#and just one day in a lapse in conversation she

[pucksandpower]

Too Sweet

Toto Wolff x Reader

Max Verstappen x ex!Reader

Summary: Max used to think that you’re too sweet for him … now he has to learn to live with the fact that Toto has quite a sweet tooth (inspired by the song that I’ve had on repeat)

I take my whiskеy neat

The doors to the upscale restaurant swing open and Max strides through, his fingers lightly grazing the small of your back as he guides you inside. The dimly lit interior is bustling with the chatter of well-heeled patrons enjoying their evening repasts. A sharply dressed hostess greets you with a polite smile.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Sazerac Room. Do you have a reservation?”

“Verstappen,” Max replies curtly.

The hostess consults her tablet, then nods. “Right this way please.”

She leads the two of you through the elegant dining room, weaving between tables topped with crisp white linens and elaborate floral centerpieces. Max keeps his hand at your back, his thumb idly stroking in a soothing pattern as you take in the opulent surroundings with wide eyes.

“This place is incredible,” you murmur, craning your neck to admire the ornate chandeliers glittering overhead. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He simply grunts in acknowledgment as the hostess stops before an intimate table tucked discreetly in the corner. After pulling out your chair for you with a flourish, she sets two leather-bound menus on the table.

“Your server will be right with you,” she informs them before departing with a polite nod.

You waste no time in opening your menu, hungrily perusing the offerings. “Oh Max, look at all these amazing cocktails! The La Vie en Rose sounds divine — rose liqueur, raspberries, lemon ...” You glance up at him hopefully. “We should get a couple of those to start.”

Max barely glances at his own menu before shaking his head. “I’ll just have a whiskey neat.”

Your face falls slightly at his brusque response. “Are you sure? These all look so good! We should live a little and try something fun for once.”

He fixes you with a stern look from across the table. “You know I don’t like frilly drinks. Now stop pestering me about it.”

Chastened by his harsh tone, you lapse into a wounded silence and continue reading the menu with diminished enthusiasm. A few moments later, a dapper middle-aged gentleman in a crisp suit appears at your table.

“Good evening, and welcome to The Sazerac Room. My name is William and I’ll be your server this evening.” With a polite smile, he produces a notepad from his breast pocket. “May I start you off with something to drink?”

You glance back at Max, giving him one last chance to change his mind. When he simply gazes back at you impassively, you sigh. “I’ll have the La Vie en Rose cocktail, please.”

William jots down your order before turning to Max expectantly.

“Whiskey neat,” Max says flatly. “Redbreast 27 Year, if you have it.”

“An excellent choice, sir.” William makes a note. “And may I bring you both some bread from our bakery while you decide on your meals?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” you reply gratefully.

William departs to place the drink orders, leaving you and Max alone once more. An awkward silence stretches between you, filled only by the tinkle of silverware and murmurs of conversation from surrounding tables.

Finally, you try again. “Max, are you sure I can’t tempt you with one little sip? This La Vie en Rose cocktail sounds absolutely divine. You might lov-”

“For fuck’s sake!” Max suddenly explodes, slamming his menu down on the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want any of your ridiculous fruity bullshit? I’m a fucking race car driver, not some ridiculous Instagram model trying to look pretty with my drink.”

His nostrils flare as he leans across the table, eyes flashing with irritation that you would dare continue to push the issue. “I’ve had a long fucking day and I am going to drink whatever the fuck I want. So order your stupid fucking girly cocktail if you must, but don’t act so goddamn disappointed and keep shoving it in my face when I say no.”

You shrink back in your chair, eyes widening with hurt at his enraged outburst. The crestfallen look on your face is enough to douse Max’s fury like a bucket of ice water. He slumps back, remorse already stirring as he witnesses the light dimming in your eyes, lips trembling ever so slightly as you blink back sudden tears.

“I … I was just excited to try something new together,” you whisper shakily. “But never mind. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

The arrival of William with a basket of assorted breads and your glittering pink cocktail garnished with raspberries provides a merciful distraction from the tension.

You immediately reach for the drink, wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and taking a large gulp — both to avoid making eye contact with Max and to sample your coveted libation.

A look of bliss softens your features as the tart, sugary concoction bursts across your taste buds. “Mmm, this is incredible!”

For a beat, Max can’t help but drink in your look of pure enjoyment — the way your eyes flutter closed in delight, pink lips quirking into a contented smile as you savor each sip. It simultaneously tugs at his heartstrings and fills him with an irrational stab of resentment.

Here you are, sweet and radiant, able to find joy in the simplest of things … while he is just a miserable bastard who can’t let himself enjoy anything without getting irrationally angry.

You deserve so much better than him.

The thought is sobering and he feels shame burn hot in his gut. Unconsciously, his shoulders slump as he watches you take another euphoric sip of your cocktail.

“I knew it, this is amazing,” you sigh happily, seemingly recovered from his earlier tantrum as you bask in the deliciousness of your drink. “Max, you have to try just one little-”

“No.” The refusal is automatic, the word slicing through your offer before he can think better of it.

Your face shutters once more, the bright light in your eyes dimming as your smile fades into resignation. With a soft exhale, you set your glass down and reach for the bread basket instead.

“Suit yourself, then.”

As you silently butter a roll, Max finds himself at a rare loss, anger dissipating into regret as the knot in his stomach tightens painfully. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration after his impressive win on the track, a chance for the two of you to enjoy each other’s company and make more happy memories together.

Instead, he’s gone and ruined the mood … again … just like he always does.

***

“Another round?” Checo’s voice cuts through the sound of laughter and chatter around the table.

Max glances up distractedly from pushing the remaining bits of food around his plate. He, Checo, and a few other members of the Red Bull team are celebrating a successful Monaco Grand Prix. Despite making the podium, Max’s mind hasn’t really been on the festivities.

“I’m all set, thanks,” he mutters, raising his glass of whiskey with a tight smile before taking a sip. His gaze drifts across the opulent dining room of Cipriani Monte Carlo, idly scanning the crowd of wealthy patrons enjoying their evening meals.

That’s when his eyes catch on a shockingly familiar figure.

You.

Sitting at an intimate corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a candle’s flickering flame. For a moment, Max’s breath catches in his throat as a thousand bittersweet memories assault him all at once.

The hurt look on your face that night at The Sazerac Room … the resignation in your eyes as you accepted, yet again, that he would never be able to appreciate the sweet, simple pleasures that brought you such joy ...

The cold, empty silence that descended over your apartment when he finally left for good, stuffing his belongings into a duffel bag as you watched with trembling lips from across the room ...

Max blinks, and the moment passes — but his gaze remains riveted to your table. Because there, sitting across from you with adoration written across his insufferable face … is Toto Wolff.

Max feels his lips curl into an unconscious sneer as the Mercedes team principal murmurs something to you with a gentle smile, reaching across to delicately brush a lock of hair behind your ear. You catch Toto’s hand as it falls, pressing a tender kiss into his palm that makes the older man’s expression soften even further.

Your waiter arrives then, providing a momentary distraction as he lays out a couple of fresh cocktails on crisp white linen — a bright purple concoction garnished with a sugared rim and a plump cherry for you and an amber-hued old fashioned for Toto.

Your eyes light up as you take in the colorful beverage, immediately wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and bringing it to your lips to sample. A look of pure delight crosses your features as the no doubt sugary drink bursts across your taste buds.

“Mmm ...” you hum in pleasure, causing Toto to chuckle affectionately as he watches you enjoy the first reveling sips.

Setting your glass down, you gesture enthusiastically toward it as you address Toto. “This is incredible! You have to try it.”

Without hesitation, the Mercedes team boss dutifully leans across the table to take a long pull from your straw. Max watches with a mixture of disgust and morbid fascination as Toto’s expression morphs into one of surprised enjoyment.

“Wow, that is quite good, isn’t it?” Toto remarks with an indulgent grin, licking a telltale dab of purple syrup from the corner of his mouth.

“I told you!” You crow in delight, eyes sparkling with unrestrained glee.

The pure joy radiating from you in that moment is enough to make Max’s heart clench in his chest. He has seen that look before, so many times — whenever he deigned to let go of his surly demeanor for even a moment and actually indulge whatever fleeting whim or simple pleasure you desired to share with him.

But it was always so short-lived with him, stamped out by his own stubborn refusal to truly embrace anything resembling happiness or frivolity. You deserved so much more than his constant scowling and gruff rebuffs.

As if reading his thoughts, Toto then leans across the table to tenderly capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. The gentle intimacy of it makes Max’s gut churn as a feeling too complicated to fully unpack blossoms in his chest.

When you finally part, both of you are smiling at each other with such open, unguarded adoration that it’s almost obscene to witness. Toto reaches out to cradle your face in his palm as your lips find his once more in another chaste, loving caress.

This time, when you pull away, you let your head loll back with a look of pure bliss. Something deep within Max cracks and splinters at the sight. In a haze, he finds himself drifting back through the churning currents of memory ...

… that last, fateful shouting match in your living room, both of you red-faced and furious as the dam holding back all the anger and resentment and accusations that had been building for months finally burst ...

… you weeping silently as you clutched a meager trash bag containing what little remained of his belongings, not even able to look at him for fear of collapsing completely ...

… “I’m too sweet for you, Max. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

The acid words burn in his mind even now, feeling as fresh and raw as that night they were spat out like venom between you. His chest constricts as his gaze falls guiltily back to the present day scene in front of him.

Toto and you, basking in the warm, rosy glow of new love — careless and unrestrained in your public affection. Delighting in each other’s company and simple pleasures … just as you always desired for Max to do, yet he could never fully surrender to.

The display is like a twisted mirror, taunting him with the vibrant reflection of what he threw away. What he was too foolish, too emotionally stunted and uncaring to fully appreciate at the time.

Stumbling from his chair in a daze, Max barely registers the questioning looks and concerned murmurs from his team as he staggers from the dining room. He hardly makes it to the privacy of the restroom before bending at the waist, hefting the contents of his stomach into the thankfully pristine porcelain basin.

The whiskey burns on the way back up.

Max grips the edges of the counter, face contorted in anguish as a realization washes over him in searing waves.

You were the real prize all along … and now, he’s lost you for good.

My coffee black

The drone of announcements over the PA system and the dull roar of hundreds of people bustling to and fro mingles into an ever-present white noise hum. Max trudges ahead, the brim of his ball cap tugged low as he weaves through the teeming crowds filing through the airports’ terminals.

It’s just after 5 am, the start of another grueling race week. This time the travel will take you from the Middle Eastern leg of the circuit to the other side of the world in Australia. Twenty-plus hours of planes, layovers, and jet lag beckon — a prospect that grows less and less appealing with each passing season.

A warm weight presses against his side as you shuffle along beside him, head lolling adorably as you struggle to keep your eyes open. One slender hand is looped through the crook of his elbow, gripping the strap of your carry-on bag with the other. You let out a jaw-cracking yawn, leaning into Max’s solid bulk.

“I need coffee,” you mumble groggily. “I’m barely conscious.”

He shoots you a sidelong glance, mouth quirking ever-so-slightly at your dramatics. As grating as your tendency for excessive cheerfulness can be at times, he does admire your ability to shake off the fatigue and stress that plagues him more and more these days.

“There’s one of those chains up ahead,” he grunts, nodding toward the familiar logo peeking through from around the corner.

You light up immediately, straightening and quickening your shuffling steps in anticipation of the caffeinated boost soon to come. By the time you reach the counter, there’s a bright spark back in your eyes that makes the exhaustion plaguing Max’s own limbs feel slightly more bearable.

The barista, a pimple-faced youth who can’t be any older than 18, greets you with a too-wide smile. “Welcome to Daily Grind! What can I get started for you?”

You lean in eagerly, surveying the massive display of chalkboard signs advertising the latest sugar bombs and “coffee” concoctions designed to appease the basic palates of everyday people who wouldn’t know a good cup of joe if it slapped them across the face. Max scowls, already anticipating some ridiculously saccharine order.

“I’ll have a large cinnamon honey oat milk latte, please,” you chirp, as expected.

The barista marks down your request with a perky nod. “Excellent! And for you, sir?”

“Black coffee,” Max replies flatly. “Medium.”

Your brow furrows as you shoot him a quizzical look. “Just black coffee? Not even a splash of cream or anything?”

He shakes his head tersely, one hand already rummaging in his pocket for his wallet as the barista rattles off the total. “We’re in a rush as it is, and that sugary nonsense you ordered takes forever to make with all the fussy bullshit they do to it.”

You wince at his blunt assessment, shoulders slumping a bit in a way that makes a pang of guilt flicker through Max’s chest. He doesn’t mean to be so harsh … but sometimes it’s like the more considerate side of his nature has been ground away by years of constant training and calculating every single variable down to the most minute detail.

The poor kid working the register seems to shrink under the intensity of Max’s gruff demeanor. With shaky hands, he quickly processes the payment before stammering out your total. As you shuffle off to the side to wait for your orders, Max can’t help but keep picking.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you insist on ordering those stupid drinks that are 90% milk and trash,” he mutters, shooting you a disapproving look. “Barely any actual coffee at all.”

You frown, immediately hunching into yourself a bit as you cradle a handful of napkins against your chest. “It’s not like that coffee flavor isn’t there at all,” you argue meekly. “And I have to get some kind of caffeine boost to stay awake during all these flights and race weekends. I just … I don’t really like the taste of black coffee.”

Max scoffs loudly at that, shaking his head in open derision. “Sure, because drinking just regular black coffee like an adult would be too difficult. Instead you have to get your ‘caffeine boost’ from some tooth-rottingly sweet concoction that looks like something a child would order.”

The barista shifts uncomfortably behind the counter, clearly flustered by Max’s abrasive tone. Not that he cares — he’s been dealing with people gawking at him in public for years now. What does rub him the wrong way is the wounded look spreading across your delicate features, eyes dropping to stare dejectedly at the floor.

He opens his mouth to continue chiding you, but at that moment the barista appears with your drinks. The sweet, cinnamony aroma of your order hits Max’s nostrils like a slap in the face, making his nose wrinkle on instinct. You accept your oversized paper cup gratefully, hands automatically curling around the comforting warmth.

With visible enthusiasm, you bring the drink to your lips, unable to resist taking a sip despite the scalding temperature. Max tracks the minute changes in your expression — the slight widening of your eyes, the upward quirk of your lips into a smile of unalloyed contentment. Your lashes flutter closed on a quiet hum of blissful appreciation.

“Mmm … heaven,” you practically moan, hunching over your cup as though to better inhale the revitalizing notes of sugar and spice.

It makes Max want to retch, watching you so unashamedly indulging in such vapid, artificial flavors. How can you find such simple-minded pleasure in that, when you could be savoring the bold, robust notes of a proper cup of black coffee? One meant to awaken the senses and caress the taste buds with its smoky aroma and rich, nuanced flavor notes.

“You can’t honestly get any enjoyment from basically drinking hot milk and flavored syrups,” he mutters, sneering at the offensive beverage in your grasp.

In response, you simply shift closer to him until you’re pressed alongside his body. Your free hand snakes around his bicep, squeezing gently as you tilt your head back to gaze up at him imploringly. Exhaustion and hurt war openly with the angelic softness of your delicate features.

“Max … can’t you just let me enjoy this?” You plead in a low murmur. “It’s early, and we’ve got a long flight ahead.”

His jaw clenches stubbornly, unwilling to back down so easily. Caffeine and sleep deprivation have eroded his already thin sense of decorum.

“I’m just saying, drinking a syrupy dessert drink loaded with sugar and god knows what else isn’t doing you any favors. You might as well just stick to black coffee like a normal adult if you want to be awake and energized.”

The wounded look in your eyes deepens into something more somber and resigned. Slowly, you pull away from Max’s side until a noticeable distance stretches between your bodies. Something inside him shrivels at the loss of contact. Your slender fingers work feverishly at the cup’s lid until it pops off with a dull thunk.

Max stares blankly as you march over to the nearest trash can and upend the contents of your cup into the receptacle. You don’t even seem to hesitate — simply turn on your heel and hurl the now-empty cup in after the wasted drink. It clatters hollowly against the canister, mocking and empty.

When you turn back to face Max, the sight makes the now-lukewarm coffee sitting neglected in his own cup feels like a lead weight in his gut. Your arms are wrapped protectively around yourself, hunched against some unseen foe. Head bowed, you refuse to meet his gaze as you slowly make your way back over to where he stands rooted to the spot in stunned silence.

It’s only as you draw up beside him that Max notices the twin tear tracks striping your cheeks. Your chin remains stubbornly trembling, but you make no move to wipe at the tears now falling freely. Max’s chest constricts almost painfully at the sight of your misery, the guilt gnawing at him as the reality sets in.

He is the reason for it. His harsh, uncompromising tongue has wounded you in one of the cruelest ways once again. Too strict, too unyielding, too incapable of allowing even the smallest indulgences that bring you simple joy without sneering dismissal.

For several agonizing moments, the two of you stand in silence amid the milling crowds of travelers streaming past. Max can’t bring himself to meet your gaze, knowing he’ll only find the depths of his own callous thoughtlessness reflected back at him in your swimming eyes.

Finally, you release a shuddering sigh that sounds far too weighted for someone of your sweetness and light. When you speak, your voice is little more than a tremulous murmur laced with dejection.

“Let’s just go to the gate, Max.”

You brush past him without another word, leaving him to trail numbly in your wake as shame burns a hole through his gut. He watches as your form disappears into the throngs, shoulders already beginning to hunch inward as that spark of happiness in you gutters and fades.

Lingering behind, Max’s gaze falls to the empty cup lying crumpled and discarded in the trash. A reminder of yet another instance where his unchecked tongue and inability to empathize has spoiled an innocent attempt at simple pleasure.

His coffee suddenly tastes like ash on his tongue.

As he moves to dump the neglected drink into the nearby basin, Max wonders with a sinking feeling just how many more times he’ll be able to snuff out your light before it dwindles to nothing.

***

The late morning sun bears down with oppressive force, causing a mirage-like haze to shimmer over the sweltering asphalt of the paddock. Despite being early summer, the Spanish air is already thick and heavy enough to bathe Max’s skin in a sheen of perspiration as he trudges toward the Red Bull Energy Station.

Ahead, he spots a cluster of people milling aimlessly near the entrance to the Mercedes motorhome. At the center appears to be you, head tilted back in unrestrained laughter at something George Russell is regaling you with. The British driver is equally animated, pale features scrunched up in exaggerated motions as he relays what is no doubt an amusing tale.

Max feels his steps gradually slow of their own accord as he takes you in from a distance. You seem utterly at ease and in your element — cheeky grin splitting your face, one hand toying idly with the ends of your hair as your eyes crinkle with unbridled mirth.

A pure vision of effortless contentment.

His gut clenches unexpectedly, unbidden memories of how he methodically chipped away at that very lightness in you until it was all but extinguished washing over him in a nauseating wave. How quickly he took such simple joys for granted ...

So transfixed is he by the sight of your open, honest amusement that Max barely notices the figure slipping up behind you. Not until Toto Wolff raises a conspiratorial finger to his lips, eyes twinkling impishly as he pantomimes for silence at a sputtering George.

You remain oblivious even as the Mercedes team principal slides flush against your back, looping one arm around your waist to tug you snug against his chest. With his free hand, Toto cups it teasingly over your eyes — to which you release a tinkling peal of laughter.

“Guess who?” The playful lilt of the older man’s Austrian lilt is unmistakable, dripping with honeyed warmth.

“Hmm … I wonder,” you murmur coyly, making a show of tapping your chin in feigned confusion. ��Is it a dashing gentleman caller here to sweep me off my feet?”

Toto chuckles deeply in your ear, the sound positively dripping with unguarded affection. “Only if you’ll have me, liebling.”

Craning your head back with a cheeky grin, your arms instinctively wind around his neck as you stretch up on your tiptoes to greet him properly. Toto meets your lips in a lingering, languid kiss that has George hastily clearing his throat and looking resolutely anywhere but at the affectionate display before him.

When you finally part, all radiant smiles and flushed cheeks, it’s like the rest of the world has completely fallen away. Toto gazes down at you with such pure adoration that Max feels his throat constrict as though a belt is suddenly cinched tight around it.

“I have a surprise for you, schnucki,” Toto murmurs huskily, lips brushing your temple as he speaks.

You light up like a kid on Christmas morning, practically vibrating with excitement at his words. “Oh? Do tell!”

With a wink and roguish smile, Toto brandishes his other hand from behind his back — in it, clutched protectively, is a large cup topped with whipped cream and what looks like edible flower petals sprinkled over the top. The light purple hue of the iced contents catches in the bright sun, refracting a prism of soft, delicate colors.

“I had the barista in our hospitality whip this up for you,” Toto explains fondly. “After I mentioned how much you enjoy trying unique coffee flavors. It’s a lavender vanilla iced latte.”

Your mouth drops open in a perfect ‘o’ of delight as you instinctively make grabby motions toward the tantalizing beverage. Max recognizes that earnest enthusiasm all too well. It’s the same look you used to get whenever presented with any unique taste or experience to appreciate.

A look he always met with disdain and scorn.

Toto doesn’t hesitate for a second before depositing the cup into your greedy hands. You immediately cradle it reverently, as though it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held. Ducking your head, you take a long pull through the striped paper straw.

The expression that blossoms across your features as that first taste bursts over your tongue is one of pure, unadulterated bliss. Your eyes flutter closed on a muffled moan of sinful enjoyment, lips pursing as though savoring each individual note of flavor. Max hasn’t seen you look that unguardedly delighted by anything in … well, he can’t actually recall the last time.

“Oh Toto, this is heavenly!” You gush, swiping your tongue across your lower lip to catch a stray drop of condensation. “The lavender is subtle, but gives it such a uniquely fresh and floral twist. And the vanilla adds this creamy sweetness that keeps it from being overwhelming.”

You open your eyes to beam radiantly up at the older man, who returns your luminous smile with equal warmth. “It’s perfect, thank you! You have to try it.”

Without prompting, you eagerly offer the cup up to Toto. He accepts it with an indulgent chuckle, locking eyes with you as he takes a contemplative sip — no doubt eager to share in whatever fleeting moment of bliss the simple drink has brought you.

Unlike Max, who would have turned up his nose and likely received it with derision, Toto seems to savor the complex blend of flavors. Humming thoughtfully, he swipes his tongue across his upper lip as though committing each separate note to memory.

“You’re quite right, liebling,” he agrees readily, “this is delightful. So refreshing for this heat. I may have to acquire a taste for these iced coffees myself.”

You positively glow at his assessment, lighting up from within like a joyful little sun. Max is helpless before the storm of emotions suddenly ripping through him at the sight.

“Oh! That reminds me,” you chirp giddily, bouncing on the balls of your feet, “I was talking to the barista about maybe incorporating some other floral syrups for iced coffees too. Like rose or hibiscus! And maybe we could get her to try making those fun layered drinks with the espresso on the bottom-”

Toto’s deep belly laugh cuts off your stream of eager rambling. Without warning, he snakes an arm around your waist and tugs you flush against him once more. You let out a startled giggle as he buries his nose in the crook of your neck, lips brushing the feverish pulse point just beneath your jaw.

“You adorable thing,” he rumbles warmly, words slightly muffled against your skin as he presses a languid line of kisses along the sharp line of your jaw. “So enthusiastic about the simplest pleasures in life ...”

Pulling back, Toto lifts one hand to tenderly cradle the side of your face. You automatically nuzzle into his palm with a look of such smitten devotion that it makes Max’s heart stutter behind his ribcage. When Toto leans in to seal his lips over yours once more, the kiss is deep and thoroughly unhurried — as though the two of you have all the time in the world to savor this intimate little moment.

Max’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists, blunt nails biting crescent moons into his clammy palms. He should turn away, leave you to your blissful display with someone who so clearly appreciates you. Yet he remains rooted in place, unable to tear his eyes from the scene unfolding before him.

It’s like witnessing an alternate universe version of your shared lives play out in vivid, scorching detail.

In this reality, Toto is the one tenderly stroking the pad of his thumb over the elegant arch of your cheekbone as the two of you part, drinking in the sight of your passion-addled features hungrily. He is the one basking in the radiance of your bright and unrestrained joy. Celebrating each of your simple thrills, from the most frivolous of flavored coffees to the sensual graze of skin on skin.

And where does that leave Max? An outsider peering in at paradise with his face smeared against the glass, watching the warmth and affection he could never fully embrace slowly slip through his calloused fingers.

And my bed at three

The mattress shifts, the subtle movement rousing Max from his slumber. He cracks one eye open to find the space next to him empty, the sheets disheveled where you had lain.

A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand tells him it’s not yet 5 am. Where are you going at this hour?

He hears faint rustling from the living area of the hotel suite, followed by the soft click of the door. Groaning, he kicks off the covers and pads out of the bedroom, the plush carpet warm beneath his bare feet.

You’re sitting on the couch, slipping into a pair of flats. “What are you doing up so early?” He asks, his voice still husky from sleep.

You look up, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” A soft smile plays on your lips. “I was going to watch the sunrise.”

Max rakes a hand through his tousled hair. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because it’s beautiful.” Your eyes sparkle with an excitement he can’t comprehend this early in the morning. “The colors, the way the light slowly creeps over the horizon — it’s just magical.”

He snorts. “It happens every day. Nothing magical about it.”

Your face falls ever so slightly, and it tugs at something in his chest. But the feeling is fleeting, replaced by annoyance at having his sleep disturbed for something so trivial. “So you didn’t want to join me, then?” You ask, almost timidly.

“And wake up before the ass-crack of dawn? No thanks.” He flops onto the couch beside you with a huff. “I was up until 3 am sim racing. Not all of us find staring at the sky such riveting entertainment.”

You say nothing, simply nodding as you avert your gaze. The light in your eyes has dimmed, and he feels a pang of guilt. But he shakes it off — it’s far too early for this kind of whimsical nonsense.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters. “I’m going back to bed.”

He doesn’t see the way your shoulders droop as he turns and trudges back towards the bedroom. Doesn’t see the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes before you blink them away and readjust the set of your jaw with determination.

Max burrows under the covers, fully intent on drifting back into oblivion. But sleep evades him, his mind buzzing with a peculiar restlessness. He punches his pillow into a more suitable shape, flips it over to the cool side, but still he lies awake, listening to the silence that fills the suite.

After what feels like an eternity, curiosity gets the better of him. He kicks off the covers once more and pads over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city street below. Sure enough, there you are, a tiny figure perched on a bench across the way, your face tipped up towards the slowly lightening sky.

Max leans his forehead against the cool glass, watching as the inky blackness of night gives way to soft shades of periwinkle and lilac. Slowly, the colors deepen into blazing pinks and vibrant oranges that streak across the heavens. The sky ignites in a brilliant blaze of crimson and gold, the clouds set afire by the rising sun.

And there you sit, bathed in the dawn’s ethereal glow, utterly transfixed. In this light, your features seem softer, more at peace than he’s seen you in a long while. A smile plays on your lips, genuine and unguarded, as you take in the spectacle unfolding before you.

Max finds himself holding his breath, as if the slightest movement might shatter the magic of this moment. He’s never seen you look more beautiful, more alive than in these fleeting minutes as day breaks over the city.

A rare pang of tenderness blooms in his chest, quickly overshadowed by a creeping sense of unease. He isn’t certain how much time has passed before the brilliant hues fade into the pale blue of morning, but eventually you rise from the bench, taking one last, lingering look at the sky before turning and disappearing from view.

Max exhales slowly, his breath fogging up the glass. He isn’t proud of how he dismissed your simple joy, that spark of wonderment at the little things that he so often takes for granted.

An emptiness settles in the pit of his stomach, the guilt heavier than before. How many other moments has he trampled on in his relentless pursuit of success?

He thinks of your radiant smile, how it lit up the pre-dawn gloom more vibrantly than the sunrise itself. With a sigh, Max turns away from the window, already dreading the apology he knows he owes you.

Because in that single, breathtaking moment, he realizes just how lucky he is to have someone like you in his life. Someone who can find magic in the mundane, beauty in the simple things he’s become blind to along the way.

Someone, Max fears, who may be too sweet for him.

***

Max gives up on sleep around 4:30 am, as he has for the past several weeks. Insomnia has become his constant, unwanted companion, leaving him tossing and turning until the first hints of dawn creep through the curtains. On nights like this, slumber remains persistently out of reach no matter how exhausted he feels.

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling as the brightening sky slowly illuminates the room. It wasn’t always this way — he used to be able to sleep like the dead after a race weekend, knocked out by the physical and mental exertion. But lately, his mind refuses to shut off, thoughts swirling endlessly until his head pounds.

With a groan, Max kicks off the tangled sheets and drags himself out of bed. Maybe going for a run will quiet the racket in his brain, at least for a little while. He dresses quickly, lacing up his trainers and grabbing his earbuds before heading out into the semi-darkness.

The pre-dawn streets are blissfully empty as he starts off at an easy jog. He despises becoming one of those obnoxious morning people, but exhaustion has a way of stripping away one’s self-respect. If pounding the pavement before the rest of the world awakes is what it takes to catch a few hours of sleep, so be it.

His route takes him along the harbor, the gentle lapping of the waves against the seawall providing a soothing soundtrack. The first rays of sunlight glint off the glassy surface, and he finds himself averting his gaze, oddly resentful of the impending sunrise.

It wasn’t so long ago that he scoffed at your eagerness to greet each new day. But ever since you’ve been gone from his life, those brilliant, fleeting moments of beauty have begun to mock him at every turn.

He picks up his pace, as if he can outrun the rising sun and the flood of memories it brings. But there’s no escaping the vivid flashes of you, smiling radiantly as the world awakes in a blaze of fiery hues. Or the hollow ache that twinges somewhere beneath his rib cage whenever he’s reminded of just how little he appreciated you.

So lost is he in his circling thoughts that he nearly runs right into you, appearing abruptly on the path ahead. His trainers skid against the pavement as he grinds to a halt, his heart stammering in his chest.

“Max?” You blink up at him, clearly startled by his sudden presence.

He opens his mouth, an automatic apology rising to his lips — until his eyes zero in on the camera clutched in your hands. Of course. Still chasing sunrises after all these years.

A wry grin tugs at the corner of your mouth as you take in his rumpled running attire. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Max says nothing, his gaze flickering briefly towards the brightening horizon before fixing on you once more. You look … well, radiant as ever, lit by the soft morning glow. A small pang of something — longing, maybe — twists in his gut.

“Out enjoying another sunrise, I see,” he says at last, nodding towards the camera.

You glance down at it fondly. “Well, you know how it is. I have to capture them while I can.” A teasing lilt edges into your voice. “Not all of us are night owls.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’ll never understand what’s so fascinating about watching the same thing happen day after day.”

“But that’s just it — each one is different. Unique and fleeting and … breathtaking.” Your eyes spark with that gentle wonderment he remembers so well, the sight sending a tremor through his chest. “Like getting a front row seat to the greatest show on Earth, but it’s one you’ll never see again.”

You trail off with a small shake of your head, seemingly at a loss to put the feeling into words. Max doesn’t need the explanation — he’s seen that look of childlike awe on your face more times than he can count.

An awkward silence stretches between you, laden with the weight of history and unspoken apologies. You shift your stance, mouth opening as if to say something more.

But Max cuts you off before you can get the words out, unable to bear whatever sentiments might cross those sweet lips of yours. “Toto not joining you this time?” He asks gruffly.

Your expression softens into a fond smile, and it’s like a physical blow to Max’s sternum. He knows that look, has been on the receiving end of it more times than he cares to remember. The way your entire being seems to brighten when you so much as think about someone you love.

“Ah, you know Toto — he’s more of a sunset person,” you say with a light laugh. “I’ve never been able to drag his grumpy butt out of bed for a sunrise.”

Even as his insides curdle with jealousy, Max can’t help the quirk of his lips at the mental image. He could all too easily picture Toto swatting irritably at you, burrowing deeper under the covers to escape the blasted sun.

“But we make it work,” you continue, that loving glow refusing to dim from your eyes. “I take photos of the sunrise to share with him later. And he does the same with the sunsets for me. That way, we both get to experience it in a way.”

The gentle sound of your voice washes over Max like a salve, momentarily easing the tangled knot of regret and longing that’s taken up permanent residence inside him. He watches, transfixed, as the early morning light bathes you in ethereal radiance.

In that moment, he sees it so clearly — the depth of give and take in your relationship with Toto. The effort, large and small, that you both put into nurturing one another’s happiness.

Even when your desires don’t perfectly align. Even when compromise is required.

It’s such a simple gesture, capturing those magical moments to share with your loved one. But it’s one Max was never willing to make when you were with him.

A lump forms in his throat as realization washes over him with unforgiving clarity. You weren’t too sweet for him, as he had so arrogantly assumed time and again. No — the truth, much harder to swallow, is that he was simply too sour for you.

Too selfish, too wrapped up in his own ambitions to make even the smallest concession. Too blind to recognize the magic in the simple things that brought you unbridled joy. Too bitter and jaded to embrace and nurture the beautiful nature that made you … well, you.

And now, after all his careless cruelties and wasted chances, he can only stand idly by and watch as someone else basks in the sweetness of your affection. As someone else goes out of their way, day after day, to put that blinding smile on your face and those stars in your eyes.

Something in Max’s chest cracks and crumbles at the injustice of it all. At the agonizing truth that he let the best thing in his life slip through his fingers, all because he couldn’t be bothered to change his sullen ways.

Because you were never too sweet for him … he was too sour for you.

#f1 imagine #f1 #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #f1 x you #toto wolff #max verstappen #toto wolff imagine #max verstappen imagine #toto wolff x reader #max verstappen x reader #toto wolff fic #max verstappen fic #toto wolff fluff #toto wolff fanfic #max verstappen fanfic #toto wolff blurb #max verstappen blurb #f1 fluff #f1 blurb #f1 one shot #f1 x y/n #f1 drabble #f1 fandom #f1blr #f1 x female reader #hozier

[lovebugism]

can i request angst☹️☹️shy!reader barely ever talking and being soo hyperaware of everything and steve slowly breaks her out of her shell? then she overhears him saying she talks too much and she just feels bad and reverts into herself

Angst w happy endingn if possible please ily!!🫶🏼

ty for requesting!! — steve tells you he likes when you talk a lot (shy!fem!r, hurt/comfort, established relationship, 1k)

Your smile is wide and unknowing. Steve thinks there’s something extra special about it because you don’t even realize it’s there. “—And since Eddie was working the register, he let me take one of the new tapes for free. You know, to try it or whatever, and he was all like, ‘flattery works with me,’ and I was like, Steve would keel over if he was here right now.”

A giggle spills from your mouth when your rambling ceases, lips curling and eyes crinkling.

Steve blinks at you with his own absentminded beam, too busy thinking about how pretty you are to react properly to your story. 

Your smile sobers slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” he assures with the shake of his neatly styled head, rogue strands of chestnut hair draping his forehead. He shrugs and leans his elbows over the Family Video counter you stand across. “You’re just… You’re talking a lot. ’S nice.”

Your face heats. Your chest burns with a similar fire. Your eyes widen ‘cause you didn’t realize that you hadn’t shut up until now. “Oh… Sorry—”

“No, it’s good!” he tells you, laughing. “It’s a compliment.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah! I mean, I used to have to bribe you to get you to talk about your day. Remember that?”

Benny’s Burgers was your very best friend at the start of your relationship. Steve would always buy your dinner — not in exchange for you to talk exactly, but in the hopes that the additional time spent with you would help you open up. It did. Most of the time, anyway.

Your nose scrunches. “I thought you took me out because you liked me?”

“I took you out ‘cause I liked you and because the sugar rush from the milkshakes made you talk more.”

You nod once. “Right.”

The conversation ebbs. The store gets eerily silent without your voices to fill it. Steve, undeterred by the lapse in dialogue, flashes you a lopsided smile. “Wanna show me the tapes you bought?”

“Yeah,” you murmur and push off the counter. 

Steve watches you over his shoulder while you saunter down the hallway where your bag is kept. The breakroom door squeals open and shut again. A voice sounds suddenly from beside him. “Nice job, dingus,” Robin chides, gritty and montoned.

His head snaps to the other side, brows twisted with confusion. “What?”

“You hurt her feelings,” she answers like it’s obvious, dropping a stack of VHS tapes on the counter with a heavy thud.

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You said she was talking a lot.”

“I said that I liked it!”

Robin rolls her ocean-blue eyes, huffing ‘cause he’s too oblivious to get the point. “Yeah, but if I said, Wow, you have a ton of gel in your hair— but it’s styled really nice today, it’d give you a whole complex. Wouldn’t it?”

The make-believe compliment is dreadfully backhanded. Steve’s face floods with a gentle horror, the realization of a fallacy he hadn’t realized he’d made. “Shit…”

“Exactly,” Robin deadpans. “Now go take care of your girlfriend, dingus.”

He finds you in the breakroom, idling in place. You’ve got the cassettes in your hands, and you fidget with them between anxious fingers — like you were planning to come out sometime, but not quite yet. 

You tense when the door creaks open, relaxing again when Steve enters.

“Whatcha doing?” he wonders with a crooked, pink smile.

“Getting the tapes,” you answer in a mousy voice, waving the pieces of plastic in your hand.

The door clicks shut behind him. He inches towards you, fond and terribly soft with it. “I missed you,” he confesses in a faint murmur. His wide palms settle on your sides. You warm instantly under his touch.

“I was gone for two seconds,” you respond with a quiet laugh.

“Yeah. And I felt like I was dying.”

You meet his pout with a small smile, blinking up at him with sparkling doe eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I just love being around you, alright? Sue me,” he argues, squeezing softly at your hips. With a quieter smile, he confesses, “And when I said you were talking a lot— I didn’t mean anything by it, you know?”

You’d disappeared back here because you thought it was something silly to be so upset over. He’d told you it was a compliment, but it didn’t really feel like one. Your brain refused to be anything other than hurt by his well-intentioned remarks. The ache in your chest became unignorable, and you shrunk inside yourself accordingly.

“I know,” you murmur.

“I love hearing you talk,” he tells you, shy smirk widening to a lopsided beam. “It’s my favorite thing in the whole world, actually.”

Your lips purse to the side. Your anxious hands fidget with the plastic cassettes in your palms, aching to hold him. It takes you a moment or more to find the courage to speak. “I’m just… I’m normally super aware of… when I’m talking too much, you know? I was just… Excited, I guess.”

“You were. And it was really fuckin’ cute.” A laugh sputters from his lips. He wears all the love he has for you in the deep honey of his eyes, rich and swimming with warmth. “I love seeing you happy.”

“Well, you make me happy…” you whisper, gaze averted. “So, it fits…”

“Yeah, it does,” he murmurs in response, ducking down to kiss you. It’s chaste and terribly fleeting — lips locking together one moment and then smacking in protest when they separate the next. 

It takes your eyes a second too long to flutter open again after he’s pulled back from you. You find Steve already grinning as he nods to the tapes in your hands. “Wanna pop those into the radio? So we can listen to ‘em while I work?”

Your brows pinch with a distant worry. “Won’t Keith get mad?” 

“Probably,” Steve answers with an uncaring shrug. “You don’t have to worry about him, alright? I’ll take care of you.”

You melt.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #st drabbles #stevie drabble

[livwritesstuff]

One of Eddie’s favorite pastimes is listening to Steve’s phone conversations with their college-aged daughters.

All three of their kids are very smart – way smarter than either of them. Getting the older two into college had been a total cinch and it’s looking like it’ll be just as easy with their youngest. 

The thing is, just because their kids are goddamn brilliant doesn't absolve them from the occasional lapse in common sense. When that occurs, Steve usually gets a phone call, and those phone calls are the highlights of Eddie's day by a mile.

Steve gets a phone call this time because Moe has a doctor’s appointment that she is going to all by herself for the first time ever. 

Apparently, the paperwork is causing some strife.

“And just think,” Steve is saying idly when Eddie walks in, “You could’a gone to Wellesley College instead and had us with you for this shit.”

Eddie can’t hear Moe’s response, but he has a feeling that this comment did not go over well with their oldest daughter.

After a moment, Steve’s eyebrows fly up.

“Yeah, Moe, where it says social security number you should write your social security number…” he pauses, listening to Moe again, “You don’t know what it is? How do you not know what it is?”

“Steve, I’m begging you to put this on speaker,” Eddie laughs.

“Go get Moe’s soc card,” he hisses in return, “I don’t know it either.”

“You fuckin’ hypocrite,” he replies even as he heads for the office where they keep all that shit.

By the time he’s returning, Steve has the call on speaker and he hears Moe ask, “Have I ever worked as a machinist?”

“No,” Steve tells her.

“What about when I operated the ski lifts at the mountain? That’s a machine.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Okay…have I ever had a hysterectomy?”

“That’s kind of a one and done thing, I think, and no, you haven’t.”

“Have I ever had an injury to the eye involving a metallic object?”

“Moe, you can’t be serious.”

“What if I did and I just don’t remember!” she protests.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie shakes his head, “And these kids are supposed to be intelligent.”

Before Steve can respond to either of them, Moe says, "Wait – do you think I should have written my name as Lucy instead of Moe?"

"Uh, yeah," Steve replied, sounding utterly baffled as Eddie howled with laughter.

"Hey!" Moe protests, "This is not my fault! That's totally on you for naming me one thing and then calling me something completely different my entire fucking life!"

(And she's kind of right, Eddie can't help but think).

#steve also does not know his own ssn but he can pull the brain damage card for that one #steddie #liv’s steddie dads verse #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie dads

[thepinklink]

@skyward-floored made this post the other day and it gave me ideas. As it is 3,000 words long, I thought it’d be too long for a reblog, so here we are. Thank you for the inspiration, and I hope you like it, Peggy!! ❤️

Read the fic under the cut

“So, what was he like?” Warriors asks conversationally as he sits down before the fire, settling down to eat his dinner of rice.

Marin looks up from her own bowl and hums a questioning acknowledgment. “Mm?”

“You mentioned you knew another Link before.” Warriors shoves a spoonful of rice in his mouth. “What was he like?”

Marin nods, and ponders for a second, a dreamy glaze over her eyes. Warriors recognizes it in the other soldiers he talks to when they mention the loved ones they left behind. Marin opens her mouth as if to speak, the words still evading her for a moment. When they come, they’re wrapped tenderly in admiration and wistfulness.

“He was…like a dream. He was…he was everything I was missing. I told him that I wished I could fly, and he made me feel that I could. I told him I wanted to see the world, and he became it for me, and I saw him every day. His hands were rough and calloused, but he chose not to be calloused in character. He looked at me like I was everything, and he was smart and he was kind and you could see it all in his eyes. And those eyes, they were blue, bluer than the sea where it kisses the sky on the horizon.” She smiled, face turned towards the sky, mind far away from the campfire.

Warriors doesn’t know what to say. He’s heard a lot of people gush about their loved ones, but there is something about the way Marin speaks, careful and sure, that surprises him. He feels he shouldn’t be hearing this—like it was meant for her Link’s ears only, and he was eavesdropping. He’s saved the trouble of an initial response when Marin speaks again.

“I can still hear him so clearly. I can still feel his hair beneath my fingers. I remember him so well…but it all feels like a dream, I feel…that it all *was* a dream, im a way. And, verily, all dreams must come to an end. I wonder if he remembers me, and I wonder if he misses me as badly as I miss him. I’m sure he’s got better things to worry about. But…maybe that’s better. If I hurt this badly, I don’t want him to feel it at all. He told me stories of his past, and he’s lost so much and gained so little…it would be better if he didn’t remember me and was saved the pain of missing me. But then…I wish he did remember me. We loved each other…I hope he remembers me as fondly as I do him.” Marin looks at Warriors, browns eyes brimming with heartache. “Is that selfish?”

Her expression is pleading—silently begging for an answer Warriors is certain he has no business giving. But he can’t leave her hanging. He swallows.

“No. I don’t think it’s selfish. I think…I think he thinks the same thing. I think he lies awake at night, and thinks about you. I think he carries you with him everywhere, in a way, and I think that in a world full of gold and glory and titles, you are his greatest treasure. And I think it will always be that way, for him.”

The lapse in conversation is taken over by the crackle of the fire, and for a few minutes Warriors just watches the sparks curl up towards the night sky. Eventually, with a sniffle, Marin speaks again.

“You Links…you’re all the same, aren’t you?” She says with a watery laugh. “So caring and sensitive. You and him would have gotten along well.”

Warriors chuckles. “I’ll take your word for it.”

* * *

It’s Legend.

Warriors knows as soon as he meets him. They shake hands, and then Warriors finds himself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes.

Blue eyes, as blue as where the sea kisses the sky on the horizon.

They’re sharp, too, Warriors can see Legend taking in a thousand little details even in the brief second they make eye contact, and then introductions continue and Warriors is left reeling under the feeling of having met a ghost.

Later, he talks himself off that ledge. He’s paranoid—as soon as he heard they were all named Link, he’d been on the lookout. He was just paranoid, looking for the first guy who matched Marin’s description, when it was an unrealistic endeavor anyways. Marin hadn’t mentioned any defining physical traits—all the Links had blue eyes, the same blue eyes, in fact, and calloused hands. Everything else had been regarding his character, the way he treated her and made her feel. And Warriors definitely wasn’t getting any first-hand examples of those.

As the weeks go by and Warriors gets to know them all, he ignores the insistent instinct that Marin’s lover is Legend and instead analyses everyone else. And they all fall epically and tragically short. Wind was talkative and never mentioned a Marin, despite telling plenty of stories all staged at sea, and if Warriors was understanding things correctly, Wind was close to a pirate girl named Tetra. Nothing romantic, per se, but everything about Wind simply had the wrong…vibe. That was all Warriors could really argue. Since Marin never mentioned physical traits, it could have been any of them, really, leaving Warriors main method of deduction as whatever his gut was feeling.

Wild ruled himself out with his own Zelda, and most of his story came out fairly early in their journey and no Marin was ever mentioned. Twilight spoke of a girl who had broken his heart, and his melancholy demeanor didn’t match the wistful longing Warriors thought he should have had. Sky was happily courting, Hyrule much too shy, and Four too active and analytical.

Warriors briefly thought it could be Time—he spoke of his wife with utmost adoration. But then they met her, and although Warriors was surprised at her strange likeness to Marin, knew it definitely wasn’t Time.

Which left, as Warriors had originally and always known, Legend. And it only grew more obvious as the time passed.

He guessed exactly who Time married, because he loved someone near the same. He could be snarky and bold when he talked to them, ruthless and calculated in a fight, but Warriors saw the way he interacted with kids and people in the villages they stayed at or passed through. It was as if he’d flipped a switch, and suddenly he was the gentlest and softest person Warriors had ever met. Meeting him in person strengthens the way Marin had described him—hands rough and calloused by his past and traumas, but he chose purposely not to let it sour his character. And he did it all at the ripe age of 18.

All of this, of course, fell into place weeks after their initial meeting, and when it finally did Warriors was left with an entirely new problem: getting Legend to confirm it.

He knew in his heart, sure, that Legend was in fact the Link Marin had loved so deeply. But he could only be 99% sure. That last one percent would come as soon as Legend mentioned her, but Warriors is impatient to wait for it to happen organically. But he also doesn’t want to just walk up to him and mention it—he respects Legend, sure, but that isn’t enough to bridge the gap of familiarity. It isn’t enough to explain the awful feeling Warriors has. It isn’t enough to cover the possibility—probability—that if Warriors is too impatient, it could lead to insensitivity and the last thing Warriors wants to do is dredge up bad memories when Legend is caught in a place where he can’t run.

Ultimately, Warriors can only wait. No matter how anxious he is, he places his money on the goddesses having everything planned out already, and his chance will come when it comes. Which it does, and sooner than the Captain expected.

Months have passed since they first met, and the group has grown much closer. Close enough to rifle through each other’s things, poke and prod at other, compete for largest scar and in general, act very much like brothers. And Warriors has grown to consider them so; in a way he never has with anyone else, Warriors loves them as if they are all of the same flesh and blood. And after that, his mission is no longer delivering one last message. It is giving his brother a vital piece of information. He no longer owes it to him because of Marin or out of perceived obligation. He owes it to him because to keep it to himself would be to lie to his brother.

Well. Maybe not directly, but still. It would feel like lying.

Thus, one warm and humid evening somewhere in Time’s Hyrule, deep in some woods somewhere, when Legend stands up and stretches and declares he’s going on patrol, Warriors jumps straight the chance to accompany him. The silence is peaceable at first, and the two heroes walk through the woods, eyes peeled and ears open for any sign of monsters. The camp noises fade far behind them, replaced by the sounds of a forest preparing for bed. It’s broken when Legend stops abruptly.

“What?” Warriors asks, stopping too and looking around. “Did you see something?”

“What do you want?”

Warriors stops and looks at Legend. “What?”

“What do you want?” Legend repeats, eyes boring into Warriors’ soul. They betray no sign of hostility or wariness, and neither does Legend’s tone. It’s short and to the point. “I can tell you’ve got something on your mind. You have since we first met. I thought you must have recognized me, but I know I’ve never seen you before in my life. So what is it?”

Warriors blinks. Damn, the kid is perceptive. He struggles to find the words, everything sounding too soon, too indifferent, too harsh. Shouldn’t there have been a more gentle lead up to this? Then again, Warriors has no idea how he would have achieved that, either.

“Spit it out,” Legend says impatiently. “I’m not a little kid, I can take it. Are you mad I smeared mud on your face the other day? Because if that’s the case I’m not apologizing, I was perfectly justified—“

“Marin.” Warriors says, and Legend’s jaw snaps shut. His whole body stiffens, something flickers in his eyes—good natured annoyance turns to fear, ever so briefly, before he relaxes again. He’s deadly calm now, attention completely on Warriors. He doesn’t say anything, so Warriors keeps going.

“I met a girl during the war. Her name was Marin. She had red hair and a blue and purple dress and she could sing like no one else. When we met, and I told her my name, she smiled and said that she knew a Link, once. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Legend nods stiffly. Warriors hesitates. Again, words evade him. Legend doesn’t care.

“That’s not everything.” His voice is almost monotone. “Tell me.”

Warriors opens his mouth. No words come out.

“Captain.” It’s harsh this time, almost anxious. “Say it.”

“…She’s gone.”

* * *

“Spit it out. I’m not a little kid, I can take it. Are you mad I smeared mud on your face the other day? Because if that’s the case I’m not apologizing, I was perfectly justified—“

“Marin.”

Legend hates the cold shock that shudders through his whole body when Warriors says it. He forces himself to stay calm, taking a deep breath and exhaling through his nose. His silence prompts Warriors to continue.

“I met a girl during the war. Her name was Marin. She had red hair and a blue and purple dress and she could sing like no one else. When we met, and I told her my name, she smiled and said that she knew a Link, once. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Legend nods. He can tell that isn’t what Warriors wanted to tell him. Not all of it, anyway.

“That’s not everything. Tell me.”

Silence.

“Captain.” He feels the faint tendrils of desperation prickling at his heart. “Say it.”

“…She’s gone.”

Legend doesn’t understand at first. Maybe, unconsciously, he doesn’t want to understand.

“What? Of course she is. She…she has been, for awhile now, and she clearly isn’t here—“

“Legend. She’s dead.”

There’s no way he can misunderstand that. He can’t feel the rest of his body. He just keeps standing there, staring hardly at Warriors’ face.

“What.”

“She…she died, Legend. I’m sorry. She fought long and hard, but ultimately the enemy overtook her. She didn’t…she didn’t even have a chance.”

Legend keeps staring at him for a second, and then he shifts his gaze to the ground. He feels sick. He’s shaky and weak, and after a minute, he just sits down.

Warriors knew Marin during his war. Which meant she survived. Somehow, she had survived Koholint, even though it was a dream.

And then she died in that war.

The irony. It’s so ironic, in a sick and twisted way, he can taste it. Uncalled for, a chuckle escapes him, and then a soft laugh, and then he’s just cackling outright, loud, humorless laughter because of course she survived. Of course the Windfish would spare her, of course Legend find that out in an information of her death somewhere else.

Of course Legend would only find out that he didn’t kill her after she had died at someone else’s hand.

He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs until Warriors is shaking his shoulders and telling him to snap out of it. He does his best, but ultimately all he can do is grasp Warriors’ forearms and look into his eyes, still chuckling breathlessly.

“…Of course.” He says. Warriors looks genuinely afraid of what Legend will say next. “Of course, the goddesses would let me blame myself. Of course they would let me spend all this time hating myself, until they knew there was no way she could distract me.”

Warriors is visibly confused. “What?”

“That’s got to be it…right? There’s nothing…I don’t know why else they would do this. How…could I be so damn unlucky? I’ve lost her twice. How do I keep doing this?” He laughs again, but when it fades out he’s too short of breath and his eyes burn. Scalding tears sear his cheeks, and he doesn’t know if he’ll survive how badly his heart hurts. Not again.

Warriors shifts to tuck him completely against his chest, holding him tightly, as if he could absorb the pain somehow.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Legend hair. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

Legend cries for a long time, and violently enough that Warriors wonders if he’s getting enough air. They’re incredibly vulnerable here, and when Warriors hears something approaching through the woods, he jumps up and very nearly stabs Wolfie as he jumps through the bushes. Wild is close behind him, and once Warriors knows it’s just them he returns to Legend.

“Whoa!” Wild yelps softly as he sees Warriors gathers the limp and unyielding Veteran into a bridal carry. “Is he—“

“He’s not injured.” Warriors assures him, shifting his hold on Legend so it’s more comfortable for them both. “He just heard some pretty shocking news and it hit hard.”

Wild nods, understanding immediately and offering no further inquiries.

“You guys have been gone so long we started to worry. Supper’s way past over and we were about to get ready for bed when we realized you hadn’t returned, so we split up and went searching,” Wild explains his sudden appearance.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” Warriors apologizes sincerely.

“It’s alright. Just as long as no one’s hurt.”

The walk back is silent, and Warriors has never been so glad to see bed rolls surrounding a campfire. Legend isn’t asleep, but he’s sluggish and almost unresponsive. Wild digs his bed roll from his bag while Warriors coaxes him to at least take off his boots, and then as soon as he’s tucked into his bed roll, he’s asleep. Warriors, searching to offer a little bit more comfort, undoes his scarf and lays it over the Veteran like a blanket. He doesn’t know that it will actually do much in the way of support, but it makes him feel better so he leaves it.

Warriors himself stays awake until every searching member of the chain has returned, just to explain what took them so long. Any anger at the inconvenient scare dissipates upon hearing how it came to be, and seeing the Veteran curled up in his bed roll. Arguably, they can’t really tell by his face that he’s been distressed—but the fact that he was already asleep when they all got back, and that he remained asleep throughout the remainder of bedtime prep, spoke for itself. Even though Warriors didn’t say exactly what Legend was told, the weight of the situation falls on them all, and except to establish watches, no more words are spoken for the rest of the night.

* * *

Not a word passes Legend’s lips for a week. His mood seems to shift through the days; at first he is almost angry, going everywhere and about everything with a hard purpose, refusing to let his emotions get the better of him. And then one day, he loses that battle as soon as he wakes up, and is the last one for the rest of the week. The last one to get out of bed, the last one to pack up, the last one to start and the last one to stop.

The others do their best to accommodate him, no matter how much time they lose. They can tell he’s trying, even when he’s too tired to. They’ve all been there, in some way, at some point in time. They all give him space, they do their best to silently convey that they’re there for him when he wants to reach out.

Everyone, that is, save Wind. And it is Wind, surprisingly, who breaks him out of it all.

He’s annoying, at first, sticking to Legend’s side like glue and chattering away at every hour of the say. Legend comes very close to strangling him more than once, but that all fades with the anger. The week continues, and Wind’s constant talking fills the silence, the lighthouse on the hill during a storm. He doesn’t realize it until later, but Wind was always helping hold him together. His every story, his every mundane topic was all meant to keep Legend from getting trapped in his own head. From forgetting the feeling of grass beneath his boots and the sound of his brothers as they all walked on.

An evening almost seven days exactly from that first, Legend is sitting in front of the fire, leaned against a log. Wind sits on the log next to him. For the first time in a week, the Sailor is quiet, and not because his mouth is full of food. Then,

“What was she like?”

The question is a violent shift from anything else Wind had said before. His cheery, story-telling tone is gone, replaced instead with tentativeness. It’s soft and curious, worried he’s overstepped. Legend glances around the fire, and the rest of the Chain has all stopped. There’s some tension as they wait for Legend’s response, unsure if he’ll answer or if it will have a negative effect. Legend’s eyes settled back on the fire and he sighs.

“She was my everything.” He looks at Wind, who is watching him with rapt attention. “You would have liked her.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. Words can’t really describe her, anyways.

“Could she sing?” Wind asks. Legend nods.

“Yes, she could sing.”

“What did she look like?”

“…She had red hair, and big brown eyes, and she could get anything out of me with those eyes.”

Wind laughs. “She sounds like Malon.”

Legend smiles. “She was a lot like Malon. Of Malon were a goddess, they’d be almost the same.” He looks at Time. “No offense, Old Man.”

“None taken,” Time says softly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

A comfortable silence settles over the camp for a few moments.

“She once asked me if it was selfish of her to hope you remembered her.” Warriors says suddenly. “I said it wasn’t.”

Legend nods again. “You were right.” He looks up at the unfamiliar stars, and wonders if she now knows he never forgot.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #lu warriors #plink writes #lu fanfiction #peggy my dear #lu wind #lu wild #lu time #lu marin

[giorno-plays-piano]

Her Fault

Pairing: yandere!Toji Fushiguro x reader

Warnings: implied noncon, spiked drink, stalking, kidnapping, obsession, mention of Stockholm syndrome, Toji being a part of a gang.

Words: 1.2k

Summary: Toji knows nearly everything about her. Who she is, where she works, what's her address, where she keeps her keys, the code to unlock her phone... Except for the last two things, he didn't even need to have someone to spy on her because she told him everything herself. Somehow, she felt like she could trust him, poor girl. He appreciates her lapse in judgment.

_________

"You should try something new for a change," Toji says with that smug expression on his face, making the woman next to him frown. "No offense, but those pathetic margaritas will be the end of you one day."

For a second, she looks stunned by his audacity, but it doesn't take her long to bite back at him, "Says who? The I-only-drink-whisky guy?"

He lets out a laugh at that, shaking his head. "Fair enough. How about we both try a new thing?"

As she stills, contemplating his offer, he already knows he'll win. She will order whatever he tells her to, and she will drink it like a good girl, not being able to tell the difference between the real drink and whatever concoction he will give her. Wouldn't work with a margarita she's been ordering ever since she appeared here one Friday evening.

He first saw her about half a year ago, wearing a fancy black dress and high heels like she was at the gala, not a local bar. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and she wore that classy sort of makeup that suggested she was either at the wrong place or came here straight after work for god knows what reasons. Toji had no idea why she would show up at this bar dressed that way. Did she want to get laid and didn't know how?

The guy sitting next to her at the counter probably arrived at the same conclusion but dumbly decided to chase after her in the most stupid fashion, giving Toji an excuse to send him "I-will fucking-end-you" look and flex his biceps: girls digged that shit, and he was sure she'd take the bait. Naturally, the drunk dumbass left in a second while the woman looked impressed and thanked him for help. It was only natural to strike a conversation.

Pretty much first time going to a bar, she confessed, ordering a margarita. Why? She was a workaholic and, in addition, despised drunk people who couldn't control themselves. Why did she finally come? Wanted to find out what it's like since one drink couldn't hurt that much.

He thought she smelled really fucking nice.

Surprisingly, he didn't bang her the first night because she had a way with words that made him talk more than he usually did, and, by the time she was about to leave, he didn't feel like spoiling her first bar experience. She was probably going to return, anyway. Besides, Toji didn't like feeling so much at ease with a stranger, given the specifics of his work, so he was going to ring someone he knew to do a quick check-up on her and make sure that evening wasn't some elaborately planned scheme. God help her if it was.

But she was just an ordinary woman with an ordinary job with no relation to his business, so when she came the next Friday, Toji thought it was fucking nice to actually talk to someone for once. Why not? She wasn't even looking for a hookup, just for a human company.

That time, she wore a lovely dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, too, but she wasn't flirting with him even the slighest bit. He wasn't sure if he should have been offended by her lack of interest or felt good because she wanted to actually know him.

Since then, every Friday, she waltzes into the bar in her pretty dresses, smelling delicious, lands on the seat next to him, and talks to him like he's a friend. Not once has she batted her eyelashes at him or realized he was flaunting his physique one way or the other to flirt with her. She does, however, seem interested in how he's doing without being invasive or patronal, and it's been a really long time since anyone was that close to him. It genuinely feels good to see her face every Friday and hear her voice.

Toji knows nearly everything about her. Who she is, where she works, what's her address, where she slips her keys, the code to unlock her phone... Except for the last two things, he didn't even need to have someone to spy on her because she told him everything herself. Somehow, she felt like she could trust him, poor girl. He appreciates her lapse in judgment.

"Does that guy from work still bother you?" he asks, giving the barmen a sign to make that cocktail for her and looking back at her as if he really needs an answer. In reality, he already knows she has rejected the creep, and it pleases him to no end.

"No, thank God," she huffs, wincing like from a toothache. "Why the Hell do I attract all sorts of assholes? My own damn father has been an ass to me, too."

"Huh, your father?" Toji sends her a smirk. "Got daddy issues?

He can tell her face is burning even without looking at her expression.

"Oh my God, Toji!" She slaps his hand slightly, embarrassed and annoyed at his antics. "Why are you saying it like we're in a porno?"

That gets a good laugh out of him, and she visibly relaxes, smiling, before she promptly excuses herself to the bathroom, and the barmen finally lands her drink on the counter, secretly nodding to the man on the other side. There's nothing really dangerous in there that wouldn't get out of her system in a day, but that's enough time for Toji to finish everything he has planned.

Really, it's her fault for being naive and so fucking pretty. He could have already fucked her ages ago and forgotten all about the woman, but she just has to be too damn nice for her own good, making him long for Friday night and hear her talk. Besides, what is he supposed to do when she doesn't date and doesn't see even his most obvious attempts to flirt with her? He takes the easiest way out, really.

The drugs in her drink will make her pliant like a kitten, but, considering it's her third cocktail, it'll be a piece of cake to make her believe she just got drunk and ended up sleeping with him. Then he'll explain how she confessed to him and mention he likes her too. Depending on how it goes, Toji's prepared for 2 different outcomes: one, she accepts, and they start dating before he makes his next move; two, he chains her to his bed and waits till the Stockholm syndrome or whatever this thing's called kicks in and rewires her brain. Logically speaking, he prefers the first one, but his patience is wearing thin, and now he contemplates if he should just go with the second plan, anyway.

When she comes back, her delicious scent making him hard again, Toji sends her a smug smile and hands her the glass. Whatever she does, he knows where she'll end up after tonight.

__________

Tags: @minshookie29

#toji x reader #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x reader #yandere #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen

[feyhunter78]

PLEASE TELL ME PT 11 IS OUT SOON PLSS OH KY GODD.

It's out rn babyyyy

Pink Pastels Pt 11

Description: You spend some time debriefing, teaching, and putting up with parents. Pt 12:

“You did what?” Janey yelps, slapping a hand over her mouth as you recount the events of Saturday night.

“I may or may not have been eaten out by Spiderman…and called him by Mr. O’Hara’s name.” You whine, hiding your face in your hands.

“I’ve been there.” Melissa comments, “not with Spiderman though, with my ex-husband.”

Janey’s eyes were wide, and she shook her head in disbelief. “Girl, what? How? What about your boyfriend?”

You close your eyes, groaning as you remember the guilt you felt when you returned to your apartment on shaky legs, passing a still unconscious Todd before you locked yourself in your bedroom and tried to forget what happened on the roof.

“He doesn’t know, obviously, Spiderman is like his favorite hero, it’ll crush him.” You say, dragging your hands down your face.

“I feel like the cheating part will crush him more, but ya know, that’s just me.” Melissa pats your shoulder as she exits the teacher’s lounge. “Keep your chin up kid, he’s not worth the stress anyways.”

You sink down into the couch. “Ugh Janey what do I do? And oh my gosh, how am I even supposed to look Mr. O’Hara in the eye?”

You feel the couch cushions dip, and Janey wraps her arms around you. “It’ll be okay, you just need to figure out your next steps. Let’s just get through today, then worry about what you’re going to tell Todd.”

You nod and return her hug. “Okay, yeah, you’re right, I’ll just focus on teaching, and then I’ll figure the rest out.”

You walk to your classroom, smoothing down your skirt, breathing deeply through your nose as you try to calm yourself.

Todd was gone by the time you woke up on Sunday, and you had taken a relaxing bath, running your fingertips lightly over the strange marks on your thighs. You hadn’t felt any pain that night. Honestly you felt nothing but blinding pleasure, your breathing growing heavier just with the thought of the way his tongue and fingers curled inside you, the way his husky voice deepened as he lapsed into Spanish. You hadn’t felt that good since your first wet dream of Miguel—

“And Spiderman has talons, and fangs! I saw them on the news!” You catch a brief snippet of conversation as you pass an open classroom, and your mind reels, your steps stuttering keeping you by the door.

That’s what those marks are.

“I heard his fangs have venom in them that paralyze anyone he bites.” One of the boys says, excitement clear in his tone. Spiderman is a hero, the city’s hero. He defeated every villain the rose to power until there were none left. Now he spends his time protecting the average civilian, like you…

Paralyze? The thought lingers for a moment, your mind whirling, flashes of images, Spiderman biting into your thigh, your body locking, free for him to play with as he desires. Good girls take cock. Would he fuck you like that? Arrange your limbs as he wished, toy with your body, drawing orgasm after orgasm from you, while you lay pliant beneath him.

It would be so nice to not have to worry about it. To surrender to his hands, to let him fuck away every thought in your mind, leaning over you, his breath on your skin, his deep voice whispering, such a good girl, you take my cock so well, querida.

“Ms. Y/N, I lost my tooth.” Dahlia’s mouth is bleeding, and she’s holding her tooth in her hand proudly.

“Oh, oh my goodness, that’s so exciting, let’s go to the nurse and get it all cleaned up.” You smile at Dahlia, banishing all thoughts of Spiderman from your mind.

Now was not the time to be horny, you had a job to do.

Once you got Dahlia’s tooth situation sorted out, you took her back to the classroom and began to write the date on the board, and the day’s schedule.

It’s not unusual for Dahlia to be here a bit early. You know both her parents work, and you told them it would be fine for them to drop her off early and wait for school to start in your classroom.

Sure, it might mean you can spend less time in the teacher’s lounge before class starts, but you know how tough it is for working parents, and Dahlia is a good kid. She always comes in with some wild story to tell you, or she tries to get a head start on her next assigned reading.

“Ms. Y/N, can I ask you something?” Dahlia’s voice is quiet, not something you’re used to. She’s a confident girl with a quick wit, and no problem making sure she’s heard.

You set down your expo marker and kneel beside her desk. “Of course, sweetheart, you can ask me anything.”

She rubs at her eyes, already beginning to sniffle, and your heart breaks. “I just don’t understand this.” She pulls out yesterday’s math homework, and places it on her desk.

It’s crinkled, filled with scratch and eraser marks, and your heart breaks further when you see the little sad faces she’s drawn instead of answers.

“Oh, honey, that’s okay, math is hard.” You rub her back comfortingly and smooth the paper out. “Why don’t you tell me where you’re having trouble, and we’ll go over it together?”

Dahlia sniffles but nods and begins to point out where she’s getting stuck.

You go through it with her, explaining step by step, breaking it down, so she understands the process.

Soon she gets it, though she still stumbles, sevens are especially hard for her, and you can feel her getting frustrated again. After her third wrong answer, she throws her pencil down and buries her face in her in arms, the butterfly clips in her braids clacking against the desk. “I can’t do it, I’m stupid.”

“No, no, no, you’re not stupid, Dahlia, you are so, so, smart, you’re just having a hard time. It’s okay, Ms. Y/N, is bad at math too.”

She peeks up at you. “Really?”

You smile and fold your arms on her desk before resting your chin on them, so your eyes are level with hers. “Yeah, I had trouble with math the entire time I was in school. I still have trouble with it, but that’s okay because I know I’m smart in other ways, like reading, and history.”

“I like reading.” She mumbles, her small hand catching onto the sleeve of your blouse, seeking wordless comfort.

“And you’re very good at it, I always tell your mom and dad about how well you read, and how you help your classmates when they’re struggling.”

“I like helping.”

“And I think that’s one of the many things that makes you special, so don’t be mean to yourself just because math is a little tough. You’re a very smart girl, you just have to take a bit more time with math, and that’s okay.”

She wipes her nose on her sleeve and nods. “Okay, Ms. Y/N, thank you.”

You squeeze her forearm then stand. “Of course, sweetheart, I’m always here for you.”

It’s six ten, Tommy’s mom is late. You tap your foot against the linoleum, watching the door as you wait for her, stomach churning with nerves.

Todd was blowing up your phone, and you couldn't even stand to look at it, too nervous to even read, so you slide your phone into your desk drawer.

“Ms. Y/N?” A woman’s voice caught your attention, and suddenly who you assumed was Mrs. Tompson was seated before you.

“Mrs. Tompson, yes, hi, thank you so much for coming in.” You stick out your hand for her to shake, but she just looks at it then crosses her arms, leaning back in the chair.

“You said Tommy has been having some issues with the other kids?” She says, her eyes flitting across the board, uninterested.

“Well, actually…he’s been the issue. He’s disruptive, and I know he’s not trying to be bad, or disrespectful, but his actions are aggravating his fellow classmates and I don’t want him to end up driving away his friends.”

She looked at you, her lips pressed into a tight line. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re his teacher, can’t you just force the kids to get along?”

You take a deep breath. “Ma’am I can’t force the kids to get along, they have their own minds and opinions, all I can do is help ease the tension, but everything I’ve tried isn’t working. That’s why I wanted to talk to yo—”

“So, you’re saying this is my fault?” She snaps, sitting up in the chair.

“No, no, I wanted to talk to you so that we could work together and find a solution for Tommy, I really do think that maybe he could benefit from some testing, he’s showing a lot of signs of ADHD, which isn’t a bad thing—”

“My son is not a freak; he doesn’t need testing.” She narrowed her eyes at you, anger seeping into her voice.

“No, he’s not a freak, he’s a good kid, I just think he might need a little extra help, and—” You pull out the pamphlets and hand them to her—“if we work together, I really think he could thrive in class.”

She takes the pamphlets, flipping through them, then she threw them back onto your desk. “Obviously you can’t handle your students, and you just want them drugged up, so you don’t have to do any actual work.”

“Mrs. Tompson, I assure you that is not the case.” You hold up your hands, pacifying.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, you had done your research, started off calmly, and reiterated that Tommy was a good kid. You just wanted to get him some extra support.

She stands, rolling her eyes, her voice cold. “I’ll be going to the principal about removing Tommy from your class, he doesn’t need to be dragged down by a subpar teacher who obviously doesn’t care about her students.”

“Mrs. Tompson—” You call out to her, but she’s gone, the sound of her heels getting farther and farther away.

Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @miggyoharaswife, @badbishsblog, @imisshim2much, @wanderlustingcastaway, @lynn-9703, @sleepyamaya, @erensbbg, @sweetea85, @ilovemiguelohara, @natthernandez, @stxrrielle, @ihateuguys, @jenniferdixon05207, @blep-23, @luvisaaxoxo, @minimari415, @emerald-09, @violet-19999, @kenchosaikuo, @groovycass, @youcantseem3, @lovefks, @nightshxdex, @dusstory, @aesniri, @munsonssecretblog, @kirke-is-my-name, @starbearieee, @chatoicboy, @act1839, @needsleep3000, @totally-not-georgia, @witchy-lizard, @cxmeiloorun7, @justrandomlolidk, @chimpkinnuggies, @alicefallsintotherabbithole, @loser-alert, @wwwellacom, @ryantryan6969, @lollipopin, @blakeaha, @youcantseem3, @a-cult-leader, @verexi, @purpleskiesandroses, @they2luv1naia, @sophiaj650

#miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n #miguel's pastels #meg's writing #spiderman 2099 x reader #Abbott elementary inspired!!!!!

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 6 - J'ai Dansé Avec L'Amour

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none, really… some kissing and some awkwardness

Word Count: 2.4k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Well, this isn't the wedding yet, but it's them both dealing, rather awkwardly, with the idea of getting married as they grapple with their attraction to each other. The wedding will be the next chapter. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Montivilliers (just outside Le Havre), September 1939

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Eloise whispers into the inky blackness.

“What other choice do I have?” you whisper back, unwilling to admit how weirdly calm you are about the scheme.

You are lying in the spare room of Solène’s sister, Marie and her husband Jérôme’s cottage. Sharing the compact double bed, shoulders touching as you converse quietly. It must be after 2am. Benedict chivalrously insisted on taking the sofa downstairs despite being stuck on yours in Paris for the last few days.

“I still say we should find some forgers,” Eloise opines; you can hear the shrug in her tone. “You shouldn’t have to go through with a marriage to my brother just to escape.”

“It’s fine,” you placate, waving your hand dismissively, although likely unseen.

“What about Stanley?”

“I’m sure he will understand when I can eventually get home,” you fib.

There is a brief lapse into silence, and outside somewhere, an owl hoots.

“You know we may have to bribe someone to do this regardless, don’t you?” 

“What are you talking about?” you frown, turning your head to face her.

“There are rules about residency for French civil marriages, and you’ll need identification neither of you have with you, like birth certificates,” Eloise points out.

“Ohhh…” you stutter, feeling sheepish you didn’t even know that.

“Although… Jérôme is the mayor of Montivilliers…” Eloise offers thoughtfully. “And he is sleeping just through that wall…”

“He can marry us?” You’re unable to hide the excitement in your voice.

“If he’s willing to overlook a few things… yes… he could marry you in the Town Hall.”

Internally, you are celebrating even as you try to temper your excitement.

“Then, for my sake, let’s hope he is,” you answer, attempting to sound gravely concerned.

Eloise hums sleepily in response, and it’s your last words before she drops off. You lay awake for what seems like hours, staring up at the beam of moonglow on the whitewashed ceiling. A myriad fluttering in your stomach—a cautious optimism that this could work, a strange excitement at the thought of marrying Benedict, and a vague dread that your family could still be upset if it all works out. 

—

A light, dewy mist lingers in the garden outside the kitchen window as you sip coffee the following morning. A moment of solitary contemplation that has you considering a telegram to your family but deciding against it. Until you know if you can get out of the country, it seems pointless to make them more concerned than they already are.

“Dress shopping?” Eloise asks over a yawn as she plops into the seat next to you at the rustic wooden table in the kitchen, breaking your reverie. “For the wedding…” she adds when you frown nonplussed.

Oh.

“I, umm, was just going to use one I already have, to be honest. That off-white silk tea dress?”

Eloise cocks her head to the side in thought. “Hmm, that might just work - that can be your something old. I have a little faux fur stole you can wear to dress it up - something borrowed. I know you have some powder blue underwear, so we only need something new!” 

“You believe in that stuff?” you frown, taking a sip. It seems so anachronistic for her. You also decide not to ask how she knows about your underwear.

“I know it's not…” she leans in, likely worried about prying ears, mouthing the word ‘real’, before continuing at her regular volume, “...but best not to tempt fate,” she raises a pointed eyebrow, silently reminding you of what is at stake.

“Good point,” you concede as she gets up to grab some fruit.

“Your humble sage at your service,” she jests, taking a comedic bow. 

“But we still have to ask Jérôme…”

“Ask me what?” a genial, heavily accented booming voice rings out from the doorway.

“This one and my brother have gone and fallen in love,” Eloise explains, rolling her eyes. “The soppy idiots want to get married in France as soon as possible. I don't suppose you could help, could you? It would be their dream come true and so very romantic, non?” 

She appears to be piling on the theatrics, but you see that winning smile, the one she deploys whenever she manipulates an unsuspecting man to get her way. Sometimes, you swear it is almost too easy to navigate the world as an attractive Bridgerton.

“Pour vous, ma petit chou-fleur, peut-être…” he responds, an avuncular glint in his eye. It is evident from this interaction and the previous evening when you arrived that Marie and Jérôme have spent time with Eloise, likely in Paris with Solène.

“Merci Jérôme!” she celebrates, kissing his cheek as he affectionately chuckles. “Demain?” she adds cheekily.

“Mon dieu Eloise,” he exclaims as he grabs a croissant, “C'est très bientôt!”

You try to listen in as they rapid-fire converse in French, but you only follow along with every few words, maybe something about paperwork, but really, you are not sure. It mostly seems fond exasperation on Jérôme’s part, so you sit hopeful, just as Benedict wanders in.

“Ah, the other love bird!” Eloise cuts away from their chat. “I know you want to get married so quickly, but please do not make out too much in front of Jérôme!” she titters pointedly at Benedict, her eyes cutting from him to you.

Benedict seems to cotton on very quickly, and you startle as he leans down and brushes a featherlight kiss onto your cheek.

“Bon matin, mon amour,” he rumbles, his minty breath warm, causing goosebumps to break out over your arms.

“Morning, my love,” you whisper back stutteringly, the words almost tacky on your tongue, your mouth suddenly so dry. Your eyes meet, and it's the closest you have ever been, captivated by the tiny flecks of colour in his iris. He doesn't look away, and you seem unable. 

“Oh oui, je le vois, l'amour vrai… ” Jérôme mutters quietly across the room. “I will see what I can do,” he offers in English as you finally tear your eyes away, him giving you a nod before he takes his leave.

“Well done!” Eloise enthuses quietly with a big thumbs-up gesture once Jérôme has left the room. “Really convincing!” she adds before twirling out of the room with an apple jammed in her mouth.

“Sorry about that…” Benedict offers, a little flustered.

“No, please…” you can't think of anything else to say, almost tongue-tied as you replay his kiss on your cheek like a looping projector reel, wanting to add ‘do it again’, a tingle still lingering on your skin. 

There are a few beats of awkward silence where he seems on the precipice of saying something, but you are almost afraid to hear it, as if worried he wants to conjure an excuse to back out.

“I…I need to buy my something new!” you exclaim, jumping up and scurrying out of the room, leaving Benedict mildly perplexed about what that might even mean.

—

After a successful trip into Le Havre, where you and Eloise found your ‘something new’ - a pair of ivory Mary Janes that will complete your outfit - the day ends with Jérôme and Marie taking you all to a local restaurant. A delicious meal of many courses with flowing carafes of wine under the bright red canopy outside. It turns into one of those late nights with convivial conversation and bonding with strangers.

A band strikes up in the cobbled square, and after a few numbers, Jérôme drags Marie up to dance as the three of you cheer.

“Les tourtereaux!!” Jérôme exclaims after the song ends, gesturing for you and Benedict to join them on their makeshift dance floor.

“Non..non!” you protest, gesturing a no with your arms and laughing, a languid feeling in your bones from good food, drink and conversation.

But it appears he won't take no for an answer, and as Marie giggles and applauds, Jérôme marches over and grabs you both by the elbow, hauling you to your feet.

“Danse!” he commands.

You and Benedict exchange slightly nervous looks but emboldened by wine; then you gasp as a strong arm wraps around your back, and your other hand slides into his.

“Just go with it,” he breathes into your hair, and suddenly, you are spinning, the stars above you twinkling, as he leads you expertly in a swing dance.

“Mr Bridgerton, you can dance!” you exclaim in blithe amusement, clinging to him as you move together in a balletic union.

“As can you, Mrs Bridgerton!” he peels carefree.

Your heart jumps into your throat, and you lose your footing. Benedict has to grab hold and haul you back upright before you collapse onto the cobbles.

“Sorry…” he blusters, his arms still around you, “I…I wasn't thinking…”

“No, no. That will indeed be my name…” you stumble, almost as if that is only just occurring to you now. “I'm just getting used to it, that's all,” you lie, knowing that is not why you lost your footing. 

He seems to accept that with a nod, and after a beat, you begin to move again, tentatively, Until the wine takes over and you are once again both giggling and dancing, his arm a strong brace around your back as you move together for many minutes, a joy fizzing in your veins.

At one point, you glance over and see Eloise with an odd expression on her face before she orders a drink from the waiter, but Benedict whips you around, and you get lost in the dance and in him. The feel of him wrapped around you at once safe and exhilarating.

“Kiss!” comes the yell from Jérôme as the song ends.

“You know, he's not going to shut up until we do it,” you raise, a little breathless from the dancing.

Without you having to say anything else, Benedict’s hands grasp around your waist, and you are lifted off the ground, taller than him. Then he tilts his head up and captures your lips with his.

Time stops.

The feeling is like an explosion and a perfect calm silence all at once. His lips don't open, but they don't need to - even this gentle kiss is a soft, sensual plushness that obliterates all your thoughts. A lingering tang of wine on his slightly dampened lips that you want to lick off, a plunge of lust in your belly that has you fighting the urge to wrap your legs around his hips and open your mouth, demanding a real kiss.

His hands slide around your back in a gentle cage as he lowers you to your feet. What upends you is the breathtaking look in his eye when he finally pulls away, pupils blown, face soft and full of yearning. You could never tire of that look.

“Get a room!” Eloise yells, and there is an uncharitable tart edge to it that breaks the spell and makes you look over at her. She appears much more inebriated than she was before.

“Is she okay?” you ask, your hands still wrapped around Benedict’s biceps, warm through his shirt sleeves.

“I think she ordered absinthe, so maybe not,” he answers, and you feel a pang of sadness as he releases his hold and gestures gentlemanly for you to walk ahead, to return to the table, the moment lost.

Half an hour later, Benedict and Jérôme are on either side of Eloise, helping her back into the cottage, much worse for wear. They get her to the sofa, where she promptly passes out and begins to snore lightly. Marie covers her in a blanket, and you realise it's unlikely you will be able to move her tonight.

“Well, you two will have to share the bed. But do not worry, I shall not tell your families,” Jérôme winks. “I can’t say Marie and I were saints before our marriage,” he adds with a tap on his nose and an uproarious chuckle.

Your eyes dart to Benedict and his to you. Panic, excitement, and apprehension all bubbling up inside—a volcanic eruption in your gut. You trust him not to take advantage; it’s yourself you don't trust.

Jérôme wraps an arm around both of your shoulders, red wine heavy on his breath “Oui, I will marry you tomorrow, mes amis. I can overlook some rules for a true love like yours.”

With that, he takes his leave, with you and Benedict left looking uncomfortably at each other, unsure if you should celebrate. That feeling remains as he suggests you go up first and get ready for bed, and once you are nervously tucked under the covers as he enters from the bathroom, those broad shoulders framed with a white t-shirt and the same bottoms he wore in Paris when you watched him sleep.

“I really wish I'd packed a proper pyjama set,” he sighs ruefully as he approaches the other side of the bed and slips under the covers, seemingly arranging himself right at the far side.  “I'm also so sorry about Eloise landing us in this situation. I can't believe she was that irresponsible,” he adds with his back turned but an unmistakable tinge of irritation in his tone. 

Even then, it’s a small bed, and you can feel his body heat radiating under the covers.

“You don't have to cling to the edge,” you offer hesitantly, “we are to be married after all…”

The last words are a whisper that sounds almost wounded, and he twists over, a look of surprise crowding his features.

“I am merely being respectful...” he replies cautiously.

“I know…” it's barely audible, and you can’t look at him.

The overwhelming awkwardness makes your chest ache, your hands wringing together nervously under the covers. What feels like mere moments ago, you were swept into his arms, and he was kissing you as if your lives depended upon it. And now this… the juxtaposition of reality and the fairytale you both act so well draws a lump to your throat.

“This whole situation is so odd,” you confess quietly, unable to be anything but honest with him.

“I know… I'm so sorry it has come to this.” 

You have no idea if he means tonight, the marriage or even life in general, in a war that could come to your doorstep any day.

“I don’t regret anything,” you volunteer after a beat.

“Neither do I…” his earnest whisper makes something inside you crack open, your palm itching to squeeze his hand.

Instead, you exchange soft goodnights, and you lay stock still for a long time, backs towards each other, feeling at once too close and a million miles apart.

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[piscespetals]

summary: in which sevika becomes your roommate. read part three here

content: gay pinning, fluff, smut

work count: 7k

thanks for waiting! i hope you enjoy <3

Chapter Four

By the time Sevika returns, you’ve already showered, painted your nails and returned to bed.

Your body is in a lot of pain, which means that you have to take more time than usual to complete these tasks. It’s when you’re back under your duvet and taking some pain medication that you hear the apartment door open. 

There’s shuffling and multiple footsteps, surely from Monica and Sevika. So you crane your neck (which is surprisingly painful) in an attempt to hear them better. But you can't.

A few moments pass of quiet murmuring and then the pair of footsteps sound again. This time they pass by your bedroom. The apartment door opens and closes. And you hear the bolt slide shut.

Your find that your muscles begin to tremble from tensing so much, and your neck holds a dull ache from the way that you're lifting it off of the pillow. You exhale slowly, relaxing into the billows and soft cushioning that your bed provides. Everything will be okay. 

You know that Sevika is making her way towards you before it even happens. That pull within you…that incredible burn that won't seem to go away–No matter how much you will it to—only grows stronger. For her.

So when your door knob twists, and the wooden door creaks open, you expect it. She stands there before you, eyes rimmed red and puffy, sniffling quietly with hardened lines almost everywhere on her face. A frown—one simple expression that would probably scare others away—is what you notice the most. A telltale sign of her distress; the ultimate reason for your worry.

Silently, she walks into your room, boots clanking loudly against the floorboards. Her feet drag, as if her conversation with Monica has been the most exhausting activity of the day, despite it only being Noon. 

Your duvet not only keeps you warm, but keeps you from getting out of bed. It keeps you from going against your better judgment, and it listens to the ache of your strained muscles from the accident of the previous day. 

Sevika still remains in her coat, even though it’s considerably warm in your room. It doesn't seem like she’s given herself much time to get settled, with her boots still on as well as her coat, and her car keys being clutched tightly in her hand. 

She sits in your bed with careful consideration, even though the air around her stirs with unease. As if she’s afraid to break your bed—as if she’s afraid to startle you. 

Her grey irises watch you just as carefully. They hold the same glimmer as yesterday evening when you found her in the hospital waiting room; the same soul-crushing tenderness.

“Why?” You ask. You wince as you try to sit up against your headboard. That alarms her. “I’m okay,” You reassure. “I’m just…” You wince once more. “A little sore. Nothing the doctor didn't warn me about.”

“Did you take your medication?”

You nod, “A while ago.” 

You probably should've taken a heavier dosage, but you know that either way, you’d still feel a little pain. 

“Okay,” She nods, accepting your answer with furrowing brows. She swallows thickly, eyes leaving yours and darting towards the covers of your bed. They stay there as she remains deep in thought. You watch silently. 

“So,” She continues.

A small smile graces your lips. “So…” 

Her tongue darts out and brushes against her lower lip swiftly. You try not to follow the movement too closely, but you’d be silly to act like it doesn’t affect you.

“I broke up with her.”

You give her a small nod. “I heard.”

“She didn’t take it well.”

“I figured.”

Another lapse of silence filters into the conversation. 

“You can always talk to me, you know.” You continue to watch her, despite the fact that she’s currently avoiding your gaze. “Even if it may be a hard conversation…I just want you to be comfortable.” 

“Hmm.” Sevika seems to be far away–mentally.

You don’t know how to bring her back to the present. Back to you.

“Did you know–” Her voice breaks and eyes dart to you. “I was married at one point.”

Your mind swarms. Suddenly, you're pushed back to last week, when Mel accidentally revealed Sevika’s divorce to you. It was a shocking secret to be told. But you felt guilty being told such a thing. So you desperately tried to store it in a place in your brain where it would be easily forgettable.

Until now.

“What am I saying–Of course you know.” She mumbles. It’s quieter. Almost an afterthought. “Mel called me and explained that she had accidentally told you. At first, I was upset. But I realized that she told…you, of all people. You would understand. You always do.” She presses her left palm into the duvet, leaning nearly all of her weight on it. “So I waited for you.” Her eyes lift to yours. Your breath catches. “...To say something,” She rushes. Oh. Clearing her throat, “I waited for you to bring it up. But you never did.” She looks at you like she’s never seen you before, registering every detail of your face with a sense of wonder. “Why?” 

You look back with slight confusion because the answer feels obvious. At least for you it does. “When I find out information like that, I want it to be because you’ve told me. And if it hasn’t come from you, then it's not my place to know.”

“I would have told you–”

“Sev,” Your hand lands on hers. Her skin feels soft underneath yours. “I love learning new things about you because I know how you are. Opening up doesn’t come easy for you. But you’re not entitled to me. So I’m happy to experience whatever parts of yourself that you’re willing to share. And if that means that it takes you a while to tell me things like this,” You shrug, squeezing her hand. “Then it takes you a while. I’m okay with that. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, of course you aren’t. You’re bedridden.”

“Oh god.”

She laughs. 

Her hand twitches underneath yours, knuckles grazing the inner parts of your palm. “My wife and I were together for 12 years.” She starts again. “We got married young, and for a long while, things were good.” She peers out of your window, her brown study returning. “But we grew up–we changed. She wanted kids and a life outside of my parents house. She didn’t like that we had moved. She didn’t like the town. She missed the city. She missed our old way of things. And my parent’s death…Well, I’ve always believed that it was the beginning of our end. Our trajectory of life stopped coinciding. That made me angry. I had lost my parents. I had lost my current life; the comfort of routines and traditions that I had made. And now I was losing her too. That felt–” Her lips press into a thin line. “I don’t think I had ever felt so hollow before then.”

It’s almost as if the light that consistently hovers above her is now dimmed. You try to imagine a Sevika that isn’t full of life. 

A Sevika that doesn’t find even the tiniest bits of happiness in the most mundane activities. A joyless Sevika who doesn’t find humor in your cooking failures and embarrassing childhood stories. A Sevika who you do not know–who is so different from the one that sits before you today. It’s nearly unfathomable. 

“I tried to make things right but it just wasn’t working. Living in my parents house was too much. And even more so after the divorce. Too many memories. Too many emotions. The town…Well, there was a reason that I originally moved away from there in the first place. She had moved across the country anyways, and hadn’t looked back after our papers were finalized. I wanted a fresh start too. So I sold my parents' home, packed up and flew back here.”

Somehow, while she was talking, her fingers had become entwined with yours. For a moment, you believe that you feel her pulse. It’s racing. 

You feel boneless from the realization.

You want to open your mouth and ask her if she’s alright, but a part of you also doesn't want to push her too quickly. 

“When Mel and Alicia told me about you, that you were looking for a roommate,” She wets her lips again. “They had given me all these warnings about you. How particular you are about things. That you’re easily…perturbed. And slightly immature. And a bit odd.” 

You scoff, ready to object and fume at the thought of them doing such a thing. But she only regards you with a warm chuckle and smile.

“And,” She adds quickly. “I was a bit thrown off at first. But I also knew that there was a reason they were recommending you to me. And when I met you, it clicked. It just made sense. That feeling of being empty,” Her hands grip yours tighter. “It was gone the first time I saw you. And I’ve just become fuller and fuller and fuller everytime that I'm near you. Everytime that I breathe the same air as you–everyday that passes with you in my life. That's not…that's not normal. It wasn't my normal, at least.”

Something inside of you breaks. 

“And the fact that we were becoming friends, and that we lived together?” She continues. “It felt dangerous. Seeing you that much, being near you that much, and wanting to have more of that. While also not not wanting to ruin things…” You can tell that she’s struggling to vocalize her thoughts in a comprehensible manner. It almost feels as if she wants to say so many things at once. “Then I met Monica. And that was good. That was safer. Because she’s great, and I liked her, and she was familiar...You know? Being with her didn't make me want. It didn't fill me up, not like you…And I needed that. I needed…” Her words hang in the air as she tries to reach for a further grasp of her feelings. 

“God, am I making any sense?” She turns back to you, eyes completely blown out now. You’ve never seen her so desperate... She doesn't wait for you to answer. “But then I realized that I wasn't being fair to myself. That I couldn't keep restraining myself. And not to say that I was unhappy with Monica. But she wasn't you. It's you that pulls it out of me. That makes me feel. That annoys me like no other yet manages to weave yourself into the innermost parts of myself.”

For a few seconds, the world stops spinning. And you're just a person, who’s staring back at another beautiful person, feeling seen for the first time ever in your life.

Because she gets it.

Because it’s exactly how you’ve felt ever since she came barging into your life.

You want to speak, but your voice is trapped at the back of your throat. 

“I don’t expect for you to respond or for anything to change. It’s probably best that things don’t for now.” Her head is shaking, eyes downcast at your entwined hands. “I just wanted to explain it to you.”

And that’s what really cuts through to you. 

Sevika isn’t the type of person to be impulsive. In fact, there’s been multiple times when her constant state of contemplation has annoyed you. So this is particularly out of character for her; to break up with Monica out of nowhere and confess said feelings. 

You want to welcome it. But she’s right. This can’t happen. Not yet.  

You’re smacked again with the reality of today, and you feel as if you’re experiencing a kind of vertigo. Sevika senses it.

Gently, she stands to her feet, careful not to rock your bed unnecessarily.

“You should rest.” 

You don’t object. Instead, you nod, wanting to do nothing more than take a nap and hopefully wake up with a lighter weight on your shoulders. Fatigue floods you without warning. 

“Okay,” You mumble, allowing your body to snuggle deeper into the blankets.

It’s only when she’s halfway through the door threshold that she pauses, peering at you over her shoulder to say, “If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room.”

The reminder brings you more comfort than you realize. Enough comfort, in fact, that you finally let yourself drift off into a peaceful slumber.

“I’m just glad you weren’t seriously hurt,” Vander mumbles. His voice is muffled as he takes a bite of his steak. He sits in the seat across from you, mouth almost fully covered by the remarkable amount of facial hair he’s managed to grow since you last saw him. But his eyes speak a thousand words. They gleam with a hint of sorrow. And for a few seconds, you watch as they glide over to Sevika, growing even more delicate before returning to you. “You're the only one who laughs at my jokes.”

You smile, swirling your spoon through the contents of food left in your bowl. 

Your left leg is draped over your right, which is something that pained you to do a few days ago. You’re glad to finally be able to sit at the dinner table. The bruises from the airbag and seat belt are slowly beginning to heal. And for the first time in three days, you aren’t confined to your bed watching old reruns of The Nanny. The moment you were able to walk across your room without wincing too badly, you asked Sevika to invite Vander and Hazel over for lunch. It would be something to look forward to, since you have yet to be cleared for your return to work. Plus, you really like them.

“Because,” Hazel interjects. “Your jokes are terrible.”

“They’re a little outdated…” He rolls his eyes. “But they-”

“People like them because they’re entirely unfunny.” She continues. “It’s like seeing an ugly sweater and thinking, God. This is so fucking ugly…I love it.”

A belly laugh leaves you. The kind that nearly has you keeling over with a gummy smile. 

In doing so, your socked foot accidentally bumps into one of Sevika’s shins. She’s sitting beside you, eating her food quietly with annoyingly perfect table manners. Her cologne wafts towards you for a split second and it’s crisp. And spicy. And enticingly bitter-sweet.

Her chain necklace clashes against the silver pendant that is also hanging from her neck. And her palm settles onto your knee; fingers spreading firmly against the material of your leggings with incredible sensitivity.

“Sorry,” You mumble. 

“You’re good.” But her hand doesn’t retract its touch. Instead, her thumb works into the side of your leg, motions circular.  You don't think you've ever been so high off of a simple touch.

Even when she pulls away, your fingers hold your spoon with a death grip and your knee tingles.

Later on, when Hazel and Vander are long gone, a sense of comfort washes over you.

Seconds before Sevika begins to wash the dishes, she brings a chair into the kitchen for you to sit in. 

“That way, you can annoy me while I clean,” She mumbles, eyes downcast towards the sink. You know that it’s just an excuse for you two to be near each other. You don’t mind.

You observe her in the peaceful hush of the evening. She has an odd habit of insisting to wash the dishes herself, even though the dishwasher works perfectly fine. You usually don’t object, since Sevika always seems to take extra joy in domestic activities. But you don’t believe that you’ve fully appreciated it until now.

She stands over the sink with the sleeves of her flannel shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair has gotten longer, practically touching her shoulders now, and a few wispy strands get in the way of her face. She seems entirely pure right then–forehead creasing with effort and lips pursing in concentration. There’s only the sound of the running water and your racing heart. An emotion close to something deeply reverential fills you.

You’re wrapped up in one of her spare quilts that she’s given you. It smells like her. It feels like she couldn’t be any closer to you. And you feel silly for being so moved by a simple gesture. It shouldn’t feel so intimate. It shouldn’t mean so much to you. But it does.

She glances up at you briefly, almost to check as if you’re still there. And when your eyes lock, you tighten your hold on the quilt. She’s caught you staring.

But you don’t think you have the bandwidth to be able to say anything on the matter. 

Of course, Sevika has caught you staring at her countless times before.

But for some reason, this time holds meaning. It has weight, and it feels like solid ground has been placed underneath you. The two of you idle that way for a while. Sevika ignores the running water and her soapy hands. 

You’re reminded of the moment, days prior, when she sat on your bed and confessed the unfathomable to you:

I’ve just become fuller and fuller and fuller everytime that I'm near you.

That sentence rings through your brain so hard that you feel as if your skull rattles. 

It's not until you’re sure every one of your bones will break, when she looks away. She resumes her task of dish cleaning and you hover on your stool, struggling to find something more to say. 

Mel shivers besides you, wrapping one of your spare blankets around her tightly as she exhales loudly. The two of you are now outside, right in front of the apartment.

You stand much more still, wrapped in multiple layers and a scarf, and hands warm due to the mittens that Sevika gifted you a while back.

“Is it really necessary to wait for her out here?” Mel grumbles. “I’ll turn into ice soon.”

“She’s just a few minutes away.” You crane your neck to look at her levelly. “I told you to stay inside, Mel.”

“And let you wait out here in the dark by yourself?” She frowns, shivering once more.

The leaves rustle in the howling wind, and the night sky is so black that it almost looks dark blue in the moonlight. It’s getting to the time of year where sunsets are occurring sooner. Days are shortening and the weather is incredibly cold. Usually, you find this season a bit hard to enjoy. But Sevika does a good job of keeping the fireplace lit. She has a special recipe of soup that is always ready if you want some and she keeps the storage closet stocked with clean quilts in case you get cold at night. She looks after you more than you do yourself sometimes.

You’re starting to believe that this time of year isn't so bad after all.

“Do you always wait for her out here?” Mel asks. Her voice has grown quieter; tender. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye and you find that she’s gazing at you inquisitively. There’s something about this question that makes you want to shrink a little. 

You don’t have the courage to meet her gaze full-on.

“Only if she needs help carrying things.”

“And…she doesn’t mind?”

“I think it took her by surprise at first. She would insist that I stay inside and that she doesn’t need help. But, I would feel bad and still help. I guess now,” You shrug. “It’s just become…a thing.”

You feel like you’re being interrogated.

Sure, Mel has been over since she moved out. But you guess she’s never visited long enough to really see how you and Sevika live. 

It makes you feel anxious. Is there something bizarre about your livelihood now? It’s different from the routines that you and Mel had, but it’s not bad… right? Why does she keep grinning like that?

As if on cue, the blinding bright lights of Sevika’s vehicle appears. 

“Finally.” Mel grumbles.

You bite the inside of your cheek, suppressing a smile while the black truck grows near. You squint from the headlights, which Sevika turns off almost immediately. Then you’re walking towards the driver's door.

She grins, per usual, through the tinted window. Her full lips are stretched wide tonight, showing a breathtaking smile, as she opens the door and hops down with ease.

“You’re crazy.” She mutters. But her smile remains. “You didn’t have to wait out here in the cold. You’ll get sick.”

“I’m warm.”

“You’re sniffling.” She sends you a narrow glance as she opens the back door and reaches for her work bag. 

“Where’s the food?”

“On the other side. I figured I could grab i–” She pauses as you walk around the vehicle and open the passenger door. Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.

“You didn’t…”

“I was hoping to surprise you.” She calls. 

“You…” Coherent sentences fail to leave your lips as you reach for the oversized paper-brown bag sitting in the seat.

It’s from one of your favorite restaurants, a small shop that usually is open seasonally. You were waiting for it to re-open this year, and have been counting down the days to drive down and place your favorite order. It’s something that you’ve mentioned to Sevika only a few times, but you never thought she would be able to remember it. And with everything that has happened lately, you certainly hadn’t thought that she would go out of her way to find the place. 

The truck is too large for you to be able to see her face. So you grab the food and close the door, walking around the front of the truck to see her and Mel talking to each other quietly.

“You didn’t have to get this.” You say, hugging the food to your chest. It’s warm.

Mel whispers something to Sevika as the latter turns back to you. She looks cozy at that moment. Her trench coat is black and she’s wearing a creme beanie, which appears to be keeping her ears warm. You watch as she pushes her tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose and purses her lips. 

Her lips.

They look moisturized. There’s a slight gleam to them, a telltale sign that she’s applied more lip balm, and they seem puffier than normal. As if she’s been chewing on them...

She surveys you from head to toe, zeroing in on the mittens that you’re wearing before she hums underneath her breath. 

“I wanted to.” She replies.

Your chest constricts. Your eyelids flutter and a sigh escapes.

Mel clears her throat. “Can you two pause the flirting so we go inside? I’m freezing my ass off!"

She doesn’t wait for a response.

Instead, she snickers at the way your eyes widen before running past you and towards the apartment. 

You're bundled up wordlessly on the couch, cookies in hand as you watch Sevika bolt into the living room with a spatula.

Hazel cheers from the recliner, and Vander sits only a few feet away from you. He also stands to his feet, face reddening as his hands clench into fists. All three pairs of eyes are glued to the television screen, and your ears ring once more as your friends let out rounds of applause. 

“They're trying for another one?” Sevika asks, voice full of mirth. 

Vander doesn't break his gaze away from the screen when he answers, “They have enough time to do it. I wouldn't be surprised!”

It's another football Sunday.

You don't follow sports closely so you can't exactly say that you understand the intricacies of what they're talking about. But you can guess that their team is winning by the ridiculous grin on Sevika’s face. She’s supposed to be making lunch, but she keeps returning from the kitchen to get an update on the score. You think it's a funny sight to see, considering the fact that there's a television in the kitchen where she can watch the game. But it’s probably more enjoyable to be viewing it with everyone else.

“Who’s the goalie again?” You ask, hoping to get a reaction out of Sevika. She doesn't particularly enjoy when you fuck up the football terminology. The first few times it was accidental. Now you just do it because you know it'll get a rise out of her.

“Sweetheart…” She doesn't look at you, turning on her heels to walk back to the kitchen. Despite the pet name, you see the slight shake of her head, and there's also a buried layer of tightness in her voice.

It takes all of your strength to refrain from laughing. “It's only a question!”

“Do you not remember my answer from the last dozen times you’ve asked this?” Her voice reverberates off the kitchen walls and travels to where you are in the living room. Before you can reply, Hazel and Vander jump out of their seat again, this time screeching unbearably loud.

“That was a fucking foul!” Hazel’s eyes are deadly as they glare at the screen. Vander's jaw begins to grind.

You hear the sound of footsteps before Sevika appears again, this time with frazzled eyes and a towel draped over her shoulder. 

“What happened?”

You swing your leg at the very last minute, muscles tensing as your eyes widen towards the spill before you. “Shit!”

Then you’re laughing at yourself, nearly causing another spill from your piping hot mug of tea. 

“Oh god.” Mel grumbles but you can hear a smile in her tone. “What have you done now?”

Another giggle leaves you. “I can’t walk without spilling apparently.”

Within seconds, Mel is already wiping the tile floor with a clean towel. 

“Have I told you how much I love you?” You profess, making your way towards her sitting room. You’re visiting the house that she and Alicia have just recently purchased. It’s a bit ostentatious for your liking. But it’s everything that Mel deserves. A part of you even believes that she’ll forever deserve so much more–an entire kingdom of her own if she truly desires.

“Of course!” She croons. “Every time I help you with your messes.”

“....I wouldn’t say every time.”

Her hand slides to your lower back, guiding you towards the nearest piece of furniture. Even though the accident was a a few weeks ago, she still treats you as if you’re susceptible to breaking at any moment. It’s been a little suffocating. But you’re still grateful for her nonetheless. 

“Is that a new sweater?” She asks while you sit down. Your gaze falls to the crew neck that you’re wearing, a strong whiff of cologne filling your nostrils. 

“Oh. No.” You tug at the collar. “It's Sev’s.”

Silence looms in the air as you anxiously wait for her response. This is a new development. It's not often that you're walking around with Sevika's articles of clothing. 

But Mel’s response never comes. When you peer at her, she regards you with gentle eyes and lips that slowly curve. She says nothing more on the subject.

Instead, she hands you the bowl of fresh soup she’s just made. “It's hot. Be careful.”

Of course you don't listen and burn your tongue upon the first sip.

And, as always, Mel scolds you.

And then she helps you.

You’d be lying if you said that you weren’t stressed out.

Between handling the car repairs from the accident and updating the insurance claim, as well as the weird energy now circling you and Sevika—everything just seems to be a little too much right now.

The first mishap is when Sevika comes home from work to find you with both of your arms hanging in the air, and wax strips attached to your armpits. You usually like to pick up hobbies when you’re stressed out and you’ve always wanted to try waxing. But you hadn’t thoroughly watched the youtube video. So what was originally supposed to be an exciting new activity, quickly became anything but that. 

You had been pacing the living room, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to work up the courage to pull off the strip. That’s when Sevika unlocks the front door and walks through the threshold, bundled up in layers of clothing as a draft from the chilly evening is brought in with her. 

You halt your steps, eyes widening and nose still running.

She blinks back at you, just as bewildered, with lips forming into an 'O' and eyes trailing up and down your physique. “Is everything okay?”

That’s what causes the dam to break; your vision blurs and your chest rises with panic. Then you're crying, “I can’t rip it off!” Your arms raise again, flailing in the air ridiculously as you bring your armpits to the center of her attention.

Her eyebrows lift as realization dawns on her. “Oh,” Is that amusement? Slowly, her lips stretch into a small grin and her eyes begin to sparkle in a way that you usually adore. But not now. Not during an emergency! “Oh, sweetheart.” Her lips press against each other, a poor attempt to hide her mirth, as she kicks the door shut and locks it. Then she’s walking towards you, “Surely, it’s not that bad.”

“It’s awful!” Your eyes start to well again as you gesture towards your pits. 

She concedes, gazing at you with an annoying amount of warmth. “Okay, it’s awful.”

You can tell that she’s agreeing with you just to provide comfort. And you hate that it almost works. 

“I’ve waited too long, Sev. My skin will rip off!” 

She laughs.

Laughs!

You cry harder.

“You’re really,” She inhales deeply, trying to calm her chuckles. “...Quite the thespian.”

“Sevika!”

“Okay, okay. Here,” One of her hands press into the small of your back and guides you towards the nearby couch. “I’ll help. Just breathe.”

Your stress manifests itself in other ways, like when you start bringing home files from your job and reviewing them at night. It’s what you do to keep yourself busy—to keep yourself from hanging around Sevika like a lost puppy every night.

You can tell that she notices it. She stops by your room every once and a while to check on you, and when your replies are uncharacteristically short, she hovers. 

She doesn’t truly address it until the fifth night rolls around and you’re holed up in your room again, sitting on your bed with small mountains of paperwork around you. As always, she knocks on the door, you tell her to come in, and she pads into the room with a cup of tea and a snack for you.

When you peer up at her, you notice that she’s wearing one of those cotton t-shirts that always look heavenly on her. Sweatpants hang loosely from her hips, dipping just enough to where you catch a glimpse of her happy trail. And her v-lines are so deep that they’re practically etched into stone. You blink through clouds of brain fog, trying to will yourself to continue breathing. But it’s hard. 

“You should take a break,” She mumbles.

Pulling your eyes away from her, you move your paperwork aside, stretching out the sore muscles in your legs. “I’m not, like,” You blink once more. She smells so good. “Overwhelmed or anything.”

Carefully, she places the mug on your nightstand. You watch as her eyes remain downcast. Her hair is freshly washed, slightly damped and tucked behind her ears. The ends are a bit split now, resting ever-so-slightly against the tops of her broad shoulders.

“Here,” She holds out the small ceramic plate towards you. It has a couple of toasted butter croissants. One of your favorites. 

Nimbly, you take the plate. Without thinking, you pull your legs to your chest, “You can sit,” And your eyes travel to the spot in your bed where your feet once were. She appraises you for a few seconds, a habit of hers that you’ve grown accustomed to. However, at this moment, it’s difficult to not feel affected by it. It’s difficult to ignore the way that it makes you yearn for so many things. 

When she sits down, you notice that it’s much closer than you anticipated.

Then she mutters, “Are you avoiding me?” 

So much for beating around the bush.

Something about the way she cuts straight to the point–the way that her gaze has yet to leave you–makes your gut twist. You take this moment as an opportunity to shove a piece of croissant into your mouth. 

“Because if you are–” Her right palm presses into the duvet. It’s only inches away from your foot. “If it’s about what I told you last month, then we can just act like that never happened.” 

You swallow your mouthful of food, wincing slightly because you failed to chew it completely before doing so. When you glance back up at Sevika, you marvel at the swirl of her irises. She considers you seriously with bated breath. 

Then, that’s when you feel it; the sense of complete satisfaction. 

Because of her.

A part of you feels silly because how on earth could you run from this? And why would you ever want to avoid this? Avoid her?

There’s an element of stress that you’ve been feeling because this is all new. And it’s scary, and single handedly the reason why she broke up with Monica. But it’s also real and rare and, because of that, something that should absolutely be cherished. Not thrown away.

I’ve just become fuller and fuller and fuller everytime that I'm near you.

Over the course of this past month, those words have repeated so much in your mind that they’re practically tattooed onto your hippocampus. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, even during the shifts at your job. Even during the calls with your insurance company and the repair shop.

Sevika’s voice always manages to sit at the forefront.

The bed squeaks as she leans more weight onto her left hand, an action that allows her to shift closer to you. You rest your plate beside you on a pillow, croissants and hunger now discarded.

“We don’t have to forget it.” You find yourself saying. You think of the countless mornings that she makes you breakfast, and the times that she sits with you in the living room despite her lack of interest in the television programs you pick. You think of the evenings that you stand outside the apartment, waiting for her to arrive home from the store; how she always bears the heaviest grocery loads in spite of your objections. 

Shaking your head, you correct yourself. “I don’t want to forget it.”

Your mind travels to all the other moments that you’ve shared with Sevika. The notes that she leaves on the refrigerator, encouraging you to have a good day. And the spare blankets that she always washes for you; in case you become cold during the night.

Then there's the fact that she doesn’t become angry at your music playing in the late hours of the day. And her unwavering forgiveness after everything that happened with Monica; after all the times you’ve tested her patience.

“It’s just that this is so new,” You gesture to the small space between you and her. “And I don’t want to mess it up. And on top of that, I’m trying to navigate everything with the car wreck. It’s just... It’s hard.” Your breathing becomes uneven when you exhale. 

“I can help.” She shifts closer. The tips of her fingers nearly brush against your socked foot. 

“I can’t ask that of you. It’s my mess.”

“It can be my mess too.” Smiling, she dips her head to level her gaze. Her breath wafts towards you and it smells of peppermint. “I don’t mind.”

“But–”

“It’s not a problem at all for me. Nothing about you is.”

She doesn’t quite touch you, but you don’t know if what she’s doing is much different. With her sitting so close…you’re not sure if it truly matters. You can still feel the heat of her skin radiating off of her, as well as the warmth of her piercing stare. She watches you with eyes that could work out every kink in your body upon a single glance.

“You’re already giving me rides to and from work,” You begin. This is your last try—your final effort to keep her at arms length. “It’s too kind of you, Sev.”

Sevika’s always been the polite one out of you two—that’s not a secret. And it’s even been joked about a few times by Mel. 

“Why don’t you want me to be here for you?” Her head tilts as she asks this.

You blink, almost perplexed, “Well there has to be an expiration date at some point, right?”

Her response is slow. “...I’m not following.”

“For you to always be so acquiescent,” You rub your palms against the top of your thighs. “Even when I have nothing to give you in return. It doesn't make sense. There has to be a point where you won't feel so obliged anymore. An expiration date—” Your rambling halts when her hand wraps around your ankle. Gently, she presses her thumb against the base of your shin, then she works into your skin. A delicate massage. 

Slowly, she tugs. You allow your leg to be pulled towards her. Pretty soon, your other leg follows and she readjusts herself, so that the back of your thighs are almost resting on her lap. She's close. Really close.

Even though your heart is racing, out of mere instinct your hands stretch towards her.

“An expiration date will happen at some point and you won't want this. You won't want…me. And that's okay. Really. It’s—”

“Not possible.” When she smiles, you fall apart. It's the worst kind of heartbreak; the kind that’s painstakingly beautiful.

One of her hands continue to drape over your thighs, holding you in her lap as if you’re something to revere. Her other hand settles on top of your restless fingers, which happen to be kneading the hem of her shirt. She halts your fidgeting with a small squeeze.  

“That’s not possible,” She echoes, this time a little quieter. 

Her pupils are dilated with a fixed gaze, zeroing in on your nose. Then your lips. Oh.

As time passes, you try to swallow but you can't. 

Out of complete desire, you reach up and allow your fingertips to brush against the warmth of her skin. She watches you cautiously, almost alarmed, because you’ve never done anything like this before. Your knuckles graze alongside the sharpness of her cheekbones. With bated breath, she waits. Waits and waits and waits while you feel every inch of her skin.

It's unknown territory that you've stepped into. Yet it feels entirely natural all the same.

Your lips part when she leans in, and another cloud of her scent wafts around you. It soothes you and that fullness inside of you peaks to the highest of heights. It bursts, creating an impactful explosion—so much so that you can no longer hold yourself back. 

You swallow, finally, and lean forward too. It feels like too much time has passed when you close the distance. Her breathing stutters, eyes remaining on your lips before they flutter shut within the millisecond that she meets you.

Then, all at once, you feel your skin buzz. You hear the soaring of your heart when it shoots high up into the sky. You taste the sweetness of her lips and the warmth of her breath. It's good. Too good. 

When she moans, the sound vibrates into you. It zooms past the thudding of your heart, through the walls of your veins and soles of your feet. Your body reacts and you angle closer to her immediately. 

She pulls you into her lap with ease. Because that's how it always is with Sevika: easy. Kissing her is innate and you start to question how you’ve denied yourself such a privilege all this time. 

Sevika with her soft skin and shining grey eyes and warm smiles. This is her in front of you, kissing you back and accepting all that you're giving her without question. Without hesitation. 

This is real.

You press into her again as your arms lock around her shoulders. Another moan leaves her.

This is definitely real.

It's not until your pulling away for air when you allow your eyes to open.

The room is practically spinning. Oh god.

She nips at your neck while her hands find solace underneath your shirt. Her palms are flat against your lower back and fingers spread. And when something soft escapes your throat, her lips curve into a smile. She helps you sink lower into her lap—you're practically humping her now—with a grip that is both heady and encouraging.

“You can have me,” She says, her breath hot against your skin. 

You blink slowly, scrambling to keep up with the sound of her voice. 

You're slow to reply, so she pulls you two apart, just so that she can look directly at you. Her forefinger brushes against the tip of your chin, eyes locking with yours, and expression full of intent.

“Anything you want,” She mutters. It's hard to not become distracted by her lips; they're puffier than usual from the kissing. “Just say the words and I’ll give it to you.”

You're not sure why it happens at this exact moment, but your muscles lock up. Your vision starts to blur as you peer at her with swimming orbs, hands gripping her shoulders shakily.

Shit. You're definitely in too deep now...

"That's dangerous.”

She watches you for a few moments longer. Then, “How so?”

“Because I’ll want all of you.” A tear trickles down your cheek. Your cards are now laid out on the table. 

“Then have all of me.” 

Your hand curls around the back of her neck when she kisses your cheek—right where your tear is. 

“Just take it. All of it,” She whispers. Another kiss, this time it lingers longer. “I'm yours to have anyways.”

That breaks you. Truly breaks you. 

It’s hard to wrap your brain around how serious she is. But you start to believe her when her fingers push into you for the first time, eliciting a whimper from your lips. And as her fingers reach deeper and deeper, she swallows every sound you make with visceral pleasure. It satisfies her beyond anything famothable, to work into you and watch you unfold before her. Knowing that such a thing pleases her is what drives you mad.

It’s what has you crying please, please, please when she thrusts into you, watching you thank whatever God can hear you.  

Then she begins to tell you that you can let go, and that you’re doing so good. 

Because, you're really fucking special, and she wants you to know that. To feel that. 

Because she needs you to know that. She needs this and she needs you. She will never stop needing you.

Because, God, you're so fucking perfect. 

And when you’re cresting with tears rolling down your cheeks, blubbering about her having your heart and that she’s it for you—because you're certain there’ll never be anyone else—

She’s nodding, starry eyed and wanting, whispering, IknowIknowIknow as each thrust is fucked into you with delicious fervor.

Because, you're it for her too.

And she doesn't mind helping you realize that. Even if you demand that she drills it into you for the rest of the night.

#piscespetals writing #au writing #sevika #sevika x reader #arcane au #fanfic #arcane netflix #fluff #arcane women #smut is always a challenge for me to write but here's my rendition of it i suppose #there'll be more of in the chapter five #roommate!sevika #sevika writing #sevika pls marry me

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: Oh god the FLUFF

Notes: I did this one a little different, I tried sort of a true dual POV and it’s got me fucked up y’all-goddamn. Don’t ask me where the fuck this came from because I have no thoughts, head fucking empty. I just - I can’t, just read it.

Word Count: 1287

Series Masterlist

• March 28th, 2006 • Forks HS •

Reader

I give up.

Striding from my locker, I interrupt Jasper and his conversation with Alice, pushing him towards the familiar small alcove below the stairs.

I breathe heavily, working up the nerve to ask him what’s been on my mind for an ungodly amount of time. Fuck me, I just miss him so damn much.

“Can I kiss you?” I’m weak, weak for needing him so badly after such a short amount of time, I can’t even look anywhere else than the middle of his chest as I make my request.

He surges forward after a heavy beat of silence once I finish my question, he cages me against the wall, “Be mine.”

His words snatch the oxygen from my body, I glance up to his eyes, “What?”

“Come over this weekend,” his gaze is intense - staring into my very soul, “Let me apologize for the last six months. Give me a shot, darlin’.”

“Okay-” I don’t even finish my answer before he moves to grant my wish.

Oh god.

His lips lay themselves upon mine and I swear time stops. It’s a cliche, but everything else in my life no longer exists aside from his lips on mine. Cold and firm, but gentle and steady. A perfect match, non-dominating or in a hurry, but taking his time. As if he were memorizing the pressure, the taste, the way my own lips moved against his.

As if he were coaxing my soul out into the open, to bask in the warm sun that is his love.

Our mouths slotted perfectly together, familiar, the way my body clicked with his. My arms wind themselves around his neck and he kisses me deeper, more - I need more. Two magnets drawn together, two pieces of torn cloth restitched to be whole again, two halves meant to find their place in each other. I move, tilting my head and he responds in kind, an equal in every way despite our differing mortality.

I almost didn’t get this. This-this summation of feelings and butterflies an-and everything between us that’s built up. The lead weight in my stomach from this realization threatens to yank me from the cloud nine his kiss firmly perched me on.

Tears, fat and heavy roll down my cheeks as I grip his shirt desperately and he pulls away just far enough to inspect my face.

“Why are you crying, sweet girl?”

“I never… I never thought I’d get the chance…” My eyes remain closed, unable to meet his gaze.

“To what?” I can hear the crinkle in his brow just from his voice.

“To kiss you again.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath and I know my words cut deep.

I open my eyes, “You left me and it’s all I’ve ever thought about. I-I-”

“Darlin’,” his turn for his eyes to flutter closed, “I’ve regretted every day since that night. I regret my lapse in control, I regret not having a better grip on myself, to handle these urges.”

“Can you?” My lips ghost over his as I whisper my question, the addiction having taken root. “Can you handle it now?”

A shuddering breath exits his mouth and his eyes snap open, a rare display of my effect on the vampire. “No.”

The answer zaps through me, but he stops me before I could pull away. “No? Jasper-“

“You-I-“ a growl pushes to the surface, giving away his flustered state. “I can’t fucking think for god’s sake.”

Jasper

Fuck me, her mouth is pure sin.

I could lose myself in those lips and never care about resurfacing ever again. Everything she does, from how she tilts her chin to welcome me further, to how her body yields to mine and forms against me, it’s heaven. The burning in my throat is secondary to the pure bliss her kiss envelopes me with.

Not to mention her fucking emotions.

Need, happiness, hunger, relief, contentment. They just keep coming, one after the other and I swear it inflates my chest with a happiness of my own, like a thousand butterflies trapped inside the cage of my ribs.

Love.

It feels like two ribbons entwining, dancing in sync, twisting in ways that create a beautiful tangled mess not soon to be unwound.

Love?

This one is different, I’ve felt love before - it’s shines from Esme’s face on a daily basis, it seeps from the smile lines around Carlisle’s mouth, and it passes through me with every one of Emmett’s hugs. But this? This love? This love is flowing straight from her heart into mine, breathing life into something long cold and dead. This love is meant only for me, only to be shared between mates, this kind of love is meant to be secreted away and only examined in moments of vulnerability between two like souls.

I love her and she loves me.

The thought rocks me to my core and I cup the back of her head as she leans back a little, allowing me to deepen the kiss.

A wetness begins to trickle down her cheeks and it startles me from the trance of her delicious mouth, tears?

I pull back far enough to catch the tear tracks from her tightly closed lids, “Why are you crying, sweet girl?”

“I never… I never thought I’d get the chance…” She trails off, still hiding those gorgeous eyes from me.

“To what?” I furrow my brow, not quite following.

“To kiss you again.”

I inhale quickly to try and soften the blow her words deal straight to my chest. She’s yearned for this moment for months, just like I have.

She finally opens her eyes, “You left me and it’s all I’ve ever thought about. I-I-”

“Darlin’,” it’s my turn for my eyes to flutter closed, “I’ve regretted every day since that night. I regret my lapse in control, I regret not having a better grip on myself, to handle these urges.”

“Can you?” Her lips ghost over my own as she whispers her question, stealing the very thoughts from my brain. “Can you handle it now?”

I exhale a shuddering breath before my eyes snap open, “No.”

“No? Jasper-“

“You-I-“ a growl erupts before I could stop it, frustration at my own thoughts bubbling up. “I can’t fucking think for god’s sake.”

Will this girl ever learn that she controls me? That I bend to her? She has me wrapped securely around her delicate little pinky and she has no idea.

“I need to hunt before this weekend, but I will pick you up Saturday morning at your house.” I promise her, my nose gently rubbing against hers in a soothing motion.

“Okay.” Her breathless reply damn-near brings me to my knees.

“Darlin’?” I question her, slightly amused.

“Hmm?” Her eyes are closed, her emotions are just emanating absolute bliss.

“We still have half a school day to get through.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, her or myself.

“I’m not sure you can convince me to go.” Fuck.

“Darlin’, you gotta help me out here.” I scratch the base of her skull lightly to get her attention and it was definitely the wrong thing to do, her grip tightens on my shirt and her bliss burns a little heavier, almost suffocating me.

“Now why would I do that when I could just kiss you again?” Her eyes crack open, but I’m already in motion.

How could I argue with logic like that? My lips are on hers again before that beautiful pink mouth could part even a fraction.

Love, oh I could get used to this.

Next

Taglist Part 1:

@aoi-targaryen @min-jianhyung @pbbsl @timelordhunterandmysterysolver @sheerangermany @clearwater-hoe @Blackbluerose666 @ivy-plays @random-human02 @delightfulbluebirdstarlight @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @gaymazinglula @l3ejm @angelfuzzy2 @losa12308 @thekinkpopstandsforkrackheads @flyawayprincess @ropickle @catbusloki @deviat3dsn0wf0x @lovesanimals0000 @unrevived @h-naec @cutesnakemum @zudooms @itsmytimetoodream @stinkii-boii @acoolnight @anothercoffeeblogx @irishblend10 @from-now-on-im-switzerland @kyraslife2 @naolvshan @kiiwiigii @rosedpetal @kiaraandrea @foolsgoldxo @heartfilia01 @azuredgalaxies @geekysimmerthings @graciereads @ramen-girl-2424 @0hmydekiru @creeqvealley @cherriebat @whichwitchisthebitch @dragon-rider-with-a-book @secretfairytailpetscookie @psychobitchsthings

#jasper hale x reader #jasper hale fanfiction #redamancy series #jasper hale x female!reader #twilight fanfiction #jasper whitlock hale #bless-my-demons #twilight #jasper hale #female reader insert

[amywritesthings]

SEEING YOU, SEEING ME (4/7)

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Summary: After handling a life-or-death favor for Tess, you're in deep shit. Until she can make things right, she suggests you lay low at her place for the week. The issue? It's also Joel Miller's place, and you're pretty sure he hates you.

Warnings: 18+! No Minors! Pre-TLOU, One Bed Trope, Masturbation, Sexual Tension, Manhandling, Light sadism, Touch Starved!Joel, Mentions of death and violence, Age gap/difference, Slow burn, Semi-Enemies to Fuckers, Alcoholism

( Read on AO3 )

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter | Masterlist

CHAPTER 4: CAN'T QUIT YOU, BABY

Joel has been gone for hours.

You’ve laid in his bed this entire time, thinking.

You shouldn’t; this new world can’t afford daydreaming, that much you’ve learned the hard way. Breathing, eating, surviving — those are the only important pieces of the puzzle they call enduring, but you can’t find a reason to want to eat right now and the image marinating in your head is making it a little tough to breathe.

Because you can’t stop thinking about him. Joel, Joel fucking Miller, and the way he stared down at your lips in plain sight. The way you witnessed a momentary lapse of judgment in real time, making him just as human as you. The way his fist curled white-knuckle tight when you toed the line of a conversation better suited past midnight.

You came here forty-something hours ago thinking Joel Miller hated you.

He may be disinterested or, God forbid, indifferent, but he doesn’t hate you.

You’re now not sure what is worse.

Because you certainly don’t hate him.

The opposite — you smell him on these sheets, these pillow cases, and if you shut your eyes hard enough, then you can see him: Joel staring from the other end of the table — staring at you — like he’s seen you this whole time.

Before you’ve realized, your fingers have unbuttoned your worn denim jeans and found their way slipping under the waistband, seeking relief.

You shouldn’t, but you can’t help it.

You shouldn’t, but it’ll be quick.

(You’re already halfway there.)

The second your fingers touch your clit, an audible gasp leaves your mouth. Electric; you waste no time getting to it, circles tight and deliberate. Brutal.

Exactly how you think he’d do it if he were here, staring down at you, wanting to take everything from you and then some. He’d be merciless, accepting nothing less than driving you past the point of pleasure and pain.

Maybe he’d hold you down.

Maybe he’d put his hand over your neck.

(Maybe I can make you feel alive, darlin’.)

The imaginary baritone voice in your head causes the orgasm to crash like the wave of a cresting hurricane, and your back involuntarily arches off the mattress. The world — the quarantine zone, the apocalypse, the end of times — disappears in a blissful blank space.

A space filled with the scent of him where you can drown.

It feels like minutes pass where you linger in the aftermath, muscles melting the stress of the week away.

Click.

And just like that, the bliss is gone as the front door of the apartment swings open.

Ripping your hand from your jeans, you scramble to sit at the head of the bed and out of view. Joel’s heavy boots glide through the threshold of the house, locking the door behind him.

“You still in bed?” he muses, calling from the living room.

You frantically re-button your pants, struggling to find your voice.

“Hey!” you call, uncharacteristically chipper and out of breath. “Hi, sorry, I took a nap.”

By the time you’re fussing with your mangled hair, Joel’s already in view. He leans forward against the divider, watching you, forearm raised over his head and pressed into the trim. His other hand finds its way to his hip.

“A nap?” he repeats with a hint of surprise.

“Can’t really afford them most days,” you reply, belated glancing up at him. “I thought rather than snooping, it might be productive to get some shut eye.”

He considers it for a beat, nodding to himself before raising a brow: sure, whatever. Joel’s hand gently opens and taps at the wall.

“Gonna make some dinner in a bit if you’re interested.”

“It’s already dinnertime?”

That raised brow drops to knit with the other. “How long were you out? Sounds like one hell of a nap.”

The guilt pools in the pit of your stomach.

“I’d love dinner,” you swerve, nodding eagerly. “Thank you.”

Joel lingers, thinking about something he isn’t saying out loud, and taps his fingers one final time. That hand pushes him from the wall and towards the kitchen where he begins prepping for dinner, leaving you still in his bed.

Eventually you leave the mattress to join him in the conjoined kitchen and living room.

For most of the night, you say nothing.

Waiting.

For food, for nightfall, for another day where Tess isn’t coming home and you’re stuck with these parasitic thoughts of the older man generous enough to share his food.

Now it isn’t just the dim light that he’s attractive in: it’s every fucking angle, every goddamn sound, every single movement.

(So this is what it’s like to feel.)

Dinner is relatively silent. The scrape of forks to ceramic fill the apartment once again, and he’s already positioned his glass container of whiskey in the center of the table.

Something of a nightly ritual for the smuggler.

He’s already working on his second glass, as are you. The combination of surviving on little food and the haze of the alcohol brings an idea to mind. 

“Does the radio work?” you ask out of nowhere, surprising yourself with the intrusive thought out loud.

Joel, nearly finished with his rationed portion, looks up with suspicion.

“The radio?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you answer dumbly. “For music. Jeanine in the south quadrant has a radio station.”

“Does she?”

“You didn’t know that?” 

“You think I talk to Jeanine in the south quadrant?”

“Fair point,” you reply. “But yeah. She’s figured out the whole radio thing and I thought… since you had music the first night I got here—”

“Sure.”

Your voice dies on your tongue with Joel’s flippant agreement.

(You expected a flat-out no.)

Sliding out of your dining table chair, you cross the room and pointedly avoid the Top 100 book still sitting where you last left it. Crouching over the fragile relic of a box, you meddle with the dials for a few minutes until a familiar voice croons from the station.

It’s Led Zeppelin’s I Can’t Quit You, Baby clear over the radio waves.

Right at the beginning, too, bringing a large smile to your face.

“Fuck, I missed this song.”

It’s under his breath, but there’s a chuckle from Joel somewhere in the middle of the room.

“Have you ever heard of Led Zeppelin?” you ask over your shoulder.

“Have I ever heard—” The audacity of the baited question switches up his typical monotone approach. “Kid, I grew up listening to this. Don’t talk to me about Zeppelin like I don’t know ‘em.”

“So did I,” you supply in a sing-song, standing up straight. “See? Not so different.”

Joel sours, crossing his arms over his chest. You turn to face him, slowly moving your shoulders to the beat of the bass. “I’m sure you never saw them play live, though.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Final tour of ‘77. I was eleven.”

“Shut up.”

“I did. They came to Houston.”

“Shit, you really are old,” you tease, scrunching your nose as you sway. You're met with a large roll of his eyes in return. “You're lucky. I never got to go to a concert before all this.”

“Damn shame.”

“I know,” you agree, "but I’ve seen photographs in books. Richie Thompson, you know him?”

“Sure.”

“He was somehow able to keep old photographs he took twenty years ago at a… festival? He showed me them a few years back. They were sick.”

“I can only imagine.” Joel’s scowl returns slowly as the sway of your shoulders begin to influence the rest of your body. Your torso twists with them, slowed in your impromptu dance as your head moves in time to the guitar solo. The older man clears his throat. “What’re you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you repeat, raising your hands with your pointer fingers up. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Don’t know,” he bluntly responds. “S’why I asked.”

“Pretty sure it’s called dancing, Miller.”

“Dancing?”

“Yeah.” You curl your fingers, one then the other, to the rhythm and make small steps towards the sitting man. “Danc-ing. Oughta try it sometime.”

“I don’t— Wait.”

Yeah.

You should wait.

Because your hand has found its way playfully to the shoulder of his denim shirt, suggesting he stand with you. You begin to crouch towards him, grinning ear to ear. Your hips wiggle behind you as you bend closer to him with tipsy abandon, and Joel’s eyes dart from your face to behind your ear.

The chair scrapes in a screech against the floor.

Joel stands tall, assertive, and drags you into him by your right elbow.

“Stop.”

You freeze in your sway at the growl in his voice.

The flat of his palm curls around your waist, forcibly keeping you close. He steps a boot into the space between your feet.

Suddenly Joel Miller is crowding you, hovering there, and you lose your breath.

“Did I do something?” you ask despite yourself, but you don’t recognize your voice. It’s small, needy, and it flickers an emotion across the tired lines of his face. In this proximity, the warmth of him radiates through his denim shirt. “I’m sor—”

When you lift your chin to meet his eyes, your head juts back to avoid going nose to nose with him. From here you see every single tired line, every single scar, every twitch in his face. Joel is on top of you, zero to sixty, and hasn’t moved yet.

Fuck.

You eyes round at the implication, but Joel doesn’t notice.

Not when he’s too busy staring at your lips.

And it stays that way for a minute.

“I can’t do this.”

He finally speaks, but he doesn’t move away. From beneath him, you can taste the whiskey on his breath.

“Okay,” you agree with an unconvincing nod.

(Do what? is a question you won’t ask.)

Joel’s hand squeezes your waist with purpose, jolting your body as he lulls in closer. 

“Had too much to drink.”

You nod again, but say nothing to his statement. Wouldn't dare; not when he's so close that you'll brush his lips if you try.

(He’s barely touched his second drink.)

The hand at your waist and the combination of his forward foot push you sidelong, a half-hearted sway, then directly backwards — a second step, a third — until you're both walking past the threshold of the living room of this open-space apartment—

Right into the makeshift bedroom.

Joel takes the lead with hesitant precision and you allow him, heart pounding in your ears.

Then the possessive hand on your waist twists and pushes, abruptly spinning you around. Your hands collide with something cold, flat, to steady your legs.

The wall.

The only divider skewing the view of the bedroom from the front door.

Joel is warm and solid behind you, broad chest pressing you into the flower-scattered wallpaper with purpose. You glide your cheek against the wall where the paper chips and ebbs on your lips, nose, until it presses to your forehead.

His large hands raise to encase yours, pinning your palms to the surface.

“M’not a good man,” he admits against the shell of your earlobe, and you want to outright moan. From this proximity, the baritone southern drawl vibrates through your head and shoots straight down. “I’ve done things—”

“Everyone’s done things,” you tell him weakly, cutting off his confession.

“Not like me,” he assures, hawkish nose nuzzling the hair at the nape of your neck.

You lean back, using both pressed palms as leverage to arch your hips into the crotch of his jeans. The strained sound that falls from his lips is deliciously sinful.

Only a thread away from snapping.

Your head drops back to his shoulder just enough to breathe to the ceiling. His salt and pepper beard tickles your skin. “You don't scare me, Miller.”

“I should.” His lips hover along your neck, tickling with ever labored breath. “Ain't got nothing to lose at my age, but you—”

Of course.

Of course this is what it boils down to.

Anger bubbles in your belly, twisting the arousal. Joel’s grip on your hands loosen, offering an opportunity to counterstrike: you rip them from the wall, left then right, and spin before he can stop you — and he does try, yet it's too late by the time he slams you back into the wall, now face to face. Your hands find their way to the pockets of his denim button-down, angling a forearm barrier between you.

The way Joel Miller’s eyes have blackened since you last saw them is downright wicked.

You blow some hair from your flushed face, chest rising and falling with anger. 

“Is that the only thing stopping you? Huh? Because you're a lost cause at your big age?" When he doesn’t answer, you crane your neck to hiss closer to his face in a mockery of his drawl. “I've done heinous shit. You still got your whole life ahead of you. You could settle down while the world's ending and be as fucking ignorant as the rest—”

"Hey."

His hands, now finding purchase on your shoulders, push you harder into the wall as he growls in return.

“Watch. It.”

You’ve kicked the hornet’s nest.

And in the moment, you can’t find a single fuck to give.

“I may not be a year away from earning an A-A-R-fucking-P card like your mopey ass, but I’m not untouchable, Joel.” The lines of his face smooth at the sound of his first name. “I'm not some fragile thing wearing white. And I sure as fuck don’t need someone to tell me what I have to lose, so quit acting like you're saving me.”

The pressure remains, but the smuggler stays perfectly still. His nostrils flare with every inhale. You rest the back of your head against the wall, allowing the light from the open window to illuminate the bottom half of your face.

“Whatever it is you think I deserve? It isn't what I want. I see you, Joel, and you see me.”

Joel studies your face in what little light remains, Adam’s apple bobbing with apprehension.

Then his left hand leaves your shoulder, seizing your jaw mercilessly in his hand with his fingers. You make a noise, small yet audible, and have no choice but to obey when he drags your gaze higher to his face.

“Don’t ask for things you don’t understand,” he warns, low and venomous. “I say you’re young ‘cus you are. I had my time to date. Hell, I had my time to divorce. Been way past that puppy dog shit. Nothing about this would be soft—”

“I don’t care.”

“—or kind—”

“I don’t care.”

“—or real,” he emphasizes by squeezing your face to the point where he could bruise. You wince, standing on the toe of your boots to accommodate the pain. “I ain’t like that anymore. So when I say you don't want this, m'telling you because you deserve better. More. Not something... hollow or broken. Because when I touch something, it always—”

He catches himself there, realizing the emotion bubbling in the back of his throat before it can rise. He lets go like your skin has burned him, backing away by a full foot. 

You stay pressed to the wall, watching with a wide gaze of regret and longing.

(You didn’t mean to push him, just like he didn’t mean to make your jaw sore.)

Joel runs a hand down his face, fighting to get a grip on reality between several blinks. He turns to make his way around the wall, but you see it: the way the same hand drops to adjust himself in his jeans.

You want to follow him and drop to your knees and—

“Go to bed.”

Joel breaks the fantasy before it can start with a growl of a demand, back turned to you.

“Go to bed. Don’t come out here. Just forget about this.”

“Joel—”

“I ain’t askin’ you, girl.”

He barks over his shoulder, scowl flaring his nostrils. The yell makes you jump, but you listen: step by step you venture backwards, away from the wall you once found yourself pinned against until your boots hit the edge of the mattress.

After a moment, the crooning radio flickers to silence.

You hear the couch creak with the weight of him when he flops down onto it.

He doesn’t say goodnight.

Author's Note: How are we feeling, Joel Nation? I hope his manhandling wasn't too jarring. Since this is pre-TLOU, I imagine Joel is very touch starved/averse, so it made sense to me to write him as such.

As always, reblogs/comments are everything. Thank you so much for all of the support on this little story! ILU all.

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou #tlou spoilers #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #fanfiction #joel miller imagine #wip #pedro pascal #amywritesthings #seeing you seeing me

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

Mommy's Baby Girl

pairing: Fanon!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Female OC

summary: Alicent can go to hell, Donna was Rhaenyra's baby girl.

Word count: 2,1K

Warnings: Smut, strap on, mommy kink, overstimulation

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

Donna sat alone in the dimly lit living room, her thoughts drifting like wayward whispers through her mind. The soft glow of the moonlight bathed her in an ethereal embrace, casting shadows that danced in harmony with the turmoil in her heart. It had been weeks since the family reunion, but the memory still lingered, heavy and haunting.

She couldn’t escape the nagging regret that gnawed at her from within. Her relationship with Rhaenyra Targaryen, the love of her life, was supposed to be a sanctuary of trust and affection. But the events of that weekend had planted a seed of doubt—a poison ivy of jealousy—that threatened to choke their love.

Donna’s gaze fixed on a framed photograph on the wall, a cherished snapshot of her and Rhaenyra on a sunny day at the beach. They were smiling, their eyes locked in a gaze that spoke of a deep, unspoken connection. Donna’s heart ached as she wondered if that connection had been strained, if their love was faltering. Then she decided to move to the bedroom, she was tired already from working all day.

The memory of the family reunion was a vivid one. It had been an occasion filled with laughter and reunions with distant relatives she had barely known. Yet, there was one distant relative, Alicent Hightower, who had captured her attention.

Alicent was charismatic, with a quick wit that drew people in like a moth to a flame. Donna had found herself gravitating toward her, engaging in conversations that stretched into the late hours of the night. It had all been so innocent, just family bonding, Donna told herself.

But as she lay there in the quiet of the night, she couldn’t shake the guilt that had burrowed into her soul. She remembered how Rhaenyra’s eyes had betrayed a flicker of unease when she had joined yet another conversation with Alicent at the reunion. It had been just a glance, a fleeting expression, but Donna had caught it.

She turned her head to the side, facing the empty space beside her in the bed. It had once been filled by Rhaenyra’s warmth, their entwined bodies finding solace in each other’s arms. But lately, that space remained vacant more often than not, as Rhaenyra withdrew into her own world.

Donna sighed, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she had unwittingly sown the seeds of jealousy in Rhaenyra’s heart. She wished she could turn back time and erase the hours spent with Alicent, the laughter shared, and the lingering glances that should have been meant only for Rhaenyra.

As the days turned into weeks, Donna’s internal struggle deepened. She found herself caught in a web of her own making, torn between the fond memories of her conversations with Alicent and the growing chasm that seemed to separate her from Rhaenyra.

Donna’s thoughts often drifted back to the moments she had shared with Alicent during the reunion. The way Alicent had laughed at her jokes, the way they had effortlessly found common interests, it had all been so intoxicatingly easy. But now, in the stillness of her solitude, Donna couldn’t help but question the cost of that ease.

She replayed the scenes in her mind—the late-night talks, the playful teasing, the lingering smiles. Each memory was a dagger of regret, twisting deeper into her heart. She had allowed herself to become captivated by the charming allure of Alicent, and in doing so, she had inadvertently wounded the heart of the woman she loved most.

Donna traced her fingers along the edge of her phone, hesitating to send a message to Rhaenyra, who was in another room. She wanted to apologize, to assure Rhaenyra that her heart was unwaveringly loyal, but the words eluded her. How could she convey the depth of her remorse without revealing the extent of her lapse in judgment?

She yearned for the days when her relationship with Rhaenyra had been unburdened by doubt, when their love had been a beacon of light in a world filled with uncertainty. Now, that light felt dimmed, as if a storm of jealousy threatened to extinguish it.

Donna's head snapped up at the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. She wasn't worried about it waking any children who were having a sleepover at Rhaenys' house to be with Baela and Rhaena who were visiting from collage. She wanted to call to Rhaenyra but held herself back not wanting to anger the Targaryen woman.

Rhaenyra stalked into the room, face blank almost scaring Donna. Donna watched as Rhaenyra took off the suit jacket she had, she must have stayed late at work. Rhaenyra's eyes trailed over Donna's form laying in bed ready for sleep under the sheets, she was perched up on the bed hand folded neatly in her lap.

"That better be off when I am back" Rhaenyra walked over to Donna's side of the bed. She hooked a finger under the strap of Donna's chemise before letting it go making it snap back in place. Rhaenyra turned around and walked into their walk in closet.

Donna gulped not knowing what to do in this situation. Not wanting to anger Rhaenyra anymore she scrambled off the bed and slipped her chemise off her body. She was wearing only a pair of panties, she was about to go to bed, no need for more clothes.

"Good girl" Rhaenyra chuckled darkly as she walked back out of the closet.

Donna gasped shocked at the sight that greeted her, Rhaenyra in her naked glory standing in front of her with a strap she has never seen before on.

"Not so good though are you? Throwing yourself at Alicent like some whore" Rhaenyra stalked over to Donna in quick steps, she was so fast Donna had no time to back away. Rhaenyra grabbed Donna's hair making her whimper.

The mere rasp in Rhaenyra's voice made a fire to grow in the pit of Donna's stomach. She ached to touch Rhaenyra, it has been so long, way too long. Donna's eyes filled with tears-tears of need and want. Rhaenyra smirked at the sight and pushed Donna back to lay on her back.

"You need reminding baby girl, mommy needs to remind you who owns this wet, sweet and tasty cunny" Rhaenyra kneeled between Donna's legs. Pushed her knees apart she smirked at the sight that greeted her, the pink hole wetter than ever begging to be touched.

"Right baby girl?" Rhaenyra asked, her hand coming down quickly swatting her swollen pearl. Donna squeaked shocked, her legs automatically going to close but Rhaenyra did not let them.

"Mommy..." Donna whimpered, hips jerking up in the air with need. Rhaenyra chuckled evilly almost. She grabbed the base of the fake cock she had on her and ran it up and down Donna's slit.

"Use your words, baby girl" Rhaenyra tapped Donna's clit with the tip of the fake cock. The cock was beginning to glister with Donna's slick.

"Mommy I need you" Donna moaned. Rhaenyra smirked, leaning down to lay fully on top Donna. Donna looked up at her with wide teary eyes.

"Is that so?" Rhaenyra tilted her head to the side teasing the girl. She slapped the cock again on Donna's clit making her moan out loud.

"Yes mommy, I need you s-so much" Donna's leg widened desperate for some friction. Rhaenyra was glad that she had met Donna now, she was glad that she let Jace have his friends over so she could meet her.

"Alright baby, mommy will give you what you want" Rhaenyra plunged the cock inside of Donna with no more warning. Donna gasped shocked, her whole body froze for a second tensing at this weird intrusion.

"Mommy" Donna moaned shocked. Rhaenyra did not wait more to start moving. She was going to fuck the little brat a century forward in time.

"Do you reckon Alicent can fuck you like this?" Rhaenyra asked. Her hips snapping no rhythm but destroying Donna's pussy.

"Fuck... mommy" Donna's head fell back. Rhaenyra grabbed Donna's head and held her head in place.

"Look me in the eyes" Rhaenyra hissed angrily. Donna's walls squeezed the cock so tightly, Rhaenyra's thrusts stuttered for a second. Donna's eyes snapped open to look Rhaenyra's eyes, moaning at the sight of the dark Violet eyes glaring down at you.

"Will she fuck you this good?" Rhaenyra asked again. Her hand snapped down from your hair to grab your chin. Her hips never ceasing their movement for a second. Donna wanted to scream, she wanted to claw at anything, she was in heaven.

"N-no, only m-mommy" Donna stuttered. Her words were breathy showing just how needy she was. Her hips began moving in rhythm with Rhaenyra's thrusts.

"Let me hear you! let the neighbours hear you! let everyone hear you" Rhaenyra demanded. She pushed back up on her knees, she held up Donna's hips to angle them just right, her hips snapping in an unforgivable pace. Donna's eyes rolled back seeing stars. Rhaenyra's hand sneaked up to touch your clit, flicking it with each thrust.

"Only mommy! Mommy!" Donna's moaned loudly or more like screamed. Her walls clamped down on the fake cock, her body quivering as she came. Her hands bunched up the sheet tightly, almost ripping them with her nails.

"Good, cum on my cock. My cock not anyone else's" Rhaenyra smirked. Her thumb teasing your clit still, her hips moving in a calmer rhythm but not stopping. Donna rocked into her unable to stop.

"Mommy...please.... mommy..." Donna babbled, her head growing soft with each thrust. With each stroke of Rhaenyra's thumb Donna's world turned and turned.

"Yes darling? Rhaenyra leaned down again, this position making her go deeper again with her holding her thigh high on her waist while her other arm held her up. She kissed Donna straight on the lips, she tasted of toothpaste, so sweetly she still used a strawberry flavoured one.

"Mommy... sensitive" Donna cried. Her eyes opened, begging Rhaenyra for both more and for her to stop. Rhaenyra grinned moving to kiss Donna's neck knowing she cannot look her in the eyes without caving, not when Donna looked like this.

"Let mommy work" Rhaenyra bit Donna's earlobe. Donna gasped, back arching. Her cunt was in heaven, her stomach was in heaven, her whole body was in heave, her mind was in heave, she was simply in heaven in between Rhaenyra's arms and her cock inside of her.

"Mommy!" Donna couldn't hold the second orgasm that crashed into her. Rhaenyra grinned almost evilly.

Rhaenyra pulled out of Donna giving her a false hope that she was done. Donna let out a small shocked yell when Rhaenyra flipped her over and pulled her up on her knees and hands.

"Mommy...no" Donna begged. Her hips unconsciously pushing back in search of Rhaenyra. No did not mean No in their sexual life, they had another word but Donna's lips has never uttered that word before, keligon was not a word Donna has used yet. Halt.

"Shhh sweet baby, let mommy erase that witch's touch from you" Rhaenyra pushed back in. Moaning herself, she had been so focused on Donna she had not realised the cock rubbed her own clit with specific movement, that's how concentrated she was.

"Mommy...please" Donna cried. Her hips moving forward and back, fucking herself dumb on the plastic cock.

"Yes" Rhaenyra hissed, her head falling back with each snap of Donna's hips. Rhaenyra was so close already, pulling two orgasms from Donna riled her up and the friction as well made her want to stuff herself.

"Mommy, too much" Donna cried, she tried to pull away but Rhaenyra held her hips in place and began pounding in her again.

"Cumming baby girl, make mommy cum" Rhaenyra cocked. Donna was full on sobbing then, moving her hips in time to meet Rhaenyra's thrusts in the middle.

"That's it" Rhaenyra's hell fell back, mouth gaping she was so close. She was just never gonna let Donna go, her moan sounded too sweet, she looked too sweet, she would rather kill Alicent than let her have Donna ever.

"Mommy, sore" Donna whined. Her arms gave up on her, she fell face first on the bed. Her hips were held up by Rhaenyra who did not stop pounding into her red hole.

"Fucking hell" Rhaenyra wailed as her orgasm crashed down on her. Donna's cream came gushing out coating the plastic cock. Rhaenyra wanted to take a picture and save it forever. She pulled out the cock, Donna's whole body twitched with whimpers leaving her mouth at the movement. Rhaenyra smirked victoriously, she had Donna where she wanted her.

#house targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon imagine #hotd imagine #game of thrones #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra fanfiction #queen rhaenyra #rhaenyra fanfic #rhaenyra imagine #rhaenyra targeryan #rhaenyra smut #hotd x reader #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #alicent hightower #house of the dragon smut #kinktober

[haee-elia]

spence-tober: day 5 - street racer/mechanic

pairing: street racer/mechanic!spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: in which you find out a little secret about the mechanic you've been seeing

word count: 1929

warning: mention of illegal activities (street racing), mentions of alcohol, fluffy

spence-tober masterlist

To be honest, you don’t even know why you’re here, standing in the middle of the street next to your best friend, late into the evening. 

“It’s okay, just relax.” Your best friend said.

No, you think to yourself, everything was in fact not okay. But before you could voice your thoughts, she found her current boyfriend of three days and ran off to him, leaving you standing awkwardly at the curb of the street.

For a random dead end street on a Tuesday night, the street was pretty busy. Not with traffic, with people. 

Groups and cliques of people were standing around in the street with you, dressed in either tank tops and shorts or in full leather. You don’t know how the aren’t freezing their asses off compared to you who came in your nice jeans (no holes in them), a cute long sleeve turtleneck, and some heeled boots that come up to your calf, and are STILL freezing your ass off.

You cannot believe you let your friend talk you into coming here tonight and it was a severe lapse in judgement, but you were bored with no plans for the night and she easily shoved you out of the door. Especially when she picked the guilt card and told you that you hadn’t really hung out together since you’ve been seeing ‘that mechanic’ as she put it.

It was true, you suppose. It was only two weeks ago when you had your car towed into a random mechanic’s garage because two of your tires popped a flat and you only had one spare. You hadn’t expected to meet the cute mechanic wearing his work overalls covered in grease. His hair, which somehow avoided being as messy as his clothes, was brushed to the side in a way you found extremely hot. 

Not only did you get your tires changed out that day, you had also gotten Spencer’s, the cute mechanic who worked on your car, number. From then on, you had gone out a few more times. To dinner, to get a cup of coffee before going to work in the morning, a walk in the park, and so on. Just yesterday in fact, you had gotten take out and brought it to the garage he worked at to spend lunch together. 

You weren’t officially dating, no labels had been used yet, but you were really excited for any single time you could see him. 

Which was part of the reason you weren’t really into whatever your friend got the both of you involved in tonight.

You had originally wanted to go out to dinner or invite Spencer to your apartment for dinner, but he had bashfully admitted at lunch yesterday that he had plans for tonight that he was already committed to. You understood, of course, but you were a little disappointed and are currently counting all the different things you could be doing other than this right now. 

What can you say, you were an introvert at heart.

And now, not only were you dragged to this random ass street, your friend was also incredibly busy swapping saliva with her new boyfriend. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it was incredibly pathetic how your friend and her new guy were already official while you and Spencer were still to have yet to put a label on your relationship.

You sigh and condemn yourself to trying to enjoy the night your friend dragged you along with, walking in small strides over to your friend and her boyfriend. He was a nice guy, at least, you thought to yourself while introducing yourself to him. He was making your friend happy, which you liked, especially since she went through a nasty breakup recently.

“So, um,” You say, having finished introductions and small talk, “What’s exactly going on tonight?”

Despite the crowd in the street nearly all having a beer or some form of alcohol in hand, you couldn’t quite hear any conversations, especially one’s pertaining to why everyone was gathered in the street. 

You looked towards the new couple, your friend under her boyfriend’s arm. 

“There’s a race tonight, baby.” He says, a goofy grin on his face, “Should be a good matchup!”

Your eyebrowss furrow in confusion, you look over to your friend, “A race?”

She nods, “A streetrace. Everyone’s been talking about this showoff for the past week.”

“You brought me to a streetrace?” You scoff at her. “This is highly illegal,” You say, stunned.

She escapes her boyfriend’s arms and takes your hands in hers, swinging them playfully, “Come on, please,” She says, “Just trust me on this? Let’s hang out and if you still don’t wanna stick around by the time the race starts, you can leave. I promise.”

She takes one of her hands and draws a small ‘x’ over her heart, sealing the promise. You sigh and close your eyes, but nod your head and accept your fate for tonight. 

“Okay, I’ll stay for a little bit,” You resign.

She squeals in delight and you try to relax your shoulders a little bit, settling into mingling with the small group your best friend and her boyfriend are communicating with. You say no to any offer of alcohol or otherwise, wishing to stay sober in case you want to leave (and in case the police, do in fact show up). 

Despite the cool air and the dimly lit streets, you are having a decently good time conversing with your friend and her new guy. Soon enough, there’s some noisy whispers through the street and your friend’s boyfriend points through the throng of people further down the street.

“There’s the racers coming in now.”

Your gaze switches to where he points. Suddenly, bright headlights illuminates the streets and the noise of engines revving up fills the alleyway street. You think to yourself that its a wonder that no police have shown up to these races yet.

The crowd of people clear to the sides of the street and allow the cars to cruise through. One of the cars is exactly what you’d think a street racing car would look like. Its a fire engine red with an ombre flame on the sides of it. A souped up engine and large front shiny silver looking grill. Its loud and you cringe at the sight of it and the bald, white tank top wearing driver in the front seat. He has the demeanor of a moose.

The other car is a purple in color, but is dark enough that it could pass as a navy or eggplant color. There’s no artwork on the sides and has the aura of a vintage car. It holds some aspects of some vintage cars as well. It’s shiny, but more in cleanliness than look. 

The headlights from both cars are way too bright for you to see the driver for the second car, but in your mind, anybody would look better than the beefed up driver of the first. 

The cars come to a stop right where you are guessing the start of the race will take place, and the headlights finally dim as the drivers turn off their cars for now. The race has not yet begun and by the looks of the people crowding around the cars, they’ll talk to the audience and their fanbases before racing.

A familiar mop of styled boyband-ish, brown hair appears in your vision. The head of the second driver popping up from him exiting the driver’s side door is easily recognizable, even if you hadn’t known the person for very long.

“Spencer?” You call out, both in confusion and shock. You’re confident in your ability to spot him, even in the not very well lit street.

The call of his name makes him turn around, the only barrier between you and him is the car he just exited. His car. His race car.

Spencer, you know it’s him now with his face in clear vision, calls out your name as well and then hurriedly makes his way around the front of his car and towards you.

You still stand with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth in surprise, “Y-you-”

He nods shyly, running a hand through his messy yet perfectly kept hair, “I race, yeah.”

“I-I had no idea,” You say, not sure what else to in your stunned state.

Spencer shook his head, “I didn’t tell you. You couldn’t have known.”

“I race sometimes at nights after working at the garage. I was going to tell you, I promise. It’s just-” He trys to explain, but trails off at the end of his sentence.

“Illegal?” You try to finish for him. Your tone isn’t accusing, more in curiosity. 

And in all your time spent with him, dinners, movies, coffee dates, and more, you would have never guessed that the shy and cute man who worked on your car and gave you his own employee discount on your two replaced tires would be spending his free time fixing up a car for street racing. 

Spencer looks down at his feet, bashful, “Yeah, that.” He responds. “But also I just didn’t want to scare you away. I really like you.” He admits. “I didn’t know how you would react and I was scared you wouldn’t want to go out anymore.”

Before you can say anything, the bald faced moose energy man calls out from being surrounded by his fans, “Hey, Crash! Ready to do this or not?”

Spencer hollers back that he just needs a few minutes and then turns his attention back to you. He still has the aura of how you met him in the garage, but there’s also some confidence in his stride and how he carries himself on this street. 

“Crash?” You question.

“My, uh, race name.” He clarifies.

You smile slightly, “Like your childhood nickname your mother gave you, right?” You ask, although you’re rather confident. “Because you would always run into things when you were a kid.”

Spencer confirms, nodding. It was one of the first fun little facts you learned about Spencer during your first date. Some would find it weird, but you found it endearing that he brought up how much his mother meant to him. You smile at the fact he uses the old childhood nickname bestowed upon him by his mother for his secret nightlife hobby.

“Listen,” Spencer says a little nervous, “I understand if you’re upset that I didn’t tell you this and if you don’t want to be my girlfriend anymor-”

“I’m your girlfriend?” You interrupt him, your cheeks taking on a pinky blush tint.

Spencer clears his throat, “I, uh, I hope so.” He says in a small tone. “Like I said, I, um, really like you-”

The other racer calls for him again, this time louder and more challenging. Spencer groans at your conversation being interrupted once again. 

“You need to go,” You speak first before Spencer. You nod your head off in the direction of the cars and the muscle tank man.

Spencer hesitates and goes to say something, but you put your hand on his arm stopping him. You feel as though you can hear his heart beating and his blood pumping in suspence with your words. Your own heart and blood aren’t far off from his.

“We can talk more about this later. Promise.” You assure him.

You press a small peck to his cheek and a small grin grows on your lips.

“Besides, you’ve got a race to win.”

a/n: would spencer actually participate in illegal activity? probably not. also ignore that reader aka you, are also participating in illegal activity because apparently spectating a street race on an empty public street is also illegal and can get you fined.

#criminal minds #criminalminds #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fic #dr. spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #dr. spencer reid #spencer reid au #spencer reid alternate universe

[munsonfamilyband]

@nburkhardt ;)

It is technically not Valentine's day for me anymore but it's still Valentine's day in other places so I'm writing it anyways.

-------------------

Eddie walked into Family Video, shaking the snow out of his hair because he refused to wear a hat, and he stopped in his tracks when he saw the decorations. Hearts, pink and red and white hearts. Hearts on the counter and hanging from the ceiling.

Valentine's Day was coming.

"Hey, Eddie." He managed to snap himself out of his stupor to look at Steve. God, Steve. It really is unfair how pretty he is, even in a polo and his stupid work vest. Grinning, Eddie walked up to the counter and leaned his elbows on it, immediately grabbing a heart and glaring at it before tossing it over his shoulder.

"Hey, Stevie. I see Hallmark has sunk its claws into Family Video." He watched Steve get the most adorable frown on his face, his eyebrows scrunching up in confusion.

"Hallmark, what-? Oh! The hearts, right?" Eddie grinned even wider, grabbing another heart and starting to rip little pieces off of it.

"Yeah, figures a movie store would buy into the capitalist propaganda though," Eddie groaned as he spoke, finally ripping the heart to pieces and scattering it on the counter. Steve was giving him a weird look that Eddie couldn't quite decipher but he was save from contemplating it by Robin stepping out from the back room.

"Oh joy, our most frequent and worst customer." Eddie stood up straight with a gasp, holding a hand over his heart.

"Birdie, you wound me. I am your best customer." She chucked a ball of paper at him, somehow managing to hit his chest with only a glance in his direction.

"You can't be our best customer when you barely buy anything and all you do is distract Steve from working." Eddie couldn't help but laugh when Steve yelled a noise of complaint. "What are you even doing here today, Eddie? Shouldn't you be out preparing a valentine for someone or something?"

"Ha! Me, participating it that sham of a holiday?" Eddie laughed, shaking his head. "Absolutely not, Bucks. Valentine's day is a corporate sham that preys on the lonely and not lonely alike. If you're in a relationship you get pressured into buying thoughtless gifts to show off how happy you are for a day. If you aren't in a relationship, then you just get crushed under all the pink and hearts and babies in diapers with arrows, and you get pushed into buying excessive amounts of booze and food so you feel a little less lonely for the day. I've never celebrated and I don't have any plans to any time soon." When he finished his speech he expected someone to say something, but it was completely silent. Robin had moved over to stand behind the counter with Steve and she was frowning at him (something he never liked because she only frowned at him when he was being really stupid and he usually couldn't figure out what he did). Steve was standing oddly still and he had that weird look on his face again. "You feeling okay, Stevie?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. Totally fine." They all lapsed into silence again before Robin cleared her throat.

"Well, I mean, it's not just about relationships it's also St-Ow!" Eddie turned fully to look at Robin who seemed to be leaning weirdly to one side.

"You good?" He watched as Robin and Steve had one of their silent conversations. He loved that they had each other but the silent talking did get annoying.

"...Yeah, slipped and stubbed my toe, that's all. But if you want to avoid Valentine's day you may want to run because we put out all the romcoms today so the crowds will be bad." Eddie wrinkled his nose in distate.

"Ugh, thanks for the warning, I'll see you guys around then?" He glanced between them, noticing that both of them were giving him a tight smile that didn't quite reach their eyes but he decided not to dwell on it. "I gotta catch up with Nance, someone does have a date and has asked her bestie to help her plan it. Any requests, Buckley?" Eddie was relieved when that did get Robin to blush, finally a normal reaction.

"Not really." Eddie just grinned, throwing up a two finger salute before heading back out into the snow to head to the Wheeler's.

~~~~~~

"Nance, I promise you, Robin does not care how elaborate your date is, she will love it anyway because you planned it." Eddie was sprawled on Nancy's bed in her room, arms behind his head as Nancy paced in front of him.

"It's our first Valentine's day, I want it to be special." Eddie scoffed quietly. Nancy had already heard his anti-Valentine's day speech and while they didn't agree, they decided to just move past it. "Oh, right, I meant to ask. I know that you still refuse to ask Steve out, for reasons unknown-"

"They aren't unknown, Nance, we just don't know-"

"Hush. I know you won't ask him out, but are you at least planning something nice for his birthday? I don't know how much I'll be able to help you with since it's in two days-" Eddie suddenly sat up on the bed, staring at Nancy with wide eyes. She couldn't be saying what he thought she was saying.

"Nancy. I need you to not judge me right now when I ask you a question." He waited for her to nod at him, eyebrow already raised to judge him. "What day is Steve's birthday?"

"The fourteenth? Did he not tell you? Eddie? Why do you look so panicked?" He had collapsed back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling in horror. He had gone on and on about how much he hated Valentine's day and how he wasn't planning anything ever and... and he basically said that Steve's birthday was a day he hated. What kind of friend does that?

"I didn't know- Nance, I gave him the V-day speech-"

"Please tell me you are joking, Edward Munson, or so help me-"

"Nancy! Why would I joke about this! I just basically told the guy that I'm practically in love with that I hate his birthday! What do I do!" He was standing now, taking up Nancy's place and pacing the room until she grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look at her.

"Eddie, listen to me. You helped me plan my date, now I'm going to help you. Because there is no way I am letting you fix this without telling Steve that you love him, and there will be no arguments. You fucked up, not it's time to not run away and fix it."

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #should I write more of this? #I was going to finish this tonight but it's like 1am and I have more work tomorrow

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟖   ❛ 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ❜   |   THE DEN, MID MARCH 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

   ❛  Leonor had attended a recital just the day before, but this performance was an entirely different experience. She was unprepared for how arresting it would be. Without knowing, she had noticed the lead singer earlier that night, ostensibly holding court by the far edge of the bar, distracting the bartender with animated conversation. Leonor hadn’t heard anything she said, but her movements were full of energy, almost frenetic. Now, she held still. The bassist swayed from hip to hip. Behind them, the drummer stared out at the audience with a face full of shadows. Leonor thought the frontwoman resembled a pious statue as she stood there, chin tilted upward and eyes closed. The crowd hummed with impatient anticipation, but what she reflected back to them was unfazed tranquility. 𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

❧ (the song here, as you perhaps could have guessed from the episode title, is meant to be "doll parts" by hole.) lightly phoned this one in BUT i'd rather keep moving than skip a week bc i was sick, so :^) this is an abridged version, and i'll post an unabridged version later today w/ a label for good measure !!! additionally, we are now done with the entirely self-indulgent red light filter, i promise sdfsdf

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

The very first chord sent a chill up Leonor’s spine. She watched, rapt, as the statue came to life in a fluid series of motions. Her voice was low and rough, not ethereal by any means but still somehow, to Leonor’s ears, exquisite. The lyrics washed over her unheard. She fixated wholly on the singing itself—on the emotion of it, how the crooning turned to a harsh quaver, within it a lament that felt more defiant than mournful. It was raw. The song’s inspiration, why this woman performed it as she did, was a mystery. It was the vulnerability of it that resonated. Leonor felt the emotion in her bones as she listened. Music was never her preferred outlet but, as she experienced the song, she wished it had been.

For these three minutes, Leonor was alone again. The stage’s pit had been packed with an eager, noisy audience that responded enthusiastically to every line of the song. As it became a concert for one, they faded. Leonor’s eyes followed the movement of the singer, how her lips parted and her fingers strummed the guitar she played. They existed together in a suspended moment outside of time. It might have occurred to her later that extending, even possessing, such a moment was well within her power. For enough money, she could have anyone’s private time—especially artists, people who needed and understood patronage. It wasn't it in the spirit of the venue, but neither was her very presence, arguably. However, she was entirely in the moment as it unfolded. Feelings welled up inside of her. Her skin prickled. Her eyes, too, felt the familiar sensation attendant to being overwhelmed. 

Still, even euphoria had a blush of grief these days.

The song ended, and the bar's spirited ambience rushed back in like a sun-blocking wave. As she began speaking casually to the audience, the singer’s captivating voice changed. Whatever spell she had cast broke. Her friends remained enlivened, but Leonor felt only the desperate need to reclaim the quietude again. The minute of transition between unfamiliar songs felt like too long—too risky—of a wait. Perhaps the night had caught up with her. Or, perhaps, if she ducked into a quiet corner and collected herself, she could resume the admirable attempt at normalcy that had characterized the evening so far. That was her preferred outcome. She knew, on one level, that she was having fun. This momentary lapse wasn’t really an aberration, she feared, but she was determined to treat it as such. 

Leonor turned to Kore instinctively, leaning close to exclaim the most convenient and innocuous escape valve within reach, “Where’s the restroom?”

TRANSCRIPT:

RENZO | Okay, settle down. Next up is a treat. The Fluke girls have a new song for us. This is a songwriter’s song, alright? Conceived in this building. Show some respect.

LEONOR | Where’s the restroom? KORE | Stairs, near the bar!

[Leonor sighs, door opening]

LEONOR | What are you doing here?

LEONOR | Oh—[Laughs]—sorry. RENZO | It’s a bathroom. Maybe I gotta piss.

RENZO | Hey, don’t leave. I’m kidding. Wanted to check on you. LEONOR | Really?

RENZO | Sort of. I also had an ulterior motive. LEONOR | Did you?

RENZO | I wanted to be alone with you again, too. LEONOR | You’re in luck.

RENZO | You know, you do look different in person. More real. LEONOR | I get that a lot. RENZO | Do you? Huh— LEONOR | [Snickers] No, of course not!

RENZO | So, what do you think— LEONOR | No more talking now, okay?

RENZO | I’ll show you the dressing rooms next time. LEONOR | Next time? [Chuckles]

#;long post #ts4 story #sims story #sims 4 story #royal sims #simblr #ts4 legacy #1992.story.post #1992.a1 #1992.e03

[amalythea]

「 may sparks fly 」

⤷ info: lyney x gn!reader || fluff!! also a lil bit of crack haha || wc: 1928

⤷ warnings: lyney has the dumb blonde syndrome where he is too blind to realize he is in love, he's also v jealous at some point, are there plot holes in this? possibly. do i care? a little but theres nothing i can do about it now. i may have rushed the ending a lil but its okay we can look past that right guys

⤷ extra: happy bday @thexianzhoujade !! you thought i was done? you thought wrong. (also a very big thank you to @ryuryuryuyurboat for the idea & @blue-b3rries for proofreading <33)

In the heart of the bustling Fontaine city, Lyney captivated the imaginations of children with his dazzling tricks. With a flourish of his hand and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he effortlessly wove illusions that left his young audience in awe.

As he performed his routine with practiced precision, a figure caught his eye among the crowd. It was a person unlike any other, your gaze fixed intently on Lyney as if drawn by an invisible force. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met, and Lyney's heart skipped a beat.

Caught off guard by the unexpected connection, Lyney's fingers faltered, causing his trick to go awry. With a sheepish grin, he laughed off the mistake, chalking it up to a momentary lapse in concentration.

“Ah, it seems I've let a bit of my clumsiness sneak into the act today,” he playfully announced to the kids, who erupted into laughter. Lyney, ever the showman, continued with the performance, eager to prove that the mishap was nothing more than a fleeting mistake.

However, as the days went by, you continued to linger in the crowd. Every time Lyney attempted a trick, your gaze bore into him, causing an unexpected flutter in his chest. And, just as consistently, whenever your eyes locked, Lyney found himself stumbling over his magic, much to the delight of his young audience.

With each mistake, Lyney offered a lighthearted excuse, blaming fatigue, clumsiness, or even an imaginary mischievous fairy. The children loved the added humor, unaware of the secret dance unfolding between the magician and his silent observer.

Lynette had long since caught on to your presence. She observed with an amused smile as Lyney's perfectly orchestrated acts crumbled, one trick at a time.

One day, as Lyney once again fumbled with his magic, he turned to his sister, frustration clear in his voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Lynette! I keep messing up the tricks, but when I do it alone everything goes perfect, the way it’s supposed to be! Something is wrong with my magic.”

With a sly grin, you approached the clearly frustrated magician, your eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. “I think your magic is working just fine, but I enjoy the added entertainment,” you teased, your tone playful yet filled with a hint of genuine warmth.

Lyney, caught off guard by the candid comment, felt a blush creeping up his cheeks.

Lynette, standing nearby, couldn't help but giggle at the exchange between her brother and the mysterious onlooker. She watched as Lyney attempted to regain his composure, his charming grin returning to his face.

“You've been enjoying the show, huh?” Lyney retorted with a playful wink. “Well, I suppose a magician's life can get a bit dull without a few surprises now and then.”

You chuckled, and this time, you spoke more sincerely. “Your tricks are amazing, Lyney. But it's not just about the magic; it's about the unexpected moments, the little imperfections that make it all the more charming.”

As the banter continued, Lynette couldn't help but notice the change in her brother's demeanor. Normally the master of illusion and charming repartee, Lyney seemed genuinely intrigued and a bit flustered by your presence. It was a delightful twist to the usual routine.

With the conversation flowing effortlessly, Lynette decided to play along. “You know,” she chimed in, “if you're enjoying the show so much, maybe you should join us for a cup of tea after the performance.”

The invitation hung in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Lyney, with a mix of curiosity and excitement, agreed to the suggestion. The children, having thoroughly enjoyed the unplanned entertainment, cheered as you made your way to a nearby café.

As you sat together, sipping tea and exchanging stories, the atmosphere was filled with laughter. Lyney found himself genuinely enjoying the company of his mysterious spectator, realizing that maybe, just maybe, the unexpected twists in life could lead to the most enchanting outcomes.

Days turned into weeks, and the friendship between Lyney, Lynette, Freminet, and yourself continued to blossom. All four of you hanging around together became a familiar sight in Fontaine, with Lyney performing tricks, Lynette observing with a watchful eye, Freminet occasionally chiming in with his innocent musings, and you, the silent observer who had become an integral part of their little circle.

One sunny afternoon, as Lyney strolled through the bustling streets with his siblings, he noticed you engaged in a lively conversation with a passerby. There was laughter, a genuine exchange of smiles, and something in Lyney's chest tightened. He couldn't quite comprehend the strange emotions bubbling within him, but the sight of you sharing laughter with someone else stirred an unfamiliar feeling. Lyney frowned, clenching his fist. Lynette and Freminet exchanged a glance, both perceptive to the shift in their brother's mood.  

The trio decided to leave the area, but Lyney couldn't shake the lingering sensation of jealousy. It puzzled him, and he found himself contemplating the inexplicable emotions that had surfaced.

In the following days, whenever he spotted you, Lyney made a conscious effort to be more engaging and entertaining. He told jokes, performed tricks with extra flair, and made sure to elicit laughter from you. The motivation behind his actions was unclear even to him—actually, why was he even jealous to begin with?  

One evening, as Lyney conjured a bouquet of flowers out of thin air, he caught your eye and delivered a charming wink. The act succeeded in making you laugh, but the underlying tension remained in Lyney's mind.

Each time he made you laugh, Lyney felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction, but it was always overshadowed by the persistent nagging of his own insecurities. Why did he feel this way? What was it about seeing you with someone else that stirred such strong emotions within him?

As Lyney continued to grapple with his conflicting emotions, Lynette and Freminet couldn't help but notice their brother's inner turmoil. They had seen this pattern before—the subtle signs of jealousy, the desperate need for validation—and they knew it was time to address it.

That evening, as they sat together in their cozy home, Lynette and Freminet gently broached the subject with Lyney. “Lyney,” Lynette began, her voice soft but firm, “you’ve been acting differently lately.”

Freminet nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it's like something’s bothering you,” he added, his brow furrowed in concern.

Lyney shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between his siblings. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, attempting to deflect their observations.

But Lynette wouldn't be deterred. “Lyney, we're your siblings. We know you better than anyone else,” she said gently. “And it doesn’t take a lot to notice that something’s wrong.”

Lyney sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don't understand it myself,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why am I so bothered by seeing them with someone else? It's not like we're... anything.”

Lynette placed a comforting hand on her brother's shoulder. “Maybe it's because you care about them more than you realize,” she suggested gently. “Maybe you’re scared of losing them.”

Freminet nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and maybe you're trying so hard to make them laugh because you want to show them that you're just as fun and interesting as that other guy we saw.”

Lyney sat in silence for a moment, processing his siblings' words. Their insight cut through his confusion like a ray of light, illuminating the depths of his feelings in a way he hadn't considered before.

“I guess you’re right,” Lyney admitted quietly, his voice tinged with vulnerability. Freminet smiled, “Just be honest, Lyney. Let them know what you've been feeling.”

“Worst they can do is say no.”

“Lynette!”

As Lyney pondered his siblings' words, he realized that they were right. He couldn't continue to let his feelings remain bottled up inside him. It was time to take action, to finally express what he had been feeling all along.

With newfound determination, Lyney set out to find you, his heart racing with anticipation. He had rehearsed countless scenarios in his mind, each one more elaborate than the last, but now, faced with the reality of the moment, his confidence wavered.

Lynette and Freminet watched from a distance, their hearts filled with a mix of amusement and exasperation. They had seen Lyney struggle with his feelings for far too long, and it was time to put an end to it once and for all.

As Lyney approached you, his words caught in his throat, he couldn't help but stumble over his own thoughts. Just as he was about to speak, a gust of wind blew through, scattering his carefully prepared confession into the air.

Lyney's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he scrambled to collect his thoughts, but before he could utter a single word, a stray cat darted across his path, causing him to lose his balance and stumble forward.

You reached out to steady him, a concerned expression on your face. "Are you okay, Lyney?"

Lyney nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. This was it, his moment to finally confess his feelings. But before he could speak, the sound of a distant siren filled the air, drowning out his words.

Lynette and Freminet exchanged a knowing glance, realizing that their brother needed a little extra help. With a mischievous twinkle in their eyes, they sprang into action, orchestrating a series of events that would finally bring Lyney and you together.

As Lyney struggled to find the right words, his siblings discreetly arranged for a spontaneous fireworks display to light up the night sky. The dazzling colors reflected in your eyes as you turned to Lyney, a smile playing on your lips.

"Wow, this is amazing!" you exclaimed, your gaze meeting Lyney's. "Thank you for showing me this."

Lyney's heart swelled with emotion as he gazed into your eyes, the fireworks illuminating the depth of his feelings. "There's something I need to tell you," he began, his voice trembling with emotion.

But before he could continue, Lynette and Freminet emerged from the crowd, each wearing identical expressions on their faces. "Lyney, we couldn't help but notice that you've been trying to say something all night," Lynette said with a grin. "So we thought we'd lend a hand."

Freminet nodded eagerly, a bouquet of rainbow roses in his hand.

Lyney couldn't help but laugh at their antics, their support giving him the courage he needed to finally speak his truth. With a deep breath, he turned to you, his heart overflowing with love.

"I know this might seem sudden, but I realized that I can't keep these feelings hidden any longer," Lyney confessed, his voice filled with sincerity. "I care about you more than words can say, and I want to be with you, if you'll have me."

You gazed at Lyney, your heart soaring at his heartfelt confession. "Lyney, I..." you began, but before you could finish, a burst of fireworks lit up the sky, showering the scene in a cascade of colors.

Lyney took your hand in his, his eyes shining with love. "I don't need fireworks to tell me how I feel," he said softly. "But they do make for a pretty spectacular backdrop."

With laughter and tears of joy, you and Lyney embraced, knowing that this was just the beginning of a beautiful journey together. And as the fireworks continued to light up the night sky, Lynette and Freminet shared a satisfied smile, knowing that their matchmaking efforts had finally paid off.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

@amalythea 2024. | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

#「 birth of a supernova」 #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗ #astronetwrk #lyney x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #lyney fluff #lyney x reader fluff #genshin fluff #genshin x reader fluff #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact x reader fluff #ft matchmaker lynette and freminet #best mathmakers in fontaine fr fr

[legally-allowed-to-slime]

grian’s new episode got me going hm

might probably do a gem-centric one soon because they make each other worse

-

He wouldn’t let go.

Grian clutched onto the fishing rod, his grip having worn down the wood by now. It was a week into the server. It felt like an eternity.

Sometimes he forgot what came before, before he started fishing.

He recalled, yes. Things like the big moon, Grumbot, whatever. They seemed less memories and more fragmented experiences just laying around waiting for someone to claim them.

It was like his mind was a vase, and the ocean had smashed it into a million tiny little pieces, left for him to fish out.

Another salmon. Grian let out a short, harsh shout and threw it in a nearby barrel and cast his line again.

And again, and again.

There was one rod, seven or eight lines. He peered through the web of black lines and distinguished the single working one. The ocean kept fooling with him like that.

“It kind of looks like a net,” Gem’s voice chirped behind him. They didn’t bother with greetings now. They just talked about fishing.

“I don’t even know how this happened,” he said.

“At least you can get mending ten times as fast now.”

“No, only one works.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Then, having exhausted all possible subjects of conversation, they lapsed into an awkward pause. Grian caught another fish. Cod.

Gem made to leave, but couldn’t resist a final comment.

“By the way, you should sleep. And, uh, shave, unless you’re going for that rugged aesthetic.”

She left.

Was it that obvious? Grian wondered. That he was addicted?

Come to think of it, he hadn’t thought of himself for so many days. He’d just been fishing, dragged himself to chip away at his base, and then went back to fishing.

He stared at himself in the water.

Oh.

Beard, check. Eyebags, check. Suspenders and a beanie for some reason. A bobber hanging from his waist and his pants dipped in seaweed. His hair was overgrown and soaked. There was even a patch on his sweater, for goodness sake.

Grian only felt it now. How had he not noticed it before? Was he just that focused on fishing? His hand subconsciously wandered to his face and brushed against the scales.

The what.

Grian spun around, looking for a clearer mirror than the water, rubbing his cheek in disbelief. Scales, wet and smooth like a fish. He should know. He’d handled thousands of them in a week.

He glanced at his arm, the texture very fishy in both ways. His heart dropped. He just wanted mending, not this. He was supposed to be the fisherman, not the bloody catch!

“Gem, Gemgemgemgem!” He yelled.

Gem turned. “What?”

“I think I’m turning into a fish!”

To her credit, Gem didn’t react much. She did run closer, but she didn’t scream or anything. She just said, “Hmm. Same.”

“What do you mean, same?” Grian yelped.

She rolled her eyes and pulled up her sleeve, revealing the same scales. “It’s probably a side effect, chill. Impulse wasn’t actually a dwarf last season, he just started growing shorter. It’s the Hermitcraft air or something.”

Grian stared at her, gears in his brain turning furiously to process her words. “Didn’t you guys base near the water?”

“That’s true, that’s true. I don’t think that was it, though.” Gem said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Anyway, I need to build. See ya.”

She sauntered away.

Grian didn’t have the presence of mind to call her back. He dropped the rod he’d been clutching this whole time and stared at his hands, moist from sweat.

He was short of breath, and after fifteen seconds he realised it wasn’t just from the panic. He physically couldn’t breathe.

Fish can’t survive on land.

Before he could think, before he remembered he was human, Grian leaped into the water, which enveloped him comfortingly like a drug.

The part of Grian that was still Grian realised this was like walking into the tiger’s cave, and forced himself to surface, gasping for air. He ordered his brain to use the lungs he had, and he started breathing again.

He clambered up onto the pier, and laid down on the wood, drained. He fumbled around and found the rod. Well, what else was there to do? Cast line, sit down, wait.

After all, the next one could be the one.

He just wanted mending. Then he’d stop. He’d stop.

The ocean wouldn’t let him go.

#grian #geminitay #hermitblr #hermitcraft #hermitcraft smp #hermitcraft season ten #hermitcraft season 10 #hc s10 #hc10 #hermitcraft 10 #hermitcraft fanfic #grian fanfic #might do a piece about the gambling aspect of it