#&&. my writing !!

[quadrantadvisor]

Even after learning their secret identities, the hero community always insisted that there was something inhuman about the bats. No one doubted that their intensive training had a lot to do with it, but it never quite explained how they could evade a Kryptonian's super senses, how they could melt into shadows, how they could function so long with little food, little rest, little oxygen if need be. Most people dismissed their uneasy feelings, but there was something strange about the bats, something uncanny, something that made them different from the arrows and other vanilla human members. And, slowly enough that no one really noticed, it was getting stronger.

Until one day, during a diplomatic meeting with the ruler of the Infinite Realms, when High King Phantom turned to Batman and his brood and literally brightened. "Oh! I didn't know you had liminal members!"

Or: through a variety of factors (proximity to death, their own death/near death experiences, exposure to the Lazarus Pits, the favor of Lady Gotham, immersion in Gotham's own cursed ambient ectoplasm, being a close knit group who continued to expose eachother, etc.) the batfamily have been becoming liminal/ecto-contaminated without noticing. The powers they're developing have been subtle, and align with the skills they expect to have, so no one brought it up when they started being able to hold their breath beyond human limitations, or got so sneaky that they literally seemed invisible, or had a lucky miss when they expected a bullet to go right through them. And they always exuded an unsettling aura of fear, so no one else thought anything was out of the ordinary either. By the time they meet Danny, Gotham counts as one of the most fiercely defended ghost haunts on the planet, with so many territorial liminals patrolling the streets.

[irithiadourden]

me trying to chill, but writing nonstop

"Are you okay" NO. THERE ARE LITTLE FICTIONAL BITCHES IN MY HEAD. AND THEY'RE KISSING.

[hivemuthur]

Anon because I am a coward lmao, but a request nonetheless if you want/have the time! Been thinking about a classic!Viktor (because him in that uniform is just so scrumptious) x f!reader in an established relationship where they have a bet going that they can't last a week without sex. They take turns over those 7 days mercilessly teasing the other and trying to make each other lose the bet (errant touches here and there, lingering kisses/looks, etc., and one of those could maybe be a heated up-against-the-wall makeout). Up to you whether they make it to day 7 or not! 🤭 And we stan a soft!dom!Viktor of course

I saw some folks picking anon emoji so I'll pick ✨️Anon if that's okay! Thanks for your time whether this makes it or not, I sincerely love everything you write! ❤️

Guess what. They didn't make it :x

All is Fair in Love and War

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a lot of teasing + (unsafe) desk sex, if you squint diligently there is some dom!Viktor but he's so whipped he doesn't even have it in him, and there is some maybe a little bit OOC Viktor and love confessions too. Sap, remember?

word count: 5,8K (sorry it got out of hand)

author's note: Nothing, just Happy Freakday :v

—

It is funny, the human nature and the way you leap at the chance to bend and break it whenever an opportunity to prove a point arises. Often against your better judgement, hurting yourself in the process—yet the reward, the being right, you deem worth it. Whether it is or isn’t, you still don’t know. No scientific data on the matter; you'd have to somehow double yourself and join both the control and the treatment group.

It’s also infuriating how once something is forbidden or simply out of reach, it becomes instantly more desirable—damn near essential to your survival.

And it’s not that you lack self-control or are some savage animal. No. Quite the opposite—composed, focused when it matters, dedicated when it’s required, passionate when you allow yourself to be. And most of the time, that last one comes easily, naturally, around Viktor.

You don’t even remember how it started. He said something along the lines of, “Is that so?” in that tone—the one that has your head tilting and your hand bracing your hip, the one that forecasts trouble—and you responded with something like, “Why don’t we find out?” fully aware that the challenge at hand was going to inch dangerously close to impossible.

It is now day four of your ridiculous, point-proving, let’s-see-who-folds, I-can-outlast-you-with-my-finger-in-(insert an offensive body part) bet—for lack of a better name—and you really can’t remember why you picked up that stinking glove in the first place.

Day one was relatively easy. That was back when your tactic was simply to stay docile and survive. Got you all cocky, how simple it was, just to brace through a day filled with mundane tasks—a list long enough you didn’t even see Viktor for more than a minute.

Day two got harder. Viktor, the snarky bastard, had already started playing unfairly—cravat loosened at the neck, top button undone, revealing his Adam’s apple, one of your many weak spots. Another, also shamelessly flaunted: the mole on the side of his throat. One of your favourite places to press your mouth to. It glared at you all day every time Viktor craned his neck or leaned beside you to read something over your shoulder. It became painfully clear then: without proper artillery, this battle would see you utterly, thoroughly obliterated.

As if the sight itself weren’t enough, Viktor was clearly ready to have you rendered stupid and wanting right there in the lab on that second day. Pretending to be engrossed in your notes, he traced his long finger down your handwriting, occasionally tapping, humming—soft and low in his throat. The air from his nose fanned your cheek mercilessly, steady and warm. And then, the wretched scoundrel, brushed his hand against yours. The touch was barely there, a whisper of skin, designed with surgical precision to twist the knife further. To finish the kill, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead in a sign of loving approbation, murmuring, “Impressive work, lásko.”

“T-thank you,” you stammered, blinking blindly—trying desperately to blink away the feel of his hot lips on your skin, to scrub the sound of his voice from your brain. The praise had bled right into the spot you had prayed would remain numb. The urge to shake out your hand, to run it under cold water, to splash your face for good measure—you managed to resist. The burn on your cheeks, however, had no such mercy.

Viktor only smiled. The smirk he wore was unmistakable: a shit-eating, obscenely smug thing that sat crooked on his mouth, gleaming with unsaid victory. You could almost hear the remark hanging off the tip of his tongue—something close to, “That’s what I thought,” or, “As expected.” But he had the mercy, that day, to keep it to himself.

As he walked away, leaving you sighing in premature relief, he paused. Turned. Tipped his head, cane idly drawing slow circles across the stone floor.

“What would you say to raising the stakes?” he asked, like it was a casual thing, like it wasn’t a hand grenade tossed over his shoulder.

Impossible, you thought. Absolutely not. I’m barely hanging on, was the reasonable choice. Which, naturally, meant that instead of saying any of those sensible things, your stupid competitive mind stepped forward first.

“What do you have in mind?” you asked, voice already on the brink of cracking.

“Well,” Viktor began, adjusting his grip on the cane, feigning neutrality with such theatrics you wanted to hit him, “if we want this test to deliver true results…” A beat.

“Perhaps we should both refrain from seeking relief by our own hands.” He gave a gracious little tilt of his head, the kind that almost passed for innocence. “Unless, of course, that would be too much for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you implying that I have no self-control?”

“Not at all, my darling,” he replied smoothly. “I’m merely implying that I have more self-control than you do.”

A scoff—hot, sharp, and angered—left your mouth as you stood and closed the distance between you. Against reason, despite the suffering you’d already struggled to endure, you came so close that the air he breathed out, you could breathe in. You whispered, low and sinister, “Bring. It. On.”

“Very well,” Viktor muttered, leaning in to your ear. “Hands where I can see them, sweet thing.”

“Likewise,” you hummed into the hollow of his neck, and noticed—not without a sickening sense of triumph—that goosebumps rose where your breath had licked his skin. A faint pink bloomed upward from beneath his collar as well.

Sleeping that night? Nearly impossible, of course. Another thing added to the growing realm of forbidden comforts that had suddenly become this much more attractive to you. And you would be a liar if you said your hands didn’t itch. Sleep became another casualty in this battle, but somehow, you managed to stand your ground.

Naturally, you had to brace yourself with tactics of your own. Day three began with a strategy. You'd woken up taut and fraying, sheets tangled between your legs and thighs pressed too tight together. Your fingers stayed loyal to the pact—barely. But if you couldn’t touch yourself, then you’d just have to make him want to.

So you dressed with a mind to war: the cravat from your uniform was nowhere to be found—lost to the laundry or sabotage, you weren't sure, and frankly didn’t care. Instead of a replacement, you simply didn’t wear one. With the first few buttons of your shirt left artfully undone, the slight gap revealed the delicate valley of your cleavage whenever you leaned forward, bent over something, or stretched, as one does.

Then the skirt. It sat a little too low, so you wrapped the waistband twice and pinned it beneath your belt, hiking the hem high enough that your garters whispered suggestively with every step.

You walked into the lab like a provocation made flesh and Viktor noticed immediately—of course he did. He always notices everything. But this time, he said nothing. Just paused, mid-motion with a wrench in his hand, and blinked slowly, like he’d just been struck by something quiet and lethal. His gaze dropped once, flicked back up, and then he returned to his work with all the casualness of a man pretending not to drown.

That should’ve been your victory. Except that twenty minutes later, while you stood at the central workbench, bent over a set of schematics with a pencil tapping idly between your fingers, Viktor came up behind you. Not touching, never touching. But his voice, cool and rich, curled over your shoulder like silk.

“Did your cravat fall victim to a tragic accident?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

You glanced back at him with a sugar-sweet smile. “Laundry’s fault. Terrible service. Think I’ll lodge a formal complaint.”

He hummed, low in his throat. “Yes, you should. It would be a shame if such... structural integrity failed in more critical areas of your attire.”

You turned, just slightly, letting him see the way your shirt shifted open with the movement. “If you’re concerned, I’m sure you could help reinforce it.”

“I could,” he said, his mouth twitching, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat too long. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

And with that, he walked off. But his limp was tighter than usual, jaw clenched, and his cane struck the tile floor with a touch too much force to be casual. You counted that as a small, simmering win—and an idea, for later.

An idea which, before, you’d deemed a last resort, now begins to seem more and more essential to your survival, because Viktor is utterly fucking shameless.

It is day four, and you are inching toward your wits' end, disbelieving how a mere four days of deprivation have indeed left you nearly drooling over his body—slouched on the couch in what appears to be an innocent nap. But the sighs and groans that leave his mouth are a little too loud, a bit too breathy, and his legs are too far apart, the slope of his groin staring at you with obscene entitlement from where you are curled up on the couch next to him. Not touching, of course.

His chest rises and falls in slow, rhythmic pulls, the fabric of his shirt straining just faintly each time he inhales. You watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath it, the barely-there flutter of his lashes against his cheek, and the way his throat bobs every so often, like his body is caught somewhere between rest and need. His lips, slightly parted, glisten with the faint sheen of sleep, and it would be so easy—criminally easy—to lean in and steal the air right from his mouth.

You shouldn't be looking, you know that. But your eyes drag down the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist, the hand resting slack against his thigh—long fingers splayed in a mockery of carelessness. You can’t even pretend to read anymore. The words on the page blur while he lays there like a temptation wrought by some divine punishment, entirely unbothered, until—

He shifts. Just a little. One eye cracks open, and the barest hint of a smile twitches on his lips. Then, hoarse and low, without even bothering to fully open his eyes, he rasps, “Seeing anything you like?”

You have enough common sense not to startle. The instinctive reaction would be to deny, deny, deny. But then, a thought strikes you—why would you? The bet entails simply not fucking, not pretending as if you don’t want to. In a swift pivot, your new tactic slides into place like a dagger in silk.

“Very much so,” you say, voice smooth, a soft smile playing across your lips while your eyes narrow. You don’t even try to hide the way you’re ogling him, letting your gaze drag with intention—chest, throat, lips, hips—then slowly back up again to meet his.

“Oh?” he murmurs, finally opening both eyes. One brow lifts lazily. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh with feigned exasperation, tilting your head. Your tone is syrupy and sharp all at once. “Are you trying to orchestrate my downfall or yours?”

“Not at all,” he hums, pleased. “I’m simply curious about what’s happening in that pretty head of yours.”

“Very well,” you whisper, fingers ghosting over his wrist as your smile deepens. You cradle it like something precious, your thumb brushing across the knuckles—each one a peak, scarred and calloused with work, each line like a story. He watches you with curious eyes, a tension winding through his jaw, but he lets you guide him. Your lips part. You press them to the tips of his fingers in something that almost resembles devotion—until your tongue peeks out and you drag it, slow and warm, along the pad of his index.

“I’ve been thinking about this hand,” you whisper, eyes locked on his as you press a kiss into his fingertip, “in here.” You take the finger fully into your mouth then, slow and obscene, hollowing your cheeks just slightly.

A hiss leaves him, barely restrained, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans forward on instinct, like you’ve hooked a string behind his ribs and pulled. His gaze drops, fixated, almost pained with it.

“And then possibly…” you release his finger with a soft pop, teasing, “somewhere else.”

Viktor makes a sound low in his throat, something between a warning and a plea. He shifts closer, drawn in despite himself, and his eyes flick to your mouth again—wet and gleaming. “This,” he mutters, voice hoarse and fraying where he doesn’t intend it to, “is not fair play.”

You smile, teeth flashing, all wicked delight. “All’s fair in love and war,” you hum. “And as this is both, I’d say it’s more than fitting. Besides—” you lean in, brushing your nose along his jaw, “you know exactly what you’d have to do to end this… torture. All these layers in the way…”

His breath stutters. And then a smile curls on his lips—not soft, not sweet, but predatory. The kind of smile that promises you’ve stepped too close to the fire, and you’re about to feel the burn.

“Oh?” he says, gaze raking over you, slow and thorough, like he’s peeling you open with just a glance. “And how many layers do you think exactly part us?”

You still. Stare. He cannot possibly be serious. But then, with the ease of someone who knows precisely what they’re doing, Viktor shifts back and stretches—arms above his head, spine arching, muscles pulling taut under the fabric. The hem of his shirt untucks from his trousers in the process, rising just high enough to tease at the flat plane of his stomach.

Your mouth parts, uselessly, because the trousers dip. Just a fraction. But a fraction is enough. Low, low enough that where you expect to see the band of his underwear, there is—nothing. Just skin. A sliver of the sharp cut of his pelvis, and below that, the dangerous promise of more. Had the trousers slid even a breath lower—or not been cinched by his belt—you’d have been treated to the base of his cock.

Your heart stumbles over itself. Breath caught halfway between outrage and awe, you stare. Incredulous.

“Viktor,” you scold, voice choked with disbelief. “You slut.”

He chuckles darkly at that, low and pleased, the sound laced with unrepentant menace. “What was that?” he murmurs. “All is fair, something along those lines?”

His hand lifts, fingers trailing up to your cheek with mock-gentle reverence. “Seems you haven’t measured your opponent properly,” he says, almost fond. “A mistake. Might cost you.”

Your lips twitch upward, unwillingly impressed. “We’ll see about that,” you whisper, eyes narrowing with intent.

Because now—now you know. That little move? That wasn’t confidence. That was desperation. Calculated, yes, but desperate all the same. Viktor, flashing skin like a weapon, throwing everything short of actual cock at the problem—it’s telling. And oh, you were saving your last resort. But now you know—he’s already playing his.

And it’s only day four.

It’s unbearable to keep your part of the deal that night. To say that your hands crawl with ants is an understatement, and to say that you’ve slept is an overstatement, since all you’ve done is toss and turn. And in the morning, there is no laundry mishap, no sabotage to blame for what you’re about to do.

With your skirt’s waistband rolled up and your ass outright bare underneath, you walk through the corridors, the air licking at your thighs. You pray, sincerely and repeatedly, that you won’t run into Heimerdinger at any juncture—and as ludicrous as that prayer might seem, you suddenly understand why all the skirts of the Academy uniforms are the length you once deemed too prudish to ever stir Viktor into action.

The source of your frustration is already in his usual spot, scribbling the day’s tasks onto the blackboard. You can read the smile from the back of his head the moment you step in through the door, but instead of focusing on that, your gaze drops lower—to his thighs—trying to assess whether he’s fallen twice, whether yesterday’s stunt has repeated itself today.

Sadly, you can’t tell. So with gathered-up determination, you bid him hello and muster all your innocence as you sit at your workbench, thighs pressed close together, the chair biting cold into your skin.

It’s maddeningly civil throughout the first few hours—so much so that your head snaps up each time an audible sigh leaves his mouth, only to realise it’s not about you at all. Just something work-related, some frustration that has him hunched over and his brows all knitted.

After a while it becomes clear that Viktor is struggling. It begins subtly—grunts of frustration under his breath, the occasional mutter in a tone too low to catch, followed by the sharp squeak of chalk against slate. Again and again, he scribbles something onto the board, only to wipe it away with increasing irritation. The lines start to look like arguments more than equations. Whatever he’s writing, he hates it.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You rise and make your way over, and the moment you’re close—close enough to see the tension in his shoulders and the crease between his brows—it thickens in the space between you, the air charged and humming. He doesn't look at you, not at first.

"What’s the matter?" you ask gently, keeping your voice light.

He scoffs under his breath and waves you off. “Nothing.”

But his eyes betray him. They flick, just briefly, downward. Toward your thighs. Then snap away again, his jaw tightening. Oh, poor thing.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then you remember yesterday—the stretch, the lazy way his shirt had untucked. Desperation wrapped in smugness. No. This is fair game.

“Want to bounce ideas?” you offer, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm. He stiffens. Your hand drifts higher, skimming over his shirt, the lean plane of his stomach beneath. Purely helpful. Entirely professional.

He exhales, smiling with a certain defeated amusement. “Sure.”

“Good,” you chirp, turning your head just enough for your breath to graze his neck. “Because you seem distracted.”

His eyes cut to you, dark and narrowed. “If you really want to help,” he says, slow and dry, “start writing from the top.”

You follow his gaze upward, and ah—if you’re not the universe’s favourite today, you don’t know what. You grab the usual board stool, the seat worn out and scraped from shoe soles constantly grinding into it anytime either of you wants to make full use of the black surface. You climb onto it gracefully and, as if it’s nothing, await instructions.

He doesn’t say a word, just steps aside, still holding the chalk in his fingers. His expression is unreadable, but his pulse is visible at his throat.

You hold out your hand. “Chalk.”

He gives it to you wordlessly, his gaze fixed. You begin to write.

“Ready,” you say sweetly.

He opens his mouth, begins to dictate something—but the moment his eyes trace down your back, catch the bare expanse of skin beneath the hem of your skirt, his voice falters.

“Start with—” he begins, and stops. Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He stares at you, mouth slightly parted. His throat works around a swallow. You smile, victorious, as the realisation dawns in his eyes. And Viktor doesn’t speak—at least not right away.

Just stands there, stunned. Caught mid-breath, as though something vital has short-circuited behind his eyes. And then you see it—the unmistakable flicker of calculation. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to solve this, trying to survive it. But he won’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The soft tap of his cane echoes once, then again, before he stops just beside you.

Something shifts, and you feel the motion before you see it—cool wood slipping beneath the hem of your skirt. The cane lifts gently, teasingly, fabric peeling upward, making your breath still.

Viktor exhales like a man broken. “You are so wicked,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, brazen. “This is cruel,” comes next, as pained as his expression.

You smile over your shoulder, saccharine-sweet. “My love. You dug your own grave yesterday.”

A low sound escapes him—somewhere between a laugh and a curse—and then he’s moving with purpose. He hooks the cane over the wing of the board to keep it out of the way, and his hands find your legs. His palms are warm, strong, sliding slowly upward. A sweep over your calves, the backs of your thighs, fingers tightening with every inch until he’s cupping you fully, squeezing your ass like it’s his only hope.

His face presses in, breath hot against where your thighs meet, his nose brushing skin. He breathes in deep, his exhale shuddering out against you.

“I surrender,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would undo him completely. “Please get down from that chair so I can fuck you or I’ll go mad.”

You exhale a startled laugh—part shock, part triumph, part sheer disbelief that you've actually won—and barely stop yourself from huffing out finally as you hop off the stool.

Your landing is clumsy, the soles of your shoes slipping on the floor, but you barely find your footing before Viktor is on you.

His hands are already on your face, in your hair, his mouth glueing into yours, starving and rough. The kiss is all teeth and heat, his breath ragged, his hips pressing you back into the board as if he means to pin you there permanently.

"You’re a menace," he mutters between kisses, voice low, cracked. "Bože můj, you’ll make me lose my mind one day—"

You gasp against him, laughter catching on your tongue, but he swallows it down. Then he takes your wrist, firm and careful, and brings your hand to the front of his trousers, where he is hot and hard and straining.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, words trembling with restraint, rage, want—all of it. "Four days," he grits, biting your bottom lip gently before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

"Four days of you teasing me, torturing me—strutting around with those fucking lips and thighs and now this? No underwear?" He kisses you through it—messy, hungry, relentless. His lips smother yours again and again, every breath you try to take stolen from your mouth. His hands don’t know where to settle, roaming from your hips to your waist to your face like he’s desperate to feel everything at once, make up for the time lost.

You stumble backwards, and he follows, half draped over you as he walks you toward the nearest workbench, his hips grinding against yours with every step.

Breathless, you manage to smile again—still daring, still cocky, even now. "You reap what you sow."

“Cruel creature,” he growls into your mouth, words lost in the kiss. “You’ve won. Are you happy now?”

“So happy,” you gasp, catching his lower lip between your teeth. “It was unbearable. And you’re no better,” you add, voice low and accusing, “I hope you got burns from yesterday’s stunt.”

“I did,” he rasps, and his voice is a beautiful wreck of need. “And you’re going to lick me back to health.” Then, a pause. He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, eyes half-lidded and wild, a grin curling his lips.

“But first,” he says, voice dark and deep, “get on that desk.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You haul yourself onto the workbench with a kind of grace that borders on indecent, your skirt bunching at your hips, legs parting. Viktor slots himself between them without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs like he’ll die if he doesn’t touch you, mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, buttons of your shirt snapping open.

“Fuck,” he mutters with effort, as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hands slide beneath you, guiding your hips to grind into him, keeping you right where he wants you. One arm braces against the bench beside your hips; the other curls around your back, holding you steady as his lips find yours again.

Again, a lot of teeth, even more tongue, but you don’t care—you’ve missed those teeth and that tongue like an addict. You’ve missed the feeling of his hair between your fingers, his smell, the subtle scent of him that only reveals itself when you're this close. His hands, too, shaped as if they were made to cradle your body.

And then he’s fumbling with his belt, his breath fanning your cheek. And then—oh—you don’t even know when it happens, don’t even see if he’s bare under those pants, too busy staring at his lips, but he’s free and hard and leaking against you, resting at your entrance, his mouth breathing heavily. You twitch to meet him, but he holds you still, hips fixed in place like a statue, only his chest rising and falling.

His forehead presses to yours, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to sink in—deeper and deeper—stretching you out inch by inch. His breath trembles out of him in ragged exhales, mouth open in a silent moan until it finally breaks into sound—helpless and guttural.

“Oh, miláčku,” he breathes. “You feel—fuck—I’ve missed you.”

You’re clinging to him, nails digging into the fabric at his back, your head falling against his shoulder. It’s almost too much—he fills you completely, and still, he’s not all the way in.

And Viktor—Viktor looks undone already. His brow pinches at first, a flicker of pain or restraint, but it vanishes in the next breath. His face goes slack, lax. A visible, physical relief settles in his body the moment he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He moans, long and loud, like this is the only thing that’s made him feel alive in days.

Your breath is nearly non-existent, lungs almost giving out, air caught somewhere in between them. It’s not just the stretch, though that alone is close to being too much, the sharp pull giving way to a fullness that borders on unbearable. It’s the heat of him, the weight, the press of his body. The air seems thicker now, like the room is holding its breath with you.

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but there’s nothing grounding about this. Your nerves are alight, every inch of you humming with sensation—burning where he fills you, tingling where his chest brushes yours, where his breath ghosts across your skin.

You feel split wide open, every part of you drawn taut around him, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Gods,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I almost forgot how much…”

Viktor lifts his head, his nose nudging yours, the smile he gives you helpless, crooked, all teeth and tenderness. “How much what?” he rasps.

You try to answer but it comes out as a gasp instead, the words dissolving as your body clenches around him. You feel the tremor run through him—see it, too, in the flicker of his lashes and the flex of his jaw.

He’s holding on, yet barely. You feel it in his grip, the way his fingers press into your skin, in the quiver of restraint in his thighs. And somehow, that makes it worse. Hotter. More intimate.

“You feel like—” you choke out, panting. “You feel like you’re everywhere.”

A low sound tears from his throat, somewhere between a groan and a plea. “That’s what I want,” he murmurs. “I want to be everywhere. I want to leave no room for anything else.” His hips roll—just once, shallow—and your mouth falls open, no sound coming out.

“Tell me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, the shell of your ear. “Say you missed this. Say you missed me.”

You nod before you can form a word, tears prickling at your lashes from the intensity. “I missed you,” you gasp. “I missed everything. Please, let’s not do that again.”

His mouth finds yours again, fully desperate now, and finally—finally—he begins to move. And it’s deep, grinding in slow, restrained thrusts that have your breath stuttering with each pass. It’s all pressure and heat, dragging friction and stretch, every slide of his hips drawing out a gasp you can’t swallow, it just stumbles out.

His lips are on your neck, your jaw, your shoulder as his drool dampens your shirt, mouth panting hot between murmurs—fragments of words, your name, curses in Czech that sound like a praise.

“God,” he rasps, sweat slicking his forehead as he pulls out and sinks back in, slow, careful, so careful. “You’re so—tight, fuck—I can’t, I won’t—”

He cuts himself off with a grunt, hips shuddering against yours. The sound of him sliding inside you, wet and obscene, fills the small space between you. Each thrust makes it louder, harder to keep up.

“You’re not making this easy,” he growls against your ear, pressing in so deep your spine arches. “If you want me to last—touch yourself.”

You let out a shaky breath, not trusting your voice. But your hand slips between you, fingers working tight, trembling circles against your clit. And Viktor—Viktor moans when he sees it. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin through the fabric, sweat dripping from his brow, sinking into your clothes, as he starts to move again, even deeper this time, harder.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, watching you, wild-eyed. “Just like that—look at you.”

You shift, needing more, angling your hips, one foot propped up on the table’s edge for leverage, other leg hugging his side. It opens you wider, gives him more room, and he uses it—hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin filling the lab, occasionally knocking your hand off course.

The workbench creaks beneath you. His arm trembles where it braces beside your hip. His other hand is cupping your thigh, holding it high and tight, your body drawn up taut around his like a bowstring straining at the edge of release.

And still he doesn’t stop yapping—your name, praises, filth, words that blur together into a stream of breath and groans. “So wet for me,” he pants, thrusting deep enough to have you momentarily mute. You melt around him, every time he pulls out it’s like you’re begging him not to.

His eyes meet yours, glassy and undone, and you see it—that tight coil in his gut winding ever higher. His hips stammer, breath breaks, and he’s so, so close. And you are right there with him.

Shaking—hips bucking into your hand, legs trembling where the muscles can’t hold up any longer, every part of you stretched thin and burning. He’s not faring any better. His pace has lost its rhythm, faltering now, every thrust hitting deep but messy, like he’s chasing the edge and barely hanging in there.

“I’m—” you start, breath interrupting. “I’m close—almost—”

A sound breaks from him, torn from his chest. “Thank God,” he groans. “I’m so fucking close—baby, come for me.” A breath, and a pleading hand comes to cradle your neck. “Please,” he swallows, “be a good girl—”

And it’s that. That voice, those words, the begging, cracked raw and full of want—that shatters you into pieces. Your body clenches hard around him, every muscle tightening in a violent rush of release when you cum, mouth loud, nails biting into his back, forehead pressed to his as the string stretches and snaps, ripping you apart in a way only he can undo you.

And Viktor follows immediately—unable to hold back any longer. A hoarse sound like gravel, tears from his throat, and he thrusts once more, buried to the hilt as he spills inside you in hot, thick pulses of cum. His whole body shakes with it, his nose bumping into yours, mouth catching on your moan as he answers with one of his own.

Then, neither of you moves. You’re pressed together, heaving for air, clinging to each other like the world narrowed to this—slick skin, damp clothes, soft gasps, and the slow, sticky pulse of overstimulation setting in.

“Gods,” he mutters, voice barely there against your cheek. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Like-fucking-wise.”

A beat. Then, with a reluctant groan, Viktor draws back—slowly, carefully—pulling out of you with a hiss. The wet sound makes your stomach flip, and his eyes flutter at the loss of contact, still caught in that delicate haze of aftershock.

“You alright?” you ask, light and shaky. Your hand lifts to brush aside the hair clinging to his temple.

Viktor nods and swallows, clearly spent—tired but blissful. He leans in again, still softening, cock resting against your thigh as he presses back between your legs to kiss you. It’s a grateful kiss, deep and languid, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s thankful for—your body, your presence, or that the torment is finally over.

“You are so horrible,” he whispers fondly against your mouth. Then, quieter, more fragile, “I love you so fucking much.”

“Again, likewise,” you murmur, letting your legs slump off the table, heels swinging lazily against the backs of his calves. “You’re no warmonger though,” you hum, fingertips tracing the slope of his cheek, the swell of his bottom lip.

“No,” Viktor agrees with a tired smirk. “Death by my own sword. How ignominious.”

You grin. “I’m impressed with your tactics, though. You almost had me yesterday.”

“Shut up,” he groans, and cackles—rich and golden and still a little breathless. The sound is honey in your ears.  “You shouldn’t kick a dying man.”

“Not kicking,” you say, mock-innocent. “Just poking. And I died a little too, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Viktor says, smirking into the curve of your throat. “I’m tempted to make you die like that again, but I fear for my own sanity.”

“Me too.” You kiss his temple, your heart still thudding somewhere under your ribs. “I am completely and utterly mad about you.”

“Likewise,” Viktor breathes against your lips, smiling without shame, pleased beyond dignity. And you are so, so glad the war is finally over.

[moschi-memos]

Writer's Block

You’re staring at the page. The cursor blinks like it’s taunting you. You want to write—hell, you even know what you want to write about—but it’s like your brain’s frozen. That, my friend, is the all-too-familiar little bitch known as writer’s block.

So, how do you fight it?

Here’s what’s helped me, and maybe it'll help you too.

1. Write anything, even if it’s trash

Seriously. Open a doc and let yourself write the worst possible version of what you’re trying to say. No pressure. No editing. You can always clean it up later. A messy first draft is better than no draft.

2. Change your scenery

Sometimes your brain just needs a different view. Go outside. Sit at a café. Write on your phone instead of your laptop. A small change can trick your brain into feeling inspired again.

3. Idea dump

Forget structure. Forget plot. Just go full chaos mode. Rant about your characters, the scene, or how much writing sucks today. That little brain dump might lead you to a breakthrough.

4. Read something short and good

A poem. A Tumblr post. A flash fiction piece. Sometimes reading a spark of good writing reminds your brain how fun words can be.

5. Accept the block, but don’t leave it there

Writer’s block is normal. It doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means your brain’s buffering. Rest, hydrate, and be gentle with yourself. Then try again.

---

Writing is weird. Some days it flows like magic, and other days it’s like dragging your soul through the trenches. But if you’re stuck, don't give up on it— the words will come back.

[bookwyrm-art-stuff]

You see this here? I'm gonna write you 600 words of tumblr post. To show you how LITTLE it is.

You don't have to read it all, I honestly don’t care, and since I’m just trying to hit a word count I’m gonna follow every tangent, but I just need you to absorb how FEW WORDS it is.

Leaves are so fucking cool btw. Have you ever looked at one up close? They have so many veins, branching into even smaller veins, and then smaller and smaller. Next time you get the chance, you should hold up a green leaf to the sun so the light shines through it and sets it aglow like it’s the fire of life itself. And leaves when they’re changing are incredibly cool too! Have you ever seen a pretty fall leaf that’s so many colors from dimming red or brown on the edges to live, spring green along the veins? It’s honestly so cool to watch. There’s a tree next to my house, a ginkgo tree, and it doesn’t really do any of this. I’m sure there are veins, but if you hold it up to the sun, you just get a shadow. The leaves are very compact and dense. Never make a leaf pile out of them by the way, it feels like jumping butt-first onto a rock, do not recommend. Anyway, in the fall their leaves turn the most gorgeous, truest shade of yellow I have ever seen in my life. It’s not a greenish, cool yellow that betrays little warmth, but it’s not a warm candlelight gold either. It’s the essence of the color yellow, and I think it’s priceless for that.

You know, when you raise chickens, you find out a lot of things. Like I had a vague idea of what keeping chickens looked like, and what chickens were like, but I honest to gods had no idea. My family buys our chickens as tiny, day-old chicks, and I wish everyone could have the experience of raising these darling birds. It’s magical. You hold the sweet, peeping ball of fluff in your hands, more feather than actual bird, barely a bird at all, making a sound unreasonably loud for such a tiny creature. You think, how the hell is it that loud? Its lungs are the size of the end section of my thumb. Then you realize; this little baby bird’s lungs are the size of the end section of your thumb. This thing is smaller than your fist, even if you include all its fluff. If you so chose, you could kill it in a heartbeat. And it’s not an evil, cruel thought, because it’s just a realization of how totally and completely this thing is at your mercy. You raise the little thing to your eye level, looking at the incredible, indisputably alive color of its tiny black eyes- not tiny to it, in fact its eyes are huge and adorable proportionally, but tiny to you. The size of your pupils. You look at this little floof, and it pauses its cheeping to look back at you, zeroing in, and you can see the bird in it for a moment. Then it pecks one of the freckles on the bridge of your nose. Or your eyelash. Though if it’s the latter, let’s be real, it was aiming for your eye. Because your eyes look tasty and colorful! This thing is just a baby, you remember. It’s new to this world. It’s learning. That’s the magic of it.

There ya’ go, 600 words on the dot. You’re welcome.

im still losing it over the "how did high schoolers write 600 word essays before chatgpt" post. 600 words. that is nothing. that is so few words what do you mean you can't write 600 words. 600 words. this post right here is 45 words.

[highdramas]

ring of fire | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), power imbalance (reader is a resident and jack is her attending), drug use (they smoke weed bc they deserve it), references to sex but no explicit content

word count: 1.7k

summary: you like your little rituals with your attending.

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. this was born out of the fact that i want to smoke weed with jack abbot. that's all! not proofread so apologies for any errors <3

johnny cash plays on his speaker system and you sit, cross legged on the floor, an ashtray burning on his coffee table. he’s sat on the couch, legs spread, his head leaned back. you can tell that he aches, today– you could see it in his gait as you left work together, elbows brushing. you don’t know at what point it became ritual to smoke weed with your attending at 7am when you got off. you don’t know when it became typical to expect that you would fall asleep in his bed more nights than not. you don’t know when it became normal to brush your teeth alongside him, making eye contact in the mirror.

for what it’s worth, you haven’t found a reason to complain yet.

you turn jack’s zippo over in your hand while he settles, his prosthetic set to the side. you slide a joint out of your pack and place it between your lips. your thumb rubs at the engraved service dates on the lighter as you admire the owner. he catches the look as you finally spark and inhale�� and it feels like you are just a bit lighter. you take another quick puff before jack says, “don’t hog it.” he tsks. “greedy.”

blowing the smoke in his direction, you shrug your shoulders innocently. “i’ve waited for this all day,” you say before passing it along to him.

the second smoke is passing from his lips, he lets out a long, satisfied groan, that you feel in every atom of your body. “yeah. me too.” passing it back to you, he continues to rub at the end of his leg, sore from supporting his body weight for far too many hours.

you smoke together in comfortable quiet until your eyelids feel heavier and the worries of the day feel far away. you slink from your spot on his plush carpet to beside him on the couch. his hand goes to your thigh. your head rests against his. you each close your eyes and enjoy the moment. “you tired?” he asks, painting stars into your skin with the pad of his finger. when you shake your head– you’re rarely ready to go to bed immediately upon getting home– he gets that knowing smirk. “you hungry?”

“i could eat a horse.”

“mmm– that’s my girl.” he fishes his phone out of his pocket and opens up doordash, sliding it into your hand. “my usual, please.”

you place your order to your favorite breakfast burrito spot– charged to his card, obviously. you recline and stretch your legs out across his lap. he rubs your foot with one hand. there’s nothing exceptional or different about the moment, but the easy domesticity is something that you still haven’t quite gotten adjusted to yet.

your partnership was born out of the fact that, on many levels, you two were the same. reclusive tendencies, a disposition to unhealthy coping habits, a therapist who tells them that they need to spend more time with people, not just patients– and, technically, your therapist didn’t say that you couldn’t find companionship with someone from work. it was born sitting out at the park across the street from the hospital. it always ended with everyone leaving, except the two of you– finding reasons to sit out there for hours before you accepted that you needed to get home. it was his idea for you to come over that first night– drink a beer, watch a little tv, before you would make the short walk to your place. one night became two, walking back to your place become crashing on his couch. he struck gold when he looked at you with a little coy grin and asked, “you like to smoke?”

“like, cigarettes?” you had asked, incredulous.

“nah, not my brand of death wish. weed.”

“of course i do.”

abbot liked to say that he smoked to help the pain, and while you knew that was true… you could see it wash over him, relax him after a day that deregulated his nervous system.

then, smoking became long stares amidst the smoke. at some point, you had crossed his living room and slid up next to him and bit your lip and he couldn’t take it anymore, and he kissed you– his resident.

definitely wasn’t above board. but, assessing the risk… you spent every day making the most stressful, important decisions that a person can make. to choose to spend your hazy mornings with abbot is the easiest one that you make in a day.

and, what are they gonna do, really? you don’t know. hell– you don’t know if you care. you know abbot doesn’t care, because when you first voiced the concern, you got an actual laugh out of him. “don’t– you’re gonna make my stomach hurt,” he had said. “i give two shits what gloria has to say.”

“you hurting?” you ask carefully. your hand plays with the curls at the back of his neck. your eyes carefully drink him in.

“not now.” there’s a playfulness in his eyes– even if he was hurting, he has the perfect poker face. you’ve learned how to identify the cracks in it, though, the small tells that he has. the slight wince or the rubbing of his calf tell you everything that you need to know. but you can tell, right now, that he’s being earnest with you. “i feel fan-fucking-tastic.” his eyes follow where his hand goes on your leg. he massages circles into your thigh, up near the juncture of your hip. then, he brings it back down to your calf, then your foot once more. “how do you feel?”

“fan-fucking-tastic,” you echo with a lazy smile. “like i could smoke another.”

this gets a laugh from him and he grabs your joint box from the coffee table. “don’t gotta tell this old man twice.” he pops it between his lips. “gimme a light.”

grabbing his zippo, you push yourself up onto your knees. the flame from the lighter reflects back at you in his eyes as you ignite the end of his joint, watching him inhale. smoke envelopes you like a warm hug, and with it still pinched between his two fingers, he pulls you in to kiss.

it makes you laugh. thinking about your coworkers seeing the two of you like this. you think you’ve put on a pretty good front, all things considered– you don’t avoid each other during shift, but your interactions would never lead one to believe that this is what you’re doing in your spare time. in fact, there’s been a few moments of vocal sparring about the course of treatment for a patient. you loved those moments. you loved challenging and being challenged by abbot. you wouldn’t give any of it up, if you didn’t have to.

sighing into his mouth, your back arches until your chest presses against his. he extends his arm as not to accidentally light your hair on fire– you’ve seen that once or twice in the ER– but still pulls you closer with the free hand. he has this casual confidence about him when he touches you. he touches you like he knows how to play your body like an instrument– to his credit, he sort of does. you’re not overly experienced when it comes to love or sex, but one thing you know for sure is that it’s never felt like this. you don’t know if it could feel like this with anyone but jack.

he’s guiding the joint back to your mouth when there’s a knock on the door, signalling the arrival of your food. you move to stand up but he shakes his head, adjusting himself back into his prosthetic. “sit your ass down,” he says with that playful smile, sauntering to the door shirtless and beautiful.

you finish the second joint and then dig in. he says something that makes you laugh so hard, a piece of bacon goes flying from your mouth. that makes him laugh so hard he nearly keels over. by the end, the wrappers are tucked away in the take-out bag and you’re a giggling heap on the sofa.

it dissipates, and you lay on the couch with your back to his front. you’re both too tired for sex, tonight– and emotions aren’t running quite that high, either. that’s usually reserved for those particularly hard days, where the only way to break through is to pile into the shower with the steam and let him have his way with you– in his dedicated, steady, perfect way. today was a good day. long, but good.

love is a burning thing, johnny cash croons as the two of you lay there. you look at the ashtray, with the smoldering remains of the two joints, and you smirk to yourself. jack must feel you shift, because his hand travels up from your hip to your waist. “we should get to the bed,” he says into your neck. “don’t got black out curtains out here, and i know how cranky you get.”

“i do not,” you pout, but you really do get cranky.

the two of you push yourself up, the exhaustion starting to settle into your bones. you grab at your favorite throw blanket of his and sling it over your shoulder. he looks you up and down and his hand lands on your ass as the two of you make your way into his room. it’s all navy and cream, mementos from his life and his service, coloring in the picture of him. you yelp and smack his chest, which makes him grin and catch your hand, pressing a long kiss to your palm.

you brush your teeth, side by side. he tugs your hair back for you while you get ready to wash your face. you lean before him and help him out of his prosthetic, putting it in its designated spot in his room. when the two of you finally hit the mattress– after you drew the black out curtains, of course– he only has time to sling a heavy arm across your waist and tug you in before you’re both dead to the world.

[writingamongther0ses]

Most parents would love to hear that their children would lead long, boring lives, especially after the chaos of the last war. He had seen many unremarkable futures and the parents had wept with joy. One mother had begged to give him her family wealth in thanks, and he had barely managed to talk her down.

The royal family was different.

They always had the reputation of extravagance and...being extra. The current king was the worse. The war had been because of his shows of wealth and lack of caring.

So when the Oracle finished his vision, he was very aware of his neck.

Specifically, how sliceable it was.

"Well?" the King said, folding ringed, glittering hands together. He stared at him. "What is my child's future? What grand deeds will he have?" His eyes glittered. "I'll make tapestries and throw a grand party."

Oh boy.

The Oracle had seen the prince ruling as a king. A simple rule, a boring rule. One of peace and nothing noteworthy. It was nice from the visions of burning villages and soldiers dying.

However, the King would not accept it.

"I...Well..." He had to think of something. He couldn't just say the truth. "...I saw nothing."

...

"Excuse me?" The King straightened, his eyes staring the Oracle down. "Has your sight slipped, Oracle? Shall I call in the doctor-"

"No!" Shit. The Oracle took a breath, smoothing his robes down. "I mean, let me explain!"

The King settled down. "Alright," he said. "Explain."

"Seeing nothing is something that happens sometimes," the Oracle said, choosing his words carefully. Most people didn't understand the ability to see the future. He needed to take advantage. "It means that your child is going to do something so great that I simply can't comprehend it!"

The King stared at him. The baby cooed. The Oracle felt sweat begin to roll down his back.

The King grinned.

He bought it.

As the Royal Oracle it is your job to write a prophecy every time a noble child is born. However when you are presented with the King’s Heir you foresee that they will achieve nothing of note in their lifetime. In order to keep the King happy you must predict something that sounds impressive.

[try-set-me-on-fire]

stay, stay

1161 word // rated g

based on 8x15 and 16 speculation

At 8:36 AM, Maddie's phone rings.

She tries to breathe through the way her stomach drops, tries to stop the way her brain flies through calculations — it's morning but not that early, what time of day means an unexpected phone call is an emergency, where is everyone, is everything okay — and pull on the practiced calm she wears over her cardigans every day at work.

She looks at her phone. Eddie. So it is an emergency, then. She brings the phone to her ear and her hand hardly shakes. “What's happening?”

“Maddie,” Eddie says, and she recognizes a practiced calm in his voice, too, strained almost to the breaking point. “No- it's okay, it's okay.” This is not addressed to her. There are- other sounds over the line, and it only takes a few moments for them to resolve into her brother, hurting. “Buck- I'm sorry, Maddie, could you get over here? I don't want to leave him- I- I have to go to work, it's my first shift back- I don't want to leave him.”

“I'm on my way,” she responds, and doesn't bother wading through goodbyes as she hangs up the phone and grabs her keys.

-

She finds them in the kitchen. Buck had given her a house key a few weeks ago, and Eddie hadn't thought to ask for it back in the days since he's returned to the city. She lets herself in and follows the sounds — Buck hurting, Buck hurting — until she finds them, Buck in a chair like he collapsed there, like it's the only thing in the world keeping him up off the ground. Or- not the only thing. Eddie is not quite kneeling, not quite standing, bent over and sort of tangled with her brother, limbs all over and moving, an image that takes a moment to puzzle out.

“You can't,” Buck is saying. Pleading. His fingers in Eddie's shoulder look like they'll leave bruises.

“Buck,” Eddie says, a softer sort of despair. His hand is very careful on Buck's chin. They're almost close enough to kiss, and Maddie wonders- but, no. It wouldn't be now. She wishes they had done so before- before. She doesn't know if it would have changed anything, but Buck would have maybe had some happy thing to cling to as he drowns. “Buck, I have to go, I have to-”

“You don't.” Buck's eyes are red and he's cried — is crying — so hard his whole face looks wet. “Eddie- Eddie-”

“It's my first shift back, Buck, I can't call out already. Bo-” Eddie briefly closes his eyes against almost saying that name. “No one's back yet, I don't have anyone to cover for me. I have to-”

“Please,” Buck begs on a sob, “Please, please-”

“Sweetheart,” Maddie finds her voice. She never thought it would fail her so frequently. Especially not here, not with the first person she ever learned to take care of. “E- Buck, it's okay.” She's at their side, she grabs onto Buck's arm. He's practically rattling under her touch. “It's going to be o-”

“It's not,” Buck says. “You don't know that,” Buck says. “He- he'll- he'll die, Maddie, he'll die, he'll die-”

“I won't,” Eddie says. He is kneeling now, hands still reaching up to Buck's face as he hovers below them, trying to keep in the line of sight of Buck’s ducked head. “Buck- it's not like that- it's not going to be like that-”

“You don't know,” Buck says. It's almost- he almost retches the words. They sound painful coming out, and Maddie can feel him convulse now that she's got both arms around him. “I won't be there- I won't be there-” another sob, catastrophic. “You won't be safe. I- I- I can't make it- I can't make you safe.”

Eddie's hands touch Buck's cheek bones, his shoulders over Maddie's crossed arms, his elbows, his hands, grab on there and hold tight. “Buck. I'm going to be as safe there as I possibly can. This is our team, we have to trust-”

“I will never forgive you if you leave.” It's a line Jee has used before when Maddie or Chim are on the way out the door in the morning and she's unhappy about it, and Buck delivers it with the same amount of absolute fury and conviction. And it's sort of heartbreaking to hear, like it is when her toddler says it, but Maddie expects Eddie to react like she and Chimney do: I'm sorry, they say. I'm so sorry, and I love you so much, and I'll miss you all day, but you know I have to go to work and you know I'll see you soon.

Eddie sits back on his heels, hands dropped to his thighs, eyes wide. His face clouds, a… worried, or scared, or sad crease forming between his eyebrows. Then his face clears. “It's not important,” he says, almost to himself. “I came back here because- I mean- what was all the point of it, then? If I'm just-” He blinks. Puts his palms on Buck’s knees. “Work isn't what's important. Here is what's- you're the important thing,” he says. “Okay,” he says, standing up, hands on Buck's face again. “Okay. Buck.” His face is very serious. “I am going to my next shift. I'm not staying away forever. Okay?”

Buck tries to look away but his face is so gently trapped. He nods, just barely. Maddie can't see his expression from this angle.

“Okay,” Eddie nods back. “But I'm going to call out today.” Maddie can see Eddie's expression. Worry, still, but also determination. Love, very plainly. “Family emergency. I’m staying home. I'm needed here. ”

Buck nods more enthusiastically this time, almost feverishly, relief slumping his forward, pulling him out of Maddie's arms to where Eddie is waiting to be rested against. And Eddie's arms come up around him, his hand tangles in his hair.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and she thinks he's talking to Buck until he says “I called you all this way for nothing.”

“Not nothing.” Her voice sounds wet, she wipes away tears she didn't know she was crying.

“Not nothing,” he agrees softly. Buck somehow looks small in his arms. He looks safe there. “It's okay,” he says, and this time she almost nods before realizing the words aren't for her benefit. She still sort of believes them, though, watching him hold her brother. Eddie loves him. Eddie's going to take care of him, because Eddie understands him, and knows how to do it. She feels like slumping in relief, too. It’s not just her anymore. It hasn’t been, for- maybe a while. Finally, finally, the life he's been so long looking for. They all just have to hold onto him long enough for him to find his way back to it.

“It's okay,” she echoes. She rests her palm over the top of Buck’s spine. “It's going to be okay. We're right here.”

[tehrevving]

Submissive Dante is Praised and Teased until he Cums in his Pants. 

My first original anime inspired fic!

Dante x Reader. Praise Kink. Dirty Talk. Experienced Partner. Inexperienced Dante. GN!Reader. Grinding. Dry Humping. Biting. Slight Pain Kink. Slight Choking.

This can be read as a standalone but is set in my series. For backstory, ‘You’ know an older/different Dante, and have been sent through universes and have met the anime one. You know alot about Dante’s life, and how to *cough* Pull That Devil Trigger!!

Read on Ao3

You’re watching him out of the corner of your eye. You hide it well but Dante knows you’re always watching, his senses are enhanced and he’s always watching you, most of the time anyway. He’s curious, your backstory strange and unbelievable, but somehow you have the knowledge to back it up. You do know him, some other version of him. He’d never met you before the other day, but you clearly know too much about him. 

“Thinking about charging for the view,” Dante hums as he stretches on his office chair, pulling his arms up behind his head and making the hem of his shirt ride up. He knows that your eyes are going to dart straight to that small, exposed sliver of skin and that you’re going to stare at it like you want to devour him. He wants you to. You’re reluctant but he knows he can wear you down, he knows you’d be able to rock his world. 

Your eyes dart away at his words but there’s no embarrassment in your gaze, you just chuckle. “You can’t handle me, Cowboy.”

Dante flexes his shoulders and rocks his hips slowly, your eyes snapping back to him. “You’re just a human,” he muses, “and I’m a strong, invulnerable half-devil. I can handle anything you throw at me.”

You shake your head. “Five minutes with me and you’d be making a mess of your pants.”

“Doubt it,” he taunts back, but he’s not actually sure. He doesn’t have that much experience, and you definitely do. 

You sigh. “You’re not gonna give up on this, are you Dante? I told you, I don’t want to fuck you up by doing this with you, but, if you’re not going to let it go, then fine, you can have a taste.”

“Jackpot,” Dante grins but there’s something dark and hungry in your gaze that makes his smile falter. You walk over to him, hips swinging and Dante swallows heavily. He plants the legs of his chair back on the ground and pulls away from his desk, tapping his fingers on his lap with a growing, smug excitement. 

You straddle him, sinking straight down into his lap like you belong there. Your palms press against his chest for support as you settle against him. You’re so fucking warm and even though you’re hiding it well, his enhanced senses pick up the slowly rising beat of your heart. His hands move to grip at your hips and hold you steady. 

“Is this alright?” you ask, voice soft and full of something warm and comforting.

Dante nods, eyes flicking between your face slightly above his and your chest, perfectly positioned at eye level. “More than okay Sweetheart.”

You give a small sigh and then reach out, hooking your pointer finger just underneath his chin. You pull his face up, making his eyes meet yours. Your eyes are dark and full of desire. 

“Can I kiss you?” you ask softly, eyes fixed on his lips. 

Dante nods eagerly. “Mhmm.”

You kiss him, softly at first, a warm press of lips against lips. You move carefully, easing him into the heat of your body before you start deepening the kiss. You lick across his lips and he opens up, eager for a taste. Your tongue pushes into his mouth, rubbing against his. He pushes against you, trying to deepen the kiss in his own way. You bite down on his tongue to stop him and he gasps, pulling back. 

Your fingers are on his chin, digging into his skin as you direct his head. You pull him to the side, dragging your lips across his jaw. You kiss him, biting and twisting suddenly too sensitive skin between your teeth from his lips all the way to his ear. Heat pricks at the base of Dante’s neck as arousal begins to swell in his blood. 

“You smell so good,” you whisper, lips pressed to his skin. “You always smell so good.” You lick him, warm saliva cooling against his cheek. “Good enough to eat.”

Dante’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He hears you chuckle and then your hand is suddenly in his hair. Your nails prick at his scalp as you kiss him again, lips rough as you wrench his head back and take control. 

Dante is at your mercy, head held still while you kiss him like you’re trying to devour him. He wants you to. He tries to chase your lips when you pull away but you yank him back by the hair. He wants more and growls his reluctance as prickling pain washes down his spine.

“Don’t you growl at me,” you scold him, nails digging into the back of his neck. “If you don’t behave then I’m going to need to punish you, Dante,” you purr, lips moving by his ear. “Bad boys get spanked, and you don’t want that, do you?”

A half growl, half moan leaves Dante’s throat. He does want that, not right now, but he wants it, he wants everything you’re willing to give him. 

You bite down on his earlobe hard and he shudders, the pain searing. “Bad boys get spanked and naughty boys get their asses fucked. So behave.”

Dante’s eyes flutter shut. Oh fuck he wants it. His head is swimming, thick with arousal and submission. All you’ve done is speak to him and barely touched him, and it’s too much. He’s suddenly too hot, an overwhelming heat radiating from his body, he wants his clothes off. Your hips lower slightly, brushing the bulge of his erection in his tight pants. He groans as you ride him for a moment, then whines when you pull away. 

“Good boy Dante,” you praise, “you’re almost there. Just a little bit more.” You kiss at his jaw as your words throb through his cock. You kiss down his neck, biting for emphasis. You tug on his hair, guiding his skull in every direction, pulling the skin of his neck tight so you can suck deep marks into it. Your tongue brushes over his frantic pulse and his breathing quickens, the heat of arousal and <i>something else</i> rising behind his eyes. 

“You’re being so good,” you whisper, praising while Dante swallows heavily. “You’re behaving, I knew you would. Your heart is beating so fast.” You lick his pulse to emphasise your words. “What are you thinking about?”

“Y-you,” he stammers. 

“Be more specific,” you chuckle, the sound taunting him as you bite at his neck. He tries to speak but your hand moves to his throat. Your grip tightens, pressing, not cutting off his air but hinting that you could. 

His devil craves it with a deep, throaty whine that echoes from deep within his chest. 

“You’d let me do absolutely anything, wouldn’t you?”

Dante nods, hips bucking, desperately trying to get friction. His pants are so damn tight, the ache of his cock dividing his attention. 

You rock your hips downwards and he groans, head falling forward to rest on your shoulder. He can feel your heat even through too many layers of clothing, maybe he’s just imagining it but he doesn’t care. He wants to take control, to push you down and take what he needs, but your hand in his hair stops him, your grip on his throat makes his devil quiver in anticipation instead, wondering what you might do. 

“Ah, there we go,” you purr, rocking against him. You don’t remove your hips this time, you grind down on him instead. Dante groans, the friction and heat on his cock forcing his hips to buck. 

You shift your grip on him, the hand on the base of his skull moving to the back of his shoulder. You dig your nails in, pressing hard enough through his shirt that he thinks you might be drawing blood. He likes it. He wants more. You squeeze gently at his throat, cutting off his air for a single, desperate moment before your fingers brush across his jaw to just behind his ear. You yank his head to the back and side, stretching out his neck.

You lean down and start licking over the spot where his shoulder meets his throat. He shivers, it’s sensitive there, so much more sensitive than it should be. You’re grinding against his cock and the heat and pressure is addictive. He wants more, but he doesn’t want to push you, he wants to see what you’re going to do. 

“Don’t fight it Dante,” you urge him, voice clear with intent. 

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to not fight, but he can’t nod his head to respond so he just exhales sharply instead. 

You press your lips to his skin and then your teeth, adjusting the angle until his whole body starts tingling with a sudden, desperate heat. You grind down roughly, hips pushing against his bulge. Dante presses up into the friction with a groan. Your nails dig hard into the wounds on his shoulder, the pain somehow only making his cock harder, throbbing with need. You bite down hard enough to break the skin, hard enough to take a chunk out of his shoulder. Dante shouts, the pain giving way to a searing, desperate pleasure as his vision fades to a sparking, all consuming white and his entire body erupts with electricity, cock spurting uncontrollably in his pants. 

[thewordsarestuckinmyhead]

[iloketf2]

Writing is a intwelvehours type of thing

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

don't lie to me

part I

Pairing: Boyfriend's!Dad!Ben x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Your boyfriend's been treating you like shit for too long, and tonight? Is the straw that broke the camels back. Lucky for you, his dad is around to comfort you.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben being his own warning, forbidden relationship, power imbalance, dubious morality, age gap, language, toxic relationship, heartbreak, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, clitoral stimulation, mutual masturbation, squirting, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, spanking, marking, spitting, degradation, gentle humiliation), guilt, I think that's it.

Word Count: 7,131

You didn't know when things started to go bad. Not really. But you remembered when they started to go good, and that felt important.

You and Jamie had been together for a long time. Too long, probably. Long enough to make leaving feel like failure. Long enough to confuse nostalgia with love.

It was good in the beginning. Golden, even. The kind of romance that made your friends roll their eyes but smile when they said you were lucky. Jamie had a casual kind of charm, easy in his skin, confident in the way most college boys were—like he knew the world would bend for him eventually. He brought you gas station flowers and kissed you like he meant it. He called you his girl and made you feel like that title actually meant something.

The first year was everything.

After that, the cracks came quick. The texts got shorter. The kisses got rarer. He stopped asking if you got home safe and started forgetting you were even coming over. You'd sit in your car outside his house while he "finished up at work," only to wait two hours and see him post a photo from someone else's party.

He always had an excuse. You always believed him.

Because that's what you did when you loved someone. You gave them the benefit of the doubt. You softened your edges to fit theirs, even when it left you bleeding.

Lately, it had gotten worse. The kind of worse that was hard to ignore. He stopped coming home when you were over. He'd call you, say he was just running errands, and then not show up until midnight. If at all.

So you started spending your time with someone else. Not by choice. Not at first. It just happened that way.

Because Ben was always the one who answered the door.

You'd knock, expecting Jamie, and there he'd be—broad-shouldered, barefoot, always a little scruffy like he hadn't decided whether to shave or not. He'd take one look at your apologetic smile and sigh like he was already annoyed with his son, then step aside and tell you to come in.

You'd sit on the couch with him, sometimes in silence, sometimes not. Watch football with a mug of tea he made without asking how you liked it. The commentary on the screen would hum in the background, but your attention would drift, eyes trailing the way he sat—casual, like nothing in the world could touch him. Like the room shaped itself around his gravity.

He was different from Jamie. Steady. Solid in a way that didn't demand anything from you. People used to say he was wild, back in the day. That he was the reason everyone wanted to party at their house in high school. Jamie used to brag about it, say his dad could drink anyone under the table and still wake up at dawn to run five miles. There was something about Ben that made people lean in when he spoke. Something sharp in his smile, wicked in his humor, but dulled by the years like a knife worn smooth by use.

He still cursed like a sailor, still called politicians jackasses and made crude jokes that made you choke on your drink, but there was a gentleness there too. One you weren't sure anyone else saw.

He always hugged you when you left. Tight. Firm. His hand splayed across your back like he meant it, like it mattered that you'd come.

Sometimes he said things that made your stomach twist.

"You could do better than him. That boy don't deserve someone like you."

You always brushed it off. Told yourself it was just a dad thing, a gruff attempt at keeping his son humble. You never thought there was truth behind it.

And even if there was, you'd spent so long pretending Jamie was still the boy you fell in love with... it felt dangerous to let yourself want someone who actually saw you. Someone who never made you feel like too much or not enough.

Ben never made you feel like a placeholder. But Jamie did. More and more.

And now, you were twenty-three, sitting on the same couch you always had, wrapped in the blanket Ben threw onto your lap without a word. Jamie wasn't home. Again. You didn't even ask where he was this time. You just waited. Like always.

Ben didn't ask either. He just turned up the volume on the game and passed you the popcorn.

It wasn't weird. But maybe it had been building for longer than you realised. You'd forgotten how easy it was to be around him.

The couch sagged a little beneath his weight as he shifted to grab the remote, muttering something about "goddamn commercials" under his breath before flipping to something less noisy—reruns of some old action flick, grainy and overacted. He always said he liked the classics. Said actors nowadays didn't know how to throw a punch without a green screen.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he settled back, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other cradling a sweating bottle of beer. His legs were spread comfortably, boots still on. He hadn't changed out of the work shirt he wore to fix the gutter earlier that afternoon—collar open, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, grease still dark beneath his nails.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep. You'd just meant to sit down for a minute. Rest your legs. Let your spine uncurl into the couch that still smelled faintly like woodsmoke and cheap detergent.

Ben was still next to you. One leg stretched out, the other bent just enough for his knee to brush yours. You weren't sure if it had always been that close. His beer sat half-finished on the table, and he was flipping through channels with the kind of concentration that made you think he'd been doing it for fifteen minutes and still hadn't found anything worth watching.

"Jesus," he muttered, "is it all just reboots and dick-measurin' contests now? Whole industry's got its head up its ass."

You blinked blearily and smiled into the throw blanket he'd tossed at you earlier. Not handed. Tossed. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn't noticed you shivering and grumbled something about "central heating bein' for soft little pricks."

He noticed everything. Just never talked like he did.

"You okay?" He asked without looking. "You were out cold for, like... four whole minutes."

"I wasn't asleep."

"Right." He snorted. "You were just aggressively meditatin' with your mouth open."

You laughed before you could stop it. A sharp little sound in the quiet. His mouth twitched, just barely.

That was the thing with Ben. Everything was just barely. Just under the surface. Just on the edge of being something else.

He leaned back, arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers drumming against the cushion behind your head like he wasn't thinking about how close they were. Like it didn't matter.

"You know," he drawled, "I always figured my kid was dumb, but this shit? Tellin' you to come over and then pulling a Houdini? That's a whole new level of dumbass. Like, Olympic-tier."

You grinned, cheeks warm. "You're not supposed to say that."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "What's he gonna do? Cry about it into his fuckin' vape?"

You shook your head, biting your lip to hold in another laugh. "He says he's just busy. Work's been—"

Ben made a sharp noise in his throat. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make excuses for him." He finally looked at you. Direct. That sharp green stare like he was lining up a target. "He's not that busy. Nobody's that busy. You don't leave someone like you sittin' on a couch with a guy like me unless you're either a fuckin' idiot or just don't give a shit."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Your heart thumped a little harder.

Ben ran a hand over his jaw, rough and tired. "Christ. I didn't mean it like that."

"No, I... I know."

He shifted, tension bleeding into his shoulders like he was trying to shake it off. "You're tired. Go crash upstairs if you want. Guest room's clean. Or Jamie's, if you feel like baskin' in the smell of Axe body spray and underachievement."

You smiled, soft. "I like sitting with you."

Ben paused. Brief, but enough to notice.

"Yeah," he said, quiet. "I like it too."

And that was it. He didn't touch you. Didn't move closer. Just let it sit there between you, real and unspoken.

The TV flickered on, casting blue light across his face. The room was quiet. Safe.

Then your phone buzzed. You looked down. Jamie. Ben caught the name on the screen and went still, like a hunting dog catching scent. He didn't say anything—just leaned back a little, eyes still on the screen.

You answered.

"Hey," you said, already curling into yourself, trying not to sound too hopeful.

A laugh. Not Jamie's. A girl.

Then Jamie's voice, distant and smug: "Yeah, hey. So, I've been thinking. We should break up."

It hit like a car crash. Sudden. No brakes. You blinked at the wall, your mouth parting in disbelief.

Ben's head turned, slow and sharp. "He what?" He said, voice low.

You didn't answer. Couldn't. You were still listening to Jamie—still trying to make sense of what he was saying while someone giggled beside him, soft and syrupy.

He told you to grab your stuff and head out. That was it. No apology. No hesitation. Just a quick, "Later," and the line went dead.

Your phone dropped to your lap. You didn't cry, but Ben stood slowly, the couch groaning as his weight shifted. He didn't speak at first—just watched you, jaw working like he was biting down on something bitter.

You forced yourself to move. To smile like nothing had happened. Like you hadn't just been gutted from the inside out by a boy who couldn't even break up with you alone.

"I should grab my stuff," you said lightly, pushing the blanket aside. "Jamie's not gonna be back anytime soon, so..."

You moved to stand, but Ben stepped into your path before you could take a full breath. His hand caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you.

"Hey."

You looked up at him. His eyes searched yours, green and dark and unrelenting.

"Tell me what just happened."

You shook your head, tried to pull your arm back gently, but he didn't let go.

"It's nothing."

"Bullshit," he snapped.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't cruel. But it cut through the air like a blade. Your stomach twisted.

"I'm serious," you insisted, keeping your voice light. "It's not a big deal. We just... talked. That's all."

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm. His other hand hovered for a second, like he didn't know where to put it. Then he let it fall.

"Don't lie to me," he said, quieter now. Rough around the edges. "You think I don't know what that voice means? I've known you too long for that."

You looked down at where his fingers wrapped around your wrist, your skin warmer than it should've been. That was when you noticed it—his hands were clean now. The dark streaks of grease that had been etched into the creases of his knuckles earlier were gone. No smudges under his nails. He'd washed up when you weren't looking.

When you were "sleeping." He'd done it quietly. Without saying anything. Like he didn't want to wake you.

Your throat tightened.

"It's fine," you said again, barely above a whisper. "Really. I just... I should go."

Ben exhaled hard through his nose. Then he stepped in, close enough that the scent of clean soap and warm cotton hit you like a memory. His hand was still on your wrist. He dropped his voice.

"You're not goin' anywhere until you tell me what the hell just happened."

You hesitated. Swallowed. It wasn't even that you wanted to protect Jamie anymore—you just didn't want to see it. Didn't want to put the words into the air and make them real. But Ben's stare didn't budge. And you'd never been good at lying to him.

"He..." You took a shaky breath. "He called. From someone's car. A girl. She was laughing in the background."

Ben's jaw clenched, sharp enough that the muscle jumped.

"He broke up with me," you finished, soft and stunned, like you were still catching up to it.

He didn't speak. Not at first. His thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist—once, slow. It felt like a pulse.

"Fuckin' coward," he muttered.

You didn't argue. You didn't say anything at all. Because the silence that followed felt like the beginning of something neither of you could name.

Ben didn't let go of your wrist until you blinked again. He watched you like he was waiting for you to crumble, to fall apart right in front of him. And maybe you would've, if he hadn't caught you first.

"You're not drivin' like this."

"I'm fine," you tried again, but your voice didn't hold. It cracked at the edge.

"No, you're not," he snapped, already steering you back toward the couch like the conversation was over. "You're shakin' like a goddamn leaf and your face is doin' that thing—don't gimme that look."

"I'm not—"

"Sit."

You sat.

Ben stood over you for a second, running a hand through his hair like he wanted to rip it out. Then he turned, muttering under his breath as he stomped toward the stairs.

"Little shitbag can't even grow a pair to break up with a girl like a goddamn man," he grumbled. "Calls you from someone else's fuckin' car? While she's gigglin'? Jesus Christ, what a pathetic excuse for a—"

He kept going as he climbed the stairs, the sound of his boots thudding heavier with each step. You stared at the muted television, every nerve in your body ringing. Your hands were curled into the hem of your shirt. Your chest ached.

You hadn't realised how heavy the silence in this house had gotten until Ben's voice had filled it.

A few minutes later, he came back down with your overnight bag slung over one shoulder, his jaw set, expression thunderous.

"That my stuff?" You asked, sitting up straighter.

He dropped the bag near the hallway, closer to the guest room than the front door.

"Movin' it."

You blinked. "What?"

"The guest room." He shrugged like it was nothing. "Jamie's room smells like old socks and broken promises. You're better off."

"I can't stay here."

"Sure you can."

"Ben—"

"I already called him." His voice was low, clipped. "Told him not to come home tonight. Told him if he did, I'd knock his teeth so far down his throat he'd be spittin' molars 'til Christmas."

Your mouth fell open.

"You... you didn't."

He raised a brow. "Sure did. And he agreed. Pussy little prick probably didn't want to face you anyway."

You shook your head, heart starting to beat faster. "I can't do that. It's not fair."

Ben looked at you for a long second. Then he let out a breath through his nose—tight, bitter.

"No," he said finally. "It's not. But it's the first goddamn time anyone's treated you even half as good as you deserve in this house. And I'm not lettin' you crawl out the front door like you're just some fuckin' afterthought." 

Your breath caught.

He didn't seem to notice what he'd said—he was too busy crouching to unzip your bag, mumbling something about pyjamas and Advil, like this was any other night. Like he hadn't just dropped a live wire between you.

You sat frozen, replaying the words.

The first goddamn time anyone's treated you even half as good as you deserve in this house.

You weren't sure exactly what he'd meant. But something about the way he said it, the heat under the gravel of his voice, the way he hadn't looked at you after—it felt like a confession. Small. Raw. Dangerous.

You looked away, cheeks burning.

He didn't mean it like that. He couldn't have. You were just upset. You were reading into things. Making it worse than it was.

Ben was just being... kind. That was all.

Ben moved through your bag with that familiar, rough focus he had when something pissed him off. He didn't bother asking about what to grab—he just reached into it and fished out your pyjamas, a ratty old pair of flannel shorts and a loose t-shirt. He tossed them at you with a grunt, the fabric landing in your lap.

"Change. Now. I'm not lettin' you leave this house tonight. You need sleep. And if I gotta make you comfortable to get it, then I will."

You took a deep breath and nodded. Maybe you'd actually get a good night's sleep here for once—something you hadn't been able to do in weeks. Maybe it was the comfort of Ben's familiar grumbling, or maybe it was the fact that the world felt just a little bit safer when he was here.

"Thanks," you murmured, standing up and heading toward the guest room to change.

When you came back out a few minutes later, the house was still. The television had been muted, and there were two cold beers sweating on the table. Ben tipped his head toward the beers with a casual nod.

"Take one if you want," he muttered, still clearly worked up about his son. "Or if you're picky, you know where I keep the good shit."

You hesitated for a second, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Good shit. Ben's idea of "good shit" usually meant top-shelf whiskey or one of those small-batch bourbons you could only find if you knew the right people. You weren't picky tonight.

"I'll take the beer, thanks."

Ben grunted in acknowledgment, but his eyes were already back on the TV, his jaw tight with whatever thoughts were spiralling in his head.

"You know," he started, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself, "you're always so goddamn polite when you're here. Always so considerate. Thoughtful. Mindful. You don't act like the rest of 'em."

He didn't look at you. Instead, he grabbed his own beer and took a long sip, eyes still fixed on the TV.

"You're too good for him," Ben added, his voice barely above a murmur. "That kid... James, he's been a goddamn disappointment for a while now, and I've been too patient with him."

You couldn't help it—you let out a small giggle at the way Ben spoke about his son. It wasn't just the words, but the way his voice broke with frustration and the rawness of it all.

"You know," you said softly, taking a sip from your beer to hide your smile, "I didn't think you'd be so pissed."

Ben's lips twisted into something that could've been a smile if he wasn't so damn angry. "You didn't think I'd be so pissed? You must not've been listenin', sweetheart."

You shook your head. "I didn't realise how much that pissed you off."

"Don't get me started." He leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face. "He's been draggin' his ass through life like a fuckin' kid playing pretend. And you? You deserve so much more than that. Always takin' care of everyone but yourself. Jamie don't appreciate you." His voice softened for a second. Then it hardened again, muttering, "Useless waste of space."

You chuckled under your breath, the sound foreign in the quiet room. Even in a moment like this, Ben could still pull that laugh out of you. It wasn't even a joke, really. But the way he spoke about his son was so Ben—raw, unapologetically real, and somehow endearing even when it was brutal.

You looked at him, confused by the sharp pang of emotion in your chest. You should've been angry. You should've been crying. But instead, you found yourself giggling, something warm in your belly, even though the weight of Jamie's call was still hanging over you.

"Why do I feel like I'm laughing at the worst possible time?" You murmured, shaking your head. "Like, I know you're furious, but..."

Ben didn't look at you right away. He just took another long pull from his beer and muttered, "Yeah, well. Better to laugh than cry, right?"

You weren't sure if he was talking to you or himself.

Then he glanced over—brief, like he couldn't help it—and added, a little quieter, "Kid pulls that shit on you, and you're still sittin' here being polite... no wonder I'm the one losin' it."

Ben hadn't stopped ranting since you sat back down.

Your beer was cold in your hand, sweating like your palms. He was muttering, swearing under his breath, one hand raking through his hair while the other gestured to ghosts in the air around him.

"Fuckin' unbelievable. Kid's got a girl like you sittin' in his house and decides to toss you aside like a fast-food wrapper." He scoffed. "Jesus Christ."

You didn't say anything. You weren't sure you could. There was a weight in your throat that hadn't moved since the call ended. But Ben kept going, voice low and sharp like a knife sliding over a whetstone.

"I mean, really—what the fuck does he think he's gonna do better than you?" He turned, finally facing you, heat still simmering behind his eyes. "You're here, lookin' like that, sittin' on my couch in your little pyjamas, and he's out there dick-first in somebody else's backseat?"

You looked up, startled. "Ben..."

But he wasn't done.

"God, if you were mine..." His voice dropped, rough and quiet, the words dragging out of him before he could stop them. "I wouldn't let you leave the fuckin' bed."

The silence snapped taut.

You sucked in a breath. Tiny. Audible. And his eyes flicked straight to you. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks instantly, your fingers tightening around the bottle in your lap, heart hammering like it wanted to break your ribs. You didn't look at him. Couldn't.

But it was too late. He'd seen it. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. Not softer—never softer—but lower. Controlled. Deliberate.

"Yeah. You like that, huh?"

Your head turned toward him before you could stop it, eyes wide.

Ben didn't smile. His expression barely changed. But he shifted on the couch, leaned in just a little, forearm braced against his knee, beer bottle hanging forgotten between his fingers.

"'Course you do. He doesn't have a clue what he had." His voice rasped, barely above a whisper now. "Didn't know how to look at you. Not really. Not like I do."

You were trembling. Not from fear. Not from heartbreak. From something darker. Thicker. Want. You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. His leg brushed yours when he leaned in further.

"Sittin' there in those little shorts," he murmured, eyes dropping—slow, deliberate, dragging over your thighs and back up. "All sweet and soft, tryin' to play it cool. Like I haven't been noticin' every fuckin' inch of you for months."

Your breath caught.

Ben let the silence stretch. Then he leaned just a little closer, his voice so low it felt like it was inside you.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "The little fuck ever even make you moan?"

You gasped. You didn't mean to. It slipped out of you like a secret, sharp and quiet and real. Your eyes snapped to his—wide, shocked, pleading for him to pretend he hadn't said it.

He didn't. His gaze didn't waver. If anything, it darkened.

"Or was he too busy admirin' his own reflection to figure out how to touch you?"

You stared at him, frozen.

"Bet I'd only need one hand," he muttered, more to himself than you. "Maybe two, if I wanted to be generous."

Your thighs pressed together.

Ben's eyes dropped. Noticed. His jaw ticked. He leaned in—closer now, the heat of him thick in the space between you. Close enough to count every fleck in his eyes, every scar on his knuckles, every breath that ghosted between your mouths.

"You're thinkin' about it now, huh?"

You couldn't answer. You didn't need to. Because your body already had. And Ben? Ben looked like he was about to sin for the first time in his life—and fucking thank God for it.

Ben hadn't touched you. Not once. And still, your whole body was trembling.

Your knees were pressed together, your thighs aching with tension. You could feel the way your breath stuttered in your throat, the way your grip had gone white-knuckled around your beer. He was still so close. Still watching you like he could see straight through every layer you'd ever used to protect yourself.

"You're thinkin' about it now, ain't you?" He asked again, quieter this time. Like a secret.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. But something in your silence made his eyes darken. Made the air in the room twist into something dangerous.

Ben sat back slightly, but only to set his beer down on the table. The bottle clinked. His eyes never left yours.

Then, voice low and deliberate, he said the thing that broke you.

"If I had you," he murmured, rough and slow like gravel in molasses, "you wouldn't be sittin' here wonderin' what it feels like to be wanted. You'd be fuckin' glowing."

Your stomach dropped. A sound slipped out of you—unbidden, humiliatingly soft.

A whine.

Ben's jaw ticked. And then—he smiled. Not sweetly. Not kindly. He smiled like a man who'd just won something.

"Yeah," he muttered, almost to himself. "There she is."

You looked at him, startled, every nerve in your body tight and humming. But he didn't move toward you. He didn't lunge or grab. He just spread his legs a little wider and patted his thigh, lazy and confident.

"C'mere."

You blinked.

"What—"

His brows lifted. "You want me to make you feel better, don't you?"

Your breath caught again.

He cocked his head, smirk widening like he could see every thought unraveling behind your eyes.

"Or you gonna sit there playin' good girl until it hurts?" His voice was velvet-wrapped sin, laced with dry amusement. "Your call."

You stared at him, frozen. He didn't push. Just let his hand rest on his thigh, palm open, warm and steady.

"Not gonna beg," he said, tone lighter now, teasing. "You want it, sweetheart, you come take it."

That did something to you. The challenge. The smugness. The fact that he was still so patient with it. Like he knew he didn't need to do anything but wait you out.

And god help you, it was working.

You swallowed hard. Shifted slightly on the couch. Heart hammering.

Ben's gaze flicked down—watched the movement. Still didn't touch you. But his voice dropped one last octave. Soft now. Almost sincere.

"You want comfort?" He said. "You want someone to show you what it's supposed to feel like?"

His hand flexed against his thigh. The invitation was silent. Waiting.

"C'mere, baby girl."

You didn't move at first.

Just stared at his lap like it might catch fire if you touched it. Your fingers tightened around the neck of your beer bottle, your pulse thudding against the inside of your throat like it was trying to climb out.

Ben just watched you. Silent. Still.

You set the bottle down. Carefully. Deliberately. It hit the table with a quiet clink. Then you stood. Moved in front of him. Stood between his knees.

He tilted his head back to look up at you, brows raised, like he was amused that you'd made it this far. Like he was proud.

His legs were spread, but not wide enough—not yet. You looked down at the space between them, at the lazy way he was leaning back into the couch, relaxed in that heavy, masculine way like his body knew you were coming before you did.

"You look like you're tryin' to solve a fuckin' puzzle," he said, voice low, teasing. "Ain't that complicated, sweetheart. You want it, you take it."

You flushed. Still, you didn't move.

Ben's voice softened, but somehow it only made everything worse.

"You nervous?" He asked, head cocked slightly. "Or just takin' your time with me?"

You glanced at him, breath shaky, and he smiled—soft. Not mocking. Not smug. Just warm.

Then he leaned back further into the couch and spread his legs wider, thighs shifting beneath the thin cotton of his sweats, settling in like a man getting comfortable.

Waiting. Watching.

"I've got all night," he murmured. "But you don't need to wait, baby girl. You want to feel better?" His eyes flicked to your mouth. "Come take it."

Your knees nearly buckled.

You climbed into his lap before you could stop yourself. Slow. Careful. Like if you moved too fast, you might spook yourself and bolt back to the other side of the room. Your legs slid over his thighs and you lowered yourself, your hands braced on his shoulders, every part of you tense with something that felt like fear and desire tied together with string.

And only then—only when you were fully in his lap, straddling him—did he touch you. His hands lifted. Large, steady palms settling on your waist like he'd been waiting years for permission.

"Shit," he muttered, almost to himself. "Look at you."

You swallowed, your breath catching.

Ben's hands flexed against your sides. Just a little. Just enough.

"You're shakin'," he said softly.

You nodded, too breathless to speak.

"Not scared of me, are you?"

You shook your head.

"Good," he murmured. "'Cause I'd never hurt you, baby. Never."

His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. His voice dropped further—more gravel, more hunger.

"I'll ruin you. But I'll never hurt you."

You whimpered. Couldn't help it.

And Ben smirked, like that was exactly what he was hoping for. Then he leaned in. His mouth hovered just beside your ear, breath warm against your skin.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered, voice thick and deliberate. "Use your words."

Your breath stuttered. Your nails dug into his shoulders.

"I... I want you," you managed, quiet and trembling.

Ben's hand stilled on your waist. Then he let out the softest, filthiest little sound—something between a hum and a chuckle.

"Yeah?" He rasped, tipping his head to look at you fully. "Want me to what, sweetheart?"

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He grinned, slow and dark, eyes dragging over your mouth.

"C'mon," he said, voice a touch rougher now. "You're already in my lap like a good little thing. Say it like you mean it."

You were shaking. Not with fear. Not anymore. With the pressure of it all—of him, of you, of everything he'd said. The weight of being seen. The heat coiled so deep inside you it ached. You wanted. God, you wanted. You wanted him like you'd never wanted anything in your life.

Ben's hand slid from your waist to your hip, slow and possessive, his thumb dragging across your skin through the thin fabric of your pyjama shorts.

"Still waitin', baby," he murmured. "Thought you had something to say."

You broke.

"I want you to touch me," you whispered, breathless. "I want you to make me feel good. I want—" you swallowed, cheeks burning, "—I want you to fuckin' ruin me."

Ben's groan hit you like a thunderclap.

"Fuck," he hissed, head falling back slightly. His hips jerked once, grinding up into you so hard and slow your whole body jolted in his lap. "Christ on a cross."

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, the thick press of him beneath you lighting a fire between your legs.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, fingers flexing hard enough to bruise.

"You want it that bad, huh?" He rasped, voice wrecked. "Want my hands on you? Want me to make that pretty little body beg for it?"

You whimpered. Nodded. Couldn't breathe.

Ben's mouth curved, dangerous and pleased.

"Then come give me a fuckin' kiss, baby girl."

You didn't lunge. You leaned in slow. Tentative. Your breath caught in your throat as you moved forward inch by inch, like some part of you still didn't believe this was happening. Like getting too close might wake you up from whatever this was.

Ben didn't move. Didn't blink. He just watched you.

His eyes were half-lidded, heavy, and he was breathing slow—calm on the outside, but you could see it, the storm under his skin. His hands stayed where they were, resting on your waist, fingers flexing every so often like it was taking everything in him not to pull you down the rest of the way.

"Yeah," he murmured, voice so low it vibrated through you. "That's it. C'mon. You're right there."

You inched closer. Your knees squeezed tighter around his hips. Your hands found his chest, broad and hot beneath your palms, and you swore you could feel his heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt—deep and steady like a drum.

"Take your time," Ben said softly. "Ain't goin' anywhere."

That wrecked you.

Your mouth hovered just above his now, your nose brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the warm, electric space between.

"Good girl," he rasped. "Now kiss me."

And you did. You pressed your mouth to his—slow, open, reverent.

He met you there. And it was everything. His lips moved with yours like he'd mapped this moment out in his head a hundred times. Deep. Unhurried. Filthy in the way it devoured your breath but never pushed. His tongue dragged against yours with a groan that left your thighs trembling, his hands tightening on your hips as your body melted down into his.

He kissed like he was teaching you something. Like he wanted you to remember this when you were alone later, wrecked and ruined and aching for him again.

You moaned against his mouth and he pulled you in tighter, his fingers bruising into your hips as he rolled up into you, slow and hard.

The kiss deepened. Wet. Heavy. Hot enough to burn. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging just enough to make you whimper before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth. "Listen to you."

You ground down harder, chasing friction, and he met you, hips grinding up into yours like he couldn't help himself anymore.

One of his hands flew to the back of your neck, dragging you deeper into the kiss as his hips thrust up again, slow and deliberate. The other guided your movements, helping you rock in his lap, the thick ridge of him grinding perfectly through the layers between you.

"Atta girl," he growled against your mouth. "That's it. Just like that. Ride it out."

You writhed, panting, your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, grounding yourself as he took you apart without even needing to move.

His kisses were wet, filthy, all tongue and heat and groaning breath. He kissed like he meant it. Like he owned your mouth. Like it had been his since the first time you said hi to him at the front door and he let his eyes linger a little too long.

You cried out as he guided your hips harder, the friction dizzying, filthy sounds echoing through the room.

"You're so fuckin' pretty," he murmured against your lips. "So good for me. He ever get you makin' these sounds?"

You shook your head, dazed, lips slick and parted.

"Didn't fuckin' think so."

He kissed you again—harder this time, stealing your breath, your thoughts, your name. His grip tightened as he ground up into you again, slow and punishing, like he wanted to drag every sound out of you and make you remember it later, alone in your bed, still aching for him.

"You feel that?" He rasped, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. "That's how bad I wanted you. Every fuckin' time you walked in here, smilin', bein' sweet, sittin' at my table like you belonged there—this is what I had to fight."

You whined again, rolling your hips down into him, chasing more.

Ben groaned, hands grabbing tight at your ass now, dragging you down against him in rhythm.

"No more fightin', baby," he growled. "Not now."

And you believed him. Because whatever this was—it had already taken you both.

You couldn't stop moving. Every time your hips rocked into his, every time his hands dragged you closer, it just got worse—better—hotter. You were soaked through your pyjamas, breath coming in shallow little pants between kisses that only got filthier the longer they lasted.

Ben was panting now too, forehead pressed to yours, lips slick and pink and kiss-bruised. His hands were still on your ass, guiding every motion like he was conducting a symphony made just for him.

"You're drivin' me fuckin' insane," he groaned. "You feel what you're doin' to me?"

You nodded, breathless.

He growled. Actually growled. Then his mouth was on your throat again, teeth dragging slow over your skin before he pulled back just enough to look at you—his pupils blown wide, jaw tight.

"Off," he said, nodding toward your shirt.

You froze. Heat rushed to your cheeks.

But Ben didn't push. Just let his hands slide back to your waist, eyes dragging over your face, patient even while he looked like he was seconds from snapping.

"You don't gotta be shy," he murmured, voice lower now, rougher. "Not with me."

You swallowed, then reached down with shaking fingers and pulled your shirt over your head.

Ben's mouth parted.

His gaze dropped like a stone, dragging down your neck, your chest, every inch of newly bare skin until it landed on the swell of your breasts and stayed there. You weren't wearing a bra—hadn't expected to need one—and the second he saw that, his hands twitched.

"Jesus fuck," he muttered. "Look at you."

You shifted in his lap, suddenly aware of everything. Your breath, your thighs, the way your nipples peaked under his stare.

Ben leaned forward.

Not kissing. Not touching. Just bringing his mouth close enough that you felt his breath against your chest. His hands slid up—slow, warm, calloused—and cupped you gently, like he was still making sure you were real.

"You been hidin' this from me all this time?" He rasped.

You whimpered.

And then he kissed your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. A filthy, reverent drag of his tongue over your nipple before he pulled it into his mouth and sucked.

Your whole body jolted.

"Ben—!"

"That's it," he muttered against your skin. "Let me hear you."

You moaned, rolling your hips down into him again, needy and shaking.

He pulled back with a wet sound, licking his lips as his hand slid down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

"Gonna show you what it feels like," he said. "You remember what I said?"

You nodded, dazed. "One hand."

Ben smirked.

"Damn right."

He leaned in, kissed you again—slower this time, deep and thick and hot—while his hand slid inside your waistband, knuckles dragging down over soft, soaked cotton.

"Fuck me," he breathed. "You're already drippin'."

You whimpered, hands gripping his shoulders, rocking into his touch without shame now.

Ben's fingers dipped lower, sliding between your folds over your panties, just enough to make you cry out.

"That's right," he growled, "ride my fuckin' fingers. Show me how bad you needed this."

You did. You couldn't stop. You were shaking in his lap, panting into his mouth, his hand wedged between your bodies while he stroked slow and deep over the thin barrier of your panties, never rushing, never giving you quite enough.

"Ben—please—"

His mouth was back on yours, swallowing the desperate sound as his fingers finally slipped under the fabric and found your clit—bare, wet, aching.

You sobbed into his mouth.

"Shh," he whispered, kissing you softer now. "I got you, baby. Gonna make you come just like this, sittin' pretty in my lap. Nice and slow."

He circled your clit with maddening precision, dragging two thick fingers through your slick heat while his other hand stayed firm on your waist, anchoring you there, his.

"You're already so close," he muttered, voice wrecked. "I can feel it."

You gasped, grinding into his palm, head falling to his shoulder. He kissed your neck, your jaw, your temple.

"You gonna come for me, baby girl?"

"Y-Yeah—Ben—"

"Then come. C'mon. Wanna feel you fall apart."

You shattered.

It hit fast and hard, ripping through your core like a lightning strike. You cried out, clutching his shirt, grinding into his hand while your thighs trembled around him. Ben held you through all of it—murmuring filth into your hair, groaning into your ear, his fingers still slow and gentle even as you gasped and bucked against his lap.

"That's my girl," he whispered, dragging his fingers back up to circle your clit one more time just to watch you twitch. "Fuckin' perfect."

You were still gasping when he kissed you again—deep, slow, savouring you.

"Look at that," Ben rasped against your mouth, fingers sliding lazy circles over your oversensitive clit. "Just made a fuckin' mess in my lap."

You whimpered, thighs twitching as your hips bucked into his hand again, helpless and overstimulated. "I-I can't—"

"Yeah, you can." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the sting away. "Gonna give me another one while you take care of me. That too much for you, baby girl?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest. You shook your head, breathless. "No. I—I want to."

Ben growled. Low and hungry.

"Yeah?" He leaned back slightly, eyes locking on yours, smug and reverent all at once. "Then show me."

You slid your hand between your bodies with shaking fingers, reaching down to where he was thick and hard under his sweats—obscene with how long he'd been like that. Your fingertips brushed over him through the cotton, and he shuddered.

"Fuck," he gritted, head falling back for just a second. "There you go. C'mon, sweetheart. Take it out."

You didn't need to be told twice.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband, fingers curling around him—hot, hard, heavy in your palm—and Ben groaned, loud and wrecked.

"That's it. Fuck, your hand's so small," he growled. "You gonna stroke it nice for me, baby? You gonna be good?"

You nodded quickly, already moving your hand, pumping him slow, your grip slick with the way your own arousal coated your skin. You couldn't believe how wet you still were—how much you needed more, even after what he'd just done to you.

Ben's breath caught as your fist curled tighter around him.

"Jesus," he hissed. "That's it. Don't stop. Just like that."

His fingers moved faster now, dragging tight circles over your clit, dipping down to tease through your folds before sliding up again, matching the rhythm of your strokes. You gasped, thighs trembling, your hips rocking into his palm at the same time as you jerked him in your fist.

The motion was filthy. Perfect.

Wet sounds filled the room—your slick, his cock, the breathless moans you couldn't hold back. He was panting now, fingers digging into your thigh to steady you.

"Such a fuckin' good girl," he growled. "Sittin' there all pretty in my lap, makin' me feel so fuckin' good—Jesus, keep goin', baby, don't stop—"

You moaned, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck as you stroked him harder. He was throbbing in your hand now, his hips jerking up into your fist as his fingers circled your clit ruthlessly, forcing another orgasm up your spine like he needed to feel you fall apart again before he let go.

You cried out, hand faltering, and Ben caught your jaw in his palm, kissed you hard and open-mouthed, tongue filthy against yours.

"That's it. Come with me," he whispered against your lips. "Wanna feel you squeeze my fuckin' fingers while I come all over your hand. You want that?"

"Yes—Ben—yes—"

"Then fuckin' take it."

You shattered again—your whole body tensing, legs trembling, hips grinding into his hand as the orgasm crashed through you harder than the first, and at the same time, Ben snarled your name, hips jerking up into your fist as he spilled hot and thick over your hand and into his sweats, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a desperate groan.

You were both panting, wrecked, clinging to each other in the thick, sticky heat.

Ben's hand slid from between your legs, dragging up your thigh, slow and reverent. He pressed his lips to your temple, still catching his breath.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You were worth waitin' for."

a/n: AHH! So, obviously an AU. I hope y'all liked. I liked. Just let me know what you thought... I'm kinda obsessed with this one. The dynamic feels so baddirtywrong and it's my favourite. Ew. Also, you know the craic, if the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be in the next part. Hehehehe. I just needed a lil break from "eyes too close to let me" and also... I was high and this became sentient all by itself. In the words of William Butcher: you're all fucking welcome. Until the next one? Smin signing off. All the love.

Ben/Soldier Boy taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn <3

[buckyschair]

✸ WHAT HE DOESN'T KNOW ✸

ILLICIT AFFAIRS ✸ PART TWO 

Pairing: Azriel x fem!reader

Summary: After reconnecting with your old flame Azriel, you can’t get him out of your mind. Now, it’s your husband’s birthday, but who’s gonna give you a gift? After all, what he doesn't know won't kill him... AKA closet quickie with Azriel at your husband’s birthday party

Content Warnings: contains smut 18+ MINORS DNI, cheating (WITH, not ON Azriel), alcohol, female reader, shitty husband (not physically abusive), casual shadow bondage, PIV sex (no protection bc they are faeries and this is fiction, but put on your mental magic condom if you must), gross liberties taken with whatever’s going on with the Hewn City, swearing, no use of Y/N

Author's Notes / Housekeeping:  1. This is a part two to my previous fic Illicit Affairs, I would highly suggest you read that first so that the context makes sense, but not strictly necessary 2. Reader’s husband is a guy I made up, named Lustere. He works under Mor’s dad so he’s a minor political figure in the Court of Nightmares (he’s introduced more in this part, but saying it here for clarity) 3. This fic is not based on Eurovision’s plot at all I promise haha but HEAVILY inspired by that one line from Scotty Doesn’t Know: I did her on his birthday ;)

Enjoy!!

Word Count: 6.8k

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

Despite the world shifting force of your collision with Azriel, not much changed afterwards. 

The days slipped by, transient and thin as ever. 

Although admittedly, after your late night rendezvous, your games died down. You still lit a fire on occasion out of habit, but the fantasies had lost their power to distract you. 

Without the ability to make your thoughts a refuge, your thoughts began to bite back, and they played dirty. They consumed you. 

It was not the gentle kiss of fantasy but the harsh swallow of reality that haunted your days and your nights, your psyche irrevocably tied to the painful present. You were shocked to find it so mind numbing. 

Nothing in your life was your own. How have you put up with it all these years? As a female in a court of males and fuckery, nothing was yours. Every piece of food that passed your lips, every sip of wine, every fancy dress, bought with your husband’s credit. 

So what could be yours? 

Even as your heart despaired, some small part of you whispered, and your soul curled involuntarily around a persistent, subtle flicker. Your eyes had begun to catch shadows everywhere. Wherever they lurked, you wondered, were they his?

You hoped the answer was yes. 

Regardless, their presence soothed you. They were a reminder. 

Azriel. 

What you had with him, however gossamer thin, was yours. No one else’s. 

One night had been enough; the secret fueled you. 

The parties were easier to organize, the house more orderly than ever. When the dullness threatened to deaden every nerve, your memory was quick to recall the thrill. It kept you back from that brink. 

However, it was a pity that the fresh fuel was poured into such futile efforts, the most interesting of which was planning boring events for your and your husband’s social world. You were certain your eyes would soon dry out from a lack of entertainment. 

One of these events was a celebration. 

Your husband’s day of birth. 

When Lustere had first entered your life, now centuries ago, you had honestly been relieved. He had represented a chance at a new life, maybe even at love. Mostly, he had promised an escape from your father’s home. In that, at least, he had proved useful. Not so much for the rest. 

If you heard the voice of hope now, you would hardly recognize her. Her gentle song had died centuries ago, along with a part of your soul. 

As his day approached, you thought you ought to feel something, some joy, some excitement, perhaps some pride in the male he had become. All you could muster was a temporary damper for the decades of resentment. 

Luckily for you, you were in charge of the whole event, including the guest list. 

“Who do you want me to invite?” you asked him casually after dinner one night, well in advance of the event. 

Lustere sighed condescendingly, the sound score of your life. “Aren’t you supposed to be handling this? I’m so very busy these days.”

Your eyes crossed from your stacks of papers to where he was pouring his third drink of the evening. Busy indeed. 

“Of course, dear. I’ve got it covered, I just want to make sure I don’t leave anyone out.” Your tone was as sweet as the smile plastered to your face. 

“Don’t leave anyone out!” he urged you with your own words, as if it were a new thought for you to try out. “Invite everyone important.”

You bit back a bubbling retort, your sweet smile tasting sour. “I’ll see to it.”

“Good, good,” he mumbled dismissively. 

“It will be a lovely event; and, more importantly, no one who matters will be snubbed.” As you spoke the words, Lustere turned to you slightly– almost even looking at you. 

His face was set in a scheme, so he looked pained. “On second thought, maybe we could uninvite that one guy. You know, the courtier with the annoying wife?”

“We can’t uninvite them, not when they haven’t been invited yet.”

“Maybe their invite could get lost in the mail.” 

Your eye roll was internal, but you wished you could slap it into his mind. He never listened. 

“Consider it done,” you agreed.  

At least he was predictable. 

In his self importance, Lustere had asked you to ‘invite everyone important’. 

How convenient, you smiled to yourself as you penned another name on the provisional guest list. Azriel could easily be considered a most important guest.

One gift for yourself on your husband’s birthday. You’d earned it. 

✸✸✸ 

“What are they doing here?!”

For a second, your heart leapt to your throat. With a cordial smile, you turned away from the guests you’d been chatting to, only to face your husband’s hushed accusation. 

Lustere’s anger was rare, thank the Mother, so when it reared, you never knew what to expect.

“Who?”

You scanned the room; it was full of your husband’s acquaintances, colleagues, and enemies alike. 

“Her! And that shadowsinger!” his words were a flustered whisper. 

It was a different emotion that caused your heart to jump then. You followed his glance to find the male in question, linked arm in arm with the Morrigan. 

You swallowed a smug smile at your husband’s discomfort at her presence. 

Not that you could have known that he found her unsettling… but you’d certainly hoped. He nervously eyed the side of the room where she and the Illyrian made a frightening pair. Oh, that damned Illyrian. 

Your pulse quieted as you drank him in. 

If he would be the death of you, you’d only be grateful. 

Azriel looked devastating. His usual leathers had been exchanged for slightly more formal slacks. His siphons still gleamed, but his powers were reserved in accordance with the casual setting. He still looked intimidating as ever, while the blonde on his arm was just as fearsome in her gorgeous get up. 

“Oh!” you fumbled momentarily; your vision stuck across the room, your mind caught up in a particular tangle of sheets. “I saw you speak with him at that event last month, so I thought it might be a nice gesture to invite them. I didn’t honestly expect them to show up.”

“Well,” he smoothed his panic into a self-satisfied smile. Your palms itched. “It was a good thing I talked to them, then. Clever.” 

You knew the compliment was addressed to himself, not you. 

For an insufferable bastard, you sure suffered. 

“Have you greeted them yet?” his question grated you. 

“Not yet, I hadn't been made aware of their arrival–” 

“–Well, don’t wait too long, dear. You wouldn’t want to be rude, hm?”

With that, Lustere moved away to greet some other guests, but you only dimly registered the movement, his critique. 

Your eyes were focused on the shadowsinger. 

Azriel was here. 

And Mor was with him. 

Among your husband’s upper court colleagues, you’d gotten creative with who could reasonably be considered a part of his circles. If you could invite the Steward, surely the Overseer and her friends were fair game as well. You’d invited the lot of them, on that whim. As you approached them, you cursed yourself for your liberties with the guest list. 

You hadn’t seen Azriel since that fateful evening. The male rarely visited the city, and here he was, twice in as many months. Your gut roiled, you wished you’d had time to prepare. 

But you had prepared, you told yourself. You knew how to play this role, the hostess. It was one you’d mastered over the years.

It was easy to slip into now, thanks to centuries of playing the part.

Azriel and the Morrigan’s diffident eyes piqued with interest as you glided to stand before them with open palms. 

“Greetings to you both!” You presented yourself with a subtle bow, and they in turn introduced themselves. It was the picture of sophistication.

“It’s a pleasure to be officially introduced,” Azriel said, and his voice flowed like honey. 

His words were perfectly cordial, yet they sent a rush through you. 

You didn’t need to remind yourself; you were hyperaware of the fact that this was the first time you were formally meeting him, at least to the public.

Before you could answer him, Mor was sweeping in with artful compliments about the event, finishing with a resounding “-and you look divine.” 

Kindness suddenly made the daunting warrior glow, her face open and shining as her armor fell away to acknowledge your work. It was wonderful. You hoped your husband was watching. 

“Why, thank you. This old thing?”

You twisted to show off your garment, and your heart swelled to match her radiance. 

It was actually an old gown, pulled from the back of your closet. It was the dress you’d worn centuries ago, on your first anniversary with your husband. 

As you’d primped for tonight, he had even complimented it: “I like the new dress,” he had said. “You should wear things like that more often, it's far better than the usual sort you wear.”

You had bitten your tongue, but his words still stung. You should have known better than to have expected him to remember the dress. You weren’t sure why you’d chosen it for tonight. For some reason, it had felt auspicious when you’d seen it twinkling at the back of the wardrobe. 

“Oh, they don’t make them like they used to,” Mor said wistfully, eying the fine material. She was oblivious to how she had soothed the sore subject with her simple compliment. 

“They certainly don’t,” you agreed, and your eyes drifted to the shadowsinger. 

Through your daze, you gave them the welcome spiel, and pointed out some familiar faces that they could chat with.

“We’re honored to have you here, enjoy the evening,” you admonished with a genuine smile. You turned to continue your cycle through the room of guests, already spotting your next mark. 

“Where could we find a drink?”

Azriel’s words froze you in your tracks. Mor was agreeing with him, firing off her order for him to fetch. His eyes were on you. 

“I’ll show you.” 

The words escaped before you could think. 

He nodded and stepped towards you to follow your way. 

You didn’t move. 

He looked stunning up close. 

Several tendrils of dark hair had escaped the hold of his gel. His shadows were relegated to his wings, camping out like bats in a cave. You swallowed thickly, remembering how they had felt on your own flesh, how sensitive his wings had been to the slightest touch. 

During your welcome and introduction facade, his amber eyes had been stoic, an unreadable mask. Now, they flared briefly with confusion as you stayed paused.

It rocked you back into your body, your mind addled but present. 

“Yes, of course– this– this way.” 

Luckily, no one was paying attention to you, next to a presence so commanding as the spymaster’s. No one noticed your momentary lapse– no one except him. 

Azriel fought a smirk as you wove through the room together. 

His rough hand came to hover at your lower back, and you bit your tongue at the soft contact. 

“Here we are.” 

All too soon, you’d arrived at the bar. It was centrally located in the room, which was crowded, but not so crowded as to obscure the main attraction, especially not from eyes as keen as those of the spymaster... 

Azriel was casual as he ordered his and Mor’s drinks. 

“And a whiskey, neat.” 

Your eyes snapped to him, and he had long been looking at you. 

“For the generous hostess,” he murmured. 

You felt your cheeks heat, and you hoped no one would notice your blush. 

“Thank you.” You belatedly remembered your manners as he pressed the glass to you.

“I owed you one.”

Your mouth went dry. 

He was being bold. Anyone could have heard his little comment. 

The imposing Illyrian took a long drink out of the elegant vessel. Your mind flashed back to a different night, when his lips had been on another glass. Your pulse fluttered as you recalled the last time he had drunk from your husband’s collection, and the things he’d done to you after. Foggily, you wondered if this would prove a similar potion. 

He frowned at the dark liquid suddenly, before grunting, “Except technically, I suppose you’re funding this one, too.”

“Guess you owe me another one.” Your words were light, flirtatious, even as your lungs stuttered. 

“I’ll get my best people on it.”

At his wry humor, your laughter was breathless, hardly a wheeze

“Actually,” you winced, “this would be on my husband’s credit. As was the last bottle…”

“Ahh. And where is the male of the hour?”

You gestured broadly, shaking your head and rolling your eyes with impressive coordination as you took a gulp. Damn, the male knew how to order a drink. 

“Around. It’s his party.” 

When you caught his eyes again, it was clear he didn’t give a damn about the male of the hour. 

Heat flared in your chest as he pinned you with his gaze. Azriel’s eyes were heavy lidded as he watched you watch the room. He took another delicate sip of his wine. It was indecent, how perfectly his lips perched on the edge of the glass, how his tongue darted out to swipe at the liquid that stained them. 

“Speaking of which,” you said, and shook yourself out of reverie, “I’ve got to make the rounds. Enjoy the party.” 

He took his time watching you go before returning to lurk by Mor’s side. 

For you, the evening passed in a blur of greetings and introductions, false laughter and sparkling beverages. Desserts were passed around right on cue, just as the toasts were begun. You kicked them off, your toast to Lustere short in contrast to the tall tale it told. Just your style: brief and full of lies. 

Lustere’s grateful smile and kiss at its conclusion was just the same, an empty facade. At best, it was a convincing performance; at worst, it was still the best you could expect from your lifelong consolation prize. 

Once upon a time, if you’d tried, you could almost fool yourself into thinking it was real. But you'd since stopped fooling yourself; the trick had only worked the first few hundred years. 

Reality was the only vow you honored now. 

As Lustere’s friends and associates began to serenade him with vacuous praises, you slipped away from the crowd. It was a moment to check on the staff, see about how things were flowing and if they needed anything. 

Without looking, you felt someone’s eyes on you, as if in a concentrated beam. The intensity felt palpable. It was like a spotlight, even as you wove unnoticed through your own guests. 

Tonight wasn’t about you. You’d made sure it wouldn’t be. 

You grabbed a nearly empty tray of desserts from an attendant, directing them to pick up a full one from a table. You gestured towards the other side of the room with your free hand and a kind word as you moved towards the back rooms. 

“The room’s unbalanced, we need more trays over there– oh, shit.” 

You swore as you crashed into something. Firm hands steadied you reflexively before you could drop the dish. 

Your gut swooped as you turned to see what you’d wandered into. The platter was pressed between you and none other than the shadowsinger himself. If you didn’t know better, you’d say Azriel looked amused. 

“Careful there.”

“Sorry,” you gasped out. He waited a moment longer than necessary to release your arms. Slowly, you peeled away, angling the tray horizontal again. 

With horror, you noted the crushed pastries smashed into his elegant vest. 

“Cauldron boil me.” You were sure everyone could see your blush now. Luckily, the platter hadn’t dropped, so the accident hadn’t drawn much attention.  

“It’s fine–”

“–no, it’s not. Come with me. Quickly.”

You gripped his wrist. A quick glance told you that no one was looking. 

Only Mor had witnessed it, and she just snorted. At your clumsiness, or the droning speech being given at your backs for your ass of a husband, you didn’t know. 

You didn’t care. You had more pressing concerns at the moment, as you led the important guest from the main room to the small prep kitchen at the back of the venue.

“I’m really so sorry about this, sir,” you blustered as you swept into the tight space. Several attendants looked up from where they’d been arranging desserts on trays.

“Hey guys, we need more hands out there,” you addressed them. “The far side of the room is starving.” 

Dutifully, they picked up their trays while you ushered them along. 

“You should look where you’re going,” he commented, tentatively, as they all filed out of the kitchen, leaving you and Azriel alone. You wetted a rag, wringing it out before handing it to him to clean himself up. 

“Clumsy me,” you hummed. His jaw was tense as he swiped at the crumbs on his torso. It was kind of distracting.

“How have you been?” he asked without preamble, now that you were alone. 

You relaxed instantly at his casual tone. “Good.” It was hardly a lie. “Busy,” you amended. That was the full truth. 

“Nice event.” 

“Thanks.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Azriel cut abruptly. 

You snorted. 

“No one deserves this much pomp. It makes me sick.” Your eyes widened as you heard yourself. 

You’d been alone with Azriel for less than a minute, and here you were voicing your innermost, honest opinions. You had never shared anything like that with anyone, not even your husband, let alone this practical stranger. Yet the words were true, and you could hardly take them back. 

“Have you ever had a party like this?”

You cocked your head at his question before answering slowly. “Yes. Right now in fact.”

“No, I mean, something like this, but for you.” He said it so casually, focused still on wiping a smear of frosting from his clothes. 

“Oh.” 

Who would plan something like this for you? 

The answer was hollow, but definite. Nobody. 

Some of the society’s husbands did big parties for their anniversaries, their birthdays, whatever excuse they could find to buy liquor by the barrel. 

You’d had a lovely ceremony to officiate your relationship with Lustere, but that was it. How long ago had that been? Through a blur of centuries, you pictured the party. You’d planned it alone, and it had honestly been breathtaking. What a waste. 

“Um, no. Never,” you laughed, too loud. You didn’t need his pity. 

Azriel hummed, undeterred from creating a quiet moment with you. “Me neither. Every year though, my family insists on doing a special dinner. I wish they’d forget it, but since I refuse to do a whole thing like this,” he gestured around and widened his eyes in emphasis, ”I bear it annually.”

His words struck you funny. Your mouth continued ahead of your senses as you urged him, “You should let them.”

“What?”

He looked up at you in confusion, but you didn’t relax your knit brows.

“You should let them throw you a party.” Your conviction was sudden, but swift, and final. “You deserve to be celebrated, you should give them the chance.”

He dismissed your suggestion with a firm shake of his gorgeous head. “I’d hate it.”

“How do you know that?” you pressed. His face twisted in regret as his confession launched from his tongue. 

“‘Cause I hate this.”

“Yeah well, that makes two of us,” you admitted. 

His brows rose at that. If he’d expected you to sink any personal pride into the event, he was sorely mistaken. 

Then his eyes dipped to your toes before lazily arcing back up your figure, and his expression shifted from surprise to something less innocent.

“Surely you didn’t mind the excuse to pull out that damned dress.” 

You jumped on his playful tone. “Careful there, mister, I have a husband.”

Azriel’s laugh was just as irreverent as his next words, “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” 

His eyes crinkled as his lip curled in humor, and you liked the look of it on him. He wore all his faces so handsomely; menace, humor, lust. 

The latter of which was gradually blooming now, as if called into being by your imagination. His gaze still held a speck of humor, though at a lower pitch. There was mischief dancing in those hazel pools, dark and unmistakable as his eyes devoured you. 

The male slowly stroked the damp towel against his abdomen in a deliberate show. The cloth was as dirty as his vest now, covered in sugary smears. You couldn’t help but picture what you knew was under his shirt, the ink that whorled its way down his front, dipping below his waist. 

The silence was charged, the only sounds were the wet rustle of the towel and your own shallow, erratic breaths. 

His vest was as clean as it was going to get with such sloppy motions. Now he was just rubbing the stain in, so you grabbed it and took over, helping him brush away the last of the frosting. 

“This venue has a cloakroom, isn’t that ridiculous?” you feigned casual conversation as your heart raced, your fingers twitching at his stomach. “This whole city is under a mountain, there’s no weather. And no one has bothered with the custom of overcoats in centuries.” 

The words weren’t subtle, the hint bold faced and loaded. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he accused. Azriel shook his head even as a coy grin melted his hard features.

“Who, me?” you said innocently. He grabbed your wrist that was still swiping at his lower stomach. The frosting was long gone. 

“You planned this.” His words were definitive. 

It wasn’t a question, but your chin dipped in confirmation anyways. 

“Why?” he pushed.

“Why do you think?”

The venue had been a choice, as had the single perfumed invitation, as had the short staffing; all manufactured by you. It was all perfectly calculated, down to the timing of the toasts and the spill of the dessert tray. It had all been a part of the plan: your master plan to get him here, alone, in this very moment. 

Azriel swore as comprehension hit him, his mind wrapping around the totality of your little plot. Anxiety built in your gut. 

Was this foolish? Well, of course it was, but it really would be if he didn’t–

“Think you can keep quiet for me?”

The swelling panic in your chest melted instantly at his suggestive words, his voice a wicked rasp that set your skin on edge. Something bubbled in your chest, like an overeager gulp of champagne that wouldn’t settle. 

You arched your brow, “Can you?”

A shit eating grin broke on his face at the challenge, and he growled. 

“Do your worst.”

You matched his expression as something snapped between you. 

He used his free hand to angle you up to meet his lips in a hungry kiss. Every list, plan, plot, and scheme crumbled at the warmth of him, dissolving it all into sweetness. 

Every late night hour spent scheming had been worth it, just for this moment. His hot mouth on yours, your hands tangling in his hair. 

He shifted against you, and you gasped as you felt him hardening at your lower stomach. 

“Fuck, baby. This is all I could think about the second I walked in. You in this outfit… fuck,” he panted as your mouth shifted to taste his jaw. You whined into his skin as he ground against you, demanding some real friction. 

“You need me too? Or do you want to suck me off right here?” he growled. 

Arousal flooded your core at his dominant tone. You pulled back to look him in the eye. His pupils were blown out, his lips swollen. 

“Not here,” you pleaded. 

His look was wicked as he saw your reaction, but he didn’t push you. 

Instead, he allowed you to lead him through a different door, a few steps down a hallway, and into a small room. You sent a silent blessing to whatever architect included a much disused cloakroom in the venue’s design. Well, much disused until now. 

The instant the door closed, his lips were locked on yours. 

“Eager?” he teased hypocritically between rapid kisses as you fumbled blindly for his belt. 

“I’m sort of multitasking,” you panted. 

His brow arched.

“I’m running this show!” you explained hurriedly. “The toasts just started, but they won’t go on forever. Eventually someone might come looking for us, or me at least.” 

His mouth fell open, but you cut him off.

“Don’t look so worried, Azriel, we’re right on schedule.”

The male huffed out a laugh, and shook his head. By the light in his eyes, he was impressed. 

“You’re killing me, baby. You’ve been killing me all night.” His words were a groan. 

He said it like an accusation, so you retorted in kind, “Yes, and I’ve been planning for a month to get twenty damn minutes alone with you because I’ve been totally balanced and not at all because you’ve been killing me just the same.”

That shut him up. 

He sucked in a breath, and his face set with determination. 

“Well, then,” he said. “I guess I’m going to have to show you a good time.”

He wasted no time reattaching his lips to yours, this time with renewed fervor, before he pressed you against the wall. One of his rough hands came to grip your neck, angling your head perfectly for his strong jaw to set to work. Between his hard body and his looming wings, you were caged. His palpable power sent a thrill through you, rattling to your gums and winding right to your center. 

Deftly, he undid his belt in one swift movement with his other hand. You whined as you felt the leather smack briefly across your thighs as it fell to the floor.

You felt his hum through his tongue on your teeth. 

“Another time, maybe we’ll use that.”

“Oh gods,” you whined. 

His grip on your hips was like a vice, and your pulse was a riot under his rough fingers on your throat. 

“Maybe I’ll have Rhys throw a fête here instead of the main hall for my birthday this year,” he murmured darkly against your lips. 

You gasped and his tongue swept in again, muffling your pleas. His taste was as intoxicating as you recalled, the flavor of wine and salt heavy on his thick tongue. 

“Would you like that?” Azriel pressed. “Maybe you’d even let me taste you, hmm?” 

“Anything,” you moaned as his wet mouth replaced his hand along the column of your throat. “I’d plan the damn party just to get you alone for five minutes.”

His teeth scraped bluntly at your jugular as he grinned. 

“I thought party planning was a special privilege, only to be enjoyed by a female’s husband,” he teased. 

“You’re right, that would be downright improper. I’m not that kind of girl.”

His chuckle at your collarbone was sinful, the sound of it echoing down to your core. 

“No, no. I wouldn’t want to taint your honor.”

“No,” you echoed absently as he placed open mouthed kisses along the neckline of your dress. It was a light fabric, but it was suddenly smothering. Your skin burned; you were desperate for more contact. His heavy hands and scalding mouth weren’t enough.

“Please, Az,” you urged. 

His belt was undone, as were the top buttons of his vest, but the two of you were decidedly too decent. It would hardly even make a scandal at this point, to be caught fully clothed. 

“You want it?” he glanced up from your chest, spit straying along his sharp jaw. He growled, “You can have it, baby. I’ll be generous, after all I didn’t bring a gift.”

You only whined as his hands smoothed down your form. 

With a final kiss to the exposed tops of your breasts, the Illyrian knelt to the floor. 

Azriel looked debauched; his carefully groomed hair a mess from your hands, his vest askew, and his eyes blown with lust. His powerful chest was heaving as his hands carefully skimmed up your calves. He pushed the bottom of your dress over your knees, kissing the soft spot inside there. He continued to mouth at your thighs as he hiked your skirt up.

For all your careful planning, you had no remaining nerve to urge him to hurry. His tender handling was addicting, the closest thing to appreciation you’d felt in decades. And to feel it so intensely, so viscerally, so physically? It hardly felt fair to call it a vice. 

What others took for granted, you could only indulge in the dark closets of your own life. If you’d be damned to be blamed, then so be it. 

Because Azriel looked like a statue on his knees for you. His composition was darkness and light, pleasure and pain, right and wrong. In this moment, he was a blissful concoction of it all, and you wanted to drink every last drop. 

 “You look lovely tonight," he praised with a kiss to your inner thigh. The compliment was almost jarringly polite paired with his next move, as he lewdly brought a finger to press over your clothed core. The fire that had burned low in your belly was stoked at the contact, flaring to a throbbing need. 

With swift fingers, he pulled your undergarment down your legs before slyly stuffing them into his pocket. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as he dragged two digit through your soaked folds. “Even prettier than I remembered.”

You choked back a moan as he drew circles over your clit. It was torturous, and as his large wings blocked the rest of the dim room from your vision, you felt the thrill of his overwhelming power, his meticulous skill. 

One of your hands wove into his hair, the grip both imploring and terrorized as he sparked wave after wave of pleasure until he was satisfied with your near broken state. Your other hand skimmed down his chest when he eventually stood before you. 

At the scrape of your nails towards his need, he groaned, “That’s right, baby. You want to take it out for me?”

With shaking hands, you undid his slacks. He hissed as you freed his aching member, his tip angry and swollen already. 

He dragged himself over your glistening folds torturously for a brief moment. You whimpered and he laughed darkly before he lined himself up, teasing you with the barest pressure of his tip. 

You clawed at his shoulders, his hips, trying to urge him to get to it. With one of his hands holding your hip, and the other balanced on the wall beside your head, Azriel was the picture of leisure. 

He had no sense of urgency about these things, you were learning. 

“Gonna let me have my way with you, huh? That’s a good girl.”

Slowly, he pushed himself inside, bottoming out in one brutal stroke. You cried out and he slapped a rough hand over your mouth. Your eyes flashed wildly as he began to fuck you in earnest.

“That’s it. Take my cock like a good girl.” he growled. 

He set a punishing pace, finding his own sense of urgency at last. He filled you so perfectly, the stretch just right. The scrape over your spongy walls was agonizing as he pummeled you. One particular harsh thrust had you crying out again, muffled against his fingers. 

“Gotta be quiet, baby, can’t have anyone finding us like this.”

His expectation was impossible when he abruptly yanked your top down so your breasts spilled out. 

“Happy birthday Lustere, alright,” he groaned sarcastically before sucking one of your breasts into his mouth. 

You dissolved into another whimper at his wicked words and the warmth of his mouth on your tender flesh. 

“You’re bad,” you moaned as the sick sound of your sex filled the tight room. 

If this was bad, maybe the world had it backwards, because why did it feel so good? Why did you feel so complete, falling apart shoved against a wall in a closet at your husband’s party? Especially with a male you should hardly be on a first name basis with, let alone close enough to moan his so unabashedly.

That was all it was, you elected to believe. The secrecy, the illicit nature of the connection. That was the basis of its appeal. 

Not the particular partner, though he was rugged…

And he was charming… 

And his teeth were ghosting your neck in a way that made you want to scream… 

But of course, you could hardly whimper at full volume. It only made you want to yell more. The resulting noise was a breathy strangulation, more vibration than real exhalation. 

“Azriel,” you cried, and you felt him twitch inside you.

His hips snapped faster and the light in his eyes was wild. 

“Are you close, angel? Fuck, we’ve gotta be fast.” He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “It’s so twisted. All I want is to take my time with you. Look at you, doing so well for me.”

His praise was as invigorating as his thrusts, which were growing sloppier with each breath. His stamina wasn’t the issue, it was the waves of pleasure numbing his body that caused him to tremble before you. 

You clenched around him and he swore, gasping as his body stilled. Azriel pressed his forehead to yours as he came, and somehow it was more intimate than you were prepared for, your fingers threading through his damp hair. 

His lashes fluttered shut and his mouth parted, gone wretched with bliss. The feeling of his hot breath and sticky skin on your face made you want to kiss every inch of his flesh. 

Even as he pulsed inside you, he brought his thumb to rub tight circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. In moments, he had you coming undone as well. He quickly regained enough function to fuck you through it, his thrusts shaking. When you cried his name, he caught it with his mouth, stifling your crude noises as you convulsed around him. 

The sensation had him half hard again, but he pressed a kiss to your throat and held you still as you both came down from your highs. 

“Happy birthday to me,” you muttered into his cheek.

Azriel wheezed at that, an arrogant smirk winning out through his fatigue. “Was that worth it?” 

“Definitely,” you breathed, your fingers brushing his hair back into some semi respectable waves. 

Ignoring your efforts to put the two of you back together, he captured your face in his hands and planted a buzzing kiss on your mouth. He lingered longer than you expected, tasting you and savoring your warmth. 

“Okay, Azriel, time’s up,” you sighed after an indulgently long moment. 

He nodded, but held your face a moment longer before tapping your hips twice and sliding himself out. You both groaned at the absence, bodies still slick and buzzing. 

As he tucked himself away, he looked oddly contemplative for someone who had just had a quickie in a closet while on the job. 

You smoothed down your dress, disregarding your missing underwear. It’s not like anyone would notice, least of all your husband, who hadn’t approached you like that for decades. 

While you did your best to tame your wild hair, Azriel looked like he was far away. You tried to hurry, mistaking his distance for discomfort in the aftershock of the interaction. In moments, you were fully decent, and at least mostly presentable. 

Azriel paused you with a silent gesture as your hand met the door. A shadow slipped back in and around his ear, and he nodded. 

The pair of you slunk back down the hall to the still empty kitchen, and you tried not to think about the slick still mixing on your upper thighs under your dress. 

Before you could push on to reenter the party, the shadowsinger grabbed your arm. His expression was serious when you faced him

“I want to hire you.”

You laughed at his bizarre words. What was he implying? “What, you want me to plan your birthday party? I’m not sure if you can afford me.”

He joined your laughter, and you threw away your whole schedule at the sound. Surely you could allow yourself an extra moment here with him. All that was waiting was worthless, anyways. 

“You know, I'd actually love to see that,” he smiled. The simple gesture made your insides heave, which you attributed to the recent intrusion on your guts. 

You wiped your eyes, attempting to tame your doubtlessly ruined cosmetics as you joked with him. You weren’t sure why, but you needed to hear that laugh again. “It’ll be a hit. We’ll only serve whiskey and there will be no food so everyone gets blasted way too hard– ooh, and the servers will be in their undershorts–”

“–I can't wait,” he cut you off. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“Okay,” you sobered up at his tone. “What then?”

“Well, you obviously have some covert skills…” 

Well, you think, that’s one way to describe centuries of spying on your cheating piece of shit husband, and more recently, coordinating this… whatever this was.

“...And you can arrange a seamless rendezvous,” he continued, now listing your achievements on his roughened fingers.

 You blushed at the innuendo, still lost to his meaning. 

“...And your husband works under the least trustworthy son of a bitch I've ever met,” he finished. 

“So?”

“You're in a unique position,” Azriel explained cryptically. 

Your brows scrunched. You hadn’t had anything but a sip of champagne since the sip of whiskey earlier, yet you were thinking through a thick haze. All you could think of were innuendos about unique positions…  

“A unique position for what?” you asked.

“As an informant, of course. You could be very useful.” The words were casual, but you saw how his amber eyes were set with strange emotion as he extended the offer in a deep tone. 

Azriel’s words echoed in your mind, hollow to anything else. You could be very useful. 

Something surged through you at the word. 

Useful.

You could be useful.

Very useful. 

How long had you grieved of the uselessness of your work, the incessant, all encompassing meaninglessness of your labors? How empty it all was, how vacant each day left you. How fruitless too; all these years, giving yourself over to nothing, and winning nothing in return. 

You swallowed the emotion rising at your throat, and a grin bloomed on your face in its wake. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

✸✸✸ 

“Where have you been?”

For all your scheming, your husband’s voice wiped your mind blank. Voices whirled around you, echoing happy and careless in the large room.

“Lustere, I–”

“–There’s empty platters out here, it looks cheap.” You blinked as he looked around in annoyance. “Aren’t you going to do anything about that?”

Leave it to him to interrupt you. You needn’t have prepared such an elaborate excuse for your absence when you couldn’t even get a word in. 

And sure enough, just as you’d planned and predicted, you hadn’t been missed. 

“Of course, dear.”

He only gave you a curt nod. Before he could turn away completely, you found yourself reaching out with a gentle hand, and something akin to affection slipped into your tone. “Are you enjoying yourself, Lustere?”

There was no tenderness as he looked in shock at your hand on his arm, only confusion. 

“Of course,” he said in a self-evident tone. Your husband looked around the room, cataloguing the faces of his guests. “Everyone important is here.”

Your fingers on his arm went numb. Everyone important had been there.

Only you hadn’t been there. 

You had been three doors away, wrapped up in darkness with another man. 

Despite his ignorance, what Lustere said was true: everyone important to him had been there, everyone who mattered. 

Just not you. 

The tenderness curdled in your chest. Whatever short candle you held for Lustere, died in that moment. And yet, ever the good wife, you dutifully nodded at the side of his head. 

“Good. I'll go fix the attendants.” And see if they haven’t picked up any good gossip from this high profile crowd… 

Something warmed inside your chest as you felt the ghost of your promise to Azriel still fresh on your lips. Your game with him had expanded, in one breath. 

No longer were you nothing to him, to anyone. 

You were to be the spymaster’s eyes and ears on the corrupt inner workings of the Court of Nightmares. 

And you had nothing to lose. 

✸✸✸ 

ENDNOTES

Thank you for reading!! Please comment if you enjoyed it, I actually spend quite a bit of time on these haha so I love to hear from youuu. I also love to chat in my inbox or dms so don’t be shy!! I’d love to hear what you think is gonna happen next.. ;)

I fear I have made this plot far FAR too elaborate than cheating smut would sensibly demand. So! Stay tuned for at least two or three more parts of angst and smut and fluff!! HAHA!! 

Oh and Lustere should fuckin’ watch himself… lest a terrible accident befall him… sooo whose knife should it be team?? >:))

[super-ion]

Concept: cursed blade rehabilitation center. Destroying a sentient weapon is expensive and highly unethical, so adventurers bring them to the center where highly trained staff can care for them and eventually find them forever homes. It turns out most cursed weapons are products of trauma and are not strictly evil themselves. Some blades turn out to be fiercely protective companions. Others don't even want to be weapons at all, finding joy in simple work like blacksmithing or farming. Most blades just need to be loved.

[write-on-world]