#for people coming in from the future: i asked for this one
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a helping hand*
in which y/n can't orgasm and harry is a helpful ex-friend with benefits.
word count: 3.3k
content warnings: mentions of depression/mental health and anti-depressants, discussions of reduced libido, smut (phone sex, mentions of sex toys, dirty talk, description of group sex and mmf threesomes)
this one goes out to all the besties on anti-depressants
masterlist | talk to me
. . .
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Harry sighs in frustration before crossing his arms over his chest. If he pursed his raspberry lips into a pout, he’d look more like a petulant child than the young adult Y/N’s known for the past few years. With a roll of her eyes, she lifts her glass to her mouth and takes a healthy swig of her coke and rum. She allows herself to scan the interior of the bar — it’s just barely 6 pm on a Wednesday so she’s not surprised that it’s primarily filled with locals and teams of corporate offices decompressing after a long day.
“I could always make you come when we hooked up and I bet you I could still do it.”
“Christ, Harry, give it a rest,” Y/N replies, narrowing her eyes at the curly haired brunette. “It’s not just with partners, it’s me, too.”
He quirks an eyebrow and settles his elbows on the sticky table. She huffs when she realizes she’s only piqued his attention even more now that she’s revealed another inkling of her… problem.
“Can you just tell me what’s going on, then? You know, when I texted you for our semiannual catch up, I didn’t think we’d be getting into your sudden inability to orgasm, but—”
“Can you lower your voice?” Y/N hisses with wide eyes. “I didn’t think we would talk about this either but you’re the one who asked if I’m seeing anyone—”
“Yeah, seeing anyone, not coming for anyone—”
“Just shut up!” she mutters, nearly knocking over her almost-finished drink. “If I tell you, you have to drop it.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Harry…”
“As your ex-friend with benefits, I have no duty to keep secrets that aren’t about our bedroom-related rendezvouses.”
“There hasn’t been a ‘rendezvous’ in five years.”
“There could be.”
She sighs and presses her fingertips to her temples. This is why she and Harry never worked out. They’re total opposites — he has the energy of a rowdy golden retriever and she exudes a calm, monotone nature. (She thinks she’s borderline boring if you ask her, but that’s something she’s been saving for therapy.)
At parties in college, he was always the one working the room, chatting with everyone while she stood in the corner and clutched her solo cup for dear life.
He had a million contacts in his phone and people remembered him, even if they knew each other from something as small as working together on a project in a class three semesters ago.
Meanwhile, Y/N could spend two years straight working in the same office and someone would still ask her when she started working there because she looked “new”.
(Seriously. It happened last month, and she had to rush to the bathroom to cry.)
Despite their opposing personalities, they did work for a while, but only as friends with benefits. To begin with, Y/N never wanted anything more — when they started hooking up, they were nearing their senior year of college, and she didn’t want to be tied down to anyone or anything when making decisions about her future. But secretly, she knew feelings for Harry would inevitably pop up. How could they not? Although he was an annoying ball of energy sometimes, bouncing off the walls of her apartment before they even made it to her bedroom, he was kind. He had a good heart — he still does after all these years, otherwise Y/N would never bother meeting up with him without the intention of hooking up — and he was funny, and he made Y/N feel all warm and gooey inside. He was a good fuck, too, and as much as she wanted to widdle his presence down to being purely physical, she wasn’t strong enough for that.
She was grateful, albeit heartbroken, when six months after their arrangement began, Harry very sweetly told her he had a crush on a girl in his advanced sculpture class and wanted to go for it. As she swallowed a lump in her throat, she told him that was perfectly fine, that she was glad he told her, and that she hoped things worked out between him and Emily.
(They did. For two and a half years. Y/N had never been so thankful when graduation arrived and she could run as far away as possible from the couple.)
Harry tried his best to keep in touch, even after graduating while he was dating Emily — always commenting on her Instagram posts and responding to her stories, even occasionally texting her to wish her well on her birthday or major holidays. Y/N kept him at an arm’s length for as long as she could. That is, until he moved to her city last year.
The only reason why Y/N had a heads up is because of an Instagram story he posted. In his typical overly excited way, he posted a picture of his dog in his new apartment with one of those tacky, premade location tags. (She’s allowed to think they’re ugly — she’s a graphic designer.) So, it didn’t come as a surprise when a week or two later, a text popped up from an unknown number: Hey Y/N! Not sure if this is still your number or if you still have mine, but it’s Harry :) I just moved to your city and was wondering if we could get together! It would be great to see you.
Thus began the tradition of Harry and Y/N’s semiannual meetups.
It was an unsaid routine they followed — every six months or so, one of them would text the other for drinks or coffee or lunch. They only ever met up in public and they didn’t talk much outside of their scheduled hangouts, though Harry was much more prone to messaging her stupid memes and, on occasion, a picture of his dog, a husky named Fish.
Much to Y/N’s dismay, the chemistry between her and Harry was still very much there. It had been apparent from their first meetup last February. It was difficult not to flirt, especially when he brought up their past (she would happily pretend none of it ever happened if it meant Harry Styles never made her blush ever again). The thing is, though, is it was fine as long as nothing ever came of it.
Until now.
Because as Y/N sits across from Harry in the worn booth of a dive bar a block away from her apartment, she can’t believe she’s seriously considering letting him back in her bed.
“Can you just tell me what you think the problem is?” Harry asks. He slides his elbow onto the table and presses his knuckles up against his cheek, like they’re best friends giggling over some silly gossip. It makes Y/N want to elbow him in the ribs.
“It’s a biological issue,” she mutters, “Like I said, nothing you could fix. Even if I wanted you to.”
“Just spit it out, blossom.”
She narrows her eyes, though she finds it difficult to ignore the way her stomach flips at the familiar nickname. “You’re not allowed to call me that anymore.”
“Tell me what the issue is and I won’t call you that,” he replies easily. “C’mon, it’s me. Remember all the times I helped you pee when you were too drunk to sit up straight? We’ve definitely seen each other in more embarrassing situations before.”
Y/N sighs loudly. He has a point — there was a time where Harry knew her better than anyone else in the world. And frankly, she hasn’t talked to anyone about her problem.
Scooching her body forward, she attempts to close most of the gap between them. Harry leans closer and she rolls her eyes. To an outsider's perspective, they probably looked like they were performing some kind of sketchy drug deal or like little girls swapping secrets at a slumber party.
“Remember how I struggled with, um… getting pretty sad?”
Harry’s eyebrows draw together and he nods.
“Right, so it got… worse when I moved here. And I needed to find help, so I started seeing a psychiatrist who put me on antidepressants. They’ve helped a ton — I feel better, and the depression that I do feel is a lot less intense.”
“That’s great, Y/N,” he says, and she can tell he means it by the genuine tone to his voice. “What does that have to do with you not orgasming, though?”
She swallows tightly. “Well, my doctor increased my medication over the winter, and one of the side effects is…y’know. Decreased libido and whatnot.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah,” she snorts, leaning back against the cracked leather of the seat. “Oh, shit.”
“And you’ve tried vibrators and stuff?”
“Of course I have, I’m not an idiot.”
“So how long has it been?”
She nibbles on her bottom lip as she thinks. Even with flings that she’s had over the past few months, they all gave up at a certain point. The sex was still fun, but she was just the only one who wasn’t coming.
“Well, I can give them to myself if I… work at it,” she mumbles, folding her hands in her lap. “But with a partner? Probably… six months.”
“Six months?!”
The look on Harry’s face is dramatic and theatrical, as if she just told him she was moving halfway across the world and participating in some kind of 90 Day Fiance situation.
“Shut. Up.” she says through grit teeth, sending him a harsh look. “I don’t need a reminder of how shitty it is.”
“Who the hell are you letting in your bed?” he demands sharply.
“It can take me an hour, Harry, I don’t expect every person I sleep with to be that patient.”
“They should be, Y/N.”
With a shake of her head, she glances down at her phone on the table. Everything has always seemed so simple for Harry — he’s one of those people where things just come easily for him, no pun intended. A part of her wishes they never delved into the subject matter. Vulnerability somehow always bit her in the ass and this instance was no exception.
“I’m gonna get going,” she says, pushing her empty glass to the center of the table. “Thank you for the drink, H. It was good to see you.”
His eyes soften as she begins to scooch her way out of the booth. Quickly, he throws a few bills down on the table and gets up to follow her.
“Can I walk you out, please?” he asks, swallowing as his stomach brims with nerves. She nods, though he’s unsure if it’s a reluctant response. Silently, they leave the bar together, and he nibbles on his bottom lip as she pushes the front door open. The spring air is a welcomed breeze from the sticky interior of the establishment, and she shifts on her feet as she turns around to face him. She parts her lips as if she’s readying herself to bid him a final goodbye, but he beats her to it.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I just meant— like, you deserve better, is all. Someone who will be patient and care to learn your body.”
Y/N nods slowly. “Right. And you’re that person.”
Her tone teeters on mocking and it sends a harsh hit straight to Harry’s chest. He shrugs.
“If you wanted me to be.”
She doesn’t reply to that, but she doesn’t make a move to leave, either.
“I’ll think about it,” she finally says, and Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in shock. “My hand cramps up when I’ve been at it for too long. Maybe it’ll be nice to have someone else try.”
He huffs out a breathy laugh. “Just let me know and I’m there.”
. . .
A few days later, when Harry is at a friend’s house, he receives a text from Y/N: Are you free right now?
In all honesty, he’s surprised that she’s — assumingly — taking him up on his offer. Y/N remains to be one of the most stubborn people he’s ever known (one time she spent an entire week trying to put together a desk she’d purchased before asking anyone for help. The only reason why Harry was able to do it for her is because she’d called him over for a “destress fuck” and he finished it while she slept).
He swipes down on her message, his other hand occupied by some shitty IPA Lizzy’s new boyfriend had bought. He keeps asking Harry if he likes it and he has to lie about tasting the hints of citrus, even though it tastes like every other crappy beer he’s consumed.
At a friend’s house, he quickly types back, Why? Is your hand cramping?
He can basically feel her rolling her eyes as he bites back a smile, watching as the three dots appear to signal her impending response.
Yes. I was wondering if you wanted to come over.
He’s unsurprised by the casual invitation on a Friday night at 9:40 p.m. (it seems that, as far as hookups go, Y/N hasn’t changed much since college). Nibbling on his bottom lip, he uses his free hand to type a response.
I’m sorry, I would if I could. I’m trapped at this “apartment-warming” party for my friend. Apparently people host housewarmings even if they’re just renting a new place.
Y/N immediately types back: As much as I’d love to debate that with you, I’m really just looking for an orgasm. So if you’re busy, I’ll go back to buzzing at my numb clit.
Harry snorts at that before placing his beer on a coaster and excusing himself to the bathroom. Once he’s locked the door, he’s quick to pull up Y/N’s contact and press the pad of his thumb to her number.
“Hello?”
She sounds confused and frustrated when she answers and Harry smirks at that.
“Hey,” he greets, leaning back against the white porcelain sink. “I’m calling about your orgasm.”
“You’re seriously not trying to have phone sex with me right now.”
Her tone is as deadpan as it gets, and the monotone nature is enough to make a small bit of insecurity crawl into Harry’s stomach.
“Well, I was planning on talking you through it. ‘S not really phone sex if only one person’s getting off, I think.”
She lets out a noisy sigh and there’s some rustling on the other side. He waits for her response and is surprised when she agrees.
“Fine,” she huffs, and he can envision the way her eyebrow raises just slightly when she’s decided to give into something, “Let’s give it a try. Porn is getting boring anyway.”
“What were you watching?”
“Well, when you’ve been trying to come for 40 minutes, you end up in some… odd places,” she says. “I started out with lesbian porn, then found my way into threesomes, and somehow I ended up at double penetration.”
“Ah,” Harry nods, “Sounds like you’re having some sort of craving for group sex, then?”
A pause. And then: “I guess. I’ve never tried it, I just think it’s hot.”
“What’s hot about it for you?”
He thinks he hears her swallow, but he can’t be completely sure.
“I just like the idea of pleasing more than one person. I think that’s how I got to double penetration stuff.”
“Oh, I see. You want to be used.”
It’s blunt and it’s to the point, but he’s not wrong — he knows he’s not, because he slept with her for six months straight.
“I guess,” she replies non-committedly, “I guess it’s like… a fantasy of getting two people off and them feeling that way because of me. Through oral or… being inside of me, or whatever.”
“So what’s your threesome fantasy, then?” Harry pushes, though his tone teeters are near carelessness at this point, “Girl/boy? Boy/boy? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Who do you want to be between?”
Y/N exhales shakily, “I’ve never thought about it.”
“Well, now you are.”
She doesn’t immediately reply, but he knows she responds well to the calloused persona he suddenly obtains. She’s always been this way — submissive and good, always looking to please him intimately. It’s too easy for him to put the pieces together and solve the puzzle.
“I guess I like the idea of being with two guys, but it doesn’t matter much to me.” she eventually decides.
“Okay. And in your deepest fantasies, what are these two men doing to you?”
Another pause, though he thinks he hears a shuttered sigh on the line. He doesn’t mention it — not yet at least.
“Maybe… maybe one’s inside of me and the other one’s in my mouth.”
“And how is he fucking you? Is he on top of you, missionary style, or are you on your hands and knees while he fucks you from behind?”
A breathy whimper departs Y/N’s lips and this time it’s loud enough for both of them to hear. He smirks at the sound of it.
“I like the idea of him behind me. A-and the other one fucking my mouth.”
Harry hums, almost as if he’s praising her. “Close your eyes and envision it, then. Think about how you’re letting two men take advantage of you and use your body, just so they can get off. One’s fucking into you from behind, spanking your ass and grabbing your hips like you’re just some kind of toy to him. And the other one is thrusting deep into your mouth, making you choke, getting you all drooly for him. You’re nothing but a set of holes for them, honey. Isn’t that sweet?”
On the other line, all Harry hears is a series of shattered moans and low curses. Even though it’s been years, he can imagine the way her muscles are all tensed up, her pussy clenching around a dildo or her fingers. He wishes he would’ve asked so he could envision it, too.
“I-I think I’m gonna cum,” she whimpers out, and Harry palms himself through his trousers at the sound of her high-pitched mewls.
“There you go, blossom. Atta girl, just let go. ‘S easy, let it go for me,” his voice is a near coo and it makes Y/N’s eyes roll back into her skull. It’s like he knows how easy it is for her brain to ping pong to other far less sexier thoughts — like the dirty plates in the dishwasher or the unfolded laundry in the corner of her bedroom — so he continues crooning through the receiver, his low, soft voice guiding her through every bump and ridge of her impending orgasm.
When she comes, she comes hard, considering it’s been a solid two weeks since she’s been able to give herself an orgasm. It shoots through her entire body and, even with her eyes shut tight, the fantasy she created still plays through her brain — except now, it’s not two mystery men. Now, it’s just Harry fucking into her, all tan muscles and sweat pearling at his hairline.
She’s boneless and exhausted when she finishes, her throat dry from the involuntary moans she let go. She only remembers she’s still on the phone with Harry when she hears him clear his throat, followed by a call of her name.
“Hey, sorry,” she mumbles as her cheeks flush a deep red hue, “T-that was good. Thank you.”
“Yeah? You finished?”
If she had more energy, she would roll her eyes. Of course she finished. The entire neighborhood knows she finished.
“Yeah.” she mutters shortly. “Have a good time at your apartment-warming party.”
Harry huffs a laugh, “Yeah, ‘cos that’s what I’ll be thinking about for the rest of the night.”
She doesn’t have a chance to ask him what he means before he’s bidding her goodbye: “Let me know when you wanna do this again. I’m around this weekend.”
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Winter's King 14
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)
Characters: Geralt of Rivia
Note: Another work week :(
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
Not long after the king’s departure, Lord Jaskier excuses himself to see to his horse. Queen Jazlene sends him off with a similar quip about serious matters. You don’t quite understand her. She should be concerned with the weeks of travel ahead of her, not only of the time, but of the climate.
She finishes the bottle on her own. Much of it went to her cup. You think of warning her but it isn’t your place. You can only watch her head wobble as that hazy look softens her features. On her last gulp, a droplet trickles down her chin. You suspect she might be as unhappy as her husband claimed of himself the previous night. They make a rather sad pairing.
It’s early still. Perhaps once they are settled, it won’t be so tense. They will have a chance to know each other better without the stresses of a war or the road ahead.
Your thoughts stray and your vision fogs as you stare at a blue tapestry. Jazlene continues to babble and suddenly, the clink of her cup jolts you from your trance. You look at her as she slumps against the table. Her shoulders are slack, her arms bent around her head as it droops onto the wood. You can see her breath as she hunches weakly in her chair.
“Your highness?” You call to her. You sway on your feet as you watch her. Come on, move. “Your highness?” You take a step toward her, “Lady Jazlene?”
She groans and slips to the side. You rush around without a thought to catch her. She garbles drunkenly as you hold her in her arms, one leg still on the seat as her other hangs limply. She’s heavier than you would expect.
“Your highness?” You squeak as you struggle to keep her off the ground. You can’t drop the queen.
Her head lolls as her lashes flutter. She is certainly not conscious. The acrid scent of wine rises from her lips. You try to hike her higher, slinging her arm around your shoulder as you grunt. She’s not that big, you’re just weak. You can carry a cask or a chest, but a person is a much different matter.
You wrap your arms around her and haul her around the table. Her slippers drag and you clatter into the chairs and nearly trip on the edge of the rug. Your leg muscles thrum with the effort and your back racks. You look around. The bedchamber is too far.
You turn and little by little, step by step, drag her to the couch. Her feet loudly scrape across the floor. You angle her around with another laboured grunt and as you do, the hinges whine and the left door opens. You look up as the king enters and your lips part in surprise. You’ve been caught. Rather, the queen has.
He stares at you and eases shut the door. He comes around as your arms quake. He wordlessly takes his wife from your grasp and lays her across the sofa. You put a pillow under her head and back up, rubbing your upper arms.
“Your highness, she was not feeling well,” you say.
“She has drunk herself into a stupor,” he snarls as he backs up, crossing his arms as he glares down at her. “Do not lie, especially on her behalf. It does not become you.”
“Your highness, I apologise. I only worry for her--”
“You shouldn’t,” he intones, “she doesn’t worry for you. Or me. Or anyone but herself.” He turns and goes to the table. He rights the overturned cup and you reproach yourself for not doing so first. “But I do appreciate you attending to her. I’d rather not have found her upon the floor.”
“Your highness,” you bow your head.
He’s quiet. You’re unsure what to do next. Should you leave him with Jazlene or stay to tend to her? He will need sleep for the ride.
“Little maid, you will send to have a bath drawn. There will be little chance to wash upon the road,” he commands.
“As you wish, your highness.”
“Mm, if only,” he murmurs as she sits and grabs the empty bottle, sneering at its hollowness.
You set off to have water brought to his chamber. You assist the other servants in carrying the vessels of steaming water. All the while, the king ruminates at the table. He picks at his index finger and his cheek ticks. When at last the tub is full, you go to trail out after the castle servants.
“Little maid, I require assistance,” he says.
You remain and the doors close in the tension. You watch the king, your fingers twined together as you cautiously approach. He glowers at his fingers and huffs.
“You have small hands,” he rests his palm open on the table, “please, I would have use of them.”
Curious, you move towards him. He turns to you and holds out his large hand. He pokes his index fingers up and hisses.
“I got it on the door. A splinter,” he explains.
You see the dark spot, just the minuscule tip of it poking above his rough skin. The skin around it is inflamed, both from the sliver and his fussing. You bring your hands to cradle his single one and lean to have a closer look. You keep one hand under his and slip the other down the side of his palm.
You brush your fingertips over the lines of his knuckles. He’s quiet as he lets you gently squeeze. You glance up beneath your lashes.
“It might hurt, your highness. Apologies.”
His cheek twitches, “I’ve had worse than a maid’s touch.”
You squeeze until his flesh his taut. You pinch the tip of the splinter with your other fingers, using your nails to get a grip of it. You pull slowly. Very slowly, terrified of losing hold and having it go deeper. The wooden sliver slides out and before you can examine it, it falls to the floor, disappearing into the fabric of the rug.
The king sighs, “better.” He brings his other hand over yours and covers your small ones with his, “many thanks, little maid.”
He lets you go, his calloused skin brushing your sleeves, and he hums grimly. He bends his head forward and his white waves shift on his shoulders. He pushes his hair back and raises his head again. His eyes almost glow as he looks at you.
“I should fetch some water for the queen in case she stirs--”
“Later,” he dismisses, “might I ask another favour of such delicate hands?”
You dip your chin down, “I serve you and the queen, your highness.”
“Mm, yes, you recall, the knot in my shoulder, where I carry my sword,” he points along his shoulder, “if it isn’t trouble, I might have you loosen it before I must ride anon.”
“Your highness,” you acquiesce, curling your fingers into your palms. You remember that first night you met him, as he sat in the steaming tub and had you touch him. You sweat at the memory.
“It would be best before I soak,” he reaches to untie the laces of his tunic.
You watch him, helpless. As with the queen, you can only heed his whims. At least he is gentler in his mastery. He pulls his tunic above his head and strips it away completely. He lets it hang over one leg and squares his shoulders as he sits back in the chair.
You go around him and he moves his hair to his other shoulder. Your hands tremble slightly before you touch him. His muscles are thick and his skin taught across everyone. His arms are rounded with bulk and his neck is bullish in girth. He carries so much strength and power as if it is nothing.
You squeeze the muscles gently with one hand, pressing the other behind it. You knead carefully, gradually putting more behind it, responding to the soft breaths and low grunts rising from the king. You hit a spot with some resistance and he growls.
“There,” he grits as he drops his head forward. “Harder.”
You push your thumb against the little pearl of tension you feel along his shoulder. He exhales deeply and lets out a wolfish snarl. He grips his thigh as you work his flesh. Your hands move without much thought. Lady Rezlyn often requested to have her feet done, a much less ideal task.
“Mm, treasure...” he breathes though his words aren’t entirely clear.
Another noise rises from him, sharper than before. You stop, frightened.
“Your highness, have I hurt you?” You utter.
Before you can retract your hand, he has a hold of you. He lifts his head and hangs it back, his hair spilling down. He looks up at you with his bright eyes as he clings to your hand. He presses it flat and moves it over his shoulder. He drags it down against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat.
You’re caught in his gaze and his grasp. You just stand there, entranced by his golden irises. Each time you see them, they are more brilliant than the last. Your own chest tightens and binds up your breath.
“You can never hurt me,” he rasps. You gulp as he lightens his hold and pets your hand. He closes his eyes and winces. “Little maid...” he sits forward and gently moves your hand away from his chest, “you must go now. You must face the road with us and you will require rest.” He lets you go completely and stands. “I trust my wife will have many a demand to keep you busy.”
“Yes, your highness,” you murmur.
“Now,” he insists. “You must go now.”
He crosses the chamber and stops in the door to his bedchamber. You quickly flit over to the doors that lead out to the corridor. You pause and glance over as you sense him move. He stares at you, his eyes licking with flames. His chest rises and falls, trimmed in thick hair that trails down his hard stomach.
“Go...”
You obey and heave open the door. The soldiers on the other side snort. It is late, they must’ve dozed. You don’t think much of that as you harry down the corridor, not looking back. The king’s timber nips at your ears. The way he spoke; ‘go’. It was more than just a word; it was a warning.
⚔️
You rise with the castle, quickly falling into the tumult of the impending departure. When you arrive at the king’s chambers that morning, you are sent away. You find Jazlene in her own. He must have taken her back before the sun.
She is groggy and sombre as you help her dress. The pain in her skull leaks out in pathetic moans. You offer her lemons water and a cool cloth for her head. You see the difference as she accepts but she remains weak. It will be difficult for her to ride.
Horses fill the courtyard and the luggage carts crowd around the stables and rear of the castle. The scene reminds you of Debray. You only hope Queen Jazlene does not cause a similar scene. You don’t believe she can.
You accompany her to the front of the train. The king is not there. The queen clutches her throat as if she might be sick as the smell of the horses is stirred by their whipping tails. She grumbles and calls for a water skin. You find one and she shooes you away.
“Enough of you,” she snips.
You stay close, keeping watch should she signal for anything else. She can barely lift her head to do more than drink thirstily. Lords and ladies as good as ignore the queen as she mutters to her horse.
“Eh, mouse, there y’are,” Bryce’s voice undercuts your pity. “I’ve been looking for ya.”
You face him and the weight slips from your shoulders, “you have?”
“What are you insinuating?” He challenges, “Daisy’s missing ya.”
“Oh,” your brows raise, “well, it just so happens I miss her too.”
“We’ll be off soon. You should come claim your place with the luggage.”
“Should,” you agree.
You follow him through the press of bodies. You get further down, away from the pages and soldiers, see Daisy lazily hoofing at the ground. She chews on a sparse bit of grass in the dust. As you near, you notice that her holster is thicker than it was. She is attached to a small cart.
“What is this?” You ask as you stop short.
“It’s yours, mouse,” Bryce says staunchly, “isn’t right you riding with the chests. Not for so far as we need to go.”
“You... you did this for me?” You ask. "But... what about--”
“Found a spare horse. He’s a bit less friendly than our beloved but he’ll do fine enough,” he explains, “’sides, Daisy needs a respite. She don’t needa be carrying around my hefty behind much longer.”
“Oh, my,” you put your hand to your cheek and go to the cart, “Sir Bryce, you are a true knight.”
“Don’t you get sappy with me,” he tuts as he follows. “Look inside, will ya?”
You look inside the cart. There’s a long cushion and a pack. It’s a lot compared to what you came with; nothing. Bryce reaches in and tugs something from beneath the cushion. You watch the fur ripple out as he reveals the cloak. It’s thick and long and hooded. He holds it up.
“When we get to the Hinterlands, you’ll be needing this,” he says.
You touch the fur, it’s soft. You blink and feel it between your fingers. Your eyes sting.
“Sir,” you bat your lashes, “it is too much for me.”
“It isn’t very much, you are just too humble, mouse,” he folds and holds it out to you. “Now, don’t you be telling anyone this was my doin’. I got a reputation to uphold.”
“Oh,” you clamp your lips shut as you try to hold back your emotion.
A smile breaks through and you bare your teeth. Your cheeks hurt from the joy bursting forth. You hug the cloak and rock, looking around. As you do, you falter at a familiar face.
The king leads a dark horse along the edge of the yard. He is looking at you, or so it seems. You let your expression slip and tamp down your glee. You bow your head in King Geralt’s direction.
When you look up again, he is gone.
#geralt of rivia#dark geralt#dark!geralt#geralt of rivia x reader#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#series#au#medieval au#the witcher#winter's king
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Hi! I'm a fan of your yan! Hero/reincarnated reader and I would like to ask if you could write a scenario where the reader has reincarnated again but this time instead of running away they just stay in the village, and in this life, Tasman doesn't end up searching for the reader because they haven't left the village. Because of this, the reader just stays in the village and just so happens to start a relationship with a kind farm boy.
So while Tasman is out marrying another mermaid/fairy queen/princess, the reader is just having the time of their life on a large farmhouse with their new lover. By the time Tasman finds out it's too late because he's already married and it would ruin his reputation if he ever decided to leave his wife for a (now married to a farm boy) reader because while he will stay a hero he won't be as respected by the kingdom for leaving a kind and respected woman, then trying to go for a married woman.
Reputation? Respect?? What does he care what the kingdom thinks of him when he’s the only thing standing between them and world devastation? The only reason he’s morally “good” in the eyes of the kingdom is because they follow the goddess’s teachings which so happens to be who he’s blessed by. The crimes he commits always have something to do with you so there is a much greater chance that you receive the backlash for his unhero like behavior than he does. They can’t hurt him, both because they physically can’t and they need to remain on his good side so they don’t die. But, you? They can hurt you.
In one of the realities he makes a deal with the king to legally imprison you so others turn a blind eye to his not so moral actions. A deal they’re willing to make if it’s for the greater good, ya know?
Tasman doesn’t care about other people. He barely considers them people. The only reason he plays nice and doesn’t take advantage of his supernatural abilities is because he believes it would be too much of a headache to completely upend life as you know it. He keeps up appearances of the righteous hero so he can comfortably do whatever he wants. The only person whose opinion matters to him is yours, though it doesn’t seem to mean much when your wants and desires stray from a future where the two of you are together or you’re alone.
TW: suggests death
—
The cicadas always seemed to scream the loudest right before the sun pierced the horizon.
A feverish kiss was shared right before a frantic embrace as promises of his quick return caressed your ears. You held each other like it was the last time you’d ever get to.
You promised you’d wait.
Unwanted tears flooded your eyes and you couldn’t help but feel selfish because you knew why he had to go. To want him to stay by your side when he was destined for something greater, the destined savior that would be revered when his mission was successful, because it had to be successful. Because he was going to return to you.
So you let him go.
Waiting long after his caravan disappeared from the dirt paved road, you remembered his words, his vow. It was enough to ease the burden on your heart for now. It had to be.
Life was never quite the same without him.
The first year, you’d look to every corner as if he’d appear, every closed door as if you were waiting for him to burst through and wrap his arms around you and promise something new. That he’d never leave you now that his mission was fulfilled.
It was a hope that was too soon.
You felt anxious the second year. Attempting to live as if such desperate yearning wasn’t what consumed your mind the minute you opened your eyes. You worked, ate, slept, moved through life as if someone else was living for you.
By the third, your loneliness had reached a peak. It was suffocating. His memory, the touches that no longer lingered, words that you’d play over and over in your mind to convince yourself to trust him. To trust that he was coming back. To chase away the anger that would turn into guilt, knowing full well why he couldn’t visit you. You’d convinced yourself that sending letters would compromise his position. That he would if he could, but fighting the demon king was already too much of a burden. You didn’t want to strain him further with your selfish expectations. You’d wait. You’d waited this long, you could wait a little longer.
The fourth was bright with celebration. It rekindled a new hope in you as people praised him, thanked him, worshipped the ground he walked on for saving you from the disaster. Joy was bright in everyone’s faces as they danced and laughed now that the dark cloud had finally lifted. You clasped your hands together, fingers fidgeting as you looked along the horizon, waiting. Almost every day you waited, impatient but understanding that there was probably plenty he had to do now that the war was over. He couldn’t just rush back to you. So you waited. Long after the sun disappeared. Long before the cicadas grew so loud you couldn’t bear to think.
You were treated like a widow.
Five years had passed with no word. People tried to be careful whenever they discussed the boy who’d grown up in this town. Everyone knew the relationship the two of you had, which is why they were especially careful when mentioning his marriage. Occasionally someone would slip up and you couldn’t help the flinch that would rip through your body.
You couldn’t understand. You waited. You did what you said you’d do, so why? Did the promise the two of you made mean nothing? You couldn’t help the days you locked yourself in your room, unable to bear the heartbreak drenched in grief.
The town was quiet on nights like those. Grateful for the cicadas that almost drowned that haunting wail.
It was too soon to think about a new relationship.
Sure, it had been six years since you’d last seen him, but you still felt an ache in your soul and it was too new of a wound to hide with friendly smiles.
He was someone you’d grown up with. He was well aware of your relationship with Tasman. It made it even harder. You don’t know why you accepted his offer to go out on a date. Maybe it was the persistence or if you had grown tired of hurting with no relief.
You wondered if it would remind you of him. If you’d compare the two, and you were right. But he was nothing like Tasman. The more time you spent with him, the easier it was to recognize he was nothing like your first love.
It was a relief.
For the first time you thought, maybe you could move on.
You began to smile again. He pointed it out on one of your dates. The two of you would often camp out wherever the sun shined the brightest, content to feel its ray on your skin as you held each other and talked. His observation didn’t cause the knee jerk reaction you thought it would.
The raging pain from memories of who you were before. The dull ache you carried that seemed to sting a little less with each passing day.
You looked at him and finally realized what he meant to you.
The man who brought back your smile. The one who helped you realize your would had scarred nicely.
It wasn’t much. He couldn’t offer you the world, but what he did offer was worth more. He was kind and thoughtful, he listened, and his flaws touched you a lot deeper than you thought capable. There was no question, no hesitation when he asked you to marry him.
For the first time, you truly began to remember what happiness felt like.
It happened during the night. On a day you would never have assumed would hold as much importance as it did.
Your eyes were forced open as a violent cough racked through your body. Sitting up from the bed, you felt a pounding in your skull.
It was supposed to be night. A strange uneasiness crept in your body at how bright your room was.
You climbed out of bed when you realized he wasn’t laying next to you, shuffling to the window and feeling your heart stop at the sight of the barn. It was engulfed in flames.
You screamed his name as you ran down the stairs, knowing he would’ve woken you if he realized something was wrong. Gasping at the sight of flames spreading through your house, you ran to the back door to escape the heat that was dangerously creeping towards you.
Slamming the back door open, you called for him again, rushing towards the barn before coming to a dead halt when you realized it was too late for the hose. You would have to watch helplessly as his family’s home burned to the ground.
Where was he? Why wasn’t he answering you? Did something happen to him?
Anxious fear told you to do something. That you needed to find him. You didn’t know where you would go or who to ask for help, but everything else could wait. At least until you knew he was okay.
“Lover,” a familiar voice said, causing you to whip around. .
It felt as if time had stopped as a look of realization passed across your features when the stranger walked close enough for your eyes to make out his features. What was he doing here? Standing still, watching you as if this was completely normal.
Tasman.
You couldn’t help the dread you felt at the smile on his face. The familiar smile he always wore. A smile that didn’t ackowledge the dumbfounded horror on your face or the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes that stung from the smoke or the unwilling realization that there was no chance you’d ever see him again.
His eyes seemed alight with something sinister and the flames that licked the barn behind you only heightened the unearthly glow in them that grew as he came closer.
This wasn’t the reunion you imagined. It wasn’t one you wanted anymore. Why was he here? Where was he?
He wrapped his arms around your shoulders, your body too limp to resist his affections as he squeezed you tightly.
“I’ve missed you.”
The cicadas always seemed to scream the loudest right before the sun pierced the horizon, but despite the crackling flames that lit the sky, they were quiet.
#yandere#yandere oc#yandere x you#male yandere#yandere x gn reader#yandere x darling#yandere x reader#ask#yandere male#gn reader#yandere hero x reader#yandere hero#yan!tasman
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Angel AU drabble
A lot of people asked about this AU, so here's a little drabble to hold you over until I can start writing this story 😇 Read the premise here
Invisible to the human eye, Gale follows his ward everywhere he goes. After a few years of careful guidance, humans tend to become more independent, and then he has time to pick up a second or even a third case, but John is a rescue. He’s going to need all of Gale's attention for a much longer time if his soul is to be saved. It’s exciting to be challenged with such a difficult ward. Neglected by an incompetent guardian - who's now demoted to administrator - he went down the path towards Hell. Gale's priority is to guide him back. His second, more personal goal is to make him happy too. They’ll have to see how John manages, but Gale will do his best.
Currently, they're on a dirty bus that coughs a trail of smoke as it chugs on towards the most dangerous neighbourhoods of the city. Gale tried to discourage John from boarding the repulsive vehicle, but his suggestion was ignored. It’s only their first day though - Gale just has to find the right technique to get through the wounded exterior of his soul. For now, he just settles down beside John and radiates an aura that keeps people from sitting next to him. He can tell that a stranger's closeness would distress John.
There are earbuds in John's ears. Gale examines them curiously, leaning in real close to see the emotions flickering through John's mind as he listens to the music. Human music has always fascinated Gale. He used to wonder if humans were trying to find the tunes of Heaven, but he knows that's not the case ever since he discovered rap music. He wants to learn John's musical taste. It could come in handy if Gale wants to influence his mood in the future.
The bus rolls to a stop, and John moves to get off. Again, Gale tries to hold him back. This isn’t a good place - he can already see the stains of malice peeling off the walls of a house by the bus stop, like a black, rotten layer of skin. He knocks a woman's suitcase over and makes a backpacker move to block John's way, but John is determined. He shoulders his way out of there and gets off the bus.
Outside, the night greets him with a chill and cruel blows of the wind. John's bruised face hurts as he squints against it. As he takes off towards an alleyway, Gale makes that wind stronger, even though his own nose wrinkles at the smell of depravity it blows out from the direction they're headed.
"Why don’t you go back home? You could take a hot shower there." He tells John gently. If he talks to John from the ethereal plane, his words form suggestions in John's mind, ideas that he thinks are his own. It's the easiest tool to use. Humans usually go along with what they call their sixth sense. And indeed, John stops. But a moment later, he squares his shoulders and resumes his steps.
Gale frowns. He has to step up his game.
They enter an establishment that Gale identifies as a nightclub. A shady one. Spilled drinks sticky on the floor, cigarette smoke, knives tucked into pockets, unprotected sex in the putrid bathroom. Gale can hear, see and smell it all as he traces John's steps, but his senses also reach beyond that. The place is swarming with demons and malicious spirits. Their waste litters the ethereal plane and clings to Gale's feet until he blasts it off in disgust.
His feathers ruffle. Behind him, his wings move from their relaxed position to a casual back-shield. He doubts that the slimy creatures cowering from him in the corners would attack him, but it never hurts to be cautious. As it is, the sea of demons threaded through the dancing human crowd parts for him, hissing at his light. His lower ranking siblings, those few who had the strength to brave this place, all seem to breathe a sigh of relief when he nods at them in greeting.
"Sir." They say as he passes.
"Keep up the good work." He replies calmly.
John doesn’t stop on the dance floor, so he doesn’t linger either, no matter how much fun it is to see the cowardly demons skitter, scared that he might smite them. He follows John to the back of the club, then out into the alley behind it.
There, they wait. It’s raining. Water soaks through John's hoodie. The residue of malevolent beings falls from the sky with every raindrop. Soon enough, Gale’s brushing its black soot off his wings. His iridescent white feathers contrast harshly with it.
"You don’t want to do this." He tells John. "Come on, why don't we get out of here?"
As if in reply, John mutters to himself. "The fuck am I doing here."
Gale smiles. "You don’t belong here."
He can feel the ideas battling in John's head, and he tastes the sweet scent of a step in the right direction, but suddenly, in a sharp twist, John's thoughts plummet into despair. Unpleasant memories swirl in his mind. "Right where I belong."
Gale's wings twitch. This won't be easy. They have a long road ahead of them, don't they?
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not easy to please ⋆⭒˚｡⋆
alternatives to popular tropes
⇴ siblings's worst enemy
they're your sibling's enemy, so of course they're yours too. they're despicable and you seriously want them dead. luckily for you, the feeling's mutual.
⇴ struggling ceo and their know-it-all office worker
how did this mf become the ceo of one of the most progressive countries in the world?? they're clueless and you're the one that has to fix all their mistakes. you seriously don't get paid enough for this (unless they can come up with another way to pay you).
⇴ marriage of inconvenience
what happens in vegas stays in vegas. except when you've signed an official marriage contract, and everything is so much more complicated before. now this person is stuck with you until you can divorce! (or will you?)
⇴ forbidden hate
your parents absolutely adore the idea of the two of you together. they have wedding pinterest boards, future plans, and baby names for the two of you. only one thing: you two kinda hate each other, and hell would have to freeze over before you'd ever get with them.
⇴ no more second chances
sorry dude! f'ed up really bad the first time, and now you're not giving anymore chances, and your ex has to deal with the consequences. one problem: they can't deal with the consequences bc they're literally in love with you. hm. just what will this person do to get you back?
⇴ not so secret identity
everyone knows who they are. not even the old mask and hat trick could prevent people from identifying them. and it's fine–they absolutely bask in the fame. one problem though: they're a constant target to the entire world. perfect!
⇴ separated from each other
they never get any alone time. alone together in an elevator? too bad, a party of ten just showed up, pushing the two of you on the opposite side of the elevator. finally alone at home? nope! unfortunately, your friends make a surprise visit! oh how will you two ever get past this?
⇴ "you deserved it."
a normal person would've asked "who did this to you?" except your bond is not normal. not in the slightest. i mean seriously, what does this person want from you?
⇴ "i can't have you, so i'll let someone else take my place."
they know that they're not good enough for you, and that you deserve someone better than them. so, they choose to let you go, and hope that someone else can make your world light up like they used to
⇴ the one that is still here
everywhere you go, this person is there. whether it's physically, mentally, or spiritually, everything ties back to them. everything reminds you of them. you couldn't even escape if you tried.
⇴ playboy but he's actually a nerd that cannot get play
he's gorgeous–he's the most attractive man you think you've ever seen in your life. you think he's probably got it all–girls or boys coming up to him nonstop. only, that's not true in the slightest. somehow, he's managed to fumble every single time.
⇴ nobody wants the bad boy
he's troubled. there are rumors of him starting fights 24/7, and he lives in a bad area. he could really fuck someone up. nobody wants him.
⇴ "you must be delusional"
lovers that know that they're in love with each other, but when admitting it to their friends, they shut down their feelings.
⇴ loving someone to save them
none of that breaking up nonsense. love is power. their love and support causes you to be stronger than ever. knowing that there's love out there gives you a reason to keep on going. love saves you.
⇴ too smart to live
you've outdone yourself this time. bypassed every guard, rule, and law without anyone catching you. so, of course, there's only one solution here: to eliminate you.
⇴ different worlds (revised)
you grew up poor while they grew up rich. now, in the present, you are the more successful one, while they are struggling to get their life together. now, you must help the one who used to be in your current position, and fix things together.
⇴ one-sided blind date
rule one of having a blind date: you should not know who you're meeting. well, too late! you sneaked a peek at your friend's phone and found out who you'll be seeing soon. now, you're scrambling to get out of this date because you know exactly who it is.
#keyotosprompts#fluff prompts ⋆˚✿˖°#writeblr#writing#writing prompts#otp prompts#otp writing#imagine your otp#creative writing#writing inspiration#writers on tumblr#writing prompt#writerscommunity#creative inspiration#writer stuff#tropes#character dynamics#about writing
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the eldest river in "the impossible astronaut" is always so fucking distressing to me in hindsight. the way she knows what's going to happen at lake silencio, but she can't say anything to the people she loves most. she constantly has to lie, always has to play pretend. spoilers. the fate of the entire universe depends on it.
and the doctor, her doctor, doesn't trust her because of it.
because of all the lies. because of what she has to do to necessarily protect them both.
how she has to revisit her ugly childhood and fractured youth and watch it from afar, incapable of helping that scared little girl in a spacesuit, the young woman submerged in the water.
and she watches her husband and parents, too—watches them watching her own making—and they don't even know it.
There's this exchange between her and her mother that becomes all the more harrowing when you realizing that she's talking about herself.
River: I know what you're thinking.
Amy: No, you don't.
River: You're thinking, "If we can find the spaceman in 1969 and neutralize it, then it won't be around in 2011 to kill the Doctor."
Amy: Okay, lucky guess.
River: It's only because I was thinking it, too.
and then there's the moment where she catches a glimpse of the Silence in the tunnels and all that pain and trauma comes rushing back to her in an sickening instant, and even when they disappear from her memory, that horror still lingers in her body, but she pretends to keep it together anyway for other people's sake anyway.
in those dark tunnels, she only allows herself five minutes to fall apart away from prying eyes.
and she would have gotten away with it, too, had her father not shown up. he's concerned—even though he doesn't know her very well yet—and he's there, and he's asking all the right questions.
Is she okay? what did she mean when said there's a worse day coming for her?
And River opens up to him in a way that we've rarely seen her do.
River: The trouble is, it's all back-to-front. My past is his future. We're traveling in opposite directions. Every time we meet, I know him more, he knows me less. I live for the days when I see him, but I know that every time I do, he'll be one step further away. And the day is coming when I'll look into that man's eyes, my Doctor, and he won't have the faintest idea who I am. And I think it's going to kill me.
fucking gutting.
#river song#s: doctor who#maggie blogs#the lie about wanting to looking around in the tunnel for five more minutes always gets to me#goddamn - she puts up so many walls to protect herself#the doctor#her parents#all of time and space itself#but when they inevitably come crashing down#all the ruins land on her head
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—everything is orange. [ iv ]
pairing: lando norris x kpop idol! reader
summary: a racecar driver who needed a fake girlfriend to dispel rumors and a kpop idol who needed publicity for her song. somewhere in between orange cars and orange sunsets, stands something they're afraid of naming.
note: omg im so sorry for not being online lately. i got a writing part time job now so... i may not be as active as before. hope yall are having a great day! not edited. not beta read.
masterlist.
Everything inside your studio is gray. The walls, the couch, the floor, the instruments. It's the kind of room that will make a sad beige mom over the moon.
But when you open the door and the sight of one Lando Norris greets you, looking devilishly handsome in his dark blue button up shirt and black pants and Nike sneakers with his curls concealed underneath his dark blue bucket hat, the studio suddenly doesn't feel as gray as it usually is.
“Lando?” Your brows rise towards your hairline. Truthfully, he’s one of the last people you expected to see inside HAN Ent’s building, much less outside your studio.
“Hi,” he smiles charmingly at the shock in your voice, showing all teeth and smile lines. “Do you mind if I come in?”
You stammer, still not over your shock, “S-Sure.”
You step aside to grant him space and allow him to enter your magic shop. Lando’s eyes curiously roam around the studio and you close the door behind him, nudging the houseplant further to the wall using your foot to avoid getting tripped on it in the future.
“Take a seat. Please,” you invite, gesturing towards the couch. Lando takes the invitation and sits down. He looks too big on the couch, you note. He has long legs and an athletic build. Perhaps, it’s time to buy a bigger one.
“Nice place,” he compliments.
You want to snort out loud but refrain yourself from doing so.
Lando is saying things out of politeness.
Your studio is shit.
You know that.
It used to be a stock room that was converted into a studio when Yoon PD-nim offered you that deal, that's why the room is graciously small. They soundproofed the walls, painted everything gray, shoved in a few pieces of recording equipment and called it a day.
It's still quite nice of Lando to compliment the place though. You might hate this place but this is your wizard’s tower, your witch’s hut, your magic shop, and you feel pride swell in your chest when someone thinks your little corner is cool, even if you think he’s lying.
“Thanks,” you say sincerely. “How did you know I was…”
“I asked Jinnie,” he says simply.
“Ah,” your tone falls flat.
A moment's pause.
“So this is where you’ve been working?”
You nod. Suddenly, you feel conscious.
Your studio isn't really in the best state right now. When you work in a creative fever, you tend to make a mess. Being messy enhances your creativity. The sprawled papers with lyrics, the empty styro cups of coffee lying around, numerous pens and pencils (you don't even know why you feel the need to bring a lot of them) and rubber erasers, and your snacks. There's a mountain of crumpled paper in your trash can.
“Sorry, the place isn't really….” you trail off, making vague gestures with your hand. “I didn't know you were coming.”
“It's okay,” he chuckles. “I called, you know. And texted. You didn’t return any of it.”
“Oh, my phone’s charging,” you say, beginning to feel bad that you accidentally ignored him. “And my notifs are silent.”
“That explains it.”
“Shouldn't you be resting?” you asked. “You have a flight tomorrow.”
It's currently the 19th. Lando is set to leave for Japan on the 20th. His team wants him in Suzuka by September 20 and not later than that. They already had a field day when Lando announced that he's flying with you. At first, he wanted it to be just you and him. His team wouldn't let him because he can be a PR nightmare if given enough freedom so they let his manager, Kyla, tag along.
You’ve mistaken Kyla as a member of the PR team. Turns out she’s his manager.
“Is it a sin to want to spend a few hours with my girlfriend before I go?” he flutters his eyes innocently. You snorted.
“Fake but okay.”
“I’m being sincere here, girlfriend,” he pushes his lips into a pout. ��Did you eat already?”
“No,” you answer.
“Should we grab something together?”
“Should we?” you humor his suggestion. It's been a few hours since you’ve eaten. You’ve skipped both breakfast and lunch.
“I think I can call a restaurant and make a reservation.”
“It's near midnight,” you point out, glancing down at the Rolex decorating his wrist. Isn't he aware of how late it is?
“So?”
“Restaurants are closed by now,” you state.
Lando shrugs.
“I can make the effort of finding those seafood pasta you like.”
Your brows furrow.
“What do you mean like? I never said I like those.”
“But I thought…” Lando blinks. “I’ve read it somewhere…”
“Huh?”
“You're from Jeju, right? You grew up eating seafood so you like seafood and you once said you have a palate for Italian food. I tried…liking the pasta with seafood. I hated it but I ate it anyway.”
Your jaw hangs open at the revelation.
This is single-handedly the sweetest thing someone has ever done to you.
You don't know whether to be touched about the sincerity or to cry because of his idiocy. You can definitely do both but you refuse to do both. You have an image to maintain.
“Didn't I tell you that the company manipulated my public information?” you ask incredulously. “Yes, I was from Jeju but I didn’t eat seafood much. I have a mild allergy—”
“In seafood?” you see his eyes widen into saucers. Oops, you shouldn't have said that. “Wait, you had an allergy attack, didn't you? On those lunch dates we had? Why didn't you tell me so early on?”
“I thought you liked it!” your voice raises slightly, panicked. You're caught. He isn't supposed to know about this.
“I didn't?! I loathe seafood but I ate a few bites because I thought you liked it!”
You blink at him. That is the sweetest while simultaneously the most stupid thing someone has ever done for you. You drag a hand across your face, a groan escaping your mouth and yet you’re smiling. You shake your head at him.
Points for Lando Norris for making you capable of feeling frustrated and another feeling you cannot name.
“We’re idiots.”
There is a stretch of silence before Lando speaks up.
“What do you want to eat? And please tell me the real one.”
You began listing the first three things that appeared inside your brain, “I like…. ramyeon, natto, and tteokbokki.”
You have a palate for convenience store food. Food that you can find in busy night markets. Food that is sold by street vendors. The kind of food that tastes like absolute shit if cold but tastes like home if microwaved into the right amount of temperature. If you venture in your imagination hard enough, you can taste your mother’s cooking after a few bites. But you don't tell Lando that.
“We can eat that.”
You raise a brow.
“The ramen, the chicken, and the tteokdokdok.”
“Tteokbokki,” you correct him gently.
“Tteoktokki,” he repeats.
“Tteok.”
“Tteok.”
“Bokki.”
“Bokki.”
“Tteokbokki.”
“Tteokdokki.”
You shake your head, “Tteok-Bo-Kki.”
“Tteok-Bo-Kki.”
You snap your fingers, nodding in approval, “Better.”
“I literally said the same thing.”
“You didn't.”
“Where will we eat this tteokbokki?” He says the tteokbokki slowly, careful with his pronunciation.
“There are night markets nearby,” you tell him. “It’s crowded though. I know a good convenience store that’s a good drive away. It’s usually empty. Do you go to convenience stores?”
You suddenly feel stupid for asking.
Do multi-millionaires like Lando Norris go to convenience stores? It’ll make much more sense if he books restaurants or employs a private chef to cook for him at home. Do they even have a palate for instant food? What do rich people snack on? You don't know. You're not rich. Even after becoming famous, you’re still not rich enough to live the life of luxury.
This just highlights the difference of the worlds you and Lando live in.
“I do. Just not frequently,” he shrugs. “We can go to the convenience store if you want. I don't mind.”
“No, it’s fine. We can eat anywhere you want. Jinnie might have a few hotel restaurants in mind.”
“But do you want to eat in hotel restaurants?”
His question makes you pause and Lando immediately takes your hesitation as a no.
“We can eat anything you want to eat. This is your place anyway. Show me around.”
You bite your lower lip as you contemplate. Should you or should you not? That is the question.
When your eyes drag themselves back to Lando’s face, you see that he’s already looking at you intently as he awaits your answer patiently. You want to shrink back at the intensity of his gaze.
“Well then, do you want to go on a convenience store date with me, boyfriend?”
Despite the hesitation he’s displayed earlier, Lando grins at your offer.
You take Lando to your favorite place in all of South Korea. Google Maps says it's a three hour drive away. You arrive there in two hours and a half.
Maybe it's a sign to change careers.
You used your Jeep Wrangler. Lando offered to drive but you shook your head and hopped on the driver’s seat, him taking the passenger seat.
You won't allow anyone to drive your car. It's a rule of yours.
The last time you allowed someone to drive your car, your Hyundai jumped over a sewage canal. Lando might be a professional race car driver and that alone spoke multitudes of his driving skills, but you're so traumatized with the incident with your Hyundai that you physically can't allow anyone, professional driver or not, to handle the steering wheel of any other cars you own.
Cars are expensive. You can't buy another car. You’ll bawl when you see the money departing your bank account.
You palm the steering-wheel with your right hand. Your left hand lays flat on the back of the passenger seat, behind Lando’s head. Your upper body is rotated towards the back, full focus activated as you reverse the car in expert ease. Lando is observing you, you can tell. You can feel his eyes burning holes in your side profile.
“You okay?” You ask Lando. The man has gone uncharacteristically silent when you’ve started reversing the car. You hear Lando let out a breath. Almost shakily. You cannot tell for sure.
“Yeah,” his voice breaks like a boy undergoing puberty and you have to thin your lips into a line to prevent yourself from laughing. “Nice parking skills.”
“Thanks,” you say nonchalantly. “You sure you're okay though?”
“Yeah, don’t worry,” you see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he rubs his throat. “I think the seatbelt’s a little too tight.”
Once the car’s perfectly parked, you kill the engine and exit the car. Lando follows suit.
“I don't know why you have to drive for almost three hours just to visit this place,” Lando gestures to the surroundings. “There's nothing here.”
“Exactly,” you say. “Come on, boyfriend.”
You pat his shoulder and lead the way. A bell chimes loudly as you push the door open. You step inside, the British racer only a few steps behind you. You tug down your mask.
“What's this place?” Lando questions.
“24-hour convenience store,” you answer. “But no staff.”
“No staff?” he asks. “So self service?”
“Ah yes, that’s the word. Self service,” You say. “Quite nice, right? We have complete privacy and good food. Two best things in the world.”
“Careful. Your introvert is showing.”
You snort, “First time coming to a place like this?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “No staff? Does nobody attempt to steal things?”
You shrug, “Probably not. Ramen is not worth going to jail for.”
“This shop will make a million dollar loss in an hour if it's in another country,” Lando says, his nose wrinkling. “Like in the UK or US or something.”
You beckon Lando to follow you through the aisles, “This way.”
“You even memorize the places of things,” he comments. “You come here often?”
You hum a yes. You stop in front of the freezer and open it, pulling out two plastic cups.
Lando’s forehead creases, “Just ice?”
“This is an ice cup,” you explain.
“Are we going to wait for the ice to melt before drinking it or….”
You stare at him incredulously before promptly bursting out in laughter.
“What's funny?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Nothing, sorry,” you clear your throat. You don't know why you find that funny. Your humor is broken. “They sell pouches of juice or coffee and you pour it into the cup.”
Lando’s head tilts. He looks like a confused baby owl.
“Here, I’ll show you,” you walk up to a nearby shelf and grab a Kuromi pouch. It's peach-flavored. “This. You pour it here.”
You gesture to the ice cup. Lando’s mouth forms a circle in realization.
“Cool.”
“There are a lot of flavors,” you add, gesturing to the shelf. “Peach, apple, mango, strawberry, orange…”
You read out the flavors for Lando because you know he can't read Hangul. Lando wordlessly picks a grapefruit-flavored pouch. You nod.
“Good choice. Oh wait, we forgot to get a basket. Can you?”
Lando nods and leaves. When he comes back, now with a yellow basket, the two of you continue to browse down the entire store. You explain each of the food. He said no to most of them. Lando is a picky eater, you learn.
The two of you fill the basket near to the brim. You pay for each item, even though Lando insisted that he do it, and you occupy the table that faces that floor-to-ceiling glass window, overlooking the darkness of the night outside.
“Here,” you hand him a plastic fork. Lando accepts it, his brows furrowed. “You were struggling with the chopsticks.”
A shy smile makes its way to his face, “Sorry.”
You wave your hand as if to say it's no problem and plop down on the chair beside him. Lando digs in with his Buldak Samyang carbonara while you stir your Yoppoki Tteokbokki with yours before taking your first bite. You immediately let out a moan of pleasure.
“Is it delicious?” he asked.
“Very.”
You eat until your cheeks fill, chewing slowly.
“Oh wait, you should post something.”
“Now?”
“You took pictures of me earlier, right?” you know he did. He tried to be slick about it but you’d know if someone is taking a picture of you. “Put it on your story.”
“And delete it?”
“No. The world already knows we're dating anyway. Well, fake dating.”
Lando pulls out his phone and shows you the pictures in his gallery. There are aare a total of four pictures. Three are blurry. The other one is blocked by his finger.
“That one is good.”
“What do you mean good? It's blurry.”
“Blurry is an aesthetic.”
Lando shakes his head but opens his Instagram and begins to edit the photo you’ve chosen, “Help me with the caption?”
“I’m not good with them.”
“Me neither.”
“Your first caption was pretty good.”
“You think so?” he sounds hopeful.
You shrug your shoulders.
“Just say something like ‘her’ then put a period.”
That's the limit of your creative powers for the day.
Lando nods and begins typing. He’s typing quite long for a word with three letters and a single punctuation mark. He shows you the caption.
Your brows furrow.
He laughs, “I’m funny.”
“You’re really not,” you shake your head. “Put it in your drafts.”
“So I’m not posting it now?”
“You post it after we leave the place,” you say. “So we’ll be gone by the time the fans see it and decide they’ll come here.”
“That's very smart.”
“That's not being smart. That’s just common sense,” you state flatly.
“You know, I always thought you'd be a cold person.”
You raise a brow, not entirely sure if you're understanding him correctly. Cold is an adjective. It's used to describe temperature. You're uncertain if it can be applied to use as an adjective to describe a person.
Lando must have sensed your confusion that he adds, “Ice queen.”
Oh.
Yeah.
Okay. You understand it now.
“You used to look so cold and cool,” Lando says. “Ice queen. But also an IDGAF attitude. Very intimidating.”
You have no idea what IDGAF means but you nod your head and act like you understand him anyway. You make a mental note to search it up on the internet later.
“But you’re not.”
“I’m not,” you echo.
“You’re actually pretty sweet,” he adds.
“I’m trying to be kind.”
“You don't have to try. You already are.”
“The companies make us act sometimes.”
“What?”
“Like, before debut,” you begin. “There are companies that assign certain images to their idols. They give them parts to play like directors do to actors in movies. Like, oh, you look like this kind of person so you have to act like this kind of person. They take a look at your visuals and decide what role you’ll have. They took one look at my face and told me that I have to be a strict and serious person who is scary and cold and unbothered. I didn't want to do it because I tend to smile really easily before and I just wanted to have a lot of friends, you know?”
You shrug your shoulders.
“When you’re intimidating, you tend to not have a lot of them. Despite that, I followed the role. Many praised me for it and others just….well, they didn't like it. The company was happy, though. They told me I was good at acting. But it's just…sad that the person I am on the screen is not real.”
“Yeah, that's honestly sad. I can't imagine doing that for my team. I’ll suck at it. Imagine me cold and serious,” Lando makes a serious face but he ends up doing a The Rock Smoulder. You have to stop yourself from laughing out loud by thinning your lips and twisting it.
“You're doing it, though. For the team. This whole fake dating thing,” you gesture to yourselves.
Lando mutters something under his breath while stroking his chin. You don't catch it.
“Hm?”
“Nothing. I think your eyes are pretty.”
He's changing the subject. He does it so swiftly, too.
“I know, I thank my mother every day for it,” you joke and Lando chuckles softly. “But don't be jealous, you have pretty eyes yourself.”
He turns into a lovely shade of pink. You can see it. You don't speak of it.
“It changes colors sometimes,” you continue, pointing at your eyes. “Like, it’s kind of gray in the dark. But if the sun shines on it, it has three colors.”
“You stare at my eyes a lot, do you?”
“Well, if a certain thing is pretty, you can't help but stare, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess that's why I stare at you a lot, too.”
You laugh, the sound airy, shaking your head. What a flirt. The cute kind.
“I’m quite the head turner, aren't I?”
“You are,” he agrees seriously.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
He smirks, confident.
“Careful, you might fall for me, fake girlfriend,” he says cheekily. You have the desire to shatter his ego so you did.
“You're handsome but you're not my type.”
His smirk falters. You give a chortle.
“What's your type then?” he asks, leaning slightly forward. His eyes reflect anticipation.
You fall into a momentary thoughtful silence, “For starters, attractive men who can drive very fast cars. With a racing license this time. Not like me.”
Lando smiles at your light attempt at a joke. Good to know that he finds the dark humor surrounding your career-ending scandal funny.
“I am an attractive man,” he gestures to his face. “With a priceless face and I drive a very fast car. Formula one or sports cars. Oh and would you look at that? I have a racing license and a regular driving license.”
“You are an attractive man,” you agree. “But again, not my type.”
Lando dramatically puts his hand against his chest, right above where his heart lies and acts like you just shot him dead on the spot.
“Hmm, what else? Ah, plays golf,” you list another trait of your ideal man.
“I play golf,” he crosses his arms, leans back against the back of his seat, and lifts his hips a little as he adjusts his sitting position on the chair, manspreading a little. This is one of the subtle things men do that women cannot help but find attractive. You’re also a woman. Of course, you find that attractive.
You roll your eyes, feigning annoyance. Lando laughs at you.
“A few years older than me.”
When Lando opens his mouth, you cut him off, holding up a finger, “I’m older than you.”
By months only but still.
“In the standards of your fake birthday, I am older than you.”
You huff, shaking your head. He is right, to some degree. The world thinks he is older than you because HAN Entertainment decided to lie about your birthday.
“Looks good in red.”
“You know, orange is a mixture of red and yellow. Technically, it's still red. So I look good in red. One plus one equals two. I am connecting shit.”
He raises two index fingers in the air and connects them together to put further emphasis on the words he imparted in a sage-like manner.
“You're not connecting anything.”
“Hell yeah, I am. I am so smart, I should just be McLaren’s chief strategist. Maybe then I can finally get my first win.”
You cannot help but raise an amused brow.
“Fine, if you're so smart Mr. Strategist, what's plan A to your victory?”
His answer comes immediately, no hesitation and he utters it with so much confidence in his chest: “Sneak into Red Bull and steal their car.”
You abruptly burst out laughing, the sound filling up the entire convenience store. You cannot hold it in anymore. You have to slap a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself down.
You don't laugh pretty. You're very much aware of that. You sound like a dolphin when you do. But Lando is so funny that you forget to feel conscious of the weird sound that leaves your mouth for a whole five seconds before you remember to compose yourself and stop.
“You don't have to cover your mouth when you laugh, you know?” he says. “Or try to stop yourself from laughing. Just laugh if you want.”
You give him a look. Why is he turning serious all of a sudden?
“Wait, red?” Lando does a double take once you’ve composed yourself. “Don’t tell me your ideal type is….”
His forehead creases. You nod.
He says, “Carlos?!” the same time you say, “It’s Kim Mingyu.” How did he even come to that conclusion?
Oh wait. Red. Older than you. Drives fast cars. Racing license. Makes sense.
You blink at each other.
“Who the hell is Kim Mingyu?”
“You don't know Kim Mingyu?” you pull out your phone, open Google Photos, and search for the folder named: 민규❤️❤️❤️. The folder contains 7659 photos of Kim Mingyu.
“Fake boyfriend, let me introduce you to my boyfriend, Kim Mingyu,” you show your favorite Mingyu photo.
The one where he’s wearing a black fitted shirt, his cheek against the back of his hand, and the veins in his arms bulging. He’s serving major boyfriend vibes.
Lando rolls his eyes.
“He doesn’t look that good.”
“No, Lando, you are not seeing it,” you hold the phone closer to his face.
“I am seeing it and I am saying he’s not good looking.”
“Lies.”
“I'm not lying.”
“It's Kim Mingyu.”
“And?”
You pull a face, retracting your phone. “Come on, he’s quite good looking. And tall. Very tall.”
You once have to stand beside him in an ending ceremony in Inkigayo. You barely even come up to his chest.
“I’m tall.”
“You’re shorter than him.”
“You're killing me here.”
You chuckle. You pat his shoulder in faux sympathy.
“There, there. That's okay. You're my boyfriend anyway. Don't be jealous.”
“Damn right, I am.”
You snort.
“But you have to stan Seventeen though. After your race in Suzuka, we’ll try to binge GoSe.”
When you’re too full to finish the rest of your tteokbokki, you drag Lando outside the convenience store.
“Sand?” he questions.
“Sand,” you state.
“There's sand in my shoes,” Lando complains.
“Take it off and like,” you make the motion of flipping your shoes upside down to remove the sand inside. He does as you’ve told him but he seems to be not fully satisfied with it. There is still sand inside his shoe.
“This won't do,” he says. “I should have brought flip flops.”
“Let's go barefoot,” you kick off your shoes and neatly place them on the foot of a nearby coconut tree. You motion for Lando to do the same, but you’re met with hesitance.
“What if someone steals them?”
It's a valid concern to have, you suppose. You look around you. Darkness is all that can be perceived.
“Who’d steal them? Cheonyeogwisin?”
“I don't even know what that is.”
“Just leave the shoes here, Lando.”
The sand feels good underneath your feet. A bit ticklish. A little too familiar. You turn on the flashlight of your phone and jog up to the shore.
“Wait for me!” you hear Lando scream from behind you.
“Palli!” you yell back, voice almost drowning in the wind.
“I am palli-ing!”
You roll your pants up to your knees and soak your feet in the cold waves, shivering. You turn around just as Lando body slams you and the two of you fall into the ice-cold waves. Your jaw comes slack, eyes wide. The two of you are now drenched from head to toe.
Lando bashfully smiles, “Sorry.”
“Lando!” you splash him in his face.
Lively shrieks fill the silent night sky. The stars twinkle with mirth at the two of you, the line between fake and real blurring.
Lando flies out just four hours after you arrive in Seoul proper. You feel bad for bringing him somewhere far and not giving him enough hours to rest. Then, he tells you: "It's one of the best nights I've ever had."
He sounds so sincere that you have to stop yourself from blushing red.
In the schedule Jinnie gave you, you are only required to make an appearance in the race proper on the 24th. You have the 20th, 21st, and 22nd to work on your single before having to fly out on the 23rd. Regardless, you fly to Japan on the 21st with Jinnie in tow, two days earlier than your original schedule.
Jinnie doesn't question nor protest against your obvious disobedience on the appointed schedule. You're glad she didn't.
"Lando?" you question after seeing the man standing behind your hotel door. It's nearly twelve and you've just checked in the hotel with Jinnie. "What are you..."
"Just checking in," he smiles. "Do you mind if I come in?"
"Don't you have a race tomorrow?" Despite your question, you sidestep to let him inside your hotel room. "You should be resting."
"That's okay. I'm well rested. Are you going to watch the FP1 tomorrow?"
You shake your head, "I'm going to work on my song."
"Oh," his face falls. "Why'd you fly in early then?"
You shrug.
Honestly, you don't know either.
It's an act based purely on impulse. Not your finest moments.
"Maybe I can watch?" you say. "I'm not really sure."
You don't want to get mobbed again.
ORACLE has a rather large fanbase in Japan. You know there will be curious fans who'll await your appearance in the race. And while you're glad that your PR relationship with Lando is receiving the right type of attention from the public, you still hate having this much attention on you.
"You don't have to if you don't want to," Lando says.
"I'll go," you decide with finality. "I mean this is why we're doing this in the first place, right? Make people believe that we're real."
Lando's lips form a line.
"I suppose."
"Then, I'll be there."
The song making can wait.
Once again, Jinnie takes charge in deciding your clothing. You’ve long since given up on protesting or even suggesting your ideas. You have to get used to it again. Wearing whatever is given to you like a doll. After all, you are to return to the stage of KPop again.
Today’s WAG OOTD is a Miu Miu black dress, a black leather jacket, and Gianvito Rossi strappy sandals. Nothing too impressive. It's just the free practice sessions after all.
Jinnie hands you the McLaren ball cap and you grimace.
“How's the song coming up?”
“I’ve been trying to combine my demos and see how it sounds,” you reply. “But I have a concept in mind and I jotted down a few phrases for the lyrics.”
“I got an email from Yoon PD-nim today. He’s strongly suggesting you use a racing concept for your single.”
Strongly suggesting.
Translation: commanding.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Fuck it.
He’s really going to use the scandal and hope it’ll make you rise from the ashes like a phoenix reborn. The problem is that you're far from a phoenix. You’re human. As disappointing that may be but that is the cold truth. You're uncertain how people will react if you use a racing concept. You cannot afford to risk this over something like this.
You have one chance. And if KNetz reacts badly on your song and your MV, you’re never going to have another chance to go back on stage, to go back home.
Yoon PD-nim is too thoughtless at times. You want to shake him.
Jinnie drives you to the paddock and drops you to the parking lot. You expect that you’ll have to find your way to the garage again alone. Your knees are trembling as you step out of the car.
To your surprise, a staff member of the McLaren team—you assume he works for the team because of the orange polo shirt—approaches you as you exit the car.
“[Name]?”
“Hi,” you offer a polite smile.
“I’m Rick, I’m one of Lando’s mechanics, pleasure to meet you,” he introduces.
“Pleasure is all mine, Sir,” you say, dipping your chin into a small bow.
“Come this way,” he beckons. You follow him.
“Did Lando ask you to pick me up?”
“Well, he insisted on picking you up but the race was about to start so we had to force him to stay put in the livery and he wouldn't stay put until we said we’ll pick you up. Said people might flock over you and you don't like it when it happens.”
Your heart warms.
“That's very thoughtful of him. And sweet.”
“That's Lando Norris for you,” he says. “He’s always treating all the people he’s working with kindly. He only has to be polite but he even exerts effort in helping and making our work easier.”
“That's true,” you agree. “I can attest to that, as his fake girlfriend. He only has to treat me well when there's a camera but he’s even going as far as offering friendship.”
The rest of the walk to McLaren was peaceful. Or at least as peaceful as you hope it can be.
#f1 x reader#formula 1#formula one#f1 imagines#fluff#fanfic#lando norris x reader#lando norris#ln4 fic#ln4#ln4 x reader#kpop idol! reader
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Ruggie: Hm? Where are you going, Leona?
Leona: I'm gonna welcome Akihiko. He said that he was waiting at the gate.
Ruggie: Eh?
Ruggie: Are ya' not gonna tell Yuurin first?
Leona: She's in the middle of class. I'll just lead her brother to her classroom.
Ruggie: Oh, okay.
Ruggie: ...
Ruggie: By the way, what are you going to do with that nerf gun?
Leona: Leal.
Ruggie: Lol. Poor dude.
Vil: What? Leona has a girlfriend?
Epel: Yeah!
Vil: ...
Vil: That's impossible. Do you think someone like "Leona" can woo a woman?
Rook: I see no reason why not, Roi du Poison. If Roi des Lions can charm a man, I don't see why it wouldn't be possible with a woman.
Vil and Epel: ...
Vil: What the hell, Rook. Anyway, Epel, why did you think that Leona has a girlfriend?
Epel: Well, I saw him accompanying this lady and they seem very close.
Vil: ...
Vil: Didn't it come to you that they might just be friends?
Epel: ...
Epel: Right.
Vil: *sigh*
Akihiko: *walking gracefully as Leona and Leal accompany him*
Leona: *noticed the other students staring*
Leona: Why these kids gawking?
Leal: It might be because of Master Akihiko's beauty.
Leona: ...
Leona: How come you didn't dress as a guy?
Akihiko: Finding men's clothes that suited me was challenging.
Leal: ...
Leona: ...
Akihiko: Oh! Is this the class Yuurin is in?
Leona: Yeah. *knocks on the door*
Professor Trein: *opens it* Hm? Kingscholar?
Leona: 'Sup, Trein.
Professor Trein: *looks at Akihiko and Leal*
Professor Trein: Who are these people?
Leona: Ah, this one is Aki- I mean, Akane, Yuurin's older sister.
Leona: And this guy right here is Leal, their servant.
Leal: ...
Professor Trein: Oh. It's nice to meet you. I'm Mozus Trein. A history professor here at Night Raven College.
Akihiko: It's nice to meet you, Professor Trein. I've heard from Yuurin that you are one of his favorite professors.
Professor Trein: *chuckles* You flatter me.
Leona: Is Yuurin in your class?
Professor Trein: Yes. The students are having an exam. But I don't mind if the three of you watch.
Akihiko: *smiles* That would be lovely. Thank you, Professor Trein.
Yuurin: *hasn't noticed Akihiko, Leona, and Leal yet since she's too focused on answering the exam and making sure that every answer is correct*
Professor Trein: Your brother is quite studious.
Akihiko: *nods in agreement*
Ace: *yawns* *then happens to look at the front* Huh?
Ace: *starts tapping on Deuce's shoulder*
Deuce: What?
Ace: *whisper-yelled* A girl!
Deuce: Huh? *then looks at where he's pointing*
Deuce: ...
Akihiko: *wearing an elegant floral, long-sleeve dress with a surplice neckline*
Akihiko: *smiles and waves at them*
Ace and Deuce: *blushes in embarrassment and returns to answering their test papers*
Leona: Tch.
Yuurin: *finished up checking her answers and looked up to ask Professor Trein, then spotted Akihiko*
Yuurin: ...
Akihiko: *mouths* 'Are you done?' *smiles*
Yuurin: *nods* *then looks sternly at Leal*
Leal: *immediately lowers his head*
Leona: Wow. Good luck to you, Leal.
Leal: *mumbles* Master Akihiko, can I just wait for you outside the campus?
Akihiko: ...
Akihiko: Yes, it's fine.
Yuurin: Where is your husband?
Leona: He fled after you glared at him.
Yuurin: ...
Akihiko: *chuckles* That was Leal.
Yuurin: ...
Yuurin: Did you marry him because he was nice?
Akihiko: You could say that.
Leona: Heh.
Ace and Deuce: Yuurin! *is running towards them*
Ace: Is she your older sister?!
Yuurin: ...
Yuurin: Yes.
Akihiko: Pleased to meet you. My name is Akane. Yuurin's older sister.
Ace: Wha~! You're beautiful! No wonder Yuurin's so handsome!
Leona: *glares at Ace*
Ace: ...
Deuce: Nice to meet you, Sis Akane! My name's Deuce Spade! I'm one of Yuurin's closest friends!
Ace: A-And I'm Ace Trappola! Your future brother-in-law!
Leona: Huh?
Ace: Yikes! I'm just joking, senpai!
Idia: Eh? Yuurin's older brother?
Ortho: Hm!
Idia: ...
Idia: Is he together with Yuurin now?
Ortho: It seems they went to Savanaclaw. Why don't we go there to greet him, brother?
Idia: ...
Idia: I'll just send Yuurin a dm.
Ortho: No! You should greet them personally!
Idia: Leona is there! What do you want me to do?!
Akihiko: Yuurin~ Bluebell~?
Yuurin: ...
Yuurin: *sigh* *switches to her feminine voice* What is it, Aki?
Akihiko: *claps happily*
Akihiko: Your feminine voice is adorable, bluebell!
Yuurin: ...
Yuurin: It's not as adorable as your feminine voice.
Akihiko: Don't worry about it. I'm sure it will improve more in the next couple of years.
Leona: Aki's right. Anyway, we should go shopping.
Yuurin: Shopping?
Akihiko: Yes. I want to go shopping with you, bluebell.
Yuurin: ...
Yuurin: Alright. *just wants to spend time with her brother*
Leona: Oh, is Leal going to tag along?
Yuurin: ...
Akihiko: I think it's best if we leave him. *smiles*
#twisted wonderland#twst yuurin#twst akihiko/akane#twst leona#twst ruggie#twst epel#twst rook#twst vil#twst trein#twst ace#twst deuce#twst oc leal#twst unveil
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Keep thinking bout Yutu and his relationship to his dad. Like we know a little more about Ace, Floyd, Azul and Riddle (maybe I miss someone else?) but I was curious about other details or interactions with the other Overblot boys.
Like how does talking with someone who tries his best to not get involved in other people's business like Jamil work for making his parents fall in love (if that's even something Yutu can see happening with how distant he is)? How does Yutu go about trying to lay some clues for Vil without being found when Vil's doing his best (with Rook's help) to figure out what's going on?
Or what about the shenanigans Ortho would get to to ensure Idia and Yuu get together so they can try to stop the apocalypse and how would Yutu feel about having at least one person (his uncle at that!) who he can rely on? Or does Yutu ever find himself in a situation that makes him go "oh, I could've had this with dad if it weren't for the council" whenever Malleus says something deep without realizing?
Gaaaaahhhhh I just really like this au and I wanna ask you so many questions but I also don't wanna be annoying
ask is referencing the fyuuture kid au, information on which can be found here and here, or under the series section on my masterlist.
No one is annoying for asking questions! I have asks for Idia and Leona's Yutus, which I think makes every overblot boy except for Jamil and Vil due for a detailed post. Azul! Yutu is a bit of a grey area since I have talked about him a bunch but haven't done detailed hc for him. Yet anyway, Jade and Floyd got one so he needs one too otherwise it'll bug me.
Jamil! Yutu absolutely has a lot of guilt and self hatred around his entire existence. As I talked about in the post about the main cast, Jamil was executed in Yutu's future, and he feels personally responsible for that. If his dad had never fallen in love with Yuu then he would have had a chance at his freedom, that's how Yutu has come to see it anyway. He doesn't want Jamil to fall in love with Yuu, even if it means erasing his existence. Down that road lies only tragedy, but there is also something so beautiful about the way Jamil interacts with Yuu when he thinks no one is looking. There is a degree of mutual respect for how hard the other works and intense desire for approval and praise he can sympathize with. He just doesn't see a way for this to end well if it's allowed to continue, he's a very pessimistic kid Jamil! Yutu. But then again the others didn't have to see the rotted corpse of their father getting dragged around by a blot phantom and be told by a few angry relatives of Kalim that he is the one who put him there.
Vil! Yutu is a bit afraid of his dad. He knows from personal experience that the man is intense and does not take no for an answer but he's never been in the position to see 1) what a good thing that can be or 2) just how silly that can make him act. He's also NEVER had to contend with the real Rook before. The Rook he's familiar with is a mindless monster, dangerous sure, but with patterns you can memorize and protect yourself from. This guy is just wild, sure his dad says that he's only putting up for his behavior "for now" but someone tell him where the fucking line is??? The last thing he wants is to just say everything and risk ruining the timeline but Vil keeps demanding specifics. The main thing Yutu tries to do is get him cooperating with Idia in learning about blot phantoms, the way he sees it things will be much easier if his two most trusted adults are on the same page. It's not a difficult ask either post chapter six, I think Vil is someone who would want to understand what happened to him on a scientific level to some degree, but oh Yutu. Now you've just made him wonder how you know that little piece of information, not everyone knows about his overblot, but he didn't know that bit did he?
Ortho and Idia! Yutu wind up being very close. Having his uncle on his side puts Yutu in a much more stable place emotionally and mentally than other Yutus. They spend a lot of time analyzing old records about blot and phantoms, everyone else is convinced they're just hyping each other up for some weird PhD project inspired by the Ramshackle Prefect's time at NRC and hey. They aren't exactly wrong. As for how they go about trying to get Idia and Yuu together... it's a lot of anime recommendations and conveniently forgetting they had something else to do. Yutu has just as in depth knowledge of Idia's tastes as Ortho does, and the added bonus of knowing Yuu's, so they search through lists of things, pick out the shows they know will get the two of you talking and then sit back and let you interact. Yutu is genuinely confused about why or if this is working... but Ortho did send him a video of his dad hyping himself up to try and ask you out (he over heated and just hid inside his room instead but hey. It's the thought that counts.)
Malleus! Yutu just got his post here. And yes he does think regularly about what he could have had with his father if things had been different, but a lot of those thoughts come from his sillier moments. Hearing Malleus talk at length about ruins or seeing him confused about how to interact with technology make him seem more... human for lack of a better term to him. He's very familiar with the myth of Malleus Draconia, but he wasn't fathered by a myth. He was fathered by a man who fell in love with a human under very extraordinary circumstances and Yutu wants to know about why. What things did Malleus like most about Yuu? About Twisted Wonderland? If he had gotten a chance to be raised by him what things would Malleus have wanted to teach him? Would he be any different?
Azul! Yutu is also afraid of his dad, but not based on any personal experiences just his own insecurities. He's not a thin guy, he's not in Octavinelle, and he is extremely worried that his dad will see him as some sort of stupid muscle head and be disappointed in having him. He's also, understandably, extremely angry at him when he learns what he did in Book 3 to his parent. Fuck this guy, he'll just save Yuu himself and hopefully if they still get together he'll grow up to be a totally different person when he's born in this good timeline. But there's just something about Azul's approval that he can't help but want now that drives him crazy. Why can't he just be ok with being alone? He has been all this time anyway...
(Meanwhile Azul is deeply impressed with how well Yutu is at disguising himself as a dumb muscle head. Just look at the kid, he's got everyone thinking he just is controlling their shadows while he's actually using a really complicated bit of cosmic magic. Suckers all of them. Not him though. He's not being fooled by anything about Yutu, no sir.)
Leona, Leona, Leona. He's tricky for me to write. Scar apparently has children? In one the the Lion King sequels? Leona's dislike of kids seems to come from his complicated feelings around the throne and his want for people to be independent. I think he would be one of those gruff intense kind of dads who does the whole "we are never getting a pet" thing and then you see him asleep on the recliner with Princess Nooodles III chilling on his lap with him. Anyway back to Yutu-
Leona! Yutu's relationship with his dad is tempered by the fact Leona knows who and what he is from the start and demands to know why he has traveled back in time. He doesn't explicitly say he knows that he is his father or that Yuu is his other parent, just that he knows time travel is involved, so they have a fairly open amount of communication regarding the overblot "business" but not on much else. Yutu has a desire to understand his father and Leona has a desire to not disappoint him. Who would want their dad to be the second prince? He's destined for nothing but a miserable life anyway, all of the responsibility and none of the privilege (outside of the money but lets be real, Leona's ass does not understand that.) I don't think either Leona or Yutu fully understands that his existence is enough for the other to be happy. When they are forced to talk about it they both laugh it off and roll their eyes at how cheesy that sounds but deep down it means a lot to both of them.
Riddle! Yutu has gotten a lot of posts about him and his "hatred" of his dad but I thought I'd take this post to mention I like the idea of Yutu's favorite food being the chestnut tarts/mont blanc that aren't allowed at Unbirthday Parties but that Riddle still wanted to eat anyway. He's a lot like his father in his love of sweets and his determined denial of it, but he isn't the exact same. Also gives him one more thing to pick a fight with Riddle over (his dad doesn't get the big deal, they can just have a private tea party with Yuu and have all the different sweets they want... can't they?)
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I'm back wayy too early, Just as promised!👍🏻
How are you?
Would you like to explain, in the Reader of your choice that "Flaxans' king is kinda..", mister?🤨📸
Aaand that's It for now, drink some water mr. Allig-author, I'll do the same.
See you in the close future! ~💙🌺✨
Flaxan Leader x antihero male reader
Headcanons
straight up cant find any flaxan gifs
What do you mean 🤨📸 I said what I said 🗣️
Reader is kinda based on Deadpool, but with some tweaks. Insert also flaxan headcanons, cuz I thought it was funny.
Working with teen team had never really been something you planned to do. You were more of an antihero than an outright hero. Majority of the public didn’t even know about your existence, since most of your dirty work was done in the shadows.
But seeing as the guardians of the globe weren’t responsive, and you had been in this business for a long time, Cecil called in a favor you owed him, which lead to you fighting alongside this group of young heroes.
To you it felt like being a caretaker or kindergarten teacher, since you were older than all of them with a lot more knowledge and experience. Your lack of care about spilling blood and killing seemed to unnerve a few of them, invincible being one of them.
Your regeneration seemed to shock the flaxans you fought, as they’d blow your head off with their blasters, or would slice your limbs off, only for them to regrow in seconds as your damaged body kept on fighting.
Invincible may have scarred his face, but you were the one the one who would become the flaxan leader fought head on. You may not have super strength like some of the others, but your expertise made you even more of a bother to fight.
Since we know nothing about flaxans, let’s say that they flirt through sparring or fighting, so you being your joking usual Deadpool self could be seen as advances of some kind. The kiss you blow him as they flee the first time doesn’t help your case.
After the first invasion, I can already imagine the likes of invincible freaking out a little or a lot about how easily you kill and how you make a joke out of everything. It results in you having to give these young heroes a reality check, that being a hero isn’t easy, and that they’ll probably end up killing more people than they save. That’s your feelings about it anyways.
The second invasion has you involved again, since your extreme healing factor also means you barely need to sleep, eat or drink, as your body keeps itself going without issue. And once again you end up fighting the flaxan leader, whose now got a different look.
The first words that leave your mouth is ooing and awing, purring that you like em a little grey so you are happy to see him. All the talking you did during your first battle also meant that the flaxans, or maybe rather the leader, has a much better understanding of human speech.
The second invasion ends like the first, except the leader is too busy fighting with you to focus on invincible and atom eve, so Robot ends up finding their weakness on his own. Sometime during the fight your mask also ends up getting ripped off, letting you plant a big kiss on the flaxan leader’s forehead before they flee.
When members of the teen team ask why the hell you did that, you just shrug and make some comment about how you two “have a connection”. Its clearly a joke, because you take nothing seriously, but the flaxan leader seems to see it as legit.
The third invasion goes differently from the show, since the leaders risen up to rule all of his people, and instead of wanting to invade earth this time he comes through to court you, much to everyone’s surprise, both you, the teen team, and the media that’s been watching the entire time.
Imagine your surprise when the flaxan leader, now a good deal older and in a powersuit, rocking up to you with flowers native to his planet and what looks like a bracelet made out of similar material to his armor.
It takes some translation and some help from Cecil and his people to figure out what its all about, and honestly you feel a little chuffed at this big guy pretty much proposing to you after two fights. It seems completely out of the norm for humanity, but apparently its normal in flaxan culture.
In the end it helps create more of an allyship with the flaxans than them getting eradicated by omni-man. And you end up scoring a hot older guy who doesn’t seem to mind your many many scars. Its not everyone who can say their husband developed technology strictly to be able to exist in your world, is it? you definitely brag online about it, “if he wanted too, he would” and all that.
#male reader#antihero reader#antiohero male reader#invincible#flaxan leader#invincible imagine#invincible headcanon#invincible x male reader#invincible x reader#flaxan leader imagine#flaxan leader headcanon#flaxan leader x male reader#flaxan leader x reader#flaxan imagine#flaxan headcanon#flaxan x male reader#flaxan x reader#invincible series#invincible show#invincible season 2
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By: Michael Powell
Published: Apr 22, 2024
Yesterday just before midnight, word goes out, tent to tent, student protester to student protester—a viral warning: Intruders have entered the “liberated zone,” that swath of manicured grass where hundreds of students and their supporters at what they fancy as the People’s University for Palestine sit around tents and conduct workshops about demilitarizing education and fighting settler colonialism and genocide. In this liberated zone, normally known as South Lawn West on the Columbia University quad, unsympathetic outsiders are treated as a danger.
“Attention, everyone! We have Zionists who have entered the camp!” a protest leader calls out. His head is wrapped in a white-and-black keffiyeh. “We are going to create a human chain where I’m standing so that they do not pass this point and infringe on our privacy.”
Privacy struck me as a peculiar goal for an outdoor protest at a prominent university. But it’s been a strange seven-month journey from Hamas’s horrific slaughter of Israelis—the original breach of a cease-fire—to the liberated zone on the Columbia campus and similar standing protests at other elite universities. What I witnessed seemed less likely to persuade than to give collective voice to righteous anger. A genuine sympathy for the suffering of Gazans mixed with a fervor and a politics that could border on the oppressive.
Dozens stand and echo the leader’s commands in unison, word for word. “So that we can push them out of the camp, one step forward! Another step forward!” The protesters lock arms and step toward the interlopers, who as it happens are three fellow Columbia students, who are Jewish and pro-Israel.
Jessica Schwalb, a Columbia junior, is one of those labeled an intruder. In truth, she does not much fear violence—“They’re Columbia students, too nerdy and too worried about their futures to hurt us,” she tells me—as she is taken aback by the sight of fellow students chanting like automatons. She raises her phone to start recording video. One of the intruders speaks up to ask why they are being pushed out.
The leader talks over them, dismissing such inquiries as tiresome. “Repeat after me,” he says, and 100 protesters dutifully repeat: “I’m bored! We would like you to leave!”
As the crowd draws closer, Schwalb and her friends pivot and leave. Even the next morning, she’s baffled at how they were targeted. Save for a friend who wore a Star of David necklace, none wore identifying clothing. “Maybe,” she says, “they smelled the Zionists on us.”
As the war has raged on and the death toll has grown, protest rallies on American campuses have morphed into a campaign of ever grander and more elaborate ambitions: From “Cease-fire now” to the categorical claim that Israel is guilty of genocide and war crimes to demands that Columbia divest from Israeli companies and any American company selling arms to the Jewish state.
Many protesters argue that, from the river to the sea, the settler-colonialist state must simply disappear. To inquire, as I did at Columbia, what would happen to Israelis living under a theocratic fascist movement such as Hamas is to ask the wrong question. A young female protester, who asked not to be identified for fear of retribution, responded: “Maybe Israelis need to check their privilege.”
Of late, at least one rabbi has suggested that Jewish students depart the campus for their own safety. Columbia President Minouche Shafik acknowledged in a statement earlier today that at her university there “have been too many examples of intimidating and harassing behavior.” To avoid trouble, she advised classes to go virtual today, and said, “Our preference is that students who do not live on campus will not come to campus.”
Tensions have in fact kept ratcheting up. Last week, Shafik called in the New York City police force to clear an earlier iteration of the tent city and to arrest students for trespassing. The university suspended more than 100 of these protesters, accusing them, according to the Columbia Spectator, of “disruptive behavior, violation of law, violation of University policy, failure to comply, vandalism or damage to property, and unauthorized access or egress.” Even some Jewish students and faculty unsympathetic to the protesters say the president’s move was an accelerant to the crisis, producing misdemeanor martyrs to the pro-Palestinian cause. A large group of faculty members walked out this afternoon to express their opposition to the arrests and suspensions.
As for the encampment itself, it has an intifada-meets-Woodstock quality at times. Dance clubs offer interpretive performances; there are drummers and other musicians, and obscure poets reading obscure poems. Some tents break out by identity groups: “Lesbians Against Genocide,” “Hindus for Intifada.” Banners demand the release of all Palestinian prisoners. Small Palestinian flags, embroidered with the names of Palestinian leaders killed in Gaza, are planted in the grass.
During my nine-hour visit, talking with student protesters proved tricky. Upon entering the zone, I was instructed to listen as a gatekeeper read community guidelines that included not talking with people not authorized to be inside—a category that seemed to include anyone of differing opinions. I then stood in a press zone and waited for Layla Saliba, a social-work graduate student who served as a spokesperson for the protest. A Palestinian American, she said she has lost family in the fighting in Gaza. She talked at length and with nuance. Hers, however, was a near-singular voice. As I toured the liberated zone, I found most protesters distinctly nonliberated when it came to talking with a reporter.
Leaders take pains to insist that, for all the chants of “From the river to sea” and promises to revisit the 1948 founding of Israel, they are only anti-Zionist and not anti-Jewish. To that end, they’ve held a Shabbat dinner and, during my visit, were planning a Passover seder. (The students vow to remain, police notwithstanding, until graduation in May).
“We are not anti-Jewish, not at all,” Saliba said.
But to talk with many Jewish students who have encountered the protests is to hear of the cumulative toll taken by words and chants and actions that call to mind something ancient and ugly.
Earlier in the day, I interviewed a Jewish student on a set of steps overlooking the tent city. Rachel, who asked that I not include a surname for fear of harassment, recalled that in the days after October 7 an email went out from a lesbian organization, LionLez, stating that Zionists were not allowed at a group event. A subsequent email from the club’s president noted: “White Jewish people are today and always have been the oppressors of all brown people,” and “when I say the Holocaust wasn’t special, I mean that.” The only outward manifestation of Rachel’s sympathies was a pocket-size Israeli flag in a dorm room. Another student, Sophie Arnstein, told me that after she said in class that “Jewish lives matter,” others complained that her Zionist beliefs were hostile. She ended up dropping the course.
This said, the students I interviewed told me that physical violence has been rare on campus. There have been reports of shoves, but not much more. The atmosphere on the streets around the campus, on Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, is more forbidding. There the protesters are not students but sectarians of various sorts, and the cacophonous chants are calls for revolution and promises to burn Tel Aviv to the ground. Late Sunday night, I saw two cars circling on Amsterdam as the men inside rolled down their windows and shouted “Yahud, Yahud”—Arabic for “Jew, Jew”—“fuck you!”
A few minutes earlier, I had been sitting on a stone bench on campus and speaking with a tall, brawny man named Danny Shaw, who holds a master’s in international affairs from Columbia and now teaches seminars on Israel in the liberated zone. When he describes the encampment, it sounds like Shangri-la. “It’s 100 percent love for human beings and very beautiful; I came here for my mental health,” he said.
He claims no hatred for Israel, although he suggested that the “genocidal goliath” will of course have to disappear or merge into an Arab-majority state. He said he does not endorse violence, even as he likened the October 7 attacks to the Warsaw Ghetto uprising during World War II.
Shaw’s worldview is consistent with that of others in the rotating cast of speakers at late-night seminars in the liberated zone. The prevailing tone tends toward late-stage Frantz Fanon: much talk of revolution and purging oneself of bourgeois affectation. Shaw had taught for 18 years at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, but he told me the liberated zone is now his only gig. The John Jay administration pushed him out—doxxed him, he said—in October for speaking against Israel and for Palestine. He was labeled an anti-Semite and remains deeply pained by that. He advised me to look up what he said and judge for myself. So I did, right on the spot.
Shortly after October 7, he posted this on X: “Zionists are straight Babylon swine. Zionism is beyond a mental illness; it’s a genocidal disease.”
A bit harsh, maybe? I asked him. He shook his head. “The rhetoric they use against us makes us look harsh and negative,” Shaw said. “That’s not the flavor of what we are doing.”
We parted shortly afterward. I walked under a near-full moon toward a far gate, protesters’ chants of revolution echoing across what was otherwise an almost-deserted campus. I could not shake the sense that too many at this elite university, even as they hoped to ease the plight of imperiled civilians, had allowed the intoxicating language of liberation to blind them to an ugliness encoded within that struggle.
[ Via: https://archive.today/ziQes ]
==
At the core of what they call "anti-Zionism" is the belief that "Jews control the world." Left-wing conspiracy nuts and right-wing conspiracy nuts are now collaborating, it seems.
Zionism | ˈzīəˌnizəm |
noun
a movement for (originally) the re-establishment and (now) the development and protection of a Jewish nation in what is now Israel. It was established as a political organization in 1897 under Theodor Herzl, and was later led by Chaim Weizmann.
Somehow this justifies slaughtering over a thousand, raping dozens, and kidnapping hundreds. And for brain cell-starved students to defend and support terrorists who would happily slit their throats.
It's hard to take the "we're anti-Zionism, not anti-Jew" thing when they intimidate and attack Jews without bothering to ask them what they think. In reality, it's just cover for their antisemitism. When they don't make the distinction, we should stop pretending it's a distinction at all.
#Michael Powell#Columbia University#useful idiots#hamas#hamas terrorism#hamas supporters#pro hamas#student protesters#student protestors#antisemitism#israel#palestine#pro palestine#islamic terrorism#islam#religion is a mental illness
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Bridgerton shade of blue
Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader
Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.
{Masterlist}
{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}
Season one
Chapter Thirteen - Passionate
♡♡♡
A garden party was a nice occasion. The joys of being outdoors while socialising with dear friends had a calming and charming air about it. You found it rather pleasant being in the outdoors.
The flowers smelled wonderful, and you couldn't help making mental notes of some of the flower arrangements for, perhaps, future uses.
As you stroll, you come across the Bridgertons. You smile at Violet as you get closer, though she is talking to Eloise, who sounds less than pleased with the topic of conversation. You decide to narrowly miss this conversation for now and walk past them to where Benedict and Anthony were talking to a couple of young ladies.
Both men seem to perk up at your appearance beside them.
"Hello," you smile at the pair.
"Good afternoon," Anthony smiles back.
"Enjoying the fresh air?" Benedict asks, also smiling. Smiles all around, how joyous.
"Yes, very. This is lovely."
Anthony waves over a servant with a tray of lemonade and hands you a glass. You take it with a soft thank you, missing the look Benedict gives his brother. Anthony elects to ignore Benedict as he smiles at you again. You sip the lemonade.
The sound of someone clinking their glass to signal attention has everyone turning around to look at Colin Bridgerton.
"Can I have your attention?" He asks, looking around at everyone.
"What's he doing?" You ask quietly to the brothers beside you.
"No idea," Anthony mutters.
"I would like to make a small but important announcement," Colin declares. He is standing next to Marina Thompson. "I have happy news to impart. I have asked Miss Marina Thompson to be my wife and she has accepted."
You nearly choke on your lemonade. Benedict and Anthony look at each other. Anthony, in particular, looks less than pleased by this.
People clap around them. You clap for appearance sake, but you look up at Anthony. "Did you know?"
"No."
Anthony steps forward to talk to his mother. You can't hear what they're saying. You look up at Benedict. "I wasn't even aware your brother was courting."
"Neither was I." He says with a little shrug.
Everyone moves to go congratulate the couple. As you pass Anthony, you look up at him. He offers you his arm and you both approach Colin and Marina.
You could feel him seething behind his calm exterior.
After the party, Anthony takes Colin into his study to talk to him. You have no idea what they discuss, but you can take a pretty good guess.
♡♡♡
The next morning, you went to the Bridgerton house to see Violet. After Colin's unexpected announcement, you wanted to know all was well with the rest of the family. They were already without a sister now. They did not need to lose Colin so soon, surely.
Lady Bridgerton was most pleased to see you at her door. She told you they hadn't even started breakfast yet and invited you in. Benedict was there with the two youngest siblings. You smile at him as you enter. He smiles back softly, seemingly pleased to see you.
"Take a seat," Violet says kindly.
You sit next to Gregory, opposite Hyacinth, who sits beside Benedict. The eldest son at the table hasn't torn his gaze from you at all.
"Tea, ma'am?" The butler asks.
"Yes, please."
A cup is poured for you.
"Are you hungry?" Violet asks.
"No. I ate at home. Thank you, though." You smile at her. She returns the smile and picks up the paper in front of her. "How are you all?" You ask.
"Uh, well," Benedict nods. You smile at him.
"Violet?" You looked at her.
"Hm?" She looks up from her paper. "Oh, uh, yes." She nods, and then lowers her gaze back to the paper.
Benedict gives you a look that you understand clearly enough. His mother has been better.
"I suppose it's too soon to hear from Daphne yet?" You ask.
"I'm sure they'll have made it by now. They'll be enjoying their honeymoon period, no doubt." Benedict chuckles softly.
You smile softly and look into your teacup. "I wonder what it's like..."
"The honeymoon period?" Benedict asks, looking up at you with slightly flushed cheeks.
"Being married," you correct him.
"Oh..."
Violet looks up at you with a small smile, her eyes sparkling. "When you marry your best friend, it's the most wonderful feeling of all."
You smile at her. "I want that."
"Youshall have it. One day, dear."
You are grateful for Violet and her kindness. You've never known a more warm and welcoming woman. Your mother was nice, certainly, but she was eager just to see you wed. Violet made marriage sound magical.
You sip your tea and listen to Hyacinth bicker with Gregory over a ribbon. Benedict tries to be the middleman and solve this peacefully. You chuckle at their antics. Gregory tries to get you to defend him, but you put your hands up and explain that you weren't here when the crime was supposedly committed. Benedict also comes to your rescue.
You smile at each other.
Colin walks in.
Conversation becomes quieter. You pour yourself another cup of tea and avoid looking up at Colin. You feel like this may be a little awkward. You grab a slice of toast for the centre of the table and butter it quietly, needing to keep your hands busy.
Benedict seems to realise what you're doing and says nothing to you.
"Good morning." Colin greets his family.
"Morning, brother."
Colin nods to you, too. You offer him a smile which you then hide behind the toast you had buttered.
"Colin, your engagement is in Whistledown!" Hyacinth exclaims cheerfully.
"Hyacinth!" Eloise scolds. You hadn't even seen her lingering in the back of the room.
"What? It is!"
"Very well. Everyone out, I think." Benedict says as gently as he can.
"Yes," Violet mutters.
Benedict calls your name softly. You nod and down the rest of your tea, taking the other half of the toast with you as you rise with the others. Eloise grabs her plate and glides past you quietly.
Colin approaches his mother as you all leave the room. When the door shuts behind you, yo turn to Benedict. "Will he be alright?"
"I'll let you know after."
You follow him down the hall.
The two younger siblings follow their sister into the drawing room. Benedict reaches out his hand to grab lightly at your arm, stopping you from going any further.
"Could I... show you something?" He asks.
You look at him, brow slightly furrowed, and nod. He smiles, that crooked little smile of his and guides you down the opposite hall, leading you toward an empty room. There was minimal furniture in there, which confused as to why he brought you here.
"I like to come in here for some quiet." He explains.
He offers you a seat on one of the chairs in the middle of the room and disappears for a brief moment. You look around the room as you wait. When he returns, he's carrying something.
"I don't usually show other people my work, for, I admit, I am not happy with it, but I would like to share a piece of me with you." He says, placing the book on the table between you.
For a moment, he sits there with his hands planted firmly on top of the book and then pushes it closer to you. You reach out and take the book carefully. His hand slowly slides from the cover, and you watch him become riddled with anxiety and nerves as his passion lays slowly in your hands.
You turn your eyes to the book and gently curl your fingers around the cover, pulling it open slowly, hoping not to disturb the pages. You start from the beginning. Mere scribbles of a person. You turn the pages slowly. Different angles. Different body parts up close. Eyes, noses, hands, lips. Nearly 6 whope pages are focused on hair styles on ladies. There are pages focusing on the folds of clothes and how they hand. Particularly dresses.
You browse the sketchbook slowly and carefully, taking I never details.
There is some evidence of torn pages within the book. You wonder how many times he sketched something and torn it out with anger with displeasure.
"Well?" He asks after a long pause of silence.
You lift your eyes to meet his. "You drew all of these?"
"Yes..."
You cast your eyes on the book again, admiring a sketch of a hand up close. The long fingers, the bend in the knuckles, the lines on the palm.
"You're very talented, Benedict."
You hear the breath leave his lips and look up to see the way his eyes light up with surprise. He clearly was expecting a very different comment.
"You think so?"
"Yes." You nod. "Very."
Benedict seems to relax immensely as he looks at you and then sits back in his chair, looking relieved.
"I want to create something people will remember and talk about for years to come," he confesses. "But I cannot. I do not possess such a talent."
"Nonsense."
"No, really." He leans forward again.
"Can I ask why you decided to show me this?" You ask, looking at the open book again.
"I trust you." He speaks softly. "Are we not friends?" He asks.
"Of course."
Hs lips twitch into a smile. "I trust you," he repeats.
"Well, I'm very glad you do." You close the book and hand it back carefully. "I trust that you will create something spectacular one day."
You had no idea how much your words meant to him or for how long he would end up carrying those words with him. If you could see the artist he wants to be inside, then surely one day it shall come true. Benedict swears on his heart that anything you day could become true just because they are spoken from your lips.
He hadn't even noticed his eyes had glanced at your lips, not until his eyes met your eyes again. You don't seem to have noticed.
"I think I've taken up enough of your family's time now. I mostly wanted to check on Violet after Colin's rather abrupt proposal."
"Yes..." Benedict wasn't entirely certain what you had just said, he just agreed. His mind was reeling.
Had he really just stared at your lips without realising he was doing it. Why does he feel the urge to look at them again?
You stand before he can get the chance.
"See me out?"
He snaps back to reality and stands quickly. "Yes."
You chuckle and begin to leave the room. Benedict follows you, pretending nothing is amiss. He was confused by his own behaviour.
You assumed it was a Bridgerton trait, if nothing else.
Benedict shows you to the door, and you step outside. Your carriage awaits. You turn and smile at Benedict.
"Do not give up."
"Hm?" He looks at you confused.
"Your art. Do not give up. One day, your work will hang with the greats."
Your words set his heart fluttering. He takes a deep breath and nods, not tristing his voice. You chuckle again and bid him farewell as you walk away.
Benedict closes the door and turns slowly, looking at the empty hall of the house.
"I need a drink."
"It's barely 9," Eloise says from the open door of the drawing room.
Benedict nearly jumped out of his skin.
♡♡♡
@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertonss - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333
@sillynilly27 - @autumn-slaves - @ben-has-arrived - @ajdelilah - @aadu2173
@booknerdlife - @tamlinrose - @sarahskywalker-amidala - @cheryyluv - @louschan - @lou-la-lou - @cultish-corner
@hopshusushi - @katherinejess - @nannabug - @afunkyfreshblog - @f0x33 - @dd122004dd -
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@ms-fandomgirl - @fablesrose - @anyaisinyourcloset - @meowzerzstuff - @orchiidflwer - @bespinnn - @crazymar15
@cosmixstar - @bree3parchen - @berrnuu - @biancamde - @charmainemaclendon - @pinkpantheris - @krismdavis
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Winter's King 13
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)
Characters: Geralt of Rivia
Note: Ahhh! I almost own a house.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
The queen struts down the hall, the white satin limning her figure. She is shameless as she passes soldiers but she needn’t worry for their judgments. You peek up at the few errant eyes that follow her, though many pass without even a glance in her direction. Servants course through the corridors, busy with preparations for the morrow’s departure.
You think of asking Queen Jazlene whether now is not the best time. If she should be more concerned with her venture north. Of all she’s acquired of the queen’s former possessions, there is not a fur among her chests. Nothing more than a trim of squirrel or rabbit along a collar. The summer kingdom does not warrant the need. And certainly, you think, the king must be equally busied by the pending journey.
As ever, your duty keeps you silent. You do not know better than a queen. You bide her whims, not your own. You follow the soft whisk of the robes hem and your mind wanders in your stead. You think of the dark gardens and the king’s words.
‘Should I remain any longer, I might give it all up.’ He must be eager to return home. You can’t help but harbour your own impatience. For all you’ve heard of the Hinterlands, you cannot picture them well. You want to see them yourself. It is the only time in your life you really ever longed to see something entirely unfamiliar.
The queen stops and the soldiers on either side of the door shift, alert at her approach. The do not look welcoming. You wring your hands behind your back. What can you do but let the queen proceed?
“Let me through,” she demands, “I must see the king.”
“Your highness,” the rusty-haired soldier drawls, “he is not receiving--”
“He is my husband,” she sneers, “I am the queen.” She points to herself, “I give you orders, sir. Not the reverse.”
The other man huffs and tilts his head to the other as if to say, ‘don’t bother’. The first soldier raises his elbow to hit the door beside him.
“Your highness, you have a visitor,” he calls through.
“A visitor?” Jazlene scoffs and steps forward, grabbing the handles of the doors to try to force her way through. “I am more--” She shakes the doors as they offer resistance from the other side. You can see clearly through the crack between them that they are latched within.
The metal grinds inside as the lock is slid out of place. The queen blusters through as a dark-haired man stands by the left door, watching behind her as she blows in like a storm. You pause in the doorway, uncertain if you should go further.
The king sits at the table of his receiving chamber, maps unfurled and kept unrolled by heavy ornaments. He has one arm on the chair and his other hand against the tabletop. He watches his wife with his golden eyes, his lips straight and unamused. The man who opened the door, watches with a crooked grin.
“Husband, I have come to see you. As we have much travel ahead, I figured it was the best time for us to--”
“The best time?” King Geralt ponders flatly, “we ready for the ride north. We must anticipate the remaining rebels and assuage lingering acrimony. We must also account for the snows that will meet us in the Hinterland. This campaign has kept me long and the winter will be there to greet us.”
“Let the servants trouble for it,” she insists.
The man by the door flutters his fingers at you, “in?” He mouths.
You blink, uncertain. You step inside hesitantly and step to the edge of the other door. He pushes the left one shut and turns to watch the interaction with glee.
“You should trouble for it,” the king reproaches, “you should act as queen and so you should think of your people.”
“Husband, do not presume to educate me. I have had tutors all my life. I understand these things. I was borne to be a lady, to mind a castle--”
“A castle not a realm,” he shakes his head, “this is no banquet.”
“Ugh,” she huffs, “what has gotten into you? Last night--”
“It is today,” he insists over her, “I am occupied.” He shifts his chair pointed and frames an area on the maps with his large hands. “Jaskier,” he calls, “come, we must determine our way through Hare’s Pass.”
“Your highness,” the man jaunts forward bouncily and as he nears the table, he pulls out a chair, “Queen Jazlene, please, have my seat.”
The king looks at his companion with a deathly glimmer. The lord in his cornflower jacket is unbothered by the distaste aimed in his direction. He smirks back defiantly.
“Thank you, sir,” Jazlene simpers and sits with her back straight and her chest pushed out, “I think I’ve forgotten which one you are.”
“Lord Jaskier,” he intones, “I held the capital while the king claimed his beautiful wife.”
She giggles and runs her hand along the front of her robe, “oh, how valiant, sir.”
“Jaskier,” the king growls again, “put your mind back to the road--”
“We have it figured, your highness,” the lord rebuffs, “surely you should enjoy this time you have in one place with your wife.” Jaskier takes another stool and sits at the table, “I should very much like to know this summer queen better. You secret her away--”
The king sighs. His fingers tap in irritation on the table. He sits back and throws his hand up.
“I see you are no help, as usual,” the king snips.
“And you are tedious,” the lord smirks again. “My queen,” the man sits forward, his attention on Jazlene, “I traveled the summer lands once before. You see, I fancy myself a musician and as a young boy, I would play for the courts. I never ventured to Debray but I was at Harlowe. It is closeby.”
“I know Harlowe,” Jazlene brightens, forgetting her mission for talk of herself. “Yes, I went there often for their harvest fairs. Were you there when Lord Edmund was still alive?”
“Ah, yes, I believe he wasn’t there long after I left for the next county,” Jaskier artfully feeds her self-importance.
“He was a good man. Of the few my father respected,” she mourns with her hand to her chest. She shakes her head and pauses with a sullen sigh, “maid,” she snaps her head up, “bring wine for us.”
“No wine,” King Geralt counters swiftly.
“We have a guest, husband, surely we should entertain him according to etiquette. In these summer lands, we offer sustenance to our guests,” she argues.
“Bring warm milk then. You needn’t be glazed over with wine on the morrow--”
“I am the queen and I am grown, I will have wine,” Jazlene waves her hand at you tersely, “maid!”
The king glances at you. You stand in indecision. You can defy neither but in that moment, you must choose one or the other. His golden eyes drift over to the queen and back to you.
“Go, fetch wine,” he relents.
You bow your head and spin to set off on the task. Your thankful to escape the tension that floods the room. You can sense that the queen’s intrusion is unwelcome and yet that lord ignores the king’s mood. Almost as if he means to agitate him.
You weave through the disarray of the corridors down to the kitchen. Barrels of pickled foods and crates of dried goods are stacked, waiting to be loaded onto carts for the distance ahead. The king must still think of feeding his army, and now, a royal retinue.
You claim a bottle of wine amid the hectic furor and some goblets. You’re out of breath as you return to the upper floors and slow yourself to regain composure as you approach the king’s chamber. You’re let within without obstruction. Just the maid.
You cross to the table and set the goblets upright, then the heavy bottle. Jazlene ahems and taps the brim impatient before you can uncork the bottle. The neck moves away from your reach as Lord Jaskier snatches it instead. He opens it easily and pours the queen a cup as the king leans heavily on an elbow. As you glance over, you meet his golden eyes and quickly shy away. You see he is not happy. You thought by Jazlene’s measure, thing’s might have been improving.
You take your place by the wall. The king sighs. He does that a lot, as if he means to say something but will not. Lord Jaskier slides a goblet towards him.
“Drink and let loose, your highness, you can’t be surly upon the road,” Jaskier chides.
The king does not move. He glares at his company then looks at the ceiling. Queen Jazlene slurps loudly.
“How charming you are, my lord, a wonder his highness likes you so much,” she chirps.
“A surprise to me as well but I think my loyalty more tolerable than my other traits. Yet, you’ve yet to the king bellowing the most bawdy ballad. He is particular lively after a battle,” Jaskier winks at his liege tauntingly and receives nothing in return. “Mm, how about a game? The king is fond of those. How about it, then?”
The lord lifts his cup and holds it before his lips, watching the king in his cantankerous glower. Another sigh as he sits forwards and tilts a hand indifferently.
“If it keeps you from chattering,” the king mutters as he clears the heavy ornaments and rolls the map up. He focuses on that as Jaskier pulls a pouch free of his belt.
“This is one he taught me. The old king before him was fond of it too. The mind’s of rulers, hm?” Jaskier explains as he loosens the tie of the bag and pours out similar pieces to the ones in Geralt’s purse. “Have you played it?”
Jazlene keeps her hand on her cup. The king continues to clear the table, pushing aside the cup meant for him as he shifts the bottle off another map. He stands and gathers the rolled parchment. He approaches you.
“Bring these to my bedchamber,” he bids under his breath.
As you take them, your sleeves brush his and his fingers drag along the fabric of your dress. He stares down at you, his breath fuming like a hearth. You hug the maps and he backs away, returning to the table. You take your order and find your way through the east door into his bed chamber.
You set down the maps on the chest near the foot of the grand bed. His sword leans against the frame, tall in its sheath. You stop to admire the thick handle and its well-hewn grooves. It must be heavy.
You tear your admiration from the weapon and return to the receiving chamber. Jaskier reviews the rules as Geralt rolls his fingers against the armrest, bored by the explanation. You resume your vigil and stare at the wall.
Pieces are dolled out, dice are counted, and the round begins. The king is let to have the first turn. He plays the same as he did against you. It must be some strategy. The queen is prompted to have her go but she is silent. She hums and stares down at the table. Jaskier whispers behind his hand, drawing your gaze.
“Let her play her own turn,” the king insists, “isn’t any fun playing against two of you.”
“Your highness, I was only doing my duty as a royal advisor,” Jaskier returns playfully. “By all means, my beautiful queen, I am certain you are as a clever as you are elegant.”
Jazlene preens in the praise. She drinks some more wine then rolls a dice, seemingly without thought. Several of her pieces are plucked up by both king and lord. She pouts.
“Wait, what happened?” She mopes.
“Rules,” Geralt grumbles. “Jaskier, go on then, take my bronze.”
“I know your tricks,” the lord replies, “I will not fall for it. I’ll have your silver.”
Jaskier rolls the diamond dice and groans. The king takes his silver instead.
“You’ve switched out the dice, certainly,” Jaskier accuses.
“You whine about chance,” the king rebukes and rolls, taking even more silver from his advisor. “And again.”
He gestures to Jazlene and her brow ripples. You can see she doesn’t understand. She will want to use the square dice then, she might have the iron back that she lost. She uses the slightly rounded die instead. Jaskier is already counting her gold.
“I don’t understand,” she crosses her arms, “this game makes no sense.”
“It is your first attempt,” Jaskier assures her, “you will get better.”
“It’s boring,” she sits back and drinks more wine.
Jaskier has a swig of his own as he rolls. He claims his silver back from the king and some from Jazlene. She shakes her head and waves you over with her hand. You can see her goblet is empty as you near. You lift the bottle to pour as the king has his turn. He loses a few iron but doesn’t seem to mind.
The queen’s turn comes and you linger, examining her pieces. Your lips move slightly. Square, square, square. Your eyes flit up and find the king’s watching you. Oh no.
“Wine, maid,” Jaskier clunks down his cup with a hollow noise.
You move around Jazlene’s chair as she snarls under her breath. She rolls the triangle die. Her gold is all gone. She slaps her hands down and you rescind the bottle before you can pour as Jaskier’s cup wobbles. He laughs at the queen’s dismay and she sweeps away her pieces and dice before she can lose.
“It isn’t fair! I don’t understand.”
“If you don’t understand, ask. Do not be impetulant,” King Geralt reprimands. “You make a mess like a child.”
“Do not speak to me as one,” she spits back. “I am not!”
“Your behaviour would suggest otherwise,” the king says.
“Now, now, perhaps it would be fairer with a forth, eh? Trios always do prove imbalanced,” Jaskier intones.
As you go to pour the wine, you are suddenly pulled off your feet. You land in his lap and nearly drop the bottle. You hug it close as you notice the king lurch, sitting straight, only to stop himself on the edge of his chair.
“Eh, do not handle the maid as such,” he demands. “She serves the queen.”
“She may join us, yes? The queen could have an ally. We will play as pairs.”
“Let the maid go,” the king grits.
“Oh, do settle,” Jaskier unhooks his arm from around you. You stand and let your nerves settle, steadying your hands to pour the wine. “You are no fun, your highness.”
Jazlene giggles, “oh he certainly is not. So dour,” she sounds like Lady Rezlyn in that moment. Often the duchess would throw barbs at her husband shamelessly. “Even his games are dull.”
“You needn’t play,” King Geralt shoves his chair back and stands, “it was not my suggestion.”
“She is right. You are much too serious,” Jaskier remarks.
You leave the wine and back away. The air is thick. You feel as if you should go but cannot without dismissal. The king roils hotly as he exhales loudly.
“Far too serious,” Jazlene trills, “he hasn’t time for any sort of fun, has he? He must attend his kingly duties and yet, he neglects his husbandly ones.”
The king lets out a growl. He sneers at his wife as Jaskier’s laughter subsides. The lord looks alarmed as he peeks between the royal couples.
“Mm, suppose it is time I see to my own luggage,” he rises.
“No, stay, drink your wine,” King Geralt insists brusquely, “you and the queen can have mine,” he grips the goblet by the brim and shoves it towards Jazlene as the contents slosh. “You will find me attending my dour kingly duties, should you think to recall your own.”
The king spins and stalks off, hands in fists, and bulls through the doors. They slam behind him and make you jump. You blink at the wood as your heart pounds. For as much as the queen wants her marriage to improve, she is hardly helping herself.
“Ah,” Jaskier sits with a tut, “he can be a touch sensitive, can’t he?”
Jazlene laughs, though you hear the nervous rattle in it, “can’t he?”
#geralt of rivia#dark geralt#dark!geralt#geralt of rivia x reader#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#series#au#medieval au#the witcher#winter's king
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The Inevitability of the Fate of the New California Republic
I know I'm late to the discussion, but I have a Fallout show hot take - I like that the NCR, as we know it, is gone.
Why? Because Fallout: New Vegas essentially says that they're doomed to extinction.
Three of the major faction leaders (Benny, Mr. House, and Caesar) all point out flaws with the NCR. Caesar, however, has the most interesting take on the NCR. Now, I'm not saying I agree with Caesar about literally anything aside from what he says about the NCR, because, of all the characters in the game, he has the most well-thought-out critique of the NCR:
Do you want my opinion as a former citizen, or future conqueror? {shrug} Actually, my opinion's the same either way. As a young man I was taught to venerate {mocking slightly}President Tandi of Shady Sands. "The Founding Mother of the New California Republic." Did you know her Presidency lasted 52 years? And that her father, Aradesh, was the Republic's first President? Does that sound like democracy to you, or a hereditary dictatorship?
If the Courier points out that Tandi was, in fact, voted in to office every time, Caesar responds:
Because the council didn't dare oppose her. She was too popular. She had the people's love. So things ran smoothly, more or less. And as soon as she was gone, as soon as there really could be "democracy" - what happened then? Ever since losing its queen, the NCR has been weaker, more diffuse. Democracy has been its weakness, not its strength.
Finally, if the Courier asks how democracy is the NCR's weakness, Caesar says:
Greed runs rampant. The government is corrupt, accepting bribes from Brahmin barons and landowners, to the detriment of citizens. The NCR is a loose conglomerate of individuals looking out for themselves. It's lost virtue. No one cares about the collective, the greater good. It's not built to last. I'm just hastening the inevitable.
And the thing is, he's not wrong. Speak to Brahmin barons on the Strip, and they'll essentially tell you the same thing. NCR soldiers will complain about the lack of supplies. The Great Khans hate them because the NCR massacred their people at Bitter Springs (which none of the NCR characters particularly care to talk about). Kimball, the leader of the NCR forces, is a fucking dumbass who's military strategy is to amass all of his soldiers at a single point and he's so bad at managing things that he needs a fucking mailman to come in and save the day.
The NCR was running on borrowed time the moment Tandi died. The Fallout showrunners obviously played, and understood, New Vegas.
Thanks for coming to my TED talk. In summary, the NCR sucks, Independent Vegas is the best ending, and New Vegas fucking rules.
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Animals
PAIRING - Sleep Token IV x GN! Reader
SUMMARY - IV fucks you and fills you, using your body for his own pleasure.
WARNINGS - NSFW, rough Sex, slight blood play, overstimulation, slight animal-like behavior
AUTHOR'S NOTE - I wrote most of this in July 2023 but added to it recently. A couple of people asked me privately for more IV content so this is for y'all. Very sorry it is kinda short, I am working on other projects for the future!
WORD COUNT - 755
Master List
IV has you pressed up into a breeding press, your knees next to your face as he pounds into you. The wet sound of your slick echoed through the room as his dick plunged deeper and deeper with each thrust. His teeth brushed against the heavy rapid heartbeat of your pulse.
“Mmm Fuck-! IV please baby!” You whine out, grabbing at his shoulders, clawing your way down to his forearms. The male growls lowly in your ear, pushing your legs together into one of his hands, now only using one while the other is buried in your hair. You whine softly at the pull, IV pulling your head to the side to bare more of your neck. His sharp fang-like teeth dig into your pulse causing your moans to echo throughout the room.
Your sweet voice driving him wild, growling louder as he pushes your legs to the side, positioning you on your side. Whining with tearful eyes you sniffle at him, eyes clouded over with bliss, voice meek and gooey with pleasure. Through the broken moans from his pounding, you throw your head back begging for the other, “Baby, please! You- You’re going to break me! Slowdown slowdown..!”
He pauses for a second, a sadistic smile on the vessel’s face, “Oh darling we’re just getting started.” Now his hips are thrusting faster, pushing you almost past your limits, hitting much deeper than you’ve ever reached with your pathetic little dildos and toys
IV chuckles to himself at your little ah’s as he pushes deep inside of you. The wetness of the lube now spreading against his thighs, no matter how good he stretched you out with his thick fingers, he still needed lots of lube to open you.
You mewl out when his hands grab at your leg, his own nails digging into you, drawing whelps of blood from your fragile skin. The thick liquid running down your body and coating his fingers, he brought them to his mouth slowly. IV purposely made eye contact with you, snapping his fingers in your face when you wouldn’t focus on him. His tongue dipped out of his mouth, wrapping around his fingers, lapping the blood away. Spit and drool dripped from his now clean fingers, some landing on your hot sensitive skin.
Your slopping wet hole clenched around him at the sight of the vessel. Shifting, you reach up as best as your shaky hands can, pulling him into a heated kiss of tongue and teeth. He allows you, forcing himself closer to you, trying to rut into your sweet hole like an animal.
A sharp gasp as you pulled away from the kiss, he had bitten your lip to the point of bleeding. IV’s eyes now staring at the crimson on your kiss-bruised lips. You let out a soft whimper as you feel yourself getting close to an orgasm, feeling the tight heat in your stomach coming to a close.
“Baby! Baby,” You tried to warn him, the vessel only smiling and keeping his steady pace. “Let go for me bunny, cum all over my cock”
The growl of his voice sent you over the edge, body tensing up as the wash of pleasure coated you. The scream you let out could be heard outside of the room, your voice cracking as you mewl for IV. He chuckles, covering your mouth to quiet you as he continues to chase his own pleasure, using your body for whatever he wants.
You tried squirming away from the intense onslaught of thrusts, his pace picking up as he got closer to cumming. You almost let out a sigh of relief when you left the tell-tell signs of his cock twitching roughly inside of you. IV’s soft moans were covered up as he buried himself in your neck, hips stuttering as he attempts to fuck you full.
The two of you sat panting, cum dripping out of your hole while his cock softened inside of you. Everything was silent for a little bit as you shuffled your legs so they were on either side of IV, spread wide while his cock still rested inside of you. The vessel stared down at you, eyes unreadable while he rubbed at your thighs.
“Did so good for me baby… Filled me so well” The keen that ripped from IV’s voice at your comment almost broke your heart. You pulled him down to kiss you, lips brushing against one another, tender and almost timid compared to the others. “I’ve got you big guy…”
Master List
#sleep token#sleep token ii#sleep token iii#sleep token iv#sleep token vessel#imagine#headcanon#sleep token headcanons#sleep token iv x reader#sleep token smut#smut#iv sleep token#sleep token iv smut
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hooooo boy i haven't posted a fic here in a long time but @hinamie's itafushi art fully possessed me so please take this offering as my first ever jjk fic
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Night has set in like a bruise – a dark sky framed and mottled by light pollution, a memory of violence hidden behind a veneer of something almost pretty. There’s evidence of life in the distant city, but nothing close by. Megumi can hear a soft thrum of traffic and the occasional shout or laugh, but the immediate vicinity hosts only crickets and the restlessness of his companion.
Itadori is pacing at the bottom of the staircase Megumi is sitting on, and Megumi watches him closely out of the corner of his eye. It’s nothing new for Itadori to hype himself up before a fight, so Megumi isn’t worried, exactly, but there’s something abnormal in the fierceness of his movements, the rolling of his shoulders, the way his head tilts like he’s trying and failing to have a conversation in his head.
He doesn’t want to mention it. Conversations with Itadori are often marred by the reality of what the finish line looks like – they can’t both make it out alive. They both know it. Itadori likes to pretend he hasn’t grasped the reality of the situation, but Megumi understands the depth of the haunting he carries around when he thinks no one is looking. Which means that when Megumi asks after him, inquires into his wellbeing, Itadori brushes it off with a smile and a laugh. And his smile is as brilliant as the sun, so of course Megumi has to look away to protect himself.
Somewhere in the nearby bushes, several of his rabbit shikigami are maintaining a perimeter around the area, allowing him to relax while still doing everything he can to stay on high alert. Shibuya shouldn’t have turned into such a mess, and maybe it wouldn’t have if more people had been suspicious to the point of paranoia. It’s too late to fix that, too late to take away Itadori’s scars, too late to take back the suicide pact he himself signed, but he can at least look ahead to whatever future awaits them. He can do his best to keep them safe.
“Fushiguro.”
Oh no. Nothing good ever comes from Itadori’s serious voice.
Please.
If I die, you’ll kill me, right?
He blinks and finds himself looking at a stationary Itadori, hands in his pockets and eyes on the building behind Megumi. “What is it?”
“Are there really curses in there? I thought they couldn’t step foot in a church.” Itadori looks genuine when he asks, and it wouldn’t be the first foolish question out of his mouth, but the tone he used to call Megumi’s name just… doesn’t match with the question. Seriousness followed by off-handed curiosity isn’t exactly Itadori’s style. This isn’t what he had wanted to say, but something made him pivot into an unplanned conversation.
Maybe Megumi has been paying too close attention to him. Maybe Megumi should know better. It’s all doomed anyway – a heat death guaranteed to happen. There’s no point in devoting so much time trying to learn someone’s intricacies when they’re inevitably going to leave, by force or otherwise. He should save himself the heartache. He should have learned his lesson the first time Itadori died.
His arms shake with the phantom weight of Itadori’s body in his arms, limp and lifeless and bloody with that stupid soft smile still on his face even in death with a hole in his chest. His parting words still circle in Megumi’s head sometimes.
Part of him wishes that Itadori had cursed him in the end. Maybe it would have been easier.
“You’re thinking of vampires,” Megumi says. “Or demons. Curses can go anywhere.”
Itadori makes a sound like he’s not really sure he believes Megumi, which is insane because Megumi is not the one who watches movies with vampires and demons in them. At least, he hadn’t before Itadori walked into his life and demanded movie nights at the school and midnight viewings at the theater.
“A church, though?” Itadori continues, insisting. “Aren’t these supposed to be, like, full of positive energy?” He tilts his head up and to the side, and the closest streetlight reflects across his face, highlighting his jaw, catching in his eyes until they glow damn near gold.
Megumi has to look away. His chest hurts if he stares too long at everything he can’t have.
“Just because something is comforting doesn’t mean it can’t be a curse.” As soon as the words leave Megumi’s mouth, he knows he shouldn’t have said them. Even in his peripheral, almost entirely out of his view, he can see Itadori look at him with his expression opening into surprise or something worse.
Fuck. He really can’t allow himself to be so obvious, especially when they’re hours away from stepping through the barrier around the first Tokyo colony and into the Culling Game. They’re about to put their lives on the line again. Now isn’t the time to lose his composure.
Before he can catch himself, his hand is in his pocket, digging out the pack he keeps for what he considers emergencies. There’s a cigarette between his fingers in a matter of seconds, and his lighter is in his other hand a moment later.
Itadori swipes it before he can light up, and Megumi is left with wide eyes and a cigarette dangling limply between his lips as he looks up at the boy suddenly standing over him. He forgets, sometimes, just how fast Itadori is.
“Since when do you smoke?” Itadori asks, all childish curiosity, not an ounce of judgement in his tone. And yet, the stolen lighter feels like judgement – a withholding of something, well… harmful, sure, but it’s not like Megumi isn’t aware that every inhale of nicotine is an inch closer to his death. What does losing a minute or an hour or a day matter when he’s probably not going to reach the age of thirty, anyway?
“Since middle school,” Megumi replies, reaching out to attempt to quickly reclaim his lighter, but all Itadori has to do is lean his torso to the side and it’s out of reach. “Can I have that back, please?”
“Why?” Itadori hasn’t had such a soft look on his face since they dragged themselves kicking and screaming out of the warzone Shibuya turned into.
“Because there’s a cigarette in my mouth and it would be a waste not to smoke it.”
Itadori makes a face, a petulant little pout just this side of sticking his tongue out. It’s cute, and Megumi has to close his eyes for a moment. “I meant why did you start smoking in middle school?”
The sigh that leaves Megumi’s lungs is heavier than he wants it to be. He’s not… good with emotions, and he’s even worse at expressing them. It wasn’t a problem when he was all alone, with the second-years distant due to their classes, and Gojo either a nuisance better avoided or thousands of kilometers away taking care of a curse too powerful for anyone else to handle. But then Itadori, fresh off the loss of his grandfather, sacrificed himself for not only his friends but for Megumi as well. And he has refused to leave, no matter how hard Megumi tried at first to put up his barriers and protect himself.
Because the truth is that Megumi was helpless from the moment Itadori jumped through a window and crash landed on a curse. He is the very definition of someone with an unshakeable character. The fact that they’re here, now, on the backside of a slaughter, newly scarred and traumatized, and Itadori can still smile at him in a way that softens his eyes proves beyond any doubt that he is who he is and that won’t change. And it guts Megumi from the inside out because everyone who has ever touched his life has become poisoned by him.
He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it between his knuckles. “I don’t know. I wanted…” This time when he sighs, it’s softer, and he moves his gaze away out of embarrassment more than anything else. Itadori and Kugisaki already made fun of him for how he acted in middle school, and he doesn’t want to go through it again. “I wanted people to be afraid of me – teachers, students, upperclassmen, underclassmen, it didn’t matter. I wanted to look and be as aggressive as possible so they didn’t mess with me or Tsumiki.”
Itadori snorts, and less than a second later he’s laughing with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. For the moment, he’s unguarded, and Megumi uses the opportunity to stare. In the low amber light, he looks impossibly young, soft around the edges where his scars and personal losses have hardened him. The pink of his hair dims into the gentlest of dawns, and the happy tears that pearl in the corners of his eyes are more stunning than the thin veil of starlight overhead. In a world overflowing with curses, Megumi has never believed in angels, and yet it’s the only word he can conjure that comes even close to describing the boy in front of him.
Megumi knows he’s in love; how could he not be?
“That’s just like you,” Itadori says, breathless, and Megumi suddenly feels like he’s falling even though Itadori is the one suddenly dropping to sit on the stairs beside him.
Itadori is a morning person, even though he’s slow to wake up. He won’t drink coffee unless it’s iced. He never tucks in his shirt tags. When he’s upset, he throws himself into social situations to hide behind other people’s laughter. He carries snacks in his pockets and will offer them to everyone. These are all details that Megumi has collected about Itadori, stashing them away like a crow with shiny objects, hoarding them as the treasures that they are and that he can never truly have.
He had never once considered that Itadori has been observing him just as studiously in return.
Their knees bump, and Megumi knows he should pull away, but he can’t bring himself to. The night isn’t cold, but Itadori’s warmth is a comfort, anyway. Megumi hasn’t had many comforts in his life.
“Give me my lighter back,” he says instead of acknowledging anything else. His chest hurts. His heart is too loud in his ears. Itadori is right there, lips twisted by his scar, eyes flashing with the humor that’s still rolling through him, shaking his shoulders as he looks back at Megumi.
Instead of answering or acquiescing, Itadori leans forward until their shoulders press together, blocking out the ghost of a breeze flowing in from behind them, and rolls his thumb over the spark wheel until a flame catches. His hand and Megumi’s both come up at the same time to cup around the other side, protecting the small flame from the elements, and it’s tender and intimate when Megumi’s fingers brush against the curve of Itadori’s palm.
He pretends not to notice as he puts the cigarette back between his lips and ducks his head. The first drag to catch the paper and tobacco on fire takes a while, and he is so incredibly aware of how close Itadori is, of the protective shell they’ve made with their bodies as they keep this flame going between them. He can’t think about it, can’t acknowledge it, can’t –
As soon as he sees embers, he sits up and leans away, creating a small pocket of space for him to exhale into. But the flame stays lit, Itadori’s thumb still pressed into the fork to keep the gas flowing out.
Megumi smacks his arm without looking at him directly. “You’re wasting the butane.”
Without protest this time, Itadori listens, and the flame dies with a soft click as the fork snaps back into place.
The stillness of the night around them settles again, crickets becoming the dominating sound over the gentle rattling of leaves and the far distant honking of a car horn. The tobacco sizzles as the fire slowly eats through it every time Megumi takes a drag.
Itadori’s unwavering gaze on him feels like a physical weight. There’s a tender smile there, Megumi just knows it, but god damn it he won’t look. This can’t be a this. There’s nothing here but a road that dead ends on a bottomless cliff. No one has forever, despite claiming that they will, but he and Itadori don’t even have years. They could die tomorrow, the moment they step through that barrier. Fuck, the curses in the church behind them could come out and catch them off guard right now, and no one would know where to look for their bodies.
So it doesn’t matter that Itadori sometimes looks at Megumi like he hung the moon. It doesn’t matter that Megumi understands the plight of Icarus when he sees Itadori smile. He is not going to create a situation that is doomed to end early. He is not going to push his feelings into the world just for the universe to stomp them into the dirt. He is not going to let himself muddy the lines on a friendship that is already too good to be true.
He takes a drag in that’s harsher and longer than the last, fast enough that his lips burn from the fire racing too fast through the cigarette towards the filter. He lets it hurt, tells himself he deserves it, and exhales the smoke slowly with his eyes closed.
For a moment, he just sits there, his arm draped across his knee, which is still pressed into Itadori’s knee, and tries to pretend that everything is fine. It’s normal. It’s just a crush. It’ll go away. He would rather die with longing in his heart than risk living long enough to experience a loss that will crush him.
When he brings his hand back up to take another drag, fingers on his wrist stop him in his tracks.
“Fushiguro.”
“Itadori?” He turns his head and opens his eyes in the same movement, wondering if there’s a problem, if all the actions he took to be obsessively vigilant were for naught, if somehow something got the drop on them. “What –”
The press of Itadori’s lips against his own shuts him up fast and leaves his mind spinning and his lungs devoid of air.
What?
Why…?
Itadori makes a noise at the back of his throat – soft, questioning, encouraging – and Megumi forgets every reason he has ever had on why this is a bad idea.
He kisses back.
It’s not a desperate kiss. There isn’t a sudden light switch that flips on and turns them into feral horny teenagers crawling all over each other, desperate to touch in as many places as possible as fast as they can. Three points of contact is all they started with and all they still have. Their knees, digging into each other in a way that almost hurts, but the warmth is so strong that it doesn’t matter. Itadori’s fingertips oh, so gently resting against Megumi’s wrist, not even touching skin. And the tentative slide of their lips as Megumi tilts his head and Itadori seems to crack a smile.
Itadori’s lips are chapped, and Megumi can feel the texture of scar tissue as they blindly search for an angle that feels better than the others. It probably wasn’t meant to be a long kiss when Itadori first leaned in, but Megumi can’t bring himself to pull away even though there’s absolutely nothing physically holding him here. The instinct to jerk back with his hackles up is there, just under his skin, but every exhale of Itadori’s sounds like a blissed-out sigh as it shivers across Megumi’s cheeks, and he finds himself more and more willing to just have this.
Itadori is the one to break the kiss, but he doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against Megumi’s and just breathing into his space. Megumi feels like he just ran five kilometers; it’s impossible to suck enough oxygen into his lungs to stop feeling lightheaded. His cigarette is still between his fingers, slowly burning itself down to the filter, but Megumi has completely forgotten about it.
“What was that for?” Megumi whispers, eyes flicking back and forth looking for clues in the depths of Itadori’s eyes. It’s an accusation, yes. They could have kept pretending. The pain at the end of this is going to be unimaginable. But it’s also a desperate plea.
Don’t pretend it didn’t happen. Don’t apologize. Don’t say you didn’t mean to.
“I don’t know,” Itadori admits, and that crooked smile is back, perching on his mouth in a way that tempts Megumi to kiss it away. “Good luck? Felt like the right time.”
Megumi drops the cigarette by his foot and moves his hand to Itadori’s face, cupping his cheek and the curve of his jaw. He can feel himself shaking with adrenaline and the fear of an unknown dark path laid out in front of them. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but even he can hear the fondness in his voice.
“Mhm, yeah, you’ve said that before.” Itadori’s hand covers Megumi’s, and the shaking subsides. “But you kissed me back, so what does that make you? Reckless?”
“Insane,” Megumi offers, just to hear Itadori laugh. He isn’t expecting the second kiss that follows, but he’s glad for it, anyway.
It’s funny, he thinks, even as he pushes a little closer and sighs into the shape of Itadori’s mouth, that regardless of the church behind him, regardless of the temples he has walked through time and again, regardless of the habits he hasn’t broken of prayers during the new year in exchange for fortune slips that hold no merit to him – despite religion flowing in and around his life, there is no higher power in the universe he believes in as much as he believes in Itadori.
If anyone can defy fate, if anyone can push through to the other side of certain tragedy, it will be Itadori.
Start by saving me, he had said, and this isn’t exactly what Megumi had meant. But his chest is warmer than if he had tipped back some sake, and he certainly feels like he could face down a special grade curse and win right now.
They’re not going to have forever. They may not even have twenty-four hours.
But they have tonight. They have right now.
“You better not die tomorrow,” Megumi warns, just barely breaking away enough to speak.
Dying alone is all but a guarantee for jujutsu sorcerers. One day, one of them is going to leave the other behind, and it’s going to rip the survivor to pieces and scar like a phantom limb. Even without a confession, their feelings have splattered like a hemorrhaging wound onto the staircase between them. No amount of backtracking, of lying, of pushing each other away could mop it up now – they’ve left a stain, and their hands are doomed to always have each other’s blood caked under their fingernails.
“Would be a shitty good luck kiss if I did,” Itadori says before leaning back with a smile as broad as the sky.
Megumi pushes him away with the hand on his cheek, and Itadori’s laugh overtakes the crickets and the wind and the far-off traffic as he pulls himself back into Megumi’s orbit with their fingers tangled together.
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#itafushi#jjk fic#itafushi fic#this is going up on AO3 as well probably as soon as i think of a title for it#3.2k of pining and longing and denial and - finally - acceptance#I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING ANYMORE AAAAAAA#just take it i cannot keep staring at it#my fic
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