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aemondsbabe · 5 months

Text

Arbor Gold

summary: sharing a drink & toys || rhaenyra treats you to a very special night out

pairing: modern!rhaenyra x f!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, wlw, public, fingering, use of a toy, vibrators, mentions of alcohol, mommy kink, sub!reader, allusions to oral, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 1.9k

a/n: happy day three of 12 days of smuff!! i was sweating writing this one, i can't lie lmao

12 days of smuff masterlist!

gif creds to @gameofthronesdaily!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Oh, that’s perfect,” Rhaenyra says to the waiter, watching with a smile as he finishes pouring two glasses of wine with a fancy flourish before setting the bottle on the table, “Thank you.”

With a polite nod, the waiter takes his leave, leaving you and your girlfriend alone once more. Your eyes scan the room once again, taking in the fancy dark wood paneling on the walls and the way the vintage crystal chandeliers sparkled as they cast a low, moody light over the room; the soft instrumental music coupled with the dull hum of other couples and groups of friends sharing quiet conversations comforted you despite the circumstances.

Finally, you let your eyes sweep over Rhaenyra and your lips instantly curved into a soft, sweet smile as you took her in, watching as she took a sip of the decadent Arbor Gold wine. This whole little adventure had been her idea – something fun and new to do, she’d said.

And she doesn’t disappoint, you think with a slight shiver as you shift a bit in the plush booth, the small vibrator she’d taken oh-so much care to work into you earlier presses deliciously against that small, sensitive patch within you.

“Everything alright, sweetling?” Rhaenyra asks, finally catching your eyes from where you’d been absentmindedly staring at the flickering tea candle on the table.

You smile and take her hand as she presses in closer to you, your bare shoulders nearly touching. You can’t help but admire her dress, a mirror copy of yours in every way aside from the color – the dark, blood red silk contrasts so beautifully against her soft, pale skin while the dim lights of the small bar dance off of the black silk of your own dress in smooth, pearlescent waves.

“I’m fine, Nyra,” you can’t help but reassure her with a soft smile as you poke your tongue out to wet your lips before pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand, “Just wondering when exactly you plan to start the show.” You tease, nodding to her phone.

“Now where would the fun be in revealing all my tricks?” She gives as good as she gets, her eyes gleaming as she looks you over appreciatively. She takes another sip of the wine, taking the time to swirl it around in her glass before delicately pressing her lips to the rim. You can’t help but bite your lip as she closes her eyes with a pleased hum. “Have you had any of yours yet? You really need to try it, my love, it’s absolutely decadent.”

You reach across the table and grab your glass, swirling the pale yellow-gold liquid around in the same way Rhaenyra did before taking a sip, sighing happily as you taste all manner of sweet, fruity notes.

You go to look at her with raised brows, about to compliment the expensive vintage as well, when she discreetly taps the screen of her phone. You only manage to get a soft, barely there squeak out as the vibrator comes to life inside you and buzzes softly against the most tender spot within you before Rhaenyra quickly leans over and presses her lips against yours, muffling the noise.

You sigh gratefully against her lips as your eyes flutter shut, one of your hands squeezes at her thigh, and you’re grateful that each table is adorned with a long tablecloth as your hips seem to buck up by themselves for a second.

She pulls away after a moment, once she can sense that you’ve calmed down some, and fixes you with a pleased grin before pressing one last, soft kiss against your shoulder. “That good already?” She teases, lifting her glass to her lips to take another sip of wine, “And to think, we’re only on the first level.”

You shiver, knuckles white as your fingers dig into the dark fabric of your dress, your hands pressed tightly against the tops of your thighs as you try and keep your hips still as Rhaenyra taps her phone screen, giggling as she turns the vibrations up a level.

Your skin is flushed, though you aren’t sure if it’s from the wine or from the incessant vibrations within you. You throw Rhaenyra another helpless glance, your fingers digging into her plush thigh as a warning that your peak is approaching.

She merely huffs out a soft laugh next to you and reaches out to tuck a lock of your hair back behind your ear before cupping your cheek, her pale eyes dancing over your face as she admires the blush that’s bloomed across your skin.

“Oh, pretty little thing,” she coos softly, smirking when she notices your lower lip trembling as you desperately try and bite back the moans threatening to spill from your lips, “Are you getting closer, my love?”

You nod as your walls clench desperately around the toy, the movement only serving to press it even more firmly against your sweet spot. You bite down on your bottom lip, your nails no doubt leaving small crescent moon marks against Rhaenyra’s delicate skin, as you try to control your breathing.

Just as you’re about to whisper that you can’t take much more, the waiter reappears, walking up to your table with a polite smile. You nearly cry as Rhaenyra quickly turns off the toy, although you can’t say whether it’s from relief or frustration from being so, so close.

“Is everything to your liking, ladies?” He asks, his gaze lingering on you for a second as he looks between the two of you.

“Everything is perfect.” Rhaenyra answers with a cool smile, casually taking a sip of wine.

“Wonderful, and is there anything else I can do for you all this evening?”

“I think we’re good over here,” she says, smirking as she spares you a glance, “Just bring the check when you get a moment, please. No rush, though.”

“Of course, ma’am.” The waiter says with a polite nod before taking his leave.

As soon as he’s gone, Rhaenyra presses herself close to you and you almost whine when you feel her breasts press against the side of your arm, her nipples hard and aching against the thin fabric of her dress. A chill goes through you at the realization that she’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

“That was going to be a big one, wasn’t it, sweetling?” She murmurs softly, one of her warm hands skimming across your bare thigh as she tucks it under your dress.

“Nyra, please,” you all but gasp, trembling next to her as your center aches, your walls squeezing helplessly at the toy, “Please…” You’re not even really sure what you’re asking for as you beg, your mind covered in a thick fog.

“Mmm,” she sighs, relishing the way you squirm in her hold as she skirts her hand higher and higher up your thigh, until the edge of her fingers are just barely pressing against the center of your thin lace underwear, “I don’t think it’s Nyra tonight, my little darling.” She says with a soft shake of her head, a few strands of her silvery hair falling beautifully against her cleavage.

“Mommy,” you correct yourself with a choked whimper, eyes glassy as you peer up at her, “Please, please.”

“Please what?” She asks, the condescending edge to her voice making your head spin, “Please take you home? Please make you come?” She prompts, eyebrows raised slightly as she smirks.

“I –,” you choke out, nearly jumping out of your skin when she turns the vibrator back on, not bothering to ease you into it as it buzzes away at a high speed, “F-Fuck.” You hiss, your body already tensing as the knot in your belly winds itself up at an alarming rate.

“I think you want to come,” she says lowly, nodding her own head as if to answer the question for you, “Luckily for you, mommy’s in such a giving mood tonight.” She studies your face carefully as she pushes your underwear to the side, her eyes positively sparkling once she feels how wet you are.

You bite your lip harshly, nearly drawing blood, as she begins rubbing circles over your aching bud, not bothering to warm you up as she normally does as her soft fingers press harshly against you. Your head spins as she works you up and up and up, your high building at nearly the same pace as the vibrations within you as she slowly increases the speed of the toy.

Before you’ve even had a chance to process the sensations flowing through your body, your head snaps to her and your eyes are wide as you look at her desperately, soft squeaks sounding from your throat. She merely looks at you expectantly – she may be in a giving mood but that didn’t mean she had to make the getting easy.

“M–,” You barely choke out the first syllable before your eyes squeeze shut, your core already starting to flutter around the small toy, “M-Mommy, mommy!” You urgently whisper, finally finding your voice before gritting your teeth, your breath catching in your throat just as you feel the very beginnings of a familiar tightening overtaking your belly.

“Let mommy have it, sweetling,” Rhaenyra coos, not stopping the movements of her fingers as she feels your bud twitch against her fingers. She murmurs soft praises into your ear as your high washes over you, talking you through it as your hips squirm against the lush fabric of the booth. “That’s a very good girl. Is that such a big one, darling? You did so, so good for me, sweetling.”

Her soft praises nearly send you over the edge again, but thankfully she decides to spare you and turns off the vibrator before slowly extracting her hand from your underwear, taking a second to make sure to move them back into place for you, the small gesture making your heart skip a beat.

She laughs softly next to you, the sound making you open your eyes and you nearly moan at the sight of her dipping a finger, still shining from where she’d touched you, into the half-full cup of wine in front of her. She takes a second to swirl it around before bringing it to her lips, her eyes gleaming as she sucks at the digit; the sight alone is enough to make your tender walls clamp down on the toy but the small, satisfied moan she makes just about sends you spiraling over the edge yet again.

“That’s definitely my new favorite pairing.” She teases, smirking at the wide-eyed look on your face.

“Nyra!” You laugh, your heart racing in your chest as you feel the butterflies in your tummy stir yet again while the two of you dissolve into flirtatious giggles.

Just then, the waiter appears with the check, which Rhaenyra quickly scans over before passing her credit card to him. She turns to you as soon as he disappears around a corner, the coy look in her eyes making you feel flush all over again.

“I can’t wait to get you home, sweetling,” she sighs softly and presses a kiss against the curve of your neck before polishing off the last bit of wine in her cup, “Mommy is absolutely dying for something sweet for dessert…” She teases, raking her hand back up your thigh.

A giving mood, indeed.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @alerisc

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432 notes · View notes

avatar-anna · 1 year

Note

Hiii can you please write a blurb where its hockey player h getting jealous? It can be at a party or maybe at one of figure skater y/ns competitions?

i did that thing where i took an ask in a different direction, so if this was your request, message me and i'll do an actual jealous fic! i apologize, i was feeling angsty, protective boyfriendrry🤭🤭

trigger warnings: light depictions of sa, coping with sa

i don't pretend to know what it's like to be a victim/survivor or sexual assault, so if there is something that you may find offensive or unrealistic or glorified, please know that was not my intention. feel free to message me if you take issue with this fic, and i'll take it down.

all the love💕💕

"Do you wanna get out of here?"

You were quick to shake your head, stepping away from the guy you'd been talking to. It was just a conversation, nothing more, one you didn't even really want to be having in the first place. But the guy had cornered you in the fraternity's kitchen, and you were looking for a polite way out.

"Uh...no. I'm actually here with my boyfriend," you said.

You hoped that would be the end of it, but instead of backing off he stepped closer. "You don't have to play hard to get, Y/n. I'm already into you, so come on."

Dread started to fill your belly. Peeking over the guy's shoulder, you saw that you were the only ones in the kitchen, and with the loud music playing throughout the house, no one would hear you if you needed to call for help. You hoped you wouldn't need to, but it was all you could think about as he leaned in.

"No," you said, trying to sound firm despite your trembling voice. "I said no, so if you'll excuse me—Get off m—!"

His hand was on your wrists and pushed you roughly into the wall hard enough to hurt. While you were still in a daze from being shoved, he made his move. His mouth, which was not at all like Harry's, was on yours before you could say anything. The guy tasted like stale beer, and his tongue kept trying to push past your tightly closed lips. Your skin crawled every place he touched—under your shirt and skirt, the inside of your thigh—and every time he whispered in your ear and his breath unfurled across your neck. You wanted to call out or push him off but you couldn't. You never thought you would be in this position, and now you were, and you just...froze.

When his lips moved to your neck, you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut and hoping if you stayed still enough your mind might drift elsewhere. "Please," you whimpered one last time, willing yourself to push back, but you couldn't make yourself move.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Harry's voice, that was Harry's voice. For a moment, you thought his angry tone was pointed at you, that he thought he'd caught you cheating.

"Nothing, man, leave us alone. We're—"

Things were a blur after that, but all you knew was the guy wasn't on you anymore and you felt exposed. The skirt you had carefully tucked into your skirt at the start of the evening was rucked up, the neckline pulled down. You kept your eyes closed, tears slipping out as you listened to the sound of a fight, of someone getting shoved against a wall and plates or cups crashing and fists connecting with skin. You didn't want to cry, you felt stupid for crying, but the tears wouldn't stop.

"Harry, please."

"Shut up!"

Your eyes stayed squeezed shut, but you could hear the altercation coming to an end as more people came into the kitchen, most likely pulling Harry and the other guy apart. Feeling someone crowd your space again, you tensed and shook your head, completely terrified.

"Hey, it's just me. It's just me, love. Can you open your eyes for me?" Harry said, his voice the softest you'd ever heard it.

Slowly, you blinked your eyes open, more tears spilling out. "I promise I didn't—"

"None of that, baby. I know what happened. You don't have to explain," he said. Harry reached out to gently push a strand of hair out of your face, but you flinched. "Sorry. I—Should I get Kate? She's here somewhere. I'll—Let me text her."

Kate came in minutes, and she quickly ushered you out of the party and into her car. Everything felt like white noise, and you were seeing without really seeing. You knew Harry was there and keeping his distance, but you just wanted to go home, be alone. So Kate drove you, got you into bed and slept on the couch in the living room, making sure to lock the door when you started to cry and hyperventilate because she'd forgotten.

The next morning you felt marginally better, but not great, and the day after that was more of the same. On the third day, you felt comfortable enough to get out of bed, to shower and scrub at your skin until it was rubbed raw. You were shaken up, but you felt like you were back in your body again. That night you did everything in your power to not be where you were mentally. A few days later, you were more aware once again, not so scared or skittish, but that only meant the memories and the feelings you were keeping at bay returned in full force.

"Harry's at the door. Wants to check in," Kate said, poking your head into your room. You'd been up for a couple hours, watching TV on your laptop after you finally stepped out of the shower, but you hadn't come out of your room yet, hadn't said a word to anyone. Hadn't spoken to Harry since the party. "He's been coming here for the last three days, and I've been holding him off, but—He's worried about you."

You knew he was worried. He called and texted until your phone died, and then he resorted to emails. Harry hardly even checked his email unless he had to message a professor about a late assignment, but he'd been emailing you relentlessly when you didn't answer your phone.

"Did he...hit that guy?" you asked, recalling bits and pieces from that night.

"Did a little more than just hit him, but well-deserved in my opinion," Kate muttered. "Was like one of those brawls he gets into on the ice at games except he had a good center of gravity. That piece of shit didn't stand a chance."

You didn't know how to feel about that. You were well aware that Harry got into fights at his hockey games, you always rolled your eyes when he got sent to the penalty box after shoving a player into plexiglass or taking a swing when she should've skated back to his position. And he was the jealous type, you were well aware of that. Sometimes Harry would glare or kiss your neck when he thought guys stared too long. He was protective and jealous, but a sweetheart on the inside, and part of you liked how strongly he felt for you and that he wasn't afraid to show it. Now...you didn't know how to feel.

"He...He can come in."

Kate nodded and left your room. A minute later, she was back with Harry. He had a split lip and dark bags under his eyes, but other than that, he looked fine. Kate was right, Harry seemed to take care of that guy without much trouble.

"Hi," he said, stepping inside your bedroom. Kate closed the door once he did, leaving the two of you alone.

"Hi."

"How—How are you?" he asked then frowned. "That was a stupid question. Sorry, I—"

"I'm okay. Not okay, but better, I guess."

"Good. That's—That's good. I'm glad. I was worried about you. Couldn't sleep."

Harry's hands were tucked into his back pockets as he leaned back and forth on his heels, his eyes struggling to pick something to focus on. He was nervous, you realized.

"You can sit down," you said, bringing your knees up to your chest so he could have space to sit on your bed.

"Right thanks."

He approached the bed, sitting down on the very edge. His hands stayed in his lap, foot tapping rapidly. Your eyes narrowed, a hand reaching out to take one of his hands in yours before you could think much of it. Harry's knuckles were cut up, reddish-purple bruises covering his skin. Ever so gently, you ran a finger over the bruises.

"It looks worse than it feels," he said, probably lying. "I know how you feel about fighting, but I couldn't let him get away with that. He—I saw red, and—Sorry, we don't need to talk about me."

"I didn't think anyone would come," you said. "We were just talking, and then all of a sudden we were alone and the music was so loud. I—I didn't think anyone would've heard me."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I went to the bathroom and went looking for you, I—I should've—"

"I don't blame you for not being there," you said. "You were there. I was just so scared, and I—I froze, I couldn't move, and I was so—"

"Hey, it's okay," he said. Harry tried to reach for you, but you pulled back. "I'm sorry I don't want to make you uncomfortable by touching you. I can go—"

"I have bruises on my wrists," you said, pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt over your hands. "And I don't want to feel ashamed, and I know I shouldn't feel ashamed, but—but I do. I feel ashamed of what happened."

When you began to sniffle, Harry looked like he wanted to come closer, but he stayed put. "Can I?"

You gave him a small nod, and he gently took your left wrist in his hands. His touch was so delicate, you didn't even think he was capable of being that gentle. Harry pushed your sweatshirt back, and you quickly turned your head to the side, not wanting to see the bruised fingerprints on your wrists. You felt his thumb brush over the skin, and when your skin began to crawl, your shoulders tensed, and his thumb stopped.

"I went to the school board," he said. "The dean, or whatever. I told them what happened. I—I didn't mention your name, but I told them what happened so that...he could get expelled or reprimanded or something."

Your head had been resting on your knees, but at that, you looked at him. "You did?"

"Yeah, I—I'm sorry if I overstepped, but I couldn't just let him get away with it," he said.

You didn't know what to say. You'd been officially dating for a few weeks now, a little over a month, and things were still new, still fresh. But you liked this new relationship, and you didn't want what happened at the party to get in the way of something so good with Harry.

"I don't feel great, and I may have taken like a hundred showers since, but I think I just want...I think I could use a hug."

"I love hugs," Harry said, a small smile on his face.

You pushed the corner of your bedspread back to let him in, and Harry was quick to kick off his shoes and join you. His body was warm, the smell of his clothes perfect, his cheek against yours perfect. He was perfect. You felt comfortable in your own skin again with him next to you.

"And I could use a movie buddy," you said, opening your laptop again, firing up a rom-com.

"You've been pestering me to watch this with you," he mumbled against your temple. "But I'll watch anything if it means I get to hold you like this."

You blushed and squeezed his hand tight. Harry hissed a little, which made you mumble an apology before gently kissing his knuckles.

"I do hate when you fight," you mumbled, opening up your laptop again. "But this time it was deserved. If I have bruises, so should he. And I'm—I'm glad you told someone. Thank you."

"I wish I had been there," he said quietly, taking your hand in his and kissing your wrist gently. "I should have been there."

You knew both of you could go around in circles about hypotheticals about that night, but it would be no use. Something horrible happened, and you wouldn't forget it, and neither would he. But the bruises would fade soon, and Harry was there for you, and so was Kate, and you would be okay. When he kissed your wrist, your shoulders tensed, but your skin didn't crawl, and when he rested his arm on your waist, you felt safe, not trapped, and when he asked if you wanted to get dinner when the credits of the movie rolled, you found yourself saying yes.

"This might be everything that happened and my emotions might be all over the place, so take this with a grain of salt. In the nicest way," you said. "But I think I might be in love with you."

Harry chuckled and helped you out of bed, waiting by the door as you slipped into a pair of sneakers. You didn't bother changing out of your sweats, even though you had to hike up the sweatpants you were wearing every few seconds because they were Harry's. Both of you were more than familiar with walking around in comfy clothes after practice or a training session. You were probably headed to McDonald's and back to your apartment for another movie anyway.

"Then I'll wait to tell you I'm in love with you in a month when we're on a proper date. Until then, shall we?"

"I don't want to feel like this."

"I know."

"I shouldn't feel like this," you said, pulling Harry's covers up to your chest.

"You're allowed to have all the feelings you want, Y/n," Harry said softly, careful to keep his distance on the narrow bed. "We can wait. I don't mind just laying next to you."

"Yeah?" you asked, getting teary eyed for an entirely different reason.

"However long it takes."

You sniffled and reached for his hand, which he took. "Sorry about the uh... unfinished business."

"That? Can't even feel it," he said.

"Liar," you said, laughing a little. "But it makes you a reeeaaly good boyfriend."

Harry kissed the top of your head. "And it'll be reeeaaly worth the wait."

You laughed even louder, even fuller, this time, flicking him on the nose. "Pig."

Harry teased and joked with you, but on the inside, he felt relief. You'd come out of your room and gone back to class the last couple weeks, but you weren't quite yourself. You stayed covered up from head to toe, you stayed home on the weekends, and your heart wasn't in your training. You went and you were brilliant, but Harry could tell. He'd watched you enough to know if your heart was in it, and it wasn't.

So he learned when to be a shoulder to cry on and when to make jokes to make you laugh and when to put on your favorite movie. Harry had never been in this position before, he never thought he would ever be in this position before. But he didn't imagine you did either, so he tried his best.

He wasn't worried, though. You were in therapy and going to class and getting good grades and you didn't flinch anymore when people tried to touch you. Friends, anyway, sometimes strangers startled you. Progress was progress, though. Some areas were better than others, though. Since the party, you and Harry hadn't had sex, hadn't even kissed on the lips. You held hands and Harry kissed your head and cuddled on the couch or a bed, but it didn't go much further than that. And you were fully clothed each time.

But he was more than willing to wait. Harry knew taking time was important and he hadn't put pressure on you to do anything. It was you who wanted to do more tonight. You thought you were ready, you insisted that you were ready, but when Harry tried to take your top off, you pushed him away, feeling sick to your stomach.

"You'll get there. We'll get there," Harry promised, going over to his dresser to get a shirt. He tossed it to you, wanting you to be as comfortable in a t-shirt instead of the top you'd worn out tonight. He grabbed one for himself and was halfway into it when you stopped him.

"Could you maybe just—"

"What?" He asked, coming over to the bed where you were still covered up.

"It's stupid," you said.

"I can promise you it's not."

Blowing out a large sigh, you looked at him. "Could you maybe just not wear a shirt?"

"Of course," Harry said immediately. He shrugged out of the one he just put on and slid into bed next to you. "Not stupid at all."

"I just want...to feel you, but I don't want—"

"To do anything more. I understand."

So Harry let you position him just how you wanted on his bed, making sure not to accidentally lean or lay on your hair. Your hands were feather-light on him, like you were barely touching him at all.

Sometimes, late at night when you were fast asleep, Harry would feel inexplicably angry. Not at you, never at you. At that guy for hurting you the way he did, for violating you in a way that was still affecting you when he probably hadn't thought about it since. Harry could tell you looked for him when you were on campus together. Your eyes flitted to each face that passed you by, squeezing Harry's hand when you saw similar hair or frame. You were terrified to see him again, and seeing the panicked look on your face when you thought you did enraged Harry even more.

But there wasn't much he could do except wait. Wait for you to heal, wait for the storm to pass, wait to kiss you again. All of it was worth it, you were worth it, but sometimes he thought there was something he could've done to prevent all of this.

"You can stop beating yourself up, you know," you said out of the blue.

"What?"

"Don't think I don't know that look, Harry," you said, leaning up on your elbow to look at him. "I have never blamed you for what happened."

"I just wish I could help," he said, feeling his shoulders release tension they'd been holding since that night.

"You are. I don't know how to explain it, but I promise you are," you said, and that relaxed something in Harry too.

He was about to put on another movie when an idea came to him. "Get up."

"What?"

"Get up. I have an idea," he said, slipping back into his t-shirt and a hoodie.

Curious, you followed his lead, putting on shoes and letting him lead you to your car. "The rink," he said quietly, and even though you knew it was closed for the night, you went anyway. Harry didn't say anything, but you weren't really up for conversation anyway. You felt bad that you'd become a burden to Harry, that instead of a girlfriend he got...you. You wanted to be okay again, you wanted him to kiss you and feel you, you wanted to do more than just fall asleep next to him. But you just couldn't get his touch out of your head. You felt dirty and overexposed, and you weren't sure if you'd ever not feel that way again. You weren't sure if you should be selfish and keep Harry shackled to you while you found out.

"Come on," he said when you parked in the empty lot. It was almost midnight, which meant there were no more practices, no more games or private training sessions. It was just you and Harry.

He pulled out a set of keys from his pocket, taking you by surprise when one slid into the lock with ease. The front door to the rink opened, cold air immediately hitting you as you stepped inside.

"Why do you have keys to the rink?"

"Being captain of the hockey team has its perks," Harry said with a shrug. "Come on, I want to show you something."

You followed him back to the boy's locker rooms, and past that to where the rink stored the equipment they rented out to local teams or families who wanted to start training their kids but didn't know what to buy yet. Harry grabbed a hockey stick, not quite as big as the one he used, and then a bigger one, and a few pucks.

"Do you have spare skates in your locker?"

"Of course."

"They'll do. We're not gonna actually play," he said, but he wasn't looking at you as he pulled out small nets from the back of the storage room.

When he had everything, he told you to grab yours and his skates while he set up the rink, not giving you a chance to respond. You did as he asked, using the combination he gave you before leaving the locker room to cross over to the girl's. Your spares were old, and the blades could've used a tune up, but they were comfortable and would hopefully work for whatever Harry had planned.

You quickly got into your skates and got on the ice, handing Harry's over once you reached him. "I think you need to get angry, and I think you need a way to just let it all out," he said as he laced up his own skates, which were much clunkier than yours. "So I'm gonna teach you how to shoot, and we'll go from there, okay?"

"Harry, I don't think—"

"Do you trust me?" he asked, looking at you like he wasn't actually sure if you did.

"Yes," you said almost immediately.

"Then let me help you do this."

So you did.

Harry showed you the basics of shooting a hockey puck at the net. He made it look so easy, so effortless, but when it was your turn, you hardly made the puck move. But Harry was patient, quietly telling you what you did wrong and helping you adjust your stance. Eventually, you got the hang of it, and when you hit the first puck with force, you didn't stop.

Harry had been right, you needed an outlet for everything you were feeling, and each swing of the hockey stick had you feeling more than just uncomfortable in your own skin or scared or sorry for yourself. You were furious that this happened to you, that you couldn't do anything to stop it, that this person left you feeling weak and broken. All of that anger went into your movements, and everything else fell away, including Harry, who hadn't said a word since you got the hang of it.

You didn't know how long you stayed on the rink, all you knew was the stick in your hand and the ice beneath your skates. It wasn't until Harry tapped you on the shoulder that you finally stopped. Your cheeks felt flushed and you were breathing heavily, but you felt good, and you hadn't felt good since that night.

"Your arms are gonna be sore tomorrow," Harry explained, taking the hockey stick before skating around to gather up the other equipment. When he made his way back to you, you were still huffing and puffing. Gently, Harry reached out and brushed a thumb across your cheek, then the other. You didn't even realize you'd been crying. "How do you feel?"

"Different," you said. "Like I could sleep forever."

Grinning, Harry said, "Then let's get you back."

Harry had been right, your arms were already starting to feel like jello. You were worn out, but in a good way. You and Harry walked back to the car in silence, though when you looked over at him, he had a small smile on his face.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just the way you were hitting the puck," he said, shaking his head, curls falling into his eyes. He hadn't gotten a haircut recently, and now his hair curled past his ears and touched the collar of his shirt.

"What? Do I play like a girl?" you teased.

"No, but, like, you're really graceful about it. It's not a bad thing, just different."

"Well, maybe I could teach you a thing or two about grace," you said, leaning into his side. The rest of the walk to the car was quiet, like both of you were stuck in your own heads. But when you started the car to go back to his place, you said, "Thank you. You've been...more patient than other people might've been, I think."

"You don't have to thank me for being a good friend," Harry said. "You would've done the same for me."

He was right. If something traumatic happened to him, you would've been bending over backwards to help him. Somewhere down the line, you cared enough about him that you would be devastated if he was hurt in any way. It would've hurt you to see him hurt.

"When I'm ready...you're in for a treat," you said, trying to lighten the mood. You didn't want to feel like you were shrouded by a dark cloud anymore. "

Almost like he knew what you were trying to do, Harry played along. "Oh yeah? What can I expect?"

"That would ruin the surprise."

You saw Harry shake his head in your periphery, but it was an amused shake.

This felt right, the teasing and flirting. It felt normal. You weren't one hundred percent okay, but for the first time since that night, you believed that you would be, and Harry knew it too.

#harry styles #hockey player!harry styles #ice skater!y/n #harry styles blurb #harry styles au #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles angst #boyfriendrry

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cherrycola27 · 1 year

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Red, White, and Rooster

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption. Frenemies to lovers, relationship of convenience. Political situations. Allegations of affairs, military and political inaccuracies. Eventual smut. 18+ Minors DNI. Banner Credit: @thedroneranger

Series Master List Next Part

...........................................

Prologue: The Great Debate

Anxiety thrums through your body as you fidget with the knot of his tie. The intrusive thoughts are creeping in, but on the outside, you remain cool, calm, and collected.

"Please tell me why I have to wear a purple tie again?" He asks you with a huff.

You roll your eyes as you begin the same speech you have before every other debate. "Democrats wear blue, Republicans red, you're an Independent, so—"

"You wear purple to show that you're the perfect mix of both," He groans as he finishes your sentence.

You look up to him with hard eyes. You don't miss the flash of a genuine smile across his face before some television assistant comes to remind you that you have five minutes until he needs to be in place.

"Alright. This is the last debate before voting begins. By some miracle of God and my amazing campaign managing, you're ahead in the polls. Don't fuck this up for me." You tell him as you smooth out the arms of his suit.

"Don't fuck it up for you? I'm the one who is going to be in the Oval Office dear." He smirks at you.

"And I'm the one who is getting you there, and who is going to your Chief of Staff,— dear. So, like I said, don't fuck this up for me." You smirk back.

One more debate, you thought. You had to get him through one more debate and a few last-minute campaign stops, and then all your hard work would pay off.

If everything went according to plan, Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw would be the 47th president of the United States, and you, Y/N Wiseman, would be the youngest Chief of Staff to ever serve at just twenty-nine years old.

"Roos, Wise-woman, yall about ready?" His running mate, Lieutenant Jake 'Hangman' Seresin called out. "Or are you two still fighting over a tie?"

"We're good, Jake," you reply as you step back to admire your handy work. You've done a good job.

Bradley is in a dark grey suit with a deep plum colored tie. His silver watch is smart, but not flashy. His dark brown shoes offer a nice contrast to the suit without clashing. His sandy brown locks are styled to appear neat but casual. His mustache is trimmed to give him an edge of maturity.

It was something that most men his age didn't need, but being thirty-five and running for president, it was necessary for him. If elected, he would be the youngest to ever serve.

No, not if. When he is elected, he will be the youngest to ever serve.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road." You clap your hands. Bradley and Jake follow you out of the room. Bradley is directed to his mark while you and Jake find your seats.

You hear the welcoming music as the moderator steps on stage and beings speaking to the cameras. Applause and cheers cry out as the candidates step up to their podiums.

You take a deep breath. This is it. These next two hours are going to make or break over a years worth of work.

If someone had told you a year ago that the two former Navy pilots turned politicians, you met in a D.C. bar who hired you because of a bet were weeks away from winning the White House because of you, you would have laughed in their face.

But one game of pool, several beers, tears, and sleepless nights later, it was happening. It was so close, you could almost taste it.

.........................

"Oh my God you fucking killed it out there man!" Jake smacks Bradley on the back as soon as the three if you make it back stage from the debate.

Jake was right. Bradley did kill it out there. Your phone is already blowing up with Google Alerts from various media posts declaring him the winner of the debate.

His stances on education, heathcare, immigration, and the military blew his competition out of the water.

Frankly, he didn't have any competition because the other two candidates could only seem to focus on how young he was or his military background. Neither of them spoke much on their policies. Instead, they chose to try and poke at Bradley's past. However, that proved to be fatal for them.

America had rallied around Bradley's tragic childhood of losing his father at two, then being raised by a single mother, who died when he was barely nineteen. Bradley hadn't wanted to play the orphan card, and you really tried not to, but when he was lacking the polls, early in the campaign, you did what you had to do. He was mad at you for weeks but changed his tune when he saw the numbers.

One candidate, Reece Johnson, had tried to frame Bradley and Jake as monsters and killers since they were former military. You quickly rewrote the narrative, painting them as heros who received the medal of honor during their last flight mission. Bradley for risking his life while saving his captain and late father's best friend, and Jake for saving them both.

Every time someone tried to tear them down, you would swoop in and save them. All the while, running a clean campaign for them.

You were broken out of your thoughts by Bradley calling your name.

"Y/N. Hello. Earth to Y/N Wiseman." He waves his hand in front of your face.

"What?" You ask him. "How did I do?" He asks you. You can tell that he values your opinion. No matter how much he gets on your nerves or how much he grumbles. He needs to hear what you have to say.

"You didn't fuck it up for us." You tell him. A smile breaks out across his face. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me Wise-woman." He grins.

"Don't get used to it." You shoot back. "Alright, we need to head back to the hotel. We have an early flight to North Carolina tomorrow, and then a few more stops on the East Coast before we head to the Southwest." You remind him and Jake.

They nod their head and grab their belongings.

"I'm going to head to the parking garage and put my things in the SUV. Chapman, Davis, please make sure Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Seresin make it down safely. Could you also alert Taylor to be waiting for us at the car?" You ask the secret service agents assigned to you three.

"Yes, Ma'am. Would you like an escort?" Davis ask you.

"No, I'll be fine. No one goes after the campaign manager." You joke before waving him off.

......................

You'd just gotten to the parking garage to put your things in when Taylor, your driver, informed you that he'd left his coat upstairs. You assured him you would be fine as he went to retrieve it.

You'd just finished putting your things in the trunk when you heard someone call out your name.

"Y/N!" A voice shouted. You turned around just in time to see a masked person standing a few feet away from you, with the barrel of a gun pointed directly at you.

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn't know what to do. You were frozen.

"Y/N! You bitch! You cost me everything!" They screamed at you. You heard them draw back the hammer of the revolver before they took their aim.

"GUN!" You head someone shout.

It all happened in slow motion. You couldn't fully process what was happening until it was all over.

You heard the deafening bang of a gunshot.

You felt a strong pair of arms wrap around you and pull you into them and down on the ground to safety while two men in black suits charged at the figure.

You watched with blank eyes as they tackled the person to the ground and wrestled the smoking weapon out of their hands.

Your ears were ringing, but you were vaguely aware of someone calling your name.

"Y/N! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Bradley shook you.

Suddenly, you realized he was the one holding you.

"I—I'm alright." You stutter out just as you hear the click of cameras followed blare of police sirens.

"You—you saved me." You stutter, fully trying to process the situation. More cameras clicked as the press was making their way out of the venue and witnessing what happened.

Suddenly, it hit you. You had been shot at. Bradley and broken away from his security to save you. He had ignored protocol to protect you. He'd put his life on the line for you.

By now, the media and police were swarming around the two of you. Snapping picture after picture of the two of you while asking question after question. You knew those photos would be on every major news outlet, and the story of his heroism would go viral within hours.

As he helped you up, two things crossed your mind.

One, you were thankful to be alive.

Two, you'd just won the White House.

Eeeekkkk! Babes! I hope you enjoyed this first part! I'm excited to here your feedback!

Tag List:

@daggerspare-standingby @thedroneranger @shanimallina87

@teacupsandtopgun

@hecate-steps-on-me

@roosterscock

@roosterbruiser

@roosterforme

@seresinsbabe @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @xoxabs88xox @avengersfan25 @blackwidownat2814 @loveforaugust @mak-32 @cottagecori @amysteryspot @heyimmadisonn @princess76179 @bradshawseresinbabe

@sunlightmurdock

@lt-bradshaw @cassiemitchell @die-cunt @mj-l4 @shipinabluebottle @malindacath @violyn20 @imawkwardlysoc @books-for-summer @blackroseboulevard @recordblues @desert-fern

@luckyladycreator2

@katieshook02

@samhapner6

@sebsxphia

@roosters-girl

@diorrfairy

@je-suis-prest-rachel

@chicomonks

@mizzzpink

@a-linabean

@amklibrary

@emorychase

#cherrycola27 #top gun maverick #top gun #rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #bradley bradshaw #rooster smut #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x reader #lt. bradley bradshaw #tgm smut #tgm fic #tgm #tgm fanfiction #top gun rooster #top gun smut #top gun 2 #red white and rooster

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littlexscarletxwitch · 5 months

Note

hii! can i request a florence pugh x reader where the reader and flo are out at a club but have not met before, and then someone tires to make a move on flo that she doesn’t want so the reader protects her? if not that’s okay! :)

── ༊*·˚⋆ 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂?

paring: florence pugh x fem!reader

tag(s): kinda fluffy, flirty flo and r, protective (more like possessive lol) r, i hate men :)

warning(s): some dude harassing flo, mentions of alcohol, grammatical errors, unedited

word count: 1.2 k

note: So sorry it took me so long to get back to you, nonnie. I really hope you like it, tho I'm not sure if I did you idea justice lol. On the other hand, I fished all of my exams so that means more time to write. Therefore I might update twice a week, or as I keep on finishing up fics. Lots of love, M <3

requests are open! + check my rules + masterlist <3

The loud music, the low colourful lights and the cold drink in your hands felt like heaven but nothing could compare to those lovely soft green eyes.

You had been watching her the entire night, unable to take your eyes off of her. The way she would laugh with her friends scrunching her nose, the way she would swing her hips, the way she would gulped down her drink made you all flustered and bothered. Maybe it was just the alcohol but she was really beautiful to look at, so you didn’t mind at all.

Florence knew you were watching, she could feel your eyes burning holes all over her body. But the thing was that she loved it. She took glances at you as well, when she felt like you were not looking at her. And she was really pleased by the sight: bright smile, kind eyes and lips she would love to taste.

But neither of you dare to make a move, god only knew why the two of you were being so silly. And so the night went on, the two of you stealing glances at each other, Florence from the middle of the crowd and you from your stool at the bar. It was really stupid, but it also felt like a game, a secret code only the two of you knew about.

As she took her glass to her lips, her eyes searched for your frame. But as she gulped down the last of her drink, she realised you were nowhere in sight. She frowned, was it over? Did she miss her chance? She should have acted sooner, now all she had was a bitter taste in her mouth and the need to wash it away with some more alcohol.

“I’m going to get a drink,” she said to Ashley, her friend, showing her the empty glass with a fake pout on her lips.

“Get me something too,” the girl yelled to her friend over the loud music, to which Florence only nodded with a thumb up.

She made her way to the bar, gently pushing people out of their way and smiling at some of them as she watched them dancing and enjoying themselves. She called a bartender and asked her for an ice-cold martini and a beer for Ashley. As the girl prepared her drink and five more at the same time, Florence felt an unknown presence next to her. The thought of you quickly crossed her mind, so she turned but her smile flattered as she didn’t meet your kind sweet eyes, but a pair of cold blue eyes.

She pushed down the uneasy feeling growing in her stomach and put on her best fake smile. Sure, it wasn’t who she was expecting but it wasn’t the strangers fault. He didn’t deserve to be treated badly, he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Hey,” said the man nodding to her. She cursed herself for getting his attention, he mistook her politeness for flirting.

“Hi,” she went along nevertheless, not wanting to come out as rude.

And that word was all it took for the man in front of her to start talking nonstop.

The bartender had already given her the drinks she had asked for and he still kept on talking. Florence had already drunk her martini and he was still talking. She ordered a second martini, the beer going hot beside her as he told her about his amazing job. She couldn’t take it anymore, but she didn’t want to cause a scene.

You, who had come back from the restroom, had found yourself sitting next to said man. You had heard the same boring talk as Florence, but you didn’t realise it was her until you quickly looked at her. She seemed unease and bored, she was biting her bottom lip and nodding along to whatever he was saying. But her eyes weren’t as shiny as they were before, when she was dancing with her friend, having the time of her life, and smiling at you from time to time.

“Hey, why don’t we go somewhere more private?” the man said, reaching out for Florence’s hand. She slightly backed up.

“No, I think I’m good here,” she said as she gently shook her head.

“Oh, come on,” he insisted. “Let’s have some fun.”

“Thank you, but I’m just fine exactly where I am,” she said harshly, with a tight smile on her lips. She was done being polite.

“Don’t be a buzzkill. Come on, I promise you’ll have a lovely time,” Florence cringed at his words.

“I think I should go,” you noticed the worry with a tint of anger in her tone, and you didn’t like that one bit. Especially when the guy just wouldn't take the hint.

You gulped down the rest of your drink, hoping the alcohol now running through your veins would give you more courage, and hopefully it would help you not think things through or else you feared you would back down.

You quietly stood up without him noticing, turned to him clearing your throat and spoke up through the loud music. “Oh, there you are, honey!” you plastered your best smile on your face. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” you hugged her, whispering in her ear to play along.

“Hi, baby. I missed you” she quickly said as she wrapped her arms around you.

Both of your heartbeats were beating a mile per hour, this was not how either of you would imagine to talk to the other. As Florence placed her head in the crook of your neck, your sweet fresh scent filled her nose, erupting butterflies in her stomach.

“Baby?” the guy scoffed. “Excuse me. Who are you?” he raised his brows at you.

“I’m Y/n, her girlfriend ,” you raised your brows back at him, playing the part. “Who the fuck are you?” you said with a fake smile on your lips as you wrapped your arm around Florence's waist.

“What?” he scoffed again. “This is bullshit,” he shook his head as he walked away from the two of you.

You sighed and rolled your eyes at him. “Men. Am I right?”

“Tell me about it,” Florence smiled at you.

“Oh, sorry,” you said as you realised your arm was still looped around her.

“No worries,” you had just dropped your arm and she was already missing the warmth of your skin. She cleared her throat, pushing away her thoughts. “Thank you for getting me out of that.”

“You’re very welcome,” you couldn't stop the blood rushing to your cheeks as your eyes were fixed on hers. “I, um, I actually wanted to talk to you earlier…”

“You did?” her eyes seemed to light up, but maybe it was just the flashy lights.

“Yeah! But I… I just thought… I…” you were babbling, a sign of how nervous you were.

“I wanted to talk to you too,” she quickly chimed in.

You couldn’t hold back your smile no matter how hard you were trying. “I know you just got out of a messy situation,” she chuckled, and you could have sworn that you felt your heart flutter. “But, um, can I buy you a drink?” you shyly asked her.

“I would love that,” she responded, mirroring your smile.

Florence was so mesmerised by you that she hadn't realised that she had completely forgotten about Ashley’s beer. But, oh well, she was sure her friend would understand. After all, a pretty girl saving your ass from a creepy dude wasn’t an everyday thing, and she wasn’t just going to let you go that easily.

Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! <3

-M

#florence pugh #florence pugh x reader #florence pugh x fem reader #florence pugh x y/n #florence pugh x you #florence pugh imagine #your fav florence pugh blog <3 #requests by lovely anons ‘๑’#littlexscarletxwitch's fic

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vampire-meta-knight · 5 months

Text

I swear, some of these "goth is whatever you want it to be" people act like telling them they're not goth means the Federal Bureau of Goths is going to break down their door and confiscate all their black clothes.

Loves, no one is gatekeeping what you wear. No one is even gatekeeping goth events! You can still go to goth clubs as a non-goth--you just may not enjoy it as much if you don't like the music. All we ask is that you not use the label, which is shorthand for "fan of goth music," to describe yourself if you are not, in fact, a fan of goth music.

We love seeing your cool outfits and gorgeous makeup and flawlessly-dyed hair, and we love sharing aspects of our subculture! But the second you try to redefine it and take away the ONE requirement, we get protective. Darkly-inclined is a wonderful label--use it! Use alternative! Don't use goth, emo, punk, or grunge if you aren't fans of the corresponding music genres. Can you imagine if I, who's never listened to K-pop, only heard of two K-pop bands, and couldn't name a single member of BTS called myself a K-pop stan? (Punk is probably the only one here that's a little more flexible, since it's also rooted in a political movement and protesting, but it still found its birthplace in the music--music which then led to post-punk and goth rock, might I add).

Subcultures have to have a barrier of entry to be a subculture. There has to be a way to set apart the people who are in it and those who aren't. Saying someone isn't goth is not an insult! We don't look down upon you. We get annoyed with poseurs, but not someone who's just into the fashion and makeup aspect and doesn't try to redefine what a goth is. I guarantee there's probably a spooky, black-clad non-goth that I've followed a makeup or DIY tutorial from, and I think that's wonderful. I love that we have this shared interest, even if we have different taste in music.

We're not trying to be mean when we enforce the one rule to be a goth (there is a second unspoken rule, to not be a bigot, but that's a rule that goes without saying for most groups--please know that when you see a so-called "goth" spewing racist bullshit or other kinds of hatred, the rest of us are NOT in agreement with them and want them evicted from our subculture). We love welcoming new people in, and we love seeing the goth scene thriving. It's just that our subculture means a lot to us, and although fashion is a big part of it, it has always truly been about the music. The music came first (watch old videos of 80's goth clubs--hardly anyone there looks recognizable as a goth today!), and it's the backbone of goth. When you call yourself goth, you're telling fellow goths "we like the same kinds of music." I want to get music recommendations from you, dang it, and share some of mine! I've had so many people insult the music I like and tell me my taste is shit, so it's nice to find someone who likes the same sounds and connects with the same lyrics, you know? Music is the strong glue that holds us together and unites us all. It brought us together in the 80's and has kept us together up until now. So when you try to take that away, to mold the goth label into whatever it takes to fit you because you didn't fit it, that's when we've got a problem.

And if you're into the fashion but don't like goth music now, do not despair, because that doesn't mean you'll never be a goth! Give it a listen. Check out different subgenres and bands. You might like what you hear. Synth and EBM were what bridged the gap for me. I started off being super into the fashion, but would be hard-pressed to name a goth band other than Bauhaus or Siouxsie and the Banshees. I was listening to Halloween Vocaloid songs and Lady Gaga, for the most part. I tried a few goth rock songs and didn't like them. And then I found The Birthday Massacre, and suddenly, those goth rock songs didn't sound so bad anymore. They sounded beautiful, atmospheric, ethereal, melancholy in a way you can still dance to. It wasn't long before I was devouring every subgenre of goth music I could get my hands on and making an ever-growing list of bands to check out and songs I liked. I was digging goth music like a grave, and all it took was a band that fit somewhere in the middle of the upbeat, techno dance-worthy music I was used to, the spooky lyrics I liked, and a gothy sound that got me craving more. Sometimes that's all it takes. Goth music is noticeably different from other genres, and hearing the unfamiliar sometimes results in dislike. It's an acquired taste for some, kind of like coffee, but once you get into it, you'll wonder how you even hated it at all in the first place.

Goth is my home, my family, and although I welcome all who show an interest, there's a difference between someone who actually wants to get involved in the subculture and those who wear a mask so they can pretend to be because they like the sound of the label, the allure, how cool it makes them feel, and insist they must be goth and all who tell them otherwise are just elitists. We call those people "poseurs," friend--don't be like them. If goth music just isn't for you, but you love the fashion, that's cool. Just don't call yourself "goth" if you're not a fan of goth music, since that's what the word means in the first place.

#so this unexpectedly turned into a rant #but I've seen some nonsense recently and it's annoying so--#goth #gothgoth #goth subculture #goth music #goth rant

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weenwrites · 4 months

Note

Transformers Prime having a human reader who’s a famous singer? (Platonic)

Just curious to see how it would work if they have a concert and since they’re famous they can be easier to track down

(or harder since they’re always on the move)

(Bumblebee, Arcee, and Smokecreen)

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

Bumblebee

Sure the decepticons are one thing, but some of your fans are... Eugh... Once when he drove you away, one of your fans clambered onto his cab to try and follow you. He doesn't understand how to can deal with people like them politely, because it sure seems they won't take a "please stand back" or "please leave me alone" very well.

Weird fans aside, your fame doesn't really affect the way he treats you. Sometimes he listens to your music on radio, or he sits outside the stadium to listen to your live performance. But he doesn't just sit outside to listen, he sits outside to keep watch. He feels guilty every time he has to interrupt a performance, but your life and safety matter more than one of your shows.

Arcee

Honestly, she thinks your career as a famous singer is a pain. Your face easily pops up in online searches, so the cons don't have to look too far to see where you live, where your next show will be and when, and whatever other information they need to get their claws on you.

She tries to work with you and let you perform your concerts in peace, yet time after time she's had to cancel your shows because the cons showed up to try and snatch you. But luckily everyone in the audience thought that the motorcycle up on the stage was just part of the show, and they only cried out in love and adoration even louder when they saw their favorite celebrity ride off on a cool bike.

Smokescreen

He hasn't listened to a single second of your music, let alone seen any promotional work of you, but he immediately thinks it's super cool that you're a famous singer! But honestly if you're famous enough to pop up the moment someone types in your alias or name, then it might not take him long to find your stuff. He actually doesn't quite understand the hype around your music at first—but that's probably due to the music taste disparity between human and cybertronian culture, and it grows on him in due time. He's essentially a little confused, but he has the spirit.

There are times where he's had to save you from a couple overzealous fans, and sometimes decepticons, and the job is a bit harder given your famous reputation, which means he has to put more effort into staying incognito and discreet... But even then there are a few pictures of him online—luckily they're all of his alt-mode, but a lot of fans are starting to theorize about that strange car that keeps showing up to drive them away... Smokescreen doesn't care about all the "omgg could the person in the car be Y/N's s/o???" allegations, he's more touched by the people who think he's super cool. In his eyes, this is the closest he can possibly get to fame without becoming renowned through violence.

#tfp imagines #tfp headcanons #tfp x reader #tfp bumblebee #bumblebee x reader #tfp arcee #arcee x reader #tfp smokescreen #smokescreen x reader #x reader #reader insert #self insert #weenwrites

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justmystyles · 9 months

Note

Hey, you are literally one of my favorite writers out here. I honestly love every piece you've written, it's just all really really really good. (guess I am not as good with words as you, oops)

Anyway, I am so glad your requests are open. I was wondering if you could write something where the reader comes from a difficult family. emotionally abusive mother, distant father, eldest daughter syndrome, all that jazz.

So she's sort of moved away but still keeps in touch with her family cuz she does sorta love them but it's hard. So it's like she's got some body image issues and she's closed off, pretty funny but likes to use humor to hide her feelings, has a lot of acquaintances but doesn't like sharing herself with people much (why do I feel like I am describing someone specific lol)

And one day it all just becomes too much ig. I don't know exactly how the story goes, guess I am just looking for some comfort. had a weird few days.

Honestly, love you work. You're great. Thank you for reading that bs. Doesn't matter much if you decide to write it or not. You're already perfect. <3

Let's talk about this ask I got a few weeks ago, shall we?

First of all, I am honored to be considered one of your favorite writers on here, your words are so sweet and I love you.

Now, getting down to business, this ask genuinely made me cry because I know this reader. I am this reader and it was truly terrifying that a stranger on the internet described me so well to me. As soon as I read this, I knew it was going to be my next series, and after weeks of taking down notes and ideas, I finally started actually writing it today.

It'll still be a bit before I start putting it out there, this premise means so much to me that I want to really take my time and do it the justice it deserves, but I have included a little teaser for you below the read more so that you can get a taste of what I'm working on. I've also tagged my tag list peeps so that you all can see what I've been up to.

I'll still be working on NYIML and the other asks I have (if you sent me one, I love you and I'm working on it, please be patient, life has kind of blown up over the last week or so).

You would watch on in awe, watching the music come to life, watching Harry work. From time to time, you would meet his gaze, noticing a softness in his eyes that warmed your insides. You brushed your feelings off, reminding yourself that Harry was just a kind person. He probably looked at everyone like that. He would often invite you to join the group for lunch, or drinks after a successful session. You always declined politely, certain he was just asking to be polite.

But Harry wasn’t just asking to be polite, and those looks that he threw in your direction were different than the way he would look at anyone else. He was fascinated by you, he felt like he needed to know more. When he met you, he thought you were beautiful, and the refreshments that you had laid out showed how kind and thoughtful you were. But he knew there was more to you, and he couldn’t wait to find out all of it.

You truly were the studio mom, always making sure everyone had what they needed. You would bring coffee and breakfast in the morning, make everyone’s lunch orders, or reservations if they decided to go out. But you would never join them. He found that curious, but also disappointing. He understood if you wanted to focus on work while you were all locked away in the studio, hoping to take those lunches and extra curricular times to get to know you, but those moments never came.

He had asked your coworkers about you, hoping to gain some kind of intel that could help him break the ice. Everyone told him how sweet you were, always asking about them and their goings on, but often changing the subject when the conversation would turn to you. He also learned about how funny you were. He would have never guessed, based on how quiet you’d been around him. He figured some of that was because of his celebrity status, he was used to people being shy around him, but they would typically warm up over time. You hadn’t.

There was a bit of worry in his mind that maybe you had an issue with him. You weren’t cold with him, you had always been incredibly kind in your interactions with him and that threw him for a loop. He racked his brain, trying to think of anything he might have said or done to upset you, but nothing came to mind. Perhaps you just weren’t a fan of his? Whatever it was, he was determined to figure it out.

One afternoon, he was coming back from lunch and he overheard you talking to someone in one of the studios. He lingered by the doorway, he knew eavesdropping was wrong, but he was desperate.

The conversation wasn’t much, you were just talking about a television show, but he heard the excitement in your voice and couldn’t help but smile. You sounded so cute. And then you laughed, and he could have died right there on the spot. You had an incredible laugh. He wanted to do anything to be the reason that beautiful sound came out of your mouth.

Harry was so distracted that he didn’t notice that you were coming out of the studio. You weren’t expecting anyone to be standing there, so you bumped right into him.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry Harry.” Your eyes were wide with panic.

He put his hands on your shoulders to steady you. “Don’t be. That was on me. It’s what I get for zoning off in front of doors.” He chuckled.

You smiled politely and nodded at him. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“I was actually hoping to talk–”

He was interrupted by the ring of your phone. You pulled it out of your pocket and saw your mother’s name flash across the screen. “Crap, I’m so sorry it’s my mom. Do you mind if I take this?”

“No, not at all. You should always take calls from your mum.”

“Right,” you scoff. “You’ve never talked to my mother.” You answer the phone, walking away quickly.

He noticed your posture stiffen when you answered, and he hoped everything was okay. Once you were out of sight, he left, returning to the studio. “Y/N is taking a phone call, she’ll be right back.”

When you finally returned, you apologized with a smile on your face, but Harry could see the sadness in your eyes. You took a seat at the computer, and he came up behind you, placing his hand softly on your back. You subconsciously relaxed into his touch.

“Is everything alright?” He asked.

You put on your best fake smile, which he immediately saw though. “Yeah, thanks.”

He wanted to press, but he knew it wasn’t the right time or place. He also wasn’t totally sure you even liked him.

@allthelovehes @ameerakane20 @ash-craze @bethanysnow @blue-ballad @blueraspberryreader @brightlightsinlife @creativelyeva @cute-as-ducks420 @deannaard @fanficismydrug @gem1712 @golden-hoax @gothmingguk @groovychaosavenue @hillzrry @iceebabies @indierockgirrl @jerseygirlinca @jng4kook @jooniesbabie @kaverichauhan @laurxn-robinson @lexiecamposv @likeapplejuicenpeach @lilfreakjez @mrs-anna-styles211994 @n0vaj3an @potterheadandsherlocked @rach2699 @ravenclawdirectioner @stylesfeverr @superchrystaldrug @tenaciousperfectionunknown @tiaamberxx @thechaoticjoy @theekyliepage @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @youknowwhaaat

#harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x plus size reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x fem!reader #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles headcanon #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry concept #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles angst #harry styles fic #harry styles x y/n

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smuttyassholes · 2 months

Text

Happy Belated Valentine's Day from the Assholes (Asshole #6 Writes)

~~The First Time~~ Your first time. Did you think of it often? Yes. Maybe. Or maybe not. At least that's what you tell your friends. Lie to them that you don't care. That "if it happens it happens". Doesn't matter with whom or where. If it's when you were 18 or 25. It was funny when you were 19. Then 24. Not so much when you are in your early 30s and you have barely been kissed. Let alone asked on a date.

And you push it out of your mind. You ''carry on". You get a new bank account, a job. It's just bussing tables, making coffees, minimum wage. You don't care, it's money in your pocket. You get a hole in the wall flat. Your parents try calling, you don't pick up. Ever. And you still don't think about getting laid. Being kissed, being held. Someone bending you over the nearest surface, tasting your skin, biting, licking.Hot breath on your neck spreading you open with hands, fingers, tongue. Then a cock. You don't think about it.

And life goes on. Drones on more like. Some color, some music. Some moments that are worth it. And still don't think about it. One of those endless days though that you spend "not thinking about it", you meet him. You don't know his name at first, his voice even. He is bent over the coffee menu, platinum blond hair falling over his face, long fingers tracing the words. He looks puzzled then disgusted almost. You aren't surprised, the coffee shop was small and the selections were too poor even for your standards. Then you hear a grumble for the first time. "How can there be no espresso for fuck's sake...." Then his face lifts, scanning for a server you presume.

His eyes make you think dragon. Dressed all in black, lips pursed, he could pass as one with the designer expensive watch you notice on his wrist and the most likely expensive thick frames on his face. They draw even more attention to his dragon like eyes and you make your way to him, thinking that, if anything, this will be an interesting encounter to look back on. You stop at his table, notepad and pen at the ready, asking politely. "What can I get you?"

Black eyes. Hazel so dark that it's black surveys you. He hums, then whispers. "Please tell me my eyes deceive me and you actually do offer plain espresso instead of those sugary concoctions from hell." You chuckle under your breath in spite of yourself as you nod then reply (it isn't polite to nod after all). "Yes we do. What will it be?" He sighs in apparent relief as he says "An americano. No water extra ice. To go." "Right away sir. Will that be all?" He nods and you jot down the order, disappearing. You don't generally trouble yourself with making coffees but today you make every single effort not only to make his coffee, but for it to be excellent. You are nervous as hell as you bring the carry out coffee as instructed to the table.

The man has risen, black pea coat pulled back on and buttoned, you catch a glimpse of a tight black turtleneck and then his voice, ice cold like the coffee you were carrying. "Double or nothing. I'm a professional and I don't make mistakes. I get results. My services come with this price tag because of it. You are wasting my time. Either you wire me the difference or I go back home to enjoy this lovely Saturday morning you are ruining for me. Now what's it going to be?"

He turns, taking the iced coffee from your fingers and swirls it slowly, long fingers tapping as he waits for the answer on the other line. He then wraps his (ridiculously full and pouty you suddenly notice) lips around the straw taking a long drag of a drink and humming in approval, following it up with "Language Mister Price. Swiss bank account, as previously discussed. Good day." He hung up and it seemed like his entire demeanor changed if only for a moment. His mouth lifted as he took another long drink and whispered as he set money on the table. "Coffee worthy enough of double the price. Keep the change rosebud."

Then he left.Long black coat billowing behind him, the only color on him his platinum blond hair. That was the day that I started thinking again of what it would be like. The first time. And the face I saw in the dead of night,in my fevered imaginings, in my broken moans,was his.

Author's Note: And with this Namjoon drabble I start introducing my writing in this blog. I have some ideas for this, so if it is liked, please let me know by reblogging and leaving some notes.

More to come!

~ Asshole 6

#bts imagines #asshole 6 writes #asshole 6 #namjoon smut

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fauville · 1 month

Note

‘trying to get the other to dance with them’ from the prompts!! For whichever pairing you think it suits best 💕

thank you sm for the prompt!! 🩷

kitty/morgan this time. this is actually my first time writing about them and it's been a while since i've written about morgan at all, so apologies for any butchery of her character, lol.

★ ★ ★

“I don’t dance, sweetheart,” Morgan says, folding her arms at Kitty’s bright, hopeful smile.

Even Morgan can admit that she looks cute as shit tonight: with her dangling pink heart earrings and light blue frilly dress that ends midway to her plump bare thigh. With her heels she’s almost as tall as Morgan, which makes her bristle a little, but she’s so adorable that Morgan barely even notices it.

She herself, of course, barely made any effort. She’s only here, at this stupid fucking office party, because Kitty asked her to come. Sometimes Morgan feels like a pining dog who is at her owner’s every beck and call with her. She chews on her unlit cigarette on the edge of the dance floor and wonders if she could ever say no to her for anything.

Well. Anything except dancing, of course.

“Please?” Kitty tries one more time, but after Morgan shakes her head, she relents and just kisses her cheek, before wandering off to the snack table. Morgan rubs her cheek, her fingers coming off with a pink glittery mess. She groans out loud and uses her shirt sleeve to rub off the lipstick stain, but she’s smiling lightly and is stupidly aware of it, too. Shit.

Morgan keeps staring after Kitty, as she sways on her feet to the beat of the music, popping a green grape into her mouth as she chats with someone Morgan doesn’t know. It’s kind of annoying how friendly Kitty is with everyone, because that means no one ever leaves her alone. It’s very rare that Morgan can spend time with her outside the warehouse for someone not to interrupt them in the middle of it. The worst part is that Kitty is too nice to tell them to fuck off and when Morgan does it on her behalf, Kitty gets pissed off at <i>her</i> instead of the obnoxious intruders.

Morgan is so focused on Kitty that she doesn’t notice that guy (Sloppy? Ronnie? She doesn’t care what his fucking name is), Kitty’s ex, seeing Kitty from across the dance floor and making his way to her. She frowns when maybe-Ronnie touches Kitty’s shoulder with a too gentle and familiar grip to Morgan’s tastes.

Kitty turns to look at him, her smile polite but also fake, but Sloppy doesn’t notice it and takes Kitty’s hand in his own, swiping a finger across her knuckles.

And Morgan sees red.

She drops her cigarette to the ground and is by Kitty’s side as fast as lighting. Ronnie blinks at her speedy arrival and then yelps as Morgan grabs his wrist in a too tight grip.

“Let go,” she growls, and Sloppy squeaks in fear to her delight.

Morgan is aware that Kitty is currently staring at her with wide eyes, but she doesn’t look at her, her eyes focused on his fearful face as her grip tightens even more.

“Morgan,” Kitty says very softly beside her. She doesn’t sound upset, but she takes Morgan’s free hand into her own and squeezes it gently.

Morgan releases his hand and he rips it to his chest, massaging his wrist with his fingers.

“Get lost,” Morgan grunts, and Sloppy does-- so fast he looks like a vampire himself. He fucking wishes he was.

Morgan folds her arms, Kitty’s hand falling away, as she watches him go with a satisfied smirk. After a moment she turns to look at Kitty, who doesn’t look angry, like Morgan expected she would. Instead she’s smiling and, for some unknown reason, Morgan’s heart squeezes inside her chest.

“You wanted to dance?” Morgan asks with a quirked eyebrow, swallowing down whatever she was feeling before, and offers Kitty her hand.

Kitty laughs. “I’d thought you’d never ask,” she says and leads Morgan to the dance floor.

#twc #the wayhaven chronicles #morgan twc #twc fanfic #twc morgan #morgan x detective #oc: kitty #vilna writes

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

Text

Delilah ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: During a party at his house, Tommy becomes enraptured by a beautiful little fool

Note: This was written for @zablife 's 1k Follower Celebration using 17.) “The best thing a girl can be in this world is a beautiful little fool.”

Congratulations once again. I am a bit over the limit, but I had a lot of fun getting there and I hope you enjoy reading this (maybe even reading this twice)

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Warning: Drinking, sexual relations, making out, drugging, mention of murder, fascism, roofies. I am of age and so my content is created for that intended audience. If you are a minor, please leave. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Wordcount: 1110

She could taste the remnants of the whisky on his lips, as they captured hers.

He wanted her - needed her even.

And she needed him, so it was almost a surprise when she pulled back.

Her wide eyes glanced back over her shoulder to where dozens of people were dancing, drinking, celebration - expensive drinks in crystal glasses, as they moved to the music.

“What’s wrong?”, Thomas Shelby asked.

“I’m sorry, Sir!”, she insisted, staring up at him with awe and admiration.

“It’s just- I can’t believe you would even look twice at someone like me.”

One minute she had been dancing, the beaded strings of her dress flapping around her, then there was him - with his perfectly tailored suit, the sharpness of his cheekbones and the shine in his piercing gaze.

He was overwhelming, in every way.

“I intend to do much more than looking!”, he promised, his eyes travelling down to the deep neckline of her dress.

Wearing it was daring, but not nearly as daring as the other things she intended on doing tonight.

Doing with him.

The thought alone made her shudder in anticipation.

His hand found her back and pulled her against him, his kiss so consuming it drowned out any remnant of the music.

It was like she could feel her blood pulsing right against where he sucked at her neck, promising to leave marks.

Her fingers coiled in his dark hair, strands getting tangled around her large ring.

“Not here - please. We can’t be seen.”

After all, she was a good girl from a good family, engaged even, everything that screamed he should stay from her, wasn’t she?

Her batting lashes made his eyes turn dark.

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her away from the noise and into the depth of his home.

The last thing she saw before they left the beaten path were the eyes of one of the footmen. It was fleeting, but enough to make her heart skip a beat.

The two of them were playing a dangerous game and if they were discovered -

With every step, her fears came closing in, leaving his hand the only thing she could hold onto.

And she refused to let go.

“In here.”, he insisted, shoving the door to his office open as soon as he had unlocked it.

She used the second she had to detangle herself and made for the whisky carafe.

The glass was quickly prepared and with it in hand she draped herself on the edge of the sofa.

She tried very hard to be serious, seductive, just like the grown women on the screen, but she couldn’t help the girlish giggle of excitement.

He had liked it before and he liked it now.

Entirely foreign from all the serious political and troubled women in his life - how could he not want something different just for a night? After all, the best thing a girl can be in this world is a beautiful little fool.

His lips were just as swollen as hers when he approached the sofa.

Straddling him, she brought the glass to her lips first, then his.

He chuckled when she coughed, unable to keep the liquid and its biting taste in her mouth.

As she wiped her damp hand on the side of her dress, he drank deep as if to prove a point, while slipping his hand under the silk.

Her fingers clasped around his wrist tightly just as he reached her underwear.

“Let me show you, Mr. Shelby!”, she begged. “They are Parisian, for my fiancé.”

A soft huff escaped his lips.

“Ah for your fiancé?”, he mocked, taking another sip.

She glanced down in embarrassment.

“I suppose you’ll see them before he will. May I?”

With a nod, he granted her permission.

She skipped all the way to the centre of the room, twirling for him.

The silk brushed against her skin as it fell, before showing the lace and sheer fabric of her underwear.

The cold made her gasp, her nipples brushing against the thin layer.

His eyes shone with greed.

All the while he was sipping his drink - his known vice and the second she had brought him tonight.

“Stop!”, he insisted once she had let the straps slip down her shoulders.

She froze, not only body but soul too as she stared at him with nothing but biting uncertainty.

“Come here.”, he beckoned, making her breath a sigh of relief that turned into a giddy humm.

In his lap once more she rolled her hips against him while feeling him press up from under his trousers, already hard.

He marked the side of her neck, with impatient fingers tugged at her lingerie.

His eyes were glassy by now, but still hungry for her.

The pleasure her fingers brought was enough to drown any concern he might have felt, any ringing alarms.

But bit by bit, the kisses on her neck grew less forceful, until they stopped completely.

“Wha-...”, he tried, before ending in a groan.

Her hand found the back of his neck and she hummed, while holding him close.

“Shh, Mr. Shelby. Let me take care of you.”

He tried to push himself up, but his strength left him.

In less than a minute he was out.

When she opened the door to the office, the footman was already waiting.

Odysseus was the name she knew him by.

It wasn’t his real name, but that was of no consequence.

With him was an elderly woman of at least sixty she had spotted earlier among the guests, decked in pearls.

She handed her the key she had slipped from the man’s pocket unceremoniously and she set to work immediately.

Odysseus shrugged off his uniform jacket and handed it to her as they all swarmed the office.

“Do we kill him?”, he asked, glancing at the defenceless man on the sofa.

“Killing him would make him a martyr,”, the old woman said, without looking up from the papers she was flicking through.

“You don’t kill an idea by killing a man. You kill it by ruining the ones that spread it.”

The ruin of his life’s work, the crumbling of his organisations, the cracks in the ideal he had created for others to strive towards would be more damaging to their cause than his death could ever be.

And now they had more than enough time before he would wake up to find what they would need to destroy Thomas Shelby.

“Still,”, she muttered, glancing at the with bile in her mouth, her skin itching from his vile touch. “The only good fascist is a dead one.”

The End.

Thank you so much for reading - as always I'd like to know what you think!

Taglist

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy

@books-livre @chlorrox @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato @stevie75 @flyingjosephine-blog @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique

#valentineswritings #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #tommy Shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinders #zablife1k #delilah

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malibudarby87 · 6 months

Text

Games Men Play - short story

Content Warnings:

Body Horror

Brief mention of Mental Illness/Suicidal Ideation

Sexual Themes

Violence

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the sixth time I’d seen him. I’d been counting.

The first time was Leather Night, at The Pit across town. I’d thought he’d been going for some kind of leather-punk, biker-goth, 80’s throwback thing. Black string vest – low-cut to better show off a thicket of walnut hair – under a sleeveless black denim jacket; leather trousers laced at the side; a wide, flaccid black mohawk turning electric blue at the end like some exotic bird.

By my third sighting of him, at Drag Queen Bingo here at Charlie’s, I realised it was a committed style. Tonight was no different. All leather, denim, and black as sleep, save for the electric blue plumage which was now bleached a ghostly white. It caught the club lights as they flashed towards him, dancing through the rainbow in time with the music.

Each night I’d seen him on the periphery, dancing through the crowd or standing in a doorway. I’d watch for a while, weighing up if my fascination was piqued enough to make a move. By the time I came to a conclusion he’d always be gone, dropping out of view like shadow into shadow.

Tonight, he seemed content to stand vigil at the bar. Sharp blue eyes like the base of glaciers scanning a crowd of sweating, leaping bodies.

I wiped the few errant beads of my own sweat off my forehead and began pushing my way to my latest potential conquest. The bar was abandoned by patrons in favour of the dance floor, and taking a seat next to him was a deliberate move.

‘Sazerac, please,’ I barked through the din.

I waited until the drink was in front of me to turn towards him. When I did, I found him pointedly turned towards me. Pushing from the hips, leaning back like a cat. Nursing his own drink between two hands, in a way that pressed his pecs together in a masculine cleavage.

I was in.

‘Looks like I’m stood up again,’ I said, brushing my hair from my face, flexing slightly. ‘Fucking app twats, always wasting time.’ A frequently used opening gambit that paid off more than it should.

He smiled tightly and lidded his black-lined eyes. ‘Yeah, we’re not doing that.’

‘Doing what?’ I asked, innocently.

‘That tired game where you pretend to have been interested in someone else, but oh no, they ghosted me! Please, save me from a night alone!’ He tapped a fingernail on his glass as he spoke. ‘Bit sad, don’t you think?’

I thought about walking away right then, sure I’d completely fucked it. But something in the way he looked at me, a patient teacher watching his student stumble over the first answer, made me think I had at least one more shot.

I took a drink. The bitter liquor hit me harder than expected. Burning to a comfortable weight in my chest and spinning my head.

‘James,’ I said, extending a hand, which he took and turned palm down, with an unexpected delicacy. A regency era politeness in a venue where guys were getting blown in the bathrooms as we spoke.

‘Vox,’ he said, and I wasn’t sure if that was a name or some kind of old-world insult.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Vox,’ he repeated, turning to the bartender to order another whiskey with a series of simple, but unignorable hand gestures. Like carving runes into the air. Within seconds a fresh drink was placed on the counter.

‘Thank the devil you finally came over,’ he said with a lilt. ‘All that staring through the crowd. Ducking through shadows. You started to seem a little…’ he trailed off, head tilting quizzically as his eyes scanned me. ‘Stalkerish.’

‘Did it work? Do you feel hunted?’

‘Like prey?’

‘I could be the predator.’ I pushed, enjoying the banter a little too much; whiskey clouded, and straining at the edges of good taste.

‘Nah,’ he said, swirling ice cubes in the brown liquid with a sharp scraping somehow still audible over the bass. Fingernails black. Chipped lacquer that showed pale underneath. ‘That’s straight people shit. I don’t do prey.’

‘So, no games. No carnal pursuit. What do you do, Vox?’

‘I never said no games.’ A flash of teeth like a circus showman. ‘Just not the kind that bore me.’

My tastes typically leaned more towards the preppies and gym bunnies. The boys-next-door – if next door was a 24-hour gym with adjoining GAP outlet. I’d pick up a new one most every night I went out. An endless parade of stout, tan men with identikit haircuts and personalities in various shades of beige. Easy conquests. Easy prey.

This guy wasn’t my usual type. But there was something about his Doc Martins, and painted nails, his anachronistic sideburns and soul patch. A smattering of piercings on his face and ears, black ink tattoos peeking up under his collar and above his waistband, which told tale of a penchant for pain that I didn’t find unappealing.

And his name. The way it tasted as my tongue pressed to roof of my mouth. Old in a way I couldn’t place. An incantation.

‘Tell me then, Vox,’ I shifted a leg, grazing his knee with mine. He looked down at it pointedly but didn’t move away. ‘What kind of games do you like?’

‘The dangerous kind. The old kind.’ His voice was cold on heat. Icicles forming from sweat.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know any games like that,’ I said, sinking deeper into his glacial eyes. Head a fog of etiquette and desire. My words came out in slow bursts. Metered and unrhyming. ‘I’m more an Uno and Scrabble guy. But I’m a quick study and down to play. Maybe you could teach me the rules?’

The look he gave burned through me. He downed his drink in one gulp, eyes unflinching, and grabbed my wrist like an adder’s bite.

In that moment, something was decided. Something I wouldn’t understand until later. Until it was too late to take back.

He led me from the bar and into the chill of the night. A world washed in cold blue, moon thick and languid in a cloud splattered sky.

I followed behind, whiskey drunk and shuffling. Heartbeat rhythm of hook-up anticipation. A stirring in my jeans and warmth under my armpits. The few late-night stragglers disappeared behind us. The bass of the club giving way to the clop of his boots on stone.

Outside of the dry smoke and dancing lights, he seemed larger. Pulled at the edges, silhouetted in the alleyway, flanked by shadows.

The colouring of him looked different in the moonlight too. The white stripe of hair a natural warning. Skunks and poisonous frogs. Things that sicken and kill.

I was past the point of warning now.

His grip on my wrist was iron. He walked with a purpose I didn’t understand, and my head swam in the movement, lulled to a fearless resignation. A crying baby coddled by a late-night ride.

‘Hey, what’s the rush?’ The words dripped out of me in slow motion. Distant in my own mind.

He didn’t answer, leading me further down the alley without word or pause.

I didn’t recognise the street anymore. The redbrick townhouses giving way to black, soot-stained buildings. Victorian. Almost industrial. Tall windows with hidden shadows and overhanging roofs that bent in like a copse of trees.

I imagined worker children in Dickensian fashions, dragged by ears to death-trap factories. I imagined pigs, bellies distended, food drunk and stupid being led to slaughter.

‘My place isn’t far,’ I said, not sure if that was true anymore. Processions of shadows danced closer, narrowing the alleyway as he grew taller.

‘Mine is closer,’ he said, and the words hit my ears at once. An inorganic stereo sensation. I nodded grimly, and followed on, barely noticing that the narrowing darkness now snatched at my heels.

I still remember my first time with a man.

It came late, all things considered. Twenty-three and three months to the day. I lie and tell everyone I first did it when I was fifteen, with a builder who’d been helping put up an extension for my parents. The builder was real, and the extension happened, but everything else was just fevered teenage fantasy.

My real first time was with a counsellor I’d been seeing to cope with what my parents called “Post University Depression” which I suppose was partly accurate. The biggest issue, however, was that I was a fag, and a coward.

It’s cliché to say, but it really did just happen. He’d given me his number in case of emergencies, and I’d called one night, staring at a bottle of pills, and hoping to see oblivion.

He came over and a three-hour talk turned into something else.

I remember the act itself felt incredibly sudden and yet oddly formal. Showering after the first tentative kisses. Discussions of position and choice of activity. Flesh yielding to force and patience. A chorus of grunts and sighs, strange bodily scents, and a guilt-laden aching that felt like shooting up liquid sin. Afterwards, collapsing, quivering on my back, my entire body an exposed nerve.

Every night since had been a hunt to feel that again.

Something cold twisted at my naked thigh. A swift, slick motion and I awoke in fits. I thrashed and flopped like a fisherman’s catch and when my eyes came to focus in the dim light, I saw something black coiled around my leg.

I slapped it with a hand and felt soft, cool silk.

Looking around, I noticed a few things; firstly, my lack of clothing; secondly, that I was somewhere in a Meatloaf music video.

The room was palatial in scale, with high vaulted ceilings, disappearing into shadow. Chain suspended black iron chandeliers hung from the cross beams, candles bulbous and nobbled from overuse. The light generated by them – and the handful of candelabra scattered about the bed, and more near the strange, circular, curtained-off area in the centre of the room – seemed to be contained. Diffused and unable to touch the shadows that clung, heavy as blood sated bats to wood-panelled corners and beneath French provincial furniture.

Everything seemed out of scale. A dollhouse with the wrong dolls. The bed I was lying on could have comfortably held five. The full-length mirror, smoky at the edges, stretched a good fifteen feet up the wall. Next to it a tapestry, old as dirt and with a strange paper texture snaked its way around the room, disappearing out of sight behind the curtained off section, and reappearing on the other side.

The colour was faded, pictures indecipherable in the dim light.

The last thing I noticed, was him.

Vox sat at a vanity – oddly to scale for his size – back towards me, facing what might have once been a mirror but now held a scant few shards, like teeth in a screaming maw.

His back was bare, showing a tapestry of its own, scarred in black ink that spread like sickness over one shoulder. He busied himself pulling jewellery free from his face and ears that he dropped one at a time on a plate. Each piece hit the surface with a muffled, wet tap.

Fear and confusion pushed me to move and as I rose a wave of sickness gripped my stomach. A crunching twist like bad street food doubled me over, beads of sweat pricking on my back.

‘Don’t try to move,’ his voice, clear as a bell in the cavernous room.

I curled pathetically, pulling the sheets in bawled fists until I heard the tear of fabric. The pain was unbearable, stealing my breath and pounding in my blood. Something slithered inside me, contracting, and pulling at all the vital parts, making shapes no human organ should be suffered to endure.

Cool fingertips traced a pattern on my neck and the pain faded, quick as it had arrived, slipping free like a retreating invader.

I gasped and hacked; some black residue expelled into my palm.

‘Breathe,’ he said. A mother comforting a child. ‘That’s it, James. Just breathe.’

‘The fuck did you do to me?’ I hacked between sucking breaths. A hand the size of a shovel, segmented with too many knuckles tilted my face up, and I saw him. Truly saw him.

Childhood fears of grinning men. Of clowns and child-catchers and toothpaste ad teeth that sat in wide, fat gummed mouths. Skin split, liquorish blood at the corners of his rictus grin, eyes wrinkled at the sockets so deep they sank into dark pits, where glacial blue stars twinkled and faded in a grim mockery of blinking.

‘I’m teaching you the rules,’ he said, mouth unmoving. Fingernails like bevel edged chisels curled under the flesh of my cheek and gripped me in place. ‘We’re going to play that game now. You remember. The dangerous one? The old one?’

I blinked a response. A plea, I suppose. Choosing not to form words for fear of my face being torn from my skull.

His hand receded, each nail pulling from the meat of my cheek with a sickening pop.

‘It’s a simple game. One of the first, but not the first,’ he strode to the curtain in the middle of the room, back hunched and legs bowed in strange angles, the white streak of hair stretched and ragged, hanging like a tattered banner over one sinewy shoulder.

A hand still dripping with my blood snatched at the curtain, pulling it into the shadows and revealing a large circular area.

It was stone. Old and porous. Grey in the way only ancient things can be. Colour stolen by millennia. Hollows and tiles swirled into the centre in a checkerboard pattern that formed a large, coiled snake.

The Vox thing circled it with hands flourishing. A ghastly gameshow model presenting my prize.

‘You make it to the mouth of the snake, and you make it back. Can’t get much simpler than that.’

I wiped tears and blood and stared at it. It was hypnotic, seeming to move and shift in my vision. Slowly spiralling in place. An optical illusion, surely, but one accompanied by the sounds of grinding stone.

‘I don’t want to play,’ I said, eyes downcast for fear of its response. I expected screaming. I expected death.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but that’s just not good enough,’ it said. The offence in its words was jarring. ‘A couple of hours ago, you were falling over yourself to play with him.’

I raised my head and saw him. The man from the bar, stood naked next to the Vox thing. He eyed me with a look of seduction, painted nails stroking at his chest. Lip bite and a widening stance.

‘You can have him, if you want,’ the Vox thing purred through its unending grin. ‘Wouldn’t that be nice? All the things you could do. Use him up until you’re bored like all the others.’

The man shivered and split, briefly flickering to shadow before reforming as two. One the man I met, the other different. Tan skin with a hairless chest, the suggestion of abs beneath a slight paunch. They pressed against each other, lips, and tongues on flesh in a stilted eroticism that felt like theatre.

‘I could get you more. As many as you desire. That could be your prize.’

Would that be so bad? I thought. My life had been just that, so far. A string of men. Conquered and won, used, and discarded until the next and the next and the next. It was something I was good at, the hunt. But would I be happy without it? If they were handed to me like packaged meat? No danger of defeat?

I shook my head, dismissing the thoughts. Willing a civilised mind to prevail over base desire. ‘I don’t want to play I just want to leave.’

‘Enough!’

With a swipe of its hand the Vox thing rent the men into pieces, blood heat and pink flesh cascading into shadows that hit the ground and scuttled away into dark places.

‘You don’t seem to understand, James. You’re already playing, sweet. And the longer you wait to make your move…’ its voice trailed off, head tilted. ‘Well, let’s just say you’re not the only piece on the board.’

A morbid wave of inevitability hit me. Sudden clarity of what the Vox thing meant. I had been playing. Longer than perhaps even it knew. It was all a game, in the end, wasn’t it? Snakes and ladders. Snakes and men. Men and snakes and ladders and each one with its own unique poison.

There was death waiting out there as much as it was in here. Different guises, yes, but death the same.

I walked towards the board, knowing somewhere deep that it was not the first time. Late night hook-ups. Fumbling in the dark with strange men just to feel the thrill of life and the danger of it too. It was all a game. Get to the snake and get back safely.

I was good at that game.

My foot found the first divot in the stone. I looked at the board. There was no difficulty to the path. A few tiles marked with symbols immediately recognisable as warnings in some deep, ancient way that lived in the blood of man. A few pits that sunk deeper than the others. The route was clear, and no danger of getting lost when the path was so singular.

I could do this. I had done this.

Bare feet found purchase on the porous stone, one after the other and in my mind, I saw images of a lion and a gazelle. Sat around a board like this, nudging pieces with hoof and claw.

A game as old as man, and older still.

The gazelle placed a winning piece and the lion, incensed at the move, sunk rending teeth into yielding flesh.

It never once occurred to me that I was not the lion.

Outside the board something in the darkness laughed.

I looked back, the path I had taken stretching out like time. Something crawled up the snake’s back. Something large, and black. Body of lion, mane thick with shadow and a head of long, snapping jaws. It padded across the tiles, following my footfalls, bounding across time like an approaching comet.

The second piece.

I turned and ran like prey.

#lgbtq writer #lgbt fiction #horror fiction #short story #queer writers

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seancekitsch · 2 years

Note

Smut #79 with Cahir Please!

“Don’t think I’m letting you get away with that, darling.”

TIS NOT SMUTTY BUT INSTEAD VERY CUTE I CAN DO A PART TWO IF YOU WANT

Cahir rose from his spot on the bench, a pointed look at you that tells you he’s coming back with a drink for you as well. All night, he’s refused to let you get anything for yourself. All night, he’s basically waited hand and foot on you for whatever reason. Angouleme wasted no time in telling you Cahir wants to get in your pants, to which you immediately felt like the room was suffocating.

“Shut up!” Milva had hissed, “Eat your soup, girl.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

And that was that, save for the mischievous smile on the young blonde’s face.

You watch Cahir’s back as he stands at the bar. He’s polite and patient waiting his turn to ask for two mugs of ale. The pretty barmaid flits back and forth between customers not unlike a hummingbird in the garden.

But when she gets to Cahir, she pauses. She smiles at him and stands still finally while he orders. Did she just wink at him?

You turn around, suddenly not interested in how long it could take him to get back here with your ale.

You look down to your soup bowl in front of yours, half done and looking a bit sad, compared to the amount of carrots in your companions unattended bowl. He won’t miss them if he’s playing cat and mouse with the beer girl, you think.

Your spoon dips into the bowl while Milva and Angoulême watch, eyes darting between you and each other like they know something you don’t. You spoon several carrots into your bowl and then continue eating like the vegetables were yours all along.

“Don’t think I’m letting you get away with that, darling,” Cahir whispers in your ear, and you recoil nearly dropping your spoon. You hadn’t even heard him sneak up on you. He needs a bell on him, you decide.

“Oh no?” you play, as coy as you can be with soup on your lips.

“No, you owe me that taste of my soup. I wanted it.”

You lean in close to him, closer than what’s proper but no one in this inn cares much about the word proper.

“It’s yours for the taking, Nilfgaardian,” you tease, and then draw back from him like nothing happened. You can swear you hear Milva choke but your focus is only on the man beside you, now sitting and delivering your mug of ale. You and Cahir had always been flirtatious, but never this bold. Maybe it was him being a gentleman tonight bringing it out in you, or maybe the ale gone to your head, or maybe it was the music tonight provided by another one of your companions on this journey.

You take the hot soup up to your lips again, and sip at the broth, warm with hints of what might be chicken in the flavor. Your favorite.

Cahir is leaning in close, trying not to hawk as his eyes flicker from your own to your lips and back up and down again. You don’t break your stare at him, like a challenge. That barmaid might have winked at him but you’ll be damned if you’re not the one to keep his attention tonight.

You hardly put the spoon down before he clumsily surges forward, kissing you strongly on the mouth. His lips are softer than you always thought they’d be, cool from the ale and tasting slightly of it. He humms against your lips and you can feel him smile, and then he pulls away.

“Delicious,” he whispers.

“Why did we have to see that?!” Angoulême’s shrill voice cuts through your romantic little moment, and you remember you’re in a crowded tavern, and trying to lay low.

Milva is tugging at the blonde teen’s arm to try to get her to leave the both of you there.

You look back at Cahir, only admiration showing in those stormy blues.

None of the Hansa is going to shut up about this.

#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach x reader #cahir imagine #cahir x reader

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dearestones · 7 months

Text

Twisted Wonderland Matchup: Azul Ashengrotto #3

@jellyfishuuuuu Request: A twst matchup please ,romantically ,only students ,and thank u.

I'm a 5'5" (165cm) Arab girl who wears a hijab, with big, light brown eyes, red-framed glasses, and a round face. I'm into drawing (and crafting ,i am good with my hands), love all kinds of art and find beauty in alot of things if u look through multiple perspectives. I enjoy fanfics, video games(horror and non horror) and horror movies, and anime. I'm also into biology(mostly) and physics.i love technology and anything that has to do with it .

In terms of personality, I'm adaptable and can appear reserved in public. I've had trust issues due to past betrayals. With close friends, I'm more open, cheerful, and caring. I'm creative, passionate, and smart but lazy and unmotivated most of the time.i am trilingual, I speak Arabic (native) ,French and English and i plan to learn more.

I've had my share of struggles, including bullying and dealing with depression and anorexia for a year(in middle school which led for me to be insecure ,have self doubt and being antisocial) ,I strive to be the best version of myself but I am afraid that i won't make it (burntout gifted kid who is excepcted to still excel at everything (my mom has high standards for me that i never seem to meet to make her satisfied with me). I have a varied taste in music(pop ,jazz,classical, alt/indie ,but i love rock &roll and metal the most)and prefer comfortable, baggy clothes. I can be sarcastic and blunt with close friends but am generally polite and respectful but moody and pessimistic .I am anxious and I hate going outside but unfortunately i have to.

After going through the description given, I believe that you best pair well with Azul Ashengrotto!

Azul doesn’t think of you as much, only what you can offer him if he ever decides to make a deal with you. However, he is quite taken aback by your headwear. As a merman, he’s never seen many mermaids who have decided to wear something in their hair (the drag in the water would hold them back). Masking this opportunity to gather information on your weaknesses and vulnerabilities, he’ll gladly ask you about the fabric that which you use to hide your hair. Why do you wear it? Is it a special type of fabric? As a merman who’s part octopus, it’s in his nature to be inquisitive, but feel free to tell him off if he gets too nosy or if you’re not comfortable answering questions about your culture.

Azul is a classy sort of person, but he loves it when you create art! He has a deep respect for those who work with their hands, especially when it takes years of constant practice to perfect your craft. While he may not be as fluent in art as certain other students at Night Raven College, he can appreciate that you look for beauty through multiple perspectives. He has yet to meet that level of maturity, but he’s glad that he can see that trait in you.

As for your interests, he may not know all about the specifics of all of them (“What’s this fanfic you like reading?”), he does play video games from time to time. Honestly, it comes with the territory of being in the same club as one Idia Shroud. While he may not be as skilled or as into those types of entertainment, he can give you a run for your money if you give him time to practice. Furthermore, he doesn’t care what sort of video game you play, as long as he gets to play with you. (Horror games are his personal favorite, though. The Coral Sea and Jade in a good mood are far scarier, so he gets to use this time to mock the graphics or the weak jump scares or how you shy away in fear whenever you’re scared).

Being interested in the sciences is another point for you in Azul’s book! He’s more interested in chemistry and how it relates to potions and alchemy, but biology and physics sound just as interesting. If you ever get close to Azul and if he ever feels comfortable, he could show you some aspects of cecaelia biology. However, he’ll mostly refer you to texts detailing the differences among human, beastfolk, and merfolk anatomy.

Azul understands what it’s like to be betrayed in the past, especially when it comes to bullies. Like you, he had to deal with issues regarding his weight, which still affects him to this day. Despite this, while he may fall prey to becoming one of his bullies, he admires that you can rise above your past and become your best self. He endeavors to be his best self as well, but it’s harder for him. He feels that he has to take and assert power so that he can remain on top.

Azul will never admit it, but he hopes that one day, the both of you will one day be comfortable enough to let down both of you guards so that you may be free to express yourselves. He admires your drive, but he will also be there to motivate you to do your best and to get things done.

In addition, Azul is also impressed that you’re a polyglot. Three languages? That takes a lot of time and energy to master! He can understand being bilingual, but he’s truly floored when he hears that you’re trilingual. And you’re planning on learning more? That’s totally amazing!

Having a mom that expects too much from you is not an issue that Azul can relate with, but he will have your back. He’ll always support you and listen to you vent if you ever need someone to know how much your mother keeps expecting perfection, but can never be fully appeased by your efforts. Burnout is not a matter to be taken lightly, and while it can’t always be cured by menial efforts, he will gladly take you to the Lounge and treat you to a grand meal and dessert! (Free of charge, of course. If you ever want to make a contract concerning your situation… well, that’s another matter entirely).

Overall, the both of you have similar backgrounds, but with different approaches to how you confront your past traumas. Together, the both of you can motivate and learn from each other to be your best selves. As long as you have trust and faith in your relationship, you’ll find that you have a great boyfriend in Azul.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

TWISTED WONDERLAND MASTERLIST

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland azul #twst azul #azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland azul ashengrotto #twst azul ashengrotto #dearestones #devintrinidad #character matchup #matchup

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fairlyabookie · 1 year

Text

Tea

Author's note: Day 20 of February prompts! Enjoy!

Tucked away in the heart of an industrious town, a tea shop brims with life, clamorous clients running frivolous gossip, good-natured newcomers seeking for an exquisite cup of tea; such patrons for tea look up to Sam, a charming businessman with a boundless supply of teas, ranging from rarities exclusively in certain regions of the land to commodities loved by all consumers.

For each incoming customer, workers greet earnestly, guiding them to a seat to their liking, whether it be with a view of the town before them or having a view of the surrounding ambiance. Many patrons of Sam’s Tea Shop would often comment on the cordial welcomes, feeling as if they were at home rather than a shop with clients. The shop owner, on the other hand, valued being with his clients, listening to their conversations in earnest, reciprocating concerns with sound advice or simply entertaining them with his skills in the arts. Sam, in other words, was a man of many talents, harboring many a trifle from the town’s locality and consciousness.

“Welcome in!”

A worker bids a new customer with a wide grin by their lips. [Reader] smiles shyly, whispering a request to sit by the bar area. The worker obliges, guiding the youth to their seat. There, playing an ostentatious piece on a stringed instrument, Sam invigorates his audience with grandiose musicality, earning applause from them as he concludes with a flourish.

“Would you like an appetizer to begin your time here?”

[Reader] refuses, requesting only tea for the time being. Their eyes linger on the owner longingly, as if silently beckoning for him to approach the newcomer - they shyly avert their gaze, noticing clients showering the man with compliments. For a moment, they had no idea why they were here in the first place - one could simply discount it as a whim, where Sam had approached [Reader] about his tea shop once upon a time. The boisterous ambiance was too much for [Reader], strange faces contorting to even profane ones under the guise of gossip and tea, harsh words affixed in rhetoric arguing excessively. If this wasn’t a tea house, they would’ve mistaken it for a brothel with this sort of vulgarities.

“[Reader], you’ve arrived! Welcome, welcome! I see you’ve emerged from your shell to join us for tea time. What would you like?”

Noting the cordial grin by Sam’s lips, [Reader] knew he was simply being professional - civil perhaps, but at the same time, welcoming. They answer demurely,

“I’d like something simple, please.”

The grin widens.

“Jasmine tea, then?”

They nod, muttering a thanks to the owner. With nimble fingers, Sam dexterously prepares the tea, pouring from a porcelain teapot to a matching teacup, a thin vapor steaming from the liquid. A quick waft insinuates the nostalgic essence of jasmine tea, a tea [Reader] was only familiar with. They partake a sip, tasting its savory flavor.

“Tell me, [Reader]. Was going ‘round town refreshing from being cooped up in your monastery all day?”

Sam leads the conversation, initiating an unexpected question.

“It is different, yes. Thank you for asking, Sam,”

[Reader] answers politely, sparing a glance to study their surroundings.

“I’m not used to being around so many people; this feels like a betrothal more than a tea shop.”

Sam feigns surprise, stifling the urge to snicker about [Reader]’s out-of-pocket response.

“How so? Many of my customers often come to socialize and enjoy tea. Is it not up to your liking, my dear scholar?”

A complicated expression befalls on [Reader]’s features, a cross between a frown and a pout.

“I didn’t mean to say an offensive comment, Sam. Well, what I meant is that it’s simply too loud for me. I surmise that your shop is popular too…”

A hearty laugh bubbles from the owner’s lips.

“Spare me your arguments, scholar! You’re overthinking about your rhetoric! Again, I take no offense for your comments. I often have folks from your monastery tell me that all the time.”

“Many apologies on the behalf of my seniors..”

[Reader] darkly mutters.

“You’re too formal!”

Sam ruffles [Reader]’s head, a gesture he’d equip to acknowledge a budding friendship, or as a casual gesture after exchanging formalities.

“Come now, drink up! I presume you’re here to catch a break from sticking your nose up in the books. Have some more!”

The inspirited gentlemen’s comment elicits more customers’ call for tea as he pours more into [Reader]’s cup. The puzzled scholar sheepishly thanks him, washing away their anxieties with another sip of cool jasmine tea.

#twst x reader #handle with care #twst sam #twisted wonderland sam

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