending with the stretch. Your mouth drops open but nothing comes out—just breath. Just need.

He’s watching your face the whole time, drinking in every flicker of it—your brows twitching, lips parting, that helpless little tremble that crawls up your spine when your body realizes what’s happening. That he’s really doing this. Slow-fucking you like a punishment. Not to be kind. To hurt you in the best fucking way.

The head of his cock pops past the tight ring of resistance, and your whole body jolts like a live wire’s been jammed up your spine. He hisses through his teeth at the way you clench, how fucking wet you are, how you grip him like you don’t want him to leave.

“Ohhh, f-fuck—look at that,” he groans, barely able to speak through the pressure. “She’s pulling me in already. What a fucking slut.”

Then he sinks in another inch—slow, torturous, dragging the thick weight of him against walls already fluttering in anticipation. You gasp, toes curling, nails digging into the sheets like you can anchor yourself to something, anything, before he breaks you. Every ridge, every vein along his shaft feels like it’s scraping against your sanity in slow-motion.

“God, you're tight,” he growls, voice frayed at the edges, forehead resting against yours now, sweat already gathering at his hairline. “You feel that? Every inch, baby. You asked for this.”

And still—he doesn’t thrust.

He feeds it to you, inch by aching inch, until you're stretched wide, stuffed full, practically shaking beneath him. Your cunt spasms around him, greedy and desperate, and the noise you make—high, cracked, needy—goes straight to his fucking ego.

“Fuck, you’re gonna break,” he whispers, voice all grit and glory. “Should I make it worse?”

And then—he slams forward.

One brutal thrust, all the way in, balls flush against you, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and filthy as it echoes through the room. Your scream is instant. He grins like the devil who just cashed a bet.

“Good,” he growls, pulling back just enough before hammering in again, harder. “Let’s see how long you last.”

Your scream barely fades before he’s thrusting again, harder this time, fucking you with that brutal rhythm that says he’s not pacing himself—he’s taking you. His cock slams into you again and again, thick and slick and relentless, dragging a fresh cry out of your throat every time his hips smack against yours.

And he’s talking now—low, filthy, breathless filth right into your ear, every word rough and ragged and soaked in something feral.

“Fuck—you feel that?” he grits out, his hips stuttering just enough to grind that thick cockhead right up against your cervix. “You’re milking me. Gonna make me come in you like it’s fucking biological.”

You claw at his back, eyes rolling, mind fogged with nothing but sensation—his cock splitting you open, heavy balls smacking your ass, every thrust punching your thoughts out through your mouth in gasped curses and broken moans.

He grabs your jaw, forces your gaze back to him. Eyes locked.

“Nah—look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his temple, lips wet, voice shaking. “Gonna make you mine for real.”

Then his grip tightens, hand splayed wide over your lower belly like he’s feeling himself from the outside, like he wants to watch his cock bulge under your skin.

“Gonna breed you,” he snarls. “Fuck a baby into you. You hear me?”

You whimper, thighs locked around his hips, cunt spasming around him like your body’s already begging for it—please, fill me, mark me, ruin me.

“I’ll fucking marry you,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt, holding there, twitching deep inside you. “Swear to god. Put a ring on your finger and a kid in your belly.”

Then he pulls back and pounds in again—once, twice, three savage thrusts—wet, deep, loud—and you feel it, that telltale twitch, that low growl in his chest, the way his abs seize against your stomach.

He’s close.

“Gonna fucking fill you up,” he growls, voice raw, ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “You’ll feel it for days—my cum dripping down your thighs, stuck so deep inside you, it’s not going anywhere.”

And then—he breaks.

One final thrust, deep, forced so far into you your legs snap around him and your body locks down, clenching tight—

He roars your name, hips jerking, cock buried deep as he comes—thick, hot, endless. Spurting in waves, flooding your pussy with so much cum you feel it seeping out around him, warm and filthy and perfect.

“Fuckfuckfuck—take it, take all of it,” he groans, shivering against you, cock still twitching, still pumping as he rides it out, thrusting slow and shallow, like he’s grinding his claim into your womb.

His body trembles above yours, slick skin clinging, muscle taut then gone soft as he slumps forward, breath crashing into the crook of your neck. Not all the way gone, not yet—he gives one last lazy grind, a roll of his hips that makes you twitch and sigh against him, the pressure just enough to drag a whimper from your throat.

The comedown hits you both like a sucker punch made of glitter and gravity—one second he’s practically growling into your throat, the next he’s collapsed on top of you like a glorified space heater, sweaty, heavy, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “fuckin’ deserved that, didn’t I…”

You wheeze under his weight. “You’re crushing me, Norris.”

“I’m post-orgasmic and vulnerable. Be gentle.”

“You just tried to breed me like a feral raccoon.”

“Yeah but emotionally?” he slurs, nuzzling his cheek into your collarbone like he’s recharging. “I’m a soft boy inside.”

You groan and reach up to push his sweat-damp curls out of his face. “Yeah, yeah, you are.”

[simonbrain]

love the idea of reader just trying to fuck all her stress out with a random at the bar before returning back to her mundane life, and simon deciding he's going to keep her instead 🙂‍↕️

the prick doesn't budge when you try to kick him out; instead, he drags you back into bed and works his mouth to loosen you up again, and now you've forgotten why you were trying to haul his ass out of your home.

(you attempted to sound stern while telling him to get out of your house, but he merely chuckled, the sound so raspy and condescending that it stroked a heat within you that you thought was sated last night.

"this is our home. now get your arse back in bed, i'm fuckin' hungry.")

you had to really fist at his hair to pull him off of you, and that only turned him on if the deep groan rumbling out of him was anything to go by—you swear his tongue sunk deeper inside you. he only relented so he could fuck you dumb in the shower after, leaving you with trembling legs and feeling more dirty than clean (atta girl, don't you waste any of tha'—keep it all in).

you blink, and now suddenly you're seated as he spoon-feeds you a nice, hearty breakfast, huffing something like messy girl when toast crumbs get all over your face and the wooden table.

words can't express how flustered you are; you're too stunned to even continue telling the big man who's now feeding you scrambled eggs that he needs to leave. all you feel like you're capable of doing is opening your mouth to accept another spoonful, ignoring the ache you feel between your thighs when you catch his heavy stare and hear a low hum of approval.

then he's leaving (and it's not because of your nagging), muttering something about having to work those mutts to the bone today, all while you're trying to make sense of what's happening. he gives you a sloppy kiss to silence your questions and exasperation, one that makes you feel hot all over and almost melt into a puddle had it not been for the firm grip he had on your ass.

he licks his lips when he pulls back, eyes darting to where your shirt just barely covers where he'd rather be all day than having to go and train recruits. he stares for an uncomfortably long time and before you can speak up, face growing a little hot from the tension, he's turning around to finally leave.

before the door shuts, he says, "be a good girl, ay? see you tonight, birdie."

you're left with your thoughts and feelings of dread and anxiety. there definitely isn't any underlying interest or anything; the freak has fucked your brain out of your head, that's all. you're sure he didn't even mean it anyway. maybe. hopefully.

a drop of his come rolls down your thigh, and arousal shame burns through you. since when did you let one-night stands finish in you?

(your so-called one-night stand came home hungry and pissed, so worked up that he dragged you over to the nearest surface and played with you for a good hour. by the time you had half the mind to tell him about the dinner in the oven—your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at how much money he had sent you for groceries earlier, nevermind how he got ahold of your account details—he grunted and finally gave your poor pussy a break, scarred mug all slick and flushed.)

good luck when he takes you to meet his mates at the bar a week later, the same bar you brought him home from; the comments from them make you wish a hole in the ground would just swallow you right up.

"pretty thing ye caught, lt," johnny grins, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. he's a bit over the top, ogles your chest too hard, but overall he's... alright. you'd probably notice how perverted he really was if you actually looked at him longer than a few fleeting glances, but his stare is kind of unnerving.

kyle—perfection personified—hums in agreement, a warm smile on his face that puts you at ease. somehow you don't pick up on the ulterior motive behind his gaze running over your body, eyes roaming over your chest more discreetly than johnny but just as appreciative. "pretty indeed. you don't mind sharing, do you ghost?" kyle teases, pretty eyes glancing over at simon, who only huffs at that and shakes his head (much to your confusion).

who the fuck is ghost? you only know big guy and simon.

there's a deep chuckle and your focus flits over to the man seated in front of you, captain john price. if you thought simon was scary, john's a man who demands respect and attention just by being in his presence. "you chose the wrong dog to bring home," john hums, voice deep and gravelly and making you shamefully squeeze your thighs together.

"but that's alright, sweetheart. you have three others now, yeah?" the purr that comes out of his mouth is sinful, and when you nod and stammer out a yes, sir as if you were one of his soldiers and not the sweet girl that simon has brought to his captain, looking for approval of his newest toy, he only smiles.

simon's hand squeezes your thigh underneath the table, trailing upwards, and you're slowly understanding what it is that you've gotten yourself into.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Series Masterlist

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, Zak’s daughter OFC, forbidden romance vibes, very very slowburn romance, ableism on page, strong language, autistic meltdowns on page, eventual sexual content.

Notes — Hope you love it! Remember to check each chapter for individual warnings!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

THE WATTPAD LINK

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE GROUPCHAT INTERLUDE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

[tedmustache]

In sync

Pairing: Jack Abbott x Wife!Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Two doctors work in perfect sync, sparking curiosity among new interns. After shift, subtle truths begin to surface.

Requests are open | Main Masterlist

[...]

The Pitt was humming with life, chaos, and fluorescent light. It was one of those shifts where no one had time to breathe, much less eat, yet somehow, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. Y/N L/N never missed a step.

It wasn’t flashy. It was like muscle memory, the way they moved together. Jack would glance at a monitor, and Y/N would already be adjusting a vent setting. She’d murmur a stat order under her breath, and he’d be handing over the form before she finished.

“Jesus,” Whitaker muttered as he watched them intubate a patient in tandem. “It’s like they’re… psychically linked.”

“Or they have earpieces we can’t see,” Javadi whispered, eyes darting back and forth between the two attendings.

“They don’t even look at each other,” Dr. Santos added. “It’s eerie. What are they? Married or something?”

“Old,” came a voice from behind them. Dr. Robby strolled by with a chart tucked under his arm and a half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Old and terrifying. You’ll get there in ten years.”

The newbies blinked. Still, none of the new hires knew the real kicker.

Because no one told them.

The nurses, the residents, even the cafeteria staff. They all kept the secret locked tight behind knowing smirks and barely-contained laughter. It was tradition.

And tonight, the setup was perfect.

The shift ended just past 8:00 p.m. The team trickled out to the park across from the hospital. An unofficial post-shift ritual. Six-packs were cracked open, greasy takeout was distributed, and bodies collapsed onto benches and grass with groans of exhaustion.

Jack sat down on the bench beneath the park’s old oak tree. Y/N followed a moment later, plopping down beside him and handing him a cold beer without a word. He took it, nodded once in thanks, and rested his hand casually behind her on the bench’s backrest.

The newbies were huddled together with their drinks, watching the two of them closely.

“She just… handed him a beer. Didn’t even ask.”

“He just leaned closer. Did he smile?”

“Is this… are they…?”

And then, it happened.

Y/N, hair frizzed from the day, leaned her head gently onto Jack’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch or look surprised. He just shifted slightly so she’d be more comfortable, gave her a kiss at the cheek, and took a slow sip of his beer.

Javadi gasped audibly.

Robby was right there. He stood up with theatrical slowness and clinked his bottle against Jack’s with a smirk. “About time. PDA on the first date, huh?”

Jack rolled his eyes, and Y/N chuckled, nudging him with her shoulder.

“Wait, wait, what?” Whitaker sputtered, beer halfway to his mouth. “Are they together?!”

Dr. Santos, three bites into her falafel wrap, didn’t even look up. “Called it”

"We are married" Y/N said with a chuckle

“What?!”

Jack reached into his scrub top and pulled out a thin chain. On it, a modest gold band. Y/N mirrored him, revealing the matching ring around her neck.

The interns looked like they’d just been hit by a trauma case themselves.

“Four and a half years,” Y/N said with a shrug, sipping her beer.

“You knew?” Mel asked Langdon, stunned.

Langdon snorted. “Of course I knew. Everyone knows.”

“Everyone?” Javadi asked, eyes darting around.

A chorus of nods followed

Matteo added “We like to see who figures it out. It’s the only entertainment we get some nights.”

The newbies just sat there, stunned.

Jack and Y/N? Married? The most professional, zero-nonsense duo in the hospital?

Robby smirked at their dumbfounded faces and muttered to Jack, “Still can’t believe she said yes to you, man.”

Jack didn’t respond. He just leaned a little closer to Y/N, who was now resting comfortably against his shoulder, completely at ease.

And in that moment, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.

[sleepymarimo]

toji x reader // sfw!

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 doesn’t remember the last time he was gifted something.

“you got me what?” he asks again, kicking his sandals off at your front door for what seems like the millionth time.

you rise from your couch, the wood creaking slightly as you do so. “just some stuff for you to keep here so you stop using mine,” you reply, the shrug of your shoulders indicating how little of a deal it is.

in the kitchen, you rinse out the glass you’d been using. toji’s footsteps are barely audible over the sound of running water.

“there’s a few pairs of sweats in the hall closet,” you tell him, setting the glass down to dry. “and some other stuff in the bathroom. shampoo, body wash, toothbrush…”

the assassin lets out a small huff, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway. “you tellin’ me i reek or something?” he accuses, more so to brush off the odd feeling building in his gut.

“maybe.” comes your playful quip, your head tilting as you rest your weight on the counter and look at him. “but seriously, you just come around so often,”- his nose wrinkles at that, as he knows he crashes here much more than he should- “that i figured i’d just get you your own things. it’s not like it cost me an arm and a leg.”

with a yawn you stroll toward your room, lightly poking his chest as you pass him. “plus, you use up all of my stuff, dummy.”

he grunts, his eyes following you until you’re out of sight. “i don’t need fancy clothes or any of that crap,” he murmurs to himself, taking a few steps toward the hall closet.

his large hands wrap around the handles, sliding the doors open until he sees a pile of clothes resting on one of the shelves. three black tees stacked atop three pairs of sweats, some boxers and socks in a little box, all for him.

he picks up a shirt without hesitation, the fabric smooth against his calloused fingers. his brows furrow in concentration, maybe unease. this is for him, it’s his, and maybe that’s why this shirt is the softest one he’s ever felt.

with a gruff exhale, he snatches a pair of sweats and a clean pair of boxers, his steps unhurried as he heads for the bathroom.

the fan hums above him as the lock clicks into place, his eyes immediately darting to the shelves to see the new toiletries. his stuff.

inside the shower, toji’s shoulders sag.

it’s as if the water is washing away his defenses, the rugged, nonchalant exterior he wears now melting away in the comfort of your shower.

toji pops open one of the new shampoo bottles, taking in the scent and pouring it onto his palm. he wonders if this smell reminds you of him, if you put some thought into each item.

while he rubs it into his hair, he thinks about if he should pay you back. it’s not like he asked you to get him all this stuff, but still.

even when you’d first started letting him crash on your couch, you hadn’t demanded much in return.

“just don’t make a big mess and be decent, alright?” he remembers you saying.

and he was just fine with that. free room and board just for something so simple? he’d be a moron to decline.

it was only after around a week that he felt a familiar itch. he wouldn’t be in your debt, wouldn’t wait for the day when you’d inevitably ask for something.

so, he offered what he always did- himself. that’s what women usually wanted from him, anyway.

his idea didn’t exactly go as planned. if anything, it made him feel more conflicted, made him wonder why the hell you kept him around.

were you just lonely? did you enjoy his company?

“oh, no… i don’t do that,” you’d said, holding your hands up, flustered but adamant. “you don’t have to sell yourself to me or anything. who does that? like, what?”

the water patters on the tile floor, his body and mind feeling more clear and clean than they’ve been in a long time.

when the faucet squeaks shut, he steps out and snorts as he sees a new, fluffy black towel hanging beside yours behind the bathroom door. he grabs it, rubbing his scarred skin dry and running it through the damp strands of his hair.

the new clothes feel like heaven, truly.

in your room, engrossed by your phone, you barely hear the sound of the bathroom door opening. toji’s steps are almost silent, his arms crossing over his chest as he watches you beneath the covers.

he’s amused as you snicker at some post, the dim screen lighting up your face in the otherwise dark room.

“let me crash here, yeah?” he suggests, though it’s more of an order.

you’re startled, rightfully so, hiding your phone against your chest while you sit up straighter. “oh, you scared me! new clothes and you think you’re all that, huh? too good for the couch?”

yet, even as you chide him, you’re peeling back the covers for him, grabbing the extra pillows and moving them out of the way.

a satisfied grunt leaves him as he spreads out on the mattress, careless of the space he takes up. he tugs the blankets over his person, settling in like a big cat.

he curls into you. you don’t mind.

while you scroll along with one hand, the other supports his head and absentmindedly strokes the skin of his cheek.

his eyes watch you, his breaths becoming more steady and even. he’d never admit how much it means to him that you’d gotten him new clothes, new toiletries, practically a new home.

it’s more than he deserves, but he finds himself wanting to take as much as he can get.

he’s yours, even if he doesn’t know it. and, as the days go by, he wonders if you can be his, too.

[eccentricallygothic]

Divorced Dad!Captain Syverson who experiences a real time brain short-circuit when he sees how well you get along with his kids during your first meeting with them… 

Warning(s): Breeding kink, size kink, old man!Sy, age gap, manhandling, groping, fluff, boob play, unprotected p-in-v, I added plot to it TT. MDNI.

. . . 

After the messy divorce that followed his turbulent marriage, Sy was not looking forward to any relations with the opposite sex, if possible. With his former profession a constant hurdle to his life as part of a unionized pair and marital bliss, what had started as a promising relationship had turned out to be one of those unfortunate marriages where children were sought as a last resort to perhaps save the remnants of the already rotten love between man and wife. Though being someone from a background that held family in the highest esteem and always having been fond of the idea of his own lot, Sy loved his children more than life itself and there was not a thing in the world he would trade for them. And that was the reason why he had preferred to opt for an early retirement so custody would not be an issue between him and his ex-wife who was more than eager to shed off everything affiliated with the name Syverson like an illness.

You, on the other hand, though not much experienced with the opposite sex were not too warm to the idea of children. Being a student in her last year of higher education and only so old as you were, your attitude hardly deserved to be subjected to scrutiny. That, and the fact that you hadn't really had many young ones around you while growing up as an only child, calling you a foreigner to the scene would not qualify as an exaggeration and hence it can be said that it is more indifference than contempt on your part. 

So naturally, when it happened, it was strictly unplanned. And very fateful. With a rather traumatized Sy in a sort of an emotional limbo who had more than enough reason to keep to himself, and a stressed with soon approaching future endeavors as well as disillusioned with the opposite sex you, the night you had bumped into each other outside the bar restrooms where Sy had been dragged to cheer up by his friends and you to loosen up by yours, the rather fast yet steady rate at which the two of you had woven into each other had been unexpected to say the least. 

But now, as Sy fires up the grill in his backyard to begin the little BBQ he has planned for today when you meet his children for the first time, the prided and much experienced grill expert nearly burns his hand because he is so busy inwardly fawning over how quickly his rugrats have warmed up to you. And you, Sy will swear on anything that you are just the most perfect woman— person alive. Everything is just right with you. Even on days when the world seems to press down on him, your mere presence is there to help his spirits back up and elate as well as support him in every sense.

Though he had been honest about his condition since the beginning, after his initial reluctance to get with you as you were so much younger and inexperienced compared to him, children weren't peculiarly a topic that came up between the two of you except occasions where Sy wanted to share a little victory or rant with you. So as you keep his toddler on one hip with a protective arm around her, your perfect body -Sy's words- clad in a bonny bright coloured sundress, and hold the hand of his 5 year old who excitedly shows you around the mini patio of the modern farmhouse, memories of his own mother scarce if any, your making conversation with the boy and giggling along to his lisp droning flutters Sy's heart in a way that he thought he had outgrown. 

It also excites him with a kind of boyish heat that the former military Captain had thought he had shed off with his adolescent youth.

And so he just has to have you by yielding to a similar impatience and desperation, the musical sound of your giggles faintly fluttering its melodies upon his flush and thumping ears as he gets to it.

“God, Sy!” The huff in your words fires him up even more and he cannot hold back any longer. “You’re such a brute!” His coarse and scarred paws heavily pull at your dress with a crazed desperation to help you find the restroom, as he had told one of the farm hands that he had left the children under. “Oof!” The whine you let out before instinctively craning your head to try and ease the way his thick beard tickles the tender skin of the curve of your neck makes him growl into your carotid pulse that he worships with his hot lips, the pressure of your pressing your face into his as well as the soft pants you let out, your chest bumping into his with each heave of your lungs, only lithifies his bulging erection even more. 

“Gon' fatten up your pretty lil’ pussy with my cum, baby” Sy's breaths scorch your clammy skin with their burning weight. His hands grope and expose you everywhere they can reach, and they can do so everywhere because of how much smaller hence ragdoll-like you are compared to him. “Wouldja like that, angel?” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he boosts your thighs up his tall legs and around his waist, the fat and leaking tip of his cock grazing against your holes from how he is kissing you everywhere he can reach. “Me stuffing that cute tummy full of siblings for Tim and Bethy, huh?” You know he would never actually do something as serious so callously without a prior discussion so you breathlessly nod, pushing your oral muscles to gulp down the thick bile in your throat and tip your head against the wall to prepare yourself to withstand his intrusion of your pussy that thanks to his girth always feels like not only your first time with him but your very deflowering in general.

 “Yes” your mouth falls open as he reaches below the hold with which he has your whole body propped up. “Yes, please~” his balmy tip finds its destination in the tiny, drenched and quivering closed up band that leads to your reproductive cavern. “Please fimme with your babies, Sy~” when the stretch makes your tiny hole burn around his girth, your mouth lets loose all the obscene words of vulgar desire. 

“Yeah, baby?” Sy's fingers flex over your ass and caress their way up your side before coming down and repeating the action, his thumb stealing strokes of your nipples as he does. “Wanna make me a Daddy, yeah?” A hiss leaves your mouth and your back arches at the feeling of your walls sheathing him deep within themselves. His breathtaking urgency nearly puts a dent in your innards. “Want me to make you all round and heavy here?” Your pussy clenches around the hilt of his cock when he suddenly gropes your naval into a greedy handful.

“Yes, please, Sy!” Your whole form bounces up in the air when the man gives you a thrust so powerful that has you mewling and digging your nails in his shoulders. “Wanna make you a Daddy so bad, Sy!” His dick has always had a hypnotic effect on you, for the minute it's in the vicinity of any of your holes, you become a brain dead parrot for him. 

“Atta girl~” he cooes, tossing your body further up with a strong stab of his hips so he can clamp his teeth down on one of your boobs.

MASTERLIST

. . . 

I am MAD for this man. Like I am not even hot on kids. WHAT—

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Beneath a Dragon's Gaze

Summary: With Madame Sylvi indisposed on the evening Prince Aemond comes to visit, he requests someone different | Word Count: 1.7k~ | Warnings: sex work, smut, hair pulling, biting, titty sucking, darkish Aemond

A/N: saw ep 3 and felt silly 😁 not proofread an inch

“The Prince has asked for you.”

She could not help the wide-eyed look and the familiar flipping of her stomach, now feeling entirely different with the words that had come from her fellow woman’s lips. The Prince. Well, it could have meant either of them only weeks before, but no longer. They frequented this establishment quite often, as an upper-class brothel, with only the finest whores and service, it was only natural, and they had the coin to pay for it.

Suddenly, she felt quite cold in the sheer dress she had chosen that evening, doing very little to conceal the flesh that hid beneath, her nipples having formed peaks against the satin. What could she possibly say to that? There was no possibility of refusing. 

“Very well,” she responded, knowing it was not her place to question. There was no question as to which now, it was most certainly the very same who frequented for the warm embrace and soothing voice of Madame Sylvi, who spent hours in her company and paid her a hefty price for it. For secrecy. But she knew just as well that the only reason Aemond had requested her instead, was because on this night, his usual appointment was indisposed. 

Her heart raced as she slalomed through the scantily clad crowd, each step bringing her closer to the corner where the prince awaited. The halls were dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls, alongside those of curved figures, twisted with pleasure. She could hear the muted sounds of such from the other rooms, but they did little to quell the nervousness that gripped her.

When she reached the curtain, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The Prince. Aemond Targaryen. Known for his fierce demeanour and sharp intellect, he was not a man to be trifled with. Yet, beneath that cold exterior, she had heard whispers of a man burdened by the weight of his family.

Sliding the curtain across, met with the Prince, eyepatch already discarded and down only to his breeches, sat with cup in hand on the plush settee, his lone eye raising to her as she dipped for a curtsy. She felt her throat close at the sight of the sapphire, somewhat mirroring what was happening between her thighs.

"Madame Sylvi sends her apologies, my prince. She is unable to attend to you this evening."

Aemond's gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she felt her cheeks flush under his scrutiny. "I did not call for Sylvi tonight," he said finally, his tone giving nothing away. "I called for you."

Her lips parted to question. But she dare not let the words free. She was not one to ask about his intentions, a mere whore.

“Undress.”

The Prince’s eye never wavered as he watched, flesh revealed as she bared herself to him. He stood as if uncurling himself, finishing what was left in his cup before moving his hands to unlace his breeches, his head gesturing to the settee.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

His commanding tone made those flutters awaken once more. She had been employed at this establishment for so long, of course being naked and bared to an abundance of men was second nature. But there was something about the way he wanted her, the way it seemed not spurred by desire of any kind, but a need, like air, that ignited her nerves that she had not felt since her first few days in this line of work.

Still, bare arsed and exposed to a Prince, was a different matter entirely.

She felt his presence behind her, knowing he was naked as his thighs brushed against hers. He nudged her knees apart and pushed gently on her spine, encouraging her to arch her back. Though she could not see his face, the rippled design of the copper in front of her reflected enough for her to sense the detachment in his actions. So, she remained silent.

Prince Aemond guided himself to her centre, barely wet, and pushed his cockhead inside. He had barely breached her when his hands gripped the flesh of her buttocks, watching intently as his cock slowly slid deeper into her cunt, being swallowed by her body. She closed her eyes, the lack of preparation making the act more uncomfortable than pleasurable, but she hoped that with time, her arousal would ease the discomfort.

As Prince Aemond continued to push himself inside her, she focused on her breathing, trying to relax her body and ease the discomfort. The room was silent except for their breaths, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced on the walls. Each inch he gained felt like a stretch, a challenge to her body's readiness, but she bit her lip, determined to endure.

His hands, firm on her buttocks, began to knead her flesh, his grip alternating between gentle caresses and possessive squeezes. The friction built steadily, her body slowly acclimating to his presence. The initial pain started to fade, replaced by a growing warmth and the stirrings of pleasure.

Aemond moved with a deliberate pace, his thrusts measured and controlled. He seemed intent on watching every inch of his cock as it disappeared inside her, his breathing heavy and laboured. She could feel his intensity, the way he held back his own urges to maintain that slow, torturous rhythm.

Despite the initial discomfort, her arousal began to build. Her body responded to his movements, her inner walls slickening and accommodating his length with increasing ease. Soft moans escaped her lips, unbidden but honest, as pleasure began to mix with the remnants of pain.

Aemond's hands slid from her buttocks to her hips, pulling her back against him with each thrust. The new angle allowed him to go deeper, hitting spots inside her that sent jolts of pleasure through her body. Her fingers clenched the sheets beneath her, seeking some anchor as the sensations intensified.

He leaned forward, his breath hot against her ear. "Do you feel that?" he murmured, his voice husky and edged with restraint. "Do you feel how you take me in?"

"Yes, my prince," she gasped, her voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "I feel it."

Aemond's pace quickened slightly, his control slipping as his own desire took precedence. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, a rhythmic, primal music that spoke of need and release. Her moans grew louder, her body arching and pushing to meet his thrusts, seeking the pleasure that now consumed her.

With a sudden, possessive grip, Aemond's hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. His lips found her skin, teeth grazing lightly before he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to claim. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine, her body responding with an involuntary clench around his cock.

He groaned against her neck, the sound vibrating through her. "Take me, all of me," he whispered, his voice filled with approval and satisfaction. 

She surrendered to the sensations, her body melting into his as pleasure overwhelmed her. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word from Aemond drove her closer to the edge. The discomfort was a distant memory now, replaced by a wave of ecstasy that built with each passing second. His movements so erratic, his stones clapped against her womanhood with every harsh push, slapping against her bud in a steady, unyielding rhythm.

The sensation pushed her over the edge, her own climax washing over her in a powerful, all-consuming wave. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Finally, with a deep, guttural moan, Aemond drove himself to the hilt inside her once more, his body shuddering and then withdrawing quickly as he found his release and coated her buttocks and thighs with his pearly spend.

They stayed like that for a moment, both catching their breath, their bodies still joined. Slowly, Aemond released his grip on her hair and hips, his hands soothing over the marks he'd left. He pulled out of her velvety walls gently, leaving her feeling both spent and fulfilled.

She expected him to leave, to gather his clothes and slip away into the night, as most men often do with a flick of their coin into her lap. But instead, Aemond surprised her. He curled into her body, his head resting against her chest. His lips found her breast, mouthing at her skin with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of their earlier encounter. His hand moved to her other breast, caressing it with a gentle, almost reverent touch.

She looked down at him, her fingers threading through his silver, moonlit hair. He seemed to take more pleasure in this simple intimacy than she did, as if seeking comfort rather than mere satisfaction. His eyes were closed, his breathing steadying as he continued to nuzzle her chest.

"I hate it," he murmured after a long silence, his voice muffled against her skin.

She blinked, unsure of his meaning. "Hate what, my prince?"

Aemond shifted slightly, his hand stilling on her breast. "Sometimes, I think Madame Sylvi just says anything to appease me. She tells me what she thinks I want to hear, not what she truly believes."

There was a bitterness in his tone that caught her off guard. "Why do you think that?" she asked softly, her thumb stroking the back of his neck.

Aemond's grip on her breast tightened slightly, and she felt a shiver of unease. His lips brushed against her nipple, then his teeth grazed it, sending a jolt through her body. "Because it's easier for her," he said, his voice lower, more dangerous. "Because I'm a prince, and she fears offending me."

She gasped softly at the sensation, the mix of pleasure and pain reminding her of the precarious balance between comfort and control. "But you deserve honesty, my prince," she managed to say, her voice trembling.

He bit down a little harder, enough to make her wince. "Do I?" he asked, his tone a warning. "Or do I deserve the truth, no matter how it feels?"

Her heart raced, the threat in his words unmistakable. "The truth, my prince," she whispered, trying to maintain her composure. "Always the truth."

Aemond's teeth released her nipple, his tongue soothing the sting. He looked up at her, his eye fierce and unyielding. The sapphire lodged in the other piercing and dark. 

"Good," he said, his voice a soft growl. "Because I have no patience for lies, no matter how pretty they are."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

[lady-rose-moon]

The beginning of his reign || I have you || Loki x ofc!reader! ||

For people who have not read it, you can find the OFC's introduction HERE to know who the reader shall be through the duration of this story! The first chapter can also be read HERE , I hope you like it!

↣ MASTERLIST

↣ I HAVE YOU MASTERLIST

Again, welcome to I Have You! Please leave a comment and reblog!

Years after Sleipnir was taken, Loki had closed himself off from everyone around him apart from Isabella. Only she saw his grief and the growing disdain he had for the Odin family. A decade ago, Odin had announced to all of Asgard that Thor was to become their next King. That day, Loki hid away in his room and didn’t leave unless he was accompanied by Isabella. His soulmate was forever trying to find a way to get into the Royal Stables and set Sleipnir free, but he was bound to Odin, he couldn’t leave without him. News found Isabella and informed her that a giant wolf had appeared on one of the distant islands north of Asgard. Loki had elected to completely ignore any mention of his children to save himself from the heartache of going through their kidnapping again. 

Now though, Loki had become the respectable Prince that Odin wanted him to be. Cunning and manipulative, Loki had made his way up the ladder of hate. Many, like Lady Sif, hated him for personal reasons but some Aesir just hated him for his research into seiðr and other ranges of literature from different realms. Loki was okay with their opinions; they didn’t matter to him if it meant that he could remain in Odin’s good graces. Over the years, Loki had stored away all the hate for the old man deep inside him and never voiced them outside of the privacy of his own room with Isabella. 

Awakening on the day of Thor’s coronation, Loki grumbled and rolled over onto his side and wrapped an arm around Isabella’s waist. He didn’t want to get up and face Thor becoming King of Asgard when he clearly wasn’t ready. Sensing his turmoil, Isabella opened her eyes and smiled at the man in front of her. 

“Something bothering you, my prince?” Isabella mumbled, shifting her weight on the bed so she could sit up and wrap her arms around him. He settled into her embrace and kissed her head.

“Today is the day of triumph for Thor Odinson,” Loki mumbled, his hand snaking up Isabella’s back under one of the tunics she had stolen, “He is not ready, not even mother thinks he is, but Odin is so ready to give him the Throne.”

Isabella hummed in agreement and pecked his lips before slipping out of bed to go stand under the waterfall shower Loki had put in when he came back from his research trip to Vanaheim. The waterfall was freshwater and seemingly fell from nowhere at all. 

When he was alone, Loki sighed and flopped gracelessly onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as he allowed himself to think. He dived into his mind and started to organise his thoughts and lock away any jealousy. He thinks about the plan, about letting some Jötnar into Asgard’s vault to distract Odin from crowning his idiot brother as King of not only Asgard but of all the Nine. It was curious, in a way, how the Jötnar had agreed to his plans so willingly and how not even Heimdall had seen what he was doing in Jötunheim.

The monsters were desperate to have their beloved Casket back and he could tell why. Their home was falling to pieces. Loki couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Frost Giants and how decimated their world was. Despite this, Odin wouldn’t take action and he doubted that he ever would. Thor wouldn’t understand either and so he would wilfully ignore their pleas or wage war on them just to shut them up. Thor was like that; he was always acting before thinking which led to many lectures by Odin and Frigga. There was this time where…

“Don’t let hatred consume you, Lohk, it isn’t a very good look on you. Frigga always says that those thoughts will corrupt you,” came a voice from by his side. He jumped up and turned to look at Isabella, her hair wet and a towel covering her body. She was the epitome of beauty, in his eyes. She had always been there for him. Always showed him that despite everyone else hating him, she would always love him. 

“Today will be the day to start Asgard’s doom, pet,” Loki grumbled as he stepped up and green shimmered around him, changing his green tunic into his ceremonial garb, golden horns gleaming as the Asgardian sun slowly emerges in the East. Noticing the attention, he was getting, he chuckled, “you’re staring, my love.”

Finally coming to her senses, Isabella giggled and snapped her fingers, her towel changing into a deep green dress that showed her loyalty to Loki over Odin, even if it was subtle. Loki stared her down, seeing the symbolism behind her colour of choice and he wrapped an arm around her waist, conjuring a tiara onto her forehead with little horns on the front. At his side, she was truly the epitome of beauty and devotion.

“You know, sweet girl, I can wear less,” Loki whispered in her ear and Isabella shivered as his deep voice rolled through her but instead of acting on her desires, she turned in his arms and wrapped her own around his neck before pecking his lips. Their kiss deepened and Loki hungered for more, his hands roaming down her body to cup her ass, causing a squeal to escape her throat and she pushed slowly away from him.

“You know we cannot, Loki, you must go speak with Prince Thor before he departs to make his grand entrance,” Isabella mumbled, her eyes dropping from his emerald eyes to his lips more than once and she bit her own lip, “as much as I hate denying you, today is a busy day for Asgard.” 

Loki hummed and his appearance darkened slightly as his mind roamed back to his plan, “you’re right again. Today will be a big day for Thor and Odin.” 

With that, he kissed her cheek and marched out of their room, his boots clacking on the golden marble flooring. Isabella watched him go with a frown, she knew something was going on with her Loki, but she had no evidence, so she stayed to herself in hopes that she was just overreacting. Loki was a good man, always so polite and concise in meeting and on their dates through Alfheim, Vanaheim and sometimes even her home planet, Midgard.

Recently, though, Isabella noticed a change in Loki, he always frowned when he thought she wasn’t looking, he was always commenting on Odin’s choices for Thor being King and on more than one occasion, he claimed that he should be King over Thor, but she knew deep down that all Loki wanted was to be accepted and equal to Thor.

As Loki walked down the golden halls as he had for centuries, he considered the lifetime he had spent in Thor’s shadow. He had never known love from Odin when Thor was there. When he was little, Loki cried for hours for his father, wanting to know why Thor was always taken away to study as a warrior or why he was being allowed behind the big golden doors that lead to a meeting chamber. He didn’t understand at all, he wanted to know why he wasn’t treating the same as Thor. He wanted to be equal to his brother, but he couldn’t be, he would’ve known Odin better if he was loved by the man. 

“Well, a glorious day it is for a coronation, wouldn’t you think brother?” he spoke as he walked up to his brother’s side and smiled the most convincing grin he could, “I’d hate for it to be raining on your big day.” 

“Loki! Brother how are you this sweet morning? Is Lady Isabella not on your arm this day?” Thor turned to his brother and clapped him on the back with a grin, “it is a joy that you are here today brother, without you I wouldn’t have made it here,” as Thor spoke, he did not notice Loki’s smile drop into a small one where he looked hopeful since it quickly disappeared when he continued, “even if it were with your silly tricks!”

Loki moved away from his brother and nodded numbly, regaining himself and groaning as he realised, he had just allowed himself to break down his barriers for a moment and he got hurt. “I would never let you die, brother, you have my sincere word.” 

“Sincere? Sincere? You?” Thor turned to look at Loki with a dropped jaw and a look of incredulity. “You, my brother, are incapable of sincerity.” 

“Am I?” Loki turned to look at Thor as he noticed a servant bring over two jugs of Asgardian mead and he smirked as he twisted his wrist, shimmers of green surrounding the cups as the servant looked down and screamed, dropping the tray to reveal snakes in the mugs rather than mead and Loki smirked to himself. 

“Loki,” Thor sighed as he looked down at the mugs on the floor and the traumatised servant, “that is such a waste of good wine.” He turned to look at his brother and saw him smiling, smiling himself when he realised Loki was merely playing.

“Oh it was just a bit of fun,”  Loki commented as he watched the servant on the floor with a smirk, twisting his wrist again and the snakes disappeared in a green glow and he looked at the servant innocently as he scrambled to his feet, “right, my friend?” Loki asked and the servant nodded before scampering off and he let out a breathy laugh before the horns sounded in the distance. He turned to Thor and smiled, “I know we’ve had our rough spots throughout the years but do not doubt that I love you, even if you do ruin your image with that bloody hammer.”

Thor laughed and held his neck at the side gently, observing his brother for the first time in a long century, “and do not doubt, Loki, that I am always here if you are struggling. I miss her too.” He watched Loki freeze and his smile fall into a grimace and he knew he said the wrong thing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, “when I am King, you’ll understand why your children were taken.”

Loki rolled his eyes as he looked away and he patted Thor on the back before walking away and into the throne room, meeting Frigga at the door and he bowed to her before offering her his arm and when she took it, he felt relief in his heart that she chose to walk with him and not Thor. He nodded to her and started walking along the gold of the spacious throne room, stopping at the steps leading up to Odin’s throne. He bowed to Odin and Frigga dipped into a curtsy before he guided her up to where she was to stand, and he stood a step below her. 

No sooner than the moment Loki had stepped into his place had the song of Mjolnir sounded behind the crowds. They all cheered for their heir. Prince Thor was to become King. King Thor, Loki snickered as he watched his egocentric brother strut down the golden floor to Odin on the throne. Loki looked out into the crowd and easily spotted Isabella beside her sister at the front. She wasn’t cheering, she was mumbling to Serenity and laughing. He smirked slightly as he realised, she was probably talking about Thor in the way he was thinking. She was too much like him for her own good, that girl. 

Any moment now, the frost giants would be headed straight to the Casket and will successfully distract Odin. Loki watched as Odin stood from his throne when Thor knelt on the floor before him and he banged Gungnir on the ground, silencing the crowd almost immediately. 

Thor was smiling. He, of course, thought he knew what was coming. Unfortunately, he would not have his gracious day. 

“Thor…Odinson. My son, my heir, my firstborn,” Odin started, and Frigga glanced at Thor lovingly and Loki scowled subtly before schooling his features to indifference, “you stand here today before all of Asgard to proclaim yourself their King. So long entrusted with this mighty hammer, Mjolnir. Forged in the heart of a dying star, from the sacred metal of Uru. Only one may lift it. Only one is worthy. Who wields this hammer commands the lightning and the storm. Its power has no equal -- as a weapon, to destroy, or as a tool, to build. It is a fit companion for a King,” Odin chuckled breathily at the statement and Thor beamed. 

As Odin and Thor went through the vows, Loki bit his bottom lip in anticipation. They were here. He felt it and so did Odin. The look on his face spoke wonders. 

“Then I, Odin Allfather, do so name you…” Odin became distant for a moment and Loki’s heart leapt and he had to hold back the pleased grin when Odin mumbled, “frost giants…” 

Odin banged Gungnir again and Loki knew that the monsters had perished at the deadly beam of the Destroyer. When Odin started to march down to the vaults, Loki and Thor followed silently. 

When they reached the Casket, Thor looked around before turning to Odin and growling out, “they should pay for what they have done, this day.” Loki stayed silent, watching Thor now start to explode and he didn’t even need to do anything.

“They have paid, with their lives,” Odin replied, studying the condition of the Casket of Ancient Winters. Loki had never been allowed near it, nor had Thor. It was a battle prize but without it, Jötunheim would die. Odin didn’t care but Loki did, he didn’t know why but he did, “the destroyer did its job and the Casket is safe. All is well.”

“All is well?!” Thor boomed, raising Mjolnir as he took a step closer to Odin and the Casket. He really was angry and it excited Loki that his plan to prove Thor wasn’t ready was actually working! Thor rolled his eyes and continued, “They broke into the Weapons Vault! If the Frost Giants had stolen even one of these relics...”

“but they didn’t,” Odin mumbled, still staring down at the Casket, half-listening to Thor’s tantrum.

“Well I want to know why!” Loki looked at his brother with a raised eyebrow, what was he? Five hundred? 

Odin sighed and spoke again, “the Casket of Ancient Winters belongs to the Frost Giants. They believe it is their birth right.”  

Thor fought back with strength but not as Loki would’ve, “And if you hadn't taken it from them, they would have laid waste to all the Nine Realms!”

The Allfather was starting to look tired and Loki suspected that the planning of the coronation was never a very enjoyable event so that must be the reason. 

“I had a truce with the Jötnar King, Laufey.” Odin breathed and Thor huffed in annoyance. 

“They just broke your truce!” He yelled at the old man and Loki just watched in surprise.

“What action would you take?” Odin questioned and Loki knew it was a test, but Thor didn’t, so he continued.

“March into Jötunheim as you once did, teach them a lesson, break their spirits so they’ll know never to step over our borders again!” Thor answered quickly, not using his oafish brain. 

“You’re thinking as a warrior!” Odin exclaimed, glaring at Thor in anger. 

“This was an act of war!” Thor replied.

“This was an act of but a few, perhaps rogues.” Odin sighed and eyed Loki carefully before turning back to the Casket, “Hoping to take back the Casket and free one of three monsters.”

Loki did not respond to the bait; he stayed still and raised an eyebrow curiously at Odin’s choice of words. 

“As King of Asgard,” Thor began, only to be immediately cut off by Odin.

“But you’re not King! Not yet.” He seethed and Thor froze, Loki eying them carefully with reigned in amusement. 

Loki took that as a hint to leave and he hurriedly pulled Thor out of the Vaults and up to the banquet rooms. 

One behind the safety of the banquet halls doors, Thor stormed away from Loki and upturned a table, the food laid across it dropping to the floor as a result of his fit of anger. He seethed and sat down on the steps a bit away from the overturned table and he fiddled with his hands with irritation.

Loki slowly approached Thor and sat down beside him.

“It is unwise to be in my company right now, brother.” Loki turned his head to look at his brother with a faked sympathy, “this was to be my day of triumph.” 

Loki looked down at the golden floor before turning to face his brother, “It’ll come, in time. If it’s any consolation, I think you’re right. About the frost giants, about Laufey… everything. If a few could penetrate Asgard’s defences then who’s to say they won’t try again? This time with an army.” Loki fed Thor’s burning fire with an eager grin, hoping that his brother would take the bait as usual. 

Thor sighed and turned to look at Loki, “yes, exactly what I mean!” he exclaimed and stopped short when Loki spoke again. 

“But there’s nothing we can do without defying father…” Loki trails off as Thor glances at Mjolnir and now he knows that Thor has fully taken the bait, “no, no, no I know that look, Thor no.”

“It’s the only way to ensure our borders.” Thor glared at Loki as he gripped Mjolnir in his hand tight. 

“Thor, it’s madness.” Loki leaned forward, trying to keep his brother’s attention.

“Madness? What’s madness?” Volstagg spoke up from the other side of the table, stopping from, his attack on the boar leg to look at Loki and Thor carefully.

“nothing, Thor was merely jesting,” Loki started before Thor cut him off by walking forward. 

“The safety of our realm is no jest. We are going to Jötunheim.” Thor announced and the Warriors Three burst out laughing.

It was at that moment that Isabella walked in, her dress shimmering and disappearing into comfy leather leggings and a green tunic of Loki’s, “is something wrong? Why are we all gathered here and not meeting the King and Queen to discuss the interruption today? Serenity is already chin height up in conversation with the Allfather and she doesn’t want to be alone.” She walked over to Loki and sat down beside him.

“Thor proposes we march into Jötunheim just like father did and demand they keep their distance. That is no way a king should behave, and it will damage their views even more of the future of Asgard. We cannot have an oversensitive King,” Loki drawled, holding Isabella’s hand as a reminder that he was doing this for her. 

But still, despite Loki’s one-sided effort to stop his brother from visiting Jötunheim, they were already on their way to the frozen city dressed up warm and covered by their cloaks. Heimdall gave them little to no resistance and easily opened the Bifrost to them.

Once in Jötunheim, Loki looked around the wasteland with a suspicious feeling of safe. 

“What a waste. No wonder they want to escape, this place is falling apart.” Fandral commented as they walked on the uneven rocks towards the palace that looked as deteriorated as anything else in this world. 

Loki watched their surroundings carefully and saw a few Jötnar following them from behind and he summoned a dagger into his hand, his seiðr on the ready as well if he needed it. When they arrived in the melting throne room, Thor stepped forward.

“Laufey. King of the Frost Giants. I am Thor Odinson and I demand that you explain yourself for your attack on Asgard this morning.” Thor spoke with venom in his voice and Loki noticed how Laufey’s eyes narrowed when hearing ‘Odinson.’ 

“It was the work of but a few, little prince. It was not my intention to attack your kingdom on the day that you would become King. It may seem like it to your mind but I assure you, I was not aware of this attempt on your coronation,” Laufey spoke to Thor and since Loki was the God of Lies, he knew immediately that the Jotun was lying to his brothers face but he didn’t dare comment on it in fear of his treachery being revealed to everyone. 

“And yet you sit here, completely calm when you should be on your knees apologising to Odin about how you betrayed his treaty.” Thor snapped back.

Loki stared at his brother in shock before stepping forward and holding his bicep, “Thor look around you, we are heavily outnumbered here. Think, please…” He begged but Thor pushed him away.

When Loki stared at Thor in surprise, Thor turned to him and growled out, “know your place, brother.” That sentence was one he had grown used to, but it still broke his spirits every time it was said to him. It showed that Thor never saw him as his equal, he saw him as everyone else did, the spare. Loki stepped back and remained silent.

“I will let you leave now if you follow this gift them Asgard will not have to face Jötunheim in battle again. Fail to accept this chance and I will show you no mercy.” Laufey growled out and Loki saw his chance, stepping in front of Thor to look at Laufey and again, his body filled with the feeling of love and safe. He was confused but refused to let it bother him.

Taking a moment to consider everything before inclining his head, Loki spoke to Laufey, “we will accept your most gracious offer.” 

Thor glares at Laufey a moment longer before relenting and walking away but a nearby Jotun mumbles, “run along home, little princess.” 

Loki goes pale and he realises that his plan is all but nothing now, this wasn’t meant to happen, “damn.” He mumbled before Thor chuckled and threw Mjolnir into the frost giant and he did not get back up afterwards.

A battle ensued, one full of rage and hatred. Loki fought with his seiðr and daggers to save himself but when Volstagg yelled out, “don’t let them touch you!!” he got distracted and one of the Jötnar grabbed his wrist, intending to freeze him but instead, his skin shifted blue and he stared down at his hand as a feeling of home and safe flowed through him again. He stared down at his hand and watched as it turned blue with markings appearing on the back of his hand and he stared at it in horror and he met eyes with Laufey before pulling out a dagger and forcing it through the Jotun’s chest and he watches his hand shift back to his normal pale. 

“Thor!” Loki called, backing away from the fight as the Warriors three and Sif did, “we must go!!”

“So, go!!” Was Thor’s reply but that’s all it took for Loki to give up on waiting for his brother and to sprint back to the Bifrost site. 

“Heimdall open the Bifrost!” one of them called but no rainbow appeared, and Loki’s heart sank. Heimdall had warned them and they hadn’t been careful.

A beast appeared in front of them, a protector of the realm and Loki froze. He knew this was his last moment. But then Mjolnir flew by him right through the beast. It fell back and Loki almost sighed in relief before the Bifrost opened and Odin appeared riding his war horse.

“Father! Let’s finish this together!!” Thor called, holding up Mjolnir in delight. Odin turned his gaze over to Thor and hissed.

“Silence!” was all he spoke. Laufey then joined Odin but Loki couldn’t care less. 

He saw Sleipnir staring at him, he knew that look in his eye, it was longing, and he felt it too, he missed all of his children so much but he could not go to them without Odin finding out. Even now, even looking at Sleipnir felt wrong and he missed his little boy. 

Laufey declared war and then the Bifrost brought them all back, he watched a servant walk Sleipnir outside so that Odin could freely speak to Loki and Thor. 

An argument ensued between Odin and Thor and Loki watched them again and when he did try to step up, Odin yelled at him and he stepped back and looked at the ground. 

“Thor Odinson... You have disobeyed the express command of your King. Through your arrogance and stupidity, you have opened these peaceful Realms and innocent lives to the horrors of war!” Odin plunged Gungnir into the Bifrost controls and it roared to life behind Thor and Loki watched from a bit away, “you are unworthy of this realm, unworthy of your title! ...Unworthy of the loved ones you've betrayed. I hereby take from you your powers.” Odin summons Mjolnir and Thor watches in horror, “in the name of my father and his father before, I Odin Allfather, CAST YOU OUT!” he yells and Mjolnir blasts lightning into Thor, pushing him into the Bifrost. He then brought Mjolnir to his lips and whispered, “Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.” 

Loki watched as Odin threw Mjolnir into the Bifrost and then closed it and he sighed softly. He teleported away and into his chambers where Isabella was waiting on his bed with a book and she looked at him with a bright smile, “Loki!” She got up and ran over to him, hugging him tight and nuzzling her head into his neck, “you came back!” 

“Of course, I did. Not all of us made it past Odin, though… Thor has been banished. If anything happens to Odin… I’m King.” Loki mumbled sadly and gripped onto his soulmate, allowing himself to break in front of her, “I think I might be one of them, Isabella… I think I might be Jotun…”

“What makes you think that, Lohk?” Isabella mumbled, running her black nails through his hair with a gentle smile.

“One of them touched me but I didn’t freeze. I went blue!” He mumbled back and sobbed even harder, Isabella holding him as close as possible as he let go.

“Shall we go see?” Was all she replied with, but Loki knew she meant the Casket and he nodded numbly. He took her hand and walked down to the vaults, his nerves becoming an all-time high as he walked inside with her. 

Approaching the Casket, Isabella stood behind him and he reached out, gently taking a handle into his hand and he shook his head desperately when he saw that he was slowly turning blue. 

“Stop!” came a call from the top of the stairs and Isabella froze, turning to look at Odin with a smirk on her face.

“Am I cursed?” Loki asked as he gripped the Casket and his breath heaved as he felt the Casket reach out to him and tie herself around his seiðr. He gasped in pain but also in surprise to how right it felt for that to happen. 

“no…” came Odin’s response and Loki let out a breathy chuckle.

“Then what am I?” He asked as he glared down at the Casket with a hatred but the feeling inside him wasn’t hate, it was confusion and betrayal.

“You’re my son,” Odin replied, breathlessly and Loki shook his head, turning to face the Allfather for the first time in their conversation.

“What more than that?” He seethed and watched Odin’s reaction carefully, seeing how solemn he had become, he realised the truth, “the Casket wasn’t the only thing you took from Jötunheim that day, was it?”

“No,” came Odin’s breathless reply and Loki narrowed his eyes before putting the Casket down, ignoring the sadness in the back of his mind coming from the parasite that was the Casket’s consciousness. “In the aftermath of the battle, I went into the Temple, and I found a baby. Small for a giant's offspring -- abandoned, suffering, left to die. Laufey's son.”

Loki is sent reeling from the news and he mumbles it back to himself, ignoring how Isabella stands beside him and holds his hand comfortingly, “Laufey’s son?” he turned to look at Odin again and he whispered a soft ‘yes’ to which Loki looked around the room and tried to find any reason why Odin would’ve taken him from his home. This was why he had felt so right on Jötunheim, why when he looked at Laufey, he felt so safe. He was his son! His heir! 

“Why?” he whispered, feeling so small now under his father’s gaze and Isabella’s sympathetic hugs. “you were knee deep in Jötnar blood, why did you take me?!”

“You were an innocent child,” Odin began but Loki would have none of it.

“No, you took me for a purpose, what was it?” He waited moments before he snapped and screamed, “TELL ME”

Odin sighed, defeated and he looked at his adopted son sadly before starting to explain, “I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day, bring about an alliance, bring about a permanent peace... through you. But those plans no longer matter.”

Loki looked up at Odin, heartbroken as he mumbles a quiet “What…?” Before going on a rant, tears brimming in his eyes as he let go of Isabella, “so I am no more than another stolen relic, locked up, here, until you might have use of me?” 

“Why do you twist my words?” Odin mumbled, starting to feel faint.

“You could’ve told me what I was from the beginning, why didn’t you?” 

“You are my son. My blood. I only wanted to protect you from the truth,” Odin replied quickly.

“What? Because I-I-I am the monster that parents tell their children about at night?!” Loki yelled, tears dripping down his cheeks as he walked up the stairs, “It all makes sense now, why you favoured Thor all these years because no matter HOW MUCH YOU CLAIM TO LOVE ME, you couldn’t have a FROST GIANT sitting on the throne of Asgard.” Loki then froze, seeing his father on the floor reaching for him and he quickly got on his knees and started to shake as he observed his father, “guards! Guards, help!”

The guards ran in and gently lifted Odin, carrying him off to where he will sleep for as long as need be. Loki, however, stayed behind and hugged his legs.

Isabella sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder, “I’m sorry,” she gently whispered into his ear and Loki shook his head and turned to look at her.

“None of this is on your shoulders, my princess, the blame is all on Odin.” He growled lowly and accepted her hug with a sad smile, “I’m a monster, after all…”

“Stop, stop that. You’re no monster. You’re my love, you’re loved Loki! Monsters aren’t loved, they are feared, and I do not fear you! Nor does Serenity!” Isabella stroked his cheek and smiled lovingly at him, standing up and pulling him to his feet, “Now let’s go find Queen Frigga and sort this out, shall we?” 

Loki weakly nodded and headed out the door with her, happily accepting that she loved him and that he wasn’t a monster. As they walked to Frigga’s room, he noticed that people were staring at him and saluting him in the Asgardian way. He felt confused before he realised that he is now King Regent, unofficially, but still King. 

“It’ll take some getting used to, all of this,” Isabella mumbled as a maid curtsied to her, knowing that when Loki takes Gungnir, she will be Queen Regent of Asgard, and it will be her duty to take up the mantle of Goddess of Marriage in Frigga’s place.

When they walked into Odin’s bed chambers, Loki gravitated toward his side. He had seen an Odinsleep before but not one so drastic as this. He looked pale and so very aged, and Loki could not help but blame himself for doing this to his father, adopted or not. 

“You know, then?” Frigga spoke up and Loki’s eyes darted to her before he nodded in admission. “We wanted to tell you, Loki, but we never had the time to. You were always with Thor, going off on adventures and we couldn’t stop you. Odin wanted you to know but he could never find the right words to say. After what happened with your children, he made me swear that we would never tell you about your Jotun blood.”

“It wasn’t his right to hide something so important from me, mother.” Loki bit back, watching Frigga hold her breath and then nod sadly, “It wasn’t a burden. You couldn’t have just told me from the beginning? Couldn’t have raised me in my native skin?”

“But then everyone would’ve found out and another war would’ve waged for you to return to Jötunheim, you don’t belong there…” Frigga countered, meeting her sons’ eyes sadly and Loki sighed.

“Laufey didn’t want me. Odin made that quite clear.” Loki sighed and looked at the sleeping man, glaring hatefully at the man who had stolen his true life.

“But was he telling the truth?” Isabella spoke up, her arms crossed, and she was leaning against the bedpost with an indifferent look on her face, “what if he is still using you now? Manipulating your perception of the Jötnar for his own gain so that you will hate them more?” 

“you raise a good point, darling, that does sound like Odin Allfather. Passing on dirty bias onto his children so that they will do his bidding when the time is right. He would expect them to trust him. Even the Jotun runt he took in.” Loki mulled over the thoughts before his head was whipped to the side and he held his cheek in surprise, “Isabella?” 

“You… are not a monster nor are you a runt!” Isabella seethed and Loki stared at her in shock as his cheek started to sting from the slap, “am I clear?”

“Crystal!” Loki whimpered and Isabella backed off, satisfied. “but there’s still the issue of the throne. Mother? Will you be stepping up as regent?” he asked hopefully.

Frigga shook her head and held Odin’s hand, “this Odinsleep is not like the others, I fear the worst and so I must implore you to take the throne, Loki. It is what we have trained you for. Thor is banished…” 

As she spoke, the doors to the Odinsleep chambers opened and a lord walked in holding Gungnir and Loki stared at it in shock.

“Until Odin awakens, you are King. Do us and all of Asgard proud, Loki, my King.” Frigga bows her head and Loki turns to the Lord and hesitantly reaches out, taking Gungnir from him and holding it in his hand, feeling the power that swamped through him. He was powerful before but now that he held Gungnir, his seiðr increased and he revelled in the warmth it gave him.

Loki bowed his head to Frigga before offering his arm to Isabella, who immediately took his arm, and he walked out of the room. Holding Gungnir, he focused on the seiðr levels in the core of Asgard and found them to be weakening since Odin had announced that seiðr was a meagre set of skills and that only women were to use them. He would need to rectify that but not right now. Now, he headed back down into the Vaults with Isabella and stood before the Casket.

“Take it home, Lohk, that’ll end the war instantly.” Isabella offered, holding onto Loki’s arm, and smiling softly at him. 

“And risk them taking over all of the realms again? Not a chance. If we limit the use of the Casket, then… perhaps.” Loki replied and watched his wife sit on the marble floor; her feet dipped in the water in front of it.

“Meet with Laufey, then.” Isabella spoke, gazing up at him as she leant back against the marble. 

“I could but the only leverage I have is his Casket,” Loki mumbled, pulling the Casket off its podium, and staring down at it. 

“Maybe it’s not? What if Laufey misses his child? What if he is worrying for the child stolen from his temple. Think, Lohk. Why would someone abandon their baby in a temple?”

“Oh, I know, Isabella!” Loki snapped before sighing. Isabella frowned and stood up, holding his shoulder, and smiling at him with understanding.

 “I know this is hard for you, Loki,” She mumbled, her eyes filled with the love she felt for him and he glanced away, not feeling worthy of such appreciation. 

“It’s not just hard, I’m King now! There’s so many things that I’m not ready for that are now going to be expected of me,” Loki sobbed, holding onto Isabella’s hands now in a desperate attempt to ground himself, “the Casket recognises me as one of the Jötnar and it scares me because if it recognises me then so does Laufey and…” 

Loki was interrupted by a guard walking into the Vaults and kneeling before him, one hand over his heart in a fist, “Your Royal Highness, the King of the Jötnar has requested your council.” 

Loki’s heart stopped, he didn’t think Laufey would come so soon but he turned to look at Isabella and she nodded gently so he took a deep breath, grabbed the Casket of Ancient Winters, and nodded to the guard, allowing the man to guide him to the throne room. As he walked, he knew the Jötnar were there because the walls were now lined with ice and his breath showed when he exhaled. 

Sitting down on Hliðskjálf, Loki peered down at Laufey and his group, “you requested to see me, Laufey-King? I assume this is on the threat of war?” 

Laufey regarded him with a careful gaze before stepping forward, noticing how the guards immediately raised their swords to him in defence of the regent king, “I come to discuss the Casket of Ancient Winters, Odinson. Since my treaty with Odin is no longer in effect, I would like to request that you give it back. Jötunheim is dying without its life force and I see no reason why Asgard should host it any longer.” 

“You make a strikingly good argument, King Laufey but I suggest you work on your bargaining skills a bit better before speaking to me. I, Loki, King Regent of Asgard in Odin’s place. Why would you think I would so easily hand over the Casket to someone who knows how to lay waste to lands by merely lifting up that box?” Loki asked with a smirk as he leaned to the side of the Hliðskjálf to allow Isabella to sit beside him and he held her hand behind her back so that Laufey could not see that he needed her for strength.

Laufey let out a growl and glared at the youngest son of Odin, “Odin dared give you the name of my son. Odin murdered my first-born son after the war as a warning and then took our Casket. Why should I trust you to do anything different from what he did?” 

“Because I am not the senile old King that once sat here. I am Loki. I was born just as the war ended to Queen Frigga. She raised me more than my father and so I have compassion where Odin or my big brother do not. I see your realm for what it is, Laufey, I see it for how it used to be before Odin declared war. I apologise for the wrongdoings of the Aesir that took you away from the protection of the realms. Odin may not realise it, but I do, we need Jötunheim for the Yggdrasil to stay balanced. Without Jötunheim on the Yggdrasil, things will fall into ruin and I do not wish that to happen. With that in mind, I propose a truce,” Loki gave pause, studying Laufey’s expressions thoroughly with a raised eyebrow of false boredom.

“Another bargain for the peace of your world?” A general behind Laufey huffed out and Laufey held out his hand to stop the general.

“If it is a truce the false King requests then he shall get it. On what demands, your majesty?” Laufey asked, a sinister smile spreading across his face.

Loki stilled and made eye contact with his birth father and then he chuckled, “on the demands that you leave Asgard alone, patrol your subjects more thoroughly and in return we shall give you back your Casket.” Loki hesitated for a moment before smirking and standing up, “and perhaps your son when he is ready.”

Laufey also paused, observing the false king for a proper amount of time before speaking up, bravely keeping his sorrow out of his mind, “my son? My son died when your father waged war on my kingdom. He was slaughtered, made an example of. I had no hope of saving my boy. Now you sit here, Loki Odinson, with my son’s name and I ask... why? Why would Odin agree to give the throne to his spare and then also allow him to make decisions so rash as these are?”

“As I said before, I am not the old man who wanted to keep peace. I have a level mind, that is true but if you wish for a war then that is what Loki Odinson will give you,” Loki spoke and watched as Laufey took in his words and he chuckled deeply, “has rumour of my lies spread to even the most abandoned Realm? Do you know what I am, King Laufey?”

Laufey chuckled deeply and shook his head as he watched Loki, “you are a Silvertongue, you lie and manipulate, and you are the dark son of Odin for practicing seiðr without Odin’s consent. You grew from a boy that knew no boundaries of trickery into a perfect Prince. That is all you ever will be. A prince of Asgard.”

“I am more than just a meagre Prince, King Laufey. You stand before King Loki of Asgard and you will show some respect. Actually, I tire of this conversation. You may leave now; we will discuss this later.” Loki dismissed Laufey and watched as the guards pulled him away from the throne room, hearing the monster growl and try to fight.

Isabella stood from the Hliðskjálf and stood beside Loki, her hand resting on his shoulder gently and she helped him slow his breathing to one of calm, “you worry too much, my King. Asgard is prospering under your rule and everyone knows you will always be a great King. Offering to exchange peace for their Casket was a brave idea. Give Laufey a few days and see how he thinks about it when those days are done.” 

Loki looked at her and nodded softly, grateful that she was there to keep him balanced.

~~~

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[theetherealbloom]

Your Love Feels Like A Sunday When You Got Nowhere To Go

Summary: You are Pedro’s date to the SNL 50 celebration as his newly engaged fiancée.

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Suggestive Content, little SMUT, PiV, Dirty Talk, Short but sweet smut, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Surrounded by A-Listers, Dancing, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Red Carpet, Cameras, Paparazzi, Long Distance, Timezone Difference, Social Media, Interviews, I’m not a Spanish speaker, I might be wrong with the terms, please don’t come after me T^T,

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: Hi! Yes, I am still working on It Could Happen To You. School is being a bitch and I’m just in a weird headspace rn lol.  Anyway, since this is basically a series now… I’ll make a series masterlist for this soon tehe.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Your Love by JISOO

PEDRO PASCAL MAIN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST |

THE BOWERY HOTEL — DAY 

You arrived a day before the taping of the SNL 50th anniversary show, the energy of New York buzzing all around you. But inside the hotel suite, it was just you and Pedro, wrapped up in a world of your own.

Sweet, romantic Pedro. The man who hadn’t stopped calling you wife since he slid that engagement ring onto your finger.

You twirled the sparkling diamond under the dim lighting, still not quite believing it was real. It had been just over a month since Pedro had proposed, and somehow, you were still catching yourself staring at it in disbelief.

From across the room, Pedro watched you, his lips curling into a smirk as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Caught you staring again,” he teased, voice warm with amusement.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “It’s new. Let me have my moment.”

He pushed off the doorway, crossing the room in a few strides before wrapping his arms around your waist. “It’s not new to me,” he murmured against your temple. “I’ve known you were mine for a long time.”

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back to look at him. “I’m not your wife yet, Pascal.”

Pedro hummed, his nose brushing against your cheek as he whispered, “Hmm… nah. You are.”

You swatted at his chest, but the way his eyes twinkled made your heart melt.

“You’re impossible.”

He grinned. “And yet, you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” you muttered, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

Pedro chuckled at your faux annoyance, his warm breath ghosting against your lips as he leaned in. “You’re so cute when you pretend to be mad at me,” he murmured, tilting your chin up with his fingers before capturing your lips in a deep, slow kiss.

You melted instantly, hands threading into his hair as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss grew hungrier, his lips moving against yours with a languid sort of urgency, like he was savoring every second.

His hands roamed—one resting on the small of your back, the other slipping beneath the hem of your robe, fingertips teasing against your bare skin. A soft hum escaped you as his mouth trailed along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

And then it hit you.

“Wait—” You gasped, breathless, gently pushing at his chest. “We have lunch with Javiera.”

Pedro groaned dramatically, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Mierda.”

You giggled as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression somewhere between frustration and mischief. “Did I forget to mention I invited her to watch you perform?”

“You did,” he huffed, pouting slightly. “And I love that she’s coming. I do. But do we have to be on time?”

You gave him a pointed look.

Pedro sighed, rolling his eyes playfully. “Fine. Fine.” He took a step back, raking a hand through his already tousled hair. “But just so you know, you owe me later.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Owe you?”

“Oh, cariño.” His voice dropped to a sinful murmur as he trailed a slow finger down your arm. “Later tonight, I’m going to have my way with you.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but you smirked, smoothing your robe as if unaffected. “We’ll see about that, Pascal.”

His grin was full of promise. “Oh, we will.”

THE BOWERY HOTEL — AFTERNOON  

Lunch with Javiera was set at a quiet corner table in the hotel's restaurant, a space that offered just enough privacy for a family catch-up without feeling too closed off. The scent of fresh bread and herbs lingered in the air as you sipped on a glass of chilled wine, the engagement ring on your finger catching the soft afternoon light.  

Javiera beamed as she reached for your hand, examining the ring for what was probably the fifth time since you sat down. “It looks even better in person,” she said, her voice warm with affection. “I still can’t believe you two are finally engaged.”  

Pedro, seated beside you, chuckled as he reached for a piece of bread. “Finally? What’s that supposed to mean?”  

Javiera gave him a knowing look. “Oh, come on. Everyone saw this coming except you.”  

You laughed, nudging Pedro playfully. “See? Told you.”  

He huffed dramatically. “Unbelievable. My own sister conspiring against me.”  

Javiera grinned, sipping her drink. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way you talk about her when she’s not around. You’ve been a goner for a long time, hermano.”  

Pedro didn’t even try to deny it. Instead, he turned to you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. “Guilty as charged.”  

You rolled your eyes, but your heart melted at the way he was looking at you. Before you could say anything, the waiter arrived with your meals, setting down plates of fresh seafood and warm pasta.  

Javiera leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So, have you two started thinking about the wedding?”  

Pedro answered before you could. “She keeps saying she’s not my wife yet, but I don’t know… feels pretty official to me.”  

You groaned. “Pedro.”  

Javiera laughed, shaking her head. “He’s never going to let that go.”  

Pedro grinned, cutting into his food. “Nope.”  

You sighed dramatically, but you couldn’t hide your smile. “We haven’t talked about it too much yet. Everything’s been moving so fast. But we will.”  

Javiera nodded in understanding. “Well, no matter what you decide, just know the entire family is already planning in their heads. Mom is probably dreaming up wedding decorations as we speak.”  

Pedro groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Dios mío.”  

You giggled, squeezing his hand under the table. “At least we know it’ll be a party.”  

Javiera smirked. “A very loud one.”  

As the lunch carried on, the conversation flowed effortlessly, filled with teasing, reminiscing, and warmth. The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, casting a golden glow over the table, and you found yourself stealing glances at Pedro every now and then—marveling at the fact that this was your life now.  

Engaged. In love. Surrounded by family.  

And if Pedro had his way, he’d be calling you his wife a lot sooner than you expected. 

THE BOWERY HOTEL — EVENING

After a long, exciting day, you and Pedro decided to call it an early night, opting for the comfort of your hotel room over any glamorous outings. Room service had just arrived, and the two of you sat on the plush bed, plates of warm pasta and glasses of wine spread out between you. The room was dimly lit, the soft golden glow of the bedside lamps casting a cozy warmth over everything.

Pedro swirled his wine glass lazily, leaning back against the headboard with a contented sigh. “This is perfect,” he murmured, glancing at you with the softest eyes. “No loud crowds, no cameras—just us.”

You grinned, taking a bite of your pasta before setting your fork down. “I still can’t believe you’re going to be on SNL again. It feels like just yesterday we were watching your first episode from our couch.”

Pedro chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, and I was nervous as hell back then.”

“You were incredible, though,” you said earnestly, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “And you’ll be even better this time. I’m so proud of you, Pedro. Not just for this, but for everything. For who you are.”

His ears tinged pink, and he let out a bashful laugh, shaking his head. “Stop, you’re gonna make me all emotional.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, scooting closer. “You work so hard, and you never let the pressure change who you are. That’s why people love you. That’s why I love you.”

Pedro set his wine glass aside and turned to face you fully, his expression melting into something unbearably tender. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “But I thank whatever force in the universe brought you into my life every damn day.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re just saying that because I let you steal half my food.”

Pedro smirked, feigning innocence. “Who, me? Never.”

Before you could protest, his fingers darted to your waist, tickling you mercilessly. A shriek escaped your lips as you collapsed onto the bed, writhing in laughter. “Pedro! No—stop! I’m gonna spill the wine!”

He was laughing just as hard, his face split into the most joyful grin as he kept at it. “Not until you take back that accusation!”

Through uncontrollable giggles, you tried to escape, but he was relentless, his hands finding every ticklish spot. “Okay, okay! You’re innocent! You’re a saint!” you gasped between bursts of laughter.

Pedro finally relented, collapsing beside you, both of you breathless from laughing. You turned to face him, your eyes still shining with amusement, but the moment shifted as his gaze softened, darkening with something deeper. His hand brushed over your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jawline.

“You really do mean the world to me,” he murmured, his voice hushed and full of emotion.

Your breath hitched as his lips met yours, slow and deliberate, the laughter between you fading into something softer, needier. His hand slid to the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you melted into him, sighing against his mouth. His body pressed against yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin as he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned into your mouth, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between you. The air grew thick, charged with heat and unspoken promises. Pedro’s lips trailed down your jaw to your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point just enough to make you shiver.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your head back as his hands explored, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing slow circles over your bare skin. “Then maybe we should do something about it,” you whispered, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin.

Pedro didn’t need to be told twice.  

The moment your lips met, any remaining restraint melted away. His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The heat between you was intoxicating, a slow burn that built with every kiss, every teasing graze of his fingertips over your exposed skin.  

His mouth was hungry, insatiable, devouring you with a passion that made your breath hitch. He kissed you like he’d been starving for you, like he was trying to drown himself in the taste of you. His tongue swept against yours, deep and slow, coaxing a soft whimper from your lips that only spurred him on.  

“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth, his voice thick with desire. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.”  

You gasped as he rolled his hips against yours, the hard press of him igniting something primal deep within you. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, desperate to feel more—more of him, more of his warmth, more of the intoxicating way he made your body feel like it was on fire.  

“Then show me,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but Pedro heard it loud and clear.  

His answering smirk was sinful. “Oh, I plan to.”  

In one swift motion, he flipped you onto your back, settling between your legs. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress in the most delicious way, making you arch into him instinctively. His hands wandered, sliding beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming over your stomach before tracing a slow, teasing path upward.  

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. “I’ll never get tired of looking at you. Touching you.”  

You shivered under his touch as he pushed your shirt up higher, his fingers grazing over your bare skin with a maddening slowness. His lips followed, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, lower and lower, until he reached the edge of your bra. He paused, glancing up at you with hooded eyes, silently asking for permission even now.  

“Pedro,” you whined, your body arching toward him, desperate for more. “Please.”  

That single word sent a visible shudder through him, his control hanging by a thread. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered before finally peeling your shirt off, his eyes darkening at the sight of you beneath him.  

His lips were everywhere—on your throat, your shoulders, the swell of your breasts. He took his time worshipping you, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of exposed skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The contrast of his rough stubble against your soft skin made you gasp, sending a delicious ache straight to your core.  

“You’re killing me,” you murmured, your nails digging into his back as he teased you, his lips hovering just above where you needed him most.  

Pedro chuckled, his breath hot against your skin. “Patience, mi amor.” But the way his voice wavered, the way his own body trembled against yours, told you he was just as desperate.  

And then—finally—his mouth was on you, his kisses turning scorching, his hands gripping your thighs as he moved lower.  

The next moments were a blur of pleasure, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, his touch unraveling you until you were nothing but gasps and moans beneath him. Every flick of his tongue, every slow grind of his hips against yours sent you spiraling higher and higher, until you shattered beneath him, trembling, breathless, completely undone.  

Pedro didn’t stop. Not yet. He guided you through the aftershocks, whispering sweet praises against your flushed skin, his voice raw with love and desire. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So fucking perfect for me.”  

When you finally opened your eyes, dazed and blissed out, Pedro was hovering above you, his gaze soft but filled with something deeper—something more than just desire.  

“I love you,” he whispered, brushing damp hair away from your face. “Always.”  

Your heart swelled, your body still humming with pleasure as you reached up to cup his cheek, running your thumb over the stubble there. “I love you too,” you murmured, pulling him down for a slow, languid kiss.  

And as he wrapped you up in his arms, bodies tangled beneath the sheets, you knew—there was no place in the world you’d rather be.

THE NEXT DAY…  

THE BOWERY HOTEL — AFTERNOON

The hotel room buzzed with energy, a symphony of laughter, light conversation, and the occasional pop of a hairspray bottle. Your glam team moved around you in a carefully choreographed dance, curling strands of hair, blending makeup, and adjusting the final touches of your red-carpet look. The air smelled of floral-scented powders and expensive serums, mixing with the faint, crisp scent of fresh linens from the open balcony door.  

It was a beautiful afternoon in New York, golden sunlight pouring through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over everything. The excitement in the room was palpable—not just for the event, but for you.  

“So,” one of the hairstylists, Bella, said with a teasing grin as she ran a brush through your hair, “how does it feel to be engaged to Hollywood’s most beloved man?”  

You let out a soft laugh, glancing at yourself in the mirror as the makeup artist dusted a final touch of highlighter on your cheekbones. “Surreal, honestly. I keep waiting for someone to shake me awake and tell me it’s all a dream.”  

Another stylist, Marie, chimed in, hands on her hips as she admired your nearly finished look. “Well, if it is a dream, you’re living in the most romantic one ever. That ring? Stunning. And the way he looks at you? Girl, you won.”  

Your heart squeezed at her words, warmth blooming in your chest. You knew exactly what she meant—Pedro had a way of looking at you like you were his entire world, like nothing else mattered when you were in the same room. Even after all this time, it still made you breathless.  

As if on cue, the door creaked open, and in walked Pedro, freshly showered, the scent of his cologne—a mix of cedar, citrus, and something undeniably him—filling the room. His tousled curls were still damp, his beard neatly trimmed, and he wore a fitted brown V-neck shirt that clung to him in all the right ways, paired with black dress pants that hugged his hips perfectly. A blazer hung over his arm, though from the easy smirk on his lips, he didn’t seem in any hurry to put it on.  

And, of course, he was grinning.  

“Talking about me?” he mused, his voice carrying that familiar playful lilt as he sauntered in, hands casually slipping into his pockets.  

Your stylists all exchanged knowing looks before Bella smirked. “Oh, always.”  

Pedro chuckled, then placed his hands on the back of your chair, leaning down so his face appeared beside yours in the mirror. His deep brown eyes flickered over your reflection, admiration evident in his gaze. “Damn, Hermosa…” His voice dropped lower, more reverent. “I might have to fight off every person at this event just to keep their eyes off you.”  

Your stomach flipped at the intensity in his tone.  

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress the giddy smile tugging at your lips. “Smooth.”  

“I’m serious,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your bare shoulder. The heat of his lips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, your breath catching in your throat.  

Marie let out a dreamy sigh. “Ugh. The romance.”  

Pedro straightened, clapping his hands together with a playful grin. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you all to it. Just needed to see my girl before we head out.”  

But as he turned to leave, he caught your gaze in the mirror again, his expression softening into something deeper, something unspoken. And then—he winked.  

A flutter of warmth spread through your chest, and you realized something.  

No matter how many times you saw him, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were the only person in the world—you would never get used to it.  

As the final touches were made, you finally stepped into your dress—a breathtaking gown that made you feel like a dream. It was an elegant yet modern off-the-shoulder number, the fabric a deep, rich shade that complemented your skin tone perfectly. The fitted bodice flattered your curves, while the flowing skirt trailed behind you like a soft cascade of silk.  

You took a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down the fabric before turning toward the door—where Pedro was waiting.  

He was already dressed in his full look, a classic black suit tailored to perfection, the crisp white dress shirt beneath unbuttoned at the collar just enough to drive you a little insane. His salt-and-pepper curls were styled just so, his beard neatly trimmed, and his warm brown eyes—those eyes that always made you feel like the only person in the room—were already locked on you.  

And when you stepped into his view, his breath audibly hitched.  

"Dios mío…" His voice was barely above a whisper, but you heard it, felt the weight of it settle deep in your chest.  

A slow, smitten smile tugged at your lips. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Pascal.”  

Pedro exhaled a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart as he took a step closer. “Mi amor, if I wasn’t already planning to marry you, I’d be proposing again right now.”  

You let out a breathless laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re ridiculous.”  

“I’m serious.” His hands found your waist, his fingers brushing lightly over the fabric as he shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my life. And I mean that. Completely. No exaggeration.”  

Your throat tightened, emotions swelling too fast, too much, because—God, how did he do this to you? How did he make you feel so seen, so loved, so entirely his without even trying?  

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him. “Pedro, you can’t say things like that.”  

He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Why not?”  

“Because…” Your voice wavered, and you let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “Because you’re going to make me cry.”  

Pedro’s expression melted into something impossibly tender. “Oh, baby…” He cupped your face instantly, his thumb tracing along your cheek as he studied you, his own eyes glassy now. “Then let’s cry together. Because fuck, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do with it sometimes.”  

Your breath hitched, a tear slipping free before you could stop it. Pedro caught it with his thumb, brushing it away before leaning in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips—like he was sealing in everything he couldn’t say.  

You clutched his lapels, pulling him closer. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”  

Pedro huffed out a soft laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “You existed, mi amor. That’s all you ever had to do.”  

A choked laugh left your lips as you shook your head. “You’re the most sickeningly romantic man alive.”  

“And you love it,” he teased, his nose nudging against yours.  

“I love you,” you corrected, voice barely above a whisper.  

Pedro pulled back just enough to look at you fully, his expression so full of love, so full of everything that it made your chest ache. He took your hand in his, bringing it to his lips and kissing your engagement ring before intertwining your fingers.  

“You ready?” you murmured, voice still thick with emotion.  

He squeezed your hand, his gaze never leaving yours. “With you?” He smiled, soft and certain. “Always.”  

And with that, you stepped out into the night, hand in hand, heart in heart, ready to take on the world—together.  

ROCKEFELLER CENTER, STUDIO 8H — EARLY EVENING

The moment you stepped out of the car, camera flashes erupted like fireworks.

Pedro’s hand was warm in yours as you both made your way down the red carpet, stopping every few feet to pose for photos. Reporters called out his name, some calling yours, and you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nerves crash over you.

Pedro must have sensed it, because he squeezed your hand, leaning down to whisper, “Breathe, baby. I got you.”

And just like that, the tension melted away.

You reached the interview section, and almost immediately, Entertainment Tonight flagged you both down.

“Pedro! Congratulations on SNL’s 50th! And—oh my gosh, congratulations to both of you on the engagement!”

Pedro beamed, pulling you a little closer. “Thank you. Yeah, it’s been a hell of a year.”

The reporter turned to you. “How does it feel to be engaged to the Pedro Pascal?”

You laughed. “Honestly? Like dating a golden retriever with a credit card.”

Pedro clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. Wow. Betrayed on live television.”

The reporter laughed. “Well, it’s clear you two are head over heels. Pedro, can we expect wedding bells soon?”

Pedro turned to you, his smile softening. “Whenever she’s ready. No rush. I just know she’s it for me.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned back to the reporter, your own smile matching his. “Yeah. He’s it for me, too.”

And as the night went on, with the lights, the cameras, and the sea of Hollywood’s biggest stars surrounding you both, you knew—Pedro was right. You were already his.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

STUDIO 8H – SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE 50TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL

You loved watching Pedro perform on stage. It was one of your absolute favorite things. The way he commanded the room with effortless charisma, the way he delivered every line with that perfect balance of humor and sincerity, the way he owned the stage—he was a natural. An absolute force.  

And really fucking funny.  

Sitting in the audience, you could barely keep it together. The energy in the studio was electric, but nothing compared to the way your heart pounded watching him up there, in his element, making an entire room—hell, millions of people—laugh like it was the easiest thing in the world.  

And then it happened.  

The skit with Sabrina Carpenter had already been hilarious—Pedro leaning into his role, playing it up with exaggerated expressions and that perfect comedic timing that had everyone in stitches. But when the music kicked in and he suddenly started hip-thrusting into the air, fully committing to the bit with zero hesitation, your jaw unhinged.  

“Oh. My. God,” you breathed, your entire body stiffening as your brain tried to process what you were seeing.  

Javiera, sitting beside you, didn’t miss a thing.   

“Are you—oh my God,” she cackled, smacking your arm. “You’re so done for.”  

You barely registered her words because your entire world had narrowed down to him—Pedro, on stage, grinding the air like it was his job, all while belting out the ridiculous lyrics to the skit’s song.  

Your face was on fire.  

“Shut up,” you hissed, pressing your hands to your face in a weak attempt to cover how absolutely hot and bothered you were.  

Javiera just laughed louder, fully reveling in your suffering. “No, no, no—don’t go all shy now! Own it, babe. That’s your fiancé up there.” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice just enough so only you could hear. “And let’s be real… if he’s that good at hip-thrusting in public—”  

“Javiera!” you choked, shoving her while she doubled over in laughter.  

You turned back to the stage just in time to catch Pedro glance toward the audience, his eyes scanning the crowd before they found you. And oh, the moment he locked onto your completely flustered, scandalized expression, his lips twitched into the smuggest smirk you’d ever seen in your life.  

That bastard knew exactly what he was doing.  

He winked.  

You swore your soul left your body.  

Javiera grabbed your arm, wheezing with laughter. “Oh, you’re in trouble tonight.”  

And yeah. She was absolutely right.

You were in so much trouble.  

But before you could even fully recover from the absolute chaos of Pedro’s hip-thrusting performance, the next skit rolled in—and it wrecked you all over again.  

Pedro walked onto the stage, transformed.  

His usual effortless charm was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a full-blown, committed hillbilly persona. He wore the most ridiculous wig, long and messy, nearly covering his eyes, and a graphic shirt that looked like it had seen better days. The second he opened his mouth, putting on that exaggerated twang and delivering his lines with painstakingly perfect comedic timing, you lost it.  

Javiera was right there with you, grabbing your arm as she wheezed through her laughter. “Oh my God—look at him! I can’t—”  

You could barely breathe. “Stop, I’m actually about to die.”  

Onstage, Woody Harrelson and Kate McKinnon were trying—and failing—to keep straight faces as Pedro went all in on the character, telling some completely unhinged story about how the aliens had abducted him and taken a very inappropriate interest in his “hillbilly butt.”  

And then came the moment—  

Meryl Streep, Meryl fucking Streep, turned to Pedro, trying to deliver her line with composure, but Pedro—your Pedro—gave her this completely deadpan look, blinking beneath that ridiculous wig before delivering a line so absurdly timed, in that perfect hillbilly drawl, that Meryl Streep—the queen of acting herself—broke.  

Her head dipped forward as she cracked up, covering her face, shaking her shoulders, and the entire audience erupted. 

You lost your mind.  

“Oh my God he just made Meryl Streep break character,” you gasped, gripping Javiera’s arm as you struggled to stay upright in your seat. “That’s it. That’s the peak. That’s the moment.”  

Javiera shrieked through her laughter. “Your fiancé just made one of the greatest actors alive break on live TV. Babe, you won.”  

Tears streamed down your face as you tried to pull yourself together, but Pedro kept going, doubling down on his character’s antics, sending the entire studio into absolute hysterics. The audience was howling, and you? You were on the verge of falling out of your damn seat.  

To say you were proud of Pedro was the understatement of the century.  

He was killing it.  

And when the skit finally ended, the camera catching Pedro barely holding it together as Woody clapped him on the back and Meryl wiped away her tears of laughter, you saw it—that look he gave, that quick flicker of his eyes searching the audience, finding you.  

And when he did?  

He grinned.  

That big, beautiful, unbelievably smug grin.  

And you knew.  

You were so in trouble tonight.

STUDIO 8H – LATER THAT NIGHT

After his skit, he’d barely disappeared backstage before returning to you, his face still slightly flushed from all the laughter and adrenaline. And just when you thought he couldn’t get any more irresistible, there he was—dressed in a plain white henley, the soft fabric stretching just right across his chest, his sleeves pushed up enough to show off those strong forearms.  

And those glasses.  

The square-framed ones that made him look ridiculously handsome, the ones that had your brain short-circuiting every time he wore them.  

Oh, you were so done for.  

Pedro slid back into his seat between you and Javiera, flashing you a small, knowing smile. His hand automatically found your thigh, squeezing lightly—just a touch, nothing inappropriate, but enough to send heat flooding through your body. You swore the bastard knew exactly what he was doing.  

So you did what you knew would drive him crazy.  

You turned to him, grabbed his face, and kissed him dizzy.  

Pedro inhaled sharply through his nose, but he barely hesitated, responding immediately—his hand sliding up to your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to claim you, as if he wanted to pull you into his lap right then and there. His lips were warm, soft, and eager as they moved against yours, deepening the kiss just slightly. His thumb brushed over your ribs, and you felt the way his breath hitched, like he was fighting the urge to take things further.  

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his henley as he kissed you like he needed you—slow, lingering, with an almost teasing edge.  

Javiera groaned beside you. “Alright, you two, I am still here.”  

You pulled away with a breathless laugh, Pedro’s lips still chasing yours even as you separated. His forehead rested against yours for a lingering second, and when he finally pulled back, he gave you that devastatingly soft look—the one that made your heart flip inside your chest.  

“You keep kissing me like that, mi amor,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise, “and I’m not gonna make it to the after-party.”  

You smirked, letting your fingers trace along his jawline. “Who said we’re going to the after-party?”  

Pedro’s eyes darkened ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smirk. He gave your thigh another squeeze, this time lingering a little longer.  

But before he could say anything—  

Paul fucking McCartney took the stage.  

The first notes of Golden Slumbers filled the room, the familiar melody wrapping around you like something magic.  

Pedro’s entire body shifted as if on instinct. His fingers laced through yours, squeezing tight, before pulling you up with him.  

“You’re dancing with me,” he murmured, voice low and full of emotion, his breath brushing against your ear as he wrapped an arm around your waist.  

“You act like I’d ever say no.”  

Pedro chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he held you close. His other hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you effortlessly as he swayed you in slow, easy circles.  

His touch was everywhere—warm, solid, grounding. You let yourself melt against him, your cheek resting against his chest as the music carried you both away.  

“Once there was a way… to get back homeward…”  

Pedro hummed softly against your temple, his voice low, affectionate. You felt the way his arms tightened around you, the way his fingers traced lazy circles against your spine.  

“You have no idea how much I love you,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.  

Your throat tightened. “I think I do.”  

His lips brushed your forehead. “You’re everything to me.”  

You closed your eyes, letting the moment sink in, letting his words settle in your heart like something precious.  

As Carry That Weight began, the crowd’s energy shifted—cheers, laughter, voices singing along. Pedro lifted your hand, spinning you gently before pulling you right back into his arms.  

You laughed, breathless, the warmth in his eyes making you weak. “You’re gonna make me cry.”  

Pedro’s hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with so much tenderness. “I love you,” he whispered. “More than I know how to say.”  

And that was it.  

You surged forward, pressing your lips to his, letting the kiss speak for you. It was soft, full of love and something deeper—something that felt like forever. Pedro kissed you back just as sweetly, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go.  

As The End played, the final notes echoing through the studio, you held onto Pedro like he was your whole world.  

Because he was.

[baeshijima]

— spoils of war

as heir to the throne, you were more than prepared to face the consequences of losing a war. your duty will forever remain for as long as you breathe, and if that meant bearing the weight of countless sacrificed souls and carrying it with you for the rest of your life, or even being forced to watch your land burn before your eyes was the price you had to pay, then so be it.

the last consequence you could have ever expected and were the least prepared for, however, was an offer of marriage from the ruler of the victorious nation.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 3.5k wc, fluff, slightly suggestive ending, royalty!au, marriage of convenience (kind of), vague mentions of war & blood, mentioned assassination attempt, mentions of having children (very vague and in the "heir to the throne" kind of way), use of "mydeimos" and "mydei", reader is having an existential crisis; mydei is, um, mydei-ing, written pre-3.0

A/N : is this ooc? um... we will find out haha !! (the moment i saw this man i was wondering how i could royal au-ifiy him (outside of him already being a crown prince, that is). i thought of him being a mercenary or personal guard, but @sfznyxio ty for putting the words 'king' and 'mydei' in the same sentence when u showed his drip in the server bc this idea was born and now i am terminally unwell for him 🙏 but also how did this turn into an actual fic when it was literally a 2 para brainrot in discord... where did this plot come from...)

King Mydeimos, present ruler of Kremnos Kingdom, is infamous across the lands. He is a rumoured tyrant thought to have killed his bloodline in order to obtain this position, whose name alone strikes fear into many, and the very same being who just won the war against your own kingdom.

When marching through the capital to reach the steps of the palace after seizing victory and bathed in the lights of glory, his troops following close behind, you thought he would demand for the materialistic spoils such as the kingdom’s trove, maybe choose to seize control over the defeated land and its troops, or perhaps even wreak further havoc within the castle walls. Given the name he has built for himself, it certainly wouldn't surprise you if he decided to forgo all formality and instead brandish his sword like a blood-bathed barbarian.

And so when he appears in the palace entrance, the setting sun giving his rugged appearance a far more... put together look than expected (you refuse to admit the enemy's ruler to be... handsome, of all things), a recitation of prayers hammered into your head throughout the years of etiquette training spring to mind. If you're destined to fall here, you at least wish to perish with thankful thoughts!

...At least, that was the original plan.

So why is it now you're hearing him ask your father and mother, the king and queen of this now defeated kingdom, for your hand in marriage? Where did this sudden formality come from? No, why is he suddenly bowing to his defeated enemies? And— lord almighty above, did he really have to do this here and now? In front of your nation's high council and his own men, no less!

It is safe to assume every jaw except for Mydeimos' dropped into the nether realm, all eyes gawking at his tall, unperturbed figure bowing in respect towards your parents in the centre.

Having probably sensed the rather awkward air bubbling amidst the dumbfounded troops, your parents turn to you in wait for your decision. Despite the apparent pleas in their eyes for you to not agree to such a ludicrous turn of events, what choice do you really have other than to accept? Who knows what this so-called tyrant could do should you refuse this offer when he is being so lenient!

An audible gulp escapes the base of your throat the moment his scalding gaze locks onto you after your hesitant words of approval, searing a trail of where his eyes trails onto your skin.

Seriously, you haven't been on the receiving end of many — if any — wars, but you're almost positive they don't end this... pleasantly, for a lack of better words.

(Who would've thought you would be a spoils of war, as opposed to the national treasure trove...)

Set to depart when the sun rises, there is little time to gather your bearings and your belongings. Servants are bustling while your parents crowd around you, asking if you're really going to go through with this and, “You can say no! If they don't take your rejection well, we can smite them with our army!”

To that, all you have to say is, “...What army? They're all dead.”

They didn't take that very well, if their concerning increase in flowing tears have anything to say about it.

The send-off is nothing too grandiose, save for the entire palace standing at the gates shouting farewells through tear-streaked wails and blowing handkerchiefs. Your parents are at the forefront of it all. Your mother holds your hands as she tells you to return promptly if it gets too much regardless of the consequences (you appreciate the sentiment, but you don't want to burden your family nor your nation because of a dislike), while your father stands before Mydeimos with an order for him to treat you well and respectfully and, “If you damage even a mere hair on my beloved child's head, I will have your head on display!”

...Perhaps that would have been more threatening if not for the slight tremble of his legs and waver in his voice but, again, you appreciate the sentiment. Mydeimos, if anything, takes it in stride with a calm nod of his head and a promise to take care of you. Really, does anything other than the battlefield phase him...?

Soon you're in the carriage and settled opposite your soon-to-be husband, on your way to your new life with a heavy heart. Is this what all your training to take over the throne has surmounted to? Have all your efforts and dedication spent on being the perfect heir for your kingdom simply come down to being wed to an enemy nation's ruler?

Well, perhaps “enemy” is not the right term anymore; not when both your kingdom's are now in a mutually beneficial alliance, along with the promise for one of your heirs becoming next in line for your kingdom's throne.

Ha! What makes him so sure you will have more than one between you?

...Was what you had asked back when he first made the declaration to your parents, only for him to respond in kind with, “If you'd rather adopt, then we can do so.”

(Bastard. Can't he break composure at least a little?)

As the ride drags on, silence permeates. Whether it is the lingering nerves you hid from your parents or this suffocating intimidation confined within the small carriage space, one question still remains at the forefront of your mind: why did he decide to marry you? Truly, it miffs you. He could have just left you to suffer in the downfall of your nation if he wished to do so, or even let you stay as the heir to the now-allianced kingdom.

Upon questioning his motives for your hand in marriage, his response was merely a slow blink before uttering, "The council wouldn't stop pestering me about getting married."

Oh. Was it really that simple of a reason?

Lips pursed, you press a little more. “Then why did you add benefits, such as an alliance with my kingdom? Even if you, King Mydeimos, were to just—”

“Mydei.”

“—just cut down…” trailing off at the sudden interruption, you blink at his cross-armed figure seated across from you. “Oh, um, what?”

“Mydei,” he repeats once more, attention solely focused on you. “No need to bother with formalities. Just refer to me as such.”

“Oh, well, alright... Mydei?” At your uncertain tone, he nods, as though urging for you to carry on. “Right, well, as I was saying... What was I saying...?”

Without missing a beat, he responds, “You were asking why I offered your kingdom a mutually beneficial alliance when I have the means to cut down the nation with brute force and take what I want through violence.”

“Oh, right…” Huh. Did you say all of that? Well, you certainly were thinking of it, but were you that harsh in your wording? Considering how he recited it all without hesitation, you probably did say all of that, with him being a pretty good listener and you perhaps needing to think over your words before you speak them. “So what is your answer to my curiosity?”

“I simply thought you would be happier if I spared your land and made an offer both of us would benefit from.”

“...I see. Well, thank you for your consideration.”

“Think nothing of it.”

And so the ride continues in silence once more, though this time you find yourself more at ease compared to the prior situation. You, however, still have your doubts about the benefits he gave with the alliance proposal, amongst the absurdity of this entire situation.

...Is the man sitting before you really the feared tyrannical ruler people made him out to be? Surely he is being far too merciful for someone of such reputation. There has been no threats, no coercion (well, if you don’t count the whole marriage fiasco as such, but you did willingly agree to it…), no usage of violence — did people perhaps badmouth the wrong monarch?

Then again, the majority of his prowess and achievements stem from the battlefield. Was all this information just mere hearsay from those jealous of his noteworthy feats, or do their words truly hold some merit in their claim? And really, what do you know about Mydei? From his thoughts, to his motives, to the reasoning behind each action… you know nothing.

Well, considering how he has entertained each of your whims thus far, he has the ability to entertain one more, right?

“Mydei, if I may,” you start, looking to him for approval to continue. When he nods encouragingly, you continue. “You said you made an offer we would both benefit from. While I acknowledge the military and protection we receive from you, what benefit do you reap from us?”

Had you not been eyeing him so intently, perhaps the subtle stiffening of his muscles or twitch of his fingers would have remained unnoticed. 

“Apart from the high quality agricultural and material trade, I have obtained one more thing. Rather than a benefit, however,” he trails off, gaze shifting to the carriage floor. His voice tapers slightly, subtleties of fondness seeping into his tone. When his eyes move to meet your own once more, your mouth runs dry at the undeniable warmth which swirls within his gaze, the rapid pounding of your heart betraying your thoughts. “I consider meeting and having the privilege of marrying you to be the most priceless of rewards I could have obtained.”

(...Who knew a subtle smile could be so beautiful.)

Settling into your new role as the co-ruler of Kremnos was a far easier transition than you’d anticipated. Despite some initial apprehension at your sudden intrusion into the citizen’s lives and you being from another nation, the reactions you were greeted with upon arrival were well-within your expectations.

Apprehension? Sure. Skepticism? Great. Concern over your abilities? Fantastic! Immediate, wholehearted acceptance with preparations already made for your arrival? Um… Come again?

Yes. Compared to the civilian’s very normal, completely expected doubt and uncertainty about you being thrust into the role of their new co-ruler, the same cannot be said about the palace staff. The moment Mydei helped you out of the carriage, a line of servants were at the ready, lined up with the necessary preparations already made to look after you. Your dumbfoundedness must have been quite obvious for Mydei to take note, squeezing your hand with enough pressure and warmth to anchor you down and fill you with comfort before guiding you through the tunnel of awaiting servants ready to receive his orders.

While a little unnerving the palace staff’s ready acceptance and preparation for your arrival may have been, you cannot deny the flicker of warmth which surges when spotting something that reminds you of home.

That particular fruit you enjoy only found in your homeland? An abundance has been procured with the palace gardener equipped with all the necessities used to grow it, alongside a bed of your favourite assortment of flowers already beginning to show signs of blooming.

There was a certain dessert you enjoyed partaking in? Look no further, for the palace patissier has already mastered all the techniques needed to make it the most delicious version you have ever tasted!

Oh, you’re used to having a certain textile in each of your fabrics and certain colours are more to your preference? Don’t worry, the temporary bedroom used until your wedding is made to your liking, and once the wedding is complete your shared bedroom will have all the necessary arrangements!

Truly, the experience of having practically everything needed for your stay to be comfortable already prepared was an… interesting one, to say the least.

It doesn’t escape you, however, the manner in which everyone is rigid in demeanour and stiff with etiquette when in the presence of Mydei. Ducking their heads to avoid eye contact, tensing their bodies as though afraid one subtle movement will trigger his wrath, rushing away as quickly as possible once given their respective orders.

He doesn’t appear bothered; if anything, matters outside of you and battle don’t seem to move him at all. He merely regards everything as a duty to be carried out, an honour to uphold and see through so long as he bears the weight of his title. 

Despite his admitted nonchalance for most matters, you have seen him be expressive on several accounts.

Like that time you were both strolling through the extensive garden holding pleasant conversation about each other’s day, stopping to admire the roses and ready to sing the gardener’s praises, only to catch the smile and unfairly soft expression directed towards you. (Seriously, the difference a smile and relaxed expression can make on his features should be criminal.)

Or the days you choose to visit the training ground and catch the battle-hardened fervour of a warrior which radiate so starkly within his typically stoic demeanour, easily parrying and holding his own against even a large number of his knights rushing to best him, only to hastily avert your eyes when he takes note of your presence and amble his way towards you with a towel in hand. (Well, his torso is practically on full-display all day, but somehow seeing him entirely shirtless after a particularly gruelling training is a little… different.)

Not to mention that one night during your third month in Kremnos wherein an assassin managed to slip through surveillance and sneak into your room, only to be thwarted mere moments before the fatal strike as a sword pierced their torso, their cries of agony quickly silencing and the flecks of warmth clinging to your skin promptly discarded as the deafening hammering of your heart drowned out everything in the vicinity. You weren’t sure how long you were out of it for, but the image of Mydei’s distraught expression and uncharacteristic loss of composure is a sight you’re certain will never leave, much like the rare vulnerability found in his fragile, broken whispers of, “Not again... I thought I’d lost you again. Why must fate be so cruel? Please… Just this once, stay with me until the end.”

(You never really questioned how Mydei caught wind of the attempt or what he meant by his whispered words, too caught up in your near-death experience to properly process anything, but the immeasurable relief upon being embraced within his familiarity was undeniable as you melted into him, allowing him to stay by your side for the night and then the following nights soon after as his attentiveness only grew.)

The time from your first arrival has flown, and now, five months later, the long-awaited wedding is finally being held.

The ceremony itself was nothing too grand. Despite Mydei asking for your thoughts and preferences on how the ceremony should be held, the ideas he’d suggested aligned perfectly with your own preferences: a simple ceremony with the necessary guests in attendance for privacy, a ceremonial carriage ride through the capital to honour the matrimonial bond between you alongside quelling any uncertainties the citizens may have, and to end it all off with a banquet to diminish the doubt brewing from within the nobility of high society.

Thankfully, everything went off without a hitch. Your parents attended the ceremony and greeted you with a tearful embrace upon seeing you in your wedding attire. As it turns out, they will be staying as guests within the palace for about a week, all thanks to Mydei’s preparations. Apparently.

(Upon asking your parents who is taking care of the kingdom’s affairs in their place, you probably should have suspected it to be the trusted, overworked aide who has been by your father’s side since young. Despite his already cushy salary, he should get a raise for having to deal with all this.)

And as you stand here now, chatting idly with some of the knights in attendance who were present in the whole proposal fiasco, you find yourself believing that perhaps your new life here will not be as bad as you feared.

You have to admit, letting loose every now and then is rather rewarding. After all those mental and passive aggressive battles with some of the nobles before eventually gaining their respect and approval (you didn’t have strict heir training just to have nothing to show for it!), you can now relax and let the night pass by. With the knights talking joyfully amongst themselves, you’re sure the night will fly by.

Their topic of conversation shifts constantly, ranging from battle tactics to which is the best amongst savoury, sweet, or spicy to debates about whether that one maid and apprentice chef are secretly dating.

Eventually, the topic of conversation loops back around to your newly sealed marriage; you know, the whole premise for the current celebration. One of the knights, tickled a light pink in the face from the warmth of the venue and the drink half-emptied in hand, turns to you with a jovial grin.

“Y’know, until you came into the picture, I’ve never seen our king so happy and expressive. It’s a nice change.”

Another chimes, “Yeah! I’ve definitely seen him smile a few times when you visit the training grounds! Though he still glares daggers into my soul when we spar…”

“That’s because you suck and His Majesty gets a migraine just from the sight of your sloppy footwork.”

“Wha— hey! You’re the one with a weak swing and can’t even break the training dummy in one strike!”

“I’m telling you the material is tougher on the ones I’m given!”

A breathy laugh escapes you at their back and forth. Sometimes you forget how playful the knights can be outside of their intimidating demeanour, though you suppose their leader is similar in his own right.

Taking a light sip from your drink, the chatter of the knights slowly die down. Just as you’re about to ask if everything is alright, a warmth you have become able to identify looms over your back. It doesn’t take a genius to know why they stopped their bickering.

“What were you all discussing?” Mydei asks, moving to stand beside you with a drink of his own in hand. You weren’t expecting to see him until later, what with how swamped he appeared with greetings and talks of his own.

His knights seemed to have thought the same as you, if their apparent dumbfounded reactions were anything to go by.

“Oh, um, well…”

“We were, uh…”

“We were just chatting like good ole pals, haha…”

Stifling a laugh at their poor attempts, you decide it would be best to give them a helping hand. Mydei’s curious gaze certainly isn’t helping their case.

With an amused sigh you begin, “Nothing much. Just how much they admire and look up to you—”

“We were discussing how your dear spouse thoroughly enjoys the sight of your body at the training grounds!”

A deafening silence.

…You take back every nice thing you said about them. You hope Mydei exchanges all the training dummies except for his own for super-ultra-mega tough ones, just so they can feel the embarrassment you currently do when they are unable to break a mere training dummy.

First off, how did they even know this highly confidential information?! You most certainly were not openly ogling at your now-husband! (At least, you hope you weren’t…)

Second of all, here you were trying to help them save face from all their bickering, and what do you get in return? A loss of your own!

And third of all, that is blatant slander! In front Mydei, their king and commander, and your spouse, no less!

Ha ha. You don't know whether to laugh or cry at this turn of events.

In hopes of salvaging what remains of your thoroughly battered and bruised image, And there it appears, you quickly turn towards Mydei, a myriad of retorts ready to fire on the tip of your tongue. It fizzles out just as quickly as it appears upon what you find yourself gazing at. Though barely noticeable, the lingering remnants of his laughter which spill from that wretched curve of his lips never fails to speed up this traitorous heart of yours. And when his unabashedly amused gaze meets your own mortified one, your mind regains its former desperation.

Before you can think up a retort in a last-ditch effort to save face, he swiftly leans into your ear and whispers, “I would like to hear more about this. Perhaps you can enlighten me when we return to our quarters later.”

…Nevermind. Perhaps it is Mydei who should be getting the super-ultra-mega tough training dummy so he can taste humiliation for the first time in his life.

(However, despite the horrendously dizzying flush you are currently victim to, if it meant seeing his warm gaze and heart-melting smile more often then, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind embarrassing yourself in front of him every now and then.)

(Not too often, of course. That would be too much.)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

trivia !!

wanted to add this section in case some might be wondering why i went with the timeloop trope yet again (if u did not figure that out from the bits and pieces throughout the fic + mainly the assassination attempt scene then, um, oops. haha.) BUT !! i actually decided to do a spin of his lore for it.

so in his drip market post, it says:

Kremnos, swallowed by mist! City riven between chaos and war! The blood of patricide flows through its royal line, and its god bears the title of calamity.

The undying Mydeimos, the lion apart from the rest. O Chrysos Heir that seeks the Coreflame of Strife, you must suffer a thousand deaths, be bathed in blood on the path home, and bear the madness of fate alone, for one was must slay a god to become one. Iron-hooves pound across the wilderness for the campaign, and must eventually soak in the blood of their homeland.

and mydei is also known by the following aliases "the last prince" and "the undying". now all of this info is more than likely referring to his ability to survive torturous pain, as opposed to dying and and resurrecting a thousand times (or maybe i am right... who knows...), but my first thoughts went to how he had the ability to come back to a certain point in this past after the so-called fate drove him to madness which he alone must bear.

in this context, i wanted for him to be a king who suffered a thousand deaths, but lived through a thousand lives of the same never-ending fate, doomed to watch the fall and bear the madness and watch as you in each and every lifetime suffer at the hands of a fate he cannot save you from. and that is why he marries you because he knows you even if you do not know him and will always choose to lead the same path if it means he has you by his side once more.

...does this make sense? maybe it does, maybe it does not, but what matters is it made sense to me ;w;

oops got a little carried away there with lore and theories um !! haha !! anywho that is enough from me ,,, if u read this trivia then hi !! ty for sitting through and reading my deep dive into the crumbs of lore and how i put my own spin on it :'D

[dazevi]

vi x reader but they’re tribbing… for science reasons ofc !!

tribbing with vi | vi x fem!reader, shortfic, smut (18+) wc: 843

content warnings: mdni smut ; soft sex, soft top!vi, bottom!reader, kissing, scissoring/tribbing, profanities | masterlist

it’s dim in vi’s room. her sheets were slightly wrinkled beneath you, and the hum of the city outside her window was barely noticeable over the sound of her breathing—low, heavy, and uneven. she was on top of you, her strong, tattooed arms braced on either side, and her face hovered close enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. her hair was messy, strands falling over her forehead as her blue eyes burned into yours.

“god, you’re so beautiful,” she muttered, her voice raspier than usual.

she kissed you again, slower this time. her body pressed flush against yours, the heat of skin between you almost unbearable. she’d been holding back all night, waiting, teasing herself with every touch and every kiss until she couldn’t take it anymore.

vi’s hands roamed down your sides, her fingers splaying wide as she gripped your hips, her thumbs tracing slow circles over your skin.

“is this okay?” she whispered as her forehead pressed to yours.

you nodded, biting your lip as her hands guided your thighs apart, her hips settling between them. you could feel every inch of her, the taut muscles beneath her skin, the way she moved carefully.

she moved slowly at first, testing, adjusting until her body slotted perfectly against yours. the first brush of her wet, wanting pussy against yours made you gasp, your fingers instinctively gripping her biceps, before moving down to her thigh, keeping her in place. vi could only groan at the sound, rolling her head back.

“f-fuck,” she muttered. “you feel so good, baby. so fucking good.”

“v-vi… fuck—“

she began to move, her hips rocking against yours, rutting against you, each thrust with a breathy grunt. she didn’t rush, though her body trembled with the effort to keep going. the friction was intoxicating. each roll of her hips sent a wave of pleasure through you, and vi seemed to feel it too, her groans mingling with your soft moans. she could feel how wet the both of you were right between your legs. it was sticky, and vi craves it—she craved having your slick all over her cunt, hers all over yours, the feeling of your throbbing clits brushing against each other with every thrust of her hips, oh fuck.

her hands stayed on your hips, holding you steady as she moved, her grip tightening each time you bucked against her.

“just like that,” she murmured, her voice cracking slightly. “keep moving with me, baby. you’re doing so good.”

you couldn’t help the way your hands wandered, sliding up her abs and squeezing her tit. vi let out a low growl at the feeling of your hands on her, her thrusts faltering for just a moment before she picked up the pace, grinding against you harder, faster. god, you were so fucking wet… and each sound that fell from your lips was the prettiest things she’d ever heard.

“look at me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. you

you opened your eyes—when had you closed them?—and the sight of her took your breath away. her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed deeply, and her eyes were dark, half-lidded but still focused entirely on you.

“i-i need to see you, baby,” she said, her voice shaky from the pleasure building in her stomach, between her legs. “need to see how good i’m making you feel—o-oh, ffuckkkk—“

“v-violet, i—”

your body arched off of the bed, and you gasped as the friction hit just right, her pulsing clit nudging yours, your nails digging into her thigh. vi groaned, her head dropping for a moment as she tried to collect herself, but she was too far gone, each buck of her hips becoming more erratic, more desperate.

“vi, i-i’m gonna—mmph, gonna—”

“i can feel you, baby,” she whispered, her voice thick, breath ragged as she furrowed her brows. “you’re so close, aren’t you? hah… come on, cum for me. nngh, please.”

her pleading tone sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t hold back anymore. her grip on your hips tightens, her biceps flexing as she guides you both into a faster rhythm. she’s so lost in the moment, her blue eyes half-lidded as she stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. and soon enough, your body tensed, your back arching as you came all over her pussy, your moan muffled as you buried your face in her neck. fuck fuck fuck, you felt so good. vi followed soon after, her own orgasm making her hips stutter as she pressed against you one last time, her body trembling against yours. panting, she moved carefully, wanting to be closer to you, resting her head on your shoulder as she tried to catch her breath, her arms wrapping around you tightly as if she couldn’t bear to let you go.

“oh, fuck,” she finally murmured, her voice soft and full of awe. she pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes shining with pride. “i don’t think i’ll ever get enough of you.”

★ | navigation

[berrryparfait]

who came before me? ⊹ ࣪ ˖

➴ continuation: not my first, but my last

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: who were the girls who came before you? what were they like? did he love them? one night, your thoughts and insecurities get the best of you, and you decide to face them once and for all. 「please don't be in love with someone else.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: slight angst, retroactive jealousy, reader is not mc nor have the LIs ever met mc in the past, hc that rafayel used to be a huge playboy, xavier is a regular-aged person, caleb first met reader in school

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: die for you – joji, all of the girls you loved before – taylor swift

✧ a/n: i'm the type to lowkey obsess over my partner's exes lol so here's me projecting!!! i love exploring complex relationship dynamics that involve past lovers so here's one of my fave tropes (not-first-love-but-greatest-love) tied up in a bow for yall <3

SYLUS confesses that there have been other women, though not many as he isn’t the type to frequently engage in casual hookups. He’d slept with a few women before he met you, though none of them had resulted from or led to serious dates. Somehow, he’d just…lost interest. Not that he ever felt those women were beneath him or unworthy of his time, but he’d never really connected with anyone before you appeared in his life. Meeting you felt a lot like getting his ribcage smashed to pieces as you wriggled your way into his heart—once a cold and empty place but now safe, full, and warm. “I’ve never been the best at…getting to know people, but with you,” he whispers as he gazes deep into your eyes, “for once in my life, I might be in grave danger.”

ZAYNE had been on a few dates in the past, most of them arranged by mutual friends or formed through his workplace. He wasn’t exactly the outgoing type, so he kept to himself most of the time while at work. However, fellow doctors or nurses would ask him out from time to time, a few of whom he’d gone on one or two dates with. He enjoyed their company, though none of them ever lasted very long. Besides the fact that Akso hospital was a busy one, Zayne was also known to be emotionally distant, slightly arrogant, and “married to his work”. Despite all this, he was a polite and caring man, and none of his ex-flings had anything negative to say about him. “It feels different when I’m with you. Not that this is why I like you, but I appreciate you giving me space when I need it most—even as I find myself wanting that space less and less.”

RAFAYEL could not have been described as anything other than a shameless Casanova—there’s no denying that. He sought pleasure everywhere he went, always up for another night of fun. Of course, this was an easy feat for him; he was always undoubtedly the most gorgeous man in the room, and people loved to look. Inviting eyes, lush violet hair, finely-sculpted figure… Rafayel commanded attention, and reveled in it too. He looks a little ashamed when revealing his past to you, which does sting at first, but you appreciate his honestly and willingness to be vulnerable with you. He’s changed, after all. “I chased after that high for a long time, night after night after night… I was happy, but what I felt then couldn’t even begin to compare to the joy I feel with you, just standing still.”

XAVIER had had a crush on one of the other Deepspace Hunters for years—an older girl who used to help him train every once in a while back when he was a rookie. She was outgoing, popular, and cheerful, and he found himself stuttering and blushing whenever he had the chance to speak to her. Despite his growing feelings for her at the time, he never made a move for fear that his adoration would be unrequited. He eventually got over his crush but remains grateful for everything she taught him and the support she'd showed him as his senior. It’s undeniable that he’ll always care for her in some way, for she played a part in making him the courageous, compassionate man you know today. "It was just a silly little crush, that’s all. Let’s not dwell on the past and instead focus on our future. How else would I be able to devote my attention to the love of my life?"

CALEB has never even thought of touching another girl since he first laid eyes on you back in school. Well, except for that one time in college, when he slept with a classmate. A much-needed release, sure, but even then, his thoughts were consumed by you—a torturous cycle of fantasies and memories that never existed. No one else has ever been able to fill that endless, gravity-defying void. He’s wanted you for so long, it’s no surprise he’s so set on never letting you go. He told himself that maybe if he went out more, surrounded himself with other women, found common ground with them, he’d be able to get over you. But he was wrong. "You consume me, incapacitate me. So no, there's been no one else. Consider me historically, currently, and eternally yours."

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

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