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kangaracha · 2 months

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QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 13

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pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

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The way that Chan slumps straight down onto your sofa suggests that it has either been a long day or he is expecting a long night ahead. You're almost too scared to ask which is true; not that there's a way for you to wheedle out of blame for either being difficult. It's all related to you joining the group, and whatever was going on with your schedule.

In the end, Chan doesn't give you a chance to ask, his eyes roving around the apartment. "Your dorm is nice," he comments, in the sort of voice that would insinuate his isn't nice if you hadn't already seen it.

You glance around too, at the white walls and years-old pieces of furniture that clutter the space. They've all seen many singers come and go before you, and then were never built for that kind of handing down - but they're robust, if not entirely pretty. Dependable as a place to keep a home. "It's alright," you say, sinking into the seat beside him. "It's small. There's no way all eight of you would fit."

"It's loud enough in our dorm," Chan agrees, cutting a grin. "You should have seen when there was nine of us living on top of each other in one dorm."

Nine of us. Not you, of course, but the long-gone boy you were supposed to replace. You're not sure how the echo of the words over inside your head makes you feel. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're distinctly aware that you've never heard him say that before (not even since you joined; always, it was the eight of them and one of you).

"Nightmareish," you say dryly, but the response is lacklustre, the joke weak and watery. Chan's smile fades.

"I guess I should stop stalling," he says, mistaking your tone for a different kind of distraction.

For two weeks, a heavy, curling tension has been holding itself steady in your gut; at the reminder of it now, it clenches its fist tight, your ribcage retracting and your breath shallow. You're going to debut, Minseo had said, and you'd thought it and thought it and thought it; but surely, it was unbelievable-

"I want you to perform at K-Con," Chan says, before the thought can finish flashing through your mind, and you freeze. "Not the whole concert, just God's Menu, or whatever you're confident in. Anything you want."

"Isn't K-Con in three weeks?" you question, and try to ignore the pounding of your heart in your chest. "You want me to debut in three weeks?"

A light dances in his eyes, that funny, coy smile he wears when he wants to mess with someone playing on his lips. "Technically, it doesn't count as a debut until the album comes out."

You’re seized by the sudden urge to push him off the couch - not that your hands move. You're still stuck in place, fingers twisted together in your lap; and even if you weren't, it's one thing to make playful threats in a text under his encouragement. It's another to enact them in real life, when he wants to sit across from you and offer you all of your dreams-

"Why?" you blurt out, and then realise belatedly that that might be just as rude as the actions you were trying to avoid.

Not that he cares, that smile slowly fading into something that isn't anger or humour. Even if you'd asked in Korean, you're pretty sure he wouldn't have minded. He was always telling you there was no hierarchy within this group, no reason to treat him with any respect.

"Because I want to," he insists. "The company agreed that you're ready - and you are ready. You've worked really hard."

You can't stop staring at him; that smile that's plastered across his face, the order of the words that come out of his mouth. You can't put your finger on why it gives you a bad feeling, and yet...something is off. You're sure of it. There's something he's not saying.

But what would he be keeping from you? Your mind wanders back through the things you know about him, the conversation you've had. Is this about the agreement you made, that you would stop working so hard once debut came? But he had just offered you a loophole out of that...and you've never known him to be that kind of sly anyway. Unless you don't know him as well as you think you do - which you suppose would be disappointing but not unexpected-

"What's wrong?" he asks, that pleased smile slipping from his face, and you can see it there under the crack; the secret, and the worry that holds itself stiff in his shoulders as he wonders if you've figured it out.

You have to take a deep breath first, and then another. The air won't quite reach the bottom of your lungs.

"It just doesn't make sense," you say, as kindly as you can. Your fingers twist at each other, tight enough to hurt.

"Doesn't it?" Chan asks. "You're ready for this, I promise."

"No," you say, certainty growing with every moment. "There's something you're not telling me."

Chan looks desperate. "There's nothing else to it."

He's a bad liar. You shake your head. "I'm just going to worry about it if you don't tell me."

"It's not something you should worry about," he insists. "I've got it under control."

"But there is something."

"No."

"You just admitted there's something."

He stops, thinking back through what he's said. Blanches. "Chan," you say, leaning forward, your elbows braced on your knees. You're surprised by the surprise on his face at the way you say his name - strong and unquestioning, free of honourifics and any kind of doubt. "Don't keep secrets from me. Please."

It's the weak little please at the end that makes him waver, the cracks of your resolve on the second syllable as the doubt over how far you can reasonably push him sinks its teeth in. He's still not angry though; if anything, he's scared, apprehension holding his tongue and reeling him, straight-backed, into the couch.

"It's better if you don't know," he says like he's delivering an apology. "I don't keep secrets. I just don't tell you things that are only going to hurt you. It's the same for all the boys - I don't see a reason in upsetting any of you when I've already resolved it."

You digest this slowly, your frustration melting word by word. "You're a really good leader," are the first words that blurt out of your mouth, a compliment that has him shaking his head and avoiding your gaze before the words are even out of your mouth. "And I appreciate it. Really."

There's a pause where you swallow the words that were about to come out of your mouth, too afraid to voice criticism, to risk the tenuous position you've built for yourself here.

"But?" Chan prompts as soon as the silence gets too loud.

Breathe.

"But," you say, intentionally slowing yourself down to one word at a time, "I've been around long enough to know when something's up, and I've looked after myself long enough to be able to handle it. If it's about debut and my career, I want to know what it is. Hurtful or not."

Chan's mouth twists unhappily. "I understand," he answers - and though he looks unhappy, you don't disbelieve him. "But also, you're not alone anymore. You're one of my people now, and it's my job to look after my people."

"I know that." Your hands are trembling, you realise suddenly, your head buzzing from the thrum of your heart beating in your ears. "And I know you like taking care of people and making sure the others never have to worry and all of that, but...that doesn't work for me. If I think something happened and I don't know what it is, I'm only going to sit here and think about it."

Inexplicably, a small smile twists at Chan's mouth, his eyes softening. "That's not going to help any more than me telling you is," he says lightly.

"Yeah," you sigh, leaning back. "I know."

For a moment, silence falls, the tension in the air unwinding itself into something a little more comfortable as you work your way through all the things you think you should say. Chan waits patiently; understanding, maybe, that you need a moment to think, that what you're trying to say might not come out the right way the first time you say it. That would be nice. It already feels like you're risking everything to have this conversation.

"Don't baby me," you say eventually, and then cringe at how blunt the statement sounds coming out of your mouth. "I'm old enough, I can handle whatever it is. I've taken care of myself all this time."

"You're not alone anymore though," Chan repeats, stronger this time.

"I still want to know what's happening though," you insist. "Where I stand with you, or the company, or - whatever it is. Even in a group, it's my career. I deserve to know."

"Okay," Chan says, and then again, "Okay." He stops for a moment, eyeing you appraisingly, and then says, "It's important to me that you listen to what I'm saying though. You're not alone anymore. We're a family, and we work so well because we're all committed to each other. If you want to be a part of this, you have to be as well. Do you understand?"

Your chin dips towards your chest - first in a nod, and then to stare at your hands rather than the unyielding intensity of his gaze, waiting for your answer. Waiting to see if he should be worried about you and whatever commitment he's made to you without you knowing. "I'm trying," you say, and you try your best to colour your voice in that raw honesty that burns at your chest. "I really am - I just don't want to pretend to be one of you if you're not all ready to accept me. I don't want to just come in and say I'm part of Stray Kids, I'm the same as the rest of you who have been here from the start-"

"You are one of us," he says over the top of you, cutting you off short. "We've all accepted you. If you want, in the morning, we can go and ask every single member and they'll tell you the same thing, but I need...I need you to let go of that. Forget Midnight and all the other groups that you nearly joined and being by yourself, and be part of Stray Kids. That's the person I want to show to Stay next month. That's the person I need in this group."

You swallow hard, blinking back tears. It feels big, this moment - bigger than the climax of any reality show, or the flight and fall of your time in Midnight, or the countless monthly evaluations that have passed you by in your time here. Bigger than auditions and leaving your home behind, the hardest moment you'd once thought you'd live through, when you were younger and less wary of the world. And for it to be Chan that sits there and asks this of you, his heart on his sleeve and his nature so honest and well intentioned, so hard to let down-

"I can do that," you say, around a tongue that feels thicker and heavier than it was before, a mouth stuffed full of cotton. You look up, meeting his eyes, and you're surprised to find a smile there, slowly lifting his face and crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Pleased. Relieved.

"Okay," he says, a breath blowing out with the word. "Good. Because I really want to keep you."

"Good," you echo. "Because I really want to stay."

He laughs; a small, soft thing that unwinds the tension in your chest. You pull in another breath, push back the tears again; preparing for what you need to say next.

"I meant what I said earlier though," you add, your shoulders squaring and your jaw clenched tight. "This is important to you, and it's important to me that I know exactly what's going on."

You hate watching that smile struggle and fade again, gone as quickly as you had earned it. "You're not going to like it," he warns, but he doesn't try to fend you off again.

"That's okay," you sigh. "Nothing unusual."

His mouth twists against words that he decides not to say. "The company offered last week to let us continue as eight members," he admits, one of his hands reaching up to pick mindlessly at the pillow of your couch. "They were pretty insistent about it, actually. I told them we wanted to be nine."

Your gaze turns sharp, your head swivelling to stare at him. "Why?" you ask, your voice gasping - because you can't fathom, after the back-and-forth of the last three months and the drama of delaying your debut when they'd been so hell-bent on revealing you in time for the last album, why they would turn around and try to take you out just as quickly.

"Because God's Menu did so well." Chan shrugs. "We weren't doing very well as a group before that; the last two albums were rough, and losing a member...I guess they thought without him we weren't ever going to be able to do as well as we did at debut, and then we went and proved to them that we are profitable as eight members. And they thought they could just use you as a backup plan."

"And you-"

"I told them they already spent the last three months fucking around to make us a nine member group, so we're going ahead as nine." You're surprised at the way his voice turns sharp, the hardening of his eyes and the dig of his fingers into the cushion. "They asked me if you were ready to debut, and I told them you could debut at our next concert if they wanted - which I probably shouldn't have said, because they decided that was a great idea, but-"

It's him that's rambling now, you that cuts across him with a, "Chan." He stops short, looking up at you with eyes that remind you of how you'd felt just moments ago - unsure, wary of how you're going to react. Sure that you're going to be angry for some reason, even though what he's done is...

"Thank you," you say, your voice dropping away to almost nothing - tears well in the corners of your eyes, unbidden, dripping down your cheeks even though your throat aches with the effort of trying to swallow them back down. "No one's ever done anything like that for me before."

"Hey, don't cry," he says, alarmed. His weight shifts across the couch, his arms reaching out - before you can wave him away, they envelop you in a hug, pulling you into his chest. It's been a long time since you hugged anyone; you're surprised at just how much you didn't know that you missed this kind of comfort, the tightening of someone else's arms around you and the warmth of another body close.

"You better get used to it," he says over the tuck of your head into his shoulder, your tears drying on his hoodie. "You're stuck with me now."

"You didn't even ask me first," you say, and listen to the way he laughs. "I'm going to do a good job at K-Con. I promise."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he says, before you can continue on. "We're going to have to plan how to show those idiots that they were wrong."

"It's my special talent," you joke weakly. "They haven't got rid of me yet."

You can hear the satisfied smile on his face, the amused huff of breath that ghosts over the top of your head. "And they never will," he says, and it sounds like a promise. A prophecy.

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids @hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts @puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night @d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk @minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification @starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace @amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002 @hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff @splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit @jabmastersupriseee @kayleefriedchicken @slutfortits @duhgurl @cheshireshiya

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fayes-fics · 3 months

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 11 - Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

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

Warnings: none really... a little bit of kissing interruptus.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is a slightly transitional chapter after the seismic events in Chapter 10. Our couple have no regrets but cannot get time alone as our intrepid trio journeys to Aubrey Hall. Yes, here beginnith our latest trope: secret relationship! Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Portsmouth, UK, September 1939

Waking up in Benedict’s arms for a second time is a thoroughly different experience, a handsome smile creasing his face.

“Good morning,” he rumbles, and you feel it buzz in your cheekbone resting on his pectoral.

“Good morning,” you whisper, tilting to kiss his lips.

You want to burrow into his warmth, his naked body, curl around him like a vine. Forget the world; just exist with him here in this warm cocoon. His hand slides up your back, pulling you snugger into him as you kiss - languid, sensual, tongues touching, a stirring you can feel between your legs and in him where your thigh is draped over his lap.

Just as you are about to get lost in this, in him, there is a rapid-fire knocking on the door.

“Wakey, wakey, lazy bones! Let me in!” Eloise’s voice calls, muffled in the corridor outside.

You both swing your heads towards the door, then back to each other in almost comic unison, jumping apart as if burned, exchanging panicked looks as you scurry out of bed.

“Give me a minute,” Benedict grouses loudly for her benefit.

Then, there is a flurry of hushed movement as you fling open suitcases and rapidly throw on the nearest clothing. ‘Bed!’ you mouth, signalling for him to help. You work together in unison to make the bed, not to the point it doesn't look slept in, but certainly not the tangle of sheets from tumultuous lovemaking that it was. Belatedly, you realise you should have put a makeshift pile on the floor as if he slept there.

It's less than a minute from when you were naked in each other’s arms to Benedict opening the door to Eloise, you on the other side of the room attempting nonchalance. She wanders in, looking blissed out but also a little worse for wear, an apparent hangover clinging to her edges as she retrieves a hairbrush from her suitcase. You want to ask how her night was, but her frown stops you.

“Doesn’t look like anyone slept on the floor…” she comments suspiciously as she pulls up to the mirror.

“I am, in fact, capable of tidying away blankets and pillows after I use them, sister,” Benedict sighs and rolls his eyes, looking out the window. “It is what I was doing when you so rudely woke up half the hotel, in fact,” he lies.

Eloise sticks her tongue out at him in the mirror, which he roundly ignores.

“Your brother is a true gentleman,” you defend, staying intentionally vague, standing behind her and using the mirror as well to touch up your appearance.

It's your turn to receive the Eloise look of scornful derision before you steer to a new, safer topic.

“So, how was your night with Phillip?” you tease affably.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” a wistful look claiming her face. A secret little smile you have never seen before. “We had such a memorable night.”

“Aaaand I don’t need to hear this,” Benedict deadpans. “I’ll see you ladies downstairs for breakfast…” is his parting shot as he heads for the door.

But as Eloise leans down to grab a hairpin, launching into a whole story, he winks at you in the reflection, and your heart skips a beat.

——

“So, ready to party your life away in London?” Eloise chirps as the train trundles through rural Hampshire a few hours later. “It's not Paris, but it will do….”

“I thought we were going to your country home?” you frown.

“Well, yes, for a few days. But we can head back up to Bridgerton House for the weekend,” Eloise grins. “Phillip might be in town by then….” You chuckle at her lack of subtlety. “And we can find you a nice man!” she adds.

There is a scrunch of a newspaper diagonally across from you as Benedict’s grip tightens on the broadsheet he is holding, his face wholly obscured behind it.

“Oh, I don't know..” you attempt to laugh it off. “I think I might give that whole party lifestyle a rest.”

“Nonsense! You are not really a married lady, you know,” Eloise withers, rolling her eyes. “And you can take that off now,” she nods to your ring finger.

“Oh…” you fumble, touching it instinctively, the soft lamplight within the compartment making the gold glint brightly. “I thought it safer to wear it while we are still in transit,” you bluff, knowing Benedict is paying full attention to your conversation now, even as he hides behind The Times.

She frowns. “You have your residency now. The British government will not bother tracking you down with this war effort. You could get divorced tomorrow, and literally, nothing would happen,” she opines imperiously as if suddenly an expert on immigration matters.

“Better safe than sorry, Eloise,” Benedict pipes up, folding down the paper and removing his reading glasses with that lecturing elder brother air. His ring catches the sunlight as he does, making something bloom in your ribs to see it.

Just as Eloise goes to dispute it, her face instead lights up from the passing trolley service. “Oooh, snacks!” she exclaims distractedly, craning to look out into the corridor, allowing you to smile your thanks softly at Benedict unseen. His responding lopsided smile has your stomach vaulting.

Then Eloise is on her feet, chasing the attendant that rumbled past your compartment, apparently keen for refreshments. As soon as she is out of sight, you reach a hand across to him. He leans forward and grasps it with both of his.

“We will have time alone at Aubrey Hall, I promise,” he whispers earnestly, his eyes imploring, bringing your hand to his lips and making you stutter as he brushes warm lips over the back of your fingers.

“I want to touch you, Benedict…” you confess ardently, “all the time. So very much…”

His face is a storm of bridled intensity at your words, his pupils dilating rapidly. “As do I….” his words impassioned, even as his expression clouds wincingly, and you know where his thoughts have slid.

“But, Eloise…” you nod, understanding, reluctantly withdrawing your hand and sitting back, a tingle still on your fingers from his lips.

There is no way either of you wants to raise what is happening or what has happened yet. Neither of you is sure of anything except this magnetic pull between you—yearning to be together, alone.

“Yes…” he sighs, pained, slumping back into his seat just as the lady in question twirls back in, hands full with Cadbury's bars and a Fry’s Peppermint Cream.

“I thought you hated Peppermint Cream?” Benedict frowns as Eloise hands you both a Cadbury and immediately unwraps the Fry’s bar for herself, taking a big bite.

“I may be reassessing its merits,” she sniffs before leaning in to whisper to you, muffled around her mouthful. “It’s Phillip's favourite,” she divulges before staring dreamily out the window.

You have never known Eloise to change her mind about anything in the time you have known her, especially not from a man’s opinion. You just shrug at Benedict, conveying your equal surprise. Clearly, this one might be a serious contender.

—

Walking the connecting overhead path to Waterloo Junction for your onward train to Kent, you are startled when Benedict grabs your hand and places it into his coat pocket. You soon realise in the glass reflection ahead that the swish of the open fabric means the connection of your hands is unseen.

Your heart pounds in your ears as you walk beside Eloise, her none the wiser as your palms grip each other, fingers laced. When you glance up at him briefly, you see the ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips, but he keeps looking ahead as if nothing unusual is happening.

You want to kiss the little dimple right there at his sheer genius.

—

The onward leg only takes an hour and is filled with amiable chat, mostly about books and films. Soon, you are alighting the train at a charming rural village stop, the platform ablaze with neatly potted late summer plants of reds and yellows.

But you are struck with a sudden wave of nerves as a sleek car awaits you. You are not long away from meeting the rest of the Bridgerton family. Strictly, your family now too.

“Does anyone know?” You ask Eloise as the driver loads your cases into the boot.

“Know what?”

“That Benedict and I are married…?” You spell out, surprised she didn’t follow your train of thought.

“Oh. Well. I didn’t call or telegram,” she twists to look at Benedict as he places your day bag on top of his. “Did you tell mother?”

He scoffs. “God, no. Not something I could begin to explain over the phone.”

“So what do we say? Or do?” You ask, subconsciously toying with your ring.

Benedict walks over and places comforting hands on your shoulders. It takes all of your willpower not to lean into him. “Don't worry. Follow my lead. I don’t think we can or should lie.”

Less than a minute into the car ride, you sandwiched between the siblings, Eloise’s eyes flutter closed, face lolling against the glass. You signal to Benedict, and when he twists to see, his hand grabs your kneecap, fingers wrapping around and caressing the ticklish skin near the crease at the back of your knee. Something about this stolen moment is exciting, elicit, and endlessly arousing.

“I cannot go more than an hour in your presence without wanting to touch you,” he whispers, leaning close, his words a hot gust into your ear that has you melting.

“Same,” you murmur back, your hand sliding over his, mapping the raised veins with your fingertips, memories of the last night tumbling through your mind, those strong hands running over your naked flesh, grasping. It makes your breath hitch audibly.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice is a honeyed rumble that makes every hair on your forearms stand on end. He probably knows, but you confirm it anyway.

“Last night…” you mouth, turning your face into him so his lips brush your cheek. His grip tightens, and his breath rags into your hair.

“It's all I have thought about since…” he confesses; your chest flutters as his hand slides a fraction higher on your leg, playing with your hem. Every fibre of your being is calling for him. You want him to keep going, slide all the way up your thighs and touch you… but Eloise stirs, and instantly, his touch is gone, and you are left bereft.

—

To call Aubrey Hall a country house is ridiculous. Your jaw drops as the car sweeps up a long gravel driveway to an enormous, handsome pile of a manor estate.

“Oh my god, Eloise,” you smack her arm lightly. “How rich are you!?”

She laughs. “What, that my brother is a Viscount doesn't give that away?” she guffaws.

“Well, I thought maybe it was an honourary title or something…” you mutter, feeling slightly embarrassed you don't know the full ins and outs of the British aristocracy you have clearly married into, entirely without knowing.

“Don't be intimidated,” Benedict soothes. “We are just a large family who inherited a big pile. I promise we aren't stuffy or cold.” You want to squeeze his hand for being so empathetic and reassuring.

“Or inbred!” Eloise cackles as the car stops, and you notice a beautiful, elegant middle-aged woman waving from the steps.

“Our mother,” Benedict elucidates before Eloise throws the door open and jogs up to hug the lady, who looks overjoyed to be reunited with her daughter after months away. You can tell Eloise is happy, too, even if her joy is more understated.

Benedict is by your side when you are out of the vehicle. A pillar of support, even if not touching you.

“Mum…” Eloise pulls her down the steps. “This is y/n!”

“Oh, it's wonderful to meet you!” the lady greets, pulling you into a welcoming hug that smells lavender and lilac. “I have heard so much!”

“Same!” you chime back.

Then it is Benedict’s turn to hug her; you swear there is an extra glint in her eye as if he is her favourite. However, you notice he keeps his left hand in his pocket throughout.

“Thank you for bringing them back safe, darling,” she reaches up and pats his hair affectionately as if he is still a child, not a grown man in his late twenties.

“We would have made it home perfectly safe without him, mother,” Eloise gripes with her trademark mettle.

“Eloise Bridgerton, you would have absconded to Saint Tropez if your brother were not there. Don't even lie about that,” Violet chides lovingly, and you can't help but giggle.

“Don't take her side!” Elose decries.

“Come on, it's true,” you laugh, bumping her gently with your shoulder as you walk in through the doors.

It is a beautiful stately home, but at the same time, it seems less imposing on the inside; it looks lived in and loved. A house that is full of family and life.

“You will meet the rest of the family later today,” Violet advises. “Well, minus our brave Viscount, who is in London with Churchill, and Daphne, who lives with her husband.”

“And Fran,” Eloise adds.

“Yes, Francesca is staying with her cousins in Bath,” Violet counsels as she guides you into their parlour.

“She’s barely my sister,” Eloise jests, dropping onto a sofa and grabbing a glass of water from a carafe on the coffee table.

Violet just shoots her an exasperated look while offering you a seat, too. “Eloise told me you were engaged, not already married,” Violet addresses as you get comfortable.

Benedict springs from across the room. “Ahhh, about that….” he placates with his left hand aloft.

“Is that also a ring I see on your finger, Benedict Bridgerton?!” Violet splutters.

“Mother, I can explain….”

And thus, he recounts the events of the last few days. Violet listening intently, looking, in turn, shocked, dumbfounded and proud. Of course, Benedict omits the whole part of the fact you are together romantically. Well, sort of. You think. You are dying to be alone with him so you can talk. Or perhaps do other more exciting things. That idle thought makes your cheeks flush.

“I am so very grateful to your son, Viscountess Bridgerton,” you jump in as much as to steer your own wayward thoughts away from dangerous waters. “Without him, I would likely still be stuck in France, all alone.”

His eyes dance with warmth as you glance at him, wanting to grab his hand and lace your fingers. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Violet has the most intrigued look as she observes her son carefully—the all-knowing eye of a matriarch.

“Well, I am so grateful you are safe, my dear,” she turns to you. “And please, for goodness sake, call me Violet. You are welcome to remain with us as long as you need or desire. You are family now, after all. At least for as long as you wish to be considered such,” she concludes, seeming to choose her words very carefully.

“Thank you, Violet,” you murmur, so grateful, already feeling a warm glow from her hospitality. “I could not be more honoured to be here for as long as you will all have me,” your eyes drifting back to Benedict as you say it.

The tender look on his face makes you touch your wedding ring idly with your thumb, and your heart leaps as he does the same. Although you swear you can feel the weight of Violet’s stare as you do so.

Benedict taglist Pt 1: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @hanji-emo-blog @Huffelpuffforlife

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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maesterchill · 6 months

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Six Sentence Thursday

Thanks for the tag @tackytigerfic and @citrusses. It's neither Saturday nor Sunday, but I hope you will accept a Thursday offering. Also, like, why are we all still maintaining the flimsy pretence that this is going to be six sentences? 😂 This snip is from my Sudsfest fic which I very much hope to complete soon 🙏 It's Harry being bumbling and ineloquent and having a bit of a gay panic and basically exactly like every poor aul Harry I write.

Smirking, Malfoy stands up to bring his plate to the sink.

"Malfoy, I..." Harry feels his cheeks getting hot. "I have another question."

Malfoy's head tilts. "Yes?"

Harry steps towards him. A bit too close, he realises belatedly. So close now he can see the faint curry stain at the corner of Malfoy's mouth, close enough to wrap his arms around Malfoy if he wanted. If he wanted. He takes a step back.

"Er, what… when you're alone in your bath, I mean... What do you think about? Is it different for werewolves, when they… do that." He gulps. “I know you like men. Do you still think about men? Or, er, male wolves?”

Malfoy's nostrils flare weirdly like he’s trying not to laugh and also trying to be shocked at the same time.

He licks his lips and steps towards Harry. "I'm not sure if I can answer that, or if I should. It's… well, it’s personal."

Harry steps back. "Of course. Merlin, I shouldn't have asked. None of my business... just curiosity I suppose."

“It’s understandable to be curious. But no, I don’t fantasise about wolves. Only human men, and the things I’d very much like to be doing with them.”

Harry’s chest thuds, and for some bizarre reason "Do you ever think of me?" comes blurting of his mouth.

Malfoy's pupils double in size. "Harry, damn it, please." His voice is raspy.

“Fuck, sorry. Ignore— Forget I asked. I don’t know why— Seriously, I’m an idiot.”

“Indeed.” Malfoy nods, and he places his plate and glass by the sink. “Very well. I’ll be in my room.” He pauses and adds, “Reading a book.”

Would love to read some snips from what everyone else is working on! @porcelainheart3 @phdmama @wolfpants @lqtraintracks @aibidil @mintawasalreadytaken @thehoneybeet @drarrymyheart

#six sentence tag #more than six but please forgive #drarry #drarry snip #sudsfestlite23 #maesterchill writes

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k-s-morgan · 7 days

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ATLWETD Snippet

I couldn't decide which part to pick for a snippet for ages so I just picked randomly)

“These are all new ones,” Hagrid said excitedly, pointing at the huge self-made basket filled with grass and hay. “I do what I can for them. Visit them every day and bring them meat, all that thing. But it’s getting colder again and I worry that they might freeze to their death. I thought of getting them blankets but—”

Riddle let out a quiet snort. His face took on a haughty look, and Harry didn’t have to even guess to know what he was thinking. That Hagrid was a pathetic half-breed incapable of doing magic, something that was supposed to be inherent to anyone worthy of life.

Anger stirred in his chest, and he turned away from Riddle, focusing on the cubs.

He couldn’t say he felt much affection towards them. They were small, ugly, and they were writhing in their basket restlessly, trying to push closer to one another.

Hagrid was right, they were cold. And it was a problem Harry could easily fix.

“How did you find them?” he asked, taking out his wand and transforming the basket into something resembling a dog house he’d seen back at the Privet Drive, in the yards of some of the Dursleys’ neighbours. He didn’t know if it would be suitable for little werewolves, but it was better than nothing. Now he had to figure out how to use a warming charm that would stick — he had no desire to venture this deep into the Forbidden Forest again.

Hagrid began to explain something, but Harry only half-listened. He murmured a spell, waited, and then touched one of the cubs carefully, checking if it was getting warmer.

The moment his fingers pressed against the soft coat, the second cub raised its head and tried to bite him. Harry barely managed to snatch his hand away. His still-broken finger collided with his wand by accident, flaring with unpleasant warmth. He cursed, more out of annoyance at his own carelessness than pain, when Riddle suddenly appeared next to him and grabbed him by his collar, dragging him to his feet harshly.

“What kind of an idiot are you?” he hissed. He clenched Harry’s wrist, examining his hand with burning intensity. “Touching this filth! Do you want to be infected?”

“Infected?” Harry repeated in confusion. Belatedly, he realised that Riddle was probably right. The cubs looked like simple wolves, there was nothing human-like in their shape, so the fact that their bite could be dangerous didn’t occur to him.

“They can’t infect yeh!” Hagrid protested. “They come from humans mating in wolf forms. Their bite ain’t dangerous, they’re like real wolves, just very smart.”

“You don’t know that,” Riddle replied stonily. His voice was cold as ice, and he continued to inspect Harry’s hand, twisting and turning it like it was his own limb. Harry tried to pull away, annoyed, but predictably, Riddle didn’t let him.

“What makes you think they can infect humans?” he asked just to say something. Riddle’s insistence on barging into his personal space and manhandling him was starting to grate on his nerves, although in a strange, awkward way he didn’t know how to deal with.

“No one has determined it for certain. It’s extremely rare for two abominations to reproduce under the full moon and then to leave their bastards behind. How Hagrid continues to find them defies all rules of logic and common sense.”

“Sounds like something you might want to research,” Harry muttered. Riddle sent him a deeply sceptical look, as if he was questioning his sanity. “What? Isn’t it something you’re supposed to be interested in? Werewolves are a part of our society and the way they are treated is disgusting. Anyone who offers them better treatment can get them as allies in—”

No. What was he saying? Or rather, to whom was he saying it?

Harry swallowed the rest of his words, but it was too late, the biggest part of them was out. Riddle’s stare turned calculating, an intrigued gleam lighting it from inside. His hold loosened, and Harry finally managed to get himself free.

He really was an idiot. Sure, he didn’t say anything extraordinary, and Riddle would have arrived at this basic conclusion on his own — Voldemort had. But still… this was something he could say to a friend, a person he trusted, not to Riddle. Never to him. They weren’t a team, and helping him to find more allies was the last thing Harry wanted.

Besides, werewolves deserved better than to be used by someone who didn’t give a damn about them and then discarded — or worse, wiped out of existence. Harry had no idea what Voldemort had been planning to do with them once he got everything he wanted.

Frowning, he knelt next to the cubs and raised his wand again. He had to get that warming charm right.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Hagrid exclaimed. His voice rang with passion. “Werewolves are mistreated. They can be good friends, right, Harry? And the cubs are innocent, they’d never hurt no one.”

Riddle stifled a sigh. He continued to stand next to Harry, monitoring his struggle with the spell. Did he want to make certain that Harry wasn’t going to push his fingers into the werewolves’ mouths? Probably this or something as ridiculous.

Okay, the warming charm. Harry learned how to modify simple spells in one of the books he’d been absorbing lately, and though the theory was surprisingly clear, he had no idea how to voice his intent clearly enough for his magic to listen. A spell that would keep this little shelter warm throughout the winter and early spring without having to be reapplied, which would disappear when the weather got naturally warmer, and which would gain power again when the late autumn came. How on earth could he convey all of this in one simple charm? And how could he know if it worked?

“Next time, we can go visit the older cubs,” Hagrid was saying. His words were getting increasingly animated. “And the fire crabs, I know where they’re nesting. And I swear I saw the Occamy one day—”

Harry was glad he had his back turned to Hagrid — his face probably reflected the horror he felt at the thought of coming in here again and again in search of the dangerous creatures he was wary of. He loved and missed Hagrid, but there had to be limits to where they went and what they did.

On the other hand… Hagrid was lonely. Would it be so bad to accompany him from time to time?

Riddle’s disgusted snort broke him out of his thoughts. Harry squinted at him from the corner of his eye — surely Riddle couldn’t know what he was thinking? — but it was too late. Riddle was already walking away from him, holding the edge of his robe like he was concerned about getting it dirty.

“I can see that your love for dangerous creatures hasn’t abated since your expulsion, Hagrid,” he said pleasantly. Every warm syllable sounded so artificial that Harry’s jaw ached from how tightly he clenched it. “Tell me, are you still interacting with that Acromantula that killed Myrtle?”

Harry froze just as Hagrid choked, his excited words dying on his tongue.

“Aragog… Aragog killed no one,” he muttered. It was difficult to understand him, his voice was thick with emotion. “He ain’t guilty.”

“I see.”

That was all Riddle said, but the way he did it left Hagrid with no choice but to reply.

“He didn’t do it!” he insisted, more loudly this time. “He would’ve told me!”

“As a child, have you ever done something bad? Something that you didn’t want your family to know?”

“Riddle,” Harry snapped. He didn’t want to get into it — he just wanted to be done with this stupid spell and go, but he wasn’t going to let Hagrid be brainwashed into believing he killed Myrtle. The audacity of even trying to do it, and to do it here, where Harry could hear them… did Riddle really think he would let this stand?

“I— yeah,” Hagrid threw a lost look at Harry before focusing on Riddle again. “Lots of things.”

“And have you ever lied to cover it up?”

“Riddle,” Harry repeated. He waved his wand at the cubs, directing all his frustration into his spell, but while it clearly worked, it didn’t feel any different from the usual warming charms he’d been using. Maybe it was a little stronger, but it would never hold through the winter, never mind self-regulating its activation and disappearance.

“Sometimes,” Hagrid muttered.

“Then what makes you think Aragog behaved any differently? He killed the girl and he was scared of your reaction.”

“No!”

Despite the protest, an echo of uncertainty touched this one word, and just like that, Harry knew this battle was lost. Hagrid was gullible enough to fall for Riddle’s manipulation, and Riddle was in the mood to put an effort into it.

“Think about it,” he said softly. It was difficult to say whether his voice was naturally this compelling or if he was using compulsions deliberately — whatever it was, for a moment, Harry found himself almost lulled by it. “You kept letting it out for some exercise. From around that point, someone started petrifying the students. Then, the attacks escalated, and the girl was found dead. Do Acromantulas have venom?”

“Yeah… in the fangs.”

“In the fangs,” Riddle agreed. “Exactly so. And the venom gets stronger with age. At first, Aragog was too little to kill someone. But you kept caring for him, so he kept growing, and one day, his venom became strong enough to cause Myrtle’s death.”

Did Riddle need to be punched to shut up? Because this was something Harry was more than willing to do. His anger was bubbling on the surface already — one more word, and it would spill over.

“Acromantulas have a natural appetite for human flesh, Hagrid,” Riddle continued silkily, using dejected silence to fill it with more of his bullshit. “Surely you know that. You have always been the best when it came to studying magical creatures. There is no need to deny it now that Aragog is out of danger — I would never tell where you are hiding it.”

Outrage broke through. Harry lurched to his feet, throwing the last warming charm at the cubs and marching towards Riddle and Hagrid, almost shaking with fury. He had no idea what he was going to say, but letting Riddle fill Hagrid’s head with rubbish, make him feel guilty for something he didn’t do—

Apparently, Harry’s approach was also a part of Riddle’s plan because when he reached them, Riddle wrapped a possessive hand around the back of his neck, pulling him close as if he always intended to do so and effectively rendering him speechless.

“I would never tell where you are hiding Aragog,” he repeated to Hagrid, “but only if you convince me that you’ve learned your lesson. Your unique talents allow you to interact with all these creatures unharmed, but as you can see, the same cannot be said about other students. Your actions have already led to the death of one of them — would you really like to repeat this experience? With Harry, of all people?”

“No,” Hagrid breathed out. His eyes were brimming with tears, and this was enough to break Harry from under whatever spell Riddle had put on him — again.

Using his position, he pressed his wand to Riddle’s wrist and burned it with a stinging jinx. Riddle must have failed to see it coming because he jerked away abruptly, releasing Harry from his hold and sending him an incredulous look.

Very soon, his astonishment gave way to malice. Riddle narrowed his eyes, and Harry’s heart jerked from the cold, calculating stare he received. He glared back, crossing his arms and stepping away at the safer distance.

“Don’t listen to him, Hagrid,” he said. “It’s not—”

“What?” Riddle asked coolly. He rubbed his wrist, not taking his eyes off Harry, maintaining the strangest balance between an innocent expression and a hard, dark look. “Do you believe that all these pets are harmless? Were you not almost bitten by a cub of a werewolf five minutes ago without knowing if their bite was infectious? Are you saying you are ready to get acquainted with them all?”

The urgent need to protect Hagrid and to do something to wipe this expression of distress and heartbreak off his face nearly made Harry blurt out an agreement, but another part, probably a saner one, prevailed for a change.

Even as an adult, Hagrid could never tell the difference between safe and dangerous creatures. Aragog might have been innocent of Myrtle’s murder, but he did eat humans, and he probably would have started doing it at Hogwarts sooner or later if he hadn’t been forced to flee.

Apart from putting the blame for Myrtle’s death on Hagrid, Riddle was right. And Harry had no idea how to convince Hagrid he hadn’t killed anyone without nullifying the sobering impact of this idea.

He could really do without all these dilemmas Riddle had been creating for him recently.

#my fics #tomarry #atlwetd #harry potter

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baeshijima · 1 year

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— in these quiet nights

whenever you're stuck in solitude, ayato somehow manages to find a way to be by your side without fail.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 900+ wc, fluff, established relationship

A/N : its 1 am, currently using this as an escape from my project, and writing a very late ayato piece for his bday ;w; life stop making me have no time for my fictional men pls and ty <//3

There’s a solemn chill hanging overhead. The air stills, the stars dull, and the moonlight glimmers.

It’s not often you find a moment of peace, what with your busy schedule interfering time and time again, though you could argue it’s more solitary than it is tranquil. Perhaps this escapade would have been better suited in the early hours of dawn as opposed to the steadily approaching midnight you’re currently stuck in.

A whisper of a sigh slips through your lips. Pulling the thin blanket closer around your shoulders, you lift your gaze upwards, paying half a mind to the feather-light footsteps approaching from behind. You have no reason to turn to be able to identify the new presence, for who else would be mad enough to be up this late after the busy day which transpired?

“A fine evening, is it not?” comes that oh-so familiar intonation, the footsteps coming to a halt behind your seated form. Strands of baby blue obstruct your view of the bleak stars, a pair of lavender eyes twinkling with fond mischief follow in pursuit. Despite his towering form shielding you from the pale lighting, his face glows all the same — a testament to the sheer elegance instilled within. His gaze drifts down your shadowed form, a light hum trailing close behind. “Are you cold?”

You blink at his question. It takes a few seconds for you to realise the main focus of his concern; the blanket tugged over your shoulders. “How can I be when there’s no wind?”

As soon as the question is uttered, you immediately sense a foreboding shiver trickle down your spine. Maybe it’s the hairs along the back of your neck rising, or it could be the puffs of air Ayato is relentlessly blowing towards your dumbfounded figure.

“Do you feel the wind now?” he has the gall to ask. Unsurprisingly, the impish grin splayed across his lips becomes increasingly more tempting to slap off the longer he persists. Unfortunately, your hands are occupied, making it near impossible to move them.

(Archons forbid you actually exert unneeded energy when you’re already spent.)

“Yes,” you deadpan, “I’m so cold my teeth are chattering. Can you hear it?”

He hums in faux contemplation, a gloved hand raised to rest under his chin in an attempt to further support his charade. “Not quite. Perhaps I ought to bring out the fan.”

“Please don’t. My teeth will really chatter then.”

Your shoulders relax upon hearing his gleeful laugh. In a fluid motion he steps away from you, exposing you to the stark moonlight, before plopping himself on the veranda beside you. Before you have the time to process the string of movements, your left arm is promptly lifted up (with the blanket following suit) as a bundle of warmth dives into the newly opened space, your arm tugged down and around the intruder of your personal space.

Well, at least he’s warm.

“If you’re tired then go to bed.” As soon as the words are uttered, a displeased whine escapes him. Much to your bemusement, a ticklish sensation occurs at the crook of your neck, and you belatedly realise the act akin to nuzzling currently being performed by the bane of your existence, his arms wrapping around your torso in protest. Like a child.

“Why should I?” he mutters into your skin, tone bitter and laced with indignance someone of his standing should most definitely not have. Well, you can’t say you’re not used to it.

“Because you need proper sleep.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll get sick again if you keep this up.”

“...”

“But why?”

Archons have mercy on your poor soul.

“I’d rather not be known as your personal pillow,” you state monotonously, positively done with his antics. “I have some dignity left in me.”

“And if I were to say you’re warmer than my bed and comfier than my pillow?”

(You’re not. You can attest to that fact as someone who has actually slept in his bed — which is unfairly warm and comfortable, if you may add.)

Gaze narrowing at the smug expression beaming up at you, you merely retort, “Do you want me to drag you to bed myself?”

“If it’s you then I would happily obli— mmrph.” Swiftly, your palms smother his words before he has the chance to finish. And no, you will not be swayed by the doe eyes batting up at you, nor by the fluttering of his long eyelashes brushing along the apples of his cheeks.

What an unfairly pretty lover you have in your palms. Literally.

Seeing how he’s more than happy with the skin contact being made, you take it upon yourself to swiftly remove your hands and return your gaze to the night’s canvas, his theatrical bemoans of your “cold shoulder” and “[Name] doesn’t love me anymore” going ignored.

It stays quiet between you for a while, the only sounds being the faint breaths and rhythmic heartbeats steadily falling in sync. Oddly enough, you find yourself forgetting the previous solitude you were trapped in only moments prior, focusing instead on Ayato’s fingers entwined with yours and basking in his familiarity.

Your shoulder dips slightly when a weight drops atop it. When you glance down to identify the source of permeating warmth, you can’t help the smile alighting your features.

“Thank you for loving me as much as I love you, Ayato,” you murmur against the crown of his head as you place a chaste kiss, before pulling the thin blanket around the two of you in an effort to cage your shared warmth.

(How strange, you silently muse to yourself, suddenly finding yourself overcome with drowsiness. The air feels warmer now.)

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maxybabyy · 2 months

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i’m thinking about your max run club au again 😵‍💫 does daniel realize… the effect… max’s voice has on him? when do daniel and max meet in real life (if ever)?

😫 😫 i am always thinking about max run club ... but im sooo glad you're there with me! 🏃

in my mind they don't meet until after he and scotty break up. Daniel in a moderate sized LA apartment trying to figure out what to do with a bum knee and no race seat, when he goes to one of martijn's shows, and look who is there also :)

below the cut is the third part 😏 (part i, ii)

The first time he sees him, Daniel almost doesn’t notice.

He’s face-down on the sofa with his phone held loosely in his hand. He should probably be in bed, has an appointment with his physio in the morning, lunch with Blake after that. But Scotty’s in Canada for training camp, has been for the past two weeks, and Daniel hasn’t been sleeping well.

He had offered to come with him, with Scott. Made a joke about getting on the slopes too, “My knee’s been better, yeah? Reckon I could probably take you down for a run or two.” His knee still isn’t great but like, he could probably hang out in the hot tub, work on maybe, like a nice tan.

But Scotty had laughed, told him not to waste his time, “You don’t even like the snow, Ric. I’ll see you in a month, yeah?”

Daniel thinks maybe he’s allowed to feel like this, lonely and sad, scrolling through Instagram.

It’s worse then, when he sees the picture of Scotty. He’s shirtless and smiling, how Daniel likes him the best. There’s a sunburn on his nose, red and angry, and Daniel knows it must be painful. Can imagine almost how he must be complaining about it, refusing to put on aloe because he doesn’t like the sticky after-feel.

It gets him a little hot, his hips pressing against the sofa almost unconsciously. He could probably like, get himself off. Come into his own hand and send him a picture, saying some shit like, thought of u ;).

But also, like. Daniel hasn’t heard from him in a few days, thinks maybe he’s not going to be the one to reach out this time.

He’s deep in his twitter feed, focus only half on the screen when he hears the voice.

He rewinds it and presses the phone to his ear, the volume turned loud as he listens, and there it is. Just a handful of lines in that sharp accent that Daniel recognises immediately with an odd sense of excitement.

He loops it over to hear it again, and Daniel feels it. The sudden burst of energy, conditioned almost by sound alone. He wants to put on his shoes and run, Max’s voice hoarse in his ears coaxing him to be faster, to be better. To make it good, make it last. And Daniel would, for him. For Max.

He grinds his dick into the sofa, reckons it would be half-hard if he reached down to touch it.

Daniel doesn’t do it, obviously. It would be too much, he knows. Getting hot and bothered by the sound of a voice, or like, not even that. Because it’s GP’s voice he can hear now, deep and British, and decidedly not Max’s. But even like this, Daniel feels out of control.

He loops it again before he even thinks about it.

Daniel doesn’t realise until he’s on his third listen that GP is talking about Max, “- and he can be himself with me, which I think is really important when you work together the way that Max and I do.”

There’s a shuffle in the background, and Daniel almost misses it, rewinds the video just a few seconds to watch as a guy pops in from the side to hug GP.

Daniel doesn’t have to think about it, knows already that it’s Max on the screen.

He can only see his backside but he’s already so fucking hot. The wide line of his shoulders, trim waist obvious from the cropped running top he’s wearing. His shorts are almost indecent too, sit barely below his ass to show off strong thighs.

Looking at him like this, Daniel cannot fucking breathe.

Belatedly he noticed the link on the screen, a tag to their socials. It takes him to a YouTube page, Red Bull Running, and Daniel almost doesn’t – feels as the sour taste builds in his mouth.

It’s, like, objectively okay what he’s doing. He’s just a fan, that’s it. And like, Red Bull has probably hundreds of athletes, it’s barely even a connection.

Daniel doesn’t find it until he’s almost given up, hidden away at the bottom of the screen on a playlist called Max V. His cheeks feel flushed, his eyes heavy with maybe not sleep but something else, the illicit feeling making his fingers tingle.

He scrolls through it with his knee pulled to his chest, flicks through videos of Max on the treadmill, going over data with GP, crossing the line at the London marathon. He’s just as pretty as Daniel thought, wide smile and kind eyes as he laughs at his own silly joke.

He’s almost at the bottom, an absent yawn escaping his lips when he finds it. Yoga for Runners.

Foolishly, he clicks it, watches with a dry mouth as Max introduces himself. He sits squarely on the mat in a sunlit room. He isn’t wearing a shirt, back so straight it makes his pectorals look obscene. There’s a low-fi beat in the background, not too loud to drown out Max’s soft instructions guiding the viewer through a series of poses.

Daniel’s thumb hovers over the home button, ready to close out, to go to bed. And then Max bends over, ass to the camera in his tiny running shorts. It goes on forever. Max speaking softly, demonstrating with his hands the muscles he stretches, how to increase the pressure, where the strain should not be.

Max counts himself down, “You got, it. Four. Breathe deep for me, please,” lowers his knees and folds his chest almost to the floor, keeps his hips up high. “Here, you will feel the release of your rib cage. Obviously, like this it will give you a great stretch in the back also. Yes, just like this. You are of course doing so good.”

Daniel bites into the meat of his palm, pants into his own sweaty hand. He balances his phone against a pillow and slides his hand down to his dick.

He digs out the bottle of lube that hasn’t been used in months, pours it into his hand, onto his dick. Pretends the slick sound of his hand is something else. It’s easy to do like this, Max’s voice steady in his ear, body moving with impressive control on screen.

“Sink in a little deeper for me, we are so close,” Max says, voice soft, hoarse. “Breathe into the sensation. It should of course feel good when we do this.”

Daniel should feel embarrassed, maybe, but he comes just as Max is winding down, spread out on his back, breathing heavy. “Max,” he sobs, breathless.

The video ends, replaced by a moment of silence. And then in an all too familiar voice, “Hello, everyone,” that makes Daniel’s stomach drop.

#i reread part two recently and have been thinking about writing some more. so thank you for this!#max run club au #now with even less running!#maxiel #maxiel fic #max/daniel #my fic #my writing #fic #asks

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

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VI ║ Mustang

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 5: Appaloosa | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: On the fifth day, you leave the Halfway House behind, and the conversation turns homeward.

Warnings: Angst, feelings, flirting, insecurities, sexual innuendoes, oral sex (m and f receiving), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 4.3k

Notes: I toyed with the idea of shortening the series by one part, but then - why would I? I want to give these two as much time as they deserve on this trip, so we have three more chapters after this. Enjoy my darlin's!

Mustang: An American feral horse which is typically small and lightly built.

It hits you a bit belatedly the next morning over breakfast - wholewheat toast with Poppy’s own churned butter and homemade jam - that it’s your fifth day on the trail.

You dread to wrap your head around what that means. Today is the penultimate full day on the road. On the seventh, you head back to the ranch for your final night, and the next day, you fly home.

The realisation steals your breath for a second, and you sip pensively on the fresh orange juice that Jack squeezed by hand.

You know he senses there’s something on your mind. You feel his eyes on you as you wash up the dishes while he does a final sweep of the house to make sure everything is in order, pausing every time he passes through the kitchen to press sweet kisses to the side of your neck.

Running out of excuses to linger, you make your way to the front door, the sound of your boots echoing hollowly in the living room, as empty as it was when you stepped into it two days ago.

Except - it’s not really empty, is it? When so much has happened since?

You trace a finger on the kitchen counter where Jack made you dinner, drag your feet past the fireplace where you shared cake and confessions, and now you stand on the porch where he made you cry out his name into the dark of night.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy finality that physically weighs down your feet as you trudge towards the horses.

Does any of this mean as much to him as it does to you?

Can it mean anything? You have three days left before you’re thousands of miles away, back to a crowded downtown studio apartment that barely has space for just you, let alone a cowboy, and a life that has no time for horses.

And here? There will be another rider in Scotch’s saddle next week, someone else taking your place by the evening fire and the bed you slept in - you bite the inside of your mouth to stop yourself from extrapolating any further than that.

Jack looks up at you. ‘Got everythin’, darlin’?’

You put on a brave smile. ‘Got everything, cowboy.’

Scotch nuzzles you affectionately on the shoulder as you watch Jack finish up securing the last of the bags on Bourbon. Frowning at your forlorn expression, Jack He chucks you under the chin and reassures you, ‘The house will be here when you come back, darlin’.’

When.

Not if, but when.

It makes you smile.

While the shortcut is a less spectacular route as Jack forewarned, it’s still beautiful. Alternately cutting through swathes of flat land and dense forest, it’s certainly a less travelled path. There are parts of the track where Jack has to dismount to clear the overgrown vegetation, hacking away at wayward branches, so that you can go through.

After a whole day in the house - albeit a very good day - you’re happy to be in the open country again. You revel in the sun, your body loose and relaxed in the warmth, filling your lungs with the fresh scent of grass, trees and wildflowers.

Jack watches you from under the brim of his hat with a smile as you reach up while passing by a low-hanging tree, picking a bunch of flowers to tuck behind Scotch’s ears under the browband.

As much as he wants to push it out of his mind, his body is precisely finetuned to the schedule on the trail. Day five is when guests start to look back and reminisce, and he usually leads the charge with questions such as, do you remember what we saw on day three? Wasn’t that a treat?

Except this time, he doesn’t.

Instead, he holds his tongue, and the two of you ride quietly, side by side, letting the gentle rippling of grass in the wind and chipper birdsong do the talking.

And he watches you. No more furtive glances and stolen moments. He watches you openly and freely, catching your eye with a grin.

He wants to remember you in the sun. Your back straight, but hips swaying to the rhythm of the horse. How gently your hands hold the reins, softly attuned to the horse’s mouth. The way you chatter to Scotch, and the punch he feels in his gut when you turn over your shoulder to smile at him.

He’ll make damn sure he remembers all that.

Over a simple lunch - a much needed respite after the relentless feasting at the Halfway House - Jack mentions that the two of you will have to keep up the pace in the afternoon to get to the next camp by sundown.

A bit fresh from the unexpected lieu day, Whiskey and Scotch keep trying to one up each other, nipping competitively for the lead. Bourbon, laid back as ever, is content to trail behind.

On a particularly flat stretch of land, you turn to Jack and ask, ‘Since we’re on the clock, how about a little race?’

He arches an eyebrow at your suggestion. ‘A race? So I get something if I win?’

You put on a coy smile and drag out the syllables teasingly. ‘Maybe.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

With a lopsided grin, you lean towards him and answer, ‘If you win, I’ll suck your cock, cowboy.’

His mouth parts at your unexpected proposal, his grip on the reins tightening, but he otherwise keeps his composure. Running the pink tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, he rasps, ‘And what do you want if you win, darlin’?’

‘What’s your best offer?’

Nudging Whiskey straight into Scotch’s side so that he can hook an arm around your waist, he purrs in your ear. ‘If you beat me, I’ll eat your sweet pussy.’

Turning to press your lips to his in a messy kiss, you grin. ‘You’re on, cowboy.’

There’s something magical - almost sacred - about galloping at full speed on the open prairie.

Born and bred in the city, you’ve only done this maybe once or twice when you were younger, on family holidays in the rural backwaters. But damn, it never gets old.

The wind whistles in your ears as Scotch zooms across the plain. Despite the adrenaline of the competition, you are mindful to keep your contact on the bit soft, following the movement of his head so that he can move comfortably at full stretch. As it turns out, it’s surprisingly easy to sit in the Western saddle in the gallop, and you let your hips sway to the smooth gait.

Ever the gentleman, Jack does give you a headstart, but not by much. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him level with you already. Catching your gaze, he gives you a cheeky wink before yelling yeehaw - at the command, Whiskey switches gear and starts to effortlessly overtake you.

Jack ends up beating you by a few comfortable horse lengths. Miffed as you are, you appreciate the fact that he doesn’t condescend you by letting you win.

He’s jumped off by the time you arrive at the designated finish line, the beginnings of the forest that you’ll be crossing through to get to tonight’s campsite. Both man and horse are panting from the effort, and Jack doesn’t bother hiding his smugness when he flashes you a grin.

‘Good try, darlin’,’ he winks, passing you a water bottle when you dismount.

You snatch it from him and take a big gulp, before tossing it onto the grass and grabbing him by the deep, open V of his plaid shirt.

‘Shut up, cowboy,’ you gripe and yank him in for a frantic kiss.

He groans, clearly taken aback when you reach decisively for his flask-shaped belt buckle, opening it with a clink, no hesitation in the way you unzip the front of his jeans and snake your fingers beneath his boxers. Pulling back, he hesitates, ‘Wait, darlin’ - now?’

‘Yeah, now,’ you insist breathlessly, feeling him harden in your grasp.

‘I should probably clean up first,’ he protests weakly, but lets you back him up against a tree a safe distance away from the horses.

‘Uh-uh,’ you tut with a shake of your head and sink to your knees, the leather of your boots creaking as you settle onto your haunches. ‘Want you like this, cowboy.’

He hisses at the drag of your nails against his skin as you pull his jeans down, his cock bobbing heavily when released from the confines of his boxers. You breathe him in - leather and sweat - and his eyes smoulder at the sight of your fingers wrapping around his length, something feral in the snarl on his lips.

‘Fuck, darlin’, so desperate for my cock, aren’t you?’

You nod and a shiver chases down your spine. ‘Want you in my mouth so badly.’

Sliding his grip into your hair, he instructs, ‘Open those pretty lips for me. Wide.’

You do as you’re told, your pussy clenching at the tone of his voice that veers on dominant. Gripping the base of his cock, Jack guides the swollen, leaking tip between your lips, letting out an unsteady exhale. The sound swerves into a whine when he meets resistance halfway in.

‘That’s it, darlin’, feels so good,’ he praises you, a deep furrow on his brow as he draws back slowly. ‘Will you let me fuck your mouth? Hmm?’

You hum in acqueise, digging your nails into his naked thighs and hoping he gets the message.

‘So good for me,’ he growls as he pushes back in, inch by torturous inch. He fills you so completely that tears begin to sting the seam of your lashes, and with each smooth roll of his hips, one deeper than the last, you choke as you try to breathe around his girth.

‘Relax, darlin’,’ croons Jack above you, stroking the hinge of your jaw with a tender thumb, groaning when it unlocks and he slips in unexpectedly deeply. ‘Oh fuck, that’s it, beautiful. So gorgeous with my cock in your mouth. Look at me, darlin’.’

Peering up at him through your lashes, you decide that you like this view - a lot.

He’s still wearing his cowboy hat, which casts half of his face in shadow, but there’s no missing the flush on his cheeks, his jaw hanging open in panting breaths. Sweat has soaked through the front of his shirt, gaping open down to the middle of his sternum. Dappled shadows filtered through the treetops dance across his tanned skin, his chest rising and falling quickly.

His narrow hips buck as he slips in deeper, almost too deep, and you start to really feel the burn on your jaw as his cock stretches your mouth again and again, hitting the back of your throat. Drool begins to leak from the corner of your lips as you try to take all of him, struggling for air when it gets too much.

Tears blur your vision and you gag, retreating with a wet pop, whining at the loss of his weight on your tongue.

Seemingly jolted back to himself, Jack thumbs your cheek apologetically, shaking his head. ‘I’m so sorry, darlin’. I got carried away -’

‘Don’t, I liked it,’ you smile up at him almost drunkenly, pumping his length in languid strokes, so soaked in your spit that your grip nearly skids off him. ‘But now, I want to suck your cock.’

Basking in the sight of him biting his bottom lip and nodding frantically, the dynamics swing right around the very moment you slot your mouth over his length, and you swallow him whole.

Jack’s body language changes immediately, slumping against the tree behind him, choking out a low groan as you simply hold him there for a long beat. ‘Fuck, darlin’. Yes. Please.’

If you’re not already wet, you definitely are now from the muttered words of desperation that fall from his lips as you bob your head up and down his cock. You pace yourself, keeping a steady rhythm while Jack stammers incoherently above you, knowing that it will keep him on edge but not enough for him to finish. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re enjoying the way he’s begging you to take him harder, deeper, far too much.

‘Darlin’, need to cum. Fuck, need it,’ pants Jack, shoulders almost hunched over, as if in pain. ‘Just a bit harder, please, suck me harder, oh god -’

When his knees start to shake under your fingertips, and when his begging tapers off to disjointed whimpers, you finally look up at him.

Oh, but he is wrecked. Your cunt leaks as you take in his flared nostrils, lips pulled back into a pained snarl, pupils blown beyond recognition. Cupping your jaw in one big hand, he slurs, ‘Please darlin’, can I cum? Let me fill your mouth?’

A shudder runs through you and, holding his gaze, you hollow out your cheeks and suck, drawing a shout from Jack as he scrabbles for purchase, his fingers twisting into your hair almost painfully. Tightening your grip around the base of his cock, you fist him firmly while swallowing as much of him as you can, up and down, until you feel him swell on your tongue, just as he starts to tremble above you.

‘Oh god, oh fuck that’s it, I’m gonna cum, darlin’,’ he rambles brokenly, head falling backwards and opening up his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he babbles. ‘I’m gonna cum for you, I’m gonna - fuck, fuck, fuuuck -’

The first spurt almost takes you by surprise, hitting the back of your throat thick and salty. You moan around him at the taste, chasing him when his hips jerk and writhe as he empties himself on your tongue, until he has nothing left - your name on his lips as he catches his breath.

Jack stares down at you with dazed eyes, a groan deep in his chest when he spots the cum that pools white and sticky between your swollen lips.

His voice is surprisingly steady when he orders, ‘Swallow, darlin’.’

You do, before he hauls you up onto your feet to kiss you.

The stars look different from where you sit nestled between his legs, head tucked under his chin, leaning back against the steady beat of his heart.

Jack’s zipped the two sleeping bags together to make a double, a log behind him to prop himself up. One blanket he wraps around his shoulders with the ends draped over you, and the other you’re tucked under cosily.

Having done this job for nine years, he knows there’s a natural rhythm to the pack trips. On the fifth night, inevitable as gravity, the fireside conversation turns to home. But with you ensconced snugly where you are, like the space was made for you, Jack can’t bring himself to ask you that.

Turns out you’d ask him first.

‘So, do you get time off after working a whole week?’

‘Yeah, I get three days off after each pack trip.’

‘What do you do?’

He rattles off his usual to-do list. ‘Catch up on sleep, go into town for a haircut, fix my bike -’

With a bark of laughter, you sit up and toss him a look of incredulity over your shoulder. ‘Your what?’

‘My bike. My motorcycle - Silver Pony.’

‘You have a motorcycle? And you named it Silver Pony?’

With a playful growl, he tightens his grip around your waist, making you squeal. ‘Why are you laughin’?’

‘It’s just such a cutesy name.’

‘It’s a very sexy bike, I’ll have you know.’

‘Do all the ladies swoon when you roar into town on it?’ you quip dryly.

He chuckles. ‘You bet they do.’

Shifting in your seat, you probe, ‘So - what’s in town?

‘Not much. Even less for a city girl like you.’

‘Where would you take me? Give me the whistle-stop tour.’

‘Well,’ he pauses and considers. ‘I’ll take you to the diner for dinner. Then we can go catch a movie at the cinema. We can make out in the back row, ‘cause no one is ever there.’

You give him a sidelong glance. ‘Done it before, cowboy?’

He grins. ‘Jealous?’

To his surprise, you answer evenly, ‘Not particularly - I don’t think anyone’s ever had you to themselves like I have these few days.’

His chest swells at the easy surety of your tone. Where has that confidence come from? Sure, there’s always been flashes of that boldness under the tentative surface, even from day one. But this is something else. Now that the shyness has lifted, a knowing assurance has taken its place - one that’s making his jeans uncomfortably tight.

He nuzzles the column of your neck, making you squirm as his moustache tickles your sensitive skin. ‘That’s right, darlin’, ain’t you a lucky girl.’

You pause. ‘And - do you ever go on vacation?’

‘I take Whiskey out to the mountains every year in the fall. Sometimes Teak tags along with Jameson.’

‘But what about a city escape?’

He hums noncommittally, but a smile tugs at his lips as he rests his chin on your shoulder. ‘Can’t say I have, darlin’.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘Depends,’ he teases. ‘What is there for a country boy like me to do in the big, scary city?’

You tick off each option on your fingers. ‘Museums, galleries, shopping, music -’

‘Don’t know. Sounds loud and crowded,’ he grunts.

You roll your eyes. ‘Fine. We could just stay in and order takeaway. There’s the best Thai takeaway round the corner from my apartment.’

‘Alright. Keep going.’

Peering at him from the corner of your eye, you add, ‘We can have lots of sex.’

At that, he perks up. ‘Really?’

You smirk, winding one arm around his neck and brushing your nose against his. ‘So much sex, cowboy. I probably won’t let you leave the bed -’

Your squeal trails off into a bark of laughter when Jack flips you onto your back, but your breath is quickly knocked out of you when his soft lips latch onto the spot behind your ear, the one that he’s noticed you always tremble at. His blunt nails scrape their way up your inner thighs, and he senses the tremble rippling under your skin.

What he says next catches you off guard.

‘That night on your birthday, you hesitated when I asked to taste you. Why?’

Jack smiles when you don’t stiffen like you did that night at his question, but still, you dither, teeth worrying your bottom lip.

Freeing it with a swipe of his thumb, he smiles down at you reassuringly. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, but I gotta tell you - fuck, I want to eat your gorgeous pussy.’ He pauses and smirks when he feels you shudder at his words, your eyes darkening. ‘I want to know what you taste like, want to slip my tongue deep into your cunt when you cum -’

‘Jack,’ you whine, hitching your knees around his hips in search of friction.

‘You’ll like that, won’t you?’ he teases, tonguing your earlobe. ‘God, I want to suck on your clit, see how wet I can make you with just my mouth.’

‘Touch me, cowboy,’ you plead, shoving your sleep pants and underwear down to your knees. ‘Please.’

He rips the bottoms off impatiently and opens you wide with hands on your ankles, groaning at the wetness he sees between your legs. He doesn’t want to push you, but he has to know. ‘Gotta tell me darlin’ - you want me to use my mouth?’

Vulnerability lurks beneath the frenetic glassiness in your eyes, and you swallow thickly in a confession. ‘I - it’s hard for me to cum from oral sex. My ex - he always got frustrated when he tried and well, it was just easier to not do it.’

You jump when Jack’s rough palms smooth over the outside of your thighs, a question in his soft eyes. ‘Would you like me to try, darlin’?’

You shift. ‘But - what if I can’t cum?’

‘Well, luckily, I seem to be able to make you cum in other ways,’ he replies with an easy wink to diffuse the tension in your body. ‘You don’t have to cum from oral sex, darlin’, and I won’t get frustrated if you don’t.’

You blink up at him. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise,’ he says, leaning his forehead into yours. ‘And I promise, it will feel good even if you don’t cum from just my mouth.’

Running your nails through the dark strands of his hair that brush his eyes, you take a deep breath and nod. ‘Okay, Jack.’

Catching your hand and pressing a sweet kiss to the heart of your palm, he says, ‘You can tell me to stop anytime, okay?’

You can’t help adding with a quirk of your lips, ‘Yes, sir.’

The fire paints the cowboy in orange and shadow as he makes himself comfortable in the cradle of your thighs. His hair glistens when it catches the light, still drying from his shower earlier. You watch the reflections of the flames flicker over his serious eyes, down his straight nose, past his tidy moustache and to his wickedly curled lips.

Your breath hitches of its own accord.

He really is beautiful. This is beautiful. Having this man all to yourself in the open wilderness, so eager to please you, under the blanket of inky darkness with only the milky way as witness - you’ve never known anything like this.

Jack starts slow. His breath skates over your sensitive skin as he presses leisurely kisses to your inner thighs, some with a scrape of teeth, some chaste, but with just enough heat behind them to draw you into rolling your hips in search of his lips.

‘Cowboy,’ you berate him half-heartedly, burying your hands into his brown locks and pulling.

‘Patience, darlin’,’ he murmurs, but he moves upwards so that his exhale brushes over your bare folds. Gently, he ghosts a finger over your slit, the almost contact making you cry out. ‘How much more soaked can this pussy get without me actually touching it, I wonder?’

‘Don’t tease, Jack,’ you seethe, fists hitting the sleeping bag underneath you in frustration.

He tuts, an insolent smile on his lips, before carefully pulling apart the outer creases of your folds with the tips of his index fingers, opening up your cunt to his gaze. He groans at the sopping squelch of the movement. ‘Fuckin’ drenched already for me already. How?’

‘Jack. Please.’

Slinking onto his front unhurriedly, as if he has all the time in the world, Jack hooks your knees over his strong shoulders, nudging his nose against your weeping seam and breathes in deep. He way he moans has you clenching around nothing in anticipation. ‘Fuck, you smell so sweet, darlin’.’

‘Jack!’ you can’t hold back the pathetic sob that bubbles up from your throat, trembling so hard you need his solid weight to anchor you to the ground. ‘Please, want your mouth, now -’

Your words morph into a mewl when Jack’s lips, wet and cool, finally make landing with a gratuitously loud suckle of your clit, which has your back arching clean off the pillowy sleeping bag underneath.

He takes it slow - so slow, almost too slow - his broad tongue (is there any part of him that isn’t?) questing deep into the pliant ridges of your cunt, tirelessly discovering nerve points that make you keen and wringing needy whimpers from you. His shoulders under your knees hold you open as you shudder and squirm beneath him.

‘Jack,’ you pant, the stars above you blurry one second and sharply focused the next as he laves your clit studiously.

‘Yes, darlin’?’ he slurs against your pussy, not really expecting an answer. Instead, he pushes up the sleep shirt you have on, baring your tits to the cool night air. He moans into you and reaches up to squeeze them before teasing the tips, which only makes you push your hips into his face harder, earning a satisfied grunt from him.

Fidgety fingers curl into the fabric of shirt on his back, the air wrangled clean out of you as you watch his eyes flutter shut, a deep frown of concentration creasing his brow when he drags the flat of his tongue over you again and again, patiently building a rhythm that has you writhing. The blankets twist into knots between the gaps in your fingers, patches damp with your wetness cold against your skin.

Slippery with Jack’s spit and what he coaxes from you, your thighs quake when he rubs his moustache on the soft flesh. You watch the sodden bottom of the dark hairs smear the slick over you, sticky and messy, and that’s when you feel it - a crest rearing its head deep within you. Slack-jawed, you hold on for dear life, clinging to it as it swells. Air leaves you in shallow pants as his palms tighten their grip on you, anchoring you to his mouth so he can lap at you with unwavering intensity, a solemn determination to chase that high that has long alluded you.

When you do break apart on his tongue, the first time in too many years to count, it’s with a spine-shattering scream of his name that rips apart the stillness of the night, your gasps and pleads riding the evening breeze.

The echoes of your voice sail across the empty grasslands, carrying in the thin night air, and ring into the open arms of the mountains, where Jack wishes - no, where he prays - he could keep you.

Notes: These two have earned this filth, haven't they? I'm having the best time just writing them being horny AF for each other on the open plains, while weaving in the angst as the clock ticks down. Thank you everyone for your patience, I hope you enjoyed this update, and as always, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🧡

Horsey notes: I galloped for the first time just a couple of years ago (no such opportunity for a city girl), in the shadows of the magnificent Pyramids of Giza first thing in the morning on a gorgeous Arabian horse. It was a magical moment that has stayed with me, and truly one of my favourite memories ever. I have never been so grateful for our four-legged friends than I was in that moment, flying over the golden sands.

#jack daniels fanfiction #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels x f!reader #jack daniels x reader #jack whiskey daniels #jack whiskey daniels fanfiction #kingsman fanfiction #agent whiskey x f!reader #agent whiskey x female reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey x reader #jack daniels x you

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kalira · 4 months

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Daydream Realised, please!

Kei kissed him hard, one hand roaming up and down Sho’s thigh, curling around his hip. He could feel the tension, the flex of muscle as Sho wrapped his legs higher around Kei, drawing him in tighter. He groaned against Sho’s mouth as he gave under that pull, kneading the long, strong muscles of Sho’s thigh and rocking deeper into the tight heat of his body.

#WIP Wednesday #Daydream Realised #Moon Child #Kei x Sho #skarabrae-stone #thanks for the ask!#which I am answering super belatedly but here we are >.>#NSFT

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boytoyhalo · 5 months

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Fit keeps two journals that he writes in every day: The standard, mandatory daily report journal where he keeps track of weather, maintenance and activity, and his personal diary where he writes more detailed accounts of his days. Phil gave him that one, told him that writing down his thoughts a few times a day would help him heal. Fit's not too sure about all that, but he'll admit it's kinda relaxing to sit out on the rocks at sunset writing down whatever comes to mind. it's usually just pretty objective play-by-plays of whatever happened that day, but still.

A few weeks after he meets richarlyson's "pod" of parents (he doesn't question why they're called that) these peaceful writing sessions gain an audience: two of the weird seals that he keeps seeing, the ones that are a bit too big and a bit too furry to not stand out among the typical grey harbor seals he usually sees. more specifically, it's the smallest of those seals - the one with a back flipper missing - and the light brown one that always seems to accompany it. A pair of mates, maybe? but after a week or so of the seals just. sitting there, watching him write, the light brown one seemingly decides it has better things to do, which leaves Fit with his one-flippered companion. Fit wonders how it's been surviving, but it seems to be managing just fine without it and he's not trained to deal with injured wildlife, so he decides it's not his problem.

One day, Fit belatedly realises that the seal has been getting braver - it's been inching steadily closer to him day by day, until now when Fit looks up from his journal and realises that the thing is only an arms-length from the rock he's sitting on. He stares at it. It stares back at him. "I don't have any food for you," he tells it. It barks a sound at him that sounds almost like a laugh. "Don't laugh at me, that's rude" he's not sure why he's feigning offense, why he's joking around with no one around to hear it but... it's nice. it's freeing, almost, to be able to laugh at himself without worrying about being seen. The seal is tilting it's head at him like it understands, and Fit knows it doesn't, but the next night he's there he talks to it out loud while he writes. he tells it about his day, about Ramon and Richas and his weird new acquaintances - about how he's found unexpected friends in some of them. Funny enough, talking out loud brings out thoughts he hasn't been able to get down with journaling.

on one particularly hard day, maybe the worst he's had since taking the job, he tells it about the war. tells it about how he was recruited right out of school, eager to make a change and protect his country. He tells it about how no one told him why they were fighting, how the war started or what steps were being taken to end it. How he had to learn all of that after going home. He tells it about his fallen comrades, about the enemy soldiers he killed. He tells it how much it hurts to think about, that he witnessed that much death and caused that much of it himself, that he has to live with that and knowing that at the end of the day he wasn't fighting for justice or peace or anything but the interests of the people in power. He tells it that he isn't sure he feels guilty, and that that makes him feel guilty. He tells it how lonely he's been since getting back - all things he hadn't really processed or admitted yet.

"maybe that's why I keep talking to you," he says. "I haven't really... I don't know how to make friends, since getting back. Being out here all isolated... it's nice. I mean, it's nice because it's nice, but also, it's nice just to have an excuse for being alone instead of being alone while surrounded by people, yknow?" He looks at the animal, which is staring up at him with disturbingly human emotion in it's eyes. He looks away. "I don't know. This is stupid, I'm talking to a fucking seal. and I do have friends, I mean... there's phil, there's tubbo. There's richas' parents, though I'm not sure they really count. Only see em for a little bit once in awhile, and s'not like they're there for me." He goes to sleep that night feeling lighter and heavier all at once.

And then the next morning, Pac (and a hesitant-looking mike) shows up with Richas, asking fit if they can help him work today. And not taking no for an answer

#i don't know what this is dude it got away from me after the first word #ignore it #selkie au

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f1crecs · 11 months

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Fic Rec List - Charles/Max (Top Five)

if your fic is on this list and you don’t want it to be, please let me know and I will remove it immediately, no questions asked. I have contacted most of the authors on this list, but sometimes people fall through the gaps - just pop me a message🤍

have a pairing you want me to do next? please read the faqs and then head to my inbox.

don't forget to give the authors featured on this list some love in the form of kudos, bookmarks, and comments!

I'm sorry you've not been feeling great recently, anon. I hope things start to look up soon, and that you enjoy these recommendations. 😚

This is my personal top five. Let me know what yours is! 🤍

the consequences of domesticism by @altisssimozucca | G | 3.6k Charles and Max live in the same apartment building: slowly, their lives intertwine. This fic is just so sweet. The slow build of their relationship, from acquaintances/co-workers to more is so expertly done, and feels so organic. I didn't stop smiling once reading this fic. Also - Dot. I want her.

'They’re in Max’s kitchen, Max watching Charles fry some eggs for breakfast, when Max has the startling realisation that he knows far too much about Charles.'

heart on your sleeve by @nyoomfruits | T | 4.8k Charles' emotions appear on his racing helmet. The concept here is so unique, and so beautifully done - I loved every moment of this. Typical misunderstandings give way to just the most tender, sweet relationship. Gorgeous.

“Hi,” Max says, and that stupid crinkly eyed smile is back, looking at Charles all fondly. His race suit is soaked in champagne, and his hair is wet with it too, sticking in every which direction. There’s a flush on his cheeks, and he’s taken off the top part of his race suit, revealing his fireproofs underneath, stretches across his broad chest and muscular arms.'

heart of the wind by @piastriachios | M | 13.8k Max and Charles are neighbours, who meet when Charles rescues Max's flying laundry. The relationship build here is stunning - you truly get the feeling that they bring out the best in each other. As always, the imagery and use of colour is beautiful. I love this author and I love this fic.

'They let it sit between them. Floating between the specks of dust that look like golden glitter in the afternoon suzn. A shared understanding. A sense of longing. The more it simmers, the more Max’s smile seems to cut through the light.'

oui chef.by @sunshineyoujustwait | G | 16.2k Max is initially irate when Charles is hired to his kitchen - but not for long. This fic is absolutely stunning. The humour and dialogue is spot on, and the Charles characterisation is genuinely some of my favourite in the whole fandom. The single-minded focus. The competitiveness. The found family of it all. God, I wish I could read this fic again for the first time.

'He’s still staring, he realises belatedly, as Charles glances up and catches his gaze. Amusement twinkles in his eyes, almost as if he knows he’s caught Max staring and he finds it funny. Max looks away quickly, but not before his brain registers, unhelpfully, that Charles’ eyes are green, not brown like he’d originally thought. Not that it’s important.''

Breathe You In (Like a Vapor) by @fabbyf1 | E | 53.3k Max and Charles start up a friends with benefits relationship, that quickly evolves into so much more. This was one of the first Charles/Max fics I ever read, and it changed me a little. Such a joy. So genuinely funny, beautifully paced, and the smut- yes. Fantastic! Everything this author writes is amazing.

'But now, the sun was starting to dip in the sky, and the living room was mostly dark. Somehow Max had spent the entire afternoon here. It was like they both came out of their trance simultaneously and realized how dark it had gotten in the room.'

#lestappen #pairing:charles/max #driver:charles #driver:max #charles/max

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tryingahandinholdingapen · 2 years

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not enough danny phantom fics that acknowledge the ghost portal is In The Fucking Basement in the context of like. the Fenton parents fear+hate ghosts, right? If they had their way, I doubt they'd want ghosts going anywhere near them, their children, their friends, their home or the school or anything. But the portal is In The Basement. you know, the main place all the ghosts come and go from? which means that whether they know it or not, they must have ghosts in their very home like, all the fucking time. I want more fics where, pre identity reveal, the Fenton parents realise this and fucking panic

I think I've seen...one fic? Where Phantom references being in the Fenton house in passing and Jack (temporarily cooperating with Phantom) immediately goes "wait, /what/??? You've been in our house?!" and Phantom's like "......yeeeeah? That's. That's where the ghost portal is mate. Everyone's been in your house at some point." and Jack Fenton promptly has twenty existential crises at once as he belatedly panics about how ghosts could have attacked them while they slept or whatever

it's such a good concept okay I just want more of it, want people to do more of it. give me a million fics like this please

(if anyone has any recs pls give em to me fuhwufheh)

#danny phantom #danny phantom fic idea #i guess

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whimsymanaged · 1 year

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Prompt: Marriage Law (@DramionePrompts on Twitter)

NSFW / rated E

“Malfoy, wake up. I can hear your mum coming down the hallway,” Hermione hissed, poking her new husband in the shoulder.

Malfoy grumbled under his breath and turned over, stuffing his face into one of many plush down pillows.

“Malfoy!”

She had gotten married to the git the afternoon before, two days before the Ministry’s ridiculous marriage law came into effect.

There was no love between them, but they were partners at work and had both hated the idea of being forced to marry somebody they didn’t even know.

The agreement was that they would stay married for six months while they worked to overturn the current law, and then they’d happily go their separate ways, free to be with whomever they really wanted.

The biggest kink in the plan: Narcissa Malfoy.

The Malfoy matriarch didn’t believe Malfoy and Hermione were in love for a second, which Hermione supposed was probably fair, and she had been giving Hermione a hard time since the couple had come home from registering their marriage the afternoon before.

“Just pretend to be asleep, Granger,” Malfoy muttered.

“She’ll just come back later and try to interrogate me again!” Hermione knew there was a desperate edge to her voice, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to have to deal with Narcissa’s confrontations for six months.

Malfoy rolled onto his back and opened one eye to glare at her. “Why are you even—”

Before he could finish his sentence, there was a knock on the door before the doorknob started turning. And Hermione tried to think fast, she really did, but only one solution came to mind.

She threw her leg over Malfoy’s to straddle him and dragged the covers up so their hips were shielded from view. Malfoy’s eyes snapped open, growing impossibly wide, just as his mother poked her head into the room.

And Hermione figured she might as well go all the way with this.

She moved her hips against Draco’s in an imitation of fucking, and she heard Narcissa gasp, “Oh! Excuse me,” before retreating, the door clicking shut behind her.

Hermione’s shoulders slumped with relief. Hopefully that had done enough to convince Narcissa that they were—

Belatedly, she realised that Malfoy’s fingers were digging into her hips, and that the bulge pressing through his boxer-briefs against her sleep shorts was very hard.

“What the fuck,” Malfoy hissed. “You can’t just—”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Her face was hot. “Let me…”

She moved to get off him, but the movement only rubbed her clit against his erection, and she gasped.

The sound he made was strangled. “Don’t. Move.”

“I have to move if I’m going to get off!”

“If you move,” he said through clenched teeth, “I’m going to get off.”

The pressure of his cock against her center was sending heat licking up her spine. When was the last time she’d had sex? Forever ago.

And Malfoy was a lot of things, but unattractive wasn’t one of them. She could admit that much; he’d starred in her fantasies enough.

“Granger.” He was growling now. But his hands weren’t holding her still. In fact, he was rocking his hips up into hers, using his grip on her to control the pace, the angle, and her lips parted, because fuck, if it didn’t feel really fucking great.

“You said—” She cut herself off with a whimper, and she reached down to squeeze his forearms as she rolled her hips faster.

“We work together. We work together,” he was muttering to himself even as his cheeks began to grow flushed. “Holy fucking Merlin, you’re so soft.”

She leaned forward and pressed her hands to the mattress, and both their gazes went to where their hips met, to where the ridge of his cock was dragging against her again and again.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered raggedly.

She didn’t.

Instead, she gasped out, “I’m so wet,” earning her a long groan from Malfoy.

“Can you come like this?” he asked urgently. “What do you need?”

She shook her head, then nodded. She didn’t know what he was asking. “Nothing. Yes. Are you close?”

“Embarrassingly so,” he bit out, and she really didn’t know how much of the dampness visible on his boxer-briefs was from her and how much was from his own cock leaking. His eyelids fluttered. “Tell me when.”

She was moaning so much. So much and she couldn’t stop. But so was he.

She bit down on her lip as he thrust up against her harder, faster, and she heard him whisper, “That’s it, Granger,” as he lifted his hands and pinched both her nipples through her top.

She tumbled over the edge with a cry, her hips still moving, riding him through her orgasm.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Good fucking girl.”

And with one hand back on her hip, he pounded up against her relentlessly until his head dropped back, his hands squeezing, and she felt the warmth of his come at the same time a primal sound was ripped from his throat.

She dropped onto the bed next to him, trying to catch her breath.

“Fuck me,” she whispered.

There was a low laugh from her husband, and then, “Whenever you want me to do that, Granger, just let me know.”

#dramione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #dhr #drabble #fanfiction #from twitter

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