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aleksatia · 2 months ago

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🎨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Rafayel.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Toxic romantic cycles, Verbal conflict / emotional manipulation, High emotional volatility, Crying / vulnerability, Jealousy, Theatrical intensity, Implied sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged), References to artistic obsession, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Rafayel x ex-wife!you Genre: Operatic angst, sensory overload, intimacy tangled in art and argument. Enemies to lovers to something mythic and broken. Summary: Rafayel was always too much — too vivid, too loud, too in love with the idea of being in love. Now, in a room made of silk and memory, you’re forced to confront the passion that nearly devoured you both. What begins with masks ends in scorched truths, spilled wine, and a kiss that remembers every wound it ever caused. Word Count: 3.6K

The room was a mirage made of silk.

Blue and amber fabrics swayed gently overhead, catching the glow of hanging lanterns that burned like slow, ancient stars. Patterns scattered across the floor like constellations, stitched from shadow and gold. The air pulsed with warmth, scented with saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and smoke — something too heady to be real.

A low table stood in the center, set for two. Carved brass, aged like a secret. Cushions instead of chairs. A bowl of candied figs. Crystal glasses half-filled with something rich and ambered, already beading condensation in the heat.

The music played softly, something stringed and spiraling, full of bends and minor keys. It didn’t fill the space — it wrapped it. Like a whisper over skin.

You sat with your hands folded in your lap, heart steady, but only just. Something about the room felt dangerous. Not overtly. But the kind of danger that came wrapped in silk and compliments. The kind you didn’t notice until it was inside you, changing your breath.

Then the curtain stirred.

A figure stepped through the veil — tall, lithe, draped in pale fabrics that shimmered like wet paint. A mask covered the upper half of his face: smooth silver, delicate scrollwork, slightly fox-shaped. His hair was dark — maybe lavender? — but the lighting played tricks, casting halos where none should exist.

He moved with a liquid elegance that set your nerves on edge. Not performance. Presence.

And something in your chest twitched.

He sat across from you without hesitation, folding into the cushions like the air had made room for him. One ringed hand toyed with the stem of his glass. He hadn’t looked at you fully yet, but even the curve of his jaw behind the mask felt… familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

You watched him watching the room.

The shape of his throat. The line of his wrists. The quiet, performative grace of someone used to being looked at — and loving it.

Your stomach turned, slowly.

Then he looked at you. Just briefly.

And smiled.

The candlelight caught in his eyes — unnaturally pale, a hue caught somewhere between rose and seafoam. Impossible. Stunning.

Your pulse skipped. Once. Hard.

No.

No, no, no—

Too dark. Too hazy. Too many fragrances in the air. That’s all this was. A trick of the senses. A trick of memory.

And then—

He spoke.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over glass, warm and slow and theatrical. “You’re the one they warned me about.”

Your throat tightened.

No name. No gesture. But your skin recoiled like it had just touched flame.

You made yourself breathe. Spoke without thinking. “Depends. What was the warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something inside your voice that he didn’t expect.

“That I’d end the evening ruined.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

That voice. You hadn’t heard it in almost a year. But your bones remembered.

Still — you didn’t move. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of recognition.

He poured the drink anyway. Fluid, slow, luxurious. Passed the glass across the table with the same fingers that once traced poems into your shoulder blades at dawn.

No. Don’t go there.

“Drink,” he said, watching you now. “It makes the disappointment more beautiful.”

The room shifted with the sound of his voice, like the silk overhead had caught its breath. One of the lanterns flickered. The scent of rose and something darker curled tighter around your ankles.

You didn’t touch your glass.

“Disappointment implies expectation,” you said. “You always did mistake fantasy for reality.”

He smiled — sharp and amused, like you’d stepped into a trap he’d laid years ago. “Still fluent in cruelty, I see. Good. I was afraid domesticity might’ve tamed you.”

You reached for the glass then, just to keep your hand busy. “And I see you’re still confusing cleverness with depth.”

The flicker in his eyes was almost too fast to catch.

You took a sip. The drink was sharp, floral, and laced with something decadent.

He was watching you. Not politely. Not appreciatively. Like a man trying to decide whether to paint you or burn the memory of you from his mind entirely.

“I should’ve known it was you,” you said finally, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “All this silk and smoke? Feels like the opening act of one of your breakdowns.”

He smirked. “Then you should’ve checked under the cushions for a script.” A beat. “Though if anyone here’s performing,” he added, “it’s not me this time.”

That got a laugh out of you. Low, involuntary. Dangerous.

“God,” you said. “You’re exhausting.”

He lifted his glass again, gaze steady over the rim.

“And yet someone out there thought we’d make a charming pair.”

A pause.

“Statistically improbable,” he added. “But then again, so were we.”

The silk walls shifted faintly in the breeze of the central fan, as if the whole room leaned in.

You tilted your head. “They said this was a blind date. I didn’t realize they meant blind in the Biblical sense.”

“Ah.” He leaned back. “There’s the sermon I missed. Tell me, do you rehearse those in the mirror, or do they just fall out of you naturally?”

“You want natural?” you asked, voice cool. “Then take off the mask.”

He didn’t move. So you did it first.

The mask slid away with a soft hiss of fabric. You held his gaze, daring him to flinch, to breathe, to blink.

He didn’t.

Instead, after a beat, he reached up and peeled his own mask off — slow, like undressing a wound.

And there he was.

Exactly as you’d known he’d be. Beautiful in that way that always made you want to hurt something. Or kiss him just to feel how much it would cost.

His expression flickered when he saw your face.

“I thought you’d look different,” he said.

“I thought you’d grow up.”

That wiped the smirk right off his mouth.

For half a second, he looked like the boy who’d once painted your collarbone in gold leaf just because he could.

Then it was gone.

“You know,” he said, gaze dropping to your mouth, “for someone who always wanted peace, you start fights like it’s foreplay.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And for someone who always wanted to be adored, you sure made yourself easy to leave.”

Rafayel’s smile didn’t falter. But it sharpened — fractionally. Like the curve of a blade when it catches the light.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “I didn’t want you to stay.”

The words landed like silk draped over broken glass.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low breath of laughter — measured, dangerous, devastating.

“Oh, darling,” you said, tilting your head, “you always were such a convincing actor. Shame the role of coward never quite won you any standing ovations.”

He chuckled. “Coward?” he echoed, voice rich with amusement. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

You leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the glint in your eyes.

“No, love letters require vulnerability. You wouldn’t recognize one if it was monogrammed and hand-delivered on rose petals.”

He lifted his glass in a mock-toast, eyes never leaving yours. “To you. The only woman who ever left a man mid-soliloquy and still expected an encore.”

You clinked your own glass to his with a smile that could’ve slit a throat. “To you. The man who wrote odes to my shadow but never once looked me in the eye long enough to know my shape.”

He laughed. You hated how beautiful the sound still was.

There was a pause, charged and theatrical, like the air had leaned forward on cue.

“And yet,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass, “you sat across from me. Masked. Unapologetically luminous. Like a challenge waiting to happen.”

“I was aiming for quiet mystery,” you replied, raising your glass. “But I suppose provocation always did look better on me.”

He leaned forward, close enough now for the scent of rose to cling between you.

“Then let’s drink,” he said, “to what we ruined so beautifully.”

You raised your glass. He raised his. Both smiles intact.

“To mistakes,” you said.

“To masterpieces,” he replied, then added, with a flick of his lashes, “—that deserved better muses.”

And that was it. Your hand moved before you thought.

You didn’t throw the wine.

You grabbed the wrong glass — the other one — and without hesitation, flung the contents at him.

It was tea. Very hot tea.

There was a stunned half-second as the amber liquid splashed across the front of his perfect, pale shirt — followed by a sharp inhale through his teeth.

He hissed softly, setting the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then — without hesitation — he pulled the shirt over his head.

The fabric stuck to him slightly, steam curling off his chest like the room itself was reacting. His skin caught the lantern-light like marble dusted in firelight — golden, sharp-lined, impossible.

You stared.

Unfortunately.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “Always dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You deserved it,” you snapped. “And more.”

“More?” He stepped closer. “You always did like escalation. Tell me — should I throw a fig at your face? Or set something expensive on fire?”

You crossed your arms, not trusting your breath. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Because it’s the only language you speak!” he shot back. “Break it. Burn it. Drown it. But for God’s sake, don’t sit still and talk like a human being.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He gestured wildly. “I begged you to stay! I begged you with everything but the word!”

“That was the problem,” you said, eyes burning now. “You gave me poetry when I needed something real. Something steady. Not ten thousand metaphors and a gallery of regrets.”

His jaw clenched.

“And now,” you said, voice cracking just enough to give it teeth, “you say I wasn’t enough of a muse. Well—”

You stood suddenly, movement sharp, breath shaking as your body tried to hold the rest in.

“—maybe you should’ve picked a prettier tragedy.”

You turned away, shoulders tight and trembling.

He froze.

Your back was to him now, and thank God, because your throat was tight, and your hands were shaking and that single line — that stupid, perfect insult about your worth — cut deeper than it should have.

You felt it first. His presence.

Then the heat of him, close, pressing in without touching.

And then — his arms wrapped around you from behind. One quick, quiet motion. Not forceful. Desperate.

He pulled you against him, bare skin warm and still faintly damp from the tea.

His nose buried in your hair. His breath unsteady.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated.“God, I didn’t— You know I say things when I’m scared. And you looked like you were about to walk away all over again.”

You didn’t answer.

So he tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t everything. I’m sorry I hurt you to feel less hurt myself. I’m sorry I used my mouth to ruin what it was made to worship.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never wanted anyone better,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted more time with you.”

You turned in his arms with a suddenness that surprised even you.

You meant to push him away. You meant to say don’t, to reclaim your anger before it crumbled. But your hands — traitors — only reached his chest and stayed there, limp. Useless. Pressed against his bare skin like they belonged.

He covered them with his own.

Not roughly. Not to keep you there. But to hold the contact steady — as if you might dissolve if he let go.

The heat of him burned through your palms. Steady. Alive. Too much.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fold into him and scream into his collarbone.

Instead, you whispered, “How did we get here?”

His breath hitched.

“I loved you,” you said. “You loved me. And somehow we became this—” your voice broke, “—this shipwreck of a marriage. What happened to us, Raf?”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you filled the silence with everything your mouth had been holding for too long.

“It used to be magic,” you said, eyes wet now, but you wouldn’t let them fall. “God, we were light. We were gold. You made me feel like I was flying. And then one day, it was like we couldn’t breathe unless we were screaming.”

He said your name. Just once.

Low. Like an apology wrapped in prayer.

You kept going.

“Why did it turn into a stage? When did our home become a theater and our life some broken play where we both forgot our lines? I didn’t want to be a performance, Raf. I wanted to be real.”

He slid one hand up your back, slow, careful. As if you might break from anything more sudden.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“I didn’t recognize us anymore,” you said, the words trembling. “All we did was throw paint. Emotions. Blame. Color, color, color, until we drowned in it. Until we forgot what normal even meant.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath catching against your cheek. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Lower. Without the velvet and dramatics. Just him.

“I was scared,” he said.

You blinked.

“I was scared,” he repeated. “That if things slowed down — if we got too quiet, too normal — you’d leave. That you’d realize I wasn’t enough without the chaos. Without the fire.”

You stared at him. Your hands still pressed to his chest. You could feel the way his heartbeat stumbled.

“So I gave you fire,” he said. “I gave you storms. I made our life… louder, because silence felt like death.”

“And I left anyway,” you said.

“Because I set the house on fire and expected you to dance in it.”

You closed your eyes. His words were knives. But so was your silence.

“There was jealousy,” you murmured. “And guilt. And all your little accusations when I was too tired to match your flame.”

He swallowed hard.

“You were angry when I fell asleep during your gallery story,” you added. “But I’d just come home from a mission. I’d spent five hours knee-deep in wanderers and blood and—” you exhaled, “—I needed sleep, Raf. Not a performance.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I needed rest,” you said. “And all I got was another curtain call.”

He looked ruined. Not fragile. Not shattered. Just exhausted from pretending not to be.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” he said. “So I smothered you with everything I thought would make you stay.”

You looked at him — really looked — and something inside you cracked down the center.

And still, part of you whispered: It might not be enough.

Rafayel tensed — just a little. The shift of a shoulder, the pause in his fingers at your back.

“Did you come here,” he asked, voice low and almost too careful, “because you’re ready to move on?”

You smiled, slow and sly. Not to tease, but to veil the flicker of something softer.

“Maybe my life’s been too normal lately. Too gray.” You leaned the smallest bit closer, letting your cheek rest against his bare chest. “I needed a little danger again. And you?”

His heart responded beneath your skin.

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles lightly down your spine. “I could say I was looking for an exotic muse to paint. Something with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and an aura of doomed seduction.”

You huffed a laugh against his skin. “That would’ve been a very you thing to say.”

“But the truth,” he murmured, “is boring. Thomas set me up. Said he registered, got sick, and that some poor woman would be stuck alone unless I stepped in. He was very dramatic about it.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Tara pulled the same trick on me.”

“Ah.” His lips quirked. “Coordinated sabotage. Typical.”

A moment passed, heavy in the hush. You hadn’t meant to relax like this, but here you were — cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that had once been your home. And still was, apparently. Because everything inside you had gone soft, slow, steady.

It felt like something had clicked back into place. Like a missing tile in a mosaic suddenly slotted home and made the whole thing whole again.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Uncertain. Honest.

“Raf… why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers moved gently through your hair, brushing behind your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped into something rawer.

“Because I respect your decisions. Even when I didn’t agree with them.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “Even if it meant watching you bloom from the sidelines. Watching you learn how to smile again without me in the frame.” He swallowed. “Are you happy?”

You hesitated. But the answer was already rising, uninvited.

“No,” you said. “The world turned grayscale. It’s like I’m walking through some awful dystopia with clean counters and dry eyes. Everything works. Nothing shines.”

He exhaled, long and low. His arms tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair, grounding you in scent and heat and skin.

“Cutie,” he murmured, voice close, mouth brushing your temple, “just say the word. I’ll paint the colors back in.”

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “Still. Afraid to go blind from too much kaleidoscope.”

“I won’t lie,” he whispered. “I can’t promise restraint. I might always be a little too loud. A little too much. But I can give you something else now. Balance. Space. Stability. Peace, if you’ll have it.”

You searched his eyes.

He added, “Only if you’re ready. If you want to let me back in.”

“I never really closed the door,” you said. “Just stood behind it. Waiting.”

And that broke whatever spell held you still.

He kissed you.

Not hurried, not frantic — just whole. His mouth claimed yours like it had a right to, but still asked permission with every slow pull of lips, every breath passed between you.

You pressed into him, fingers curling at the base of his neck. His hand splayed across your lower back, warm and deliberate, guiding without demand.

He leaned into the cushions with you, dragging you down into silk and shadow, his mouth never leaving yours.

The taste of saffron and heat and memory filled you.

He kissed you the way people wrote arias — rising, falling, trembling with feeling too big for language. His tongue brushed yours gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if your mouth were the only place he could breathe.

You moaned softly against him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling you closer. Your legs tangled. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your thigh with aching reverence.

You moved like tide against him — hungry and fluid.

The lanterns swayed above. The cushions sighed beneath you. One of the glasses tipped over with a soft thud, spilling rose-colored wine that neither of you noticed.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to your throat, where he lingered, breathing you in like incense.

“You still taste like paradise,” he whispered.

And when he looked up again, your hair tangled in his fingers, your body flushed and pliant against his — you knew.

There was nothing gray left between you.

Only color. Only fire. Only Rafayel.

Your body answered his touch like it had been waiting a lifetime. Hot, eager, instinctive. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks down your spine. Every kiss — soft or sharp — undid you a little more.

The silk beneath you could’ve caught fire from the heat you were building between each other.

His hands roamed without hesitation, without apology — palming, stroking, gripping — sometimes tender, sometimes greedy. Your back arched into him, chasing the sensations, chasing the memory of what it felt like to simply be wanted like this. Loved like this. By him.

His mouth found your throat. Then lower. His tongue trailed over skin like it was sacred. When his lips closed around your nipple, firm and aching, you whimpered — low and breathless — and pulled him closer, nails raking his back.

He groaned into your skin, and you swore your entire body melted into flame.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want him to stop.

But then—

A soft, mechanical chime broke through the haze. Gentle. Too real.

The signal. The end of the hour.

You froze. So did he. Still hovering over you, still half-undressed, still hard and pulsing between your thighs.

You looked up at him, breathless.

He was watching you like the world might end if you looked away first.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice roughened by want.

You shook your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your chest. “No. Do you?”

His mouth quirked — cocky, fond, feral.

“Do you even have to ask?” he murmured, then rocked his hips forward just enough for you to feel the full weight of him, hard and ready. “Does that feel like regret to you?”

Your breath caught.

“I could steal you for the rest of the night,” he whispered, voice low and wicked, like a shared sin.

You grinned up at him, hand sliding into his hair. “You could steal me for the rest of my life.”

He growled — quiet and deep in his chest.

“We’ll see what you say tomorrow morning,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw, “when you can’t walk straight or remember how to say no.”

You bit his bottom lip, teasing.

“Do you even know what moderation is?”

His eyes darkened with something hungry, reverent, unstoppable.

“Only in everything except how much I love you.”

And this time — when he kissed you — it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t memory. It was home.

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arkaiveofurown · 1 month ago

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How Many Today?

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x Female Reader

“You count the freckles on my back when you’re bored.”

You once absentmindedly started tracing the freckles across Ace’s back, whispering numbers to yourself. Now, every time you lie in bed together, he’ll ask: “How many today?” like it’s a game only you two share.

Word Count: ~2,900

tags: established relationship, fluff, warm romance

my masterlist here ♡

⸻

It was rare that mornings aboard the Moby Dick were this quiet. The sea was gentle, the crew unusually slow to wake, and for once, the deck wasn’t alive with noise and laughter.

Which meant, for you, a rare treat: waking up beside Ace without someone banging pots, shouting about meat, or screaming about chores.

Your fingers rested lightly on his bare back, skin warm even in the shade of the cabin. The early morning sun streamed through the porthole, casting golden light over the room. Ace’s freckles danced in the light like constellations—scattered stars across the broad canvas of his shoulders.

You smiled, resting your forehead against his spine and letting your fingertips begin to trace each one, soft and slow.

“One… two… three…”

You whispered it so quietly he might not hear, but the low rumble of his sleepy chuckle told you otherwise.

“You counting again?” His voice was thick with sleep, but amused. His head turned lazily on the pillow.

You grinned. “How many do you think you have?”

“I dunno. Depends on how good you are at counting.” He yawned, lifting one arm to rest it over your back and pull you in closer. “Did I grow any new ones?”

“I’ll let you know after a recount,” you murmured, kissing between his shoulder blades. You paused at the sight of the massive Whitebeard tattoo that spanned his back, the only place without freckles.

Your fingers ran along the ink’s edge reverently. “I don’t count the ones under the tattoo. Feels wrong.”

He chuckled, still half-asleep. “Pops would be flattered.”

You smirked. “That I respect his territory?”

“No. That his logo saved you from losing count.”

⸻

Docked for supplies, the crew had temporarily set up camp on a small, sunny island. The beach was nearly empty, save for the occasional pirate lugging crates, and you had dragged Ace away from the loading duty under the pretense of needing his “professional fire-starting skills.”

Instead, you both ended up sprawled on a blanket beneath a palm tree, Ace lying on his stomach in nothing but his swim trunks, half-asleep again.

His back rose and fell in a slow rhythm. You couldn’t help it—your fingers were already moving.

“One… two… three…”

He cracked one eye open. “Y/N. It’s your day off. You’re really spending it counting my dots?”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you teased, flicking one freckle between his shoulder blades.

He groaned, dropping his head to the crook of his arm. “I do, actually. Your fingers feel nice.”

You laughed. “So I’m a back-scratcher and a freckle accountant?”

“My dream girl,” he said with a lazy grin, eyes still closed.

“Romantic,” you muttered, leaning down to kiss the nape of his neck. “But hey… I think there’s a new one.”

He lifted his head immediately. “Seriously?! Where?”

You tapped it. “Right above the left shoulder blade. Probably from sun exposure. You should be more careful.”

Ace snorted. “You sound like Marco.”

You sat up. “Marco doesn’t kiss them after he lectures you.”

“Mm. Lucky me.” He reached back to grab your wrist and pull you down beside him again. “Don’t stop. I want to know today’s count.”

⸻

Later that evening, the crew built a bonfire on the beach. Music played, sake flowed, and someone shouted for Ace to show off with his flames. He obliged, of course, setting the fire pit ablaze with a flick of his fingers.

You sat beside him, shoulder pressed to his, watching the flames dance.

“I think you’re solar powered,” you teased, sipping your drink.

Ace chuckled. “I do nap more in the shade. But only ‘cause you always wake me up with kisses in the sun.”

You blushed, hiding it behind your cup. “And your freckles glow in firelight. It’s weirdly cute.”

He turned toward you with a playful smile. “You love ‘em, huh?”

You gave him a mock-serious nod. “I am in a long-term committed relationship… with your freckles.”

Ace threw his head back laughing. “Then I should be jealous of my own skin?”

“You should be,” you teased. “They don’t snore.”

“Hey!” he barked, grabbing your waist and tickling your side.

You yelped, nearly dropping your cup. “Ace!”

He laughed, pulling you into his lap. His arms circled around you, warm and protective. The world faded to firelight and laughter, his heartbeat solid against your back.

He rested his chin on your shoulder and whispered, “How many today?”

You smiled and whispered back, “Fifty-eight.”

⸻

It wasn’t always sunshine and laughter.

There were nights Ace returned from missions battered and bruised, cloak torn, face stained with soot and blood. He brushed it off, always saying “I’m fine” before collapsing beside you.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He lay shirtless on his stomach, bandages around his ribs and shoulder. The Whitebeard tattoo was slightly scuffed, the edges red from a scrape. You sat beside him in silence, cleaning dried blood from his back with a damp cloth.

He flinched only once—when your fingers lingered near a newer burn scar.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

He shook his head against the pillow. “Not your fault.”

You said nothing, just continued the gentle cleaning until the blood was gone. Then your fingers brushed his freckles—soft, reverent.

“One… two… three…”

His body relaxed. “You still do it even when I look like a wreck.”

You leaned down and kissed the side of his jaw. “I love all of you. Even the broken parts.”

Ace closed his eyes.

“…Sixty-two?” you whispered.

He smiled faintly. “Might be a new record.”

⸻

A storm rolled in at sea, waves thrashing the Moby Dick hard enough to shake the windows. You were both awake, lying together in the dark bunkroom, the thunder rumbling like a warning.

You curled closer to Ace, who—despite being fire itself—still radiated a warmth that felt like safety.

“You okay?” he murmured, arm around your waist.

“I hate storms,” you muttered into his chest.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

You shifted, turning so his back faced you, pressing your forehead to the place where the Whitebeard tattoo arched across his shoulders.

“Tell me something,” you whispered.

“What?”

“How many freckles do you think you had before we met?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “No idea. I never thought about them ‘til you started counting.”

You kissed between his shoulder blades. “You’ve got more now.”

“Think they’re multiplying ‘cause of you?”

“Maybe I’m magic.”

He hummed. “Then I hope you never stop touching me.”

⸻

The next morning, as the storm cleared, you sat with Ace at the bow of the ship. The sea was still rough, but sunlight peeked through the clouds.

Ace stretched his arms over his head, shirtless again, uncaring of the cold wind.

“You’re going to catch a chill,” you scolded.

He smirked. “I’m fire. I don’t chill.”

You rolled your eyes but came closer, hugging him from behind. He stilled when your lips pressed to the back of his neck.

“One… two… three…”

His voice was quieter this time. “I never liked how I looked. The freckles, the scars, the tattoo… felt like a mess. Like a walking contradiction.”

You rested your chin on his shoulder. “Ace…”

“But then you made all of it feel beautiful.” He glanced at you sideways. “You made me feel beautiful.”

You blinked back the emotion swelling in your throat. “That’s because you are.”

He exhaled, a small, quiet laugh escaping him. “You’ve ruined me, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Now every time I look in the mirror, I start counting. Wondering if you’ll notice the new ones.”

You kissed his cheek. “I always notice.”

⸻

Back in your shared cabin that night, Ace lay on his stomach again, head turned toward you, half-asleep.

You straddled his waist, your hands already drifting over his warm skin. The tattoo loomed, proud and bold, untouched by your count.

“One… two… three…”

He smiled without opening his eyes. “How many today?”

You leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Sixty-six. Same as yesterday.”

He chuckled. “Guess I didn’t get sunburned enough.”

“Nope.” You kissed his shoulder. “But you did get a new freckle on your collarbone.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” You kissed that one, too.

Ace turned onto his side and pulled you into his arms, pressing a sleepy kiss to your forehead.

“You’re gonna keep counting forever, right?”

You smiled against his chest.

“Forever.”

#portgas ace x reader #ace x reader #ace x you #ace x y/n #portgas ace fluff #ace fluff #one piece #one piece fics #one piece fluff #portgas ace x y/n #portgas ace x you #whitebeard pirates

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sunrizef1 · 1 year ago

Text

Birthday Blues

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Authors note: finished this yesterday but tumblr deleted it xx

Warnings: none, for once

Word count: 5.9k

Requested: yes/no

Max was tired. He’d been at this charity event for hours, sat to the side sipping at some drink he’d been handed as he watched coworkers and acquaintances mill about, spreading joy he didn’t have.

He’d came alone, contrary to most of his friends who all danced and laughed with their partners, swinging around loosely under the evening lights, faint music guiding their hearts in a loving dance.

He’d come under the notion that he’d get to hang out with Daniel or Charles, maybe even Checo. But they were all whisked away with the brush of a gentle hand and a lipstick kiss, leaving with the merry call of their lovers giggle and leaving a disgruntled and lonely Max in their wake.

So here he was, his friends preoccupied and in love, a frown gracing his face and the ideal of charity being the only thing keeping his perfectly clean dress shoes cemented to the tile floor.

He takes a big swig of whatever drink was in his hand, grimacing as the bourbon burned his throat on the way down. He vaguely considers leaving, debating how much his presence would be missed by those happier than him when one of the few people in the same boat as him comes bounding up.

“Maxie!” Max winces at the volume of Landos voice as he stomps happily up to the Red Bull driver, a toothy grin on his slightly intoxicated face. Max disregards the awful nickname, choosing instead to humor the McLaren driver.

“Hi Lando,” Max smiles, unable to truly be displeased around the ball of absolute joy in front of him, “Enjoying yourself?”

Lando laughs, although Max isn’t entirely sure what’s so funny. He doesn’t mention it though, tilting his head in the Brits direction.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fun,” Lando starts, moving to lean against the wall Max was standing on, “Seems to be more romantic than usual, though. Not exactly my cup of tea.”

This causes the frown to reappear on Max’s face, his lips forming a firm line as he’s reminded of his loneliness in the face of the romance that surrounded him. Max simply hums in response, suddenly wishing he had another drink. He turns to grab one from a nearby waiter, eyes trailing after them as they walk away. As he traces their path, his gaze finally catches on you.

You were stood a few yards away, your form perfectly blocked by the way Lando had been standing. After seeing you, Max wishes he’d pushed Lando out of the way much sooner. His gaze traces the features of your face delicately, scrawling over the expanse of your flowing dress, the red shining beautifully against your skin. Max wishes for nothing more than study the freckles that dot said skin, knowing he could makes the most beautiful constellations if given the chance. Your hair falls perfectly around your face, framing it as if it was a work of art. Even after one look, Max isn’t sure that you, in fact, aren’t one. He’d certainly pay good money even if your face was the only exhibit.

Lando, even in his drunken state, catches on to Max’s staring and turns to catch your attention, calling out your name in the loudest of fashions. Max finds himself mouthing your name to himself the second it leaves Landos lips, hoping he’d have to use it a lot in the future.

You turn and smile as you spot the pair, taking the few steps it takes to reach them. Lando slings an arm around your shoulder and Max is suddenly struck with the terrifying idea that you were dating the small, insane, terrifyingly unromantic Brit next to you. It would certainly be strange, considering Lando had just dismissed the event for being “too romantic”. But as you lean into his hold, Max has to stop himself from frowning.

“Maxie, this is my friend, Y/N. She’s just moved here so she’s crashing with me while her place gets furnished or whatever. She’s just as boring as you so I’m sure you’ll get along great,” Lando grins. You don’t seem offended by his words, probably both aware of the amount he’s drank and understanding of the joking connotation behind his rude statement.

“I don’t go out to a club with you one time and you decide to write me off for being boring ever since,” You roll your eyes, a charming smile on your lips. Max lights up at the realization that you’re not, in fact, dating the extremely talented McLaren driver next to you.

Lando snorts unceremoniously, swaying the two of you side-to-side, “Maybe you should’ve come out, then? It was sick, you would’ve loved it.”

“I was watching a movie, mate,” You laugh, ruffling the hair of your friend, “And I was sick!”

Lando laughs, finally releasing your shoulder from his grasp and falling back into place beside Max, “Yeah, yeah, whatever princess. Just be glad I brought you chicken soup the next day. Even with my nasty hangover and two hours of sleep!”

You smile warmly at the memory before something seems to strike you, “You fell asleep on my couch and then woke up and drank all my coffee!”

The thief in question holds his hands up in surrender, seemingly started to slowly back away from your accusatory glare, eyes scanning for an escape route, “Uh, why don’t you talk about that with Max, I’m gonna…”

His eyes finally catch on something on the other side of the room, his feet speeding up below him, “Go talk to Oscar! Bye, Y/N!”

You and Max turn to watch Lando speed away, careening into the back of Oscar, the Aussie stumbling forward from the impact. You look away, turning back toward Max with a slight laugh. As you face him, Max thanks the heavens for the atmosphere provided as the setting sun through the expansive windows combined with the soft lighting from above shine down on the side of your face, enlightening the curve of your lips as they open to release the soft melody of your voice.

“He’s so weird.”

Max laughs at the statement, his head moving on its own to agree with you, “He definitely is.”

You look up toward his face, your eyes quizzical and your head tilted slightly, “I’m so sorry, I don’t think Lando even properly gave us a second to meet. I’m y/n.”

Max nods, “Max.”

You smile, grasping a flute of champagne from a passing waiter into your perfectly manicured hand. Max takes a large gulp of his own glass, grateful for the temporary respite from his growing thirst.

“I know you, Max,” You smile, taking a sip of Champagne, “Been to a couple of races with McLaren. Congrats on being completely dominate by the way.”

Max laughs, ducking his head slightly as his face flushes red for a few moments, “Thank you.”

You nod, satisfied, as your eyes go back out or stare at the party flowing smoothly in front of you. Max leans slightly closer to you, causing your attention to snap back to him.

“If I’d known you’d been at a race I would’ve asked Lando to introduce us sooner,” Max smiles, liquid courage clearly causing excess confidence to bleed into his words.

You flush at his words, biting your lip in an attempt to cover your obvious grin. Max’s eyes widen warmly as you turn your face away, covering your warm cheeks with your free hand before turning back to him. Max is just happy he got you to laugh.

“Is that so?”

“Of course.”

You take another sip of your champagne, fully angling yourself toward the Dutch man, looking up through your eyelashes at him. Max isn’t sure on how yet but all he knows is that he won’t let this end, the party he once detested now becoming the most interesting thing he’d entertained in a while.

Max scans his eyes over your figure, gaze catching on a stack of bracelets sitting delicately on your wrist. A charm bracelet lays gently with a stack of bangles on top and, finally, a few ornately stitched thread bracelets are mixed throughout the stack.

“I like your bracelets.”

You perk up at his words, glancing between him and your wrist before lifting your wrist slightly up toward him, “Really? They’re from this brand in Greece! They’re all custom made and personalized however you want them to be.”

Max just watches as you fidget with some of the dangling charms on your bracelet, Max spotting a wave and a bird as they clank against the blue and gold thread of your other bracelet. He listens as you explain the lore behind the stack, a small grin forming as you get lost in your mind.

You’re not sure how long you’re stood there, conversing quietly as the party progresses without you. The sun sets in the time you talk, the only light now being the soft glow that the floating chandeliers cast onto your faces. You’re also not sure on how the topic comes up but you suddenly find yourself discussing your birthdays, Max shocked to find out you have the same one.

“September 30th, yeah?” You ask him, bright eyes widening as he nods. You seem to grin wider at his confirmation, another thing you have in common being added to the ever-growing list, “Any plans?”

Max is suddenly struck with the fact that, for once, he didn’t have any plans for his birthday. It wasn’t a race weekend so Red Bull wouldn’t be doing anything, he was grown enough where his family wouldn’t be organizing anything and this was the first year in a while he didn’t have a girlfriend to at least keep him company. He pauses at the thought, the absolute depressing notion of a thought causing his eyebrows to furrow.

“I guess not, no.”

You seem to catch onto his mental dilemma, gently reaching a hand up to rub small circles onto his shoulder. He tries his best not to move suddenly as your warm hand makes contact. He glances over, sporting the sympathetic smile on your face.

Not wanting to rain on your parade, he really tries to force a smile but it seems to come out as more of a grimace as you pat him, your hand dropping away, “You could always come to my birthday. Landos renting a boat. Id love to have you there.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude or anything-“

You stop him, shaking your head with your persistently charming smile, “Nonsense, it’s a big boat, you wouldn’t be intruding anything. It’s your birthday too!”

He doesn’t seem fully convinced, though, and you roll your eyes, leaning fully toward him. You swing both arms around his neck, hands connected behind him and your body weight now fully leaned against him. Max, not wanting to knock you both over, rests his hands against your waist, hoping to save your balance.

You look up at him, biting your lip to stop the laugh threatening to escape your lips, “If you don’t want to share a birthday party, then I’m cordially inviting you to my birthday party as my friend.”

Max looks down at you, gaze soft as he stares at your gentle and genuine expression. He could tell you weren’t going to let this go, even if he turned down the invitation. So, despite his best judgement, he finds himself nodding as a yes, a grin starting to peak out on his usually stoic face. You laugh happily, leaning out of his grasp to sway merrily.

“I can’t wait to see you there,” you grin at the Red Bull driver, elation seeping into your voice, “Maxie.”

Max groans at the nickname but, for once, maybe feels a little charmed by it as it seems to bring you so much humor. You set your now empty glasses down on a nearby table, leaning forward to grasp Max’ hands in yours and practically tear him away from the spot on the wall he’d taken up for the past few hours. You start to lead him away from his corner of solitude toward the heart of the party which was still beating healthily despite the late hour.

“Come on, let’s dance,” you bounce on your heels excitedly as you pull him along, “You can help me plan what party information to feed Lando over the next few months. He still thinks it’s a surprise party but we live together and he’s anything but subtle.”

Max just smiles, following along behind you as he listens intently to your echoing voice. He sticks close to you, following your every step despite the fact that the idea of dancing at this party made him want to throw up. The idea of doing it with you and being able you hear you talk animatedly for a bit longer making the idea bearable enough for him to endure it. For your sake.

A few months later, Max finds himself on the deck of a yacht, sun shining down brightly onto his shoulders as the deep blue expanse of the Mediterranean stretched out in all directions below him.

He’d seen a good amount of people from the second he’d stepped onto the boat that morning, both people he knew and some he’d never met before. He knew Lando was around somewhere, his loud voice bouncing off the edges of the boat.

He hadn’t seen you yet but he wasn’t completely alone. Lando had taken the liberty of inviting Oscar who’d dragged along Logan, the two blond drivers having been sat on the upper deck since before Max had arrived.

It’s not that Max felt lost but he did feel a bit out of his element. Your friends milled around, wandering throughout the boat, conversations (and alcohol) flowing smoothly.

Just as Max moves to head up to where he’d seen Oscar and Logan hanging around, he’s frozen by the sound of your voice ringing out from a few yards away, “Max!”

Max’s eyes turn toward you, drifting over your body as he takes in the red swimsuit hugging your skin, the fabric the same shade as the red dress you’d worn at the gala all those nights ago.

Sunglasses sit perched on your nose, your hand moving to push the bridge of them back up from where’d they’d starting to slip down. Sunscreen sits atop your sun-kissed skin, casting a soft shining glow as the sunlight bounces off it.

“Hi, y/n,” Max smiles gently at you, still not completely at ease on the boat, “Happy birthday.”

You grin, quirking your head at the driver, “Happy birthday to you too, Maxie. I’m glad you decided to come.”

Max squints slightly as the sun beats down, rays of light sneaking into his unprotected eyes, “I didn’t want to miss your party, Lando even invited me himself.”

You laugh, head dropping back at his words. You both knew Lando was still under the impression that the whole party had been a surprise to you that morning. You were considering a career in acting with how Lando had believed your reaction.

“Well, make yourself comfortable, Landos paying so…” you trail off, shrugging your shoulders as you glance around, eyes tracing between the ocean and the sight of your friends lounging around before they land on the bar, drinks already being handed out, “We’ll set off in a few minutes, I think we’re just waiting on one more person.”

Max nods as you continue to look around, his eyes being dragged back to you.

You’re notably missing any jewelry, no doubt not wanting to lose it when you swim later. Max does notice the fresh set of nails you’ve got on, white and gold decorating the ends of your fingers.

You seem to notice Max’s attention on your hands and you grin, lifting your hands toward him, “You like? Got them done yesterday, I was more excited to spend the day with my mom than actually getting the nails. I’d usually get blue but I thought white would match my swimsuit better, you know?”

Max nods, grateful to, once again, hear your joyful rambling, “I like them, they’re really pretty.”

Your face forms into a satisfies smile, glancing over the nails in question before you look back up toward Max, “I’m glad you think so.”

Max smiles his first genuine smile since stepping on the boat, eternally grateful to have you here in front of him. Just as you’re about to say something, your eyes catch on something over Max’s shoulder and your mouth falls closed, a small exhale leaving your mouth as you seemingly hold back a laugh.

“Max!” A voice calls out from behind him. When Max turns, he’s met by the sight of one Daniel Ricciardo bounding down the dock, wearing a giant grin and a familiar burnt orange hat. Max’s eyes widen at the sight of the Aussie as he jumps onto the boat, his toned arm coming to swing around Max’s shoulders.

Daniel looks down at you, a humored smirk on your face, “Hi y/n, happy birthday.”

“Hi Danny,” you hum, looking between the pair of friends.

Daniel looks around, his eyes quickly catching on Lando, no doubt doing something stupid. He pats Max on the shoulder before peeling away, “Happy birthday Maxie, I’ll see you in a minute.”

Daniel bounces away, echoes of Landos name being shouted out of his mouth, the Brit quickly enduring the tackle of the older Aussie. Max laughs as he watches the attack, eyes crinkling and shoulders shaking.

Max looks back toward you when he hears your own melodic laugh ring out beside him, “You invited Daniel?”

You turn your head toward him, smiling shyly as you nod, “It’s your birthday too, didn’t want you to be too lonely.”

Max shakes his head, although he can’t fight the warm laugh that escapes him, already having a better birthday than he’d expected to.

“Now that our final guest is here, we can finally set sail,” you say, walking away from the boats entrance. Max, not entirely sure of where Daniel had gone, decides to follow you.

Max isn’t sure what he’d expected from the party but whatever was currently happening was exceeding that.

With the arrival of Daniel, he was officially friends with over 50% of the guests in attendance. After a few drinks, it was pretty easy for him to befriend your brothers as well, especially when he found out they were both huge sports fans.

As the boat sailed idly around the open water, the party roared smoothly, new and old friendships forging deeper bonds. Music played from the speakers, Landos playlist quickly being switched out for your own.

After a few hours, the boat stopped and Lando was quick to throw himself overboard, his happy shouts echoing as he hurtled toward the water below. He’s followed by Logan who reaches the water with a surprisingly elegant dive, his departure causing a begrudging Oscar to jump after him.

Then comes your brothers, the pair of them roughhousing the second they both come up for air.

You roll your eyes playfully as you watch them all come down, you and Max having been already laid out on the lower deck, the water lapping at the edge of the boat just a few feet away.

You snort as you watch a couple of your own friends push eachother into the water, your head turning back toward the sun above you when you hear the splash of them entering the water.

Your eyes stay closed as the sun shines down on you, the warmth spreading through your skin. Though your eyes do shoot open when you feel water splash over top you and a loud laugh rings out next to you.

Max watches as you sit up, your eyes locking on Daniel who’d just stepped over you in order to cannonball into the ocean, successfully converting both you and Max in the cold water. Max was fighting the urge to laugh, scared he’d end up being pushed in if he laughed too loudly.

You scowl playfully at the Australian who laughs before diving under for a few seconds, shaking his wet hair as he comes up and getting even more water on you.

You stand up, flipping him off before moving to walk away. Max stands up after you as you toss your sunglasses on a nearby couch, “I’m getting a drink, Max.”

Daniel, though, calls out toward Max, happiness coursing through his words, “You coming in, mate?”

Max glances between you and Daniel before quickly taking a few steps to cut in front of you just as your about to enter the heart of the ship.

“Hi, Max,” you smile cheerfully, no idea what was in store for you in the coming moments.

“Forgive me,” Max mumbles as your furrow your eyebrows.

“What?”

Before you can even ask for clarification, Max scoops you up in his arms and starts to walk back toward the water.

“Max!” You laugh loudly, arms threading around the back of his neck and tightening as he jumps off the edge, both of you hitting the cold water shortly after.

He can hear Daniel’s nearby laugh even under the water, the sound coming through muffled as he pushes his way to the air above, your arms still intertwined behind his neck. As soon as he reaches the top, he can hear you laugh freely, the loud noise rivaling the beauty of the sunlight above.

“I hate you,” you quiet a bit as you say it, though there’s no venom behind your words. In fact, there’s a toothy grin on your face, accenting the sight of your wet face, hair now soaked and dripping as you try your best to stay afloat.

The water runs down your skin in rivulets, catching the rays of lights from above as it drips down, causing you to glow more than you already did under the Mediterranean sun.

Max hums, “I don’t think you do.”

You quirk your head, eyes narrowing as you look closely at him, “I don’t.”

“Y/N!” Your lean away from Max as your name is called, your attentions being drawn over to Logan who seemed to be attempting to drown Oscar, the Aussie trying his best to fight back. Max watches as Logan goes to speak again, Oscar successfully managing to get away, “We’re gonna do the jet-skis!”

You push away from Max and start to paddle toward the younger drivers, Oscar having started to attempt his revenge on the American. Logan, though, is unfazed by the shorter driver, turning to tackle him as you make your way over.

Max’s eyes stay on you as you swim away, watching as you intervene in the fight, pulling Oscar away. Max can’t help the dopey smile that forms on his lips.

“You like her,” Daniel sings, swimming his way to where Max is leaning against the edge of the boat.

Max rolls his eyes, the smile dropping off his face, “Shut up.”

The hours pass by, your friends eventually being pulled back onto the boat in order for it to set sail back home again.

You all come back together for dinner, sitting around on the deck as you dine. At one point. Lando pelts Oscar in the face with an empty water bottle. Oscar, who wasn’t looking up when it happened, mistakes the thrower for Logan and decides to start fighting him again, Lando sitting back with a grin on his face.

Now that they don’t have to stay relatively sober in order to swim, drinks flow much quicker.

As the sun sets on the horizon, your friends spread out across the boat, relaxation seeping into their bones, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to them.

Max laid out on the lower deck with you, watching as the sky explodes with hues of orange and pink. You both watch the sun lower down, a bottle of champagne laying between you.

Max doesnt think he’d even felt so at peace. Or had such a perfect birthday.

Your peace is interrupted after the sun has fully set, making way for the stars to break through and shine next to the moon above you.

You turn around as you hear a chorus of voices shout loudly, “Happy birthday!”

Your met with Lando standing just a few yards away, a cake held tightly in his hands, a few sparklers and candles sticking out of the top of it.

“Awww,” you laugh, standing up to face your friends, “Please don’t sing.”

This causes a laugh to spread through the group, Lando piping up to respond, “I don’t think that would go very well even if we wanted to.”

You snort, walking over to the cake, looking closely at the words written on top. Max sits back as you walk away from him, standing up after a few moments just to observe.

You look a bit closer at the cake before turning around to face Max again. He raises an eyebrow as you beckon him over, one of your hands swinging out to wave him toward you.

Max isn’t entirely sure why you were interrupting your own candle blowing to call him over but he agrees anyway, making his way to your side.

He glances down at the cake, a grin splitting his face as he reads it.

“Happy Birthday

Max & Y/N”

Max laughs slightly, the alcohol currently coursing through him inhibiting him from feeling any amount of embarrassment at the amount of eyes on him.

You turn and grin at him, the soft light of the candles reflecting off your shining eyes. Even in the dark of the night and with salt water stuck in your hair, Max still thinks you look rather beautiful.

You gesture down at the cake, candles still alight on each half, “You wanna blow out the ones on that side?”

Max doesn’t want to look away from your face but he does eventually manage to pull his eyes away, nodding as he spots the candles. You smile, leaning down toward the cake in Lando’s outstretched hands. Max leans as well, and you both are quick to blow out the candles to the cheers of your friends around you.

Lando walks to put the cake down on a table, leaning over to ask your brother to find the plates and forks. As you move to watch the recording of the small celebration on Logan’s phone, Max walks over to the Brit.

“Thanks for the cake thing,” Max says, picking up an abandoned water bottle and taking a quick swig.

Lando quirks his head, rubbing the back of his neck absently, “Thank y/n, not me. She told me that if I were to, hypothetically, get her a birthday cake, she wanted your name on it as well. All hypothetically of course.”

Max laughs, his face softening when he thinks about your conversation about dropping birthday hints for Lando to pick up on. But from Landos recount, this specific hint was a bit more obvious than the other ones. He turns his head to see you laughing at something Logan had said, Oscar looking closer and closer to sleep as the conversation went on.

Maybe if he’d been completely sober, Max would’ve felt a lot warmer at the thought of you thinking about him even for your own birthday party. But he wasn’t completely sober so the only thought he had when he looked at you was just how pretty you were.

Your brother comes back with plates pretty quickly, Lando cutting pieces in the most even way he can, unceremoniously plopping the largest piece down on your plate with a giggle.

Once everyone’s eaten their cake and properly disposed of their plates, it’s just a waiting game until the boat docks again.

You all lay out on the outer decks of the boat, looking up and watching the stars above you. Max can vaguely hear Daniel’s light snores, signaling the Aussie had fallen asleep from where he laid a few yards away.

Once you do dock, all your friends start to make their way off the boat and back to their own homes. Max watches as Logan carries an inebriated Oscar on his back, the Aussie sporting a brand-new, bright red sunburn on his face.

Lando vaguely follows them, the pair having crashed in his place for the weekend considering neither of them resided in Monaco.

Your brothers take the liberty of waking Daniel up, the driver walking tiredly off the boat.

As the rest of your friends leave, Max is left alone with you on the deck of the boat, the moonlight bouncing off the water and lighting up the space between you.

You’ve got something clutched to your side, Max is too out of it to question it.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Max starts, a genuine smile on his tired features, “I’d probably be sat alone on the sim right now otherwise.”

You laugh, not entirely aware of how much truth there was behind his statement, “I’m glad you came, it was really fun.”

Max hums, an absent smile crossing his face as he gazes softly at yours. He’s too busy looking at you to notice you bring your hand up from your side, a small box clutched in your manicured hands.

“I got you something,” your eyes light up as you push the box toward him, glancing between his face and the small white box, “Happy Birthday, Maxie.”

Max accepts the box, though he shakes his head as he does, “You didn’t have to-“

“No, but I wanted to,” you interrupt quickly, grinning and pushing the box closer to Max’s chest.

Max looks at you for a few seconds longer before glancing down toward the box, his hands moving to open it, the top swinging on its hinge to reveal what’s inside. With the amount of alcohol still in his system, it takes a few tries but he does eventually get it open.

Max freezes as he sees what’s inside.

A bracelet, not unlike one of your own, sits gently in the center of the box. Orange and gold thread twist around to form the circle, the threads shining under the distant street lights. Right where the threads come to an end and meet the clasp, a few small charms are clustered together. Max looks a bit closer at the charms and sees a thirty-three, his initials and, lastly, a small lions head.

When Max doesn’t respond immediately, you seem to assume the worst, words falling out of your mouth in a tipsy ramble as you start to pick at a patch on your skin, “If you don’t like it, that’s fine, really! I should’ve asked. Is it too much? I should’ve done one instead of thirty-three, I’m sorry max-!”

Your voice cuts off abruptly as Max’s hands wrap gently around the side of your face, the bracelet being shoved into his pocket. Your eyes widen under his touch, looking up into his own. Max takes a breath before speaking, liquid confidence fueling his words, “Can I kiss you?”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, seemingly searching for words you cannot find before it ultimately falls shut. You nod your head instead.

Max leans down to capture your lips in his, your hands moving to tug gently at his salty hair. Max grins against your mouth before he dives back in, one of his hands sliding to tug your form closer to his. Max feels almost light-headed, the spark of your lips against his causing his brain to practically short-circuit.

When you split to take a breath, you lean your forehead against his. Max’s opens his eyes to glance warmly at your flushed face. When your eyes fall open and lock on his, you lean away, a loud laugh echoing from your lips.

You gaze over him as he brings you back close to him, your hands clasping behind his neck. Your thumb rubs passive circles on his skin as he goes to speak.

“Thank you,” Max says, bringing your attention back to his face, “For the bracelet. It’s perfect.”

You hum, lips turning up into a blushing smile, “I’m glad you like it.”

Max looks down at you with stars in his eyes, watching the way the moon light shines off the side of your face, your features looking even more striking under night sky, “I do. I really, really do.”

At his words you tug him down toward you, leaning your face up to kiss him again.

Just as your lips brush, a loud voice shouts out from off the boat, “Y/N! We’re leaving! If you don’t come now you’ll have to get your own car!”

You groan loudly, shoulders sagging as you rest your forehead against Max’s chest, eyes locked on the ground. Max has to struggle to hold back his laugh, his teeth sinking into his lip. Watching your despair, Max is struck by an idea.

“You could stay with me?” Max suggests, grinning as your head pops up.

“Could I? I don’t want to deal with Logan and Oscar, especially not while hungover,” you brighten as you ask him.

Max, instead of answering, grabs your hand, pulling you off the boat. You speed up for a few steps in order to fall into his side, his arm coming up to wrap around your shoulder.

As Max leads you up toward the street, you’re met with Lando stood at the open car door, tiredness clear in his stance. If Max were to lean forward, he’d see Oscar and Logan passed out, limbs tangled in the cramped seats.

“You coming then, mate?” Lando asks you, pushing his glasses up on his face. Max isn’t entirely sure why he was still wearing sunglasses in the dark of the night but he chose not to question it.

You flush, leaning into Max’s grasp, “I’m staying with Max.”

Lando smirks, raising his glasses to look between the two of you with a nod, “Don’t have too much fun tonight.”

You roll your eyes, leaning out of Max’s grasp. Max finds himself missing the feeling of your body next to his. He doesn’t have to miss it for too long, though, as after you plant a gentle kiss on Landos cheek, you fall right back into Max’s hold.

“Thank you for the party, Lan. Love you.”

Lando rolls his eyes, sliding his glasses back down his face as he shakes his head, “Yeah, yeah, love you too. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow, you should bring your boyfriend.”

It Max’s turn to blush, a chuckle leaving his lips. Instead of replying, you both walk away from the Brit, Max laughing loudly when he hears Lando mumble something about “birthday shagging” from behind your backs.

You both continue to walk away, Max bringing you closer to his side and your head falling against his shoulder.

Max leans over to press a kiss to your temple, your skin warm against his lips, “You ready to go home?”

You pause, looking up at Max as he looks down at you. You state warmly up at him for a few moments, simply taking in the look on his face. Your smile widens as your cheeks flush, “I’d love to.”

—————————————

Tags: @casperlikej @evie-119

#scheduled #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x reader #max Verstappen x fem!reader

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig #könig cod #konig x reader #könig smut #könig fluff #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig x female reader

3K notes · View notes

cherrygarcia-07 · 16 hours ago

Note

Absolutely no pressure, babes. Writing should be fun, not stressful!

What thoughts do you have about say…early seasons Spencer being completely whipped for his girlfriend? He has absolutely no idea how he landed this really awesome gal, but there she is, his beautiful girl, who wants to listen to him, spend time with him.

Serendipity // Spencer Reid☕️

Thank you so much for my first request🥺 your support means so much! I got a little carried away, this is definitely more elaborate than what you asked, I hope you like it anyway but lmk if you want anything a little more playful and light and I can totally give that a go too!

Synopsis: Spencer Reid has never looked for love, believing it was simply just not in the cards for him. That was until you stumbled into his life, changing his perceptive on life- and on himself.

Pairing: early seasons glasses! spencer x reader

Genre: deep fluff

Word Count: 3k

Notes/Tags: bees as a catalyst for love because why the hell not, infodumping as flirting, talks about constellations (from me? shocker), lot of references to spencer’s past bullying & home life, hes down BAD bad he literally studies what to do on a date, princess and the frog reference at the end just pretend it didn’t come out in 2009 okay <3

masterlist

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Spencer Reid had always been a man of science, not of superstitions or of coincidences of the universe. While he found stories fascinating, to him that’s all they were- stories. He believed in facts and numbers, things that were tangible and real and he never indulged in any kind of magic of destiny. That was until he met you. No amount of research, no book he threw himself into or study he conducted could ever account for just how he ended up with you. He wrecked his brain trying to calculate the statistical probability of this happening and how you could have appeared right when he needed you, but for once in his life he was stumped.

He’d never been one to look for love. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it, in fact he felt it like a rock in his chest where his heart should be, heavy and aching behind his ribs as it yearned for what it thought it could never be. It was simply something Spencer believed just wasn’t meant for him. He’d never seen himself in the happy faces of couples he passed on the street, he never related to the dreamy, put-together romantic leads he’d seen in movies, rather he saw himself in isolation. In solitude. A lone star with no constellation. He was there, that much he knew, and he twinkled in his own way, but not in any way that drew attention. Just enough to show that he was alive, just evidence that he existed up there too. He had no connections around him, no story to be told and no greater picture that he was a part of. He felt more like a torch imitating a star, a false light that didn’t dazzle quite as authentically as it searched the dark for what it needed rather than just resting in what it had. Spencer had made his peace with this though- at least he thought he had. After all, the stories behind the constellations are just myths. They’re simply just things humanity had attached meaning to with no real science or history behind them, and he truly believed that.

That’s why you were so baffling to him.

It started with a bee, of all things. It was Spencer’s turn to do the coffee run for the team in the middle of a local case, his steps weighing beneath him with exhaustion despite it being the middle of the day as he dragged himself to the door of the café. He had just wrapped his fingers around the door handle and was gathering the little energy left in him to swing it open when a sudden scream rang out behind him, jolting him awake as he dropped his hand and spun to face the noise. On edge from the case, his mind rattled through a thousand dire possibilities as he mentally prepared to jump into action. What his eyes landed on, however, wasn’t any kind of crash or violent attack like he had feared, but rather a girl… swatting a bee. The panicked lump in his throat cleared as he caught his breath and watched you flail your arms in the air as you continued squealing, coffee flying out of the small hole in the top of your takeaway cup in every direction. Deciding to put you out of your misery, as it was still his duty to protect no matter how small the stakes, he took a step closer and with one heroic wave of his arm the bee was gone.

There was a feeling he couldn’t quite place somewhere deep in his chest as he took in your expression; big dazed eyes flooding with relief as they watched the culprit flew away; soft cheeks painted pink in the aftermath of the chaos; and lips parted ever so delicately as small puffs of air escaped them, before they spread into a brilliant grin that took over your whole face. Laughing lightly, you reached out and gently held his arm to grab his attention, not realising you’d had it the whole time.

“Thank you so much. You saved my life there.” Your voice chirped, though he barely registered it through the flustered rush of blood pounding in his ears.

Spencer looked down to where your hand still rested on his arm. Usually this was the part where he would recoil, politely but firmly snatching his arm back as he mumbled something about germs and bacteria and pathogens. But he didn’t pull away. Why didn’t he pull away? A beat of awkward silence passed as he stuttered internally, trying to get his mouth to cooperate with his brain as he failed to tear his gaze away from your eyes.

“It was a drone.” He groaned at himself in his head. Respond normally, idiot his brain yelled.

For a second, your brow furrowed as you bit your lip in thought. “I’m sorry?”

“It, uh-“ He stammered, painfully aware that your hand was still on his arm. “It was a drone. A male bee. It wouldn’t have hurt you.”

Nice going he cursed himself. Spencer held his breath as he braced himself for the inevitable reaction he was all too familiar with; the awkward hum as the other person pulled away, the barely masked grimace on their face at his compulsive need to drop facts at any given moment, and finally one of the many variations of ‘I’m running late, I better get going” among other excuses to stop talking to him. Except it never came.

Instead, you tilted your head to the side curiously, a thoughtful look on your face as you stared at the space in the air where the bee had been just moments ago. You were still touching him.

“Do male bees not sting or something?” You asked, the genuine interest in your voice taking Spencer by surprise.

He almost wasn’t sure what to do. If he wasn’t used to people actually listening to him when he rambled, someone asking him for even more information was practically unheard of.

“They can’t sting,” he begun, a mix of confidence and excitement at your interest bubbling up in his words, “stingers aren’t compatible with their anatomy. The stinger is essentially a modified ovipositor so it only exists on the female bees so they can lay their eggs. The stinger also isn’t needed for male bees for any defensive purposes since they have no role in defending the hive either so, uh.” His voice trailed off as he cleared his throat, his confidence dipping as he realised how much he was speaking. “Yeah, perfectly harmless.”

He sheepishly met your gaze once again, still half expecting to find that disinterested, disapproving look in your eyes. You finally pulled your hand away from his arm and oddly, Spencer found himself mourning your warmth through his sleeve and shocked himself with how much he wished you would reach for him again.

“That’s actually good to know.” His heart raced as you flashed a grin at him. “I’ve always been terrified of bees. That little fight you saw just now is a regular thing for me.” You replied with a giggle so sweet Spencer thought he should bottle it and pour it in his coffee- if he ever remembers to go in and get it.

“It’s a pretty common phobia, but actually bees have a lot of positive symbolism that contradicts people’s connotations about them.” His felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He ignored it.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Spencer noted the way your fingers drummed against the coffee cup in your hands, realising you had your drink already and there was really no reason for you to be here anymore. You were choosing to be here with him. For a moment, he felt like he’d had the breath knocked out of him and he felt his heart beat so hard behind his shirt he worried it would break out.

“Most commonly, they’re associated with hard work and community but in a lot of cultures they also represent prosperity and the circle of life. In ancient cultures they even believed bees to be of divine wisdom and they were seen as a symbol of guidance.” His cadence was suddenly a lot livelier, much more sure of itself as it evened out and strayed from the quiet shake of his words earlier.

“A symbol of guidance?” You repeated, not so subtly eyeing him up and down, adoring the nerdy way his glasses slipped down his nose as he spoke. “Maybe that’s what that bee was doing here today.”

There was a flirty undertone to your voice, not that Spencer noticed. Girls never flirted with him, or at least he convinced himself they didn’t. He’d spent far too much time on the receiving end of older girls in school pretending to like him for their own amusement and so he’d stopped looking for the signs entirely until they just began to pass him by.

“What do you mean?” He asked quizzically, his head tilting like a puppies in confusion.

“It guided you to me.”

His phone began ringing again- no doubt the team wondering where their coffees were, but he couldn’t even hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“Do you need to get that…?” You trailed off, trying to catch his name.

“Spencer.” He managed to croak out eventually. “And no- well I probably should actually, but it can wait.”

His doe eyes were blown wide, his mouth hanging open like a fish in a stunned state you didn’t yet know you would grow to love. You bumped his arm in a playful manner, holding back a smirk when his still dazed eyes darted between your face and your hand on his arm once again.

“Give me another one before you go, another nice bee thing.” You smiled softly, staring up at him through your lashes, and the invitation to teach again pulled him back to reality as he snapped into action instantly.

“This isn’t necessarily anything to do with bees themselves but have you heard of the Beehive Cluster?” He smiled fondly when you shook your head. “It’s a cluster of around a thousand stars within the Cancer constellation- described by Ptolemy as a nebulous mass. It’s named after its resemblance to a beehive, both in shape and in symbolism- the stars together in harmony like the bees.”

“That sounds beautiful, Spencer. You know a lot about the stars?” He nodded eagerly, but not smug. More like a man who was passionate about what he knew and was eternally grateful to have someone to share it with. “Well you’ll have to take me stargazing some time, it looks like I’ve got a lot to learn. What do you think?”

It was as if he’d been hypnotised, your proposal like the magic word that snapped his confidence back like elastic as his jaw dropped again immediately and he became a stuttering mess right there in front of you.

Spencer had a lot of explaining to do when he arrived back at the BAU empty handed.

Fast forward a few unfathomable months down the line and here he was, somehow lying beside you in bed watching the moonlight drape over your sleeping frame like the blanket wrapped around your waist. A heavy but pleasant feeling tugged at his consciousness, unsure whether it was from the late hour blinking on the clock or the love-drunk haze he always seemed to be in around you (though he would happily bet on the latter).

Afraid to touch you and disturb your sleep, Spencer let his eyes wander over you lovingly. His breath hitched with admiration as if it was his first time looking at you, overwhelmed and quite frankly astounded at the fact you were even here. With him. He gazed over your hands -your soft, gentle hands that pushed his glasses back up his nose with a touch so delicate against his face that he forgot about every hand that ever struck him there; your doting, attentive hands that buttoned his cardigans each morning when he was rushing too much to care about it himself; your tender, caring hands that combed through his hair as he cried into your shoulder after a case that hit him particularly hard. He let out a shuddering breath, his trance travelling to your lips, parted in your sleep and rosy like a cherub’s. Those same lips that harboured your sweet voice and that flashed your heavenly smile his way and made him weak. Those lips that reassured him that he was the only thing that mattered when he felt he was the only thing that didn’t. Finally, with bated breath, his focus shifted to your eyes that shone like the north star. His Polaris. His guiding light home, always waiting in the dark with open arms for him to fall into whenever he was lost. Those enchanting eyes that saw the beauty in everything- that somehow saw it in him.

Spencer was someone who valued his privacy and he had tried to keep the relationship to himself for a while, but working with a team of profilers and the fact he wore his heart on his sleeve meant it didn’t last very long. Before your first date he had shown up to work a little fancier than usual, like a child on their first day of school, knowing he would have to meet you straight from the office. Derek had immediately caught onto his gelled back hair and elaborate tie, embroidered with a sea of stars, and had thrown a few teasing comments his way along with his signature brotherly smirk. Gideon in a fatherly manner had straightened his tie for him before he left, patting him on the back and holding back a proud smile. The next day, when the grin Spencer wore pulled at his lips so hard it may as well have been stitched in place, his walls came crashing down and he told the team everything.

Spencer would never admit it but he’d studied beforehand, scouring the library for anything and everything even remotely romance related. As it turns out, being years below your peers your whole life doesn’t really open any doors in the dating world, often leaving him tuning out his emotions over a solitary game of chess, but he was determined to do everything he could to learn to be the perfect gentleman for you. At the restaurant, he pulled your chair out for you before seating himself closest to the door to protect you from the breeze whenever it swung open. Afterwards he walked you home, lingering close enough to breathe in the intoxicating smell of your perfume but refusing to touch you uninvited lest you think that was all he wanted from you.

Eventually, you approached your front door and you stopped for a moment, turning your head up towards the blackening sky, the stars not quite poking their pretty little heads out yet.

“What’s the matter?” Spencer asked, concerned as you sported a slight pout.

“I wanted you to show me the Beehive Cluster.” You sighed, dropping your gaze to the floor, a crease appearing between your brows that he found himself wishing he could kiss away, touched that you’d even remembered what he’d told you.

Your head snapped back up as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a notepad and pen with a small smile. You watched, confused as he frantically scribbled in silence, not daring to speak incase you burst the focused bubble he was in. After a moment, he glanced back up at you with a bashful expression, shyly holding out the piece of paper, now torn from the book.

“Until next time.” He said softly, barely audible but impactful nonetheless. Heart melting, you took in the scribbled illustration of the cluster on the page, fingers delicately tracing the ink like it was sacred.

That same drawing now lived framed on the nightstand beside where you slept, lit up by the moonlight creeping in through the curtains. The memory played over in Spencer’s mind on loop and he thought about waking you, overcome with the urge to pepper your face with a thousand kisses for every painful memory of his past you’d overwritten. For every girl that had asked him out as a joke; for every boy that made him feel inferior; for every time he had refused to let himself believe he could be in love, there was a countless amount of new memories with you. From his understanding of the world, love had always looked like something that left you in pieces more often than it put you back together. Love looked like a broken home and a broken family. Like something that only worked out in fiction and sometimes not even then. Love was a forbidden fruit hanging illuminated in an artificial light that looked just real enough to trick people into taking a bite, punishing those who dared think they were deserving of it. What he never even dreamed was that love could look just like this. Like sci-fi movie nights curled up together on the couch wearing matching mis-matched socks, or like quiet evenings spent comfortably side by side saying nothing but feeling everything. Truthfully, he never knew love could look like you.

All this time, Spencer believed it was his place in the universe to sit alone and observe, twinkling humbly from his place in the dark. He believed he was simply meant to tell the stories, not be part of one himself. Little did he know his place was beside you, his Evangeline, in a harmonious beehive all his own.

Spencer Reid had always been a man of science. But that night, as you lay beside him, he thought about the old mythological beliefs that bees were once divine messengers between mortals and the Gods- and he thought that maybe he believed it. Tears pricked his eyes as he leaned in and pressed a feather light kiss to your forehead and he found himself thanking that serendipitous bee that day for bringing him everything he didn’t know he was missing.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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pitchsidestories · 2 months ago

Text

bittersweet II Ona Batlle x Lioness!Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | previous fanfic I word count: 1426

summary: after their heartbreaking loss to Spain in the World Cup final, Ona gently comforts her girlfriend. requested

author's note: hey everyone, we hope you find this fanfic enjoyable.❤️❤️

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

A year ago, you and your team saw a childhood dream come to life, lifting the Euros trophy on home soil and making history in the process. When you closed your eyes, the taste of triumph remained, rich and sweet, as if you could still feel the rush of glory from that moment.

But now, in this heart-wrenching moment, another dream has shattered on the pitch in Sydney’s stadium. England’s hopes have crumbled, as they fall to Spain in the World Cup Final. The stars were out tonight, their light piercing the sky, yet all you could feel was the suffocating darkness surrounding you.

It was almost unbearable, watching the Spanish players celebrate. You knew they’d earned every moment of it, after all they had overcome throughout the tournament. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t stop your lips from curling into a pout. Across the pitch, your eyes met Ona’s.

"Excuse me for a second," your girlfriend muttered apologetically to her celebrating teammates, her voice barely rising above the noise before she started walking toward you.

"Hi," you greeted her, offering a sad smile.

Empathetically, Ona began:"Amor, I—"

The sudden flashes of cameras reminded her that you weren’t alone in this moment. Instinctively, she pulled you into a protective hug, shielding you from the prying eyes of the media.

“It’s okay. Congrats,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sincerity, even as you wished, just as deeply, that it had been your team hoisting the trophy. A bittersweet moment for both of you.

A smile brightened Ona’s face, her freckles like constellations scattered across her skin. She was your universe too: “Thank you. It still feels unreal, like a dream. But you guys were a tough opponent.”

“But not tough enough to win it,” you pointed out, the weight of the words lingering between you.

"Still," your girlfriend emphasized.

Her brown eyes sparkled as she added enthusiastically, "But I promise you something."

"What?", you asked quietly, fighting to hold back the tears threatening to fall.

Triumphantly, Ona leaned in close, whispering in your ear, making sure no one could read her lips: "Back in Barcelona, we’ll win everything."

"Oni, you can’t promise that!”, you gasped.

Happily, the brunette noticed a real, small smile tugging at your lips.

More seriously, she replied: “I can."

"Winning a quadruple sounds nice," you admitted, giving her a weak smile.

Ona did her best to comfort you, her voice soft and reassuring. "I know it's not the World Cup, but it's something."

"You’re the sweetest. You know that, right?", you questioned, your voice tinged with gratitude as the defender nestled her face against your hand.

“I know.”, your girlfriend chuckled warmly, being a soft comfort in the midst of it all.

Playfully rolling your eyes, you pushed Ona away: “Ugh, you look so incredibly happy. Go and celebrate with your teammates.”

“I’m sorry, amor.”, she laughed, her eyes sparkling.

“Love, don’t say sorry when you earned it!”, you scolded her affectionately.

Ona pouted slightly: “But I don’t like that you’re sad about it.”

“I mean I’m sad that my team and me lost. But that’s part of the game we love, it’s brutal.”, you tried to put all those conflicting feelings into words. Of course, you had just missed the biggest opportunity in your life to win the win the World Cup and it stung but if you had to lose to anyone, you were glad it was her.

Ona considered you, eyes soft and the gentlest smile on her lips: “It is. But once it stops hurting, you will be proud of how far you’ve come.”

“Likely.”, you forced a small smile. “And I also can’t wait for our small vacation.”

“It will be nice.”, Ona nodded happily.

“Oh yes, for sure.”

You both stood there for a moment, lost in the promise of your time together.

Suddenly the smile on Onas’s face wavered: “Y/n?”

“Yes?”, you replied.

She turned to look at her teammates who stood on one side of the pitch huddled together and instead of celebrating seemed to discuss something. More cameras had gathered around them.

“I’ll go now. Somethings seems off.”, she said, her eyebrows knotting together.

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back later.”, she promised.

You followed her gaze. She was right, her team seemed concerned.

“Now you should go though, Campeona del mundo.”, you nodded, nudging her forward.

“See you.”, she said quickly and pressed a kiss to your cheek before jogging to the other Spanish players.

You watched her for a moment, immediately feeling that the interest had shifted from you two towards the Spanish team.

Before you knew it, Alessia appeared in front of you, hands on your shoulders as she studied your face.

“You look better now.”, she said softly.

You laughed quietly: “Thanks, Lessi.”

“Come here.”

She didn’t even give you a chance to protest, she just pulled you into the tightest hug, wrapping her long arms around you.

And suddenly it started to hurt again. It was raw and burning, knowing that you failed at the final step.

“We were so close.”, you whispered into her shoulder. There were no more tears left.

“We have another shot at it in four years.”, she replied while she rubbed slow circles on your back. She wasn’t ready to move on yet, you could hear it in her voice. It was a fact but too far away to even consider yet.

You nodded: “Right.”

“Let’s head back to the team hotel and get drunk,” Ella suggested with a cheeky wink, nudging you both toward the players’ tunnel. No matter what happened, through all the highs and lows, you could always count on your friends.

You agreed, your voice low. “Sounds good.”

“Come on,” she called when you didn’t move.

You quickly reassured her, starting to walk as the stadium’s catacombs pulled you deeper into shadow, away from the harsh spotlight. “Coming.”

Inside, you felt you could breathe much easier, no longer under the pressure of the cameras trying to capture every emotion that came with losing a game. Your heart skipped when you heard your name from your girlfriends’ lips.

“Ona?” You turned around to meet her gaze.

An almost shy smile crossed the Spaniard’s face as she closed the distance between you.: “Thought I might find you here, where there are no cameras.”

Before you could reply, Ona’s eyes widened slightly: “So, your team is leaving?”

“Yes, they plan to get drunk at the hotel bar,” you explained.

The defender’s warm brown eyes twinkled with amusement: “Sounds like a solid plan.”

“I guess you’ll make it a bit more glamorous and joyful,” you commented with a smirk.

“We might,” she shrugged nonchalantly.

Clearing your throat, you asked: “Fun. No cameras here, right?”

“No, just us,” Ona confirmed.

“Good. Before I go, I’d like to do this.”

Lips touched. It had been so long since you’d had the chance to kiss each other. You both tried to capture all the yearning and longing you’d felt during the time you’d been apart in that one kiss.

As your foreheads rested against each other, your girlfriend looked at you with hopeful eyes and wanted to know: “I’ll see you at home then?”

Yes. It’s been a long time without you,” you responded.

She sighed, confessing: “It’s been awfully long without you, too. I’m glad we at least got to have the final together.”

“Y/n! Stop kissing the enemy. It’s time to drink away our sorrows!”, Ella interrupted with a mischievous grin.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her: “She’s not the enemy anymore. I’m kissing my girlfriend. But I won’t miss out on the drinks.”

“You can kiss her more on your vacation. Come on now,” Alessia waved impatiently.

With a heavy heart, you said goodbye: “Bye, love. Can’t wait to see you when it’s not football-related.”

“Me neither,” Ona answered, reluctantly letting go of your hand. Without hesitation, the Spaniard ran to you for one final, bittersweet kiss.

Ella grimaced: “You two are disgusting.”

“Leave them alone, Ella. We all need something positive right now.”, Alessia gently touched her friend's shoulder.

“Exactly,” you paused for a moment before adding with a chuckle, “time to get drunk.”

Happily, Ella wrapped her arms around both Alessia, and you as you made your way to the hotel bar. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Maybe the final didn’t end the way you wanted it to. And yes, that was a bitter realisation. But there was a sweetness in knowing that you’d won in other, priceless ways.

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pearlescentparade · 4 months ago

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Hi!! here for a request for Noob X killer! reader (forsaken) fluff headcanons

yung kai - blue lyrics.

OMG NOOB..... let's hope i can get them right

🔰noob x killer! reader fluff headcanons 💝💞

noob walks right up to you when the round starts, blissfully unaware of your status as a killer. they believe you're just another friendly face that they can stick with in this scary new environment

you consider making a bloodbath of them, until they offer to share their snacks with you. automatically, you assume it's a peace offering or a plead for mercy. though you can't eat, you enjoy the sacrificial offerings regardless

they like to set up picnics with you during the round. they'll put out all of their food, sit down, and just chat about whatever comes to mind. you usually only listen and rarely chime in, but noob appreciates the company anyway. it helps them regain a sense of normalcy, and feel like they're living their old life before they were taken here. and while you've never known a life outside of this world (or at least, the spectre makes sure you don't remember it), you think you would've liked it to be something like this too

adding on, noob likes to play a game with you where they describe things in the 'real world' that they think you would have liked. even if you've never seen or heard of these concepts, you trust their judgement

it's always nighttime in the realm. so on your picnic dates, noob likes to stargaze with you. they don't know any constellations, so they make up their own

"that small star is me, and that big one next to it is you!"

"..how will we be able to tell them apart from the other stars?"

"they're really close together. like us!"

they trail you through every round, clinging onto your back like a lost puppy. when you encounter another survivor, you instruct noob to hide and close their eyes so they don't see you completely mutilating their friends. they are always the sole survivor

they are very jumpy. any sudden spooky noises in the ambience will make them latch onto you and cower. they've jumped into your arms before, and the embarrassment helped them forget all about their fear

the spectre blocks you from reciprocating any actions of love. even so, that doesn't deter noob from displaying his affection. they will hug, kiss, and compliment you like it's nobody's deal! they assure you that even if you physically can't do anything back, your presence is more than enough

often, you'll sneak up on survivors while they're doing a generator. all of them run in fear, except noob, of course. they sit there, still attempting to solve the puzzle on the generator. you'll hover over them, instructing them where to put what wire and what not. the accomplished smile that explodes on their face when they finish it invokes a feeling in you that even the spectre struggles to suppress

if anyone tries to give noob a hard time for lacking knowledge on how to do things, you target them heavily. and when you catch them, you ensure their death is gory and painful

sometimes, you bring their head to noob as a trophy and symbol of your love (since it's the closest thing you can do to show it). you even make sure to clean it and cauterize the wound where you severed their head from their neck so there's no blood at all, just for them!

"look, little fledgling. i've damned your enemy. now they won't bother you."

"AGH- that's- oh my goodness- uh.. i appreciate it, really-! i.. i just... i think i'm gonna throw up-"

"...apologies. i thought you would've liked to see it. it felt more romantic in my head."

"it's- it's okay, i'm- ough...- i'm fine with what you usually do.. it's the thought that counts..!"

they like to attempt to scare you by reappearing after eating their ghostburger. it never works, but you think it's cute. you'll even pretend your roles are switched, and you'll run from them as they act like the big bad killer chasing you

since noob had opened up to you about their drinking addiction, you've put a limit on how much bloxy cola they drink per round. if they've already reached it and try to go for another, you'll snatch it away and crush it in your hands. they protest about the waste of food, but can you really call the highly sugary processed drink 'food'?

because of your increased speed as a killer, noob likes to ride on your shoulders and pretend they're in a cart ride. you'll even go up and down slopes in the map and move in zigzag patterns to simulate the winding track, like how noob describes them

the other survivors use noob as bait, sending them out to find you first before you get to anyone else so that they can minimize the casualties. it's not in a mean-spirited way, it's a practical strategy because noob is able to distract you for the entire round and prevent you from killing anyone as long as long as the others stay out of your sight. noob doesn't mind, they'll happily assist their friends in anyway they can, considering they don't have any team-support abilities

(parade postscript: i tried to incorporate some of the song lyrics into the hcs, especially with the stargazing one! though i didnt know if i did it well LOL the song's meaning and lyrics kind of made me feel sad bc it felt very angsty with the themes of yearning and unrequited love, but i tried to focus on the sweet parts of it for the hcs :'])

#forsaken x reader #forsaken #roblox x reader #forsakenroblox #noob forsaken x reader #noob forsaken #sfw

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self-shipper-snowdrop · 4 months ago

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for the ask game, 🫧 & 🩷 for any tfp f/o(s)?

How about... all of them 0u0 thanks so much for the ask, anon!!!! <33333

🫧 What’s a favourite thing about your F/O that you don’t talk about often?

Starscream - I. LOVE. HIS. WINGS!!!!! They are the greatest thing ever!!!! The way they move even in the most subtle ways with his emotions and words; they're just as expressive as his face, really!!! Also it just makes me giggle sometimes when he's saying something and the wings just go... down XD he's so cute I'm gonna smooch his big silly face <3333333

Optimus - This is literally such a small thing but just.... his smile. Whenever he smiles so softly, my soul melts. It's so warm and soft, like being wrapped up in a hug and I could die looking at it. I could think about his smile and giggle for hours. It is the softest thing ever, and I cannot physically cope.

Megatron - The flashy movements when he fights!!! Just watch any battle scene with Megs in it- the way he moves has such flair and finesse in all of it! He truly does move like a gladiator. He's effective, but yet, so eye-catching that you're reminded of that lore, or can even pick up on it without knowing ahead of time! It's something some people would just not think about, but it's there. It helps tell his fascinating story even just through that <333333 I turn into such an idiot schoolgirl giggling and kicking my legs when I watch him fight.

Knockout - His optics, oh my GOD;;;;;; I don't care what anyone says, they're gorgeous. They're so expressive, they're so unique, I love looking at them and I could look at them forever. The reason that one scene where he says "come out, come out wherever you are~" [all TFP watchers know what I mean] bloody kills me every single time. EVERY. TIME. It's not just the voice. It's the look in his eyes. I just DIE. It's so MEAN;;; KO WHY ARE YOU SO HOT???? IT'S UNFAIR

Breakdown - everything I would die for him The fact that he's nice to the vehicons and chats with them about stuff, just because. Nobody else does that!!!! He talks with them about romance, life, he thanks them for their work... he's such a darling!!! He is wonderful and I will die on this hill, he is so polite and respectful, I'm gonna kiss his face and you CANNOT stop me.

🩷 How do they show their love for you?

OOOOO This is a good one because they're actually starting to do this in the massive TFP fic!!!! Here's one lil way, for each.

Starscream - Holding Bronwen gently, and telling/bragging to everyone how much she likes him [in the fic as an actual prophet she's a big deal] while getting her silver outfits so they match. The funny part is, he's been doing this since BEFORE he realized he loved her and convinced himself he was faking... lmao nerd.

Optimus - Letting her sit on his shoulder while he walks around, or even just because she wants to. Having Bronwen lean on him or simply know she's there while he walks around base... it's a quiet, gentle sort of intimacy that needs no words.

Megatron - Listening to her. This sounds stupid and bare minimum, yes; but not to them. It's not just hearing her, but listening to her talk about... anything. Carnivorous plants, games she likes, dragons, cats, everything. He'll stay quiet and shoo everyone else away, even if she's ranting for half an hour about different types of dragons and why they can't be switched around for movies or other stories. She's the only one who he'd do that for, just to see the glitter in her eye when she sees him actively listening to every word she says.

Knockout - Letting her buff his finish. His look is a big deal, you know, and you don't just let anyone do it; especially not a little organic! But letting Bronwen do it- even asking her to at times- is a sign of love and trust. Trusting her with making sure he looks his best, even while she's human, and making sure she knows he approves of her meticulous work.

Breakdown - Using nicknames for her. He specifically tends to call her "birdie" or "songbird", as he thinks she's small and cute like them, and he and Knockout both enjoy when she sings human songs to them. It's a small thing that slips into every remark about her, a small smile on his faceplate as he says it, before a vehicon or another Decepticon asks who he means and he quickly uses her name. But, better still to him, is seeing how Bronwen perks up and right away responds to it.

#from daydreams to text #romantic; amaryllis and energon #romantic; counting constellations #romantic; the world wings your name #romantic; don't keep me waiting #romantic; changing fate for you #I! LOVE! THE! ROBOTS!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAJKANKNNJVNJNNKDVKNDFNJKVDKNJ

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dunmomee · 24 days ago

Text

Crossing Lines

Synopsis: You and Satoru steal the spotlight on the red carpet at the premiere of your first film together, setting off a media frenzy with your undeniable chemistry.

a/n: I’ll admit it—I did imagine myself with Timothée Chalamet while writing this.

Next one-shot>>

The lights flashed relentlessly.

But they never bothered you. You’d done this too many times to count.

Perfect poses. Polished smiles. Years of PR training on full display.

Your name echoed across the red carpet, shouted by photographers, screamed by fans. It was all part of the job. And tonight, that’s exactly what you were here to do.

The premiere of Crossed Lines was everything the studio had promised: romantic tension, slow-burn angst, impeccable wardrobe, and, most importantly, a press cycle ignited by the magnetic chemistry between you and your co-star, Gojo Satoru.

He stood on the opposite end of the carpet, posing like he’d invented the art. Cameras adored him. So did the crowd. His suit was tailored to perfection, the top buttons left undone just enough to tease the chiseled lines of his chest.

You, as always, walked onto the carpet like you owned it.

Your gown was pure drama. Vintage-inspired, but undeniably yours. A teal blue dress shimmered under the flashes, catching light like fire trapped in crystal. Beads and sequins, hand-stitched across semi-sheer fabric, refracted into a halo of soft brilliance.

The halter neckline swept up and behind your neck, crossing delicately over your chest and revealing a sliver of your toned midriff through an artful cutout. The dress sculpted your waist, then flowed over your hips with effortless grace, hugging every curve before plunging into a scandalously low back. Beaded embellishments trailed down your spine like a constellation, guiding every eye directly to you.

Strappy heels peeked from beneath the hem, and a cascade of long, straight hair falling down your back, but it was the dress, that perfect balance of reveal and conceal, that sent the fans into a frenzy.

You turned slightly to offer the cameras a new angle—

And then the screaming changed. Sharper. Louder. A pitch only chaos could coordinate.

You blinked, startled, just as a tall figure appeared beside you, slipping a hand around your bare waist with maddening ease.

“Miss me?” Gojo’s voice dropped low by your ear, warm and infuriatingly smooth.

You didn’t have to look. No one else would dare.

“Satoru,” you hissed through clenched teeth, lips still smiling for the cameras. “You’re crashing my solo shots.”

“Correction,” he murmured, giving your waist a playful squeeze. “I’m improving them.”

Photographers erupted.

“LOOK HERE, SATORU!”

“KISS HER!”

“ARE YOU DATING FOR REAL?”

“Y/N, SAY SOMETHING!”

You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face. Still, you kept your eyes on the photographers, chin tilted just right, smile unwavering.

But the heat of his stare was relentless. You turned, finally meeting it—

Only to find him inches away.

Then his hand tugged at your waist. Swift. Sure.

And suddenly, his lips were on yours.

Your eyes flew open.

The crowd erupted.

The flashes turned blinding.

When he pulled away, it was as if nothing had happened. He looked maddeningly composed, blue eyes alight with mischief.

“I just gave the people what they wanted,” he said, voice smug.

You stared at him, stunned, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the chaos.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He winked. “You’re welcome.”

After that entire chaos, you had barely recovered before the solo interviews began.

The reporter you landed with smiled like she knew a secret. “You look absolutely mesmerizing, Y/N, the hair, the dress, the heels. You’re giving full goddess tonight.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Thank you… You look amazing too, by the way.”

She leaned in, her tone playful. “Alright, spill. What was the best part of working with the Gojo Satoru? That chemistry in the film? Electric.”

"The best part?" You smiled, tilting your head slightly toward Satoru, who was a few feet away, being interviewed by another reporter, his smirk aimed directly at you. "Honestly? He makes it hard to stay in character… and even harder to remember we were acting in the first place."

Then, a beat. Your eyes flicked to the interviewer. "That kind of chemistry isn’t scripted."

“So… that kiss back there. A stunt, or is there something real brewing?”

You laughed. Too high-pitched. Too nervous.

“Oh, trust me, if it were real, I wouldn’t find out on the red carpet.”

She chuckled but raised an eyebrow. “So… no comment?”

“I plead the fifth,” you said smoothly. “I think our movie says enough.”

Behind you, a familiar warmth. A whisper of cologne. Gojo again.

“She pleads the fifth, huh?” he said, leaning close to the mic and stealing the spotlight like it belonged to him. “I say she’s just shy.”

Then, to your complete horror and everyone else’s delight, he kissed you again, this time at the crook of your neck. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, but the cameras didn’t miss a thing.

The crowd exploded.

You flushed all the way to your ears. “Satoru—!”

He only grinned. “Oops. Guess I’ll plead the sixth.”

And before anyone could stop him, he tugged your hand and walked off the carpet, dragging you along with him like you hadn’t just blacked out from public humiliation.

-----

The next morning, your phone buzzed like it was possessed.

Every notification was some variation of:

BREAKING: Satoru & Y/N — New Hollywood Romance? #CrossedLines or RealLove trending #1

You groaned, face buried in your pillow. Then Gojo’s name lit up your screen. He’d sent a screenshot of the most obnoxious headline of them all:

SATORU & Y/N SEAL ROMANCE WITH TWO RED CARPET KISSES

Underneath, his message read:

“Iconic. You’re welcome 😎 ”

You sent back:

“I hate you. That was definitely not the plan.”

He replied instantly:

“Sure, but did we look like it wasn’t real? 😉 ”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

You just stared at the ceiling, heart fluttering in a way it shouldn’t have.

Because you weren’t dating Gojo Satoru.

…Right?

#alternate universe #actors au #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #jujutsu gojo #jujustu kaisen #kisses #suggestive

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godricgryffinsnore · 10 days ago

Note

Regulus Black trying to explain why divinationstudent!reader sees nothing but water in his future (he can't tell her the plan and make her a liability) angst and a lot of trying to distract her with other things... 💗

Where the Water Takes You ♡ : A Regulus Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Regulus Black x divination!student!reader

summary : Years after Regulus Black’s death, a Divination student who once saw nothing but water in his future uncovers a hidden letter explaining the truth behind his sacrifice. As memories resurface and grief crashes over her like a tide, she finally understands the boy who died with her name in his heart—and the ocean in his fate.

warnings : Canon character death, Grief and mourning, War themes and aftermath, Emotional manipulation (through secrecy), Mentions of drowning, Intense angst, Survivor’s guilt, Poetic but heavy emotional language. Please let me know if I missed any <3

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Okay so this? WOW, the request had me shook. I cried the entire time writing this because Regulus Arcturus Black has had a painful death and he did not deserve any of it. But thank you so so so much for requesting. I hope you enjoy <3

word count : 1.5k

main master list <3

1st picture credit goes to @panchashire!!! 💗💗💗

banners : @omi-resources and @cafekitsune

The first time you saw it, it shimmered blue and endless—an ocean folding in on itself, soft and infinite.

Water.

Not fire. Not war. Not darkness.

Not death.

Just water.

You looked into the bottom of your teacup, the leaves swirling like whispers caught in a storm, and all you could think of was him.

“Regulus,” you murmured, blinking slowly, “I think something’s wrong with your future.”

He looked up from his Potions textbook with that maddening, aristocratic calm. One elegant brow arched like he’d been summoned by a question far too trivial to be worth his time.

“Is that so?” he asked, all silk and thorns.

You swallowed. “I keep seeing water. Only water. Nothing else.”

── .✦

He came to every divination session after that. You hadn’t invited him. He simply… began to appear. Draped in his Slytherin uniform like it was war armor, with his hair combed perfectly back, lips smirking in subtle disapproval of the incense curling around him.

“I find tea revolting,” he’d murmur, sipping anyway. “Like drinking perfume. But I suppose, for you, I’ll endure.”

You rolled your eyes, and he smiled.

But when you peered into his cup again—

Water. Water. Always water.

“Could mean you're going on a cruise,” he said dryly. “Perhaps a romantic elopement with someone tall, charming, and much less emotionally unavailable than I am.”

“Stop deflecting,” you said, your voice low. “This is serious.”

Regulus tilted his head. “You’re far too charming when you’re trying to worry about me.”

“Regulus—”

“You should be more worried about yourself,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with knuckles cold as marble. “Being near me is a liability.”

── .✦

He never told you.

Not when he kissed you by the Black Lake like he was afraid the moment would drown him. Not when he held you in the Astronomy Tower, whispering constellations against your collarbone like prayers. Not when he said, “If there’s ever a future where I’m not in it… I want you to keep looking for stars.” Not even when you begged to know why you saw nothing but water in the crystal ball.

He laughed it off with charm that cracked at the edges.

He told you to try reading his palm instead, “At least then you get to hold my hand.”

He told you, “Maybe I’ll become a mermaid. My hair would suit the aesthetic.”

He told you everything and nothing, like a boy trying to build a dam against a flood he’d already chosen to drown in.

── .✦

The night he left, the cup shattered.

The water spilled across your floor. Your fingertips trembled with the cold.

You knew.

Oh, you knew.

You tore through the common room in bare feet, screamed into the fire in the Slytherin dorms, begged Kreacher at the edge of the kitchens—but Regulus Black was gone.

── .✦

And under the cave, in the silence of the Inferi’s water, he died alone.

He drank poison until his hands shook too hard to hold the locket. He gasped for air that wasn’t there. He cast spell after spell, but the dead pulled him down, saltless and blind, arms like anchors. And as the darkness closed over him, he did not scream. He thought of your eyes. He thought of your tea leaves. He thought of how you always called him stubborn, how you never saw a future with him in it—only water.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

── .✦

You found his journal years later. Stuffed behind a charm textbook in Grimmauld Place.

“I couldn’t tell her. She’s the one good thing I’ve done without being told to.” “She deserves a future I can’t give her. But I hope she finds one where I’m not just another ripple.” “If she sees water, I hope it’s a lake where she swims, not one where I drowned.”

── .✦

You never drank tea again. You hated the taste of perfume.

But every year, on the day he vanished, you filled a cup and poured it into the sea.

And you whispered,

“I saw the ocean before you fell into it, Regulus. I just didn’t know I was already drowning.”

── .✦

The letter which Regulus wrote before his sacrifice:

To You, My Light.

If you are reading this, I’ve already walked into the water.

I wish I could say I walked away from you instead, but I didn’t. I carried you with me. Every breath I took, every lie I told, every moment I pretended I was still a boy who had a chance at something like forever.

But the truth, darling, is that I never belonged in the future you saw. I was always meant to disappear beneath it.

There’s a locket.

A cursed one, black as sin and bright as betrayal. It belonged to the Dark Lord. It's a piece of his soul—yes, his soul. He tore it apart and hid it in trinkets like trophies. He thinks it makes him immortal.

I found one. I planned to take it, to destroy it. And I knew that doing so would destroy me too.

I didn't tell you. Not because I didn't trust you—but because I did. Too much. You would have followed me. You would have burned your wings to drag me out of that cave.

And I couldn't let you die for a future I already ruined.

The water you saw, in every cup, every crystal—it wasn’t a symbol, it was a map. The lake. The Inferi. The place I chose to end it. Not for glory. Not even for redemption.

But for a chance. For a real one. For Harry. For the war. For you.

I hope the war ends with someone braver than I am standing in the light. I hope you laugh again. I hope you fall in love again, though I know I have no right to hope that. I hope, when you look at the water now, you see the sky reflected in it. Not me.

But if you do see me—

Just know I never regretted loving you.

Not for a second.

Not even while drowning.

Forever yours, Regulus Arcturus Black (Your fool, your ghost, your greatest liar)

── .✦

The house still smelled like dust and ghosts.

You hadn’t stepped inside Grimmauld Place since the war ended—since Harry had claimed it by blood and sorrow. Even then, you'd kept away from the drawing room, the library, the staircase with that one step he always skipped.

You couldn’t look at this house without seeing him. Without smelling the ink he used. Without hearing his voice curl around your name like a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

But today—today you let yourself in.

Not to remember. To let go.

That was the idea, anyway.

You wandered through the study on accident, really. Your fingers brushed old spines, parchment, and corners of shelves that had memorized his silhouette better than you ever could. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for—until you found it.

Tucked behind a worn copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art and a shattered inkwell.

His journal.

You recognized the emerald thread binding it. The neat handwriting on the spine. The way the corner was slightly torn—he’d torn it himself, in a fit of frustration, the day he got blood on the page and couldn’t stand the imperfection.

It fell open on its own. Almost willingly.

And nestled between the pages, folded like a secret never meant to be found—

The letter.

The seal crumbled under your thumb. The wax broke like a curse releasing itself into the air. Your hands trembled. You tried to laugh, to curse, to breathe.

And then you read it.

Line after line. Word after word. Ink bleeding into the cracks of your soul.

“If you are reading this, I’ve already walked into the water…” “There’s a locket…” “You would have followed me.”

You sank to the floor. No ceremony, no grace—just knees hitting wood like you were praying to something long dead.

“Regulus,” you whispered. His name. That name. “You absolute, arrogant, beautiful fool.”

You pressed the letter to your chest. Held it like it could beat for you. Like it could speak the words he never did. The ones he took to the bottom of that cave.

And then the tears came.

Not the quiet kind. Not the dignified, war-hardened sobs you’d trained yourself to release behind bathroom doors.

This was grief raw and childlike. This was ten years of silence collapsing inside you.

He loved you. He always had.

He died for the world. But he left you behind in it.

You crawled toward the hearth and fed the fire with your sobs, staring into the flames like they might give you a vision again—some final glimpse of him.

But there was only water in your eyes. Only echoes in your chest.

You took his journal. Clutched it like a relic. And when you left Grimmauld Place, you didn’t look back.

But you whispered one thing into the wind, just in case the ghosts were listening.

“I forgive you. But I’ll never stop waiting by the shore.”

#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 #della answered ⋆˚✿˖°#regulus black x fem!reader #regulus black x y/n #regulus black x reader #regulus x reader #regulus black #regulus deserved better #regulus black x you #regulus x you #regulus fanfiction #regulus black fan fiction #della’s inbox 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡

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angelilacs · 5 months ago

Text

january prompts ˎˊ˗

1 ⭑ doing each other’s hair

2 ⭑ date night gone wrong

3 ⭑ strip club

4 ⭑ misheard runaways

5 ⭑ running into each other outside a coffee shop

6 ⭑ having trouble communicating

7 ⭑ strawberry kisses

8 ⭑ smooth whiskey

9 ⭑ photograph session

10 ⭑ acing a class

11 ⭑ star constellations

12 ⭑ childhood friends turned enemies

13 ⭑ hiding from your partner

14 ⭑ lights turned off

15 ⭑ maroon sweater

16 ⭑ vinyl record

17 ⭑ rainy day at the beach

18 ⭑ first time

19 ⭑ soaked clothes

20 ⭑ secret liquor store next to a college campus

21 ⭑ new year’s resolution

22 ⭑ counting their freckles

23 ⭑ lemon and garlic salmon

24 ⭑ missing all the signs

25 ⭑ a miniskirt and red sport bra

26 ⭑ late trains

27 ⭑ romantic novels

28 ⭑ ponytail with a white bow on top

29 ⭑ a real girl’s girl

30 ⭑ entering the wrong lecture room

31 ⭑ best friend’s fridge

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hyunebunx · 8 months ago

Note

💛 w/ felix please!!

˖˙ ᰋ ── 💛- 'a kiss shared during sunset, often romantic and serene'

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff!! the fluffiest kind

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: i loved writing this sm :( it's a little self indulgent but i still hope you'll like it! thank youu for requesting!! <333

Sunsets were your absolute favorite.

It might sound cliché or overrated, but witnessing such mesmerizing beauty whenever you were lucky enough to, genuinely made life worth living to an extent other things didn’t. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder but nobody could deny the one of a kind colors and the bright light that was slowly dimming with every minute that passed weren’t painting one of the most gorgeous pictures of them all. Mother Nature herself was the most talented artist after all, her creations admired all over the world by all sorts of people, even the ones who didn’t have a keen eye for the arts in the first place.

Yet somehow, the sunset was even more dazzling now while you were admiring it with Felix, your one and only who everyone was convinced was related to the sun himself.

Lowering your hands, you let the cheap film camera dangle from your wrist casually, the sand warm under you. “I’ve always loved taking pictures of the sky.”

Felix tears his gaze from the ocean, the warm breeze softly ruffling his long blond hair as he smiles. “I know. You never miss a photo opportunity, wiping out your phone and stopping everything we do to get that perfect shot.”

You return his smile, sheepishly, bumping your shoulder into his. “So, you’ve noticed.”

“Of course I have.” He admits like he couldn’t phantom someone not noticing, leaning closer and staring at you in such a way that had you believing he forgot all about the beautiful view in front for a moment. “Because while you’re busy staring at the sky, my eyes only see you.”

Your eyes widen, heat rushing to your face alarmingly as you finally turn to look at him. Wrong move, because the sight of him takes your breath away, especially since you’re close enough to notice every single detail that made Felix who he was. His freckles were not hiding behind any makeup, spilling all over his cheeks like actual constellations – the ones on his eyelids were always your favorite, having taken too many pictures of them to even count now – plump lips naturally pink and still stretched into a faint smile that only pulled you closer by your heartstrings, tugging at them and never really letting go.

The sun was setting, and there were numerous other couples around enjoying the view and the last days of warmth on the beach, but now you could only see him.

“Now you’re just lying to fluster me.” A giggle escapes you, awkward and shy as the beautiful shades of orange begin caressing his side profile, mesmerizing you.

Felix shakes his head instantly. “Why would I?” His hand finds yours on the sand, intertwining your fingers. “People find beauty in different things. So, while you’re enthralled by the sky and all of its colors, I’m bewitched by you and only you.”

Bewitched, like you were some sort of otherworldly being in his eyes, a piece of art deserved to be hung in a museum in its own separate section, surrounded by security 24/7.

You’ve never doubted Felix’s love for you but at the same time, you had no idea he regarded you so highly, in the same way you did him.

Without a second thought, you lean over and plant a lingering kiss on his cheek, feeling his smile widen before you get the chance to pull away, happiness radiating off of him.

“Sure, the sky is beautiful.” You nod, a little tongue-tied and emotional by his previous statement. “But there’s something I love capturing in pictures even more.”

His brows furrow, turning his whole mind upside down in search of the answer he’s looking for, sure you’ve told him about this before. There was no way he wouldn’t remember.

You reach to smooth out the skin and stop him from stressing. Felix beams in response, catching your fingers and bringing them to his mouth to kiss one by one.

The waves were crashing against the shore, bringing a rare serenity you and Felix could never get enough of as the sun seemed to pause its descent to also witness your love, giving you a few more moments of light.

“The moon?” He tries, thoughtful while bringing your hand to his chest.

You shake your head and almost close the distance between you to whisper. “You.”

Then, you kiss him, tenderly and softly like you’re afraid once you pull back and open your eyes he will disappear like he was nothing more than a fragment of your own imagination. Or a ray of sunshine personified whose time ran out and he needed to hurry home and be among his people, to allow the moon to take front stage.

Felix holds your hands like he feels the same, not believing someone like you was actually real and bothered to give him the time of day.

There is no rush or desperation, just two people who love each other like it wasn’t the first time, like they somehow met before in a past life and were separated by the cruel passing of time. Like soulmates destined to find each other over and over again, guided by the red string of fate that never tore no matter how far apart your paths were, or what obstacles dared to stand in your way.

When you pull away, he chases after you, pecking your lips repeatedly until he’s satisfied. But he doesn’t seem to get enough, deepening the kiss at the last second while pulling you even closer as he wraps an arm around your shoulders to feel you near.

The sun is almost gone when you come back for air, forehead resting against your lover’s as you both break into the biggest smiles, delighted to be together and make even more memories.

And for once in your life, you don’t mind missing a sunset for you found an even more beautiful view.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids headcanons #skz headcanons #stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids soft thoughts #stray kids soft hours #stray kids x you #skz fluff #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #felix x you #felix fluff #lee felix fluff

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thebestofoneshots · 4 months ago

Text

Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Series Masterlist | Previous episode

Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 6.4 K Warnings: none Prompt: How could you even distract Remus?. Proofread by sweet @girlwihkaleidoscopeeyes

Chapter 71: We've Only Just Begun

Saturday, January 15th, 1977

Sirius had been tapping his feet against the stone and turning to look at the astrological clock in front of him as if it could tell him the time for the last 10 minutes. He had arranged a meeting with Minho here, and the Slytherin was already 5 minutes late.

Now, technically,, Sirius hadn’t arranged anything with Minho; rather, he had scribbled a quick note and sent it to him by paper plane, all in code, of course: Mr. Green, please meet your Friendly Neighbourhood Dog in the measurer of the universe at 11:10 this morning. The Reds need some of your potions.

Minho hadn’t responded, and Sirius also knew Tom was going to Hogsmeade, so there was a high possibility he would be with his boyfriend instead of around the castle.. He had charmed the plane to come back to him if it couldn’t find Minho, and the aircraft hadn’t returned to him yet, but messenger planes often got lost or stuck in the weirdest places, so there was about a fifty-fifty chance that Minho’d gotten it, and was on his way.

“Please,” Sirius said as he looked at the basket around his arm. He knew it wasn’t necessary to have wine – or any alcohol for that matter – in the picnic. He knew that Remus would love all the stuff he got,, especially the thick thermos with hot chocolate that Nimbletwist claimed would be perfect for the chilly day. But Sirius also thought wine was the most romantic thing, and he wanted to treat both of his lovers to the most romantic picnic possible. Perhaps it was his French side, or just him being dramatic as he always was, but he wasn’t going to give in easily. At least not for the next few minutes.

He looked at the clock again, trying to find something to distract his mind, when he noticed something not quite right with the hands. . Mars was not where it was supposed to be at that time of the year – Mars was on Capricorn, Sirius knew because Spellman had mentioned it an excessive amount of times back in December, claiming it was the perfect start for Slytherins and Ravenclaws who were disciplined and ambitious.

Not only that but the more he looked, the more he realised how odd things were in the clock. The constellations were in the wrong order, the sun was hidden as if it were night instead of day; the moon appeared to be full – but the full moon wasn’t until the end of the month; and countless other oddities.

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the clock and pulled his wand out. Waving it to try and fix the clock, when he did, the hands started spinning around frantically, and a second later, there was a click. The face of the clock opened as if it were a door. He smiled, he was not expecting to find another secret passage in the school, let alone by coincidence, and yet there it was. Dark and smelling a little stale and musty, as if it hadn’t been opened for hundreds of years, but there either way.

Sirius leaned his head inside, there was a dark tunnel that seemed to go downwards. He looked at the door, and there was something carved on the side. “The Undercroft,” he read. It was carved almost clumsily with a knife, and underneath it there were 3 pairs of initials, SS, AS and OG. Sirius brushed his fingers over the carved wood and then looked curiously at the dark passage ahead.

“Sirius!” he heard someone shout from behind along with some heavy shuffling. He shut the clock’s door, and stood in front of it as he turned to the voice. Minho was there, looking as if he’d been running. Tom was a few steps behind him.

“You got the message then?”

“Fell on Tom’s head as we were stepping out,” Minho said with a nod towards Tom. “What do you need me to get you? Firewhisky?? Icevodka?”

“Uh… no…” Sirius said awkwardly. “I need wine.”

“Wine?” Minho asked with a frown. The boys had never asked for wine before, only strong stuff that could be combined to make drinks.

Tom tilted his head as he stared at the basket in Sirius’ hand. “Oh, yes, he definitely wants wine,” he retorted as he gently elbowed Minho and pointed at the basket. “I gather things turned out alright after our talk with her?” He already knew it had (or had a strong suspicion anyway), but he was not going to miss the chance to tease Sirius about it.

Unconsciously, Sirius moved the basket behind his body, cursing himself for not hiding it, or leaving it in a corner, not that he cared all that much that they knew what was going on. After all, without them, nothing would have been going on. “Yeah,” he responded. “Thank you.”

“So, what kind of wine?” Tom asked with a smirk. . “White, Red, Rosé? Maybe you’d prefer something sparkling like champagne, or…”

“Tom,” Minho said as he turned to him, voice slow, drawing out the “O” a little bit, which got him to shut his mouth. Sirius wondered for a second if that was what he and Remus looked like. He wasn’t nearly as… ‘bubbly’ as Tom, was he? Minho turned back to Sirius shortly after, “Do you have a preference?”

“White,” Sirius responded. “If you can get your hands on it.”

“Oh you’d be surprised what he can get his hands on,” Tom teased, Sirius laughed and Minho gave his boyfriend a rather reproachful look.

“I think I could, but we’re going to be at Hogsmeade until the evening,” he said. “And judging by your basket, your date is sooner than that.”

“Do you think you could owl it?”

“Well…” Minho hesitated.

“Sure, we’ll send it with my owl,” Tom intervened. “No one will link it to Min if it gets intercepted, , so no issue.”

“But they might link it to you,” Minho interceeded, sounding slightly worried.

“Mum sometimes sends me Cerisette,” he said with a shrug. “Say’s it’s good for a cough and whatnot. Minnie knows about it, I doubt she’d think it weird if she saw Ajax carrying a bottle of wine.”

“Cerisette? The same that you–” Sirius started.

“Yeah!” Tom interrupted rather expressively. “How do you think I get it when I bring it over to parties? I think we drank one of my bottles at James’ last year.”

“Huh,” Sirius said with a smile. “Thanks for sharing.”

“Well, sharing is caring. But you’d know a lot more about that, wouldn’t you?” Tom teased and got another shove from Minho who was a lot more considerate. Especially because he knew how hard it was to accept new things about themselves for some people, how hard it had been for him, at least.

“Where should we send it to?”

“Our dorm,” Sirius responded. “Sounds possible?”

“Consider it done,” Tom said with a thumbs up. “Now, we,” he pointed at himself and Minho “have to get going to our own date.” There was a hint of a smile on Minho’s face as he shook his head. “But we wish you the best of luck!”

“Thanks,” Sirius said, and watched them move towards the other side, and then stepped forward. “No, Tom, wait!”

He turned around and raised one of his eyebrows. “How may I help?”

“It’s um… about the thing.”

“The thing?” Tom asked.

“You know. The thing.”

Tom really had no idea whatever thing Sirius could be referring to. “Mate, I’m lost.”

Sirius took a deep breath and averted Tom’s gaze before speaking again, “I mean… sex.”

Tom rose one of his eyebrows. “I would have bet a hundred galleons that you weren’t a virgin.”

“What? No!” Sirius retorted. “I know how that– I mean–”

Tom started laughing, which got Sirius to look back at him, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “You’re fucking with me.”

“You’d know if I was,” Tom retorted and laughed at Sirius’ expression once he understood what he meant. “Sorry, sorry,” Tom said as he waved his hand in the air. “It’s um… very similar as it is with a girl.” Sirius stared at Tom in disbelief. “Well, maybe not very similar, but it’s similar enough. Either way, there’s not much I can help you with, you need to figure it out with Remus.”

“I mean, I get it but–”

“I could tell you everything I know and it still wouldn’t help,” Tom said almost blatantly. “Whatever I do or like or, Minho does or likes – though perhaps Minho could help you more than I can – is different to what Remus does or likes. But use common sense, if it hurts, stop.”

“If what hurts?”

“How would I know what you’ll be doing?” Tom said with a shrug. “Talk to Remus, just like you talk it out with a girl. Think of the talks you had with Sly Sprite, It’ll be just like that.”

“Well that was – it was a lot more instinctive than…”

“Woah,” Tom said as he closed his hand in front of Sirius' face. “I don’t need the details, thank you very much.” He breathed, “Just make sure you’re both comfortable. You know, ask for consent when doing something you’re not sure about and that’s it. Trust me,” Tom leaned in. “It’s just as instinctive.”

Sirius, not feeling so sure, nodded. He was looking for more straight answers (ironically enough). Before he did it with a girl for the first time, he already had a pretty good idea of what he could or shouldn't do. And with you he had been confident from the start, he knew what he had to do, and he thought that was the reason the two of you had had such a great time. But when it came to him and Remus, he knew he wanted to touch and feel and see, but he had no idea where boundaries were, and he had never been so lost.

“Let him guide,” Tom said with a smile as if he’d read Sirius’ thoughts. “He’ll know what to do, just have fun.” And then, almost as an afterthought he added, “I’ll send you a book with some spells that might help with it.”

“What? Spells? For what?”

“Oh, you’ll know when you read them,” Tom said with a confident nod.

“Right, thanks,” Sirius said sheepishly. Tom sent him a short wink and caught up with Minho in a matter of seconds.

Sirius watched the two of them go before he turned to look at the clock again. The marauder part of him wanted to see what was inside, while the romantic and eager boyfriend part of him was jumping out of his skin to go back to his room before you brought Remus to yours to check on Nieve. He looked at the clock one more time, bit his lip and pointed at it –as if to tell the clock not to move– before sighing and walking towards the stairs. As he was walking past one of the corners, he heard your voices.

“It’s a terrible idea,” Remus was saying. Sirius could almost see the shake of his head as he leaned behind one of the columns; and he hastily threw a disillusionment charm over himself.

“I mean, imagine having some of it on your birthday, or James’! I’d say Lily’s but she might not love the idea.”

“On my birthday? You want us to use it on my birthday?”

“Well, why not? We had an incredible time on Halloween and we were all pretty high on Tom’s potion.”

“That was an accident! And I ended up kissing someone I didn’t even fancy all that much.”

“Well, if you hadn’t left,” you thought as you remembered the way in which you had been dancing with him, how Sirius had straight up licked his face. “Perhaps things would have turned out differently. I could have noticed something and–”

“I highly doubt it,” Remus said in that infuriating logical way of his which got you huffing in frustration. . “You think Sirius’s still with Slughorn?”

“He probably is,” you retorted with a shrug. “You know how he is when he has something to talk about…”

Sirius, who was still listening in to the conversation, perked his ears at the sound of his name, feeling somewhat excited for being in your thoughts even while he was away, if he knew how often he was in both yours and Remus’ thoughts when he was away, he would flip out.

“But we’re meeting him later, right? I think we should figure out how to tell Peter.”

“Yeah,” you said with a nod. “He said to wait in your room after we're done,” you shrugged. Your voices became distant as your steps echoed through the hall. Sirius leaned his head past the column and smiled as he saw you walking side by side. You had a couple of flowers in your hand and Remus carried a book, shoulders brushing together as you walked. Sirius bit his lip, tempted to sneak behind and both scare and surprise the two of you, but decided that preparing the date – the first one the three of you would have – was the endeavour of higher relevance.

Once he made sure you wouldn’t see him, Sirius continued on his way to the common room, taking the scenic route instead of the fastest way to the dorm to make sure he wouldn’t bump into you both.

When Remus and you arrived at the Common Room it was almost empty, save for a few first years near the fire, one of which smiled when she spotted you. “Hey!” she said. It was Addie Watts, the little girl you’d helped when you got to school for the first time. She looked at Remus’ still dirty face and frowned.

“Nice to see you, Addie,” you said with a smile. “How’s that essay going?” She’d mentioned something about a very tedious essay when you saw her after the snow fight – she’d left it on the snow near the fire and everything got smudged by it.

“Handed it in on Friday,” she beamed. “Got an Outstanding, Slughorn said that bit about measuring twice was a great addition, thanks. Is… he okay?”

“Rushroom,” Remus said with a defeated sigh. .

“Actually, it was him that taught me that,” you smiled as you pointed at Remus with your thumb. “He’s really good at potions.”

“Well, then. Thank you too, Remus!” He smiled shyly in response. “You’re working on a potion?” Addie asked as she pointed at the flowers in your hand. “Or did he give them to you?”

“We’re working on a potion,” you said with a smile. “For a sick owl. Remus is helping me because of how good he is at this stuff.”

“Just not really good with Rushrooms I guess,” she laughed, Remus let out a small breathy chuckle.

“And you? Another essay?” you asked, changing the subject. While Rem’s face was still filled with gooey stuff, you wouldn’t say he looked that bad. At all.

“Oh, this?” she asked as she pulled the paper. “Not at all, I’m writing a story.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“Cowboys,” she replied, “In space.”

“That sounds interesting. Mind if we have a read once it’s ready?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “Good luck with your potions,” she added and turned to Remus, “and your cleaning up…”

“Good luck with your story!” He replied with an amused smile as he shook his head.

As Addie turned back to her paper you turned to Remus and shrugged, nodding towards the stairs. The two of you walked up to the girls’ section and disappeared into your room. As he lingered by the door you kneeled down next to Nieve, she had been perched next to a pillow in the floor by the window; she cooed when she noticed you, assuming you’d bring her some food, and seemed a little displeased when you showed her what you had in your hands. Which got you to laugh. Remus watched the entire scene from his place by the door, almost in a trance from how beautiful you looked when you laughed.

“I’m sure Lily will have more treats for you later,” you told her, “But you’ll have to wait just a little bit for me to give you something.” The bird chirped in response, and you turned to look at Remus, still leaning by the door. “Well, come in,” you said as you gestured towards the rest of the room. “I don’t bite…” you added, and smiled when the next thing came to your head, “unless you want me to.”

Remus tilted his head towards you and gave you an impassive and yet somewhat amused face. You just smiled a little wider, winked and leaned over your trunk to look for a towel for him to wash his face. You threw it his way and he caught it with ease, already on his way to the bathroom. You heard the water running and turned back to the trunk, focusing on finding some of the flasks and tubes you’d need for extracting.

“Is it all gone?” Remus asked as he stepped out of the bathroom, still patting the towel on the sides of his face.

“Mostly,” you responded, leaving the flasks on the floor, pushing yourself up and walking towards him. “You still have a bit on your hair.” You took the towel from his hands and, using one of the wet sections, started to wipe off the small bits he hadn’t.

“Is it better if I sit?” He asked with a quirked eyebrow when he realised you were standing on your toes.

“Probably,” you said as you bit your lip. Remus sat on the edge of your bed, and you leaned closer to him (almost necessarily so), standing with before you continued to brush some of the gooey stuff from the side of his face. You were as gentle as possible, but you had to use some extra pressure sometimes; ; Rushroom was always a pain to remove.. “If I'm being too harsh just tell me, okay?” you said softly.

Remus looked up at you and smiled, nodding and wincing because the small movement ended up in a sharp hair pull.

“Sorry,” you said.

“It was my fault,” he responded reassuringly, patting your leg on the side softly.

You smiled, looking down at his hand for a second before turning back to his face and dragging the towel just above his ear where there was a rather thick blob of the gooey stuff. It was stuck to his hair, so you were careful as you tried to pull it off the strands. All the while he was looking at your concentrated face, almost completely hypnotised.

“Think I’m almost done,” you whispered as you continued, now using your nails to try and spare some of his strands from getting pulled too harshly. He hummed softly in response. You pulled another bit and then used the towel to wipe the rest clean. “Done.”

“Sure?” He asked as he looked up at you.

“Yeah, why?” You asked as you looked at the side of his face carefully, completely missing the small, teasing smirk on his face. With no response, you were forced to look at his face as a whole to see if there would be an answer there, only to realise he had a pleased smirk on his face. You pulled your head back just a little, straightening your shoulders and biting your lip when you figured out what was going on. “Actually, I think you might have some… here,” you said as you pointed at the corner of his lips.

“Do I?”

“Mhm,” you retorted, taking one corner of the towel that was still slightly wet and brushing it over his lips slowly, looking at them shamelessly as they stretched under your fingers and then bounced back to their right position, then let the towel “clean” the section that was still stained.Using the rough texture to tease Remus further.

“Is it gone now?”

“Kind of,” you said with a small smile, “Maybe it needs a little bit more persistence or more moisture…” you added and leaned closer to him, licking your lips and pressing a small kiss on the side of his. You were smirking as you pulled back.

“Did it work?” Remus asked with a breathy calm tone, nothing in comparison to the rapid beating of his heart.

“Not sure,” you replied, “Maybe there’s still a little bit left.”

Remus raised one of his eyebrows as you leaned in again, this time around, he turned his face just enough for your lips to meld into his, as he placed both of his hands on your lower back to bring you even closer. He was soft and tentative as he kissed you, much softer than he’d been in previous times, almost like he wanted to savour every second of it.

When you finally pulled back you were both smiling in between heavy breaths, and he asked in a raspy voice, , “Is it gone now?”

You licked your lips again as you shook your head and let out a small, airy chuckle, “I think so,” you said with a smile. “Perhaps we should–”

Some strong chirping from the side got you to look towards the floor. Nieve had her beak around a small bag of jerky inside Remus’ backpack. She was chirping because she couldn’t quite take it out, as it was squashed by other books. You started laughing, letting your head fall on his shoulder.

Remus turned his head towards your soft hair, smiling as he felt the trembling of your laughter against his body. He was always delighted to hear you laugh, but it was ever the more pleasurable to have you laughing while pressed against him like this. “She’s really working that bag,” he commented. . You could feel how he moved his head to look at the impatient owl, his hands still on your back, softly caressing you over your thick school jumper.

“We should probably work on that brew,” you said, and Remus could hear the slightly reluctant way in which you said it, as if you also didn’t want to move away from him.

“We could probably stay like this a little longer.” he said, a bit needy and quite irresistible.

You moved your head a little bit to the side , trying to sneak a quick look at the clock without him noticing, you didn’t want either of you to be late to the date Sirius was preparing. Even if at that particular moment staying there together seemed just as tempting. “No, no,” you said as you pushed yourself off, now standing in front of him like earlier. “We need to finish that extraction.”

“Do we really?” He asked with a pout.

You were tempted to say no and go back to snogging him. “Yeah, we do…” you breathed reluctantly, leaning in to press one more quick kiss to his lips. “Come on,” you added as you pulled on his hand so that you were both sitting on the floor.

He took the flasks you’d already taken out and started setting up the distiller as you went back to your trunk to look for the missing stuff.

You took out a few more flasks before turning to look at him again. “Am I missing anything?”

“Potioneer Water,” he said as he set the proper equipment over a small crystal stand, centering it with a wave of his wand. He was sitting crossed-legged on the wooden floor now, with the book Professor Folly had given you on his lap, as he compared everything that you’d written on the ingredient list. “If you have some pixie dust you could speed the process up, apparently.”

“Pixie dust?” you said as you rummaged through your vials, pulling out a nice “potioneer set” you’d gotten for Christmas a few winters ago. You’d forgotten how big it was once you opened it and about 5 different cabinets sprang out of it.

“That’s pretty cool,” Remus said as he leaned closer to you, admiring the dark walnut of the box and cabinets. “Almost as nice as Slughorn’s.”

“Mum gave it to me when I got top marks on potions in my first year,” you said, not quite allowing the pang in your heart as you thought of her to bring you down. “Sorted!” you said as you pulled out a small bottle. “I knew I’d have some in here.”

Remus gave you an apprehensive look, noticing the small shift in your voice as you changed the subject before it affected you. He sighed but took the bottle you offered him and started pouring some of the liquid into one of the vials. You took a tiny bottle with pixie dust out and leaned closer to him, closing the potioneer set and throwing it back into your trunk. “Mind helping me with the petals?”

“Sure,” you said as you took the flowers and started pulling them off, one by one, the velvet-like surface brushing against your fingers as you gently placed them on top of a small cloth napkin. Once you were done with the first St. John’s Wort, you went for the next one.

“We also need the anthers,” he told you as he saw you leaving the flower on the side.

“Seed-like thing at the end of the stamen, right?” you said as you took the flower back in your hands.

“Yeah,” he nodded as you started pulling them out with your nails and placing them on a different cloth napkin. Once you were done with that flower, you moved to the next one. Remus had used one of the enlarging pots for extra space, and he was carefully cutting the petals with potioneer scissors before letting them fall through the small hole in the round vial. You stared at the way they gently floated on the water as you continued to remove the anthers from the stems.

“These also go in there?” You asked as you finished with the last one.

He shook his head in response. “No. We should give them to Nieve as snacks,” he explained. “The book said they were really good for swelling and that they could also work as antidepressants. But we have to rinse them in some water first.”

“I’ll work on that,” you said as you took one of the unoccupied vials and allowed him to continue with the distillation. He had already connected everything and was now placing the small firestone he’d turn on for the steaming process. “Will that be enough?” you asked as you looked at the stone, using your wand as a spoon as you rinsed the seeds in the water.

“Not sure,” he said honestly, looking at the dark stone that was about the size of a thick gobstone. When you bought these firestones, , they were a little larger than the palm of your hand, the absolute perfect fit for a burner dish. In classes, you normally used alcohol burners, but firestones were much more practical to carry around (even if a little more expensive). Remus continued “I might have one in my bag, care to look?”

“Not gonna find anything weird this time around?” You teased as you pulled his backpack from the bed.

Remus groaned and hid his face on his shoulder, “Will I ever live that down?”

“Hell no!” you smiled, already digging through his bag to try and find the small tin box that usually contained the firestone. “I mean, you had a whole strip of those muggle rubbers, , it was hilarious.”

“Torturous is more like it,” he retorted as he shook his head and closed the lid on the round vial.

“I think I’ve got it,” you said, pulling your entire arm out of his bag. There was a metal tin in your hand with a firestone logo on the lid. . You opened it and carefully levitated it towards the burning tray he’d already set up. It was a bad idea to touch firestones with bare hands if you didn’t know when was the last time they had been used, since they normally retained heat for weeks after being turned off.

“I don’t think I’ve used it since I bought it,” he informed as he adjusted the tray and shot a small flame from his wand to turn the stone on.

“There was nothing funny this time around by the way,” you said as you gave one last look at the bag and then placed it next to you.

Remus raised an eyebrow as he turned to you, for a second he’d swear you sounded at least slightly disappointed, which somehow got him to feel bold enough for what he said next, “I store them away from prying hands now.”

You turned to him with an amused smile, about to say something, when the cuckoo clock you use to wake up started making a fuss . You turned to it with a small frown, you had not programmed it to make a sound at – you checked the clock – Noon??? Already?

You wondered if Sirius was done with the preparations for the date as you stood up to look at the clock. “Is everything alright?” Remus asked.

“Mhm,” you said as you reached the clock. There was a tiny piece of rolled parchment stuck to the beak of the little metal bird, who in turn, looked rather annoyed as it tried to get rid of it. . “Hold on a sec, little one,” you said as reassuringly as you could, as you held the small bird in your hands and unstuck the paper.

Once it was out the bird chirped, gave another cuckoo and went back to its little home with a rather indignant flip of the head. You took the piece of paper and unwrapped it.

Awake now, sleepy head? I made sure your roommates would stay asleep with some silencing charms around their beds. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, and I’ve heard some rather unfortunate stuff about you and Christmas; the ghost and portrait gossip is all over the place. Anyway, thought of checking up on you. Meet soon? Secret spot? Use your charms, Peeves has been patrolling with the Slytherin prefects.

Jackdaw

“And?” Remus asked when he thought you’d finished reading the note.

“It’s from Richie,” you said with a shrug. “I think he messed up his prank, though. This was clearly meant to go off at midnight. . He probably thought it would be funny to surprise me late at night.”

“Would it have been?”

You shrugged, “Not for me, but the intention is what counts and now I believe I should think of a little revenge anyway, ,” you smirked. “He wants to meet me at the secret hideout.”

“The snogging spot he showed you?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you said and then turned to look at him. “Why? Want to come along?”

“To your ghost chats?”

“I was thinking of the secret spot more than the ghost chats but I guess that too,” you teased again. “We could leave this here, right? no risk of fire?”

“What? Like, right now?” he asked, turning to you. “I mean, It’s going to take a while,” he said as he looked at the slow-falling drops that had just started to condense from the distilling process. And as you thought about it, you could also just snog him right here in your room, if that’s what you wanted. Unless you wanted something else. “Why?” Remus asked.

“I was thinking we could get some music from your room,” you said casually. You had no idea how you’d bring him back to his room until 5 seconds before you said that.

“Not sure about leaving the fire by itself though. You know it’s never a good idea to–”

“But firestone is self-extinguishing, isn't it?” you reasoned. “Once the water is out it will turn itself off. I mean, have you ever heard of a fire caused by firestone?”

“No, but–”

“Well then?” You said with a smile.

“In the rarest case that something did happen, you wouldn’t really want to be the cause of a fire in the Gryffindor dorms, would you?” You huffed in return, he was right, extremely right, and yet you had to find a way to get the two of you to his room. “You could go get the music, I’ll just stay here and watch,” Remus suggested.

Not a solution. “How about you get the music then? I’d like to see what you pick.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ideally we’d pick something together, but yes,” you added with a confident nod.

Remus bit his lip, and looked at you as if to search for confirmation; although there was definitely something about you that he couldn’t quite pin down, you seemed quite certain about having him go instead. “No teasing if you don’t like my picks,” he warned, pointing a finger your way.

“There is no way I won't like your picks,” you said with a confident smile and a wink, extending your hand to his to help him stand.

“Hope you don’t regret those words,” he smiled, leaning in to give you a quick kiss on the nose before fully standing up. You looked up at him with a dumb smile as he walked outside.

The second the door closed behind him, you picked up your wand and pointed it at the firestone, “Extinguere,” you muttered. Normally you could just silently cast it, but with firestone (that already ran hot for weeks after being used) it was much better to articulate perfectly. Once that was done, you levitated towards its box and made sure it popped as you closed it.

Nieve chirped from the side and you turned to her with a smile. “I’ll have this ready for you later tonight, alright?” She chirped again and you took out some of the treats you had stored for Reese and gave them to her. She seemed pretty happy as she took small bites and moved around them curiously. A movement that was particular to younger owls and oddly reminiscent of a pigeon. You levitated the contraption for distilling on top of your desk to make sure nobody would trip on it, and walked over to the bathroom to give yourself a quick once-over.

This was your first date with the boys, should you change your uniform for something nicer? You bit your lower lip as you looked at your reflection, not knowing if you should do something special or not. You ended up walking over to your trunk and digging through it. A dress? you wondered as you looked at some of the stuff you had. Skirt and blouse? You glanced at the clock. You ended up changing your uniform for a slightly shorter skirt and one of Remus’ jumpers, before casting a disillusionment charm and walking downstairs.

You thought that perhaps Remus would already be in their room, so you pretty much ran towards the common room only to discover he’d been held up by Johnathan Ackley, who was trying to convince him to give him a hair for polyjuice. He claimed it was for a class, but Remus, and perhaps anyone who got asked, would have known Slughorn would never ask his students for such a thing.

“Sorry,” Remus said. “Perhaps you could use one of yours?”

“Slughorn said it had to be someone else’s, please?”

“Not happening,” Remus said with a soft shake of the head.

“How about I give you 5 galleons?”

“Not even for an endless supply of chocolate, mate!”

You tried not to laugh as you looked at the two of them and walked upstairs, this time to their room. Once you were there, you opened the door only to find Sirius frantically arranging some things on the blankets he’d laid out on the floor.

He looked up only to see the faintest of shadows walking inside. “Starshine?” he asked as he narrowed his eyes in your direction.

You closed the door, deactivating the spell as you did. “Need help?” you asked as you kneeled down next to him.

“Just making sure everything’s where it should be. Where did you leave Moony?”

“He got held up by Johnny Ackley wanting to make a polyjuice brew out of him,” you said with a smile, looking at the set up and raising an eyebrow at Sirius.

“Oof, our boyfriend is causing some heartbreak by saying no,” he smiled.

“I mean, I would never give any of my hair to Johnny,” you said as you remembered when he’d asked. “Recipe for disaster.”

“But Moons is too nice, he could be persuaded.”

“By you, me or Prongs, there is no way he gives his hair to Johnny,” you said as you picked one of the grapes laying about, but Sirius waved his hand and the fruit went back to the bowl it had been on. “Hey!” you protested.

“You can eat them after he arrives, it took me a while to stack them up.”

You looked at the bowl and then turned to him again, “You didn’t stack them up!” you said with an accusing frown. “You just placed them there!”

“You can’t prove that,” he replied haughtily. “For all you know, I placed them grape by grape.”

“They’re still on the stems! !” you argued.

“And?”

You huffed in amused disbelief and picked out the entire bunch. “Hey!” he complained, taking your wrist in his hand and trying to pull it away from the bowl. You just smiled further and tried to levitate the grapes away from him with your wand. You had just gotten a hold of them when he grabbed your hand, forced you to drop the grapes in their place and pulled you towards him, spinning you around until he had you on his lap, pinning both of your arms crossed over your chest so you wouldn’t be able to manoeuvre your way out.

“Sirius!” you complained in between laughs, turning to look at his smug grin as you shook your head. He smiled brightly and was about to say something witty when the door burst open. He smiled. Finally.

You also turned your head towards the door, the two of you beaming when you spotted your tall boyfriend. “Surprise!” Sirius blurted out, echoed by you. You were both beaming as you saw Moony staring at you, still at the door, confused and astonished. .

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A/N: I am BAAAACK... Hope the universe has been treating you as delightfully as it should be while I was gone. Dad's surgery went well, and we're finally back home, things are looking bright for the next few weeks! Which means GC is going to get updated as it used to (hopefully xx) Love, Lils

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