#m: fic

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 17

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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I have a house now. One more month until move in.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You leave the queen, stepping into the gales that whip around the outer flap of her tent. You reach to keep your cap from flying into the violent winds, the soldiers with their chins down as they lean against the force. Before you can gain your bearings, a shadow appears and calls your name, battling the weather to be heard. 

“Eh, where is your cloak, silly mouse? You will blow away with the leaves,” Bryce approaches, latching onto your arm as the bluster swirls around you, nearly taking you off your feet. 

“I am fine, sir, I only need find a blanket,” you stumble against him as another willful gust pushes you around.  

“That isn’t what I asked. What has happened to it? You’ve lost it?” 

“The queen was cold, sir,” you answer and cling to him, shivering as the tempest swirls around you. 

“The queen... greedy...” his voice trails off as her sneers towards the tent. 

“Sir,” you touch his arm gently to calm him, “she needs it more than I. She is expecting the king’s child.” 

He looks at you and juts out his jaw, “aye, s’pose you’re right, even if you’re too kind for yer own good.” 

He turns you and grips you tightly, shielding you as best he can against the wind. Your progress is slow and stunted by the sudden ebbs and flows. He grunts as you stagger and steadies you, at times almost lifting you off your feet. 

“Sir Bryce,” a deep voice slices through the whistle of the winds, “a storm approaches.” 

The king nears, his sword gripped by the pommel as he leans it against hit shoulder. His golden eyes flick towards you, as if he had not seen you in the shadow of your escort. He raises his chin and returns his attention to the soldier. He angles his blade to the ground and the tip buries in the dirt. 

“Aye, it surely does,” Bryce agrees, “I’ve seen a worst tempest in my years.” 

“Sir,” Geralt holds out his hands and a glisten appears on his sleeve. You lean in without a thought, curious, then feel a cold speck on your nose. You look up and see the white flakes drifting down. “It will not remain so peaceful. It comes from the north and will deepen by morning.” 

“Shall we wake the camp?” Bryce asks and you sway with the wind. Once more, the king’s attention strays to you, he frowns. 

“Not as yet. Let the horses rest a little longer. They will be able to handle a dusting,” he affirms. “but I will harry the men to prepare for our departure.” 

“As will I. I’ll be certain the carts are covered and weighted.” 

“Sir, ever wise,” King Geralt praises and scowls at you. He shakes his head and huffs, “why does the maid wear no cloak? She will not survive in this, summer soul, she is.” 

“Aye, yes, I was only just telling her as much. Seems her heart is too big for her thin hide,” Bryce tuts, “we were only off to find her a blanket before she sleeps.” 

“Blanket, eh,” the king lets go of his blade, letting it stand in the ground. He unbuckles his collar and sweeps his cloak from around his shoulder, “I have my hunting cloak and I don’t mind the snow so much.” 

Before you can react, the king lays his heavy cloak over your shoulders. It is longer than your height requires and it smells of sweat and iron. You lower your head at the warmth clinging to the lined wool. 

“Your highness, many thanks, but I might find a blanket--” 

“Do not defy your king,” Bryce rebukes, “mouse, you would do well to accept his grace. You will certainly need it if these winds do not pass.” 

“Apologies,” you utter, “sir, your highness, you are both generous.” 

King Geralt grumbles and nods, looking once more to the sky as he grabs his sword. 

“The Ridge, Vulture’s Peak... it isn’t far. The castle will do, eh?” 

“Not far at all, your highness,” Bryce agrees. “It would do you well to let your wife rest. Many congratulations, my king.” 

“Congratulations? For what? Smelling a storm?” the king furrows his brow. 

“Oi, I think I’ve said too much,” Bryce glances at you. 

“Say more,” the king commands. The soldier sighs and sheepishly shows his teeth.  

“Please, maid, would ya...” He mutters. 

“Your highness, the queen said she is with child,” you swallow, “I only just came from her tent. I believed you were aware. I did not mean to gossip.” 

“Child,” his eyes sink and close. He hums and heaves a deep breath, “yes, she would need to be still a time.” 

“Your highness, again, you have my apologies--” 

“No matter,” the king waves his hand. “Take the maid, I shall see to my wife.” 

The king resumes his path onward, sword in hand. He hardly shares in Jazlene’s cheer for the news. Perhaps it is only the threat of the storm that has him unhappy.  

You bring your hands to the dark fur along the collar of the cloak and draw it snug. You chatter and Bryce clucks. He nudges you and you walk forward in step. 

“So the snows have come,” Bryce declares, “along with the heir. I sense many storms brewing, mouse. Best keep our eyes on the horizon.” 

⚔️

You don’t sleep for long, if at all. Only the shallow dregs of your anticipation. You watch the snow fall from beneath the canopy and as the horses are roused and fed before dawn, a carpet coats the ground. 

You peer down at the powder. You wonder what it feels like. Cold and wet, Bryce says, but don’t dirty your soles, you’ll be soaked. He remains, as ever, cynical. 

“Be off soon,” he says as he brings Daisy around, a thick coat over her back and haunches. 

“To Vulture’s Peak?” You ask. 

“Aye, so we will,” he pets Daisy’s snout as she sniffs him. “though our host may not be so fond to have us.” 

“Host? It is not the king’s castle?” 

“Ha, no, no,” Bryce laughs heartily, “a king can’t live on a desolate bluff. By fealty, a lord must break bread and offer a roof to his king. It might be his company which has him facing a cold welcome.” 

“Oh,” you frown. 

“Ah, even this old coot won’t deny us in the coming storm. He has sense of these better than any,” Bryce shrugs. “Don’t worry your head. You stay in your cart and Daisy will do the rest. She’s a fine climber--” 

“Out of my way!” The curdling snarl interrupts the soldier and you both look to see the source. “Move, by gods, I am the queen, be away from me.” 

You get to your knees, leaning on the edge of the wagon to see out from under the canopy. A scatter of bodies split apart as Queen Jazlene struts through, the fur cloak rippling from her shoulders and the hood set back on her head as her curls spill out. She sneers at the snow beneath her slippers. 

“Ah, I did hear there was a cart around here—ugh, out,” she points as she marches up to the cart, “by royal right, I am seizing this cart.” 

“Eh,” Bryce moves closer, “your highness, the king--” 

“I cannot sit a horse, sir,” she rests her gloved hand over her stomach. “Or would you murder the future prince with your selfishness. All for a--” she pauses and glowers over at you, rolling her eyes. “A maid?” 

You rise and snatch up the cloak you’d used as a blanket. You keep bent under the low canopy and climb out with the cushion under your arm. 

“Sir, the queen is right, she should have the cart, I will sit with the luggage.” 

He huffs and sends a grimace to the sky, unable to direct his malice towards its source, “if she must...” 

“I must!” The queen snaps and yanks the pillow from your hands, “I will need this, certainly.” 

You stand aside, staring at the pillow dolefully, and buckle the top of your cloak. The queen pauses as she faces you. She looks you up and down. 

“Where did you find this then?” She touches the collar of the cloak. 

“It is my spare cloak,” Bryce insists before you can answer, “what else do you require, your highness? Shall we bring a lamb to sacrifice?” 

“Hm, is that how you northerners worship?” She sneers, missing his irony. 

He blinks dully and says nothing. 

“Well, secure the horse, I will need to be drawn.” 

“It is my horse,” Bryce insists, “you may bridle your own.” 

“You dare deny me?” She snarls at him as the soldiers with her stand on either side of the cart. 

“You may take it up with your husband. This is my steed, she carried me to war and she will carry me henceforth,” he snips. 

Bryce and Jazlene glare at each other. You look between them nervously. You don’t know who King Geralt might choose in this battle should he be called. 

“Fine, fetch the stinky thing,” Jazlene demands of one of the soldiers, “and blankets, another pillow, perhaps something to eat.” 

The cast of the sky shifts with the first light of the sun and Bryce grabs both horses and leads them aside. He whistles for you to follow. You come to him as Chestnut and Daisy cluelessly puff into the cold air. 

“You will ride. I will not have that... queen seizing my horse,” he sniffs, “I will show you how once I’ve saddled the mare.” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” You look up at the horses back. It seems very high. 

“You will want to be aback anyhow,” he shrugs, “you’ll not want to miss the mountain. It is very beautiful, especially in the snow.” 

⚔️

The party continues onward, treacherously. As the snow falls, the train diverts away from the flats and onto the narrow paths speckled with broken trunks and towering trees. The smell of pine tickles your nose as you ascend, bit by bit. 

It takes some time to grow used to the motion of the horse. Daisy’s hooves are certain and she does not slip on even the most precarious spots. Bryce rides behind you, booming about each nook and cranny, pointing out the white rabbits and the wilted fauna. His enthusiasm is unexpected but endearing. 

You ride until the moon replaces the sun and dismount along the side of the great cliff. There is no room here to pitch a tent and only a few fires burn along the ridge. Your hips ache as the soldier grunts about his back. 

“I should see to the queen,” you suggest as you rub your hands together. 

“She must have many fawning over her,” Bryce spits out a wad of leaves and squashes it under his feet. 

“I am her maid--” 

“And we are on a long road. She might go without you minding her temper,” he snarls. 

You frown, “I am not upset. She needs the cart more than me.” 

“It isn’t that which sees me chagrined,” he growls. “It’s those deeds you will not admit of that traitor’s daughter which make me prickle.” 

You’re quiet. You look away, your eyes wandering up into the sky, watching the snow swirl down, following it down to the ground far below. The heaps are immaculate in the moonlight and the trim of white along the ridge gleams. 

“I am a maid.” 

“I know little of your summer people but if that is how they treat those who serve them, perhaps this alliance was not so wise,” he grumbles as he steps up beside you, “perhaps it would’ve been better to submit such cruel nobles.” 

“Sir,” you say, shocked and peer over at his profile. His beard has grown to meet his cloak, his hair coiling down to his shoulders. 

“I serve my king, as I ever will, but I will not bend the knees to a snake,” he hisses and crosses his arms. 

“We are united, aren’t we? Summer and Winter,” you reach to touch his thick hide mitt. 

“Aye, yes, I do not seek another battle,” he exhales. “I am only wary of those who may.” 

You squint. Your mind returns to Lord Dustan and what he said to his daughter. The heir is their prize, an affirmation of the bounty earned by their betrayal, but also a chain to that very act. To the man they forsook their name for. A man they speak as kindly on as they had their former allies. 

“Might I walk?” You draw your hand from his. “My legs are sore.” 

“Not too far. And keep your eyes open,” he girds, “and your hands in your cloak. You needn’t frostbite.” 

You nod and he turns to you. He pulls up the hood of your cloak and pats your shoulder. 

“Tarry too long and I’ll look for you,” he warns. 

“Sir,” you shift slowly and step past him. 

You trod higher up the incline as you marvel over the edge. Bodies huddles together beneath cloaks and blankets, nestling for warmth against the wall of the cliff. You carry on and stop near a luggage cart, close to the drop. You hold out your hand, letting snow gather in your palm. It is cold, bitterly and painfully cold, but so beautiful. You bring it closer and watch it slowly melt as your hand numbs. 

“Do you remember...” the king’s voice drawls over you as his soft steps approach. “What I told you of this place?” 

You look at him. He is lit by the moonlight, his golden eyes like stars, and his jaw is bristly with thickening stubble. You bow your head, “your highness, are the bears already asleep in their caves?” 

He chuckles, “you do recall,” he praises, “not yet, though they do not come this high.” 

“And the wolves? Are they near?” 

“They are always prowling,” he says, shifting closer, his arm pressing to yours. He bends slightly to peer straight down, “the elk will be in the forests.” He points to the snowcapped tips of the distant trees, “here, the vultures have their nests. Their eggs,” he curves his hands to show the size, “I made a writ, years ago. It is forbidden to eat the eggs. I always found it quite tragic to desecrate the majestic creatures before they can even be borne. Before they can fly even.” 

“Vultures? I’ve never seen one? They are... birds?” 

“Yes, birds,” he confirms.  

He is silent as he considers his kingdom below. His breath is gritty as it rises and falls. He has much to think on. A child, a wife, and his homecoming delayed by a storm. 

“One thing has changed here, in these lands of winter,” he says lowly and you feel a ripple in your cloak. He presses his hand firmly to your back, sliding it along your side to grasp your hip. He moves to stand behind you and brings you close. He wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your crown, “I said before, there is no summer here,” he holds you, pulling his cloak around you, concealing you within it as he drapes himself around you, “summer is here. With me. Warm and gentle.” 

You go rigid as he holds you, your heart beating at the unexpected embrace, at the unseemly contact between you. He hums as he stands with you in the shadows of the cart, so brazenly covert. Anyone might happen upon you and yet they all hide away from the storm. 

“Your highness,” you stammer and quiver against him. 

“Treasure,” he purrs, “my treasure. The one good thing I’ve brought home...” 

You can’t breathe or think. Is he drunk? Confused? What does he mean? 

“I--” he begins but the kick of a rock quiets him, the stone bouncing off the cart’s wheel. 

A shadow stalks down the precipice towards you and the king detaches, uncovering you from his cloak. He faces the figure as the tramp up the incline. You hear the king shudder as he tickles your back. 

“There’s the mouse,” Bryce says as he comes into the moonlight, his brow and jaw set, though he doesn’t look at you. He looks at the king, almost defiant. “You shouldn't be out so long in the cold. Exposed,” he grits, “come, I’ve sparked us a fire.” 

King Geralt clears his throat, “thank you, sir.” 

“My king,” Bryce says as he beckons to you, “I will keep the maid safe. As you bid.” 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

[mxlti-fand0m-imaginess]

Can’t Get Off Without You // Abby Anderson*

request: none!

prompts: none!

summary: after a long hard day of patrol, you just want to cuddle with your girlfriend. but after walking in on abby touching herself, your plans suddenly change.

warnings: smut, masturbation, oral (a. receiving), fingering (a. receiving), dom!reader, sub!abby, clit slapping, overstimulation, mean!reader, language, reader calls abby good girl

word count: 1.3k

a/n: gn!reader

join my taglist!

You were exhausted. After a long day on patrol, you were relieved to finally be home, only wanting to spend the rest of the night curled up in your girlfriend’s arms as all your stress from the day melted away. But once you got inside, your face fell when your eyes met the empty couch, where Abby always sat waiting, ready to greet you after your long day. It had become almost routine at this point, and you couldn’t help the disappointment that welled up inside of you.

Sighing, you walked over to the couch and plopped down, shrugging off your coat and tugging your boots off. You sat there for a moment, almost hoping she would walk down the stairs to greet you after having heard the door shut. But still, there was nothing. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was up, the stark change to your unspoken routine too jarring to come to terms with.

With a slight groan, you pushed yourself off of the couch, trudging over to the staircase and practically dragging yourself up the stairs, exhaustion plaguing your form. But as you neared your bedroom, you stopped in your tracks. Soft moans were coming from the other side of the door, sounds you knew belonged to your girlfriend.

Your first thought was that she was cheating on you, the absurdity of the idea forcing it out of your head almost as quickly as it had arrived. There was no way Abby would cheat on you, you knew she was better than that. Which plagued the question: what was she doing?

Your curiosity got the best of you, forcing yourself to the door, Abby’s moans growing louder the closer you got. Pressing your ear to the door, you could hear the unmistakable sounds of her squelching pussy. Fuck, she sounded soaked. Your mouth watered at the thought. Unable to wait any longer, you pushed the door open quietly, hoping to remain undetected.

And there she was, splayed out on your shared bed, her fingers ruthlessly pounding into her tight cunt. God, what a sight she was. Her braid in disarray, strands of hair stuck to her forehead due to the light sheen of sweat covering her body. She looked straight out of a wet dream, and you couldn’t help but want to-

You were pulled out of your fantasies by Abby huffing in frustration, pulling her fingers out of her pussy and slumping against the mattress. You couldn’t help the soft pang of pity you felt when looking at her. Poor baby couldn’t get herself off. Looks like you were gonna have to step in and help her.

Creeping over as silently as you could, you climbed onto the bed and lied down between her legs, miraculously remaining undetected, Abby being too distracted by her frustration. Grinning to yourself, you leaned forward and wrapped your lips around her clit, suckling it into your mouth and flicking your tongue over the sensitive bud.

Abby’s back arched at the sudden feeling, the sudden stimulation startling her and setting her nerves alight. A strangled moan fell from her lips and her hips bucked into your face. Pulling back to look at her, you couldn’t help but laugh under your breath at how utterly desperate she looked for you.

“You know you’re not supposed to touch yourself without permission, baby,” you said, dragging your nails down her thighs, Abby twitching at the feeling.

“I- I’m sorry, I-”

“But from the looks of it, you couldn’t even get yourself off anyways,” you taunted, not letting her finish her pathetic excuse for an apology.

“Please,” she whimpered, her eyes watering with desperation as she wordlessly pleaded with you.

“Poor baby. Just so needy. Can’t even get off without me, can you?”

Abby shook her head, her hands fisting the sheets tightly as she resisted the urge to touch you, not wanting herself to get into even more trouble. “No…” she whispered, her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.

You smiled condescendingly as your fingers traced aimlessly on her thighs, only succeeding in getting her even more worked up. “Guess I should help you with that, huh?”

Abby nodded eagerly, her knuckles turning white from how hard she was gripping the sheets. “Please…”

Not even bothering to reply, you leaned back down, your head disappearing between her thighs once more. Just feeling your soft breath against her soaked folds made her back arch and her hips rut forward, her pure desperation and need for release taking control of her movements.

You slowly trailed kisses up her inner thigh, purposely ignoring her aching cunt to repeat the action on the other side. Abby whimpered softly, fighting the urge to grab your hair and shove your face in her pussy. She wanted to be good for you, but sometimes, you just made it so hard.

“Fuck… need you. Please…” Abby begged, her voice quivering in need.

“Poor baby… what do you need, hmm?” you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice as you smirked at her.

Abby blushed harder, not being able to say it. Despite how confident and strong she usually was, when it came to you she was just so incredibly shy. It was adorable, and you couldn’t help but fluster her at every available chance, loving the way her face turned red and she struggled to speak.

“I- I need you to eat my pussy,” Abby forced out, her eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment from having said something so vulgar aloud.

“Good girl. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Before giving her a chance to respond, you finally gave her what she wanted, dragging your tongue through her sopping folds and groaning at the taste that was so distinctly her. Abby whined at the feeling, her hand reaching down to grip your hair tightly, unable to restrain herself any longer.

“F-fuck… that’s it. Holy shit… so fucking good…”

You let her hand guide your movements, too lost in the feeling to care about her breaking the rules. It just felt so good when she used your face to pleasure herself, her hips messily humping your tongue.

You flicked your tongue over her clit, Abby’s movements faltering at the sudden feeling, giving you the time to wrap your lips around her clit, suckling it into your mouth and trailing your tongue around the sensitive bud in the way you knew drove her crazy.

“Fuck… I- fuck, I’m cumming… fuck,” Abby mumbled, her words slurring together as she reached her high.

Her pathetic whines and whimpers only spurred you on, making you speed up your tongue on her clit and slip two fingers into her aching hole. You wanted nothing more than to make her fall apart on your tongue. You needed to make her feel good more than you needed air to breathe.

You moaned into her cunt as she finally let go, her cum coating your fingers and your chin. You could never get enough of her, and you definitely weren’t finished with her yet.

“Fuck- it’s too much. Please…” Abby whined, trying to pull you away from her sensitive pussy.

You pulled off of her clit and licked your lips clean as you smirked at her, your fingers still relentlessly pumping in and out of her soaked core.

“You can take it baby. You were just so desperate to get off earlier, I’m only giving you what you wanted. You can give me one more, can’t you?”

Abby nodded hesitantly, the overstimulation burning in the most delicious way. You pulled your fingers out of her pussy and delivered a swift slap to her clit, causing Abby to let out the most pathetic whine as she leaned into the touch.

“Words, baby.”

“Y-yes. I can give you another one.”

“Good girl.”

You smiled wickedly and lowered yourself back down, your tongue darting out to lap at her clit. There was no way you were gonna stop at just one more. You wanted to ruin her, watch her come undone on your tongue and fingers over and over again. And that’s exactly what you were gonna do.

tags: @velvet-sugarcookie @fictionalgap @ihyperfixatetoomuch @marsworlddd

#imagine #imagines #x reader #oneshot #smut #blurb #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson imagine #abby anderson oneshot #abby anderson blurb #the last of us oneshot #the last of us part 2 #the last of us smut #the last of us imagine #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson fic #abby anderson fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou #tlou2 #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #tlou x reader #tlou smut

[vanteguccir]

Labyrinth | Chris Sturniolo

Chris Sturniolo x reader

Summary: Between love and pain, Y/N fights to save the relationship that once brought her and Chris together, but Chris's fear of commitment seems to stop them from moving forward, leading the two to find themselves trapped in a labyrinth of despair and uncertainty.

Warning: Crying, fighting, dark thoughts, insecurities, angst (with a happy ending).

Requested?: Yes, by anon

Author's note: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N looked at her phone, waiting for a message that never arrived. It was another lonely night, sitting in her bed, with her heart heavy with anguish. Her relationship with Chris started out like a fairy tale, but in recent days, everything seemed to be slowly falling apart.

She couldn't understand what was happening. There was a growing distance between them, as if Chris was moving away from her heart, plunging into an abyss of silence. The calls were becoming less and less frequent, the face-to-face moments rare and full of tension, the last one being the worst they had ever had.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N walked down the hallway of Chris's house with a hesitant but happy heart. They hadn't seen each other for days, and she had noticed how distant he was in his texts, which made her want to visit him and spend the day together, maybe understand what had happened and help him with whatever he needed.

Entering the room she had frequented too many times to even count, she found Chris sitting on his own bed, his gaze lost somewhere in the distance. She quickly opened an involuntary smile, perhaps lighting up the room - as Chris said she always did - but he barely looked at her, his lips curling in a gesture of disdain.

"Hey baby." Y/N muttered softly, trying to ignore the feeling of rejection that enveloped her almost instantly.

"Hey." The brunette replied coldly, his voice cutting like a sharp blade.

Y/N tried to make conversation, she really did. She asked about his day, about how he was feeling, but Chris's answers were short and harsh. He seemed to avoid her at all costs, as if her mere presence was a nuisance.

The pain inside Y/N grew with every second that passed in that house that until days ago had been her refuge. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, an intruder in her own relationship.

As Chris continued to ignore her, the voice in her mind began to scream, hurling cruel accusations at herself. She found herself questioning her own worth, her own ability to love and be loved.

Tears threatened to overflow her eyes, but she fought to keep them contained. She didn't want to give Chris the satisfaction of watching her break, of watching her succumb to the pain he himself inflicted on her.

When it was finally time to leave, Y/N felt relief mixed with despair. She didn't know if she could stand another second in that place, surrounded by Chris's indifference.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N really felt like she was holding on to a fragile rope, about to snap at any moment.

Meanwhile, Chris struggled through a storm of turbulent thoughts. Fear consumed him, dragging him away from the love he had found in Y/N. He found himself trapped in a cycle of self-destruction, fueled by his own insecurities and trauma. It all started when he realized that he loved her, he fell in love... Again.

Each unanswered message was a sharp knife piercing his soul, but he couldn't muster the courage to face his fears. Commitment was a monster that had haunted him since teenage days, a dark shadow that followed him even in his happiest moments.

He found himself questioning everything: his choices, his desires, even the very love he felt for Y/N, he didn't believe he had allowed himself to love her. Would it be fair to drag her into his darkness, condemning her to a life of uncertainty and pain? Or would it be nobler to walk away from her, leaving her free to find someone who could offer her the love she deserved?

The nights became endless for Chris, a constant battle between his head and his heart. He found himself lost in a labyrinth of doubts, struggling to find a way out but only sinking deeper into darkness.

Meanwhile, Y/N desperately tried to understand what was happening. They were just reaching the 3-month mark of their relationship, everything falling apart so suddenly, and so she blamed herself, questioned her own faults, trying to find an explanation for Chris's distance.

Maybe he had finally woken up and saw that she wasn't good enough for him. Maybe he had discovered he wasn't ready for a relationship. Or maybe... Maybe he had found someone else, the ideal and perfect woman.

But the answer was beyond her reach, hidden in the dark recesses of his mind.

And so, the gulf between them continued to grow, separating them more and more. It was a silent tragedy, a love lost in the shadows of doubt and fear. As Y/N struggled to stay afloat, Chris found himself diving deeper and deeper, moving away from the only ray of light in his life.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N took a deep breath before knocking on the door of the triplets' house. Nick's invitation to spend the day there seemed like a ray of hope amid the darkness that consumed her soul. She knew that seeing Chris again would be painful after their last encounter, but the simple possibility of being close to him was enough to make her accept it.

Nick greeted her with a warm smile, but Y/N could barely return it. Her heart was beating wildly as she entered the place that transformed into a stage of pain and uncertainty. Every corner of the house seemed to echo with happy memories, but now those memories were like thorns piercing her skin.

She could feel Chris' gaze on her as she reached the living room floor, but when she turned to face him, he looked away at the turned off television, acting as if she were invisible.

Anguish grew inside Y/N every time she and Nick left his room, and inevitably, as if life was playing a trick on Y/N, came face to face with Chris. She found herself struggling to find words to break the oppressive silence that hung over them both. But Chris remained distant, his eyes empty, his expression impassive, monotonously answering Nick's questions.

She felt like a ghost...

Nick noticed the tension in the air at some point and tried to intervene, but Y/N just shook her head, unable to articulate the pain that consumed her. She felt like a helpless spectator to her own tragedy.

The day dragged on slowly, every minute an unbearable torture. Y/N tried to find comfort in the memories of the happy times she had shared with Chris, but now those memories were like sharp knives, cutting deep into her soul.

Nick found himself looking at Y/N all the time with a worried expression. He knew something was wrong, but Y/N dodged the topic every time he asked, as if he was stabbing her in the chest with a dagger, deciding to just force a smile, swallowing the words burning in her throat.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N walked down the stairs with hesitant steps, determined to get a glass of water from the kitchen, but afraid of finding her own boyfriend - how ironic - without Nick by her side.

Upon reaching the room, her eyes quickly found the figure she knew more than herself, sitting in one of the chairs, his arms resting on the wooden table and his hands holding his phone tightly.

Y/N allowed herself to watch him for long seconds, before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, walking to the fridge, opening it while trying to ignore the feeling that her heart was being crushed in her chest.

"Hey." Her voice came out lower and more broken than she expected, making her wonder if he even heard it.

It's not like he'd answer anything, anyway.

She knew he would ignore her, as he had done all day, but a part of her still longed for a glimpse of the love they once shared.

As she filled her glass with water, the voice in her mind began screaming again, hurling cruel accusations against herself and her relationship.

Obviously, he's going to ignore you. He finally understands that you're just a broken piece to his perfect life.

You are not enough for him. He needs a strong, independent, and self-assured woman, not a scared little girl worn out by life like you.

Wake up, Y/N, he doesn't want you anymore.

You were a mistake.

A terrible mistake.

She found herself sinking into an abyss of self-deprecation, unable to find a way out.

It was then that something inside her broke. A wave of anger and sadness flooded her, filling her with a sudden determination. She dropped the half-full glass on the counter and turned to face Chris, her eyes brimming with pain and indignation.

"Chris." Y/N called, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion, coming out in a more vulnerable tone than she intended. "Can we talk? Please."

Chris blinked, clearly surprised by Y/N's sudden call. His eyes met hers, but he didn't say anything, just waited, as if he feared the words that might fall from his own lips.

He didn't expect her to keep trying.

Y/N felt tears burning in her eyes at the sight of him silent, expressionless, but she fought to hold her ground. She knew she needed to express the emotions that had been stifled within herself. If he didn't want her anymore, that was fine. She understood, but she needed him to formalize the situation.

"I don't know what's going on between us." She continued, clearing her throat, her voice becoming firmer as the words flowed. "But I can't live in this limbo of uncertainty anymore. I deserve better than to be ignored, Chris. We deserve better than this. I want to understand what's going on. What did I do?"

Chris remained staring at her for a few more seconds before lowering his gaze, unable to bear the intensity in Y/N's eyes. He found himself entangled in a web of regret and fear, unable to find the right words to express her feelings.

"I know I've been distant." He finally muttered, his voice thick with pain and his shoulders slumped. "And I'm sorry for that, Y/N. I just... I've been thinking, and I don't know if this is right anymore."

Chris' words cut Y/N like a sharp knife. That was it. He was going to break up with her. It would all come to an end.

She knew it.

"It's okay, it's not your fault." Y/N admitted finally. "It was... It was just a mistake... Right?"

Chris allowed his eyes to run over Y/N's weakened posture, his brow furrowed at her words.

"What was a mistake?"

"Us. We were a mistake...for you, at least." The girl sighed deeply after finishing her sentence, as if something large enough crushed her heart and lungs at the same time, hurting her and taking away all her air.

"No! What? No, honey, you were never a mistake. We... we are not a mistake, I promise you that." Chris perked up, jumping up from his seat, ready to walk over to Y/N, but his feet remained stuck against the floor, preventing him from even moving a centimeter.

"Then why, Chris? Why are you treating me like I'm a stranger? You keep pushing me away even though I try to get closer." She questioned him, thick, fat tears welling up in her eyes, running down her cheeks freely. "God, I did everything in my power to understand you, to talk to you and to make you feel welcomed, despite all the things and affirmations I needed from you too, I don't know anymore-" Her voice was already weakening when a loud and rude sob interrupted her own sentence, her right hand quickly rising towards her slightly open mouth, covering it, trying uselessly to stop the unwelcomed crying.

"Dove, please, I'm sorry for making you feel this way, I don't..." He shook his head, letting out an nervous laugh as his right hand flew to his own face, his index finger and thumb pressing the bridge of his nose, trying to stop his own tears from falling. "It was never my intention. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I just..." The boy's tone became extremely low too quickly, Y/N needing to hold her breath to hear him clearly. "I'm just scared."

"Scared? Scared of what? Do I make you feel scared?"

Chris swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Y/N's words like an anchor in his heart. He knew he needed to be honest with her, even if it meant facing his own demons.

"Scared of commitment... of giving myself completely to someone and ending up hurting myself in the process." His voice was a fragile whisper, loaded with vulnerability. "I know it's not fair to you, Y/N. You deserve someone who can give you the world, someone who isn't afraid to love. But I don't know if I'm that someone."

Y/N's tears continued to fall, a mixture of sadness and frustration that she could barely contain. She wanted to scream, to hit Chris, to demand a clear and definitive explanation. But deep down, she understood his fears, his traumas.

"I understand you're scared, Chris." Her voice was soft now, tinged with compassion, her hands drying her tear-soaked eyelashes roughly, sniffling before speaking again. "And I don't judge you for that, I just needed you to be clear with me, that you trust me enough to talk to me when things get tough. I don't care if you have that fear, I would never invalidate your feelings." She shook her head quickly, as if she wanted to make that clear. "I just wanted to talk, to understand. You left me in the dark."

Chris pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes brimming with emotion as his left hand went to his own hair, ruffling the strands. He knew Y/N was right.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby, I-" The boy took a deep breath, blinking quickly, trying futilely to ward off the tears that wouldn't stop welling up in his eyes. "I tried so hard to make you hate me. It would make everything easier, right? You would get tired at some point and give up. Give up on me. But I just ended up hurting you..." Chris shook his head, biting his bottom lip hard, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth within seconds. "You were breaking up with me, weren't you?" His voice sounded too close to a sob, his lower lip, now hurt, trembling at the thought of no longer having her as his girl, even though that was the plan from the beginning.

"I just thought it was what you wanted. You made it so explicit, Chris. How could I think of any other alternative than that?"

"I'm not too late, am I? To solve this?" His eyes looked like they were close to popping out of his skull when he finally managed to move and was able to walk towards Y/N with quick steps, grabbing her hands pleadingly. "I want to solve this... I'm sorry for what I've put you through these last few days, and I know that just saying sorry won't erase everything that I done, but I'll take care of it. I will take care of you. Please, dove."

"I need to ask you one thing first, Chris. Are you ready to stay in this relationship? I can help you and understand you, but there's no point in trying if you don't genuinely feel ready for this." Y/N explained sincerely, her heart aching with the contact of his skin against her own. She missed his touch so much.

"I do, I want you, only you, all of you, always! Please... please, babe, I-I know that I don't deserve it, but please give me a chance to make this right, to do this properly. Give me the chance to love you the way you deserve." Chris begged, squeezing his girlfriend's fingers between his own, involuntarily pulling her closer. "I want to try again, but properly this time. I want to fight my fears, my demons. And I want to do it with you by my side. Everything seemed so real now. Seeing you trying to break up with me made me realize that I can't see myself without you, I can't."

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on his for long seconds, searching for any trace of doubt, hesitation or lie on his face red and wet with tears, but she could only find a strong mix of hope and love.

She knew the road ahead would be difficult, full of challenges and uncertainty. But for the first time in a long time, she felt a spark of hope light up.

"Okay."

"Yeah? Really?" A low sob escaped Chris's mouth, fat tears rolling down his rosy cheek from the strong emotions in a short space of time, his heart racing strongly against his chest.

"Yeah. I don't want to lose you, so let's do this together." She whispered.

The boy let out a sigh of relief through tears, a small smile taking over his lips in seconds, his hands working to pull hers closer, consequently bringing her body close to his, engulfing her into a tight hug.

"I'm gonna do this right this time."

And she believed him.

༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

My requests are closed, but my asks are always open ♡

And remember to treat people with kindness always!

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[pb524830]

right where you left me

part: 3 pairing: paige bueckers x oc word count: 2.5k c/w: mention of sex, language a/n: thank you guys. SO MUCH. for 800. i love every single on of you, you make my heart so so sosososososo happy. MWAH.

I swirl my straw in my caramel milkshake at a nearby Sonic. Paige gets strawberry with a chocolate drizzle and Matthew gets vanilla with cookie dough blended inside. He gobbles his down with a spoon, hungry from hours on the court, and runs off to hang out with some friends that happened to show up. All of them gawk at Paige, and she waves to them good-naturedly.

Then, Paige tries to sneak a sip of my milkshake, and I smack her on the forehead in response. “You have your own, fatass,” I scold. I despise how easy it is to fall back in with her, to act like we’re still in high school and the past three years haven’t even happened.

She licks her lips. “Yeah, but yours tastes better,” she smirks. I pause. Is she… flirting with me? Am I letting her. I huff. “Quit it,” I mutter under my breath. Paige plays dumb. “Quit what?” I frown at her. “You know what.” She leans in closer. “Mmm, not really. Care to educate me?” I play her game, leaning into her, as well. “What? Still need someone to do your homework for you?”

Paige’s eyes dart to my lips, and her tongue comes out to wet her own. Quick as a flash, I scoop some of her whipped cream onto my finger and smear it across her nose. She splutters, lurching away, and I laugh loudly. “Oh, you bitch,” she seethes, and grabs my waist, pulling me into her and dipping her head to smear the cream on her nose against my neck. I yelp, pushing her away, but she holds fast. 

“Paige!” I giggle, grasping at her shoulders as she nuzzles her nose further into my skin. “What? Problem?” She demands. She pulls back, panting, her eyes searching my own. Then she realizes her grip on my waist and swallows hard. “Sorry,” she mumbles. My chest rises and falls with residual laughter and I shake my head. “No, it’s… you’re good.”

Her hand moves to my face, slowly tilting it upwards. “You smell the same,” she mumbles. I can’t breathe. Can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even think with those baby blue eyes on me. She frowns a little, a breath of disbelief whispering out from between her lips. “How are you prettier now?” She demands softly. 

She can’t still have this effect on me. She can’t.

But the tips of my fingers are numb, my breath is coming up short, and my stomach is knotting and unknotting itself so vehemently I think I might throw up. Her thumb moves down to brush my neck, swiping off the cream.

Then she puts her thumb in her mouth.

And she sucks.

“All good now,” she says, her voice low and husky. 

I blink at her. She doesn’t move. “You’re doing this on purpose,” I whisper. She shrugs. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“Stop.”

“You stop looking at me like that first.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me,” Paige says. She grins slowly, watching my reaction to her words. 

Then she stands up. “Matt! Time to go!” She yells. 

The ride home is quiet, SZA seeping through the car speakers dully in the background. Even Matthew seems to be tuckered out, and he’s normally bouncing off the walls with energy. When we reach my house, I shoo him inside first. 

I turn to Paige. “Don’t make this a habit,” I tell her firmly.

She raises an eyebrow. “Make what a habit.”

“Picking him up. Hanging out with him. Leading him on.”

“Hang on. Are we talking about him or you?”

“Paige.”

“I miss the kid!”

“You don’t get to leave him again!” I blurt out.

She’s quiet for a moment. “That’s not fair, Maya. We broke up.”

I laugh bitterly. “We weren’t even together, Paige.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?” It’s her turn to be callous, the acidity in her tone stinging me.

I’m quiet now.

“Nah, ‘cause all this is my fault, right? Fuck, Maya, I was ready to be yours since fucking sophomore year of high school. But I was tryna be respectful-”

“What part of dumping me before college after- after everything I did for you… is respectful? What part of making me cheat is respectful, Paige?!” I yell back at her, tears stinging my eyes, and I feel seventeen years old again.

“You know what, Maya? I didn’t make you do shit. Okay? That’s the fucking truth you don’t want to hear, because you’re on this fucking- fucking moral pedestal, right? You would never cheat, you would never hurt someone. Guess what, Maya? You kissed me. You fucked me. You made those decisions. And I had to- what? Be okay with being yours in private?” She’s yelling, too, her blue eyes wide in anger.

“Christ, Paige-”

“No, how do you think it feels?! Huh?! You took my fucking virginity and then went to prom with another girl!”

“What was I supposed to do?!” I scream back, the tears falling freely now, and there are droplets streaking her face, too. Then the car is quiet. Deafeningly so, stiflingly so. 

It’s been years since all of this happened. Years since she broke my heart in this very spot, right in front of my house. I search her eyes for answers, just like I did all those years ago. I don’t find any.

Then I get out, slamming the door behind me.

***********

“It doesn’t feel like you’re mine.”

“I am, Paige. I swear to you, I’m just… trying to find the right time to do it.”

“You’re mine?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t go with her.”

“Paige, it’s tomorrow.”

“Fuck this, Maya.”

I lay a hand on her arm. “This is… it’s not easy. I just want to give her this one last thing before I end it. We’ve been together a long time, P. It’s not fair to her.”

“It’s not fair to us.”

“I know.”

“I want you. I want all of you.”

“After this, it’s just us. Just you and me, and no one else.”

She’s quiet. “That sounds good,” she relents. She turns to me, cupping my face. “Just you and me,” she whispers.

She kisses me, oh-so-softly, and something about it… is different this time. She pulls me into the driver’s seat, looping her arms around my waist to press me in closer. I’m drowning in her scent, in the feel of her lips against mine and her hands creeping under my shirt.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispers. I slip my tongue inside her mouth, moaning as she gasps at the feeling of it. “Want you,” I mumble suddenly, and I’m sure of it. I move my lips to her neck, relishing in the way she pants at the feeling. “All of you. Want all of you.”

“Fuck, are you sure?” She whispers. I nod, pulling back to look her in the eyes.

“I’m sure.”

*********

PAIGE’S POV

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck. 

I don’t even wait for her to go inside her house, wiping stubbornly at my tears before driving away furiously. By now, the sun has started to set, and I hardly realize how late it is.

I just drive.

I have no idea where I’m going. I vaguely remember that some of my teammates are in town, that we’ve decided to meet at Azzi’s tonight to drink and go out. And I realize that getting shitfaced might be the only way to forget the conversation I’ve just had in my car. 

I swerve suddenly, flooring it to Azzi’s.

Fuck Maya Jacobs. Fuck her and her perfect teeth and perfect face and perfect smile and perfect fucking body, and her perfect voice and her perfect laugh. Fuck all of it. 

I just wanted to kiss her so bad. All day, it was all I could think about. How smooth her lips always felt against mine, how fuzzy my brain would go every time she slipped her tongue inside my mouth. 

I hate her for it. Because the truth is - the terrible, horrible truth of it - it was that she could call right now and I would come running.

And she does. My phone rings, connected to the Bluetooth of my car, and I fumble to answer it.

We’re both silent. “Don’t speed,” she says shortly. “What?” I demand incredulously, unable to fathom how, after the fight we just had, that’s what’s on her mind. “You’re a shit driver when you’re mad,” she tells me matter-of-factly as I pull up to Azzi’s house. “Don’t fucking speed.” Then the line clicks.

I stare at the empty call screen on my car. “Fuck,” I mutter to myself. I stare vacantly into space for a few moments, then shut my eyes. “Fuck!” I scream, pounding the steering wheel.

I need to get drunk.

And I do. Get hopelessly, stupidly drunk. Shot after shot, drink after drink, I soak in the feeling of the alcohol burning down my throat, numbing myself with it. Azzi’s concerned. “Maybe you should slow down, P.” 

Don’t speed.

“Why the fuck is everyone telling me that today?” I demand groggily. I grapple for my phone, looking to see if she’s called me back. She hasn’t.

Damn her.

Ice plucks my phone from my hand and I lunge for it. “Whatcha doin’?” She demands. She looks at my call logs. “Maya?” She demands. KK’s head whips up and she comes over to peek over Ice’s shoulder. “Yo, whattt?” KK gasps. “‘S no big deal. Jus’ hung out with her… and her brother,” I slur, batting them away and reaching for my phone. Ice hands it over hesitantly.

“I thought things ended badly with her,” KK says.

“And that she lived in Minnesota,” Ice adds.

I shrug, holding my hands up. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” I laugh, half-joking, swaying on my feet. Then I stop, my smile falling from my face. “I fucked up,” I mumble. I spin on my heel as best as I can and make a beeline for Azzi’s room, feeling dizzy and sick to my stomach. 

I tap at my phone wildly. “Pick up, pick up,” I murmur.

She doesn’t for the first few calls. But on the sixth call, she does.

“Delete my fucking number, Bueckers,” she says sharply.

“Maya,” I whisper, my throat closing up with tears I refuse to let fall. 

“What?”

“I miss you… so fucking bad,” I gasp into the phone.

I hear shuffling on the other line. “Are you drunk?” She asks, her tone noticeably softer. 

I shake my head. “No. No, I’m deadass, Maya, I fucking miss you.”

“Where are you?”

“Why didn’t you kiss me today?”

“What?”

“Fuck, you didn’t want to? I wanted to. Christ, Maya, I wanted to kiss you so bad. D’you- do you even know? How beautiful you are?”

“Paige. Where are you?” Her tone is strict.

I splutter over my words. “I just- I feel like we fucked up. I fucked up, letting you go. And then I saw you, in the park, on the court. It feels like fate, baby. Can I call you baby? I miss calling you baby, I miss kissing you, fuck, I miss all of you. All of you.” I whisper the last sentence, almost to myself, feeling the tears I repressed spilling over.

“I’m coming to get you. Stay put. Don’t drink anything else.”

Maya doesn’t show up for fifteen minutes. I don’t even know how she still has my location, but she knocks on Azzi’s door, and her arms are crossed when Aubrey opens it. 

Shit, she’s stunning. She’s wearing one of my old Hopkins basketball crewnecks over some biker shorts. Her glasses are perched on her nose, hair loose and down, cascading over her shoulders. Aubrey lets her in, and I fall against her immediately, breathing in her scent, trying to devour it.

I’m greedy. I know that. But for three years, I’ve felt fucking deprived of this girl, felt like I was going through the hell of withdrawals, but I got my fix again today. Her. I always want more of her, can never have enough of her. And it’s selfish and greedy and I couldn’t give a fuck less.

I can hear her talking to my teammates, her lilting voice tickling my ears as I nuzzle my face into her neck. “Should I take her home?” She whispers. I hear some murmurs of assent. “She drank a lot. We didn’t know why,” Azzi offers. I can practically see Maya wince. “We got into a little thing earlier. You know how she is,” she says. “I’m so sorry about this.” 

I hardly register Maya dragging me out the door, I just loop my arms around her and press a kiss to her temple, letting her guide me towards her car. “My girl. Always coming to save me.” I smile stupidly. I feel her sigh. She tries to open the passenger door, but I trap her against it. “Paige,” she says tiredly.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, trying to meet her eyes. She looks away. “You’re mad at me,” I realize, and my heart drops to my feet. 

“I’m not, I’m just worried.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Please just get in the car, Paige. Let’s go home.”

“Can we talk? Please.”

“Not like this. Not when you’re drunk.”

“Then kiss me.”

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

“Just kiss me, Maya. Please, I-I need to kiss you.”

Her lips are on mine in an instant at that, fisting in my shirt to pull me to her. 

God. Oh, God.

It’s fucking cathartic to be kissing her again, my fingers aching at not being able to touch every inch of her skin. I moan into her mouth, my head fucking dizzy from her taste, and I sag against her. My hands grasp at her waist, riding her sweatshirt up to touch her skin. “You taste so fucking good,” I pant against her mouth. She kisses me harder at this, winding her hand into my hair, tugging at the roots. Drunkenly, I move my lips to her neck, suckling hard, leaving marks I was never allowed to leave when I would do this to her three years ago.

Marks I probably still shouldn’t leave now, but I don’t care.

“More,” she pants. “More, Paige, I-”

I bite down on her skin, and she fucking whimpers. 

“Car,” she says urgently, shoving me off of her. “Get in,” she tells me, turning around to climb into the driver’s seat. I stand there for a minute, wondering if I’m living in some sort of dream, thinking that there’s no way she’s here in front of me, her gloss still lingering on my lips. She stares at me through her car window, urging me to get in with her. 

I do.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers fic #wcbb #fic #uconn wbb #✂️ anon #ncaaw #paige bueckers x oc #fic talk

[pucksandpower]

Sometimes I think about how there’s a whole community of people who love their fandoms enough to spend countless hours writing about them for free and a whole community of people who love their fandoms enough to spend countless hours reading those fics … and it makes me so happy to be part of something so amazing.

#i’m pretty sure i spend more time reading and writing fics than sleeping at this point #and i wouldn’t have it any other way #writers on tumblr #writers on ao3 #fanfiction #fic writing #fanfiction writer #fanfiction author #fic #fics #imagine #imagines #writing #fandom

[thepartyresponsible]

prompt fill! someone asked for jason todd and truth serum. this was also supposed to fill the request for "who did this to you?" with phil/jason, but i didn't make it to "who did this to you?" part. sorry! i'm trying to keep these under 1k.

anyway, this one's a bit bleak, but educational. here, jason learns an important life lesson: if you go undercover as a criminal, sometimes people believe you. and phil learns to reorder his interrogation questions.

warnings for drugging people without their consent. the drug in question is a fictional truth serum.

- - -

Using this particular drug on a nonconsenting person is a crime in most of the world. A recent amendment to the Geneva Convention marked its use on prisoners of war as a war crime. There’s a blanket ban on its production and use in the European Union. In the United States, administration by law enforcement personnel was ruled a violation of the Fifth and Eighth Amendments.

But SHIELD is not at war. Nor is it a law enforcement agency. And Phil Coulson is not in territory controlled by the United States or the European Union. The man in SHIELD custody undoubtedly has rights of some kind, but the extent of those rights – and who might be obligated to protect them – is currently unknown.

“It’s messy,” he says, to Fury.

“It’s a mess,” Fury replies. “Clean it up.”

- - -

He’s younger than Phil expected. But he has no right to judge anyone for sending their young to die. After all, he looks older than Natasha, possibly older than Clint.

And Natasha and Clint might be dead. In some ways, SHIELD’s no better.

“Your name, please,” Phil says.

“Jason,” the man says, a slow, sleepy mumble, and then his eyes open, and the panic hits.

Phil’s grown familiar with panic. He’s seen it in civilians and soldiers, in diplomats and dictators. He’s seen it every time he’s encountered this drug.

When it was first developed, early adopters trotted out the old lie: if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. But everyone has something to hide. Everyone has a secret they would swallow their own tongue to protect, and here’s a substance that takes that choice away, a wonder drug that retains awareness while negating will. A life-saving torture device.

“Fuck you,” the man says, which is far more spirit than most manage.

“Jason,” Phil says, “my agents are missing.”

“Fuck you,” Jason says, again. “That’s what happens.” He’s double-blinking, struggling to focus. Phil’s done this six times. No one's ever managed this level of control. Usually, they’re drooling by now, spilling secrets and saliva into the collar of their shirts.

Something’s wrong.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Phil says. “We must have miscalculated your dosage.”

- - -

Medical reports back half an hour later. There was no miscalculation. The man has a tolerance they assure him should not be possible.

“We gave him a second dose. He should be amenable now,” the doctor says. “If he doesn’t stop breathing.”

Amenable, Phil thinks. He explores the hollow inside him where the horror should’ve been. It’s a terrible thing they’re doing. He knows that.

But his agents are missing.

“Thank you,” he says. And he goes back to work.

- - -

“You know,” Jason tells him, glassy-eyed, barely looking Phil’s direction, “if you ask the wrong questions, I have to kill you."

It’s an interesting threat from a man who cannot lie.

“And what are you afraid you’ll tell me?” Phil asks.

“Identities,” he answers, chest rising slower than a sleeper’s.

“Ah,” Phil says. “Yes, we’ll get to that.”

“Batman,” he adds, unexpectedly. “Nightwing.” He swallows, clumsily. When he breathes in, he chokes. Phil watches him almost drown for a moment and then he reaches across the table and tugs Jason’s head forward so he can breathe.

He barely has the coordination to breathe, but the contact makes him flinch hard enough to shake the table. Phil wonders who made a creature like him.

“Who do you work for?” he asks.

“Nobody.” And then, almost smiling, voice dropping into a guttural growl, “Justice.”

Which could be good news. Killers with a mission are predictable, once you understand their cause. “And who decides justice? Who gives you orders?”

“Nobody.”

Interesting. Most freelancers don’t work at this level, and the ones who do should have extensive SHIELD files. “Who’s been signing your checks lately?”

“Checks,” Jason says, and laughs. “Fucking checks.”

He’s been thoroughly dosed with a drug designed to make him highly suggestible and meekly compliant. Phil’s starting to understand why capturing him was such a costly undertaking.

“Whose money is in your accounts right now?”

Jason makes a noise, some gusty grumble of complaint, and then lists off a dozen or so of the very worst people alive. The most interesting names are the ones Phil doesn’t recognize, but he’ll have to get to those later. The window is short; his time is running out.

A single dose is risky. Some people never fully recover their independence. They’re rendered permanently docile, suffering from a kind of chemical lobotomy that good people across the globe have outlawed. A second dose doubles the odds of permanent damage. After the third, some people won't even breathe without orders.

They’ve given him two already.

“These people who’ve been paying you,” Phil says, “which of them is paying you right now?”

Jason sighs. “Nobody pays me. I stole that money.”

“You---” Phil pauses, looks at his notes. He re-reads the names, marvels at the insanity of stealing from any of them. “You stole from those people?”

“Stole from ‘em,” he says, “killed ‘em. Well, killed some. Gonna kill the others. It’s, you know. A to-do list. I’ve been busy.”

Phil wonders if he’s been wasting his time, if he’s drugged a delusional man. “You don’t steal from people like that before you kill them.”

Jason tilts his head so he can look up him, furrows his brow in something that is almost a coherent expression of disdain. “You never have any fun, huh?”

Phil might be dealing with someone far more dangerous than he’d predicted. “You do this for fun?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “And for justice.”

Justice, right. Of course. “And who taught you about justice?”

“My dad,” Jason says.

Which is good. Which might be helpful. Truth has its uses, but, in Phil’s experience, leverage gets more accomplished.

“And who,” Phil says, “is your father?”

Jason’s eyes track his direction but don’t quite land. His mouth closes and then opens again. “Batman,” he says.

“Oh,” Phil says. “Shit.”

#writing #fic

[jimblejamblewritings]

love letters and second sons | part 1.

Summary: The princess is finally ready to debut in society. But before she does, she decides to disguise herself and see the true faces of the ton.

Author's Note: Hello! Yes, I'm here with a wip before finishing my other stuff. The Bridgerton girlies have got me. Congratulations to you all. So before you read this, please read: I Hate Accidents by @i-hate-accidents AND Over The Garden Wall by @homeofthepeculiar AND The Ultimate Deception by @maximoff-pan. These stories are some of my favorites and really inspired this fic.

Warnings for the Series: light sexism in line with the times, light classism in line with the times, mental health stigma, shitty doctor care, smut, suicide attempt (will get it's own warning when the time comes),

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x princess!reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Author's Note: To those who have read my other works, you'll notice that the author Mercutio's stories are something special

My Dearest Ton and Wonderful United Kingdom, 

I am pleased to welcome you all to the start of another social season. Of course, people love and look for love all year round but each year the season just seems to invite love to blossom. I hope all of you find the match to your souls. Marriage is a business but can it not have love as well? A business built with love surely must be a business that tries to last. I ask our respectful citizens and subjects of the United Kingdom to make love a part of their search. 

I would also like to ask about businesses that do not involve marriage or love. How are you? In the business of health, is everyone safe from all sickness? In the business of finance, does everyone have enough to eat and clothe themselves without falling into poverty? Are businesses afloat even if only by a small margin? How are you? Truly, I want to know. If you would like to write to me, please do so. The royal mailboxes should still be in perfect condition. 

Of course, if you have something urgent then I am sorry but you must come to the palace and request an audience. My valets hold all letters for a day or a few out of safety for everyone. But rest assured, I read every letter once received. 

I would also like to say that I can feel the winds of the ton calling me to grace their presence and to stop being rude by ignoring them. Naturally, the wind is very rude to say this and then cut through my dress and chill my bones even when it is snowing. But I digress, the wind is right. The time for introduction must be soon. And a lovely time that will be. I cannot wait to meet you all. 

Yours truly, 

A Not So Young Anymore Youngest Princess Y/N Hanover (Truly, I need a proper surname and not just the name of my father’s house)

My Dearest Ton and Wonderful United Kingdom, 

Would you like to know what I have learned yesterday? I know the Americas are still a touchy subject for some but I hope you don’t mind me talking about it, just to share my studies. Philadelphia is the center of American debate. So many great men (and women that have probably gone unnamed but aided their counterparts in their quest of education) have lived and are currently still living there. 

Going to America simply for a debate sounds terribly dreadful. But what if we had one here that wasn’t relegated to just the universities. An entire city becoming a center of debate seems incredibly foolish, not to mention disruptive to its current residents, but buildings of debate do not seem like a bad idea. 

Even if some feel like they aren’t smart enough, they should participate. Ideas are nurtured by sharing them. May some debates lead to great compromise and understanding and maybe even propositions for laws. 

I, for one, debate with my father every day on which science is the most important to teach to young children and which science can wait until university should they like to pursue that path. He believes all of it. I believe that medicinal science is too much for a young mind and they only need to be taught how to mind their health until they can understand better. What do you think? I am delighted to hear your opinions. Maybe mine will be swayed. 

Yours Truly,

Youngest Princess Y/N Buckingham (I am trying out new surnames until one I like sticks)

My Dearest Ton and Wonderful United Kingdom, 

I apologize if my stance may be radical but nothing in society ever got done if the start wasn’t a little radical. I believe that young women should be properly taught about relations… let me just say it, sex. Not when they are children, no, but when they are about to debut. Consider it. You all know that as a royal, despite being a woman, I have been taught all things. Everyone is aware that I know what sex is. But if I and my sisters were taught sex so that we may be aware of malicious advances and be able to protect our virtue first rather than waiting for our virtues to be saved by someone and risk them being too late, then others should as well. Therefore, I implore all mothers and governesses to teach their young ladies about to debut what sex is. And to fathers who may be without wives, please find any woman to teach your daughters.

I shall return with more radical ideas for a better and more prosperous United Kingdom. 

Yours truly, 

Youngest Princes Y/N Kew 

The printed letters delivered to London, had everyone enthralled in the early morning. Some people that lived close enough to the central town square didn’t bother with the prints and went straight to the wooden pin board there to look at the princess’ handwriting on the original letters. Whenever the Young Princess or the author Mercutio Quick wrote, people stopped and paid attention. 

Princess Y/N was the people’s princess. The one who listened to their complaints and wasn’t cheap on her charitable acts. She was so much like her father, Farmer George. Even with his illness he still ran a good country… when he was in charge. So much better than her eldest brother, George IV. Then again, any royal sibling was better than their eldest brother, even if only by a very small percentage. Everyday the public hoped another child would challenge George the Younger. They would rally their support behind them. 

They were hoping that any day George IV’s daughter, Charlotte, would have an heir. If she was pregnant then it would be so easy for the public to support her and convince either George IV to step down or convince Parliament to present a motion to King George. They would have a ruler and an heir. Charlotte the Younger would be the easiest transition for George IV to understand.

But neither her father nor husband seemed to care about the lack of heir. But the thought of succession and coups and duels was forgotten for a moment to read the Young Princess’ letters welcoming them to the new social season with new balls, debutantes, and drama. 

In the Bridgerton house, the family ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. They were trying to get ready to present Daphne to the Queen while also trying to read the Young Princess’ letters. Benedict laughed as he slapped his copy of the letters. 

“Mother would have a fit if she had to speak with Daphne about sex.” 

“I’m surprised she would even suggest such a thing,” Colin said as he returned to reading the first letter, thinking he might actually write to the Young Princess about his familial concerns and wanting to travel desperately but being unsure about leaving them. 

Eloise finally smiled as she came downstairs with the rest of her siblings. “I for one think it’s rather refreshing. She is right. Our mamas should be teaching us more than just how to meet the Queen… Daphne! You must make haste! Do you think she heard me?” 

Colin rolled his eyes. “She most certainly did. But on the matter of the princess, what is wrong with a woman’s husband teaching her about sex?” 

“Everything is wrong with that.” 

“Hmm.” 

He looked down to reread the paper, wondering if he could understand what the princess actually meant. Even though the letters were left at home, talk of the princess never ceased. How could it? The monarchy’s youngest princess might actually be joining them. Everyone wanted to know what she would look like, not in the face of course. Even her fourth brother didn’t take off his mask until after five months of being introduced to society and he was the shortest time it took to see the royal children’s face. 

“Do you think she will be tall like her eldest sister or short? Plump?” Eloise asked as their carriages started their way towards the palace. “I’d imagine I’d be very lovely and plump if I could be stuck in a palace all day with the most wonderful food imaginable. Not that anyone should ever value a woman based on her body but Penelope has stated that her sisters are terribly upset because all the dress makers have started saying that plump is going to be in fashion once again in only a few years time and by the time they become plump it’ll be out of fashion again.” 

Daphne looked out the window. “I wonder if she’ll look like the Queen or the King. Oh, what makeup do you think she’ll wear? What mask did she have created for herself? When do you think we’ll actually see her face?” 

Violet touched the knees of all her girls. “Whatever she is like, do not be rude and gawk. The poor thing will already have the vultures’ eyes on her all night. If she even comes out tonight. Perhaps it will be at a ball this week. That would be quite a fantastic introduction. I do hope she at least meets us this season.” 

Francesca smiled. “I imagine her dance card would be quite full.” 

“She’d have bracelets of dance cards going up to her arm,” Daphne agreed.  

“But she isn’t coming into society yet. She’s just introducing herself to us,” Eloise said. 

“She’s still a princess royal. A very well-known one at that. There’s no way the men would pass on an opportunity to dance with her. They’d want to start making their intentions known now, get ahead of everyone else.” 

The boys’ carriage was speaking of a different matter entirely. The princess and Mercutio had written to the ton at the same time. With the presentation to the Queen taking up so much of the day, most people wouldn’t be able to read his work until later that evening. Colin and Benedict simply couldn’t wait. Colin sat with his brother as he drove the carriage and read the story out loud: 

“Arsehole,” Cecilia muttered. 

Ignoring the sharp stinging of her backside, she hopped off the bed to find something to put on. All she needed to accomplish was getting back to her room, clothed. She knew there must have been some spare clothes in their dressers. It was just a matter of sorting through which garments were hers and which belonged to the others. She had been sorely mistaken to ignore the three members of nobility behind her, thinking they hadn’t heard her. 

Lovell scrunched up his face, resembling a rat. “Is receiving another punishment something you really care for? Because this attitude you’ve acquired is going to earn you one.” 

“Piss off.” 

“Is that any way to talk to your dominants?” Madison asked, adjusting herself in Tommy’s arms. 

Cecilia scoffed as she walked towards the door, placing one hand on the doorknob. “Lavender.” 

The other three faces fell at the use of that forbidden word. Cecilia’s hand reached up ever so gently and wiped away tears. She wondered if the tears were for her former lovers or for finally realizing her mind was deluded to think she would be with anyone above her station such as Lovell. 

“I don’t want this anymore.” 

“Cecilia.” 

“You never believe that I don’t enjoy breaking our established rules. You only listen to Madison.” 

“Cecilia.” 

“It is clear you both like her more than you desire me. I am down.” 

“Cecilia.” 

“You shall see me around this manor, doing my job as I always have. But that is the extent of our relationship.” 

“Please, just give u—” 

“Good day, Lord Parham. Lord Newall, Lady Wilcher.” 

“Riveting,” Colin said as he finished reading. “Mr. Mercutio has done it again.” 

Benedict nodded. “Indeed he has. I was a bit worried when he announced that he wanted to dabble in the themes of erotic pleasures in his stories but this was just as enjoyable as all the others.”

“Agree… Oh, it says here that they have earned a publishing deal. The penny stories will still come out once a week, chapter by chapter but readers can also purchase a book if they would like to keep the story properly or are in a rush to read it. I for one will be buying the books.” 

“I second that.” 

“I wonder what his next story will be about. Actually, no, I wonder what our dear sisters and mothers can be talking about.” 

“The princess, no doubt.”

”Do you think any of our brothers will approach?” Eloise asked in the women’s carriage, more to herself than anything. 

That made Hyacinth’s face light up. “If one of them marries the princess does that mean we get to be princesses too?” 

“As if any of our brothers even could or want to.” Francesca pulled her face away from the window.

“If anyone is going to bring them to the marriage mart,” Daphne started as she fanned herself. “It would be the princess. Anthony would be a good match for her.” 

Violet laughed, thinking of the idea. “A viscount and a princess are a perfect match.” 

All talk of the princess stopped as they approached. The worst thing that could happen could be a footman overhearing them and mistaking their speech for malicious gossip rather than light-natured and report it to the princess or the queen or even worse, King George himself. They would forever be ostracized from society. 

From upstairs, you watched from a window where you knew no one could see you even if they looked up. How you desperately wanted to be down there. All the men were dressed up and looking like penguins. Handsome they were but still penguin-like in silhouette. And the women’s dresses. Some, while upper class, were of a lower social standing and wore older dresses that looked just as gorgeous as the empire and rather shapeless dresses of today. 

But today was not your day. You actually weren’t sure when your day would be. Your mother and father let their children choose when they would be introduced to society. Of course you all had to wait for a certain age and it had to be a date at the start of the social season but you could pick the day. And unlike your last sibling, you wanted it to be at a ball instead of the selection of the Diamonds. You didn’t even care which ball it would be. Perhaps it was selfish but you did want a day all to yourself or at least a day with you as the main focus. But that wasn’t this year. Or any year perhaps. 

You were excited to finally leave the walls of the palace if you were allowed, having proven yourself capable of not causing an incident. Unfortunately, you couldn’t say you had proven yourself without illness. You weren’t that lucky. You and all your siblings were locked inside until the royal physicians could observe and confirm that you weren’t sick with whatever madness your father had. They didn’t have to observe you. That was also why you picked a ball instead of today. You wanted to prove you didn’t need a chaperone literally holding your elbow. You wanted freedom like your siblings. Freedom to explore that you weren’t sure would get because of your illness. 

After a nearly fatal drowning in the lake — an event your siblings still get chewed out for at least once a month — you started showing symptoms like George did. For you it wasn’t about if you would be as sick like your father. It was about how bad and how quickly the illness would get. 

You didn’t get to see George as often as the others. The doctors thought you shouldn’t be around him for prolonged periods of time unless it was after an episode. They thought that too much exposure would make you more like him instead of better. They wanted to send him to Kew but you promised that you wouldn’t go to his quarters as long as he got to stay at Buckingham. 

Charlotte, silly as it may have been, had hope. They caught your sickness early. Nine was a very young age to almost go mad. Maybe you could be saved from a cruel fate unlike George. They were too late for him but not for you. Of course this only brought jealousy from your siblings who didn’t feel like they got as much affection anymore. Every time you even twitched, it became about you. They could never hate you. It wasn’t like you asked to be sick. But it was hard to be around you. Everyday visits became once a week. Still, you cherished those visits. Like the one yesterday. They expressed their sympathies and hopefulness that you would get to introduce yourself and maybe it could even be this year or maybe this month. 

You could have scoffed. After what you did just two days ago, you were unsure. The daylight came into your room before you were prepared for it and you had been convinced that Buckingham was on fire. You couldn’t be calmed down until you jumped into the water fully clothed. Immediately, you pulled yourself out of the trance but no one really cared. The royal physician had been called anyway and you had ruined all chances of attending the presentation to the Queen. 

“Your Highness!” a voice disturbed your thoughts and your eyes from looking at your siblings’ carriages leave in the morning. Your lady-in-waiting approached you with a paper, an entire pamphlet. “It’s already spread through the ton like a fire. We haven’t read it yet. We figured new literature would be a treat for you.” 

“Thank you, Pandora. Shall we read it in the kitchens this morning when we return home?” 

“Not your room?” 

“I’m so terribly sick of my room and the washroom and the balcony and the bedroom.” 

“You are getting restless.” 

“It’s only a matter of time. Maybe even tomorrow it’ll happen. And soon it will only be a couple of years at most before the mask is gone. By the way,” you said as the two started to leave. “Did you hear about the Feather girl that fainted? Is she alright?” 

“Oh yes, she’s fine.” 

“Good. Have someone send flowers to her tomorrow with an inquiry about her wellbeing after taking such a tumble. Oh and no flowers to the Diamond. I want to meet her myself one day. Now, let’s read about this… Lady Whistledown. She already sounds like an interesting woman.” 

Interesting it was indeed. The maids and kitchen staff hung onto your every word as you read the pamphlet. You weren’t exactly sure how you felt about the pamphlet yet but Pandora was right about one thing. It was literature. Lady Whistledown seemed bold enough to list subjects by name. By their entire name as if she wasn’t afraid of any repercussions. You supposed she wouldn’t be since Whistledown was obviously not her real name. 

It wasn’t the subject of what she published that bothered you. A lot of it was standard gossip that goes around during the social season but it was her personal opinion. She almost seemed to want the ladies she wrote about to have miserable ends like inquiring about Daphne Bridergton’s flame burning out quickly. The lady must know that what she published could ruin a reputation. Gossip is no longer gossip when publicly written down. It has the potential to become fact. 

You slapped the pamphlet against your hand. “Well, I suppose Mercutio Quick from York will no longer be the entertainment of the ton. Sad, and right as I earned a publishing deal too. Perhaps, I should take up a different art. Like making dresses for all my days or learning to play the harp and cello properly so it sounds better than a dying whale according to my brothers.” 

The cook shook his head. “Your stories are very entertaining. Even Lady Whistledown couldn’t stop that.” 

“Thank you for saying that. I am rather jealous that she is penning under a woman.” 

“But you have chosen a name based on your favorite characters, have you not?” 

“I have but maybe I should’ve chosen better. This Lady Whistledown might be making more change for women then I hope to accomplish.” 

At this, the staff scoffed. Pandora cleaned up your dishes from the kitchen island in front of you. 

“Your Highness, with the utmost respect, you are the one who is going to do more for women than this Whistledown. Everybody already wants someone other than your kind brother on the throne. They’re all praying your niece gives them any child so they may protest for her with the added benefit of an heir. They love her and what you write about in your letters make her seem even better. Hell, they love you and they don’t even know you. They listen to you. And with your words, Princess Charlotte the Younger will be on the throne and you will prove women are more than capable of whatever and we might have real change. Is she still on board?” 

“Yes. She hates her father as much as anyone else does. George is nice once you get to know him… sort of. But Lettie approves as long as I agree to be in her court. I said yes of course.” 

“Then it is settled. Thank God we might actually get change in our wretched lives. Now you must wash up and oversee the Bridgerton gowns before they are sent off. Shall we pick certain ones from your wardrobe?” 

“Give the Diamond the one with lace and her family’s colors. Pick whatever you want for the rest of them. Oh and patterns must be on the Feather mother’s dress. I noticed she wears the most ill-favored ornamented dresses but she seems to like them. And put in an order with the modiste, I should like to do this often if this first gesture goes well and the gift wardrobe will need more clothes than it has at present. Clothes for the lower classes as well, nothing that could get them attacked and the clothes stolen off their bodies.” 

“Yes, Your Highness.”  

“And, by the way, I already washed up.” 

“Yes, but now you’ve been sitting amongst smoke and smells.” 

You gave up your fight and nodded as you jumped down from your stool and began the walk to your room. No one was around today. They wouldn’t be for most of the social season as they had other duties, including watching your siblings. Despite your madness, you weren’t the biggest concern at all. It was your rakish brothers in brothels, your sisters constantly leaving their husbands or suitors, and all of them sneaking away. You paused for a moment before walking quicker until you reached your room. 

Why couldn’t you sneak out? Now would be the perfect opportunity. And no one was looking for you. It would be so easy to scale the vines up the garden wall and just have fun for a moment. You washed up quickly and put on a very simple dress — one more like the style of today rather than your father’s time. Grabbing a cloak and your mask, you put them down on the bed before sitting down at your writing desk to pen a letter. The slam of the door nearly made you jump out of your skin. You calmed as you realized it was just Pandora. 

“Oh, good. It is just you.” 

“I have the Bridgerton and Featherington dresses but what do you mean it is just me, Y/N?” 

You stood up, abandoning the letter now that someone was around. “I am going out to see the ton.” 

“What?” 

“It is still dark. I have a map, my cloak, and the mask. And I have a very clear destination with vehicles that will get me back in the most discreet of ways should I need to use them.” 

“Your Highness.” 

“Pandora. I am nearing my introduction to society. You will all have to let me go at some point. I know everyone cares for my wellbeing but my happiness is gone. I am seen as nothing but my illness. Before I have an episode in public like the king, let me meet the ton. Let me not be Farmer Y/N for a brief moment of my life before I am a farmer forever, before I stay in that garden just like Father.” 

Pandora’s mouth shut. She simply locked the door and unlocked the window. “You must return before your midmorning promenade and snack. Since you ate downstairs, I can convince them to overlook your absence of a breakfast request. And don’t take your mask. It’s better if they don’t know who you are at all.” 

She gasped as you hugged her. 

“Thank you, Pandora! Thank you! You are truly the bestest friend a woman could have.” 

“Just go so you can come back quickly and I can have my sanity back.” 

You closed the window, shocking Pandora as you pulled a picture frame off the wall to reveal a staircase that led outside. The door was hidden behind the trellis covered in vines and flowers. You pulled the hood over the cloak over you. The last thing you did was check for your bracelet and if your papers were inside. Until you were introduced to society, all the royal children had bracelets that couldn’t come off unless cut off. There were just in case measures with the eldest two but became necessary after so many nights sneaking out. The bracelet wasn’t going anywhere but you didn’t want to lose your birth certificate. It was your first safety measure. Even if you were kidnapped or harmed, you’d be returned to the palace for a pretty penny. You did pull your sleeves down so your bracelet wouldn’t be noticed.  

You couldn’t contain your smile at the excitement of being out. London was so different without all the noise. The brothels and pubs were starting to close down for their few hours of rest and relaxation. You stuck to streets where you could see all the action but wouldn’t be easily spotted. No one bothered you until you arrived at your destination. 

The footman stood to attention. “May I help you?” 

“Yes, hello. I bring a package from Buckingham House for the Bridgertons, courtesy of Princess Y/N.” You handed him a letter with your official stamp at the end of it. 

The footman’s eyes went wide as he handed you back the letter and ran inside. The Bridgertons looked up at the frantic knocking, pulling slips over Hyacinth and Daphne before telling the footman he could enter. The Bridgerton boys came upstairs after hearing the heavy pounding of their employee’s footsteps running up the multiple stairs. 

“Is there a problem, Marshall?” 

He panted before taking in a deep breath. “The Young Princess’ lady-in-waiting is here, bearing gifts.” 

“WHAT?!” 

The Bridgertons collectively yelled before the scramble happened. You tilted your head when you saw the windows open and a maid shake out some bedsheets. She squeaked when she looked down to see you. You laughed as she ran back inside. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes before you were escorted into the house by a very out of breath footman. The Bridgertons stood on the steps at the end of their entrance hall in chronological order with their mother starting the line at the very bottom step. Nervous smiles graced their faces when you finally reached them. You curtsied to which they curtsied or bowed back. 

You gave them a second to assess you before speaking. Even though it wasn’t true in the slightest, everyone thought the ladies-in-waiting and manservants were reflections of the royals themselves. Not in character or value but in appearance. They figured they could form some sort of picture as to what the young masked royals looked like. If you were ugly then surely the princess was too. You hoped they at least found you to be average looking in appearance. 

Anthony Bridgerton — the new head of house from what you remembered of your studies — stepped from behind his mother to greet you formally. He bowed once again, deeper, before offering up his hand. You settled yours in it to receive a chaste kiss. 

“To what do we owe this sudden pleasure, Mrs…” 

“Keaton,” you lied, just using Pandora’s last name. 

“Mrs. Keaton?” He didn’t recognize the name as one belonging to an upper class member of the ton. He wasn’t sure he recognized the name at all. 

“Apologies, I should explain. The princess doesn’t distinguish in her court, we are all there to work. All women are ladies-in-waitings, all men are valets. Regardless of station, regardless of marriage.” 

“So, I am to take it that my earlier statement was incorrect.” 

You nodded. “Simply Miss Keaton.” 

“Well that sounds like very forward thinking actually. All the same, it is our pleasure to meet anyone in her highness’ court.” 

Violet smiled as she watched the interaction. If her son was close to anyone in the princess’ court, especially someone that seemed so close to the princess as to be sent here, then he would be able to meet the princess with good graces. He’d be ahead of any man by leagues. 

“Princess Y/N has sent me on her behalf. She extends warm greetings to the Bridgertons and the Featheringtons whom I will meet after our encounter. The princess congratulates Miss Daphne Bridgerton for earning Diamond of the Season as well as congratulations to the Dowager Viscountess for raising such a fine woman and to Viscount Bridgerton for chaperoning and keeping the family together therefore allowing his sister to shine.” 

He cleared his throat and started to smile. “Please give the princess all of our thanks for the most kind of compliments.” 

“And she would like to assure Miss Bridgerton that I have not been sent on behalf of any princes. Her brothers will not be bothering you today.” 

They all chuckled when you laughed. 

You set the first box down on the table next to you and opened it. “The princess has brought new dresses for the ball. The Diamond and the rest of her family should have the opportunity to shine with the utmost and wholehearted respect and support of the Crown. Please, enjoy them.” 

The family ran to the table, picking out dresses and suits and matching them to the person’s name on the paper pinned to each garment. They kept singing praises and admiring the outfits. Violet turned back to you. 

“When are you planning on visiting the Featheringtons?” 

“In an hour or so, I must be back before the princess’ morning promenade. She has a very busy day afterwards.” 

“Will the princess be introducing herself this season?” 

“Hyacinth!” Anthony and Violet yelled at the same time. 

You laughed. “It is no trouble. I’m at liberty to answer as the princess’ head valet.” 

“Valet? I thought you said they were all men. They are usually all men.” 

“If the princess should become heir to the throne then she will receive a male valet alongside me. For now, it is just me. The Crown believes someone of the same gender should always be with her should she need to confide in someone about very personal matters.” You took a breath before testing the waters. “Such as affections of the heart.” 

It had dawned on you in that moment that you could spy on the ton. When the time came, you would still have to dance with all the bachelors of the United Kingdom but you at least you would have a better picture of them. You’d have to apologize to Pandora for the countless strokes she was about to earn from you but you couldn’t make this your only time sneaking out.  

Violet smiled, knowing she was right. “Well, would you like to stay for breakfast?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“It would be no trouble at all. We have more than enough room. Eloise, dear, if Penelope is to come over please request that she do so now.”

(part 2)

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@venomsvl @peaches-n-sunscreen @summerellaz @supernaturallover2002 @sambucky8 @9daykrisr @thebitchinleo @23victoria @scarlets-widow @pagetpagetpagetpaget @lovexnatasha @awesomebooklover17 @1234-angelika @imatrisk @blackreaderatrisk @princess-jules47 @alexloveskili @a-marie-a @siriuslysirius1107​ @i-have-no-life-charlie @daykrisr999

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton x princess!reader #benedict fluff #bridgerton fluff #fic

[spicycinnabun]

@galladrabbles for thank you

~

“What do we say?” Ian asked, expectant.

“Thank you,” Mickey said. The response was automatic, knee-jerk, and his cheeks heated in mortification as Ian slowly paused.

“I was talking to Fran.” His eyes were twinkling, the motherfucker. He went to serve himself a plate. “Uncle Mickey has good manners today, doesn’t he?”

“Yes!” Franny agreed. “Thank you, Uncle Ian!”

Mickey shoved a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth to stop any more stupid shit from escaping, but when Ian passed him to sit down, his hand caressed the back of Mickey’s neck, and it felt like good boy.

#fic #galladrabbles #shameless #mickey milkovich #gallavich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #d/s #oopsie

[rubycruzin4abruzin]

behind the curtain

Summary: Sequel to never been (stage) kissed. After shooting wraps, you and Ruby part ways. Eight months later, you see each other again at the premiere screening, and decide to “sneak away” during the after-party. How will you two navigate the paparazzi after they catch you in a compromising position?

Pairing: ruby cruz x actress!reader

Contains: mature language, adult humor, kissing, angst, fluff, hair playing, secret relationship trope, brief mention of an ED, publicity tweets and comments, invasive tabloids, the price of fame

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: This is a sequel to my previous RPF, so the RPF Guidelines still stand. This fic contains a very brief mentioning towards an ED, and should not be triggering (at least I don’t think so). I am not insinuating anything by this mention, it is simply meant to shed light on how invasive and presumptuous Hollywood can be. That being said, I had the most fun EVER writing this! Enjoy! :)

———

Ever since the first “kissing lesson,” you and Ruby had spent every on-set lunch break in her trailer. Nothing ever progressed beyond kissing, but with the way Ruby’s hands entangled themselves in your hair, and how she shivered every time your hand grazed her thigh, kissing was really all you needed.

Your mid-day rendezvous were kept a secret from the rest of the world. None of the cast or crew knew exactly what was happening when the door to Ruby’s trailer closed, but it was clear that something was working. Since the trailer lunches began, your on-set chemistry became palpable. It even got to the point where the director would shout words of praise after “cut!”

Eventually, like with all movies, filming began to wrap up. The last day on set, you and Ruby spent all of your down time wrapped in each other's arms, tears falling at the thought of parting. Everyone on set sympathized with the both of you, except for the makeup artist who kept having to touch up your alien makeup after every fallen tear.

You and Ruby promised to keep in touch, and you did for a little while. But daily FaceTimes eventually became weekly phone calls, which turned into sporadic texts, until silence settled between you, save for occasional likes on social media posts. You missed her terribly, and while your pride and fear of rejection kept you from reaching back out, you couldn’t help but wonder if she was missing you too.

About eight months after shooting wrapped for “Aliens of Atlantis,” you were going over sides for an upcoming audition when you got a call from your agent. Upon answering, she announced that “Aliens of Atlantis” post-production had wrapped, and the film had a scheduled premiere where the cast would be making an appearance.

A blissful daze settled across your face at this news. Your agent kept on talking about the when, the where, and the dress code of the upcoming premiere, but you were only half-listening. Her words mushed together, flying in one ear and out the other as the only thing that mattered to you consumed your mind.

You were going to see Ruby again.

On the morning of the premiere, you woke up with a knot in your stomach. You couldn’t tell if the cause was nerves or excitement, but you chalked it up to probably being a little of both. You tried everything to settle your stomach, from aspirin to deep breaths to simply distracting yourself with other tasks. Despite your attempts, when your driver arrived later in the day to take you to the premiere, the knot was still there and prominent as ever.

By the time you had arrived and were about to get out of the car, the knot had seemingly spread throughout your entire body, making you feel like an absolute disaster. You took out your phone and checked your reflection in the front-facing camera, just to remind yourself that you weren’t. In fact, you looked good. You were wearing a metallic blue floor-length gown as a not-so subtle nod to your alien character from the movie. Pale blue eyeshadow decorated your eyelids, and you left your hair down in loose face-framing curls. You knew the press would go crazy as soon as they saw you, and that thought alone gave you enough of a confidence boost to calm down a bit.

When the car pulled up to the red carpet, you took a deep breath and stepped out, immediately being bombarded with cameras flashing in your face. You blinked, overwhelmed at the bright lights, and quickly attempted to paste on a smile and act like this wasn’t your first red carpet event.

You stumbled down the red carpet and looked around for Ruby, but the constant camera flashes and bright lights made it difficult to see much. Every now and then you would stop to strike a pose and flash a pretty smile in some random direction, or answer one of the million questions being thrown at you.

“Who are you wearing?”

A fucking blue dress. “Valdrin Sahiti!”

“How do you feel about your first red carpet event?”

Overwhelmed. “So excited!”

“What are you most looking forward to tonight?”

Seeing Ruby again. “Everyone finally getting to see all the hard work from the cast and crew!”

After what felt like an eternity of paparazzi and bullshit answers to trivial questions, the end of the red carpet was finally approaching. You felt yourself let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It wasn’t easy, but you managed to make it down your first red carpet without making a complete fool of yourself.

Eventually, the cameras seemed to dissipate, focusing on the next pretty young thing that had just arrived. You blinked, trying to restore your vision infringed upon by the blinding lights. Once you could see in front of you again, you looked up, and a gulp forced itself down your throat at what might have been the prettiest sight you’d ever seen.

There, standing at the end of the red carpet, was Ruby Cruz, radiant amidst the flashing lights.

Her gown was long and form-fitting, sporting bright streaks of color and a slit up one of her legs. Dark brown curls hovered above her shoulders and cascaded down the back of her neck, while glittery red eyeshadow made her blue eyes pop. She looked so natural, posing and smiling for the cameras, that you couldn’t help but feel a bit envious of her.

Upon seeing you, Ruby’s eyes brightened, and a goofy grin spread across her face. She walked towards you, wrapping an arm around your waist and instantly making the cameras go wild. Your cheeks flushed into a bright pink tint. You missed her touch, and having her arm wrapped around you like that almost felt like deja vu.

While the both of you posed for the flashing cameras, Ruby leaned down to your ear and whispered one single sentence, the answer to a question you didn’t need to ask.

“I missed you.”

Unsurprisingly, the movie premiere turned out to be a massive success. The audience was extremely receptive to the storyline, cheering and gasping at all the right moments. Critics even approached you after the screening to rave about your performance and promise a glowing review.

The after-party was held at a nearby banquet hall, decorated to look like the underwater city of Atlantis. Filk music blasted through speakers while an open bar served space-themed cocktails.

You were busy making your rounds, establishing connections with other attendees while sipping a ‘cosmonaut’ from the open bar. While posing for a photo with a fan, you couldn’t help but realize you hadn’t seen Ruby in a bit. You craned your neck to look for her, but she was nowhere to be found. You shrugged it off, thinking it’s just a big venue and you’d probably run into her at some point during the night.

After several photos, impromptu interviews, and business cards you had nowhere to put, you were exhausted. You tried to make yourself as invisible as possible, leaning against a curtain by the back wall and downing the last sip of your cocktail.

While scanning the room, you noticed some of your castmates appeared slightly tipsy. You felt bad for them, knowing their press interviews would come off as less than professional, but there was a small part of you that wished you had more to drink throughout the night. The party was fun, sure, but took a lot out of you, and alcohol was sure to make it more tolerable.

Suddenly, while you were immersed in watching a crew member profusely apologize to an intern she had drunkenly stumbled into, you felt a disembodied hand appear out of nowhere and wrap around your arm. The hand pulled you behind the curtain you were leaning against, causing you to gasp and drop your empty cup.

You whipped around to see who grabbed you, preparing to throw a punch or scream for help if you had to. Instead, your eyes softened and you lowered your fist upon seeing Ruby, standing there staring at you with a devilish smirk.

“Hi pretty girl.” She cooed, taking a step towards you.

“Ruby…” you half-whispered in shock, eyes traveling up and down her body. “What are you doing?”

“I missed you,” she rested her hands on your hips and bit her lip, letting an ounce of vulnerability shine through her otherwise confident exterior. “I missed this. I feel like we barely got to see each other all night.”

“Me too,” you responded, internally melting at the feeling of her warm hands on your torso.

You wrapped your arms around her neck and leaned close to her before a sense of paranoia made you backtrack. “Ruby, it’s a big party, what if someone sees us?”

Ruby simply shrugged, completely unbothered. “Like you said, it’s a big party. Our castmates are drunk, the press is too focused on capturing their embarrassing moments.”

Her words seemed to reassure you, and you pulled her close to you again, feeling the warmth of her body against yours. “I’m glad you pulled me away.”

Ruby crashed her lips against yours, forcing a soft moan to escape your throat. She pulled back, looking deep into your eyes and holding your face in her hands.

“Careful now. We don’t want anyone hearing us.”

You nodded, non-verbally promising to keep quiet before Ruby brought her lips to yours again. Both of you sighed into the kiss, eight months of absence making itself prominent with passion. She tasted like sweet nostalgia with a hint of coconut rum, probably leftover from a drink she had earlier.

Ruby pressed herself against you, and you grabbed at the back of her neck, desperate to be as close to her as possible. She kept her hands planted at your waist, thumbing over the metallic fabric of your gown. Each time her fingertips pressed into your sides sent electrifying shocks through your body, making your knees stutter and causing you to lean more into Ruby for balance.

You brought your hands up to play with one of her curls, prompting a gentle sigh to travel from her mouth into yours. A smirk appeared on your lips, realizing your beloved brunette enjoyed having her hair played with.

Just when you were about to fully take advantage of this newfound information, a sudden crash engulfed your ears, followed by a blinding light and a collective gasp. You and Ruby pulled away from each other, turning your heads to check out the commotion.

One of the interns had drunkenly stumbled into the curtain and pulled it down with him as he fell, leaving you and Ruby entangled in each other and completely exposed to the rest of the party.

All hell broke loose. Interviewers screamed questions from across the room while paparazzi cameras flashed in your face. Those without cameras pulled out their phones and filmed the both of you, desperate for their fifteen minutes of fame.

Anxiety overtook your body as you felt a lump rise to your throat and your heart sink to your feet. You turned to look at Ruby, eyes full of fear, but she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking straight at the flashing cameras, with an expression that made your blood run cold.

You had never seen her bright blue eyes filled with so much anger.

The pit in your stomach grew as you scrolled through the tabloid headlines and Twitter articles featuring your and Ruby’s “stunt” from the other night. This was bad. So bad, that both of your agents had gotten together to hire a public relations manager just for the situation.

Two days after the movie premiere, an emergency meeting was called. Five of you were called to the manager’s office, with both of your agents sitting on either side of him, and you and Ruby placed across from the three of them.

The manager, named Rick, held out his hand and you gave him his phone back, sick of scrolling through the headlines anyway. As far as you could tell, Rick didn’t seem like a bad guy, but it was clear Ruby didn’t feel the same. She hadn’t said a word throughout the entire meeting, instead keeping her arms crossed in front of her chest and pointing a cold glare towards the man in front of her.

She didn’t trust him, and everyone in the room knew it.

Rick gave the both of you a sheepish grin. “As you both can probably see, you’re kind of the flavor of the week right now.”

Ruby’s agent nodded in agreement. “I have a friend in New York, and she heard a rumor about an SNL sketch being written about the whole thing.”

Your agent sighed, clearly having heard the rumor herself. Ruby simply scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Is it really that big of a deal?” You piped up.

All eyes turned to look at you, making you shrink in your seat. “I mean, can’t we just wait for it to blow over? All we did was kiss at an after party.”

“It’s not like we were fucking, Rick.” Ruby growled through her teeth, causing a blush to appear on your cheeks.

Rick cleared his throat, uncomfortable with Ruby’s candidness. “Well it’s not really that simple…”

“No one knows what you are.” Your agent interrupted. “All the public knows is you were caught going at it like teenagers in a basement, and now the media is going to be on top of everything you do until they figure it out.”

Ruby’s agent nodded. “Before this, we wanted you both to appear single to the public. You’re both very attractive girls. People want you, and we want them to think they can have you.”

“But that’s not really an option now.” Rick pointed out. “Fortunately, both of you have pretty reputable status in Hollywood. People see two of their favorite actresses together, feedback is bound to be mostly positive.”

He opened up a notepad in front of him and started scribbling down something you couldn’t quite make out.

“I’m thinking, we take this relationship and go completely public. Social media posts, dates open to the paparazzi, everything. That way, the media won’t have to do any guess work and this whole thing will blow over sooner.”

Suddenly, Ruby stood up from her seat and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Ruby!” Her agent called after her.

She turned to flash an apologetic smile towards all the shocked faces staring back at her. “I’m sorry. She’s not usually like this. I’ll talk to her.”

She ran out of the room after Ruby, leaving Rick and your agent to go over the details of the plan. Their voices faded into the background as millions of thoughts swam through your mind. You had a bad feeling about this ‘public relationship’ idea.

How were you supposed to go public with your relationship, when you weren’t even sure if there was a relationship to go public with?

You adjusted your oversized hat and sunglasses while staring up at the cafe sign that read “Grind n’ Dine,” shuddering at the slightly suggestive name.

One week after the meeting with Rick, he worked with your agents to schedule a public date for you and Ruby, tipping off the press to make sure there was media coverage. Grind n’ Dine, a local business, had apparently paid Rick a large sum of money to schedule your date here in the hopes that the publicity would be good for business.

Taking a deep breath, you walked in through the restaurant doors and looked around. Several members of the press were already present, wearing cameras around their necks and sipping coffee at various tables. You breathed out a sigh of relief that they didn’t recognize you yet, thankful for your agent who suggested arriving in disguise.

In the very back of the restaurant, tucked into a booth, you spotted Ruby hiding behind a menu. She had her body and hair buried under a large black hoodie, and masked her face with sunglasses similar to yours. You made your way over to her, trying to act natural, and making sure to avoid press members as much as possible in case they recognize you before you’re ready.

You slid into the seat across from her and cleared your throat to alert her of your presence. She put down her menu and laid it flat, before tilting her sunglasses down to meet your eyes.

Her blue eyes, once lively and bright, were now bloodshot and emotionless. Dark circles hung like bags underneath them, as if she hadn’t slept in days. You felt a sharp pang in your chest. Ruby had never looked at you this way before, and you wished more than anything that she would stop.

“Ready for this?” She asked, her voice monotone and lifeless.

You gulped, nodding defeatedly. “As I’ll ever be.”

Ruby removed her sunglasses and pulled down her hood, shaking out her wild brunette locks. You followed suit, taking off your hat and slipping your sunglasses into your purse.

Almost immediately, members of the press recognized the both of you, and practically trampled the poor servers and other diners to get to your booth. Cameras were suddenly shoved in your face, followed by microphones and what felt like hundreds of pointless and rather invading questions.

“Is this a date? How would you define your relationship?”

“If you had to describe your sex life using only three words, what would they be?”

“Ruby! Do you think every liberal democrat should take home a migrant to show their support for the proposed open border policy?”

The two of you mumbled terse responses to some of the questions, and completely ignored others. After several minutes of verbal torture, a perky blonde waitress fought her way through the press and stopped at the end of your table. She sported a wide politician's smile not directed at the two of you, instead flashed to the surrounding cameras in search of fifteen minutes of fame.

“Hi guys,” she started, her voice unnaturally high pitched. “My name is Bethany, what can I get started for you today?”

“I’ll have a quinoa salad and cranberry juice, please.” You answered, handing Bethany your menu.

The press murmured imperceptible comments regarding your order, some even scribbling notes on napkins. “Quinoa… salad…”

“Just a coffee’s fine.” Ruby mumbled, order being followed by press comments as well.

As soon as Bethany walked away, the paparazzi shoved the cameras back in your face and bombarded you and Ruby with questions once more.

“Did you order cranberry juice because you like cranberry juice or because you have a UTI? How did you get this UTI?”

“I noticed you were the only one who ordered food. Could it be because you’re eating for two?”

“Speaking of, why didn’t you order food, Ruby? Are you battling some kind of eating disorder? Would you like to comment on it?”

“Enough!” Ruby exclaimed, perhaps louder than she should have.

Immediately, the press was silent, with only the sound of sporadic camera clicks being heard. Ruby turned to look at you, tears starting to well in her tired eyes.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this…” she whispered, getting up and running out of the restaurant.

“Ruby! Wait, please!” You stood up and ran after her, leaving the paparazzi in the dust behind you.

You found Ruby leaning against a building across the cafe. She had her head resting against the cool brick, and her face pointed to the sky while she blinked back tears threatening to fall.

A lump formed in your throat as you started to approach her. You couldn’t stand to see her like this. She looked so… miserable.

“Ruby…” you muttered softly, reaching out your hand.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the concrete, refusing to look you in the eye. “I just wasn’t hungry! It’s barely ten in the fucking morning!”

You sighed. “Ruby, we both know that’s not what this is about. What’s going on?”

She sniffed, and focused her gaze on something behind you. “Can we… go somewhere else?”

Turning to see what Ruby was looking at, you noticed a teenage girl filming the two of you on her phone. You rolled your eyes, completely exasperated at this point.

“Let’s go.” You muttered, grabbing her hand to pull her away.

It didn’t take long to find a nearby alleyway, deserted except for an empty dumpster. You dragged Ruby into the back, letting go of her hand once the coast was clear.

“Talk.”

The pale brunette pushed her bangs out of her face, blinking a couple times while gathering her thoughts.

“I just… this is why my Instagram is private. This is why I’ve never explicitly labeled my sexuality. This is why I rarely talk about my personal life! I don’t want the media invading my space! I don’t want random strangers knowing intimate details about my life! It’s fucking freaky!”

You nodded, understanding her perspective, especially as you’d been recently dealing with the wrath of the paparazzi as well. She continued.

“I mean fuck! I can’t even order a damn coffee without some tabloid claiming I have a fucking eating disorder!”

Her breathing seemed to be evening out the more she spoke. She let out a shuddering breath and crossed her arms, staring at the gravel beneath her feet.

“I just… I just wanted to kiss you at an after-party. I missed you. And now everyone’s forcing us to be in this relationship and make it public but…”

“But no one asked us if we were even together,” you finished.

She nodded. “Exactly! We never even had a conversation just between us. Everyone just assumed.”

You pulled the brunette girl into your arms, wrapping them around her torso. She buried her face in the crook of your neck as you stroked her soft locks.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “If I had known that’s how you felt…”

“No.” She interrupted. “It wasn’t you. You didn’t do anything, I… listen…”

She pulled away, and you felt a pit form in your stomach. You waited for her to tell you that she didn’t want to see you again, that it was too hard, that it meant nothing.

You held your breath as she took your face in her hands, her blue eyes piercing into yours.

“I like you.”

“You… huh?” Shock painted your features as Ruby said the last thing you were expecting to hear.

“I like you.” She repeated, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned. “I meant it when I said I missed you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you the entire eight months we didn’t talk. I should have reached out more, I don’t know why I didn’t. I guess I was scared? I don’t know…”

She was babbling, and you didn’t think she could get any cuter. You took her hands off your face and held them in yours, flashing her an encouraging smile.

“I like you too,” you replied giddily. “More than you know.”

Ruby chuckled, a faint blush tinting her cheeks. She stared down at the gravel again, chewing on her lip before speaking.

“I like you… I really do, but if we’re gonna start this… something, I’d want to take it slow and be completely private. No socials, no media, at least for now. Would… that be something you’re okay with?”

You squeezed her hands, flashing her a goofy grin. “I would… love that, actually.”

As you stared at your former celebrity crush, turned co-star, turned friend, turned… something, a wave of courage suddenly washed over you. Letting go of her hands, you seized her face and brought your lips to hers, tentatively, testing the waters. She gasped, but soon kissed back, sighing as she wrapped her arms around your neck and leaned into your body.

You moved your hand towards the back of her neck, then slowly inched upwards until your fingers were entangled in her hair. An almost inaudible moan escaped her lips and vibrated against yours as you played with her soft tresses. You smirked into the kiss, remembering exactly how much she liked having her hair played with before getting caught at the after-party.

Finally, after what could have been an eternity, you pulled away from each other. The two of you gasped for breath, both smiling like giddy children at the other.

“So… what now?” You asked breathlessly.

Ruby hummed to herself, seemingly in thought. “We could… go on a real date? Just you and me? No paparazzi. There’s this great little hole-in-the-wall place I like to go to when I don’t want to get recognized.”

You tilted your head, shooting her a lopsided smile. “That sounds perfect, actually.”

Before leaving the alleyway, Ruby put her sunglasses back on and pulled her hood over her head again, while you dug your sunglasses out of your purse and readjusted your hat. The two of you were disguised, hidden from the world, but happy to be able to pursue each other away from public opinion.

Ruby reached out her hand, her blue eyes somehow still managing to shine behind her sunglasses. “Ready for this?”

You smiled back at her, taking her hand and intertwining her fingers with yours. “As I’ll ever be.”

#ruby cruz #ruby cruz x reader #kit tanthalos #kit tanthalos x reader #hazel callahan x reader #hazel callahan #fanfic #sapphic #lesbian #fiction #fic #real person fiction #rpf #comedy #pining #secret relationship #rpc #fanfiction #fluff #angst #angst with a happy ending #willow #willow 2022

[reformedplayerbibuck]

Buck is pretty sure he could keep doing this forever, if it weren’t for the throat clearing behind him. He breaks away and looks over his shoulder to see a nurse standing there looking both annoyed and amused.

“Mr. Buckley, as romantic as this is, do you think you and your boyfriend could take it out of our waiting room?”

Tommy snorts a laugh against his shoulder and Buck grins sheepishly. “Sorry, Theresa. We’re-uh-we’re going now.”

As they walk away, Tommy is still laughing as he plants his hand in the small of Buck’s back. “Evan, Evan. What am I going to do with you?”

Buck looks over his shoulder and winks. “Whatever you want.”

Tommy shoots him a heated look then his face softens into something resembling fondness. “I should warn you before we go in there that you have soot all over your face now.”

Buck shrugs, leaning forward and kissing him again. “I know.”

Tommy smiles softly as they make their way into the room.

***

They manage to get away after a couple of hours when hospital staff kick everyone out so Chimney can get some rest. By the time they make it to Buck’s loft, Tommy looks about ready to drop.

“I’m glad you agreed to come home with me,” Buck says as he gets Tommy something to sleep in.

“I didn’t want to let you go,” Tommy says. “But I’m really, really tired.”

Buck smiles and steers him to the bathroom so he can take a shower. “A sleep date. Sounds good to me.”

Tommy kisses him.

***

Buck can’t stop smiling now, staring at the ceiling of the loft, Tommy’s arm thrown over his waist as he snores gently into Buck’s shoulder.

He rubs Tommy’s arm softly as he drifts off himself and thinks this is the first time he’s ever felt completely at home.

#911 #Bucktommy #Tevan #Evan Buckley #Tommy Kinard #spoilers #fic #my fic

[virginsexgod69]

Dance with Me

pairing Young! Daryl Dixon x Young! F!Reader to Prison Era! Daryl Dixon x F! Reader

summary Daryl makes up for everything he wasn't able to do for you on prom night,

cw a very small amount of angst, fluff, happy couples

3.3k words

20 something or so years ago….

You nervously rocked back and fourth on the heels of your feet, anxiously waiting for Daryl to walk by. Despite him often skipping school, you knew for a fact he was here today, so today would be the day you’d make your move. As your eyes scanned the crowded hallway, they finally landed on your target. 

“Daryl, hey!” You greeted as you hurried to catch up to him. He stepped aside to the wall of lockers, getting out of the way of the crowd. He noticed the way you wouldn’t look him in the eyes and nervously chewed on your bottom lip. 

“You okay?” He asked with concern. 

“Yeah, um–” you took deep breath, “I was, uh, wondering…if y’know? Um…” He looked at you with a bored expression on his face, growing impatient with your inability to just get to the point. You took in another deep breath, albeit it was more shaky this time. “Areyougoingtoprom?” 

“Wha?” His face morphed into a look of confusion, not having understood a word that came out of your mouth. “Are you g-going to prom?” You asked more clearly this time. The look on his face was an odd mix of amusement and disgust. 

“Nah, y’know I ain’ into that shit,” he said before walking past, but you gently grabbed his arm, effectively stopping him in his tracks. 

“C’mon, Daryl! It could be fun,” you whined. He turned to face you again. “Wait, you gonna go?” 

“Y-yeah! I mean, only if you’ll go with me.”

“As a date?” He only grew more baffled with each question he asked. Your cheeks grew hot with embarrassment and you were staring to wish a massive sinkhole would open up and swallow you whole. You nodded your head fiercely, too afraid to speak for your voice may betray the confident facade you were doing your best to maintain. Daryl’s entire face flushed a fiery crimson color as he opened and closed his mouth like a fish on land. You both stood there awkwardly and unable to speak. 

“Er, I gotta…go,” he rushed out before hurrying off. You watched him leave, internally slapping yourself in the face for thinking he’d wanna go with you as your date. 

☆☆☆

For the rest of the week, Daryl played the interaction over and over and over again in his head. Out of all the ways he could’ve responded, he somehow picked the worst one- running away. Of all the years he’s known you, he never got the impression that you were the type to be into that stuff. That alone shocked him, so it was no surprise that his mind nearly exploded when you wanted him to be his date.

You and him were good friends, maybe even best friends. You’ve been attached at the hip ever since freshman year. He and you would sometimes skip class together to smoke behind the bleachers, catch frogs in the creek after school, eat lunch together, comfort each other during rough times, watch movies together at your house all night, stuff that friends did. But going to prom together as dates? That was new, uncharted territory that he was far too afraid to explore. He wasn’t ready to buy a tux he couldn’t afford, stumble though dance moves he didn’t know while holding you uncomfortably close, then drop you off at your house before your curfew. It was all too scary. You deserved someone who’d actually give you a good time, someone that wasn’t him. 

The door slamming open and his brother stumbling through, still intoxicated, tore him from his downward spiral of self deprecating thoughts. He wanted to ask him for advice on what he should do, but he already knew all he’d get was mockery for even considering going to a school dance. Before Merle could even comment on his sullen disposition, Daryl got up and left, opting to take a walk in the woods to clear his head. 

He immediately regretted his decision when he saw you sitting by the creek, sadly poking at a muddy puddle with a stick. He was gonna turn around and pretend that he didn’t see you, but it was too late. You were already looking at him as you waved meekly. He bit the bullet and just walked over to you, taking a seat next to you on the damp ground. 

“Hey,” you muttered, not looking at him. 

“Hey,” he replied. An awkward silence followed, which is something that’s never happened before. The silences between you two were always comfortable. You both were going to say something, but accidentally cut each other off, leading to an even more awkward silence. 

“I didn’t mean to make things awkward by asking you to prom. I’m sorry. I should’ve known you wouldn’t wanna go, especially not as my date.” Daryl could hear the lump in your throat as you fought back tears, making his own heart sink. You couldn’t be farther from the truth, though. He’d never pass up spending time with you in any capacity. You only had one senior prom and he didn’t want to ruin it for you. You were smart, sweet, and beautiful; someone worthy of a person who can give you the world, but he didn’t have the world to give. 

“S’not true. I’d have gone with ya, but you deserve a better date than me,” he admitted. Your head snapped in his direction, your teary eyes boring into his. 

“There is no one better, Daryl. You’re my best friend!” You argued. 

“Don’ mean I’d make a good prom date,” he countered. 

“Wouldn’t know if ya didn’t try!” 

☆☆☆

Knots churned in Daryl’s stomach as he stood outside of your house. His hand shook as he reached for the doorbell. He quickly withdrew his hand, growing more nervous with every second that passed and he didn’t ring the doorbell. The door swung open, revealing your father who towered over the scared boy, staring him down. 

“You gonna come in, or just stand there all night, son?” He asked. Mortified at being caught, he followed the man inside the house, looking around the familiar, nicely decorated place in search for you. 

“Daryl’s here, come down,” your father yelled. 

“Coming!” Daryl looked up the stairs as you came down. You looked like a princess in your long, elegant dress with your hair styled to the nines, and makeup done. He always found you beautiful, but this was something entirely different. He couldn’t help but gawk at you as he stood there, blushing. He suddenly felt silly as he stood there in a borrowed tux that was too big for him with a tie he didn’t know how to tie knotted clumsily around his neck. 

“W-wow. You look…I- Yer…” 

“Thanks!” You said, saving him the trouble of finding his words. You stood in front of him, admiring how nicely he cleaned up. You’d never seen him in anything like it before and it suited him. 

“H-here!” He said as he clumsily shoved the bouquet of wildflowers he picked into your hands. You gracefully accepted them, admiring the sweet gesture. 

“Alright, let me get a picture of you two,” your dad said, camera already in his hand. He set the camera down for a second and approached Daryl, quickly untangling a re-tying his tie properly. “Okay, now smile you two!” You linked your arm in his and leaned your head on his shoulder as he stood there stiffly. After the flash of the polaroid camera went off, Daryl relaxed a little. 

“Daryl,” you father said after clapping a firm hand on his shoulder, “I trust you’ll have her back by curfew?” 

“Yes, sir,” he promised. 

“Okay, great! Can we go now?” You whined. Your father shook his head at your eagerness and saw the two of you off. 

The loud music thumped in the school’s tackily decorated gymnasium. Silvery streamers hung from the ceiling, reflecting the purplish lights that illuminated the place. Tables with punch and store-bought snacks lined the gym, encircling the patch of floor that was turned into a makeshift dance floor. Near that were circular tables clad in plastic table cloths, surrounded by chairs for people to have a seat and a snack. On the other end, there was a backdrop surrounded by balloons in the school’s colors and a table of props nearby. A photographer stood by, idly waiting for students to come get their picture taken. Arm in arm, you and Daryl entered. 

“Wanna dance?” You shouted over the music. You already knew the answer, but held out hope that maybe you’d be wrong. 

“Nah, s’not really my thing,” he replied. While that was true, an even bigger part of him was scared of embarrassing himself in front of you with his inability to dance. 

“Oh, that’s okay. Wanna get our picture taken?” 

“Don’ really like pictures,” he replied, full of guilt. He felt bad turning down every activity you wanted to do, but he was feeling so uneasy and out of place. Your face fell, but you plastered on a fake smile so quickly that he almost convinced himself that he imagined it. 

“Well, what do you wanna do?” You followed him to one of the tables and sat down after he pulled out a chair for you. He disappeared off to grab some punch for you both before coming back and handing you a cup. You sat there with your head resting in your hand, a dull look upon your face. Daryl knew he wasn’t cut out to be your date to prom and was regretting agreeing to be. He was just wasting your last prom as he wallowed in his insecurities. Ultimately, you got all gussied up just to sit around and do nothing but drink room temperature fruit punch. 

“You can go dancin’ without me, if you want,” he suggested after a while of silence. All he was was a ball and chain keeping you tethered to him when instead you should be out there having a great time. 

“I didn’t ask you to be my date just so I could go dancing by myself!” You huffed. 

“I told you that I don’ do this typa shit!” He snapped. 

“Well then why the hell did you come?!” He really didn’t know why he came, it just felt right. You seemed so excited to go and if him going with you would make you happy, he’d jump at the opportunity to do it. But he jumped into the deep end without knowing how to swim and he was now drowning. It felt like everything he did was the wrong thing and the things he could to to make up for it were far too intimidating.

“Yer the one that told me to try. This is me tryin’!” 

“You’re not tryin’! You’re just sittin’ around on your ass, moping.” 

“Ain’ nothin’ else to do in this shit hole!” He argued. 

“We could dance, we could, get our picture taken, we could even just talk for god sakes! If you don’t like me, that’s fine, but you should’ve just told me.” 

“But I do like ya. Yer my friend?” 

“No, Daryl. I like you.” His jaw visibly dropped at the revelation, but you just rolled your eyes, thinking it should’ve been obvious. He floundered as he thought of what to say, but nothing came out. Someone having feelings for him in that way never crossed his mind, least of all you. You shifted in your seat uncertainly as you silently begged for him to say something. The mortification you felt when nothing came from his mouth was overwhelming. Your entire face felt hot as tears burned in the corners of your eyes, a cold sweat accompanying the knots tying in your stomach. 

“Wanna get outta here?” He asked though the dryness in his mouth. Your eyes widened in shock, but you nodded uncertainly, nonetheless. 

“These tickets were like eighty bucks a pop, but sure, why not.” You accepted the hand he held out to you, grateful that they were just as clammy as yours. 

☆☆☆

It was almost comical how you and Daryl were dressed to the nines just to eat crappy gas station hot dogs and slurpees on a park bench. Daryl seemed more at ease one he took off his blazer and tie and unbuttoned a few buttons. You were more comfortable too after having kicked your heels off. 

“If I had asked you on a date that wasn’t prom,” you took a sip of your slurpee, “would you have said yes?” He stopped chewing his hot dog for a second, before resuming as he thought. 

“Dunno…maybe?” 

“Maybe?” You laughed. Daryl’s cheeks flushed a pink hue which was barely visible under the dim streetlight. As badly as you wanted to ask him what it was about you that was making him so unsure, you didn't. That would've pushed him away even further and he was just now barely getting back to his usual stuff.

“I-it’s okay. I’m having a good time with you right now. Date or not. That’s all that matters, right?” Your smile was sad, but your words were still genuine. 

“ ‘M havin’ a good time with ya, too,” he muttered. You scooted closer to him and rested your head on his shoulder, a position you usually assumed when he was around. But he flinched a little bit, the new context of your feelings making every move seem a bit awkward. He relaxed, though, since having you by his side was second nature by now. 

It felt like hours passed by on that bench. The hot dogs and slurpees were long gone and the two of you were just talking and laughing, reminiscing about old memories as you passed back and forth a cigarette. Daryl glanced down at his watch and cursed to himself. 

"It's past your curfew," he said as he hurriedly stood up. 

"Already!? Damn," you sighed as you put your heels back on. You stood up, slightly wobbling and wincing at the way the shoes dug into your feet. 

"Y'alright?" he asked. 

"I'm fine," you lied as you took clumsy steps away from the bench. 

"Yer feet hurtin'? C'mon, I'll carry ya." He crouched down and held his arms out behind him so he could give you a piggy back ride, but you just laughed. 

"Daryl, you don't have to do that. It's like a forty-five minute walk. I'll be fine," you insisted. 

"Jus' c'mon, girl." You sighed but gave in, nonetheless. You adjusted your dress before grabbing his shoulders and hopping onto his back. He caught you and readjusted you to a more comfortable position. 

Daryl confused you. One minute he's saying he's not sure how he feels about you, but then he turns around and offers to carry you for all three miles back to your house. Is that something someone does for one who's just a friend? Either way, you were  grateful for the boy and you didn't want to lose him just because of your feelings. People like him really were one in a million. 

Daryl gently set you down on your front porch once he walked up to your house. 

"Thanks," you said at the same time he uttered a "sorry." 

"For what?" he and you asked simultaneously. 

"Sorry fer ruinin' yer whole night. Not dancin' with ya or takin' any pictures." 

"Oh. I was gonna thank you for comin' out with me tonight even though school dances aren't really your scene."  His blue eyes- full of remorse- met yours- full of joy- before you both shared a small laugh. His heart started beating a thousand miles a minute when you stepped closer to him until you were toe to toe. Delicate hands held either of his shoulders as you rose to your tip-toes and placed a quick peck to his cheek. He was sure his entire face was comparable to a lobster in that moment, but  he was too distracted by the soft, beautiful smile you were giving him to feel embarrassed. 

"G'nite, Daryl." 

Present Day... 

Daryl stood in the watchtower, staring out in the open fields surrounding the prison’s fences. As per usual, rows upon rows of walkers fought against the chain link fencing. The poor fence would have to give eventually. 

“Hey,” you greeted, almost startling the man. 

“Hey. What’re you doin’ up?” You shrugged your shoulders, but with his back turned, Daryl couldn’t see the motion. You took a seat on the floor beside where he stood and got comfortable. When he realized you weren’t going to leave, he put down the binoculars and sat beside you. You nuzzled your head onto his shoulder like you used to all those years ago. Unlike the nervous teenage boy he used to be, Daryl rested his head atop yours. He was happy to have found you again and refused to waste a minute of time on being unsure about you. 

He was sure, now, that he loved you. He was even sure that he loved you way back then and just didn’t know what to do about it. But when he found you in that bus amongst the other Woodburians, he made a promise to himself that he’d love you the way he’s been too afraid to in the past. 

“Y’know wha’ t’nite reminds me of,” he asked. You hummed in response, prompting him to go on. 

“That night we left prom.”  You sat up and looked at him with pleasant shock. 

“You still remember that night?”  It made you happy that even after all the time that has passed, he remembered. You held memories of that night close to your heart, especially since it was one of your last ones with Daryl before you moved across the country for college. 

“O’course.” 

“I wish I had pictures from that day. I remember you looking so handsome,” you mused. Daryl felt bad, even decades later, for being the reason you had no pictures to remember that day by. He kinda wished he had one now, too.

“You looked like a princess that day, still do.”

“Oh, stop!” You teased, burying your burning face in your hands. Suddenly, he stood up and held a hand out to help you up. Your confused face was illuminated by the pale moonlight that shone through the tower. 

“We don’ got no pictures an it’s too late fer us to take any now, but I can still dance with ya.” Never in your lifetime did you expect to hear Daryl fucking Dixon ask you to dance. Happy tears blurred your vision as you squeezed him into a bear hug. 

“You’re so sweet, Daryl. But you don’t have to do this. You hate dancing a-and there’s no music so…” Your sentence trailed off as you felt Daryl placing your hands on his shoulders before he placed his on either side of your waist.

“Don’ need no music, jus’ hum one of them tunes you used to play on yer piano.” Knowing Daryl remembered so many things about you made your heart swell. The two of you swayed clumsily in each other’s arms as you hummed the tune of Shostakovich’s Waltz No.2. Daryl kept accidentally stepping on your toes, but you didn’t care. His blue eyes shone so beautifully with happiness in the moonlight as he looked at you with so much love. You were beaming at him. The teenage girl inside of you was so happy that she finally got her moment with the boy of her dreams and the adult you were now wouldn’t have had it any other way (well, maybe minus the end of the world). The song came to an end, stopping your humming but Daryl still held you close. Your eyelids fluttered shut as you leaned into him, meeting his chapped lips with yours. His hands moved from your waist to your face, cupping it in his big, warm hands as he kissed you so gently, yet lovingly. 

He was too afraid to say it then, but now, he had the confidence he was lacking. Plus, now was the perfect moment. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Daryl.” 

wrote this bc i'm salty ab not having a prom date >=[

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 16

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I didn't sleep very well but I'm here.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As you move North, the sunlight fades sooner and rises later, the nights cooling with each mile. Nearly a fortnight on the road, and you return to the service of the queen. Bryce escorts you between the carts, gesturing in passing to his comrades, other times letting past another body on their own mission. You reach the front of the train where men with swords pace and keep watch over the surrounding lands. 

“Evenin’,” Bryce greets the guards outside the queen’s tent and they grumble back. The weariness of travel has overcome many of the travelers. 

You dip your head down and approach the tent flap. Before the card can pull it back for your entrance, it sweeps open from the other side. You step back as another figure falters before you. The king keeps hold of the silk and his eyes skim over you. He tilts his head and moves to hold the fabric open, beckoning you through with his large hand. 

“Your highness,” you murmur. 

His jaw squares but he says nothing. As you enter, the fabric falls heavily behind you. The king’s expression lingers in your mind, his silence even more. The tick in his cheek was hard to miss and you can hear his heavy footfalls as he stalks off. 

Within, the queen sits on a bench, playing with the tassel of her belt. Her father, Lord Dustan, stands to the side, arms crossed as he makes small steps back and forth. He tuts and chews his thumb. 

“Your husband does not behave as son-in-law,” the duke gripes lowly, “he would have let Debray fall to those vandals. He cares only for his frost lands.” 

“Father, he is only eager to be home. As much as I dread the cold, I cannot help but feel as such. I tire of this endless road,” Queen Jazlene yawns into a cupped hand. 

“Ah, but you must be a loyal wife. What of mine? What of your mother? She was alone in the castle.” 

“And you rode out to save her, didn’t you?” Jazlene prompts. 

“I am a lord of the summer lands, I am past my warring days,” Dustan snarls, “he would risk my flesh on an uprising he could crush with his left hand. He tests me!” The duke circles around as he jabs his finger in the air, “I deserve more dignity, more respect. I delivered him his kingdom.” 

“Yes, father, he is a frigid man,” Jazlene bemoans, “as icy a husband. He does neglect us both.” 

“Neglect?” Dustan faces his daughter, “does he not see to his contract?” 

She frowns and bats her doey eyes as she looks away, “it isn’t that he doesn’t fulfill his duty, it is only... how might I get an heir if I lie with my husband only once in a moon?” 

“Does he mean to deceive us? A son will bind us. A son is what we need. Does he think the summer lands will follow a king who does not sow his seed?” 

“I do not know, father. I... I have tried all I can think of.” 

“Mm,” the duke hums darkly, “that won’t do at all. Not at all. When I married your mother, she was swollen with you almost as soon as the vows were said. No, no, it won’t do. I will have word with the king, make certain he does not treat my daughter, his queen, so coolly.” 

Dustan stop and twiddles his fingers. You try to imagine him confronting King Geralt. Surely it is bluster for the sake of his daughter. 

“...we are ruined without an heir...” he mutters. 

Jazlene sits forward on the bench, “ruined, father? I am queen--” 

“Yes, yes, you are queen, but a queen has her duty too,” Dustan insists, “and it cannot be done with a negligent king. Leave it to me, daughter. The next I see the king, I shall handle our business. As I have ever done. Do you believe in me? For I did deliver you a fine marriage, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, father.” 

The duke goes to his daughter and rubs her shoulder. He leans in and you shrink against the tent wall, making yourself small. 

“Should it prove poor judgment,” his whisper scratches from his lips, “I will figure a way out.” 

He kisses her hair and turns to march out. He takes not notice of you though that is expected. Jazlene sighs as the flap falls and she leans back on her hands, swaying her leg. 

“Ah, the maid,” she cheeps, “you will fetch hot water for my feet. They ache.” 

“Yes, your highness.” 

She grins, a catlike expression and sits up straight, “yes, that is right. I am a queen and soon, the king will be certain to treat me as such.” 

You flit off to your duty. As you emerge, your chest stirs with unease. Something about their conversation has you unnerved. Though they said nothing outright, it feels as if there is more laced between the words. The queen and her father hardly sound as allies to the king. 

You try to wipe the apprehension from your mind. You are but a maid and not so well-versed on noble matters. It isn’t your place to unpiece their declarations or untangle their riddles. You are to get the water to sooth the daughter of Debray’s feet, it may yet save you a box to the ears. 

⚔️

You shiver as the cart bounces over the hard ground. You count a month or so since your departure from the capital though the days blend in a fog. The gradual creep of the chill has advanced upon the part, slowing the wheels, and sending the riders to pause and cover their horses. You keep the fur cloak over your lap as you lean into the corner of the cart though Bryce seems enlivened by the atmosphere. 

The dim sky harkens the crossing of the intangible barrier between the summer and winter lands. Sprawling plains and rounded feels give way to rocky passes and jutting mountains, interspersed with lumpy tundras speckled with patches of mud. Several times, your soldierly escort has had to help yank free the wheels from some rut or another. 

“Are we there?” You ask through as chatter, blowing into your hands. “The Hinterlands?” 

“Mm, by my guess, we are at the Fox’s Tail. You see, it is the little strip of land where no man lives, summer or winter,” he explains, reaching to scratch his beard. You envy the warmth it must give to his cheeks. “Isn’t so cold yet, mouse, better brace yerself.” 

You nod and look ahead at the grey, brown expanse. There are dustings of frost but not snow, only on the distant caps of rugged mountains that shadow the horizon. You hug yourself as Daisy’s breath plumes in misty clouds around her head. 

“Why does no one live here?” You ask. 

“There are no trees, no grass to feed the livestock or game,” he shrugs, “it is barren...” he sucks his teeth and thinks, “there was a war. Hundreds of years ago, maybe more. The summer folk spilled upon the winter lands, some squabble over a slain lord... they put salt to the earth. They did not only want vengeance on the living, they wanted their descendants to suffer for their misdeeds. Starve out an entire people.” 

He snorts and shakes his head, “what the summer people didn’t understand is that the winter skinned do not stay still. They move with the winds. You’ll see, mouse. You haven’t done the last of yer scurrying.” 

You huddle down as another cold breath sweeps through the air. You’re not used to it but you will be. That’s how it always is. You just have to take what you get and make it work. You can’t complain for what you have; a warm cloak, a cart, and a kind companion. 

⚔️

Your teeth chatter as you hold closed the front of the fur cloak, the hood over your head as you walk the frozen earth. More often than not, you’ve left the prized cape in your cart for your return. It is too heavy to wear while serving the queen but the weather permits you no mercy. It is far too bitter to forgo the extra layer. 

Bryce is unbothered in his mail and the simple fur trim the collar of his wool cloak. He only seems to thrive in the dipping temperatures, stoking a fire for your nocturnal return so that you may sleep in its warmth. His constancy keeps you from mourning the lost summer sunshine. 

He stands behind you as you cross to the queen’s tent, now raised with several layers to insulate the walls. You enter as you do every night, unnoticed as Queen Jazlene mindlessly stares into the pages of a book. She’s grown quiet these last weeks as the travel wears on her, even her wardrobe showing the effects. 

You feel a gust from beneath the tent wall and step away from it. You watch the queen, huddled beneath a blanket on a stool, shaking as she tries to warm her hands in each other. She wears several satin cloaks layered over each other but the fabric is too sleek to garner much heat. 

She puffs into her palms and groan.  

“Damn this cold,” she mutters, then sits up, “maid, tea!” She demands, “Something warm! Anything!” 

You utter a small “your highness” and spin away to your task. You step out into the cold and go off to find a fire and a pot. The queen has some berry tea in her chests.  

You acquire a cup of steaming water from a cluster of servants around a flame. You linger for a moment to absorb some of the fire’s haze then set back toward the royal tent. As you near, a shadow nearly collides with you. You keep the cup balanced as you scramble around the figure. The torch light catches the king’s golden eyes as they meet yours. 

“Your highness,” you murmur. 

He grunts as he stops fully. He stares down at you wordlessly. You cannot read his expression as shadows dance around his features, flickering various emotions across his face. He bows his head and presses on. You turn to watch him go as concern rolls up your throat. 

In those last weeks, months you believe, you’ve not seen much of the king. You’ve wondered after his elusivity. At first, you thought it might be due to the combat at Debray, perhaps he was disheartened by the last act of resistance. Then you surmised it might be evasion of his own wife. Alas, you could not guess and fathomed it was not your place to do so. 

This brief encounter further perplexes you. You can’t help but question if it is you. You recall the last day in the capital, the grit of his voice casting you out. Go. The memory ripples through you. 

You think much of yourself. It wouldn’t be anything to do with a paltry maid. You focus on the hot water in your hand and continue on to the queen’s tent. 

You enter and wrap the dried berries and leaves, steeping them in the steaming water. You hover over the cup, waiting for the water to deepen in hue and cool enough to drink. When you bring it to the queen, you feel her gaze upon you. 

“Your highness,” you hand her the cup. 

She hesitates to take it, only doing so after deep consideration. She holds the tea in one hand as her other tugs on your cloak. She makes an ugly noise. 

“And where did you find this, maid?” She sneers. “Hmm, I sit her in my summer garb and you wear a bear’s skin?” 

Your lips part and you raise your shoulders. You look at the tent wall and frown. You poke your hand outside the cloak and touch the soft fur.  

“Your highness,” you look down at the cloak then at her trembling grasp on the cup. “Would you like it? You look awfully cold.” 

“Yes, I want the damn cloak!” She yanks it hard, “I am the queen and you did not think to offer me a proper cloak? How stupid are you.” 

You bow your head and reach to unbuckle the cloak. When it is loose, you shrug it off and hand it over. You will find a spare blanket. There must be some left among the luggage. 

She shoves the cup at you and stands. She swings the cloak around her and hums as she pulls its snug around her figure. She sits again and rubs her chin against the fur. 

“Much better,” she says, “I’ve been suffering this damnable place for far too long.” 

She takes the tea back, spilling a drop on your hand. You back away, the liquid cooling and sending a new chill through you. You cover one hand with the other and clutch tightly, locking your jaw against the tremor that crawls up your spine. 

The queen slurps from the tea and makes a face. She sneers, “I want wine,” she pouts, “how long must I be deprived? Wine!” She snarls down at the cup, “but I must drink this bile. Oh, but the king bids it,” she raises her voice mockingly, “you must obey your husband.” She shakes her head and takes another gulp, “at least it is warm. At least--”  

She holds the cup away from her suddenly as her face twists. She drops it and recoils, panic washing over her. She keels forward, holding her skirts out of the way as she spews onto the rug spread over the hard ground. She wretches loudly, spasming with the horrid sounds snagging in her throat. 

The smell of her vomit permeates the tent. She stays bent over her lap as she pants. You come forward and offer her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. She sits up and gulps tightly, her features drawn. She pats her lips. 

“Well, clean it up,” she turns her feet away from the puddle between them. “Stupid maid.” 

She pokes a sharp nail into your arm and you wince.  

“Your highness, are you unwell?” You ask, “shall I fetch a physician? Or some ginger?” 

“No, you stupid cow, I am not unwell,” she flicks her fingers at you before waving away the stench of her bile. She stands and walks away from it, her hand settling on her middle. She faces you and smiles broadly, “I am carrying the king’s son.” Her face darkens as she wrinkles her nose, “I told you, you twit, to clean that up. You best do so before I make you eat it.” 

You nod and bend your neck, “yes, your highness, I will fetch water.” 

“I don’t care, just do it,” she snaps and rubs her stomach. She lets out a shuddery groan and turns her back to you. You watch as she draws tight the cloak and sways with a trill, “I will be a true queen now. He cannot deny me any longer.” 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

#farcille #fic #nsft #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #so this was just supposed to be a characterization exercise #bc i could feel my falin slipping and needed to recalibrate around her having a hayami saori voice regardless of what she's doing #and partially bc i wanted to see what my marcille narration would sound like #results: i think i did okay on recalibrating falin and reaffirming her intrinsic gentleness so i dont go too hard on the dragoning cliches #marcille narration is a little too sardonic bc im definitely borrowing from my other twinky whitegirls but i can work on it #and im so so incredibly mean to marcille this is so funny #i don't even know if this is sexy or not im so sorry i was actually laughing while i was writing #the dragoness of melini #I GUESS?? THIS COULD BE CONSIDERED A FOLLOW UP??

[leelee1234love]

So soft…

18+ Minors DNI!!!

Full Masterlist Marvel Masterlist

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: your thighs are buckys weakness

Warnings: cuddling,kissing,fluff!!! (Please tell me if I missed any?!!!)

You were sat on the sofa watching tv and that's when you heard the door open.

"Bucky!" You giggled as he ran into the livingroom not bothering to take off his boots, jumping onto the sofa next to you making you squeal.

"C'mere bun" he murmured grinning ear to ear, yanking the blanket off of you and laying on top of you, putting all his weight on you, you could barely breathe.

"Buck- hun- i can't breathe" you exhaled as you tried to push him off your ribcage but he wouldn't budge.

"M'issed you" he muttered into your neck.

"I missed you too but I need to breathe buck" you huffed as you laid back down giving up on moving him.

But then he got up and you sucked in a breath and sighed in relief.

He instead placed both hands on your thighs and spread em apart, settling his head on your abdomen then laying back down, he had one hand holding your hip and and the other on your thigh stroking his hand up and down on it.

He tried to stay awake but once you started playing with his fluffy hair he knocked out almost instantly.

#x reader #bucky fic #mob bucky barnes #beefy bucky #beefy #bucky barnes x reader #bucky #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x little reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x oc #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #x you #y/n #fanfic #fic #marvelfic #marvel fic #marvel #avengers #avengers fic #beefy Bucky fluff

[ruinspidey]

texts from my bf that are so jj/rafe coded it’s not even funny

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #jj maybank imagine #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks #obx #fic #fluff #jj maybank x y/n #rafe cameron x y/n

[stevestark]

Fic Commissions Available!

I have reached the point in my job search where I am running out of money and need something to carry me until I land the next gig so—fic commissions are now available!

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I will not write: explicit underage, incest, bestiality, noncon

All ships and plots that do not disqualify based on the Will Not Write section are allowed.

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#fic #fic commissions #stranger things #mcu #ted lasso #harry Potter #star trek #star wars #thg