#Boat Neckline | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1800titz · 6 months

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Hi friends! I’ve been sitting on this for about 3 months now and had the spontaneous urge to share. More lengthy authors note is over on wattpad. ٩(◕‿◕)۶

This one is going to be a long, chaptered fic, and here's the first chapter!

Also, big thank you to Miss @freedomfireflies for her help brainstorming <3

WC: 6.5K

Harry thinks that prissy, pretty little princesses stowed away in his cabin, tied up with ropes like haphazard, shibari interpretations, outweigh all chests, upon chests, of dainty sapphire emblems and chunky pendants of gold. This particular …treasure, in fact, is worth far beyond her weight in pure gold. A sight for sore eyes, too. Still sopping from the sea, her low-cut neckline clinging to her flesh and her skirt sheerly draped over her parted thighs.

It’s a nice view.

Seren doesn’t know how she’s ended up strapped to some horribly uncomfortable stool in a rocking room that’s wood, ceiling to floor.

Well.

She knows that the boat she was on was a victim of piracy. She knows that the ship, aimed for Holland, met an unsightly demise at some point, in open ocean, between Rotterdam and Harwich. She knows she’d been in a cabin of the Mary when the first strike landed, when flames erupted over the forecastle, when the deck turned to screams and a beautiful morning of calm skies, wisps of white she’d admired minutes prior, meant virtually nothing to the tightening in her chest.

The pirate leans back against the wall. His eyes, like emeralds, wind over her shape. She grits at the balled fabric between her teeth, chest heaving. He’s a man — a man’s man, unlike in appearance to the men she’s used to spending her pastime around, back home. The kinds who wither at the sight of the wrong fork at the dinner table or something, and turn their noses up at the thought of carrying something heavier than forty pounds. The kind whose hair coils pristinely, seemingly solidified rock in place. The kind who carry umbrellas to ward off the glaring rays of the sunlight as they stroll through the courtyard of shrubbery in their fancy shoes and fancy garments. This man is not that type of man.

He’s different, she can see it just in the way he carries himself. He’s not scared to get his hands dirty, he’s not scared to do the work. The crest of his left cheekbone wears a scar, a nick, so small she wouldn’t see it had he not stepped into the buttery beam of the daylight cast through the little window on the precipice of wall and ceiling, particles of dust dancing in the makeshift spotlight. His fingers, adorned with chunky rings, his hands — they’re calloused, like a laborer. She can see it from her view. His garb is simple, clad over his skin for purpose and comfort, solely.

But simple isn’t the term she’d deem best to describe him, not with his myriad of accessories, from the trinkets glinting from his holster, to his plethora of rings, to the mysterious, rusted key that dangled in the glen between his pecs. That one’s highlighted against bare skin in the vale of his haphazardly unbuttoned shirt. From there, she can see ink over his torso, carved in shapes over swarthy flesh. All sorts of pictures; beaks, and wings, lines of careful shading and others of jet emphasis; thicker, deeper sketches in contrast.

He’s clean shaven, which is unlike any pirate Seren’s ever heard tall tales of. His mouth is pink, cushiony in shape, and when the corners of his mouth turn up, dimples wink awake beside the curl. An even slope of a nose, and jade irises that brew with mischief. Seren can almost see the way that the flinty shade would brew with a storm, like the sea. If he wasn't a pirate of the boat that’d throttled her own, sent it spiraling into the ocean as nothing but husks of chipped wood and dying ember, maybe she’d find an alluring quality to him. But it’s not food for thought.

“Should we try again?” he prompts, in his tantalizing cadence.

When she’d heard him speak, for the first time, she was floored. An Englishman. An Englishman, youthful and spry, sailing a pirate ship, and pillaging when so much more could be in the books for such a man. So much potential, wasted. What a crying shame. She’d heard of pirates, of brutish criminals from her homeland, but they were always, for some reason or another, older, unprepossessing, scarred and crude with unkempt beards and a lack of morals, too far gone to redeem. They had eyes much too hungry for riches, and lewd, groping hands that were much too focused on flesh. Seren eyes his hands. They’re colossal. He hasn’t touched her in that way, not like that, but the lazy smirk over his plush mouth, the way his irises rake over her neckline, down the meshified front of her dress — that practically urges her not to count her blessings too soon.

When he squats just ahead of her, watching her in pause, his eyes glinting with this sort of condescension, because she’s indisposed and at his whim, Seren wishes her legs weren’t bound to the legs of the chair. She’d kick him, if she could. She’d scream, and kick, and claw, and—

“Are you going to start shouting again? Is that what you’re thinking about?” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth buckling. When she’s unable to respond, for obvious reasons, the man cups his palm over the shell of his right ear and twists his head a tad, leaning towards her a smidge.

“M’gonna need an answer, if you’d like to me to un-gag you. M’specifically gonna need a no,” the pirate prompts, a jesting air to his tone that Seren would love to crush. Her chest is still heaving from the last screaming fit, from the first time he’d tugged at the rope pressing to her cheeks and pulled the smushed fabric off of her tongue. His mouth twitches wryly.

He plants his forearms onto his thighs, casting his gaze to her as he weighs out the options, lips crooked, but eyes narrowed, just a bit, in a way that wordlessly suggests she comply.

“Let’s give this another go.”

When the man digs his forefinger under the abrasive rope and yanks it down, over her chin, and then plucks at the outside of the makeshift gag, Seren doesn’t nip at his fingertips. She’d tried that, the first time, but he’d retracted before her teeth could come into contact, his mouth jolting at the fire within her he’d underestimated. She expected a smack, she’d expected her neck to twist as her cheek bruised in response to the attempt, but he’d just stuck his tongue against his cheek, all mirthy, until she’d started to scream. Then he’d gagged her again.

So.

That was a failure.

The second the back of her throat meets the air, rather than the garbling cloth, the young woman starts screaming. Again. He’d kind of expected it. It’s a very lovely attempt, she’s quite loud, and all, but unfortunately, her efforts are sort of moot. That kind of thing tends to happen when you’re miles, and miles, and miles out in the open sea aboard a ship of men who work for the opposing team. Harry would clap if he wasn’t putting on a show of tucking a finger into his ear at her shrill cries. Eventually, he just watches her, letting her scream for a bit, and she holds seething eye contact as her help rises in pitch.

“Okay— alright,” Harry shakes his head, balling the cloth, daubed with her saliva, and shoving it past her lips haphazardly. She attempts to spit, but can only wriggle as he presses the rope back over her mouth like the task is effortless.

For a moment, neither of them say anything. The princess can’t. Harry tuts.

His tone carries notes of amusement when he tells her, “You’re quite pitchy. D’you know that?”

Seren stares him down.

“Have you got rocks in your head?” his lips nearly jolt up at the blunt nature of his own inquiry. They don’t. “I tell you not to scream,” he waves with an arm, “you scream anyways. I say, let’s try one more time, because— you know. Maybe you didn’t get the memo, the first time.”

The princess watches him talk, bemused. He gestures with his arm like a tired parent, stressed and lecturing a menacing, little child.

“And you yell again. So I’m wondering, have you got rocks in your head?”

Seren says nothing. She does wriggle in the restraints, like his question has insulted her enough to launch at him. But she stills when he squats ahead of her, once more, her heart hammering behind her ribcage.

“Who’s going to rescue you?” the pirate asks. It’s obviously rhetorical, and he knows she can comprehend that much. When the roll of her chest slows and she settles back, he can see it in her eyes that his point has left her crestfallen. His mouth quirks, and Harry presses again. “Who?”

When he knows that the message has sunk in, when she stares at the wall behind him, blankly, the only evidence of her consciousness being her glazed over gaze and the flare of her nostrils on every inhale, Harry sighs down at his palms and shakes his head.

“I’d just like a chat.”

Seren twists her head away. As much as the binding over her neck and face allows for, anyways. Harry tuts.

“So glum. You’re alive, aren’t you?” he cocks his head, voice low, “You’re not at the bottom of the sea. Not like your little boat.”

Those words hit a nerve, he can see it in the way she side-eyes him, the flame reignited, kindling in her scorching gaze. The pirate nods down at his hands, twisting a ring with a ruby red gem, like a shitty mockery of a moment of silence.

“It can’t possibly be comfortable, sitting with your mouth full, like that. And you must be thirsty, what with all that saltwater you were gargling,” he raises a shoulder, a coy reasoning to his speech.

Seren doesn’t want his stupid water. He’d probably poison her, have his way, and roll her off the ship, back into the raging waters he’d pulled her from. Harry blinks. She doesn’t offer an inkling to show that she’s willing to comply, but he stands and reaches for the rope, digging the pads of his fingers under the binding, over her cheek. His forefinger brushes the corner of her parted lips.

“Third time’s the charm.”

Though, he doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, not even to his own ears. He cradles the square of cloth between his fingertips and listens to her screams for a moment.

And then he startles her when he starts to harmonize with her screeching pleas. The first one is enough for her vocal chords to stutter, for her to jolt back in her seat, alarmed.

“HELP!” Harry calls, stretching the vowel outweighing her own scream in volume as the young woman’s own dies off, and the princess balks, startling in the ropes at the sound. He takes a pause for a deep breath, and screams again, “HELP!” banging on the wooden beams over the ceiling, bumping with his palm loudly, in an outrageous display that’s clearly meant to taunt. The sound of him striking it, alone, causes her to jump in her restraints.

He’s unhinged. Seren is convinced. Her spine straightens out like an arrow, and her shoulders square as she ogles the bizarre display, watching him strike over the ceiling, the walls, stamp the soles of his boots against the floorboards. After a second, he settles down. His hand is crooked against one of the beams overhead, and his gaze roves over her slowly. Purposefully. The corners of his mouth curl up sardonically.

“It’s not a very nice sound, is it?”

He’s deranged. His screws are loose, Seren decides, her eyes still wide as the racing pace of her heart settles in her chest — but any man who sinks ships for fun, in the open sea, who sails and pillages, and murders innocents with a hunger for riches, has screws loose. These aren’t insightful revelations. Maybe she’d just expected him to be less …bizarre, in their interrogation. He was going to get his answers out of her — they were his, they were going to be, and there’s no kidding about it — but the young woman is unsure of what answers he’s looking for or why. Why, why, why. Why did these pirates sink her boat? It was nothing but a small ferry in comparison to the opposing monster of a galleon. It wasn’t even a merchant ship, there were no riches to be stolen. Ironically, the pirate reaches a hand out, and Seren fidgets until his fingers clasp over her ruby pendant. He lifts it from her skin with prodding fingertips and a gaze of scrutiny.

She won’t give him answers, the princess decides. Whatever dialogue he may want from her, she won’t comply. She doesn’t know what he has in store for her lack of subservience, but she doesn’t care. She will not bend her will for this mangy brute.

“This is a pretty piece.”

Loose tendrils, clumped wetly, sway as she jerks her neck to tug the pendant from his grasp. She fails. His digits twitch and flex over the pendant, and the chain digs into the skin at the back of her neck with the faulty motion. The corners of his mouth quirk up as the princess makes an mmph.

That’s a pretty sound.

“M’not going to steal it. What kind of a man do you take me for? We’re good men here, on this ship,” the pirate declares, a sort of vehement passion to his statement, but the crook of his mouth says it’s an unlikely story.

So do the remnants of her boat, somewhere at the bottom of the sea, Seren thinks dryly. Maintaining eye contact, he lets the pendant settle back between her collarbones. It is a pretty piece, Harry wasn’t lying. Real gold, too — no princess would wear something less. But he’s got no need to pilfer it from her. Every molecule of her being, every cell, will pay out tenfold the cost of the necklace. It’s with that thought that he fixes the gag back into place and leaves her, trussed to that chair in the cabin.

“Ta,” the pirate bids in his slow roam towards the door, a glance aimed over his as he tucks his fingertips into the belt holstering his array of daggers, one handle bejeweled. The look he fixes her is sure, the kind that’s relaxed, but showcases that his word is final and will be the outcome. “Chat soon.”

Fun fact; being tied to a shoddy, little wooden chair for hours on end fucking blows. Especially when your hands are bound, in such a way where the rope weaves through the pegs of the back of the chair, keeping your joints wrung together tightly. It’s really aggravating to have a coarse rope, its weaving splintered with pinprick-y tufts, stuck up over your cheeks to hold some sordid rag in place between your teeth.

It’s safe to say that the experience is not one of Seren’s most favorite past-times. She’s not sure how much time has passed before that heavy wooden door creaks open on its hinges, again. Only a few hours, it must be. The crack of a window behind her hasn’t broken with nightfall, though the light cast through its opening has dimmed, if only a little.

It’s the same pirate as before. All glimmery jade and the bare vale of tanned skin from the unbuttoned sector of his shirt, where she makes out a faint dusting of chest hair, between his pecs.

The princess is still a gorgeous view, in Harry’s opinion. Her thighs are still splayed, but her cream dress has dried some, now, and so has her hair. It’s wild, mussed and frizzy. A half-soaked clump rests over one of her eyes.

“Hello to you, too, darling,” he says in response to the glare she fastens him with through the one that’s visible, like instant daggers. The corners of his mouth crook. He ambles toward her with a steel cup of …something. Something mysterious, something unknown, something she eyes warily up until the point where he’s towering over her. The young woman tears her gaze away, casting it up to his handsome face, instead.

He pries and tucks his digits up under the rope that’s settled over her cheeks and drawn ruddy hues, but he pauses before he pulls it down.

“Y’gonna get loud?”

Seren doesn’t say anything. In fact, she sort of can’t, which is quite nice, Harry thinks, but she doesn’t even make a garbled sound to appease or amuse him. The captain is thankful for what little fragments of peace he’s been granted before he’s forced to endure her ludicrously grating screeching. He weighs his options for a moment, but ultimately, tugs.

Of course, the second he’s pulled the cloth out, the young woman is screaming, of-fucking-course she’s screaming. And at this point, it’s so obviously a ploy to irritate him, and Harry would laugh if the whole display wasn’t so vexing. There’s a tick in his jaw when he sets the lip of the tin cup to her parted, strawberry mouth, roughly — and he wouldn’t be so rough if she wasn’t so fucking loud — and tips. Instantly, that shout is garbled by liquid. It morphs into a cough and a much more tolerable string of sputters, as water leaks over and drenches down her chin, her chest, the front of her dress.

“There we go,” the pirate says, the smooth baritone of his cadence louder over the fit of her coughing, “Attagirl. That’s much better.”

He doesn’t tip more of the beverage into her mouth — a ransom on a princess who’s drowned in her own lungs is worth virtually nothing — and lets her cough and sputter a little longer. She strings together a sequence of breaths he deems good enough, before he smushes the rim of the metal cup back against her bottom lip.

“Drink,” Harry advises and nudges the tin back in a way, again, so that the liquid sloshes and spills out into her open mouth.

This time, she doesn’t cough. She expects it, the water. The princess affixes her top lip lower to siphon the beverage and takes a few swallows. Harry watches her throat bob, and he watches a little rivulet escape, too, dribbling down the corner of her mouth in a little streak. It drips down her chin, down her neck. His pupils follow the trail. He gives her a little break part-way, once the tin is close to empty and her neck is craned back with the swallows. He draws it away. Good. That was good, nice and easy. As easy as it could be, given the circumstances.

Except she fixes him with this horrible glare, again, as he pulls the cup away. This glare that speaks volumes, this glower that should warn him of his error before he lets it happen. Harry doesn’t catch the drift. Only a glimpse of her cheeks puffing before she puckers her lips and spits the remnants at him, coating the bottom-most half of his linen with a mist of the water. His belt too, and a bit of his trousers.

And then her mouth is empty and she’s just scowling at him, head tipped down in a way so that the chunk of her frizzy tendrils settles back over an eye. Harry doesn’t waste a second before angling the cup, miffed, and flinging what little water is left in the cup right back in her face.

And the way her eyes screw shut, the way her lips fall open in silent appall the second he returns the energy, (except, he’s far more polite, in his humble opinion. He doesn’t spit at her like an improper animal), when she’s doused in the chilled liquid, and it coats the face-framing layers of her hair, her lashes, and drips down her chin — that’s the highlight of his day.

He doesn’t instantly fix the gag back into her mouth, or slip the rope back over her irritated skin. He watches her, his jaw set, and when the young woman opens her eyes, she sees that storm brewing, manifesting — the kind she’d only imagined prior, in the flinty green of his irises. Like he’s harnessing his own composure. But then he takes a step back, and just. Leans against the closed door. Like he’s scoping her with his gaze. Like she’s just this shiny thing for his sight to pore over.

And Seren thinks that feels worse than if she were to face the bite of his skin against her own, the swat of his palm against her cheek. She’d rather that, honestly.

Her skin is cold from the water. She’s still sort of reeling that he’d done that, to begin with. He’s drumming the pads of his fingers against his bicep, over the nearly-sheer, cream sleeve of his shirt when he asks, a serious note of authority to the molasses of his speech, “Do you know who I am?”

Seren curbs parroting the question wryly. As much as she’d love to tell him her father will torch the ship he rides upon and hang every member of his crew, him and his stupid fucking dimples included, she’s sure that all she’ll receive in response is a grating twitch of his pink mouth.

“Hm?” he prods, making a show of cupping a palm behind his ear and steering his torso forward a smidge, half-expecting her response to be a series of shrill cries, for the hell of it.

Her answer is not one he expects. Frankly, the man doesn’t expect an intelligible response, the history of her opting for incoherent shouts, considered. But she speaks, afterall. It’s soft in decibel, feminine, and pleasant — her voice, unlike the aimless yelling he’d become accustomed to. Even still, it carries that undeniable note of derision.

Seren tells him, “Someone …terribly disturbed.”

Harry almost can’t help the way his cushiony mouth quirks.

Almost.

“Disturbed?” he scoffs, sardonically mirthy, “She spits at me like a fucking …filthy animal, and I’m disturbed. Aye, I’m disturbed.”

The princess makes daggers with the gaze she sends in his direction. He lets her simmer in the wake of the light insult, for a moment, just drumming over his bicep, his mouth twitching in a kind of way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m the captain of this ship,” Harry supplies softly, jade narrowed.

There’s a twitch to her face then, something that slots by and withers in the blink of an eye. Something like recognition. And, fucking finally, Harry thinks — he can practically hear the angels croon at the crumbs of reception, from her, to his authority.

“That means,” he motions out with the cup, his other arm still crossed, fingers wrapped about his waist now, “I’m in charge.”

His voice is soft-spoken, a croon that spells it out for her, if she hasn’t already caught the drift.

“I’m in charge of this ship. This crew,” he takes a step forward, ducking his chin as his eyebrows tip up a bit, “And you. And that means I’m in charge of what happens to you. So don’t you think it’s in your best interest to behave?”

If he expects her to bow down and kiss the toes of his scuffed boots, the young woman doesn’t bite the bait.

“You’re nothing but a mangy sea brute,” Seren declares, then, her chin held audaciously high, despite the ropes binding over her breasts and the foreboding ocean that sways beyond, with ravenous threat. He could lug her off onto the deck and chuck her off the plank, tied just like this.

He doesn’t.

He just stays leant against the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest.

“Mangy sea brutes,” the pirate weighs her words, nodding slowly as he purses his lips in deliberation. And then his brows pinch together, “that’s quite insulting, actually. I take pride in my appearance, I’ll have you know.”

“Mangy,” the young woman confirms, venom in her tone.

The pirate props himself up and off, taking a languid step, each syllable of his cadence laced with condescension, “Now, rugged—“ and open mouthed smirk, a nudge with his chin, “I’ll accept. You don’t think I spend time in front of the mirror, darling? Mangy. What a rude word. I wasn’t aware that Siren, Princess of Essex was so abrasive.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes when they flash to him — something like sharp surprise, mottled with pique. Like she didn’t expect him to know who exactly he was harboring upon his ship. The corners of his mouth crook. She’s seemingly appalled that he’s done his research. The glint of shock is gone, as soon as it shows itself.

“Oh,” the captain takes a slow step forward in this sort of way, as if his body language is entirely meant to taunt her, hand in hand with his tongue, “I see. You thought I didn’t know who you were. Just some nameless, pretty little thing on my ship.”

It’s a purposeful dig — the mispronunciation of her name. It’s only a vowel off, it could be chalked up to simple error, but it’s blatantly to mock her. Really, it’s a funny little dub since she enjoys spending so much screeching like the nuisance of a blaring alarm that just won’t shut off. It’s meant to demean her, to belittle her, because not even her name, blue-blooded and all, is worth correct pronunciation. That’s what she seems to hone on from the whole revelation, Harry finds.

“Seren,” she corrects with bite, that same glower she’d worn prior reincarnated.

The man takes another step. He cups behind his ear, and Seren promises herself that the moment she’s freed, she’ll personally chop off his stupid fucking ear for all the times he’d cupped behind that shell of it that way, so condescending. “What was that?”

“Seren,” the young woman scowls, “Seren, Princess of Essex.”

He pauses, a cinch in his brows with this patronizing nod, like he’s weighing her correction, and then he tells her, motioning with an arm as the cinch relaxes, “Siren, Seren. Tomato, tomato.”

He motions with his palm nonchalantly. She wants to bite at his fingers. She doesn’t.

“How dare you?” the young woman says instead.

Harry’s mouth quirks. How dare he? What a pompous inquiry, molded by prissy lips.

“How dare I?” the pirate repeats, and then just lifts his shoulder in a casually apathetic shrug. He takes a third step forward, raspberry lips smug and curled, “I just… dare.”

And before the princess can voice her obnoxious protest, he shoves the cloth into her mouth and tugs up the rope, plucking a garbled sound of anger from her in the process.

The silence is wonderful.

By the time Harry returns to her for the third time, it’s well past nightfall. Light stops leaking from the crack of the window. Seren watches the shift, the way it rolls as the hours tick by, in the room. It morphs from behind her, its bright gold slipping into a darker orange, mottled with pink, and then dimmer, and dimmer, and dimmer, as minutes leak away, until all that’s left is dusk and the glow of the moonlight.

The door creaks. She almost doesn’t see it, but she hears the pad of his boots over the wood and twists her neck to catch the sight of his legs as he steps through the threshold.

“Honey, I’m home,” the pirate calls.

Her eyes strain their sockets to catch the moonlight cresting off his cheekbones as his head dips, the dimpling that rises awake beside the corners of his mouth as they turn up at his own jest. He’s holding something. The captain winds around her, through the coat of darkness, and settles somewhere she can’t see. A thump, like something being set onto a table. Then, soft breaths fill the void of the silence. A strike of a match. Her eyes are forced to adjust to a warm, buttery glow as the little beam of fire, merged to a lantern, and then another, sends gold bouncing wall to wall.

That’s when Harry sees that she's managed to make a home for herself on the floor, the chair she’s been restrained to tipped on its side. He almost doesn’t think anything of it, for a split second, but then, as the pads of his digits work buttons through their slits to disrobe, the pirate casts his gaze up for a double take. A twisted coil of satisfaction blooms in his chest as he observes her, the thought that whatever faulty maneuver she’d made to escape had resulted in this, and, well. That makes something joyful and mean bud.

Seren listens to his boots, the step of them slow against the floorboards, until she sees him towering over her, in her peripherals. Her pupils shift.

“Comfortable?” his brows climb with emphasis. The work of his fingertips over the buttons on his shirt are sluggish. Tired. She notes that motion, too — that fact that he’s actively shedding clothes. Nonchalantly. And it must show in her eyes, then. Something vulnerable, something uncomfortable, something raw, and petrified, because, yeah, she’s a petulant, little princess strapped to a chair in his cabin, against her will, and she fights him tooth and nail in every instance that he comes to visit her. But she’s a princess strapped to a chair, against her will, and it’s nightfall, and his skin is growing more bare, square inch by square inch, as the seconds pass.

He must note that — whatever that shows, because the quirk of his priorly mirthy, strawberry mouth slips a tad. And then his features shape something relaxed. Something tired, again. Like he’s too worn.

The sarky comment has those same traces of exhaustion seeping into it as his dismissive gaze disengages, honing on the work of his digits as he loops the final button through, “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You’re not my type.”

The cloth slips apart, showcasing more skin. A line of hair from below his belly button, in soft, dark wisps that melts off behind his belt. Sturdy muscles of his abdomen that ripple as he moves, chin ducked—

His palms cup over the belt of holsters, and that clinks as he discards it, too, winding around to, she assumes, set it somewhere. And then, more skin to pore over when he returns, the sharp cut of a V, decorated with laurels, emphasized by the low hang of his trousers. He cocks his head down at her, like he’s contemplating. Contemplating what, Seren’s unsure. He moves out of her line of sight again.

Her arm aches. She’d tipped over onto it what felt like hours ago, and it’d taken the brunt of the fall, lodged against the side of the chair with the situation of her joints being married in the bindings, behind her. She’d managed to roll forward on her shoulder, just a tad, so that the press against it wasn’t constant, but it still fucking hurt. Her palms, down to the tips of her digits, were numb, she had this heinous crick in her neck, and she’s sure that the moment she’s able to stand her tailbone will hurt like hell. If she’s ever allowed to stand again. Maybe he’ll hurl her into the open ocean, strapped to this godforsaken chair, afterall.

For now, he just hauls her up. His touch — warm — skims the opposite arm before his palm wraps over the beam over the back of the chair and tugs, leveling her with ease. The young woman squeaks against the gag as she hovers, terrified to drop straight onto the limb again. She doesn’t. The pirate sets her straight with a tired grunt. His sight scales her arm, the one she’d toppled onto, and Seren can’t see, but she assumes it’s not in the most pristine condition. And then his touch smooths over the ache, a crease over his brow bone as his eyes pry, and she bristles.

His mouth twitches, but it’s tired. Tired after having to deal with her, tired from whatever he’d spent his time doing beyond the cabin. Tired after sinking her ship and taking her hostage, Seren thinks bitterly. How exhausting. And Harry takes his hand away.

From her new, upright view, she can see that little metal cup — the same one he’d brought her hours earlier. He’s set it onto the table, and she knows it wasn’t there before, which means he’s brought it with new water. Seren turns her head to face it. It’s the most she can manage given that she can’t tell him what she wants, what with the gag and all.

“Thirsty?” he notes, chin over his shoulder in her direction as he shimmies the sleeves of his shirt off. Seren eyes the expanse of naked skin as it expands, from cuts of muscle to ink sunk into the flesh of his arm. Certainly, if she wasn’t before.

The princess doesn’t answer. She can’t, and she’s not going to resort to a string of pathetic hums to get his attention. The captain sets his shirt onto the table in a pile of disarray, beside his belt, and takes the cup. When he makes his way over to her, Seren’s eyes don’t follow his figure. And for a moment, there’s only a deliberative sort of silence. She doesn’t look until he talks, until his tone is far more serious than she’s heard thus far.

“If you spit it at me again, I will personally make sure you lick it back up, off the floorboards.”

And wisely, she doesn’t spit the liquid back up at him when he tugs the gag free and tips the rim of the cup against her mouth. Seren doesn’t doubt he’s the type of man to follow through on his words. But that’s not why she drinks — she drinks because she’s fucking thirsty. Her tongue’s gone dry, and the back of her throat pinpricks with an uncomfortable soreness, and because the lukewarm liquid feels good spilling down her throat. She cranes her neck back, throat bobbing, and doesn’t stop until he’s pulled the cup away himself, and a little rivulet of water dribbles down the corner of her mouth. She takes a big gulp of air and expels it.

And then, with angry sorts of eyes, the princess declares, “I’m hungry.”

“You’re hungry,” the pirate mirrors, but it’s only wryly amused — his tired, sardonic smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he sets the cup back onto the table with little urgency to get her food. “We don’t offer room service.”

“You haven’t fed me once today,” Seren declares indignantly when he winds behind her, out of sight. And then there’s a sigh and a creak, the kind that seeps from mattress springs compressing. “This is— this is cruel, I’ll have you know. This is torture, this is—“

“Thank you for your honest review, we’ll make sure to take your feedback into account,” Harry chimes at her in true, facetious fashion, scrubbing over his eyes with a palm as he knees his way onto the bed. And then the pirate tells her, with a more serious note to his drawl, before she has a chance to interject with another complaint, “If you’re going to talk all night, I’m going to put your gag back in until the morning.”

Seren doesn’t say anything. Finally, she doesn’t say anything at all, and it’s splendid. It’s peace and quiet, and all he hears, for a perfect moment, is the creak of the wood and the subdued roar of the waves.

“I don’t want to stare at the wall,” the princess speaks, eventually, like a petulant child. “Why am I staring at the wall?”

“Because …that’s the way the chair’s facing,” Harry responds, matter-of-factly and almost instantly, sure that a note of irritation has managed to teem into the words despite his best efforts. He will not let her know that her efforts of poking are chipping at his composure, he won’t.

And for another moment, Seren doesn’t say anything. He lets his eyes drift shut.

“I want to face you,” the princess says, eventually, and her tone implies she’s taken the bridge of silence to build the phrase up into something more demanding, something royal and authoritative. If he wasn’t so fucking tired he’d laugh.

“You want to watch me sleeping?” she hears the pirate from behind her, his honey-smooth drawl grown raspy and lower from, seemingly, exhaustion, “That’s an odd request.”

Her brows furrow as a scowl paints her mouth. The bed creaks in the gap of quiet. Every hair stands on end when, suddenly, he’s inches from her, his presence looming and warm from behind, with calloused fingertips brushing the side of her neck in their venture towards that godforsaken gag.

“Just turn me!” Seren shrieks, “Just turn me, and I’ll be quiet!”

He doesn’t put the gag in. He winds around her, hand still on the rope, his features shaped with apathetic seriousness, “If I turn you because you want me to turn you, what good am I at putting my foot down? Hm?”

Seren blinks up at him.

“Please,” the princess tells him, hushed and earnest, “I don’t feel …safe.”

His brows twitch. There’s something that blooms in the jade at her admission, but it flits by, gone as quickly as it’d appeared. And then his brows furrow, and he looks absolutely exasperated, the subtle downturn at the edges of his mouth emphasized with the roll of that same jade. The pirate scoffs, and his boots stomp over the wood, each step an inclination that his frustration has leaked into his body language.

“I told you—“ the legs of the chair screech against the floorboards — he doesn’t even grunt as he maneuvers her with ease, the motion rough like it’s a chore, “—that you’re not my type. Not everybody wants to fuck you, your highness.”

Seren blinks, pupils poring over the priorly unseen sight of the opposite end of the room. A slit of a window, brushing the edge of the wall that merges into the ceiling. A bookshelf of literature and knickknacks. A dresser, a queen-sized mattress on the floor. The pirate still looks absolutely miffed when he walks toward the table with the lantern, bare shoulders squared and the muscles in his back rippling. He sets the light out, kicks off his boots, and falls into the bed unceremoniously.

It’s a victory.

And for a moment, Seren thinks he’s just going to wordlessly roll over to avoid her prying gaze. He doesn’t do that. They bask in the crash of the waves outside, the darkness, and their quiet breaths. He’s got this knack — Seren’s learned. This skill of morphing from sarcastic and teasing to broodingly serious, and it’s mercurial, sort of. She wonders if this brooding side’s what’s brought him to lead an entire ship.

“Be quiet now,” the pirate drawls from the sheets, in that broodingly serious cadence, “If I hear another word, I’ll personally carry you out onto the deck, and you can sleep in the chair out there.”

The man rolls over to face the wall. Seren doesn’t say another word for the rest of the night.

#pirate!harry #pirate au #piraterry #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles x oc #dom harry styles #harry styles #harry styles dirty fanfiction #enemies to lovers #harry styles enemies to lovers

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 6 months

Text

you can’t put it in

kinktober, day thirty-one

a/n: happy hornyween halloween! to say goodbye to kinktober, I thought it was fitting to end in the same boat as we started in. enjoy sluts ♡ I love you all so so much ♡

warnings: stepbro!peter parker x reader, smut, stepcest, secret relationship, semipublic sex, bathroom sex, halloween party, pussyjob, dirty talk, corruption kink

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2023

You properly shouldn’t have had those last few drinks. Maybe if you hadn’t, then you wouldn’t have ended up in this position, on the bathroom counter at some Halloween party, with your stepbrother slotted between your wide-spread legs, length freed from his costume and teasing your weeping mess with the tip of it.

“You can’t put it in,” your form needily shivered as he tapped his weight against your puff, “promise me that you won’t put it in.”

Maybe if your costume hadn’t been so revealing and his hadn’t hugged his frame so perfectly, then you would have been able to stay away from one another, but something inside of you knew that even if you both wore potato sacks and didn’t indulge in a drop of anything, then you would have still ended up in this exact same predicament.

“Come on, princess,” Peter tugged down the neckline of your skimpy costume and played with your tits, “you didn’t have a problem with me fucking your throat sore.”

“That’s different and you know it,” you pouted, legs rubbing up against his sides as he continued to tease. Realising his grip on your boob with a playful tap, his hand then drifted down to aid his movements, pinching your petals around him as he fucked your folds, the tip rhythmically nudging against your buzzing clit.

“Just think about how good it will feel letting me stretch this little pussy all the way out.”

“Peter-”

Eyes glued to your cunt, he ignored your plea and smirked, “maybe you just need to learn a lesson about what happens when you run around being such a fucking tease all the time…”

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user2772636 · 2 months

Text

Douzième Fille

12th girl

××《☆》××

Experimenting is bound to give you attention. Magazines are trending, and not just in the women's department. A one-eyed boy who has recently been caught with something vulgar has respect for women. How surprising.

===

Joseph Descamps x Reader

Warnings: boys being boys (worse than b4), swearing, one-sided anger, reference to a movie (Hot Rod), love triangle again (new character??), fluff (finally?!?!?!)

===

Chapter four: Flashy Magazines

===

I flip through page by page the new magazine I bought. It was imported from america, and the second I heard of it, I ran to the nearest booth.

That was yesterday. Today is Monday morning. I woke up a little earlier to scroll through my said magazine and look for inspiration. I thought I'd do something different. A bit more bold.

Hair bumps and bangs. A style well worn by Priscilla Beaulieu, the speculated lover of Elvis Presley. The magazine was filled with her.

I grab my scissors, lifting my head to look into my bathroom mirror. I read the directions on the magazine, parting a small section at the middle of my hair, pulling it in front of my eyes.

I take a deep breath in. A click from the scissors is heard. Not half bad, I say to myself. I shag it a little, smiling to myself.

I continue to read the instructions to Priscilla's hair bump, deciding to make it just a small bump, curling the ends, then adding hair spray to keep it all intact. Once I was done , I added a pair of pearl earrings.

There's a new dress waiting for me in my closet. It was a present from my parents. A knee-length flowy dress with a boat neckline and a thin strap belt, all in the colour of watermelon red.

I put it on, patting down the skirt, and grab my kitten heels. I pray that I don't get caught. This is probably how Michèle felt on the first day of school.

I take one last look in the mirror. I looked older, like a proper lady. I straighten my back and smile strainedly. I breathe out slowly.

I grab my satchel and coat, then head out of my flat. Walking to school, eyes follow me. From my lovely neighbour to the men smoking cigarettes in the street. I don't mind them and continue to make my way to school.

Once I get there, I see Laubrac walking away from Michèle. I walk up to her and put on a smile.

"Michèle. How have you been?" I lean in to hug her.

"Wow, Y/N. You're stunning. You look like you were made to be in movies." Michèle laughs, and I laugh with her.

"Don't go that far." We smile at each other and make it through the gate. Once again, eyes are on me, younger this time.

We look towards the bathroom, seeing Felbec run towards it, then get rejected access through. A tall frame pushes him away, and I knew exactly who it was. I furrow my eyebrows.

A boy then comes running through the gate, shouting out how he has the money. I notice Annick as she suddenly walks away. When he makes it there, the school bell rings. I laugh, watching him move around disappointed.

××《☆》××

"Literary salons are almost always hosted by women. Madame de Sèvignè, Madame de Lafayette." Our teacher says as he leans on his table with his arms.

The lecture fades, and all I hear is the tapping of my heels on the hardwood floor.

"Dupin." Our teacher calls out. I turn around to take a look, but my eyes lock with one. I squint at Descamps, then shift my eyes to Dupin.

"As you won't stop talking, you seem well-versed on the subject. Can you share your thoughts on the salons with us?" Dupin stands, and I smile softly, seeing his embarassed state.

I turn my head back to the front, but a stare stays on me, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I ignored it at first, and then it started to get annoying. So I turned, and I saw him, and he was smiling. He's smiling. Every time I look at him, either he looks dead inside (though, in my opinion, no dead person could look that pretty.), or he's smiling. And that's what he's doing. He's smiling.

How I wish I could wipe it off.

××《☆》××

My ears pound as I hear Ms. Giraud's voice. I might go deaf, but I keep my composure. The bell rings, and we're finally dismissed.

I hear rushed shuffling. Ms. Giraud calls out to the boy.

"Are you in a rush, Lamazière?" Ms. Giraud yells. I notice it's the same boy that ran to the bathroom with money in his hand.

He gets punished, and I laugh quietly. I grab my things, rushing up to the girls.

"Hey, I need to go to the bathroom. Continue walking without me." They nod, and we part ways.

After using the toilet, I look at myself in the mirror. I never expected that. How conscious I'd be of my looks, my movements, and my habits.

Maybe it comes with the fact I dressed up. But for what, I start to wonder. I don't know why I dressed up in the first place. I know I said for a change, but is that really all?

A flash of an eye comes to mind. I quickly shake it off. No way. Not him.

I clear my throat, then grab my things. I hastily walk out the bathroom, suddenly needing fresh air. As I make it to the hallway of the stairwell, footsteps slow down, and eyes follow me. I stop in my tracks.

I scanned through them, what face they were wearing while looking at me. I look down on myself. I still looked presentable, so what were they looking at?

I start to walk, my eyes following the faces of the boys. Each step I take down feels slower. One flight finished, and I stop glancing at them. My feet tap on the porcelain floor of the stairs as I keep my head down.

One flight left, a tall frame walks into the school. He turns to the stairs, and I stop. Descamps stares at me. I stare at him. He then looks up and sees plenty of eyes on me. I see his jaw clench.

He claps his hands. I flinch at the echo of it.

"Will you boys keep staring, or will I go shopping for a new eye with all of yours?" This gets them moving. The stairwell is noisy again.

I turn my head back to Descamps, and I glare. Hard. I walk towards him, and then I'm reminded of our height difference. I crane my neck upward.

"I could've handled myself, you know?" I squint my eyes, and all he does is stare. Why is he just staring? Can't we fight already? I feel my cheeks flush in embarrassment.

"Are you just gonna stare or are you gonna sa-"

"You're beautiful." I barely even heard it. But I did. Then I acted like I didn't.

"What?" I stutter out, flushed cheeks redder than before.

"You're miserable. You clearly needed my help." I scoff, the comforting warmth I felt quickly replaced with boiling anger.

"Just leave me alone, Descamps." I walk away, and into the courtyard.

Who does he think he is? Some knight in shining armour? He's more like a thief in the streets. But then no thief could be as annoying, as dreadful, as smiley as him. That stupid smile, and those stupid words, and his stupid face. Stupid, stupid face. Sometimes I just wanna grab it and-

I stop in my tracks. There's a line in front of the boys' bathroom. What would they be lining up for? I see a mop of blonde hair and framed eyes. Applebaum. He hasn't talked to me, hasn't said hi, and I always wonder if I'd done anything wrong.

But he's the past. I guess he just doesn't like me. It's too bad. I had high hopes for him. A whip of air pushes by me, and it's Descamps again. He's jogging towards the bathroom. He's collecting coins from them. Really, what's going on?

I look in front of me. Michèle and Simone are seated on the stairs. I sigh in relief. I sit beside them.

"I can't do this anymore. All the boys, they're dreadful. Why did I come here in the first place?" I groan. The girls watch me, amused.

"Because you moved here from Paris and-" I cut Simone off.

"Rhetorical." I mutter. She purses her lips shut.

Michèle clears her throat. "So, you think you'll get married?" I lift my head up.

"To who?" My eyes are wide open as well as my ears.

"Eugène. Simone's lover boy." I cover my mouth in shock.

"What? I thought you had a thing for-" Simone cuts me off this time.

"No. It's a little too soon for that." She answers Michèle's question. I mouth sorry. She nods.

"Aren't you worried he'll want to take things further?" Michèle asks Simone. I started to click the pieces together. I bite on my lip to hide my smile.

"I don't know." Simone smiles at the thought. "Can I have a bite? Thanks." She says as she grabs Michèle's apple and takes a bite from it.

"I hope I find a husband soon. So I can get out of my parents house." I nod at Michèle's statement.

"That's true. But hopefully, no one from here. I'd rather die." They laugh at my overreaction, but honestly, I might just die than marry anyone here.

Well, except for one, maybe. Who, I ask myself. Right. Who am I even talking about? My eyes drift to a one-eyed boy. No. Don't even think about it.

Descamps as a husband? I laugh to myself.

Sure, I can imagine him going to work, coming home, smoking a cigarette or two as he reads the news.

Lounging in the living room one lazy afternoon, shirt slightly unbuttoned and pants a bit loose. Eating breakfast with his family, cooking with his wife (who, for some reason, looks almost like me. Very weird.), kissing her shoulders as his arms wrap around her waist.

His scent, his soft lips, his large frame. Carrying his kids in his arms as he spins them around the backyard. Teaching his son how to catch, playing dolls with his daughter, taking a break on a bench, one arm on his thigh, and the other on me.

Me? I shake my head. No, not me. His wife. Certainly not me. I grimace at the thought. Why would I even?

I sigh deeply, frustratedly. These damn thoughts are infuriating, just like him.

"Happy New Year, Ms. Palladino." My trance gets cut off.

"You too, Sir." Simone responds. I clear my throat, composing myself.

Michèle calls out for her uncle and gets up. I wonder what she's going to do. I don't pay much mind as I scoot over to Simone.

"It's Jean Pierre, isn't it?" She flinches.

"What do you mean?" I roll my eyes at her response.

"You know what I mean. Eugène? It's definitely Jean Pierre." Her cheeks flush, and she drops her head.

"I'm happy for you, really." I smile as she lifts her head, hope in her eyes. My smile wavers a bit. "But how will you tell Michèle?"

Her eyes lose that hope, and she looks away.

"I don't know. He said we shouldn't because she'll never let us see each other again."

"But one day, you'll have to." I grab her hand and rub it gently. She sighs.

"I wish you luck." I whisper, then hug her. She hugs me back. Once we pull away, Michèle sits with us again.

"He didn't want to lend it to me. What does 'adult' mean." I raise my eyebrows and puff out my cheeks, clearly not wanting to answer her question.

Michèle looks around. "What's up with everyone today?"

"You only noticed now?" I chuckle.

"Come with me." Me and Simone get up, following Michèle. She walks and calls towards Pichon.

"What's going on in the bathroom?" Pichon pauses. Too long of a pause.

"Nothing." I squint at him. Obviously not nothing.

"Somethings been going on in there today."

"Not at all. Nothing's going on." Pichon tries to walk away, but I stop him with a palm to his chest.

"Really? Why did you react that way when you ran into Mr. Bellanger?" I start to talk.

"What do you mean?" This is getting annoying.

"Don't act dumb. We know you aren't." I snap at him. "Now, why was your face all red?"

"No. It's not red." I furrow my eyebrows, now really getting angry. I almost shove him before Michèle holds me back.

"Simone, is his face red?" I ask her.

"It's red. Very red." I look back at Pichon and raise my eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

"It's not. It's just my complexion." I try to lunge at him, but Michèle's hands are tight on me.

"So you're not gonna tell us?" Michèle calls out for him. I whip my arms off of Michèle's hold, and she's quick to let me go.

"Of course he won't." I glare at the back of his head.

The bell rings.

××《☆》××

Descamps' group walks into the class together. They're rushing a bit.

"And Applebaum?" One of them asks.

"He's gonna sprain something." Descamps answers. Sprain what? What are they doing in that bathroom anyway?

"He's gonna go deaf." Oh. A shiver runs down my spine as I gag. Gross.

I hear Michèle ask Simone something, probably about what the boys are talking about. I don't wanna tell her.

Ms. Couret walks in and greets us. We're granted to sit. The door opens.

"Didn't you hear the bell, Mr. Applebaum." I gag again seeing him. I should've known he was like everyone else. To believe I might've given him a chance. I grimace.

The boys whisper and laugh. There's a boiling in my stomach. Ms. Couret moves on to the topic.

"Do you know the Beatles?" This catches my attention. No one answers, until Pichon does.

"The British band?" Ms. Couret nods.

"Yes. Let's see if those names ring a bell." I shuffle on my seat, giving my full attention to the discussion.

I don't notice the boys passing around a magazine 'till it comes flying towards Michèle's table. I peek over, and in front of her lies a flashy magazine.

××《☆》××

"He said if we didn't give him a name, the class would get detention every Thursday." Pichon says as everyone huddles in to listen. I feel a warm frame over and behind me, but I ignore it, thinking it's just another classmate.

"Then we all get detention." Dupin states, as if it wasn't already obvious.

"The whole class." Pichon exclaims.

"Even the girls?" My brows furrow. What did we do to be blamed?

"Everybody." We all stop.

"That's not fair." Simone says, and I nod with her.

"Right. What did we do? It was you guys who were being perverts." I call out.

I get more frustrated when a chest bumps into me. It's the same frame I felt earlier. I turn around, and I'm met with Descamps.

"You. You were the ones selling the magazine and passing it around." I glare at him.

"You're disgusting. I don't want you near me." I turn again and bid a quick goodbye to the girls then head home.

"Pardine!" I hear Descamps call out. I roll my eyes and keep walking. Once we're in a quieter area, he grabs my arm and gently pushes me to a wall.

"Please. I swear I would never." I glare up at him.

"Then why were you passing it around?" I ask him, tilting my head up.

His pants fill my ears. It's worrying. I place a hand on his chest.

"Calm down." I state, the worry etched in my voice.

He relaxed under my touch, I felt it, the way his muscles stopped being tense. I kept my face hard.

"Now, explain." My voice comes out demanding.

"I needed some money. What better way to collect it quickly than when there's hundreds of prepubescent boys in one school?" I roll my eyes. I almost walk away before he cages me in the wall with his arms.

"Please. Just... listen. I needed money, okay? I wanted to save up for... for..." He stutters, and my brows crease more.

"For?" I raise my brows, expecting an answer.

"For... records. Yeah. For my mother." I squint at his answer.

"That still won't excuse the fact you're a pervert."

"No, I swear. I would never. I know you don't believe me, but I swear. I swear on my mothers life I would never. Not in school, not anywhere. I respect a woman way too much to do something like that."

"A woman? Who? Your mother?" My brain turns to different answers.

"Yes." He stuttering again. "Definitely, my mother." He pushes away from me, and I feel cold.

I hum. Then I look back up at him, eyes still squinted.

"I'll let it pass for now." I see his face fill with relief, and I almost laugh.

I walk away, but before I get too far, I hear him mutter.

"You look pretty." I turn around, shocked and confused.

"What did you say?"

"I said you look shitty. Goodbye, Pardine!" He calls out as he walks away in a rush. I scoff, then turn back around to walk home.

××《☆》××

I pet George, lounging on my bed, thinking of going out to run some errands. I get up and head to the kitchen.

Stuck to the fridge, I read my mother's shopping list. I get rid of the magnet and stick the note into my coat pocket. I glance at George, then the door, then George again.

I sigh. I pick him up, head to my door, and lock it. We go down the stairs. I place him in my bicycle basket. I make sure he's tucked in well, then ride to the farmers market.

Once I'm there, I glance at the shopping list again. Some vegetables, fruit, flour, etc. I walk past each stall, buying what's needed. Just then, a boy, somewhere my age, walks towards me.

"Hi." He seems confident. "I'm Callum. What's your name?"

I look at him up and down, and then the hand he reaches out for a hand shake. He's tall, but not too tall. Maybe five feet and ten inches. He has long, wavy brown hair, neatly brushed behind his ears. He has deep doe eyes and a smile on his face. I hesitate.

"Y/N." I slowly lift my hand and shake his. His smile widens.

"So, I have a project that requires a model, and when I saw you, I thought you'd be the perfect candidate. Not to be blunt about it, but you're beautiful." I blush at the sudden compliment.

"All you need to do is let me take a couple of photos, and I'll pay you, about... 300 franc?" I gape at the offer.

"Are you sure? Just for pictures?" They nod.

"Yes. Good transaction, yeah? If I win the project, the pictures will be displayed in the front of a car magazine. Is that alright with you?" I think again, but what's there to think about when there's 300 franc on the table?

"Deal." I shake hands Callum's hand, and he smiles wider.

"Good. Now, I'll take you to my car, and you can do a couple of poses in front of it." He led me to his car, and the second I saw the bright mint blue of it, my jaw hits the floor.

"This pretty one," Callum pats the front of the car. "is a 1955 Ford Thunderbird. Mint blue exterior, white top, and a mix of both for the interior. It has the brake horsepower of 193, and she's my most prized possession. She goes up to 23,069 kilometres. Very lovely, right?" He leans on the car, almost hugging it.

I cover my mouth, hiding my smile. He walks over to me, gently grabbing my wrist and pulling it away from my face.

"Keep that smile on, pretty lady. We need it for the pictures." He tilts his head towards the car. "Go on."

I walk slowly. Once I'm near the passengers door, I pose, and I see the flash of the camera.

"Get inside. Take a feel around." I walk to the other side of the car, opening the door and closing it once I'm in. I feel the leather of the wheel against my palm, and I scoff in awe. The camera flashes again.

"I didn't get to pose!" I laugh, slightly embarassed.

"You didn't need to. You're a natural." He snaps another photo, and I laugh again.

After taking a few photos and reviewing them, Callum finally chose one. It was me smiling at the camera with my hands on the wheels, windows rolled down.

He told me I looked perfect, which was, based on what he said, the first thing that came into his mind when he saw me.

The rest of the day, he accompanied me shopping and even offered me a ride around town in his car. I obviously couldn't say no.

He pulled the hood down, letting the wind flow through my hair as we drove in the roads, making it to the fields, stopping by for some gas, and then getting on the road again.

××《☆》××

Callum parks the car in front of his flat, which was only a few blocks away from mine. We decided to walk to my place instead of draining out the car, not before him telling me that it was absolutely fine for him to drive me directly home. When I said I needed my legs moving, he stopped pushing it and agreed.

He puts the hood back on, locking the door with his keys. He walks to my side.

"Good luck with the project." My hands are in my coat pockets as Callum walks me home. He smiles, then looks at me.

"Meeting you was luck itself. That means if you're in my pictures, I'll bring luck with me." I roll my eyes.

"Cheesy." We come to a stop infront of my flat's door.

"Well, this is it." I purse my lips, looking up at him.

"Yup. I guess we're here." His eyes sort of lose its spark. I worry.

"You okay?" I raise my eyebrows, concerned.

"I wanna see you again." He blurts out. "Is tomorrow okay? The results will come out, and I sort of want you to be there."

"Sure. I'll be there." I rub his arm reassuringly. He slowly lifts his hand to cup mine on his arm. He lifts it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on it.

"Goodnight, Y/N." He smiles softly, lets go of my hand, and leaves. I stay in my place, unsure of what to do. When his frame disappears from my sight, I shiver. What was that?

I'm greeted by George as I get in my flat. My heart's beating out my chest, and I feel anxious. There's something in me. It doesn't feel so good. Some sort of regret. Why?

A boy. Not Callum. Someone else. Taller frame. Shorter hair. One eye. Fuck no. No way. I can't. I shouldn't. Why am I thinking about him?

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. 'I don't even call him by his first name.' Joseph Descamps. I feel indifferent calling him his first name. I'm not in terms with him like that. We aren't close enough for me to call him that.

Then suddenly, I want to. I want to call him Joseph. 'Why?' I wonder. Joseph, Joseph, Joseph. It feels nice on the tongue. Descamps is suddenly too long of a name. Joseph is fine. The name, I mean. Not him.

Then suddenly, again, it is. He is. 'No, he's not', but I want him to be. How do I get him to be? 'I can't do this. I really shouldn't.' But, oh, how much I want to.

'No.' I quiet my thoughts. 'No. Never. I won't do it.'

But I want to.

Fuck.

××《☆》××

The next morning, most of the boys are called to the principles office. I sigh in boredom, looking out the window.

"It certainly feels emptier today." Simone says, breaking the silence. I want to laugh, but I can't. I wanted to see the way Joseph's green cardigan looked on his wide frame longer.

I shake my head. I totally didn't get enough sleep last night with that thought popping in my head.

Though, that cardigan really suited him. Green really suits him. It makes him sort of glow. It's not like he doesn't already. Come to think of it, his hair glows, too. It was a bit messy. He probably rushed to school today. I wonder how soft it'll be against my fingers when I brush it off to look neater.

I remember how warm he was that day in the alley. He was so much taller, so he had to basically break his back to reach me. I double take that thought.

He had to break his back just to reach me.

I know he didn't actually break his back, but I just knew that sort of hurt. But it was nice, so I guess it was worth it for him. At least, I hope it was.

Okay, wait. Why am I thinking like this? I guess we're on good terms now. I mean, sure, we bicker, but not as much anymore? I don't know. Whatever. I guess we're fine. I want us to be. I'm tired of being mad at him for no reason.

Yeah. We're fine. That's why I'm thinking like this, right? You know, as a friendly, 'I want to take care of you' kind of way. Which is platonic. Totally. Yeah, that's fine.

Maybe I should say hi from time to time? Or no. Maybe just a nod for a greeting? Too bland. A smile will do. He might be creeped out, though.

I groan internally. Why am I overthinking this? Whatever, I'll just smile and wave. That's good. Simple and effective. Don't overthink it. There's nothing to overthink about.

Ms. Couret walks in, and the class collectively stands up. She's wearing a green dress. It looks nice. It reminds me of Joseph.

Woah. Why am I thinking about him? I think I'm just worried. Yeah. I'm worried about him because we're friends. Wait, are we friends? I'll ask later.

We're told to sit down, and we do. Ms. Couret pulls out a copy of the news. This must be about The Beatles, I remember from the last discussion, before it got interrupted. I light up in my seat.

"We won't wait for your classmates. They're getting tortured at the dean's dungeon." The class laughs.

"Today, we'll start with an article on President Kennedy's murder." So it isn't about The Beatles. I furrow my eyebrows.

I raise my hand.

"Yes?" Ms. Couret lifts her head.

"What about the song?" I shrug my shoulders, asking a bit sadly.

"No. There won't be a song. I don't have the record." I purse my lips in silent disappointment. She passes us some papers, and I sit the rest of the day quietly.

××《☆》××

I walk outside of the gate, the crowds of students slowly dissipating. My hair flows in the wind, styled the same way it was yesterday, except done in a half up half down style. My yellow dress lifts up and down as my legs do.

I'm headed to Callum's school, excited for the results. Almost halfway there, I stop. Joseph is in front of a magazine booth, buying. My heart drops, assuming it was another one of those flashy magazines. But then he leans out the booth, holding a magazine with my face on the cover.

My face is on the cover, and Joseph is buying it.

Two very important things.

One, I got on the cover, so Callum won. Two, Joseph is buying a magazine with my face on the cover. My question is, does he know it's me on the cover? Or is he buying it because he generally likes cars.

I take slow steps forward. The closer I am, the more I hear. And there's a voice inside my head repeating Joseph's words.

"That's my girl." He points to my picture in the magazine, showing the booth owner. "She's gorgeous. I mean, look at her." He makes the magazine face him again. There's a wide smile on his face.

He's smiling. I think I'm starting to like it on him.

The second he turns his head and sees me, the smile I just started to admire drops. He looks red under the afternoon sun.

"Pardine." He clears his throat, hiding the magazine. "What are you doing around here?"

"Headed to St. Patricks. You know the all boys school?" I smile softly. His nervousness seems to fade, for only a little.

"What would you be doing there?" He sounds off.

"Meeting a friend." I lift my shoulders, showing off a smile.

He looks like he melts, then stiffens back up. "A friend? Who? What's his name? What's he look like?"

"You ask a lot of questions. Answer mine first, then I'll answer yours." He nods. "What are you doing here?"

He stutters. "I was just looking around. Thought I'd buy a magazine but then saw you." He's acting uninterested. Or atleast trying to.

"Saw me walking towards you, or saw me in that magazine you have in your hands?" His eyes blow open. I hide my laugh.

"What? What do you- oh." He points to the magazine booth that he's still standing next to.

"That's you? Wow, I didn't know you modelled. It's not like I care or anything." He puts his head down, shrugging his shoulders.

"Why'd you buy it, Joseph?" I smirk, tilting my head, trying to meet his eyes. He shys away.

"I was... gonna burn it. Yeah. I was- wait. What did you call me?" He whips his head up. I try to recall, then flush when I do.

"Nothing."

"You totally called me Joseph." Yes, I did.

"No, I didn't." I shake my head.

"You never call me that." No, but like last night, I want to.

"I didn't call you Joseph."

"You just did."

"You're so childish, Joseph."

"You did it again!"

I groan, walking away from him, as red as when he saw me. Why was he red when he saw me? Whatever, I need to get to Callum.

I hear his steps behind me, and I roll my eyes.

"Y/N, come on." I turn around.

"You called me Y/N."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did." He definitely did.

"I didn't." Mhm, sure.

"You did. You never call me that." I mock him. He rolls his eye.

"Whatever."

"Whatever." I walk away from him. He doesn't seem to follow after me anymore, but then after a while, I hear his steps again.

"What's your friends name again? Are you sure I wasn't the friend you were gonna meet?" Oh right, I was gonna ask him about that.

"Are we friends?" I stop and turn to him.

He stops, too. No talking, no walking.

"Do you want us to be?" He asks. I pause.

"Yes."

"Then, yeah." There's that smile I missed.

"Good." I continue to walk.

"You didn't answer my first question."

"His name is Callum. He was the one who photographed me." I feel him grab my arm, and we stop again.

"He photographed you? When did you even meet? How are you sure he isn't some old creep?"

"Yes, he did. Yesterday, when I was in the market. He's our age, I made sure to ask."

"Okay, how exactly did he come up to you in the market?" He squints, tilting his head.

"Just went up to me, said hi, called me beautiful, offered money for the photos, took the photos, we drove around in his car, and then he walked me home." I shrug simply. He's still hesitant.

"You drove around in a stranger's car?"

"Correction, friends car."

"Yeah, a friend you just met."

"Whatever, I'm here now safe and sound anyways."

"But what if he was some creep? You need to be more careful, Y/N."

"I said it's whatever, Joseph." His eyebrows are furrowed, then after a while, he nods.

I continue to walk, and he follows. I don't stop him.

Once we're in front of St. Patricks' gate, I see the familiar Ford Thunderbird and quickly make my way, Joseph hot on my feet.

I see the familiar man leaning against the car with his hands in his pockets, then I see his toothy grin. I run up to him and give him a hug that he returns.

"Callum! Congratulations. I knew you had it in the bag." I say as I lean away from him. He keeps his arms wrapped around me. I feel a burning stare on us.

"Told you, you brought me luck." He takes his glasses off with his hand, then places the arm he used back on my waist. I hear footsteps and Callum's hold loosens.

There's an arm around my shoulder. Then, an all familiar voice.

"You alright, man? Congrats on the magazine. Y/N's told me about you." I look up at Joseph. His jaw's clenched.

"Of course she did. She told you about the ride on this pretty thing?" He pats the car, and I flush.

"Yeah, she did. I'm Joseph." He puts a hand out for Callum to shake. They clasp hands, and their grips are tight.

"Callum, but I guess you already knew that. If you don't mind me asking, who are you to Y/N?"

"Her b-"

"Friend. He's a friend." I cut him off. He looks at me with hurt in his eyes, then masks it with fake joy.

"Yup. I'm her friend." He nods to Callum.

"Oh. It's a bit weird that she hasn't mentioned you. You know, since you're friends and all." Joseph's arm tightens around me.

"Yeah, it's not like her to talk about her friends to someone she just met." There's a sarcastic smirk on his face.

Callum hums. "Well, s'nice to meet you, Joseph. Have a good one, yeah? And you, pretty lady..." Callum's gaze shifts to me, stare softening.

"Have a good night." He lifts my hand to his lips, placing a soft and lingering kiss on it. I take a deep breath in, maintaining composure, overwhelmed by the attention both boys were giving me.

Callum turns around and drives off on his car. Once his car was out of sight, I look back at Joseph, his stare still on the road where Callum rode off to.

"What was that?" I squint, tilting my head up. He instantly looks down at me with tending eyes.

"Nothing. I'll walk you home." His hand comes town to my arm, rubbing it gently. We turn to the way to my place.

The sun has set, and the street lights are on. It's a quiet night, the only things being heard are footsteps and draining water.

Only a block away from my flat, Joseph's arms are still around me. It feels comforting. It's nice to have a new friend. Though, I've known him longer.

"When you get home, I want you to say hi to George for me." I laugh at that. "I'm not kidding."

"Yeah, I'll say hi to George for you." I smile at the ground, then look up at him. He's already looking at me. We slow down a bit, just staring.

Then he leans in, and I mirror him. We lean in closer, closer, and closer. A moped engine turns on. We stop, and pull away.

"Here we are." He stops, and I didn't even notice we were already at my place.

"Oh. Right." He steps away from me, the arm around my shoulders gone. I feel alone again.

"Well, good night, Y/N." He stand there with his hands in his pockets.

"Good night, Joseph." I purse my lips. He nods. I walk up quarter way to the steps, then I stop.

I go back down, see Joseph, I tip toe, then press a kiss on his cheek. I quickly walk up the stairs again, almost tripping.

I make it to the inside of my flat, not bothering to turn the light on, then rush to the window. I peek out of it, and he's still there. He looks bewildered. Then, a smile slowly sits on his face. He stays there for a while, and then he walks away.

I slowly get up from my place, turning on the light, and I just stand there. Then, I squeal.

Holy fucking shit. Oh my gosh. No way, no way, no way, no way. I just kissed his cheek. Holy shit.

That's normal. Totally. Just a friendly kiss. But it felt nice.

I check the time. It's 12 in the morning. New year's kiss. I just had Joseph as my New Year's kiss. Kind of.

I see George, and smile wider.

"Joseph said hi."

I definitely don't hate not hating him anymore.

××《☆》××

End of- Chapter four: Flashy Magazines

Next- Chapter five: You Know Where To Find Me, and I Know Where To Look

××《☆》××

It's finally done 😭😭 watch me take a month for chapter five /j. Anw, this is a handful chapter. So many emotions. This is turning out to be an enemies to frienimies to lovers. What do u guys think abt Callum? Honestly, hes lowkey me cus i love cars. I wish i had his car. More of him soon too. I wanted tk add fluff so that u guys dont get the idea that im not making joseph and reader end game. I promise i am but u guys have to wait. Happy reading hope u guys liked this!!!

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starsomens · 7 months

Text

Know Your Place.

Warnings: Language, strong themes, slight voyeurism (?), fingering, dirty talk, possessiveness, slight breeding mention at the end,

"if you are here in this room. it means you have what it takes." Noah speaks to a handful of young men. New recruits were brought in, trained and tested. 10 new recruits passed and are having their first briefing with the head of the organization, Noah Sebastian. Tall, covered in tattoos, intimidating, intelligent, filthy rich, and powerful in everyway. He was known to be someone you don't fuck around with. He'd have you gone in a matter of hours, no traces, evidence or memory left behind.

As soon as he stepped into the room his presence was felt strongly. Their hairs standing on end, frame stiff, and fully aware. He grabs the folder on his desk and doesn't bother to look at them. He leans against the front of the heavy wooden furniture. The dark red carpet and dim lights making the atmosphere all the more adrenaline inducing. He read off names and each one makes themselves known.

"A pair of you will be assigned to a head of certain duties. There are no room for mistakes," he said letting the folder fall on to his desk, circling the desk and coming to sit down "Make sure you pay attention and perfect your craft. Understand?"

"Yes sir." they say in unison.

"Although you are all assigned specific tasks you all have one universal responsibility here and that is-"

"Noah, I was finally able to find those documents you needed- oh sorry were you busy?" you said stepping into his office not knowing he had newbies. He shook his head and waved for you to come over. you wore a simple btu elegant black dress with a boat neckline that came down to about your mid thigh. You come in front of his desk and place the files down. Of course unknown to you the new recruits had wandering eyes and a few blushed at your beauty. Who could blame them? You were truly breath catching, stealing all eyes wherever you go.

Noah however, did not like it. Especially from his new recruits staring at what was his. His jaw clenches and he gets an idea

"Princess" he calls in a much lower tone "Come here." he called patting his lap. With a shy smile you sway your hips and walks around the desk, letting your fingers glide over the furnished wood. You take a seat and his hand instantly places itself on your ass and the other slips just under the hem of your dress. His eyes locking with each of the new men making a clear statement.

She. Is. MINE.

His nose nudges your jaw, already knowing what he wanted. His large hand slithers over your body and up to your jaw as his lips capture yours. It wasn't a peck or a simple kiss. This was a deep, sex inducing kiss. His tongue slips past your lips and dances with yours. He leaves your lips and kisses the corner of your jaw and wanders down your neck. He knows they're still in the room, he wanted them there, he wants them to know their place.

They work for him. You were off limits. You were his alone.

One had tried to turn to leave and Noah stopped him

"Ah. I haven't dismissed you." he side eyes them still hovering above your neck. "You leave, when I clear you." his face turns from your neck and scans over the line of men, his other hand caresses your thigh and slips under the fabric every now and then. Your hand traces up his chest to cup the corner of his job and you bring his face half way to your lips. Kisses traced from his temple and down to his jaw

"As I was saying before," he continues as his hand continues further up your dress. His fingers playing and grazing with the edges of your underwear "This is my wife. One of your top priorities is to ensure her safety. You let even one hair on her head come close to danger, I will personally strangle you..." He had a straight face despite his fingers running over your covered clit.

You turn your face to come close to his ear "Noah.." you whine "here?" you whisper shyly to him. It's not that you minded but you knew how he felt about you, and fingering you in front of his subordinates? It's not like it was the first time but sometimes you had to check to make sure it's what he wanted

He turns his towards you and whispers "They want to look at what's mine, then I'll give them something to look at." he smirks looking at one specific man.

"Carter," he reads a last name, the young man steps forward. Try to keep his composure and his eyes on Noah. "You were the top performer in this group, which means I'll be assigning you as protection for Y/N whenever she leaves the house without me."

"yes sir." he said in a small but clear voice. After Noah looks down at the paper on his desk Carter steps back in place, the silence in the room was deafening. Noah simply reading the paper over while you looked like you were struggling. His hands had slipped past your panties and into your pussy. You walls clenching around his long digits. You had no idea what it was about this that turned you on so much.

Maybe it was the possessiveness? How assertive he was? The audience you had? Maybe it was just Noah being himself, letting every new comer know who you were, and who you belong to. Your mouth fell slightly as his fingers curl within you, brushing against your sweet spot. You were more than sure they could see how your chest rose and fell. You hide your face in Noah’s neck, and you could practically hear the smirk on his face.

“Next, Johnson, Lee, and Peters. You’ll be under supervision of Jolly anything having to do with operations” he briefly explains. “They’ll be waiting outside for you” once he was done speaking the recruits walk out one behind the other and shut the door. 4 down, 6 to go.

The heel of his palm pressed against you clit sending shivers through your being. You bite down on your lip, suppressing the moan being held in your throat. Fighting the urge to rock against his hand. He took notice in the way your breathing changed, so he withdrew his his finger and plunged them in once again. You could help the whimper that slipped out. Noah for one loved it.

“Santos, Garcia, smith. You’ll be under supervision of Folio, any and all firearms are overseen by you lot” another 3…just three left.

One recruit in particular had shifted a bit in stance. Noah is very observant and he had seen something that truly pissed him off.

“So, Myers…..see something you’re enjoying?” Noah’s eyebrows knit together as he leans back in his cushioned seat. The springe whine against the weight, his hands stop, still inside of you. Your head comes up and you try to keep a straight face, try to regulate your breath. Looking over at your husband you cousins help but squeeze around his fingers. He may have been scary and intimidating but goddamn did it make him look sexy.

"N-no sir!" he answers

"Seems like you have a bit of interest in something in this room..." his fingers pump in and out again. Making a 'come here' motion your head lulls back to rest and hang on his shoulder. No longer hiding the fact he was pleasuring you. "That something is out of the question. Do you understand that?" he asks as his eyes burn holes into his, his deep dark hues staring into the depts of his soul. Scaring him to his core.

"Yes sir." he answers trying not to break under his stare. Your hand flies to Noah's wrist as you could feel your orgasming approaching. You head flings back into his neck, you body trembling at sensation, a coil was forming in the pit of your stomach. Tightening more and more with each curl of his fingers and eat rub of his palm. Your clit was throbbing and your walls were clenching around him. Your juices coated his hand just the way he liked

"You and the rest are under Nick, he'll explain his department" he scowled letting the paper fall back on his desk

"Yes sir!" they answer

"Now get the fuck out." he tells directing his full attention to you. His lips finding your again in a deep sensual kiss. Your dress rolls up to sit on your hips, your legs and panties now exposed to him.

Just before the door can shut Noah calls out "And Myers."

"yes sir?" he answers cautiously

"Keep your eyes off my wife." he warns making a final thrust that pushes you over the edge. Your moans fill the room and leak into the hallway. Your finally cum and leak over his fingers, those same fingers coming up to his lips, giving them a lick "you clear."

The door shuts and he looks at you trying to catch your breath. His softly smirks and comes down to kiss your head

"Did that feel good princess?" he asked you littering your skin with kisses, very satisfied with his performance.

"Y-yes..but you could have waited" you pout at him

"Oh don't be mad at me princess" he scoots towards the desk and lifts you on to it "now tell daddy how he can make it better. Anything my queen desires" he offered with a kiss to your knee

"mmm...well maybe I do want something," you smile as your heel comes up and rubs against his bulge with the flat of the red bottoms.

"Does my good girl wanna get fucked on daddy's desk" he smirks against your lips as his body slots between your legs, grinding against your pussy

"Mhm," you nod spreading you legs further for him "please Noah...need your cock, inside." you lean back onto your elbows and wait patiently for him

"Anything for you princess" he unbuckles his belt a sharp grin spreading on his face "gonna fill that pussy up, nice and full." he large hands rest on your knees and spread your legs gazing at his favorite view for the night.

「✨Taglist✨」 @lilhobgobbler @cncohshit @vir-tual @tdopomymind @concretenoah @misspygmypie @fvckmeorchokeme @lust-for-sacher @thescarlettvvitch @cind6547 @itsmrsfuentes @purple-lili @ima1986 @feralfornoah

#bad omens #noah sebastian #noah sebastian x reader #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction

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jewellery-box · 10 days

Text

Dress, c. 1820, England

Silk, tulle, silk satin

Blue striped silk ball dress with boat neckline, short wide gathered sleeves trimmed with ivory pleated tulle ribbon. Gown with blue silk satin waistband (with embroidered ivory spikelets) with a brass buckle (covered with floral enamel), maxi length skirt (knife pleated on the top at the front and tightly gathered in back).

Alexandre Vassiliev Foundation

#georgian #georgian era #georgian fashion #fashion history #historical fashion #19th century #dress

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shaadiwish · 9 months

Text

Necklaces That Work Best For V-Neckline

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flowerandblood · 1 year

Text

A Winter Beauty (1)

[Aemond Targaryen x fem!Stark reader]

[warnings: kissing and fluff]

[description: Aemond and his family arrive at Winterfell for Rickon Stark's Name Day. There, Aemond meets his daughter, who arouses his desire. I changed some names and facts for the sake of the plot. Viserys is also slightly younger in this version.]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next parts: Masterlist

_____

Viserys and his family have come to Winterfell to celebrate the Name Day of Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell. It was a nod to the north, a sign of respect for their loyalty and devotion to the crown for generations. Viserys decided that this visit, although for trivial reasons, would be of great political importance and would positively affect their image in this sometimes forgotten part of the country.

Neither Alicent nor his children had ever been to Winterfell before. Although his children were reluctant to leave Kings Landing, in the end they all went on this long journey. During their absence, the state was to be administered by Otto.

Aegon, Aemond and Helaena flew on their dragons. Neither of them wanted to be crammed in for more than a week of traveling in a cramped carriage or on horseback.

The king and queen were forced to take the land route. Viserys' condition deteriorated with his age, but despite Alicent's pleas, they did not turn back. Viserys knew it would be a huge slander for Winterfell, they must have been preparing for this visit for months.

When they finally arrived, the dragons made a great impression on the inhabitants, causing some to panic. The biggest was Vhagar's, landing in the great snowy wasteland far from the castle, so she posed no threat. She was visible from many meters.

When they entered Winterfell, already on horseback, the entire welcoming committee was waiting for them, including Lord Rickon Stark and his wife, Lady Lyanna Arryn. Lord Stark knelt before Viserys, as did all his family, paying him homage.

"My king. It's an honor." He said in a serious, calm tone. Viserys smiled gracefully, doing his best to hide the fatigue of his journey, and stretched out his hands to him, wanting to hug him like a brother. Lord Stark seemed embarrassed for a moment, but he got up from his knees and embraced the king, the crowd around started cheering.

After a short rest and changing clothes, everyone gathered in the great hall of the castle. In its center stood a large wooden table, arranged perpendicularly to the 6 other tables below, intended for other lords and less important guests. Lord Stark has prepared a lavish feast for the king with music and dancing.

Aemond was one of the last to enter the room, sitting on the edge of the table next to his sister, Helaena. Next to her sat Aegon, then Alicent and the king, next to him Lord Stark, his wife and their eldest son, Cregan. The seat next to Cregan was empty.

Although Aemond was initially discouraged by the expedition itself and the change of environment, he found Winterfell a gray but interesting place. The fields and forests filled with snow in the sun looked beautiful and clean, almost fairy-tale, at least compared to some streets of Kings Landing, where sewage simply flowed.

After a while, a girl came in from the other end of the room. Aemond saw her long, slightly wavy black hair out of the corner of his eye.

They weren't combed in any hairstyle, they were just thrown over her shoulders, which were bare because her dress seemed to be made so that it barely held on, creating a boat neckline that showed nothing more than she wanted. The dress was a dull soft blue that rustled as she walked. It accentuated her bright, glowing eyes. She was grinning at Cregan Stark, and Aemond thought, seeing her eyes, that she was his wife.

Indeed, she took a seat next to him. Cregan took her hand and kissed it, she laughed heartily at something he said. Lady Lyanna bent over her, questioning her with a frown - she obviously resented her being late. The girl explained something to her quickly, Cregan just laughed under his breath, and Lady Stark stepped back, smiling slightly herself. Apparently, her explanation did something.

Aemond looked away, deciding that it wasn't right to look at someone's wife like that. He exchanged a few words with Helaena, but looking at her he couldn't stop his eye from darting back to the girl sitting next to Cregan Stark.

She was talking to him lively, didn't seem to notice them at all, and didn't seem to care that the king and queen were sitting next to her. Her face was bright, warm and happy, she looked like it was the happiest day of her life.

They seemed to get along perfectly well. Aemond thought about Helaena's soon to marry Aegon, and his throat tightened. He genuinely felt sorry for her, but he couldn't help her.

Suddenly the music started. Cregan immediately extended his hand to the girl he was talking to, who gladly accepted it. They both got up and wanted to head downstairs to the dance floor, but Lord Stark's voice stopped them.

"Merciful king, I haven't had time to introduce my daughter to you yet." He said, pointing to the girl, who looked surprised at her father and became ashamed as if she suddenly realized who she was facing. "Y/N Stark."

The young Lady Stark bowed with dignity, closing her eyes. Viserys and Alicent looked at her kindly.

"What a winter beauty." Alicent said, sincerity in her voice. "I congratulate you, Lord Stark, on such a reason to be happy."

The girl blushed at her remark, pursed her lips in embarrassment. Only now could Aemond hear the sound of her voice.

"Thank you for those kind words, my queen." She spoke warmly, her voice lively, gentle and calm, full of energy. Aemond shivered for some reason. He felt his heart pounding as he looked at her. She, to his frustration, didn't turn a single glance in their direction. She merely turned to her brother and followed him down the few steps to dance.

Aemond wasn't used to situations like this. Usually, ladies, even if they feared him, knowing that he was a prince, paid him a lot of attention - which most often bothered him and which he avoided. His father planned for him to marry one of Borros Baratheon's daughters.

He had visited Storms End several times with his father, and recalled it as an ordeal. Each of his daughters was vying for his attention, but they were trying to pretend they weren't. They accidentally bumped into him during training or on walks while he was reading, so he would retreat to his chamber, tired and discouraged.

Nothing was official yet, but he knew that sooner or later he would have to choose one of them. He was furious with himself that his attention was drawn to a woman who didn't even give him a single look. He couldn't help but watch her dance, his fingers tapping gently on the table. They were talking about something with Cregan, self-absorbed, laughing. There was a slenderness and grace in their movements that he lacked in dancing.

Suddenly Cregan leaned over her and whispered something in her ear, and she turned to look at Aemond with puzzled eyes. Aemond immediately looked away to the other side of the room, his heart pounding, feeling like a fool caught red-handed stealing. He wanted to burn himself with shame. He pursed his lips and decided not to look at her again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw various lords of the north come up to her, asking her to dance one by one, and she politely agreed. He tried not to look at her, but he saw that she spoke to everyone gently and with a smile, not exceeding the limits of decency. He was mad for some reason. He thought he had drunk too much wine.

Cregan Stark approached Helaena and asked her to dance. His sister accepted the offer with a smile. Aemond saw Aegon get to his feet and, encouraged, moved toward the young Lady Stark. She looked at him, surprised, and smiled when he offered her a dance. Aemond's jaw clenched at the sight.

To his surprise, in front of his father and mother, Aegon at least pretended to be able to behave. Aemond watched tensely to make sure his hand didn't go too low. He would whisper something in her ear sometimes, and she would turn her head away in embarrassment mixed with amusement, but she didn't seem discouraged and looked at him kindly. On one of the turns, he saw her look at him again, this time with curiosity, and he looked away again, burned. Compared to Aegon, he always felt deficient.

Although his mind was more receptive, full of knowledge, enthusiasm, humility, his body was more efficient in combat, he knew that first impressions count. Aegon, when he wasn't lying in his own vomit between the whore's legs, could pass for a very handsome, interesting man.

It was very easy for him to talk to the ladies, to make contact with them, to flirt with them, which Aemond couldn't. Even though he had a lot to say, he couldn't put it into words.

The dance ended and Y/N and Cregan returned to their seats. Out of the corner of his eye, Aemond saw her bare arms glistening with sweat and exertion, and felt the heat of his lower body. He felt remorse for thinking that way about a woman when his mother and sister were sitting next to him, and he only took a sip of wine, as if he wanted it to wash away all impure thoughts from him.

The rest of the feast passed peacefully, the guests slowly dispersed to their chambers. Y/N and Cregan soon said goodbye to everyone. Aemond's heart leaped as he saw that before she could get through the door, she turned toward him, her gaze bright and warm.

Aemond promised his mother that he would watch over Aegon. So he obediently stayed with him to the end, tearing him away from the kitchen wench and leading him to his chamber. He made him lie down on the bed, and after initially struggling, he gave in and fell asleep, snoring.

Aemond closed the door to his chamber and stepped out into the cloister, heading for his own room. He froze, seeing her figure slinking by with only a candle in his hand. She was already dressed in a long white nightgown, over it she had a white night robe tied at the waist. With her fair skin, dark hair and eyebrows and white robes, she looked like a ghost.

She looked around as she walked barefoot to see if anyone was seeing her, and when she saw him, her eyes widened in surprise. He wondered if she was on her way to see her lover. They stared at each other for a moment in silence. Aemond felt he had to speak to her, that if he didn't do it now, he never would.

"Should a lady go unattended alone at night in a castle?" He asked, there was an involuntary coldness and indifference in his voice, in which he tried to dress his words so as not to show how much his heart was pounding. To his surprise, Lady Stark smiled as if she was about to laugh.

"She's allowed if it's her castle." She said carefully. Aemond pursed his lips at her remark. She saw it and smiled even wider. "Will you accompany me, Prince Aemond?" She asked, a sudden shudder ran through his body. He felt the heat and tension in his lower body again, and he wondered what she was implying. She didn't let him think too long.

“I heard you love philosophy and history. You may be interested in the crypts of my ancestors. I was just on my way to pay my respects to my grandmother. Today is also her name day." She said embarrassed, as if she felt that what came out of her mouth earlier could sound very ambiguous.

Aemond swallowed softly, feeling relieved and disappointed at the same time. He just nodded his head, letting out only a quiet grunt of approval. He would went to see anything with her, as long as he could look at her up close.

Lady Stark led him down the stairs to the underworld. Her candle was the only source of light. He wondered if she was cold, but she didn't seem that way. She moved through the dark corridors with remarkable ease. They passed sculptures of her ancestors, staring at them solemnly and menacingly, the shadows on their faces disturbing.

Finally, they stopped in front of a statue of a pretty woman holding flowers in her hand. Y/N lit other candles from her candle, standing at the feet of the sculpture, the corridor slowly began to be flooded with their light. Aemond stared heart pounding at her profile.

He wondered how she could trust him so easily. Go underground with a strange man, where no one would hear her cries for help. If she had come down here with Aegon, she would have been lost by now. He himself was battling some wild, alien desire that now possessed his body.

He was completely bewildered, always able to control himself perfectly, also when it came to his sexuality. After an adventure at the age of 13 in a brothel served to him by his brother, such matters did not attract him much attention. Now, looking at her, he felt hunger.

"Is it wise to go down to the crypts with a strange man, at night?" He finally asked impassively, looking at her tensely. She looked at him surprised, as if she didn't even consider the possibility that anything could happen to her. She smiled calmly.

"I didn't come down here with your brother, so I guess I'll be fine, my prince." She spoke calmly, though her voice trembled slightly. Aemond's pupil dilated in shock. She had to watch Aegon at the banquet and see how closely he spoke to the servants.

Aemond swallows silently, looking away. They stood in silence for a moment. He could smell her scent in his nose. A mix of lavender, flowers and herbs. He felt like his head was spinning and that he should go back upstairs because the tension in his pants was unbearable.

"You never dance, my prince?" She asked suddenly, looking pensively at the figure of her grandmother. Aemond looked at her in surprise. His eye traveled down her body, he saw the faint outline of her breasts and thighs. He swallowed, feeling his heart pounding.

"Never." He said indifferently. He didn't know what else to add. "I can dance, but I don't enjoy it." He finally exhaled.

Y/N looked at him surprised and smiled understandingly. She nodded, looking down at her legs. Aemond pursed his lips. He thought he couldn't stand it.

His hand involuntarily reached for her soft cheek, grabbing it. She gasped at his touch, jumped in surprise, and looked at him with wide eyes. The words stuck in her throat as he turned her face towards him and stepped closer to her. He pressed her forehead against his, they could feel each other's breath on each other, breathing raggedly, loudly.

He didn't hold her roughly, he wanted to give her the feeling that she could pull away at any moment and run from him. She looked stunned for a moment, her eyes expressing terror, uncertainty and something he couldn't describe. They looked at each other in silence.

He felt a huge shiver run through his body as her hand touched his scarred cheek. They both took a deep breath. He wondered what they were even doing, what his mother would think if she saw him. But he couldn't think about it anymore. He had been frustrated throughout the feast, watching her dance and touch every man but him.

He leaned over her and pressed his lips greedily against hers, and she moaned softly in surprise. He kissed her lustfully, and after a moment, to his delight, she opened her mouth, allowing him to caress her. He moaned low as she started kissing back, her hand tangling in his hair.

He thought they must be crazy, that the wine had gone too far into their heads, but he couldn't tear himself away from her. He held her in an iron grip, the wet sounds of their mouths echoing down the hall, pausing sometimes for a moment to catch their breath, but neither of them could really stop, they continued kissing, moaning into each other's mouths. He held her close but kept his distance so she wouldn't feel what was going on in his pants. He didn't want her to think he was trying to take her by force now. He wouldn't be able to refuse her, if she offered it.

They finally broke apart, as if remembering who they were, where they were, and what they were doing. An expression of uncertainty and embarrassment crossed their faces, and they took a few steps away from each other, terrified. Aemond thought she could hear his heart pounding. He had never felt so much desire before. He prayed to the Seven to give him the strength to turn around, climb the stairs, and not touch her.

"Forgive me, my Lady. I didn't mean to scare or embarrass you. Let me go to my chambers." He said, and with the last of his willpower he turned away, heading for the stairs, leaving her in the candlelight.

_____

Between the first and second part of my regular series, I also started writing something else, in the subject of HOTD. I'm curious what you think and if you'd like a little mini-series out of this! If you want to be tagged in the next parts, let me know. ~

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missgavi · 1 year

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imagine where gavi just loves the readers boobs, always wants to sleep on them, suck them, motor boat, titty fuck

your favourite whore is baaaack 🥰

in just your bra and panties, the music at full volume, you brows through your wardrobe for an outfit. Pablo was taking you out for lunch and then a walk around Barcelona and you had no idea what to wear.

Today was wash day so all of your good clothes were either in the laundry machine, the hamper or drying on the rack. After a few more minutes of debating , you finally settle on some old jeans and a black shirt with an oval neckline, showing plenty of cleavage.

The shirt slipped perfectly on but the jeans were giving you some trouble. They fit you length wise but they were a bit tight in the ass area. Grabbing onto both sides on the pants, you start jumping up and down in hopes the jeans would slide right on.

At that exact moment Gavi came marching in , dressed in some baggy jeans and a casual t shirt and was about to ask you if you’re ready when his words die in his throat, the only thing he can focus on now being your tits jumping up and down.

When you finally spot him, completely unaware of his naughty gaze, you sigh “Gavi bebe, I can’t get these jeans on.” you whine “Help please ?”

Breaking out of his trance, with a small smirk on his lips he approaches you but instead of going behind you to help pull your jeans up, he takes ahold of the front of the pants, a small “jump” leaving his mouth.

You do as your told, once again unaware of the show you just gave the boy and once the jeans are finally on you give him one of your breath taking smiles.

Leaning up on your tippy toes, you kiss his cheek “Gracias mi amor, vamos” But before you can move from his grip, he tugs the both of you over to the bed, Gavi sitting down and pulling you closer.

“Let’s just stay at home” he whispers, his gaze and hands already over your tits. Laughing , you try to pull back but the boy’s hands just tighten around you.

Leaning down, you distract him with a quick kiss and while he isn’t paying attention you get away from his grip. “Yeah, there’s no way we’re staying at home after all of that just to get in these jeans. Put your shoes on, I’ll wait for you by the door”

#pablo gavi #pablo gavi imagine #pablo gavi smut #pablo gavi x reader #Pablo Gavira #pg6 #FC Barcelona #FCB #FC Barca #miss gavi drabbles #football #La Liga #pablo gavi x y/n #gavi #PG30 #pg9

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wisdomssdaughterr · 4 months

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FRIENDS? FRIENDS.

percy jackson x annabeth chase blurb

warnings: none, just some pre-percabeth cuteness! some minor spoilers for the TV show & the books but nothing major or all that important

note: percy & annabeth will forever have a place in my heart. I'd love to write more little drabbles of them! feel free to send it any requests! I'll also write for other character (but keep in mind I am just now reading the House of Hades so I haven't reached the end of the heroes of olympus series yet). also, please use your imagination a little as to where this would fit it post the lightening thief quest lol.

...

Moonlight reflected off the steady water, bringing a sense of peace to Percy as he dangled his feet off the edge of the pier. He traced patterns in the wood grooves and attempted to clear his head which hadn’t stopped spinning since he arrived at camp.

He should have been more alert, but he missed the series of footsteps that crept up on him until he felt a presence at his back.

Percy jumped, startled, and reflectively reached for Riptide.

“Hey,” Annabeth greeted, instantly disarming Percy. He let out a sigh of relief and dropped his hand back onto the pier.

“Hi.”

She looked wide awake despite the late hour. All of the other campers were asleep or tucked away inside their cabins. Percy had spent the better part of a couple of hours tossing and turning until he gave up trying to sleep and wandered out toward the lake, the only place at camp where he felt the most at ease.

It looked like Annabeth was in the same boat as him. Instead of her usual orange camp shirt and cargo pants, she wore a matching, soft pink sweatshirt and sweatpants. Little hearts were embroidered on the front pockets of the sweats and the neckline of sweatshirt.

With a light smirk, Percy said, “Nice PJs.”

She rolled her eyes in typical fashion and moved beside him before she took a seat. Annabeth sat close enough that her arm brushed against his. Percy didn’t know if she meant to sit that close, but she didn’t move away. She stayed with her arm nearly resting up against his and dangled her feet over the edge of the pier.

“They were a gift from the Aphrodite Cabin,” she said, rubbing her thumb over the little hearts on her collar with a small smile on her lips. “They help my bunkmate, Veronica, with my braids.”

Percy hummed in response before he said, “You look like you belong in their cabin.” He didn’t quite realize what he said until the words left his lips and his cheeks heated up instantly in embarrassment; however, he didn’t get the chance to say anything before Annabeth did.

“Are you calling me beautiful, Seaweed Brain?”

Percy silently thanked the gods it was dark on the pier and that Annabeth couldn’t see the red hue of his cheeks. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “No! I mean, that’s not what…not that you’re ugly…oh jeez.” Ducking his head, Percy contemplated throwing himself off the pier.

Annabeth was cool and she obviously was cool looking. It wouldn't have been a shocker if she had been claimed by Aphrodite, but because of her wicked brain and the fact that she was always six steps ahead of everyone, Athena made more sense. Athena was probably cool looking too; she was a goddess after all. Everyone in the Aphrodite Cabin was also cool looking because their mother was known for being the most beautiful goddess of all, or whatever, but they were no Annabeth.

A belly laugh erupted from her throat and echoed through the quiet air, taking Percy by surprise. She slapped her hand over her stomach and threw her head back as she managed to say between laughs, “You should see your face right now!” Percy couldn’t help but smile sheepishly.

Once her laughter subsided, she shook her head. “I’m just teasing you.”

“Very funny,” said Percy, desperate to change the subject. “What’re you doing out here, anyway?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “You?”

Percy had gotten used to his mind racing and almost never turning off, but after they returned from their quest and he finally had a second to think over everything that had happened since learning he was a half-blood, his brain was in overdrive. There were a million more questions he had but was slightly scared to get answered. He needed to sleep off their quest, but every time he closed his eyes, he was bombarded with visions that made little sense and unsettling memories of every time he, Annabeth, and Grover nearly died over the course of one week.

“I just needed somewhere to think,” he answered.

Humming in response, they let their conversation drift off into comfortable silence for a couple of moments.

Percy wondered if her mind was also swarmed with too many thoughts, memories, and questions. It seemed unlikely, Annabeth having questions. If there was one thing he learned about her from their time together, it was that she knew the answer to nearly everything, and if she didn’t know the answer, she would figure it out before anyone else.

“Percy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

He furrowed his brows and turned his head to look at her. “Uh, sure.”

“You remember when we were at Meduas’ and you were telling Grover and me about the prophecy the Oracle gave you?” He nodded, urging her to continue. “You said that you only picked me for the quest because you couldn’t see us ever becoming friends.” Her voice had become a lot softer than normal, which freaked Percy out. A part of him wanted her to insult him or start bickering with him instead. The small but noticeable twinge of sadness in her voice and the frown that rested on her lips twisted up his stomach in a really weird and uncomfortable way.

“Do you still feel that way?”

“Are you insane?” he asked, wide-eyed and confused. She simply shrugged and kept her gaze set on the rippling water ahead of them. “No. No way. I didn’t even fully feel that way I said it. I was just really worried about the Oracle and really, really confused.”

She met his gaze and narrowed her eyes slightly, not believing him.

“Okay, I guess I meant it a little but only because you were intense and I didn’t think you would’ve wanted to be friends with me, especially after you left me to fight Clarrise alone and then shoved me into the lake.”

“I needed proof that you were who I thought you were,” Annabeth defended, causing him to smile lightly.

“Yeah, and it worked. My dad claimed me because you didn’t really give him a choice.”

“I think the words you’re looking for is ‘thank you.’” There was a beat before she sighed and backtracked a little, even though Percy wasn't upset at her for it. He understood why she did it, and who knows when or if his dad would have claimed him if she hadn't. “Sorry. I maybe could have helped you a little or not pushed you so hard.”

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed her. “Nah, I get it. It did help, and you got to go on your quest. But then we kind of fought at the beginning and I figured you really didn’t like me.”

Annabeth moved her hands into her lap and picked at the skin around her fingernails, almost like she was nervous, which seemed unlikely. Maybe Percy was just really bad at reading people. Annabeth seemed good at it, though. She was kind of like Grover in that way; she could sense danger or a problem before it appeared.

“Though, I kinda got the idea that maybe you didn’t totally hate me by the end of the quest.”

She shrugged again, but her frown disappeared. “Maybe I don’t.”

“Cool,” he smiled until he realized maybe he was smiling a little too big and he needed to chill out. “Because, you know, if I have to go on another quest, I would…well, I’d probably pick you again.”

Annabeth moved to look at him. “Probably?”

“Definitely, actually.”

That got her to smile, and Percy felt himself relax. “I’d pick you too,” she said before quickly adding, “As long as I’m still in charge.”

Percy put his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. He was not going to argue with her, not after she was the main reason they didn’t die on their quest.

A yawn escaped Annabeth that she tried to muffle under the sleeve of her pink sweatshirt. The night had caught up to him too, and the fatigue of the past week settled in his bones. He rolled his shoulders back with a stretch before he stood to his feet.

Outstretching a hand toward her, Percy said, “We should head back.”

She didn’t hesitate to grab his hand and let him help her up. Her hand was really warm compared to his cold one, and he held it just for a second longer after she was standing up. Annabeth cleared her throat and tucked her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt before she led the way off the pier.

Together they walked the footpath back to the cabins, listening to the croak of the frogs around the lake fade and the buzz of crickets grow louder.

They arrived at Percy’s cabin first. Annabeth paused alongside him and offered him another smile as she said, “Night, Percy.”

He grinned. “Night, Annabeth.”

She turned on her heel and started walking toward her cabin, still with her hands in her pockets and her head held high.

Friends. That was nice. He had another real friend that he trusted and who trusted him. If nothing else went right for him, at least he had that. Maybe that was all he really needed to survive as a Half-Blood. Maybe he would be okay.

#percy jackson #annabeth chase #percabeth #percabeth fanfic #percy jackson x annabeth chase #pjo fanfic #izzy’s library

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