Reblog If You Support Squishy Bellies, Have A Squishy Belly, Or Have The Desire To Summon Satan

Reblog if you support squishy bellies, have a squishy belly, or have the desire to summon satan

A Bone-Deep Chill (Geralt of Rivia x F!Reader) ft. Jaskier

Caught in a viscous storm, you find yourself in a freezing inn, sharing two rooms between three grouchy people. Worse still, you're fighting off the cold settling deep in your bones.

Friends-to-cuddling, Jaskier is grumpy in this. [4.6k]

CW: hypothermia, storms || Geralt Masterlist

A Bone-Deep Chill (Geralt Of Rivia X F!Reader) Ft. Jaskier

⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔

A dramatic sigh came from behind you as Jaskier bundled into the inn, a gust of cold with him. A vicious rain pummeled against the windows, making the building itself shake as the gale fought to make its way inside.

Geralt was still outside, finding somewhere safe for Roach to weather the storm, and you pitied him as yet another roar of wind blustering through the small town. The innkeeper regarded you with concern, both you and Jaskier shaking from the cold in sopping wet garments, no doubt leaving matching puddles seeping into his floor.

“Two rooms?” he asked, skipping any preamble as your teeth chattered.

The feeling of cold was not just in your exposed skin, but seeping through your very flesh, the ache of it reaching your bones and your lungs. The warmth of the fire in the corner called you, but you knew it would have no chance at drying through to the woollen garments which were uncomfortable and heavy on your skin.

“Please!” Jaskier answered from behind you.

You knew you were in no position to bargain, bracing yourself to be fleeced on account of your desperate situation, but the innkeeper simply nodded. He fortunately offered you a reasonable rate which would not completely empty your purses of coin.

As Jaskier trudged forwards to pay, your brain finally caught up.

“Three! Three rooms if you have them, sir. Our friend is outside.”

The bard hummed a noise of realisation, no doubt struggling to think himself as the wind continued to howl and the pair of you grew closer to freezing by the second.

The innkeeper grimaced.

“We only have two left, apologies,” he tilted his head sympathetically, “storm’s brought everyone in. No-one wants to travel in this.”

“Have you got an extra bed for either of them?” Jaskier was speaking quickly, brushing off the concern as he counted coin onto the table in front of him.

You couldn’t blame him for his dismissiveness, he was no doubt keen to get warmed up and dry his beloved lute. You were desperate to know if the fires were already lit.

The banging of the door behind you and the widening of the innkeeper’s eyes told you Geralt had finally caught up – standing by the entryway to avoid any more damage to the wooden floorboards.

The Witcher’s heavy breathing was even louder than the rain, and you tried to ignore his imposing form behind you as you followed Jaskier and the innkeeper’s discussion. The Bard was getting pissed off, you could hear it.

“You must have one extra bed somewhere in this establishment –”

“Sir I really don’t I’m sorry –”

“Are you kidding me? Have you seen the size of him? No one can share a bed with that!”

“Jaskier!”

You interrupted the bard, hearing Geralt’s footsteps approaching, turning back to the innkeeper.

“There’s nothing else?”

The coins sat between you on the countertop, where Jaskier had left them. You pushed them towards the man, encouraging him to take them.

“There really isn’t, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“I understand, it’s not your fault. We’ll take the two rooms. And any extra blankets and pillows you have.”

He nodded, sparing another anxious glance first at Geralt, then at the shivering, grumpy Jaskier. He finally scooped up the coin, pushing two keys across to you, followed by a folded blanket from beneath the counter.

“Rooms five and six, they’re on your right as you head upstairs. I’ll bring up meals.”

He was speaking only to you, and you couldn’t blame him. The innkeeper made a swift departure back into his own room, leaving the three of you dripping wet in the office. You crossed to the fireplace, shedding your cloak onto a chair, and trying to warm your hands as you shivered.

A scraping made you wince as Geralt dragged a chair across the floor, setting it near the hearth. You took it graciously before he found a chair for himself, joining you wordlessly.

“You okay?” you muttered, noticing the blue hue to his hands, a slight clumsiness to the way his hands found one another and rested beneath his chin.

It was alarming, to see Geralt falling victim to anything as human as a mild hypothermia. You threw another log on the fire.

“Fine. Cold.”

You nodded, not at all surprised to get so little response from the Witcher. For a few moments more you both tried to warm up in front of the flames, listening to the new log crackling and to Jaskier’s footsteps as the storm raged on outside.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, wet leather creaking as he leant forwards.

“Fine, very cold,” you teased.

Geralt laughed, just one huff of air through his nose, but glanced back at your face with something approaching concern. You hummed, leaning forwards beside him, desperate for the warmth of the fire to seep into your very bones.

“I wasn’t expecting the storm to be that bad, sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

He shot you a knowing look, and you smiled through a full-body shiver. Despite his best efforts, Geralt took the whole world on his shoulders sometimes – the weather might be the only thing you could convince him wasn’t his responsibility.

“I should have gotten us to an inn sooner.”

“It’s fine. We’re all capable, Geralt. And none of us predicted this.”

Jaskier huffed behind you, indignant. He had predicted a little rain – though nothing of this scale. Still, he had whinged about being ‘proven right’ the whole journey to the inn. Jaskier approached, and you stood to offer him your chair.

“I’ll get the fires started in the rooms,” you offered, loathing to leave the warm office but desperate to rid yourself of your sodden clothes.

There was a tension in the room that you had no desire to deal with, too exhausted and too cold to watch your two favourite people on the whole Continent bickering all evening.

“I can go?” Geralt offered quickly, but you waved him away.

“All good. I’ll be quick.”

You snagged the blanket and both room keys, the room wordless behind you as you left it.

Upstairs was cold, dark. Torches had been blown out by the wind, the corridor draughtier than you would like, and you pulled the folded blanket closer to your chest.

You couldn’t help wondering what the room configuration would be. Yourself and Geralt would most certainly try to be self-less, offer up the least offensive solution. Jaskier would no doubt be fine with sharing a room, though you wondered if he would object to sharing with Geralt. The two men had been at odds lately, for reasons you couldn’t quite pin down.

The fire was blessedly built already in the first of the rooms you visited, making you sigh in relief as you sank to the floor. You lit the kindling, protecting the flame as wind forced its way through the room, your numb hands less sensitive to the heat as the fire grew larger and larger, finally catching the logs.

Voices floated up through the floor as you minded the fire, unmistakably your companions’. The words were dampened by the floorboards, but you frowned as the flames grew taller and independent, accompanied by harsher tones from downstairs.

You stripped off the wettest of your outer layers and left them by the fire in the first room, wrapping the blanket around yourself before locking up and switching to the adjacent room. As you repeated the process, this time replacing tumbled logs which had been knocked aside by the wind, the voices only grew louder and meaner. As the second fire became self-sustaining, you found yourself reluctant to move from it. Not only was the warmth tempting, finally restoring feeling to your chilled toes and fingers, but the idea of avoiding the full argument burning downstairs was deeply appealing.

Locking yourself in the room and going to sleep tempted you, a siren to your cold, exhausted body, but you begrudgingly stood, taking your blanket and locking the door – bracing yourself as you rushed through the cold corridor once again.

Stopping at the top of the stairs, you winced at the words being exchanged.

“I don’t know why you’re being such a bastard about this, Geralt! Share the bed, let me rest comfortably, and enjoy a cosy eveningwith her for all I care!”

There was movement, that chair dragging across the floor sound again, followed by footsteps. You held your breath.

“I thought ‘no one can share a bed with that’, Bard! Are you trying to get her crushed?”

For a moment you blinked in surprise, imagining Jaskier’s face was going the same.

You weren’t surprised Geralt had heard Jaskier’s comment earlier – you were surprised he had cared enough to remember it.

“I was just trying to barter us more rooms, Geralt. We all know the beds you share – ”

Another shuffle of furniture, and this time faster footsteps. The ping of Jaskier’s lute as it fell to the floor, a growl from deep in Geralt’s chest usually reserved for beasts and pub fights, the pounding of the wind and rain against the windows. You listened with your eyes wide open, blankly looking at the staircase below you, frozen with shock.

They bickered, but they never fought.

You were the problem. They had both presumed their own beds, and you were problem, unwanted in either room and apparently completely left out of the conversation. With the keys warm in your hand, you once-again considered locking yourself in one of the rooms and letting them cuddle.

When you heard another scuffle, saw Jaskier running towards the steps, you finally snapped out of your shock.

“What’s your problem?” you demanded of the bard, already on the defensive.

As you descended you saw the anger drop from Geralt’s features, his face schooled as he halted his chase and feigned innocence. Like children caught brawling they looked across at one another, a silent threat between them.

“Just warming up,” Geralt grumbled, his swords shifting against his back as he fidgeted where he stood.

“Something like that. He’s a maniac, that one. Ready to take my head off.”

You stared them both down for a moment, aware your authority was undermined by the blanket draped around you and the slight chatter of your teeth.

“The fires are lit. Have we decided rooms?”

You reached the floor, forcing them both back towards one another as you made a beeline for the fireplace. The chairs had been displaced as the bard and the Witcher ran around them, and you dragged one back towards the fireplace with a pointed look at Jaskier before sitting in it heavily.

Geralt quietly joined you, claiming the other chair, leaving Jaskier to hover beside the hearth. He picked up his lute, starting to tune it, the fall leaving the strings awfully off-pitch.

“What do you want to do?” Geralt rumbled, his voice far softer than it had been as he argued earlier.

You wondered if it was guilt you were hearing.

“Totally up to you. As long as I can catch some rest, I’m happy.”

Geralt shifted in his seat.

“Why don’t you go with Jaskier? Might be more room.”

You frowned. The beds in the rooms could easily fit two people, likely more. As you went to say as much, Jaskier interrupted.

“Sure, whatever you want Geralt.”

He stretched out the Witcher’s name unnaturally, making you look between the two men, seeing if they would give you some inkling of the reason they were so frosty towards one another.

Instead, the Witcher nodded, holding out his hand for a key. Baffled, you handed him the key for the second room you had lit the hearth in, not even offered a thank you as he collected his damp belongings and stormed up the stairs.

Jaskier was similarly indifferent to you, occupied by his lute as he meandered up to the room, waiting for you to unlock the door without a word.

“You two fight like an old married couple, you know that, right?” you grumbled, making sure Jaskier could hear as he brushed past you into the room.

You wrinkled your nose at the damp of his coat brushing against you. Jaskier appraised the room, judgemental expression lit by the warm light from the fire. It was still burning strong. You hoped Geralt’s fire was the same, hot and welcoming, letting the Witcher relax and calm down.

Everyone was highly strung, you knew this rest was well needed.

“Anyone would be a fool to marry him. He’s selfish as anything.”

Closing the door behind you, you stood in place, waiting for Jaskier to settle.

“He’s not selfish. Nothing of the sort, and you know it.”

Jaskier let out a cruel laugh, set down his lute, and started stripping off his wet clothes, letting them dry on the floor beside yours.

“He certainly fucking acts it sometimes.”

You shouldn’t get involved.

You shouldn’t encourage Jaskier.

You shouldn’t.

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t even offer to share a room. The gentlemanly thing to do.”

You tried not to feel stung by his dismissive tone.

“You didn’t exactly seem to want me either,” you pointed out, hugging your blanket closer to you as Jaskier reached bare skin, pulling a new pair of trousers from his bag.

You didn’t want to strip off, you had barely stopped shivering in the few thin, dry layers you had left.

“Of course I don’t mind, but he should have offered!”

The bard was deflecting, and you tried not to feel the pain of it as it stung deep in your chest.

“Right.”

Wordlessly, you chose the side of the bed closest to the door, keeping the blanket around you as you settled down and occupied as little space as possible.

Jaskier stayed behind you, fidgeting and moving his belongings, trying to dry some and sort others. The noise made it hard to sleep, worsened still by his humming. You screwed your eyes closed, pulled the blankets closer and curled up. The room was warming, and it would probably have been tolerable if you weren’t so damn cold already. Your shivers made you miserable, trying to stop your teeth chattering, groaning at the ache in your skull.

Sleep evaded you as frustration welled up in your eyes, hot, itchy tears falling to the mattress. Jaskier was still fussing, stoking the fire and moving his clothes around. When you heard the first strum of his lute, you wanted to scream.

The distinct press of his fingers ghosting across the frets made you tense, before he strummed the wretched thing again. Fuck. You could kill him.

“Are you really going to play now?” you mumbled, fighting a full-body shiver.

“I’m not tired,” he replied, accompanied by a familiar series of notes from his latest composition.

“You’re overtired.”

He shrugged you off with a petulant huff, the lute getting louder yet again. You heard a thud against the adjoining wall, Geralt clearly equally unimpressed with the wretched noise.

For a few moments more he continued to play, and you tried to fight the anger settling hot in your chest. All of you were exhausted, cold, hungry, miserable. And now Jaskier was being a prick.

He started singing.

You considered murdering him.

Instead you pulled yourself from the bed, keeping your blanket and snagging your pillow, storming from the room. Jaskier seemed to barely notice, continuing his rendition without hesitation as you slammed the door behind you.

Fuck.

True to his word the innkeeper had brought meals up, but left them outside the doors of the room. You knocked on Geralt’s door before taking your own plate and goblet downstairs. Jaskier could have his meal cold. It was all he deserved for that performance.

Hungry and drowsy, you folded yourself into one of the chairs in front of the fire, frowning as you remembered the argument Geralt and Jaskier had been in just minutes ago. It felt forever ago. As you ate your meal you pulled the blanket close around yourself, blinking at the fire. The faint sounds of Jaskier practicing upstairs were blessedly drowned out by the wind howling down the chimney, the storm outside only worsening. Your hands were numb as you threw another log on the fire. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, the front door firmly closed against the weather

You stared at the flames for longer, no longer feeling their warmth. Your legs and hands were numb, but exhaustion was claiming you, and you couldn’t move to warm up. The chair was hard beneath you, your blanket doing very little to cushion it.

Footsteps on the stairs made you jump, your daze interrupted.

Geralt descended the stairs, crockery in hand, his long white hair hanging limp around his face. You thought it looked like icicles, smoothed in place. He set his plate on the counter with a dull thud, pausing as he looked at you.

“Jaskier said you left,” he stated.

“Hm?”

Geralt looked around the room, at you folded into the chair, a furrow appearing on his brow.

“You left..?” He repeated.

You found yourself struggling to understand him, cocking your head.

“He was loud.”

He crossed the room in long strides, on hand cupping your face and the other finding your hand, hissing as his warm skin made contact with yours.

“Fuck, you’re cold.”

His palms felt burning, seeping fire into your skin, and you shuddered at the temperature difference.

“How long have you been down here? The rooms are warmer.”

“Not long. Couldn’t sleep, too cold.”

You knew your words were slurring, not only to your own ears, but to Geralt’s. He frowned more deeply at you.

“You’re really, really cold.”

Nodding, you closed your eyes, feeling tiredness overcome you.

“You need to come upstairs,” he insisted, taking your plate and letting it clatter to the floor.

You nodded again, but your limbs were too stiff to move. As his hands left your skin, you mourned the loss, feeling that stinging pain return. Your fingers and toes were aching.

“C’mon,” he grumbled, trying to pull you to your feet.

You did your best to comply, but it was difficult, painful. Tiredness flooded your system yet again. The shivering had stopped, and yet the coldness continued.

“Help me out here,” Geralt complained, dragging you by one shoulder as the rest of your body tried felt too heavy to follow.

“I’m trying,” you mumbled.

“Hardly.”

Your feet weren’t behaving underneath you, knees struggling to take your weight. You’d preferred it in the chair, at least your feet ached less. As you stumbled Geralt caught you, grunting a complain. For a moment he held you upright, letting you recover you balance. Suddenly his grip tightened.

“You’re not shivering,” he noticed, words sharp as he frowned at you.

“Should be,” you replied, “I’m fucking cold.”

“I know.”

He seemed to turn dismissive, bodily moving you across the room, but you could sense the concern in him. Even through your daze, you wondered where he was taking you. Neither of them had wanted to share. Getting up the stairs was more of a struggle than you expected, and you frowned at the ache in your muscles are you struggled to ascend them without leaning on Geralt.

The Witcher had gone quiet, hugging you to him, and you found it more terrifying than you wanted to admit. At the top of the stairs he continued to bundle you along towards his room, and you realised he was right. You weren’t shivering, even as wind rushed down the cold corridor.

“Keep talking to me,” he insisted, chest rumbling against your torso.

The thought left your mind immediately. You were fighting to stay awake. He found his key quickly, one arm caging you against him as he opened his door. Geralt worked efficiently as he pulled the sheets aside on his bed, settling you under them and tucking them around you.

The fire had started to dwindle, burning low in the hearth. As you moved under the covers, trying to warm up, Geralt rebuilt and stoked the flames. The fire flickered up, bathing the room in light. You couldn’t feel the heat, but hopefully it would follow soon. You closed your eyes, trying to find sleep now the noise of Jaskier’s lute had finally stopped.

“Talk to me,” he repeated gruffly, standing between the fireplace and the bed.

“Sorry.”

You opened your eyes, seeing his raised eyebrow. You smiled despite yourself.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything,” he insisted, busying himself with sorting through his belongings, “just keep talking.”

He found another fur but grunted at seeing it wet, setting it in front of the fire to dry.

“I don’t think… I think I got colder than I realised earlier. And Jaskier wouldn’t stop fucking making noise so I couldn’t sleep, and the food didn’t make me feel better, and I can’t feel my toes –”

He stepped back for a moment, appraising the room, and you forced your eyes to stay open against the tiredness trying to claim you.

“As in, they’re cold? Or you can’t feel your toes?” he demanded.

You met his gaze, trying to understand the question. He strode towards the bed and found your feet beneath the blankets, stripping off your socks to feel your frozen toes.

“Fuck.”

He looked up at you, yellow eyes filled with seriousness and concern, and you fought back tears. Had you upset him somehow?

He bundled your feet back up, covering them first with socks then with one of his jackets, all the while tugging at the wooden bedframe. After a few moments of consideration, he suddenly dragged the whole frame across the floor, making you startle and grab at the mattress as the whole piece of furniture was moved closer to the fireplace.

You hoped no one else had been woken up by the noise, but your worry was immediately sated by the warmth of the flames against your exposed face. Geralt looked at you, waiting for approval, and you smiled weakly.

“Thanks.”

He nodded, busying himself with moving things around the newly-rearranged room. A few moments, you heard his gruff voice repeating himself.

“Talk.”

“This is much better, thanks Geralt. I’m sorry for kicking you out of your bed. I don’t know how I got so cold, it’s not even snowing, I guess just the wind and the rain…”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Blinking away tears, you stared sideways at the flames, hearing Geralt approaching behind you.

“I want to warm you up…” he trailed off, “if you don’t mind…”

Nodding, you shuffled forwards, but Geralt’s hand on your bundle of blankets stopped you before you could move from the centre of the bed.

“That’s fine,” he mumbled.

Stripping off his last piece of leather armour, he quickly slid himself beneath the sheets behind you, soothing the sudden flash of cold air with the warmth of his own body. Sandwiched between the Witcher and the fire, a sudden shudder wracked your body.

You heard Geralt exhale behind you. One warm hand found your wrist, and you realised he was checking your pulse.

“Am I still alive?” you teased.

Your smile dropped as his hand tightened on your wrist, before letting go, finding a place on your waist and hugging you closer to his chest instead.

“Sorry,” you apologised to him, shoving your face into the pillow beneath you as Geralt’s breath steadied against your back.

Geralt hummed.

“I think you were in a lot more danger than you realised.”

You lay in silence, giving him the opportunity to elaborate as your shivers and the heat around you finally returned sensation to your body. Everything ached, and you realised with a start that you would still be stuck, freezing in the entryway to the inn without Geralt’s help.

“On Kaer Morhen, when I was a boy… a lot of us didn’t survive. Very few survived, in fact. And they’d often… succumb to the cold.”

Fidgeting against him, you made space for the Witcher to wrap his arms tighter around you. His breath was hot against your neck as he continued speaking.

“We knew they were going… when they stopped seeming cold. The shivering would stop. The pain would stop. Then they would just fade away where they lay.”

His upbringing and training haunted the Witcher, but you had never heard it so plainly in his voice. Pain echoed through every word.

“I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“We would try to warm them up – we would. Ale and blankets and moving them closer to the fires… but the mountains are so cold. The air is thin. If they couldn’t survive it… we couldn’t help them.”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” you reassured, clumsily finding his hand on your waist and squeezing it.

He sought out your pulse again, murmuring something against your neck as he found it stronger. As your warmth returned so did your clarity, and you felt a growing pang of embarrassment at clinging to him. Or rather, letting him cling to you.

“I know you didn’t want to share, I’m sorry,” you began, but the Witcher shook his head against you.

His hair had started to frizz as it dried in the firelight, you noticed.

“No, Jaskier… I’m going to kill him for letting you freeze.”

“Jaskier has nothing to do with it,” you chided, closing your eyes against the warmth from the flames.

“He… I thought the beds wouldn’t fit two people. I didn’t want to take up too much space. Or crush you in my sleep.”

You laughed, and he made an affronted hum. Oh, he’s serious.

“I’ll wake you up if you crush me. I thought maybe I smelled too bad or something,” you teased, but Geralt wouldn’t bite.

“We should have found cover earlier. We left you with Roach for hours, you weren’t moving as much as Jaskier, singing his fucking songs, no wonder you got cold.”

“It’s not your fault –”

“As long as you’re travelling with me, it’s my fault,” his voice rumbled against your ear, and you couldn’t help the deep inhale you took at his protectiveness.

As your sensation returned, you could feel his whole body pressed against your back.

“It’s not,” you argued weakly, not fight left.

Sleep was claiming both of you, and now it seemed far safer, as your shudders subsided and your toes tingled with warmth from the fireplace. You closed your eyes, head beside Geralt’s bicep as he spooned you, fidgeting to get comfortable.

“I’m sorry you thought you couldn’t come to me,” he whispered, a confession.

“I should have – sorry. And I’m sorry about Kaer Morhen… there’s nothing you could have done. It wasn’t fair…”

For a moment there was nothing but his breath, mingling with the patter of rain. Then he answered, another confession against your skin.

“Thank you.”

Sleep grew closer again, Jaskier’s lute quietening and a cosy peace settling over the two of you, an oasis in the cold air of the inn.

“Wake me up if you get cold. I’ll sort the fire out.”

“Mhm,” you mumbled back.

You smiled as his hand found yours once more, checking the pulse at your wrist before cupping your hand against your sternum. You wondered if he felt your heart race at the gesture.

“Thank you,” you whispered, catching his attention one last time.

He shifted, cold sneaking under the blankets for a moment and making you groan, before his lips pressed to your hairline. As he pulled you close to him again you tried to bite down a giddy smile, feeling his own grin against your neck.

The shifting light of the fire was your companion as you let sleep take you, grasped to Geralt’s chest and safe against the storm outside.

2K notes View Post

jestersasphodel

1 year ago

no more ace to play [mamma mia part two] | formula one social media au

drivers: sebastian vettel, fernando alonso and jenson button

the investigation was fruitful but now y/n has a handful of drivers and a bucket load of criticism

general note: i answered an ask about this but i thought i'd reiterate here, this is a no wives or kids au, so seb and jenson's wives and kids do not exist in this !! thank you so much for all the lovely feedback on the last part, hopefully i remembered to tag everyone who asked x

part one | masterlist | ko-fi

No More Ace To Play [mamma Mia Part Two] | Formula One Social Media Au

yourusername

liked by sebastianvettel, jensonbutton and 1.405,605 others

tagged: fernandoalo_oficial, sebastianvettel, jensonbutton

yourusername: so i guess it's kinda real now and they're all lovely x

view all comments

user4: i know the bitter old people are going to find this now but i for one think it's fucking ICONIC

user5: the guys are way too chill for the situation

user6: they've not said anything, so how would you know?

user5: idk reeks of babytrapping

user7: be for real y/n doesn't need to baby trap anyone she has her own career?

yourbff: debrief needed STAT

yourusername: literally on my way to yours right now get the non-alcoholic wine READY

landonorris: do i like get a prize for my hand in this?

yourusername: here's a gold star ⭐️

landonorris: i was hoping for some monetary rewards

yourusername: ur literally a millionaire ?

landonorris: and?

user8: are any of them gonna like comment or?

user9: very odd considering they wouldn't shut THE FUCK UP on their own posts

user10: for real they were very proud of their 'accomplishments' but now it's the consequences of their actions and their silent ?m

user11: have yall considered the fact that finding out you might be a dad is a bit of a shock, let them all process it?

jensonbutton

liked by lewishamilton, sebastianvettel and 302,889 others

jensonbutton: back to see the old rides

view all comments

user12: SPILL JENSON PLEASE

user13: so like what team is this kid going to support they've got so much to choose from?

user14: if they have any taste, ferrari 💅

user15: i mean their momma clearly has taste so ....

oscarpiastri: nice to meet you jenson!

jensonbutton: by how much mark talks about you i could've sworn i'd already met you

aussiegrit: bold of you to send shots my way considering your current predicament

user16: mark saying this like they aren't lucky to be with y/n ?

user17: bro we all saw that you met up with y/n and the baby daddy squad... wanna maybe share some thoughts?

user18: why would he want to publicise that he got with a slag?

user17: i know you're not calling y/n a slag when we're talking about f1 playboy JENSON BUTTON ?

user19: i have complete faith that this mamma mia summer WILL have a good ending but i NEED these men to maybe actually talk about it so people aren't just out here coming for y/n ?

yourusername

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, jensonbutton and 1,209,677 others

yourusername: got myself a sweet treat and did some meditation (i.e. listening to asmr roleplay) because life is crazy and morning sickness is a bitch

view all comments

user24: not to be sappy but i am emotional watching y/n go through this, she's been on the internet for so long i feel like i've watched her grow up, idk anything about f1 but i hope they're good for her

yourbff: gosh who knew you getting pregnant would lead to us having to go to the bakery every single morning

yourusername: but but but they have such good croissants and SHUSH I BUY YOU YOURS EVERYDAY

yourbff: i know you're like my sugar mama, please still buy me pastries when you have your actual child

user25: i think we're all being a wee bit dramatic about the whole "they haven't said anything" business. yes, they probably should say they're fine with it so people stop accusing y/n of baby trapping them but ALSO we don't know what they do everyday, maybe we should just let the adults go about their business

charles_leclerc: i am basically seb's kid so i shall be a character witness: that man is an ANGEL and believe me that took a lot for me to say in public lol

yourusername: why thank you charles, i have heard a lot about you. in fact on his "provisional dad cv", sebastian directly named you, some guys called max verstappen, mick schumacher and lance stroll as fatherly experience

maxverstappen1: LOL I KNEW SEB LOVED ME BUT WTF IS A DAD CV

sebastianvettel: this is a serious matter and i wanted to show that i'm serious about fatherhood

mickschumacher: soz max, charles and lance i think WE all know who his favourite is

lancestroll: i'm just happy to be recognised tbf

yourusername: well i kinda hope this real child will be his favourite...

charles_leclerc: boring 🥱

alexalbon: well i'm gonna nominate myself as jenson's grid kid and woah that guy is great 👍

jensonbutton: sounds kinda sarcastic but thanks for the effort alex

carlossainz55: seeing as we're all here i'll say that nando is the best grid dad sorry not sorry

yourusername: you're all here but idk who you people are ?

fernandoalo_oficial: chilli have i ever told you how proud i am of you?

stoffelvandoorne: do i mean nothing to you old man

user26: wtf is going on here

fernandoalo_oficial

liked by yourusername, sebastianvettel and 1,403,677 others

fernandoalo_oficial: what a race! thankful to finally be back on the podium this weekend and i'd like to dedicate this race to the soon-to-be new addition and my new family, here's to our future ❤️

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user27: HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO CUTE

user28: i'm sorry the THUMB IN THE MOUTH CELEBRATION ARE YOU KIDDING?

jensonbutton: proud of you, come home quick x

user29: i'm sooooo chill about this

fernandoalo_oficial: i'll make sure to tell the team that THE jenson button wants the meeting to go faster

sebastianvettel: do i mean nothing? that's literally my old team name drop ME

yourusername: just tell them i've gone into labour

fernandoalo_oficial: you've not even been pregnant two months yet...

yourusername: they don't know that

astonmartinf1: this is a public instagram comment section...

maxverstappen1: maybe when the little one is actually here i'll let you win for once

fernandoalo_oficial: how kind of you?

maxverstappen1: i need the little one to know that at least one of you is cool and that i should be their favourite god father

lewishamilton: now that is a bold assumption

danielricciardo: i have been quiet on this topic but if anyone is prime god father material YOU'RE LOOKING AT HIM

yourusername: you'll all receive an email and a god father application in the coming weeks

charles_leclerc: is this another seb idea?

yourusername: maybe... but idk yall so i think it's a good idea

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, mickschumacher and 1,509,874 others

tagged: jensonbutton, fernandoalo_oficial, sebastianvettel

yourusername: welcome to the crazy house

view all comments

user33: so we've confirmed the poly? yes or no?

user34: i'm gonna say yes but with them you literally never know

georgerussell63: so we all sent them a jellycat?

alexalbon: speak for yourself george that sick ass rocking bunny is all albon

user35: not to be weird but this kids is literally going to have the hottest parents of all time

user36: no cause if i'm a teacher and all of them walk in for parent's evening i'm passing out

jensonbutton: oh wow what a lovely crib i wonder who put that together

fernandoalo_oficial: don't you dare take all the credit

sebastianvettel: as if anyone other than the WOOD WORK KING put that together

yourusername: guys they are lying the delivery guy put it together and they all stood around watching like dads at the airport

jensonbutton: "like dads" so still getting the experience in

danielricciardo: so who is responsible for this grandpa ass nursery aesthetic?

yourusername: well this is awkward i thought it was cute

fernandoalo_oficial: it is don't worry honey, it matches seb's overall grandpa aesthetic

sebastianvettel: you guys agreed to move to mine don't switch up on my aesthetic now

jensonbutton: oh seb we all love your certain affinity for tartan and plaid

sebastianvettel: i'm not feeling this love right now :(

yourusername: cuddle pile incoming

note: ahhh okay this was very highly requested so i hope it met expectations. i'm thinking this could defo be a longer series (i am also working on into the arms of another dw) following the whole family if yall would like that? i'm gonna try and tag everyone who requested that, i am sorry if i missed anyone x

taglist: @boiohboii @vellicora @faithm120601 @raizelchrysanderoctavius @luv4kani @minkyungseokie @eugene-emt-roe @magical-spit @ironmaiden1313 @jaydaaasworld @whoreks @rainerax @nonsensical-nonsence @laneyspaulding19 @chelseyyouraverageluigi @lxclerc @gemofthenight @woweewoowa

3K notes View Post

jestersasphodel

2 years ago

Comment from @superpositvecloudshipper which reads "@maraschinomerry well I was thinking maybye a Anthony lockwood x fem reader where the reader is a relic hunter and during an auction they get locked in a room with Anthony and they both fight but are also very attracted to one anther so are also flirting then maybye they could kiss or maybye make out after one pins the other to the ground during their fight and then reader steals the relic and escapes leaving lockwood very confused?? Sorry if you don't like the idea :)@maraschinomerry well I was thinking maybye a Anthony lockwood x fem reader where the reader is a relic hunter and during an auction they get locked in a room with Anthony and they both fight but are also very attracted to one anther so are also flirting then maybye they could kiss or maybye make out after one pins the other to the ground during their fight and then reader steals the relic and escapes leaving lockwood very confused?? Sorry if you don't like the idea :)"

Distracted

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader

Summary: Locked in a room with the boy who has the relic you've been hunting, you try whatever you can to get it back.

Content: fight scene, flirting and making out, a bit suggestive but nothing explicit

A/N: requested by @superpositvecloudshipper - hope you like it! Also can you tell it's my day off with the way this is my third fic in less than 12 hours lol

Word count: 1.9k

As yet another auction came to an abrupt end, the crowded room filling with screams and alarms, Lockwood began to wonder if he was developing a track record.

He was there for a book, written at the very beginning of the Problem, which George insisted would be invaluable in the case they'd just accepted and which DEPRAC were determined to put into secure storage. Nobody had seen it for years, but a week ago it had been listed as the star item at Fothergills Auction House. It wasn't anything as serious as the Bone Glass, but the team had still had to blag their way into the auction with a pocket of tricks each and an unofficial nod from Barnes to do whatever was necessary to prevent the book from winding up on the black market.

So it was that Lockwood found himself surging through the throng of panicked auction-goers, scrambling to escape Lucy's recently detonated smoke bomb. He could barely see through the mass of bodies, made worse by the cloud of dark grey fumes and the pulsing red light of the alarm system. It was only a matter of time before the sprinklers activated. He had to get the book before then.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an unusual movement - another figure fighting against the tide of bodies. Probably a relic man with more greed than sense, but at least they'd thought to put their hood up and draw a scarf across their mouth to protect against the smoke. Lockwood pressed forward with increasing urgency.

He reached the podium seconds before the mysterious figure, snatching the book and giving in to the urge to throw his pursuer a triumphant grin. They swore, drowned out by the alarm as it shifted in pitch to indicate the activation of the water sprinklers. Lockwood tucked the book into his coat and bolted for the nearest door, the other person hot on his heels.

Overhead, an automated voice alternated with the alarms.

"Defence alert. Room cleared. Initiating lockdown procedure."

Oh no.

—

You forced your way through the crowd, eyes trained on the book. It would fetch you a pretty penny and give you an advantage over a group of relic men who were giving you grief. As you reached the podium, you stumbled to a halt at the sight of a scrawny dark-haired boy clutching the book. Your book. You scowled, expression deepening as he gave you a bright victory smirk. Well, that was that. No way were you letting him leave here without getting the book. As he sprinted for the door on the left, you followed.

Too late, you realised the door the boy ahead had chosen was not the one for the offices, but for a storage cupboard which would usually have held the items for auction but now was almost bare. Too late, you noticed there were no other doors or windows, just the one that had now sealed behind you.

"I swear," he growled, hand on his rapier, "don’t come any closer. There's nowhere to go and I've fought enough relic men that if you want to get out of here alive you'll keep your distance."

You scoffed, a higher sound than Lockwood was expecting.

"Excuse you, relic man? Presumptuous much?" As you spoke, your scarf shifted to reveal plump red lips, and in one smooth movement you tugged down your hood, scooping the mane of windswept hair it concealed into a messy ponytail.

Lockwood froze for a second before switching on his trademark charisma. No sense in making enemies straight away, besides the more he looked the more he realised there was little room to use his rapier without risking self-injury.

"I meant no offence, I thought Flo Bones was the only relic woman."

You'd heard of Flo, of course, but didn't run in the same circles. She was a one-man, well, one-woman band, except for whoever this guy was it seemed. You tended to keep to yourself, but occasionally took advantage of the more simpering relic men who were so desperate for a woman to look their way that they'd give you anything, making you the leather-clad rogue to Flo's knitted outcast.

"Easy mistake to make, darling, but it won't happen again." You returned his charm with your own, thinly veiling the threat behind your words. "Just give me the book and we can both go on our merry ways."

"I don't think so." He dropped the act in a flash, gripping the book.

Your scowl returned. "Fine. That door's not budging, so I've got time to change your mind."

Without warning, you lunged, catching him off-guard enough that he almost lost his footing. To your dismay, he recovered quickly, pushing you back to give him time to adopt a defensive stance. He was trained, then. Probably from agent work, judging by the rapier. By the book, though. Time to see if he fought dirty.

A scroll of paper was about the only thing left on the shelf beside you, but it would have to do. With a grunt, you tossed it past his shoulder, and as he watched it sail past (no doubt questioning your aim, as you'd planned), you used his distraction to slip closer and force him backwards into a shelf. He cried out as the metal bit into his back and for a moment you hesitated. The boy was only young, he looked about your age, and he wasn't bad looking at that. You could have been in his place in another life, or he in yours. Or both of you on the same team, fighting off some other scoundrel. Unknowingly, you eased off the pressure on his shoulders.

Big mistake.

Lockwood shoved you once more, finally deciding to bring the fight to him and reaching for his rapier. You couldn't allow that, but you were running out of ideas. So you did the only thing you could think of: whipped off your jacket and hurled it directly at his face. The boy was quick, though, you had to give him credit, as he batted it away like a pesky fly. Suddenly he was in your space, hands locking around your now bare wrists and foot snaking out to knock your feet from under you. You fell, unable to stop yourself, but with his grip still on you he lowered you almost gently to the floor, arms pinned above your head and his weight straddling your thighs to keep you from lashing out. He did fight dirty. Interesting.

Your breath was heavy, both from the fight and from finding yourself in such close quarters with the young man. With nowhere to turn, you finally got a proper look at your rival. His dark eyes were trained on you, filled with a mixture of anger, respect and something else. His previously coiffed hair now fell haphazardly across his forehead, and his face was flushed. Still had that insufferable smirk, though.

"I think," you paused to catch your breath, "we got off on the wrong foot. Care to start again?" Your hands were still pinned, hanging loosely against the cold stone floor, but you brought one up in as close to a handshake as circumstances would allow. He didn't take it.

"Who are you?" he asked bluntly.

"Does it matter?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"What you want with the book."

"Let's call it personal insurance."

"I see."

"Do you, darling?" You'd met his type before - rich, cocky, scornful of anyone who'd fallen into the relic hunter lifestyle to keep themselves alive. Then again, he seemed to know that other girl Flo well enough, and he hadn't given any indication he disliked you beyond having the same target, and really it was very hard to form any other opinions of him when his pelvis was practically on top of yours.

He leaned a little closer, pressing your wrists more. "I'm not your darling, darling." The last word came out low and husky, and you resisted the urge to squirm beneath him. It wouldn't do to give him any more of an upper hand just yet, not that there was much more he could get.

"You could be, if you wanted, the position you're in." You'd been watching him through your lashes, but with those words you allowed your gaze to slide down to his lips as your own parted slightly.

Lockwood took the hint.

His kiss was passionate, almost frantic, and you returned it equally. To get low enough to reach your lips, his hips had bucked into yours, and as you gasped at the sensation his tongue darted in. He tasted like bergamot tea. One hand never left where he was keeping you pinned, but the other came round to support the small of your back as you arched into him. Eventually (it took him long enough, distracted as he was when you dragged your teeth across his lower lip), he realised he was supporting all his weight on your wrists, and he propped himself on his other hand and let go. With this newfound freedom, you pushed yourself off the ground, leaning into him until he was sitting back on his feet, your legs still under him but torsos upright and pressed together.

Now on a more even playing field, you were able to have a bit more fun. Not that you were going to complain about the original position, to be fair. It had certainly made things interesting. In the back of your mind you registered that the sirens outside had stopped, but you still had time to kill.

You slid your hands up his chest to the collar of his coat, sliding it down until it gathered around his remarkably firm biceps, then loosened his tie. All the while, your lips never left his, kissing him hungrily. He responded by reaching up and removing the tie from your hair. One hand travelled back down to your waist, the other twisted into your hair with a playful tug. You gasped against his mouth again, tugging his tie which brought him up off his heels. The pressure eased from your legs, and in one swift movement you pulled them through the gap.

As your legs disappeared from under him, Lockwood found himself leaning back with you taking position above. Your hair cascaded around your face, tickling his ears, and he broke the kiss for breath and to stare up at you in wonder. His hand left your hair to support himself, but you adjusted to balance yourself so your hands could slide into his coat and around his waist.

"Well, that's certainly not how I expected this auction to end, but I can't say I'm disappointed," he chuckled.

"Me neither." Behind you the door hissed as the automatic lock disengaged. Abruptly, Lockwood felt your hands retract from within his coat and he dropped painfully onto his elbows. You stood, brushing yourself off and retrieving your jacket, which you slung over your shoulder. At the same time as Lockwood realised his coat felt significantly lighter, he noticed the book tucked under your arm.

"This has been fun, we should do it again some time," you said with a wink as you stepped through the door.

Lockwood scrambled to his feet. By the time he made it to the doorway, the auction room was empty. You'd gone, and so had the book.

He didn't know which he was more disappointed about.

360 notes View Post

jestersasphodel

1 year ago

Just thinking of an angst fic with the bridgerton boys and some duke (interpreted by Henry Cavill)

Fair warning, this is just me rambling, adding some dialogue. Not a fic... Just whatever happens in my weird little mind.

So bc I like angst and I like Henry Cavill, what if you had been friends with the Bridgertons since you were young and you and Anthony had _something_, everyone thought you'd end up together- Ben and Colin had crushes on you, and they had fantasized about the day you'd become a Bridgerton for real and ask their big brother to share his pretty wife. You are practically a Bridgerton, having tea with them everyday, staying for dinner and a lot of times even to sleep in their house.

But Anthony discovered the crush Ben had on you near your first season- Ben had drawn you over and over, written poetry about you and his crush looked more like love than Anthony had ever thought of so, despite his plans of asking you to court as soon as you were presented (he didn't thought he loved you, he just thought it was obvious and convenient), he decided he'd let Benedict court you and let you two have a love match. So your first season, he meets Sienna and he starts his relationship with her. You're named diamond of the season but you don't marry.

Next is Daphne's season and you spend it helping her and defending her tooth and nail, being her confidant and the only one who knows about the farce with Hastings and ultimately, her maid of honor. Violet gets antsy when your third season starts and Anthony claims he wants a viscountess, making his list of prospects but not including you

After his first afternoon of interviews, you come to bridgerton house for tea and ask him how he's faring (you're still under the impression that maybe he's doing this to make a show, to somehow make a grand romantic gesture, to basically tell the world that you're the best for him and he _knows_ bc he has interviewed all other debutantes) but he takes it as just friendly curiosity and he's honest about how he's not very hopeful and tells you all about his list (a list that is basically describing you) but before you can smile and tease him about how he seems to be describing you, he tells you he has his sights set on the new diamond, Edwina Sharma and he will visit her the next day. You tense and everyone in the drawing room seems to stop breathing, and calmly, you ask him if that's his only prospect and he says yes of course, none other could be worthy of the most eligible bachelor other than the diamond of the season. You excuse yourself shortly after, feeling betrayed and foolish, for you had wasted _your_ season waiting for him, and the following waiting for him and defending his family, only to be tossed aside like an used toy?

You don't attend the next ball and you miss the courting of miss Sharma and the viscount, instead, you are called by the queen, who is wholly disappointed in your failure on getting married. She asks you to be her honored guest in her next ball and there, you meet the Duke of Cornwall (Henry Cavill)- he had been to the war against Napoleon, but now he's back to London, looking for a wife. Unfortunately, despite his title not many women desire him bc not many is known about his wealth and he doesn't have the regular build of the gentleman, seeming more like a giant. He also doesn't dress exactly as the fashion of London dictates, so he's not well accepted by the ton. But you see potential (and you swoon to think of what's under that big coat and my, not many men can make you feel small and dainty but him? He does), so you talk to him and see friendly. You don't have much hope of him wanting to marry you (if Anthony, who knew you your whole life, didn't want you, why would a beautiful stranger want to?), but you think that you still have some sway on the ton, still being favored by the queen and keeping the title of diamond- so a couple of weeks of meeting him and his mother for tea, some suggestions on his wardrobe and he is officially the most handsome man and the most desirable gentleman of the ton.

He obviously falls head over heels for you. You're so kind and patient, explaining what was fashionable and what would suit him best, always complimenting him and his bravery, talking about all or nothing. He's not surprised you were named a diamond your first season, but he is surprised to know you're not married- the why is not something you talk about and he doesn't pressure you.

Imagine that you give him a suit tailored for him and his build- he insists on paying you back and you say no, bc if anything you're glad to have another friend and you'll love to parade around with him, at least the first dance of the next ball (you're assuming he will mingle among the debutantes to search for his future wife) and he's just... Moved to have someone being proud of showing him off- he would be your trophy husband any day of the year.

Anyways, he insists on having a dress commissioned for you in the same color as his suit (so you look married) and in the next ball, he escorts you in. You push him to mingle around, which he does (he thinks you want your husband to know more of the ton and he can do that), then he asks you for the vals and you accept, taking the time to ask him about his success. He tells you the men seem to dislike him even more now and you can't help but laugh.

"You're not searching to marry one of the men of the ton, your highness"

"True, but you asked about my success. I'm just regretfully informing you it wasn't so"

"I disagree. I didn't intend the men to like you, you can take care of that at the gentlemen's club in your own time. No no, balls are to be liked by the most important people of the ton: the women"

"Ah. Very well then... I guess they seemed more eager to dance with me. Miss Cowper even insinuated she could erase a gentleman from her card if I desired to take his place"

"Ugh, no, anyone but Cressida. Take your pick among some of her friends, I can excuse some of them but not her"

"That's good to know, but I didn't dance with her. I just conversed with her shortly"

"Well I'm not surprised. Your suit is expensive, I'm sure she is just chasing the money. She's not a good measurement for success. What about Penelope Featherington?"

"Miss Featherington was nice to me on my first event, that hasn't changed"

"Yes yes, I know she was polite. What I want to know is if she blushed when you talked to her"

"Pardon?"

"Blush, your highness. The redness in a woman's cheeks? Did she have that this time around?"

"I know what a blush is, little mouse" he had taken to call you mouse ever since he had seen you eat crackers with cheese instead of the god awful cucumber sandwiches people of the ton liked. "I would like to see one on your cheeks one day, but yes, you're right, she did blush"

"Aha! So we did have succes! Even someone not attracted to men could see your appeal. You can now have anyone you want from the ton... Well mostly, Eloise and Penelope, despite being on the market, are not really searching for anything."

"Interesting, how you know these things"

"I just do. Now, what are your options?"

"My options?"

"Yes. Does any lady tickle your fancy? Anyone beautiful and graceful enough to become the next royal duchess?"

"I think you know the answer to that. I have already chosen my wife"

"Ooh, do tell... Except if it's Cressida. If you choose her, I'm never speaking to you again"

"I wouldn't want to do anything to risk never listening your lovely voice again"

"Well then tell me, who is it? I must know her, I know everyone in the ton"

"Well, she's exceptionally kind and pretty. She has an impeccable fashion sense and is the prettiest jewel in this ball"

"... I don't think I know anyone like that... You did listen when I said Penelope is not available, right?"

"It's not Penelope"

"Okay then... I'm blank. Who is it?"

"You, obviously"

"...what"

"Why do you look so baffled?"

"I thought you were serious!"

"I am! Is this your rejection? If so, I don't accept it. I'm willing to have a very long courting if that what it takes, but I'm not giving up"

"Oh, come off it, you could do better. At this point you could ask miss Edwina Sharma to marry you and she'd say yes"

"The diamond of this season? She's already being courted by viscount Bridgerton, is she not?"

"Yeah well, she'd leave the viscount for a royal duke... I think. I don't know her all that well. Most women would anyways"

"I'm not interested in most women, I'm interest in you."

The seemingly unending waltz ends and you are about to genuflect and walk back to the edges of the ballroom but the duke does not let you go. He holds onto you for the next piece.

"Your highness," you call between gritted teeth. "Pray tell, what are you doing"

"Making my intentions clear to the ton. I shall call on you tomorrow. Hydrangeas are your favorite, are they not?"

"...they are."

"Very well. I'll be sure to purchase enough and bring some tools for your gardeners to plant them, wouldn't want your house to... What did you say? Reek of death in the next couple of days?"

"I was joking" you say, looking away with a blush. You weren't joking when you said that for all you loved to admire flowers, you hated when they dried and had the stink of death and decay-despite your servants diligence, your first season you had received three florist's worth of flowers for weeks and it was near impossible to hide the smell of them (the good and the bad).

"You weren't, but I appreciate your honesty just as much as your kindness. I shall endeavor to think of your comfort as I conquer your heart with grand gestures, worthy of the most precious diamond"

"You keep this up and I might start believing you"

"Good, that's all I want"

He dances with you four more times, knowing full well that more than three dances means courting (you told him that repeatedly and after your third dance you repeated and he just smirked while you glared).

Of course, the next day Lady Whistledown is already speculating on the date of your wedding and, to make matters worse, your house receives six carriages of hydrangeas- you're quite sure the whole of England is now in a shortage of the flower. There are so many that your servants have to put some out the windows, trying to seem as intentional decor instead of the last resort on where to put them.

When the responsible party comes to call on you, however, you're unable to keep your glaring at him (something your servants and father do for you). He's charming as always and even invites you to promenade and you can't quite refuse his boyish smile and his deep blue eyes. Not even a month ago, you didn't think there were other men aside from the Bridgertons, your heart only fluttering for the chocolate eyes of the eldest and summersaulting for the green and blue of the next in line.

He is perfect, his eyes never straying from you, making light conversation and genuinely complimenting you-you feel like Icarus, soaring rapidly to the sun and rapidly falling into the abyss that is love. But it feels as if this time, someone is ready to catch you. Not even ten minutes into your walk and you're already convinced you're a fool in love, even more convinced you must look the part, smiling stupidly broad, blushing and giggling. Not even in your first season did you feel so seen as in this very moment.

You pass the Bridgerton tent without even noticing, your eyes wholly focused on the man by your side. It's not until your mother calls for you that you turn, walking back with the duke in tow to greet your old time friends, greeting Lady Violet with affection (but much more formal than any other time before- before you were sure one day youd be her daughter, and now you know you won't), then turning to Eloise, hugging her and sheepishly taking her frown and thinly veiled interrogation as she inquires where you've been the last month.

"We were so worried. You just... Stopped coming by! A simple note the first day of your absence and then nothing! And in the balls, you never search for us and-"

"Ah, I believe I'm at fault for all of that" ~your~ the duke intervenes with a smile. "You see, miss Y/N was very kind to visit me and my mother this last month to teach me and guide me into the world of the ton- as part of the military, I've hardly had time to learn all that there is to know to be in polite society, despite my title. She was a godsent and I've been, quite unashamedly, hogging her time" he is humourous with his answer but his eyes are a bit hard, a bit serious- he's letting Eloise know he's taking the blame but by no means will he accept any disrespect to you- her tone had been whiny and almost accusatory, but it was all in good fun, after all you were practically siblings.

You smile apologetically, and take the duke's hand in yours, letting him know you're alright and have this situation in control.

"I'll be sure to visit you this week, Eloise, to make up for lost time" you say pleasantly

Eloise doesn't back down completely. She stares at the duke, wholly unimpressed before raising an eyebrow at you, almost as if asking "Really? Him?" And you just sigh, nodding. She shrugs, but still does t stop glaring at the duke as she tells you she will eagerly await for you at her house the next day.

When her gaze returns to her book, you think the war is over- but apparently, youve only won a battle.

Anthony is missing from Violet's entourage but Colin and Benedict are very much present and their glares at the duke and your hands intertwined are so intense, you're surprised they haven't intervened in some way.

Stay tuned for part 2 with how will Ben and Colin bring Anthony to his senses! And some Bridgerton shenanigans

641 notes View Post

jestersasphodel

11 months ago

LADY STRONG

Benjicot Blackwood x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Warnings - none except not edited!!

Word Count - 3.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.

You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.

What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.

Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.

Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.

“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”

The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.

Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”

“I study!”

“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.

Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he is the heir to the Iron Throne. I am only the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”

And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.

Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.

Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”

“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”

His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”

Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.

Gods.

You hate it when he’s right.

“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”

Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”

“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”

“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”

Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”

All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.

Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”

Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”

You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.

An hour—that was all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.

How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one considers nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.

Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”

You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”

Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.

“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.

“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”

The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”

Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”

“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.

“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”

With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”

Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.

You miss home. Desperately.

You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.

But, even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.

Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.

Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.

Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.

As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.

You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.

He’s talented—you think, lips pursed as you study his form.

Talent was something you were familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself—and yet never before have you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.

He didn’t move like other boys.

He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.

Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.

Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.

He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.

Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.

“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”

The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.

Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”

You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”

His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”

You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”

A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”

Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.

Seven Hells!—he doesn’t know who you are, does he?!

Your jaw goes slack, a sudden speechlessness grabbing hold of your tongue.

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you weren’t what many expected of a Targaryen princess. Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.

Even so, it was rare that you met someone who didn’t know who you were. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.

“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”

“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”

“Southern?”

Benji nods.

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”

The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.

Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”

Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”

Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.

“Why not?”

He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”

Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.

“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”

I do find it endearing, you think.

Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”

Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.

“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to back her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.

He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”

“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”

Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”

The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.

“What of me?”

A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”

Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.

Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.

It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.

But this was different.

Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.

Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was far too forward and-”

You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“A deal?”

You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”

Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”

“I know what you’re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”

In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”

Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”

“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”

The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”

You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.

“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”

Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent.

Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.

“Princess?” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”

You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.

“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”

You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.

Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”

You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.

“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”

a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??

and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.

anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot

benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus

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jestersasphodel

1 year ago

Karlach Unable to Get Enough of You

Pairing: Karlach x Reader

Tags: fluff, touch-starved, kissing, cuddles, tail shenanigans, playful biting, protectiveness

A/N: She's been on my mind for a while, I need to get these brainworms out. Plus I find the whole "romance but can't touch" thing very appealing both as a writer and as someone who's ace.

The pining was almost too much to handle for you both, unable to touch from the fear of being hurt, well this was more Karlach's fear then yours, you were willing to endure a few burns if it meant that you'd kiss her

Once she's able to touch you she becomes the clingiest person in your party

This isn't just towards you but towards some of her friends as well

Although with you it's a lot more romantically intimate

She'll place her hand on your thigh when you're sitting by the camp fire, she'll wrap her tail around you when you're sleeping, it doesn't matter if her back is turned or not, she'll pull you into her arms and growl at anyone who flirts with you

You're hers, and it feels strange to admit to it, to have this new protective and possessive urge to be with you

Kissing happens multiple times a day, after every fight, before you go to sleep, as she holds you up against a tree, biting at your lips, pulling them between her sharp teeth and letting you moan against her lips

You always feel her tail around you, even when you're walking

This has tripped you up a few times before but now she's able to catch you, spin you around and kiss you better

She no longer minds when you catch her looking at you because now you can both do something about it, a touch, a kiss or something more, it's all finally on the table for you two

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