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axelsagewrites · 6 months

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Ragnar Lothbrok*Pet

Pairing: Ragnar x f!captured reader

Kinktober Day twenty-four: thigh riding/dry humping with Ragnar Lothbrok – after taking a Christian girl prisoner he decides to show you the pleasure a heathen can feel

Word count: 1491

Warnings: talks of religion, religious corruption, religious guilt, teasing, heavy flirting, mini crisis of faith ig, being ragnars pet/prisoner, making out, thigh riding, smut 18+

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“She is a Christian,” Floki whispered in Ragnars ear as the pair studied the girl presented to them, “We should get rid of her, not drag her around with us. She will only slow us down,”

While Floki’s eyes bore into Ragnars skull the kings’ eyes lingered elsewhere. They had taken your village some days ago when one of his men found you hiding in the forest. The sight of you on your knees, even if it were to pray to a false god to survive, was enough to convince Ragnar.

“I should like to keep her,” he said, watching how your lips wrapped around the words you mumbled, “Untie her hands,” he commanded one of his men as Floki sighed.

“What is it with you and your Christian pets? At least keep her hands bound,” he tried to reason but Ragnar just shook his head. He knew you wouldn’t run.

A couple of weeks had passed of successful raiding and gold was beginning to pile up around him. Ragnar sat at the makeshift feast they had decided to throw after taking another village however his eyes were once again on the Christian girl who sat across from him. At first you used to flush under his gaze, a sight he enjoyed and often tried to tease out by whispering pretty words in your ear.

Ragnar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, “What are you thinking about?” he asked, your eyes snapping up to meet his.

“That I may sleep soon. The night is growing long,”

“That is an excellent idea. Perhaps I should join you,” he said, smirking at the way you began to stutter and flush, “Tell me something. Where you married before?”

You paused for a moment before answering, “No, why?”

Ragnar shook his head, “well I heard,” he said, leaning in closer and grinning as you did the same as his voice dropped to a whisper, “that it is only the married ones who get fucked,”

“I-well-I- yes it would be a sin otherwise,” you stuttered out, face growing hot as Ragnar poured himself another glass of wine. “I’m not even supposed to talk about…that,”

“Why not?”

“It is a sin,”

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head like a curious child.

The awkward smile worn on your lips made a real one grow on his face, “Because god said so,”

“Have you spoken to god,”

“Well, no,”

“Then how do you know?” a frustrated sigh left your lips that made Ragnars grin widen. He was getting to you and enjoying every moment of it. he leaned in closer once more, whispering for your sake more than anything,” Why would a god create something so beautiful then not let you appreciate its wonders?”

“It is a sin,” you clung to the excuse, realising you did not know why either.

The laugh that left his mouth however caught you off guard and your lips twitched, almost forming a smile at the smile on his face. That was until he spoke again, “Perhaps we should sin together one time,” he said, standing and grabbing his cup of wine. Before he could leave, he sauntered over to whisper one last thing in your ear, “And the idea of you falling apart on my cock is enough to make me believe in my god,”

A few more weeks had passed and soon you would be heading back with the raiders to their land. Despite still being wary of many of the men some, Ragnar specifically, had grown on you. “Where will I stay when you take me back with you?” you asked one night as you began to brush through your hair.

Ragnar glanced at you as he began to unlace his boots. While he had unbound your hands, he had insisted on keeping you in his tent, thankfully on your own bed, thought you wondered if this was for his entertainment or safety, “I will find somewhere for you,” he answered simply before reaching to pull his shirt over his head.

Despite seeing this sight many times, the way his muscles flexed, and his tattoos gleamed against his skin made a tingle shoot through your spine. “So, I won’t be a slave? Or is it a thrall you call them?”

Ragnar paused for a moment, his eyes scanning over you, “You need not worry little one. I will take care of you,”

A moment passed before you allowed yourself to smile, “Thank you Ragnar,” you said and a small smile crept onto his lips as he settled himself above his sheets, his eyes scanning over you.

“Come here,” he said, nervousness washing over you, “Trust me,”

You paused at first before standing from beneath your covers. Your underdress was the only thing to cover you now as you crossed the tent. Ragnar patted the spot beside him and cautiously you sat down, picking at your thumbs. His hand closed over yours, “You’ll make yourself bleed,” he said, and you just nodded as his eyes continued to study your face.

“Has anyone ever kissed you?” he whispered.

You swallowed before answering, “Once,” you said, tempted to pick at your skin but somehow resisting, “But I wasn’t very good at it,”

“Perhaps you should try again,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he moved to rest his forehead against yours.

“Perhaps you could teach me,” you whispered, a spark lighting in his eyes, “if I am to go back to your land perhaps it is time I Learned your ways,”

“All our ways?” he asked, his hand reaching over to run his fingers lightly up your thighs making you shiver, “Is that what you desire little one?”

“Would it be so wrong if I did?” you asked and the way your wide eyes gazed into his made Ragnars cock begin to harden.

His hand trailed slowly up your leg, torturously so until it arrived at your hip. You gasped when he grabbed it, pulling you over to straddle his thigh. “Ragnar- “you gasped, when he bent his leg up, propping you up on his strong thigh, “What are you doing?”

“Teaching,” his hands reached for your hair, pulling your lips down onto his. This was far different from the last time someone had kissed you. this was rough and needy and made whines leave your throat as one of his hands moved to your hips.

You couldn’t even question what he was doing before he began to move your hip, making you grind down onto his thigh. The way you whimpered made Ragnar wonder if Odin himself had blessed him. Ragnar guided your hips and soon your body took over, rubbing your clit against his strong thigh as his hand squeezed the flesh of your hips.

When he pulled his lips away yours chased after his making a chuckle leave them before he began to kiss down your jaw. “You don’t need to be quite little one,” he mumbled against your skin as a soft moan left your mouth, “No one will judge,”

His lips soon found the crook of your neck, kissing it in a way that made a knot in your stomach tighten. Since your hips now moved of their own accord his hands were free to travel up your frame, taking your tits in his hand and making you gasp as he squeezed them softly.

He felt his cock twitch at the feeling of the Hardened buds beneath your shift. His fingertips trailed slowly around your nipples at first, enjoying your needy whines before he finally began to roll them between his fingers.

“Oh god,” you moaned as he pinched them gently, but your words just made him want you more and groan against your skin.

It didn’t take long for a tight feeling to spread across your body, “What is happening to me?” you asked but it came out as more of a whine.

“Enjoy it little one,” Ragnar said, his lips moving to kiss your check, “Let yourself let go,” he said before your lips slammed onto his even catching yourself by surprise. Your moans allowed him to slip his tongue in, the kiss becoming messier and more desperate as you grinded against his thigh.

He felt your body jerk and Ragnar smirked into the kiss knowing what was about to happen. Your lips broke apart only for your head to fall in the crook of his shoulder, “Oh god,” you began to moan again before you felt your peak wash over you like a tidal wave.

sensing your body tensing and hips slowly Ragnar reached for your hips, moving them for you so he could watch you ride out your peak on his thigh. Curses left your lips before you finally slumped into his chest. Ragnar let out a small chuckle, letting his leg lay flat and holding you against his chest. Ragnar had defiantly made the right decision he thought.

#ragnar lothbrok #ragnar lothbrok smut #ragnar lothbrok imagine #ragnar lothbrok x reader #ragnar lodbrok smut #ragnar lodbrok imagine #ragnar lodbrok x reader #ragnar lodbrok #ragnar imagine #ragnar smut #ragnar x reader #ragnar #vikings #vikings tv #vikings x reader #vikings smut #vikings imagine #vikings tv smut #vikings tv x reader

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elexaria · 3 months

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religious!johnny mactavish x afab! reader smut bc i said so

ONE LAST POST I SWEAR and then i will sleep except not rlly bc its 8am and i have to get ready for a virtual meeting RRR

ANYWAYS.

cw — afab! reader, nothing too spicy, foreplay, pnv, religious corruption ig?? idk, johnny is just too damn horny for his own good and hes a good christian boy n all but…. pussy go brr

johnny had always been devoted to his faith, going to church with his wee grandma ever since he could walk n talk. swears to himself and the big man in the sky when he came of age that he’d wait for the one, he’d save himself for marriage as god intended him to do.

you were agnostic at best, but that was fine to him. you respected his faith, you even attended church with him when he occasionally goes! a loving, supportive partner — that’s all he could ever ask for.

well, not really.

see, you’re so damn pretty. such a pretty thing, all snuggled up in the crook of his arm as you two lay in bed, watching a movie before you’ll eventually go to sleep. he told you from day one that he wants to wait until marriage, it’s important to him. and you respect that! you do occasionally find yourself pouting whenever your friends gloat about their sex lives, and you just kinda have to go “ahahaha yep, still haven’t gotten fucked by johnny yet. still ain’t married—“ awkwardly, and they playfully tease you about it but they don’t care. you’re in the most healthiest relationship you’d ever been in, they love him!

but i digress. his fingers gently stroke along the length of your arm, as they always do. he’s a bit of a fidgety fella, it’s the ol’ adhd, he tells you. so his fingers dance around the fabric of your tshirt, the texture is satisfying to the pads of his fingertips. the movie continues on, and you giggle at a snarky quip someone makes. it makes his lips twitch up into a small grin, the sound of your giggle. his fingers are still absentmindedly touching around, and that’s when he accidentally grazes your boob.

and oh my god.

wait, what? it’s nothing like he’d ever felt before— he slyly looks down at you, to see if you’ve caught on. and with another sneaky swipe, that confirms it. his blood is running hot, and my god he can no longer concentrate. two fingers run across the swell of your breast from underneath your tshirt, you shiver as you look up at him. and god, you had never seen him look like that before. flared nostrils as his breathing grows heavy, his jaw clenched. “johnny—“ you mutter as he now begins to slowly paw at your soft breast, and it makes you whine at how good it feels to be touched like this.

"it's no like we're daein' anything serious here, aye? just some light pettin'." johnny justifies to himself as he mumbles into the crook of your neck as his hand darts under your shirt, groaning at the soft mounds of fat that jiggle with each grope. how much you whine and gasp as he pinches a peaked bud between his fingers. his cock is rock hard, screaming for attention. but he stops, borderline panting as he looks down at you. he looks guilty, but he has to restrain himself. he’s saving himself for marriage, remember?

you shyly scuttle off to the bathroom to finish yourself off, the tap running to hide the obscene squeals you make as you sit on the bathroom floor, one hand pressed over your mouth while the other rubs intricately tight circles around your throbbing clit. meanwhile, johnny’s stroking his cock just from the thought of what had just happened, groaning as he spills himself into a tissue.

he swore he would keep his virginity in tact for when you two finally got married.

"i'm savin' masel' for marriage, ye ken." he mutters as his fingers stroke the glistening folds of your puffy cunt, sucking the air through his teeth as his fingers coax every last tantalising moan from you as he fingers you, your hands wrapped around his cock as you mutually pleasure one another.

“it’s no sex,” he justifies to himself as you suck his cock, eyes half-lidded as one hand cups the base of his shaft, the other cupping his swollen, full balls with a wanton gaze in your eyes. “fuck, ye have no idea whit yer daein’ tae me.” he growls, fucking into your mouth slowly as his cross pendant thumps against his hairy chest with each buck of his hips.

“it’s just the tip, yeah?” as his heart races, his swollen tip rubbing into your clit, and you swear you’re fit to burst when just the tip, like he promises, slowly sinks into your pussy. he grips onto the pillows besides your head, his eyes glossed over as he tries so hard not to cum right then and there. his breathing is rugged, his pupils narrow as he slowly sinks himself deeper inside you. you both moan together, sweat glossed foreheads pressed against one another as you two join in a debauched union.

“fuck me— ye feel fuckin’ divine.” he growls as he pulls out, slamming his hips right into you with a snarl. “gonnae cum so fuckin’ fast, baby girl. fuck, look at ye.” he says between rugged breaths, eyes bearing right down at you as you tighten and pulse around his cock, eyes fluttering as you cum right then and there. fuck, the wait— or lack there of it — was worth it. with a couple of lazy, sporadic thrusts, johnny spills himself inside you with a primal roar, his knuckles white as he grips the sheets while your velvety vice of a pussy milks him of every last drop of the thick ropes of cum churned from his now drained balls.

in the haze of it all, johnny groans as he pulls out, his eyes fixated on the sight of his cum dripping out of your puffy cunt. his fingers crook up into you, gently pumping his essence right back inside of you. “better have a wee chat with the big man upstairs about this. fuck, no that i could resist this. christ, look at the sight of ye.” he chuckles, his thumb grazing against your swollen clit with an affectionate smile.

“i mean, fuck me, am gonnae marry ye so fast if it means i get tae do this all the time.”

#elexaria writes #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #soap smut #soap x reader #soap mw2 #soap cod #johnny mactavish #soap mactavish x reader

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nataliawrites · 1 year

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Crowning Glory // Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x Princess of the Netherlands!Reader

Max prided himself on his control. His job depended on it. His life depended on it.

Even when he briefly lost control — and he really doesn’t regret the infamous pushing incident — it was always of his own doing.

Until you came into his life.

A knock on the door to his driver’s room started Max. It was race day and it was rare for him to be bothered when he was preparing on his own. A home race meant that everything was heightened. The adrenaline thrummed deeper. The cheers were louder. The Orange Army was nearly blinding in the stands.

“Max,” the familiar voice of his team principal filtered through the door after another knock, “I have someone who would like to meet you.”

“Can’t we do this later, Christian? I know you know my routine by now.”

“Just open the door. I think you’ll be happy to change up your routine this once.”

Max heaved himself off of the small couch and went to send the Brit and whatever guest he brought along away so he could continue to focus on the race in peace.

He opened the door, prepared to shut it in a second, but stopped short when he saw who was standing next to Christian. The guest in question was wearing an elegant summer dress in a bright shade of orange sure to be similarly reflected upon thousands of Dutch fans around the track.

She was also the subject of his long running teenage crush. A crush he thought he had gotten over until he was staring open-mouthed at her right in front of him.

“Hallo,” she takes the initiative to greet Max considering he was still making somewhat of a fool of himself in front of her, “it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Max bends into a hasty bow, unsure of the protocols for meeting someone he had only ever seen on the news and the pages of magazines, “Your Royal Highness, I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m the one intruding on your preparations,” she waves his apology off. “I just wanted to stop by and wish you luck before the race. It is my first time attending a Grand Prix in-person but my family and I have been fans for a long time and started following your career when news of an incredibly promising young driver racing under the Dutch flag first made its rounds.”

“I-thank you, Your Highness. I am honored.”

“Well, I will leave you to continue getting ready. Mr. Horner promised me a tour of the garage. Good luck again, you do your country proud.”

Max remained frozen in the doorway, watching the heir apparent walk away with the Red Bull team principal, bodyguards seemingly materializing from the walls to surround her as they made their way into a public area of the F1 Holzhaus.

Max managed to get you out of his head once the race began. The second he got into the car, nothing else mattered. Everything beyond the track ceased to exist as he pushed the car to its limit and passed the chequered flag for yet another home win.

But when it came time for the podium ceremony, there you were front and center, ready to present trophies to the three drivers. Max swore he could feel a spark travel up his arm as your fingers brushed his while handing him the trophy. “Well done! Tonight we celebrate.”

Turns out the celebration was a far cry from the ones he was used to. Instead of a club, Red Bull team members were invited to join you at a nearby royal residence for dinner and drinks. Max listened to you explain why from his seat next to you at the long dining table as you waited for the first course to be served, pleasantly warm from champagne already, “I used to love going out. Tried to have a typical university experience, you know? But I was almost kidnapped last year and despite security stepping in on time I have been forbidden from doing so again. Too much risk.”

And there it was. The reminder of just how different your lives wore despite both being Dutch public figures. One day Max will retire and can live a relatively normal life if he so chooses while you will ascend to the throne and lead a kingdom.

He didn’t exactly pity you — royalty was royalty at the end of the day — but he did sympathize with the constraints that it placed on you and how you lived your life.

Max clears his throat, “I’m not exactly sure how this whole thing works but I would love to take you out.”

He waits for a response and nervously cards his fingers through his hair when he doesn’t get one, “only if you want, of course, Your Highness. I have a sailing boat on the coast not too far from here. It’s not a yacht, though you are welcome to join me on that too if you are ever in Monaco, but I promise that it is peaceful and private. I just thought you would like to get away from all this,” he gestures around the room of mingling Red Bull staff and dignitaries, “for a little.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hhmm?”

You ask again, “are you sure?”

“Sure about what? That I would like to take you on a date? Quite sure.”

“Any privacy we have won’t last long.”

“I know.”

“The press can be brutal.”

“So I’ve learned. I don’t particularly care.”

“There are rules …”

“I will learn them.”

“Okay,” you finally allow a shy smile.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Max. I would love to go on a date with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But if we are to date you have to call me Y/N.”

“Gladly … Y/N,” he tests out how your name feels on his lips for the first time.

“Oh and you will have to meet my parents.”

That gives him pause. “Your parents?”

“Yes.”

“As in the King and Queen.”

“Yes.”

“I have to meet the King and Queen?”

“It’s all still a bit old fashioned, I’m afraid. We will need their approval.”

You’re quick to reassure him when you see how quickly the color drains from his face, “my father is a big Ferrari fan but he has a soft spot for you. You need not worry.”

“Your father is the King.”

“Yes.”

“My King.”

“Yes. And he’s my father. You’ll have to get used to it if you see us going anywhere.”

“Right. Of course …” A few seconds pass. “But he’s the King.”

You pat his hand where it’s splayed on the table, “you’ll be fine.”

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neverinadream · 1 year

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~~~~~~~~~~~ | M Y I M A G I N E S | ~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~ | M Y N A M E O N Y O U R S K I N | ~~~~

Summary: You thought wearing Reece's jersey might finally make him crack but it only serves to make things worse for you.

Pairing: Christian Pulisic x Fem!Reader

Requested: Nope

Song Inspo: The Loneliest - Måneskin

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, angst, jealous!christian, fwb!christian, dom!christian to soft!dom!christian, sub!reader, brat!reader, dirty talk, reader is called a slut, whore, pet names (good girl, baby girl...), praise kink, degradation, mentions of ownership, possessiveness, graffiti - you'll see what i mean, oral (christian receiving), thigh riding, choking, hair pulling, fingering, teasing, begging, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms NOT EDITED

Notes: the smut is decent-ish and the angst is terrible (i couldn't quite execute what i was originally intending for) so feedback is greatly appreciated. tagging @kepamount who wanted to be reminded when the fic came out though she will probably hate me now for making it angsty

You whimper as his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging on it until the back of your head was resting against his shoulder. "Look at yourself in the mirror," Christian orders, his voice so deep in your ear it has your pussy clenching around the two fingers pushed deep inside of you. You squeak as he tugs at your hair, too impatient to even give you a second to follow his orders. "Look at yourself and watch me play with this pretty pussy," he purrs, untangling his fingers from your hair to wrap his free hand around your throat.

Following his command, you stare back at yourself in the mirror, a breathy moan spilling from your lips at the sight of you both. He had you sitting on the end of your bed, your jeans and panties removed, discarded in a heap on the floor. You were positioned between his own legs, two strong thighs enduring a small amount of pain as you dug your nails into them. And, with your legs forced apart, he pumped two fingers in and out of you, spreading your wetness over your pussy each time he pulled them out to tease your clit.

His thumb strokes over your pulse point, feeling its erratic pace, and sniggers in your ear. "You thought you were being smart wearing his shirt, didn't you?" His grip tightens as you look away from the mirror. "Don't look at me! Don't you fucking look at me! Look at the fucking mirror and watch yourself cum all over these fucking fingers!"

"Christian-"

"Shut up!" He dismisses your protest, groaning in your ear as the squelching on his fingers moving in and out of you fills the silence. His thumb presses harshly onto your clit, stroking it in a way that has you struggling to keep focused on your reflection.

"You better fucking cum for me, princess," he says, now watching your reflection, studying the expressions that were twisting and appearing on your face, "you're taking these fingers far too well to come this far and not cum all over them."

His long, thick fingers intensify the throbbing you feel building up in your core and have your hips bucking wildly against his hand. Incoherent moans and phrases of praise slip from your lips.

"That's it," his voice rasps in your ear, "cum all over my fingers. Show me what it'll feel like when I've you face down on this bed and my cock buried inside you."

Every part of your body is physically shaking as your orgasm rips through you. You cry out his name, feeling your pleasure spreading through your body, the sensation showing no signs of stopping as Christian keeps pumping his fingers. "Chris-" You stutter and splutter his name. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and your back arches away from his chest.

"That feels so good, doesn't it?"

You nod your head, feeling like a mess as you slump into him. "Too good," you mumble, a moan tripping off your lips when pulls his fingers out.

He taps his fingers to your chin, mumbling, "open up," as he presses his lips against your temple. Humming, you oblige his request and wait with your mouth wide open to him. "Suck," he tells you, pressing his two wet fingers against your tongue, "clean your mess up." A groan sounds in your ear as you do as you are told, smirking when you feel his head hide in your neck. "I should've fucked that pretty little mouth instead."

"You still could."

You take his fingers out of your mouth, dragging your tongue on the underside of them, making him groan again as he thinks about your tongue running along his shaft. Dropping his hand, you sink onto the floor and turn yourself around to face him, resting your bum on your ankles as you tuck your feet underneath you. Before, you could feel his hard cock pressing into you, but now that you were knelt in front of him, you could see just how much he was straining against the confinement of his grey boxers.

You run your hands over his bare thighs, trying not to smile at the indents your nails had left behind. "Can I?" You ask, batting your eyelashes.

"I don't know," he answers, taking himself out. He tightens his fist around the base and pumps it a few times. "Do you deserve it?" You nod your head with enthusiasm. He cocks his eyebrow. "Do you? Have you been good enough to deserve it?"

"Yes."

He bends down and kisses your forehead, a fleeting moment of softness amongst the rough handling you had experienced since he had shown up at your door. "You're such a fucking liar," he whispers against you, sniggering at the gasp that escapes. And just like that, all the softness was gone.

"Put your hands behind your back," he orders, shifting to sit on the very end of the bed. You obliged, bending your arms behind you and locking your fingers together. With one hand, he holds the back of your neck, whilst the other guides his hard cock toward you. "Come on, open up," he instructs, keep hold of your gaze as you stare up at him, "stick your tongue out for me, baby." You do as you are told, swirling your tongue around the tip, tasting the pre cum that seeped from the head. "That's a good girl," he groans, placing some tension on the back of your neck.

You wrap your lips around him, gently sucking on his head, before taking as much of him as you possibly could into your mouth. But it isn't enough for him. "You can take more than that. I know you can take more than that," he grunts, taking his hand off your neck and burying it into your hair. He drives his hips forward, the tip nudging the back of your throat, making you gag and splutter around him. "Breathe through your nose," he releases his hand from the base of his shaft, bringing it over to join his other in your hair, "that's it. Just like that! Fuck, y/n."

Through watery eyes, you watch his head fall back, deep, satisfied grunts and groans coming from his mouth as it hangs open. "Fuck," he curses, driving himself deeper and nearly cumming there and then as he feels you hollowing your cheeks, "shitting fuck, baby girl."

You moan around him, the vibration running through his hardened length, leaving him choking on an intake of air. "Do that again," he orders, pulling on your hair and then pushing your head down as he flexes his hips. His hand tightens and his body spasms as you moan around him again.

"You're such a fucking slut," he grunts, clearing his throat. His thrusts become hard and sloppy, letting you know he was close to finishing. "Should've done this the second I saw Reece's name on your back," he says, staring down into your eyes, "should've done it in front of him-" He quickly shakes his head no. "-should've done it front of all the boys, let them know just who this whore belongs to."

His body spasms, his thighs and the muscles in his stomach tensing as his hips come to an abrupt stop. "Oh, Je-" His words get trapped in the back of his throat, grunting and spilling himself into your mouth. You swallow every bit of him that he has to give you, using your thumb to clean up any spillage, a sight that has him groaning out loud as you suck your thumb clean.

"Did you swallow it all?"

Nodding your head, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out for him to see. "Ever last bit," you reply, grinning up at him.

His fingers hook under your chin, using the leverage to pull you up to your feet. "Good girl," he hums, taking his free hand and guiding your body to stand between his legs, "see, I don't know why you have to act like such a brat when clearly you can be a good girl for me."

"It's all your fault," you whimper as he sits you down on his thigh.

He tilts his head to the side. "My fault?" You nod your head, rolling your lip between your teeth as you bite down on your bottom lip. Pinning you against his thigh, you give into him and let him grind you against his thigh. "How is this any of my fault?" He questions you, spreading your wetness over his thigh as he drags your hips back and forth over him. "I wasn't the one who started this, remember?" He releases one of your hips, guiding his hand to wrap around your neck, grabbing at it with a tight grip. You gasp as he pulls you towards him, his eyes staring into yours as he whispers, "you did."

Crashing your lips against his, you bury your fingers through his hair, scratching your nails against his scalp. He hisses and tightens his grip, but you don't release the tension. You pull harder on his hair, only to whimper when he bites at your bottom lip, dragging it with him as he pulls away.

"Answer my question." He flexes his thigh and your body jolts at the added pressure against your clit. "Tell me why this is my fault."

"Because you never pay me any attention," you stutter, meeting resistance as you try to grind your hips at a speed that didn't antagonise you.

"I don't pay attention to you?" He sniggers, or rather snorts. "If I don't pay attention to you then what is it that I'm doing right now? Huh?" He moves his hand to grip your jaw, pinching it between his fingers. He kisses the base of your neck, pushing your head back to allow him more access to you. "Am I not paying you attention right now? Am I not letting you get off on my thigh? Did I not just let you suck on my cock?" You whimper and whine, the sound cut off as he pushes his thumb into your mouth and pulls your head back down to look at him. "Is that not enough for you?"

"No," you answer, mumbling around his thumb that was gagging you.

"No?"

You take his thumb out of your mouth, wiping the bit of spit that lingered away on the back of your hand. "You only pay attention to me when it matters to you," you find the courage to tell him, the recent developments in your arrangement not to your liking at all. It was why you had chosen to wear Reece's jersey over his own. You wanted to show him that you weren't a form of property.

That you weren't his property to use when he felt like it.

Your arrangement had become one-sided. You were the one who was expected to drop everything when he called. You were the one who was expected to go over to his place in the middle of the night because he was rock hard and his hand and five minutes of porn couldn't do the trick. He'd never do the same for you.

He used to.

But not anymore.

"You use me like I'm your personal fucking sex toy," you bite, trying to still your hips. You wasn't going to give him the satisfaction on cumming on his thigh. "I'm not your personal fucking sex toy!"

"But that's what you are, princess," he replies with a coldness that strikes you as being odd to you like he was trying to mask something. His thumb pushes into your cheek, prodding and poking at it. "You're my personal sex toy, my property to use whenever I want," he amuses, smirking to himself, "and you're no better than a common whore for answering every time that I call. I bet you are already dripping when you see that it's me calling you late at night. Thinking about all the things I'm gonna do to you when you get to mine. You love it."

"Don't call me that!"

"What? A whore?" He rolls his eyes. "Funny. You were begging me to call you one the other night." He gives your ass a harsh squeeze, the tips of his fingers bruising the skin, and drags your hips further up his thigh. "Don't act like you don't like it when I call you a whore," you whimper as he tightens his grip, "don't act like you don't like it when I say that this pussy, or this ass, or these tits are mine, because they are mine and you like it. Say it. Say that you like it when I say all of these things."

"I don't."

It was a lie.

"Yes, you do."

He sighs and pushes you to stand up. "I'm tired of looking at your face," he waves his hand towards the bed, "go on. Hands and knees."

And despite everything that had just been said between the two of you, you do as your told.

He tugs on your hips until your ass is resting in the air. It's a view that has him licking his lips. "Hold onto the bed," he mumbles, not waiting for you to reach for the bars of your bed frame before he is lining his cock up. Your pillow absorbs the satisfied cry when he slides into you, stretching you slowly. "I'm going to fuck this pussy like it's mine," he grunts, forgetting to wait for your body to adjust, "because, princess, this is my pussy. And you're going to take it like a good girl, aren't you?"

You're stunned to silence, too much pleasure and overstimulation leaving you without the ability to talk back. Pushing your hips back to meet each of his thrusts, your ass bounces off him and lets him go even harder, filling the room with the echo of skin slapping against each other. "Christian," you finally find your voice again, squeezing the bars until your knuckles were straining against your skin, "gonna-"

"No, you're not!" He cuts you off, grunting as he abruptly pulls out of you. You whine, backing your hips up in seek of a release, but he grips them and pushes them into the mattress. "Take it off!" He's pulling at the jersey and you were surprised that he hadn't just tried to rip it off your body. "You're not cumming with his fucking name on your back," jealously rolls so easily off his tongue, "not again."

Helping him to remove the jersey, you whimper as he tugs it harshly over your head.

"It's a little late to reach for a condom, isn't it?" You ask, turning to watch him reaching for the bedside table. Pulling it open, you feel his cock pressing into your ass as he leans forward, teasing that dull emptiness you were feeling again. "Not to mention, I keep them in the other one. Pretty sure you should know that by now."

"I'm not reaching for that," Christian replies, whatever he had taken out was concealed in the palm of his hand. His lips graze against your bare shoulder, biting down against the base of your neck and leaving a fresh hickey as he pulls away. "You've had Reece's name on your back for far too long today," turning your head you see him holding a marker pen in his right hand, "I think it's time to put my name where it's rightfully meant to be."

"Rightfully?" You raise your eyebrows. "I'm not yours," you goad him, sucking in a sharp breath as he uses his free hand to push the head of his cock against your entrance, "I can wear whatever name I want on my back; maybe I'll ask Kai for his shirt-"

"Kai has a girlfriend-"

"And so does Reece," you talk over him, "but he didn't seem to mind giving me his shirt."

He gasps and groans, relishing in the moment as slips himself back inside, feeling your walls tighten and pulsate around him. "Yes, he does," he remembers his original train of thought, releasing his hand from the base of his shaft and taking hold of your hip. His tight grip prevents you from moving your hips, much to your own displeasure. "And that girlfriend isn't you."

He bites off the pen's lid, spitting it away from both of you, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. The tip of the marker is cold against your warm, sweat-glistened skin, and it doesn't take long to figure out he was writing PULISIC in the space between your shoulders. Your head snaps back to look at him, ignoring the ache between your legs as he stares back at you with dark, lusty eyes and a grin that could rival the Cheshire Cat.

"Watch how you look at me, princess," he warns, twirling the pen around his finger like he was gloating or something, "I might just end up writing my name on other parts of your body. Parts of your body that belong to me."

"They're not yours," you bite back. He tosses the pen carelessly over his shoulder, not caring where it landed, or if the ink would run into your bedroom carpet. "None of my body parts are yours," you still bite back, despite the whimper that slips off your lips when he grabs your bum fully in both hands, "I don't belong to you."

He's still grinning and starts to thrust into you in a slow manner that drives you crazy. "She says, despite it being my cum she just swallowed!"

"Was that supposed to be funny?"

"Wasn't a joke, baby girl. Only the truth."

Your head hangs into your chest, your eyes rolling when you hear his cocky snigger. "I hate you," you mutter under your breath.

He stops thrusting his hips, the tip only nestled inside, teasing a whimper and whine of protest to spill from your lips. "What was that?" He tuts when you don't answer him. "Oi," he gives your bum a pinch. Your head snaps back at the fleeting moment of pain, meeting that cocky grin all over again. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," you lie, wiggling your hips to try and ease the ache. He shakes his head, "no," pulling completely out of you. "Christian-"

"Tell me what you said," he cuts you off.

He wraps his hand around the base of his cock, guiding the tip between your folds, teasing you as it trails from your clit to your hole. The light touch has you squirming, whimpering, and clenching around nothing, and Christian was loving every second of it.

"Tell me what you said and I'll put my cock back in." He leans forward, kissing along the back of your shoulder and up your neck. "And that's what you really want, huh? You want this fat cock back inside of you, don't you?" He spoke directly into your ear, his lips pressed up against the shell. "Now stop being a dirty fucking brat," he rasps, making you gasp out loud, "and tell me what you said!"

Pushing up onto your elbows, you work with the minimal space available to you and turn over onto your back. You collapse back onto the mattress, your head sinking into the pillow, and look up at Christian, who props himself up on his biceps, caging you underneath him.

"Well?" He waits for you to speak, raising his eyebrows, which had a small amount of sweat to them, as he keeps hold of your gaze.

"I said, "oh, daddy, that feels so good,"" you decide to lie, internally cringing at calling him daddy. 'Daddy' was one of the few terms that were quickly made of limits during sex. Neither of you felt right about it. "So big and so good," you coo, running your hands down his toned chest. He chokes on the air as you wrap your hand around his shaft, pumping it up and down at a slow pace. "It's just perfect to fill this dirty, needy, fucking whore up." A sharp gasp follows as you slip his cock back inside.

His eyes fall shut and his jaw tenses. "Stop prattling about and tell me what you said," he says, lifting one arm off the bed. Reaching for your wrist, he pins your arm above your head. He grunts as his hips stop moving, the full length of his cock pushed deep inside of you. "Say it," he whispers, his breath touching your lips as his mouth hovers above yours.

You chase his lips, meeting the corner of his mouth as he turns his head away from you. "Fine," you sigh, wriggling your wrist to feel more comfortable, "I said I hate you."

"No, you don't."

You nod your head, biting your bottom lip to stop the moan from creeping up your throat as he rolls his hips into you. "I do," you stutter, a whimper now falling from your lips as Christian pulls back, thrusting his hips forwards as far as he could until he met resistance.

"You don't," he chuckles, "I know you don't."

"I do."

"Well, that's a shame," he drawled, the corners of his lips tugging into a lazy smile. He dips to kiss your neck, humming contently when your head instinctively rolls back to give him extra room to reach. He releases your wrist, bringing his hand down in search of your leg. "Because I like you," he whispers into your skin, grabbing you by the knee and lifting your leg higher around his waist. Your other leg follows it, your ankles locking together and caging him in. His hands cradle your face, lips brushing against your hairline as he whispers, "I like you so fucking much, baby girl."

It was a lie, you told yourself, just something to feed your delusions and to get you to cum for him. But it worked.

It always worked.

He holds his face close to yours, his lips absorbing every little sound you made as your hips moved together with his. Your skin, clammy with sweat, burned with fire, and tingled with pleasure. You cry out his name, throwing your head back into the pillow, when he brings his hand down between you both, touching your clit in a controlled and deliberate manner.

"That's it," he encourages, "give it to me." His head dips into the crook of your neck, kissing and tasting the sweat on your skin. "Give it to me, baby," you arch your body into him, feeling his chest vibrate against yours as he spoke, "fucking give it to me." Not too long after, with the encouragement of feeling you tightening and pulsating around him, he finishes inside you with a loud groan and his fingers bruising your skin as he grips your body tightly.

Convincing himself to finally pull out, you were glad to see him sitting on the edge of your bed, pulling his boxers back on as he stands. It meant that he would be leaving soon; leaving you to wallow in your regret, only for you to do it all over again the next time he calls. His head turns back, looking over his shoulder, and watches you climb off the bed. He should've stopped you, told you to stay where you were and that he would get you a warm cloth to clean yourself with, but you were already walking out of the door before he could think of the words to say.

He finds you in the bathroom, looking at your back in the mirror, trying to clean off his name. "Let me-"

"No," you sigh, failing to reach your back, "I've got it."

He ignores you and you don't protest as he takes the warm cloth from your hand. He takes care not to be too rough as he drags the cloth across your skin, wiping away his own handwriting. Out of the moment, he now realised how immature and possessive he had been writing his own surname on your back. "I'm sorry," he apologises, bending down to kiss your shoulder.

You shift uncomfortably on the spot. "Don't do that," you mumble, tightening your grip on the bathroom counter. A knot has formed in the back of your throat and you believed if you were to look at him, even for a second, you would burst into tears. Grabbing the old t-shirt you had taken into the bathroom, you pulled it over your head, ignoring Christian when he tells you he hadn't finished. "It'll come off in the shower," you mumble, trying to squeeze past him.

"Please," he reaches out to you, touching at your sides as he runs his hands up and down your sides, "I'm sorry."

"Whatever," you mutter, looking down at your feet.

He hooks his fingers under your chin, tilting your head back to look at him. His face sinks when he sees the tears brimming in your eyes. "Fuck," he mumbles, this isn't how he wanted any of this to go down. His hand cradles your face and it takes every bit of your strength not to lean into his touch. "Oh, god," he stumbles over his words, trying to apologise to you, "I didn't mean to upset you when I wrote on your back. It was immature, I know that - fuck -"

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you shove his hand away. Tears roll slowly down your cheeks, fresh tears falling from your eyes every time you blinked. "You could've written on my pussy, for all I care," you cut him off, feeling the bathroom counter press into your back as you step away from him, "I don't care about that!"

The crack in your voice makes him want to touch you, wipe away your tears, and hold you, but he doesn't move. It's the harshness in your tone that makes him stay stuck in the same spot.

"I knew this would've never worked," you dismiss yourself, a quiet sob leaving your lips as you wipe away your tears, "we actually thought you might finally crack if you saw me in someone else's jersey. How stupid I was for believing that you might have actually liked me more than just enough to have sex with me." Sniffling, you glance up at him. "But I guess I was wrong."

He frowns. "You think I only like you enough to just have sex with you?"

"Clearly," you murmur, chewing down on the pad of your thumb.

"That's not tr-"

"Don't tell me it's not the truth, when I know it is the truth, Christian! I meant it when I said you only pay me attention when it matters to you!" His expression hadn't changed and he was still frowning. "What happened? When did your needs become greater than mine? You make up excuses not to see me, but then expect me to drop everything when you call, which I do, every single time, and I hate myself for it. I hate you for it! And I know I should tell you it's over, that I can't see you anymore, because every time I let you in, I break a piece of my heart hoping that maybe, just maybe, you'll drop the roughness and tell me you love me like I love you!"

You clamp your hand over your mouth, the last part slipping out without a second thought. "I-I-I-" You're like a broken record, repeating the same thing over and over again. Never had you said those words before. Ever. They were meant to be said when you were happy, not with a face dampened with tears and pain so heavy in your chest.

"You love me?" Christian asks, the colour draining from his face.

You take a deep in, attempting to calm your hammering heart. "I don't know."

"It's a yes or no answer, Y/N." You let him take a step towards you and you let his hand sit on the back of your neck. His thumb stroking the hairs at the nape and his eyes holding your gaze as you finally look up at him again. "I'll ask you again: do you love me?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

"Why shouldn't I lie to you?" You ask, tears rolling down your cheeks. The pain in your chest intensifies as you look him in his eyes. Like his smile, they were burned into your mind and they were the things you saw every time you closed your eyes. "If I say yes, you're only going to break my heart. You're always breaking my heart, this time shouldn't be any different."

He shakes his head. "I never want to break your heart, Y/N."

"Then let me go."

"But I can't do that either," he replies, bringing his thumb around to caress your cheek, wiping away your tears, "I don't want to let you go."

You pull away from him, pushing his hand away. "So I must have my heart broken just so you have someone who you can fuck?" It's not what he meant but you didn't know that. The tears dry up as you scoff at him. "Very mature and toxic of you."

"No-" He sighs, trying to reach for your hand but you pull it away. The rejection stings in his chest and hurts like a punch to a gut. "Listen to me," his hands cradle your face and even as you try to fight him off.

"No, you listen to me," you raise your voice above his, finally pushing him away, "I don't want to hear whatever lie you have to tell me. So..." You step to the side, giving him enough room to leave. "So, just leave."

"I-"

"Go!" You insist, now pointing to the door.

Christian decides not to fight it, even if everything in him is screaming at him to not leave, and leaves the bathroom, his shoulders slumped and one hand cradling his face. You waited, rooted to the spot, listening as he shuffles about your apartment to collect his things. Fresh tears burned your vision and loud sob finally escapes the second your front door is closing.

He was gone.

For now.

You crawled underneath your covers, too tired to change the sheets and finding a minimum of comfort in his scent that lingered on them. Reaching for your phone, you find a couple of messages from Reece.

Reece: Did it work?

Reece: I'm gonna take the silence as a yes 🤞

You don't bother to reply.

And just as you're about turn off your phone, your phone pings.

Christian: I love you.

~~~~~~~ | F O O T B A L L T A G L I S T | ~~~~~~~

Football taglist: @shanoontje @maseandkepa @theblxefox @blueathens @ofxinnocence @1-800-benji-chilwell @mrschilly @geek-and-proud @in-my-body-bag @laurasstufff1 @mountchilly @sereshawsbby @greykitkepa

#christian pulisic #christian pulisic imagine #christian pulisic smut #christian pulisic angst #christian pulisic one shot #christian pulisic x reader #christian pulisic fanfic #christian pulisic fic #christian pulisic fluff

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ebonyslasher · 9 months

Text

Spicy Alphabet: Jason Voorhees

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Such a sweetheart. He's eager to clean up after. It's a bit sloppy at first but he gets the hang of it. Tucking you into the bed and laying right beside you when he's done to cuddle. He does everything out of love and necessity. Of course you won't be able to move after THAT session.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He's quite proud of his torso, it's a powerhouse. His torso is the one thing he'll allow himself to look happily at in the mirror. Those abs and back muscles were a blessing.

You? He doesn't have one. Everything about you is a blessing from God to him. There hasn't been an inch of your body he's neglected.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

This may sound strange, but it depends on your relationship development.

Married? Cream pies oozing out of you every time.

Engaged? Cum shots on different body parts.

Even if you can't physically get pregnant, Jason feels like creampie always equals possible pregnancy.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There's nothing dirty about this pure man. How dare you! Until he kills……then he's pretty messy.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Not experienced at all. Pretty sure he grew up evangelical Christian. They don't like even kissing until you get married. He's awkward, uncomfortable, and shy.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Let's avoid laughing until he gets super comfortable with sex. He might think you're making fun of him. Once he's more confident in himself, he'll also laugh at the weird sounds and awkward transitions.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

His pubic hair has its own ecosystem. You swear you could discover some new animal species in there. He'll groom if you ask him, or even let you trim him yourself. But if you like the ecosystem, be ready to become an ecologist 🌱

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Exceptionally romantic. There are times where it gets so overwhelming, it makes you cry. That and the incredible orgasms he gives you. Actually, you can't tell which reason made you cry the most.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Nah. He will just come to you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

As long as it's gentle, he's into BDSM elements. Mostly bondage and you dominating him. Big scary guy likes to be put in his place, figuratively, by his small, cute s/o. It helps him unwind from his killing sprees. Once married, he will have the strongest urge for breeding.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

If you are okay with it, on a bed near the lake. The moonlight shines down on you both, exposing the glisten of sweat on skin.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Your existence is enough to turn him on. But he gets especially hard when you take charge and take care of him, doting on him like the loving spouse you are.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that will hurt you. Also, anything that he finds degrading for the both of you like; scat, piss play, or spitting

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Loves to give, give, givvvvvvvveeeee!! Oh, you'll be screaming in pleasure when he goes down. His tongue and the amount of saliva he produces makes you feel like you're sitting in his heavenly water.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Scared to go rough, so he's slow and sensual. Later on, he'll allow some rough moments, but they are very quick.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Would rather have a full love making session. Quickies remind him of the teens who he kills for having pre-marital sex. There's no love in the action to him.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

No. He'll try something new for you. But he has his hard limits.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Although he's a powerhouse, he delivers so much emotion through his movements during lovemaking. He can last 2-3 good rounds before he's tapped out. He needs to emotionally recover.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Sex toys? He's neutral. It depends on what it's being used for. He likes using them on you more than on himself. With bondage (and other related items) , he would rather be on the receiving end.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He is not unfair! He'll give you what you want. He's a sucker for you 💕.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Moderately loud. He grunts a lot. Sometimes whimpers.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

You were teaching him how to tie knots one day with some colorful rope you ordered. His hands were used as a demonstration. After running through various techniques, you noticed his arousal poking out. That's when you both discovered he likes being tied up.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Anaconda. Not kidding. He's soda can thick, 10.5 inches long. He has a small curve to the left.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Low, on his own. You're the deciding factor on how high his sex drive is. He tries to match you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Sometimes he will quickly fall into slumber after caring for you. Other times, he's energized by the session. So he'll go out and check the camp.

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #slasher x reader #grown folks business #spicy Alphabet #calling it that cause you know.... Tumblr #also using these are practice to get back into writing #x black reader

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karahalloway · 4 months

Text

(Less Than) Noble Intentions: Chapter 16 - Snakes in the Garden

Fandom: TRR

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series Summary: The social season may be over, but Harper Gale’s problems are just beginning. With everyone at court a potential suspect, can she and Drake survive the engagement tour and get to the bottom of the plot against her and clear her name? An AU take of TRR2 featuring my OTP - Harper & Drake.

Masterlist: (Less Than) Noble Intentions

Chapter Summary: Harper greets the world as the new Duchess of Valtoria, but that is not the only newsworthy item that rocks the Apple Harvest Festival...

Word Count: 7,300

Rating/Warnings: M (swearing, angst, possible ulterior motives)

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: Things are slowly coming to a head! Thanks for bearing with me on this series - I know I have a lot of other projects in the works, so I have not been updating as much as I probably should. But, we are finally getting to the exciting parts (as if what's happened until now hasn't been exciting 🤣) as after this chapter, we are into the meat of the engagement tour, and all the juicy plot changes that I have been wanting to write for over a year will finally come to a fore! *evil laugh*

A/N2: If you have not heard of TURN - the TV show from which I borrowed the chapter theme song - then, I can highly recommend it (especially if you like historical dramas, US history (specifically the Revolutionary War period), or just really good story-telling)!

A/N3: This is also much submission for @choicesjanuary2024 Day 12: Smiles / Secret

Chapter 16 - Snakes in the Garden

"Are you sure I look okay?" I ask, nervously pulling at the high-necked strip of emerald lace that circles my throat.

"Stop fiddling!" Bertrand berates, slapping my hand away. "We are running late as it, and we cannot afford to lose any more time to last minute touch-ups!"

"Yeah, but—"

"You look great, Harper," Maxwell assures me with a beaming smile. "Marcie did a great job."

The petite make-up artist that the Beaumonts had procured out of thin air bobs a curtsy to my right. "It was my pleasure, Your Grace."

Her words hit me like a whiplash.

Your Grace.

My new form of address. One I'm not sure I'm ever going to get used to. Lady Harper had been one thing, but that had always felt like a curtesy. A temporary formality that had been extended to me by virtue of my sponsorship by the Beaumonts during the social season.

But there is nothing temporary about my current situation. The weight of the ring on my hand — and its implications — bears down heavily on my finger... and my thoughts. Especially since I still haven't found a moment alone with Drake to finish our conversation from this morning... or bring him up to speed on my new status.

Because no sooner had my ennoblement been sealed with the very expensive — and very potent — champagne, than the Beaumonts had shown back up (somewhat mercifully) to crash Christian's surprise party.

And from there it had been a whirlwind of hair, makeup and outfitting for the all-important Apple Harvest Festival where I am due to make my grand debut as the new Duchess of Valtoria.

A position of some importance — Bertrand has stressed, multiple times — given that in addition to the impressive estate that I am now the official caretaker of, I also have a seat on the infamous Council, as well as a seat on the even more exclusive Privy Council. Not to mention my own fleet of staff, vehicles, bank accounts, and carefully curated online profiles.

Which is why — on top of everything — the ever-industrious press corps have worked at record speed to throw the fruits of yesterday's labours together into an exclusive, twelve-page spread as part of a special edition of Trend magazine, which dropped this morning.

And while I haven't actually had a chance to read through the copy that currently sits on the coffee table of my room (together with every other major national and international news publication), Maxwell has assured me that the social media reactions have — so far — been positive. The snaps of my stress-fuelled efforts at yesterday's apple pick have apparently helped.

Which means that Jonathan's PR gamble is starting to pay dividends, and I now have a public image to maintain. Not just for myself, but for Cordonia as well. Because when I step outside today, I'll be representing everything that the kingdom under Christian's burgeoning rule is striving to be — beauty, modernity, opportunity.

Definitely not the best day to wake up with a litany of awkwardly situated bruises!

Thankfully, both Maxwell and Bertrand seem to have had a chance to pull themselves together after this morning's surprising (and definitely explosive!) turn of events, and — after the initial shock — have set about covering for mine and Drake's mess with the same coordinated precision that they employed to pull the Beaumont Bash out of their butts.

With the result that they somehow managed to transform me from the black and blue disaster I woke up as, into the picture of a polished and refined lady.

I glance apprehensively out at the bright sunshine blanketing the hills. Hopefully, the carefully applied window-dressing survives the literal trial by fire it's about to be subjected to. Because just like yesterday, the temperature is set to climb into the mid-90's today as well, which means I'll most likely end up sweating buckets again, thanks to the Edwardian nature of my dress's neckline.

And what I definitely don't need today is for all the blush and cover-up getting smudged away so that everyone at the event can start speculating about the intimate placement of my of hickeys!

I close my eyes wearily. God, I can't wait for all this to be over...

"No catnaps!" snaps Bertrand, slapping a wide-brimmed hat onto my head. "The people are waiting on us!"

I barely have time to grab my matching clutch before the Beaumonts are whisking me out of my room and down the length of the corridor towards the manor's lawn.

"Surely the Festival can start without us...!" I gasp as I stumble after Bertrand in my heels.

"No, it cannot," he reprimands. "All members of the Council must be present for the ceremonial tree planting."

I frown. "Tree planting? Isn't that a little... agrarian for the aristos?"

"It is a time-honoured tradition!" corrects Bertrand. "Cordonia owes its existence and livelihood to the noble Ruby, so it is the duty of the Council to ensure that the fruits of our bounty are secured for future generations! Hence, the requirement to plant new saplings at the end of each harvest!"

"If you say so..." I concede as we pass through the back doors of the manor.

Based on what I saw at the apple pick, Bertrand's pronouncement seems optimistic at best, given that none of the aristos even bothered to lift a finger to a tree yesterday.

But, looks can always be deceiving, so maybe today is the day that the I am pleasantly surprised for once.

A deafening cheer erupts as the Beaumonts and I step out onto the manor's steps.

Snapping my head towards the source of the commotion, I see what appears to be thousands of people crammed behind velvet-lined cordons, screaming and jostling for position like they're in the front row of a Taylor Swift concert...

...and it takes me a second to realise that it's my name that they're shouting.

"Duchess!"

"Lady Harper, we love you!"

"You're the true Apple Queen, no matter what anyone says!"

"Wow..." I blink, taken aback by the fervency of the crowd's reaction. "I didn't realise I had such a rabid following..."

"Best wave to them," suggests Maxwell, leaning in as he raises his arm into the air with a wide smile.

"Okay..." I concede hesitantly, turning to the crowd to do the same.

The last time I experienced anything remotely like this had been on the red carpet at the Derby — my first public outing as a suitor. But even the bright flash of the cameras and the intrusive questions that the reporters had flung at me paled in comparison to the reaction I am receiving today.

Phones and cameras are thrust into the air as the Beaumonts and I descend the manor's stairs to the accompaniment of the increasingly frenzied cheers and shouts of encouragement. Even a few bouquets of flowers fly through the air, narrowly missing my hat.

And I can't help but smile in the face of the genuine outpouring of support from the crowd. Because it sure as heck feels good to be on top for once!

However, arriving at the edge of the orchard where the tree planting ceremony is due to take place, I am greeted by a very different type of welcome.

Snooty expressions drip down the ends of aristocratic noses as the members of the Council pass silent judgment on my somewhat bombastic entrance.

"They're just jealous," Maxwell whispers to me as we take up our spots at the edge of the gathering.

"Yeah..." I agree with a stilted voice. "That's what I'm worried about."

I know firsthand of the lengths that these people are willing to go to in order to exact vengeance for perceived slights. And I did not particularly feel like painting a target on my back a second time while I am still trying to recover from the hurt caused by the first.

Maybe this is a mistake...

But I don't have time to think on it long, because the public erupts into an even more deafening outburst as Christian appears with Madeleine on his arm.

"Look at her..." snips a voice from behind me. "Acting like she's Queen already."

I whip around in disbelief. "Olivia!"

The Duchess of Lythikos cuts her green eyes over at me with a derisive look. "Oh, don't look so surprised, Harper. Just because you are now a duchess, does not mean that the rest of us have taken early retirement."

"Trust me," I grumble under my breath, "this was not the plan."

"Opportunities multiply as they are seized," she replies sagely.

I quirk a brow at her. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," she expounds surly, "opportunity breeds opportunity. And only by exploiting every advantage will you uncover previously hidden gains. Do they not teach The Art of War inyour schools?"

"No..."

She scoffs under her breath. "Explains a lot."

I roll my eyes at her as Christian and Madeleine pause on the steps for photos and a couple of quick sound bites. "I guess this means your sabbatical was productive?"

"Exceedingly."

I heave a breath. "At least one of us is making progress..."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short," she counters out of the corner of her mouth. "Your recent advancements have served as a welcome distraction..."

"Not sure if that’s a compliment, or not..." I admit sourly.

"You have more power than you realise," she insists quietly. "Make sure you use it."

"Wow..." I mutter, glancing over at her in genuine surprise. "Friendly advice from the Scarlet Duchess? What else have you learnt during your time away?"

"Our interests are temporarily aligned, nothing more," she replies, shooting daggers across the lawn towards Madeleine. "And I'll fill you in shortly."

"Well, it's good to have you back, regardless," I say with a dip of my head. "Your Grace."

Olivia shoots me a sidelong look. "Don't get sentimental on me, Duchess."

But I can see the hint of a smile pulling at her lips.

Christian and Madeleine arrive at the edge of the trees. Stepping up to the row of waiting saplings, Christian pulls a stack of notecards out of his pocket and delivers a short speech to the click of the cameras.

As the mandatory applause dies down, he slots the pieces of paper carefully away... and pulls off his jacket.

"What are you doing?" hisses Madeleine as the crowd descends into a hubbub of excited reactions.

"Taking a leaf out of the Duchess of Valtoria's book," he replies, handing his jacket off to the closest shocked Councillor as he sets about rolling up his sleeves.

"Out of—!" Madeleine bristles in indignation, while trying to maintain an outwardly calm composure. "The only thing you have taken is leave of your senses! Now get back here and—!"

Ignoring his fiancée's outburst, Christian grabs the ribbon-bedecked shovel out of the hands of the footman that was holding it, and steps up to a clear patch of grass. Adjusting his grip on the handle, he digs the metal blade decisively into the ground to the accompanying slew of clicking camera shutters.

"Shall we?" asks Olivia with a sly smirk as she pushes her way to the front of the line of gawping nobles.

"Let's," I agree, instantly catching onto her plan.

"Lady Harper!" hisses Bertrand from behind me. "What do you think you're—?"

"Lending a hand to the King," I throw back over my shoulder as I step to the front of the row of aristos who are looking mutely onto the sight of their monarch working up an actual sweat before them.

Grabbing another shovel from the pile in the corner — these ones obviously having seen some honest work already, judging by the dirt encrusted on their faces — I join the King of Cordonia in enlarging the hole in the ground.

Because regardless of Christian's underlying motives for ennobling me, and whatever his broader game may be, what he is doing right now is bigger than me, bigger than him, bigger than any of us. And that deserves recognition. Especially when he is taking such active — and public — strides towards being the change he wants to see unfurl during his rule. Where the ruling class doesn't just offer empty platitudes and hollow ceremony, but actually practices what it preaches. So, what better way to do that, than by planting the seeds of change in front of thousands of people in the literal heart of the kingdom?

Christian rewards my arrival with a nod and a smile as I take up position next to him.

Hefting my shovel, I slice it into the earth that he's already uncovered, using the somewhat flimsy sole of my heeled sandals to drive it deeper.

Scooping the blade back out, I suddenly feel a presence to my left. Looking up, I see that Maxwell has also joined our impromptu work crew.

Throwing me a wink, he drops his shovel in next to mine.

With the three of us working on tandem, it takes us almost no time at all to dig out a hole large enough to house the new apple tree.

Wiping the sweat from my forehead — the weatherman had not lied, that's for sure! — I see that Olivia, with some assistance from Hana, has already prepared the sapling by shunting it closer to the hole and removing the burlap covering from its roots.

Laying down our shovels, we help her manoeuvre the tree to the edge of the dint. Cheers and applause rise up from the onlookers as the sapling thuds into the earth. Olivia uses one of the knives from her hidden arsenal to slice off the twines holding the branches together, and the tree unfurls itself with a satisfied snap.

"Your Majesty!" shouts a reporter, who I recognise as Frederick Capone. "One for the Cordonian Times, if you please!"

"And for the CBS!" adds Donald Brine, muscling his way to the front.

"Certainly," accedes Christian graciously, holding his arm out. "It was a group effort, after all."

We all gather in — sweaty and dirty, but smiling — as the press corps immortalises the scene...

...and I innocuously sweep my hair over my shoulder in a vain effort to try and hide any bruises that may have become uncovered as a result of the unplanned exertion.

"Thank you for joining me in my moment of impulsivity," Christian acknowledges softly as the bulbs flash.

"Please," scoffs Olivia out of the side of her mouth. "It was coordinated from the start."

"The people don't seem to mind," counters Hana with a demure smile as she faces the cameras.

"With the exception of about half-dozen," I note, glancing back at the disgruntled looks of the Councillors from behind us, as they try to save face by applauding our efforts together with the rest of the crowd.

"They'll fall in line." Christian assures me as he lifts his hand with a wave.

I feel a prick between my shoulder blades. Turning my head, I catch sight of the cold fire radiating out of Madeleine's gaze from behind the mask of her perfect smile.

"Maybe not everyone..." I mutter under my breath as I turn back towards the paps.

I'm already on Madeleine's shit list for daring to return to court after my very public humiliation and banishment. On the night of her engagement tour launch party, no less! So, the fact that I ended up upstaging her — again — probably means that I've sunk even further down the ladder of her estimations.

To what end, I have no idea. But I'm going to have to start being more careful from here on out.

Once the press are finally placated, we disperse across the lawn in search of some much-needed refreshments.

"Harper!"

I swallow a groan as I'm brought up short, mere steps from the freshly squeezed, rosemary-infused lemonade that I desperately need after toiling away in this heat. "What now, Bertrand...?"

"I... uhm..." He clears his throat as I turn to face him. "I wanted to apologise for my earlier outburst. It was unseemly... and in retrospect, short-sighted."

"What do you mean?" I ask with a frown. Bertrand very rarely — if ever! — apologised.

"The public reaction to the tree planting has been overwhelming," he clarifies, pulling his phone out.

My eyes bulge as I take in the view count on the screen. "A hundred thousand views already!"

"And counting," Bertrand adds. "And that is only one website."

"And look at the comments!" I exclaim, scrolling through the feed. "They're loving Maxwell as well!"

"Yes, it appears that my brother has a keener instinct for media relations than I do..."

"You should tell him that," I say. "It would mean the world to him."

Bertrand looks momentarily taken aback. "I... Well..." He clears his throat again. "Yes. Maybe I will. He deserves some recognition for his efforts in diverting — at least temporarily — the negative attention away from our financial predicaments."

"A simple hug and a 'thank-you' will do," I tell him with a knowing look.

Bertrand reels back in abject horror. "I will not subject my brother to such a sordid display of affection! Especially in public!"

I heave a sigh. "And there's your problem, right th—"

I trail off as I spot a familiar figure signalling to me from over Bertrand's shoulders.

"Excuse me," I say, palming Bertrand's phone back to him as I move towards one of the marquees that had been set up at the edge of the lawn.

Slipping inside the flap of the tent, I come face-to-face with Ana de Luca.

"Your Grace," she nods, dipping into a curtesy, something she hasn't deigned to do before. "Thank you for making the time."

"Ana," I nod in return, wondering why the influential editor of Trend chose to pull me away for a private meeting. Especially after I cornered her so forcefully at Madeleine's garden party a few days ago.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," she continues, straightening back up. "Since returning to court you have managed to elevate yourself not just in rank, but in the eyes of the public as well. Rolling your sleeves up in tandem with the King was a masterful piece of image enhancement."

"I didn't do it for myself," I reply evenly.

"Of course," she nods quickly. "We must all step in line with our new King. But your reputation is certainly reaping the benefits as well."

"As is your bottom line," I point out.

"Your initiative is markedly boosting sales of this month's special edition, as well as traffic to our website," she concedes. "For which Trend is very grateful. But that is not the reason I pulled you aside."

"What is it then?"

"I found out the name of the photographer," she replies, reaching into her handbag.

I feel my heart jump in my chest. "You're joking..."

She raises a brow at me from behind the lenses of her black-out Versace shades as she pulls a small flash-drive out. "I can assure you that I am not."

I quickly pull myself back together. "No. Of course not..."

Handing the drive over, she adds. "On there you will find all the pertinent information I was able to obtain through my own means."

"Thank you," I say sincerely, taking the piece of plastic from her. "I honestly was not expecting this..."

She shrugs an elegant shoulder. "I said I would look into it, so I did. It is not much, but I am sure you have people who can hopefully take it further."

"I do," I affirm, slotting the device into my clutch.

"After all," she adds with a knowing quirk to her lips. "You are not the only one with a vested interest in seeing your name cleared, Your Grace."

With another quick bob, she exits the marquee.

I let out a low exhale as the tent flap drops back into place in her wake. "Thank God..."

Some much-needed progress at last!

Hopefully, Drake can take the information from the drive and do a deep dive into the photographer to see if they ever crossed paths with whoever it is that has it in for me.

Which reminds me...

Opening my clutch up again, I pull my phone out and type up a quick message to my elusive boyfriend.

I haven't seen or heard from him since the event started. And now I have two pieces of critical information I need to share with him. So, rather than chasing after him like some damsel in distress, I'm going to make him come to me for a change. Because time is of the essence, and I don't want to wait.

Hitting send, I exit the tent and head back towards the orchard. I figure that since everyone is on the lawn, the secluded garden hidden amongst the trees will give me and Drake the best chance to meet in private, away from the prying eyes of the court and the press.

Slipping between the tree trunks, I try to make my way as casually as possible through the orchard, as if I am simply out for a walk, in order to ward off potential suspicion. But, as I drift further away from the Festival, I start to pick up the pace, mindful of the short timeframe I gave Drake... as well as the exposed roots on the ground.

Because as much as I might want to hurry, I definitely don't want — or need — a twisted ankle the day before we're due to start the international leg of the trip. As Mom was right — I should take advantage of the upcoming whirlwind tour of Europe to at least try and get some sightseeing in. As who knows when I'll get the chance to do this again...

...especially if I'm forced to become a hermit because we fail to expose the mastermind behind the press scandal.

I shake my head. No. I need to stay positive. It's the only way I'm going to get through—

"Competing with a herd of elephants, Gale?"

I snap my gaze up at the sound of Drake's voice... and nearly trip over a hidden apple lodged in the grass.

"You try sneaking ‘round in four-inch heels," I grumble back at him, while using the trunk of a nearby tree to steady myself.

He mutters something under his breath as he steps over to me with an outstretched hand. "Here."

Grabbing his hand, I navigate gingerly away from the tree, only to find that the slightly rotten fruit has become impaled on the end of my stiletto.

"Great..." I groan, trying to flick the stupid thing off... But it stays stubbornly stuck.

"You're a walking disaster, y'know that, right?" drawls Drake as he drops down in front of me.

"Ha-ha, funny," I snark back at him while trying to balance on one foot on the uneven ground.

He meets my eye with a wry look as he finally manages to pull the offending fruit off with a squelch. "You're only gripin' 'cause it's true."

"Yeah, well, not all of us have... reflexes... like Neo..." I reply sardonically as I save myself from tipping over by grabbing onto Drake's shoulder.

He stifles a scoff as he tosses the apple into the trees. "You good?"

"Yeah," I confirm, righting myself again and letting go of his shirt.

Drake regards me critically for a long moment — as if expecting me to keel over again at the drop of a hat — before pushing himself up.

"Thanks," I say, laying an appreciative hand on his arm.

The humour fades from his gaze at the contact.

"Drake..." I start...

...but he's already pulled away.

"What did you want to talk about?" he asks, not quite meeting my eyes as he slots his hands into his pockets, the momentary lightness of our previous interaction gone.

I heave a breath.

We really need to talk about what happened this morning. But his suddenly standoffish demeanour makes it clear that he's not quite ready for that yet.

So, I decide to start with something less contentious.

"We have a lead on the photographer," I tell him, reaching into my clutch.

His head perks up with interest. "That was fast."

"Teamwork makes the dream work," I agree with a smile, pulling the flash drive back out and holding it out to him.

His posture suddenly stiffens. "The hell is that?"

I glance around me uncertainly. "What?"

"The fucking ring on your finger," he declares dispassionately, his accusatory gaze scorching into my outstretched hand.

My heart drops. Oh, no...

This is not how I wanted to break it to him. But unfortunately for both of us, the cat has now ripped itself out of the proverbial bag, so I'm just going to have to scamper after it.

Taking a steadying inhale, I look him square in the eye. "It's my new signet ring." I turn my hand over to show it to him.

His face darkens. "Fils de pute de—" he grits under his breath, snapping a hand out to grab my wrist.

My eyes widen. "Drake, what are y—?"

A storm is raging in his espresso gaze. "Signet rings go on the little finger. On the right hand."

"Oh," is all I can manage as he swipes the golden band off my left ring finger.

"You didn't know, did you?" he asks softly, reaching for my other hand... more gently this time.

I shake my head with a constricted throat. "No, I—"

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

My head jerks ‘round at the sound of the unexpected voice. "Christian!"

"I see you couldn't resist a somewhat impulsive stroll through the orchards, either?" he asks, more rhetorically than anything else. "The scent of apples is truly luscious this time of year."

"Erm... yes...!" I manage to squeak out, shoving my right hand behind my back. "Smells like apple juice!"

Christian's brow quivers ever so slightly at my slightly random — and obviously unexpected — comparison.

But I'm too busy coordinating with Drake to get the signet ring shoved back onto my hand while trying to palm the flash drive off to him without dropping either in the process. As both outcomes would lead to some very awkward conversations!

I feel the warmth of the metal slide onto the index finger of my hand (Drake had probably ascertained that the circumference of the band was too large for my pinky), and I'm finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.

Embarrassing backpedaling, narrowly averted!

Drake uses the opportunity to extract the flash drive from my hand as well, dropping the device casually into his pocket as he moves beside me. "She ain't wrong."

"No," concedes Christian, eying the two of us for a second longer than strictly comfortable. "She rarely is."

"So, umm... Are you hiding from the paps as well?" I ask in a bid to diffuse the growing tension in the air.

"No, I came looking for you, actually," he corrects, taking a step forward. "I saw you slip into the orchard, and thought it prudent to follow you."

"Oh?" I say, feeling my stomach tighten again. "Worried I might get lost?"

"I was hoping to catch you alone," he corrects, coming to a stop in front of me.

I swallow tightly as I see him glance over at Drake.

Please don't fight... Please don't fight...

Christian's gaze reverts to me. "But I suppose it is convenient for Drake to happen to be here as well."

My heart skips an uncomfortable beat. "It is?"

"Yes," he affirms. "I have received some news that you'll both be interested in hearing."

"Well, don't keep us in damn suspense, then..." mutters Drake with a noticeable edge to his voice.

I try to reach discretely out to brush my fingers against his, to reassure him that come what may, we'll get through it together, that—

"We found Tariq."

Christian's words hit me like a kick to the chest. The breath explodes out of me so forcefully that I am actually forced to take a step back in a bid to maintain my balance as the apple trees descend into a spin around me.

No way...

"Where?"

Drake's voice floats across the edge of my awareness. And even in my spaced-out state, I can feel the weight of the cold, calculated fury infused into that single word.

No corner... No mercy.

"Dubai," replies Christian, who also sounds like he's miles away. "He—"

But Drake's already spun away. "Send me the coordinates."

"Harper?"

I blink up at Christian in a daze. "Huh?"

"Are you alright?" he asks, laying a concerned hand on my cheek. "You... You looked as if you were about to faint..."

"I..." I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. "I'm okay."

"Are you certain?" he presses, peering down at me. "I could ring for a doctor, and—"

"No," I insist, pulling away from him. "I'm fine. I... I guess I just got caught off-guard..."

"It is an unexpected development, certainly," he concedes. "But hopefully still a welcome one?"

"Yes!" I blurt out. "Of course! I want to clear my name more than anyone, and Tariq is key to that! I just..." My voice trails uncertainly off.

Christian flashes me a knowing half-smile. "Feel some trepidation about the prospect...?"

"I guess so," I concede, my fingers moving unconsciously to the horseshoe charm at my wrist.

Because as much as I may want Tariq to pay for what he did from a rational point of view, from an emotional standpoint, I’m terrified.

As even though I know in the back of my mind that a lot of my trepidation has to do with the fact that I am still trying to recover from the psychological trauma that Tariq inflicted on me, a major part of me is also scared of what setting the record straight would entail in practice.

Christian had mentioned that there were 'methods of persuasion' that could be used to force a confession from Tariq. But then what? Would I be made to very publicly relive the entire horrible episode in the form of TV spots and interviews, or would we be able to get by with one official press release? And given my spotty history with the press, will people actually believe my side of the story...?

I mean, Meghan and Harry didn’t exactly fare well in the court of public opinion when they tried to counter the official royal narrative...

On top of all that, in light of my very visceral reactions to returning to Applewood, I have no idea how I'm going to react to seeing Tariq in person again. Would I burst into tears? Have a nervous breakdown? Dissolve into a panic attack? Stab him in the gut and then the nuts?

And (possibly worst of all) what if we discover that Tariq had been acting alone? And his attack on me — while traumatising — is in no way connected to the larger, and definitely more dangerous plot to remove me from the running for Queen? What then...?

"Your qualms are not as misplaced as you may initially think," Christian consoles. "It is a daunting prospect to face the person who actively sought to harm you."

Something in his tone catches my attention. "What do you mean?"

Christian heaves a sigh. "I do not know if you are aware of this, but several years ago, I was the target of an assassination attempt."

I nod tightly. "Yes. Drake told me."

"Then I presume he also told you how deeply the experience affected me," he says, catching my eye with an uncharacteristically guarded look.

"Yes," I affirm, thinking back to the conversation in Olivia's wine cellar that felt like years ago.

"What he probably didn't tell you, however," he continues, "is that I visited the perpetrator in prison."

My jaw drops. "You what!"

"Not publicly and certainly not in any official capacity." He shakes his head wryly. "I did not even talk to the man."

"Then why...?"

"I... I was having trouble reconciling with what had happened," he explains. "And moving past it. The trauma councillor that I was working with suggested that it was perhaps because I was subconsciously endowing the gunman with too much power, and thereby transmuting the man into something more akin to an evil monster."

A shiver runs down my spine at Christian's words. It's like he's talking about Tariq...

"So, to help break the negative emotional associations I had built up, my councillor arranged a clandestine meeting where I would have the opportunity to face the man."

"How... How did that go?" I ask nervously.

"I was terrified, of course," Christian admits. "I had no idea what to expect and each scenario I imagined in my head was worse than the last. But, when I finally got into room where the meeting was to take place, I was surprised by what I saw. As rather than some hulking, shadowy fiend, it was a pale, somewhat diminutive man sat across from me."

"So… what did you do?"

"We simply sat at a table and stared at each other," he recounts. "He with more than a bit of contemptuous malice, I have to admit, but in that moment, I realised that he was a flesh-and-blood person who had fallen prey to the same misguided emotions as I — anger, fear, resentment — just manifested differently. And that helped set me onto the path of true healing. As ultimately, I was able to forgive him."

"Forgive him?" I gasp disbelievingly. "For trying to murder you?"

"Nobody acts in isolation," Christian advises calmly. "Even the most unconscionable horrors perpetrated by the villains of humanity — torture, mass murder, genocide — sprout from the basis of an emotional or psychological motivator such as love, fear, greed, jealousy... to name but a few. So, while we may disagree with and condemn the action retrospectively from the safety of the moral high-ground, it is very possible that had we found ourselves in a similar situation, we would end up being just as guilty as the person we are looking to condemn."

"So, what?" I demand testily. "I should feel sorry for Tariq for what he did to me?"

"Showing empathy and compassion towards our counterparts does not mean forgetting or excusing the harm suffered," counsels Christian. "But it will certainly allow you to start on the path of true healing."

I shake my head as I turn away. "I'm not sure Tariq deserves that..."

"It is by no means an easy assignment," he admits, laying a hand on my shoulder. "But even if you cannot find it in your heart presently to forgive him, do at least try to keep yourself open to the possibility down the line. You may be surprised by the results."

Looking up, I can see that there is sincerity welling on his emerald gaze. And — for once — I don't doubt the true intent of his words. "Thanks. I'll think about it."

"As diplomatic as ever," he smiles, the tips of his fingers brushing down my back as he drops his hand. "And, regardless of what you choose to do, I'll be right by your side to support you."

"Thanks," I mutter with what I hope is a genuine smile, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that with Drake’s abrupt departure, it’s just me and Christian amongst the trees. Taking a step back towards the way I’d come, I ask, "So, umm... How did you end up finding him?"

"Instagram," replies Christian with a wry chuckle as he falls into step beside me.

My head snaps up in bewilderment. "He posted his whereabouts?"

"No," he laughs, looping my arm through his in reassurance. "Not intentionally, at any rate. He took shelter on his cousin's yacht docked off the coast of the Palm Jumeirah, and—"

"What's that?" I ask with a frown.

"One of a trio of artificially constructed archipelagos located off the coast of Dubai," he explains. "They are so called for their shape, which resemble stylised palm trees."

"Sounds... fancy," I admit, while trying to maintain some semblance of platonic distance between the two of us.

"They really are a sight to behold," he affirms, pulling me back to his side. "But it is part of the reason why we were not able to locate him initially — we knew he has family in the Emirates, of course, but—"

"He does?" I interject in surprise. This is certainly news to me...!

"Yes," he nods. "His father is a Cordonian nobleman, but his mother hails from the House of Al Falasi, the branch of the Bani Yas tribe that also produced Dubai's ruling family."

My eyes widen. "So, his mom is royalty?"

"No," chuckles Christian. "She is not directly connected to the Al Maktoum dynasty. But her family is nevertheless influential in the region. Which is why when we hit a roadblock with the French authorities, we decided to focus our efforts on countries where we knew he had familial or business connections. The Emirates, however, boast a multitude of private airfields, not to mention water-based ports of entry, so attempting to narrow down Tariq’s possible time and method of arrival and determining where he went from there was providing to be a complex undertaking. Especially since we had to ensure to conduct our enquiries outside of the official channels."

"Specifically, via social media," I supply dryly.

"Yes," confirms Christian, only half jokingly. "When we realised that Tariq must have switched off or changed out his phone, Drake suggested that we set up a facial recognition-based search algorithm that could scour the various social media and news portals in a bid to help us pinpoint his exact location."

"That sounds... technical," I admit.

"A few years ago, it would have been, But the technology is relatively commonplace now, thankfully."

"So, you managed to get a hit?"

"Yes," he affirms. "One of his cousins on his mother's side posted a selfie featuring his new yacht a couple of days ago... and someone who partially matched Tariq's features was visible on the edge of the frame. But it wasn't until this morning that our man on the ground was able to obtain independent confirmation that it really was him."

"Wow..." I manage. "Talk about blind, dumb luck."

"Never underestimate the awesome power of serendipity," counsels Christian with a smile as we reach the edge of the trees again. "It certainly played a hand in crossing our paths."

I swallow nervously. "Yeah, I—"

"You have some nerve!"

Before I have a chance to realise what is happening, Madeleine has swooped in from seemingly out of nowhere to intercept us with all the wrathful precision of a homing missile.

"Ow!" I hiss, feeling the ends of her manicured nails sink into my arm as she wrenches me off Christian like I'm some kind of plague.

"One would think you would be grateful to His Majesty for his benevolent generosity in elevating your previously non-existent status to that of a duchess," she spits with barely disguised contempt as she pulls me nose-to-nose with her.

"Get off me!" I grit, trying to shake her loose.

"Madeleine..." interjects Christian from behind me in a voice that I only heard him use once before... in the hallway at Ramsford when he realised that Drake had brought me back to Cordonia. "You overstep."

But the Countess of Fydelia seems to hear neither of us as she tightens her claw-like hold on me. "Yet instead, you repay him by not only by hijacking a royal event to serve your own shameless self-aggrandisement—"

I shake my head in disbelief. "Wait... Wh—?"

"—but then you have the unmitigated gall—"

"Madeleine," says Christian again, more forcefully this time. "That is enough."

But Madeleine is oblivious to the quiet threat suffused into the sound of her name, choosing to continue her tirade instead, "—to sneak off into the bushes with my fiancé in order to do God-knows-what when he should be—"

"I said, enough!" snaps Christian, coming suddenly between Madeleine and me with a face of thunder.

The force of his command is loud enough to cause a few heads on the edge of the lawn to turn curiously towards us.

Even Madeleine startles somewhat in response to the uncharacteristically vehement order. But not enough to let go of me.

"Can you not see what she is doing?" she demands indignantly as she turns to face Christian. "Or does she have you wrapped so tightly around her finger that you cannot even—?"

"How I choose to spend my time with the Duchess of Valtoria in private is of no concern to you, Countess," interjects Christian bluntly. "Or do I need to remind you of the conditions of our engagement?"

Madeleine's alabaster cheeks flush scarlet. "No..."

"Then I strongly suggest that you unhand Lady Harper, and ensure that this kind of juvenile outburst does not happen again."

Madeleine's eyes blaze with cold fury. But she relinquishes her hold on me, nevertheless. "My apologies, Duchess..." she snips, her voice dripping with insincerity.

I reach up to rub the spot where her nails had been on the verge of puncturing my skin.

Bitch...

Christian nods tersely in approval. "Now that that is sorted, I believe our guests are waiting. Lady Madeleine, if you'd be so kind..."

Madeleine takes his arm with a look that could've killed. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Lady Harper," acknowledges Christian with a dip of his head as he starts to steer his seething fiancée away.

Knowing that all eyes are still on us, I drop into a quick curtesy as they walk past, on one hand grateful to Christian for shutting Madeleine down, but on the other hand wondering how badly we kicked into a nest of hornets in the process.

As it is clear that Madeleine is still raging with jealous insecurity... Perhaps even more so than she had been back at her manor when she cornered me in the bathroom. And the fact that — despite the massive diamond on her finger — I now technically outrank her is definitely not helping the situation!

So much for making allies at court…

Blowing a wayward strand of hair out of my face, I turn back towards the festivities…

…only to be greeted by a wall of judgemental eyes, and more than a few camera lenses.

"Great..." I mutter under my breath.

Whether catching me with Christian had been the genuine straw that snapped Madeleine's cool, or whether she deliberately fabricated the showdown to undermine the positive reactions I got from the press earlier, the end result is the same...

I'm going to be on the front page tomorrow. Again.

Exactly in what form, I have no idea. But I've been at court long enough now to know that the whole thing will be blown completely out of proportion, and the resulting story will generate even more press frenzy.

But if there’s one thing that Drake has taught me, it’s that I cannot allow myself to give the aristos the satisfaction of ever thinking that they’ve managed to squash me into the dirt. Because that would undermine the entire reason why I came back to court in the first place, and given how close we now are to claiming back the truth, it would be a massive and premature admission of defeat.

So, raising my chin defiantly, I make my way back across the lawn to rejoin the remainder of the Festival.

The story continues in Chapter 17 - News Flash

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sgiandubh · 7 months

Note

Hello how are you? I follow several shippers' blogs and I noticed that every now and then some bloggers publish hateful messages they received. My question is about mental health: how do you deal with it? I understand that your presence here is relatively recent, but have you ever regretted something?

Dear Mental Health Anon,

This is the kind of submissions I welcome with all my heart, because they are benevolent and witty. Forgive me already for what I suspect will be a long answer. It is not the pleasure of hearing me talk that prompts them, but the sincere intention to answer deserving asks as clearly, fully and honestly as I can.

The short answer is : I am fine, Fall is slowly coming and nights are starting to be really chilly. There's some light rain tapping on the roof of my flat and I will spend my week-end wandering around some of my favorite places on Earth. And now, onwards to the consistent and interesting ask of yours...

The worst trolling message I have ever seen in this fandom is the one I am immediately going to post below, because I think it should serve us all as warning and reminder. It was posted on a blog I have been reading from the beginning of my long lurking days on Tumblr: @cb4tb is one of the most balanced and articulate people in this corner of the Internet. I remember being shocked by its cold and very coherent violence. The feat of a casebook sociopath, who thinks her asks in Spanish (I am 200% certain about it) and who has an appalling command of English grammar. Written on Christmas' Eve and on purpose:

Compared to the alarming slander @cb4tb got (whatever for is a mystery, she is non conflictual and posts very witty business insights) on a day that should be completely taboo for every civilized human being (you don't need to believe in God to respect one of Christianity's most important celebrations), whatever hate I could get in here is definitely subpar. Most of it did not make it on my page and went straight to the bin. But it's not always easy: I am as human as you, Anon, and sometimes I feel personally insulted and revolted by the smugness and pettiness of it all. However, I must immediately add their hate never made me give up an inch of my convictions. They are the result of a long interval of watching and pondering, coupled with my own observations I gladly share with like-minded women all around the world. That often hits a nerve or bruises overinflated egos on the Other Side. So be it: I am not here to be meek and obedient, if I never was meek and obedient in real life. I am here to bring clarity and build trust, which incidentally resonates very closely to what I do for a living. That probably rates me as a moderate on the shipper spectrum, in the sense that by complete design I put aside some divisive topics I firmly chose not to discuss. I am not interested to bring attention on me, in here, and the least thing I'd like is to be a vector of discord. So that would also rate me as a peacemaker of sorts - and yes, that sounds perhaps pretentious, but I believe it is needed, especially now.

I only felt a clear intention to threaten me twice, both in DM. The first time it curiously came from one extreme fringe of the shipper community and I brushed it off, because it was an empty, almost ridiculous threat. I politely denied and that was it - two persons blocked me and there were no other consequences to it. The second time, an anti came to confront me on an irrelevant point, with a very aggressive undertone. I blocked and almost forgot about it. If you have it clear enough in your mind that such things cannot be avoided and, at the same time, you know that your own moral compass is not compromised, these details will not affect you. At all. I confidently promise you that. Last but not least: if you are not great with compartmentalizing, don't step in the arena. It can seriously ruffle your self-esteem and it's not worth it.

So this is how I deal with it: I focus on what I have to say (does it bring something new? interesting? positive? thought-provoking?), on the way of saying it (above all, be kind and gracious to every other shipper) and on the right moment to say it (only when I am honestly sure I can do it with no unwanted consequences). But I will stand in solidarity with any shipper (any single one of them) who is humiliated, belittled or disparaged, with not a single shred of fear in the world. And I would also fend for myself if necessary, if I am getting over-the-top slander: all the other yapping, I ignore. Sometimes (often, even) it's more interesting to watch.

And if anything else fails, I go for a long drive and have a coffee at the seaside or simply open a book or listen to some Bach or call Someone. Or take this little big guy out for a lazy walk in the park:

You ask me if I regret anything. Absolutely not. I have received more than I could ever give, in here. I have met spectacular women and men, I have grown very fond of and feel very close to. I have had the immense satisfaction of sharing their secrets, their worries, their plans and this means trust, in my book, for which I will never tire saying how grateful I am. I also strived to respond in kind and I mean to honor this unwritten contract. Last but not least, I have watched this community slowly dusting off months of sadness and perhaps starting to open up again.

And all of this makes me damn proud of who we are, Anon. Thank you for dropping by! You are always welcome on my page.

#Anon

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prinxlegolass · 3 months

Text

Smut War Fic: Exit Wound

Well, this wasn't a war I was going to sit out. Please enjoy my 6th fic. First attempt at smut, but as you have already seen from my TrAuMa meme, it also has a lot of angst in it. I hope you enjoy it x

Rating: Explicit

CW/TW:

These are expanded upon further in the summary if you'd like to also read that for context, but take care of yourself :)

- Demon in Snake Form / Goddess in Human Form Sexual Encounter. Both are aware of what the other is, and both can consent

- Slight dubcon due to magic, feeling highly connected to someone and a sense of not being in control as a result, more so due to an inherent primal instrinct. All beings are acting on free will and are able to consent for the smut bits

- In the epilogue, a character describes a murder he witnesses without gory detail (the victim is not Aziraphale or Crowley). The nature of the murder is patriarchal and of spiritual colonisation in nature, but there is no sexual assault / motive. The fic can be read without the epilogue if you're curious but want to skip this subject.

-Angst ending

- Snake bite, snake sex and descriptions that could trigger claustrophobia

Summary

Hell sends Crowley to 5th Century Ireland, much to his chagrin, to investigate a mysterious source of power. Uphill from a deep rainforest he finds an ancient structure with something far more ancient and far more powerful than any blessing or curse he’d seen before.

This is a story of love, of loss, coming home, and everything that never was. Join me for a re-telling of an Irish Celtic Myth that has been sanitised and long-forgotten. Taking place in one hundred years into Early Christian Ireland, it weaves themes of spiritual colonisation with the ineffability of a great plan and the parts of us that are never truly lost.

But this is a smut war - and you can expect a sexy divine being, human sex and snake sex; not just hemi-penes, but hemi-clitorae! Sex magic rituals being used as a sensual tool for transformation and rebirth; and plenty of vulva pleasure and gratification.

There are three (because it’s a magic number) sexual configurations - demon in snake form / Goddess in human form, Snake / Snake, Human / Human. That culminates in a healing and surrendering love.

The epilogue features angst with an unhappy ending. As you can imagine, the resistance to Christianity did not end well for the Irish Pagans. In the epilogue, one character describes witnessing the murder (no sexual assault) of another. But the story stands well enough on its own without the epilogue if you want to skip this part.

5,014 word count

Excerpt:

“I’ve been waiting for you, Crowley.”

“Who are you?” Crowley hissed. His aggressive exterior betraying the powerlessness he felt to draw nearer.

“I am many things, Crowley. I am one of many mothers; both death and rebirth. I am the inhale and the exhale; the dawn that rises after the cold, hard winter; I bring joy and I am feared; and soon, none will remember…”

Crowley inched forward, concertina twinings marking the dirt, barely sensing the heat of the fire in the woman’s lure.

“Your name!” He growled insistently.

“You already know it, Crowley. Look deep inside you, my beloved serpent,” was her soft response with kind eyes. Crowley flicked his tongue at the fingers of her extended palm. The woman’s skin was steeped in the essence of her words; the taste of finely plucked sycamore seeds carried lovingly by the wind to pre-destined soils. Tears doomed never to fall filled Crowley’s heart as the thread that connected him to this woman tugged him closer on her arm; the most he had ever touched or been touched by a human in his snake-form. Only she wasn’t human, was she? A foreign name Crowley had always known moved from the back of his mouth to dance on his tongue.

“Caoira…”

Green eyes smiled through tears at the demon’s whisper.

“Yes my dear. It’s me. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Crowley’s thought-form longed to ask questions. About knowledge, that began before words; curiosity, that existed before symbols; and meaning, established before sounds. But he had already found his answer in her eyes. Another Almighty; new and much more ancient. A Goddess.

Crowley’s body took over once again, unable to resist the draw to her. Climbing her arm and shoulders, his tongue could not cease flicking, planting forked kisses on her neck. Quivering, he meandered down her shoulder, elongating his form to drape around her. Powerless over the compulsion to place his chin on every part of her body, Crowley’s tail vibrated in her lap and Caoira breathed sighs of joy in his scaled ministrations.

Fingers that had borne the very wells of the earth stroked the obsidian pearls of Crowley’s back, before coming to delicately caress the ridges of his snout and brow. Crowley flinched in the touch, haunted by memories of the fall; of centuries spent curled around the cooling magma of igneous rock. Curled around any form of connection to replace the Almighty’s as his wings burned.

Coos of Caoira’s attunement honeyed Crowley’s ears, and with no way of crying, sweating or spitting it out; his serpent-form became fevered with fury for what had happened to him. His body flailed in twisted, hissing reverberations in the centre of the Goddess’s crossed legs. In his uncontrolled anguish, Crowley felt his jaw unhinge and his fangs hook into Caoira's thighs, breaking her skin. Punishment for his other mother, who had placed a similar hook in his heart only to cut the cord in the end. This time, he was never letting go.