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afirstratelaugh · 15 days ago

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[04:24 am] science? yours only.

wc: 2.3k

a/n: [fluff viktor brainrot thanks to @dilemmars. t dije q me vengaría baby, así q zas, un payback por tus podcasts jdjfjjsd. hope u like cause its ur fault]

he’s humming something you don’t quite understand, a distant tune that sounds familiar —probably you’ve heard him sing it before—, and even if you don’t recognize the melody aside from that, you can’t help but appreciate it.

his hands fidget with whatever he can reach as he sighs once more, as if he was stealing breaths from the world, heavy, almost as lidded as his eyelids. his hair falls on his eyes and in between his slender fingers while he curls the untamed strands, and you fall into an endless pit of staring at him as he scribbles, grunts, sighs, and finally pinches the bridge of his nose.

“statistically speaking, i’m starting to feel like the chances of me getting this right are adversatively proportional to the chances of you accidentally swallowing a fly.”

and you just blink, once, then twice.

he stares at you, gives you a pointed look. he can’t really say if you understood that you were just staring at him with your mouth parted, but you squint at him, snickering.

“what,” his low voice fails to ask, unbothered, knowing that you’ll answer regardless.

and you do, answering. “you haven’t even uttered a word in a while. i was just surprised that you could still talk, is all,” you grin cheekily, playing with a screw on the table as you turn left and right on the chair you’re sitting on.

viktor looks at you, and he can’t help but crack a smile. point for you.

“what you laughing for, mhh, mister science?”

“isn’t it enough to bother me from the moment i get inside the lab in the morning that you need to do it at night too?” he pretends seriousness, side-eyeing you teasingly.

“fair enough. i will consider your offer, man of fleeting memory, and take it upon myself to bother you longer.”

his mean stare wouldn’t even make a kitten mewl, but you take you hand to your heart, pretending to be wounded.

“don’t look at me like that! you’ll hurt my feewings,” you pouted, much to his amusement.

“fleeting memory?” he scoffs, accent rolling off his tongue. “when’s the last time you lost a hairtie, mmh?” he mocks.

“unfair!” you can’t help but giggle as you pretend to hide your hair from his view. point for him. “besides. i take better care of my hair than you do of yours.” you pouted smuggly. “mine looks prettier.”

“what?” he finally asks, letting out a chuckle this time as his eyes land on you for the first time in the good part of an hour.

you play with your hair to style it, and funnily pose, hands on your cheeks as you lay your elbows on the table.

“what, don’t I look pretty?” you smiled, letting out a cheeky giggle.

yes. he doesn’t say it, but his eyes haven’t dodged back to his papers just yet. it’s another point for you. so very pretty.

he doesn’t dare. he knows it. his mind, or at least the small portion of his mind that still ties him with the occasional reminder that he’s human, looks at you and wants you in a way that he’s never wanted before.

so viktor resolves in looking at you. maybe only for a moment, maybe only on those fragments of time when he’s tired enough that he looks at the stars and at the moon, yearning to reach them, only to think he’ll miss the moonlight, finally blinking to the realization that he had been staring into your eyes for too long.

his eyes are dull as he stares at you, and your expression of worry at the fact makes his heart skip a beat. “viktor?” you mumble, softly, sleepily, warily. he can’t stop staring at you, and while he supposes success and defeat can look the same in a mirror —therefore, he doesn’t really blame your confusion—, he finds no words to explain which one he’s feeling as you move your chair towards him by a push against the floor, solely accompanied by the sound of the little wheels rolling to him.

he grabs his walking stick and turns it around, pretending to poke at your chair, as if to teasingly shove it away. if you realize that he settles the walking stick just in the correct place so that your stool can’t move back, he doesn’t know. viktor just stares at the floor, to pretend that maybe the way your eyes turn tender when his reflection shines on them has nothing to do with what you’re about to say.

tsk, tsk. clueless viktor.

he’s expecting it, yes, but even with that on mind, he can’t phathom how your course of action chooses laughing as you fidget with the loose button on his vest, the second one from the top down. viktor purposely forces himself to stable his breathing, worry seeping into him, thinking that maybe you could feel his heartbeat grow faster beneath the layers of clothing.

and he feels like the remnants of a cheap ring that stain a finger blue, when comparing himself as he stands —sits— close and next to you. maybe its because you usually wear rings, and he can feel the ghost of them as your hand trails up and absentmindedly fixes his collar.

he can almost see it. your mind working, the pieces falling into place, the—

“either my eyes are deceiving me or yours have been on my lips for a rather long time.”

and he can just. blink. as if that could break how mesmerized he feels, how his heart swells up and covers his throat, how inexplicably he feels when you’re with him, near and alone. the need to know more. the need to use every trinket and screw to map out your body for him to explore, and to map out the wonders of your mind for the world to admire and maybe then find out the reason of his inability to look away.

he was so focused before. used to be.

he is. now, at you. of you. on you.

you.

another point for you. he isn’t keeping count, but something tells him he’s losing.

and as his gaze falls back to your lips in between a battle against your eyes, lost in which to stare and sink into their devotion, he hesitates again.

he thinks its funny. so funny, viktor holds back the dry chuckle that threatens to go past his lips. how to cherish you in a way that matters. how to love, the scientist wonders. is there a way that would allow him to unveil and unravel himself to you? could there be some kind of language, able to express the depth of his insides, that you, too, could understand?

what is love, anyways? is he in love with you because his coffee tastes better when it matches the dark of your pupils? because when he takes the mug from your hand and his fingers brush against yours, it seems warmer? because he notices how the dark shade in your eyes seems to mix with that of your irises, and the way the black eats the colour when you stare at him? because he claims to hate company while he studies alone, but one chair remains empty as he works, waiting for who it was meant for? because when he fails and surrenders himself to the fall, throws his walking stick against the wall, he yearns for your embrace and how your hair smells in the evenings?

is that love? and if it is, could you understand it?

if it is love, and he could say it, would such a short word convey its meaning, or was he speculating just a couple of paragraphs ago? was he assuming the meaning of what love entails?

even so. if he said it, would you repeat it? would you claim you love him because he loves you, claim to love him too? would you instead claim to love him despite everything, even the uncertainty of love itself?

…does he accept it himself?

he’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount of voices in his head. there’s too much chatter. too many questions he can’t answer, too many commas, too many question marks. too much, too much, too many.

so he silences them. makes the voices dim to a deep silence. and when his lips find themselves suddenly against yours, he finds out the true, effervescent meaning of quietness.

his hand fails to pull you closer because of the damn walking stick that gets in the way. or maybe its the chairs you’re both on that clash against each other. maybe its matter itself. for a while, its the first time viktor doesn’t want to know.

in a bold statement, he couldn’t give a fuck.

he’s kissing you.

and it should be bad because of all the unanswered questions. he’s skipping procedure. he’s gone from the fuck around to finding out and he doesn’t know where he is at this point.

what he does know, is that your hand pulls him by his necktie, and he’s gone. science? yours only. the science that he’d study all of the nights he may have left. the science behind what makes you. the science behind how your hand craddles his face while stroking his cheekbones. the science behind how you’re the closest you’ve ever been to him and somehow still not close enough. the science behind the reason why when you pull away makes his heart beat so loudly, as if it had forgotten how to a second ago.

your forehead rests against his. he shouldn’t have done that. he just… did it. maybe that was bad. was it? could it be? he had been waiting for so long too. he never thought he would…

“viktor, what are we?”

and he’s dead. he knows what the question implies, but he doesn’t want to answer. he could follow you like a lost puppy through piltover and zaun and hell knows where else. if he wasn’t dead now he would die right there and now without a second thought, because the feeling that overcame him was that love was suddenly a sentence or two away.

he knows he doesn’t dare. it’s one of the only thing he knows, one of the things he’s sure of.

but somehow, he moves. he stands up, takes the walking stick, and attempts to walk out the feeling that bounces inside him.

the walking stick always makes a noise when he walks, one with dificulties to interpret in terms of onomatopeia. not quite a thud, not deep enough to reach that quality. not a clack, for it is not entirely made of metal. still, as if it was a mix of both, he keeps walking.

viktor is nervous. thud-clack. he’s not moving far from his chair, nor is he going somewhere else. thud-clack. he still keeps pacing. thud-clack. maybe the answer is somewhere in the room. thud-clack. maybe he can reply.

thud-clack, thud-clack, thud-clack.

only does he then realize that he hasn’t answered your question. and a non-answer statement might as well be a rejection.

no. no, no, no. fuck.

he’s sitting again, but you stand up. your hair follows, long. moving and brushing against the skin of your shoulders in a way that he can’t help but claim it to be endearing.

you’re walking. you don’t make any kind of extra sound when you walk. your heels reverberate against the floor like any other, yet also they mark the beat of his heart.

he can’t reach for you. you walk too fast.

you stop when you feel the walking stick on your side. the part made for him to lean on as he walks hooks you, and you stand, not facing him.

he doesn’t use the walking stick as he stands. no, he keeps it hooked to your core, scared that you might leave. you could, he wouldn’t blame you. but he can’t allow it.

he holds it in the air as he takes one step. another step. you’re turning, surprised to see him standing, and you gasp when he lets himself fall on you.

your touch surrounds him. yes. that’s the closeness he needed. he drops the walking stick, his hands slithering on your body, pressing you against him, for no reason at all yet because it is all needs.

“what can we be?” he whispers. he takes the science approach. the viktor approach.

he isn’t too clueless after all.

he raises enough to look at your darkened, sleepy eyes. he wants to drown in them.

“if i wanted to kiss you everytime you hand me coffee, wanted you to sit on the same chair as ne and hug me from behind as I work, wanted you.” he swallows dry. “then, what can we be?”

he doesn’t want to say the words, and its petty.

it’s the 31st when the clock strickes five am and your hands travel through his hair to kiss him again. to unbalance him enough that he falls back on his chair and you follow him, sitting on his lap.

and as he kisses you, his hands worshipping the skin he can touch, the warmth he can feel through layers of clothing, he feels like maybe there’s a life worth living, so he can’t ask.

he’s heard boys and girls when he was young talk about it. “he didn’t want to celebrate our month-versary,” a girl cried as he played with his little boat, watching from afar as she was comforted by her friend.

it’s the 31st. and he can’t really ask the question now, because if he says it, how could you celebrate each month?

he moves the chair and holds you in his arms as your back falls against the table before him. maybe he can kiss you until next month. until the clock strikes and it’s the 1st.

he smiles as he kisses you, feeling you pull his necktie off. he thinks it’s the best idea he’s had in a while. and a true scientist always tries out their hypothesis.

~k.k. (☆) have fun!

aaksuitac, november 2024 ©

#fic rec

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afirstratelaugh · 29 days ago

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“While many people think fanfiction is about inserting sex into texts (like Tolkien’s) where it doesn’t belong, Brancher sees it differently: “I was desperate to read about sex that included great friendship; I was repurposing Tolkien’s text in order to do that. It wasn’t that friendship needed to be sexualized, it was that erotica needed to be … friendship-ized.” Many fanfiction writers write about sex in conjunction with beloved texts and characters not because they think those texts are incomplete, but because they’re looking for stories where sex is profound and meaningful. This is part of what makes fan fiction different from pornography: unlike pornography, fanfic features characters we already care deeply about, and who tend to already have long-standing and complex relationships with each other. It’s a genre of sexual subjectification: the very opposite of objectification. It’s benefits with friendship.”

— Francesca Coppa, “Introduction to The Dwarf’s Tale,” The Fanfiction Reader (via francescacoppa)

Someone put it into words. I gotta sit down

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afirstratelaugh · 4 months ago

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I‘m tired of the negativity Ghost fandom. I think you should reblog this post and add something to the tags that you love about Ghost, about the fandom itself or about the works of the person you reblogged it from ♡

#cross-posting from my main cause why tf not #ok to reblog #my writing #the band ghost

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afirstratelaugh · 4 months ago

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each person is born with a license to stan one (1) evil character, and if they turn it down then it must be redistributed to the needy. that’s why i have one hundred and seven

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afirstratelaugh · 4 months ago

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Hi I love your blog i was wodering if you could do number 15 with Undertaker,thank you in advance💓🥰

hi! i recognize your url haha, i’d love to do number 15 with undertaker for you 💕

prompt: watching their oblivious s/o lovingly

character: undertaker (kuroshitsuji)

words: 1900+

content warning: reader’s family was killed in an accident and has some survivors guilt, i put a little more “plot” in this than i originally intended so i hope you don’t mind lol, sorry if this is sad.

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The funeral home is bathed in shimmering, golden light as wisps of sunset stream in through the latticed windows, sun dust dancing in the beams that cast a buttery veil over the surface of shiny caskets strewn about the floor and catching in the bright glint of the glass bottles and jars lined up along the shelves.

A few of the candles are already lit, tiny flames flickering as they hover on the end of charred wicks, rivulets of thick wax making their slow descent towards the silver basins they’re perched in below.

You’ve come to love this place— a place that, at one point in time, had filled you with dread, reminded you of your own fragile mortality— as it now brought you peace.

Maybe it was because you’d become so acquainted with death yourself, had felt its lips ghost over yours with a near-fatal kiss when you’d been on the verge of leaving the living world.

You’d been the lucky one, they’d all told you, because you’d survived.

However, the rest of your family— both your parents and your two other siblings— hadn’t been as fortunate when the carriage had crashed over the cliff side, tumbling down the steep hill into the sea of pine below.

You still wondered why you’d survived while they’d all been claimed by whatever was waiting on the other side of life, but at least there had been one saving grace through all that hell.

Because, if you hadn’t had reason to seek out mortuary services all on your own, you would’ve never met him.

“Undertaker” was the only name he’d given you, still refused to tell you anything other than that title whenever you tried to press him, so, even though his insisted mystery at something as simple as a name sometimes irked you, you’d more or less accepted it.

In the beginning, you’d been wary of him, unable to look him in the face and carful to keep your distance.

But as time went on, as you grieved, as you recovered, and, at last, once your family was put to rest six feet under the ground, you’d found you’d warmed up to him.

Because it hadn’t just been the singular occasion of seeking out his business’s services that had pulled you into his orbit, or the inevitable return after the funeral to pay him what was due and thank him for all his hard work and consideration.

Undertaker had seen your pain plain as day from the very second you stepped through those doors and into his grim domain. He’d seen the fear and the loneliness and the mourning. The guilt and regret one often wears when they can’t help but think, if only I hadn’t made this one decision on that particular day, everything would’ve turned out differently.

So he’d comforted you. He’d helped you feel not so alone and, unlike the other more familiar faces that seemed to pop up to surround you at every turn, offering rehearsed condolences that were so sickly sweet they bordered on condescending, bringing an endless array of casseroles and roasts and all kinds of other deep-dished dinners that most nights had just ended up in the trash because you could barely bring yourself to eat in those first few months after your loss…

Unlike all the others who said what they thought you wanted to hear, did what they thought would help you instead of asking what it was you actually needed, Undertaker had treated you like he understood perfectly right from the start.

You figured he knew the intricate, silent language of death and mourning better than anyone, given that his day to day for who knew how many decades had revolved around it. But you’d expected him to be emotionally uninvested and purely professional when you’d first prepared to speak with a funeral director. So it very much caught you off guard when he’d been the complete opposite.

He’d treated you with compassion, patience, and, above all else, respect. He didn’t pity you, and gave no coddling words about how your deceased family was “in a better place now” or calculated coos making promises that you could ask him for “anything you might need, at any time” like the others who’d learned of your loss when you knew they had their own busy lives to jump right back into once they’d filed out of the funeral and the babbling brook of black clothes and tear-streaked cheeks had dispersed.

It made you wonder who he’d lost in his life, though you were never brave enough to ask.

So you’d found yourself returning to him, drawn back into his somber chamber of half-constructed coffins and gleaming silver instruments strewn about. You’d accepted his invitation to stay for tea and biscuits and felt grateful when he just let you talk about what had happened and how you felt, not feeling the need to interject or give you advice on the proper way to grieve.

Undertaker had sat across from you, secretly studying the distinct features of your face and your innate little mannerisms from behind his curtain of silver fringe, the scar cutting across his face just barely peeking through, and listened.

It was less than any of your other friends or family would’ve considered they’d done for you, but that simple gesture meant more than anything back then.

So when he’d offered you a position as his assistant, promising fair wages and adequate training, though you felt some apprehension at such a serious and, as you could imagine, having been on the other side of it, sorrowful task, you’d ultimately agreed without much hesitation.

Because there was something about being around him that had helped— was still helping— to heal you.

It certainly helped that, the more you two had gotten to know each other, the more comfortable he’d gotten about cracking jokes or making humorous little comments here or there.

Undertaker had a strange sense of humor, a dark one for sure, but as time went on you found that so did you.

You’d since lost count of how many times you’d both ended up laughing so hard you were practically wheezing, arms wrapped around your middle as you clutched the stitch in your side, entire body shaking with the kind of carefree joy that only comes from a good, hearty, unexpected laugh.

“Laughter is the best medicine,” he’d once told you, after you’d suddenly burst into tears after enjoying such a jovial moment, reminded how you’d never get to laugh like that with your family ever again. “Even in the darkest of times, just allowing yourself to experience small joys can help cure what ails you, even if only for a moment.”

You remembered his words often, whenever you were missing your lost loved ones. Undertaker had taught you to laugh more often even if for the sole purpose that they couldn’t anymore, and sometimes that fact alone was enough for you to at least smile.

“Because life is for the living,” he’d also taught you. “You must experience the things that they won’t get to and know that they would’ve wanted you to have a full life.”

So now, as you finished cleaning up and organizing everything in the shop for the day, humming a melancholy little tune quietly to yourself as you moved about, Undertaker leaned in the doorway and silently watched you, his silhouette a tall, billowy shadow as his dark robes draped over his svelte form.

His brilliant chartreuse eyes broke through the cracks in that curtain of silver meant to hide them, and he couldn’t help but grin to himself as he thought how lucky he was— after so many years of solitude— to finally have someone who brought real joy to his life.

Even sweeping the concrete floors, the dusty skirts of your dress swaying about your feet in rhythmic, graceful motions, Undertaker found you beautiful, his delicate, earnest little human.

You were careful around the one coffin he’d strictly told you never to open or disturb, doing a half-turned dance to maneuver the currently cramped space with all that littered the floor, but to Undertaker, you appeared as elegant as if you were the belle of a ball, slowly waltzing about the macabre dancehall.

He’d found new purpose in the life-after-his-afterlife in having you learn from him, in teaching you his trade, witnessing you succeed and fail and succeed again.

You were going to make one hell of an undertaker yourself one day, if and when his jig was finally up and he had to flee this place tucked into the darkest, dingiest corner of London.

Sometimes he thought you didn’t belong here only for the fact that, as he’d half flirted, half joked to you on your very first encounter, “Someone so pretty doesn’t belong somewhere so grim.”

Still though, he was glad you’d chosen to stay on your own accord. Glad that you had a reason to return to him every day, allowing him to bask in your presence, the only ray of light amidst his world of shadows and decay.

When you finally turned and looked over, you jolted a bit as Undertaker’s unexpected appearance startled you, and after letting out a gentle yelp and clutching your heart you found yourself smiling at him.

“What are you still doing here?” you asked, abandoning your broom as you migrated closer to where he leaned in the doorway. “I thought you went home already. I told you I’d close up.”

Humming out a lilting, fleeting note, Undertaker carefully reached a pale, slender hand over to brush some stray, flyaway strands of hair that had come loose from your braid throughout the day back behind your ear, delighting in the fact that you still blushed a little at the gesture even after he’d done it so many times by now.

“I got caught up with something in the back,” he informed you, his voice low and tender, nearly a murmur in the stillness of the room. “I thought I’d stay and walk you home. Make sure you got back safely.”

Undertaker was usually at the shop until long after sundown, sometimes so late you swore he must sleep here sometimes, only resting for a couple of hours before morning peeked above the horizon and tolled the bell on a new day, more work always to be done. (The phrase “you can rest when you’re dead” had taken on a slightly different, more morbid meaning now). In fact, you knew he’d often pull all-nighters, though if he had any bags under his eyes to tell of it you didn’t know. That part of him was still mostly a mystery to you, other than the few times you’d caught accidental glances of such iridescent emerald while you two were working in close proximity.

He’d offered to walk you home a few times before, but you’d usually refused, assuring him it wasn’t far and you could always call for a carriage along the way if you wished. He never pressed you or insisted too much, but tonight, perhaps it was because you were catching a glimpse of those unearthly eyes of his again, reading what you could swear was complete devotion in them, you accepted his invitation to escort you back.

The walk was mostly silent, though you took it more for the fact that the two of you had been working tirelessly these past few days than anything else. However, Undertaker used the window of comfortable quiet as yet another opportunity to gaze upon you.

Oh, how he’d miss you terribly when he finally had to go, and it hurt him even more so to know there was a possibility it would be without warning if he was found out before he could catch onto it.

But he’d spent too much time running from the past and trying to predict the future. All he really needed right now was to allow himself to enjoy the present he shared with you.

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from this prompt list. requests are now closed, thank you to everyone who participated 💕

#fic rec

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afirstratelaugh · 4 months ago

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afirstratelaugh · 5 months ago

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*casually tosses this into the pile with all the other pale-haired assholes i’ve written*

for all the things my hands have held (jareth the goblin king x gender neutral!reader, labyrinth)

“Five hours.”

His fingertips curl idly around the crystal sphere cupped in his palm, his body a languid sprawl atop the lip of the labyrinth.

“Damn,” you mutter, curling dirty palms around your knees as you attempt to catch your breath. Five hours, huh? Better than the four hours it had taken Jareth to find you last time, or the two before that, but still.

You feel the weight of the Goblin King’s fierce gaze baring down upon your bent head. “You’re filthy.”

You scowl, dusting off your clothes with a few swipes of impatient hands. “I fell,” you return sourly. The distant sound of wingbeats had startled you into a run and a twisting root in your path had sent you sprawling straight onto the dusty floor of the labyrinth. “We agreed on no magic.”

“You reneged on our agreement,” Jareth returns coolly, his sharp eyes darting down to your hand. “And so I followed suit. Hoggle’s penchant for baubles remains, I see. How fortunate for you.”

You tuck your hand behind your back, though the futility of the gesture has been made more than apparent. “No magic was what we agreed on,” you persist, feeling the missing weight of the ring you’d given Hoggle prickling along your nerves. “Not that I couldn’t ask for help.”

Jareth scoffs, the crystal sphere disappearing from his palm in a blink. With a move far more graceful than any you could reasonably perform, he leaps from the lip of the labyrinth and lands before you in a whirl of obsidian robes. They settle about his form like a pair of great wings, and despite yourself, your heart gives a resounding thump at the sight.

The Goblin King holds out a gloved hand. “Let me see.”

You think about refusing, but ultimately slip your hand into his. You’re caked in dust and dirt from your mad dash through the labyrinth - and your subsequent tumble - but Jareth seems to care little about the filth upon your skin marring his own. He merely studies your fingers and the empty space where a ring had once sat, an indistinguishable expression upon his handsome face.

“You’ll be needing a new ring, I take it,” he murmurs, thumbing at the strip of bare skin. Even through the barrier of his gloves, the warmth of his skin sinks into yours, and you struggle against the urge to press closer. His nose wrinkles. “And to bathe,” he mutters, ignoring the sour look the quip earns him. “Come along then.”

Before you can protest, his robes have whipped about you and spirited you away. When next you’re aware, you find yourself standing within the castle, the gently steaming basin that houses the Goblin King’s private bath filling the room with steam.

It takes you a moment to right yourself, Jareth’s preferred method of travel never failing to leave your mind spinning. By the time your stomach has ceased its tumbling, Jareth has divested himself of his robes and gloves, his slender fingers working at the ruffled sleeves of his tunic and exposing lean forearms to the humid air.

His expectations are clear, and with a thudding pulse, you turn away from his gaze and set about wriggling free of your dirt-laden clothes.

It isn’t the first time the Goblin King has seen you in a state of undress, nor is it the first time you’ve been within these chambers together, and yet your face burns as you ease within the warmth of the steaming bath, the heat an immediate balm to the aches and pains you’d sustained from your long trek through the labyrinth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a pair of goblins making off with your dirty clothing. “Don’t - !” you start, only to be stalled by a wave of Jareth’s hand.

“They’ll be returned once they’ve been rid of the muck you soiled them with,” he tells you, a slim brow arched as your expression softens into relief. “Though I cannot fathom why you continue to persist in wearing nothing else.”

“I like my clothes,” you return, your lips twitching as Jareth’s brows furrow in annoyance. He had tried time and time again to ply you with the ruffled and bejeweled trappings of his own vast closet, but you preferred the simplicity and comfort of the clothing you had arrived in, clothing that Jareth continued to scoff at but would dutifully return to you after they’d been cleaned or mended.

Such generosity was to be hoarded like gold from your arrogant and selfish King, particularly when they arrived without fanfare. There was little you could do if Jareth chose to take those last trappings of home and spirit them away as swiftly as he’d spirited you, and yet a part of you knew he never would.

The thought warms you. You duck beneath the surface of the water to scrub the dirt and grit from your face, and when you resurface it’s to the sight of Jareth warming a sweet-smelling oil between his bare palms, keen eyes catching yours and urging you to his side.

His palms are warm and smooth against your arm when you present it to him, the oil sinking into your skin and filling the air with the scent of lavender and sweet herbs. You find yourself watching his face as he attends to you, the way his eyes follow the ascension of his palms along your wrist and forearm, the way his lips part as he breathes.

The ritual is a familiar one. Many of your excursions into the labyrinth had ended just like this, with the Goblin King ridding you of the day’s grime, fingers sure and strong against your arms, your shoulders, your scalp.

The game you played was a simple one: to escape his reach, if only to prove that you could, and to reap the reward he had promised you in return - a single wish.

“Whatever you desire,” he had vowed to you, his voice a silken drawl each time you stood before the entrance to the labyrinth.

He always found you. Whether it be by magic or by might, trickery or luck, you found yourself in the arms of the Goblin King no matter how cleverly you played his game, and yet the disappointment of failure never seemed to strike you here, not with Jareth’s fingers dragging scented oils along your skin.

“Tell me.” You blink at the sound of his voice, tilting your head back to peer into his winsome face. The wall of stone at your back is cool despite the heat of the water, but its chill is not what sends a shiver down your spine. No, that honor belongs to your host, for even perched upon the lip of the steaming basin, his hands and arms bare, Jareth exudes all of the charm and power of a fierce King. “What will you wish for?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, the words lingering on the tip of your tongue. Secrets were to be guarded fiercely within the labyrinth, lest they be used against you, but you doubted that Jareth had asked for such a paltry purpose as that. No, you can guess the direction of his thoughts well enough, having spent enough time in the man’s presence to know how his mind worked, the depths of his desires and the fierceness of his rage, should they be on the cusp of slipping from his grasp.

He wonders if you’ll wish for your freedom. You can see it in the stillness of his gaze, the firm line of his lips, the furrow of his brow. You can feel it in the drag of his fingers, warm and damp against the hollow of your throat.

You press into his touch, and you tell him, “A kiss.”

Jareth’s brows twitch, his sharp gaze gaining a new edge as he peers down into your face, searching, perhaps, for a lie, and finding none.

“And if your wish were granted?” His voice has grown low, little more than a rasp, and his touch trails along your throat, feeling your pulse in the pads of his fingers. “Here, now?”

You suck in a breath, holding it in the cage of your chest before it releases, thick. “I would ask for another,” you confess, and the slow curl of Jareth’s lips sends heat spilling into your belly.

The scent of herbs and lavender makes your head spin, but it’s Jareth’s hands curling around your cheeks that makes your pulse run. He turns you to face him, fingertips wrapping around your jaw, and you catch the brilliant gleam of satisfaction in his eyes before he dips his head to yours.

You expect his kiss to be fierce, harsh, all sharp edges and hunger, but the Goblin King takes your mouth with a softness that makes you tremble, his lips moving gently against yours, tilting, parting, tasting of skin and heat and magic.

Lost beneath his touch, your wet fingers curl within his ruffled collar, eager and clumsy. You can do little else from the warmth of the bath, its waters lapping gently against the walls of the basin. Jareth laughs at your desperation, a soft, low rumble against your lips, and flicks his tongue against your own, tasting you, his hands dragging along your sides and wrapping, firm and possessive, around your hips.

“And if I grant you another?” he murmurs against your lips, gaze sharp and bright and vicious. “What then? What more shall you ask of me, I wonder?”

“Another,” you moan, the barest graze of his mouth against yours flooding your veins with want. Your fingers delve within the loosened folds of his collar, seeking warmth, seeking skin. “And another, and another - “

Jareth kisses you silent, kisses you deep. You feel greedy, gluttonous, eager to consume and be consumed in turn, but any shame you might feel is tempered by your surety that Jareth would have you no other way - bare, hungry.

His.

#fic rec #jareth

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