bar owner!john price kisses you under the mistletoe —
words: 4.9k
rating: e
warnings: fem!reader, praise kink/praises, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, pet names, biting/marking, finger sucking, size kink, john steals your panties, please let me know if i missed anything. this has been edited to the best of my ability.
notes: this is my contribution to @bunnyreaper's call of duty secret santa exchange and is dedicated to @a-very-bored-blogger ♡ my blog and all my works are 18+ so minors dni. proper warnings have been provided.
being the boss’s favorite has its perks.
you’re the first to try new spirits and brews he orders for the bar. he doesn’t bother trying to hide his snort of amusement each time your face scrunches up when something tastes particularly awful.
you try to hide your blush when he delicately takes the glass from your hand, fingers briefly touching, throwing back the rest of the drink without flinching.
smug bastard always winks after.
you’re the only one allowed to lounge in his office on your lunch, even when he’s not there. you ignored the pointed looks from the others when he first gave you the key. it dangles on a pink, heart-shaped carabiner. there’s a drawer of snacks and a mini-fridge that’s always stocked for you. a pile of your books are stacked on his desk with his other papers, most of them he gifted himself.
you never see the way his cheeks go pink every time you read one of the books he chose.
you’re the only one allowed to take the beanie off his head. sometimes he puts it there himself. soap tried it once and never again after his hand got thwacked with a wet dish rag.
your favorite perk?
the way he lingers when you’re the one closing, always nearby as you wipe down the counters and dry the glasses. the gentle press of his palm at the small of your back when he maneuvers around you; when he hands you something you’ve asked for and his eyes glitter when you say thank you; the soft touch at the nape of your neck when you’re finally done and tucking the rag away, gently guiding you to the door.
sometimes he walks you home. sometimes he drives you. you’ve begun to look forward to it now.
lately — more often than not — you find yourself hiked up on the counter, john standing between your legs, radiating heat like a furnace, his big hands cupping your face as his tongue slides deep into your mouth, tasting you and swallowing your soft whines.
he always tastes like cigars, which you complained about at first, but now you couldn’t care about when his fingers thread though your hair, tipping your head to the side so he can slide his mouth along the line of your throat, beard scratching your skin.
he’s careful to not leave any marks. but each time his teeth skim the column of your throat, he presses sharper, harder.
you want him to bite you.
everyone assumes you two are fucking anyway.
he said he’d walk you home.
twenty minutes ago.
he pulls away, leaving you breathless, pressing his nose against your cheek. you close your eyes and lean into him, lightly scratching at the base of his skull.
“should get you home,” he rumbles low in his chest, voice like gravel. it makes you ache.
you can’t say much apart from a small hum of agreement, not wanting to leave the warmth of his body.
he doesn’t make any effort to pull away either.
his lips drag from your cheek to your jaw, nipping at the hinge before soothing it with his tongue. you shudder on an inhale, waiting for what’s next.
“let me get your bag,” he murmurs, voice still soft as if he doesn’t want to shatter the calm that’s settled over you two, like a veil of gossamer protecting you from the outside world.
with one last, slow kiss, he leaves to gather your bags, slipping his beanie on your head and walking you out.
he clicks the lights off.
no matter how many times or how often you find yourself wrapped in winter’s cold embrace of snow and icy wind, you hate it.
you like it from the inside. with a warm drink of whatever — sometimes spiked, if you’re feeling cheeky — and blessedly not outside.
this is your first christmas with the bar — with the boys — and john invited you to help decorate for the season.
this is your first time feeling like you belong somewhere. the boys have been together for years now, as you’ve learned over your time with them, but they took you in and made you feel welcome from the very start.
you, however, felt awkward the first couple shifts, as to be expected. one night, about a week settling into the job, you stood up to a particularly rowdy client — gaz and soap minding the bar with you, exchanging glances with each other and keeping an eye on the situation; simon and john lingering around the billiard tables with some regulars, also with an eagle eye on you. you didn’t back down to his crass attitude and sharp words, damn near throwing the lime you were cutting at his face. a tense moment or so passed before he submitted, mumbling an apology and throwing a twenty pound note on the bar along with the rest of his tab, slinking to a seat in the back.
closing the bar a few hours later, soap handed you a shot of something gross with a proud smirk on his face, gaz excitedly talking with you, relaying the moment with vigor, his eyes sparkling with amusement as if you were some sort of superhero. simon, far more subdued than the others and wearing his skull-painted balaclava, simply gives you a nod of approval as he raises a glass to you.
that was the first night john kissed you.
you’ve felt at home ever since.
snow flurries cling to your lashes as you trudge through layers of snow, scarf wrapped up around your nose and john’s beanie pulled down as much as possible.
you tried to return it last night before he left, but he insisted on you keeping it. you’re grateful for that now, stuffing your hands as deep into your pockets as possible, hating the way the wind bites so fiercely, it feels like you’re wearing nothing at all — bones and blood turning to ice.
ten excruciatingly cold minutes later, you stumble into the bar, shaking yourself off like a wet dog and stomping your boots to dislodge the snow clinging to the sole. some of it buried into the back of your boot while walking, and you try not to make a face when your socks feel damp.
“there she is!” comes soap’s cheerful call, standing behind the bar with a cardboard box in front of him.
you unravel yourself from the scarf and dust off the beanie from the last of the snow, wiggling your fingers as you make your way over so you can start feeling them again. john turns to look at you with a warm smile, and you flush under his attention. simon accepts a glass from gaz, tipping it towards him in thanks. gaz passes glasses to john and soap next, finally setting one down at the seat next to john — intended for you, as he gives you a knowing smirk, which you pointedly ignore with a roll of your eyes — and sipping from his own as he settles next to soap.
“what’s this?” you ask, taking a sip.
“that’s a gin and tonic, love,” gaz replies easily, and you give him an unamused look.
“i meant the box,” you clarify, as soap chuckles and uses a box cutter to open it, taking out a sheet of paper and reading over it with a soft smile on his lips.
“this,” he says, pulling a knit sweater from the box and checking the sticky note on the front, handing it to john, “is tradition.”
you take a healthy sip — gaz uses a heavy hand —and watch as he continues to pull the sweaters from the box, handing one to simon and then gaz. he takes another from the box, resting it in front of him.
“ma nana, bless her, makes us christmas jumpers,” he says with a fond smile. you watch as gaz eagerly strips his current sweater to put the new one on.
your heart aches, but the corner of your lips quirk up as you watch even simon pull his on.
he reaches into the box again, one last sweater being handed to you. “ah told her ‘bout you,” he begins as you take it from him, unraveling it and feeling the sting of tears line your eyes. “she says welcome to the family.”
you blink at him with teary eyes and he coos at you, leaning over the counter to squish your cheeks affectionately.
“go on then, hen,” he says as he releases you, nodding towards the jumper. you eagerly strip out of your jacket, taking the beanie off and settling it on the counter before pulling the sweater over your head.
it fits like a dream.
“don’t ask,” soap says with a wink, taking a sip and turning away so you wouldn’t even have the chance to ask.
you look over to john, blue eyes dark as he takes you in, something unreadable in his expression. his eyes flick to yours, gaze softening as he gives you one of his signature smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners so you know it’s real, reaching out to ruffle your hair before standing from his seat.
“right then,” he says, “let’s get to work.”
after the garland has been hung, mistletoe put over every possible doorway thanks to soap, fake poinsettias and other decorations spread all throughout the bar, you deem it to be ready for the holiday.
or as ready as it can be, but you’ll take what you can.
the boys turn one of the tvs on to watch the premier league game, lounging in their new, festive jumpers and drinks on the table. you take the moment to slip away to the back office where john is, having retreated there himself a half-hour earlier.
the door is slightly ajar, but you knock lightly before pushing it open a little more.
john sits at his desk, sweater pushed up his forearms and stretching across his broad chest. you swallow a pathetic whimper, turning to close the door. you didn’t lock it — fingers crossed the game keeps the boys occupied enough to not worry about you.
john watches you with those same dark eyes — arousal dampening your panties — as you make your way over to him. he pushes his chair back enough for you to climb into his lap, settling yourself comfortably over his thick thighs. your fingers card affectionately through his mutton chops, and he lets out a pleased hum, closing his eyes.
“i got you a gift,” you confess in a whisper, shy and uncertain.
his eyes flick open, clearly intrigued, but doesn’t prompt you any further. he rests his hands on your hips, dipping under the hem of the sweater to grasp your waist, thumbs rubbing affectionately over your skin, pulling you closer.
“did you now?” he asks, clearly amused, hands drifting higher. you let out an indignant squeak, swatting his chest.
“it’s not me!” you say, though the idea certainly isn’t a bad one.
“pity,” he muses, chuckling, before his hands come back to respectfully settle on your waist. “what is it, then?”
you chew the inside of your cheek, suddenly worrying that it’s too much, or that it’s not enough, or he won’t like it or —
“love?” he prompts you, as if he could sense the way you’re spiraling into your own mind.
you balance yourself up on your knees — which doesn’t help your claim that you’re not the gift — pulling out a slightly crumpled, white envelope from your back pocket. you press it against his chest, unable to meet his eyes. his hand — warm and broad and comforting — comes up to rest over yours for a moment before he takes the envelope, opening it with a raised eyebrow.
he looks over the tickets that rest inside, before he looks back to you, taken off guard.
“merry christmas,” you whisper, even though the holiday is weeks away. he surges up to kiss you, tickets pressed to your cheek as he licks into your mouth, a surprised noise rising in your throat.
resting your hands on his shoulders, you sink into the kiss, slipping deeper into his lap as his tongue presses against yours, the familiar warmth settling over you.
“how did you..?” he asks, breathless, moving to press kisses over your cheeks and jaw, and you giggle and push him away, his beard tickling your skin.
“i used this thing called money,” you tease, scratching at his beard as he rolls his eyes, “which my lovely boss gives me every two weeks.”
“cheeky,” he laughs, returning the tickets to the envelope and placing it on the desk. “you’ll go with me, yeah?”
not that he has to ask, but it’s still a sweet gesture.
two tickets to a newcastle game are tucked into the envelope, set for some time in the new year. you can’t think of a better way for it to begin.
you know john has a jersey— he wears it on game day. you always appreciate the way you’re able to unashamedly stare at his forearms, corded muscle working as he pours drinks and cleans the counter top. he’s unfairly attractive in it.
he grasps one of your wrists lightly, breaking you from your reverie, turning it enough to drag his lips across your palm.
you fall quiet as you watch him, kissing each of your fingertips, and then pressing your palm against his cheek, looking up at you with reverence, like you were something to worship, to spread out and show his devotion to you.
“you know soap put mistletoe above my door before you came in,” he murmurs and you raise an eyebrow.
“did he?”
he hums low in his throat, hands going underneath your jumper once more. you bite your lip as they graze up and down your sides, inching higher and higher.
“well i’m not one to break tradition,” you reply, leaning in close to press your lips against his.
you happily sit in his lap as you indulge in his kisses, languid and deep, so content you could almost purr.
“i have a gift for you too,” he says against your lips, biting at it lightly before kissing the corner of your mouth. you make an interested noise, not wanting to pull away from his mouth, from him. he chuckles as he gives in to kiss you once more, hands beginning to ruck up your jumper.
he rocks his hips up against yours, and you whine almost pathetically into his mouth, pawing at his shoulders.
“it’s not this,” he says, clearly amused, but pushes you away enough to bring your jumper up over your head, leaving you in one of your nicer, lacy bras — if you wore it specifically for him, you’ll never tell.
he’s kind enough to fold it over and place it on his desk before turning his attention back to you.
“god, look at you,” he marvels, leaning in to press his lips to your collar, down to the valley between your breasts.
you flush under his attention, one hand braced on the middle of your back, his other dragging the fabric of your bra down, laving his tongue over your nipple, biting it gently to a firm peak and sealing his lips over it.
“fuck,” you exhale shakily, gripping the nape of his neck, feeling the way he hardens under your touch, arousal slicking your panties, sticky and wet where you’re pressed against him.
he deftly unhooks your bra, dragging the straps down until it pools in your lap. he immediately moves to mouth over your other nipple, thumb brushing over the hardened nub that’s already shining with his spit.
he stands suddenly, bra falling forgotten to the floor as he settles you onto his desk, licking deeper into your mouth as you move to undo his belt, feeling almost frantic with the need to feel him.
“you’re so gorgeous, darling,” he says against your lips, his own hands unbuttoning your jeans. you manage to pull his belt loose, pushing his jeans and boxers down enough to feel the coarse hair at the base of his cock before he stops you.
“wait a second, love,” he’s gentle as he grasps your wrists. “wanna get yours off first,” he adds.
you pout — just a little — but acquiesce to his request, tilting your hips enough for him to pull your jeans and underwear down to your ankles.
“ah. fuck,” he sighs, exasperated, before he kneels down — a little awkwardly, with the state of his own bottoms — to unlace your boots to drop them to the floor, your panties and jeans following soon after.
“there,” he sighs as he grasps your face for a kiss, and you hum happily against his mouth, gripping him for stability.
“are you sure this isn’t my gift?” you ask, a teasing lilt to your voice, as he drags his mouth to your cheek and then to nip the lobe of your ear.
he laughs, and it goes right to your core, molten heat trickling down your spine, leaking from your pussy to the desk underneath.
“i promise,” he says, voice low, pressing a tantalizing kiss to the soft, sensitive skin behind your ear.
when you open your mouth to reply, he rests two fingers on your bottom lip, almost touching the tip of your tongue.
he’s asking permission, you realize, so you take his wrist to draw his fingers further into your mouth, closing your lips around his thick fingers, tongue slipping between them and sucking them deeper.
“that’s a good girl,” he praises, a deep honey drawl that makes you weak. you swallow back a whine. he presses his fingers down against your tongue, and you blink up at him through glassy doe eyes, still grasping his wrist lightly.
you whimper, when he’s too enchanted with the sight of his fingers deep in your mouth, arousal coating your thighs. glazed eyes turn to you, a hum of approval reverberating in his throat. he slowly withdraws them, your lips glossy with spit.
his fingers drift down to your cunt, already soaking with need, dragging them lazily through your folds to mix your own spit into the mix. he leans down to kiss you, and you rest your hand on his cheek to keep him close.
“so wet for me already, darling,” he marvels as he continues to gather your slick on his fingers, moving up to press gently against your clit, rubbing it in slow, soft circles. “think you can take both?” he glides his fingers over your entrance, feeling the way your walls flutter in anticipation.
you nod eagerly and he leans close to kiss you, licking into the heat of your mouth; at the same time, he sinks both fingers into you, far more gentle that you expected. the stretch catches you off guard, gasping against his lips. he pulls back, a hair’s breadth apart, merely breathing you in as your walls clench around him, trying to get used to the feeling of him filling you full.
“too much?” he murmurs.
“just,” with a shake of your head, you breathe in, moving to grip his neck, nails sinking into his skin. you want to leave your own marks on him. “been awhile,” you admit on the exhale, drawing him back in to kiss, relaxing into his touch while he happily gives into you.
your mouth drags from his, to the corner of his lips, over to his cheek, right where the line of his beard starts to tickle your skin. he's kind, and patient, and so, so good to you.
“good?” he asks when you rock your hips into his touch, but he doesn’t start moving his fingers until you actually say yes, pressing the word to his cheek like a promise.
he’s surprisingly delicate with his touch, as he is with everything else when it comes to you, but the filthy sound of your slick and spit fills the air along your quiet noises, choking down your whines and mewls.
soap would be insufferable if he found out about this.
“i know it feels good, love,” he says against your lips, his own curled into a smirk — cocky bastard — “you have to keep quiet for me though, yeah?”
but then his fingers curl and graze the spot inside you that leaves you trembling, head tipping back as your nails dig deeper into the nape of his neck. he continues to rock his fingers against that spot, deadly precision as he takes the opportunity to bite and suck marks onto the column of your throat, the sting of his teeth making you feel delirious with pleasure.
“fuck, john,” you whine as you draw him close enough to hide your face into the collar of his sweater, the scent of cigars and sex making your head spin, thoughts turning to static. “‘m gonna cum,” you pant against his collar, trying so desperately to keep yourself quiet.
it’s not going particularly well.
another few pumps of his fingers, your clit under his thumb, and white hot pleasure pools down your spine. you muffle your moan against him as your legs shake and cum spills over his fingers. he works you through it, soft praises whispered against the crown of your head.
you’re pliant in his arms, all the tension seeping from your body as he slowly withdraws his fingers. your grab for his wrist, eyes bleary and glossy, feeling the weight of his gaze as you draw his fingers into your mouth, licking your release from him.
“fuckin’ hell, love,” he grasps your face, tongue pressing into your mouth, “gonna be the death of me.”
he finally allows you to push his bottoms down enough to free his cock, hard and heavy against his stomach, pre-cum already dripping from the tip. you go to reach for him, eager to touch him just as he touched you, but he captures your wrist and moves to tip you back against the desk.
you grip the hem of his jumper, something of a pout gracing your lips as you blink up at him, desperate to feel his skin against yours. he takes his own off with far less grace than he did your own, but still has enough sense to try and fold it and place it over yours.
it is a gift, after all.
“better?” he asks, a chuckle rising as you immediately move to trace over the planes of his chest, nails scratching through the dark hair that litters his body. faint red marks are left in the wake of your touch, all the way down to his hips, a thatch of hair in a line leading down to his length.
“much,” is your reply as you drag him close to you, nose buried in his throat to smell cigar smoke and sandalwood, the comfort and musk making you keen, impatient for his touch, his kiss, his cock.
he braces one hand by your hip, caging you against him, and you tilt up enough to lace your legs around his waist, wanting to bury yourself into his veins, wanting to be as close as possible. he takes himself in his other hand, dragging it through your folds, teasing your sensitive clit.
you whine at him.
he gives you a soft kiss before moving to kiss your collar, watching as his cock sinks into you — just the tip. he keeps his hold on himself, dragging himself in and out, feeling the way your cunt tries so desperately to draw him deeper. the wet heat makes his breath stutter, tests his patience so he doesn’t sheath himself completely in one sharp thrust, wanting to do this — needing to do this — properly, even if you are fucking in his office instead of his bed.
“john,” you damn near sob against his temple, lacing one arm around his shoulders, unashamed with how desperate you are to feel all of him.
he accidentally slips from your heat, and guides himself back, notching the fat head at your entrance, already shiny with your desire. he pushes in slowly, and you gasp and grab at him, head tipping back as your eyes close, never having felt so full before.
“f-fuck,” you whine, having enough sense to bring your gaze back to watch as he sheathes himself completely inside you, your clit pressing against the dark hairs at the base of his dick.
“such a good girl for me.” his teeth latch on to the side of your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark, keeping himself still until you mewl out a soft move, please.
he captures your mouth with his own when he starts thrusting in earnest, swallowing each moan and cry that rises from your throat, wishing the desk wouldn’t squeak so fucking loud, the schlick of his cock pumping in and out of your soaked pussy making it impossible to focus on anything else.
he lays you down against the desk, hooking your legs under his arms to press them up by your side, allowing him to push even deeper, his cockhead kissing your cervix with his thrusts, each a little more brutal than the last. your nails thread through his hair, the strands damp with his sweat, and you bring them down to his shoulders, his arms, digging in sharp to continue leaving your marks all over him.
“careful now, pet,” he taunts, right in your ear, a shiver going down your spine right to your pussy, clenching tighter around him in response. “only mark me if you’re gonna keep me.”
you’re breathless as you respond, the pleasure pooling in your gut and spreading throughout like liquid fire — unable to think of anything but him, and the way he touches you, and the way his teeth sink into your neck until you squeal with the sharp, biting pain that he soothes with his tongue.
“i will, i will,” you say, nails digging in deeper — a show of devotion, of loyalty. “i promise.”
“my darling girl.” the praise, the possession — it burns you from the inside out.
“please, please, please,” you beg, so close to the precipice of your second orgasm, pleasure like venom lining your blood.
“taking my cock so well, love, fuckin’ made for me.” his voice is low, almost a growl, your cum making a thick ring of cream wet the base of him. “you need to cum so badly, don’t you?”
past the point of being able to form words, you cry and nod, tears spilling down your cheeks, overwhelmed, hands moving down to hold him by his waist, too weak to do anything more than lay there and take anything john gives you.
“cum on my cock, darling, i want to feel it.” you’d never think he’d have such a filthy mouth, but it’s just enough to snap the coil of pleasure that’s been building. you arch up into him, his name on your lips, unable to hold back any longer as you shake with the force of it.
he buries himself to the hilt inside you, feeling the pulses of his cock as thick streams of his cum paint your insides, filling you full. he pants out a jesus christ, pressing his weight down on you, his spend starting to leak from where he’s still buried deep inside you.
you lay there, comforted by his weight and warmth, the scent of sex and sweat mixing with the ever-present smell of cigar smoke that’s practically embedded into john’s skin.
after a few minutes of laying there, john presses soft kisses to the column of your throat — over the marks, his marks, that litter your skin — he pulls out of you slowly. you whine at the loss of him, feeling so empty now without him inside you, burrowed close to your heart. his cum drips from your cunt, gathering on the table below.
“let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, pulling his own bottoms up and slipping back into his jumper, walking around the side of the desk — dropping a kiss to your temple — and leaves, coming back only moments later with a washcloth. he wipes you down so gently, a second one dragging over your skin in light strokes to dry you off.
he helps sit you up, gripping your waist and steadying you before gathering your panties and bottoms. he pauses for a moment, eyes flickering to yours before a smirk paints his lips, tucking your panties into his back pocket and helping you into your jeans. as he gathers something from one of his desk drawers, you wrangle yourself back into your own jumper.
“so,” he begins, settling back into his chair and patting his lap, which you crawl into eagerly, as your sense of stability and balance have yet to return, pressing yourself close, “close your eyes.”
you give him a look, though his face gives nothing away. you close your eyes, hearing what sounds like a hinge opening and the sharp snap of a case. his hands go around your throat next, but he doesn’t touch you. he’s quiet for a moment, but then settles his touch back to your waist.
“alright, darling, open up.”
you immediately bring your hand to your throat, feeling the delicate chain that’s now laying there. you gently bring it up, looking over the charm in your fingers, before your breath catches in your throat.
j.
he smiles at you like you’re the sun, and you cup his cheeks, leaning in close to press multiple kisses to his mouth, sniffling a little while he coos at your reaction.
“you’re my favorite christmas present.”
soap is, indeed, insufferable about it when you finally emerge from the back office. he gives you a shit-eating grin, musing out loud that he should hang mistletoe off john’s belt next.
700 notes
·
View notes
I dare you to do one with your favorite trope to write (unless you've already done it)
Oh my goodness, this might be longer that usual. XD
And I really had to think about what I wanted to write. I think I'll make this a one-shot. (unless you guys want more anyway) Prepare for this to be as self indulgent as hell. :D
And I'll make it Time while I'm at it.
Masterlist
Content under the cut!
This was the third time this week that you found something like this. You didn't know who was doing this.
A basket, filled to the brim with goodies and trinkets alike, sat properly outside of your window sill. It would be charming if you weren't on the third floor. Someone was climbing up to your balcony and leaving the baskets for you to find.
It was creepy- to a degree. There was never anything malicious about it though. The baskets typically held a flower, a warm meal (or groceries) and some little thing for you to put around your apartment.
You see, you moved to the Kingdom of Kokiri with nothing but a backpack and small child's wagon. Your apartment wasn't even on a nicer side of town. But it hard to be worried about robbers when you're home is bare and empty.
Slowly, that's been changing though. The baskets always had a poem attached, but no name. You secret admirer would give little things from time to time. The baskets are getting more frequent too.
What used to be a small monthly thing, turned weekly then bi weekly- and you're beginning to suspect that they're turning into a daily thing.
Part of you worries that whoever this is, is spending too much on you.
But seeing that the last basket had a new set of dining wear with plates and cups and a some nice utensils to match- you're not inclined to have them stop anytime soon when they're improve your very living conditions as it is. Even if you feel a little guilty.
That being said, this basket had a warm meal already prepared, still steaming in the glass tupperware. There was a small bouquet of roses near the top and a small little box that you opened to see a single slice of chocolate cake.
The card was attached on the inside but it lacked the typical poem. It simple read: "Rest well, Love. You've worked hard today. Dinner's on me. I just want to see you smile in the morning."
You smiles and tucked the card back into its place, bringing the basket back into your apartment.
You have to figure out who this secret admirer of yours is. It has to be someone with access to your floor but it can't be a neighbor. Right? You're on the corner so it can't be anyone to your left. But maybe your neighbor to the right? That's a creepy thought. You hardy ever see him and you don't think he showers throughout the week.
It can't be him. Or at least you're going to deny it.
Maybe it's someone from above? That's more likely. There is this cute guy that you know lives on the floor above you, but you don't know which apartment. It wouldn't be hard to drop the basket secretively onto your balcony from above if that was the case.
The thought rotates in your head as you eat the food. It's delicious. Decadent, even.
Gratitude fills your heart and soul. you have to return the favor somehow after everything this person has provided for you. But how?
You head to bed with a smile on your face and a full stomach. You'll have to start small but you can think of something.
The next morning you head to the castle and walk straight to the throne room.
It was a deal that the king had proposed personally to you. You get to work concern free in his kingdom but you have to report to him every other Tuesday. Seeing as you had nowhere else to go, you didn't think it wise to refuse.
You've grown somewhat close, but with his power and status by his side, you couldn't help but slightly intimidated by him even now.
The king- like most Royals of Kingdoms of Hyrule- was a dragon. Sure, he could take the form of a typical man, but he stayed in his half form more often than not. His age and strength add to his credentials. As the current senior amongst dragons, all you've gathered is that he's lived longer than he appears. The older the dragon, the stronger they are.
King Link is a force to be reckoned with.
However, he's kind and patient with you. He's not all that bad.
You nod and grin at the Captain, who's affectionately called Warrior. Another dragon hidden among the people. You don't know his story, but he's a hard working fellow. He also came to the king in a time of need, looking for asylum and has been working under his employ ever since. He is the king's right hand man.
Warrior smiles back and salutes you softly as you enter. You'll never understand why you've more or less been given free reign of the castle, but with his approval, you feel better to head on in.
You meet the king and curtsy clumsily, still feeling rushed. He's asked you call him Time and he stands from the throne. His face is kind, amused even. A chuckle tumbles out of him as he walks toward you, his marble like tail swinging behind him. "I thought we were passed the formalities, my dear."
You clear your throat. "Were we? I don't recall."
He laughs again. "Come. We have much to discuss."
You nod and follow. He leads you to the back room with a gentle touch the small of your back. It's a familiar routine that you've grown comfortable with.
There's a small rounded table with a pale blue laced table cloth. There's a delicate tea set and it's covered to the brim with snacks and treats alike. You think you see a few of your favorites and your eyes light up at the sight.
King Time notices and he smiles, pleased. "Sit."
You nod and take your usual spot. Time sits across from you and serves you the pieces that you eyes earlier. You almost feel bad. You're still full from the night before.
Time notices. "Something wrong, dear?"
"No." You shake your head, afraid of insulting him. "Someone gave me dinner last night and I'm still a bit full from it."
Time seemed to be shocked by the tidbit. "Really?... Was it good?"
"It was delicious!" You can't help but gush. "I would normally cook for myself but they send food from time to time and it was still warm so I couldn't resist."
His smile turns a little tight. "Is that so? I'm glad that you were fed adequately then.... May I ask who?"
You falter, the smile on your face turning more soft and shy. "Um... I think it was my neighbor..."
"...You don't know who it is?"
You blush and look down onto the table, playing with the treats on your plate. "I know that I should be more cautious. But they've only ever left it on my balcony... It's a secret admirer so to speak. They've given me trinkets and flowers and food. It seems as if they've slowly been furnishing my house for me. I don't know... I've been trying to think about who it may be, but I'm coming up short. Regardless, enough about my lack of love life-"
Time abruptly puts his hand under the table but you catch the reason why before he can hide it.
He's bent the fork in half with his hand, seemingly without realizing it. He smiles brightly, as if nothing happened and the thought gets put on the back burner for now. "Right... Well, you can always ask for my assistance, Darling."
You shake your head with a small smile. "Thank you, but I'm here to report my work. Let's get to business then."
Time clenches his jaw slightly but nods in agreement. "Right. I believe last time you mentioned that you were following a trail of some suspicious individuals on the property of the farm lands for relief efforts. Did that bloom into anything substantial?"
You pull out a manila folder with a smirk and hand it to the king. "Did it ever."
The time passes before you know it. Little by little, as you give your report, if drifts away and you're talking about your lives as much as you can before you leave.
Warrior comes in, informing Time of another meeting has to attend. He looks apologetic.
The king winces but you're quick to stand up, mid panic. "I'm sorry. I've overstayed my welcome."
"Impossible." Time blurts, standing abruptly as well. He reach out as if to stop you and moves around the table as if to block your path. His tail curls around your ankle, stopping your in your tracks. It's gentle but firm. Even if his grip is painless, you can already tell that you wouldn't be able to escape on your own.
You freeze and after a beat he lets you go. Time gulps and stands, seemingly more aware of what he was doing. His grip falls away and he takes a step back. "R-right... I won't keep you from your work much longer then."
You can't help but blush. He's always been fine with putting a hand on your shoulder or your back... but the tail is one of the most sensitive parts of a dragon. And he just grabbed you with it. For some reason, you find yourself blushing.
You nod dumbly, as if your schedule is jammed packed like his. Your heart is pounding. You follow Warrior out of the room as he leads you back to the main gate of the castle.
"Sorry." Warrior says quietly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Nonono-" You're still shaken by the phantom feelings of the scales around you. Even if it was just a brush, there was a power there. You don't know why you're so out of whack suddenly. The act was more intimate than you were able to admit. "If you didn't say anything, I would have kept going. Honestly, I swear he's just humoring most of the time."
"This is the only time we get him to actually take a break." Warrior tells you. "He'd work himself t the bone if it weren't for you. It's not like he can't afford it. He's two years ahead of his work. By all means, keep him there longer."
You flush and look away, walking out of the gate. "Oh please, he'll get sick of me before we'd know it."
Warrior is quick to bite his tongue, biting back the instant retort that no doubt sat on his tongue. He takes a breath and shakes his head.
"...He likes you." Warrior looks pained. Like there's something there that he wants to say but can't. You don't see it. "Would you like me to walk you home? If I recall you live far enough away-"
"Not enough to cause concern, Captain." You smile and pat his shoulder. "But thank you."
"His Majesty wouldn't like it if anything happened to you." Warrior tries to push it a little bit.
You shake you head. "And take more of your time away? You work just as hard, if not harder, than the entirety of the castle staff. I think only the King works harder than you."
He presses his lips into a thin line. His own scales poke from under his skin. Something is riling him up but you don't know what. You've never seen his dragon form or even his half. He seems to hide it more often than not. You would never know he was a dragon if the King hadn't said anything earlier.
Warrior sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "Very well... Just... be safe, yeah? I don't think the goddesses themselves would be able to calm the king should things go wrong."
"Like what?" You snort. "I end up in the hospital? I'll be fine. No worries."
You wink for good measure and head home, happy, fulfilled and ready to take on the rest of the week.
You miss the next three visits.
230 notes
·
View notes